“Okay, folks. One fries, we all fry.”
They stood. Brandon clipped the radio to his belt and they assumed formation. Woody, as crew boss, took the front. It was his job to size up the fire and spot threats. The most veteran member of the crew and a permanent employee, he would formulate the strategy for the fire line and give orders.
Brandon brought up the rear. As second, his job was to make sure that all seventeen crew members were following orders and that no one was left behind.
It was eleven in the morning. Most likely, they would work straight through the night.
Charlie fell in beside Brandon along with Larry. Both carried chain saws, which meant they walked toward the rear where no one could trip and fall onto the vicious equipment.
Brandon carried a Pulaski and a first-aid kit and his pack. Twenty-five pounds of gear.
“No laughs today,” Charlie muttered as they moved toward launch point.
No one disagreed.
* * *
“Vic, meet Tom Reynolds. Retired Agent Reynolds, CIA.”
“Huh?” Victoria looked at her favorite chocolate soda vendor blankly, then turned to her father. He’d asked her to come down to his small two-room sheriff’s office to hear Tom’s story. Apparently, it was some story. “You’re kidding, right?”
Her father held up a fax. “Got the verification right here.”
The fax from the Central Intelligence Agency stated that Tom Reynolds was recently reactivated and not to be bothered. They’d included his fingerprints to confirm his identity.
Tom smiled pleasantly. “Kind of shocking, isn’t it?”
Victoria took a seat. “What the hell is going on? This is Beaverville, for God’s sake. You own the general store!”
“I do,” Tom said. “That isn’t a lie. I retired from the CIA fifteen years ago and moved here to live quietly. Admittedly, I was given an extra retirement stipend to monitor Bud Irving while I was at it.”
“Bud Irving is CIA?”
“Former. He retired in 1959. But he had contact with Agent Maximillian Ferringer and Agent Al Simmons. Given the mystery surrounding both men’s disappearance, we figured Bud was our best chance of learning more.”
“Oh, boy,” Victoria said.
Her father added, “Better start at the beginning, Tom. Er, Agent Reynolds.”
“Tom is fine.” Tom got comfortable on the hard wooden seat. He looked from the sheriff to Victoria to the sheriff. “You have to understand, this doesn’t leave this room. I’m only telling you because I’ve seen you with Brandon Ferringer, and I think you can help.”
“We can help,” Victoria said forcefully.
“Then here we go. As I told you, Vic, 1959 was a big year. Not because three of our agents fought over the same woman, but because of the results. Bud Irving married her, resigned his post and ran away with Ashley Jacobs to live under an assumed identity in Canada. Maximillian went to England. Al seemed to be continuing his job, but then we started to hear some nasty rumors.
“We began to tail Agent Simmons, and by 1965 it was clear he’d become a KGB mole. Furthermore, he was actively trying to locate Bud Irving and Ashley Jacobs.
“We did what we could, of course, assigning Agent Ferringer to the case, since he knew Al best and could anticipate him. He followed Simmons for many years, trying to pinpoint who he was working with and if there were additional CIA turncoats. We don’t like to admit to such things, of course.”
“Of course,” Victoria said dryly.
“In 1968, Simmons disappeared. Max lost him cold. Then, just eight months later, Ashley Jacobs disappeared, and we knew it must be Al. Ferringer took it personally. He’d failed his watch. But the organization had had enough at that point, too. It was decided that Simmons was too dangerous to be left alive and the assignment went to code red—kill on sight. In 1970, two agents tracked down Al Simmons and planted a car bomb. The car went up, but Simmons’s body was never found. We suspected he might be still alive. When Maximillian Ferringer disappeared in 1972, we knew the truth—Al Simmons was very much alive and still one step ahead.”
“Sounds like you guys are just brilliant,” Victoria muttered.
“The loss of Agent Ferringer was taken very seriously in the organization,” Tom said levelly. “Al Simmons is good, though, very good. We’d given up on ever finding him when Brandon Ferringer suddenly started asking questions. Then, a month ago, we learned a hit had been placed on his head and he was coming here. I was reactivated, given that I already lived here and knew the situation. My assignment has been to monitor Brandon Ferringer, protect him and see if Al Simmons emerges to take the bait.”
“You’re using Brandon Ferringer as bait?” Victoria scowled.
Tom shrugged. “He stepped into the fray voluntarily. We would be fools not to take advantage of the situation—”
“Get to the shooting,” Sheriff Meese interrupted.
“The man I shot was Ray Bands, a longtime hit man. I think he was responsible for the accidents, as well. It took me a bit to catch on to his presence.” He added a trifle defensively, “I have been retired for fifteen years.”
“What about Al Simmons?” Victoria prodded. “Have you seen any sign of him? Is he around?”
For the first time, Tom appeared troubled. “I have a new theory,” he said quietly. “But it shames me to admit to it.”
“Spit it out, Tom!”
“I think Al Simmons has been living here all along. I think I’ve spent the last fifteen years with Agent Simmons right beneath my nose.”
“Who?”
“I don’t have any proof,” Tom said levelly, “but I’ve been doing some checking in Montana. Coleton Smith exists, all right, and has a stellar record as a forestry service employee. He’s also, however, known as a bit of a loner. No family, no relatives. The man I spoke to said he was committed to the forest one hundred percent. That man also described the Coleton Smith he’d known in 1977 as five foot six and blue-eyed. So why is our Coleton Smith five foot ten and brown-eyed?”
“Oh, my God,” Victoria whispered. “The hotshot crew!”
* * *
Tom called for transportation. Victoria got her mother to watch Randy. At eleven fifteen, Victoria, her father and Tom Reynolds boarded a chartered plane for Colorado.
“I’m sure Brandon’s all right,” Tom kept saying. “Why would Al Simmons jeopardize his whole team? I’m sure Brandon’s just fine.”
Victoria and Sheriff Meese didn’t reply.
* * *
Deployment took longer than anyone expected. The river currents were fast, or the guide was slow, or maybe he just hadn’t been planning on the extra weight of their gear. At any rate, he pushed their chain of three rafts into the river and almost immediately lost control. It took Brandon, Larry and former white-water guide Trish to get the crafts together.
They fought the wayward current all the way down. By the time they finally landed at their destination, they were forty-five minutes late and exhausted.
They assumed formation once again, checked in with command central where Coleton and Barbara were monitoring the situation and set out again. Several gulches and canyons sprouted from the river. They headed straight into the middle one, climbing up to four thousand feet as instructed and following the natural curve into the heart of the gulch. Below them, they could see a thicket of dark trees. To their right, across the gulch, they could see smoke. Up ahead and to the right, the real fire burned, having crested from the other side and now working its way down.
The Smokejumpers had landed somewhere way ahead four hours ago. They were taking the advance line to the east. The Beaverville crew was in charge of flanking any movement to the north. The wide river would serve as a natural fire line to the west. The fire had already burned out to the south.
In theory, a second crew would be joini
ng them shortly. Then again, if they got the same river pilot . . .
They’d hiked about a mile when the first sleeper flared up. Brandon heard Woody shout, “Holy smokes!” Flames were suddenly shooting into the air. Smoke billowed from another four patches of damp, knee-high bunchgrass.
Then, to the left, a second spot of fire suddenly erupted. For a moment they froze. It was an eerie sight, two blooms of fire in the middle of the rocky, craggy surface. The fires seemed to dance with an unknown partner, then suddenly spotted each other and reached out snaking tendrils to hold hands. They wrapped together quickly, gobbling up the grass and seeking fresh fuel.
Woody belatedly shouted orders, and they sprang to life. Pulaskis and shovels walloped the fire cold. They hacked down the grass and covered it with shallow layers of silt. Charlie gave a cry. Another fire had broken out. Other smokers seemed to be sprouting around their feet. Brandon had never seen anything like it. Suddenly they were prancing around like nervous horses, batting at thin tendrils of smoke and chasing ghosts. The whole mountainside was lousy with sparks.
Then Brandon began to realize how much he was sweating for how little he was working. The air was too hot. He looked up and saw a bloodred sun, shimmering with heat.
The timber fire had crowned. It was cooking the mountaintop, sending out a front wave of thick, cloying heat, drying the damp grass and live trees for the eruption about to come.
The fire was building, getting ready, becoming prepared.
Brandon glanced at Woody.
He was holding up a finger, testing for wind.
“Still nothing,” he said to their unasked questions.
But at that moment, Brandon could have sworn he felt a breeze tickle his chin.
* * *
Barbara was slumped in the chair, staring out the window of the watchtower glumly. With her wrapped ankle, she still wasn’t fit for field duty, so she was stuck with Coleton. Clearly, she was not happy.
Coleton watched her from across the tiny room. He was standing in front of the fax machine, waiting for the latest news to come in. He wore a smile.
It always amazed him, the small twists of fate that could determine who lived and who died, the seemingly insignificant decisions and choices that suddenly meant so much. In Mann Gulch, the fire claimed an out-of-shape forest ranger who’d once been a lean, mean Smokejumper but quit because his mother thought the job was too dangerous. In Storm King Mountain, there was the man who’d promised this would be his last fire, and indeed it had been.
In Colorado, there would be the woman who twisted her ankle on the qualifying run but made the crew thanks to the efforts of her teammates. She would be frustrated that she couldn’t join her team at the fire.
She would be the only one left alive by the end of the day.
The fax machine finally chirped to life. Coleton Smith, superintendent of the Beaverville crew, received the national forecaster’s update. Cold front moving in. Evacuate now.
And Al Simmons, whose hatred of Maximillian Ferringer had never died, crumpled the paper and threw it away.
“No news,” he told Barbara blandly.
She resumed staring out the window, where the sun had gone crimson.
* * *
The twin-engine plane was making its descent when it hit the first wave of incoming air and jerked up. The pilot corrected gamely, but the wind currents were strong, and for several sickening moments, the plane was battered by conflicting winds.
Victoria grabbed the edge of her seat. Her father turned pale. Tom looked a little green around the edges.
The plane went into a dive, then at the last minute bottomed out.
“Sorry,” the CIA pilot called back to them. “Bad front, had to get underneath it. Hope you’re not planning on staying for long, because once that kicks up, this plane is grounded. That’s gonna be one hell of a windstorm.”
* * *
They were still hiking to their destination point, where they would start digging the fire line. Their steps were faster now, an unspoken urgency moving through the group. The air was hot, much, much hotter than any of them expected, and even the veterans were antsy. It hurt to breathe too deep, the air searing fragile lung sacs. They learned to use shallow puffs, moving over the ridges and curves of the rocky, churning land.
They crested the small hump, and Woody stopped cold.
The shimmering air seemed to contract on itself, and then in the next moment it exploded. Burning pinecones burst through the air, and two team members ducked. Rocks flew like bullets, driven by an unimaginable force, while ten-foot-thick trees abruptly combusted from the heat of their own resin.
And through the smoke, through the wavy, tearing heat, the wall of fire rose up like a beast, six hundred feet tall and mad as hell. It turned toward them and blasted its first blow.
Woody moved his lips, but the sound was lost in the ensuing roar. Brandon’s hair was swept from his face. He felt his clothes suddenly compress against his skin, and he staggered from the gust.
Woody’s lips moved again.
This time, Brandon understood him. The veteran wildland firefighter said, “God help us. God help us. God help us.”
* * *
Tom pulled out a nine-millimeter. Sheriff Meese had a .357 Magnum. Victoria was ordered behind a van and told not to move.
Al Simmons, aka Coleton Smith, might be old and he might be scarred, but he was still a man who’d once been the best in the field. They wanted to take him out fast and quick, before he had a chance to take any hostages for wheeling and dealing.
Tom gave the nod to go ahead.
As Victoria watched through the van’s windows, her father opened the door at the bottom of the watchtower and pivoted in, gun first. After a moment, Tom followed.
Both men disappeared from sight.
* * *
Barbara had reached down to pick up a paper clip when the door behind her burst open.
“Sheriff!” one man cried.
“Don’t move,” a second man screamed.
She turned slowly to find two old men pointing guns at her and Coleton Smith. “Sheriff Meese,” she said stupidly. “What are you doing here?”
Her words were drowned out by the sound of a man laughing. Coleton Smith doubled over, clutching his side with glee.
“You’re too late,” he gasped. “Look!”
Barbara followed his pointing finger. Far to the right of the window, a small windmill jutted from the watchtower, designed to help determine velocity and strength of wind. High winds were deadly to a fire crew.
The windmill was churning furiously.
Barbara’s face went pale. “My God, what have you done?”
* * *
“Run!” Woody roared. “Drop gear now.”
Pulaskis and chain saws clattered to the ground. Water canteens and emergency kits followed. As a unit, they burst forward.
One fries, we all fry.
Stay behind! Stay behind! Brandon’s legs wanted to leap. His lungs burned from the heat, and he felt an unbearable pressure in his chest. But he stayed. He stood his ground. He was second in command. It was his job to bring up the rear, his job to make sure everyone was following formation.
He would not lose his head. He would not succumb to panic. He would not fail his team.
I am better than Max. I am Brandon Ferringer.
Woody sprinted by, hard-muscled legs pumping. He still held his radio in his hand. He was screaming, but the words were hard to hear. Brandon’s radio crackled to life. Barbara. She was crying about Coleton. Then, suddenly, Victoria’s voice cut in, cool and strong and urgent.
“Run,” she said. “Get out, get out, get out!”
Larry raced by, Trish, Winston, April and Charlie. Brandon waited and waited. His eyes teared from the smoke. Another pinecone fired by his head.
He smelled his mucus membranes beginning to burn.
“Marsha,” he screamed, and urged the stumbling hotshot forward. “Go, go, go.”
Victoria was still speaking through the radio at his waist. “Get out, get out, get out.”
He looked one last time to make sure everyone had gone, and he saw the most ethereal sight. The fire was dancing. The six-hundred-foot wall of flame was ripped and joined, torn and married by the fickle, buffeting wind. Until the fire collapsed on itself, then rose up. Until it died and was reborn, carried by a warring, traitorous wind, half-cold, half-hot, slamming against itself.
And then, as he stood transfixed, the wind resolved its differences. The cool shoved the hot, the hot twisted back, and a wind tunnel was formed. The fire suddenly balled into a tornado and took off like a cyclone, spitting eighty-pound boulders.
Brandon ran.
* * *
“Helicopters!” Victoria screamed. She held Coleton by the lapels. She was so angry, so terrified, she was spitting in his face. Barbara stood right behind her, looking ready to tear the man from limb to limb. “Call rescue helicopters!”
“Can’t get in,” Coleton said gleefully. “Wind’s too strong now. It’s a full-scale blowout, updrafts, downdrafts, vacuums and funnels. Ain’t nothing going in. Ain’t no one coming out.”
Victoria wanted to kill him. In that instant, she truly did. And the rage rose up in her, and the terror rose up in her, and she knew Brandon was going to die. And Charlie, sweet twenty-two-year-old Charlie. Dear Lord.
“Don’t worry,” Coleton whispered innocently. “Ferringer’s got good legs and much better lungs than the others. He’s got altitude training they don’t, and much more stamina. All he’s got to do is leave them behind and maybe he’ll make it. Not your brother—he’s too rash. He’ll push too hard, breathe too deeply and pass out from the fumes. If it’s any consolation, he’ll be unconscious when the fire hits.”
Victoria’s father stepped forward with a growl. Tom barely caught his arm.