Summer of Fire Part 1

Summer of fire.

Linda Jacobs.

Foreword:.

My love affair with Yellowstone Park began in 1973, when I spent the first of three summers studying the field geology of Wyoming for my master's thesis. I have since returned to the park in every season, accessing the archives for the rich history of both the land, and man's brief tenure there.

While researching a historical novel set in Yellowstone, I was continually distracted by references to the fires of '88. Like much of the nation, I had tuned in, spellbound, to the nightly reports of America's first National Park in flames. Like many of Yellowstone's three million annual visitors, I held my breath, dreading the destruction being depicted, yet seduced by the beauty of wildfire.

Over lunch in the Houston Public Library, I examined Ross Simpson's The Fires of '88, published by American Geographic and Montana Magazine. After an hour's perusal of choppers ferrying water, tankers spraying r.e.t.a.r.dant, and the faces of the men and women on the lines, I came to a conclusion.

There was a story here . . . one that over thirty-two thousand firefighters had shared. There was a vivid setting of beauty and peace, where a forest must go through the crucible of fire to achieve rebirth. To this place came my fictional characters.

A female firefighter troubled by the loss of a comrade-in-arms, a park biologist scarred by grief over his wife and baby daughter, and a Vietnam veteran helicopter pilot who seeks the adrenaline high . . . each find that in a world turned upside down, they cannot escape their greatest fears. Only through their private trials can they emerge reborn from their summer of fire.

With the help of a number of people and references, I have attempted to create as authentic a reconstruction as possible of Yellowstone's 1988 fires. Clare, Steve, and Deering do not exist, but the backdrop against which their story is told most definitely did. Some public figures such as the Secretary of the Interior, Park Superintendent, and the fire's Incident Commanders have been fictionalized; their characters are intended to bear no resemblance in word or deed to real persons. Any errors or omissions are my own.

My husband, Richard Jacobs, a founder of a Fort Bend County, Texas, volunteer fire department in 1975, served as consultant on structural firefighting, and a.s.sisted in preparing the fire maps. These are the authentic reports released daily by the Greater Yellowstone Unified Area Command of the Forest Service and National Park Service to the three thousand journalists who covered the fires' story.

My visit to the Texas A & M Brayton Firefighter Training Field was an eye-opener. Beneath the blazing July sun, fighting fire in full turnouts, I found the men and women to whom society owes a debt.

Dr. Catharine Raven, who is both biologist and wildfire fighter, gave valuable insights into many themes of the book. She fought the fires of '88, a life-altering experience that set her on the path to becoming a scientist. Eleven years later, she was still fighting the summer battles of the west. In addition to helping me get in touch with major characters, she also has ties to the Native American community, as the character of Clare does. The magic is that the book was largely complete when we met.

I thank Dr. Lee Whittlesley, of the Yellowstone archives, for showing me around on my several visits there. In 1996, Ken Davis, who was manager of the town of West Yellowstone, revealed the fascinating story of a community under siege, and opened my eyes to the lives of the summer migrant workers of the West. Gayle Mansfield of the West Yellowstone News and Ronald Diener of the Jackson Hole Historical Society helped me through their stores of information. Workers at the Jackson Hole News were also courteous and helpful in letting me review back issues of the paper. The jumpers at West Yellowstone Smokejumper's Base gave me an extensive tour and told tales of leaping out of their Beech at one hundred ten miles per hour.

Several nonfiction books were of great use in my research, including Michael Thoele's Fire Line: Summer Battles of the West, and former Chief Ranger Dan Sholly's Guardians of the Land. In addition, I was fascinated by the photojournalist's eye view of the fires in Yellowstone's Red Summer by Alan and Sandy Carey, Yellowstone on Fire by the staff of the Billings Gazette, and Ross Simpson's previously mentioned work.

My primary consultant on helicopter warfare in Vietnam was Michael Harvey, an oil industry entrepreneur, who served two tours as a front line Huey pilot. In addition, Robert (d.i.c.k) Vaughan, noted author and another chopper veteran, provided insight as to aircraft terminology. Any errors are mine.

For commentary and editorial a.s.sistance on various drafts, I thank Charlotte Sheedy, Greg Tobin, Robert Vaughan, Elizabeth Engstrom, Sarah Lazin, Ann Close, John Byrne Cook, Caroline Lampman, and Deborah Bedford. Rita Gallagher helped me to understand the structure of a novel and Sam Havens how to present the story.

Lastly, there is the late Venkatesh Srinivas Kulkarni, consummate writer and teacher, beloved friend, and citizen of the world. I also acknowledge the steadfast support of my Rice University critique group, Marjorie Arsht, Kathryn Brown, Judith Finkel, Bob Hargrove, Elizabeth Hueben, Karen Meinardus, Joan Romans, Angela Shepherd, Jeff Theall, and Diana Wade.

PROLOGUE.

Houston, Texas.

July 1, 1988.

Black smoke billowed from the roof vents. At any second, the flames would burst through, adding their heat to the already s.h.i.+mmering summer sky. Wood s.h.i.+ngle, Clare Chance thought in disgust, a four-story Houston firetrap. She drew a breath of thick humidity and prepared for that walk on the edge . . . where fire enticed with unearthly beauty, even as it destroyed.

Fellow firefighter Frank Wallace, over forty, but fighting trim, gripped her shoulder. "Back me up on the hose." Although he squinted against the midday glare, his mustachioed grin showed his irrepressible enthusiasm.

"Right behind you," Clare agreed. In full turnouts and an air pack, she ignored the sultry heat and the wail of sirens as more alarms were called. Helping Frank drag the hose between gawking by-standers and shocked apartment residents, she reflected that the toughest part of the job was watching lives inexorably changed.

A commotion broke out as a young Asian woman, reed thin in torn jeans, made a break from the two civilians holding her. She dashed toward the nearest building entry crying, "My baby!"

Frank dropped the hose, surged forward and grabbed the woman. "Javier," he grunted. "Take over."

Javier Fuentes, lanky, mid-twenties, took the handoff and restrained the woman from rus.h.i.+ng into the burning building. Her dark eyes went wide as she screamed and struggled. Her short legs kicked at Javier's s.h.i.+ns.

Adrenaline surging, Clare demanded. "What floor?"

"4-G . . ." the woman managed. "He's only two. "

"Let's go," Clare told Frank without bothering to ask why the child had been left alone. As she bent for the hose, her sense of purpose seemed to lighten the weight of her equipment.

They headed in.

The building's peeling doorframe had been defaced by purple graffiti and the interior stairwell smelled faintly of mold and urine. New and sparkling in the seventies when oil jobs had enticed northern immigrants to Houston, the housing had fallen into disrepair.

At the second floor landing, Clare and Frank met smoke. She tipped up her helmet, covered her face with the mask, and cranked the tank valve. Beside her, Frank wordlessly did the same.

As they moved up, Clare made sure the hose didn't snag around corners while Javier and others fed slack. Business as usual, so far, and they would find that young mother's child.

At the third floor and starting blindly toward four, Clare felt the smoke grow hotter. She crouched below the deadly heat and told herself that she could breathe. Positive pressure prevented fumes from leaking into her mask, and the dehydrated air cooled as it decompressed.

In, out, slow . . .

Isolation pressed in with the superheated atmosphere. She couldn't shake the feeling that Frank had left her, belied by his tugging on the hose. At times like these, she had to keep her head on straight. No giving in to claustrophobia and no thought of turning back.

If you misguessed the dragon in the darkness, you would pay with your life.

Fourth floor hall, and Clare went onto hands and knees. Darkness and disorientation complete, she concentrated on keeping the hose in line and her breathing steady. The worst humiliation was if she sucked her tank dry and had to make an ignominious exit.

Ahead, Frank cracked the nozzle for a bare second. Heat slammed down as the spray upset the thermocline. He hit the valve again. A glimpse of not quite midnight winked from the shadows, now there and then gone. Clare ground her teeth and her chest tightened as they approached 4-G.

The door stood ajar. A good omen, she hoped, as she and Frank accepted its invitation and crawled inside.

Drapes and couches blazed, giving off toxic gases that made her glad for filtered air. The ceiling sheetrock was burned away, revealing the s.p.a.ce beneath the roof where storage boxes blazed. Did they contain old clothes and junk, or precious family heirlooms from Southeast Asia, belonging to the young woman who waited below?

A thousand degrees from above drove Clare and Frank onto their stomachs. While hot water rained onto s.h.a.g carpet, she inched along, one gloved hand feeling the way and the other on the hose. If you let go of your lifeline, you could lose orientation, the sure first step to a mayday situation.

Through the drop-spattered mask, there was no sign of life in the living room and nothing that looked like a crib or playpen. Clare looked toward a door that must lead to a bedroom, but flames licked at the frame and walls. No haven there. Sick with the possibility of failure, she dragged herself toward Frank. She had not yet told a mother that her child had died in a fire.

If h.e.l.l existed, this must be its antechamber. Frank lay ahead of her, directing the hose. By the tugs, she felt him move forward, risking the dragon backing around and coming down with searing breath. Clare found herself staring at the constantly changing colors of combustion, unable to resist the inferno's splendor. Her love-hate relations.h.i.+p with fire hurt most at times like these.

An ominous rumble began, the vibration resonating in her chest as though the dragon cleared its throat. Cold horror cut the heat.

Through the steam cloud from the power cone, she caught a s.h.i.+fting in the rafters, a barely perceptible sideways slide. She couldn't grab Frank's collar to warn him, couldn't do a thing except scream his name into the maelstrom.

One moment, Clare was crawling toward him. The next, he disappeared in a shower of light.

CHAPTER ONE.

Yellowstone National Park.

July 25, 1988.

Extreme Fire Danger.

Clare Chance gave a bitter smile at the warning sign on the Grant Village Laundromat. The lodgepole pines behind the building burned like merry h.e.l.l. With the drought that had parched Yellowstone since May, moisture in the forest fuels had ebbed, making the park a two million acre tinderbox. The wind that came with the dry fronts completed the equation for disaster.

Clare hooked a hose to a hydrant and dragged the other end across the parking lot to water down the Laundromat roof. Beneath the heavy coat of the Houston Fire Department, sweat ran between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and down her sides. At least it wasn't as hot as it had been in Houston on that ill-fated July afternoon, over three weeks ago.

Quick agony swelled her chest until she felt it would burst. The flaming forest became a wavering vermilion blur as she blinked hard and hoped Javier Fuentes and the other men of HFD didn't notice her tears.

Coming to the West to fight wildfire had seemed a convenient escape after she'd witnessed Frank Wallace's death. If it could happen to him, it could happen to anybody. He was . . . had been . . . one of the good guys, an older veteran who'd acted blind to the fact that she wasn't one of the boys.

Since becoming a firefighter, Clare had learned she didn't qualify as a bona fide adrenaline junkie, but she'd tried to match anybody's bravado. People who hadn't seen her coach basketball or yell at her trainees at the Texas A & M fire school were surprised to learn what a thirty-seven-year-old woman did for a living.

Today, at Grant Village, she watched the younger men from Houston with a warning on the tip of her tongue. The wind s.h.i.+fted continuously, first a puff on the back of her neck and then relief for her heated forehead.

Watering down the buildings was a last ditch effort before they would have to fight the approaching flames face-to-face. Clare didn't know what she'd been thinking when she'd a.s.sumed wildfire was somehow tamer than structural fire. Less collateral damage, maybe. In the forest, the odds were against her having to face another distraught mother.

A single look at Clare's face when she emerged from the burning apartment house told Tammy Nguyen that her small son Pham was gone. Strangers, yet kindred in loss, the two women had gone into each other's arms and sobbed. Channel Two News had carried it at six and ten.

Clare had forced herself to face Frank's wife, Jane, too, beside the closed casket. Within the older woman's kindly embrace, she had thought her heart would break.

On this, another sizzling afternoon, her hand on the rough-textured hose felt familiar, yet somehow distant. She was still getting used to the pungent incense of burning evergreen, so different from the gra.s.sy aromas of the Texas coast.

The two-way Motorola radio at her belt gave a crackling sound. She pa.s.sed off to Javier Fuentes, who'd been first to sign on with her to fight wildfire. "Chance here."

"We've got to get those civilians out of Grant Village." Garrett Anderson's deep Atlanta drawl came over the airwaves. She imagined him behind a desk in West Yellowstone, his ample stomach hanging over his belt while he chomped on Fig Newtons and drank mugs of creamed coffee. One of the seasonal bosses of big fire, he'd been the first black to make fire general at the training center in Marana, Arizona. He was also the man who'd arranged through Clare's boss at A & M for her and the men from Houston to be here.

She put her foot onto the running board of the fire truck and pulled off her hard hat. G.o.d, her sweat-soaked head itched. The side mirror revealed heat-reddened cheeks beneath bloodshot amber eyes. "I thought the evacuation was proceeding as planned, Garrett."

There's a bottleneck on the road out. Harry Gaines's crew set a backfire that got away."

"You mean that's not the Shoshone trying to burn down the Laundromat?" She considered the wildfire fighters' eccentric habit of tagging fires with a name. It was as though naming their adversary made the fight a more personal one.

"When you see the Shoshone, you'll know." Garrett sounded grimly certain. "The backfire's jumped the road and n.o.body will drive into the smoke. I'm trying to raise a chopper to drop water, but I need you to get those cars moving before the Shoshone gets there."

Clare glanced back at the battle beside the Laundromat. "We'll go as soon as we can."

"Go now. The Shoshone has crowned."

When wildfire leaped into the treetops, Garrett had told her it released the energy of an atomic bomb. It sounded improbable, but when she c.o.c.ked an ear, she heard a distant dull rumble like an approaching train. Her nostrils flared at a fresh and stronger mix of tart resin and char. Her heartbeat accelerated.

With a tap on Javier Fuentes's shoulder, she cupped her hands and shouted to the others from Houston, "We've gotta leave you. If it blows up, head to the lake and get in the water."

Javier leaped to the driver's seat of the fire truck. As she climbed in the pa.s.senger side, she said a silent prayer for the safety of the men they left behind. She hadn't gone an hour in the past weeks without asking what she could have done to prevent Frank's death. "These things happen, Clare," her friends at the station had drilled her.

They were right. Before she'd joined the ranks, she'd seen on the news that every few months some firefighter paid the ultimate price.

"You have to pick up and go on," they'd said.

She had, but in a different direction. Her flight to Yellowstone, and that's what she now knew it to be, had been a headlong rush toward peaceful woodland and natural beauty. She'd believed she wouldn't have to face another monstrous specter of dancing heat and light.

Javier steered along the deserted inbound lane to Grant Village, past the stopped column of sedans, pickups with camper sh.e.l.ls, and trailers. Despite the emergency, he drove slowly, bronzed hands light on the wheel.

The approaching fire had been started by a lightning strike at Shoshone Lake, six miles southwest. After smouldering and creeping along for a month, high winds had fanned it into fury.

They came to the head of the line, a stopped behemoth of an RV. Ahead, perhaps a hundred yards, tightly s.p.a.ced pines burned on both sides of the road.

Clare clicked the Motorola's b.u.t.ton. "Come in, Garrett." She slid out of the truck to scan the sky. The sun was reduced to an intermittent copper disk. "Come in."

On the RV driver's side, she hailed an elderly man with wild white hair and wire-framed gla.s.ses. "I'm Clare Chance with the firefighters," she told him in what she hoped was a rea.s.suring tone. She'd always had a raspy low voice that people mistook for a man's on the telephone.

"What shall we do?" The ginger-haired woman pa.s.senger leaned across.

"A helicopter is going to dump water ahead," Clare told them. "As soon as the fire dies down I want you to drive as fast as you can."

The runaway backfire wasn't going to kill anyone, but the Shoshone's rumbling underpinned all other sound. If it arrived before they could escape . . .

She prayed the chopper came soon.

Steve Haywood looked out the helicopter window into h.e.l.l.

Great tongues of orange flame leaped through the crowns of lodgepole pines, then reached another two hundred feet into the white-hot sky.

"Swing over Grant Village," he ordered pilot Chris Deering through their headphones, wis.h.i.+ng he were anywhere but in the air. Although this recon flight over Yellowstone's raging forest fires was important, Steve had already decided that for him it was a terrible idea. He wiped the sweat at his temples, right where the gray had started last year.

Steve watched Deering peer out at the boiling smoke through his Ray Ban Aviators, noting the sunburst of lines around the pilot's coffee-brown eyes. As he gauged the faint smile playing at the corners of the taut mouth, Steve realized that Deering was actually enjoying this.

He knew the type. All over the mountain west, wherever choppers were flown, there were guys in military-style flight suits with winged patches on their shoulders that proclaimed Vietnam Helicopter Pilots a.s.sociation.

He'd come to Yellowstone for the peace it afforded, not to wind up in a war zone.

Deering fiddled with the radio and was unable to raise West Yellowstone Airport, as had been the case for about five minutes. He banked the Bell 206 into a steep turn and Steve looked straight down into leaping flames.