Fire and the Fire Chief
No one is an asshole all of the time.
Even the most epic asshole has moments in which, or people to whom, they are not an asshole, not even a smidgeon. Conversely, even the most kindhearted person is capable of being an asshole when the wind turns a certain way. So it was with Bobby Erskine of Clarksdale Crossroads, California. A straight-A student at Clarksdale Crossroads Intermediate, he sang in the choir at the Jamison United Methodist Church and sold popcorn with Troop 0443. He was, by all accounts, a good and dependable boy of twelve. He was no saint, but neither was he much of a sinner.
His earPods were delivering Green Day’s “American Idiot” at 112 decibels as he struggled to tip the top pallet onto the stack. He pushed and twisted to square them into a proper tower. He thought they looked cool when aligned, so he arranged them into a nearly perfect wind tunnel. Then he found the mason jar of paint thinner.
Bobby’s older brother, Ernest, who was working after school at the nearby big-box hardware store, had hidden a stash of illegal fireworks in the barn. Bobby knew he wouldn’t have an opportunity to light them when Ernest was around until at least the Fourth—over a month away. When the vision of setting all those pallets ablaze with a volley of fireballs from a roman candle popped into his head that afternoon, Bobby knew he had to seize the day. Carpe diem.
With the pallet tower doused in half a pint of paint thinner, Bobby walked back to the box of fireworks, pulled out his dad’s lighter, and eyed his target. The tower stood in the middle of his family’s parched pasture. It was going to go up like nobody’s business. The black, yellow, and red paper-wrapped cardboard tube was emblazoned with flaming red letters declaring it “The Devil’s Bargain,” a ten-shot roman candle. He peeled the fuse as a giggle escaped from his diaphragm. He touched the blue flame to the powder-crusted fuse and held the tube in front of him, aiming roughly at the tower.
Poom! The first fireball erupted and sailed over the pallets, landing somewhere in the pasture beyond. Poom! He tried to adapt, and the next fireball fell short of its target, leaving a dark smudge in the dirt. He widened his stance and steadied himself. Poom! The third fireball hit the target, and the thinner caught with a wallop. Bobby laughed out loud at the beauty of the result. Poom! The fourth fireball hit dead center. Then the wind turned, racing past him toward the tower.
Poom! The tower was already engulfed, but the wind was now adding to its energy. His heart rate climbed, and he began to surge with adrenaline. Poom! As the wind picked up velocity, the palettes acted as a venturi, funneling the wind and shooting flames out the backside.
Poom! The gout of fire shot out the back for fifteen feet and caught the dry pasture hay. Bobby was panicking now, realizing he’d unintentionally engineered a wind-powered flamethrower. He stood wide-eyed, waiting for the last of the roman candle’s shots to fire. Poom! How many more could there be? He’d lost count. Poom! Poom!
He dropped the spent tube, ran to the nearby barn, turned on the faucet, and uncoiled the tangled hose. When he returned, the back pasture was a circle of flame, growing wider and higher by the instant.
The fire would go on to burn for the next five days, destroying Clarksdale Crossroads’ neighbor township to the south, Jamison, California. The blaze would end the life of a decorated war hero and become a part of human history. But, in the here and now, Bobby couldn’t see beyond the fear of his father’s punishment.
He felt like a full-time asshole.
* * *
Chief John Banks could hear his executive officer, Jaime, ruffling papers and clicking her mouse furiously over the Jeep’s speaker system. “The Bluff Fire, north of Weitchpec in Humboldt County, it’s at fifty-one acres, and we’re looking at—Yeah, we’re at 40 percent contained there. Parkside Fire in Riverside County is seventeen acres and, as of this morning, 100 percent contained.”
“Tell Captain Brooks ‘good work’ from me.” Banks grinned as he pulled off Interstate 125. It was the kind of golden late-spring day that made living in California worth everything, even three months of wildfires. “Are all those updates posted to social media?”
“You bet.”
“Is that all we’re looking at this afternoon? Anything else?”
His ‘26 Gladiator-E3 whirred to a stop at the end of the off-ramp. Banks smiled, looking across State Route 3 at forty acres of lush, leafy vineyard.
“Nothing major. So? Who are you meeting for lunch?” Jaime asked with a gossip’s interest.
“An old army buddy.” John shrugged it off.
“Not a woman? Not a date? Where are you going for lunch?”
“Jaime, if I told you, I wouldn’t be off duty, would I?”
“Hold on, Chief. A new update from Butte Unit. There’s a two-acre vegetation fire at Elks Branch Road right off I-125.”
“Where? Clarksdale Crossroads?” He was fewer than a dozen miles from the crossroads. He was having lunch in Jamison, a few miles south.
“Clarksdale Crossroads, California. Chief, you know your California wine country.”
“Lieutenant, I know all of California that well,” he bragged truthfully as he turned left and crossed over I-125. “Does the fire have a hashtag yet?”
“Nope. Jamison County and Clarksdale Crossroads FDs are responding. Looks like nothing for us to worry about. BTU Captain Reed has his eye on it, judging by the channel traffic.”
“Darren’s a good guy. Well, keep me apprised.”
“Chief Banks, all due respect, you haven’t had a day off in the last six months.”
John smiled and said, “Nah, I took that Tuesday off in March.”
“Nope. That was a trip to Sacramento for the Governor’s Black Leadership workshop, and it was in February for Black History Month.”
John smiled impishly. “Have I mentioned recently that I’m the first Black director in the history of CAL FIRE? Has that come up before? Cuz I’m thinking maybe it hasn’t come up.”
Jaime reacted with dead air.
John smiled wider. “Are you sure I didn’t take a day off in March?”
“Chief, CAL FIRE can get by for the afternoon. If you don’t take some lost time before hell season starts, you won’t get a chance till November.”
She was right. Four of the worst fires in the state’s history happened last year. Climate change was making his job tougher each season.
“I’ll text if anything comes up. But judging by the report from meteorology, the fire behavior analysts say we can handle everything on our board,” Jaime said cheerfully.
“Knock on wood. That’s an order, Jaime. Okay. Okay.”
He made a mental note to swing by the BTU deployment in Clarksdale Crossroads after he filled up on barbecue. By then, it would be contained almost certainly. He might even take Sergeant Lucas along to show him what real men do for a living.
“Have a good time, Chief.”
“Thanks, XO. See you in the morning.”
* * *
“Welcome to Kay-Ron’s. How many in your party?” The cowgirl hostess self-consciously adjusted her corset. Her darkly lined eyes swept all of John’s six-feet-four inches with appreciation.
“Just two, but we planned on meeting at the bar.”
She nodded and gestured for John to follow. “Booth or barstool?”
“Looks like I can take my pick,” he joked, facing a row of empty booths lining the bar area. Even for a Wednesday afternoon, the place seemed dead. He sat in the middle stall, and the hostess handed him a pair of menus. It looked like Sarge hadn’t arrived yet, which was unusual. His former sergeant, Stephen Lucas, was all about punctuality. He had been since he arrived, a fresh-faced kid of nineteen, in John’s platoon in early 2016. Stephen was intense, a hard ass, too self-assured by half, and whip-smart. People either loved him or hated him. John was among the former. It was no mystery why his former protégé was now the famous tech billionaire. Stephen was incredibly smart, rigorously disciplined, and stubbornly courageous. John had witnessed and appreciated these traits firsthand. It was hard to get through an hour of shows or social media without catching at least a few ads for ONEwindow. If he had a dime for every ONEwindow game his younger firefighters played while killing time on duty, he’d be a rich man. John guessed Stephen made much more than a dime. Stephen had done all right for himself, no doubt about it. He was keeping his loud and oft-repeated promise to leave a mark on the world—to carve his initials in it or some shit.
“Can I get you an adult beverage while you wait for your friend?” a short brunette server asked.
“What have you got on draft—” John looked down at the name tag. “—Joni?”
Joni ran through an impressive list of brews, ales, pilsners, and beers until John heard his choice. “Valley Forge Stout. That’ll do.”
Joni smiled at his good taste and pirouetted to place the order.
Flat screens tuned to the Giants’ game echoed throughout the bar. As they took an inning break, the local news teased a report of that brush fire in the nearby town of Clarksdale Crossroads. John watched with interest, debating going out and grabbing his mobile. As head of the statewide task force for managing wildfires, he had built the best team in North America, maybe the world. He could let them track this one for an afternoon.
Joni returned with a dark foamy glass and set it on a cardboard coaster. “Appetizers?”
John shook his head. Room for seconds or thirds was required. It had been too long since he and Stephen had slaughtered the fatted calf together. He didn’t want to spoil his appetite. Their little meat-fests stretched back to their time together in Afghanistan, though back then the main course was more likely to be goat than swine. Glancing at his watch, he wondered again at Stephen’s tardiness just as the front doors opened. Instead of Stephen’s lean, angular frame, a pudgy, nondescript white man entered the restaurant. John dismissed him almost unconsciously. The man entered the bar area, looked directly at John, proceeded to his booth, and sat opposite him. John turned to appraise the intruder. He was in his mid-thirties to mid-forties, with light brown hair. John thought this might be the most beige white man he’d ever seen.
The man opened his briefcase and handed John a factory-fresh ONEwindow gaming tablet and a matte-black plastic capsule. “Hello, Lieutenant,” said the beige man as he extended his hand without a smile.
“Chief John Banks, Mr…” John said as he shook hands.
“My employer, Mr. Lucas, told me you’d answer to Lieutenant or LT.”
John smiled and looked around the bar. “And where is Sergeant Lucas? Is he standing me up?”
“No,” the man said firmly as he closed his briefcase. “My instructions were to make sure you put in the earPods there in the capsule, and opened the @Once app on the tablet.”
He opened the capsule and offered John the earPods.
“What the hell?”
“I’ve found, with my employer, things work out for the best if you just go with it.”
John frowned as he plucked the black tear-drop-shaped plastic buds from the capsule, inserted them in his ears, and pressed the tablet’s power dimple. The device vibrated and chimed. He tapped the single icon floating in the middle of the display labeled @Once. Beige man rose from his seat, bowed slightly, and strode over to the bar. He handed Joni a credit card, spoke quickly and quietly for a minute, signed the tab, and then left as abruptly as he arrived.
“Climb to Glory!” a familiar voice shouted in John’s ears.
He responded instinctively with, “Hooah!”
Then he looked down at the tablet and Stephen Lucas, his old army buddy, peered up at him.
John smiled. “You son of a bitch. Where the hell are you, Sergeant?
“I’m sorry, LT. I’m sorry I couldn’t join you at Kay-Ron’s. I can’t tell you how much I miss that place. God, I can almost smell the pork fat from here.”
The ONEwindow tablet had an 8K Holopanel display that gave John the impression he was looking through an eight-by-eleven-inch window at a miniature of his friend. At that resolution, Stephen looked terrible. John could see every pore and wrinkle. It had been three years since they’d been together, and Sarge had aged far more than his appearances on the weekly news magazines reflected. His golden hair showed new streaks of white, and a network of fine scars was just visible on the left side of his face.
A frown of concern crept over John’s face.
Stephen smiled, and something of his youthful charm showed through. “Yeah, LT, it’s been a rough few years.”
“No, I—”
“No need to apologize.”
“Were you in a fight? Your face—”
Stephen touched his left cheek. “I wouldn’t call it a fight, but I could have used your help, like back in Asadabad.” He managed a superficial smile and shook his head, a lighthearted imperative to change the subject. “Let’s not go down that rabbit hole yet. I’ll tell you all about it, I promise.” He paused and turned serious. “LT, I’d like to offer you a job.”
John laughed. “Oh, no. Not me, Lucas. You know I fucking hate video games.”
Stephen shook his head slowly. “This is no game. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cushy desk job. This is more along the lines of our missions back in Afghanistan. This is—” He grimaced. “—a tough assignment.”
John couldn’t believe how much Stephen had matured in the three years since they’d seen each other. John was three years his senior, but now Stephen seemed more than a decade older, more serious, less confident. Stephen had always been arrogant, a side effect of his admitted white privilege. John sensed that arrogance was gone now.
“You’re serious,” he said.
Stephen nodded. “I am. And I know how much your current job means to you. I know how good you are at it. I know how much the governor—hell, the entire state—owes you for your work. But this is bigger even than the work you’re doing now.”
John shook his head, preparing to graciously decline. He loved his job. He’d never been more suited to an assignment in his life. He was at the top of his game. “Look, man, I’m honored—”
“Okay, LT. Before you gear up to say no, don’t forget I know you a little,” Stephen teased.
John laughed. Stephen knew him as well as any living soul.
“I’ll make you a deal. I’m going to perform a magic trick. If I pull it off, listen to my complete mission brief. If you don’t sign on after that, I’ll admit defeat. Deal?”
“What kind of magic trick?”
Stephen nodded upward. “Over your shoulder, I can see the fifth inning of the Giants game on the big screen. They’re playing the Astros?”
John turned to look back at the game and nodded. Stephen continued. “Here’s the deal. If the next at-bat proceeds precisely as I say, take the time to listen to the sit-rep. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay for a year’s worth of barbecue. “
John considered the probability of predicting an at-bat in pro baseball with any precision, liked those odds, and said, “Okay. I’ll take that bet.”
The image of Stephen froze for a moment, a break in the connection, then he said with confidence, “Sheldon is next at-bat. He’s going to swing and miss twice, foul high and down the left baseline. Iko will try to steal third and think better of it. Sheldon will pop a long fly and get caught out. Last out of the inning.”
“Hold on, hold on, Sarge.” John laughed, then turned and shouted over to his server, “Joni, excuse me. Is this game live?”
The bartender intercepted the exchange and shouted back, “Yeah!”
Stephen said, “Alright? Watch it play out.”
“Okay.”
Whitmer struck out and sauntered to the dugout past Sheldon. Sheldon struck once on a fastball. Sanchez, the Astros pitcher, went to that well again, another fastball, low and barely within the strike zone. Sheldon was again too slow. Iko, on first, was threatening to steal, and Sanchez froze him with a sudden bluff.
John glanced wide-eyed back at the tablet. Stephen shrugged with an impish grin.
Sanchez tried a fast curveball. This time, Sheldon caught it and sent it flying with a crack. The Giants’ fans stood only to watch it fade foul to the left. Sanchez tried another fastball, and Sheldon connected again with a mighty swing. The ball popped up. It looked like it might have the distance but dropped into the glove of the Astros outfielder. The entire at-bat played out, moment-for-moment, exactly as Stephen had described it.
John turned to the device. “How the fuck did you do that?”
“That’s what I want to tell you. Ready for that sit-rep?”
John nodded, bewildered.
“Order another round,” Stephen said. His smiling face was shadowed briefly with a micro-expression of grief. “This all began a couple weeks after you died.”
