The summer sun beat down mercilessly on Sproat Lake, turning the glassy surface into a shimmering mirage. Bill "Wild Bill" Mackenzie, a grizzled veteran with more flight hours under his belt than most pilots had birthdays, tightened his grip on the control stick. He wasn't flying tourists today. Not by a long shot.

"Bill, we got a real nasty one brewing up north by Peterson Creek," the crackling voice of Sarah, the fire spotter on the ground, came through the headset. "Looks like a lightning strike took hold. Those dry pines are going up like tinder."

Bill grunted, his weathered face grim. The CL-87F "Firespotter" rumbled beneath him, a relic of a bygone era repurposed for a new fight. Sure, it wasn't the sleek jet fighters he used to chase in the Korean War, but this old Stuka, retrofitted with floats and stripped of its bombs, had become a loyal companion in this new war against nature's fury.

He kicked in the engine, the whine rising in pitch as the plane surged forward. The "Firebomber," as some still called it out of habit, wasn't known for speed, but its maneuverability was legendary. Bill pushed the plane into a steep climb, the lake shrinking beneath them, replaced by the vast emerald tapestry of the Canadian wilderness.

As they reached cruising altitude, Sarah's voice crackled again, "Bill, you're approaching fast. Smoke's already billowing high. Looks like it might jump the firebreak."

Bill's stomach clenched. A fire jumping the firebreak meant it could spread into pristine, untouched territory. He gripped the stick tighter, a surge of determination coursing through him. This wasn't just about saving trees; it was about protecting the delicate ecosystem that thrived in their shade.

He spotted the plume of smoke rising from the horizon, a malevolent grey finger reaching for the sky. He banked the plane sharply, lining up for his dive. The familiar thrill of the descent coursed through him, a strange mix of fear and exhilaration. He wasn't dive-bombing with bombs anymore, but the maneuver felt ingrained in his bones.

The fire roared beneath him, a hungry beast devouring the landscape. He pulled the lever, releasing a marker flare, a crimson streak painting the sky. Sarah would use that to coordinate the ground crew.

He pulled the plane out of the dive, the world a blur as he banked sharply. His heart hammered in his chest. This was the most dangerous part. The updrafts from the inferno could easily throw him off course, sending the "Firebomber" plummeting into the flames.

But Bill held on, his years of experience guiding him. He leveled off, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He wasn't done yet. He'd make as many runs as it took, until they tamed the beast or the "Firebomber" sputtered its last breath.

As the sun dipped towards the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, a sense of weary triumph settled over Bill. The fire was contained, not extinguished, but controlled for now. He taxied wearily back to the lake, the "Firebomber" coughing and sputtering. It wasn't the most glamorous job, but as he looked at the smoldering remains of the fire and the untouched forest beyond, Bill knew he wouldn't trade it for anything. The Last Dive of the Firebomber might not have been a glorious one, but it was a fight well fought, a testament to the enduring spirit of a bygone era and the unwavering courage of a veteran pilot.