Trusting the rope, for him, for herself, she inched out onto the branch to set the blade into bark and wood as close to Yangtree’s body as she dared.
“Hold him steady!” she shouted. “Don’t let him drop.”
She cut clean, felt the branch shimmy from the shock. Then Yangtree hung suspended, the spur and the lever of branch fixed in his side like a corkscrew. His body swayed as they lowered him slowly, hand over hand, to where Libby and Stovic waited to take his weight.
“We’ve got him! We’ve got him! Oh, Jesus.” Stovic’s voice trembled. “Jesus, he’s a mess.”
But breathing, Rowan thought, as she heard the clatter of the chopper. He just had to keep breathing.
It cut her in two, standing on safe ground, watching as the copter lifted off with her friend. Shattered, she thought, as the wind from the blades whipped over her. His arms, his legs, and God knew what else—and there was nothing more she could do.
She shouted into her radio, updating base, realigning strategy while Cards, battered face in his hands, sat on the ground. Trigger watched the copter, then slowly turned to her. Everything she felt—the shock, the grief, the stupefying rage—was reflected on his face.
“Paracargo,” she began, and Gull squeezed her arm.
“I’ve got that. I’ve got it,” he repeated when she just stared at him. “Dobie, Matt, give me a hand?”
Pull it together, Rowan ordered herself. “Trig.” She took a breath, then walked over to draw in the dirt. “She’s moving northeast, gaining steam. I need you,” she said quietly when he just stood, shaking his head.
“Give me a sec, okay? Just a goddamn fucking second.”
Crouched, she laid a hand on his boot. “We’ve got to slay this dragon, then get back to Yangtree. The delay.” Rowan had to stop, steady her voice. “The fire’s taken advantage. She’s burning hot, Trig. They’ve dumped some mud on her head, but she caught some wind, jumped this ridge line, and she’s climbing fast.”
“Okay.” He swiped the back of his hand under his nose, crouched with her. “I can take the left flank, cut line with five, hold her in.”
“Take seven. L.B.’s sending us another crew, and I’ll pull from that. You got a water source here.” She drew an X in the dirt. “So take pumper and hose. I’ll get a crew heading up the right, and do some scouting.”
When he reached for her hand, she linked fingers. “We’re going to kill her,” he said. “Then we’re going to find out what the hell happened.”
“Damn right we are.”
They talked Cat lines, safe spots, two possible fire camps.
When he’d culled out his seven, gathered the gear, Rowan turned to the rest. “Cards, I need you to stay here and—”
“Fuck that, Swede.” His snarl had blood leaking from his split lip. “I’m not hanging back.”
“I’m not asking you to hang back. I need you to wait for the next load, take half and start up the left flank after Trigger. Send the rest to me. I need Gibbons on my crew, and Janis. And make it clear they’re going to bust their asses. I need you to take charge of this,” she said before he could speak. “And Trigger’s going to need you on the line.”
She turned away when he nodded. “Gull, Dobie, Libby, Stovic. Tool up.”
No time to waste. No time to think beyond the fire. Everything else had to stay locked outside.
They dug and cut, with every strike of Pulaski or buzz of blade echoing to Rowan like vengeance. And the fire reared and snapped.
“I need you to take charge here until Gibbons makes it in,” she told Gull. “He just checked in. Everybody hit the jump spot safely. I’m going to work my way toward the head, get a better sense of her. If you tie in with the Cat line before I get back, let me know.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve got a water source about fifty yards up, this same course. You’re going to end up with a crooked line, and Gibbons is going to be coming double time, but if you get there before he meets up, get Stovic and Libby on the hose. Any change in the wind or—”
“I’ve got it, Rowan. Go do what you need to do; we’ll work it from here. Just stay in touch.”
“Don’t let them think about it. Keep them focused. I’ll be back.”
She set off fast, moving through the trees, up the rough incline, and vanished in smoke.
All she heard was the fire, the muttering glee of it. It crackled over the dry timber, lapped at molten pine resin, chewed through leaves, twigs littering the ground. She dodged a firebrand as she climbed, beat out the spot.
She thought of bodies charred to the bone.
When she crested the ridge she stopped to check her bearings. She could see the red-orange fury, gobbling up fuel. They’d given her a head start, she thought; they’d had no choice. The dragon ran strong and free.
She called in to request retardant drops, and received a brief, unsatisfying report on Yangtree.
They were working on him.
She felt the change in the wind, just a flutter, and saw the fire grab its tail to ride. A cut to the west now, still north of Trigger’s crew, she noted, but moving toward them.
She circled around, contacting him by radio.
“She’s shifting, curling back toward you.”
“We’ve got a Cat line here, a good, wide one. I don’t think she can jump it. Escape route due south.”
“They’re bringing mud. I just called to tell them to dump a load west, down your flank. Stay clear.”
“Roger that. Cards just got here with reinforcements. We’re going to hold this line, Swede.”
“After the mud drops, I’m going to get an air report. I want to take four from your team, same from mine, get them up to the head. Squeeze it. But if she jumps the road, get gone.”
“Bet your ass. And watch yours.”
As she worked her way through the fire, she coordinated with Gibbons, with base, kept her ears and eyes peeled for the tankers. She cut east, eyes smarting with smoke, then jumped back, skidding onto her back as a burning limb thick as a man’s thigh crashed to the ground in front of her.
It caught fresh fuel on the forest floor, ignited with a whoosh to claw at the soles of her boots before she scrambled clear.
“Widowmaker,” she shouted to Gibbons. “I’m good, but I’m going to be busy for a minute.”
She beat at the fresh flames, chopping at the ground to smother what she could with dirt. She heard the thunder of a tanker, muttered curses as she fought her small, personal war.
“I’m clear.” Shoveling, stomping, she signaled Gibbons, then the tanker pilot. “I’m clear.”
And ran.
The thick pink rain fell, smothering flame, billowing smoke, thudding onto the ground, the trees, with heavy splats. She sprinted for shelter as globs of it struck her helmet, her jacket. A volley of firebrands sent her on a zigzagging dash for higher, clearer ground.
She heard the telltale roar at her back, felt the ground shimmy under her feet. Following instinct, she leaped through the undulating curtain of fire, all but heard it slam shut behind her before the blowup burst. Rocks skidded under her feet as she pushed herself up an incline above the hungry, murderous blaze.
“I’m clear.” She shouted it as her radio popped with voices. “Had a little detour.”
She wheezed in a breath, wheezed one out. “Give me a minute to orient.”
A wall of fire, solid as steel, cut off her route back to her team.
She pulled out her compass to confirm direction, accepted that her hand shook lightly.
Cut across to Trigger’s line, she calculated, regroup, then circle down and around to her own.
She relayed her plan, then took a moment to hydrate and settle her nerves.
Back on the line, Gull looked straight into Gibbons’s eyes.
“Is she hurt?”
“She says no. She’s playing it down, but I think she had a close one.” He swiped at sweat. “She’s cutting over to Trig, then she’ll circle around back to us. The mud knocked it back some on their flank, and they’re working the pumps up toward the head. They’re in good position.”