Stoker Takes a Shine to the Squad
The heavy smell of smoke remained in the pre-dawn air but the raging red-golds of a fire clawing into the night sky like a demented dragon had been replaced by a delicate white mist that seemed to gently float into space. Emanating from the last of the charged lines working the scene and cross-lit by powerful spotlights, the spray of water looked cool and refreshing. The men nearby – standing, sitting, leaning – looked hot and tired. Mike Stoker, the engineer from Station 51, sighed and wearily leaned against his engine as he looked at the ruins of the fire.
The structure fire had finally been knocked down, but not before maiming the big fire engine and nearly taking Chet Kelly – and Stoker – with it.
He pushed himself into a proper sitting position when Captain Stanley appeared around the nose of the big fire truck.
"Stoker?"
"Yeah, Cap?"
"I need you to take the squad in to Rampart, check on the guys."
"The squad, Cap?"
"The squad, Mike. The little red truck there with the 51 on it."
"Uh, right. Cap. What about Big Red here?"
"Maintenance'll be here soon. If they can handle the repairs on the spot, I'll bring her in. Chances are it'll take longer, so the chief'll drop me off at the station after we debrief. We'll be stood down until Big Red is back in service, anyway."
"Okay, Cap," the engineer said nodding once to his captain before the older man stalked off toward the command center, Hank Stanley's tall figure a dark silhouette against the misting water. Stoker stood, stretching out his shoulders. It had been a while since he'd handled a charged line for any length of time. But when Engine 51 had been put out of commission, he'd manned a line with one of the other companies for much of the duration.
He took another look at Big Red, giving her a friendly pat on the door. You'll be okay, he thought to her, deciding not to go over again how he'd ended up with a busted lip, Chet with a broken arm, Marco with burned hands, and his beloved fire truck with a busted, broken and burned control panel.
Mike turned toward the squad.
It looked so small there.
On its own, he knew, the squad looked good: a solid, muscular vehicle with more than enough power for its work. But now – dwarfed by the massive fire-fighting machines surrounding it – he thought it just looked small.
He had stowed John and Roy's equipment after they had left in the ambulances with a complement of firefighters with mostly minor injuries, but Mike double-checked the compartment doors as he rounded the vehicle. He slid behind the wheel, pulling his helmet off when it rubbed against the ceiling. He eased his way through tired firemen and mud-speckled equipment, reaching the main road as the sun came up.
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"Nurse McCall?" Dixie heard a quiet voice and looked up into eyes as blue as her own. Much better than this paperwork, she thought.
"Firefighter Specialist Stoker," she responded with a small, devilish smile for the tall fireman's formality. "Are you looking for the rest of your crew?"
"Yeah. Cap'n Stanley sent me over to pick up Roy and Johnny, and check on the guys. How are Chet and Marco doing?"
"Good. Chet's arm was a clean break so we should be able to set it later today. Marco had minor burns on his hands; I doubt he'll even miss a shift." She looked him over professionally. "Looks like you got a bit of a boo-boo as well," she said, indicating his split lip. "Need it looked at?"
"Nah. Kissing the concrete was the order of the day, thanks to Chet," he said with a wry grin.
"So I heard," Dixie laughed. "John and Roy shouldn't be too much longer. Want some coffee?"
"Thanks, Nurse McCall."
"You can call me Dixie, you know," she said teasingly as she handed him the steaming cup of black coffee. Before he could reply, the phone rang and Dixie answered crisply: "Rampart Emergency, Nurse McCall."
Mike took a careful sip and leaned against the wall by the base station, easing his tired shoulders. The second sip caused him to eye his coffee. After sliding his eyes discretely toward the coffee pot, he reached out with a long arm to grab a packet of sugar and a stir stick. Better, he thought after sipping the resultant brew.
"Now, Roy, all I'm sayin' – ." Johnny's voice sounded from down the hall and Mike peered around the corner to see the two paramedics come out of Treatment Room 4.
"Stoker, you bring the squad over?" asked Roy when he saw the engineer poke his head out, eager to distract his partner from his latest rant.
"Yup." Before he could say more, their HTs crackled into life.
"Squad 51, Dispatch. What is your status?"
"Dispatch, Squad 51 available," replied Johnny with a quick glance at Roy and Mike.
"10-4, Squad 51. MVA with injuries, Sixth and Sepulveda, Sixth and Sepulveda. Engine 84 is already en route and an ambulance has been dispatched. Time out: 0535." Dixie perked up her ears at that as she hung up the phone.
"Dispatch, Squad 51, 10-4. Please advise Engine 51 that Firefighter Stoker is also responding with Squad 51." If he didn't know where all his boys were, Captain Stanley could become a mite upset and no one wanted to risk that.
"10-4, 51."
"Looks like you're going with us, pally," DeSoto said, slapping Mike on the back as the three men hurried down the hall.
"See ya, Dix!" Johnny called back over his shoulder as they left.
"Bye, guys," Dixie said to the empty hallway, tossing Mike's half-full cup of coffee in the trash before calling Joe Early to let him know they'd probably have more business from the boys at 51 soon.
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Two vehicles – a green station wagon going east and a yellow-and-white pick-up truck going west – had each been trying to make left turns as the light turned from yellow to red. They had collided in the middle of the broad intersection, narrowly escaping a full head-on crash. A few seconds later, however, a smaller blue car had barreled into the intersection from the south, slamming into the door of the pick-up and pushing the tail end of the truck into the nose of the station wagon.
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With Roy behind the wheel, the squad reached the accident scene quickly. He and John leapt out, yanking the compartment doors open to get coats, pry bars, and bandages.
Station wagons tend to mean kids, thought John Gage as he pulled on his turnout coat. "Roy, you take the pick-up truck. Mike, check those folks out," he said, gesturing as he sprinted toward the station wagon. Mike slid out after Johnny and ran to the nearest car to pull the battery cable before it could spark. Stoker had just reached the little blue car when Engine 84 arrived.
The captain from Station 84 took charge of the scene, directing two of his men to hose down the gasoline spilled from the cars, but leaving the others free to assist the paramedics and Stoker with the victims.
Stoker was able to reach under the badly crumpled hood to disconnect the battery then turned to the car's occupants.
The white leather seats were garishly decorated with the still-bright blood from the victims, one male, one female. The driver had not been wearing a seatbelt; the impact with the steering wheel had caved in his chest. He was clearly dead and Mike wasted no time on him, rounding the car to check the other victim. Although her shoulder harness was intact, it looked like the seat had failed, pitching her forward into the windshield. Through her long blond hair, Mike could see blood dribbling down the side of her face. He reached in carefully to check her carotid pulse and felt it feebly under his fingers. After making sure no one else was in the car, he straightened and stepped over to where Roy was prying open the door to the pick-up truck. On the way, he heard Gage call for assistance from one of the other firemen. One of the men from 84 squatted down beside the car to watch over the young woman and start looking for a way to get her out safely.
"Whatcha got, Mike?" Roy asked glad the door of the old pickup was starting to give. The old man inside didn't look good.
"Driver's a Code F. Female passenger hit the windshield, hard. She's alive, pulse is weak. Several lacerations," Stoker replied. "Her seat is jammed forward so it might be tricky getting her out. I didn't want to move her so I couldn't tell whether she had any other injuries."
"Okay. Give me a hand here and then I'll check her," Roy replied and together they pulled the door open. The man was sprawled across the bench seat, although his left foot was firmly secured near the brake pedal; he moaned when Roy touched him. "Sir? You've been in an accident. Can you tell me where you are hurt?" The man mumbled something, as Roy quickly checked him over, trained hands palpitating legs, arms, head, abdomen. "Okay, sir. We're going to get you out in just a minute. It'll be okay," the paramedic told his patient before pulling himself back out of the cab of the truck. He checked the woman in the car briefly, frowning as he did so.
"Let's see what Johnny's got," he told Mike as they headed back around the car.
"Gage? What's the story?" Roy asked the pair of long legs sticking out the passenger window of the station wagon. The crumpled door clearly wasn't going to come open any time soon. Another fireman was handing gauze pads and curlex in through the driver's window.
"Leg injury," came a muffled voice from the vicinity of the floorboard. "I need to get this pressure bandage on her, or she'll bleed out. Stay with me, now, ma'am."
"Anyone else in the car?" he asked. They could hear strange, frightened sounds coming from the back.
"No, she was transporting bunnies and – grunt – such to a petting zoo at the elementary school. They're –grunt– in the back. Okay, this is holding. You're gonna be alright, ma'am." The legs waggled a bit. "Pull me back out, Stan," the paramedic told the fireman he'd commandeered from 84.
"DeSoto? What do you need us to do?" the captain from 84s asked as he approached the senior paramedic.
Roy rapidly shifted through the differential for a multiple victim MVA in his head and then began ticking points off on his fingers. "The man in the truck is going to need a backboard; he's got some broken bones and possible spinal injuries. I think only his foot is trapped so it shouldn't be too hard to get him out but I'm worried about a pelvic fracture. We'll probably have to peel the sports car open to get the woman and the Code F out. She's touch-and-go, with that head injury, so John or I'll need to watch her closely."
"I'll take her," Johnny broke in, and headed over to the car, grabbing supplies from his helper's hands.
"If we slice this door off the station wagon," Roy continued, with a nod to his partner, "we should be able to get the other woman out fairly quickly. So far the pressure bandage is holding but…."
"Right. Bob, break out the K-12 and get ready to open up the sports car. Ralph, grab a crow bar and come with me.…" The captain strode off, organizing his men as he went.
"Mike, set up our equipment here. Contact Rampart and let them know what we've got. We'll need another ambulance and, if there's a squad available nearby, it wouldn't hurt."
"Got it. I'll call for Animal Control too," Roy nodded and headed back to the pick-up as Stoker pulled his HT out of his pocket. "Dispatch, this is Squad 51."
"Squad 51, go ahead."
"Dispatch. We have multiple victims at this location. Requesting an additional ambulance plus transport for one Code F. We also need Animal Control to respond."
"10-4, 51. Sending units now."
"Dispatch, are there any available squads nearby?"
"Negative, 51."
"10-4, Dispatch. 51 out." Mike slipped the HT back into his pocket and turned to the squad. After pulling out four disposable blankets and another box of supplies, he knelt down on the pavement and opened a line to Rampart. One of the men from 84 started opening up the blankets, another was pulling the backboard from the back of the squad.
"Rampart, this is Squad 51. How do you read?"
"Loud and clear, Squad 51. Go ahead."
"Rampart, we are at the scene of an MVA. We have four victims, including one Code F. Victim one is a male, approximately 65 years old, possible broken pelvis. Victim one is conscious and in some pain. Victim two is a female, approximately 28 years old. Victim two appears to have hit her head on the windshield or dashboard. She is also suffering from multiple lacerations to the head and face. She is unconscious, pulse is weak and rapid. Victim three is also female, approximately 42 years old. Victim three has a severe laceration on her leg. Pressure bandage has been applied and appears to be holding. Victim three is semi-conscious. Rampart, be advised all victims will need to be extricated."
"10-4, Squad 51. Do you have an ET when the victims will be freed?"
"Negative, Rampart, on the ET. Stand by for vital signs."
"10-4, 51. Rampart standing by."
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A crow bar and some muscle, judiciously applied, was enough to free the old man's foot. Roy, with two of the men from 84, secured him to the backboard and gingerly carried him to where Mike had set up the equipment. The paramedic started to get a set of vitals on the man who was looking decidedly pale and seemed to have some difficulty breathing.
A loud screech of metal from the vicinity of the station wagon signaled the side door had been ripped off. One of the men immediately climbed in to get a better look. "DeSoto!" bellowed the burly fireman. "This leg looks like it's bleeding through."
Roy altered course and grabbed bandages. Without pausing, he threw a phrase at Mike: "Get vitals and O2 on this guy."
"Can do, Roy," Stoker replied, reaching for the man's wrist with one hand and a pen with the other. He jotted down the numbers and prepared to transmit them to Rampart when his HT squawked from his pocket.
"Squad 51, Dispatch. Squad 84 is now available. Are you still in need of an additional squad?"
"That's affirmative, Dispatch."
"10-4, 51. Sending Squad 84 to your location. ETA six minutes."
"10-4." Mike switched from the HT to the biophone. "Rampart, Squad 51. Victim one is out of the vehicle, ready to transmit preliminary vitals."
"Go ahead, 51," came the reply and Stoker carefully read the blood pressure, pulse rate and respirations he had obtained into the phone. More extensive vitals would have to wait for Gage or DeSoto, he thought, slipping the oxygen into place and pulling the blanket around the man.
"Mike, ready for vitals on three?" Roy called from the station wagon.
"Go, Roy!" Stoker replied, scribbling them down then relaying the new information to Rampart. A slip of paper with Johnny's handwriting on it was thrust into his hand almost as soon as he finished the relay.
"Gage needs a C-collar," said the fireman who'd brought the note to Mike.
"Over there, the black box," Stoker replied, pointing. "Rampart, vitals on victim two to follow," he said into the phone. Behind him, he heard the high-pitched whirr of the K-12 starting up again; in the distance, the siren of the rapidly approaching Squad 84.
"10-4, 51. Go ahead."
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Williams and McRaines, the paramedics from 84, took over on the first two patients, freeing Roy to help John. It had taken the crew almost twenty minutes to cut the young woman out of the crushed sports car, their movements hampered by the blanket-shrouded body in the driver's seat. Removing it first was not an option, so the men grimly worked around it.
Once the young woman was out of the vehicle, Stoker continued to relay information as the paramedics checked pupillary response, started the IVs the docs had ordered, and – .
"She's seizing!" Johnny exclaimed.
" – patient is seizing, Rampart – "
" – administer lorazepam intravenously – "
" – seizures have stopped – "
" – transport as soon as possible – "
" – transporting now, Rampart – "
Johnny climbed into the ambulance first, clutching two IV bags, and guided the gurney in when the ambulance attendants lifted it. Roy followed with the drug box. "I'll ride in with Johnny, Mike. If she starts to seize again, we'll have our hands full." He accepted the biophone from Mike after he climbed in. "Bring the squad in, okay, pal?"
"Sure thing," Stoker replied with a nod. He shut the doors, slapped them twice, and then watched the ambulance speed away, sirens screaming through the morning, until it was lost from sight.
Mike turned toward the squad.
It no longer looked so small to him.
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It had taken some time to finish at the scene.
Animal Control had arrived during the extrication of the final victim. Given the condition of the station wagon, the captain from 84s suggested they wait to transfer the animals until the power tools were available to pop open the back. While they waited, the two men and one woman helped Stoker gather the detritus left over after the paramedics had treated their patients. By the time the medical wreckage was cleared away and the remaining equipment stowed in the squad, the back of the station wagon had been popped open. Stoker soon found himself transferring cages of bunnies and chicks and ducks to the white panel van. Their squeaky, half-agitated little noises made him smile.
Afterwards, he sought out the captain and was released from the scene as the tow trucks moved in. Sliding into the squad, Mike pulled off his helmet before it could rub against the ceiling again. He edged into traffic with an assist from the police officer still on scene and made good time to Rampart.
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"I don't suppose I could get another cup of coffee, … Dixie?" The same quiet voice brought her head up again.
"Sure thing, Mike," Dixie said with a satisfied smile, pushing off her usual perch to pour him a cup. She added a packet of sugar before handing it over to the tall firefighter. He sipped appreciatively and nodded his thanks. "The guys are getting cleaned up," she told him. "I've got their restock ready," she continued, indicating the box of supplies waiting on the counter.
"I'll go ahead and take it out, if that's okay with you," Mike said, "and then wait for the guys in the squad. I should let Captain Stanley know how – ."
"I already called him with the latest," Dixie replied serenely. "Have a cookie."
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Mike walked back to the squad with a box of supplies under his arm, a cup of coffee in his hand, and a cookie in his mouth. He stowed the supplies awkwardly then got into the driver's seat to finish his coffee and the second cookie. The morning sunlight streamed into the windows, making the squad pleasantly warm. Roy and Johnny would be along in just a few minutes so he leaned his head back to wait. Not surprisingly, sleep overtook him quickly, cookie crumbs still on his collar.
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Raging red-gold light splashed across the side of the big engine. His eyes were on the gauges, keeping the flow of water steady for his men on the other end of the lines snaking from him, across the dirt lot, and into the –
"Fire! Fire! Fire!" The wail of sirens from another company arriving on scene seemed to push the words into his brain. The pressure in one of his hoses twitched and Stoker made a smooth adjustment then turned to the fire for the cause. Were the guys being pushed back by the heat? It was certainly a hot one.
At that moment, a great spout of flame leapt out of the building, engulfing the barrels his shiftmates had been trying to keep cool. When a lineman stumbled backward, one of the hoses gained its freedom and then tried to thrash its former master, but Stoker reduced the flowrate to a manageable level the next instant, spoiling the hose's escape attempt. Stoker saw Kelly regain control of the errant hose, and give him the signal to restore full flow to the line. Kelly then turned back to the growing flames, Lopez a steady presence at his back.
When one of the big, truck-mounted hoses opened up, Stoker could see his shiftmates pulling back in response to the Battalion chief's orders. The high-pressure, high-volume deluge could keep the barrels cool, at least until their contents could be determined, leaving the linemen to attack another area of the fire.
A few minutes later, an angry black smoke began flowing out of the building and the call came for everyone to pull back momentarily. Like ants running from the focused sunlight of a magnifying glass, the firemen retreated, waiting for an all-clear … or an explosion.
Chet ended up standing by the control panel of the engine with Mike. "Thanks for the assist, man," he said, leading Mike to give a raised-chin nod in reply.
WHOO-WHOO-WHOOSH!
Kelly pushed Stoker down even before the sound registered completely. A metal drum propelled by the explosion the chief had anticipated slammed into the side of the fire truck and dropped onto the men, still smoking. Lopez hauled the barrel off them bare-handed, thrusting it aside, and called out: "Hey, Ga – !"
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"Hey, Gage, lookit. There's an engineer in my seat."
"He sure looks beat."
"Well, he's not on his feet."
"But he did get a sweet."
"Enough with the rhymes," Mike said, opening his eyes to find Roy and John looking in at him from opposite sides of the squad with big grins. He yawned and sat up straighter.
"Ah, Mike, you've forgotten your lines," Gage quipped and got in. Roy laughed from the other side.
"You good to drive?" he asked Stoker sotto voce. At the other man's nod, Roy stepped around to the other side of the squad, pushing Johnny to the center of the bench seat.
"Why do I have to sit in the middle?" he asked in mock complaint.
"Cause you're so 'widdle'," the stocky man told his partner with a poke in the ribs.
"Oh, go play a fiddle!"
"Hey, diddle, diddle!"
Mike laughed then and pulled out with the squad, leaving the paramedics to their rhyming games.
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They'd settled down by the time they reached the station. Automatically Stoker checked his location and then expertly backed the squad into the empty bay. He turned off the engine and prepared to get out when he realized John and Roy were both staring at him, amusement evident.
"What?" he asked.
"Uh, Stoker?" came the rumble of Cap's voice from across the bay. "Are you sure you want to put that there?" A blank stare greeted him. "I mean, what'll Big Red think?"
That was when Mike realized he'd parked the squad on the wrong side of the bay.
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The four men had eaten breakfast together, replaying the two runs lightly, before the squad was toned out again. Hank sent his engineer to the dorms to catch some sleep, whimsically assigning himself kitchen duty ("Stanley: Kitchen" "Aye-aye, Cap!") since he'd already been able to take a quick nap. When he checked on Mike twenty minutes later, he was reassured by the even sounds of his breathing.
The squad returned two hours later and it was a toss-up which looked worse – the squad or the paramedics – since both had acquired a coating of thick, black mud. Roy left the squad parked on the apron, since the vehicle would need to be hosed off vigorously before it could be allowed inside. The captain stood the squad down for an hour, ordered his paramedics to shower, shave and sleep if they could, and picked up a bucket to begin cleaning.
"I got it, Cap," Stoker said quietly. They worked in a companionable silence until a phone call drew the captain back into his office. Mike took his time soaping the exterior and washing away the clinging mud. When the squad was clean and dry, inside and out, he backed it up into the bay and closed the doors. He examined his work critically then stalked out the back door to his car.
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Johnny woke up, hungry but refreshed, some time later. He got up, stretching, and headed toward the kitchen. His partner stood stock-still in the doorway leading to the bay. "Roy – ," Johnny began but was shushed. He peered over Roy's shoulder and watched as Stoker put the finishing shine on the now-gleaming, Hookrader-inspection-ready squad. Both men could see the bottle of wax was from Mike's private stash, typically reserved only for Big Red. Even his own car didn't get to use it.
"Lunch, fellas!" called Captain Stanley as he pushed open the door from the kitchen then stopped. He quickly stepped toward the squad, admiring Mike's work. "Good job, Mike, good job!" John and Roy came through the bay to do the same, John letting out a low whistle when he saw the degree of shine Stoker had managed to get into the chrome, and Roy marveling at how clean the cab was now. Had he used a toothbrush on the floorboards?
"Looks like Stoker here's really taken a shine to the Little Lady, doesn't it, fellas?" Captain Stanley said quietly.
"Yeah, Cap," his engineer said, smiling at the little beauty. "I think I have!"
Author's Notes:
(1) My first fanfic and I have to admit I've been winging it on some (many? all?) of the technical details, especially when it comes to hoses. I tried to "skull it out" as Dr. Brackett would say (Season 1: Botulism). I'll get better, I promise ... especially with good feedback.
(2) You may have noticed a similarity between the rhyming game John and Roy play in section 10 and the rhyming game Stoker and the C-shift engineer play in Chapter 1 of Ariane Rivendell's most excellent "As We Go." I did not intentionally borrow that device although I'm sure my subconscious suggested it. Ariane is aware of the similarity and has graciously assured me it is not an issue.
(2a) And, you'll notice the similarity between these rhyming games and those in "The Princess Bride." What you may not know is that "The Princess Bride" by William Goldman (the book, that is) was first published in 1973. So, our guys may have read it. Who knew?
(3) I do this for fun, not profit. The characters are not mine. The mistakes are.
(3a) And, in the spirit of correcting technical mistakes, I have made a slight revision to section 9. According to a fireman I met today, reducing the pressure on a wild hose won't help but reducing the flow rate would. And, it wouldn't help with moving the hoses either.
(4) Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews. More stories soon, I hope!