Page 50 of Falling for the Firefighter
This isn't the controlled burns we've been chasing. This is wildfire unleashed—acres of mixed woodland consumed in a roaring cathedral of flame. Smoke billows upward, darkening the sky.
"That's not possible." I grab my binoculars, scanning the burn pattern. "Eagle's Nest is surrounded by granite. Natural firebreaks on three sides. There's no way a surface fire could spread like that."
"Unless someone gave it help." Mac's voice is grim.
Through the binoculars, the fire's leading edge races through tree crowns with unnatural speed, jumping gaps that should stop its advance. This isn't arson. It’s ecological warfare.
"We need to get closer." I lower the binoculars, my decision made. "I need to see the ignition pattern."
"Absolutely not." Mac's refusal is immediate. "That fire is beyond containment. The area's too dangerous for reconnaissance."
"Then, how do we identify the methodology? How do we anticipate the next strike?"
"We don't." His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "We respond and investigate after the fact."
"By then, it might be too late."
We stare at each other across the vehicle's interior, two different approaches to crisis management grinding against each other.
His training emphasizes protecting personnel, gathering intelligence safely, and responding with overwhelming force. Mine says, ‘Understand the enemy’s pattern, get ahead of their strategy, and use intimate knowledge to outthink them.’
"There's an old fire lookout tower about two miles north." I point toward a barely visible structure on the distant ridge. "We could observe the fire behavior from there, identify how it's spreading so fast."
"How old?"
"Built in the 1940s. Decommissioned but structurally sound."
Mac considers this, weighing risk against intelligence value. "Access route?"
"Service road most of the way. Last half-mile on foot."
"Time to position?"
"Forty minutes if we leave now."
His radio crackles with updates. Fire teams are deploying. Evacuation routes are being established. Air support has been requested. The machinery of crisis response is grinding into action, but it’s reactive, always behind the curve.
"Twenty minutes," he says finally. "Observation only. We see anything that puts us at risk, we abort immediately."
The service road is rough, overgrown with brush that scrapes against the SUV's sides. Mac drives with controlled aggression, balancing speed against vehicle damage. In the passenger seat, I study the fire's advance through binoculars, noting details that make my skin crawl.
"The fire's moving upslope against natural wind patterns." I adjust the focus, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. "And it's burning too hot for available fuel loads."
"Accelerants?"
"Has to be. But distributed over how wide an area? This isn't ignition points. Someone prepared this entire section of forest to burn."
"How long would that take?"
"Weeks. Maybe months." The scope of the operation hits hard. "Someone's been planning this for a very long time."
The fire tower emerges like a skeletal sentinel. Fifty feet of steel and wood, weathered gray by decades of mountain storms. A narrow ladder leads to the observation cabin at the top—glass on four sides, designed to provide panoramic views of the surrounding wilderness.
Scout balks at the base of the fire tower, her training warring with instinct. She's climbed plenty of technical terrain with me, but the narrow metal ladder and swaying structure trigger her caution. I clip her into her harness, checking the connections twice.
"We do this together," I tell her, and she settles, trusting my judgment even when her senses scream danger.
The climb is slow—Scout moving carefully from rung to rung while I spot her, both of us hyperaware of the growing heat and smoke that make the metal ladder slick with condensation.
