Firestorm Read Free Page A

Everything was in place on her United States Forest Service uniform. No wrinkles, no smudges.
    She wiped her nametag with a tissue until it shone. She finished her pale blond braid, carefully plaited to lie close to her head and out of her face, lightly lined her round, smoky blue eyes, pressed on some concealer to cover the shadows underneath, and touched on some lipstick. She looked for her things.
    Today was the day. They
had
to give her the go on her project. She had been so close last year!
I’ll give them no room to decide otherwise
, she thought determinedly.
They won’t hold Oxbow against me. They can’t. This will make up for it
.
    She left her room and hurried down the concrete walkway to the spot where her vintage ’46 Chevy truck was parked. It still sported the original wooden bed but was painted only with spots of primer. She wanted to paint it forest green, but she had been busy lately.
    Ignoring the admiring looks of two men standing on the walkway nearby, Reyne hauled herself lightly onto the high seat, deposited her briefcase and portfolio on the passenger-side floor, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and sheallowed herself a satisfied smile at the smooth, powerful sound. Then she backed out of her parking spot, stepped on the gas, and headed out of the parking lot toward Missoula’s Forest Service Headquarters.
    Within minutes she was there, five minutes before her scheduled presentation. She carried her portfolio and briefcase into the brand-new, wood-sided building that had been built to echo national park lodges of old. The foyer towered above her, flanked by huge old trees that had been stripped of bark and capped with steel. They supported enormous beams high above her. Enormous windows illuminated the building, even on a somber cloudy day like today. The building still smelled of fresh-cut lumber and varnish.
    “Reyne Oldre,” she said to the receptionist. “I have a nine-thirty with Deputy Chief Alders to present my research proposal.”
    “Very good,” the efficient woman said, nodding at her appointment book. “General Alders is expecting you. You’ll find him and the other interagency brass in Room 115. Two doors down on the left,” she said, gesturing toward the hall.
    Reyne thanked the woman, reached the door, took a deep breath, and entered. The ten men who stood to meet her represented both Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management decision makers. Smiling, she greeted each man by name and quickly set up her portfolio on a portable stand.
    The presentation began smoothly, just as she had practiced the afternoon before. She had done her homework, going through the whole spiel in front of her friend Rachel, pretending to shake hands with the room divider and couches, then setting up her materials and delivering her presentation. Rachel had helped her tear it apart and build it again, crafting a killer appeal that no one could negate. She hoped.
    Her preparation was paying off. Reyne began with a field story, one learned from personal experience, that immediately grabbed the attention of all ten in attendance. They studied her face, listening intently as she segued into the crux of her request. “So, you see, gentle men,” Reyne said, glancing around the room, “the research money would be used to develop a hand-held computer that could store and accurately chart readings on temperature, humidity, wind speed—even fuel moisture levels. Crew bosses could carry it into the front lines and get an accurate reading anytime they needed it. The time factor is crucial. My project could save many lives by giving bosses the information they need, when they need it, where they need it.”
    Reyne’s heart pounded as she sensed that men in the room were coming on board with her, understanding and getting excited about her project. Many were nodding and appraising her appreciatively—and for once the appreciation had as much to do with her thinking as with her