"Copped Canteens and Keeled Over Wookies"
Chapter Two
DeSoto pulled their rescue squad up to Lot 10 and parked. The pair piled out, grabbed a bunch of equipment from the side compartments and hurried over to the waiting helicopter. They climbed aboard and stowed their gear.
The chopper's pilot throttled up. The whirring blades began rotating faster and faster, in preparation for lift off. The sound was deafening.
The paramedics pulled their headphones on and plugged them into the communication jacks next to their seats.
"What's up?" Roy wondered.
"Welcome aboard, gentlemen!" the pilot told them. "Somebody went off Big Wind Cliffs in a hang-glider!"
His passengers stared at each other in disbelief.
The down drafts there were lethal. The place was even posted. No Hang-gliding—or free jumping with parachutes—was permitted.
The pilot continued. "The down draft smashed the glider into the side of the cliffs a couple of hundred feet down! I can't fly this bird around those cliffs! So, you two will have to rappel down!"
"We gonna need our gear?" Gage inquired.
"Nah! Search and Rescue is on the scene! They should have everything you'll need!" And, with that, they went airborne.
DeSoto was confused. "If Search and Rescue is already on the scene, why do we have to go down?"
"Good question!" their pilot admitted. "When you come up with an answer, I'd appreciate it if you would share it with me!"
Within minutes, they were hovering over the Pacific Coast Highway.
The road ran parallel to the cliffs and the accident site was easily spotted.
The chopper settled gently down onto the pavement, not far from the Search and Rescue team's vehicles.
The paramedics gathered their gear and hit the ground running.
"Jeff...Marty," Gage acknowledged, as he recognized two of the half dozen or so rescuers. They set their heavy gear down beside a rather large WARNING sign.
"John...Roy," Jeff Barman greeted them.
"What's goin' on?" DeSoto demanded.
"We were going to rappel down and rescue the girl, but her boyfriend here, insisted that paramedics look at her first."
The paramedics glanced at each other. They couldn't help but notice the irritation in Barman's voice.
The pair donned some rappelling gear and then stepped cautiously up to the edge of the cliffs. Sure enough! Several hundred feet down the precipice, on a narrow, jagged ledge, were the remains of a bright yellow hang-glider.
Gage glanced back over his shoulder. "Has anyone seen the girl?"
"You can't," her boyfriend came back. "She's under the glider."
Barman and his men already had the rappelling lines anchored in place and protected.
All the paramedics had to do was pull their gloves on, fasten themselves to the ropes, and go over the side.
DeSoto glanced down at the water three hundred and fifty some feet below. "Here's hoping we won't be taking that refreshing dip in the ocean, after all!" he told his partner.
Gage glanced down, swallowed hard and nodded.
The pair began rappelling down the cliff's sheer wall. The hot air currents buffeted them and the intense heat left them feeling a bit woozy.
Before long, their uniforms were soaked through with sweat.
The going was extremely treacherous...and slow. Several times, they were forced to stop and rest.
"It's becoming increasingly clear to me," the dark-haired paramedic panted, "that it's just too dang HOT...to be doin' this sort a' thing!"
DeSoto winced as his salty sweat ran into his eyes. "I agree!" he gasped, and swiped the steady stream of perspiration from his forehead. He glanced down and noticed that both of his forearms were scraped and bleeding. His knees and shins were also smarting. The jagged outcroppings of rock were exceedingly sharp and abrasive. "Still want the department to issue us those shorts?" he dryly inquired.
"No-o!" Gage grumpily replied. "Ahhh...Doggone it! I left my canteen in the Squad!"
His partner shot him a sympathetic glance, and then the two started down again.
The firemen finally reached the ledge. By then, the pair looked, and felt, like they could use a rescue, themselves.
Carefully, they clamped themselves off. Then, even more carefully, they lifted the glider.
DeSoto unclipped the girl's harness. The paramedic then knelt on the edge of the ledge, to examine their victim.
Deathlike appearance, no pulse, no respirations, pupils fixed and dilated.
He glanced up at his partner and sadly shook his head.
Gage's already slumped shoulders slumped a little more. He hung his sweat-drenched head and stared down at the bright yellow canopy of torn silk. "Well, she won't be ignoring anymore warnings."
Roy stared sadly down at the dead girl for a few moments. "Yeah." He pulled their HT from his belt and thumbed its call button. "Squad 51 to LA County Search and Rescue," he paused. "We, uh, won't be needing the equipment," he paused again. "Just send down the stokes."
"Roger that, 51," Barman solemnly came back.
Roy backed the Squad into the parking bay.
The two completely pooped paramedics just sat there, staring rather dazedly out at the slowly descending garage door. Finally, they mustered the energy to unstick themselves from their seats and exit the vehicle.
"Well?" Kelly inquired, as the pair dragged themselves into the day room. "Did you get to use your canteen?"
Gage had sipped water with his partner all the way back from the airport. "Yes, Chet. I got to use my canteen."
Kelly appeared to be both surprised and disappointed.
Lopez looked elated.
"Humph!" Chet muttered, and began sliding his wallet out. "I bet Marco that you'd forget all about it...and end up leavin' it in the Squad."
Roy cleared his throat. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly.
Kelly looked up, saw DeSoto struggling to keep a straight face, and brightened. "Did he? Leave it in the Squad?"
Roy didn't reply, but the answer was obvious.
"Another old Indian trick," Chet announced and began replacing his billfold, "you forget all about your canteen. That way, you never run out of water." He flashed Marco a smug smile and held out his hand.
Lopez rolled his eyes and passed him a dollar bill.
DeSoto grinned.
Gage groaned beneath his breath and began hobbling towards the sofa.
The claxons sounded.
"Squad 51...Man down..."
John groaned again. "I wanna go ho-ome," he bemoaned and reluctantly began heading for the garage.
Three hours—and three heat-stroke victims—later, the homesick paramedic was seated on a chair in the center of the Station's rec' room, shooting rubber bands at airborne flies.
There were rubber bands all over the floor and a half a sack still in his lap.
Marco came walking in. "What the heck?" he wondered, feeling the odd scrunching beneath his feet. He gave the rubber band dispenser an irritated glare. "John, instead of making a mess, why can't you help us clean up around here?"
"I am helping. I'm cleaning up the flies." Gage shot another rubber band off the end of his finger. "Six," he muttered to himself.
Lopez looked deeply skeptical. "Like that?"
"I'll have you know, I've already zapped a half dozen—right out of the air." John took a refreshing swig from his refilled canteen.
Marco remained skeptical. "Okay. Let's see you hit that one...on the edge of the table, there."
"There's no sport in tha-at. I like to hit them on the wing."
Lopez grunted skeptically.
John's right eyebrow arched. "You don't think I can do it?"
"I think the 'bull' is getting awfully deep in here."
"Go ahead," Gage dared. "Make it take off."
Marco stared back at him in disbelief. "If you think I'm gonna stand here and 'flush' flies for you, you're crazy! Now, are you gonna help us clean, or not?"
John took a careful bead on an airborne fly. "What do you do when your car's engine overheats?"
Lopez looked totally baffled. "Huh?"
"What do you do?" Gage asked again.
"I shut it off and let it cool down."
John let the rubber band go. It hit the fly and zapped it right out of the air. The fly-zapper took another drink. "Seven." He saw Marco's mouth hanging open and flashed him a smug smile. "My body's engine has overheated. So, I've shut me down 'til I cool off."
Kelly came into the room just then, rubber bands crunching under his shoes. He stared down at them for a few moments and then mumbled, "S-t-r-a-n-g-e..." He stepped up to Gage. "Why are you throwing rubber bands all over the floor?"
"He shot seven flies right out of the air!" Marco explained, his face and voice still filled with amazement.
"Oh yeah?" Chet replied, looking and sounding completely unimpressed. "I'll bet there's a big demand for skilled labor like that. And, I can see now why he doesn't have time to help us clean up the Station. I mean, with all the strange job offers he must be getting," he sarcastically continued and then turned to leave "why should he work at something normal? Like sweeping...or making beds...or cleaning his locker...or—"
John accidentally zapped Chet on the back of the neck.
"Ouch!" Kelly cried. Then he spun back around, stooped down and began scooping up rubber bands with both hands. "Grab some ammo!" he advised Marco, and all out war broke loose!
Henry got up from his couch cushion, crawled off into the kitchen and hid under the table.
Kelly zapped Gage on the wrist and Lopez got him on the forehead.
Mike walked in. "Ou-ouch!" he exclaimed, as Kelly zapped him on the nose. He glared at his assailant, with a vengeful look in his eyes. Then he crouched down and grabbed a handful of ammo, himself.
DeSoto stepped into the doorway but then jerked back, seeing the air filled with flying rubber bands. 'Another interesting development...'
Their Commander brushed past him and—in the heat of the battle—even he almost got zapped.
The 'rubber band renegades' immediately held their fire.
Stanley stared rather incredulously at his crouching crew. "Bo-oys?" he calmly inquired. "Do you think you could possibly play firemen for a while? We have an inspection in five—" he glanced at his watch, "—make that three minutes!" Then he turned and went crunching back out of the room.
The bo-oys exchanged grins, and took one last shot at each other, before picking the rubber bands off the floor...and the furniture.
Speaking of the furniture...
Henry came out of hiding and climbed back up on his couch.
Three hot, extremely hectic minutes later, the firemen filed into the garage and slapped their dress caps onto their sweat-soaked heads.
Lopez adjusted his collar.
Gage rubbed his shoes on his pant cuffs in a futile attempt to polish them off.
"Why can't we ever get inspected when the Station is clean?" Kelly complained. "Why do we always seem to get an inspection when we've let things slide? Just once, I'd like to see them come when everything is perfect!"
"If they waited until the Station was perfect," Marco announced, "we'd never get another inspection."
"Exactly!" Kelly exclaimed.
The guys grinned.
Stanley stepped out of his office, swiped the perspiration from his forehead and then donned his dress cap as well. "They can't expect us to have to work in this heat and not let things slide a little," he reasoned, half to himself. "Besides, the place isn't all that bad. It just looks a little lived in—" he stopped and glared at Gage. "You did get the rubber bands picked up..."
John nodded.
Their Commander looked relieved.
But his relief was to be short-lived, because the visitor's buzzer sounded.
Their Captain winced. "Oh no. They're here."
"Relax, Cap," Kelly urged. "You're right. They'll take everything into consideration."
"It doesn't work that way, pal," Stanley glumly announced. Then he crossed over to the visitor's entrance and pulled the door open. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he told the three Battalion Chiefs who were standing there, "and welcome to—"
The tones sounded.
"Station 51...Vehicle fire..."
"Uhhh...Excuse me," Station 51's Captain apologized, and began heading for the call station.
TBC