The Scorching Read online

  The crowd was thinning out, and Norris began to feel conspicuous. He needed to get out of there before someone noticed him.

  Too late.

  Cory Cantwell strode toward him, a big smile on his face, his hand outstretched in friendship. He was dressed in a bomber jacket and jeans and wore a new pair of firefighting boots. The collar of his shirt was turned up, so the old burn on his neck he’d taken at Indian Wells was barely noticeable.

  “I’m glad you came, Mike,” Cantwell said.

  Norris hesitated, then put out his own hand and faked a smile in return. “Nice speech . . .”

  Cantwell’s smile faltered and then died on his lips. He understood Mike well enough to know what was coming.

  “Of course, you wouldn’t want to tell these people that the whole damned forest could soon be burned down by wildfires and we’re doing nothing to stop them. Better to abandon the lookout towers and sell the public on tourism. ‘Roll right up, folks, come see the cute teddy bears burn to death.’”

  “I didn’t come here to scare people,” Cantwell said.

  “Maybe you should have,” Norris said. “A widespread scorching is coming and you know it. The drought is in place, and according to you so are the terrorists, and no one’s ready.”

  “Mike, we’re trying to get the Punishers off the ground, but a lack of funding is holding us back. Congress says its new welfare and medical programs for the poorest minorities must take priority. I know how strongly you feel about all this, but I have to work within the system. Hell, even the name ‘Punishers’ makes the liberals who control the purse strings want to puke,” Cantwell smiled. “I think that’s why the CIA delights in using it.”

  Norris really didn’t want to mix it up with Cantwell that day. He shrugged. “So there’s nothing I can do about it or you can do about it. Let the weather satellites and cameras nailed to tree trunks save our forests, huh?”

  The younger man made no answer, and Norris said, “A satellite is a machine, and so is a camera. You know what happens to machines? They break, or they give up the ghost because of a virus or a solar flare, or God knows what else. The only thing you can count on is that mechanical things will fail at some point.”

  “And people don’t?” Cantwell said.

  “Maybe they do, but I’d rather trust the judgment of a human being than a machine. You’re taking the human element out of fire control, and we’re going to pay for it mighty soon.”

  Cantwell shook his head. “You’re talking out of turn and burning a lot of bridges, Mike.”

  “Go along to get along, huh?” Mike answered.

  Cantwell said, “I’d prefer to have both human lookouts and satellite cameras, but that isn’t going to happen. I think if the National Wildfire Service wasn’t protected by Homeland Security, Congress might just send the available money abroad to Iran or some other dunghill dictatorship and from coast to coast let America go up in smoke.”

  Mike silently agreed with that. Washington was more focused on cost cutting than they were on protecting the forests or the people that live close to them. At a time when more resources than ever were needed, they were looking for ways to cut corners to spend money on the free-stuff-for-all social programs that attract voters and ensure majorities in the House. When the various jurisdictions that fought fires were placed under the umbrella of the National Wildfire Service, it was supposed to end all the bureaucratic bickering. Instead, the infighting only increased, with each unit struggling for resources.

  Then, because he felt Mike should hear it again, “No one blames you for what happened at Indian Wells, Mike. No one.”

  “You warned me that it was dangerous,” Norris said.

  “Mike. I say that at every fire. It’s in my nature to worry about the danger, it’s in your nature to get the job done. That’s why you’re a better firefighter than me.”

  “Sure,” Norris said. “I’m a better firefighter than you. Well, tell me what kind of job did I get done at Indian Wells?”

  Norris was convinced he knew exactly what other people thought of him. He recalled the horrified look in their eyes when somebody told them, “Yeah, that’s Mike Norris. He lost almost his entire smoke jumper crew a few months back. Tough break, huh?”

  Yes, it was tough, very tough. Norris tried to blank out the memory, but it came roaring back. It always did.

  He remembered the searing heat of the fire, the panic and fear he’d felt as he heard the screams of the dying. And later when he saw the black-cindered bodies of his friends, white bone showing through the burned flesh, he’d puked his guts up.

  The disaster had not been his fault, because Norris had one more clear memory of that day, the abandoned lookout tower that had collapsed onto the bluff. In that moment he knew he’d been betrayed. Had the tower been manned, his people would still be alive. They’d depended on space-age technology, and it had failed them . . . not Mike Norris.

  “You did your best at Indian Wells,” Cantwell said. “No one could have done better.”

  “A lookout tower would have saved them all,” Norris said.

  “Maybe that’s the case.”

  “No maybe. That was the case.”

  “Mike, we’ll never know.”

  “I know.”

  “There was a freak wind that day,” Cantwell said. “No one could’ve anticipated that.”

  “A lookout tower . . .”

  “Mike, the three terrorists would have killed the lookout ranger. They were armed.”

  “They started the fire,” Norris said.

  “You know they did.”

  “It was fire that killed my people, not terrorists.”

  “Talk like that and we’ll keep going around in circles,” Cantwell said.

  “I don’t want the blame for Indian Wells.”

  “And no one blames you, Mike. Understand that for God’s sake.”

  A young woman in a ranger uniform hurried up and whispered into Cantwell’s ear. Judging by the look on Cantwell’s face, Norris decided the news wasn’t good.

  “Got to go, Mike,” Cantwell said and turned away without waiting for a response, nearly running to a green National Wildfire Service SUV that was parked nearby.

  “Yeah . . . see you around,” Norris said, knowing he couldn’t be heard. He walked across the parking lot to his battered Ford F-150, deep in thought. He opened the door, and with hands that shook lit a Marlboro.

  “It’s been a trying day for you, I think. A most distressing day.”

  The voice came from behind him. Norris exhaled smoke then turned to find a slender, middle-aged man with dark skin smiling at him. The stranger had probing black eyes and looked vaguely Middle Eastern. He was fiftyish, five-eight, and clean shaven, and he wore a stylish, Italian-style gray suit with a pale blue shirt and red and black striped tie. He had a $10,000 Breitling watch on his left wrist and a diamond ring on the pinkie finger.

  “What’s it to you?” Norris said, not liking the man on sight.

  “Call me an interested party,” the man said. “I read your interview in The New York Times.”

  “Then good for you,” Norris said.

  “The article interested me very much. We’re of alike minds, you and I.”

  “I very much doubt that.”

  “Please, tell me the real story about Indian Wells.”

  “All right then, here’s the real story in its entirety. I witnessed a tragedy that was none of my doing. Then I fought an uphill battle with the forestry powers that be and lost. End of story. Mister, there is no more, not now, not ever. I’m done.”

  “Over the next year or so, all the lookout towers will be abandoned,” the man said. “You don’t approve?”

  “It’s the worst decision the government ever made. Well, maybe not the worst. There are plenty of other things they’ve done that are just as stupid.”

  “Such as?” the man asked politely. “If I may ask?”

  “Too many to count,” Norris said. He really di
dn’t want to get into a conversation with some stranger, and a foreigner at that.

  “Please,” the little man said. “I’d very much like to hear it.”

  The stranger’s manner was courtly and polite, and Norris hesitated, on the verge of unloading his entire hobbyhorse of complaints on the man. Then he shook his head. He’d learned that once he got going, he couldn’t stop. “Sorry, I have to go,” he said, climbing into the truck.

  The stranger’s voice rose. “Mr. Norris . . . I represent an organization that would very much like to hire you. Do you suppose we could have a talk about that?”

  Norris wanted to say get lost. But he’d no woman waiting for him at home, and he really had nowhere else to go or anyone to see. He wasn’t getting calls from timber companies anymore, and even the private firefighting outfits were keeping their distance.

  As if reading his mind, the black-eyed man said, “I assure you, it will be worth your time.” His complexion was good, with few wrinkles, his darker skin able to resist sun damage.

  “A job that pays money?” Norris said.

  “Big money,” the little man said. “You’ll be surprised just how big.”

  He was broke, with no prospects, and Norris made a decision. “Okay,” he said. “You’ve said just enough to interest me. Want to follow me to my place?”

  “Do you mind if I ride along? I took a cab out here.”

  Norris unlocked the passenger door and shoved a couple of empty Budweiser cans off the seat onto the floor. The stranger got in, shuffled the cans aside with his polished shoes, and fastened his seat belt.

  A blond woman ran up to the truck, a cameraman following her.

  “Wait! Wait! I’m Kimberly Morgan of KTW9 TV news,” the woman said, shoving a microphone into the cab. “I wanted to interview four other Middle Eastern gentlemen, probably birdwatchers, but they seem to have left. One of them pointed you out and said you were of Syrian heritage. Is that true?”

  “Yes, that is true,” the little man said, smiling. “My great-grandfather immigrated to Portland a hundred years ago. What can I do for you?”

  “Since you’re obviously interested in the Forest Service, I want your opinion on a rumor making the rounds concerning Islamic tourists,” Morgan said.

  “And that is?”

  “That Middle Eastern men suspected of setting arson fires in our nation’s forests are being shot on sight by white execution squads. Here in Oregon innocent campers have already been killed, among them two young Palestinian students here on a birdwatching expedition. Have you heard about these terrible murders? And also the rumor that a pregnant Iranian woman who was with them may have been raped?”

  Mike Norris cursed under his breath and said, “No, he hasn’t, lady, and neither have I.”

  “The question was hardly directed at you,” the woman said. Her Botoxed forehead did not allow her to frown. “My source says the killers who carried out the massacre of these innocents were white men who wore Forest Service uniforms and carried Glock assault pistols. A witness who is scared and wishes to remain anonymous, he said they were probably drunk.”

  The little man shook his head and again smiled politely. “I have no knowledge of any of those alleged incidents.”

  “Lady, take a hike,” Norris said. He slammed the Ford into drive and hit the accelerator.

  The TV reporter, her cameraman in tow, ran into the retreating truck’s dust cloud and yelled, “Wait . . . the killers . . .”

  “God, I hate those media whores,” Norris said. “What the hell is a Glock assault pistol?”

  The little man smiled. “It would seem that she had no love of you as a white man.”

  “Caucasian males are the root of all evil, as far as the media is concerned,” Norris said. He turned his head. “All right, you already know my name, so what’s yours?”

  “Nasim,” the man said, then hesitated. “Nasim Azar.”

  “Where you from? Let me guess . . . Saudi Arabia.”

  “Portland,” Azar answered. He apparently took no offense.

  “Very well, Nasim Azar from Portland,” Norris said. “What’s your job offer?”

  “Since we are soon to be friends, and I sincerely hope that is the case, first let me tell you a little about myself,” Azar said. “As I told the TV reporter, my paternal grandparents migrated from Syria around 1900, and my father later started a successful rug and carpet business here in Oregon. At home, we spoke only English, and as a child, the only religious celebration I took part in was Christmas. I lived in a very happy home.”

  Norris nodded and said, “Good for you.”

  And Azar told himself, so far, so good.

  What he could have added, but did not, was that when he was ten years old, he learned that his family was not of Syrian descent but were Palestinians. Even then, the fact didn’t truly register with him until two years later, when his parents sent him to visit his uncle in Lebanon. His uncle was a rabid anti-Semite with a deep and abiding hatred for Israel and the United States. It was on that trip that Nasim Azar first became radicalized. He’d made many trips to Lebanon since and had gorged greedily at the terrorist trough, fed a diet of hate and trained in the ways of violence and, as a Muslim, loyalty to the teachings of Allah.

  Mike Norris drove down a winding dirt road too fast, sliding on the corners, throwing up gravel. Azar held tight, trying to ignore the strong odor of beer that suffused the pickup. But Norris negotiated the turns with the sureness of long experience, always correcting in time.

  The big man’s sloppiness was offensive to the somewhat prissy Azar. Norris was carelessly groomed, flannel shirttail hanging out, dirty blue jeans and mud-encrusted boots, but Azar’s research had led him to this . . . what was the word . . . ah, yes, renegade . . . and he’d no intention of giving up on him.

  Azar was not in the least afraid of Mike Norris. The Beretta .25 he carried in a pocket holster was a puny weapon, but it could be deadly enough in the right hands. And Azar had been trained by experts to use it well.

  Norris’s eyes were on the road ahead. Without turning, he said, “All right, now we’re friends and all that, what can you do for me?”

  “I represent a company that supplies firefighters with equipment,” Azar said. “We lease gear, mostly. I’m sure you’ve probably worn or used something we’ve made.”

  “I don’t work for the Forest Service anymore,” Norris said.

  “I’m aware of that. In fact, that’s why I’m here. We need a third party, someone with no conflict of interest, yet someone who knows the firefighting business inside and out. That’s you, Mr. Norris.”

  “What’s the name of your company?”

  “Northwest Fire Prevention,” Nasim said. “You wouldn’t recognize the name. The previous owners weren’t serious businessmen, and they almost ran the company into the ground.”

  Norris said, “And you are a good businessman?”

  “Indeed, I am. Very good. I make, how is it Americans say? Yes, big bucks. Oh, and I also buy and sell fine Indian and Persian carpets.”

  “What do you want from me, Azar? I know nothing about carpets.” Norris smiled and said, “You’re an Arab. Maybe you sell flying carpets, huh?”

  “No, my carpets don’t fly, unless they’re being carried in an airplane.”

  “Pity,” Norris said. “There are times when a flying carpet could come in handy.”

  “Let me say first that I’m aware of your quarrel with the National Wildfire Service, and I have to say, I’m in total agreement with you. They are depending too much on technology and not enough on human resources.”

  “And I’m assuming that most of the gear you sell is to those human resources?”

  “Well, that is true. As I said, I’m a businessman. But the point is, we both agree that lookout towers and manpower and training all count for more than satellites and cameras and drones.”

  “Okay, we agree. So why the hell are we talking?”

  “You’re a blunt man
,” Azar said. “I respect that.”

  “Yes, I am. And you’re stalling.”

  It was true. Azar had expected to lead slowly up to his proposal. He’d envisioned it taking days, giving him time to develop a rapport with Norris, to feel him out, to figure out the best way to approach a very touchy subject.

  “Well?” Norris prompted.

  “If you don’t mind, why don’t we talk about it over dinner?” the Muslim suggested, playing for time. “I’ll buy, of course. Anywhere you want to go in Portland. Do you like Middle Eastern food? I know a little place in the Alberta Arts District that serves the most delicious mejadra.”

  Norris grimaced. “Just lay your proposal on me. Right now, I don’t have the time nor the inclination for a bunch of crap.”

  Azar wondered for a moment if he’d chosen the wrong man. But by now, he’d investigated everyone. There were scores of disgruntled former Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management employees, but none of them had the reputation that Mike Norris had. Regardless of how blunt or confrontational the big man was, he had the general respect of his former employers and coworkers, and that could be a major plus.

  “If we could show them . . .” Azar said.

  “Show them what?” Norris said. His face tightened and wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.

  “I mean if we could provide an example of how important human resources are, then maybe they’d be forced to rethink their new firefighting strategy.”

  “What do you mean?” There was a warning tone in Norris’s voice.

  Azar plunged ahead. “What if all over the country fires broke out where in previous years lookout towers would have caught them? What if fully trained arsonists . . .”

  The Muslim broke off as the pickup decelerated rapidly. Norris pulled off onto the grass verge at the side of the road.

  “What are you doing?” Azar said. “Why are we stopping here?”

  “Get the hell out of my truck,” Norris growled. “Now!”

  “I assure you, they would be controlled burns,” Azar said. “That’s why I came to you, Mr. Norris. So that it would be done right. Think about it. You will train my people to start effective fires, but fires designed to do minimal damage to the forests and cause no loss of life. Please . . .”