More Than A Game

by SaraiEsq

"It's nothing serious," Mike Stoker says repeatedly. So why won't Chet Kelly and Patty McConnikee believe him? Is it because they both already know that life as a firefighter is more than a game? Follows 'The Call of the Day' and 'BackStories:COTD.'

2. Capture the Flag

CHAPTER 1: CAPTURE THE FLAG

+===+ / +====

(3-4 September)

"Go, go, go," Mike Stoker urged as the traffic barely crawling along in front of him stopped again. He'd accepted the fact that he was going to be later to work than usual when he had discovered the lack of clean uniforms in his apartment this morning. Stopping by the dry cleaner's had taken only a few minutes but those few minutes had been enough to put him squarely in the middle of the slug of heavy traffic he usually missed by coming in early. He knew it was his own fault, forgetting to pick up his uniforms when he'd gotten off an overtime shift the day before, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Now he only wanted to get to the station before shift-change. Miller won't be happy if he's got to stay over on my account, he thought as he considered taking to the shoulder of the freeway despite the illegality of it. The exit is just, what, a half-mile up on the left? And it's not like I've never driven on the shoulder before, he rationalized, probably even this exact shoulder. "Nothing to it," he muttered under his breath, making his decision. What I wouldn't give for Big Red's lights and sirens right now.

He inched his truck to the left during the traffic's next lurch forward, moving perhaps two feet into the shoulder before the mechanical mass jolted to a stop once more, effectively pinning him half-in, half-out of the lane. Stoker checked his rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of flashing lights behind him, and groaned inwardly. Smooth, Stoker, real smooth. Blocking the emergency vehicle lane was not on the agenda today. He turned his wheels back to the right and moved forward about a foot, eyeing the space now between him and the concrete divider professionally. Any emergency vehicle – other than a rig like his engine – could fit through with little problem. If he had the chance, he could rectify the remaining width issue with the next shift of traffic.

The powerful thrum of a motorcycle pulled up next to his open window less than a minute later. He noted a second motor officer had paused behind his truck, probably verifying his plates – the firefighter vanity plates he'd sprung for when he'd renewed his tags just over a month ago. Oh, great, he thought, remembering exactly what his plates read now, that's all I need. He shifted the truck into neutral, foot firmly on the brake. Mike resolutely turned to face the California Highway Patrol motor officer, keeping his right hand on the steering wheel while his left grasped the bar behind the open wing window. Hands in sight, pleasant demeanor, no trouble at all, officer.

"Sir, are you aware this lane is reserved for emergency vehicles?" the officer asked politely, eyes obscured by dark sunglasses with gold wire rims. Stoker fully expected a lecture; he was prepared to accept a warning or a ticket. How many times have I wanted to quote the statute to some civilian blocking our way to an MVA on the 405?

"I am, sir." The lack of additional lights and sirens behind him eased his guilt slightly; at least he wasn't actually impeding an emergency vehicle. Not that he had to actually impede an emergency vehicle to be ticketed.

"Are you experiencing an emergency of some kind?" The morning sun glinted off the officer's blue and gold helmet, as his partner rode up beside him and nodded, making an obscure hand gesture at the same time. "Do you need a police escort somewhere?"

"Uh, no. No, sir." Mike noticed the traffic on the incline was starting to crawl forward again and hoped the CHiPs would be content with a verbal warning. There was still time to make it to the fire station if they didn't make an issue of his vanity plat – .

The officer's even, impossibly white teeth flashed as a huge grin split his darkly-tanned Hispanic face. "Then where's the fire, … HOTSTF?" he asked. As the two cops shared a laugh at Mike's expense, he tried to smile good-naturedly while wondering how much worse this still brand-new day could get since the throb in his side when he twisted to retrieve his license and registration suggested it wasn't likely to get any better.

+===+ / ++===

"But my question is why. When he just wants OT, he finds an engineer who needs off. So why's Stoker picking up shifts as a lineman?" Chet asked Johnny's retreating back, the coffee-craving paramedic's dismissive wave his only comment.

"Because Stoker wants to pick up shifts as a lineman," a quiet voice said behind him. Trust Chet to find out about – linemen are just about the worst gossips in the department.

"That's not a reason, Mike," Chet said, turning to face the other man, a brief flare of embarrassment lighting his face. Mike met his eyes, raising an eyebrow, as he unbuttoned his tan shirt and shrugged out of it. When Stoker turned and reached for a hanger, Chet caught sight of Mike's flank. "What the hell, man?" he said, pushing the engineer's arm up to examine a line of bruises decorating his side.

"It's nothing serious," Mike said, firmly pulling his arm away. He dragged the plastic bag off his dry cleaning and removed the crisp blue garment from its clutches; slipping on his uniform shirt, he began to button it automatically with nimble fingers. I am not going into that with Chet, or anyone else, if I can help it.

"What's nothing serious?" Roy asked from the doorway of the locker room. The tension in the room was unusual for this time of day, suggesting Johnny's ritual grumble about Chet's annoying persistence had been more than the caffeine deprivation talking after all.

"Look," Chet said, pulling up the blue shirt to display Mike's side. The senior paramedic stepped closer when he caught a glimpse of the purpling bruises.

"Hands off the threads," the taller man said, striving to keep his tone light as he brushed off Kelly's hands, causing the shirt to fall back in place before it could wrinkle. DeSoto cocked his head at Mike who returned the gaze neutrally before dropping his eyes. Stoker knew Roy had plenty of experience getting reluctant firemen – namely Gage – to submit to his examination and wasn't above siccing Cap on the more recalcitrant. And, right now, DeSoto had that look on his face, the 'I'll tell Dad if you don't let me see your boo-boo' look.

"It's nothing serious," Mike reiterated, but unbuttoned his shirt and slid one arm out. With a whisper of a smile, he raised his arm, put his hand on the back of his head – and flexed his muscles like a bodybuilder.

"Yeah, nothing serious," Roy teased, the corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement. "Oh, you meant the bruises not the muscles, didn't ya?" A few careful pokes and prods, a few murmured questions, and Roy was satisfied of Mike's basic fitness for duty. Chet leaned against his locker and watched quietly, recognizing the pattern of bruises.

"Roll call, fellas," Captain Stanley called, pushing open the door to the locker room and stopping short at the sight of DeSoto examining Stoker. "What's up?" he said in a voice which suggested a straight answer would be advisable.

"It's nothing serious, Cap," Mike repeated again. I'm a broken record. "I just got a little banged up while at 86s yesterday." The macho pose he'd adopted made him feel foolish now, in front of his captain, but he remained motionless. Pretty much any movement he could make could be construed as trying to hide his injury, something Cap frowned on.

"He looks okay," Roy added, knowing that would be the next question.

"Then I suggest we get down to business," Hank said, after eyeing the bruises for himself. I just might have to give Frankie a call and find out what he's been doing to my engineer over there. If I didn't know better, I'd say Mike'd spent some time on the wrong end of a hard hose. He caught a glimpse of Chet's expression, a mixture of anger and concern, as Chet turned to leave. And what's that look for? "Roll call in two minutes," he said over his shoulder. Roy nodded to Mike and followed the others out.

Stoker slipped his shirt back on, rapidly buttoning, tucking and straightening. He pinned on his badge and nametag, glanced at his appearance in the mirror, and stepped out into the bay. What a morning, he thought as he lined up beside the others. At least Miller didn't have to stay over because of my stupidity. That's one good thing.

+===+ / +++==

By arriving less than ten minutes before the shift started, instead of his usual thirty to forty minutes, Mike felt behind most of the day. The niggling feeling that he had forgotten to do something, something important, plagued the engineer most of the morning as he went through knot-tying drills with everyone, hanging hose with Marco, and cleaning the latrines on his own, the station's two nuisance runs barely making a ripple in his ruminations.

At lunch, Chet launched into a highly improbable version of being rescued by a bevy of beautiful women when his van had broken down in Ventura County recently. Stoker ignored him for the most part, concentrating on the article he was reading on improved pump impeller design while working his way through Gage's uninspired culinary offering of hamburgers, fries, and straight-from-the can baked beans. He suspected supper would be just as unremarkable.

The heart of the department is the fire engine. The heart of the fire engine is the pump. The heart of the pump is the impeller.

"So there I am, … an overheated engine … Piru Canyon Road … thinkin' this'll be easy … ."

One of the key characteristics of the impeller is the eye, where water is first introduced. An impeller may have either a single or a dual eye. Dual-eye impeller pumps are also known as two-stage pumps and function in either series or parallel (volume) modes.

"… flag down the next car … convertible whizzes past … four, count 'em, four blondes … ."

FEOs in mountainous areas should be aware of the performance differences during drafting operations between these impeller types. The dual-eye impeller has the advantage in this category due to its ability to perform drafting at altitudes of up to 10,300 feet; the single-eye impeller was able to function only to an altitude of 4,300 feet.

"… next thing I know Gretchen is … engine wasn't the only thing overheating … ."

All pumps generate potentially damaging amounts of heat while in stand-by mode. A two-stage pump in parallel mode will overheat faster than a single-stage pump of the same size, due to the greater efficiency of the single-stage design at zero flow. In series mode, the two-stage pump lasts somewhat longer than the single-stage.

"Give it a rest, Kelly," Johnny said finally. "I bet it was a carload of little old ladies that stopped to help. That's about the only kind of woman you'd be able to flag down," he added disdainfully as he reached for his third hamburger.

Flag down. Mike's brain snagged onto the words flowing around him.

"Like you'd be able to flag down a hot chick – ," Chet responded.

Flag. Down. You idiot!

Stoker stood up abruptly, his chair shooting back from the table with a screech, and strode purposefully from the room, leaving the others to stare. The sound of a metal file cabinet drawer in the office being opened was clearly audible, as was the sound said drawer made upon being slammed shut. Cap narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to listen to his engineer's progress through the station. The thwack made by the front door smacking into the brick wall caused Hank to stand up and leave the table as well.

A few minutes later both men returned, Stanley subtly shaking his head at the rest of the crew to discourage questions and Stoker shooting Chet an irritated glare before retrieving his magazine from the floor and returning to his meal.

Tips to avoid overheating. The key to prevent overheating is a combination of appropriate hardware and operating procedures. Thermostats, temperature relief valves, and pump cooling lines, however, are no substitute for an FEO who knows his job and keeps his cool in all situations.

+===+ / ++++=

" … always handled raising the flags; it's just part of his routine."

"Are you serious, Cap? The flags? If that's the case, I'll never touch 'em again. All I was tryin' to do was help out since he was late."

"I know, Chet." Pause. "Something else bothering you?"

"Just wondering what's going on with him."

"I don't know if it helps, but when I asked him that question, he said it was just a bad day, nothing serious."

"He's been saying that a lot it seems."

+===+ / +++++

For the rest of the afternoon, the others stepped lightly around a stone-faced Stoker who occupied himself between runs by inspecting Big Red from undercarriage to roof lights, from fire hose to fuse panel. The quiet time in communion with his fire engine restored his equilibrium and he found himself ready to make amends for his uncharacteristic grouchiness. His casual offer to make supper in place of Gage was accepted with a gratifying alacrity. As he concentrated on each step, the task of cooking soothed him further; the relaxed banter of his fellow firefighters filled the background with blessed normalcy.

Chop the onions, not too fine this time. Sliver the green peppers.

"I'm tellin' ya, Roy, this dude ranch is a great place for a vaca – ."

Cube the yellow summer squash. String the fresh green beans. Sneak one into your mouth.

"It sounds an awful lot like the farm we went to and you know how that ende – ."

Crush the garlic. Turn the lemony chicken baking in the oven. Start the rice.

"Miguel was our striker, so if we make it to the playoffs this year, it will truly be a mira – ."

Heat the olive oil in the large skillet. Add the garlic.

"Sorry to hear that, man. You said he broke his leg dancing at his sister's wedding? That's rough, really roug – ."

Add the green beans. Stir briskly to coat. Cover.

"Henry! Do you have the paper?"

When the green is bright, you know the time is right; remove 'em, keep 'em warm, to yield a crunchy form.

"Yeah, Chester, as a matter of fact, I do. What's it to ya?"

"Oh, sorry, Cap! I meant Henry."

Pour most of the garlic-infused oil into a small saucepan.

"Just don't talk to the dog that way, okay, pal? Not unless you're gonna change his name."

Add the onions, the peppers, the squash to the still lightly-greased hot skillet. Stir. Cover.

"My wife thinks I ought to – ."

Heat a cup of honey in the saucepan.

"All I want to do though is – ."

Add soy sauce.

"There's value in that approach, Roy, but take it from me: when it comes to wives, the best thing to do is – ."

Add cayenne pepper sauce. Stir until it boils.

"Hey Johnny, did you see the new nurse at Rampart, the one with the – ."

Check the rice. Remove the chicken from the oven. Stir the vegetables one last time.

"As a matter of fact, I did. Her name is Shelia and she is really into sailing – ."

Spoon into serving dishes. Present meal-shaped apology!

"Chow's on," Stoker said at last, carrying the first of the bowls to the table, aware the rich smells of garlic and peppers had lured the others into the vicinity long ago. Since Marco had set the table and made iced tea, everything else was ready. Mike brought the pan of chicken over next, setting it between Cap and John on the rope-and-cork trivet decorated to look like a fire engine. A Girl Scout troop had given it to them in appreciation for a tour of the station.

He collected the rest of the meal from the stove and turned back toward the table. The too-hot bowl of rice slipped from his fingers, bouncing once before it spilled its contents across the floor. Mike gritted his teeth, annoyance with himself flaring bright again. Am I gonna catch a break anytime today? he asked himself. "Here are the green beans," he said aloud, thrusting the other bowl at Johnny who'd hopped up to help. "Go ahead and eat, guys; I've got this." Mike exited the room without waiting for an answer, headed for the broom closet in the bay. When he yanked the door open a bit too forcefully, the dust pan spun off its hook and skittered across the floor toward the back of the squad.

Stoker took a step toward it, bent over to get it, touched it with his fingers, and suddenly couldn't seem to breathe. This is getting old fast, he thought as he tried to suck air in, past the invisible hand wrapped around his throat. He flailed his other hand toward to the squad and, as usual, the stranglehold eased once he had made contact with the cool reassuringly familiar metal.

"Hey, butter fingers, ya want me to start more rice?" Kelly called out playfully as he passed the door on the way to the refrigerator for some condiments. When he didn't get even a grumbled curse as a response, he turned on his heel and stuck his head out into the bay. "Mike? You okay?" The concern in Chet's voice and his sudden exit created an ominous puddle of silence in the kitchen as the others paused to overhear the answer.

"It's nothing serious," Mike said once again, feeling caught in an endless loop of forced nonchalance. He drew in a deep but shaky breath, picked up the dust pan, and straightened without meeting Chet's eyes.

"If you ask me, that's one too many times you've said 'it's nothing serious' this shift," Chet responded pointedly, taking the dust pan out of Stoker's hand with the tiniest of jerks. "Not, of course, that you did."

Kelly re-entered the kitchen, and silently began to scoop the hot rice from the floor and into the plastic-lined garbage can he'd pushed toward the mess on his way to the refrigerator, his motions jerky and abrupt. He wiped up the floor, rinsed a last few bits of rice off the dust pan, dried it and then used the towel to finish drying the floor. The now-empty bowl went into the sink, the dirty towel into the basket for station laundry. Chet returned the dust pan to the closet, brushing past Stoker wordlessly as he did, and rejoined the others at the table. After picking up his fork as though he'd never even left his place, he speared a piece of tender chicken from his plate to go with the firm cube of squash still on the utensil.

"So, Johnny, you thinkin' about going sailing tomorrow?" Kelly asked amiably and took the bite he had prepared. Not gonna let it get to me, he thought, using his apparent appreciation of the tasty lemon-garlic combination on his fork as a ready excuse to hood his blue eyes.

"Uh, yeah, if the weather holds and Shelia doesn't back out on me," Gage replied, not sure what had just happened or why Mike was still standing in the doorway, face carefully blank.

=+++= / =++++

When supper was finished, Roy volunteered to help Mike with the dishes, forestalling the need for a hand of cards to determine who would have the honors. They worked together silently for several minutes, Roy biding his time until the others had dribbled out of the room and into other areas of the station. "How're your ribs doing?" he asked quietly. Mike, lost in thought, started at the question and his blue eyes flicked to the paramedic's face before returning to the pan he was scrubbing free of lemony chicken remains. He opened his mouth to respond when Roy added: "The truth, Mike, patient to paramedic."

"A little sore is all but nothing I can't handle," Stoker said reluctantly. "I felt that last rescue though," he added slowly.

"We all did, I think," Roy said with a grin. Four rookie defensive linemen on a college football team had been goaded into a sushi-eating contest by the upperclassmen. Unfortunately for them – and Station 51 – the raw fish in the sushi had precipitated a bout of intestinal distress severe enough for the defensive captain to call the paramedics. By the time the run was complete, nearly 1,200 pounds of moaning football player had been carried up from the game room in the basement of the gridiron dorm and loaded into waiting ambulances. "But, other than that, you're okay?"

"Yeah, I think so," he replied, electing not to disclose those strange bouts of breathlessness. After all, he asked about my ribs not my throat, he rationalized. And I can handle it.

"Let me know if it gets worse, okay?"

"Sure thing, Roy."

=+++= / ==+++

At 0337 that morning, Stoker sat up in bed abruptly, jerked from a recurring dream by a harsh sound which, he realized belatedly, had come from his own throat. His rough breathing evened out as he sank back into his pillow, heart pounding. I am not going to let this control me, he thought to himself, staring at the ceiling in frustration. He resisted the urge to get up and wander through the station the way he did in his apartment when this happened and instead tried to force himself to sleep. One times one is one. … Two times three is six. … Four times twelve is forty-eight. Five times one is five. … Five times eight is for – yawn – ty. ….

On the other side of the barrier, Chet listened intently until Mike's breathing quieted completely, signaling his friend's return to sleep, and then slipped from his bed, sock-clad feet silent on the cool floor, for a quick trip to the head. A few minutes later, still wiping his mouth of excess moisture, he climbed back into bed, turning onto his stomach and clutching his pillow. He drew in a deep breath, appreciating the minty freshness of it, held it for a three-count, and then expelled it fully, closing his eyes meditatively as he did. Just as relaxation overtook him, the tones sounded, the dispatcher's measured voice dragging him into the bay before he realized it.

"Station 51, Station 8, Ladder 127, Battalion 7. Residence fire. 12164 West Harrellson. One-two-one-six-four West Harrellson. Cross street Concordia. Time out 0358."

Chet glanced at Mike's profile as the big engine pulled out to follow the squad, discerning only the I-just-woke-up version of Stoker's game face before the bay's lights were left behind. By the time they arrived at the scene, Kelly had turned his own mind to the task at hand as well, putting aside his concerns. The steadily increasing smoke coming from the residential structure was enough to occupy his attention.

=+++= / ===++

Half-hidden in the weedy flowerbed along the cracked and uneven walk leading to the dilapidated two-story house, the child's red wagon had lost its wheels sometime in the distant past; its rusted-through bottom and missing handle only served to disguise it further in the pre-dawn night. Its resulting low profile contributed greatly to Captain Stanley tripping over it only minutes after they arrived on scene. It wasn't a bad fall, but Hank came up limping nonetheless, thanks to contact with another hidden treasure. "Stoker!" he shouted, causing Mike's head to whip around and start toward his captain immediately when he saw the other man take an unsteady lurching step.

"You okay, Cap?" he asked, wrapping one long arm around Hank's waist to help support him and lead him back to the engine. Hank nodded once but winced when his sore foot came down on the remnants of a broken terra cotta flower pot. This place is a mess, the now-grouchy fire captain thought.

"Feels like just a sprain," he said as Mike eased him down onto the running boards. Immediately, the engineer turned to retrieve the paramedics suiting up by the squad but Hank grabbed his arm before he could take a step. "Hang on a minute, don't bother Roy and John. Not yet. You heard 8s get delayed by a train; it's probably the Early Harbor Heavy Express. It'll take ten minutes to clear the tracks, if there's not a hold down at the docks." Mike nodded, acknowledging the truth of his statements. "This place looks abandoned but you never know. So, we need to do a search and get a jump on this fire. Grab your tank and go in with Lopez and Kelly. Gage and DeSoto can do a search on the second floor while the rest of you cover the first floor, and locate the fire. Take a couple of lines," he added. "I'll stay here with the engine and send 8s in as soon as they arrive."

"Right, Cap," Stoker said and pulled his gear from the compartment aft of the control panel.

=+++= / ====+

"Good job, man," Chet said, clapping Mike on the shoulder.

"Thanks," he replied with a raised-chin nod and took another sip of water, sweat still dripping from his soot-ringed face as he rested by the squad. He kept his eyes on the paramedics – and the old man they were working to revive – as Chet headed back to the hoses manned by Marco and the guys from 8s.

Stoker had discovered the man under the kitchen table moments before. He wasn't sure what – a final moan, a limb thumping against the floor, a flash of x-ray vision – had alerted him to the man's presence in the smoky darkness the three of them had been pushing through. But he'd ducked down, extending his long body further this time, and swept the handle of his axe forward, connecting with the man's foot almost immediately. Chet had helped Mike hoist the bulky man up and grabbed his feet, leaving the second line inside as the trio had backtracked, staying as low to the floor as they could. The engine from Station 8 arrived as they burst out into the night, trailing smoke.

"Marco, protect the egress. Chet, O2 and a blanket," Mike had rapped out once they'd cleared the steps, straightening and hefting the short man up enough to drag him across the grass solo, freeing Kelly to race toward the squad for the equipment. Cap's voice echoed through the various radios now on scene: advising the paramedics of a patient, directing the crew from 8s to complete the search of the first floor and join Marco in getting a knock on the fire, requesting an ambulance from dispatch. Stoker lowered the victim onto the yellow disposable blanket, pulled off his air mask and pressed it against the man's face while Kelly set up the oxygen. Roy appeared and shucked off his gear, intercepting the oxygen mask with a quick 'got it, thanks' to Chet as he took over patient care. Johnny's arrival prompted Stoker to step back as well and take the canteen Kelly offered.

The patient's deep coughs and weak voice alerted Mike to the man's return to consciousness. Gage looked up, caught Mike's eye, and nodded, his crooked smile breaking out readily. This one's gonna make it, Stoker thought, easing himself back onto his feet, ignoring the aches, and made his way over to Cap to report. Break's over.

=+++= / =====

A long hot shower in his own apartment the next morning did wonders for Mike's aching muscles, the almost scalding water seemingly stripping away more than dirt and stiffness. Every sensation from the softness of the carpet to the hardness of the kitchen chair seemed new, as though he'd never experienced anything remotely like it in the past. He slid into his bed and discovered the cool cotton sheets were almost sensual against his bare chest. Lying there, he was aware of every muscle movement required to breathe, of the air moving into and out of his lungs rhythmically, of the breeze from the oscillating fan slowly dancing along the length of his sheet-covered body. Of life. Gradually, his heightened sense of awareness passed and he fell into a deep sleep that lasted until early afternoon.

And, for the first time in a week, no dreams of choking to death in a smoke-filled playroom pursued Stoker in the cave of Somnus.

=+++= / =+++=

NOTE: So I wandered over to my local fire department and asked how likely it would be for the engineer to fill in for an injured fireman when time was of the essence and the injured man could take over his pump duties. He pointed out it would be possible but unlikely, explaining that usually the driver/engineer would be wearing a t-shirt with his bunker pants and boots instead of the usual complement of turnout gear and he would thus have to suit up and that would take time.

For a real life firefighter, suiting up to go into a fire would include a funky nomex hood, helmet, jacket, gloves, bunkers, boots and SCBA as well as a hefty utility belt and other strange-looking things to strap on, wiggle into, tug in place, or adjust. (My research consists of several YouTube videos, okay?) On the show, however, it appears Mike would only have to slip on his SCBA and gloves to be ready. Hopefully, this isn't too much of a stretch.

And, I realize there is not a specific statute designating the shoulders of freeways in LA as emergency vehicle lanes or a specific traffic violation called impeding an emergency vehicle, but sometimes don't you think there should be?