Red Tails in the Sunset

Chapter 1-2

Blaine heard the comforting clunk of the heavy steel door as it shut behind him and the automatic lock clicked into place. Lucky for him, he was at his home base airport this time, where he could call the shots.

The last thing he wanted to deal with was nosy reporters, whether they were bent on making him a hero or a villain. Fame was one thing he had no need or desire for, not now and not ever. If he could become totally invisible, he’d be happier. Sometimes he felt he’d seen and learned far too much, and far too little of it was positive or uplifting.

Everyone on his team knew him well. When they saw his exhaustion and the scowl on his face, they faded out of his way. Although he’d probably be wiser to go home, he knew he’d be spending the night here in the hangar. He had a cramped office and makeshift quarters in a kind of balcony under the arched roof. The steel building was built more than high enough to accommodate the biggest planes he had, two Neptunes, so there was plenty of room to use part of the lofty attic area for a sanctuary of sorts. He got a soda and some chips and crackers out of the machines near the back of the main hangar and dragged himself up the steep stairs.

He cranked up the air conditioning and then shucked out of his smoke-scented flight suit. He’d gone in low and slow more than one pass today to dump retardant where he hoped it would do the most good. An attempt to save two ranches and a small settlement of summer cabins was the core of his current mission. More than that was probably beyond possible. The transitional late spring winds were fitful and tricky, while relief in the form of the summer monsoon season was several weeks away at best. If the summer rains even showed up this year…They’d been sparse for several seasons now.

Wearing only his skivvies, he dropped into the chair in front of his computer and keyed in a well-remembered URL ending in .gov, the site that provided wildfire data for the whole west.

Two new fires. f**k, that ain’t good.

For now, he’d stay and concentrate on the Mescalero fire, although he might send one of his planes across to the new one on the north edge of the Gila Wilderness. That decision could wait until the morning, though. He popped the top on the soda and gulped down a large swallow. The sweet cold felt good sliding down his parched throat.

Damn the powers that be for refusing to publicize the fact terrorists were behind so many of these devastating fires, some foreign and some domestic, if the scuttlebutt could be given any credence. Besides the Middle East suicide squads, there were also some of the most extreme of those calling themselves environmentalists, even though they didn’t shy away from trashing thousands of acres of habitat for all sorts of critters. They were either trying to enforce total belief in global warning or force all users off public lands. It was hard to decide which goal drove them.

Still, with public sentiments starting to kick in, the government might throw a few more dollars into efforts to protect rural areas and fight more of the fires before they got out of hand. As usual, resources were so inadequate it was like pissing on an inferno. Although the higher-ups tried to prioritize where they sent the ground crews, the planes and the heavy equipment, that policy allowed many small fires to become big ones. They simply could not cover all the bases these days. He was just too damned tired to deal with it right now, though.

Gulping the rest of the soda and shoving crackers into his mouth, he headed for the bunk against the wall. If he didn’t get some sleep, he’d be liable to crash and burn tomorrow. He knew his plane with him at the stick was too critical to run that risk. Sometimes you had to be selfish with the greater good in mind. He fell asleep almost before he hit the mattress.