“What the hell!”
“If you can dish it, you can take it,” Evans says.
“And this is Owen Marshall, your beta squad leader,” Jack fills in.
When Marshall pops back up, his green eyes have doubled in size from the thick frames. I shake my new crewmate’s hand until I get to the end of the line where McCafferty nowstands with them.
Two captains and a beta squad leader. That must make him…
“Alphasquad leader.” He sneers at me as if he’s reading my mind.
Of course you are.
“The rest of the guys are spending their time off away from the barracks,” Jack says. “But, gentlemen, this is Reed Morgan. Our newest recruit.”
McCafferty taps his watch.
“Good to meet you all but I’d better get to it.” I shoot one last glance at Hailey. She’s still smiling at me, which makes it hard to be anything but happy as I disappear to the bathroom to get dressed. They can all count on the fact that they won’t be calling me rookie for long. I don’t plan on quitting.
I pull on a fresh pair of green Nomex pants and strap gloves with a carabiner to my belt loop. I slip my yellow shirt on next and fit my helmet over my head.
“Grab your line pack. We’re working hand tools,” McCafferty says as I make my way down the hall toward the gym.
I pull the pack from my red bag, strapping it to my back. I’m thankful Murphy took me to the supply cache yesterday. It’s already stocked with eye pro sunglasses, ear plugs, toilet paper, a fire shelter, two full water bottles, and fusies in the top front zipper pocket.
Dean throws a yellow bound book the size of a handheld notepad at my chest. I snatch it before gravity does.
“Your instant response pocket guide. Memorize it. Might save your life.”
I shove it in my pack and follow him up the trail.
One mile in, I’m praising the bandages Hailey wound around my feet. The second pair of socks too, with the way my blisters aren’t rubbing anymore. Looks like I owe her again.
But right now, all I can focus on is the fence of sagebrushclimbing up our ankles and snagging at our knees. I’m hacking it back with the curved ax tip of my brush hook, and even with the sun well shaded behind the packed canopy, I’m already sweltering. I can’t imagine how it’ll feel when we reach the hilltop.
“The McLeod next,” McCafferty says.
If a hoe and a rake had a baby, that would be the sixth hand tool he’s asked me to demonstrate today. I slam the steel prongs into the driest ground the August sun has ever made. Then I drag the straight edge in three-foot strokes to create a clean line.
“Enjoying yourself back there?” I ask.
He isn’t even standing. He’s slumped on a log nearby.
“Enjoying myself would be spending the day on the line, not babysitting the likes of you.”
“You do make a good babysitter though,” I goad him. “Anything else you’re good at besides barking orders and changing diapers?”
Someone’s got to make this hike entertaining.
“Watching you struggle,” he says.
Branches crack under his boots as he stands.
“This is far enough.” He hands me a chainsaw. “Fire is coming from the south. Keep it from spreading north.”
In his hypothetical situation, he wants me to clear the row of trees in front of us so the fire can’t carry through the canopy. This is the one skill we spent the least amount of time on during training. All I really remember is that it requires every piece of protective gear I have on me.
I add eyewear and ear plugs to my safety uniform and approach the first tree. It reaches a good twenty feet off the ground, with a stump around twelve inches in diameter. I know I’m supposed to determine the cutting technique next—conventional notch, Humboldt notch, open-face cut—but they all sound like a foreign language in my head.
