Chasing Fire

drogue.
    Heart knocking—adrenaline, awe, delight, fear—he found Trigger, his jump partner, in the sky.
    Wait, he ordered himself. Wait.
    Lightning flared, a blue-edged lance, and added a sting of ozone to the air.
    Then the tip and tug. He dropped his head back, watched his chute fly up, open in the ripping air like a flower. He let out a shout of triumph, couldn’t help it, and heard Trigger answer it with a laugh as Gull gripped his steering toggles.
    It was a fight to turn to face the wind, but he reveled in it. Even choking on the smoke that wind blew smugly in his face, hearing the bombburst of thunder that followed another crack of lightning, he grinned. And with his chute rocking, his eyes tracking the ugly slash, the line of trees, the angry walls of flames—close enough now to slap heat over his face—he aimed for the jump site.
    For a moment he thought the wind would beat him after all, and imagined the discomfort, embarrassment and goddamn inconvenience of hitting those jack-sawed trees. And on his first jump.
    He yanked down hard on his toggle, shouted, “No fucking way.”
    He heard Trigger’s wild laugh, and seconds before he hit, Gull pulled west. His feet slapped ground, just on the east end of the jump spot. Momentum nearly tumbled him into the slash, but he flipped himself back in a sloppy somersault into the clearing.
    He took a moment—maybe half a moment—to catch his breath, to congratulate himself on getting down in one piece, then rolled up to gather his chute.
    “Not bad, rook.” Cards gave him a waggling thumbs-up. “Ride’s over, and the fun begins. The Swede’s setting up a team to dig fire line along the flank there.” He pointed toward the wicked, bellowing wall. “And you’re elected. Another team’s going to set up toward the head, hit it with the hoses. Mud knocked her back some, but the wind’s got her feeling sexy, and we’re getting lightning strikes out the ass. You’re with Trigger, Elf, Gibbons, Southern and me on the line. And shit, there goes one in the slash and the other in the trees. Let’s haul them in and get to work.”
    Gull trooped over to assist Southern, but stopped when his fellow rookie got to his feet among the jagged, jack-sawed trees.
    “You hurt?” Gull shouted.
    “Nah. Damn it. A little banged, and my chute’s ripped up.”
    “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been me. We’re on the fire line.”
    He maneuvered through the slash to help Southern gather his tattered chute. After stowing his jumpsuit, Gull headed over to where Cards was ragging on Gibbons.
    “Now that Tarzan here has finished swinging in the trees, let’s do what we get paid for.”
    With his team, Gull hiked half a mile in full pack to the line Rowan had delegated Cards to dig.
    They spread out, and with the fire licking closer the sounds of pick striking earth, saw and blade slicing tree filled the smoky air. Gull thought of the fire line as an invisible wall or, if they were lucky, a kind of force field that held the flames on the other side.
    Heroic grunt work, he thought while sweat ran rivulets through the soot on his face. The term, and the job, satisfied him.
    Twice the fire tried to jump the line, skipping testing spots like flat stones over a river. The air filled with sparks that swarmed like murderous fireflies. But they held the flank. Now and then, through the flying ash and huffing smoke, Gull spotted a quick beam of sunlight.
    Little beacons of hope that glowed purple, then vanished.
    Word came down the line that the hose crew had to fall back, and with the flank under control, they would move in to assist.
    After more than six hours of laying line, they hiked their way up the mountain and across the black where the fire had already had her way.
    If the line was the invisible wall, he thought of the black as the decimated kingdom where the battle had been waged and lost. The war continued, but here the enemy laid scourge and left what had been green and golden a smoldering, skeletal ruin.
    The thin beams of sun that managed to struggle through the haze only served to amplify the destruction.
    Limping a little, Southern fell into step beside him.
    “How’re you holding up?” Gull asked him.
    “I’d be doing better if I hadn’t landed in that godforsaken slash,” he said in the fluid Georgia drawl that gave him his nickname. “I thought I knew what it was. I’ve got two seasons in on wildfires, and that’s before we’ll-whoop-your-ass