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Jeannie dropped down beside Beale’s helo. Normally she liked this time of day. The sun setting especially red and gold because of all of the dust and ash in the air.
She’d logged more than seventy thousand gallons dropped and one hotshot photographer rescued. She liked the way the two Firehawk helos looked side-by-side in the farmer’s field that they’d converted to a helispot—a fancy name for a few tankers and fuel trucks, a food truck complete with rickety picnic tables, and a row of tents.
Her old MD 500 was already in. Vern Meany was getting the hang of her. The pair of MHA’s Huey 212s were landing at the same time as her. Not a coincidence. The US Forest Service contract said no flights between thirty minutes before sunset and thirty after sunrise. Only Emily Beale was night-certi
