Hardy-Har Harlin

Chapter Nine

Station 8 arrived on scene.

The grassfire was in a neighborhood of spacious homes and sprawling lawns.

A smoky haze dulled the brilliant blue sky, and one of the sprawling lawns had been scorched black.

Some neighbors had grabbed rakes and shovels and formed a grassfire brigade. The volunteers had the bulk of the fire already contained.

Some fire had followed the tall, dead grass along a fence line, like a lit fuse cord, and a column of smoke was rising up from a small grove of trees toward the back of the property.

"Thompson! Seeger! Grab an inch and a half and go see what's burning back there!"

Seeing as how he and his engineer, and a half dozen able-bodied neighbors, had the grassfire covered, Stoner turned to his paramedics. "You two can head back to the station…if you want."

Gage and DeSoto held an unspoken conference and came to an equally silent agreement.

Six would make it back to the barn faster than four.

DeSoto raised their HT to his lips and thumbed its mic', "L.A., Squad 8 is available on scene."

"10-4Squad 8 available on scene."

Roy passed the radio on to his partner and began flushing the ash and soot out of some of the civilian grassfire fighters' red, watering eyes.

Johnny pocketed the HT. Then he grabbed a hose roll from the back of the engine, a gated Y valve and a nozzle from a side compartment, and followed the limp hose line that snaked off in the direction of that half-hidden smoke column.


Two hundred yards of hiking later, a flame-engulfed red metal shed appeared.

"Why anybody would put a storage shed in such an out of the way place," Gage grouched, 'is beyond me." He dropped the items in his arms onto the ground and fished the radio from his coat pocket. "Engine 8 from Squad 8,"

"Stoner here. Go ahead, Gage…"

"Cap, we have a 10'x12' single-story wood frame metal storage shed three-quarters involved. No exposures. Standby…"

Thompson and Seeger completed the gated Y valve connections and gave him two thumbs up.

John waited until the guys had firm grips on their hoses' nozzles before re-keying his radio's mic. "Engine 8, send us some water."

"10-4. Charging the line…"

The limp hoses jerked and stiffened, and the nozzles spit and sputtered as the air was bled from the lines.

The water began dousing the flames.

The fire began hissing, as it was extinguished and cooled.

"Does make one wonder what's in there," Rick belatedly agreed.

John donned his gloves and started striding toward the mystery building. "Let's find out."

The shed's door was locked.

John busted its blackened window out, reached a gloved hand in and unlocked it. He pulled the portal open but the interior was too smoke-filled to see anything. He held his breath and was just about to step inside, when Harlin placed an arm across his chest. "Hold it! You forgetting air-pac protocols? No one is to enter a structure fire unless they are on air."

"Yeah. But—"

"—This is a structure, isn't it…"

"Yeah. But—"

"—and it's on fire, isn't it…"

"Yeah. But—" John didn't bother to say another word. He just turned and went jogging off in the direction of his air-pac.

Rick and Harlin exchanged grins.


Station 8's engineer watched in amusement, as John jerked the Squad's air-pac compartment open.

The paramedic donned the apparatus. Then he snatched an axe and a pike pole and went trotting off, grumbling all the while.


Stoner followed the fire's blackened path back its point of origin.

Some careless smoker had tossed a lit cigarette out of a car window.


The Captain returned to Roy's 'rehab' station. "Anybody know who resides at 411 South Court Drive?"

One of the soot-covered neighbors nodded. "The Sandovals. But, they're not home."

Another nodded. "They spend every Sunday morning over at the Sportsman's Club, skeet shooting."

"Yeah. Those two are crazy about guns. Milt even loads his own shells."

The two firemen exchanged looks of alarm as a possible reason for the shed's inconvenient location suddenly occurred to them.

Stoner whipped the radio from his coat pocket and keyed its mic'. "John, that shed could be filled with gunpowder! Clear the area! Repeat, clear the area! Edwards, sound EVAC!"


Gage's face filled with alarm. He dropped his helmet and the overhaul tools and went racing toward his fellow firefighters screaming, "GUNPOWDER! GET BACK! IT'S GONNA BLOW!" over and over, at the top of his burning lungs.


The pressurized jet of water from the nozzles was dampening more than just the fire. The sound of the spray striking the shed's metal walls also prevented the hose handlers from hearing the shouted warning.

The steady blast from Engine 8's air-horn caught the two men's attention, though. They immediately flung their hoses and turned to flee.


The messenger was about eighty feet from the shed when it exploded.

The violent blast produced a shock wave that went radiating outward at super-sonic speed, blowing windows out for blocks around.

That rapidly expanding wall of air slammed into all three firefighters.

The primary blast instantly emulsified Seeger and Thompson's lungs. The secondary blast propelled hunks of wood and metal into and through their bodies with ballistic speed and force.

The third fireman's right eardrum was ruptured and he was thrown about fifteen feet through the air. John landed on his back on his air-pac. His already breathless lungs were left even more breathless, as the 'wind' was knocked out of him.

His traumatized diaphragm gradually recovered. The first gasped inhalation was expelled with a groan. He lay there for a few more moments, staring dazedly up at the sky.

There was an annoying, high-pitched ringing in both ears and he was extremely disoriented. He gave his woozy head a quick shake, but couldn't dispel the annoying sound or the dizziness. Slowly, he rolled off his back and began crawling toward the blast crater…and his two non-moving friends.

Rick was…dead.

There was just no way he could be anything but dead.

The paramedic moved over to where Harlin's equally mangled body lay.

John just knelt there, recalling an article from one of his Paramedic journals.

'Explosion protocols: Explosions can cause a variety of intrathoracic injuries including pulmonary contusion, pneumothorax, pneumomediastinum, air emboli, hemothorax, and subcutaneous emphysema. The pressure differential between the inside and outside of the body induced by the blast wave produces injuries. The pressure differentials that develop at the interface between media of different densities tear the alveolar walls, disrupt the alveolar–capillary interface, and cause the emphysematous spaces to fill with blood, resulting in primary blast injury to the lung (blast lung) significant blast wave impacts the chest wall, there is little time for pressure equilibration. When blast lung occurs in patients, it has high associated morbidity.'


DeSoto, Stoner and Edwards came running up, equipment cases in hand.

Captain Stoner and his engineer stopped dead in their tracks and then stood there, looking like they were going to be sick.

Roy quickly checked Rick and Harlin for signs of life.

None were expected, or detected.

Both men had sustained 'injuries incompatible with life.'

His partner was kneeling over Harlin's body gazing disbelievingly down at all the carnage.

Hunks of Harlin's torso had been blown away, exposing muscle, bone and cartilage.

'Grass fires aren't lethal,' John silently reminded himself. 'Firemen don't die fighting a grass fire. A guy doesn't get married one weekend and buried the next.'

"Johnny, we need to get your gear off."

No response. Gage was either shell-shocked or he'd been deafened by the blast.

Roy swallowed hard and rested a hand on his friend's slumped shoulder.

John finally realized his partner was kneeling at his right side. "None of this is real. It can't be real. Nobody would ever really be stupid enough to pack a shed full of explosives and not post a WARNING. This is just a nightmare. Right Roy?"

Roy failed to validate his wishful thinking.

John inhaled sharply and sat back on his haunches.

Roy pulled the notepad from his front pocket and began writing.

We need to get your gear off. You need to lie down.

"I don't need to lie down. I am perfectly fine."

I'd be more inclined to believe you, if blood wasn't draining from your right ear.

John swiped absently at his right earlobe. Sure enough! His fingers came away smeared with bright red blood. Reluctantly, he allowed Roy to remove his air-pac and turnout coat.


A gurney rolled up a short time later.

"No sirens," Roy requested.

The attendants nodded.

John tried to stand, but was hit with a tsunami of dizziness.

Stoner ordered Gage to get on the gurney.

The paramedic even more reluctantly complied with his Captain's order.

But, not all of him climbed onto that stretcher.

A big part of him remained behind with his fallen brothers...his friends.

TBC