in risky locations, way out here on this edge of southern California civilization.
“How about you, Eagle Creek?” the division supervisor asked, turning his attention to the other crew. “What’s your progress? Can you get down there?”
Labored breathing bled over the radio. “Are you kidding? All I see is smoke.”
“Can you get down there?”
“We’re dead tired. We could use some help in here.”
“Fresh crews are on the way. They’re being walked in down the line from the nearest drop points on both sides of the blowover.”
“That’ll take hours.”
“It’s not safe to send ‘em in from the road. You gotta do what you can to catch it,” Ambrose said. “Your crews—you have to stop it.”
Jack listened. Ambrose wasn’t thinking straight. Yes, the fire was eighty thousand acres and growing, on the edge of the San Gabriel Mountains, in Southern California, near lots of people, with everything going to hell. But the weather was changing nearly every hour, fire was everywhere. Jack keyed his mike. “We’re doing the best we can. That’s all we can do. You guys should know that!”
“We can’t afford to lose this part of the fire. Not tonight. It has to be caught,” Ambrose countered. “We’re taking heat. Especially from the press.”
“Over losing this part of the fire? They should see this mother.”
“No, on lots of things. They arrested someone for starting the fire. He’s…he’s one of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s Forest Service.”
Jack dropped his hand from the radio. He understood, even though he wasn’t Forest Service. Even being Park Service, from another part of the country, Piedras Coloradas National Park in New Mexico, it didn’t matter. One of us! He fought impulse, keeping his thumb from keying the radio.
“What can we do, people? What can we do to stop this thing?” Ambrose said.
Jacked pulled his hand away, but then moved it back. He keyed the radio. “I’ll go down and see what it’s doing.”
“Be careful.”
He took a few steps and stopped. “Reger, this is Chastain.”
“Go ahead, Jack.”
“Johnny, I’m going down to look for the head of this thing. Post a lookout so you don’t get caught if it hooks around and makes a run. You’ve got preheated fuels all around you.”
“Copy that.” His words were punctuated with heavy gasps for air. “Picking up any spot fires?”
“Not here,” Jack said. “I’m sure I will below.”
“Ten-four. We could sure use some food in our bellies.”
“I understand. Keep working at it. They’re sending in food, and help.”
Jack followed the edge. Soon he was heading downslope, contending with loose needles and duff, covering more ground sliding than walking. It was growing dark. He needed light. He dug his headlamp out of its pouch on his web belt and pulled it on over his helmet. It helped, but glared against the smoke, localizing its benefit.
Something moved, giving him a start.
A doe staggered out of the black. It stopped, stared at the light, and moved on, looking for something. Maybe a fawn.
The stop stiffened his ankles. He tried to ignore them, even picking up his pace.
Lower on the mountain, the edge of the fire began to diagonal across the slope, burning through pine needles with one-foot flames. In the brush, they were three to five feet. What would they be at the head of this fire?
He stopped short. Flame, then no flame. Gone. Red covered the ground—retardant, dropped by the slurry bombers. He cupped his hand over the headlamp and found the glow of the war zone above him. Maybe this was the head. He inspected the ground. Black, with irregular edges, smoldering—the spot fires, started by wind-blown embers. They appeared to have been burning together, and being overrun by the fire itself. Then, they were stopped cold by the retardant.
It wouldn’t last. Not for long. There was too much heat.
The breeze pushed downslope. Not exactly good, but it’ll help the leading edge gobble up the spot fires.
A pine torched thirty feet downslope. Air rushed in, feeding the fire, clearing the smoke.
Too tired to get excited, he confirmed what his eyes were telling him, retracing his steps to where he could safely watch.
Flame climbed off the ground, drawn to the spot fire, pushed by the air charging in. Trees, seemingly spared, began to flash. The glow darkened the edges of the night. Tree after tree lit as the fires rushed together, closing the gap.
It wouldn’t take much to put this fire on the move. Damn arsonist! Jack keyed his radio. “Johnny, send two squads down to my location. Send at least one chainsaw.”
“I copy. Which squad should stay back?”
“Decide among you, but hurry and get two squads down here.”
There was only a slight delay. “Paul and I are coming down.”
“Okay. Tammy, post a lookout—be ready to get into the black if something happens!”
“Copy.”
It seemed forever, then headlamps appeared above him. The scatter of beams cut through the smoke as a dozen weary firefighters plodded in single file past torching trees and brush, their line of dirty, yellow, fire-resistant nomex shirts brightened by the glow of the fire.
The two squad bosses, Paul Yazzi from the BLM, and Johnny Reger, also from Piedras Coloradas, stepped past the others toward the light of Jack’s headlamp. Tired firefighters hit the ground.
A crown exploded on the edge of the black, and with it came the crackling of burning brush. Fire was fanning across the slope. It could make an uphill run, right at Tammy’s squad. Jack kicked at the ground. Forget the damned arsonist. Remember who you’re responsible for. “Tammy, can you hear these trees torching below you?” he shouted, into the radio.
There was a moment, then, “I hear’ em, and embers are flying back this way, but everything appears to be dropping into the black.”
“It’s starting to move across the slope below you. Keep your eyes open.”
“Copy.”
Another tree torched, sending out a flood of embers.
Jack looked upslope, and then at the head of the fire, marching downhill through pine needles and brush. If they focused on protecting Tammy’s squad, they risked letting it make it to the bottom
