July, 1973
Hank lay awake, half an hour before the bedside alarm was set to go off. Rosie, his wife, was asleep at his side, so he remained as motionless as possible while he continued his musings.
It had been almost two weeks since a rail car carrying liquid propane exploded in Kingman, Arizona. The Kingman Fire Department, staffed by both career and volunteer firemen, responded to a report of a propane tank with an ignited leak on the tracks that paralleled Highway 66. As the burning propane outside of the tank heated the liquid propane inside, firemen set up hand-held booster lines to begin cooling the exterior of the tank. Twenty minutes after the alarm came in, before a deluge gun could be put in place to remotely cool the car, the pressure limit of the tank was reached and the car exploded. Thousands of gallons of boiling liquid propane instantly converted into gas and ignited. Officially, the explosion was felt as far as five miles away.
In actuality, the shock wave had continued on to envelop fire companies the world over.
The final death toll was eleven firefighters, one state trooper and one railroad worker. Over ninety civilians, most watching from the highway, were injured.
A little over 330 miles away, Hank's crew had heard of the unfolding disaster while on duty. They, along with the rest of the nation, tracked the aftermath of the explosion as charred firemen and some of the more seriously wounded civilians were evacuated by helicopter to hospitals in Phoenix and Los Vegas. Offers of support were almost as instantaneous as the propane flash itself. Last week, he and all five of his men had traveled to attend the first of the memorials for their fallen brothers. Yesterday morning 51s had been called out to the rail yards south-east of Station 51.
Hank realized his wife's breathing had lightened; he did not have to turn to know she was awake. He rolled into her warmth anyway.
"I was so proud of the men, Rosie. Not one of them batted an eye at going on that run to the Union Pacific rail yard. Nothing exploded, and no one was hurt, but Kingman was on every one's minds."
"I know, Hank. Kingman isn't going to be far from anyone's thoughts no matter what kind of calls you go on - not for a long, long time. I'm proud of them too," Rosie leaned closer for a kiss, "and I'm especially proud of their captain."
Hank held his wife for the moments that remained before the alarm sent him into the shower.
He found her in the den, standing over an open fire manual. He had long ago memorized the definition of "BLEVE" that he read over her shoulder.
Boiling liquid expanding vapor explosion (BLEVE): Explosion of a pressurized tank that has been heated to its content's boiling point. When the vapor expansion rate exceeds the pressure relief capacity of the container, the structure of the container fails. If the contents are flammable, the rapidly released vapor may react in a secondary fuel-air explosion, usually violent and spectacular. *
Rosie leaned back into his solid embrace. "Tell me again why I shouldn't worry. Tell me that the next spectacular BLEVE-thing-y won't happen less than two miles from your place of employment."
"Hon, BLEVEs aren't all that common, but when one does happen, fire departments everywhere study the incident. I'm sure we'll be implementing new policies shortly." Hank ended this prediction with the only thing he ever truly had to offer in the way of reassurances. "I'll be careful, I promise." The long hug he indulged in before heading out was to comfort them both.
His crew stood at relaxed attention, strung along the side of the engine as Hank ran through the day's announcements.
"So, let's get started. The latest on the Kingman disaster is that it looks like the remaining three firemen and two police officers who were injured in the blast will survive. Fire departments from the closest cities will continue to lend a hand while they get their staffing sorted out. Our union office has opened an account to receive further donations, and is still managing the list of volunteers from our department. I'll be heading back for the last of the memorials next week if anyone wants to come along."
Hank folded a page over the back of the clipboard he held. "On a brighter note, the Ward LaFrances are due to be delivered sometime in early September. We lost the coin toss, boys. Once the new rig arrives we'll have a wetting down ceremony during the B/C change of shift." ** Hank waited for any comments or complaints his men might feel the need to voice but they seemed to take in stride the prospect of having to come in for the celebration on their day off.
"This next is a memo from HQ. They would like us to…" Hank paused mid-sentence to glance up at Mike who seemed especially fidgety this morning. Mike straightened immediately and Hank continued, "…be especially mindful of our "public faces". You've all heard this before. There will always be that very vocal segment of tax payers that seem to resent every dollar spent on public services. This current recession hasn't helped matters. Folks are watching, and we can only bolster our image…"
This time, Hank turned to fully consider his engineer as Mike leaned back against one of the engine's fittings and shrugged a shoulder up and down in a scrubbing motion. Mike froze mid-shrug and tried to settle nonchalantly in a too-casual-for-roll-call pose. The balance of Hank's crew were each bending at the waist at increasing angles to get a better view of what had caught their captain's attention without actually stepping out of line. "…and their confidence by being professional whenever we're out and about," Hank finished with a sigh.
Mike shot his captain an apologetic look. "Sorry, Cap. I got too much sun out in the dunes over the weekend and my back's peeling like a molting lizard's."
Hank rolled his eyes, but smiled his acceptance of the apology and continued down his list of announcements."While we're thinking about public image and perceptions, we need to try to remember to refer to the Hurst tool as "the jaws of life" or simply "the jaws". There was another report last shift of bystanders misunderstanding when someone called for "the hearse".
"One more item before chore assignments: I read through the safety surveys you all filled out last week. An acceptable response to question three, 'What is the most strenuous activity your job requires of you?' would be something along the lines of hanging hose, or fighting a fire wearing full gear. The three of you that responded with variations on the theme of, 'hauling my backside in to work each shift,' will be doing some editing before I hand the surveys in.
Hank flipped pages to make a few notes. "Marco, you've got the yard. Chet, you've got the day room and the locker room. John's our chef and Roy you've got the bunk room. Mike, that leaves you and your sunburn the latrines. Can I trust you not to use the toilet brush as a back scratcher?"
By 1145, Cap's stomach sent him into the kitchen to check on John's progress along the lines of taco salad preparation. A practiced eye told him lunch was imminent. He reached into the fridge for the pitcher of iced tea and set it on a corner of the kitchen table .
Roy had spread out studying for the upcoming engineer's exam and began to corral the papers and notes that covered fully half of the surface before him.
Chet lifted a stack of note cards to fan through it. "I guess I should start studying too, but I'm just more of a last-minute, 'cram-for-the-exam' kinda guy.
Roy continued to gather and sort. "I'd say I'm a 'study my ass off for weeks then top it off with last-minute cramming' kinda guy." He said this with a rueful smile. I'd really like to do well on this test. I could use the raise in pay. The kids are both going to need braces, and college, and...well, I'd just like to have a few options open."
Marco and Mike filtered in as John set the salad on the now-cleared table. The men made quick work of setting out dishes and silverware while the chef retrieved French bread from the oven and the plate of warm brownies he had stashed preemptively out of sight. Hank contemplated the dessert, one of John's specialties, before swiveling back to the refrigerator. He returned with a carton of milk.
"Cap, did you get a chance to visit the site of the explosion?" Marco asked as he passed the bowl of salad to his commanding officer. "Chet and I stopped on our way out of Kingman and walked around. There was a crater ten feet deep where the rail car had been."
Hank passed the bowl across the table to Chet, who added, "Yeah, it was pretty sobering. The two ton end-cap to the tanker was laying a quarter of a mile down the tracks." Chet poked suspiciously through the greens on his plate on the theory that you never could be too careful when Gage was cooking.
Hank, honoring his personal maxim of, "always eat dessert first at the fire house," bit into a brownie. "Well, I guess there's a reason 'BLEVE' also stands for 'Blast Leveling Everything Very Effectively'." He was the only one who got to eat his brownie warm.
Roy and John were the first to be called away from the table. They were out the door before their clattering forks stilled.
Five minutes later, the tones sent the remaining men on their way to a fire alarm at the nursing home up on East Carson.
It turned out to only be a smoking dumpster, a situation easily set to rights. It should have been a routine matter of silencing the alarm as nurses and aides bustled about trying to gently herd the milling elders away from the spectacle of Chet dousing the small flame with the reel line.
Mike had headed in to turn off the alarm from the front foyer, leaving Marco to circulate the crowd to reassure and assess. Hank moved to take on the job of corralling the flustered manager who was only adding to the chaos with his repeated shouts of, "EVERYONE REMAIN CALM!" He towed the gentleman off to the side using a firm hand to an elbow.
"FRANK DUNNING," the man introduced himself, still shouting over the alarm. "EVERYONE'S OUT. HOW MUCH LONGER BEFORE YOU GET..." The shrill blare of the alarm cut off, leaving Mr. Dunning still booming without background, "...THIS NOISE TURNED OFF?"
Hank whirled away from the man without comment, his attention captured by the calls for help he could now hear coming from one of the ground floor windows along the eastern side of the building. The mental picture he carried from past tours of the nursing home told him that wing held a dozen residential rooms. With a wave towards the closest entrance, he sent Marco to check it out and then turned to stop five senior citizens from following his lineman.
Just moments later, Marco's sharp bark of alarm caused Hank to cast a concerned glance over his shoulder. He nodded his gratitude when a pair of aides took over his wide-spread stance to block the residents' way. Just as he turned to follow-up on the situation in the building, Marco came striding out carrying a bundle and wearing the most stoic look that his captain had ever seen.
He joined his lineman thinking to take some of the weight off of his shoulder. His offer of help stalled mid-reach and he snatched his hands back as the... bedspread?...spread, and a flash of a spindly leg and hip was adroitly covered by a now muttering-in-Spanish Marco. The struggle that ensued lasted all of fifteen seconds and ended with Marco carefully setting his burden on her feet, mindful of the pleat-lines of the bedspread, but holding her at arms' length. The moment a white-tufted head emerged, it emitted a familiar screech of, "HELP! HELP!" which morphed into a very clearly enunciated cry of "RAPE, RAPE, RAPE!"
This brought three attendants running to croon and reassure "Sister Agatha." Marco spun on a booted heel and stalked off to the barely smoldering dumpster and unceremoniously relieved his fellow lineman of the nozzle. Chet, for once allowed this to happen without comment. Hank thought perhaps he was as shocked as the rest of them, but doubted that condition would vanquish the man's insatiable curiosity. When he caught the wicked gleam in Chet's eye as he passed him, he was sure it would not.
Hank almost regretted having to interrupt the clearly upset Marco to find out what had happened during the three-and-a-half minutes the man had been out of his sight. Almost. A captain had obligations after all. He pulled up along-side the dumpster and joined his lineman, who seemed intent on drowning an industrial-sized container of buttermilk. Hands locked behind his back, Hank rocked back on his heels and then up on his toes for a few expectant bounces as he too studied the distorted lettering on the carton. He slid his eyes sideways and then turned fully to take in what was an almost alarmingly red face.
"Marco, talk to me," was his gentle-but-firm order.
Marco's mouth opened, but before the first word left it, Hank added with the barest hint of a knowing smile, "In English, mi amigo."
"Cap, she was standing, balanced on the side rail of her bed, poised to take a dive." Hank reached out just in time to stop his lineman from spraying them as Marco raised both arms overhead in demonstration. Hank thought he could clearly envision the scene without the aid of pantomime. He took hold of the hand line to allow his man the freedom to pace.
Marco slipped his helmet off and drug fingers though his dark hair. "She took one look at me and screamed, 'Abandon ship!' I got to her just as she sprung from her tip-toes. Who knew such an elderly woman could have that kind of balance?"
Marco ended his story with a bemused smile, which vanished with his capitán's comment of, "Who knew that such an elderly nun would nap in the nude?"
Hank judged Marco's face hadn't lightened many shades during the ride back to the barn, partly because Mike and Chet took extra care to deftly steer the conversation in exactly the direction they intended. Their captain gave up trying for any meaningful discussion of anything that did not allude to Sally Field and her "flying nun" days, or to the fine form Marco had demonstrated in delivering his ungrateful victim to safety.
The engine crew was spread out evenly between the day room and the kitchen when they heard the squad pull in. A moment later, John's agitated, "Damnit, I don't like guns," was punctuated by the clang of a metal compartment door. Roy stepped into the kitchen and turned to call over his shoulder, "Easy on the equipment, there, partner. You never know when a functioning data scope might come in handy."
Roy's teasing tone allowed Hank to settle back into his chair at the kitchen table as both paramedics made a bee-line to the plate that still held a few of the brownies.
Hank let his eyebrows ask the question that the entire engine crew was revving up to ask.
"He doesn't like guns." Roy answered with a nonchalant shrug as he opened the refrigerator door to peruse its contents.
"And you do?!" John choked out around a mouthful of chocolate. "He was just as freaked out by that last run as I was," John informed his avidly listening co-workers.
"Was not. 'Course it wasn't me that opened a screen door to find it attached to a wire stretched to the trigger of a shotgun nailed to a chair. Turned out our patient had a collection of marijuana plants he was trying to protect." Roy handed John a glass of milk, and settled in a kitchen chair to continue his tale. "Lucky for us, the shotgun was empty..."
"We had no way of knowing that!" John interrupted in exasperation at Roy's coolness after-the-fact. He leaned a hip against the counter by the sink and drained the milk in two swallows.
"... unlucky for the victim. The reason it was empty was that he'd accidentally tripped his own booby-trap and shot himself in the thigh..." Roy slipped in.
"When I heard that trigger 'click' and looked down and saw the biggest shotgun..."
"It was a 12-gauge," Roy supplied.
John sent his partner a withering look for interrupting. "... when I looked down and saw that gun aimed right at my sternum, I about screamed..."
"You did scream."
"You did too, Roy, so did the patient."
"No, the patient had been screaming since the moment we pulled up in the squad." Roy paused to face his captain. "It turned out that underneath all the swearing and general declarations of "ouch", our patient was trying to tell us the gun wasn't still loaded. He almost bled to death dragging himself to the phone. Bracket thinks he'll keep the leg." Roy turned back to his partner. "Actually, he wasn't such a bad sort, Johnny. He did offer us each our choice of specimens from his garden."
Hank was trying very hard not to smile outright at this exchange, something the rest of his engine crew was also attempting with varying degrees of success.
Hank was beginning to think this was a day for congregating crew. He walked into the kitchen in search of his men, and found Chet mopping the day room floor, while Roy and John entered their most recent runs into the log book. Mike was starting another pot of coffee.
John swiveled in his chair as Hank brushed past. "Cap, what would you do, for a living, I mean, if you couldn't be a fireman anymore?"
"What's up, Gage, you doing a report on what you want to be when you grow up?" Chet called from where he swung the mop.
"Why don't you grow up, Chet? I wasn't asking you. I already know you tried to run away to join the circus to be a clown, but they thought you were over-qualified, so we got stuck with you instead."
John re-swiveled a dramatic and insult-intending back on his would-be heckler, to face his captain.
"I don't know, John, I guess I'd like to try my hand at writing someday. I think I'd like to have a go at a screen play or two. But, I figure I can do that without giving up this career." Hank was now fully focusing on John. "Why do you ask? Are you hoping to get rid of your beloved company officer so soon?"
"No, it's just that..."
Chet filled John's pregnant pause with, "Come on Gage, you know you're always saying that you've wanted to be a fireman since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, I think..."
Hank caught Chet's eye with a silencing look; he wanted to hear what was on John's mind. Chet wisely decided to leave his sentence unfinished, but he straightened to lean on his mop handle while he listened.
John continued, "I know that. I'm glad I'm a fireman... most days... days that don't involve looking down a barrel of a shotgun. I'm just asking. What if one of us decided to do something else, something less..." John paused to give a vague, nonspecific wave of his hand, "...or got hurt on the job? Is there something else you'd want to do? I bet none of us will be firefighters much past fifty-five. Has anyone thought of what they'd like to do after they retire?
Marco's soft voice floated up from where he was kneeling. "Atta boy, Boot, dig in," he crooned as he filled the dog dish in the corner of the kitchen. He'd added a bit of left-over taco meat to the kibble and Boot's tail was wagging his entire body in excitement. "I always thought I'd like to work with animals. Animals are usually agradecido when you rescue them. And I'm thinking there wouldn't be any desnudo nuns hanging out at a dog shelter."
Roy closed the log book. "I guess if you're talking about things we want to do after we retire, well, Joanne and I sometimes talk about volunteering for Hospice after we get the kids fledged." At the blank stares around the table, Roy added, "Yeah, I know the idea hasn't caught hold in the US yet, but I've read about a program that's growing in England. A team of medical professionals, social workers and counselors provide pain management, emotional support, and family counseling for the dying. Last year, Joanne's grandparents could have used something like that, which is what got us talking. We all see folks almost every shift that need exactly that type of help."
"There you go, that's what I'm talking about. Animal shelters," John gestured toward Marco, then toward Roy, "and hospices... hospici... whatever... both worthy places that employ folks with no mention of guns in their job descriptions."
"Actually, Gage," Chet spoke up after what Hank calculated to be a record amount of silence on the lineman's part, I think that both Marco and Roy were talking about volunteer work, not employment."
John stood and placed a splayed hand over his previously at-risk sternum in an earnest gesture. "Look, I'm not saying..." he paused when he felt a stiffness in his uniform shirt. He twisted to find a patch of dried blood under his left armpit. "Aw, man, I gotta go change before this sets in. I really, really hate guns," he muttered as he headed to the locker room.
Marco levered himself up from where he'd been scratching Boot behind a shaggy ear. "I don't know what job descriptions have to do with it," he grumbled. "Show me where it describes 'naked nuns' in the procedure manual." He paused as he washed his hands at the sink, and glanced around sheepishly in hopes that no one remaining in the room behind him had realized his request hadn't come out exactly as planned.
Hank gave up and laughed out loud as he accepted a fresh cup of coffee from his engineer. "Well, Marco, I'll be sure and let you know if I ever run across such a description." He let the chuckles die down before adding, "On that note, gentlemen, now would be a good time to try to finish up the day's chores. I'll be in my office if anyone needs me."
Sam Lanier's voice initiated the usual hustle as hose lays, bed linens, pen and mop were set aside. Hank shifted the pot he'd been taste-testing to a counter-top trivet and flicked the burner off before joining his men on the apparatus floor.
Six minutes later he had four of them suited up and waiting for his signal to enter an apartment building on Sepulveda Boulevard to investigate a "funny rotten-egg smell". He hadn't been able to locate a manager or superintendent to turn off the utilities, but he had located the circuit box on the side of the complex during his 360 and pulled the breaker.
Mike trotted up, his own air mask draped and bouncing on his chest with each step. Hank had sent him to question a group of apartment residents standing across the street. "Cap, there's no gas to this building, it's all electricity. Someone called the owner; he's on his way."
"Okay, Kelly, you and Lopez take the first floor; Gage, DeSoto, you've got the second. No sparks, guys. Let's see what we've got." His paired men disappeared into the building through the front entrance.
Hank took the next few minutes to pull on his own SCBA. He thumbed the handi-talkie he held. "LA County, this is Engine 51. We are on scene and investigating the source of a suspicious odor in a twelve unit, two-story apartment building, electric utilities only."
"Copy that, Engine 51. Keep us advised, LA County standing by."
A minute later, Hank's HT toned on. "Cap," It was Chet's voice, clearly recognizable since he wasn't yet wearing his face mask. "This is Engine 51-B. There's an odor of gas toward the back of the building; it's strongest in front of apartment 1-E. The door's locked and no one answers to our knock."
A middle-aged, man in a business suit approached at a slow jog from where he'd parked his car. He was holding a clipboard with a ring of keys clipped under the bail.
"Hold up Chet, looks like we may have a key," Hank ordered as he accepted the set the man held out. "I'll send Stoker in with it, Engine 51 out."
Hank unsnapped the key labeled 1-E and handed it off to his engineer. "Mike, now that we've narrowed the source of the gas some, make sure everyone has his mask on."
Upon questioning the owner of the building and several tenants, Hank learned that no one had seen their thirty-something neighbor in almost two years. Benjamin Levine had his groceries delivered. No one ever saw him put his garbage in the dumpster nor his mail in the corner mailbox. He had no visitors other than take-out delivery personnel. Benjamin Levine was not unpopular with his neighbors, he was invisible.
"Engine 51, this is Engine 51 B." Chet's voice was hailing him again.
"This is Engine 51, go ahead, Chet," Hank answered.
"Cap, we've got the door open. We have one known victim. Access is going to be...difficult. Gage and DeSoto are with us and need their equipment. We'll need a salvage tarp, one of the big ones, and some help. Cap, we're gonna need a lot of help."
"Ten-four on the help, Chet. Two of you come on out for a face-to-face and to get the equipment."
"Ten-four, Cap. Mike and I are headed out now."
The pair emerged from the building just moments after Hank had called for a ladder truck. Mike sketched an acknowledging wave as he veered off to gather the bio phone and O2 tank before turning back to enter the building again.
"Okay, Chet, what have we got?"
"Cap, it looks like an attempted suicide. And it's a mess in there. There must be at least a couple-hundred boxes stacked to the ceiling. It looks like he pulled some of them down to barricade himself into his bedroom. We finally cleared enough away to get DeSoto and Gage in, but they had to do some climbing to do it."
"Did you find the source of the gas smell?"
Chet did not try to disguise the disgust in his answer. "Yeah, Gage says there are two twenty gallon propane tanks in the bedroom cracked wide open."
"Did you get the windows open?"
"Working on it. Like I said, it's a mess in there."
Hank reached for the HT he'd stashed in a turnout pocket. "Okay, I'm going to call in another engine company, just in case. All the apartments are clear, right?"
"Yeah, we cleared both floors before Mike brought us the key."
Hank sensed there was something else that his lineman wanted to tell him. It took less than a second for Chet to get around to it.
"Ah, Cap, one other thing. Gage says he estimates the guy weighs almost 475 pounds. And they think he took something because he's unconscious with alcohol on his breath."
"Well, his loss of consciousness probably isn't from the propane; unless that room is extremely air-tight he isn't going to suffocate from air displacement, and propane itself isn't poisonous." Hank stopped himself just short of launching into an anger-driven discourse on how the only way most such suicide attempts were successful was because of the flammable nature of propane. Even the tiniest spark could cause a gas vapor explosion. Chet was aware of this; all firemen were. That was the very reason they turned off the power and carried non-sparking equipment.
Hank sent his lineman back in with a single admonition. "Chet, be careful. Make sure the only reason we need that extra engine crew is for their muscle-power."
As he updated Battalion 14, Hank had the distinct urge to hurl his helmet across the parking lot in frustration. While he ground his teeth at how one determinedly suicidal man had orchestrated such a dangerous and difficult situation, his men gained some headway along the lines of ventilating the apartment.
Hank was having to trot out his best "public face" as he dealt with disgruntled-and-growing-restless neighbors.
"How long you fellas going to be? The diesel fumes from your truck are coming right through my front windows."
"How many fire trucks does it take to rescue one man, anyway? Geesh, no wonder my taxes are so high."
One especially forward bystander, upon overhearing the update, grabbed Hank's arm in agitation. "Victim? Victim! Just try explaining to me how that jerk is a victim of anything other than his own need to stuff his mouth until he pops. Oh, I get it! I guess you must mean he's a victim of his own stupidity."
Captain Drew Forsythe arrived with both Engine 96 and Truck 96. The captains huddled to discuss options. Although most of the propane had probably dispersed with ventilation, neither captain felt comfortable taking the tempting route of using a pair of K-12 saws to enlarge the bedroom window that was conveniently located on an exterior wall.
Drew sent seven of his men in to join Hank's crew to begin the arduous process of maneuvering almost one-quarter ton of non-ambulatory human flesh out of a bedroom, through a labyrinth of clutter and down over a hundred feet of hallway to the nearest exit.
Something inside of Hank, something he was not especially proud to own, simmered. Even though some of his anger was dissipating in direct relationship to the decreasing danger of the situation, that unlovely something fought to retain its grasp on a portion of its fury. Hank was self-aware enough to recognize the dichotomy of being willing to risk the lives of his men while bitterly resenting the fact that he was. That he realized his dilemma did not make it any easier to accept.
Ten men emerged tugging and shuffling, swearing softly and readjusting grips on either side of their victim. The remaining man followed close behind, hauling some of the medical equipment.
"Hold up a sec, his leg is dragging," one of Engine 96's lineman called to be heard over the grunts of the other firemen.
Gage rolled his eyes over teeth that clenched the top of an I.V. bag over an immense form that owned an entire backside that was dragging. His garbled, "uss-eep-ooving," was understood by all.
Benjamin did, indeed weigh nearly 475 pounds. They knew this because sometime during the long struggle down that hallway, the man started to become aware enough of his surroundings to not only be able to answer direct questions, but to also volunteer some information on his own. He had weighed in at 468 pounds during his last hospital admission, a weight he reported with a single tear rolling down his cheek as he added in a whisper that they had wheeled him to the hospital loading docks to weigh him since there were no other scales that could accommodate his bulk.
He was asked how many Valium had been in the empty bottle Roy had found in the bathroom sink. He explained how he had sweet talked and bribed a very helpful pizza delivery boy into purchasing and delivering the two propane tanks which he allegedly needed for an upcoming week-long barbeque/family reunion. He had assumed the propane would kill him in his sleep. He wanted them all to know that he never thought anyone else would be in danger, as long as he didn't smoke or light a candle.
A familiar bystander stepped in close, hissing, "Damnit, you dumbass, you could have blown up this entire building. If eating yourself to death was taking too long, you shoulda just swallowed the barrel of a gun. Hell, I'll go get mine right now and I'll help you. Do you see that woman over there, buddy, holding a baby? That's my wife; THAT'S MY SON." The man's voice was ramping in steep crescendo as turnout covered backs shifted to prevent him further access to the man they bore. A patrolman arrived and inserted himself to further buffer the waves of hate and disdain rolling from the still shouting man. "YOU COULD HAVE KILLED MY WIFE AND KID, YOU ASSHOLE!" He continued his verbal attack even as the officer man-handled him away from the make-shift stretcher. WE'RE ALL JUST DAMN LUCKY YOUR REFRIGERATOR DIDN'T CAUSE A SPARK WHEN YOU WENT FORAGING FOR YOUR LAST MEAL, YOU…" No one was sorry to miss the last of that final sentence as the man was forcibly folded into the back seat of the patrol car.
...or the television or a light switch or a doorbell... Hank mentally continued the game of "what ifs" as he reached between his linemen and took hold of a rolled edge of canvas.
Under the translucent green of the oxygen mask, their overwhelmed victim fell to chanting softly, "I'm sorry, I thought I would fall asleep and not wake up. I'm so sorry. You should have left me there I die. I just wanted to not wake up."
They loaded their burden directly onto the blanket-padded floor of the ambulance because the stretcher was 23 inches across and rated for half of the weight of the man they were sending to Rampart. Hank twisted his right shoulder at a painful angle to shield Benjamin from further verbal abuse by his irate neighbors. His palm's double tap to the rear ambulance doors delivered no sense of closure. He was testing his sore shoulder when Chet trudged by to stow the folded salvage tarp. "Cap, I'm gonna need to redo that question three on the safety survey again."
After announcing their return to quarters, the men of Station 51 set rigs and equipment to rights as an increasingly concerned captain planned a debriefing session. As expected, his men had remained professional at the scene. What had Hank's inner-captain's warning bell sounding was the relative lack of bitching from his crew once they were out of the public's eye. By all rights, that last run should have ignited a flurry of venting over one man's attempt to end his life that could very well have ended many others. Instead, Chet's single announcement concerning the safety survey seemed to be the sum of the entire team's response. Missing were the standard off-color jokes and the righteous indignation at the man who thought so little of the life they had busted their butts to save. No one confessed anger at the danger one self-involved individual had put his neighbors and his neighborhood firemen in.
Hank tapped a pencil on the ink blotter covering his desk and considered how best to deal with this uncharacteristic silence on the part of his men. While stoic dissociation was a fireman's time-honored tactic to deal with the terror and helplessness they often faced at a scene, it was dangerous to allow as a long-term coping mechanism. Hank pushed his chair back and went in search of his men.
They were spread out in the day room, arguing over the T.V. Guide. "Well, guys, before you get too settled, I'm going to interrupt your regularly scheduled programing for a run-down of that last call. Circle up; that was a hell-of-a-frustrating run and none of us want to be bringing that frustration home in the morning."
The station's outer doorbell rang and Mike, closest to the door left to answer it.
"You have a visitor, Chet," Mike said before swinging a kitchen chair around to join the others in the day room. "She wanted to wait outside." Everyone exchanged a smile when the lineman popped out of the comfortable chair and hurried to meet his girlfriend.
"Looks like she brought pie," Mike commented as he settled into the recently vacated seat.
It was peach, and it came with vanilla ice cream.
"That's the third dessert she's baked you this week, she must really care," Marco teased when Chet returned after escorting Christy out to her car.
"Like you should talk, how many times did Momma Lopez call last shift? Three?" Chet countered, lifting the pie to take an appreciative sniff of its summer-sweet aroma.
Marco smiled in concession. "Nope, two; that third call was from my sister."
Chet open a kitchen drawer to rummage for the pie server. "Christy's concerned, you know? Wives and mommas don't have a corner on the market for worrying. You want a piece or not?"
Hank held off starting the impromptu discussion while pie was distributed. Roy was settled at one end of the couch balancing his as-yet-untasted slice on a knee. "Mike, are you still saving up to become a real estate tycoon?"
"I guess it depends on your definition of a tycoon, but this time next year I should have enough for the down payment on a condo plus a little to fix it up before I turn around and rent it out. Then I'll start saving for the next one."
John returned from the kitchen with a set of dessert plates expertly balanced and handed one along with an ice bag to his captain. "Gotta make that shoulder last 'til your first royalty checks start rolling in."
Hank accepted the pie, the ice and the teasing with grace. "John, you never did say what other career you'd like to try, if you 'couldn't be a firefighter' or got tired of being held at gun point."
John smiled with equal tolerance. "I always thought I'd make a good motivational speaker. Maybe when I retire..." John's sentence faded to a stall, "What?" He started to turn in a quick semi-circle to take in the grins circling the day room, but clamped his mouth closed when dispatch interrupted.
Squad 51, see the man, possible heart attack...
Although he slept, Hank was aware on some level when the last of his men called it a night. The soft rustle of blankets and pillows sent the captain into a deeper stage of sleep until moments later the tones sounded.
A quarter past eleven found the men of Station 51 joining other crews already working the perimeter of a stockpile of scrap tires that climbed almost two stories high. The initial plan of attack was two-fold. The burning tires needed to be pulled into small, manageable mounds where the the flame and smolder could be drowned with an average of one hundred gallons of water per tire. Almost as importantly, those tires not burning needed to be separated from the pile and segregated to reduce the potential fuel load. Plans were set in place to bring in bulldozers to bury some of the burning tires to limit their exposure to oxygen. Another possibility being investigated was to bring in construction containers to fill with water and submerge the smoldering tires. However this scene and its management played out, Hank suspected the department was in for a long siege before any kind of victory could be claimed.
Even with the flood lights in place, Hank was finding it difficult to keep any kind of perspective in the eerie darkness created by a moonless night and the dark-blue broil of oily smoke. No one could make out the seat of the fire from ground level. Chief Conrad had set up a temporary command post in an adjacent lot from Snorkel 11's extended bucket. 51's men were using pike poles to pull tires down to inspect and sort; each was wearing his SCBA and digging deep to work in the brutal heat. Hank was beginning to feel like a stuck record as he repeatedly reminded his men to drink during regular rehab breaks.
The smoke-buffered sound of working firemen was punctuated every once in a while by a shout of alarm, either at the splash of molten rubber, or as rats jumped out of disturbed nests at face level. John had been muttering behind his face mask for the past half-hour, ever since someone had mentioned that snakes also liked tire piles.
Hank lifted his own pole to tug a tire off a glowing section of the pile in front of him. Stepping aside as black rubber slid to the ground in a bounce, he deftly twirled the pike to arrest the tire's roll and snagged its inside lip with the pike's hook. Purposely towing the tire to test his right shoulder, he was relieved to find it felt good to feel the gradual stretch of previously strained muscles. With a lifting twist and a sending grunt he added his burden to a pile being skillfully ministered to by a lineman out of Station 36. Hank returned to the stockpile guided mostly by the edge-defining flicker of flames as they danced and flirted with layers and layers of doughnut-shaped void spaces. Hank imagined it would be hard to design a better feeding ground for those greedy red tongues. He lifted his pike again.
Hank settled on the edge of his bunk after stripping down to boxers and white tee-shirt. They'd worked the tire fire for a solid five hours before being released to quarters. By the time they left, two deluge guns had been set up along with a ladder curtain to saturate the mountain of still-burning rubber and to protect an exposed building to the north. There was talk of evacuating a nearby residential area if the wind shifted.
By the time they left, Hank thought he and his men had managed to worked off some of the tensions from the day's earlier runs. Still, he had not given up on the debriefing that had been preempted for more pressing engagements. Another paragraph right out of the training manual popped uninvited to join his drifting thoughts.
Even after the ignition of a venting stream of gas, it is possible to prevent a BLEVE by cooling the exterior of the vessel while the building pressure within continues to be released. It is essential to provide continued venting to avoid rupture of the vessel.
Hank had no intention of allowing any of the vessels under his care to reach that point.
A captain's ears listened as his men arranged their turnouts and themselves in weary silence. It was warm in the bunk room; the dry July heat had not cooled during the inaugural hours of the new morning. He stretched his lanky frame out on the mattress and took an experimental sniff. No matter how many showers they took, he knew they would each smell like, and taste burnt rubber for however many days it took for their bodies to off-gas the thirty-odd chemicals that a burning tire spewed. And that was only if they weren't called back in for extra shifts and extra doses of toxins. A stubborn tire fire could take much longer than a few shifts to burn itself out.
One of the guys was already asleep and softly snoring. Hank's mind refused to still. He considered the possibility of squeezing in a debriefing sometime during change-of-shift in the morning. He really did not want to leave it until their next shift.
"See, Cap, I was hydrating," John murmured as he shuffled by on his way to the latrine. The paramedic returned without comment and settled. Someone coughed.
Hank's wandering mind skittered until it brushed on the previous day's discussions. Talking about alternate career possibilities was not the same as handing in a two week's notice. Odds were, the majority of his crew would stay with the department until retirement or an injury side-lined someone prematurely. That or, well, there were eleven tragic, still raw examples in Kingman of how abruptly a fire service career could end.
He stifled a yawn before rolling onto his left side to spare his tender shoulder. No one could say what the next shift, the next run would bring, but tonight? This night they were firefighters. He closed his eyes in hopes of a few hours of sleep.
End
A/N: Part and Parcel is my offering to the Emergency! 2013 Labor Day Challenge, meant to honor both our fictional heroes of Emergency! and the heroes that wear turnouts and helmets in real-life.
Part 2 of BLEVE will, I hope, follow in a timely manner.
On July 5, 1973, the Kingman Fire Department lost one-third of their men to the explosion of rail tank car # 38214 due to a leaky connection as it off-loaded 33,000 gallons of liquid propane. Two others died, a state patrolman and a rail yard worker. A town of 75,000 citizens was forever marked by their loss. Prior to the Yarnell wildfire, this was Arizona's worst firefighting disaster.
* This is a hybrid/paraphrase of several definitions of BLEVE
** A wetting down ceremony has its roots back when fire engines were horse-drawn. The retiring rig was pulled out of its bay by its team of horses. The water it held was transferred to its replacement and then the firefighters themselves pushed the new engine into position, ready for the next call. The tradition has survived and is re-enacted to welcome modern engines, (sans horses,) even today.
Once again, a busy Enflueurage graciously took the time to serve as Beta to this story. Her gentle suggestions are always received with gratitude.