knocked the life out of it.
Jack Chastain woke to the sound of rain gently falling on his tent. Relieved, he fell into a deep, restful sleep—until five o’clock, when his alarm clock went off.
“No! Can’t we sleep?” someone complained groggily from a nearby tent.
Jack rolled over and turned off the clock, then sat up in his sleeping bag. “Yes, I think so,” he said. “But I can’t.”
“Think they’ll let us go home?” asked a woman’s voice. It sounded like Cristy Manion, one of the other firefighters from Piedras Coloradas.
“We’ll see.” For all he knew, they might be sent to another fire in some other distant corner of the county. “I’ll know more when I get back.”
He took his time about dressing. All he had was the same smelly nomex he’d worn for the past two days. At least he had a rain parka.
At a little before five thirty, he wandered out into the rain, across camp, though pools of standing water. At the briefing area, crew bosses, division supervisors, engine foremen, the air operations chief and others were assembling in a loose circle around the briefing board. The board was covered with maps streaked with running colors. Jack found a place and waited.
Precisely at 5:30 a.m., the Incident Commander—a shorter, wiry man in a Forest Service ball cap—emerged from the Planning Section tent and stepped out into the rain. He slipped into the midst of the throng. His words were sparse. “The rains are gonna continue for another two days. We’re demobing most of you, starting this morning.”
Those words summed it up. This fire was history. The IC turned the briefing over to the Demob Unit Leader, a slightly overweight man who looked not at all familiar, wearing an extremely clean nomex shirt, but none of that affected his credibility—this guy could get them home.
He stepped to the center of the circle, and looked down at his clipboard. “Okay, we’ve got thirty some-odd crews, twenty-seven engines, four helicopters and overhead. Some of you are going back on the board, cause we’re getting orders from up north. Idaho and Montana. They’ve got new fires.”
Jack glanced around, catching sight of other eyes nervously doing the same, all except leaders of hotshot crews, who seemed anxious to have someplace to go.
“But,” the Demob leader said, and halted, knowing everyone hung on his words. He smiled. “Fire season’s winding down everywhere else in the country. Hotshots, we’re shipping you north. The rest of you, we’re sending you home. We’ll post the travel arrangements as we get ‘em made.”
Those were pretty much the last words anyone really heard.
Jack walked back to camp and let the others in on the news.
Most of the crew of twenty slipped back into sleeping bags that smelled of smoke and sweat, while a few grouped together into tents, talking quietly with new buddies from other agencies, testing out fire stories they would likely tell over and over again when they got back home.
Jack dug into his bag for his toilet kit. He had time for a shower. He needed one. And a shave—his beard was growing itchy.
He made his way back through camp to the supply unit, where he got a clean change of clothes. Then he headed for the shower trailer.
A line of firefighters stood waiting. It was not nearly as long as the one he’d given up on the night before. It worked out—he had gotten a little more sleep, and now he might get a little more time to soak.
When it was his turn to shower, he propped himself against the wall and let the water strip away layers of soot and sweat, and soak his aching muscles as long as his conscience let him. Then he walked naked to the other end of the trailer and found a mirror. He wiped away the condensation. In the instant before it fogged over, something caught his eye. He swiped again. Gray—his beard on the sides of his face. It was gray.
He tried to laugh. “You’re getting old,” he said aloud. How much had been brought on by everything in the past year? Maybe some, but he wasn’t getting any younger. Thirty something wasn’t old, but he wouldn’t be taking this kind of assignment much longer. It was about time to turn it over to the younger bucks. He would miss it. There was something oddly satisfying about being responsible for nineteen other people, being both their taskmaster and single parent, taking care of them, being there to see them come through when it counted most.
This might be the last of it. The park superintendent would likely see to that. Joe Morgan seemed less than pleased about letting him leave the park for such an extended period.
Jack shaved, dressed and wandered back through the rain to the mess tent. After breakfast, he checked the demob board. Nothing yet.
He started back to the crew. He stopped. They would only pepper him with questions he could not yet answer. He turned and headed for the bank of portable phones, to call the park and let them know the crew was coming home.
As he passed the Supply Tent, he caught sight of the line at the phones. Dozens of firefighters stood in the rain, waiting. What else was there to do? Jack took his place at the back of the line.
Most of the firefighters were rain-soaked. Either they didn’t bring foul weather gear, or they didn’t mind the rain. A few were in nomex, but most were in wet T-shirts emblazoned with crew logos or commemorations of past fires they’d worked.
Tammy Sams was at one of the phones. She was being admired by a young firefighter with a ‘long time from home’ look about him. The sight of Sams—rain soaked and blonde hair pulled back—wasn’t helping. Tuning out her admirers, Sams stood engrossed in the phone, a contented look about her. Probably talking to her honey.
“Hey, boss.”
Jack turned. “Johnny.”
Johnny looked like a wet rat. Others from the crew fell into line behind him. “Hear they’re sending hotshots to Montana,” he said. “Gonna try to get us sent up there? We could go stompin’ around your ol’ haunts.”
“No thanks.”
“You could arrange for someone to drop into camp, come see you.” He raised a brow.
“There’s no one there I need to see.”
“I’m talking about a certain red-headed lady ranger? I hear she looks good in uniform. Awfully good.”
“Is that so?”
“Am I right?”
“I don’t know.”
“Looks better out of uniform, huh?” He laughed. “I know rangers like that.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Your sources are out of date.”
Johnny’s mouth gaped open. He wiped the rain from his face. “You mean? Sorry, man.”
“Long distance relationships. Hard to make ‘em work,” Jack grumbled, hoping the distortion of facts would get Johnny to leave him alone.
“Hope you’re wrong, man. I’m in one myself. A lady at Organ Pipe.”
Jack
