The Fire Fighters

The fire fighters trudged out of the smoke still blanketing
Hill 19. They were clearly exhausted; theirs had been largely
a holding action this day, keeping the fire from jumping the
breaks and spreading into the fields of parched grass beyond.
There were a dozen of Charlie Squad trooping wearily down to
base camp, sweat blazing trails across soot-smeared foreheads,
respirator masks swinging crazily, open coats flapping in the
hot breeze.

Cranston, the lieutenant, met them grimly at the bottom. "Lost
Reffert today," he said matter-of-factly.

Hurd took a swig from his canteen, then spat the water out to
get the taste of ash out of his mouth. "How?"

"Got trapped in a canyon." Cranston offered a stick of gum,
thoughtfully flown in by the USO. "Thought he had it beat
back with the water cannon. He went in to try to wet down
a stand of mesquite, but an arm snuck in behind him." Charlie
Squad winced in unison; Cranston shrugged. "We couldn't get
to him in time."

"Shit." Hurd scuffed at the ground with a heavy boot, cracked
and blackened from weeks of tromping across baked ground. "He
was a good kid; family in Galveston."

"Galveston's got its own problems," replied Cranston. "Just
came over the wire; the fire jumped the Bay. It hid on a
barge full of old tires, banked really low; then it flared
up and jumped to the saltgrass. Town's on fire."

Hurd squinted at Cranston. "Goddamn fire is a step ahead of
us every damned day. Any more bad news?"

"I guess." The lieutenant looked like he was going to be
sick. "They dropped the bomb on the ruins of Albuquerque,
hoping the shock wave would blunt the spearhead of the
southwestern front. Didn't work. Fire actually seemed to
gain energy." He gulped. "It seemed to *like* it."

Hurd's nasty reply was interrupted; Mazurczek ran up.

"CO says come quick. Got a chunk of fire boxed in and
isolated. He wants to ask some questions."

"Fuckin' A," replied Hurd, cocking the lever on his cold-
thrower. The CO2 tank was still half full. "We gonna
have ourselves a little interrogation."

- * -

The canebreak was on fire. Tongues of flame licked twenty
feet into the air, wafting smoke and cinders onto the updraft.
Water hoses sent a constant intercepting curtain of water
vapor above the fire, mopping up the runaway ash. There would
be no escaping.

The ground around the canebreak was cleared for fifty yards in
every direction. Members of the 12th Airborne Firefighting
regiment stood watchfully around the prisoner, ready to
direct spray hoses and CO2 bombs at the slightest sign of
trouble. Hurd and Charlie Squad came in behind to watch as
the CO addressed the fire using a bullhorn:

"The situation in Kansas City: is it true that you are
holding hostages to be exchanged for dry timbers and plastics?"
At a gesture, an aide nervously stepped forwards with a pane
of heat-sensitive paper the size of a posterboard. The flame
licked out in a surly fashion within a yard of the aide, and
the paper blackened to spell out crude words:

D O N ' T K N O W

"Give it a half-dose," barked the CO. A gas cannister was
launched into the break and exploded with a dull *krump*.
The fire immediately shrank down to knee height, entirely
extinguished in places, writhing in obvious pain in others.
Then, as the CO2 dissipated, it slowly rose back to its
original height.

"Mean one," commented Hurd quietly. Cranston agreed.

"Another question," continued the CO. "In Missoula you
waited to press the attack until the last of the water
stores were depleted. How did you know? where are you
getting your information?" The aide stepped forwards again.
The tendril of flame did not come forth.

"Answer!" demanded the CO.

All at once the fire reared itself up. Twisting in on itself
like a giant serpent, the inferno roiled and roared, sending
a directed burst of blazing chaff and superheated air directly
at the unlucky communications aide. The man screamed, falling
to the ground and flailing as the lining of his surcoat
ignited, a human ball of flame.

"Fog it! fog it now!" the CO shouted. The generators kicked
on and a cloud of mist engulfed the canebreak. Hurd and
others charged in behind the leading edge of the water vapor.

"Die, you fucker! die!" hissed Hurd through his mouthpiece,
throwing halon grenades into the heart of the conflagration
and stamping on the blazing grass with his asbestos-lined
boots. The stuff might give him cancer in twenty years, but
in the here-and-now, nothing kept the fire off better. Hurd
cursed and stomped and extinguished and cursed some more, and
when he looked around, the fire was out. Where a stand of
wild grasses had once been, only a churned plain of mud and
steaming straw remained.

The communication aide was swaddled in fire blankets. The
medics were injecting him with heroin and spraying antiseptic
foam onto the charred remains of his face. If he was unlucky,
he might just make it. Hurd spat on the ground.

"I'm done playing with fire today," he snarled, thrusting his
largely empty canteen into Cranston's hands. The lieutenant
stared wildly at Hurd's form for a few moments as it retreated
through the smoke in the direction of Charlie squad's picket.
Then, looking around self-consciously, he swigged down the
last of the water and followed.

- * -

Cranston drew the flaps of his tent closed. The rest of the
squad had gulped down their rations and hit the sack; they
were headed for Hill 23 tomorrow, and it would be a tough
fight. Fires seemed to draw character from the lands they
burned; out here in West Texas they were just plain ornery.
Cranston turned off his electric lamp and listened to the
heavy breathing of the fire fighters under his command. Then
he reached into his duffel bag.

The lighter was a fancy affair, all gold encrusted with
diamonds. He had found it in a burned-out limousine in Dallas.
Something about it had spoken to him. He had kept it even
though such things were forbidden. Cranston flicked the top
open and spun the wheel.

The tiny flame sprung to life. It was faintly green and
shimmered. As he looked inside it, Cranston could see
smaller flames dancing within the larger one, following some
pattern that he couldn't immediately decipher. It was, he was
certain, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Long ago, when our species was still more ape than man,
instincts of no known origin forced our ancestors to love
and care for that which reason dictated they should only fear.
So it was that humanity formed a partnership with fire, with
a basis in the hypnotic effect that dancing flames can have
on the mind. These same instincts governed Cranston's gape-
mouthed adoration of the flame, and his sudden anxiety when
it began to gutter and shrink.

"No! wait! stop!" he muttered. "I'll....I'll tell what I know!"
Relief flooded over him as the fire, coyly, hopefully, began
to stabilize and rise once more.

"In Biloxi," Cranston began, "they're out of nitrogen. They're
expecting a new shipment soon...." The flame of the lighter
rose high and capered a new dance Cranston had never seen
before, twisting and mincing and making love to itself,
holding him spellbound as he spoke.

Meanwhile, the moon rose high overhead, a dim disc barely
visible through the omnipresent smoke. There would be no
rain for some time.