Chasing Fire
Page 113
“Here.” Gull dug a couple of wet naps out of his pocket. “Some problems have easy solutions.”
“He’s a damn fine jumper.” She swiped at the chocolate. “As good a spotter as they come. He can be annoying with the card games and tricks, but he puts a lot into this job. More than most of us.”
Gull could have pointed out that putting more than most into it meant Cards had regular and easy access to all the equipment, and that as spotter he hadn’t jumped the Alaska fire.
No point in it, he decided. Her attachment there ran deep.
“He’ll be all right.”
They went into the building where people milled and muttered.
He saw Yangtree sitting, rubbing his knee, and Dobie leaning against a wall, eyes closed in a standing-up power nap. Libby played around with her iPhone while Gibbons sat with a hip hitched on a counter, his nose in a book.
Some drank coffee, some huddled in conversations, talking fire, sports, women—the three top categories—or speculating about the briefing to come. Some zoned out, sitting on the floor, backs braced against the wall or a desk.
Every one of them had dropped weight since the start of the season, and plenty of them, like Yangtree, nursed aching knees. The smoke jumper’s Achilles’ heel. Strained shoulders, pulled hamstrings, burns, bruises. Some of the men had given up shaving, sporting beards in a variety of styles.
Every one of them understood true exhaustion, real hunger, intense fear. And every one of them would suit up if the siren called. Some would fight hurt, but they’d fight all the same.
He’d never known people so stubbornly resilient or so willing to put body, mind and life on the line, day after day.
And more, to love it.
“L.B. hasn’t started.” Matt maneuvered in beside him. “I thought I’d be late.”
“Not yet. I didn’t expect to see you for a couple more days.”
“I’m just in for this. L.B. wanted all of us, unless we caught a fire. What’s the word?”
“As far as I know they’re still inspecting. They found a few more pieces of equipment tampered with.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Did your parents get in all right?” Rowan asked him.
“Yeah. They’re over visiting with Shiloh. We’re going to take her out for a couple hours later, so she gets used to being with us. She’s already taken to my ma.”
“How’s Mrs. Brakeman doing?”
He lifted his shoulders, stared toward the Ops desk. “She’s being real decent about it. It shows how much she loves the baby.” He let out a little sigh. “She and my ma had a good cry together. L.B.’s getting ready to start.”
“All right, settle down,” L.B. called out. “I’ve got some things to say, so pay attention. Everybody knows about the equipment failures on the jumps in Alaska and Wyoming. I want to tell you all that we’re continuing a full inspection, any equipment or gear not yet inspected and passed doesn’t go out. I called in a couple extra master riggers to help reinspect, clear, repack every chute on this base. I don’t want anybody worrying about the safety of their gear.”
He paused a moment.
“We’ve got a good system of checks on this base, and nobody cuts corners. Everyone here knows it’s not just important, it’s f**king essential that every jumper have confidence the gear and equipment needed to jump and attack will be safe, meet the highest standards and be in good working order. That didn’t happen on these jumps, and I take responsibility.”
He hard-eyed the protests until they died off.
“I’ve been in touch with the Management Council so they’re aware of what we’re dealing with. The local police and the USFS are also aware and conducting their own investigations.”
“They know damn well Leo Brakeman did this,” somebody shouted out and started everybody else up again.
“He shouldn’t have been able to.” L.B. roared it over the rise of chatter, smashing it like a boot heel on an anthill. “He shouldn’t have been able to get to us the way he did. The fact he’s locked up is all fine and good, but we’re going to be a lot more security-conscious around here. We’re going to do spot checks, regular patrols. If I could suspend the tours, I would, but since that’s not an option, two staff members will go with each group.
“Until the investigations and reviews are complete, and we know who and how, we’re not taking any chances.”
He stopped again, took a breath. “And I’m recommending everybody toss a roll of duct tape into their PG bags.”
That got a laugh, succeeding in lowering the tension.
“I want you to know I’ve got your backs, on base, in the air and on a fire. I’ve posted a new jump list and a rotation of assignments. If you don’t like it, come see me in my office so I can kick your ass. Anybody’s got any questions, suggestions, public bitching, now’s the time.”
“Can we get the feds to pay for the duct tape?” Dobie asked, and earned hoots and applause.
Gull sent his friend an appreciative look. The right attitude, he thought. Keep it cocky, keep it steady, maintain unity.
Whether the sabotage had been an inside or outside job, unity equaled strength.
He had questions, but not the sort he wanted to ask here.
“I’ve got something I need to work on,” he told Rowan over the cross talk. “Catch up with you later.”
He noted her disapproving frown, but slipped out and walked straight to his quarters. There, he booted up his laptop and got to work.
He shut down, passcoding his work when the siren sounded. He wasn’t on the first or second loads, but he ran to the ready room to assist those who were. He loaded gear on speed racks, hefted already packed and strapped paracargo onto the electric cart.
He listened, and he observed.
With Rowan and Dobie, he watched the plane rise into the wide blue cup of the sky.
“It’s good L.B. got that briefing in before the call.” Rowan shaded her eyes from the sun with the flat of her hand. “The sky looks a little dicey to the east.”
“Might be jumping ourselves before long.”
Hearing the eagerness in his voice, Rowan angled her body toward Dobie. “You’ve got jump fever. The best thing for you is to go sleep it off.”
“I got me an assignment. I’m on PC,” he said, using the shorthand for paracargo. “Packing and strapping in the loadmaster’s room. You, too, pal,” he told Gull. “Swede pulled the loft.”
“He’s a damn fine jumper.” She swiped at the chocolate. “As good a spotter as they come. He can be annoying with the card games and tricks, but he puts a lot into this job. More than most of us.”
Gull could have pointed out that putting more than most into it meant Cards had regular and easy access to all the equipment, and that as spotter he hadn’t jumped the Alaska fire.
No point in it, he decided. Her attachment there ran deep.
“He’ll be all right.”
They went into the building where people milled and muttered.
He saw Yangtree sitting, rubbing his knee, and Dobie leaning against a wall, eyes closed in a standing-up power nap. Libby played around with her iPhone while Gibbons sat with a hip hitched on a counter, his nose in a book.
Some drank coffee, some huddled in conversations, talking fire, sports, women—the three top categories—or speculating about the briefing to come. Some zoned out, sitting on the floor, backs braced against the wall or a desk.
Every one of them had dropped weight since the start of the season, and plenty of them, like Yangtree, nursed aching knees. The smoke jumper’s Achilles’ heel. Strained shoulders, pulled hamstrings, burns, bruises. Some of the men had given up shaving, sporting beards in a variety of styles.
Every one of them understood true exhaustion, real hunger, intense fear. And every one of them would suit up if the siren called. Some would fight hurt, but they’d fight all the same.
He’d never known people so stubbornly resilient or so willing to put body, mind and life on the line, day after day.
And more, to love it.
“L.B. hasn’t started.” Matt maneuvered in beside him. “I thought I’d be late.”
“Not yet. I didn’t expect to see you for a couple more days.”
“I’m just in for this. L.B. wanted all of us, unless we caught a fire. What’s the word?”
“As far as I know they’re still inspecting. They found a few more pieces of equipment tampered with.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Did your parents get in all right?” Rowan asked him.
“Yeah. They’re over visiting with Shiloh. We’re going to take her out for a couple hours later, so she gets used to being with us. She’s already taken to my ma.”
“How’s Mrs. Brakeman doing?”
He lifted his shoulders, stared toward the Ops desk. “She’s being real decent about it. It shows how much she loves the baby.” He let out a little sigh. “She and my ma had a good cry together. L.B.’s getting ready to start.”
“All right, settle down,” L.B. called out. “I’ve got some things to say, so pay attention. Everybody knows about the equipment failures on the jumps in Alaska and Wyoming. I want to tell you all that we’re continuing a full inspection, any equipment or gear not yet inspected and passed doesn’t go out. I called in a couple extra master riggers to help reinspect, clear, repack every chute on this base. I don’t want anybody worrying about the safety of their gear.”
He paused a moment.
“We’ve got a good system of checks on this base, and nobody cuts corners. Everyone here knows it’s not just important, it’s f**king essential that every jumper have confidence the gear and equipment needed to jump and attack will be safe, meet the highest standards and be in good working order. That didn’t happen on these jumps, and I take responsibility.”
He hard-eyed the protests until they died off.
“I’ve been in touch with the Management Council so they’re aware of what we’re dealing with. The local police and the USFS are also aware and conducting their own investigations.”
“They know damn well Leo Brakeman did this,” somebody shouted out and started everybody else up again.
“He shouldn’t have been able to.” L.B. roared it over the rise of chatter, smashing it like a boot heel on an anthill. “He shouldn’t have been able to get to us the way he did. The fact he’s locked up is all fine and good, but we’re going to be a lot more security-conscious around here. We’re going to do spot checks, regular patrols. If I could suspend the tours, I would, but since that’s not an option, two staff members will go with each group.
“Until the investigations and reviews are complete, and we know who and how, we’re not taking any chances.”
He stopped again, took a breath. “And I’m recommending everybody toss a roll of duct tape into their PG bags.”
That got a laugh, succeeding in lowering the tension.
“I want you to know I’ve got your backs, on base, in the air and on a fire. I’ve posted a new jump list and a rotation of assignments. If you don’t like it, come see me in my office so I can kick your ass. Anybody’s got any questions, suggestions, public bitching, now’s the time.”
“Can we get the feds to pay for the duct tape?” Dobie asked, and earned hoots and applause.
Gull sent his friend an appreciative look. The right attitude, he thought. Keep it cocky, keep it steady, maintain unity.
Whether the sabotage had been an inside or outside job, unity equaled strength.
He had questions, but not the sort he wanted to ask here.
“I’ve got something I need to work on,” he told Rowan over the cross talk. “Catch up with you later.”
He noted her disapproving frown, but slipped out and walked straight to his quarters. There, he booted up his laptop and got to work.
He shut down, passcoding his work when the siren sounded. He wasn’t on the first or second loads, but he ran to the ready room to assist those who were. He loaded gear on speed racks, hefted already packed and strapped paracargo onto the electric cart.
He listened, and he observed.
With Rowan and Dobie, he watched the plane rise into the wide blue cup of the sky.
“It’s good L.B. got that briefing in before the call.” Rowan shaded her eyes from the sun with the flat of her hand. “The sky looks a little dicey to the east.”
“Might be jumping ourselves before long.”
Hearing the eagerness in his voice, Rowan angled her body toward Dobie. “You’ve got jump fever. The best thing for you is to go sleep it off.”
“I got me an assignment. I’m on PC,” he said, using the shorthand for paracargo. “Packing and strapping in the loadmaster’s room. You, too, pal,” he told Gull. “Swede pulled the loft.”
