Page 6 of Into the Fire

“When somebody pays me.”

“Running?”

“Enough.”

Nash gave me a look. “We’ll find out Thursday.” He walked back around the bench and pulled the next fold of canopy toward him. “Boone put you on the standard packet.”

“Same as anybody.”

“Five years,” Nash said to the canopy. “Took you long enough.”

I let that lie. “The loft looks good.”

“It’s the same,” Nash said. “I keep it that way. That’s my job.”

He walked into the loft office and came back with a card and a pencil stub. He wrote something and clipped the card to a board by the door where a dozen others hung.

“Thursday. Zero eight,” Nash said, and returned to his work.

By one o’clock, the wind had shifted. The flag over Operations wrapped around the pole, dropped loose, then caught from the other direction. Beyond the fence, the pines gave off the sharp smell of hot resin.

The forecast still had the storm coming in after four.

It wouldn’t wait that long.

The base readied for action. Nobody ran. Hollis brought the saw teams in. Men who’d been killing time found work to do.

Marty stood in the doorway of Operations with a handset, glasses down. “Plane’s hot from two. Ray, if you call me about the fuel again, I’m putting you on the load.” He saw me on the gravel and covered the mouthpiece. “You want the strike map when it starts?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be wrong. It’s always wrong the first hour.”

Six jumpers gathered at the racks for the first load, checking gear and waiting for the call. I wasn’t on the board yet, but I knew how to make myself useful. I hauled water over to the racks and started filling bottles.

Hollis suited up four feet from me. He handed me his helmet to hold while he sorted his gloves.

“Wind’s supposed to arrive around three,” he said.

“It’ll be early.”

He looked at the flag, then at me, and put his gloves on. “Maybe,” he said.

At two-ten, the plane’s engine started. I took two steps toward the racks and remembered my name wasn’t on the board.

I stopped.

Hollis and the others walked past me to the plane with their gear on. Shep grinned at me, thumbs under his straps.

Boone was on the ramp, at the wing, scanning the crew. He didn’t look at me.

By three o’clock, the storm had crossed the divide. The lightning strikes were no longer our problem.

At four, Marty cheerfully drew a finger across his throat, and the plane’s engines powered down.

“Got dressed up for nothing,” Hollis said.

Shep pulled off his helmet. “Nicest date I’ve had all summer.”