Chapter 7

=+++= / +====

(15 August)

"Stoker? Got a minute?" Cap asked once the other men had left the bay. Their chores should take them to the far reaches of the station, giving him a moment of privacy with his engineer, one that was less intimidating than his office.

"Sure, Cap," Mike replied, throat still scratchy. He motioned for Mike to sit down on Big Red's running boards then sat beside him.

"How ya feelin' this morning?" he asked. This was the second shift in a row Mike had come in with a raspy voice. It might be nothing but then again….

"Okay, Cap," he said, puzzled at the question he'd answered twice before. "Throat's just a little scratchy." After last night's fundraiser, he was surprised he had a voice at all. Every single item, it seemed, had been hotly contested … which was good for the charity but not so much for his voice. He planned to use Chet's tea as soon as he had a chance. Mike had to admit the blend was soothing to the throat. Maybe he'd do better drinking it throughout the night instead of waiting until the next morning.

"Sure it's nothing more?" Hank pressed. "If you're not feeling up to it today, I can call in a sub for you."

"No, I'm fine." He waited for Captain Stanley to continue but the other man simply looked at him expectantly. "I just had to do a lot of, uh, talking at the party last night," Mike finally admitted.

"Party?" Mike had gone out partying last night?

"Well, it was a fundraiser actually, for that kids' charity I help out with sometimes. There was a great crowd and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves." Patty had been a riot, rolling a dessert cart loaded with some of the smaller items all around the room so everyone had a chance to see them close up, joking with the patrons about what they should buy. Funny and beautiful, that's my lady green eyes, he thought, smiling at the memory.

The slightly dopey smile didn't escape Hank's notice. "Did you …," Hank paused, then pushed on. "Michael, did you have much to drink last night?" They both knew there were no specific regulations preventing a firefighter from drinking the night before a shift … as long as he was sober and able to perform his duties when he arrived.

The question called Mike back to the here and now in a flash, and there was a hardness in his voice when he answered. "I don't drink before going on shift, Cap. Not ever."

"Okay, pal, I believe you. I just need to … make sure you are one hundred percent." Feeling he owed Mike more of an explanation, Hank continued, "I don't know if you saw it but there was a memo a few days ago about the death of a former engineer with the Department – ."

"Paul Kyson," Mike said bleakly, looking at his hands.

"You knew Paul?" Hank asked, surprised.

Mike leaned his head back and closed his eyes, quoting from memory: "'You hold the lives of your crew in your hands. I want each of you to understand that in no uncertain terms. You cannot operate your engines safely and effectively when you are distracted or ill or drunk – or even just hung over. Learn that lesson now and act accordingly. You don't want to relearn this one on the job.'" He looked over at his captain. "I was in the first group to go through the Kyson Drill, Hank. Paul ran it himself that year, you know," he added softly. "It was really rough."

"Wow, Mike, I didn't realize you were in that group…."

"Yup. Like I said, I don't drink before going on shift, Cap. Not ever."

=+++= / ++===

(About six years earlier….)

Somehow – and he wasn't sure how right now – he had gotten separated from the others. He had just gotten a little turned around and when he made it back around, the others were just gone. Poof! No more firefighter buddies, no more newly-promoted engineers getting welcomed into the club, no more no ones. At all. He blinked, trying to figure out what to do next.

Then he saw her. Walking down the hallway of the dormitory, pretty, oh so pretty, straight toward him.

"Hi!" he said, smiling at her, his blue eyes not really focusing properly. He made an effort and found they was even prettier when they was just one of her, 'cuz she didn't overlap herself as much as they did themselves. She had pretty edges and pretty eyes and – .

"Hey, big guy, you look like you could use some help," she said with a ghost of a smile on her face. The tall, muscular man wearing a gray 'Property of LACoFD' t-shirt appeared to have been visiting O'Malley's, if the distinctive red-and-gold napkin sticking out of his jean pocket was any indication.

"That's suppos'd to me by line," he said, tapping his chest. "I'm a firefighter. I help people." Oh, yeah, definitely been to the pub, she thought as he twisted up his words.

"Well, that's good. Why don't you help me get you back to your room, okay, firefighter?" He considered it, then nodded happily.

"Okay. I'll help me get you back to ... where are we goin'?"

"Your room."

"Oh," he said and frowned. "If we're goin' to your room, I oughta know your name, donya think? What's your name?"

"Well, my name is Patty, firefighter."

"Pattyfirefighter? That's a pretty name. Pat-ty-fi-re-figh-ter. Hey! I want you to know something. I really need to tell you this. 'cuz it's important, it's a really dig beal." She looked up at him expectantly, automatically unjumbling his speech. "I'm not a firefighter anymore. Nope. Not a firefighter anymore." The man who had wanted to be a fireman since he was four seemed extremely happy to be breaking this news to the pretty girl who was trying to walk him back the way he had come.

"Okay, okay, I hear you, you're not a firefighter anymore." Intoxicated, harmless, not a firefighter, got it, she thought, more and more amused by his babbling.

"Not a firefighter no more, 'cuz now I'm a firefighter specialist! Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker!" He pulled himself fully upright, t-shirt stretching tight across his muscular upper body, and saluted crisply, then wobbled. "That's me!" He poked himself in the chest with his index finger for emphasis, then rubbed the now-tender spot briefly. He paused and motioned her closer, saying in a hot whiskey-scented whisper when she obligingly leaned toward him, "But you, Pattyfirefighter, you can just call me 'specialist.' Do ya hear me? I like you, lady green eyes, so you can call me 'specialist'."

"Sure, Mr. Stoker."

"Specialist, please. Please call me 'sp-specialist'?" The word was getting harder to say, but he liked the word. It was a good word. It was a special word. It was him now.

"Sure thing, specialist," she drawled obligingly and winked up at him despite herself.

"Thank you … very much, … Pattyfirefighter." He took a deep breath, smiled hugely – then started to topple over. Patty arrested his tumble and pushed him toward the wall, using it to ease him down to the floor. She rolled him onto his side as a precaution, as familiar with this aspect of dorm life as she was with O'Malley's napkins. Patty idly wondered how many phone numbers a good-looking guy like him had managed to collect during his, uhm, outing. She patted him on the shoulder gently then stood.

Patty walked on down the hall, making a right hand turn to the area where most of the firemen were housed for this week's training. She'd passed only a few doors when she heard an irate voice say loudly from the half-open doorway ahead: "What do you mean you lost him?"

Ah, Patty thought, this must be the place, and raised her hand to knock. The door was pulled open by another large, muscular man before she could, however, and she barely kept herself from knocking on his chest.

"Hi," she said brightly to the surprised man. "I don't suppose you fellas are missing a tall, blue-eyed firefighter specialist named Stoker, are you?"

=+++= / +++==

Patty was up extra early in the morning, at the senior engineer's invitation. While his assistant had retrieved Specialist Stoker, he had gravely explained that the Los Angeles County Fire Department's six newly-promoted engineers were participating in a training exercise, albeit an unconventional one, and were not, as it might seem, merely getting really drunk on a, uh, school night. He called it a Kyson Drill, his voice catching a bit as he did. Patty had been a little curious and a little skeptical. Now, she was in the parking lot by the dormitory, waiting for the rest of the drill to be enacted on the mock-up control panels set up there.

At the senior engineer's signal, loud tones sounded, unceremoniously rousing the six men from their beds inside. They pulled on their waiting turnout gear, and, with much shouting from the trainers, were herded to the control panels for a complex drill. Blood-shot eyes, headaches, and generally queasiness were the order of the morning. Not surprisingly, as their initial adrenaline surges wore off and their hangovers reasserted themselves, the men began making mistakes, not reacting quickly enough to the changing conditions, losing track of what was going on with their 'engine' or at their 'fire,' some even having difficulty reading the dials. The trainers continued yelling and making noise which was designed to simulate a chaotic fire scene, add to the new engineers' confusion, and exacerbate every feeling of physical discomfort they might possibly be experiencing. About the only thing they didn't do was turn a fire hose on them. Even Patty's head was pounding a bit from all the clanging and shouting, and she was stone-cold sober.

By the time the drill was completed, more than half of the engineers' hypothetical crews were dead, dying or injured due to errors they had made. One of the men – her 'specialist' from last night – kept staring at the panel after the simulation had ended as if he couldn't understand or accept what had gone wrong. At one point, he reached up and gently tapped one of the gauges as if to say that's the one I needed. He and the others were called over to a group of chairs which had been set up under a nearby tent, Patty following after a nod from the senior engineer.

Coffee was passed around to at least partially revive these new engineers. A brief post-mortem of each man's performance followed. It wasn't harsh, but it was thorough. She wasn't sure how much each of them had absorbed but suspected they'd go over it again later.

"Let me cut to the chase, here, men," the senior engineer finally said. "You hold the lives of your crew in your hands. I wanted each of you to understand that in no uncertain terms. You cannot operate your engines safely and effectively when you are distracted or ill or drunk – or even just hung over like now." He paused, mouth tightening. "Learn that lesson now, from this training, and act accordingly. Trust me; you don't want to relearn this on the job." A longer pause. "You are all dismissed until 1300. I recommend you gentlemen get some sleep."

=+++= / ++++=

Paul Kyson watched the young pups head back to the dorms, tails dragging. The trainers would see to hydrating the boys and tucking them in, with appropriate headache and hangover remedies. He saw the dorm's resident assistant who'd watched the drill stop one of the men who was lagging behind the others, and wondered again why she looked so familiar.

=+++= / +++++

"Excuse me, Mr. Stoker?"

Stoker halted his careful shuffle when it became obvious even to his messed-up brain that the dark-haired woman was speaking to him. "Yes, miss?"

"Are you okay?"

I'm hung-over, ashamed, and embarrassed. I have a headache the size of Kansas, and I'm about to pee in my pants, he thought to himself, closing his eyes briefly. "I'm a little tired, miss," Mike said aloud, reopening his aching blood-shot eyes and looking at her. She looked familiar, especially those big green eyes. Pretty eyes, pretty edges. The words slithered through his mind but he couldn't quite catch them.

"Well, I don't want to keep you. I just wanted to make sure you were alright after your , uhm, adventure last night. And, when you get feeling better again, I'd really like you to give me a call, … specialist." She gently smiled up at the tall engineer, thrust something into his hand, and quickly walked off before she could change her mind and snatch it back.

Adventure? What adventure?, he asked himself, looking down at the first name and phone number written in green ink on the back of what looked like an old library catalogue card, hoping it would trigger a memory. Sure thing, specialist, slinked through his head.

"Stoker! There you are, man." The instructor smiled broadly as he located his wayward charge for the second time in less than twelve hours. "Kyson woulda had my head on a platter if I'd lost you again this week, boy."

"Lost me again?" Mike echoed stupidly. A warm chuckle, the promise of an explanation, and he was led back to his room once more.

=+++= / =++++

Kyson Drill, n. [kahy-suhn dril] – A training exercise/demonstration involving the consumption of alcohol, the performance of a complex task while impaired, and a debriefing/discussion session. Sometimes referred to as drink/drill/decide exercise. Origin: after Sean Kyson, a firefighter who died in the line of duty. See "Impaired Fireman Blamed for Deaths" L.A. Times, June 6, 19-, B1.