Swiss Cheese
Tag to Season Two Episode "Peace Pipe" written by Michael Donovan and directed by Christian Nyby. Episode has been altered slightly; verbatim dialogue from the episode is underlined.
=+++=/+====
"Roy? Where's the drug box?" Johnny asked as he clambered into the ambulance after their gunshot victim, pushing the biophone in front of him. Roy checked the ground, expecting to find the black oversized tackle box beside him.
The only things on the ground were his feet. "Cap? Did you bring the drug box down?"
"No, I just had the IV box," Hank Stanley replied, gesturing to the bulky black trunk still open beside the squad. Once they'd brought the victim down from the roof of the bank building, the paramedics had contacted Rampart and started an IV of Ringers lactate to off-set the victim's blood loss. By then the scene had been secured and the ambulance let through, arriving just as the man was ready for transport.
"I musta, uh, left it up there," Roy said with a sigh.
"John, do you need it now?" Stanley asked, prepared to send Chet or Marco back up top double-quick if necessary.
Gage checked the patient's vitals and mentally reviewed the ambulance's inventory. He stuck his head out to report. "Nah, Cap, we've got the bleeding stopped and he's doing a lot better. I should be able to handle anything that comes up with what George here has onboard," Johnny replied with a glance back at the ambulance attendant, who nodded.
"Okay, get going. We'll find it and bring it back with us."
"Thanks, Cap," he said, pulling his head back inside the ambulance and returning his full attention to the patient. Roy closed the doors, thumped them twice, and turned back to his captain as the ambulance departed.
"I'd better go back up and look for the drug box," DeSoto said, looking toward the roof and moving forward. He stopped abruptly, swaying, when a bit of vertigo overtook him.
"Or, maybe you need to sit down for a minute," Hank said, seeing the beginnings of an adrenaline crash in his paramedic's face. Being shot at wasn't – fortunately – an everyday occurrence for his men but both of his paramedics had looked a little pale when they'd finally been able to slide down from their perch in the sniper's crosshairs. And, for Roy to forget the drug box – when he and John were responsible for every milligram of the pharmaceutical cornucopia it contained and when it contained most of the basic equipment they needed to do their jobs – meant he was a little more shaken than he might admit.
"Marco, Chet, one of you run back up there and locate the drug box, okay? And anything else we left up there." His linemen nodded and conferred briefly: "Water, Fire, Ax!" Marco laughed when he won again and Chet jogged back toward the building to collect their equipment.
When he arrived atop the bank building, Kelly looked over the edge briefly. Roy sat on the back of the squad, talking with Cap and drinking from the canteen, while Marco stowed the IV box. A couple of civilians, including a young boy, walked up to Mike as he was tucking equipment into one of the many compartments on the engine. The boy looked up, saw Chet, and waved. He returned the wave before gathering up the ropes they'd used to lower the Stokes with earlier, looping each into a neat coil. Scanning the rooftop, he found no other departmental equipment.
Which means, he thought, it's still up top. He peered up and saw the corner of the box on the scaffolding swinging from the sign. The tarp billowed out, the still slightly uneven platform a slashing crease against the top quarter of the white-speckled blue surface.
+===+/++===
Earlier that day
In bold blue and red letters, the roof-mounted sign proclaimed the bank's existence and location day and night: FARMERS & MERCHANTS BANK. Joe had been working from the swinging platform, replacing neon tubing, when he heard something ping against the metal skeleton of the signage. A few minutes later, he felt something sting his left side. Pain blossomed from the location; he looked down and instinctively clamped his hand over the bloody flower growing on his gray shirt. Another shot rang out, shattering one of the neon tubes above him and sending him to his knees on the platform as shards of glass rained down on him. A fourth shot had him grabbing the boards and flattening himself against them, heart pounding, still pressing one hand into his side. When it was quiet for a few minutes, Joe cautiously raised himself up and scooted toward the middle of the scaffolding, hoping to reach the controls and lower himself down.
Joe had just grasped the rope and pulled when the sniper fired again. The bullet grazed his right arm, knocking him backwards. One end of the platform lurched downward then stopped with a jolt, nearly dislodging him. On his back now, Joe slid a few feet toward the lower end before halting his slide by jamming one foot against a metal eyebolt on the near side of the platform. He partially wove the other foot into the rigging, hoping it would keep him from falling the thirty or so feet to the roof should he lose his position on the platform, which seemed likely at that moment.
His right arm dangled painfully, dissuading Joe from moving it. Despite the warm California sunlight, he shivered as he laboriously worked a bandana out of his pocket one-handed. Gotta stop the bleeding, he thought, tucking the cloth and his left hand under his waistband and hooking his thumb in a belt loop. Gritting his teeth, Joe applied as much pressure on his wound as he could; the blue skies began to turn gray. Someone, he thought as he passed out, help me, please.
+===+/+++==
Ever since ten-year-old Levi had watched the multi-story office building go up just down the block from his family's apartment, he had been thrilled by the thought of climbing and working in such an atmosphere. He'd seen the construction workers clamber over the structure without a care and longed to be there beside them, showing everyone how brave he was too. He'd often pictured himself in their company – walking confidently atop the steel girders, high up in the air above the city
Wherever he went these days, he was on the lookout for these air-walkers. Levi had discovered others who worked above everyone else on the street – including window washers and sign installers – but none were quite as exciting as the burly workers he'd observed on the metal skeleton of a newborn building attaching its flesh of concrete or wood, its skin of marble or brick. Still, the window washers and sign installers were part of the greater brotherhood he longed to join and he continued to seek them out, eager eyes roaming the tops and sides of buildings whenever he was out.
Now, on the sidewalk across from the bank building, Levi looked up curiously and immediately saw something was wrong with one of his admired air-walkers. The platform in front of the giant sign was uneven and the man on it appeared to be taking a nap. "Dad?" he said after a few minutes of seeing no movement from the man. "I think something's wrong with that guy up there, on the big sign."
"What?"
"That guy up there, he's not moving and the platform's not level," Levi reiterated, pleased when his dad took a few minutes to look up and scan the scene, instead of telling him to shut up and not mind everyone else's business.
"I think you're right, son," he said finally. "We need to let someone know."
+===+/++++=
Kelly eyed the scaffolding then shouldered the rope he'd just coiled and began climbing. He ascended quickly, picking an efficient route suited for his shorter stature, and locked his leg in the gridwork when he was even with the top of the tarp. After checking the stability of the support ropes, he swung over onto the platform easily. Two steps brought him to the black drug box; he knelt to make sure it was securely latched, then wrapped one end of his rope around the box and knotted it. Chet picked up the box and eased it over the side of the platform – using his foot to push the rope out further – and down to the rooftop, tossing the last bit of rope after it once it settled.
When he turned to climb back down, Kelly got his first good look at the tarp. He gave a low whistle and reached out to finger the nearest hole. Whoa, that guy was serious. He counted another dozen possible bullet holes by the time he reached the other end of the platform. Chet untied the knots the paramedics had secured the tarp with and allowed it to float down gently, like a sheet settling over a bed. He clambered down again, leaving the jammed platform in place.
"Hey, Kelly, Cap says to – whoa." Mike Stoker interrupted himself when he caught sight of the bullet-riddled tarp draped over the lower part of the metal framework.
Chet looked up from where he was untying the rope on the drug box and saw Mike's glance. "Crazy, ain't it?" he said. "Cap impatient to go?"
"Uhm, yeah."
"Just gotta coil this back up and I'll be ready. Here's the drug box." Matching deeds to words, Chet handed the drug box up to Mike, stood, and started quickly coiling the rope as he walked toward the door. He slipped the end of the rope through a small bight to secure the second coil and snagged the other rope from the ground. With one last glance at the hole-speckled tarp, Chet followed Mike down the stairs.
+===+/+++++
The ride back to the station was quieter than usual, since Cap had Marco drive the squad – and Roy – into Rampart as a precaution. Don't blame him for being rattled by the sniper, too, Chet thought, but it would have been nice to compare notes with Marco.
Back at the station, Cap took the drug box into his office for safekeeping and dutifully began working on the paperwork necessary to document having a sniper shoot at his crew. Mike inspected and stowed the ropes and other equipment they'd used on the run while Chet finished the dorms, the background murmur of dispatch accompanying them on their tasks.
Cap was finishing up on the phone with the police officer investigating the incident when Roy backed the squad into the apparatus bay. The chatter from the crowded squad more than made up for the quiet engine, returning the station's cosmic acoustical karma to an even keel. Soon after his men had spilled out of the squad, Stanley subtly herded Roy, John and Marco into the day room. His casual, "Coffee's on, fellas," invited Mike and Chet to join them for a coffee-flavored welfare check.
When he heard the phone ring and Gage answering, Chet opted to linger in the bay for a few more minutes before facing his companions. Snapping the sheets and blankets in place over the last few beds had kept the image of the bullet-riddled tarp billowing and flapping in the breeze in the forefront of his mind. Like Gage had said at the scene, firemen weren't supposed to get into these kinds of things. When they did, it tended to bring the more important things into focus more sharply. Like apologizing to Johnny, Chet thought, remembering what the run had interrupted.
Hearing the rumble of Cap's voice prompted Chet to move toward the day room again. Mike had stepped into the bay and leaned against the squad, cup in hand, just out of sight of the others. He nodded silently to Chet and took another sip of his coffee, clearly intending to avoid the welfare check portion of the program. Since he'd been at street level during the shooting incident, Cap would probably let Mike get away with it. Chet, on the other hand, knew he wouldn't be so lucky.
Shoving his hands into his back pockets, Kelly strolled into the day room just in time to hear Cap say the sniper had apparently just liked human targets. If that ain't the truth, I don't know what is.
"Hey, Gage. Did you get a good look at that tarp before we left?" The words were out of Chet's mouth almost before he realized it. He'd planned to lay low if he could, let John and Roy handle most of the conversation. After all, they'd been in the line of fire much more than the rest of them.
"No. Why? What does it look like?"
"Like a hunk of Swiss cheese. I counted about a dozen bullet holes when I was taking the tarp down. And that's just what I could see there."
There was a small puddle of silence after Chet's pronouncement, the men in the room uncomfortable with the confirmation of the danger they'd been in. Roy forged ahead, splashing the silence out of his way. "You know, that was a real good idea, using the tarp and all. After that first shot, all I could think about was staying low. You learn awful fast in Nam to get down and stay low." Roy paused, a little surprised he'd mentioned the war. Although, being shot at while trying to save someone who's been shot does have a certain familiar ring to it.
"Don't know how many times I heard that in basic training," Chet said, nodding. Unlike Roy, he'd spent very little of his time in-country in a combat situation. He'd shown an aptitude for heavy equipment not heavy artillery, thanks in part to his grandfather's tutelage.
"Probably about as often as you heard 'down and give me twenty' if half of what you've told me is true," Marco put in, laughing at his buddy's chagrined expression. The others joined in.
"Yeah, yeah, alright," Chet conceded.
"Well, I'm glad you were thinking more quickly than I was," Roy said. "You probably saved our lives." Gage, still sitting on the table with Chet's feathered axe in his lap, flushed at the praise.
"What made you ever think of it?" Kelly asked, eyeing the visible reminder of his sincere albeit clumsy attempt to 'bury the hatchet' with Johnny. Johnny noticed the glance and felt annoyance bubble up in him again.
"Well, it was one of those natural instincts the anthros talk about," Johnny said, pointedly setting the axe aside and unfolding his legs from the chair to get off the table. "You see," he continued, walking past Chet disdainfully, "it's an awful lot like a blanket and everyone knows us redskins have a big thing for our blankets." Gage leaned against the wall by the bulletin board and waited for Chet to fire back with some crack about Indians.
"Oh, right," Chet replied in a subdued tone of voice and turned toward the stove for a cup of coffee. Once he'd secured it and taken a generous swallow, he found his eyes drawn to the axe on the table. Maybe I should try again, he thought as he leaned against the counter.
Johnny raised one eyebrow when Chet remained silent. Just as he was about to comment, Cap spoke up. "By the way, John, what's with feathers on the axe?"
"It's somebody's idea of a joke – ," he began, glaring toward that curly-haired somebody.
"It's mine, Cap," Kelly interrupted. "And it wasn't a joke."
"Right, Chet, tell me another one," Johnny shot back.
"I'm serious, Gage." Almost immediately he regretted using those words, the same words he'd used while setting up the peace pipe gag.
"Like I said before, you've never been serious a day in – ."
"Hold on just a minute, guys," Hank broke in, recognizing the grouchiness was part of the let-down from the last run. "Chet, tell me what this is all about. You'll get your chance, Johnny," he added when Gage's mouth opened to protest. "Go on."
"I wanted to apologize for the Indian jokes." Kelly said finally. "To … bury the hatchet with Gage."
"See? See what I mean?"
"John," Stanley said warningly. "Go on, Chet."
"You know I've been reading up on Indians, right? Well, one of the books talked about, uh, 'symbolically renouncing the implements of war' as part of a peace treaty between tribes. The Iroquois, for example, would literally bury a tomahawk or war axe as a promise to the other party not to take up arms again." He paused, flushing. "So, I figured it would mean more to Gage if I used something from his culture to make the peace between us. About the Indian jokes."
"Your turn," Hank said with a nod to Johnny.
"If this is sincere, then I appreciate the thought." Calmer now, Johnny considered his options. Is he actually serious this time? Only one way to find out. "What were you planning to bury?"
"The hatchet, uh, axe?"
"Uh, sorry, Kelly, I can't let you appropriate department equipment and bury it out back," Cap put in. Not even to end the current Gage-Kelly feud. Although it is tempting …. Marco looked like he was about to volunteer to replace the axe just to end the conflict.
"Oh, I wasn't going to literally bury it, just … pretend, I guess."
"But that's the point of the ceremony, Chet, to actually put something out of reach," Johnny said. "Sure, it's symbolic – most of the time, only two or three actual weapons were buried not the entire cache – but it's not just a mental exercise. And," he added, "you know, an axe isn't really appropriate in this situation."
"Huh?"
"Well, despite what I said earlier, I'm not actually going to come after you and scalp you or your upper lip. So an axe or a knife, well, they're not the 'implements of war' between us. It needs to be something else, representative of the – conflict."
"Well, I don't know how to bury a joke, other than not tell it. I mean, I guess I could write it down or somethi – ."
"How 'bout the joke book?" asked Stoker from the doorway.
+===+/=++++
The six of them had made a ceremony of it. Roy stood with John and Marco with Chet while Mike and Hank presided.
Mike dug the hole, about the depth of the spade and about the size of a hardback book, then handed the spade to Cap. Marco handed Chet a cloth-wrapped package. Chet unwrapped it to display the Indian joke section of one of his paperback joke books, showing it to John standing on the other side of the hole. He then rewrapped it and handed it to John. John unwrapped it and showed it to Chet. He then rewrapped it and handed it to Roy, who knelt down and put the bundle in the hole. Hank handed the spade to Chet who shoveled some dirt over the book then handed it back. Hank handed it to John who also shoveled dirt into the hole before handing it back. Hank then finished filling in the hole, carefully tamping it down.
Hank started to say something more when the tones sounded, calling them out to an industrial fire which occupied them for most of the rest of the shift.
+===+/==+++
A few days later, Chet saw John standing beside the filled in hole, head down. He noticed Johnny's shoulders were shaking and moved toward him quickly, concerned. "Johnny? Are you okay?" As he stepped up beside Johnny, he noticed the hole had been reopened and saw the package they had buried open in Gage's hands. "Uh, what are you doing?"
Johnny looked up, embarrassed but smiling. "You know, Roy was right: some of these jokes are pretty funny."
"Gage, you are too much," Kelly said, walking away.
+===+/+===+
So this bit came about when I noticed Roy left the drug box on the platform after the rescue. I figured someone had to go back and get it, and who better than Chet? That would also explain his 'Swiss cheese' comment. And if you are wondering: Water quenches Fire. Fire melts Axe. Axe cuts Water (hose).
I do this for fun, not profit; the characters are not mine but the mistakes are.