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helitanker strike. Once they’d dropped their load, it should create a temporary buffer alongside the advancing fire. Give the crew time to rush forward and maybe cut in a firebreak to turn this beast back on itself.
    â€œRoger. One minute out.”
    Looking forward to see through the windshield didn’t show Steve much from his position in the back. The two people in the pilot seats had a good view, but most of what he saw was the instrument console spreading across his sight lines.
    The large cargo-bay doors were still slid open. No reason to close them on a hot summer day.
    He pulled off his cap and leaned his head out into the slipstream enough to see but not enough to be battered by the roaring wind.
    The plume of smoke was gathering over the ridge ahead. Three primary plumes and a little stuff off to the sides fed the brown-black cloud that loomed over the ridge like an ogre’s massive club.
    They approached directly across the ridge, so low he wondered if their wheels were going to hit the protruding rocks.
    It was like they’d tipped over the edge of the world and were plunging into hell. A hell as familiar as an old friend and as dangerous as an unexploded bomb.
    Flanking the black along the south? The ground crew was nuts. They were going to get pinned.
    â€œThe way they’re set,” Steve called over the intercom. “They think their escape route is over the ridge.” From up here he could see what they couldn’t, the flames threatening to climb up behind them from the next valley over. Not an escape at all.
    â€œHe’s right.” Another woman. On the intercom. A woman in the copilot’s seat. He’d climbed aboard a girlie bird. Nice voice, some part of him noted.
    His heart ached for the team on the ground. They needed serious help, and they needed it fast. Did either of these women have what it took to deliver?
    â€œGround, Zero-one.”
    â€œGround, come back.”
    â€œRidge behind you is a trap. Get into the black now. We’re going to cut your flank.”
    They didn’t respond.
    The pilot took them up over the heat, which tried to brush Steve back into the cabin, but he leaned out farther trying to spot them. He could see the crew scrambling downslope toward the black, the only answer that mattered. A microburst slammed the chopper down toward the flames, but the pilot compensated so fast that there was little change in the altitude.
    â€œCrew clear” sounded over the radio in a gasping breath, but he wasn’t sure. It was too fast. The ground boss wouldn’t have had time to count his guys yet, the way they were scattered.
    The pilot swung them down over the heart of it. A couple of trees exploded when the superheated pitch simply went off. A whole line of trees toppled over right behind the crew still scrambling into the edge of the black.
    â€œShit!” came over the radio.
    â€œWhat is it, Ground?”
    â€œTrapped. A couple burners toppled and my leg is pinned. Getting hot. Shit! Dump. Right on me. Dump.”
    â€œWe don’t have you, Ground.”
    Steve leaned out and searched the area. This is what he’d trained for, waited for, but his equipment wasn’t here yet. Not for another day.
    â€œKicking smoke,” came Ground’s strained response.
    Five. Ten. Fifteen agonizing seconds they waited until the billow of brilliant green smoke from the man’s marker flare finally showed among the brown-smoke and orange-flame mess down below.
    â€œEight o’clock, two hundred yards out,” Steve called. Damn, the fire was on all sides of the guy—and close. The green smoke flare had mixed right into the brown and black generated by the fire.
    The pilot was already diving on the spot.
    The doors opened and the load of retardant hammered down. The guy on the ground would be lucky if he didn’t drown in the stuff.
    Steve scanned the cabin quickly. He found a rope and harness. A portable