The remarkable escape of the boys was the only heartening note in camp that second night of the forest fire. Time and time again, they had to repeat the dramatic story for new audiences.
“They ought to strike medals for the lot of you,” Paul Landers declared enthusiastically.
“They might just do that,” Russ Steele mumbled under his breath, just loud enough for his nephew to hear. As soon as the rescue plane had landed them back at headquarters, Sandy had pulled his uncle aside for a private conversation. Minutes later a carefully worded telegram was on its way to the Pentagon:
FIRE STILL RAGING UNCHECKED HERE AT RED LAKE BUT WE PLUCKED OUR HOT POTATO OUT BEFORE IT WAS TOO BADLY BURNED
“The local telegrapher must be really scratching his head over that one,” Russ said with a laugh, as he and the boys sat around in a circle on the ground eating supper.
“What happens now?” Jerry asked.
“The Air Force will fly a top-security demolition team up here pronto. Probably tomorrow morning. The bomb will be dismantled and that will be the end of it.... I don’t have to tell you boys that the government owes you a debt of enormous gratitude for finding its ‘hot potato.’”
Sandy grinned. “We didn’t exactly find it. More accurately, we stumbled over it.”
“I stumbled over it,” Quiz corrected, patting his ankle, now tightly strapped with elastic bandage. “But as I pointed out to Sandy and Jerry before, General Steele, we owe our lives to the fact that the bomb fell where it did. If we hadn’t had that hole to crawl into, there might have been three well-done potatoes on that hill.”
Ranger Dick Fellows approached them with his plate and coffee mug. “Mind if I join you fellows?”