Just a few days now before
Red Tails in the Sunset hits the market. You can tell I am excited about this story. Even with my rapidly approaching trip to Alaska just a long week away--I depart on July 30--Red Tails has s big place in my thoughts. I'm sure some of these planes and pilots are hard at work in Washington right now and elsewhere in the fire-challenged west.
The story will be featured on the Amber Quill home page https://www.amberquill.com and on the Amber Quill author's blog at https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=18545575#allposts
Here is one more little snippet excerpt to whet your appetite, the first meeting of Blaine and Daz.
****
Blaine brought
the plane in and set it down. It settled so lightly he wouldn’t have broken a
china plate. He smiled to himself. Still
got the touch, ole man. A plane is like a good horse, a good dog, a good lover.
Responds to the right handling, every damn time.
At first he’d
thought he’d miss the sheer power of the military jets he used to fly, but this
old prop plane was the sweetest bird he’d ever flown. Even though it might not
be as fast or capable of busting the sound barrier in a flash of
balls-to-the-wall full military power, he could thread it through a canyon and
counter crosswinds and unexpected updrafts at minimal altitudes no jet could
maintain for long.
As he climbed
down, Mike Morrissey, his second-in-command, came running to meet him. “Hey, I
know you want to get in another run today, maybe two, but there’s somebody you
need to talk to. Although I could be wrong, I think this is big…maybe the break
we’ve been looking for on these fires. You know, the arson angle and who and
why.”
Blaine glanced
at his watch. “I can give it thirty minutes. That’s about how long it’ll take
the crew to refuel and reload the bird. No more than that. While news is great,
getting this fire out is greater. Though I’m not sure I buy the official ‘fifty
percent contained,’ bullshit, we’re starting to get a handle on it and stopping
the rapid advance. A few more runs will make a big difference.”
He matched
Mike’s fast pace across to the big hangar, more intrigued than he wanted to be,
much more than he’d admit. Yeah, they’d had suspicions and had even glimpsed
some inexplicable activity on the ground at times. For some reason, the powers
that be were not interested in hearing any wild theories, maybe not any
theories at all. It was as if the government wanted to attribute it all to the
drought and global climate change and let it go at that.
It took a few
seconds for his eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior of the hangar after
being out in the bright sky all morning. Then he saw and recognized the man who
waited in the lounge area, the man who jumped up and almost ran across to greet
him.
“You! I know
who you are—that freelance muckraking ‘investigative reporter.’ Haven’t my
people told you to get the hell out of here and stay out? If they haven’t, I’m
going to tell you myself and make sure you get the word.”
“B-b-b-ut,
Mr.—er—Major Darby, you’re the man of the hour. You’re flying tricky drops and
missions that have to be as fraught with danger as any you completed in the
Middle East. You’re a hero twice over.”
“What I did in
the Middle East is fucking irrelevant, and there’s no new dirt to be dug there,
Reporter Contreras. I don’t have anything to say to you. Whatever you told Mike
here to get him to let you in, I’m not buying. None of it.”
Mike held up a
cautioning hand. “No, Blaine, hang on. Hear him out. He admits it may be an
iffy lead, but he’s got a line on some sightings of trespassers in the forest
who damn well are not Mexican nationals, people carrying stuff that appeared to
be chemicals and electronic equipment and speaking some language that sure as
shit isn’t Spanish.”
He turned to
the reporter. “Tell him. Show him the pictures.”
“Let me get a
soda and something to eat,” Blaine muttered. “Then I’ll sit and listen—for
twenty minutes, not a second longer.”
“I’ll get it,”
Mike volunteered. “Sit and start listening.”
More tired than
he cared to admit, Blaine dropped into a chair. The young Latino snagged
another and turned it to face him. He began talking at once, speaking so fast Blaine could not get a
word in edgewise.
“I talked to a
couple of guys two days ago, guys who live up in the hills. They may be growing
pot for all I know. Still, they know the forest and the canyons up there. I
can’t doubt that for a minute. They’ve seen stuff, watched and listened. When
they’ve tried to tell the border patrol and the forest service, no one will
listen, so one of them tracked me down. Right now, though there’s not too much proof. for some reason I believe them. We’ve got terrorists setting fires. I’d bet my
life on that. I need you to help me prove it.”
He paused to
gulp a fast breath and charged right on. “Mr. Morrissey told me you’d both seen
things that didn’t look right. Ms. Cahill, too. You aren’t flying those fast
jets, thousands of feet up in the air…you’re coming in low and slow over those
fires and the smoke doesn’t always hide the ground.”
Mike returned
and set a sandwich and a cola in front of Blaine, sliding into yet another
chair by the beat-up table.
“That’s Captain
Cahill; she’s still Air National Guard.” Blaine knew it was controversial to
have a female pilot in his crew, at least among the old-timers. He didn’t care.
Margie Cahill was one of the best. He’d welcome her as a wingman any day of the
year. In fact, she had flown beside him in the Middle East, and he’d been proud
and happy to hire her last summer when she came off active duty. Every one of
his employees was former military, and most of them had served with him.
The young
reporter had the grace to nod and accept the mild rebuke. Maybe he wasn’t a
total lost cause after all. Blaine’s thoughts jerked back to the issue at hand
as the Latino went on.
“What I’m asking
–and I know it’s almost over the top—is to ride along with one of you and
observe for myself…see what you all see.”
Out of the
corner of his eye, Blaine saw Mike stiffen as a shock wave swept over his face.
Over the top wasn’t even close. However, he didn’t blurt out a categorical
denial. He thought about it for all of thirty seconds, if not more. The
reporter squirmed in his chair like a kindergartner needing to go pee. Blaine could see in his
eyes the eagerness coupled with raw fear that he’d gone way too far too fast.
“It’s
completely against rules and policy,” he began. “The forest service would freak
out. They can’t fire my ass or pull my contract because they can’t afford to
with planes like mine at a premium while two other fleets are grounded for
mechanical issues, but they’ll chew me a new one. Still, I own my planes
outright and insure them and my company for damn near everything. If you’d sign
a waiver releasing us from any liability if something goes wrong, I might
consider it. You won’t fly with anyone else on my crew, though. I wouldn’t put
that onus on another pilot.”
“Oh, man; oh
wow. That’s like awesome.” For a
breath, the reporter’s demeanor was fifteen years younger, like a kid meeting
his rock star hero or sports idol. “I mean I really appreciate it. This could
let me break my biggest story ever. I swear, I’ll do absolutely and exactly
what you tell me to do. You’ll hardly know I’m there.”
Blaine gave him
a tolerant half-smile. “Yeah, and the moon is made of blue cheese.” He shook
his head before he went on, yet it wasn’t a negative gesture. He held up a
cautioning hand. “Not today and not tomorrow. We’re at a critical point on
containing this blaze, and I’ll be making some real risky maneuvers. Possibly
the next fire. It’s a bit less dangerous when I make the first recon flight or
two to size things up.”
