1
Luke Dawson loved his job. Fire roared on the other side of
the hill. Although the flames weren’t visible yet, the rain shower of embers
dropping everywhere and the choking smoke were Mother Nature’s heads-up that a shitstorm
of destruction was barreling toward the Black Mountain hotshots. Usually, Luke
would have dug his heels and his Pulaski in, literally drawing the line in the
forest floor between what burned and what escaped the flames. It was the best
kind of firefight and a welcome change of pace after two tours of duty as a US
Navy SEAL. He’d loved that job too, but it had been time to come home. Time to
put down a different kind of roots and get on with living his life.
But today had gone to shit, and it
wasn’t Mother Nature’s fault. The campsite was supposed to be clear—and
all the official sites were. The Black Mountain crew had rousted the last occupants
over an hour ago and sent them with a police escort to a safer area. The
problem was there had been nine cars at those campsites—and ten cars had checked in with the park
ranger earlier that day. Unless a car had grown wings and flown away, Luke
Dawson had a rogue camper who’d copped an illegal spot somewhere.
A flambéed camper if Luke didn’t find him or her.
He was unfortunately reminded of
his last mission as a SEAL, storming a Somali pirate ship to rescue the hostage
crew. Not only had the pirates decided to split up their captives, making a
rescue effort more challenging, but some of the crew members had successfully
hidden from the pirates, putting friendlies in unknown locations. They’d taken
out the pirates, but clearing the vessel had taken hours of painstakingly
sweeping each level.
Luke and Pick Harris were supposed
to be confirming that the campground was empty. Pick ran with a local
motorcycle club in the off-season. Luke had asked him once about the name and
gotten a terse Pickax in reply.
Someday Luke planned on getting the story behind the name from him, but that
wouldn’t be tonight.
“So we’re definitely missing a camper.
Highway patrol is running the plates to get an ID on the owner and reach out in
case the driver somehow managed to leave the park without checking out with the
rangers.”
Double-checking was the smart move,
but they didn’t have the time to wait. The fire would crest the hill within the
hour, probably sooner, and since the Northern California campground occupied
fairly rugged terrain, that didn’t leave them any time to search.
“Roger that. I’ll check this road.” Luke
pointed to a gravel access road.
Pick nodded, looking thoughtful. “How
long until we can get the tankers in the air?”
“Two hours until sunrise. Our boys
can’t fly until they’ve got daylight, but they’re gassed and ready to go.
They’ll be airborne by six.”
Which would be about an hour and a
half too late for Mystery Camper.
Pick cursed again. “Make your road
check quick. We’re burning time.”
And ten thousand acres. Although
the most common cause of wildland fires was the goddamned people who flicked a
Bic, failed to put out a campfire, or did other dumbass, highly illegal shit,
today’s blaze was likely courtesy of a lightning strike from a thunderstorm
last week. One good hit to a dead tree could simmer for days and then explode
into flames, which was probably what had happened here.
He was good to go, so he swung up
into his truck and hit the access road. The deeper he headed into the
campground, the more obvious this Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot became. He’d driven a
Humvee through a firefight in Afghanistan once, hostile rounds landing left and
right. Now blazing embers hit his truck, thudding relentlessly against his hood
when the wind shifted briefly. Good thing he hadn’t been attached to his paint
job.
He guided his truck down the access
road, flooring the gas as much as he dared. It should be fairly easy to spot a
car. He had the make, model, and license plate number, and it was
Luke Dawson loved his job. Fire roared on the other side of
the hill. Although the flames weren’t visible yet, the rain shower of embers
dropping everywhere and the choking smoke were Mother Nature’s heads-up that a shitstorm
of destruction was barreling toward the Black Mountain hotshots. Usually, Luke
would have dug his heels and his Pulaski in, literally drawing the line in the
forest floor between what burned and what escaped the flames. It was the best
kind of firefight and a welcome change of pace after two tours of duty as a US
Navy SEAL. He’d loved that job too, but it had been time to come home. Time to
put down a different kind of roots and get on with living his life.
But today had gone to shit, and it
wasn’t Mother Nature’s fault. The campsite was supposed to be clear—and
all the official sites were. The Black Mountain crew had rousted the last occupants
over an hour ago and sent them with a police escort to a safer area. The
problem was there had been nine cars at those campsites—and ten cars had checked in with the park
ranger earlier that day. Unless a car had grown wings and flown away, Luke
Dawson had a rogue camper who’d copped an illegal spot somewhere.
A flambéed camper if Luke didn’t find him or her.
He was unfortunately reminded of
his last mission as a SEAL, storming a Somali pirate ship to rescue the hostage
crew. Not only had the pirates decided to split up their captives, making a
rescue effort more challenging, but some of the crew members had successfully
hidden from the pirates, putting friendlies in unknown locations. They’d taken
out the pirates, but clearing the vessel had taken hours of painstakingly
sweeping each level.
Luke and Pick Harris were supposed
to be confirming that the campground was empty. Pick ran with a local
motorcycle club in the off-season. Luke had asked him once about the name and
gotten a terse Pickax in reply.
Someday Luke planned on getting the story behind the name from him, but that
wouldn’t be tonight.
“So we’re definitely missing a camper.
Highway patrol is running the plates to get an ID on the owner and reach out in
case the driver somehow managed to leave the park without checking out with the
rangers.”
Double-checking was the smart move,
but they didn’t have the time to wait. The fire would crest the hill within the
hour, probably sooner, and since the Northern California campground occupied
fairly rugged terrain, that didn’t leave them any time to search.
“Roger that. I’ll check this road.” Luke
pointed to a gravel access road.
Pick nodded, looking thoughtful. “How
long until we can get the tankers in the air?”
“Two hours until sunrise. Our boys
can’t fly until they’ve got daylight, but they’re gassed and ready to go.
They’ll be airborne by six.”
Which would be about an hour and a
half too late for Mystery Camper.
Pick cursed again. “Make your road
check quick. We’re burning time.”
And ten thousand acres. Although
the most common cause of wildland fires was the goddamned people who flicked a
Bic, failed to put out a campfire, or did other dumbass, highly illegal shit,
today’s blaze was likely courtesy of a lightning strike from a thunderstorm
last week. One good hit to a dead tree could simmer for days and then explode
into flames, which was probably what had happened here.
He was good to go, so he swung up
into his truck and hit the access road. The deeper he headed into the
campground, the more obvious this Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot became. He’d driven a
Humvee through a firefight in Afghanistan once, hostile rounds landing left and
right. Now blazing embers hit his truck, thudding relentlessly against his hood
when the wind shifted briefly. Good thing he hadn’t been attached to his paint
job.
He guided his truck down the access
road, flooring the gas as much as he dared. It should be fairly easy to spot a
car. He had the make, model, and license plate number, and it was
Similar Books
