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49: Vehicle Extrication

Trans-Andean Tunnel, Ciudad Real-

Seven people were able to simply step off the wreck and be transported down tunnel; the others had to be removed. As quickly as he could Virgil got back to the danger zone, suited up, then broke in and disconnected the drive car's batteries. As local officials had already shut power to that section of tunnel, his risk of electrocution was much lessened. So far, so good.

Next, he dealt with the major chemical hazards, using a few blasts of Firefly's lower deluge gun to dilute the powerful battery acids still leaking from the wrecked train.

This was a 'scoop and run' situation, too hazardous to allow for much on-site medical treatment, and one requiring immediate backup. Brains was still occupied, but Virgil contacted the local 'fireground' dispatch and requested that a team be sent in. Definitely, he needed help.

Infrared imaging pinpointed the nearest trapped victims. There were three of them, in various portions of car number two. All he had to do was reach them. With a titanium Haligan bar (the plasma cutter was too dangerous for use here) Virgil pried his way through several layers of crushed aluminum, making just the minimum cuts required to release pressure and free the victims. Two men were first, both requiring oxygen and use of a cervical collar. Thankfully, he had several on hand, and both men were able to move some, once freed.

The next victim, a young black woman, was deeply and terribly pinned; folded up in crumpled metal, and comatose. He worked thirty minutes at the front of the tipped car to remove her, beginning O2, stabilizing her head in the neutral in-line position, applying a trauma patch and talking quietly the whole time. Didn't know if she'd make it, though, hurt as she was. Low blood pressure, weak pulse… clammy skin… shallow breathing and, judging from the rapid abdominal swelling, serious internal injuries. She needed emergency evac, now.

"Okay, Hon," he told the unconscious young woman, fitting the Velcro extrication splint as gently as he'd have diapered a newborn, "Just gonna wrap you up, here, and then we're going for a ride. It's gonna be fine. You're okay."

He had a backboard, and soon enough, willing assistants in the form of a Chilean rapid intervention team, sent down from the freight deck. The firemen, both in full turnout gear, climbed down into the train car, one about halfway, the other remaining close by Virgil's can-opened entry.

They spoke minimal English, but hand signals and the word 'okay' were pretty universal; and Virgil Tracy, Ignacio Velez and Juan De la Pays made a very effective team, with a little shared language and a lot of patient listening.

Officer De la Pays (the younger one) helped Virgil maneuver the injured woman onto a backboard. They were as careful as possible not to twist her, but their space was limited, and the vehicle canted to one side. It was a mercy, Virgil decided, that she was unconscious. The few unavoidable bumps and jarring would have been agonizing, otherwise.

(21, maybe? Wearing one of those heart-shaped lockets, and tightly braided hair with crystal beads in.)

Nodding at De la Pays, he pushed his end of the backboard up and forward, sliding the whole thing, guided by his new partner, across hard plastic seat backs to Officer Velez. The older fireman took hold of the backboard's front, and began a smooth, even pull. By this time, more local fire-rescue had begun to arrive.

Willing hands seized the woman and bore her away.

"Good luck, Hon," Virgil murmured, before accepting De la Pays' hand up. Maybe he'd be able to check on her, when all this was over…

How many people they ended up removing, how many windows popped, how many seat belts slashed, Virgil quickly lost track of. The truck driver turned out to be the hardest, another dangerous scoop and run.

With De la Pays, who was nimble as well as quick-witted, Virgil climbed high enough to reach the greasy red truck bumper. He and the Chilean fireman hauled themselves hand over hand from the vehicle's still-hot front end to the driver's side door. Virgil slipped once, losing his footing on the truck cab's oily wheel step. He swung outward, dangling by one hand over steaming wreckage and startled, up-turned faces. De la Pays steadied him, though, grimacing a little through his smoke hood, for Virgil Tracy's rock-solid 245 pounds were no joke to arrest.

With a nod of thanks, Virgil regained his footing and turned back to the business at hand. He knocked at the driver's window, calling out,

"Hey in there! Sir, can you hear me?"

No response, either to Virgil's English hail, or De la Pays' Spanish one. The man neither twitched, nor made a sound. Just unconscious, hopefully, for he seemed to be breathing.

Virgil tried the door handle. Locked. He had a multi-tool, with a sort of club at one end and a blade at the other. Clinging to the swaying red cab, with bits of concrete raining down from the hole in the deck above and fuel still trickling from the truck's side tanks, Virgil called a warning. Then he used the tool like a hammer, to smash through the vehicle's window.

It resisted easy breaking, forming a web-work of small pieces that had to be cleared with a thrust and sweep of De la Pays' jacketed arm. The Chilean fireman, saying,

"Okay," and repeating it with a vigorous nod, "okay,"

…then reached back in and unlocked the cab door.

"FAB," Virgil taught him, which the Chilean practiced a time or two as they shifted position and opened the door. It swung out and down, causing the cab to bounce, and a little more concrete to clatter and slither away from the hole.

The two men climbed within… very carefully. Touchy job. Through the cracked windshield, Virgil could see tunnel and wreckage, slowly tilting below them.

"Got to hurry," he told the young fireman, tapping at his wrist comm by way of emphasis.

"Effe-Ay-Bee… yes, okay," De la Pays replied, calling something down to the rest of his fire-rescue team in Spanish.

Someone brought up a ladder. Inside the cab, Virgil and Officer De la Pays got a cervical collar on the injured driver. Strong pulse… labored breathing… no obvious swelling of neck or spine… unresponsive.

Virgil used his multi-tool blade to slash through the man's seat belt. Another fireman (this one spoke a little better English) had climbed halfway up the aluminum ladder. He handed up an extrication splint, calling,

"Have care. I hear of worry that she's going to fall, the on-top floor-trucks."

"Understood," Virgil replied tiredly, "and moving as fast as we can."

He and De la Pays slipped the splint behind the driver; not too difficult, as he was slumped pretty far forward. The stabilizing device was positioned up under his armpits, then strapped up and padded (There was an acronym for all this belt work: Tonight My Baby Looks Hot. It was a measure of how tired Virgil was that he had to use this to recall the proper order.)

Like most Chileans (De la Pays and the 'English Speaker', for instance) the driver was dark haired, with skin of light brown. Virgil couldn't tell his eye color, though. Brown, too, probably.

Once he and Officer De la Pays had eased the driver out of his dangling truck to the waiting men, Virgil looked over at his impromptu assistant.

"Thanks," he said. "Gracias. You guys do good work."

De la Pays grinned, a flash of brilliant white through the grimy smoke hood.

"De nada, compadre. Y si… and if Rescues Internationale is, eh… for job…" he pointed at himself. "Okay. Me."

Virgil couldn't help grinning back.

"I'll pass that along," he promised, feeling pretty good about life, all of a sudden.

Then Brains called.