LITMIR.BIZ

      Denver, Colorado

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

      Copyright © 2012 by J. M. Mitchell.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission.

      Prairie Plum Press

      P.O. Box 271585

      Littleton, CO 80127

      ISBN 978-0-9852272-3-4

      LCCN 2012904808

      For Cassy and Hanna

      CHAPTER 1

      “Please, promise me they won’t let it burn,” the woman said. She stared at the deputy. “It’s everything we own.”

      He turned and looked through the trees at the towering column of smoke. The setting sun turned the huge, dirty cloud redder and meaner by the moment. The firefighters watching from the road were growing nervous. “Ma’am, we need to get you to safety.”

      “Is it true they arrested someone for starting the fire?” she asked. “Is it true they work for the government?”

      The deputy nodded, then pulled the screen door open and held it there.

      The woman picked up the box she had hastily packed with photos and other keepsakes. She walked out and turned back. “Hurry kids.”

      Two wide-eyed little girls followed her out. One held an armload of toys, the other a scruffy long-haired dog.

      “Just the three of you?” the deputy aske.

      “My husband’s at work, somewhere on the road. We thought the danger was past. Will the firefighters do every…” She broke down. “Please,” she cried. She looked back at the house, as if it was the last time she would ever see it.

      The deputy took her box and walked them out to the car. He got them settled inside, and leaned over her window. “Ma’am, all I can say is this. There are folks somewhere over that ridge doing everything they can to stop it.”

      — • —

      Fire raced up a pine, crackling, eating away the foliage. Jack Chastain raised an arm, shielding his face, and watched as a slurry bomber laid down a red wall of retardant, pounding a spot near the bottom of the drainage. The World War II-era plane lumbered on, disappearing behind the column of smoke as it made its way back to base. That would be the last he would see of it. Soon it would be dark. The fire was now his to worry about.

      He squinted, searching through the smoke. Nearly two hours had passed since the Gabby Fire blew over the line, and he still didn’t quite have his bearings. At least he wasn’t lost—like the crewboss on the other crew sent down the line to catch it, somewhere on the other side of the blowover. Two crews—hardly a force.

      He looked back. The lead squad veered in his direction. Good.

      Wind pushed the flames toward their line. The crew held their ground.

      Another wind shift? Was it about to start raging again? He watched the flames and listened, remembering how the fire came literally roaring out of the drainage, sounding like a jet engine picking up thrust, gathering its head and taking off, over the line and over the ridge, throwing fire and embers down the other side. Line lost. They’d had no choice but to back up, tie in, and start over—when it was safe to do so.

      This time the gust died away. The crew kept moving.

      So did the fire.

      Jack continued downhill, following the edge. On an outcropping he stopped.

      Below loomed blackened trunks, devoid of canopy. Huge hulks of old sugar pine snags sent twisters of embers funneling into the sky through their hollow trunks. Downed trees lay burning across the landscape, like the coals of a campfire, but some were a half mile away, maybe more—they had to be huge. How far did this war zone go?

      The radio strapped across his chest popped. “Red Rock, this is Ambrose.”

      Jack keyed the radio. “Go ahead.”

      “What’s your status?”

      “We’re anchored into the old line, south side, cutting line across the slope, about mid-slope. We’ve got fire below us. This is not a safe spot.”

      “The engine crews sitting over by the houses think it’s making another run right at ‘em.”

      Jack strained to see through the smoke. Fire flashed through a conifer, but on this side of the drainage. All of it was. He could see nothing burning on the other side. “Possible, but I don’t think so. I think the slurry bomber slowed it down, kept it out of the bottom. I’m more worried about it coming back at us.”

      “Can you get your crew down there? We don’t want to lose those houses.”

       He drew in a breath. “Might not be safe. It’s boiling in places, and winds are moving around a lot. Might roll over the top of us. But, I don’t like where we’re at now either. We’re building line downhill, but we’re tied in. We can see if we can flank it. Either way, we’re taking some risks.” He stopped himself from saying more, but wanted to ask why he should put his crew at risk to save houses built 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.

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