The Sky Fisherman (25 page)

"You want to have a go at that cold deck?" Jake asked Billyum.

"Forget it," Mullins said. "You can't stop a burning cold deck. Fire burns so hot it dries out the fuel ahead and just keeps eating away."

"I don't know that," Jake said. "Never saw one this close before." He tossed the beer can into the pickup bed. "What if we take some hoses, tie them up ahead where it's not burning yet. Soak the logs good. When you're camping, you can't get soaked wood to burn. It'll just char around the outside."

"Camping's for Boy Scouts," Mullins said. "She's burning too hot."

"Put a pumper on it, too," Jake said. "Worth a try."

"You should call the Forest Service," Billyum told Mullins. "Have them bring in those B-seventeens they use in forest fires and drop a few thousand pounds of borate on it. That should slow it."

Jake tapped his forehead. "Good thinking. Bomb the shit out of it."

Mullins said, "The farmers are going to raise hell for using their irrigation water and now I got to call the governor for an okay on the planes."

"Forget the farmers," Jake said. "They're always bitching and driving a hundred miles to save a dollar." He gripped Mullins's shoulder. "If you're scared, I'll call the governor. Took him fishing twice. Secretary of state last week. We're tight as ticks."

Mullins thought it over. "You trying to be head man around here, Jake?"

Jamming his thumb toward my uncle, Billyum grinned. "Your wife says he already is."

From the look on his face, Mullins didn't like that wisecrack coming from an Indian. But the way Jake and Billyum had volunteered for the tank, he couldn't say much.

"Just think," Jake said. "Everybody is going to want to interview you. Maybe this is your shot for Hollywood, the one in California, I mean. From the right camera angle, that mug isn't too unattractive."

"I'll give it a try," Mullins said.

"The dime you drop will save your ass," Jake said. "Maybe some hotshot reporter wonders why the cold deck wasn't protected better. Get it out and you'll be a hero, not a goat."

I was itching for action, but Jake wouldn't let me fight the cold-deck fire, so I joined dozens of volunteers swarming the co-op roof. With axes and crowbars, they pried up corrugated sheets of tin, then used one-inch hoses from their grass-fire pickups to douse spot fires flaring in the seed bins. They had ripped out the back of the co-op building, the side farthest from the blazing cold deck, and hauled away pallets loaded with ammonium nitrate fertilizer because it exploded if overheated.

Most of the volunteers were farmers trying to save their seed harvests. All had blackened faces from the cold-deck fire. None wore helmets or fire gear. A few scrambled across the rooftop in tennis shoes, and I thought of Jake's warning—rubber melting to flesh. Sparks and soot rained everywhere, driven by the fire's wind. The men soaked their clothing with water to prevent it from igniting. Those without caps soaked their hair.

In spite of their grimy faces, I recognized a few as avid fishermen who came by the store to stock up on equipment. Most used credit, waiting for harvest to pay Jake. They laughed at the dummy grenade hanging by the charge ledger. A huge "Number i" tag hung from the grenade pin along with a sign that instructed
IF YOU DON'T LIKE OUR CREDIT POLICY, TAKE A NUMBER.

When I scrambled up the ladder to the co-op roof, a man holding a fire hose waved me over. From his potbelly and tattoos I recognized Seaweed Swanson, the retired Navy man who raised sheep. "Come here, Little Jake. Help out."

Moving carefully to avoid the gaping holes in the ripped-up sections of roof, I scooted across.

"Take the hose, would you, kid? Getting parched up here without a beer. Hell of a note for an old swabby to be so dry. Some of these sick bastards"—he flicked the hose across the roof—"are so damn perverted they're drinking water."

After handing me the hose, Seaweed took a tallboy from his bib overalls front pocket and snapped the tab. Warm beer foamed across his hand, but he drank with gusto, then held the can to my lips. The wetness felt good in my mouth.

"This is a helluva fire, Little Jake. Saw your dad up on the tank. That took some balls." He belched and a little beer trickled out his nose.
"Well,
pardon
me. Saves wear and tear on the other end." He dropped the can into the gaping hole. "Man overboard!

"This here's a lulu all right, but nothing tops a fire at sea. Once I worked a grain ship that caught fire off the coast of Pakistan. Three days that fucking wheat smoldered, and we couldn't get it out. You lived with the smell—scorched Quaker Oats or something. Then the fire spread through the electrical system to the engine room. Lots of oil and grease, chance for an explosion." He shook his head. "No choice. We opened the sea valves and flooded the bastard. Put on our swimming trunks. Those pissant Pakistanis were supposed to send rescue helicopters but they took their own sweet time. We were swimming laps by the time they showed and lost three guys to sharks."

"No sharks here," I said, not knowing how much of the story to believe. According to Jake, Seaweed had more bullshit than the Pacific had salt.

He stretched, surveying the scene from the rooftop, while I concentrated the stream of water on the seed. I couldn't see flames, but there was plenty of smoke and sparks thick as raindrops. It smelled like someone was toasting birdseed.

The firemen at the fuel tanks and cold deck had taken off their heavy equipment and worked in boots, pants, and helmets. A few clustered at the millpond, dipping water with their helmets, then pouring it over their heads and shoulders.

"See how the track is buckling?" Seaweed pointed at the twisting rails. "Rails are swollen clear past the expansion joints. Now that's hot."

From this perspective, I could see the chaos of the fire, the jumble of hoses and equipment, tight knots of men trying to get some control. Jake, Billyum, and a couple of the other Indians had dragged hoses onto the log deck and were finishing tying them off. The hoses poured streams of water into the stacked logs. One of the Indians cocked his head and pointed toward the sky. The men on the co-op roof heard the deep droning too.

Not the high hum of the Stearman, this was an earthshaking rumbling similar to the ones depicted in old World War II movies as the big bombers throbbed over Germany's night skies. The entire co-op vibrated. Just knowing the converted B-17
S
had joined the fight gave me a thrill.

Below, firemen put on their helmets and took shelter in the trucks. Jake and the others scrambled off the cold deck, moving from log to log like frantic children at some kind of crazy jungle gym.

"Borate comes out in chunks!" Seaweed shouted, barely audible over the din. "Cover up, Little Jake." Dropping to his knees, he covered his head with both arms.

The first plane came in low, maybe three hundred yards off the ground, but it seemed the roar would shake the co-op apart. The corrugated roof rattled.

When I was younger, I assembled plastic models of World War II planes, including B-17S. These hung above my bed, twisting slowly on fishing line tacked into my bedroom ceiling. Now it seemed one of the big bombers had come to life.

Seaweed tugged my pants leg, urging me to kneel and cover, but I stood, waiting for the bomb doors to open.

And they did, dumping four thousand pounds of reddish borate mix, a huge red drench, most of it concentrated on the cold deck and vicinity. The updraft wind carried some of the mist in all directions and it fell around us like blood rain.

"You're bleeding like a stuck pig," Seaweed shouted, then grinned.

After the first bomber passed, I could hear better for a moment. The men on the co-op roof cheered, waving their hoses in the air.

As the second plane dumped its load, flames guttered and dimmed on top of the cold deck, even though the logs burned steadily below. But the top layer of logs between the fire and the drenching hoses was covered in a red paste, and for the first time I thought maybe they could stop the fire.

"Bomb the hell out of the son of a bitch," Seaweed yelled, waving his hose.

The B-17S droned into the distance, the noise of their big engines fading, but you could feel the surge of enthusiasm sweep the firefighters. On top of the co-op, men redoubled their efforts. Below, they dragged more hoses toward the deck, pouring on water.

Seaweed got so excited he dropped his beer. "Damn! Little Jake, go get me a couple more would you? How else can I endure fireman's fatigue?"

He pointed to a section of roof where smoke seeped between the corrugations and a makeshift crew was pulling up the tin. "Meet me in St. Louis, Louis," he called out, dragging his hose toward the new break. A man with a crowbar and ax hurried to join him.

I started toward the ladder, going cautiously around pried-up sections when I heard a cry. Looking back, I saw that Seaweed and the other man had disappeared. Seaweed's hose led to a broken section of roof.

When I reached the edge of the hole, I realized they had broken through a Plexiglas skylight. Careful to avoid a fall myself, I crouched and peered into the smoky interior. On the concrete floor thirty feet below, one man lay still. The second had landed on some empty pallets. Seaweed's hose had dropped halfway between the roof and floor. In the empty space, it waved and twisted like a frenzied snake, spraying the interior. Three stories below, the concrete floor rippled with water.

Scrambling across roof and down ladder, I raced through the torn-out back section of the co-op and into the smoky interior. After a couple moments, my eyes adjusted and I could recognize each man. Still clutching his crowbar, the younger man lay on the wet concrete. He wasn't moving and the odd twist in his back made me almost puke. Seaweed groaned on the pallets, perhaps three feet above the floor. Although his eyes were open, he wasn't alert. Nothing registered in them as I came closer. Blood seeped from the back of his head, soaking a T-shirt one of the volunteers pressed against the wound. "Where's the damn ambulance?" he said. Glancing at Seaweed, he shook his head. "Better goddamn hurry up and get here."

I touched Seaweed's shoulder. "Hey. It's Little Jake. Can you hear me? Just hang on tight. The ambulance is coming."

He didn't say anything until a few moments later, after the gushing hose swept by, whipping us with its hard stream.

"Captain. Captain. We're taking water."

I bent over Seaweed, shielding him the best I could from the wild hose.

"Pull the son of a bitch up, you idiots," the volunteer shouted to men on the roof. Heads appeared and disappeared at the broken skylight, but no one thought to lift the hose.

The ambulance arrived, backing through the hole they tore out to carry off the ammonium nitrate fertilizer. As soon as the attendants rushed out to help, the hose whipped by them and they cursed the men on the roof.

After a quick check of the young man on the floor, the ambulance crew lifted him on a stretcher and covered his face. They were more careful with Seaweed, trying to check his injuries. They asked the other volunteer firefighters and me a bunch of questions we couldn't answer before carefully lifting Seaweed, trying to prevent further injury. Even so he screamed twice, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "Getting dark, Captain. Should I put out the smoking lamp?"

Those were his last words. The ambulance door closed, and I knew I wouldn't hear him speak again.

No one cheered now, at least not around the co-op. The men seemed pretty glum, and the volunteer that had pressed Seaweed's wound picked up the crowbar lying on the floor and flung it straight up at the broken skylight. It sailed over and over, then thudded dully on concrete. Although his action was dumb, I understood, especially when he muttered, "Tyler had three damn kids, the little one barely walking."

Outside, I wandered around a little—in shock, I guess. The full reality of the fire's danger had hit, the sheer craziness of it. Here was this inferno at the mill and along the cold deck, but no one had been killed or blown sky-high on the fuel tanks. However, on the co-op roof, by all appearances a relatively safe place, two men had plunged to their deaths.

Stubborn firefighters still trained their streams on the cold deck and fuel tanks. Others climbed the ladders once again to the co-op roof. I gripped the rung of one ladder, then pushed away, scraping off a little mud with my palms. Everything was wet and slick now.

My hands shook, and I started walking again to keep my knees from buckling. Nothing could make me climb that ladder to the roof.

I wasn't too afraid to realize I was hungry and joined other firefighters straggling toward the makeshift food line Gateway's restaurants and bars had set up. The men looked like the wrath of God—covered with soot, mud, and reddish borate. In spite of their appearance, most seemed pleased to be there and shared a kind of jovial camaraderie. Nothing like this was likely to happen again in their lifetimes, so they bragged and joked like team members enjoying the locker room following a big game.

Finally one of them turned his attention to me. "You look like death warmed over, kid. Really you do. You're as ugly as my wife's first husband."

I grinned.

"You got more teeth though. I knocked two of his out myself."

They all laughed at that one. "She got two more with her high heel." The man kept the laughter going.

"Hey, this is Jake's nephew," another said. "No shit now, your uncle's a big hero. Saved the day as far as I'm concerned. Grow up with half his balls, you'll do all right."

I basked in my uncle's praise but tried to stick up for Billyum, too. "Jake had a little help."

"Sure, we seen that big Indian up there. He did all right."

***

What I hadn't counted on was my mother. Along with other women from the community, she was serving sandwiches, hot coffee, apples, slices of pie. At the end of the portable tables were coolers filled with beer and soda. Grocery merchants had donated food and beverages. The bars had sent cases of ice-cold beer. Mullins was cautioning the firefighters about too much drinking. One or two beers was okay, but more could mean trouble. The way I'd seen Seaweed go down, I could have drunk half a case and never numbed the shock.