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Steve looked down at the map spread across the picnic table at the Cornelius Skyport. The corners were pinned down by bags of burgers and fries. Sweating paper cups of soda sat forgotten as Carly attacked the plastic-covered map with markers.
Beale was over nursing her daughter and making the maintenance crew nervous. They were using the break to perform a quick service on the Firehawk, changing air filters and whatever else it was they did. One of the 212s came in for fuel, but it didn’t stay long.
Besides Steve and Carly, all three incident commanders were there. Henderson for air, TJ for ground, and Rick Dobson, the overall commander. Steve hadn’t met him yet. He’d expected the IC to be older, but he was maybe early thirties, a handsome guy with black hair and blue eyes that radia
