Firestorm

Chapter Three

“Hey.” A guy about Jac’s age with linebacker shoulders and hair as red as his T-shirt flashed a wide-open grin and straddled a chair next to her. “You another one of the new guys? I didn’t see you at the briefing yesterday afternoon.”

“Just got here,” Jac said, holding out her hand. “Jac Russo.”

“Ray Kingston,” the redhead said.

A thin African American with round wire-framed glasses and thoughtful eyes joined them, and a half minute later a husky middle-aged man with a thick mustache and a neck as wide as his head pulled up a chair. Anderson and Hooker, they supplied. Jac shook their hands.

“So where you from?” the redhead, Ray, asked.

“Idaho. You?”

“Texas. What’s your usual gig?”

“Been in the Guard,” Jac said, not offering anything else. The guys all nodded solemnly. “You?”

“I work on the oil rigs in the Gulf off Galveston the rest of the year,” Ray said.

Jac laughed. “That’s a big switch.”

“You ever been in Texas in the summer?”

“Luckily, no.”

Hooker was an out-of-work timberman. Anderson was a high school guidance counselor from Vermont with ten years’ search and rescue experience.

“I’ve been trying to get a spot on one of these crews for a couple years,” Anderson said, polishing his spotless lenses. “This is a real sweet post.”

“Yep.” When Nora Fleming, her father’s campaign manager, had informed her of her father’s request that Jac be less visible during his push to clinch the presidential nomination and told Jac about this opening, she’d jumped at it. It was what she’d wanted to do, and since her father wanted her to disappear for the “good of the family,” meaning his campaign, she’d said yes. The next morning she’d been on her way to Montana. She was coming in the back door and she knew it. More to prove, another secret to live down.

“One of the busiest crews in these parts,” Hooker said, smoothing his moustache. “I see you were getting acquainted with the training manager.”

“Just met her,” Jac said carefully. The guys all seemed friendly enough, but she was always cautious with personal information. And Hooker wasn’t just fishing about her, he was talking about Mallory. Her stomach tightened with an unfamiliar sensation she finally recognized as protectiveness.

“The regular guys say she’s really good,” Ray said.

“That’s what I hear too,” Anderson commented.

“Guy I met who worked with her a couple of years ago says she’s a ballbuster,” Hooker said flatly, his gaze fixed on Jac.

A test to see where her allegiance lay—with her fellow rookies or with the only other female on the team? Jac raised her brows and eyed his crotch. “Well then, I guess you’ll have to be careful, Hooker. Since I assume you have a pair.”

Ray burst out laughing and the other guys joined in. “Man, you’re right. Maybe you’ll be luckier, Jac.”

“Maybe, but I think she’s probably an equal opportunity buster.” Jac glanced at her watch. “And in about four minutes, we’re going to find out.”

Standing, she gripped her tray and Ray said, “Good luck today.”

“You too,” Jac said, but she didn’t think luck was what she was going to need. The only thing likely to impress Ice James was a high score. Not just passing, not even good. The best. Just another thing she had to prove. What else was new?

*

Mallory stood in the shadows inside the open door of the hangar, watching the rookies mill about, talking in low voices, jostling one another, sorting themselves out. She searched for signs of tension, rivalry, competition. Wildland firefighters were naturally independent free-thinkers, and inherently competitive. Those traits were important when faced with an emergency and quick action could be lifesaving, but teamwork was just as important. She watched them all, but her gaze kept returning to Jac. Even in the sweatshirt and cargo pants that tended to neutralize gender, Jac stood out. Her features were so bold as to be arresting, and she moved with confident, natural grace. She interacted easily with the men, responding when spoken to, but remaining just a little bit apart, watchful and appraising. Like she had appraised Mallory earlier. Obviously, Jac was a woman who sized up the playing field, studied the ground, assessed circumstances. Confident, aware. All quality traits for a smokejumper. But it took a lot more than confidence to be a smokejumper.

“All right everybody, line up.” Mallory stepped out of the shadows into the early morning sunlight. The rookies instantly faced her, shoulder to shoulder. “I’m Mallory James, and I’m the ops manager for Yellowrock Station. I’m also the training manager. For the next month, we will start at oh six hundred every day. We’ll stop when the day’s exercises are over. If we’re not finished, we’ll sleep in the field. When we work a fire, we have to move fast. Sometimes to get out ahead of the fire front, sometimes just to get out. You’ll be wearing your jump suits and humping your gear out there. Today you get a break—no packs, no equipment. Today will be the easiest run you’ll ever experience as a smokejumper.” As she talked, she walked up and down the line, watching the rookies watch her. They were similarly dressed—jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts, work boots. “The designated course is three miles long and laid out with yellow markers. Secondary trails—the blue and the red—cross the main course. They’re shorter but steeper, and the terrain is tougher. Stay off them.” She smiled. “You’ll need to complete your run in under thirty minutes to qualify. A helitack spotter will be stationed above the route. If you run into trouble and have to drop out, just settle down by the side of the trail and signal the spotter. One of us will be by to assist. Any questions?”

“No ma’am,” a number of voices responded.

“There’s no need to be formal,” Mallory said. “Cap is fine.” She pulled her stopwatch from her pants pocket, said, “Have a good run,” and clicked the start button. She met the dark eyes that had followed her every step. “Russo. Lead out.”

*

Jac broke from the line and loped toward the trail marked by a yellow disk tacked to a pine tree on the far side of the yard. She wasn’t worried about qualifying. Running came easily to her—she’d run track in high school and still ran for exercise and pleasure every day. Even in boots and heavy clothes, she covered the ground easily, jumping over fallen branches, dodging rocks, leaping over streams of snow runoff. After a few minutes she started to sweat, shrugged out of her sweatshirt, and tied it around her waist. Her lungs burned as the cold air flowed in and out, her skin flushed and dampened, and her heart pounded. Ten minutes in she heard footsteps behind her but didn’t slow. Rhythmic breathing synchronized with her own, and after another few minutes as she raced up a rocky slope, she smelled honeysuckle. Mountain honeysuckle. The sweet fragrance made her smile—too early to be flowering, and she remembered when she’d smelled the scent earlier. In the locker room, wafting from Mallory James’s damp, shower-flushed skin. Her heart rate kicked up, and it wasn’t from the rigorous course.

“Keeping tabs on me?” Jac called without looking back.

“Just making sure you don’t get lost,” Mallory responded, running half a step behind Jac.

“No problems here.” Jac glanced over her shoulder. Mallory had tied her hair back in a loose ponytail, and her face glowed with healthy exertion. Her eyes were bright, deep green, intense and focused. She’d shed her sweatshirt too, and her bare arms were sculpted and buff. Her white tank top clung to her chest and abdomen. Firm high breasts, long tight abdomen. Her breathing was steady, deep, unlabored. She was gorgeous.

“You checking up on all the rookies?” Jac started up a steep incline, looped an arm around a tree and pulled herself up the last few feet of the slope onto more level ground. She didn’t slow for Mallory but kept on running. A few seconds later Mallory was just behind her right shoulder again. So was the smell of honeysuckle. Her stomach tightened, and a jolt of electricity shot up her spine, throwing her off stride. Man, she had to focus, or she was going to trip over her own feet.

“You’re setting a pretty fast pace,” Mallory commented. She wasn’t breathing even a little bit hard.

“Feels comfortable to me,” Jac said.

“Not trying to prove anything, are you?”

“Nope.” Jac slowed on the downhill. Another stream, this one wider, rocks in the center, wet and mossy, slippery. A broken ankle waiting to happen. She glanced left and right, saw a shallower area a bit off the trail, and cut right. Splashing through the stream, she clambered back onto the trail on the other side. Mallory followed.

“All you have to prove is that you can handle the work,” Mallory said.

“How’m I doing?”

“You haven’t finished your run yet, Russo. Don’t wear yourself out.”

Jac ran on. Mallory’s footsteps faded, then disappeared. An unexpected swell of loneliness filled Jac’s chest, and she shook it off, uncomfortable with the unfamiliar feeling. She’d long ago gotten used to being alone.

*

Jac skirted along the crest of a rocky ridge about three-quarters of the way through the course, starting to enjoy herself. Her time was good, the morning was brilliant, and the scent of honeysuckle lingered. A flash of red halfway down the craggy slope off to her left caught her eye before being obscured by trees. After running another twenty yards, she saw it again, and whatever it was, it had not moved. Curious, she slowed, then circled back and cut off the trail for a better look. She expected to see a piece of abandoned equipment, but finally made out a red T-shirt covering a broad torso. A still figure lay against an outcropping of rock forty feet below the ridge. She sucked in a breath and narrowed her eyes, memorizing the location. Picking a tall, bifurcated pine as a landmark to orient herself once she went off trail, she took one quick look into the sky, didn’t see a spotter craft, and eased over the edge of the ravine. The steep terrain was rocky and densely forested. Without guidelines, the descent was tricky and slower than she would have liked. After a few feet she couldn’t see the figure, but she spotted the pine tree and followed the trajectory she’d mentally mapped out. Two minutes later she found Ray Kingston sitting on the ground with his back propped against a boulder, blood streaking down the right side of his face from a gash in his forehead.

“Ray,” Jac said, kneeling beside him. “How you doing, buddy?”

“Been better,” he muttered, rubbing his face and smearing the blood onto his hand and neck. He looked around, his expression confused. “Never was much of a runner. Tried to cut some of the distance and took the red trail. Must’ve tripped.” He squinted at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Got lonely up there. Let me take a look at your head.” Jac gently cupped his chin and checked his eyes. Pupils were equal, but pinpoint. Adrenaline surge. Maybe a prelude to shock. The laceration was long and deep. He’d need stitches. “How are your arms and legs, Ray? Can you move them? Feel everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He braced a hand on the rock behind him and tried to push himself upright. “I’m okay. I need to finish the course.”

He swayed, his face graying, and Jac quickly jumped up and wrapped an arm around his waist. “I don’t think you’ll be doing any more running today, buddy. Let’s just take it easy and get back to level ground. I’ll flag down a spotter.”

“No way. You need to finish the run. Go on, get outta here.”

She grinned. “Oh no, I’m not leaving you. Hell, you’ll probably try another shortcut, get lost, and I’ll be up half the night looking for you.”

“Frak you, Russo.”

“Promises, promises.” Jac slung his arm over her shoulders, gripped the waistband of his pants, and took his weight. “Let’s go. Nice and easy now.”

“Crap.” Ray leaned heavily on her, his balance unsteady and his breathing labored. “James is going to fry your ass, you know, if you don’t finish.”

“You let me worry about the boss.” Jac eased him down the slope toward a clearing in the trees, trying to ignore the acid burn of disappointment in her stomach. Mallory James had been right. She was going to wash out the first day.

*

Mallory checked her watch and watched the trees, resisting the urge to pace. Three rookies were already back at base. Jac wasn’t with them. Neither was Ray Kingston. The others had made it under the time limit, but Jac should’ve been in well before them. Mallory moved a little away from the group and radioed the pilot in the spotter helicopter. “Benny? You got anything?”

“Just sighted them, Ice. Looks like we got one down.”

“Damn,” Mallory muttered. “Where?”

She was already striding toward the equipment room for a FAT pack as Benny radioed the location. “I’ll be there in seven minutes. Stay over them until I get there.”

“Roger that.”

Mallory shouldered into the field and trauma kit, mentally sorting down the emergency response checklist that was second nature to every paramedic. Firefighters got injured all the time—occupational hazard. Still, having a rookie go down the first morning was not how she wanted to start boot camp. Anxiety swirled in her stomach, and she pushed the feeling aside. She was just worried about one of her team, that’s all.

But as she raced for the trail, the image of Jac running so effortlessly, her stride as smooth and graceful as a deer, flashed through her mind. She didn’t want to imagine Jac lying injured somewhere. She didn’t want her to be hurt. Warning bells clanged, too loud to ignore. She couldn’t afford to have any kind of personal feelings for another firefighter, not even friendship. She couldn’t take another loss.