EMERGENCY!
(The characters from Station 51 and Rampart General belong to Mark VII.
They’ve been borrowed just for fun—and not for fortune.)
L.A. County Firefighter/P.M., John Gage was not feeling his best. Being caught between a rock and a hard place, was not a good way to start a shift. Come to think of it, having the front of your uniform completely soaked with raw egg, was not a particularly great way to end one, either. Though, as lousy as the relieved-of-duty fireman now felt, he was actually glad his Captain had sent him home. The shift had ended—for him—at around 2:30, but it wasn’t until almost 4:30 that he finally reached his apartment. He’d had some errands to run—and uniforms to clean. That river water he’d inhaled, and the bruised ribs he’d received from being hit by a car—again—had led to an extremely painful coughing episode at the Laundromat.
No sir, the still hacking—and hurting—fireman was not feeling very well—at a-all! He put his cleaned clothes away and took another hot shower. The heat helped ease the discomfort in his ribcage, but the steam caused his coughing to intensify.
‘Wow!’ he thought to himself, as this latest coughing jag painfully continued, ‘It’s a good thing Dr. Morton made that appointment for me!’
He coughed himself into his bedroom and put on a fresh change of clothes. Then, he sat on the edge of his bed and began drying his hair with a towel. He glanced at his alarm clock. It was a quarter to five. He laid back, and allowed his heavy eyelids to drop.
‘Can’t afford to fall asleep…’ he reminded himself, and snapped his tired eyes back open. ‘I’ve gotta be at the hospital in forty-five minutes…’ But, the shower had been very relaxing…too relaxing. His drooping lids shut the world out again. ‘I’ll just rest my eyes awhile…’
And, with that final thought, the overly-fatigued fireman fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
John jerked awake. It was dark in his room. The luminous dial of his alarm clock said it was 10:30!
“O-Oh no-o!” he groaned aloud, “Morton’s gonna kill me!”
He tried to sit up, but was unsuccessful. He suddenly realized he was dripping wet—but not from the shower—no, this time he was soaked with sweat! His whole body seemed to be on fire! He also realized that his chest hurt a whole lot more now—too much for just some bruised ribs.
‘Better get to the hospital…’ he groggily determined.
He rolled very carefully onto his side and then tried to sit up again—but, still couldn’t do it. He couldn’t believe how light-headed and incredibly weak he felt.
‘Gotta get to the phone…’ he decided and rolled out of bed. “Ah-uh!” he cried out, as his bruised body made contact with the carpeted floor. He paused there, on all fours. Waves of dizziness rolled over him. His breathing was very labored. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
‘Uh-oh…’ he thought, as the shaking proved unsuccessful, ‘I’m gonna pass ou—’
The feverish fireman collapsed in a crumpled heap—and was still.
At around nine the next morning, Roy DeSoto and Dave Wright were standing at the Nurse’s Station in Rampart’s Emergency Receiving, restocking their diminished medical supplies. They’d just been out on a run where a little girl was injured falling down a flight of stairs.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” Dr. Brackett said, stepping up to them.
“Good morning, Doc! How’s the little girl?” DeSoto asked.
Brackett smiled, “You were right, Roy. No broken bones. Just a few dandy bruises. She’ll be fine.”
Roy returned his smile, “Great!”
Dr. Mike Morton stepped up to the counter and stood there, scowling down at the chart in his hands.
“Bad day, Doc?” Roy inquired.
The physician glanced up, redirected his frown at the smiling fireman and angrily announced, “I just had a talk with the respiratory therapist who was supposed to give your partner his breathing treatments. He didn’t show up! Not last night! Not this morning!”
DeSoto seemed surprised—no-o, stunned by the doctor’s little announcement. “That’s odd. He told me he was planning on coming here.”
Morton slammed the chart down on the counter, “Yeah, well, he must’ve changed his plans!”
Roy suddenly felt extremely nervous, and more than a little worried. “I think I’d better give him a call. He promised he’d be here! It’s not like him to break a promise…”
Wright signed the voucher, picked up their box of supplies and began heading off down the hall. “I’ll wait in the Squad!”
His partner nodded and started heading for the pay phone.
“Well?” Mike wondered, as the paramedic returned a few minutes later.
“No answer…He’s probably on his way here,” DeSoto determined, “He, uh, must’ve overslept.”
Johnny’s doctor just stood there, looking extremely skeptical.
The two L.A. County firemen rode along in complete silence for about ten minutes.
“Where we goin’?” Wright wondered, as DeSoto suddenly steered the Squad off course.
“Back to the Station,” Roy nonchalantly replied. “We’re just taking the scenic route…” he added, hintingly.
“I thought you said he wasn’t home…” Dave reminded him.
“No-o. I said there was no answer. There’s a difference…” Roy reminded Dave right back. ‘A big difference!’ Johnny’s extremely anxious friend gloomily reminded himself.
“Ahh, he probably just took off somewhere,” his passenger proposed. “After all, it is his vacation. I don’t blame him for not wanting to spend any of it in a hospital.”
But the Squad’s driver remained extremely anxious.
Several minutes later, Roy pulled up to 2190 West Ridge Street. The panicky feeling he’d been fighting back since they’d left Rampart, suddenly overwhelmed him. Johnny’s Land Rover was still parked in his space, right in front of his place. And, that could only mean one thing! He flicked the ignition off and reached for the radio. “L.A., Squad 51. We have a silent alarm at 2190 West Ridge Street, Apartment 3. Respond an ambulance!” he requested. Then he piled out of the cab and began pulling equipment cases out of the side compartments. “Bring the O2!” he shouted to his slightly stunned partner—er, temporary partner.
“10-4, 51…2190 West Ridge…Apartment 3…Ambulance responding…Time Out: 9:27”
‘Man!’ Wright thought as they went running up and into Apartment 3, ‘If Gage has just overslept, DeSoto is gonna look like a real dufuss!’
“Johnny?!” Roy called out for a fourth time, before finally finding his friend collapsed face down on the carpeted floor of his bedroom. “Johnny!” he exclaimed a fifth time and reached for the unmoving man’s carotid artery. ‘Thank God! He has a pulse!’ the paramedic silently pronounced and gently rolled his unconscious friend over onto his back.
“How is he?” Wright anxiously inquired.
“He has a carotid! Hurry up with the O2! He’s asphyxiating!” DeSoto added, having noticed their patient’s blue-tinged complexion. “Better start him on 10 liters!” he advised. Then he opened the base kit, inserted the call stick and picked up the phone. “Rampart Base, this is County 51. How do you read?”
As Wright placed the oxygen mask over their victim’s nose and mouth, he couldn’t help but notice Gage’s elevated temperature. “Man! He’s really burning up!”
His partner nodded, “Get his BP!” he ordered, and re-depressed the transmit button, “This is Squad 51. Come in, Rampart!”
Speaking of Rampart…Dr. Brackett was standing in the corridor, just outside the Base Station, looking over a chart. He caught the call light flashing out of the corner of his eye, set his chart down and entered the little glassed-in cubicle that contained the hospital’s Paramedic Command Center. He stepped up to the radio and flicked the transmit switch. “Unit calling in, please repeat…”
“Rampart, this is Squad 51…”
“Go ahead, 51…”
‘Pretend you don’t know him!’ Roy kept telling himself. “Rampart, we have a male victim…age 30—” the paramedic paused, and silently informed his friend, ‘Sorry, Junior…but there’s just no way I can call you ‘victim’…’ “Dr. Brackett, it’s John Gage. He’s unconscious due to asphyxiation.”
Dr. Brackett stiffened and his face took on a rather pained expression as he listened to Roy telling him about Johnny.
“Respirations are 26, shallow and labored…pulse is 80…BP is 100/80…He’s running a high fever, Rampart…He’s also cyanotic…We’ve got him on 10 liters O2.”
Brackett jotted down the victim’s—er, Johnny’s vital signs and then passed his prescribed treatment along to the two paramedics in the field.
“Roger, Rampart,” Roy numbly replied and numbly repeated the Doctor’s orders.
“Roy…I’d like an update on vitals once you’re underway.”
“Sure thing, Doc’!” DeSoto promised. Then he replaced the phone and started an IV in his friend’s right wrist.
Dave Wright stared wonderingly at his conscious colleague, “How did you know?”
Roy glanced up, “I know Johnny,” he simply said. “I knew something had to be seriously wrong…if he didn’t keep his promise…” his words trailed off.
Dr. Brackett was standing in the corridor outside of Exam 3, shouting orders to some nurses and medical technicians.
Mike Morton heard the commotion and strolled over to investigate it. “What’s up, Kel’?”
“John Gage is coming in for his breathing treatments—” Kel’ announced, and the fireman’s doctor seemed pleased, “—in an ambulance!” he finished, and the fireman’s doctor seemed stunned. “He’s asphyxiating…”
Morton just stood there, with his mouth open.
John’s ambulance backed up to Rampart’s Emergency entrance. The attendants jumped out, opened the rear doors and started reaching for his stretcher. Roy climbed down, carrying their precious cargo’s IV in his raised right hand.
“Put him in 3,!” Dixie told them.
They did.
Roy had remained in Exam Room 3 until being asked to leave by two technicians towing a portable X-ray machine. He was still leaning against the wall, just outside the door, when Dr. Brackett exited ten minutes later. “How is he, Doc’?”
The physician held the door as two orderlies guided a gurney into the treatment room. “Get him up to ICU and put him to bed,” he ordered. They nodded and disappeared inside. The doctor turned to his questioner, “You got him here just in time. His latest pulse/ox level is up from the sample I had you draw at the scene. If it remains steady, we shouldn’t have to put him on a ventilator. Now all we gotta do is wait for the antibiotics to kick in.”
A somewhat relieved Roy DeSoto watched as his best—but no longer blue-tinged—friend was wheeled out of the room and off down the corridor. “I don’t get it…” he muttered, quietly. “How could he get so sick—so fast?”
Brackett folded his arms across his chest and sighed, “Well, I haven’t seen the lab reports yet…but my guess is he was coming down with some form of viral infection before that incident in the river yesterday morning. His weakened condition—coupled with a few swallows of river water—”
“Damn!” Mike Morton exclaimed as he stepped out into the hall, “I never should have let him leave here yesterday!”
Brackett placed a hand on the discouraged young doctor’s slumped shoulder, “Hold it, Mike. You told him you wanted him to stay here. You can’t help it if he’s stubborn.”
“I should have been even more stubborn!” Mike insisted.
“You probably would have been—if he had been his old self. But, under the circumstances…Well, I would have handled the situation exactly the same way you did. Treating him as an out-patient was better than not treating him at all. You couldn’t hold him here against his will.”
Morton mulled that over for a few moments. “I guess you’re right. But I still feel miserable about this whole thing! It just shouldn’t have happened!”
“Yeah…” Roy sadly remarked, “That’s what really gets me, too…”
Wright rushed up to Gage’s glum friend, waving the HT in his hand. “Ready, Roy? We got a run! 1411 South Polomar!”
DeSoto nodded in Dave’s direction, but then turned back to Brackett and asked, “You’ll let me know if there’s any change?”
“Yes, of course,” the doctor assured him.
Roy gave both physicians a grateful glance and then, reluctantly, took off.
1411 South Polomar turned out to be an industrial complex.
As the two paramedics piled out of their rescue squad, a foreman came jogging up to them. “Hurry! He’s inside!”
The firemen grabbed a bunch of equipment and followed the frantic fellow into a factory building.
They filed past row after row of automated machinery and assembly lines filled with electrical components. Finally, they reached what appeared to be the scene of the accident.
“What happened?” Roy asked a group of workers huddled around a young man standing next to a conveyor belt.
The young man grimaced. “I sneezed…and stapled my hand to this…thing!” he explained in a rather nasally tone. It was obvious that he had a bad head cold.
The firemen looked at each other and then down at the guy’s left hand. Sure enough! A rather large steel staple was indeed holding the hand securely to some kind of very heavy looking electrical component.
DeSoto turned to Wright, “Get his vitals. I’ll call Rampart.” His colleague nodded. So, he opened the base kit, inserted the call stick, and picked up the phone. But, before speaking into it, he addressed their victim, “Hi! I’m Roy. This is Dave. What’s your name?”
“Stan…Stan Markum. Look, kin you guys speed it up? My hand hurts like blazes!”
“Hang in there, Stan—” Roy urged, “—we’re workin’ at it. Rampart Base, this is Squad 51…”
“Go ahead, 51…” Joe Early answered.
“Ahhh, Rampart, we have a male in his mid-twenties…the victim of an industrial accident…” He paused a moment, trying to think of the best way to explain the situation. “The victim has stapled his left hand to some kind of electrical component. Standby for vitals…”
Wright pulled the stethoscope from his ears, “Respirations are 25. BP is 160/90. Pulse is 90. He’s in extreme pain and there is some superficial bleeding.”
DeSoto passed the information on to the doctor and then asked their victim, “Are you allergic to anything?”
The young man looked very pale. He gritted his teeth and exasperatedly exclaimed, “Yeah! STAPLES! Can’t you guys just get this…darn thing out of me!”
“Hang on!” Dave re-urged. “The doctor’s gonna want us to give you something for the pain first. Now, are you allergic to any medication?”
“Not that I know of,” Stan impatiently replied. Then he sniffled and stiffened, as Roy started to insert a long, slender needle into his right wrist. “Can’t you guys get this steel out before you put any more in?!”
“The pain medication will work a whole lot faster if we administer it directly into a vein,” the paramedic with the ‘pokie’ patiently explained. “And, in order to do that, we have to establish an IV.” Their patient still didn’t like the idea, but he apparently liked pain even less, because he allowed himself to be jabbed. Roy taped the needle in place and Dave connected the IV bag’s tubing to it. “You can go ahead and give him 50 milligrams meparadine,” DeSoto informed his fellow fireman and so he did. “Pain meds are on board, Rampart…”
“Can you feel the shot working?” Wright asked their antsy victim. Stan sniffled again and nodded. Dave turned to his fellow rescuer.
Roy turned to the foreman. “Okay, we’re gonna need a hammer and a pair of wire cutters.”
Stan’s co-workers managed a group grimace. The foreman nodded and went trotting off. He returned in under a minute with the requested tools.
“Thanks,” DeSoto told him. Then, he carefully raised the component. The two points of the staple were sticking through the underside of the metal. He even more carefully tapped the staple points until they were flush with the component’s undersurface. The staple raised just enough on the top surface to allow him to slide the wire cutters under Stan’s trapped hand. He quickly snipped through both sides of the staple, freeing the young fellow.
“All right!” the grateful guy exclaimed, “Now get this thing out of me!”
Roy reached for their phone instead. “Rampart, we’ve got him free. Transporting immediately. ETA twenty minutes.”
“Hey! Wait a minute!” their victim demanded. “Aren’t you guys gonna take this out?!”
Wright watched the ambulance attendants pull a stretcher up. “’Afraid not. You see, paramedics are strictly hand from component rescuers. Doctors do the staple from hand part.” Their unhappy patient stifled another sneeze and then reluctantly allowed his initial rescuers to ease him onto the stretcher and strap him down. Dave turned to his fellow firefighter. “You kin ride in with him,” he offered. “It’ll give you a chance to check up on that partner of yours…” he finished softly.
“Thanks…” Roy responded with a grateful smile. He gathered up some of their more essential gear and followed the attendants out of the factory.
“Okay! Shows over!” the foreman shouted. “Everybody—without colds—back to work!”
Forty-five minutes later, Roy backed the Squad into the apparatus bay of Station 51. The engine crew stepped into the garage to greet them.
“Please, tell me we didn’t really hear the dispatcher say ‘ambulance responding 2190 West Ridge Street, Apartment 3’,” his Captain pleaded.
“He was asphyxiating…” DeSoto quietly spoke, through the open window of the Squad. “But, Brackett thinks we got to him in time. He’s in intensive care…but, he’s breathin’ on his own. They’ve started him on antibiotics…”
Stanley—and the rest of the engine crew—looked completely bewildered, “What in heaven’s name—?” Hank stopped speaking as the tones suddenly sounded…and sounded…and sounded.
“Engine 36…Engine 43…Engine 47…Engine 8…Station 51…Battalion 12…Battalion 14…Structure fire…3114 Austin Boulevard…Three-one-one-four Austin…Cross-street Meredith Avenue…Time Out: 11:28”
“Station 51, KMG-365,” Stanley acknowledged. He passed Roy a copy of the call slip. Then he took his copy and started trotting towards the Engine. It looked like lunch was going to be late…as usual.
Six grueling hours later, the engine crew dragged themselves into the dayroom and collapsed onto some chairs. They’d just returned from battling a big warehouse blaze. The men were completely exhausted and their empty stomachs were complaining—rather loudly.
“Someone really should see about putting on some grub,” Marco mumbled, as his tummy rumbled.
“Whose turn is it to cook?” Chet wondered.
“I can’t remember…” Mike confessed.
Captain Stanley was seated at the kitchen table, resting his forehead on his folded arms. “It’s Gage’s turn. So that means it’s Dave’s turn,” he answered, without looking up. Then, since his paramedics were on a follow-up to Rampart, he politely suggested that an order be placed for pizza. When nobody moved, he rephrased his words. “Kelly, call out for pizza!”
“Aye, aye, Cap’!” Chet acknowledged and forced himself up on to his feet. “Three medium?…one—the works, one—sausage and cheese, one—pepperoni?” he proposed. No one disputed his selections, so he staggered over to the phone and dialed a number from memory.
“Hey, Cap’,” Mike suddenly piped up, “What was that the Fire Marshal was saying about arson?”
“Yeah, Cap’,” Marco joined in, “Do they think that warehouse was torched?”
Stanley opened his smoke-irritated eyes, but never lifted his head. “They found some empty gas cans near the hot spot. I think that’s pretty obvious.” His eyes closed again.
“What was in those crates, anyway?” Kelly queried upon completing his call.
Marco straightened in his seat, “That poor guy is now the proud possessor of five thousand very soggy, crisp-fried color TV sets.”
Chet whistled.
“Kelly, since you’re already standing…How about collecting the mail?” Stanley further suggested.
The upright Irishman did an about face and disappeared. He reappeared a few moments later, his mission accomplished. “There yah go, Cap’,” he quietly said and deposited a small pile of envelopes before his motionless—and quite possibly sleeping—boss.
Stanley would have preferred a few more minutes to rest his sore eyes, but he snapped them open, straightened stiffly up and began sorting through the day’s postal delivery. His shuffling hands froze as they found what they’d been searching for. Station 51’s Commander in Chief stared sadly down at the envelope for a few moments, before sighing and ripping it open. He studied the envelope’s contents and then quietly commented, “John’s vacation starts today, March 15th and ends Tuesday, March 29th .”
“Can I see that for a minute, Cap’?” Marco requested, seeing as how Stanley was now just sitting there, staring blankly off into space. “Thanks!” he acknowledged as his Captain obligingly forwarded the updated Department Newsletter to him. “Hey, Chet…I didn’t know you had a vacation coming up in two weeks.”
“I don’t,” Chet assured him.
“According to this, you do,” Marco corrected.
The Irishman stepped up behind Lopez and began reading over his shoulder. “That’s gotta be a mistake!” he insisted. “I switched with Newcomb!”
“You’d better read the first page there, pal…” his Captain quickly suggested.
Kelly snatched the newsletter from Lopez and flipped it back to the front page. “…all personnel must take their assigned vacation on schedule?” he began reading aloud, his voice an equal mix of vexation and disbelief. “…will no longer tolerate vacation swapping?…any requests for special consideration must be received six weeks prior to—” he stopped reading and started ranting. “This is un-American! They can’t do this to me! I don’t want my vacation! I want Newcomb’s vacation! I’ve already made reservations for Newcomb’s vacation! Newcomb’s made reservations for my vacation! They can’t do this!” he angrily re-insisted. His fellow firefighters gave him sympathetic glances.
Then, Marco got an idea. “Hey, Chet, if you can’t swap vacations, why not just swap reservations?”
“That’s a great idea, Marco!” their Captain concluded. Then, he turned to Kelly, looking curious. “Where’s Newcomb going?”
Chet shrugged. “Probably someplace I’d hate!” He and the others turned their undivided attention to the doorway to the garage, as they heard the Squad backing in. A few moments later, its passengers appeared in said doorway, looking equally exhausted.
“Holbrook’s gonna be just fine,” Roy informed them. “Just some second degree burns and mild smoke inhalation. Johnny’s not getting any better. But, he’s not getting any worse, either. Which means his body is buying him some time for the antibiotics to kick in.”
“How could he possibly get so sick—so fast?” his completely bewildered Captain wondered, unwittingly repeating Roy’s question to Brackett almost word for word. “What in heaven’s name—?” he stopped speaking as the Station’s alarm suddenly went off…and off…and off.
“Engine 36…Engine 43…Engine 47…Station 51…Battalion 14…Structure fire…3101 Austin Boulevard…Three-one-zero-one Austin…Cross-street Champlain…Time Out: 18:45.”
Stanley answered the call, “Station 51, KMG-365.” He passed the paramedics a copy of the call slip and then climbed up into Big Red, tossing his turnout and helmet on. “Looks like our arsonist has been at it again,” he glumly surmised.
Twelve minutes later, Station 51 arrived at the fire scene—a two story building totally engulfed in flames. Firemen were pulling hoses from other engines, and enormous plumes of thick, gray smoke were billowing up into a cloudless sky.
Captain Stanley stepped down and went running up to Battalion 14’s Chief. “What do we got, Mac’?” he wondered, looking up at the blazing inferno.
“An empty apartment building,” Mac’ answered.
“It’s already been swept?” 51’s Captain queried rather incredulously.
“No need,” 14’s Chief replied and pointed to a sign, laying on the sidewalk, which said that the building inspector had condemned the premises.
“Condemned buildings make great hang-outs for hypes, winos—and kids!” Stanley solemnly reminded him.
“Well, Hank, let’s just hope there’s none hanging-out in this one!” Even as the Chief was speaking, the second floor collapsed into the first floor. “Let’s concentrate on protecting the exposures!”
Three exhausting hours later, the trucks returned to Station 51’s apparatus bay. The overly-fatigued firemen climbed slowly and stiffly down and began staggering towards the soap and sinks in the washroom.
“I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet…” Mike Stoker realized aloud. His co-workers couldn’t help but smile at the Engineer’s accurate description of back-to-back multiple-alarm fires’ effects on a body.
“Yeah, well, just as soon as we get cleaned up, everybody’s gonna tie on the old feedbag!” Hank Stanley sternly ordered. “I know cold pizza may not exactly be your flavor of the month, and that it’s after ten and you’re probably feelin’ too beat to eat…but I expect everyone to partake of some sustenance—A.S.A.P.!” he tacked on, in a no-nonsense tone. “An army marches on its stomach. And, with that pyromaniac running around out there, we may be asked to march again at any moment!”
51’s crew nodded their compliance to their Captain’s wishes and began disappearing behind the washroom door.
“Hold it, Roy!” Hank advised. The paramedic halted and obediently turned to face his now bewildered-looking boss. “How could John possibly get so deathly ill—so fast? What’s he got anyways?”
“Pneumonia,” Roy solemnly replied.
His Captain looked even more confused. “And he came down with it overnight?”
“Not exactly…” DeSoto angrily answered, “You might say he’s been working at it for over a month…”
“I should’ve intervened a lot sooner…” Stanley sadly muttered, in a barely audible whisper. But, the paramedic caught his quiet comment and shot him a questioning glance. “I’ve been asking the powers that be to send over a replacement for him for the past three weeks! Headquarters kept giving me the same answer: ‘Request denied. No paramedics available’. Well, that turned out to be a big line of bull, didn’t it!” the Captain exclaimed, as his sadness gave way to anger as well. “Because it sure didn’t take very long for Dave Wright to show up—once I’d relieved John of duty!” Following that little outburst of anger, 51’s Commander cursed under his breath and began taking his leave.
“Thanks, Cap!” the paramedic called after him.
Hank halted and glanced back over his shoulder. “For what?” he wondered, sounding as disgusted with himself as he was with the Fire Department. Man! He’d really dropped the ball on this one!
“For giving a damn…” DeSoto quietly told him, “…a damn sight more than we deserve,” he added, and shot his Captain a look of admiration.
Seeing the look only served to incite Stanley to even greater anger. “I’m thinking you deserve better…a whole lot better!” he irately added. Then he returned Roy’s look—and quickly took his leave. He wasn’t sure who he was angriest with—himself—the arsonist—or the asinine people in the personnel department!
Following a feast of cold, petrified pizza, the—literally—washed up Captain and crew of 51’s had collapsed onto their bunks, and remained there until the wake-up tones sounded the following a.m. .
“Humph…” Captain Stanley groggily grunted, upon hearing the tones and seeing the light of day, “I guess even arsonists have to sleep sometime…”
Awhile later, the members of B-Shift began arriving. They donned their uniforms and then joined their cohorts in the dayroom for coffee.
“We heard you guys got two multiple alarms yesterday,” one of the incoming crew casually remarked to the rather bushed looking members of the outgoing crew. “Must’ve kept you pretty busy, huh?”
“I don’t think you guys are gonna be too idle yourselves,” Chet Kelly shot back. “There’s a pyromaniac running around Austin Boulevard.”
“Is that on the level, Hank?” B-Shift’s Captain cautiously queried of his counter-part.
Stanley frowned and nodded. “They’re finding empty gas cans near the hot spots. So far, he’s only torched uninhabited buildings.”
Captain Donnelly frowned as well, “…so far,” he gloomily conceded.
One of B-Shift’s paramedics stepped up to DeSoto. “So…we’ve got an arsonist on the loose, and Gage is on leave. I’ve got to hand it to him. Johnny really knows when to take a vacation!”
“Yeah…” Roy sarcastically agreed, “His timing is perfect!” the absent paramedic’s partner insincerely added. Then he vacated his seat and vanished out into the garage.
The P.M. from the opposing shift shot DeSoto’s colleague’s a ‘Did I say something wrong?’ look.
“Gage is in ICU,” Stanley informed him. “He’s got pneumonia. He’s not responding very well to treatment. They’re going to try changing his medica—” he stopped talking as the tones sounded. They continued for some time. B-Shift’s crew set their coffee mugs down and began taking their leave.
“Station 51…Truck 124…Engine 37…Engine 43…Battalion 14…Structure fire…3273 Austin Boulevard…Three-two-seven-three Austin…Cross Street Paquette…Time Out: 7:57”
When Roy reached his home—about an hour later—he exhaled a long sigh of relief. The shift from hell was finally over! The off-duty P.M. entered the front door and smiled, as his four year old son, Christopher, latched onto his left hand. His little two and a half year old daughter, Suzie, latched onto his right leg. Their big, black Labrador, Joshua jumped up on his chest and licked him on the chin. His smile broadened. Heck, with a greeting like that, he couldn’t help but grin.
To top it off, his beautiful bride, Joanne threw her arms around his neck and planted a passionate ‘Welcome Home’ kiss right smack dab on top of his grin. “Oh, Honey…I was beginning to worry about you!” the pretty woman pouted as she pulled back from her embrace.
“Sorry…I should’ve called. I stopped to visit a sick friend,” he apologetically explained and then stooped down to the kids’ levels, to give them each a hug and a kiss. He swooped his children up into his arms, carried them into the living room and collapsed into an easy chair—completely spent.
Joanne smiled at the sight and shook her head. “Are you hungry?”
Her husband glanced up, looking thoughtful. “Yah know, that’s probably why I feel so rotten. I didn’t get anything to eat yesterday…well, except for two pieces of cold, pepperoni pizza,” he quickly clarified.
“Oo-ooh, Ro-oy!” his spouse irritatedly exclaimed, and went stomping off into her kitchen. “I’d like to get my hands on the slave driver who keeps you so busy that you can’t even eat!”
DeSoto set the kids down on the carpeted floor, got stiffly to his feet and followed after her. “You’ll have to stand in line,” he informed his frowning wife, and collapsed onto a stool at their breakfast counter. “The police would like to get their hands on him, too…” he explained, upon seeing her questioning look. “The slave driver is an arsonist.”
Joanne’s jaw dropped. She set his plate down and threw her arms around him again. “Oh, Roy! It’s not bad enough that you have to risk your life for accidental emergencies! No-o! Some sicko psycho has to go around purposely causing you to lay your life on the line!”
“I’m sorry,” Roy said, wrapping his arms around his teary-eyed wife and holding her tightly, “I didn’t mean to upset you…”
She pulled back a bit. “The arsonist is the one who upsets me,” she quickly clarified. “And, I’m the one who should apologize. I know you’ve had a rough shift, and you don’t need anymore hassles.”
DeSoto smiled, pulled her closer to him and held on tighter than ever. “Yah know, you’re a lot of things—but you’re never a hassle…” Their lips met again. Another, even longer—even more passionate kiss ensued, causing the firefighter’s racing heart to throw a few PVCs.
His wife was the first to come up for air. “You’d better eat,” she whispered softly in his ear, “…before your food gets cold—or before you pass out.” Her husband resignedly sighed and reluctantly released her. She crossed over to the ‘frig, “Who’s sick?”
Roy’s faint smile quickly turned upside down. “Johnny.”
“You’re kidding!” Joanne exclaimed and glanced up from the glass of milk she was pouring. “Did you tell him he’s not supposed to get sick during his vacation?” she asked lightly.
Suzie was pulling on her Dad’s pant leg. He picked his daughter up and sat her on his lap. “They wouldn’t let me in to see him.”
His wife’s look turned from one of mild amusement, to one of complete confusion. “Johnny’s in the hospital?!” Seeing her husband’s nod, Joanne’s jaw dropped again. “He must be awfully sick—if they wouldn’t let you in to see him…” Roy avoided her eyes. “Honey, how sick is he?” she anxiously inquired.
“They’ve got him in the intensive care unit. He’s got pneumonia. He’s not responding to treatment. He’s asphyxiating. He’s unconscious because his blood isn’t being properly oxygenated as it passes through his lungs,” the paramedic went on to explain, seeing that his spouse remained puzzled. “Anyways, he’s still breathin’ on his own…and they’re changing his medication…” he added, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Joanne set the glass in her hand down and gave her glum husband another hug. She understood the real reason Roy felt so ‘rotten’.
DeSoto was standing in the corridor of Rampart General Hospital’s Intensive Care Unit at around ten thirty that evening, talking with the respiratory specialist assigned to John’s case.
A nurse stepped out of his partner’s room. “Dr. Stafford!” she called down the hall, “I think he may be coming around!”
Roy grabbed the physician’s arm, “Can I see him?”
The doctor hesitated, then nodded—reluctantly. “But, only for a minute!”
DeSoto nodded his acceptance of Stafford’s stipulation.
The two men entered the room and stepped up to John’s bedside. The paramedic’s impassive face looked deathly pale. There were oxygen tubes in his nostrils and IV tubes in his wrists. His eyes were closed, but he was tossing his sweat-drenched head slowly from side-to-side and moaning softly.
“His fever broke about five minutes ago,” the ICU nurse informed them.
At the sound of her voice, Gage stiffened and struggled to sit up.
Roy held him down with very little effort, “Take it easy, Johnny…” he soothingly said, and his partner stopped struggling.
John slowly opened his eyes and blinked them into focus. “Roy?” he called out, in a voice barely above a whisper.
DeSoto took his friend’s hand in his, “I’m right here, Johnny…”
Gage turned his head in the direction of the voice, saw his partner smiling down at him, and untensed. “Hi…” he said softly and flashed his friend a very weak smile. His drooping eyes closed.
“Hi, partner…” Roy replied and squeezed John’s hand.
Gage managed a feeble squeeze back. “How—?” he inquired, quietly.
“Dave and I rescued you…” DeSoto told him.
“Oh-oh…That’s embarrassing…”
“Yeah. But it could have been worse…”
John forced his eyes back open and shot his partner a confused, questioning look.
Roy gave his hand another squeeze and grinned, “It could have been me and Craig Brice…”
Gage closed his eyes, snickered softly and was still.
DeSoto felt his friend’s hand go limp. He glanced anxiously up at John’s doctor.
Stafford had finished his examination and was now busy scribbling instructions upon his patient’s chart. “It’s all right,” he assured the ICU’s concerned visitor. “He’s just gone back to sleep. Minute’s up, anyway…” he reminded the asleep on his feet looking fireman, and then added with a smile, “I suggest you go get yourself some shut-eye, as well.”
Roy gave John’s hand a final, reassuring squeeze before heading home to take the physician’s sound advice.
John’s partner paid ICU another visit the following evening.
“Hi. I kin only stay a minute,” Roy informed his finally conscious, no longer feverish, but still unbelievably weak friend. “So, before I forget…The guys want me to say ‘Hi’ for them, and they want me to tell you that they hope you’re feelin’ better. Are you? Feelin’ better?”
Gage shook his head.
DeSoto looked somewhat alarmed. “Feelin’ worse?”
Again, Gage shook his head. “They’ve got me…so doped up…I don’t feel anything…at all…’Cept glad ta see you…” he added with a smile. But then his smile faded, his eyes closed and he became very quiet. “Roy?”
“Yeah, Johnny?”
“Thanks for rescuing me.”
“There’s no need for thanks. Heck, no…that’s what you pay your taxes for,” the P.M. teased with a grin. “Just doin’ my job.”
His grateful victim returned his grin. “Speakin’ of your job…” John said, suddenly sounding quite solemn again, “Did you…put the IV…in my right wrist?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You know…I’m right-handed…”
DeSoto’s eyebrows arched. He stared disbelievingly down at his complaining partner. “Yeah, well…I gave it a lot of thought,” he insincerely said. “And I finally figured that you must have wanted it in your right wrist—or you would have been dying on the other side of the bed!”
Gage smiled, snickered softly again…and then was perfectly still once more.
“Take it easy, Johnny…” Roy told him and quickly took his leave. His partner was asleep—and his sixty seconds were up.
Because the arsonist was still at large, and still starting multiple alarm fires—and because the firefighters were finding 48 hour stretches too fatiguing—the Department switched the shift rotations in the Charter Oak area from two days on/four days off, to one day on/two days off. Which meant Captain Stanley’s A-Shift crew had to report back to work a day early. However, when Hank and his men arrived at the Station that morning, they found the garage empty.
Stanley strolled over to the call desk and picked up the log book. “Humph…” he announced, “It was quiet all night…and then they got a four alarm call twenty minutes ago.”
“Wait! Don’t tell me—” Chet sarcastically said, “Let me guess…Austin Boulevard!”
“Close,” his Captain confessed. “He’s moved over to Meredith. The police were probably making it a little too hot for him on Austin.” The men winced at his pun. He shrugged innocently.
Mike started heading for the locker room. “Well, if they can’t catch him, I hope they can at least chase him out of our District. A couple more blocks, and he’ll be Station 20’s headache.”
“Good morning, gentlemen!” the Captain declared as Wright and DeSoto stepped into the Station. “Roy, what’s the latest on John’s condition?”
“Mornin’, Cap!” DeSoto came back. “Still no change.”
Stanley looked puzzled. “Is that good or bad?”
“Well, Dr. Brackett put it this way. He’s not getting any better. But, he’s not getting any worse, either…” the paramedic paused, “Where is everybody?”
“Three guesses,” Marco told him, “The first two don’t count.”
“The arsonist?! Already?!” Roy frowned as his Captain nodded.
Kelly came back into the garage, buttoning the shirt of his uniform. “Yeah. And, if he would have slept in a half hour longer, our shift would have been off to a really great start! As it is, we’ll just have to take it easy for a few hours.”
“I’m all for that!” Dave declared and started heading for the locker room.
Four hours later, C-Shift finally returned to the Station. The trucks backed in and the crews climbed down—exhausted, and covered with soot and sweat.
“Arson?” Stanley wondered as his counter-part came walking up.
C-Shift’s Captain nodded. “The Fire Marshal is getting quite a collection of charred gas cans.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Not so far. I sure hope they catch this guy soon! Like yesterday! I hope you guys have a dull and uneventful shift!” Captain Graham wished. “What’s left of it!” he added, after glancing at his watch.
“Thanks, Ron!” Hank told him. “By the way, you guys are welcome to stay for lunch…”
“Thanks, Captain Stanley…” one of C-Shift’s P.M.s gratefully acknowledged, “But we never eat lunch before breakfast.”
The paramedic’s partner stepped up to DeSoto. “Hey, Roy…Sorry to hear about Johnny being sick and all. Lousy way to spend a vacation.”
“Yeah,” Roy agreed, “Real lousy…”
“By the way,” the P.M. continued, “You guys are gonna hafta make a supply run to Rampart. The Squad’s runnin’ low on just about everything. But, we’ve been too busy to restock.”
“You two can head over there right after lunch,” Stanley determined and disappeared back into the dayroom.
C-Shift’s paramedics went to change while A-Shift’s paramedics went to eat.
An hour later, Wright and DeSoto were leaning against the counter at the Nurses’ Station in Rampart’s Emergency Receiving—restocking the Squad.
“Will that be it, gentlemen?” Dixie asked, handing them a larger than usual box of medical supplies.
“Yeah. Thanks, Dixie!” Dave told her. His partner signed the supply voucher, he took the box and they turned to go.
The phone at the desk rang. Dixie answered it. “Hey, Roy?! Wait up!” she called down the corridor. The paramedic turned around and stepped back up to the supply desk. The R.N. continued her phone conversation, “I see…Uhh-huhh…All right…Thanks, Jeanie.” She hung up and stood there, smiling. “That was a friend of mine up in ICU. She says Johnny’s doctor just upgraded his condition.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time!” Johnny’s partner realized with a grin.
“Well, I’m glad I got to be the bearer of it then!” Dixie declared with an even broader smile. “I’ll keep you posted, okay?”
“Thank you, Dix’…” Roy quietly said.
The R.N.’s eyes sparkled, “You’re welcome, Roy…”
DeSoto backed the Squad into the garage back at the Station, jumped out and went dashing into the dayroom. “Johnny’s off the critical list!” he cheerily declared, and the men all looked relieved.
Especially Captain Stanley, who exhaled a long sigh of relief and said, “Roy, I don’t even think a four-alarm fire could dampen that news!” He no sooner finished his sentence, when the alarm went off…and off…and off…
“How about a six alarm?” Kelly muttered sarcastically, as he and the others started heading for the garage and their trucks.
“Engine 23…Engine 8…Station 12…Engine 43…Engine 36…Engine 47…Station 51…Battalion 12…Battalion 14…Structure fire…Percy Auditorium…1014 East Hargrove…Cross Street 2nd…One-zero-one-four East Hargrove…Time Out: 13:30.”
Wright and DeSoto found themselves leaning against the counter at the Nurses’ Station again, five fatiguing hours later. They’d had to bring in an injured firefighter from the Percy Auditorium blaze.
“You two look like you could use a cup of coffee,” Dixie decided, as she came stepping up. “Well, actually, you look like you could use something a whole lot stronger than coffee, but you’re still on duty.” She smiled as the paramedics flashed her appreciative grins and began pouring themselves some of the pretty nurse’s proffered potion.
“How’s Porter?” Roy pondered.
“He suffered some second degree burns,” Dixie informed them. “But, Kel’s confident he’ll make a complete recovery.”
The paramedics were both pleased and tremendously relieved to hear that prognosis.
“What about that maintenance man 12’s P.M.s brought in earlier?” Wright wondered.
“Just some minor smoke inhalation,” Dix’ announced. “He didn’t even have to be admitted. I take it the arsonist struck again?”
Dave nodded, “He started four separate fires, this time! I think he thought he could divide and conquer us.”
“Well, then, he succeeded with me!” DeSoto wearily determined, “’Cuz I sure feel divided and conquered…”
“There where 12 engines and two squads!” Wright continued. “It took us longer to overhaul and pack up than it did to put out the fires! But we were able to save the building…mostly smoke and water damage.”
“I sure hope they catch this guy—before somebody becomes a fatality!” the R.N. angrily added.
The two, solemn firemen sipped their coffee and nodded their concurrence.
Mike Stoker and Captain Stanley were standing in front of the wall map in the garage when DeSoto backed the Squad into the Station twenty minutes later.
“Hey, guys!” Hank greeted them. “How’s Porter?”
“Hey, Cap! Dr. Brackett expects a complete recovery,” Roy replied, gladly passing the greeting and good news along. “What’s up?”
Stanley looked relieved and turned back to the wall map. “We’re trying to figure out where he might strike next…” he explained and traced the arsonist’s trail with his finger, “From Austin…to Meredith…to Hargrove…to—”
“Brampton!” Mike volunteered and pointed to a street bordering their District. “If he follows his pattern, that is…One block! One lousy block more, and Station 20 will have themselves a pyromaniac…”
Dave looked thoughtful. “If this guy’s got a pattern, then why can’t the police catch him?”
Stoker and Stanley glanced at each other and shrugged. The Station’s tones sounded.
“Station 51…Possible structure fire…Danfield Pharmaceutical Warehouse…118 South Brampton…Cross Street Presley…One-one-eight South Brampton…Time Out: 19:02”
Stanley answered the call, “Station 51, KMG-365.” He handed Roy a copy of the call slip and then climbed up into the front seat of the Engine. “Possible structure fire? South Brampton? Could this possibly be our pyromaniac?” he sarcastically inquired. The trucks pulled out onto the dark street, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
They reached the scene of the possible structure fire fifteen minutes later. Mike pulled Big Red right up to the Danfield Pharmaceutical Warehouse. Roy parked the Squad behind three police cars and a waiting ambulance. They cut the sirens.
Captain Stanley jumped down and went jogging up to a police sergeant, standing under a street light. “What is goin’ on?!” he annoyedly asked.
“We’ve got the arsonist trapped in a corner of the warehouse,” the Sergeant explained. “It’s a stand-off. He’s poured gasoline all over the place and he’s threatened to light it if we try anything.”
“Good grief!” Hank exclaimed.
“There’s more. The watchman says he thinks he might have wounded the guy. The watchman also says that the warehouse is packed full of chemicals…some may be toxic—or explosive.”
“If he does light that gasoline, I’m gonna need more manpower!”
“That’s been taken care of, Captain…” the Sergeant calmly said and pointed off down the dark street. “We have two battalions, four additional engines and a back-up paramedic squad waiting in the wings. Oh, also two foam trucks.”
Stanley stared disbelievingly out through the darkness at the row of engines and equipment parked just a block away. “How—?”
“—We called them on the phone and told them not to use their sirens,” the Sergeant interrupted. Then, seeing the Captain’s still completely puzzled expression, he further explained, “You see, the arsonist has a portable scanner rigged up on the Fire Department’s frequencies. He can hear all your calls. We don’t want him to think that this is anything more than a one alarm call. He would probably like to go out in an eight alarm blaze of glory. But, he might not think a single alarm possible structure fire is worth it.”
Captain Stanley stared incredulously at the Sergeant. “So, what are we supposed to do?”
“We can’t use a marksman—not with all that gasoline around. So, we’ll just have to wait.”
“For what?!”
A patrolman left the warehouse and came running up to them. “He’s insulted, Sarge',” he breathlessly reported. “He wants more firemen here. He wants to know why only one alarm was sounded.”
“Will your men volunteer to go inside?” the Sergeant suddenly wondered, and pointed to 51’s paramedics.
Stanley considered a flat out no answer, but he had faith in his men’s sanity. “Why don’t you ask them?” he offered.
The Sergeant turned to DeSoto and Wright. “How ‘bout it, gentlemen?”
Roy looked uneasy. “Just what did you have in mind?”
“The arsonist may be wounded. You could offer to treat him. When you got close enough—you could jump him.”
“What happens if he lights the match?” Dave interjected.
The Sergeant didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The look on his face said it all.
“Sorry,” DeSoto said, “But my wife made me promise her I wouldn’t do anything foolish. And it would be very foolish to volunteer for anything that would put my life in that maniac’s hands.” Then, he turned to Stanley and offered a more sound suggestion, “Cap? Couldn’t we put some hoses inside to dilute the gas?”
“Sounds good to me, Roy. But I’m not sure who’s supposed to be running this little sideshow—” Stanley stopped speaking as two more cars pulled up.
Two men exited the vehicles and came hurrying up to the Captain and the Sergeant.
“What’s going on, Hank?” Chief McConike anxiously inquired.
“What do we got, Sergeant?” the other man demanded
The Sergeant went first. “Lieutenant, we have the arsonist trapped inside. It’s a stand-off. He’s poured gasoline all over the place and has threatened to set it on fire if we try anything. The warehouse is full of chemicals.”
“Chief,” Stanley spoke up, “We’d like to get some water in there to dilute the gasoline.”
“What’s stopping you?” McConike wondered.
“The Sergeant wants us to wait.”
The Chief and the Lieutenant turned to the Sergeant. “For what?” they both asked at once.
“He might be wounded. The watchman thinks he may have wounded him.”
“Are we waiting for him to bleed to death?” McConike incredulously inquired. “He may not even be injured!”
“I’m open for suggestions,” the Sergeant admitted. “Anybody got a better idea?” There was a long silence.
“I think we could water down that gas without even letting him know we were pulling anything,” Captain Stanley finally proclaimed.
The Chief apparently liked the plan because he turned to the Lieutenant.
The Lieutenant looked thoughtful. “If your department is willing to assume full responsibility—go right ahead!”
McConike turned to Station 51’s Commander and nodded.
Stanley turned and issued several orders to his Engine crew. The firemen ran over to their truck and began pulling hoses.
DeSoto had been discussing something with Wright. He turned back to his boss, “Cap? Dave and I are willing to try to distract the arsonist. If we can keep him talking, he might not hear the water running. We’ll be careful…” he promised.
Stanley hesitated, then slapped the paramedic lightly on the back. “Okay, Roy! But don’t get near that gasoline! That’s an order!”
The two distracters nodded and went trotting over to their rescue truck. They grabbed a few pieces of gear and ran into the warehouse.
They followed their noses over to where some uniformed police officers were crouched down behind some crates. They knew they were close to the arsonist, because there was an overpowering odor of gasoline in the air.
“Where is he?” Roy asked one of the officers.
The officer pointed to the far left corner of the brightly lit warehouse, “Over there! Behind those barrels!”
“Has anybody seen him?”
“No. Why?”
“I was just wondering if he’s been wounded,” DeSoto explained. “Have you been wounded?!” he shouted, deciding to ask the arsonist, himself.
“Who wants to know?!” the arsonist called back, from the corner of the warehouse.
“Roy DeSoto! Los Angeles County Fire Department!”
“Squad 51, right?!”
The paramedic was surprised. But then he remembered what the Sergeant had said about the scanner. “Right!”
“I recognize your voice! Where are the rest of the firemen?!”
“Outside! Have you been hurt?!”
“What are they doing out there?!”
“They’re waiting to see if we need their help! Have you been hurt?!”
“You’re lying!”
“Look, if you’ve been hurt, we can help you!”
“Why would you wanna do that?!”
“That’s our job! That’s what we get paid to do! To help people!”
“I meant, why would you want to help me—an arsonist?!”
“Arsonists are people, too!” There was some strained laughter…followed by silence. Well, not complete silence. Roy could hear the faint sound of running water. He watched as the warehouse floor gradually became covered with water. “Please! Let us help you!” he shouted loudly, trying to drown out the tell-tale sound.
“Go away, and let me die!”
“You don’t have to die! Give yourself up! The police won’t hurt you! Please! Let us help you!” DeSoto’s voice was getting hoarse. He cleared his throat and turned to Wright. “You try.”
“What do I say?”