The Big Burn. Terry Watkins

jumped.”

      Brock nodded. That was consistent with the file they had on her. He swore softly to himself and continued to try to see something on the ground.

      He said to the pilot, “Can you get this thing down there?”

      “I can get it down. Getting it back out is the problem. Those Santa Ana winds are running sixty miles an hour down there. With low visibility and high winds the chances won’t be good.”

      “I need that damn woman alive.”

      “Sorry, sir,” the pilot said. “What you need is a miracle. The best I can do is to keep circling until the winds die down.”

      Brock stared in frustration at the gathering firestorm. He knew the pilot was right, that they’d have virtually no chance of getting to her and then getting out again.

      The marine lieutenant said, “That’s got to be the worst way to die.”

      Angry as he was at the woman’s defiant jump, Brock couldn’t help but admire her courage. As an operator with Delta Force, Brock had gone into his share of extreme-risk situations and he knew the kind of mind-set that it took. She had to know something about the conditions, something no one else was taking into account. Either that or she was suicidal. He hoped for the former. He hadn’t come all this way for a charred corpse.

      All attempts by Anna to keep her direction, to lock in the topography, had been blown away, and now she was in the hands of the wind. A vicious gust spun her around and she had to fight the near collapse of her chute.

      It was now a desperate battle to get it under control. She was using every bit of her upper-body strength to keep the chute oriented.

      When Anna found a break in the smoke, she saw the fantastic spectacle of fire crowning the treetops at unbelievable speeds.

      The superheated winds buffeted her. She was engulfed in smoke, and for the moment, completely lost sight of the ground.

      When the smoke cleared enough for her to see, it was too late. She sailed into a hundred-foot-high tree snag, her feet smashing through the top branches. Anna stopped with a violent jerk. The pads and Kevlar were all that saved her from being impaled. She still wore deep scars on her body from one such landing and was happy to have the new, stronger protective gear.

      Anna looked up. Her chute was caught precariously. She looked down. It was an eighty-foot drop. Just great. She pulled out her drop-rope and hooked it up, released herself from the harness and began to rappel, trying desperately to get down before the chute gave way and dropped her like a stone.

      She was about twenty feet above ground when the chute broke free. She plunged. Instinctively Anna pulled her legs together and angled them to the side in the standard parachute landing fall.

      She hit hard.

      Dazed, she rolled over and pushed herself up. The great fear of such falls was to have a sprained ankle or something broken. Anna made a quick survey of her body parts.

      Everything seemed intact—until she rose to her feet. Her left ankle was weak. She skipped on it a couple times and decided it wasn’t a disaster as she headed down into the deepest gut of the ravine. She picked up her walkie-talkie to let Carter know she was down. “Do you still have communication with the hikers? Over.”

      “Roger that. They saw you. They should be just up the ravine a few hundred yards.”

      “Ten-four. I’m on my way.”

      “Anna, I can’t believe you just did that! The fire’s coming over the ridge. Moving fast. You can’t outrun it.”

      “I know, but I couldn’t leave them down here.”

      Anna reached into one of the inner pockets of her jumpsuit and took out a small pair of binoculars. She tracked along the ridgeline, acknowledging the treacherous beauty of the snaking line of fire, then she tracked down the hills into the gorge. How a fire feeds depended on where the fuel load was the heaviest, plus how the winds were directed by the lay of the mountains, and where inversion would multiply velocity.

      What she was looking for was an area where the fuel load would be the least, the topography the easiest for the fire to quickly burn over.

      When she turned and looked up the canyon, she saw the students running toward her. Stumbling, falling, getting up. Panic-stricken.

      John Brock watched the rolling fires converge and explode down the gorge in a swirling avalanche of flame.

      He had the marine pilot circle for nearly an hour before the wall of flame had moved on and the winds relaxed enough for them to hazard a landing. The firestorm had left behind smoldering brush, burning trees and blackened ground.

      “Nobody’s surviving that for long,” the pilot said as they made their descent.

      Brock held out no hope, but he had to confirm the deaths.

      The pilot found a flat, burned-over area where he set the helicopter down, the rotors blasting up a cloud of blackened soot and dust.

      Brock and the marine lieutenant exited the chopper, ducked under the orbiting blades and jogged away from the ash and dust.

      He stared at the surroundings. It looked like a giant blowtorch had scorched everything. Embers still hissed and snapped like exploding firecrackers at the tail end of a Fourth of July celebration. Hundreds of smoke tendrils drifted skyward.

      Brock tracked back and forth along the canyon and the arroyo as the acrid smoke wreaked havoc with his sinuses and eyes. “The bodies have to be around here somewhere,” he said somberly, then sneezed.

      They began the melancholy search. Brock was moving along a dry, shallow creek bed, when he stopped. Dirt under an overhang just ahead of him moved. It occurred to him that he might be looking at the covered den of a mountain lion.

      When the dirt and ash moved again he started to ease his hand toward the 9 mm Glock in the shoulder holster under his left arm.

      He stared drop-jawed at what he saw next. They came out one at a time, dirt and ash falling off their protective shields. All of them. All five.

      The college students appeared to be in total shock. They stared silently, amazed to be alive.

      The one in the fire gear barked orders like a drill sergeant at her rescued lambs, telling them to pack the heat shields and whatever else was on the ground that wasn’t burnt up. She had to be Anna Quick.

      She was a tall, striking woman, even when covered in ash. She wore her golden-brown hair short and had a confident swagger as she walked toward him. She was prettier than the picture they had on file.

      “You are, I believe, Anna Quick?” Brock asked.

      “I am. And I appreciate whoever you are for getting here so fast.”

      She turned and started to direct the college kids to the chopper.

      “We’re not the rescue team,” Brock interrupted, then radioed the chopper pilot who told him a rescue bird was on its way. Brock then relayed that information to Anna.

      They ducked away from gust of ash the wind had kicked up.

      “If you aren’t here to help, who are you? And what are you doing here in the middle of this mess?”

      “My name is John Brock. I came here especially for you.” He showed her a Military Intelligence ID.

      She studied it for a moment, then handed it back. “What could Military Intelligence possibly want with me that’s so important they’d come looking for me in the middle of a fire?”

      “We need your help. Or, more specifically, your father needs your help.”

      So much for the intelligence part. These guys were wrong. “My father’s presumed dead. Has been for the past eight years or hasn’t anyone bothered to pass that information on to you?” It came out harsher than she’d meant it to, but she was exhausted.