Wild Inferno Read Free Page B

for which they had trained and qualified to exacting standards.
    Unlike most government workers, I didn’t lack any excitement in my regular job. I was a resource protection agent for the Bureau of Land Management, where—until just over a year ago—I had patrolled remote wilderness areas as a range rider. But when a backcountry standoff turned deadly, my boss, Roy, had pulled me from that solitary assignment and appointed me to serve as liaison for the BLM to one of the local Indian pueblos near Taos. And there soon proved to be plenty of peril in my new post.
    Since Roy was IC—incident commander—on the fire management team, he drafted me into the job of liaison officer on the team. He did this partly out of respect for the strong relationships I’d managed to forge with the Native Americans at Tanoah Pueblo, and partly, I suspected, to try to keep me out of as much trouble as he possibly could. I didn’t go out with the team every time, but when the incident occurred on Indian lands, I deployed with the rest of the Command and General Staff.
    For this fire, Incident Command Post—or ICP, as we called it—had been set up in the visitors’ center at Navajo State Park, on the Colorado–New Mexico border. Around it, a city of fire tents had sprouted up in the campsites along the shores of Navajo Lake. Catering trucks, shower trucks, supply trucks, a field commissary, and a medical tent found their places near the center of camp, surrounded by the individual spike tents of line crew personnel. A helibase had been set up in a flat stretch of meadowland. Together, all this composed Incident Base, commonly referred to by its inhabitants as Fire Camp.

    While I was waiting at the ICP for the Command and General Staff meeting to begin, I looked around for some water. My throat was raw from the smoke, and I felt dehydrated. I spied an ice chest in the hallway and made for it. As I was opening a bottle of water, I saw a woman through the doorway of an office. She was dressed in a T-shirt, khaki shorts, a hat, and dusty boots, and she stood with her back to me, studying a map on the wall. She turned around and seemed startled at my presence.
    â€œSorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.”
    She made a weak attempt at a smile. Now that I’d seen her face, she seemed older than her lean, muscular body had suggested from the rear.
    â€œDo you work here in Navajo State Park?”
    â€œNo, I’m an anthropologist.”
    â€œOh.” I nodded my head as if this explained everything. “Are you working on the fire then?”
    â€œNo.” She shook her head vigorously. “Well, technically, I’m working right now in the Columbine Ranger District. The border between the two ranger districts is right up on top of that ridge above the Piedra River, to the west of the fire. I have a grant to do some site surveys on the ruins up there on the Piedra Rim. But years ago, I helped excavate sites at Chimney Rock. The fire management officer for the Pagosa Ranger District asked me to come here. He thought maybe I could help out with site protection.”
    â€œI’m sure we can use all the help we can get. From what I see on the map, the whole Chimney Rock area is littered with archaeological sites.”
    Just then, a man came down the hallway toward me wearing the standard uniform: green Nomex pants, a clean yellow fire shirt, and wildland boots. He was young and handsome, with dark hair and eyes, and his lean body exuded energy and vitality. “Are you on the incident command team?” he said.
    â€œYes, I’m the liaison officer.”
    â€œHello.” He smiled. “I’m Steve Morella. I’m the archaeologist with the Pagosa Ranger District. I’m here to brief your IC and his command staff about the Lunar Standstill.”
    â€œJamaica Wild,” I said as I shook hands with him.
    â€œJamaica?