Public Trust

By JM Mitchell

In a true-to-life story about preserving what's important, Ranger Jack Chastain returns to the canyons of New Mexico after fighting wildfires, and steps into a political firestorm. He wants to run but a beautiful woman makes him take a stand. When a mysterious set of provocations pit neighbor against neighbor, a battle between 'self interest' and 'do the right thing' ensues, trapping Chastain between people who face hard truths about who they can really trust.

Caught in the middle.

It's the story of our times--polarized society, battles over government, competing interests, inflamed rhetoric, conspiracy theories. But who draws the battle lines, and why? What's at stake for the losers, or even those simply drawn into the fray? And does anyone have a responsibility to find the common ground? Or, is it really, "no rules" and "all's fair?"
Public Trust is the story of Jack Chastain, a stalwart but not overly-idealistic ranger who tangled with politicos in Montana and finds himself reassigned to a national park in New Mexico. There, he encounters a community bitterly divided by the machinations of an outgoing U.S. president. Businessmen, environmentalists, ranchers and politicians, all tangle over a way of life that could be lost forever. Chastain wants no part of another war over a shrinking landscape, but finds himself caught in the middle. Only one person seems to understand what's truly at stake, a beautiful woman who won't let him run from the conflict he must face. To do his job means facing her father, a former senator, and putting himself between warring factions, including the most ruthless operators in the state. He becomes enemy to all. What's at stake? Much, but in this story of intrigue that captures the slime and inflexibility of politics today, nobody wins. Until Mother Nature plays her hand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JM Mitchell
• Release date: Sep 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985227234

JM Mitchell

J. M. Mitchell has known the conflict over public policy, especially in the debates over America's favorite places, the national parks. He was Chief of the agency's Biological Resource Management Division and retired after 36 years of service, having worked in Yosemite, Grand Canyon and Zion National Parks, Washington, D.C. and Fort Collins, Colorado. He worked on many of the most controversial issues facing the national parks, and knew the privilege--and sometimes the pain--of public service. Mitchell started writing fiction as a diversion from technical and scientific writing, but it was the ironies observed while conducting public meetings in Yosemite and Grand Canyon that led him to create Jack Chastain and the twisting plot of Public Trust. Rather than use the staple image of the inept government bureaucrat, he wanted to create a character of competence--a public servant, maybe a damaged one--and throw him into conflict and politics, amidst competing interests and polarized expectations. Could he survive? Mitchell, his wife and daughter divide their time between Denver and their ranch on Colorado's western slope. He remains engaged with the National Park Service, helping develop training for natural resource professionals

Book preview

Please, promise me they won’t let it burn, the woman said. She stared at the deputy. It’s everything we own.

He turned and looked through the trees at the towering column of smoke. The setting sun turned the huge, dirty cloud redder and meaner by the moment. The firefighters watching from the road were growing nervous. Ma’am, we need to get you to safety.

Is it true they arrested someone for starting the fire? she asked. Is it true they work for the government?

The deputy nodded, then pulled the screen door open and held it there.

The woman picked up the box she had hastily packed with photos and other keepsakes. She walked out and turned back. Hurry kids.

Two wide-eyed little girls followed her out. One held an armload of toys, the other a scruffy long-haired dog.

Just the three of you? the deputy asked.

My husband’s at work, somewhere on the road. We thought the danger was past. Will the firefighters do every… She broke down. Please, she cried. She looked back at the house, as if it was the last time she would ever see it.

The deputy took her box and walked them out to the car. He got them settled inside, and leaned over her window. Ma’am, all I can say is this. There are folks somewhere over that ridge doing everything they can to stop it.

Fire raced up a pine, crackling, eating away the foliage. Jack Chastain raised an arm, shielding his face, and watched as a slurry bomber laid down a red wall of retardant, pounding a spot near the bottom of the drainage. The World War II-era plane lumbered on, disappearing behind the column of smoke as it made its way back to base. That would be the last he would see of it. Soon it would be dark. The fire was now his to worry about.

He squinted, searching through the smoke. Nearly two hours had passed since the Gabby Fire blew over the line, and he still didn’t quite have his bearings. At least he wasn’t lost—like the crewboss on the other crew sent down the line to catch it, somewhere on the other side of the blowover. Two crews—hardly a force.

He looked back. The lead squad veered in his direction. Good.

Wind pushed the flames toward their line. The crew held their ground.

Another wind shift? Was it about to start raging again? He watched the flames and listened, remembering how the fire came literally roaring out of the drainage, sounding like a jet engine picking up thrust, gathering its head and taking off, over the line and over the ridge, throwing fire and embers down the other side. Line lost. They’d had no choice but to back up, tie in, and start over—when it was safe to do so.

This time the gust died away. The crew kept moving.

So did the fire.

Jack continued downhill, following the edge. On an outcropping he stopped.

Below loomed blackened trunks, devoid of canopy. Huge hulks of old sugar pine snags sent twisters of embers funneling into the sky through their hollow trunks. Downed trees lay burning across the landscape, like the coals of a campfire, but some were a half mile away, maybe more—they had to be huge. How far did this war zone go?

The radio strapped across his chest popped. Red Rock, this is Ambrose.

Jack keyed the radio. Go ahead.

What's your status?

We’re anchored into the old line, south side, cutting line across the slope, about mid-slope. We’ve got fire below us. This is not a safe spot.

The engine crews sitting over by the houses think it’s making another run right at ‘em.

Jack strained to see through the smoke. Fire flashed through a conifer, but on this side of the drainage. All of it was. He could see nothing burning on the other side. Possible, but I don’t think so. I think the slurry bomber slowed it down, kept it out of the bottom. I’m more worried about it coming back at us.

Can you get your crew down there? We don't want to lose those houses.

He drew in a breath. Might not be safe. It’s boiling in places, and winds are moving around a lot. Might roll over the top of us. But, I don't like where we're at now either. We're building line downhill, but we're tied in. We can see if we can flank it. Either way, we're taking some risks. He stopped himself from saying more, but he wanted to ask why he should put his crew at risk to save houses built in risky locations, way out here on this edge of southern California civilization.

How about you, Eagle Creek? the division supervisor asked, turning his attention to the other crew. What’s your progress? Can you get down there?

Labored breathing bled over the radio. Are you kidding? All I see is smoke.

Can you get down there?

We’re dead tired. We could use some help in here.

Fresh crews are on the way. They’re being walked in down the line from the nearest drop points on both sides of the blowover.

That’ll take hours.

It’s not safe to send ‘em in from the road. You gotta do what you can to catch it, Ambrose said. Your crews—you have to stop it.

Jack listened. Ambrose wasn't thinking straight. Yes, the fire was eighty thousand acres and growing, on the edge of the San Gabriel Mountains, in Southern California, near lots of people, with everything going to hell. But the weather was changing nearly every hour, fire was everywhere. Jack keyed his mike. We’re doing the best we can. That’s all we can do. You guys should know that!

We can’t afford to lose this part of the fire. Not tonight. It has to be caught, Ambrose countered. We’re taking heat. Especially from the press.

Over losing this part of the fire? They should see this mother.

No, on lots of things. They arrested someone for starting the fire. He’s…he’s one of us.

What do you mean?

He’s Forest Service.

Jack dropped his hand from the radio. He understood, even though he wasn’t Forest Service. Even being Park Service, from another part of the country, Piedras Coloradas National Park in New Mexico, it didn’t matter. One of us! He fought impulse, keeping his thumb from keying the radio.

What can we do, people? What can we do to stop this thing? Ambrose said.

Jacked pulled his hand away, but then moved it back. He keyed the radio. I'll go down and see what it's doing.

Be careful.

He took a few steps and stopped. Reger, this is Chastain.

Go ahead, Jack.

Johnny, I’m going down to look for the head of this thing. Post a lookout so you don’t get caught if it hooks around and makes a run. You’ve got preheated fuels all around you.

Copy that. His words were punctuated with heavy gasps for air. Picking up any spot fires?

Not here, Jack said. I’m sure I will below.

Ten-four. We could sure use some food in our bellies.

I understand. Keep working at it. They’re sending in food, and help.

Jack followed the edge. Soon he was heading down-slope, contending with loose needles and duff, covering more ground sliding than walking. It was growing dark. He needed light. He dug his headlamp out of its pouch on his web belt and pulled it on over his helmet. It helped, but glared against the smoke, localizing its benefit.

Something moved, giving him a start.

A doe staggered out of the black. It stopped, stared at the light, and moved on, looking for something. Maybe a fawn.

The stop stiffened his ankles. He tried to ignore them, even picking up his pace.

Lower on the mountain, the edge of the fire began to diagonal across the slope, burning through pine needles with one-foot flames. In the brush, they were three to five feet. What would they be at the head of this fire?

He stopped short. Flame, then no flame. Gone. Red covered the ground—retardant, dropped by the slurry bombers. He cupped his hand over the headlamp and found the glow of the war zone above him. Maybe this was the head. He inspected the ground. Black, with irregular edges, smoldering—the spot fires, started by wind-blown embers. They appeared to have been burning together, and being overrun by the fire itself. Then, they were stopped cold by the retardant.

It wouldn’t last. Not for long. There was too much heat.

The breeze pushed down-slope. Not exactly good, but it’ll help the leading edge gobble up the spot fires.

A pine torched thirty feet down-slope. Air rushed in, feeding the fire, clearing the smoke.

Too tired to get excited, he confirmed what his eyes were telling him, retracing his steps to where he could safely watch.

Flame climbed off the ground, drawn to the spot fire, pushed by the air charging in. Trees, seemingly spared, began to flash. The glow darkened the edges of the night. Tree after tree lit as the fires rushed together, closing the gap.

It wouldn’t take much to put this fire on the move. Damn arsonist! Jack keyed his radio. Johnny, send two squads down to my location. Send at least one chainsaw.

I copy. Which squad should stay back?

Decide among you, but hurry and get two squads down here.

There was only a slight delay. Paul and I are coming down.

Okay. Tammy, post a lookout—be ready to get into the black if something happens!

Copy.

It seemed forever, then headlamps appeared above him. The scatter of beams cut through the smoke as a dozen weary firefighters plodded in single file past torching trees and brush, their line of dirty, yellow, fire-resistant nomex shirts brightened by the glow of the fire.

The two squad bosses, Paul Yazzi from the BLM, and Johnny Reger, also from Piedras Coloradas, stepped past the others toward the light of Jack’s headlamp. Tired firefighters hit the ground.

A crown exploded on the edge of the black, and with it came the crackling of burning brush. Fire was fanning across the slope. It could make an uphill run, right at Tammy’s squad. Jack kicked at the ground. Forget the damned arsonist. Remember who you’re responsible for. Tammy, can you hear these trees torching below you? he shouted, into the radio.

There was a moment, then, I hear’ em, and embers are flying back this way, but everything appears to be dropping into the black.

It’s starting to move across the slope below you. Keep your eyes open.

Copy.

Another tree torched, sending out a flood of embers.

Jack looked up-slope, and then at the head of the fire, marching downhill through pine needles and brush. If they focused on protecting Tammy’s squad, they risked letting it make it to the bottom of the drainage, for an uphill run up the other side, toward the homes. No good options, only lousy ones. First responsibility—the crew. But it was no longer that simple.

He turned to the two squad bosses. I need one of you to take your squad up the hill, pinch off this flare-up and herd it back to the black before it reaches Tammy’s squad. Neither appeared anxious to head back uphill. Their eyes darted between him and fire.

I don’t think we can push it back in on itself, Yazzi said, his Navajo tongue giving slight accent to his words.

We’ve got to try, Jack said.

Our people are tired. They haven’t had anything to eat.

I’ll take it, Johnny interrupted. My squad will do it.

Good, Jack said. He turned from Yazzi to Reger. Somewhere behind the ash, soot, and sweat was a face he knew. Johnny, take the sawyer and work up hill from here. If you can’t push it back on itself, you’ve got to let Tammy know as soon as you can. We can’t let it run up and trap them. He turned to Yazzi. Paul, I want your squad to start here, he said, his voice now firm. Try to catch the head. Give us just enough line to stop the advance of the fire. We’ll come back and improve the line if the other squads can get around this flank. You’ve got to protect Johnny’s squad, and keep it from hooking around and trapping ‘em. Got it?

Yazzi nodded, but avoided Jack’s eyes.

Got it?

I’ve got it.

The squad bosses ordered their people to their feet.

It’s too hot, complained a firefighter on Johnny’s squad.

Reger pulled his nomex shroud down over his face, stepped past the others, and up to burning brush. This ain’t hot, he said. We’ve got to cut it off from its fuel, or it’s gonna make a run up the hill. Those guys up there wouldn’t like that. They’d be pissed. Then, you’d see hot. He signaled a firefighter to stand back, and he swung his Pulaski. A burning, three-inch oak pole came down. He caught it in his gloved hand and tossed it into the fire. The sawyer moved uphill and started with the chainsaw, cutting another clump of burning brush while his swamper pulled the limbs into the black. A firefighter with a pulaski took up position between Reger and the sawyer, and put on his attack. The three with shovels spread out and began cutting a line along the edge of the fire, pushing burned materials into the black, and unburned into the green.

Bump, someone called out. They all moved forward a little up the hill. The sawyer kept the lead position, cutting back the largest brush, and leaving what he could for the others.

Jack Chastain looked back at Paul Yazzi’s squad. He wished he could send the more aggressive squad to attack the head, but Yazzi’s was at least on the move. They now had twenty feet or so of scratch line. Flames pushed them back, causing their line to diagonal down the slope, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He had to worry about the safety of the other squad.

He followed Reger’s squad up the hill.

Cool, heavy air slipped down off the mountain, but with no sign of increasing relative humidity. How could that be? The fire was growing hotter, pushing across the slope.

The squad pushed back.

If it was bad here, what was it doing below? If the wind drove this fire to the bottom of the hill, it would run like a madman up the other side. Those homes will be ashes.

Stay focused, Jack told himself. There's a squad upslope. He fell in behind, digging with his shovel, trying to move them faster up the hill.

Headlamps appeared. Finally. The squads closed the gap between them.

Another headlamp cut through the smoke, someone following the line.

Sack lunches are right behind me, a man said. He stepped around the firefighters finishing their tie-in. The words, ‘Division Supervisor,’ reflected off his red hard hat. He scanned the personnel, and zeroed in on the helmet that said 'Crewboss.' He took Jack aside. I’m Ambrose, he said. What’s the situation now?

Take a break, Jack shouted to the crew. He watched them plop to the ground and then turned back to Ambrose. We’ve got another squad trying to get around the head.

I hope it’s your best squad.

They’re all good. He wished he felt sure of that. He reached for his radio. Yazzi, this is Chastain. No answer. Yazzi, Chastain.

They waited. Then suddenly, Can't talk. About to lose it.

Paul, what’s happening?

If you got extra people, we need them.

We’re on our way, Jack said. Everybody up, he shouted.

What about food? someone asked.

Jack pointed them down the hill.

Slogging down the line, they moved fast, sliding, barely staying on their feet. The fireline now seemed endless. They passed the spot where Yazzi’s squad began its scratch line. It was holding, even thin as it was. A little further and the line turned down-slope. They hurried on. Through the trees came the glow and sound of fire, trees torching. They stepped up their pace. Yazzi and his squad came into view, throwing dirt, trying to knock down the flames.

The other squads spread out, throwing dirt with shovels or using hands and feet. A sawyer attacked a fir, trying to quickly drop it to slow the spread, but the down-slope winds pushed fire into its top. It torched. He stood back and watched as two more trees ignited below. They moved downhill and started over. Fire picked out more targets, sending flame rushing through their crowns. Holding ground was impossible.

Ambrose moved back, out of the way. There was nothing he could do or say. He glanced anxiously through the trees at where the fire wanted to go, and then back at the firefighters giving it all they could.

It wasn’t working.

More trees torched.

The wind pushed.

Yazzi stopped. Give me your fusees, he shouted.

Jack pulled out his fusees. Ambrose and Reger did the same. Yazzi handed them out to his squad, and pointed them down slope.

Through the trees, Jack could see the other side of the drainage. Too damn close.

This is our only chance, Yazzi shouted. He signaled everyone else out of the way. He offered no explanation.

He moved into the brush below another line of pines, spreading his squad along an arc. They lit their fusees and frantically began lighting everything they could.

It was going too slow—fire kept moving toward them.

Yazzi pushed up a pile of needles beneath the limb of a pine. He lit it off. Then another. They started to burn. The little fires were nothing compared to the big one moving their way. Another tree was about to torch.

Yazzi needed more fire. He needed it fast. He dashed into the middle, firing off strips, piling needles under brush, under conifers, under anything he could get to burn, trying to force his fire to jump into the trees. A limb started to burn. Fire laddered up the tree, slowly, then it torched. Air rushed in. Another ignited.

This was not going to work unless Yazzi’s burn could overpower the down-slope winds.

Yazzi kept lighting. The gap heated up. He ordered his firefighters back into safe positions.

The fires fed at the fuels between them. The shift began, gradually, convection taking hold, pushing from down-slope. Fire jumped from one tree to another, torching it. The heat rose, flowing over and through the next clump of trees, igniting them all. Embers carried up and into the black.

The trees along Yazzi’s arc were now blackened skeletons—a barrier to a crown fire—but the litter at their feet was burning, trying to sneak down-slope. Yazzi pointed. Get a line around it.

His squad fell into line along the edge of the fire. The others joined them.

The Division Supervisor stepped over to Jack and turned back to the fire. Good crew. You just saved some homes. Then, he let out a sad little laugh.

CHAPTER 2

Jack Chastain stood perched on an outcropping, looking out over the valley, watching the crew make their way across the slope on the other side.

Hell of an assignment. Walking the edge, looking for sleepers—embers that might be laying low, smoldering since the night before—making sure they didn’t spring to life at the hottest part of the day. It was good of Ambrose to think they needed an easier job, after working most of the night with little more than a catnap, but this job was not exactly easy. Not with the lowest parts of the drainage so steep and treacherous. At least they could pace themselves until the end of the day, then get carried back to camp for a full night’s rest. They needed it.

Jack saw something he did not like. He keyed his radio. Tammy, stop your squad. Some of them are below Paul’s people.

Copy.

They stopped. Jack watched them re-stagger themselves across the slope, and then start their trudge, moving as a perfectly spaced unit. A rock kicked loose. The firefighter down-slope and behind, stepped back and watched it roll all the way to the bottom.

That’s why, Jack shouted.

The excitement settled down.

Idle chatter began to drift across the drainage.

Me too, one of them said, agreeing with jumbled words. I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed.

Another wanted to see his wife and kids.

Jack let out a quiet chuckle. Signs of homesickness. Being tired of it all. He couldn’t blame them. He was feeling it too, but being crew boss he couldn’t admit it. He was tired and sore, every part of his body wanting nothing more than to sleep in a familiar bed, and soak in a long, hot bath. Those things would be at home in New Mexico, at Piedras Coloradas.

But ready to go back there? He could hardly believe he was thinking it. Only two weeks ago, when this interagency crew was assembled in the rush to find crews, the assignment had felt somehow safer. Only the few from Piedras Coloradas National Park knew him. The others didn’t. They knew nothing about the reassignment to Piedras Coloradas, the controversies in Montana, and the local big shots who had wanted him made into an example, and who made good on their threats through connections with a U.S. Senator.

Jack dropped his eyes. Surely they all knew by now. He couldn’t rule it out, and he couldn’t keep himself from starting to put up the same barriers and the same strong face he did at Piedras Coloradas.

Might as well be at home, inside four walls. There he could drop the charade—even if it meant being alone. Even if Courtney wasn’t there to turn to.

Why had she chosen to stay in Montana? Why had she refused the agency’s offer of reassignment when it imposed one on him? Injury added to insult. When he needed someone most, why had she ended things without explanation? Just wasn’t meant to be, he said aloud to himself. It tired him hearing it.

He tore his mind away, and watched a BLM firefighter stop and lean on her shovel.

You people who’ve done this for years, I don’t know how you do it, she said. It’s just not worth it to me. I didn’t go to college to do this kind of thing.

Me neither, came another voice.

They’re tired. He’d felt that way himself, on other fires, in other years. When the callouts came, he went. They would, too, he figured.

Found one! the BLMer called out, sounding almost surprised. She knelt down and felt through the ashes. I think it's out.

At least she’s paying attention. Put a line around it, Jack shouted. Just in case.

She scratched out a line and moved on.

Good eyes, even if it isn’t why you went to college, Jack said, trying to tease her.

I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant that I’d rather be at home, doing my real job.

Understood. We all would.

She stood and looked his way. What do you do back at the park? You a ranger?

Kind of, but not exactly, Jack said, not wanting to get into it.

What then, exactly?

He sighed. I’m a resource manager, a biologist.

Cool. She stared across the drainage, waiting for details, holding up the others behind her.

Jack held his tongue.

She moved on.

Cool. Maybe it was cool. It once was—or almost always had been. Until Montana. It always seemed such important work. It had seemed important to the public. Until Montana.

Forget Montana. You’re dealing with New Mexico now.

But would it be any different? It was too early to tell. Piedras Coloradas wasn’t a bad place, really. Nice park. Beautiful canyons. Beautiful sunsets.

Give it a chance.

Paul Yazzi stopped at his position high on the slope and probed at the ground with his shovel. Without comment, he scratched out a line.

The night before he’d misjudged Paul. Paul was just a practical guy, from a different culture. He owed Paul an apology, or a compliment—or a medal for keeping them all from being lumped into the same group as that damned arsonist.

Jack looked up at the ridge, above the crew, at blackened trunks of standing dead trees, wisping smoke into the wind. What a thing to do, he thought.

Why would someone do that? For the thrill? Because he was a pyromaniac? Or because he wanted to pick up a few bucks fighting fire?

Or was he disillusioned? Could it be that? Did something happen to him? Something like Montana?

He shook his head. Don’t go there.

The memories came on their own. Montana. Snowmobiles and wildlife. Public battles. Times when everything seemed under control. Controversial but under control. Then, out of nowhere, a lost cause.

Sure, there had always been people stirring things up, and others demanding they be heard more than their fellow citizens, but he’d tried keeping his eyes focused on the agency mission and the needs of all, thinking that if he