clearing away the vegetation around the squat little concrete building bristling with electronic monitoring devices. In the distance, they heard the fire beating at the air like demented angel’s wings. The chopper didn’t wait around long, clearing out about ten minutes after they started the prep. Neither of them worried about it. Either someone else would pick them up or they’d hike out to a road.
First they got the chainsaws going and cleared away the bigger brush. Then they went after the understory with Pulaskis, trying to get it all the way down to dirt. Their goal was a cleared perimeter of at least a hundred feet.
They hacked at the brush, muscles straining, sweat drenching their yellows. Patrick’s feet weren’t yet used to the brutally rocky terrain. It felt as if they were burning up inside his boots. He kept an ear tuned to the steady roar of the fire. It sounded like the thunder of an otherwordly, enormous herd of stampeding mustangs, coming closer, closer . . .
When they’d gotten about three-quarters of the job done, a voice crackled over the tactical channel.
“Fire’s picked up speed. Chopper’s unavailable, but according to the map there’s a two-track vehicle trail about a mile to your east. We’ll send ground crew out with a four-wheel drive. Can you make it?”
“Ten-four. I know where it is,” answered Patrick. If he wasn’t mistaken, he and Liam used to ride their dirt bikes down that road.
“Let’s light some fusees and get the hell out,” he told Dan.
“Man with a plan. I like it.”
They pulled the long red fusees from their packs. They looked like firecrackers but smelled much worse. As Patrick cracked the fuse on the end, the stench of sulfur made his eyes burn and tear up.
“Bet you don’t do that much during a structure fire, mate,” called Dan.
“Nope. I’m the topman. Give me an axe and I’m home.”
Blinking through the smoke, he touched off little fires at regular intervals along the rest of the perimeter. The dry grass crackled and burned nearly instantly.
“What is this stuff?” Patrick called to Dan.
“I heard it called cheatgrass. They planted it to restore burn areas. It kind of took over. Very dry and flammable.”
Patrick gave a harsh snort. “Are they trying to keep us employed?”
“Doing a bloody good job.”
“I hear that.”
When the understory had burned to the dirt, they stamped out the last remaining sparks with their boots, then gathered up the chainsaws, remaining fuel, and Pulaskis. Dan took a long draw on his water bottle. Patrick followed suit, angry with himself for forgetting such a crucial detail of wildland firefighting. Dehydration could kill you out here.
When he was done, Patrick stowed the bottle with the rest of his line gear and heaved his PG bag onto his back. “Let’s book. I don’t like the sound of that fire.”
“Lead the way, Yank. Unless there’s a wallaby around, I’m lost.”
Patrick set off toward the east. Even though both of them had worked hard, he set a quick pace out of respect for the insistent bellow of the oncoming fire.
“Sounds like a monster,” he called to Dan as they trotted through the pinyon.
“They’re saying she’s a record-setter.”
They hurried across the rocky, treacherous landscape, in which steep hills and loose dirt threatened to twist their ankles and bake their feet. Patrick blotted out the pain and focused on moving forward, paying attention to every footfall. The last thing he wanted to do was get injured on his first day out here.
At the thought, he remembered the girl in the med tent, the one who looked so much like Lara. At the same time, it occurred to him that the two-track road where they were headed dead-ended at Goldpan Canyon.
Goldpan Canyon .
A memory rushed back—the last time he had gone there with Liam and Lara, during the summer after his freshman year in college. He’d had a fight with his father and needed to run, or howl,
First they got the chainsaws going and cleared away the bigger brush. Then they went after the understory with Pulaskis, trying to get it all the way down to dirt. Their goal was a cleared perimeter of at least a hundred feet.
They hacked at the brush, muscles straining, sweat drenching their yellows. Patrick’s feet weren’t yet used to the brutally rocky terrain. It felt as if they were burning up inside his boots. He kept an ear tuned to the steady roar of the fire. It sounded like the thunder of an otherwordly, enormous herd of stampeding mustangs, coming closer, closer . . .
When they’d gotten about three-quarters of the job done, a voice crackled over the tactical channel.
“Fire’s picked up speed. Chopper’s unavailable, but according to the map there’s a two-track vehicle trail about a mile to your east. We’ll send ground crew out with a four-wheel drive. Can you make it?”
“Ten-four. I know where it is,” answered Patrick. If he wasn’t mistaken, he and Liam used to ride their dirt bikes down that road.
“Let’s light some fusees and get the hell out,” he told Dan.
“Man with a plan. I like it.”
They pulled the long red fusees from their packs. They looked like firecrackers but smelled much worse. As Patrick cracked the fuse on the end, the stench of sulfur made his eyes burn and tear up.
“Bet you don’t do that much during a structure fire, mate,” called Dan.
“Nope. I’m the topman. Give me an axe and I’m home.”
Blinking through the smoke, he touched off little fires at regular intervals along the rest of the perimeter. The dry grass crackled and burned nearly instantly.
“What is this stuff?” Patrick called to Dan.
“I heard it called cheatgrass. They planted it to restore burn areas. It kind of took over. Very dry and flammable.”
Patrick gave a harsh snort. “Are they trying to keep us employed?”
“Doing a bloody good job.”
“I hear that.”
When the understory had burned to the dirt, they stamped out the last remaining sparks with their boots, then gathered up the chainsaws, remaining fuel, and Pulaskis. Dan took a long draw on his water bottle. Patrick followed suit, angry with himself for forgetting such a crucial detail of wildland firefighting. Dehydration could kill you out here.
When he was done, Patrick stowed the bottle with the rest of his line gear and heaved his PG bag onto his back. “Let’s book. I don’t like the sound of that fire.”
“Lead the way, Yank. Unless there’s a wallaby around, I’m lost.”
Patrick set off toward the east. Even though both of them had worked hard, he set a quick pace out of respect for the insistent bellow of the oncoming fire.
“Sounds like a monster,” he called to Dan as they trotted through the pinyon.
“They’re saying she’s a record-setter.”
They hurried across the rocky, treacherous landscape, in which steep hills and loose dirt threatened to twist their ankles and bake their feet. Patrick blotted out the pain and focused on moving forward, paying attention to every footfall. The last thing he wanted to do was get injured on his first day out here.
At the thought, he remembered the girl in the med tent, the one who looked so much like Lara. At the same time, it occurred to him that the two-track road where they were headed dead-ended at Goldpan Canyon.
Goldpan Canyon .
A memory rushed back—the last time he had gone there with Liam and Lara, during the summer after his freshman year in college. He’d had a fight with his father and needed to run, or howl,
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