How to Tame a Wild Fireman by Jennifer Bernard Read Free Book Online Page A

cache, he changed into his “yellows and greens”—­fire resistant Nomex shirt and pants. He pulled on socks and his fire boots. It had been a ­couple years since he’d worn this style of boot, but they still hugged his feet perfectly.
    Once he reached the heli-­spot, where a Bell 205 waited, he fastened on the climbing harness and checked the Sky Genie. Since the rope that wound through the Genie offered the only way to slow or stop a descent, he liked to double check it himself. He slung his P.G. bag, which held his personal gear, over his back. It contained a fire shelter, underwear, extra clothing and enough food and water for three days. When you went rappelling, you never knew how long you might be out there.
    He shook hands with the other firefighter he’d be rappelling with, who introduced himself as Dan McInnies from Jamberoo, Australia. He nodded to the spotter and the pilot, then pulled on his flight helmet. He climbed into the chopper, pulled down one of the seats and fastened himself in.
    No need for breathers—­those were reserved for structure fires. For this mission his tools would be chainsaw, fusees, and hand tools. The chopper was already loaded with the let-­down boxes filled with everything they would need. These would be sent down after the rappellers; for some strange reason, rappelling while loaded with sharp things wasn’t allowed.
    “A tanker just dropped a load of retardant, so be careful out there. No more scheduled for now,” shouted the spotter.
    Retardant was nasty stuff, a mixture of water and sludge so heavy it could break your bones if it fell on you. “Too bad,” shouted Patrick. “I love the smell of retardant in the morning.”
    Dan laughed. Already Patrick liked him.
    The chopper blades began to whir, slapping at the air. Its nose dipped forward a bit, and they rose off the heli-­spot. Patrick watched the crowded fairgrounds disappear below them, the black ants of ­people scurrying around, then the bare expanse of ranchland slipping past—­everything from cattle to llamas to ostriches were raised around here—­then, disturbingly quickly, they were flying over the heart of the beast.
    Storms of black smoke churned beneath them, making the chopper sway from side to side. Fire created its own weather, its own eighty mile an hour winds, its own hurricanes and twisters of smoke. Flames lurked behind the veil of all that black destruction, as if they were hiding until they could leap out and strike the unwary.
    Patrick’s heart raced and his mouth went dry. The Waller Canyon Fire was a magnificent, terrifying, awe-­inspiring, gut-­churning sight. And he was supposed to drop into the middle of it, like a piece of dandelion fluff landing on a volcano.
    “Holy Mother Mary,” he breathed out loud. He saw Dan cross himself. A guy could definitely find religion moments before rappelling into a wildfire.
    He focused on the gear check the spotter was performing. Harness, check. Rope, check. Gloves, check. Death wish, check .
    “There’s your spot,” said the pilot into their headsets. “See that building down there?”
    He pointed, and Patrick saw it well enough. The edge of the fire was a ­couple miles out but heading in that direction. If they could clear a wide enough area around it in a speedy enough manner, the weather station should survive.
    If.
    Staring at the massive, maniacal fire, it seemed like a big if to Patrick.
    The chopper maneuvered over the clearing and hovered. “I’ll wait if I can, but don’t be surprised to see me bail,” said the pilot over the comm. “They’ve been keeping me busy.”
    “Got it.”
    “Ready?”
    “Ten-­four.”
    The spotter opened the door on Patrick’s side of the chopper. Hot wind battered his face. The spotter worked the rope through the Sky Genie on Patrick’s harness and fastened it off. Patrick got into position, facing the inside of the chopper, his back to the great beyond, while the spotter went through the