Flash of Fire

Flash of Fire by M. L. Buchman Page B

Book: Flash of Fire by M. L. Buchman Read Free Book Online
Authors: M. L. Buchman
followed Route 2, the Klondike Highway, along the Klondike River, west toward town. Massive moraines of gray dirt lined a whole section of river. Dawson City had been a gold town, and they’d dredged enough river gravel to cover the entire town of Hood River, Oregon, and more. From the air they looked like the sinuous tracks of Oregon-sized banana slugs.
    He’d kissed her…because he couldn’t help himself. Flimsy excuse, Hamilton. He’d done it because the woman was irresistible. A level of energy, of life, just poured off her. Damn, he felt better just for being around her. Still, it was going to be interesting to see what retribution she worked out for him next time they were on the ground.
    No matter what it was, he’d bet good money that it was going to be fun.
    He couldn’t wait.
    At a cruise speed of 130 miles per hour, they crossed over Dawson City just three minutes from the airport.
    There were few outlier neighborhoods. The town was a small cluster of buildings on a grid of eight blocks by a dozen, where the Klondike ran into the Yukon River. Even as they flashed by, he could see that the town was filled with turn-of-the-century buildings. There were fake storefronts like the Old West towns of Colorado and a big, brown-trimmed white church that dominated the waterfront. A broad dike and a green grass park separated the town from the river. The park was clogged with…motorcycles. Hundreds of them.
    â€œWell, folks,” Mickey addressed them from his solo cockpit, “if you all came for a fire show, it’s happening a dozen miles west of you. We’ll be doing our best to keep it there for you.”
    The highway ended abruptly at the north end of town. There a small ferry, currently out in mid-channel, crossed over to Highway 9, the Top of the World Highway, headed west toward Alaska.
    Or where it had headed west. On Steve’s map, Mickey had seen that the highway had been cut in four or five places by the fire and must be presently closed.
    They all hit the Yukon River and dropped their hose snorkels down into the clear water. Even in July, he’d wager it was plenty chilly.
    Once the twenty-foot-long hose was well in the water and Mickey was hovering stable at fifteen feet, he kicked on the pump. With a muted roar, water flooded into his belly tank and he had to slowly ease up on the collective in his left hand so that he didn’t sink down into the river as he picked up two tons of water.
    â€œApparently we’re quite a hit,” Vern called out over the radio.
    People and motorcycles were gathering on the top of the dike to look out at the four hovering birds sucking up river water. Mickey knew from experience that a flight of the black MHA helicopters painted with drag-racer flames left a big impression. It consistently filled the post-fire bars with hot and eager women.
    â€œLooks like a ride or a rally. Makes me wish I had my bike here,” Mickey answered. Thirty seconds of pumping—he kept an eye on the fill gauge.
    â€œWhat’s your ride?” Robin radioed back. He glanced over at her hovering just a hundred feet to his right. Beneath each of their helos was a circle of small white waves racing away from the center of the downblast of air driven by their rotor blades. It looked as if they were each creating their own circular white landing pads. If they shifted around a bit, they could do four of the five Olympics logo rings.
    â€œA Gold Wing.” He hadn’t thought of picturing Robin on a motorcycle, but it definitely fit.
    What he got back was a snort somewhere between laughter and derision.
    At forty seconds, he’d hit his load limit and began lifting up and out of the water. He nudged the pump switch off, reeled in the hose, and started flying west. He could see Robin lag significantly behind. She was doing one thing at a time: killing pump, reeling in hose, and then focusing on her flying. She’d figure the

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