Cap's Nightmare

"Dix, get on the horn and let LA County know that we're closed to trauma," Doctor Kelly Brackett ordered his head nurse as he rushed into treatment room two. His grim face answered her unspoken question – it was bad. She hurried to make the call.

The duty nurse tending her station at the admitting desk jumped in surprise when Captain Hank Stanley burst through the doors of Rampart General's Emergency entrance as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

Dried blood stained his turnout gear and uniform shirt a reddish brown and his angular face, smeared with soot, sweat and grime, was hardly recognizable. It seemed he had aged ten years in the last hour.

Hank trudged towards the ER base station in search of some answers. The shock was beginning to hit him, and his surroundings took on an almost surreal appearance. His body felt heavy and awkward, but he forced himself to continue towards the sound of Dixie McCall's voice.

She was talking on the phone to LA County Fire Dispatch. "Please be advised that Rampart Emergency is closed to all trauma," she explained. "We are at maximum capacity. Can you send our overflow to Harbor General?" she asked and then waited for a reply.

"I can't give you an ETA on when we can accept any more patients, yet. Yes…I understand. I'll get back to you as soon as possible…No, I'm sorry -- I don't know anything about their conditions yet. We'll do our best," she managed to get out as her voice broke.

Dixie hung up the phone wearily. She blew out a breath and closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself a moment's respite from the chaotic events of the last few minutes. She pushed herself away from the phone on the wall, turned and looked directly into the haunted face of Hank Stanley.

"I want to know about my men," he rasped, swaying slightly. His normally wiry frame looked almost gaunt under the unforgiving harshness of the hospital lights.

He looks like a refugee from a war, thought Dixie. But that's exactly what he was – a survivor of a war that was still being fought. "I'm afraid I don't have any information for you just yet, Captain. But, we have the best ER team in the County working on your men." There was a commotion at the admitting desk, interrupting her testimonial. A group of reporters from local news stations and newspapers had arrived to report the "latest" on the tragedy. That's all we need – a bunch of nosy reporters bothering patients and hindering my staff.

She steered her charge away from the insensitive pack, trying to slip by them unnoticed. How do you remain inconspicuous with a six-foot, four inch fireman covered in soot and blood?

"Captain, why don't you wait in the Doctor's lounge?" Dixie suggested. She smiled, pushing the door open with a flourish. "It's not the Ritz, but it's always got a pot of coffee brewing and that old couch is pretty comfortable. As tall as you are, I doubt that you'd find our waiting room chairs very accommodating."

She noticed him wince as they walked. Concerned, she questioned him. "Are you injured, Captain? Maybe we should have a Doctor look at you."

"No, Miss McCall – I'm fine. Just look after my men."

Dixie wasn't fooled. "Okay, but if I catch you looking like that again – I'll whisk you off to x-ray so fast, you'll think the gurney was entered in the Indianapolis 500."

"Thanks, Miss McCall," Hank sighed, smiling at her commanding tone. "I'll remember that."

She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Call me Dixie," she encouraged him.

"Thanks…um, Dixie," he replied.

"You're welcome, Captain. Listen, I better get back and make sure your guys aren't giving my nurses a hard time."

"Call me Hank."

"Well, HANK," she said, emphasizing his first name, "Is there anything I can get you?"

Hank wearily sank into the relative comfort of the sofa. He wiped a hand across his face, rubbing at his tired eyes. Yeah, pinch me so that I can wake up from this nightmare.

"I'd like to see my crew giving your nurses a hard time. When…will we know…how they are?" he choked out.

"The Doctors will do everything they can," Dixie assured him gently. She retrieved a cup from the endless selection near the coffee pot, filling it. "It could be a while – I'll let you know as soon as there's any word."These firemen are a rare breed. I bet he's blaming himself for this.

His hands were unsteady as took the offered cup of brew. Stanley nodded, grateful for her kindness. "Try to rest," Dixie instructed before leaving the room.

Hank was alone. With only his thoughts for company, he struggled to make sense of the last few nightmarish hours. His worst fear had come true -- he could lose one or all of them. How could I have let this happen? I ordered them into that building. Why didn't I get them out of there sooner? They trusted his experience and judgment. His men – Roy, John, Mike, Marco and Chet -- his crew. The wise and mighty Captain Stanley failed every one of them.

The cup slipped unnoticed out of his grasp, shattering on the utilitarian tile. Hank didn't notice. He sat alone, recalling the events of A-shift. Bits and pieces of scattered memories flowed through his mind as he alternately prayed and cursed…

The firefighters' banter echoed through the locker room at Station Fifty-one. It was 7:45 a.m. Captain Hank Stanley sat at his office desk, working out the final duty assignments for the A-shift. C-shift was still out on a call.

Hank strained to hear today's topic through the open doorway… "Aw, come on Johnny, what's the big secret? It's not like you haven't been dumped before," Chet Kelly needled the paramedic.

"Stow it, Chet," Johnny warned.

Hank returned to his paperwork, shaking his head and smiling to himself, satisfied that everything was normal in his world. He grumbled about pushing paper around on a desk instead of fighting fires and readied the duty roster.

While time seemed to stand still for Hank in the doctor's lounge, the hospital's normal rhythm continued. The endless wailing of approaching sirens had finally abated and the hospital staff carried out their work. Even three o'clock in the morning was a busy time at Rampart. Tragedy and sickness didn't punch a time clock.

In the Emergency department, doctors, nurses and technicians waged a battle. Doctors Kelly Brackett, Mike Morton, Joe Early, and Dave Stein bustled from treatment room to treatment room, working feverishly to stabilize and treat the five injured firemen.

Dr. Kelly Brackett, his adrenaline running high, barked out orders to his staff as he looked down at the unconscious and shocky paramedic on the exam table in treatment room two.

"He's lost a lot of blood -- where's the lab?" he yelled. "I ordered four units before they even got here!"

Dixie rushed to the phone to expedite the blood. "The OR is on standby, Kel," Dixie informed him. "Dr. Evans is the thoracic surgeon on call."

"BP is now 76 over 48, Doctor," reported Diane Ward, the new emergency department nurse.

"Establish another IV in his other arm. He'll never survive surgery if we don't bring his BP up. Come on, Roy. Hang in there," Brackett ordered.

The sound of the alarm interrupted the late night quiet of Station 51. It was a multiple-alarm incident. Four firefighters and two paramedics stumbled out of their beds, into waiting turnout gear and rushed from the dormitory into the apparatus bay.

"Station Fifty-one, Truck One-sixteen, Battalion Fourteen, Station Ten, Foam Twenty-seven, Engine Thirty-six; Engine Sixty; Station Eighteen; structure fire at the warehouse. Sprayon Products, 2294 Commerce. Two, two, nine, four Commerce. Cross street Vineland. Time out 00:38."

"Station Fifty-one, KMG-365," acknowledged Stanley into the microphone.

As they rolled into the night, Hank's face was tight with worry. He sounded the air horn with three succinct blasts to clear the inconsiderate, not to mention law-breaking drivers out of their way.

"Hey, man, this one sounds big," Chet commented to Marco over the engine's air horn.

"They store paint and aerosol products in that place -- all class four flammable liquids," Hank remarked in a tense voice. "I've got a bad feeling about this one."

Hank clenched his fists, frustrated and close to the breaking point. All he could do now was wait. He had stood impotently aside while the paramedics from Squads Ten and Forty-five had taken care of his crew. Damn…This isn't supposed to be happening!

Hank rubbed his sore shoulder and tried to ease the kinks out of his neck. Ah, what I wouldn't give for a cup of firehouse coffee right now…

"All right gentlemen, C-shift was busy yesterday and last night so we've got their housekeeping chores to contend with today as well as our own," Hank informed his crew. They groaned in unison at the thought of double housekeeping.

Hank glanced up sharply at their complaining, effectively silencing them. He continued to read the assignments. "Stoker, you've got KP."

"Anybody in the mood for spaghetti?" Mike asked his buddies.

"You bet, Mikey!" Johnny piped up.

"Sounds good, Mike," Hank replied. "Let me know if you need any help."

"Lopez -- the apparatus bay. That floor is a mess. Gage -- sheet detail. DeSoto – help Marco. Kelly…"

"I know, Cap – latrine duty," Chet answered. Why don't I just become a janitor? I'd probably make more money!

"Right. Let's get to it!" Hank ordered.

Chief McConikee was already on scene as Engine and Squad Fifty-one pulled up to the engulfed warehouse. Warehouse fires were always the worst because of their sheer size. Add flammable contents to the equation and the situation became critical. They were up to four alarms and it still wasn't enough. He was barking orders into his H.T. unit.

"Truck one-sixteen, set up on the east side of the structure. Fifty-one and Ten, attack the fire from the dock through that access road. There are trucks loaded with spray paint back there. The place is equipped with fire walls and doors but with the solvents, paint and who knows what else stored in there -- it could get dicey real quick. All the employees are accounted for."

The chief continued issuing orders as the Fifty-one crew went into action. Stoker pulled the engine as close as he dared to the shipping area. All the men put on their breathing apparatus and headed out to tackle the beast.

"Kelly, Lopez -- get a two and a half through that open dock door," Hank yelled over the roaring noise of the fire to his crew and pointed to an open bay door near the middle of the shipping area. "There are flammable products staged here for shipping."

Chet and Marco signaled to their captain that they understood, and pulled the hose from the engine bed and went to do his bidding. The crew from Ten's rolled in to assist.

"DeSoto, Gage -- grab another two and a half and spray down the area next to that fire door," Hank ordered, indicating an area close to several Fifty-five gallon drums.

Hank could feel the intense heat of the flames through his coat and mask. Sweat started to run into his eyes and he blinked several times to clear his vision.

He was asking for additional manpower from the chief when a series of explosions echoed throughout the building. Then all hell broke loose. Aerosol cans skyrocketed all over the place.

The volatile ingredients in the paint and solvents were too much for the valiant efforts of a four-alarm complement. The flames shot higher into the night sky as the building began to collapse into itself…

Hank hated hospitals. The smell made him nauseous. No matter how many times he was here, he could never get used to it. The smell of antiseptic, x-ray developing fluid, blood, and sickness made for a potent combination. He stumbled to the waste receptacle and retched violently.

How did these people handle what they witnessed everyday? He wearily sank back into the comfort of the couch. But then again, he had been asked that question countless times from people who worked in cozy offices and didn't understand why firefighters did what they did either.

Firefighting just wasn't a job to him. It was part of his identity. It made him who he was and his crew felt the same way that he did. They all depended on each other not only for their livelihood, but for their lives. And tonight, when his crew had depended on him and needed him the most, he had let them down. His men – his friends were just down the hall, fighting for their lives…

Hank walked through the firehouse, casually inspecting the housekeeping chores performed during the morning. The faint but acrid smell of smoke hung in the air. He inhaled deeply – no amount of cleaner or disinfectant could purge the odor from the firehouse. It clung to the hoses and permeated the heavy fabric of turnout coats.

The squad had returned from a cardiac run and Roy DeSoto backed the vehicle into the apparatus bay. Paramedic John Gage bounded out of the truck, grinning like an idiot.

"Chalk one up for our side, Cap – he's going to make it!" he beamed.

"That's great, John!" Hank answered enthusiastically.

Roy leaned against the truck hood and surveyed his partner. "All thanks to your excellent reflexes and medical skills, no doubt," he added laconically.

"All in a day's work, right Pally?" Johnny looked to his partner for confirmation.

"All in a day's work, Junior." Roy acted as if was just another call, but the broad smile on his face gave him away.

Hank interrupted their mutual admiration society with a dose of reality. "Speaking of a day's work… Gentlemen, I believe the squad log requires your attention."

Johnny's stomach protested. "Aww, Cap – I was hoping to grab some lunch first."

Hank sighed and wearily wiped a hand across his face. How many people owed their lives to his crew? Over the last eighteen hours alone, five people were with their loved ones – alive and thankful for the opportunity for another day together. He could only hope these men that were so important in his life would have the same opportunity.

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs that seemed to have formed. What had started out as a routine shift with normal response calls had turned into his worst nightmare…

Chief McConikee signaled Stanley. "Battalion Fourteen to Fifty-one."

"Engine Fifty-one here. Go ahead, Chief," Stanley's muffled voice came back over the airwaves.

"Stanley, get your crew out of there -- she's gonna go. We've got to protect the surrounding area. Back-off and drown the other buildings back there."

"Ten-four, Chief."

With their offense taken away from them, the firefighters' next priority was to defend the neighboring buildings and businesses in the mostly industrial area. They would back off and try to prevent the fire from spreading.

The noise of the fire was deafening. Hank yelled to Chet and Marco. "Get out of there, now!" Neither firefighter heard his desperate plea. He motioned for Mike to retrieve them. "Gage! DeSoto, we've lost this one!" he screamed but Johnny and Roy couldn't hear him over the tremendous wall of sound. Hank ran to grab them by the shoulders and shouted loudly enough to be heard. "It's too dangerous – get out!"

Mike went after Marco and Chet. He was helping them drag their hose when another explosion tore through the fire door adjacent to the dock, sending debris flying everywhere.

Hank watched in horror as Marco, Chet and Mike were thrown through the air from the force of the blast. Pieces of the door and fifty-five gallon drums were flying through the air like shrapnel. He grunted as he was tackled from behind by Roy and Johnny and landed with a bone jarring thud. He saw stars for a moment and winced at the pain in his shoulder. Wooden pallets, shipping boxes, and other debris rained down on them from the warehouse.

The crew from Station Ten were there in an instant, helping pull pieces of the wreckage off of Fifty-one's fallen crew members. Bob Bellingham took one look at the disaster in front of him and reached for his H.T. unit. We need more help, and fast! "H.T. Ten to Engine Ten."

"Engine Ten here," responded Captain Jack Arnold.

"Cap, we need another squad. We've got several men down here."

"Ten four, H.T. Ten," Jack acknowledged his paramedic and contacted LA dispatch.

"LA, Engine Ten."

"Engine Ten," dispatch acknowledged.

"LA, we have a multiple Code-I with unknown injuries. Roll another rescue squad and ambulances to our location."

"Ten-four, Engine Ten."

Brice and Animal had their hands full of injured firefighters. Craig ran to help extricate Stoker and Lopez. Bob helped Hank sit up, and placed a restraining hand out when he tried to bolt towards his men.

"Wait a minute, Cap," Bellingham ordered. "Let's check you out."

"Bob, that's my crew lying over there! They need me right now," Hank argued.

"Cap, I understand you're upset, but our guys are helping them." Animal tried to reason with the captain from Station Fifty-one.

"Bellingham, I'm telling you right now – if you don't take you're hands off me, you're going to have to treat yourself. Am I making myself clear?" There was no mistaking Hank's fury.

"Are you refusing treatment?" Bob demanded.

"Until I find out how they are, you're damned right I am!" Hank's voice shook with emotion.

Captain Stanley was so intent on retrieving his men that at first he didn't hear the radio transmission. "Battalion Fourteen to Engine Fifty-one -- do you read?" Chief McConikee's voice echoed over the radio. "Battalion Fourteen, come in Engine Fifty-one," repeated the chief. "Fifty-one, respond please!" McConikee urged. He had heard Captain Arnold's call for another paramedic squad and ambulances.

"Battalion Fourteen, this is Engine Fifty-one," Cap answered breathlessly into his H.T.

"Hank, what the hell's going on?" McConikee exploded, anger and frustration evident in his voice. "Is there a Code-I back there?"

"Chief…" began Hank, "the Code-I… is my…crew," Hank spoke haltingly.

"Hank?" the Chief, stunned, demanded to know more.

"Uh, Chief…it's pretty bad," Hank choked out.

"Dear God," was McConikee's only reply.

Squad Forty-five had arrived on scene. Tom Dwyer, pulling yet another overtime shift, approached Hank. No -- not Fifty-one! Tom was part of Fifty-one's C-shift paramedic team. "Cap, can you contact Rampart -- inform them of our situation?" Tom asked.

On automatic pilot, Hank set-up the bio-phone telemetry unit and made contact with the hospital. He took a steadying breath to rein in his roller coaster nerves before he spoke. "Rampart base, this is Engine Fifty-one. How do you read?"

Doctor Brackett was closest to the emergency base station and stepped into the alcove to answer the call. Surprised at hearing Captain Stanley's voice, he raised an eyebrow and glanced at Dixie. "Engine Fifty-one, this is Rampart. We read you loud and clear."

"Rampart, be advised…we have…five injured firefighters; injured in an explosion. We're extricating them now. Stand-by for patient information from Squads Ten and Forty-five."

"Standing by, Fifty-one," Kel responded, concerned. "Who are the victims, Fifty-one?" Kel asked gently. "We have medical histories and blood types on file."

Hank pressed the transmission button on the bio-phone and paused. Kel and Dixie heard him inhale unsteadily before continuing. "Victims are Mike Stoker, Marco Lopez, Chester Kelly, John Gage and Roy DeSoto."

"Acknowledged, Fifty-one. We'll be ready," Kel answered, ending the transmission.

"Sounds like we better get prepared," Dixie said worriedly. Hang in there, guys!

Kel shoved his hands into the front pockets of his stark white lab coat. "Pull their records and inform the lab. Also, call down Dave Stein from neuro -- we're probably going to need him. Where's Mike and Joe?"

"Having a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. I'll have them paged," she answered, and picked up the phone.

Hank came back to the present with a jolt. He looked down and noticed the shattered coffee cup and pool of liquid spreading across the floor, and buried his face in his hands. It reminded him of Roy DeSoto…

"Roy -- are you with us, Roy?" Hank's concerned voice asked as Bob Bellingham, a paramedic from Squad Ten, worked to free Roy from the confining debris.

"Yeah, I'm here – but…I'd rather be…somewhere else…at the moment," was Roy's answer.

"Let's work on getting you outta this mess. So don't give us any trouble, okay pal?" Hank's voice was all business, and he smiled reassuringly at his paramedic.

"Okay, Cap." Roy returned his smile with a wan one of his own.

"Cap? Where's Johnny?" Roy questioned in a panicky voice. He tried to push himself up. "He was right…," he trailed off.

"Easy, Roy, don't try to move," Hank ordered.

"Don't worry, Roy, we'll get him," Bellingham soothed his friend. "Didn't you know that the guys from Ten's are the second best team in LA County? Wouldn't want anything happening to the number one guys – we couldn't handle the added pressure. Where does it hurt?" he questioned Roy.

"My…left side," Roy mumbled.

Bob carefully cut away Roy's turnout coat and inhaled sharply at what he found. Roy DeSoto was bleeding profusely from several pieces of metal that had impaled him in the back and left side. The blood was beginning to pool around him.

"Bob…I…I…feel…funny," Roy's voice sounded weaker. "Sorta…heavy…an…ummm cold. I…I…think I'm bleeding," he slurred his words, exhausted by the effort it took to talk.

"Yeah, buddy -- it's just a scratch. Nothing we can't handle," Bob assured Roy.

"Just hang in there, pal -- we'll get you to Rampart ASAP," Hank added. He wasn't sure if it was Roy he was trying to reassure, or himself.

Hank shifted his tall frame uncomfortably on the couch, stretching stiff muscles. He had always considered himself a leader by example. He showed his trust and faith in his men's abilities by towing the line with them -- going into burning buildings to search for victims, performing CPR and manning hoses. He'd done it all with his crew and they respected him for it. Hank felt closer to these men than any he had ever worked with, and couldn't imagine working a shift without any of them.

Hank stood up determinedly and began to pace. What was going on? I've been waiting for… He glanced down at his watch. …only thirty minutes?! He caught his reflection in the glass display of the vending machine. My God, I look a sight. I should clean up...

In exam room four of Rampart's emergency department, Dr. Joe Early was doing his best to keep the young, handsome firefighter before him alive long enough to endure the surgery that he needed so badly. His blood pressure was rising at an alarming rate, and the results of the x-rays and CT scans were conclusive. Mike Stoker's brain was bleeding -- if the swelling and pressure weren't relieved, he would die.

Hank approached the pretty young nurse at the reception desk. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked the fireman, compassion in her eyes.

"Yeah, I don't suppose there's someplace I could make myself a little more presentable, is there?" he asked her with a rueful smile.

"Why certainly, Captain -- this way, please." She led him down the hall. As they rounded the corner, they both realized their mistake.

As the crowded room of reporters caught sight of Hank, they descended like a swarm of locusts, microphones and cameras in hand.

"Were you at the scene of the fire?" one asked, shoving a microphone at Hank.

"What was it like?" another prodded.

"There are reports that five firemen were killed. Can you confirm that?" still another queried eagerly.

Hank raised a hand to block out the blinding glare of the camera lights and blinked, confused and horrified by the rapid-fire questions being thrown at him.

The young nurse stepped in front of Stanley, grasped his elbow and steered him towards a door marked "Employees Only." She raised her voice to the crowd. "This man is injured and needs medical attention. Please stand back!" she shouted.

She ushered him into the male employees' locker room. Finding a pair of scrubs that looked like they might fit his long legs, she pointed him towards the showers.

He was thankful to be getting out of his soot and blood-stained clothing. "Thanks."

"We always take good care of our best customers, Captain," she returned. "And your crew definitely fits that description. You look like you could use a bite to eat," she informed him. "I'll have a tray sent to the lounge, while you change." She smiled and left him.

Dinner at the firehouse had been a raucous occasion with the guys tossing barbs about Roy's cooking and John's string of bad luck with women. Hank sat amidst the insults, coffee cup poised at his lips.

Mike got in a zinger at Chet's expense. "Hey Chet, I hear the Phantom might be applying for early retirement." Mike grinned.

"Oh really, Mike. And just where did you hear that? I believe the reports of his feebleness are premature," Chet countered.

"Why, the Phantom's Menace told me, Chet -- the Phantom's Menace," Mike said with a straight face.

The laughter flowed freely as the entire company enjoyed Chet's blustering. The familiar sound of Station Fifty-one's call tones interrupted their easy camaraderie. "Station Fifty-one, Station Eighteen, Engine One-sixteen; structure fire, 1-3-3-5 Sherman, One, three, three, five Sherman; cross street Maple. Time out 18:06."

"We're clear," Tom Dwyer announced as the last of the debris was moved out of the way. He was amazed to find Marco Lopez and Mike Stoker alive beneath the rubble. "Hey, I need a couple of backboards and c-collars over here!" Tom yelled to the guys from Ten's engine crew.

Marco was conscious and breathing raggedly.

"Okay, Marco -- where's it hurt?" Dwyer queried.

"My chest," he answered, exhausted by the effort.

"Did you hit your head?"

"N-no. No, I don't think so," Marco replied, a little confused.

"Watch my finger," Dwyer instructed, holding up his index finger about ten inches away from Marco's face. "Don't move your head, and follow my finger with your eyes," he advised as he slowly moved the finger back and forth. "Do you feel dizzy or nauseous at all?"

"N…no. But it, it…really…hurts to…breathe," Marco's weak voice answered. Tom frowned as he listened to Marco's lungs. Breath sounds were almost non-existent on his right side. Damn! Every shuddering breath was growing more labored.

Hank leaned over Marco, "Hold on, pal, we'll have you out of there in a minute." His right arm is definitely broken. Hank noted the odd angle of flesh and bone. As Tom cut away Marco's turnout coat and T-shirt, he could see the worst of the damage was more serious than a broken arm. Marco's chest showed dark, ugly bruises on his rib cage, indicating possible broken ribs. Hank also guessed that one of them had damaged a lung, which would explain why he was having difficulty breathing.

Marco's body jerked involuntarily as Dwyer palpated his ribs. Hank winced right along with Marco. "Hey Marco, isn't it your turn to cook next shift?" he asked, trying to distract him from the pain. "If this is your way of trying to get out of cooking, I think I'd find another way, pal," Hank half joked while holding Marco's head perfectly still as the cervical collar was applied. "Marco?"

Marco couldn't hear him -- he was unconscious.

Strong arms carefully maneuvered Marco onto the backboard and strapped him securely to its hard surface. Marco's breathing was becoming more labored – he was literally suffocating to death. "Cap, help me get him over to the squad!" Tom urged.

Hank picked up the head of the backboard and they quickly carried him towards Squad Forty-five. Tom's partner, Darrin Knicely, a.k.a The Iceman, already had the drug box, trauma kit and bio-phone ready. Darrin quickly made initial contact with the hospital. "Rampart, this is Squad Forty-five, do you read?"

"We read you, Forty-five -- go ahead," replied Mike Morton.

He passed the bio-phone receiver to Dwyer who relayed Marco's condition. "Rampart, patient is a thirty-one year old male -- victim of blunt trauma to the chest. BP is 90 over 50 and patient has lost consciousness. He has probable broken ribs with severe contusions along the rib cage. We have taken spinal precautions and have him immobilized. Skin is cool and clammy, and he was complaining of respiratory distress. He is also cyanotic. We have him on 15 liters of O2, but respirations are 10 and labored. Pulse is 110 and weak."

"Forty-five, keep him well ventilated, start an IV with Ringer's Lactate and transport immediately," Dr. Morton ordered brusquely.

"Hey, Dwyer, how's he doing?" Hank asked as he helped put Marco in the ambulance, placing the O2 tank beside him.

Tom didn't answer right away. Hank looked up and caught the look on his face. He could see a myriad of emotions in that look -- despair, determination, hope and fear. Cap could tell that he was thinking the worst. He felt his throat clog with unshed tears.

Hank, now dressed in surgical scrubs, continued to pace the length of the lounge. The forgotten tray of food sat untouched on the table. The sun had risen about 15 minutes before, and the orange-red orb cast a glow through the windows of the lounge. The glow was the color of flame.

He would have to call Emily soon. He knew she would be up getting the girls off to school. If she turned on the morning news, she would be worried sick. He hadn't wanted to call her in the middle of the night – no sense in worrying her needlessly. Oh, Em – I need your quiet strength right now.

He walked over to the television next to the door and turned it on. "Five Los Angeles County Firefighters were seriously injured early this morning during a warehouse fire at Sprayon Products, manufacturer of aerosol paints and chemicals. The warehouse measures over 100,000 square feet of storage space containing spray paints, household cleaners and industrial cleaning chemicals. The fire continues to burn at this hour," reported a middle-aged anchorman. "At the height of the blaze, flames reached approximately 80 feet in the air."

The spectacular video of the fire scene was shown. HazMat trucks were everywhere. Men, faces smeared with soot manned hoses and wielded axes, fighting the beast. Thick, black smoke belched from the heat shattered windows and spewed through gaps in the roof. The toxic cloud of dense smoke hung low in the sky, creating hazardous breathing for the firemen. A huge crowd had gathered, watching the horror before them. A fire always drew crowds, like a traffic accident or a fist fight.

Finally, the scene cut away to the exterior of Rampart. "The five firemen were transported to Rampart General Hospital where they are still undergoing emergency treatment."

Hank switched off the television and sank into the couch once again.

"Let's put him in five," Dr. Mike Morton instructed Tom Dwyer and the ambulance attendants. Tom held the plastic IV bags in the air while they transferred Marco Lopez onto the exam room table. A nurse hooked up the respirator that would assist his breathing.

Even with oxygen flowing at the highest possible rate, Marco was fighting for every breath. "Let's get a chest tube set up," Mike ordered the assisting nurse. He prepared to relieve the trapped air and fluid from Marco's damaged lung. "Scalpel," he instructed.

"Scalpel," she replied, handing him the sterile blade, being careful not to contaminate his work field. Dr. Morton deftly made the incision on the left side of Marco's chest and inserted the tube with little effort. A soft "whoosh" of air escaped. The nurse attached the other end into the pleurivac and switched on the suction. They both waited and watched as blood drained into the collection chamber. Marco's breathing was less labored.

"How's his BP?" Mike asked her.

"It's up to 108 over 70, Doctor," she replied, removing the BP cuff from Marco's arm.

"Good, let me stitch this a little so it will stay in place. Get a chest x-ray to see if that lung is re-inflating, and call the OR."

"Right away, Doctor Morton," she answered and rushed to get the x-ray technician.

"Hey, John, pal -- can you hear me?" Hank asked his paramedic.

Craig Brice was muttering to himself. "Don't tell me that you're injured again, Gage. I think you wrote all the department's policies on job related injuries just so that you could take advantage of them."

"Hey Johnny, come on," Hank urged as he wiped debris away from Johnny's face and upper body. "Gage, answer me -- dammit!" he ordered, the stress and frustration palpable in his tone.

Brice reached for Johnny's wrist, searching. There, a pulse -- pretty strong and regular. "He's alive, Captain," he informed Hank.

Johnny heard the familiar sound of someone's voice calling his name. His eyelids felt heavy and his head hurt. Come to think of it, everything hurts… If I could only open my eyes and see who needs me… Maybe Mike could move the engine off my head. Why'd he park it there, anyway?

John felt like he had been used as a whipping post and sucked in a breath as pain rolled through his head in waves. Man! I think I'll just stay here for a while. It's nice and peaceful…

Joanne DeSoto walked into the doctor's lounge to find Hank Stanley talking quietly to his wife, Emily, on the phone. He didn't hear her come in.

"I'm fine, Em," Hank explained patiently. "Don't rush. Get the girls off to school. Maybe by then, we'll have some good news…" he broke off. "Yes, I'll try. I love you, too." He placed the phone back in its cradle.

Joanne sat down next to him and reached out a tentative hand. "Hank."

He looked at her with shining eyes and grasped her hand tightly, almost painfully. "Joanne," he began, "I'm…so…sorry….I put Roy in danger. It's my fault he's here."

"Hank Stanley!" Joanne admonished, close to tears herself. "You were all doing your jobs! No one's blaming you for anything. It was an accident."

"I know, but…"

"But nothing!" she exclaimed. "If any blame needs to be spread around, I think the LA County Fire Department needs to take a good look at itself! Now listen, Roy's out of surgery. They got the bleeding stopped," she assured the captain in a shaky voice.

The Animal, Bob Bellingham, was conducting a quick body survey on Chet Kelly, checking for broken bones in his arms and legs. "Wow, Chet! Maybe you ought to work for the circus. You know -- how you fly through the air with the greatest of ease," Bob attempted a light tone.

"Ha, ha," Chet said sarcastically.

He discovered that Chet's femoral artery had been nicked by a piece of shrapnel and he was bleeding heavily. Bob quickly applied a tourniquet and a pressure bandage. He noticed Hank Stanley hovering in the background while Brice was working on Johnny and called him over to assist. "Cap, I need your help over here!"

Hank trotted over to where Bellingham was working on Chet. "Yeah, Bob -- what do you need?" Hank asked, concerned for his crewman.

"Cap, can you apply pressure here?" Bob showed Hank where to hold the dressings. "I need to contact Rampart so we can get an IV into Chet. He's gonna go into shock if we don't replace some fluids quickly."

"Animal, let me up so I can help Cap with the guys," he insisted. "AAAGHH! Shit!" he yelped as Hank tried to staunch the flow of blood.

"You're not going anywhere, except to the hospital," Captain Stanley informed the young fireman.

Bob noted Chet's blood pressure, pulse and respiration before contacting the hospital.

"Rampart, patient is a thirty year old male firefighter. He has a possible concussion. The right femoral artery has been cut by a piece of metal. He's lost approximately 200 cc's of blood. We have applied a tourniquet and pressure and the bleeding has slowed. Vital signs are: BP – 100 over 66, pulse – 100. Respiration is 24."

"Squad Ten, continue direct pressure and start an IV of Ringer's Lactate. Transport as soon as possible," ordered Dr. Joe Early.

Mike Stoker lay unconscious with several bleeding cuts to his face and a nasty bruise from his left temple to his jaw. Otherwise he looked fine, like he was catnapping at a four-alarm fire.

Craig Brice efficiently checked Mike for injuries. "Let's get that tank cut off him and move him onto a backboard. Once we get him immobilized, I'll be able to assess him a little better."

"How is he?" Hank asked Craig.

"Not good, Captain Stanley," answered the ever logical Brice. "He's taken a severe blow to the head. His blood pressure is too high, and he's not responding at all to painful stimuli. We've put him on a backboard -- I'm almost certain he has some spinal trauma as well," Craig finished.

Joanne DeSoto and Hank Stanley both looked up as Doctor Brackett entered the room, stethoscope in hand.

Doctor Kelly Brackett had a love-hate relationship with his job this morning. Granted, he loved helping people – that's one of the reasons he became a doctor. But he also hated to be the one to tell a patient's family or friends any bad news. It was twice as hard when it was someone he knew.

Hank checked his emotions and arranged his face into a mask as he braced himself for bad news. Joanne clasped his hands in her own, waiting. "Any news on my men, Doc?" Stanley's voice was hoarse with tears.

"Well, Chet Kelly has about 40 stitches in his leg and a mild concussion. He's being sent up to a room right now. He'll be back to his old tricks in a couple of weeks. You can see him in a few minutes."

"Johnny received a pretty severe concussion. He hasn't regained consciousness yet but he's responsive to pain. I'm a little concerned about intracranial pressure at the moment. We'll watch him closely for the next 24 to 48 hours. If there are no signs of bleeding into the brain by then, I'll feel more optimistic. The skull series looked good, and we'll perform another CT scan in a few hours."

"I'm a fireman, Doc, not a paramedic," Hank chided. "Give me the bottom line."

"In other words, Captain -- Johnny's hard head is paying off again. His vitals are strong, and other than a few cuts and some pretty bruises, I'm pretty confident he'll be up chasing nurses soon."

Brackett paused before continuing. He had already briefed Joanne about her husband's condition. "Roy is listed as serious," Kel reported. "He lost a lot of blood volume and was pretty shaky during surgery, but barring any unforeseen complications, he should pull through just fine," he said with a smile. "He's in ICU now. Joanne, you can go on up when you're ready."

"What about Stoker and Lopez?" Hank asked worriedly.

Kel shoved his hands into his white lab coat, a sure sign that he was uncomfortable and concerned. "I'm going to check on them now," he answered the Captain. Kel watched as Stanley digested the news about his men.

Hank closed his eyes briefly as if in silent prayer and tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. "Thank you, Doctor," was his simple reply.

Kel quirked his mouth in his trademark, aw shucks, you're welcome crooked smile, nodded and left the lounge.

Chet looked up at Hank as he entered room 230. "Cap, am I glad to see you! No one around here will tell me anything. How are the guys?" he asked anxiously.

"First things first, Kelly. Now, how do you feel?" he asked, pointing at Chet's leg, swathed in bandages.

"To tell ya the truth, Cap, I have had better days -- but they gave me something to take the edge off. You know I didn't even know I was bleeding until you and Animal clamped down on my leg. Man! I thought my head was going to pop right off," he chattered. "Doc says I'll be fine. I'm worried about the other guys, though. Are they okay?"

Hank nodded and sat down in the empty chair next to Chet's bed. "We haven't heard anything yet about Mike and Marco. Joanne's with Roy right now. He's out of surgery and it looks like he'll be okay. John's still unconscious but Doctor Brackett is optimistic," Hank finished.

"That's good news, then," Chet sighed and eased back into the pillows. "Wow, I thought we were all goners for sure, Cap," he muttered.

"You and me both, pal. You and me both. Listen, I'd better get back downstairs and see if there's any word on Mike and Marco. You take it easy now," Hank ordered.

"Right Cap. Give my best to the guys, okay?"

"Will do, Chet," he promised.

Joanne DeSoto sat quietly by her husband's bed, holding his hand and talking in a soothing tone. The steady beeping cadence of the cardiac monitor and the hiss-click of the respirator was having a lulling effect on her. How many times am I going to have to go through this? She turned at the swishing of the door. Hank Stanley, looking bone weary and about to fall over from exhaustion, stood in the doorway.

Hank wasn't prepared when he walked into the ICU unit. He looked at Roy laying unconscious in the bed. Dear God, he looks like a robot in one of Chet's crazy movies. There seemed to be tubes everywhere, seemingly connected to every part of him. He was still intubated and his pale face was barely visible under the resuscitator mask, breathing tubes, and tape.

"Any word?" Joanne wanted to know.

Her husband is lying there unconscious and she wants to know about the rest of the guys. Roy, you're a lucky man….

"Nothing yet," Hank replied. "I guess no news is good news."

"Well, Hank, they're in God's hands now," Joanne tried to comfort the captain.

Hank said softly, "I know."

"They said it looks worse than it really is," she spoke softy, noticing his horrified look at Roy's condition.

"I don't know how it could be," Hank muttered bleakly.

Hank shifted positions yet again. His long legs ached from the restricted blood flow. He had learned after his first year in the fire service to sleep just about anywhere.

Dixie found Hank dozing in a chair. He looks uncomfortable! She nudged his shoulder gently, prodding him into wakefulness. "Captain…"

In the way that firemen have developed over years of training, Hank was awake in an instant. "What's wrong?" he immediately asked.

Dixie sat down next to him. "Everything's okay. Marco had some internal bleeding and his lung collapsed from a broken rib that damaged the tissue around it. They've re-inflated the lung and taken him up to OR to repair it. I'll have Doctor Morton fill you in when he's free," she answered.

"How long will he be in surgery?"

"Well, I'm not really sure. It all depends on how much damage they have to repair -- at least a couple of hours," Dixie hedged.

"And Mike?" he asked.

"Dr. Early's with him now. It looks like he's going to need surgery as well -- he has head and spinal injuries."

Dixie sensed his fear and took his hand in hers. What if he's paralyzed from this? "Will he…be…paralyzed?" Hank didn't realize he'd asked the question out loud.

"It's too soon to tell. All I know is Dr. Early and Dr. Stein are the best neurosurgeons in LA County," she replied confidently. "Now, I've found a spare room for you. Why don't you lie down and get some rest." At the first sign of protest, she reassured him, " I'll wake you as soon as there's any news."

Dixie led Emily Stanley down the corridor to the room where her husband lay sleeping. She quietly slipped into the room, thanking Dixie with a look.

Hank didn't know how long he'd slept or what had awakened him. He looked up to find Emily smiling down at him. She leaned over and kissed him, smoothing his wayward hair. "Captain, I think your presence is needed," she whispered.

Dixie led Hank into the ICU unit. Roy was off the respirator. He still looked pale and weak, but he was conscious. He was obviously fussing about news of his partner and station mates.

"Don't worry, Roy – they're taking good care of the guys," Joanne soothed her agitated husband.

Hank stepped into the room. "Hey, Pal – glad to see you're still with us."

"Cap," he rasped in reply. "How is…"

"Don't waste your strength, Roy -- everyone is okay,"

"Too close…" Roy strained to get the words out.

"I know pal," Hank commiserated. "Hey, I'm going to leave you alone with this beautiful woman," he joked, indicating Joanne. "Think you can manage to behave yourself?"

Roy smiled faintly. He managed to nod, too weak to continue the conversation.

Hank stood by Mike's hospital bed, anxiously waiting.

"Okay, Mike – can you move your toes for me?" Joe Early asked the young fireman.

Mike resembled a mummy. His head was bandaged and his neck was immobilized with a brace.

"Sure, Doc," Mike mumbled, still partially under the effects of the anesthesia. He complied with Dr. Early's request.

"Great -- you're a very lucky guy. I don't think I have to tell you what could have happened if spinal precautions hadn't been taken," Joe cautioned.

"Brice was sure he had spinal injuries, Doc," Hank put in.

"Well, my friends – chalk another one up for our side," Dr. Early enthused.

"Yeah, the score is really adding up today," Hank replied absently.

He was swimming in an ocean, weighed down by his airmask and tank. The fire! Cap wanted a two-and-a-half on the dock… No, that wasn't right. Marco struggled to breathe, fighting the respirator assisting him. Panic-stricken, he attempted to dislodge the mask on his face. The buzzing alarm was deafening in his ears.

The ICU nurse assigned to his unit came running into the room, shoes squeaking on the polished floor. "It's okay, Marco," she soothed the distraught fireman. "You injured your lung, and the respirator is helping you breathe." She reached out and covered his hand with hers. "You're going to be just fine. I'm going to check up on your vital signs and let Dr. Morton know you've decided to join us." She completed her task, noting his improved condition on the chart. "Don't go away now. I'll be right back."

Don't go away? Why do they always say things like that? This won't hurt a bit… He ceased his struggles, slipping into an exhausted sleep.

"He's coming around, Kel," Dixie informed Dr. Brackett. "Johnny, can you hear me?" she asked him softly.

"Well, well, if it isn't the other half of the dynamic duo come back to life," Kelly Brackett's amused but concerned voice roused Johnny into consciousness.

"Yeah," John replied through parched lips. He squinted at the penlight being shone in his eyes and squeezed them shut against the pain.

Dixie stood on the other side of Johnny's bed. Noticing his grimace, she diagnosed his problem immediately. "I take it you've got one doozy of a headache."

"Man, did anybody get the license number on that truck?" he asked.

Six long weeks later, Captain Stanley stepped out of his office, clipboard in hand. It was 7:55 am and A-shift was on the job again. Before he called the roll, he eyed the assembled crew in front of him critically.

Mike Stoker, back straight, stood proudly at attention.

Big Red has missed you, Mikey.

Marco Lopez took a deep breath.

Welcome back, amigo.

Chet Kelly grinned beneath his mustache, obviously up to something.

Ah, the Phantom is back.

Roy DeSoto placed his hat on his head.

DeSoto, out to save the world again.

John Gage quickly buttoned his shirt and straightened his LACoFD badge.

What trouble awaits you today, Gage?

Hank read the roll and checked off the crew assignments. "Stoker, Kelly – we need to scrub and hang hoses -- do at least 200 feet. DeSoto, the dorms. Lopez, you're on KP today. Gage, you've got floors. Let's hustle because we've got a fire safety presentation at Longwood Middle School at 11 am."

"Cap?" Chet questioned hesitantly.

"Yes, Kelly?" Hank answered patiently.

"Ummm, did you forget something?"

"No, Chet – everything seems to be covered," he replied, glancing at the duty roster. "Is there something wrong with your assignment?"

"Well, no Cap – it's just that, well…ummm…I don't have latrine duty, sir," Chet stumbled over his words.

"Oh, I see. Would you LIKE latrine duty, Chet?"

"Not really, Cap. But, if I don't have it -- then how's it going to get done today?"

"I've got latrine duty today," Hank informed his crew.

"REALLY, Cap?" asked an astonished Chet Kelly.

"Really. Now, get to work, ya twit, before I change my mind," Hank challenged.

Thanks to all who poked and prodded me into finishing Cap's Nightmare ("This won't hurt a bit."). This one's for my nephew -- firefighter/paramedic extraordinaire!

Beta Crew: Theresa, Carol and Margaret-Anne

Medical Crew: Charlotte and Pat

Technical Crew: John

Acknowledgments: Heather -- for creating Hank's wife, Emily Stanley. Christine -- for writing "The Phantom's Menace."

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