by Ross

The moment his partner appeared, L.A. County Firefighter/Paramedic, Roy DeSoto, knew they were gonna be in for a real interesting shift.

John Gage came strolling into the locker room of Station 51 in his street clothes…well, actually, since Johnny had dressed for the hundred+ degree weather they were experiencing, beach clothes would probably be more apropos. He was wearing tire-tread sandals, a pair of white shorts, really dark 'shades' and a white muscle-shirt , upon the front of which was plastered--in big, bold, bright-red, flaming letters:

"Hey, Johnny..." DeSoto called out, suppressing a smile all the while.

Gage returned the greeting, "Hey, Roy..." The coolly-dressed paramedic opened his locker and reluctantly began pulling out various articles of clothing. "Hot black socks…hot black shoes…hot navy-blue slacks," he stopped and held up the only not-so-hot piece of his entire uniform--his pale-blue, short-sleeved shirt. "Postal workers get to wear shorts. Why can't the department issue us some shorts?"

Firefighter Chet Kelly entered the room just then, saw the shirt and groaned in mental anguish. "Ga-age, your taste in clothes has just hit an all-time tacky low!"

"You’re just jealous cuz you could never pull it off," John shot back.

"I wouldn't have to pull it off," Kelly quickly determined. "Cuz' I'd never pull it on, in the first place!" His eyes sparkled, as he was rewarded with a sneer. "That is so incredibly tacky! Go on, Roy...tell 'im. And, be honest."

Roy studied the article of clothing in question. He wasn't sure if his partner was trying to make a fashion statement, or a long-range weather forecast. "If it’s just a fashion statement, it’s kind a’ cute. But if it’s the long-range weather forecast, I hate it!"

"Tacky!" Chet repeated.

"Tacky on you, maybe…on me, it’s cool. You gotta cop an attitude when you wear a shirt like this. You gotta think it’s cool. I think it’s cool...so, it's cool. You think it’s tacky, so on you it would look tacky."

"Leave it to Gage to go around advertising how horny he is-on the front of his chest!" Kelly told their two missing shift-mates, as they came stepping into the room. Then he turned back to his mark and exclaimed, "Have you no shame? I suppose if they made a shirt that said: HUNK-A HUNK-A BURNIN’ LOVE you’d wear that, too!"

"I actually have a shirt like that at home," John teased. "I would have worn it today, but it’s in the wash."

The guys snickered.

"Anyways, I didn’t pick it out," the shirt's wearer assured him. "I got it from Cheryl. She thought it looked sexy..."

" A tacky gift from an old girlfriend," Kelly sadly summed up.

"Sexy!"

"Tacky!"

"Sexy!"

"Tacky!"

"Sexy!"

"Eh-hem..."

The sound of their captain clearing his throat, put an immediate end to the argument.

John turned slowly around. Sure enough. Their boss was standing right there behind him.

Hank Stanley lifted Gage’s shades up…and then stared down at his shirt. "Hate to put a halt to such a stimulating conversation, gentlemen. But, it’s almost time for Roll..."

"Right, Cap…" John rather sheepishly acknowledged.

Their commander spun quickly on his heels and then headed for the garage...before the grin he'd been suppressing could escape.

The silenced p.m. swung back around and finished stripping.

"Tacky!" Kelly whispered, getting in one last dig before exiting the room, himself.

Gage aimed an irritated glare in the disappearing Irishman's direction. "On you-ou!"

Roy closed his locker and sighed. Yes, sir! It was going to be an interesting shift, all right.

****************************************

Three exhausting hours--and one bad brushfire--later...51's crew climbed stiffly down from their trucks and staggered into the station's rec room.

Kelly saw Gage limping over to the sofa. "THEY say, you're supposed to let sleeping dogs lie."

"Yeah...well...THEY didn't just spend the entire morning on their feet. Move, Henry!" John warned the snoozing pooch, "Or you're going to be fallen upon."

To everyone's amazement, the lifeless Bassett Hound got up and made some room for him.

Gage gave the mutt a grateful pat on the head and then collapsed onto the vacated cushion. "Oh, man!" he groaned, reaching for the floor, "I feel like I just stomped every square inch of that fire out with my feet!"

Chet sank into a chair directly across from the complainer. "It looks like you used your face," he teased, upon spying the p.m.'s soot-besmudged visage.

John ignored the taunt. "Ah...To be home right now...in my air-conditioned apartment...soaking my sore feet..."

"Why don’t you go try soaking your head, instead. I'm not feeding anyone who doesn't wash," Kelly threatened.

Gage wiped some of the soot and sweat from his forehead. "I'm not hungry, anyways!" he smugly came back. "I mean...Who can eat in this heat? You hungry, Marco?"

Marco dropped onto a chair at the dining table and shook his head no.

"Mike?"

Stoker plopped down beside Lopez. "I was...a little...til I heard who was cooking."

Snickers ensued.

"Roy?"

"Not particularly."

The surveyor turned back to Kelly. "See? No appetites!"

Chet looked pleased. "Great! That means I won't have to stand in front of a hot stove."

Their boss entered the room just then, looking very beat. "Kelly, get some grub on!" he ordered. "The rest of you, go get cleaned up! Get a move on, gentlemen! Before we get another call. And, don't forget to take your salt tablets!" he added, on his way to his air-conditioned office.

*************************

Fifteen minutes later, the firemen were seated--quietly--around the dinner table, sweating...and staring disinterestedly down at their soup and sandwiches.

Their commander tried to set a good example by eating his lunch. But, after just a few mouthfuls, he stopped chewing and made a face. "I have an idea," he told his men. "Why don't we each eat whatever we feel like whenever we feel like it, and forget about formal dining? At least, until this heat breaks."

His men voiced their unanimous approval and the table was quickly cleared of the soup and sandwiches.

"Okay. Who's hungry for what?" their captain inquired.

The men exchanged glances. But, no one deigned to reply.

Stanley frowned. "I can see this isn't going to work. I want everyone to think of something they could probably get down--and keep down. We have to eat to keep up our strength." He turned to their cook, "Chet?"

Kelly wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "I think I'll go on a liquid diet. Chocolate malts...and ice water."

The rest of the guys agreed with Chet's choices.

Their captain looked pleased. "Great! We can stop at one of those fast food joints next time out." He turned to his engineer, "Mike, take their orders and their money." He slid his wallet out, removed a dollar bill and tossed it to their accountant. "Chocolate," he ordered.

*************************

One car fire and two heatstroke victims later, John was seated on the bench in front of his locker, pulling the little cubbyhole's entire contents out onto the floor. He paused in his pillaging and held up a shoe. "So, that's where you've been!"

Stoker strolled into the locker room, saw Gage talking to his shoe, and shot him a strange stare.

John saw the look and showed him the shoe, "I've been looking for this thing for over a week!"

Mike caught sight of the mess on the floor. "Johnny! What are you doing? What if we got an inspection right now?"

Gage dropped the shoe and went back to rummaging in his locker. "I'm looking for my canteen."

The engineer exhaled an annoyed gasp. "What on earth do you need that for?"

"I'm gonna carry ice water around with me so I won't dehydrate," the paramedic shrewdly confided.

Stoker placed his hands on his hips and stood there, shaking his head. "This isn't Death Valley, you know. We do have running water here, in Los Angeles Coun--"

"--Ah-hah! I found it!" John triumphantly declared. He pulled on a canvas strap and a cloth-covered canteen appeared. He opened the thing and held it up to the light. "Better sanitize it," he determined, upon inspecting the container's insides. "Uhhh, Mike, could you throw this stuff back in for me?" he wondered, as he rose to his feet.

The engineer's jaw dropped.

"Thanks!" Gage told him and started heading for the garage. "I owe yah one!"

Stoker stared down at the disaster for a few moments. Then his shoulders sagged in defeat and he--begrudgingly--began cleaning things up.

*************************

A little while later...Roy and Marco were seated at the dining table, sipping ice water.

Chet came sauntering into the room, saw something cooking on the stove, and walked over to check it out. He stared down into the boiling water and did a beautiful double-take. Then he grabbed a fork and began spearing at the canvas strap. "I know the Cap said we could eat whatever we felt like eating..." He pulled the steaming container out of the saucepan and stared at it. "But, who can stomach a canteen casserole?"

Roy and Marco grinned.

"What are you doing?!" Gage irritatedly inquired, upon entering the room. "It has to boil for ten minutes!" He snatched the fork from Chet and lowered the canteen back into the bubbling water.

Kelly rolled his eyes . "I should've known it was you. You're responsible for the vast majority of strange things that go on around here."

"What's so strange about sterilizing something?"

"Not just something," Kelly corrected. "You're standing there--cooking a canteen! Man! Most people would find that pretty strange."

"Oh yeah? Well, I don't think it's so strange."

"Most normal people would think that it was strange. Of course it's not gonna appear strange to a strange person. To a strange person, strange things like this are bound to appear normal. Cuz' they're just naturally strange, to begin with." The Irishman's eyes got that devious sparkle to them again. Then he shrank down and started slinking away.

Roy and Marco looked highly amused.

John just stood there in front of the stove, looking thoughtful. He held his hand up and opened his mouth to speak. But then stopped, finding it impossible to argue with Kelly's logic.

*************************

Five minutes later, the entire engine crew gathered around the dining table to watch Gage fill his canteen.

John ignored them--and their wisecracks. First, he smashed some ice cubes and dropped the crushed ice into the canteen. Next, he took a pitcher of ice water from the ‘frig and carefully filled the container--right to the brim. He put the cap--and the cloth cover--back on and then stepped over to the sink. Lastly, he held the canteen under the faucet and turned the water on.

Chet nudged Marco. "Why's he doing that?"

Lopez shrugged. "Must be an old Indian trick."

"Actually," Stoker began, assuming his best lecture stance, "I believe the principal behind it is to wet the cloth case. Then, as the water evaporates, it will help to keep the canteen cool."

His shift mates were duly impressed.

"I saw a cowboy do it in a Western once," the engineer explained, with a wry grin.

Gage slipped the canvas strap over his shoulder--just in time!

The station's alarm sounded. "Squad 51..."

The p.m.s started heading for the garage.

"Unknown type rescue...Meet the Coast Guard helicopter at the county airfield...Lot ten...Lot one-zero...Time Out: 14:25."

"Squad 51, KMG-365," their captain replied and then passed the paramedic team their copy of the call slip.

DeSoto pulled out onto the street in front of the station, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

"If we have to work in this heat," his partner spoke up over the siren, "I'm glad it's with the Coast Guard."

"I thought you hated Coast Guard calls? Because we usually end up in the ocean...and the saltwater ruins your shoes."

"Yeah. But, right now, I'd gladly sacrifice a pair of shoes...for a refreshing dip in the ocean."

Roy was forced to smile...and to agree!

*************************

DeSoto pulled their rescue squad up to Lot 10 and parked. The pair piled out, grabbed a bunch of equipment from the side compartments and hurried over to the waiting helicopter. They climbed aboard and stowed their gear.

The chopper's pilot throttled up. The whirring blades began rotating faster and faster, in preparation for lift off. The sound was deafening.

The paramedics pulled their headphones on and plugged them into the communication jacks next to their seats.

"What's up?!" Roy wondered.

"Welcome aboard, gentlemen!" the pilot told them. "Somebody went off Big Wind Cliffs in a hang-glider!"

His passengers stared at each other in disbelief. The down drafts there were lethal. The place was even posted. No Hang- gliding--or free jumping with parachutes--was permitted.

The pilot continued, "The down draft smashed the glider into the side of the cliffs a couple of hundred feet down! I can't fly this bird around those cliffs! So, you two will have to rappel down!"

"We gonna need our gear?!" Gage inquired.

"Nah! Search and Rescue is on the scene! They should have everything you'll need!" And, with that, they went airborne.

DeSoto was confused. "If Search and Rescue is already on the scene, why do we have to go down?!"

"Good question!" their pilot admitted. "When you come up with an answer, I'd appreciate it if you would share it with me!"

********************************

Within minutes, they were hovering over the Pacific Coast Highway. The road ran parallel to the cliffs and the accident site was easily spotted. The chopper settled gently down onto the pavement, not far from the Search and Rescue team's vehicles.

The paramedics gathered their gear and hit the ground running.

"Jeff...Marty," Gage acknowledged, as he recognized two of the half dozen or so rescuers. They set their heavy gear down beside a rather large WARNING sign.

"John...Roy," Jeff Barman greeted them.

"What's goin' on?" DeSoto demanded.

"We were going to rappel down and rescue the girl. But, her boyfriend here, insisted that paramedics look at her first."

The paramedics glanced at each other. They couldn't help but notice the irritation in Barman's voice. The pair donned some rappelling gear and then stepped cautiously up to the edge of the cliffs. Sure enough. Several hundred feet down the precipice, on a narrow, jagged ledge, was the remains of a bright yellow hang-glider.

Gage glanced back over his shoulder. "Has anyone seen the girl?"

"You can't," her boyfriend came back. "She's under the glider."

Barman and his men already had the rappelling lines anchored in place and protected.

All the paramedics had to do was pull their gloves on, fasten themselves to the ropes and go over the side.

DeSoto glanced down at the water three hundred and fifty some feet below. "Here's hoping we won't be taking that refreshing dip in the ocean, after all..." he told his partner.

Gage glanced down, swallowed hard and nodded.

The pair began rappelling down the cliff's sheer wall. The hot air currents buffeted them and the intense heat left them feeling a bit woozy. Before long, their uniforms were soaked through with sweat. The going was extremely treacherous...and slow. Several times, they were forced to stop and rest.

"It's becoming increasingly clear to me..." the dark-haired paramedic panted, "...that it's just too dang HOT...to be doin’ this sort a' thing!"

DeSoto winced as his salty sweat ran into his eyes. "I agree!" he gasped, and swiped the steady stream of perspiration from his forehead. He glanced down and noticed that both of his forearms were scraped and bleeding. His knees and shins were also smarting. The jagged outcroppings of rock were exceedingly sharp and abrasive. "Still want the department to issue us those shorts?" he dryly inquired.

"No-o!" Gage grumpily replied. "Ahhh...Doggone it! I left my canteen in the squad!"

His partner shot him a sympathetic glance, and then the two started down again.

********************************

The firemen finally reached the ledge. By then, the pair looked--and felt--like they could use a rescue, themselves. Carefully, they clamped themselves off. Then, even more carefully, they lifted the glider.

DeSoto unclipped the girl's harness. The paramedic then knelt on the edge of the ledge, to examine their victim. Deathlike appearance, no pulse, no respirations, pupils fixed and dilated. He glanced up at his partner and sadly shook his head.

Gage's already slumped shoulders slumped a little more. He hung his sweat-drenched head and stared down at the bright yellow canopy of torn silk. "Well...she won't be ignoring anymore warnings," he stated bitterly.

Roy stared sadly down at the dead girl for a few moments. "Yeah..." He pulled their HT from his belt and thumbed its call button. "Squad 51 to Search and Rescue," he paused. "We, uh...won't be needing the equipment," he paused again. "Just send down the stokes..."

"Roger that, 51," Barman solemnly came back.

******************************

Roy backed the Squad into its parking bay. The two completely pooped p.m.s just sat there, staring rather dazedly out at the slowly descending garage door. Finally, they mustered the energy to unstick themselves from their seats and exit the vehicle.

"Well?" Kelly curiously inquired, as the pair dragged themselves into the day room. "Did you get to use your canteen?"

Gage had sipped water with his partner all the way back from the airport. "Yes, Chet. I got to use my canteen."

Kelly appeared to be both surprised and disappointed.

Lopez looked elated.

"Humph..." Chet muttered, and began sliding his wallet out, "I bet Marco that you'd forget all about it...and end up leavin' it in the Squad."

Roy cleared his throat. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

Kelly looked up, saw DeSoto struggling to keep a straight face, and brightened. "Did he? Leave it in the Squad?"

Roy didn't reply. But, the answer was obvious.

"Another old Indian trick," Chet announced and began replacing his billfold, "You forget all about your canteen. That way, you n-e-v-e-r run out of water." He flashed Marco a smug smile and held out his hand.

Lopez rolled his eyes and passed him a dollar bill.

DeSoto grinned.

Gage groaned beneath his breath and began hobbling towards the sofa.

The alarm went off.

"Squad 51...Man down..."

John groaned again. "I wanna go ho-ome..." he bemoaned and--reluctantly--began heading for the garage.

**********************************

Three hours--and three heat-stroke victims--later, the homesick paramedic was seated on a chair in the center of the Station's rec room, shooting rubber bands at airborne flies. There were rubber bands all over the floor, and a half a sack still in his lap.

Marco came walking in. "What the heck?" he wondered, feeling the odd scrunching beneath his feet. He gave the rubber band dispenser an irritated glare. "Johnny, instead of making a mess, why can't you help us clean up around here?"

"I am helping. I'm cleaning up the flies..." Gage shot another rubber band off the end of his finger. "Six," he muttered to himself.

Lopez looked deeply skeptical. "Like that?"

"I'll have you know, I've already zapped a half dozen--right out of the air." John took a refreshing swig from his refilled canteen.

Marco remained skeptical. "Okay. Let's see you hit that one...on the edge of the table, there."

"There's no sport in tha-at. I like to hit them 'on the wing'."

Lopez laughed.

John's right eyebrow arched. "You don't think I can do it?"

"I think the 'bull' is getting awfully 'deep' in here."

"Go ahead," Gage dared. "Make it take off."

Marco stared back at him in disbelief. "If you think I'm gonna stand here and 'flush' flies for you, you're crazy! Now, are you gonna help us clean, or not?"

John took a careful bead on an airborne fly. "What do you do when your car's engine overheats?"

Lopez looked totally baffled. "Huh?"

"What do you do?" Gage asked again.

"I shut it off and let it cool down..."

John let the rubber band go. It hit the fly and zapped it right out of the air. The fly-zapper took another drink. "Seven." He saw Marco's mouth hanging open and flashed him a smug smile. "My body's 'engine' has overheated. So, I've shut me down til I cool off."

Kelly came into the room just then, rubber bands crunching under his shoes. He stared down at them for a few moments and then mumbled, "S-t-r-a-n-g-e..." He stepped up to Gage. "Why are you throwing rubber bands all over the floor?"

"He shot seven flies--right out of the air!" Marco explained, his face and voice still filled with amazement.

"Oh yeah?" Chet replied, looking and sounding completely unimpressed. "I'll bet there's a big demand for skilled labor like that. And, I can see now why he doesn't have time to help us clean up the station. I mean, with all the strange job offers he must be getting--" he sarcastically continued and then turned to leave "--why should he work at something normal? Like sweeping...or making beds...or cleaning his locker...or--"

John accidentally zapped Chet on the back of the neck.

"Ouch!" Kelly cried. Then he spun back around, stooped down and began scooping up rubber bands with both hands. "Grab some ammo!" he advised Marco, and all out war broke loose!

Henry got up from his cushion, crawled off into the kitchen and hid under the table.

Kelly zapped Gage on the wrist and Lopez got him on the forehead.

Mike walked in. "Ou-ouch!" he irritatedly exclaimed, as Kelly zapped him on the nose. He glared at his assailant, with a vengeful look in his eyes and then crouched down and grabbed a handful of ammo, himself.

DeSoto stepped into the doorway but then jerked back, seeing the air filled with flying rubber bands. 'Another interesting development...'

Their Commander brushed past him and--in the heat of the battle--even he almost got zapped.

The 'rubber band renegades' immediately held their fire.

Stanley stared rather incredulously at his crouching crew. "Bo-oys?" he calmly inquired, "Do you think you could possibly play firemen for a while? We have an inspection in five--" he glanced at his watch, "--make that three minutes!" Then he turned and went crunching back out of the room.

The bo-oys exchanged grins--and took one last shot at each other--before picking the rubber bands off the floor...and the furniture.

Speaking of the furniture...Henry came out of hiding and climbed back up on his couch.

*******************************

Three hot, extremely hectic minutes later, the firemen filed into the garage and slapped their dress caps onto their sweat-soaked heads.

Lopez adjusted his collar.

Gage rubbed his shoes on his pant cuffs in a futile attempt to polish them off.

"Why can’t we ever get inspected when the station is clean?" Kelly complained. "Why do we always seem to get an inspection when we’ve let things slide? Just once, I’d like to see them come when everything is perfect!"

"If they waited until the station was perfect," Marco announced, "we’d never get another inspection."

"Exactly!" Kelly exclaimed.

The guys grinned.

Stanley stepped out of his office, swiped the perspiration from his forehead and then donned his dress cap as well. "They can’t expect us to have to work in this heat and not let things slide a little," he reasoned, half to himself. "Besides, the place isn’t all that bad. It just looks a little lived in--" he stopped and glared at Gage, "You did get the rubber bands picked up..." he stated hopefully.

John nodded.

Their commander looked relieved. But, his relief was to be short-lived.

Because the visitor’s buzzer sounded.

Their captain cringed. "Oh no...They’re here."

"Relax, Cap," Kelly urged. "You’re right. They’ll take everything into consideration."

"It doesn’t work that way, pal," Stanley glumly announced. Then he crossed over to the visitor’s entrance and pulled the door open. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he told the three Battalion Chiefs who were standing there, "and welcome to--"

The alarm sounded.

"Station 51...Vehicle fire..."

"Uh...Excuse me," Station 51’s Captain apologized, and began heading for the call station.

***************************

Ninety minutes later, the engine crew came staggering into the station’s rec room, looking completely beat on their feet and feeling slightly ill from the heat.

DeSoto glanced up from the magazine he was fanning himself with. "What took so long?"

The four fatigued firefighters fell into some chairs.

"He must’ve just filled his gas tank," Stoker replied. "Man! I thought we’d never get it out! We had to call for a foam truck. Big Red ran out of water just as it pulled up. So, we had to hit a hydrant on the way home."

"How is he?" Hank wondered.

"It doesn’t look good," Roy solemnly replied.

John, who was sprawled out beside the Basset Hound on the sofa, opened one eye. "He’s got third degree burns over 50% of his body. I don’t think he’ll be drinking and driving...anymore." His eye closed.

There was a long silence.

"Ugh!" Their captain leaned back in his chair and tried to get a kink out of his neck. He stared down at his sweat-drenched body. It looked like he’d just showered with his clothes on. "Those canvas turnouts are like saunas!"

"Wait ‘til tomorrow," Mike glumly announced. "It’s supposed to be even hotter. They’ll probably feel more like ovens."

Stanley stiffened. "Speaking of the heat...Did everyone remember to take their salt tablets?"

The men nodded.

"Don’t worry, Cap," Chet cheerily advised. "We can handle a little heat. Right guys?" He saw the looks of deep skepticism on his associates’ sweaty faces and quickly continued. "I mean, we’re in good shape...really good shape. Now, if we were built like those inferior types over at 16’s," he teased, "we might not be able to take it. But, us--with our almost bionic bodies--"

"--They’re predicting a heat index of over 115 degrees," Stoker glumly interjected.

Kelly’s cheerful, optimistic demeanor quickly crumbled. "I want my mommy," he pouted pitifully, and made like he was crying.

His ‘nearly bionic’ buddies were forced to chuckle.

The levity didn’t last long, however, as the station’s alarm re-sounded.

"Station 51...Structure fire..."

****************************

Four and a half hot, steamy hours later...The firemen stumbled into their dormitory and began setting up the bottom halves of their bunker suits.

"How could it thunder and lightning like that without dropping any rain?" Marco wearily inquired, of no one in particular.

"Because," Kelly teased, "they say: It never rains in southern California."

The guys grinned.

"Because," Stoker contributed, "it was an electrical storm and not a rainstorm."

"Maybe," Chet chimed in again, "it was heat lightning."

"There’s no such thing," Mike announced. "What people mistakenly call ‘heat’ lightning, is actually a distant thunderstorm."

DeSoto dropped down on his bunk. "If that guy would’ve had his antenna grounded properly, he’d still have his house."

"Just think of the power in one little bolt of lightning..." John wonderingly declared. "I’m surprised it didn’t make a bigger hole than it did."

"It could have disintegrated the whole house. But, its potential energy is so concentrated--"

"--Goodnight, professor!" Stanley suddenly called out.

Mike managed a bashful grin...just before the room went dark.

It was relatively quiet for a few minutes.

Then, Marco could be heard whispering, "I still can’t believe it could thunder and lightning like that and not spill a single drop of rain..."

Stoker exhaled an exasperated sigh.

There were a few muffled chuckles.

Then it was silent once again.

*************************

The sleeping quarters remained quiet, until around four in the morning. Suddenly, a tremendous clap of thunder sounded. The resounding ‘BOO-OOM!’ rattled the station’s windows. The firemen jerked awake and sat bolt upright in their bunks. An instant later, an emergency light began flashing on the wall above Stanley’s bed.

"The power’s out," their captain stated flatly. He climbed stiffly out of bed, struggled into the bottom half of his turnouts, and began limping towards the apparatus bay.

As he approached a small metal box on the garage’s east wall, a loud buzzer went off. Hank pulled the box’s cover open. With the help of an emergency light--he was able to find and flip several levers. The loud buzzing sound stopped and a soft engine noise started. Stanley exhaled a sigh of relief. He closed the metal box and flicked on the overhead light switch. The entire garage instantly lit up. "Let’s hear it for portable generators," he muttered to himself.

He doused the lights, and was just about to climb back into bed...when the phone started ringing. He stumbled over to the night desk and answered it. "Station 51. Captain Stanley speaking...Yes, we do...We’ve got one more 120,000 watt, and two 25,000 watts..." he paused, to scribble something down. "Sure thing! Just let us know...Right...Bye."

"What’s up, Cap?" Kelly sleepily called out.

"Lightning must’ve hit a transformer, or something. Everything’s under control. Go back to sleep," Hank advised, and settled back down on his blanket.

Another--positively ear-drum shattering clap of thunder sounded.

Again, the windows rattled, and again the men jerked bolt upright in their bunks.

"Who called?" Stoker wondered.

"Ah...Some guy wanted to know if he could use one of the portable generators to run his dialysis machine if the power stays out for more than a few hours," his captain explained.

Gradually, the men dropped back onto their beds.

*******************************

Less than fifteen minutes later, the station’s tones sounded.

They all sat back up and listened.

"Squad 51...Man down..."

"We got it, Cap!" Gage called out.

The paramedics pulled their bunker pants on, slid their suspenders into place and went racing out of the room.

"Thanks..." Stanley muttered gratefully, before falling back on his bunk.

********************************

DeSoto backed the Squad into its parking bay and killed the engine. He and his partner sat there for a few moments in silence.

Gage glanced at his watch. "It’s almost six. I think I’m gonna make some coffee."

"Sounds good to me," Roy remarked, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

They climbed wearily out, and quietly closed their doors.

Kelly came stumbling up to them, half-dressed and still half-asleep. He yawned twice and then squinted up at the clock on the garage wall. "It can’t be only ten to six..." he determined, and turned to his shift mates. "Is that the right time?" he inquired, stifling another yawn.

They nodded.

Chet yawned again. His already drooping eyelids sagged even more. "Then, why ain’t I tired? Wide awake--" he yawned his way into the rec room, "--and it ain’t even six o’clock, yet."

Apparently, Kelly’s yawns were highly contagious. Because the paramedic team suddenly had a bad case of them.

"On second thought," John managed between yawns, "I think I’ll go back to bed."

"Sounds good to me," Roy yawned.

*************************

The pair no sooner got settled back in their beds, when the alarm went off.

Gage groaned.

DeSoto gasped.

"Squad 51...Child having difficulty breathing..."

The engine crew dropped down onto their blankets.

The paramedics piled out of bed and back into the bottom halves of their turnouts.

"We got it, Cap," Gage grumbled, on their way to the garage.

"Thanks," their groggy commander gratefully replied.

*************************

Sixty minutes later, Roy backed their rescue vehicle into the garage and turned off the ignition.

"Any of your kids got asthma?" his partner sleepily inquired.

The father of two shook his head no.

"Maybe it wasn’t asthma," John went on. "Maybe she’s just allergic to cats? That cat was sleeping right in her face. I’ll bet that’s it."

"I’m more tired now than I was before," DeSoto glumly confided.

"Me, too," Gage admitted. "Think I’d better make that coffee."

"Sounds good to me."

They pried themselves out of the squad, quietly closed their doors and began heading for the day room. They stopped in the doorway. Chet was sitting at the dinner table--sound asleep. The two p.m.s glanced at one another and exchanged grins.

"I wonder if old ‘wide awake’ Kelly thought to put some coffee on?" John dryly remarked on his way over to the stove. The pot was both cold and empty. "Nope!"  Once the pot was filled with cold water, he opened a cupboard and grabbed the coffee can.

Roy reached across the counter and flicked the radio on.

"Good morning!" the announcer blared cheerfully. "This is Pete Mandell with KNX Morning News. I’ll have today’s top headlines for you, following this commercial break."

"Mornin’," DeSoto mumbled and quickly turned Pete down. "You want some breakfast?"

John was scooping grounds into the basket of the coffee pot. "You just made me lose my count."

Roy looked apologetic and watched as his partner dumped the coffee back into the can. "Do you?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"I don’t know. I could scramble us up some eggs..."

"Thanks. But, my stomach is thinking more along the lines of cold cereal and juice--" he stopped in mid-scoop, as he realized he’d just lost his count...again!

"You’d better listen to your stomach then," Roy advised. "Because it appears to be the only part of you that is thinking, this morning."

Gage finished dumping the coffee back, shot his partner an insulted look, and then began scooping--and counting--all over again.

The commercials ended and Pete came back, as promised. "Topping the headlines this morning: Freaky weather. Authorities are holding last night’s severe electrical storms responsible for three deaths in Los Angeles County. One of the victims, a power company lineman, was struck by lightning earlier this morning, as he was working to restore power to the Charter Oak area. Fire Department paramedics were unsuccessful in their attempts to revive him--"

The paramedics exchanged grim glances.

John looked down at the coffee scoop in his hand and realized he’d just done it AGAIN. He didn’t dare let Roy know, though. So, he tossed two more measures into the basket, closed the pot up and then turned the burner on.

"Speaking of firemen..." Pete continued, "That’s one thing I wouldn’t want to be right now. KNX Newsroom has just received word that there are over 400 separate fires burning across the state...at last count. I wonder who counted them?"

The firemen exchanged even grimmer glances.

"Weather for the greater Los Angeles area: We can expect more of those freaky, dry, electrical storms later on this afternoon. I’m afraid it’s gonna be another ‘scorcher’ out there. Highs could run between 95 and 100 degrees! With the relative humidity hovering right around 70%, that means the heat index will be--get a load a’ this--a whopping 115 degrees! Whew! That’s gotta set some records! I’m sweating just thinking about it. And, if you’re driving into work this morning, here’s a few tips from our KNX Traffic Patrol. Dick?"

"Good morning!" the reporter blurted, over the steady chop-chop-chopping of whirring helicopter blades. "This is Dick Palmer, KNX Traffic Patrol! Right now, we’re passing over the Ramona Freeway! From where we are, I can see six different brush fires burning! The fires were apparently touched off by last night’s electrical storms! Smoke from the fires has traffic barely moving on both the east and west-bound lanes! A huge blaze burning on the north side of the San Bernadino Freeway has traffic completely stopped, there! The CHP is not allowing anymore vehicles onto that freeway! All traffic is being rerouted onto the Arrow Highway!...We are now over the Arrow Highway! Traffic is moving very slowly, if at all! It appears to be bumper-to-bumper clear back to San Dimas--"

"--I can’t take anymore bad news," DeSoto determined, and changed the station. He smiled as soft, soothing music filled the air.

John took a seat at the table. He sat there, staring at the sleeping figure across from him. For a brief instant he was tempted to disturb Chet, somehow. But a warning glance from Roy changed his mind.

"What kind of cereal do you want?" his peace-keeping partner pondered, and placed the milk down in front of him.

"Fruit Loops," Kelly requested and straightened up in his chair.

"Would you look at that!" Gage teased. "Wide awake!" He glanced at his watch. "And, it’s only a quarter to eight!"

Chet opened one eye and gave his tormentor half of an icy glare. "Good morning to you, too...John-boy!"

John-boy’s highly amused look vanished.

DeSoto set a bowl, a glass of juice and a box of Fruit Loops down in front of Kelly. "Johnny, what kind of cereal do you want?"

"Oh-oh, any adult cereal will be just fine, thank you." He turned back to Chet. "THEY say: You are what you eat."

Kelly finished filling his bowl. He set the Fruit Loop’s box down between him and John, blocking the grinning paramedic from his view.

Roy passed his partner a box of Wheaties. "Here. I think you just earned these."

"Ah-ah, yes. The ‘breakfast of champions’," Gage gloated.

Captain Stanley, Marco and Mike strolled into the room all washed up and sporting clean, fresh uniforms.

"Good morning, gentleme--" Stanley stopped, seeing their half-dressed bodies. "Why aren’t you guys dressed yet?"

"Mornin’, Cap!" Roy replied, and sank into a chair. "We were out on a run."

"What’s your excuse, Kelly?"

Chet pushed his chair back and started to rise.

"Never mind. Go ahead. Finish eating. Before your..Fruit Loops get soggy."

The guys grinned.

Marco pulled his cup from the mug tree on the counter and poured himself some steaming black coffee...really really black coffee. "Did someone get carried away this morning?"

DeSoto arched an eyebrow and turned to his partner.

Gage avoided his gaze.

The telephone rang.

Their Commander crossed over and answered it. "Good morning. Station 51. Captain Stanley speaking...We were just sitting down to breakfast...I see..." He pulled a pen from his front shirt pocket and scribbled an address down. "Thanks...Will do...Yes...Goodbye." Hank hung the phone back up and turned to his men. "Headquarters wants us to relieve Station 12 at a brush fire," he announced. "THEY are going to let us finish eating first."

He and Stoker and Lopez grabbed some bowls and spoons--and chairs.

******************************

Following their stint at the brush fire, the men of Station 51 responded to a slew of vehicle fires and heat stroke victims.

Gage and DeSoto were perspiring--profusely--when they finally returned to quarters.

"If we get one more heat stroke victim," Roy remarked, as he and his partner dragged themselves into the day room, "I’m climbing into the cold shower with him!"

The pair collapsed into some chairs and then sat there, panting. The unbearable heat and humidity had really taken a toll. Not just on them, but the entire crew. For, nobody was moving.

Marco glanced up, "You mean, you actually throw your victims in the shower...and then turn the cold water on them?" he inquired rather incredulously.

"Well, you don’t have to make it sound like we’re ‘torturing’ them," John chided. "That’s the way you treat a victim of heat stroke. The condition is life-threatening. You have to get their body temperature down as quickly as possible."

"Besides," his partner contributed, "on a hot day like this a cold shower can’t be all that bad."

"That’s right!" Gage agreed. "I could go for a nice, cool shower right now, myself."

Chet looked up from the Reader’s Digest he was perusing and arched an eyebrow. He set the magazine down, shoved their sleeping dog’s heavy head off his lap, rose to his hot, aching feet and quietly exited the room.

************************

"Hey, Gage!" Kelly called through the doorway a few minutes later. "The Cap wants to see you!"

The dozing paramedic opened one eye. "Oh yeah? What about?"

Chet shrugged. "He didn’t say."

Gage reluctantly started rising slowly and stiffly to his feet. "Where is he?"

"You might try the locker room..." the message deliverer innocently suggested.

John stepped through the garage...shoved the locker room door open...and got dumped on! "Ah-ahhh!" he exclaimed, as the five gallon bucket of ice cold water descended upon him. Then he sputtered and gasped again as the freezing torrent took his breath away.

Three of his shift mates heard his scream and came rushing into the room. The guys stared at their soggy friend for a few moments, and then exchanged highly amused glances.

Gage swiped the water from his eyes and just stood there, shivering. And, smiling?

Kelly popped into the room right about then, looking very pleased with himself.

John blew the icy droplets from his lips. "Thanks, Chet! I needed that!" he realized and flashed the fiendish ‘Phantom’ a grateful, lopsided grin.

His tormentor was totally devastated. Kelly’s clever little scheme had backfired!

Their captain poked his head into the room. "Remember the visitors from headquarters yesterday?"

His men nodded.

"Well, we’re getting them again today! I want to see you guys ready for inspection in five minutes! Gage, change your uniform! Kelly, pick this water up! Move it, gentlemen! The man, himself, may be coming!"

The group exchanged anxious glances before vacating the premises.

John gave his sopping wet head a few shakes and then hurried over to his locker.

******************************

Five minutes later, the head of Los Angeles County’s Fire Department arrived at Station 51, accompanied by several of his Battalion Chiefs.

Captain Stanley greeted the group at the front door and escorted them over to where his men were standing at attention.

"At ease, gentlemen," William Jenner told the statuesque group. "Before we begin the inspection, I would just like to commend you for the fine job you’re all doing. Fighting fires is never easy, even under the most favorable of conditions." The chief Chief was walking along the line as he spoke. He noticed Gage’s wringing wet head and backed up. "You know, son, if you’d get your hair cut, you probably wouldn’t sweat so much."

John’s jaw dropped.

The rest of the guys had to grit their teeth and purse their lips to keep from laughing.

"Did you hear me, son?" Chief Jenner impatiently inquired.

"Yes, Sir!"

"When was the last time you visited your barber?"

"Three years ago, Sir."

This time, Jenner’s jaw dropped.

Captain Stanley cringed.

The Chief got right up in the paramedic’s face. "Are you being impudent?" Jenner turned to the rest of the inspection party. "Not that it doesn’t look like it’s been that long..." He and his Battalion Chiefs exchanged grins.

"No-o, Sir!" John assured him. "I haven’t been to a barber in three years because I get my hair styled, now. I go to a stylist, Sir."

"What’s the difference?"

"We-ell, a barber just cuts your hair. A stylist cuts and styles your hair...Sir."

The station’s tones sounded.

"Station 51..."

"Uhhh...excuse me," Stanley told their visitors before stepping up to their call station.

His men fell out of formation, tossed their dress caps onto the floor along the wall of the garage and started piling into their trucks.

"Assist the National Guard with a brush fire...Wilkenson Park Circle Drive...Three miles west of the Colima Road Junction...Wilkenson Park Circle Drive...Time Out: 16:02"

"Station 51. KMG-365," Stanley responded. Then he tossed his dress cap onto the call desk and joined his men. ‘Talk about fighting fires in unfavorable conditions.’

******************************

By the time 51’s crew reached the Wilkenson Park Circle Drive, the entire area was engulfed in billowing clouds of thick, grey smoke. Which meant visibility was nearly nil. 

A National Guardsman flagged them down at the park’s main entrance. "Captain!" he shouted, "We need your water on the other side of the park!"

Stanley turned to his engineer, "Think you can make it through this smoke?"

"As long as I can see the road," Stoker assured him.

Hank turned back to the Guardsman. "You’ve got it! What about my men?"

"We’re trying to keep the fire contained to the center of the Circle Drive! We can use all the help we can get!"

The firemen piled out onto the pavement and began grabbing their brush fire gear.

"John," Stanley said as his paramedic team appeared, "how would you like to go for a nice stroll through the park? Mike’s taking the engine over to the far side and I want you to go along and direct him--" he paused to cough. "Everybody, cough, cough, don your air tanks!"

Gage donned his SCBA and grabbed a pocket full of flares. He struck one of them up. Moments later, he and Big Red were swallowed up in smoke.

Stanley and the remainder of his men disappeared in the opposite direction.

*************************

Four hours of backbreaking effort later, the fire was almost out. It’s fuel, the ten acres of thick, dry underbrush, was finally burnt up. The smoke started to thin and visibility began improving.

Stanley and his men dragged themselves over to the park’s entrance. Slowly, they removed their gear. Then they dropped it--and themselves--onto the ground beside the Squad. Their bodies were completely saturated with sweat and black soot clung to their clammy skin like paint.

Chet opened the truck’s passenger door and went to sit down. He stopped, seeing Gage’s canteen setting there on the seat. He swallowed hard. His throat felt mighty dry and irritated from all the smoke. "Anybody else thirsty?" he inquired in a hoarse, cracked voice after taking a big refreshing swig of the remarkably cool water.

The rest of the guys all admitted that they could use a little drink. They passed the canteen around.

Several minutes later, Stoker arrived with Big Red. He and his passenger climbed wearily down.

Gage stood there for a few moments...the sweat just streaming down his face. Then he dropped to his knees--with an agonizing groan--and sprawled out--face first--on the ground.

It was a particularly stellar performance. And, for a brief instant, his friends weren’t sure if he was faking or not. They decided to ignore him.

Chet passed Mike the canteen.

"waaa...ter..." John croaked rather feebly. He struggled to his hands and knees and began crawling towards the squad. "waaa...ter!" he weakly repeated. He crawled right over Marco and up to their truck’s open door. "waaa...ter!" he gasped and reached for his canteen. It wasn’t there.

The men got stiffly to their feet. Mike passed the canteen back to Chet, who passed it to Roy, who passed it to Marco, who passed it on to their captain. Johnny couldn’t strangle the Captain.

When a visual search of the vehicle confirmed the object’s absence, he placed his hands on his hips and spun around. "All right! Who copped my canteen?!"

Hank returned the object to its rightful owner.

The parched paramedic held it to his lips and tipped it up...and up...and up. His face filled with horror. He turned the dang thing upside-down and shook it.

"Looks like you could use a bigger canteen, pal," his captain sadly surmised and gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

Gage gazed incredulously down at his empty canteen...and groaned again--this time, for real!

**********************************

"Stop at the next restaurant, will yah, Roy?" John requested on their way back to the station.

DeSoto glanced at his pouting passenger. "Why? You hungry?"

"No. I just want to fill my canteen."

"You can fill it up when we get back."

"I’m dying of thirst."

"We’ll be at the station in fifteen minutes."

"Ro-oy, I’m dying of thirst. In fifteen minutes, I could be dead of thirst."

DeSoto shot his melodramatic friend a highly dubious look. But, his partner looked so pitiful--and parched--sitting there, the senior paramedic reluctantly conceded. "Okay. But make it fast. I’m really beat from all this heat!"

John flashed him a grateful grin and nodded.

*******************************

DeSoto pulled their rescue squad into a restaurant parking lot and killed the engine. "I think I’ll tag along."

"Don’t worry. I’ll hurry...I’ll hurry."

"I know. Because I’ll be right there...hurrying you." Roy latched onto the strap of their HT and the two began heading for the entrance.

Gage pulled the heavy glass portal open and then glanced back over his shoulder. "I forgot to clear us," he told his partner. Then he turned back around and walked right into something very big and very black. DeSoto bumped into him and he stood there, pinned between his partner and the big, black thing. He looked up and found himself staring into an ominous black, inhuman face. His eyes widened, his brows shot up and his jaw went slack. He tried to step back, but his partner was still standing there, wearing the exact same expression.

‘Things are beginning to get a little too interesting.’ Roy silently realized.

"Incredible!" The black thing rasped in a sinister, almost mechanical voice. "How did you guys do that?"

Gage gave their questioner a quick once over. ‘Seven foot tall, at least, with a long, black, hooded floor-length cloak draped over broad black shoulders and black plates of some sort of armor. Kind a’ half human and half machine. And, all evil looking!’ He exchanged nervous glances with his partner.

The restaurant manager came running up to them. "That sure was fast!"

The black thing suddenly spun right around and motioned for them to follow him inside.

"What was that?!" Gage nervously inquired, as the thing stalked off. Its long, black cloak billowing out behind it.

"Darth Vader," the manager casually replied. "C’mon! You’ll see!"

The paramedics glanced at one another again. Then they shrugged their shoulders and followed the manager into the restaurant.

"You guys sure are fast!" their escort repeated. "I just this minute hung up the phone!"

They followed the confusing fellow over to a crowd of people standing in a large circle.

The manager brushed some of his customers aside. "C’mon, folks! Get back! Let’s give the paramedics some room!"

Gage and DeSoto stood there for a few moments, staring down at an enormous mountain of shaggy beige fur. The shaggy beige mountain was seated at one of the tables, sipping on a Coke. Darth Vader was gripping the creature’s elbow in support.

"What is that?!" John nervously re-inquired.

"A Wookie."

Roy glanced at his partner...then at the Wookie...then at the manager. "What’s wrong with it?"

The manager shrugged. "He was signing autographs. All of a sudden, he just keeled over!"

The two firemen stiffened.

"I’ll get the gear!" DeSoto quickly determined and started heading for the door.

"I’ll help!" Darth Vader volunteered and followed the fireman from the room.

"When did this happen?" the remaining paramedic wondered.

"About three minutes ago," the still amazed manager replied.

Gage crouched beside the obviously woozy Wookie. "Hi, I’m John. What’s your name? Besides Wookie..."

"Paul. Paul Duran."

"Paul, when you blacked out, did you hit your head at all?" The fireman further inquired, and began running his fingers through the long, beige fur, searching for a zipper.

"No. Ron caught me-e-e..." Paul’s voice trailed off and he started slumping sideways in his seat.

John caught him and kept him from falling completely over. "C’mon!" he told the restaurant’s manager. "Help me get him on the floor." They set the seven foot fur ball gently down on the floor. Gage’s fingers searched desperately for a way to get the hot costume off of their victim.

"Can you show me where the zippers are on this thing?" he hopefully asked when Darth Vader--er, Ron returned.

Vader nodded. He set their equipment down and then dropped to his knees, cloak rustling and armor clanking. "Just below the shoulder blades."

The two of them latched onto the Wookie and rolled him onto his side.

Ron struggled with the zipper for a few moments and then gave up. "I can’t get a grip on it," he explained and held up his black-gloved hands.

Gage and Vader traded places. The fireman fumbled through the thick fur. "They should make these things with emergency exits!" he scowled.

Ron nodded in agreement.

DeSoto dropped himself and their base kit down beside them. He opened the communication case, picked up the phone and inserted the call stick. "Squad 51 calling Rampart Base. Come in, Rampart!"

Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light.

Gage glanced up from the zipper he was struggling with and saw a woman standing there with a camera. A member of a birthday party party--judging by all the balloons, cake and kids. He felt the zipper give. "All right! I’ve got it!" He quickly opened the hot, heavy costume up and carefully lifted it over the victim’s head. He also slid their patient’s arms out. He felt Paul’s cheek. "Pale complexion. Skin cool and clammy," he relayed to Roy and then turned back to the Wookie’s buddy. "Does your friend have any history of diabetes or any other medical problems?"

"No. He’s normally healthy as a horse!"

"Pulse is 60 and thready," John passed along to his partner, "Respirations: 26 and shallow. I’ll have a BP for you in a minute. His ‘Wookie’ suit is soaked clean through and the sweat is just pouring off of him. I’m thinking heat exhaustion. Help me elevate his legs," he requested of Ron.

Vader and Gage both grabbed a hairy leg and lifted. The manager then placed a child’s booster seat under each of them.

"Good enough. Thanks," the paramedic told them. "Now, we’re gonna be needing lots of ice."

His helpers went to fetch the ice.

John pulled out his penlight and continued his initial patient survey.

Roy relayed his partner’s findings on to Rampart. Dr. Early issued some instructions. DeSoto repeated the physician’s orders and then began carrying them out.

Suddenly, their HT sounded.

"Squad 51...What is your status?"

Roy turned to Vader. "Could you get that, please?" He was working on getting an IV going and his partner was busy gathering a new set of vitals.

Darth nodded and picked the instrument up. He thumbed the transmit button, "Squad 51 is extremely busy right now," he announced in his sinister voice. "Why don’t I have them call you back," he told rather than asked the person on the other end, and set the radio back down.

It sounded again. "Squad 51...What is your location and your status?"

Vader exhaled an eerie exasperated gasp, retrieved the annoying instrument and re-thumbed the transmit button. "They’re at the new Burger Chef Restaurant on Palmer! And they’re too busy to talk right now!"

"223 west Palmer?" L.A. incredulously inquired.

Darth sighed. "Yes! I believe so."

"Squad 51..." the dispatcher began, following a brief bout of stunned silence, "There is a man down at your location...Unknown cause...Two-two-three west Palmer...Ambulance responding...Time out: 19:43"

"10-4!" Vader annoyedly acknowledged.

By then, the paramedics had their patient packed in ice and his IV flowing.

Two ambulance attendants entered the restaurant, towing a stretcher.

Ron set the radio down and helped lift his limp, heavy friend up onto it.

They strapped the Wookie down and wheeled him from the room. The blond paramedic tagged along, toting Paul’s IV unit, the drug box and their base kit.

"Can I go with him to the hospital?" the Wookie’s worried pal wondered.

"You can ride in with me," John announced.

"Thanks!" Vader rasped. Then he bent down and began gathering equipment cases. "I’ll carry these out to your truck for you."

"Thanks!" Gage told him. Then he picked his canteen up and turned to the manager. "Could I please have some water?"

**********************************

On the way back to the station, the two p.m.s rehashed their last rescue.

John snickered and turned to his partner. "Did you see the look on Dixie’s face?" He snickered again.

Roy grinned. "No. But I imagine it resembled the looks on our faces when we first saw that...thing." He glanced at Gage. "Why didn’t he take that ridiculous get-up off? He had half the nurses petrified and half the orderlies in stitches!"

"Are you kidding?! He says it’s air-conditioned! He’d be a fool to go walking around in this heat and humidity, when he’s got that cool suit of armor. Man! You should ‘a heard the creepy breathing sound that thing makes! He pressed a button right here--" he paused to point to a spot on his chest, "--and this hideous wheezing started up. It creeped me out so bad, I had to have him turn it off. I couldn’t concentrate on my driving. You know, he’s really seven feet tall!"

DeSoto nodded. "So’s the other guy. Early had to find an extension for the exam table. When we left, they were looking for an eight foot bed."

John frowned. "He had to stay?"

"They’re just keeping him overnight...for observation."

His passenger appeared to be more than a little relieved to hear that. He grinned deviously and then turned to gaze out his window.

The driver continued. "He claims he drank 22 large Cokes! He says he must’ve sweated 22 large Cokes, too. He should take salt tablets...like we do."

"And carry one a’ these!" Gage agreed and took a long drag from his canteen.

"Thanks!" DeSoto said when his partner offered him the water. "But I’ve decided not to drink and drive."

His passenger shrugged and took another long, refreshing swallow.

*************************

It was dark by the time they reached the station. Roy backed the squad into its bay. They jumped out and slammed the doors.

The engine crew came filing out of the rec room to greet them.

"Hey, Gage? Who was that character that answered the call?" Kelly curiously inquired.

"His name’s Darth Vader. He’s seven feet tall and he wears a black suit of armor with a long, black, hooded cloak that billows out when he walks. Very sinister looking! And, when he presses a button right here--" the paramedic pointed to the center of his chest, "--he goes..." John did his level best to replicate the creepy wheezing sound.

"Wise ass..." his questioner quietly commented.

Gage shot his partner a ‘What did I say?’ look.

Roy just smiled.

"I have an even better question," their Commander confessed. "How did you guys get to the call...before you even got the call?"

"Actually, Cap...When you get to be as good at this job as Roy and I are...I mean, we’re just so goo-ood it’s pathetic!"

"I believe it!" Kelly exclaimed. "The pathetic part, that is."

The station’s tones drowned out the ensuing snickers.

"Station 51...Assist Battalion 14 with a structure fire..."

The men were kept busy most of the night. John and Roy returned from their fifth run--just before the shift change.

"You’re not such a wise ass, after all," Kelly told Gage as they stepped into the day room.

The two p.m.s paused on their way to the coffee pot to exchange some perplexed glances.

"Anything interesting happen around here while we were gone?" John innocently inquired.

And, it was their fellow firefighters’ turns to exchange puzzled looks.

Just then the visitor’s buzzer sounded.

Gage glanced at his watch and suppressed a smile. "Chet, why don’t you go see who’s at the door?"

"I’ll get it," Marco volunteered.

"No-o!" the panicked paramedic practically shouted. "Let Chet get it. He’s closer."

Kelly and Lopez exchanged confused looks. They were both seated an equal distance from the door.

"Strange," Chet muttered beneath his breath and left to answer the door.

Gage snuck out after him and hid behind the squad to watch events unfold.

Kelly pulled the portal open and two seven foot tall things appeared.

The big, beige, furry Wookie let out a loud, moanful howl.

Darth Vader spread his arms. His long, black, hooded cloak billowed out and his sinister, rasping, just plain creepy breathing sound filled the air.

The corners of Kelly’s mouth turned up slightly and his eyes got that peculiar sparkle to them. "Oh, I get it!" he announced with a snap of his fingers. "You guys must be here to see Gage, right?" He turned and hollered, "Hey, Ga-age?! Some friends of yours are here to see you!"

Ga-age groaned in exasperation and came out of hiding. "Oooooh, Chet! You can be soooo aggravating!"

Kelly stared innocently back at him. "Wha-at?"

"You know darn well what!" he annoyedly exclaimed before turning his attention to their visitors. "C’mon in, you guys."

Vader rested a black-gloved hand on the paramedic’s slumped shoulder. "Sorry, Johnny."

"Ah, Ron, it’s not your fault. I thought you two were terrific!" Gage directed his gaze up at the Wookie. "How are you doing, Paul?"

"About as well as can be expected--in this costume--in this heat."

"Man! You’re not really going back to work today?"

"I can put up with a lot for two hundred bucks a day. Besides, I’ve got my salt tablets now."

Mike and Marco followed Roy over to their visitors. The two men just stood there...staring...open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

"You guys were really great!" Kelly confessed. "And, I must admit, if I hadn’t seen the paper this morning, I prob’ly would a’ had ta change my shorts."

Vader and the Wookie chuckled.

"Paper?" John pondered. "What paper?"

Chet ignored him. "You guys have another Grand Opening today?"

Their visitors nodded.

"Those get ups are really wild!" Marco remarked. "I bet they cost a fortune."

"Thirty-six hundred bucks," the Wookie told him.

"Mine’s twice that," Vader announced. "But then, mine’s air-conditioned."

The guys grinned.

Captain Stanley exited his air-conditioned office just then. He spotted the two things standing there--and nearly had a heart attack. "What the--?!"

Kelly witnessed their Commander’s reaction. "Guess you haven’t seen the paper, either. Huh, Cap."

All eyes suddenly focused on the front door and the beautiful tall brunette who came strolling in. The woman was carrying an armload of posters and envelopes, which she handed over to Darth Vader. "Excuse me," she told the firemen. "Ron, we’d better get going."

"Thanks, Sandy," Vader told the gorgeous girl, "We’ll be right there. Johnny, Paul and I thought you might enjoy some autographed posters and free tickets to the movie..." He passed the bundles on to the dark-haired paramedic.

"Thanks, guys! I appreciate it!"

They all shook hands.

"Take care!" John told them. "Oh, and, thanks for droppin’ by!"

"Our pleasure!" Darth Vader assured him with a raspy wheeze. He bid the firemen a fond ‘farewell’ and left, with a flourish of his long, flowing cape.

The Wookie let out a rather pitiful howl, raised a big hairy arm and waved ‘bye-bye’.

The guys grinned and waved back.

The beige furball disappeared out the door.

Gage turned to Kelly. "What paper?"

Kelly sighed in surrender. "C’mon! I’ll show you."

The firemen followed Chet into the rec room.

Kelly pulled the morning paper out from under their sleeping pooch and uncrumpled it.

The paramedics peered over his shoulder as he began reading aloud.

"Doctor, doctor, can you tell what will make the Wookie well?" he paused and grinned. "That part slays me!"

The entire crew stared down at the front page of the Los Angeles Times...and the photo of Gage and the Wookie. Darth Vader and DeSoto were also in the picture.

Kelly continued, "See accompanying story on 8D." He passed the stunned paramedics the front page and flipped through to 8D. "Get a load a’ this," he grinned and cleared his throat.

"Star Wars’ Darth Vader and the Wookie were signing autographs last night.

The Wookie keeled over. "Call the paramedics!" Vader shouted in fright.

The restaurant manager called for help. "Tell them to hurry!" he pleaded, and then turned around.

A rescue squad pulled up. Thought he, ‘They must travel faster than the speed of sound!’

"How’d you do that?" asked Vader a mere two seconds later as paramedics Gage and DeSoto stepped in off the street.

"You two sure are fast! We just hung up the phone! C’mon! Chewie the Wookie’s collapsed from the heat!"

The two paramedics then went straight to work.

"I’ve got it!" Gage cried, and gave the zipper a jerk.

DeSoto called the doctor. He gave them the cure.

They fixed that Wookie up, for sure!

They were just about to take him to the hospital

When Vader heard their radio call:

"Squad 51! Chewie the Wookie’s collapsed from the heat

At 223 west Palmer Street!"

"So where have you been?" Vader answered annoyed. "So what else is new?

They’re way too busy to talk to you!

You see, they’re already here at west Palmer Street

Where Chewie the Wookie’s collapsed from the heat! 10-4!"

Thanks to those two fast moving p.m.s, Chewie the Wookie, we’re happy to say

Is back signing autographs today!

How did they do it? What was the trick?

To find out, watch them...the next time a Wookie gets sick."

Chet finished reading and glanced up with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "How did they do it? That’s plainly seen. Gage must have stopped to fill his canteen!"

The guys snickered delightedly.

Gage looked somewhat embarrassed. But then a rather wry, crooked smile crept across his face. "What can I say? I was dying of thirst! Because a bunch a turkeys I know didn’t leave me any water in my canteen!" he added annoyedly and pointed a finger at his chest.

The group looked guilty as charged. Then they turned their attention to the sudden commotion coming from the garage.

There replacements were beginning to arrive.

Roy smiled to himself as he realized he was right. It had been an interesting shift, for sure!

The End

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Guest Dispatchers          Stories By Ross