Editor's Note: this story contains adult language. It also touches on themes from some of Todd's other stories. They can be found both here and at his new Brice site.

Time Is The Fire

By Todd F.

"It haunts me, the passage of time. I think time is a merciless thing. I think life is a process of burning oneself out and time is the fire that burns you. But I think the spirit of man is a good adversary."(Tennessee Williams, playwright)



1976, Los Angeles County Fire Station 51, Carson, CA

Captain Hank Stanley could barely hold back his laughter as a red-faced Mike Stoker stood before him.

"You got a speeding ticket?" Cap asked his engineer incredulously. "You? The same man who regularly lectures his wife about her lead foot?" His grin turned evil. "Should we call her and tell her?"

"No need. She was with me," Mike said. He paused, reading the unasked question on his captain's face. "Hysterical laughter would be an understatement," he admitted sheepishly.

"I bet," Captain Stanley responded, still grinning. "Sooo… I assume the reason you are in my office is because you are driving on a ticket now?"

Mike nodded.

"Well, you know the drill," Stanley said. "Roy's got a noncommercial Class A, so does Chet, and so does I. I mean, do I. Whatever. Anyway, Roy's on the squad, and I'm sure none of us want Kelly driving," Hank said, rolling his eyes. "So that leaves me. Hope you enjoy shotgun."

With that, Cap reached in his drawer for the paperwork needed to make the change. Mike slinked out of the office and toward the dayroom, mentally bracing himself for a long, annoying day. The tones interrupted his thoughts.

"Station 51, Station 127, Station 8, Battalion 14. Brush fire. Staging area is PCH and Malibu Canyon Road. Time out, 8:05."

"Woo hoo!" Johnny and Chet hollered from the dayroom. They had a cash bet with the other shifts when station 51 would be called out to assist on the Latigo Canyon fire. They came running into the apparatus bay, with Roy and Marco close behind.

"I warned Joanne we'd probably be going once it got north of Mullholland Highway, but I was beginning to think I got her all worried for nothing," Roy said as he and his partner slid into the squad.

"I'm just glad to get out of here," Johnny said, excitement shining in his eyes. "We need a good fire. It's been weeks since… hey!" He caught a glimpse of the engine crew from the corner of his eye. He pointed. "Look who's driving the engine!"

Roy looked over to see Captain Stanley at the wheel of the Ward LaFrance.

"What's up, Cap?" Johnny yelled through his open window.

Marco and Chet swiveled in their jump seats. "Yeah, what's up?" Chet hollered over the diesel noise. "Why isn't Mikey driving?"

"Speed Racer here got himself a ticket," Captain Stanley shouted back. "Now lets haul ass, or they'll have the fire out before we get there!"

Mike sat in the passenger seat, resisting the almost constant urge to grab the wheel. He settled instead on abusing the floorboards with his braking foot when Cap aggressively turned out onto 223^rd street, then Wilmington, then the various twists and turns of the 405 freeway on-ramp.

"How's that invisible brake working there for you, Michael?" Captain Stanley teased.

"I'll let you know when I've removed my head from the windshield," Mike shot back at his officer and friend.

*

The squad and engine pulled into the Pepperdine University Campus, which was doubling as a staging area. Cap and Roy headed for the command post, while Johnny wandered over to the engine to chat with his co-workers. Chet and Marco were already quizzing Mike.

"So what speed were ya doin'?" Chet asked, with his body tensed for teasing.

"53… in a 30," Mike answered reluctantly.

"You couldn't talk your way out of it?" Marco said.

More like Beth couldn't talk them out of it, Mike thought. His wife had tried every trick in the book, even tears, while Mike had gripped the steering wheel, embarrassed and silent.

"She wouldn't go for it." Mike said simply.

"She?" Chet blustered. "She? You got pulled over by a girl cop? Oh man, they all got chips on their shoulders. You were screwed the moment she got you."

"They aren't all like that. My sister, she's a cop, one of the first females on the California Highway Patrol. She doesn't have a problem," Marco said proudly.

"I dated one once," Johnny recalled. "She wasn't so bad, but she couldn't leave her job at the job, if you know what I mean."

Mike, glad to see the conversation veering away from his lead foot, turned his attention to the engine's pump panel. At least he could still flow water without a driver's license.

"OK men," Cap's voice made him jump. "Here's the plan. Johnny and Roy will head to the first-aid station. The rest of us are on digging detail for now; there's an area south of the main burn that they figure will make a good firebreak in case this thing starts heading for Malibu. They'll rotate crews in and out of there, but I expect we'll be there much of the day to provide a little continuity. Let's move!" He clapped his hands together to disperse the troops.

Johnny bounced back to the squad. He was as happy as a clam to have avoided digging detail. Even Roy had to admit a tiny bit of pleasure in getting to sit out this particular task. The pair quickly transferred the chainsaw, scythes, shovels and K-12 from the back of the squad to the engine.

"Look at 'em," Chet groused, jerking a thumb in the direction of the paramedics. "They get to sit in the nice, comfy first aid station while we get to pop our blisters."

Marco swung himself up into the jump seat, hanging briefly from the handle on the side of the engine before taking his seat. "Cheer up, Chet," he said sarcastically. "With any luck, the wind will kick up and the fire will overrun us."

"Ha ha. I just mean I'm a fireman. Not a ditch-digger. You can't tell me you like this anymore than I do." Chet swung into his own jump seat and popped his helmet back on his head.

"I don't. But complaining about it won't change anything."

That's Marco, Mike thought as he climbed into the unfamiliar shotgun seat. Always looking for the silver lining. I wonder if he's ever really down in the dumps. He watched as the squad disappeared into a sea of red vehicles by the first aid station. Then Cap put the engine in gear and they took off.

*

1970, "East L.A.", CA

"I heard on the radio an ad for women in the California Highway Patrol. I was thinking of joining."

Marco put down the dish he was drying and turned to stare at his sister. "What?"

"I'm going to be a cop," Rosita said.

"Yeah, sure you are," Marco said, whipping the dishrag at her.

"Knock it off!" she said, ducking the dishrag. "I mean it. The ad on the radio said there's women in the, whadaya call it, cop school academy now. Some court case put them in there." She pointed a dirty fork at him. "You may like living at home sponging off of Mama and Papa, but I need to get out of here."

"I'm not sponging," Marco said, his face heating. "I just don't know what I want to do yet."

"Well, unlike you, I don't want to wait to find out. Besides, cops make good money."

"You'll do that over Papa's cold, dead body," Marco said fiercely. "You tell him and we'll get to hear about Salazar and killer cops for weeks on end."

He turned back to the sink. They worked on the dishes quietly for a moment, both reflecting on the recent Vietnam War protest that left Chicano journalist Ruben Salazar dead at the hands of armed L.A. County Sheriff deputies.

"And I'm not sponging," he added out of the blue.

"Sure you're not."

"I'm not."

"OK, you're not." She didn't sound convinced.

"Really. I'm not," he insisted.

She put down the glass she was scrubbing. "Whatever," she called over her shoulder as she headed out of the kitchen.

Marco fumed. He liked living at home. He liked having his mother take care of him. And she didn't seem to mind. It was none of Rosita's business. He flicked the dishrag at a fly that had settled on the dirty glass his sister left behind.

*

Three weeks later, Marco and his dad were working on the front porch, digging out rotting bricks and mortar, and replacing them with pavers that were better suited for foot traffic. Marco's prediction had been correct; only in the past few days had his dad stopped ranting about Salazar and the oppression of East L.A. citizenry long enough to concede that maybe his daughter had picked a good profession. That didn't stop Papa Lopez from wishful thinking, though.

"She hates fighting and aggression. She will probably quit soon anyway," his father said hopefully as he chucked an old brick into a rusted wheelbarrow.

"I don't know, Papa," Marco answered distractedly. What his sister had said still rankled him. He WAS sponging off his parents, although admittedly they benefited from having him around as much as he benefited from being around.

"I know my girl. She has got a good head on her shoulders. All my children do," his father continued on, heedless of his son's mood. "She will do this for a while, but maybe then she will find this is not what she was really meant to do. Like you, Marquito. She needs to be more like you, taking her time to find what is right for her."

"You don't mind that I'm still living at home?" Marco asked, surprised.

"Mama and I just want you to be happy. We do not mind waiting until you figure things out."

Marco's jaw dropped. His father smiled at his obviously flustered son. "I knew a long time ago that you were not going to follow in my footsteps. You are not a florist. You like being in the thick of things, helping people, hands-on. Like when you were a child and the neighbors used to bring all the stray animals to you because they knew you could help them. Or your tin-work. Or rebuilding this stoop. I could not see your brother or sisters enjoying this labor like you do. Take your time; it will come to you."

Marco pitched another brick at the wheelbarrow. His father had eased his mind, but not completely. Most other young men in the neighborhood, including his brother, were married with babies and jobs, while he was single and earned spending money driving a flower delivery van for his father. It was time for Marco Lopez to grow up.

*

"Papa, Mama, I've made a decision about my life," Marco said over dinner a few months later.

"A decision? That is nice," Mama Lopez said. Her eyes didn't look up from the dish of meat she was doling out into plates. But Marco's father paused, his soup spoon hovering in the air. He looked over his glasses at his son.

"I think we should listen to this, Mama," he told his wife, not taking his eyes off his son.

Marco's mother stopped what she was doing. "Go ahead Marco," she said. "A decision you said?"

"Well you know when I took Rosita to the police department to fill out that paperwork?" His parents nodded. "Well, she had to talk to the ladies there for a while, and I was killing time reading the bulletin board. There was a notice about firemen for Los Angeles County. I don't know why, but I thought it might be an interesting thing to do. So I scribbled the information number on my hand with Rosita's pen and called the next day."

Marco's mother's eyes grew wide, but Marco pressed on. "Ends up they are crazy for firemen who speak Spanish, you know?" he said. "They were practically begging me on the phone to apply."

"So you applied?" Marco's father asked.

Before Marco could reply in the affirmative, his mother broke into the conversation. "I do not know about this idea," she said. "You have a job with Papa. This fireman, it sounds like a dangerous job. It is bad enough Rosa is a policeman soon."

"Mama, I need to do something with my life," Marco admonished. "I can't live here forever, sponging off of you and Papa. And fireman, that sounds like a great thing to do. The training tower, where they teach you to fight fires, is right here in East L.A., you know."

"What is this sponging?" Mama Lopez asked, confused.

"I think he means it is time to spread his wings, Mama," Marco's father explained. "Marquito, is this what you really want to do?"

"It's helping people. And it sounds like a great opportunity. I'd like to try."

Marco's parents looked at each other.

"Already I do not see any of my children at dinner anymore," Marco's mother said despondently. "Rosita has police school. The twins are busy with their families. Your brother is busy with his new wife. Always busy. There was a time when children stayed home, and there was not so much busy-busy."

"But times are changing Mama," Papa Lopez said. "In this country, children leave their parents. And Marco is not leaving just yet, right Marquito?"

"Not at all. I have months of training before I'm ready. And maybe I can request an assignment to a station near here when I'm done. I won't leave you Mama."

Mama Lopez stood still for a moment looking at her youngest child. He was the most creative, caring and loving of her five offspring. Something inside him always seemed to glow. He made her happy. She could make him happy now, if she chose.

Then she smiled, her own decision made. "If this is what you do, querido, than this is what you do. Now we eat."

*

1976, Los Angeles County

"Hey Lopez, hable a su Papa y Mama a la semana pasada," Fireman Jose Rodriguez hollered from the back of Engine 140 as they prepared to rotate out of the dig site.

Marco hollered back: "Oh yeah? What did they have to say?"

"Puedes visitar, si puedes recordar la mapa a su hogar," Rodriguez teased. With that, Engine 140 took off down the road in a cloud of dust.

"Ha ha," Marco muttered humorlessly, before turning back to his shoveling. He didn't need guys from the old neighborhood reminding him of his broken promises to visit home more often. Need a map to his parents house, indeed.

"So what was that all about?" Chet asked his friend.

"Nothing important," Marco lied. He concentrated on shoveling, matching his rhythm to Mike's.

Always easily distracted, Chet was no longer interested in shoveling. "I wish I knew Spanish," he said to Marco's back. "Seems like there's always someone who needs rescuing who don't speak English proper. You're pretty handy when it comes to stuff like that."

Mike cringed at Chet's messy grammar, while Marco turned around, puffed with pride: "Yeah, Mama tells everyone who will listen, I'm one of the only Chicanos on the department."

"The only one at 51's, anyway," Chet said.

"Not really," Mike muttered.

"What was that?" Chet asked.

"Said 'not really,'" Mike repeated, marginally louder.

"What'd'ya mean?" Chet asked.

"Yeah, what'd'ya mean?" Marco echoed.

Mike leaned on his shovel handle. I hate shoveling so much, I'd rather chit-chat, he thought. Isn't that rich? He took a breath and dove into the verbal fray.

"DeSoto isn't exactly a Russian name," he pointed out.

"Hmm," Marco considered. "I never thought about it. I knew he was part Irish or something, but you think Roy is Mexican too?"

Chet snorted with laughter. "Roy Mexican? That makes about as much sense as me being Chinese. How do you figure?"

Mike geared up for a history lesson. "Actually, Spain is more likely," he said. "The explorer Hernando DeSoto came to the New World from Spain in the 1500's to conquer Florida and Cuba. Then he traveled up the Mississippi looking for gold. After he died, his followers scattered west and south. Roy grew up in California. It's possible he's a descendent."

Chet looked dazed, but Marco stayed interested. "So Roy could be descended from a great explorer, huh?"

"Depends on what you consider great," Mike answered. "DeSoto also killed or enslaved every Indian he could get his hands on, and his soldiers were responsible for bringing diseases like smallpox to North America's indigenous population." The facts spilled easily from his lips; when it came to history, one of his passions, he couldn't talk enough.

This was something even Chet could understand. "You mean Roy's relatives killed John's relatives a gazillion years ago?" His mind reeled with the practical joke possibilities… a locker filled with feathers dipped in fake blood, smallpox spots painted on Gage while he slept…

Mike read his thoughts. "Don't even think about it, Chet," the engineer said sternly. Ignoring his protesting back muscles, he drew up to full height, staring Kelly down. Stoker would do anything, even pull rank, to avoid a repeat of the peace pipe incident that riled up Gage a while back. Mike hated when people got riled up.

"What? Think what? How do you know what I'm thinking? I'm not thinking anything," Chet blustered. An angry Stoker was a startling sight, enough to throw Chet off his stride. "And I can't always help what the Phantom is thinking…"

His point made, Mike tuned him out. It's like Dad always said: you can lead a horse to water, but you can drag a dog a lot faster. He picked up his shovel and poked savagely at the hardened dirt before him. He was all chit-chatted out, and his hatred of sweat and blisters aside, the fire wasn't going to extinguish itself.

*

Business was slow at the first aid station. Johnny and Roy soon found themselves reassigned to fire detail. Squad 51 bumped down the dusty canyon road, its occupants bouncing around inside. A particularly large rut resulted in Johnny's head barely brushing the roof.

"Jeez Roy, you wanna try to miss a few of those pot holes?" he teased. "There's no reward for finding them all."

Roy grinned. "It's Stoker who needs the driving advice, not me." The grin faded as he gripped the wheel harder to steer around another rut. "Wow. I can't ever get over how dry and hard these roads can get sometimes. Don't know how people live out here."

"Me neither." Johnny waved his hand at the window, toward the dusty spectacle outside. "I appreciate nature as much as the next person, but dry roads, no corner drugstores, longer ride to school… I grew up with some of that, and I just can't see the appeal," he said.

"I lived practically across the street from my high school," Roy said. "And Anne lived right down the block. I remember we used to meet in the parking lot, even after we graduated. It was behind the school, so we could, you know, neck and stuff without the world seeing us."

Johnny laughed. "Neck, huh? I bet."

"Careful there junior, before I start aiming for some more potholes," Roy warned, but a smile lurked behind the threat.

*

1964 -- Norwalk, CA

The Norwalk High School parking lot was not where Roy and Joanne had planned to conceive their first child. In fact, it was the last thing on their minds as they made sweaty, inept but well-intentioned love in his Porsch the night before he was to leave for basic training. But they weren't the first 17-year-olds ever to find themselves in a family way before they were ready, and thanks to the war, it wasn't likely they would be the last.

Dear Roy,

I'm not sure how to tell you this, so I guess I'll just tell you. I'm going to have a baby. I don't know what happened. I haven't told anyone yet, except for Eileen. I'm so scared you will think less of me now. Please say you still love me.

XOXO
Joanne


Dear Anne,

I'll talk to my C/O and get a weekend pass. We'll get married before I ship out. Don't worry. I'll handle it all. I'll talk to Mom and your parents and everything too. About the wedding, not the baby. I guess they'll figure that one out on their own.

Love,
Roy


So it happened that when Roy came back from his tour of duty, he was already a husband and father.

He had enlisted in the Army to avoid the uncertainty of the draft. His plan was to serve his time patrolling officer luncheons in some out-of-the way corner of the world, and come home alive and well.

Shortly before he shipped out, the events surrounding the Gulf of Tonkin made it obvious to him that he needed a new plan. When his C/O called for volunteers to train as medics, he jumped at the chance. He never went to Viet Nam, instead serving out the rest of his duty in an Army hospital in Germany. But just as the wounds were becoming more deadly, and the politics were becoming more murky, it was time for Roy to go home.

He moved Joanne and Christopher into a little bungalow in Norwalk. He spent his evenings sitting on the couch watching TV with Joanne at his side and little Christopher toddling at his feet. His hair grew from an Army crew cut to a 60's shag. He was respectful to his in-laws, who hated him anyway. He called his own mother every Tuesday and Saturday. He earned a living working for a friend's roofing and tuckpointing business. He learned how to wrestle with a temperamental lawn mower and a station wagon that leaked oil. Joanne gardened. Christopher was fat and cheerful. All was well.

And yet, Roy DeSoto was not quite happy.

*

Roy sat at the breakfast table one Sunday morning, reading the help wanted ads. He provided Joanne with a running commentary as she prepared breakfast.

"Here's one Annie, for another roofing business. I guess Lou isn't the only one who needs help. Hmm, a doctor's office needs someone with medical experience. I wonder if Army medic counts. Oh wow, listen to this: 'Wanted, exotic dancers.' I guess I don't qualify for that, huh?" He smiled wolfishly at Joanne, and she giggled in return. He resumed his commentary.

"Police officer. Now wouldn't that be funny, Officer DeSoto. I don't think so. Let's see what's next. Oh… civil service exam for Los Angeles County Fireman. Fireman DeSoto. That has a better ring, don't you think?"

"Sounds dangerous," Joanne replied. She carried a plate of pancakes and bacon to the table.

"Yeah, I guess so. Remember when I used to hang out at the station by school all the time? Dad would come with sometimes; he always said if he didn't have such a bad ticker, he would'a tried to be a fireman." He paused then, remembering the thrill that always shivered his soul as the engines took off on a run.

"Why don't you put the paper down and eat your food before it gets cold," Joanne responded, oblivious to his wistful memories. She ripped up a pancake for Christopher as she talked. "You have a job. It has to be bad luck or something to be looking for a job when you already have one."

Roy carefully folded up the newspaper and dropped it on the floor at his side. "Yeah, you're right as usual. Lou's a good guy to work for, although I can do without all the heights sometimes."

"There you go then. Firefighters have all those ladders and things they have to climb. That has to be ten times worse than roofing," Joanne said triumphantly. "Now if you can tear yourself away from the subject for a moment, let's talk about what we are doing today. My parents invited us for supper you know."

"I can think of a lot of things to do today that don't involve your parents," Roy said with a leer, leaning over to kiss his wife on that one particular spot on her neck that was guaranteed to make her forget about her parents, for a while anyway. Christopher laughed and threw pancake bits all over the table, but his parents were too busy to notice.

*

It was a simple job; they didn't even have to pull up the old paper. Just patch some spots, and tar the whole puppy over again. Roy and Lou stood side-by-side atop the mansard roof of the small office building, hands on their hips, as a crew did the patchwork. The sun slowly rose behind them, threatening to steal away the cool morning air. A ladder stood off to the side.

"They're doing good. With any luck we'll be done by lunchtime," Lou said.

"I hope so," Roy replied. He scrambled back down the ladder. He definitely preferred the ground. As Lou started poking at some weak spots in the roof that the crew had missed, Roy supervised efforts by another worker to get the tar kettle and pumping mechanism restarted.

"You ready with that tar?" Lou hollered down.

"It quit on us, and now it's not restarting. Give us a minute," Roy responded. The dang kettle hadn't worked properly for weeks; he'd told Lou that, but the older man still had the nerve to rush them.

"God dammit," Lou grumbled, and lowered his considerable heft down the ladder. "What's the problem now?"

"I told ya, it lights, but it doesn't stay lit," Roy tried explaining. "It'll take forever to get to 500 degrees." Lou was so cheap sometimes. All he had to do was buy a new kettle. He had the money.

Meanwhile, Lou wasn't listening to a word Roy said. He had worked hard to get his business going, he was finally successful, and he wasn't going to let a temperamental piece of equipment get in the way. "Let me," he said, shoving his men out of the way. Lou started fiddling with the kettle.

There was a boom, then a flash.

Roy picked himself up from the ground where he was thrown. Lou was stumbling blindly, pieces of skin charred from his body in peeling sheets, his smoldering clothes splattered with hot tar. Shrapnel from the propane tank peppered his skin with lacerations.

Roy ignored the pain of his own burns and cuts as he ran toward Lou. With the help of the crew, he rolled the larger man on the ground to extinguish his flaming clothing. Roy sat back on his heels in a painful daze, all of his Army medic training useless, unsure what to do next. Lou lay writhing and yelling on the ground.

One of the workers yelled, "fire." Roy briefly found that amusing. Of course there was a fire. The tar kettle had just blown up, for Christ's sake. Then he looked where the worker was pointing. The explosion had triggered a small grass fire.

The summer had been one of the driest in recent memory. The flames quickly began to threaten the building despite the efforts of Roy and the men to stamp them out with their feet and tools. This isn't working, Roy thought, panicked. He grabbed a tar rake. "Look after Lou," he yelled as he ran for the front door of the office. He poked out a small window with the rake handle, reaching around the jagged glass to let himself in. He searched the reception area wildly. "A phone, a phone," he muttered. "It's an office. They have to have a phone."

He found the phone under a pile of papers. Dialing "zero", he waited for someone, anyone, to answer.

*

It was about a month after Lou's funeral, when Roy's cuts and burns were healed, that Joanne gently suggested it might be time for her husband to find another job. He didn't hesitate. After checking the newspaper to make sure he hadn't yet missed the exam date, he signed up to test into the Los Angeles County Fire Department.

"It was a sign, Annie, some kind of sign," he said that evening. Joanne, knowing that her husband wasn't normally one to believe in such nonsense, had to agree.

*

1976, Los Angeles County


Captain Stanley's supervision of his men was interrupted by a crackle from the handi-talkie.

"Latigo Canyon command to HT 51. Hank? You there?" It was McConnike.

"Yes sir," Hank replied.

"86's needs a couple hundred feet of hose. They're just south of Agoura Hills. Can your engineer run it over? Be advised Las Virgenes is the only clear north-south road up there at this time. You can contact Engine 86 for their specific location."

"We'll get right on it sir," Hank said smartly. "HT 51 out." The radio dead, his professional demeanor drained from him like rainwater from a windowsill. "That man gives me the willies," he muttered.

He turned to his men. "Hey Michael," he said, then paused.

"Oh crap," he said, at the same time Stoker replied "Yeah Cap?"

"I forgot you can't drive," Captain Stanley said forlornly. "Well, keep an eye on things here. I've gotta run an errand for McConnike with the engine."

"All right Cap," Mike replied. Inwardly he seethed. Rub it in, why don't they.

Captain Stanley took off in Engine 51. Chet leaned on his shovel handle for a moment, watching him depart.

"You know what?" he asked no one in particular, "I wonder if Cap was as paranoid with his old man as he is with ol' McConnike."

"His dad wasn't with the county. Didn't he retire a chief in Sacramento?" Marco asked.

"Yeah, but that still makes Cap a legacy. All in the family, ya know. Like my grandfather and father were in the fire service, and now me. Gets in your blood, I guess," Chet mused.

*

Sometime in Chet's distant future:

"So I got an email from your sister today."

"Uh huh," Chet responded, not really listening. Rupert was about to get kicked off of the island, just like he'd predicted.

"She says there was an ad in the paper for Our Lady survivors."

"This is the only Survivor I care about," he said, indicating the TV with a wave of his hand. He turned his head back toward the screen, but his hand shook, almost imperceptibly.

She saw the tremor, and pushed on. "Reneen says the ad was from a guy who's writing a book about Our Lady of Angels. He's looking for people who survived the fire."

Chet turned back to his wife. "We were in California when the fire happened. Neenee and me didn't survive nothing. Besides, that was, like, more than 40 years ago or something. What does it matter now?"

"Reneen has been corresponding with the guy. He says just because you weren't students at the time the school burned down, that doesn't mean you weren't affected by it. She told him you were a retired firefighter, and he says he's talked with a lot of survivors who became firefighters."

"So I was a fireman because my school burned down when I was a kid? Sounds a little weak," Chet argued.

"So OK, smartass, why did you become a firefighter then?"

"All Kellys were firefighters back then," he said triumphantly. "No big mystery there. Our own daughter is a firefighter."

"But Reneen says you wanted to be an actor. Or a writer. Or something like that. And then you changed your mind."

"Neenee doesn't remember crap. She needs to take her new-age Oprah shit and feed it to someone else. That author guy too."

Chet abruptly turned back to the doings on the TV screen. But he suddenly found it harder to focus on the antics of the survivors of the screen, as the survivors of his childhood began to crowd his thoughts.

*        

Los Angeles (Highland Park district), December 2, 1958

"Wake up Chet!"

"Mmph."

"Chet, wake up!"

He opened an eye. "Dang it Nee, leave me alone." The eye closed again.

"Chet, wake up!" Reneen's voice had an edge of panic to it. "There was a fire at Our Lady. Momma's crying downstairs. She won't tell me anything. Come on!"

"What?" He opened his eyes.

Chet's sister put her hands on her hips, unconsciously mimicking their mother. "I said, there was a fire at Our Lady. Aunt Kathleen called, and Da ran out right after to get the paper. Momma is crying now. She won't tell me what Aunt Kathleen said. She'll talk to you. Come on now!"

Chet's lips clamped down on an expletive. He hopped out of bed and raced downstairs, Reneen not far behind. His mother was in the front room. She sat in a chair normally used only for company. He paused in front of her, not sure what to do next.

"Momma?" he said.

She looked up. Tears stained her cheeks.

"Your cousins," she said simply.

"Jesus," Chet gasped. Reneen began to cry. The pair fell to their knees, their heads in their mother's lap. She caressed their curly hair and fought the guilt that rose within her when she realized that had they not moved from Chicago only weeks before, her own children may have been among the dead.

*

The clipping from the newspaper was folded, forgotten, in Chet's pocket as he sat on the front stoop that afternoon, idly watching as his friends arrived home from school.

"Hey Chet!" someone yelled from across the street. "Playing hooky?"

"Nah," he said in the general direction of the voice, which he now recognized as belonging to his classmate Patrick. As two of the only Irish kids in school, they had hit it off pretty quickly. Upon their arrival in California, Chet's parents had quickly faced the fact that there were just no real Irish neighborhoods in the Los Angeles area, and picked the blue-collar Highland Park area because of it's proximity to John Kelly's new job.

Patrick crossed the street. "You look like your dog died."

Chet looked up. "Ha ha," he said humorlessly. He suddenly remembered the paper his dad was so keen to purchase that morning. "Check this out." He dug the clipping from his grimy pocket and handed it over.

"Wow," Patrick said when he caught the headline. "92 kids dead? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! The nuns too? Where'd this happen?"

"It's my old school. In Chicago. Our Lady of Angels."

"You know anyone there?"

"Some cousins. And maybe some friends. Don't really know yet."

"Wow," Patrick said again. "I'm sorry, boyo. Check out the pictures though," he said, changing mental gears quickly as he flipped the clipping over. "Look at the fire trucks. That's something else."

"Yeah. My dad used to be a fireman. He probably would have been at the school."

"Why isn't he a fireman anymore?" Chet was still new enough to the neighborhood that his classmates felt it necessary to pump him for information every now and then.

"Got sick. The doctor said he needed somewhere warmer. So here we are."

"Cool. Your dad's a fireman. My dad's a plumber." Patrick's tone left no doubt which profession he thought was more noble.

"My uncle too. And my granddad. My other granddad used to drive streetcars in New York." Chet was warming up to the subject now. "He drove all kinds of famous people, actors, singers. He drove Charlie Chaplin once. And Bette Davis."

Patrick, while bright, was not yet used to the Kelly family's flare for fibbing. "Wow, really?"

"Yeah, and Bette Davis gave him a cigarette, and……"

"Chester!" His father's voice boomed from their front door.

"Yes sir," he answered, cowed. For one terrible, wonderful moment, he had forgotten what had happened at Our Lady. He wished he could forget again.

"Your mother needs you," John Kelly said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

"Yes sir," he responded. "Gotta go," he told Patrick breathlessly as he rushed up the stoop. "See you tomorrow maybe."

"OK," said Patrick. "See ya." He ran down the sidewalk, already considering which exciting tale he would spread first: the deadly fire, or the streetcar filled with stars.

*

Back to Chet's future…

Chet lay in bed, wide awake. He couldn't shake the question. Why had he become a firefighter?

"You awake?" he whispered at the figure next to him.

"Kind of," she said sleepily.

"After the fire," he started, "Da had a talk with me. I didn't understand it then, but I think I do now."

"Uh huh?" she encouraged.

"He was sure that if he was still in the fire service, he would have saved more kids. He would have pulled them out with his bare hands, ran through flames like I-don't-know-what, caught them by the dozens as they jumped. He took it as a personal failure that he was sitting pretty in California while the school burned. While my cousins burned."

"Mmmm," she said. "But being in California may have saved you and your sister."

"That was my mother's take on the situation. But Da, he was different, you know? Anyway, he talked some more and then he cried. I'd never seen my father cry before, or since. I could handle my mother crying, but Da, he wasn't supposed to cry."

"It probably scared you a little too."

"Nah," Chet said dismissively. "But it made the whole thing more real. I started to wonder if maybe he was right. If he'd been there, what would have changed? Probably nothing. I realize that now. But when I was a boy, I still thought he was strong enough to save the world, or at least those 92 kids. And maybe in the back of my mind, I was thinkin' that if Da couldn't do it, maybe I could for him. You know what I mean?"

They lay quietly for a while then, moonlight streaming into their bedroom window, shining through thin spots in the flocked curtains.

He had started to drift off again when she spoke up. "So what about the author guy? I think it might do you some good to talk it out some more."

He sighed heavily. "I'll call Reneen tomorrow and see what she thinks. I don't know if I can give him what he wants. But maybe he'll decide it's not all that interesting anyways."

Then they were both silent, letting their thoughts wander over the sounds of their dogs snoring on the end of the bed. Chet debated kicking them off, but before he could give voice to the thought, he was asleep.

*

1976, Los Angeles County

Roy and Johnny pulled up to the rest of the crew.

"Gentlemen, help has arrived," Johnny announced grandly as he got out of the squad.

"Great," a dusty, tired Chet replied. "Stop flapping your jaws, and take this shovel."

"No more first aid?" Marco asked.

"I guess they decided we'd be better off using our vast medical talents moving dirt from point A to point B," Roy said. "There wasn't much going on there anyway."

"Where's Cap?"

"Running errands with the engine," replied a voice behind them. Mike had just returned from consulting with the captain of the other crew working on the firebreak. "We'll be heading out as soon as he comes back. They're leaving now," he said, indicating the other crew.

"Fire heading this way?" Roy asked.

"Not at the moment. But the digging is just about done. All that's left is a couple of scrub trees that need to come down. They figured we could do that ourselves," Mike said. He grabbed the chainsaw and headed toward a tree, eager to get the job done and grab some rest.

Roy took Marco's shovel and the paramedics began to dig. Marco and Chet relaxed in the dusty shade provided by the squad, while Mike made short work of the few small trees deemed unimportant enough to sacrifice themselves to the cause of fire control.

Chet couldn't relax for long. As Mike stowed the saw, Chet picked up the thread of an earlier conversation. "Stoker's a legacy too, aren't ya Mikey? Is that why you went into the business? Your old man?"

"Applied to the academy after I got out of the service," was all Mike would say in response.

"That doesn't mean anything. So did me and Roy. But why?" Chet pushed.

"Well, it's like this..."

Chet leaned forward, sure he was finally going to get some good dirt on Stoker.

"You know how sometimes a person can wake up and see the same crack on the ceiling over and over again, and really see a different crack each time?" Mike asked enigmatically.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Well, that never happened." Stoker resumed stowing the chainsaw.

"Wait! That's it? What the hell does that mean?"

The men of Station 51 laughed at their flustered crewmate.

"Chet, you'd have a better chance of cracking a safe than Mike," Marco said, humor and admiration coloring his voice.

"Yeah, he really had you goin' there, Chester B." Johnny said, wiping at his tearing eyes and leaving a smudge of dirt behind.

"Whadaya mean, he had me goin'? This crack, Mikey. Tell me more about the crack… is it, like, symbolic of something? C'mon…"

*

1971, Los Angeles, CA


"Where's mom?"

"Hello to you too. The old man not good enough?"

"No sir," Mike muttered, stepping aside so his father could enter. "Where's mom?" he ventured again.

"Sharing jello recipes with the neighborhood coffee klatch. What else? I oughta buy stock in Tab and Nescafe for all the nattering they do. She sent me instead." He glared at his son. "You think I can't measure window frames?"

It wasn't the measuring that had Mike worried. But his mother was measuring to make curtains for his apartment. A sudden image came to mind: his father, bending over a sewing machine, Bud in one hand, bobbin in the other. He smiled. His father mistook the smile for acquiescence.

"Glad you approve. Are these it?" His dad indicated the kitchen windows with a jerk of his chin, since his arthritic hands were curled around a yardstick and a tape measure.

"Yep." Mike said. He followed his dad around the kitchen table, almost banging into the older man when he stopped short.

"What're these? More of that history crap?" his dad asked, chin jerking again, this time downward toward a pile of books on the table.

"Just some stuff I'm reading," Mike said. He really hoped his dad wouldn't go any further.

"'Fire Service Hydraulics'? 'Pumping Apparatus Operator Handbook'? What's this all about?"

Damn. Hope would have to spring eternal another time. "For the engineer test."

"You? Testing for engineer? You're kidding!" His dad's lip curled into a derisive snarl.

"Why would I be kidding?" The words slipped out before he could stop them. He really wasn't in the mood for a verbal sparring match with his father today.

"I didn't get to captain without being a pretty good judge of character. You don't have the balls for it. You'll fuck up and get someone killed, or get busted back to boot in nothing flat."

Mike face burned with anger and embarrassment, but he managed to keep his voice steady. "I want to be a captain one day." Like you Dad, he added wordlessly. "I'm good at math. Engineer makes sense."

"Captain?" his dad snorted. "What the hell? There was only one Captain Stoker in the L.A. County Fire Department, and you're lookin' at him, son. Don't embarrass me with this promotion shit, or I'll kick your ass back to the ice age." He turned away from his son to look at the windows. Obviously the discussion, as far as he was concerned, was closed.

Mike silently grabbed the books and took them into the living room. There was no room on his overstuffed bookshelves. He knelt down and hid them under the ottoman. He leaned his forehead against the cool naugahyde for a moment, taking deep, measured breaths and blowing them out until he felt slightly light-headed.

When he came back into the kitchen, his father was teetering on a chair, measuring. He was in obvious pain. Mike chose a strategic position behind the chair, far enough to avoid sparking any more verbal shrapnel, but close enough to catch his ailing father if he fell.

*

1973, Panda Inn, Pasadena, CA

He was on his second date with Beth. He was already sure he'd marry her some day, although he hadn't shared that bit of information with her yet. Something about her made him talk, made him want to talk, babble even, as if someone had slipped a truth serum in his Coke.

"So your dad didn't think you had the guts for it, for the engineer job?" she asked, incredulously. He had spent the last hour telling her about his tenuous and tumultuous relationship with his dad. Their po-po platter sat, cold and ignored.

"He was right, up to a point," Mike admitted. "I didn't have the balls for it in the beginning. After I finished up my tour, I only applied to the fire academy because I thought it would make Dad happy."

He leaned back in his chair. "I didn't like heat and dirt, didn't like confined spaces, didn't like rescues… and I didn't like fire, that's for damn sure. Especially after spending a couple of years in uniform overseas setting them. As far as firemen went, I was just another dumb guy with a hose hoping to drift through the shift without killing anyone else… or myself."

"But engineer -- that was my element. I could finally contribute to the team, you know? For the first time, I was put in a position where I could use my talents, and see how all the parts fit together. I could actually see how well-planned, slick-as-snot incident command isn't an accident."

Beth blushed at his choice of words – appropriate for a firehouse, but not for a dinner date. Mike was too comfortable to notice.

"There's plenty of good, talented hose jockeys out there… you know, the ones like Chet and Marco who can read fire like a book," he continued. "But there are plenty of mediocre hose jockeys too. They float through a station or two for 20 years, lay low, then retire with bad backs or blown knees. But good engineers, they aren't exactly a dime a dozen… and I was good. I am good. And now that I can see how it all works, I'll be a good captain too some day. Better than the old man ever was."

Mike leaned forward to make his point, and Beth grabbed his hand in empathy. A cocoon of silent understanding settled over the pair, while around them the clink-clank of dinnerware, and murmur of conversations continued unabated.

*

1976, Los Angeles County

A backhoe and dump truck arrived to haul off some of the dirt and brush the men had spent much of the morning clearing. The terrain was too steep to accommodate many more trucks, and it would be a while before this particular firebreak would be ready for action.

The men of Station 51 rested and sipped water warmed by the midday sun as they watched the machinery dig into the mess.

"Wonder how long we'll have to wait for Cap?" Johnny wondered.

"Maybe an hour," Roy guessed. "Depends on how far around he has to go."

"You bring any cigarettes?" Chet asked no one in particular.

"Not I," Johnny answered.

"Me neither," Marco and Roy echoed. Since they didn't smoke anyway, Chet frowned in confusion. They grinned back at him. Neither bothered to point out the obvious to Chet; a single spark from a cigarette could send the rest of the canyon up in flames.

"I wonder why firemen are such big smokers?" Mike mused aloud. "We know what smoke does to lungs." The engineer was a social smoker, and not against the idea of an occasional cigar when the need arose.

"I've smoked since I was 13," Johnny answered. "Not so much now, but sometimes you just need one, like after working real hard."

"Working real hard, huh?" Chet said, winking and making an obscene gesture with his hands.

"That too," Johnny said, blushing slightly and grinning broadly. Marco laughed at the crude humor, while Mike and Roy shook their heads in false disgust.

*

1963, Cloquet, MN


Johnny and Buck sat on deck chairs with their legs stretched before them. A sheen of summer sweat made their faces glow in the dusk. Cigarette smoke curled over their heads and floated into the darkening yard, keeping the mosquitoes at bay. The lightening bugs blinked like runway lights as they beckoned distant mates.

Johnny sighed and studied the cigarette in his hand. "Aunt Violet's buggin' me to come out to California again," he said. "She says you ain't a good influence."

"Ja, ja, sann," Buck said in lazy Norwegian, nodding slowly in agreement.

Johnny did a double-take. "What? No, it's not true. We're doin' OK here. I'm doin' OK here."

"You don't go to school much," Buck pointed out.

"Well, you don't exactly seem to care."

"Not a matter of not caring. I'm at the fire station every couple'a days. I can't watch ya every minute."

Johnny sprang up from his chair and paced the deck. "I'm 13," he said, punctuating his words with his hands. "I don't need watching."

Buck looked at him for a moment. "I don't have a problem with you here. But you're gonna have to finish school. Your ma would'a wanted that."

Johnny snorted. "Yeah, right." He plunked back down in his chair and resumed studying his cigarette. "It's not like she'd ever know. Anyway, I don't want to go to school. I've decided. I want to be a firefighter. Like you."

It was Buck's turn to snort. "The day they'll let an Indian in the Cloquet Fire Department, I'll be dead and buried. Even a mutt like you don't stand a chance."

"There's always the townships. Or maybe Duluth."

"Yeah, but they're all volunteer around here except for Cloquet. And Duluth is a tough one to crack. You still gotta make a living while you're waiting to break in. And ya know, even if Cloquet or Duluth did hire you, you'd still need a GED at least."

Johnny silently pondered his cousin's words. When he was a kid, he always wanted to be a tillerman on a big red fire truck. Now the childish dream was looking more and more like an impossible memory.

Dusk turned into dark. The mosquitoes went to wherever mosquitoes go to sleep, while the crickets in the unkempt grass geared up for a symphony of chirping, drowning out the sound of the St. Louis river which burbled beyond the fence.

Buck got up and slid open the porch door.

"You coming?" he asked Johnny.

"Venn litt. I'm finishing up my cigarette."

"Suit yourself." Buck disappeared into the little house.

"Damn," Johnny whispered into the blackness. A lightening bug attracted by the lit end of his cigarette flickered in response.

*

1966 – Cloquet, MN

Johnny dreamed a tornado was whirling through town, a twisting wall of black. The tornado sirens wailed, but people seemed unconcerned as they continued about their business. He stood at the outskirts of town, watching as the cyclone sucked up building after building – first Anderson's grain elevator, then the school, then the fire station. Little stick-figure people flew out of the buildings, followed by little toy fire engines, sirens screaming. As it ate through the town, the tornado's hungry chug-chug synchronized into a repeated knock which got louder and louder…

… then Johnny realized the noise wasn't part of his dream, but rather coming from the front door.

"Comin'" he said, sleep clogging his voice. He rolled off the couch, rooted around for his cut-offs, and slid them over his thin legs. The rubber band holding his hair back from his face had snapped off during sleep. Running his fingers through his unruly hair, he stumbled to the front door.

He opened the door. "Oh man," he said as he realized who was standing there. "Sandy, I know what it looks like, but I'm not ditching school," he said, thinking fast. "I'm just, uh, home sick today. Yeah, sick."

Officer Alexander Osteruud held up a hand. "Johnny, that's not why I'm here."

Something was wrong. Seriously wrong. Sandy never missed a chance to get on Johnny's case about school. Johnny suddenly flashed back to his dream, as little toy fire engines whirled in the air. "Buck?" That was the only word he could squeeze through his tightening throat.

"A fire, Johnny," Sandy said. "There was a fire." His voice cracked on the last word.

Johnny's hands froze, his fingers embedded in his tangled hair. His mind raced… had he heard the fire siren? He usually did; it was loud enough for the whole town to hear. He looked at Sandy with confusion.

"He's… he's gone, Johnny."

The tornado churned through his brain, drowning out the rest of Sandy's words.

*

1969, Pacific Palisades, CA

"You'll need a GED at least…" Buck's words on the porch echoed through Johnny's mind as he stood with his graduating class at Pacific Palisades' Temescal Canyon Continuation High School. It had taken a few more years than he had planned, but John Roderick Gage, at the age of 19, was a high school graduate. His Aunt Violet sat in the audience, her smile threatening to take over the auditorium. He allowed himself a brief fantasy that it was his mother, not his aunt, sitting there… that the smile was her smile. Then he shook off the fantasy. He had his diploma. Now it was time to be a firefighter.

*

1976, Los Angeles County

Captain Hank Stanley wasn't much for solitude. When he wasn't letting paranoia over certain battalion chiefs get the best of him, or stuck in his office chewing through paperwork, he sought out company eagerly.

But he had to admit that he was enjoying himself as he drove Engine 51 on a deserted canyon road after pulling off Las Virgenes to head toward Engine 86's location. The hot Santa Ana winds whipped his hair into a frenzy of tangles. Despite the ever-present ash that colored the windshield a dusky gray and left a gritty taste on his tongue, there was a certain beauty to the scenery that even the heat of late summer and the smoke of wildfires couldn't mar. It was a rare chance to appreciate nature, without the responsibilities of command getting in the way.

"Try to remember the kind of September… " he sang, slightly off key. It wasn't like anyone could hear him and complain.

"…when life was slow and oh so mellow…" he paused briefly as the Ward LaFrance's Allison automatic transmission loudly protested the hill he was climbing, "…try to remember the kind of September, when grass was green and grain was yellow…"

He heard the transmission catch up and smiled with relief. "Try to remember the kind of September, when you were a tender and callow fellow…"

A sudden 'tap, tap, tap' jerked him back to reality. The gauges and controls in front of him showed no obvious problems. The engine seemed to be moving along as usual. He checked the side mirrors.

"Oh shit," he exclaimed. He could see it now -- burning embers hitting the engine's roof and windshield. He quickly drew his arm back from the open window.

The fire was supposed to be south and west of here, damn it. He pulled over and got out of the engine. Above him, to his right, the dry, dusty peaks towered over the little road. Below him, to his left, a steep drop led to the valley in all its gray splendor. Dust and embers swirled in the air. Smoldering brush wobbled and skittered in the dry, unpredictable wind. Flames crackled and grew as they consumed the fuel nature inadvertently provided. He grabbed the radio.

"Latigo Canyon command, this is Engine 51."

"Go ahead 51," said a voice that Hank vaguely recognized as a fellow captain from 127's.

Hank detailed where he was and what he saw. "I've got 800 gallons here," he concluded. "It's small enough that I can set up an attack until someone arrives. Maybe even stop it in its tracks."

"We'll get a water drop out there right away, Hank. Don't be a hero. If it gets hairy, by all means take off. We'll send Engine 86 your direction as well, since you were going to meet with them anyway."

"10-4 to that. If I get stuck here, my men will need someone to pick them up. I'll radio them with a warning, if they aren't already monitoring this conversation. They shouldn't stay there long with without a pumper."

"Will do, Hank. Squad 51 is heading out there already for additional manpower. If all else fails, they can ride the squad out. Latigo Canyon command out."

Hank Stanley eyed the burning brush warily as he keyed the mike once again. "HT 51, this is Engine 51."

"Go ahead, Cap," Mike replied amid some static. Something in his voice told Hank that his men were expecting the call.

"You heard?"

"That's affirmative."

"Let me know when Gage and DeSoto get there."

"Already here, Cap," Mike replied.

"Good, good. Don't wait for me. Get the hell out of there. I won't be far behind. Engine 51 out."

Captain Stanley got back into the driver's seat, and slowly backed the engine up closer to what appeared to be the origin of the burning brush. He got out again, put the pump in gear and primed it. Then he grabbed the reel line and pulled it out a considerable distance in the direction of the flaming brush before running back to the engine. He stared at the pump panel, taking a brief moment to remember the PSI for the booster line.

"Getting soft, damn it" he muttered as he feathered the hose pressure upward. "Wasn't that long ago that I was doing this myself."

*

1970-1972, Los Angeles County, CA

The legend of McConnike's hat had already built up to the soaring heights of respectful departmental myth when Hank Stanley took his captain's test in the summer of 1970. Hank had reached the point where he was considering not taking the test at all. After all, he figured his chances were almost nil, given his standing in the fire service as the hat-burning rebel. But his wife had pushed him, dropping hints about summer homes in Oregon and the rising cost of college for two girls who were too smart for their own good.

"I'll take it. But don't hold your breath about that summer home," Hank told her one day. So he took it. And scored in the top ten. And, as is the way with such things, was offered a captaincy almost immediately (reputation not-withstanding) thanks to a severe officer shortage.

He turned it down.

"Are you nuts?" his wife asked.

"It doesn't feel right," he replied, shaking his head.

"My hand upside your head won't feel right either," she said.

"I'll just have to risk it.

If anything, his refusal to advance to captain raised his cache among his fellow firefighters further. They always saw him as a slightly manic, extremely capable guy. Now they could add off-the-wall to that list as well.

But idiosyncratic rebellion was the last thing on Hank's mind when, one evening about two years later, his station was called out to a fire at a car dealership. He hopped into the driver seat of Engine 11 and waited for the rest of the crew to arrive. Next to him, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Truck 11's driver pull on his turn-out coat and climb into his seat.

"They have a small tire store in the back of that place, don't they?" he asked Captain Smythe, who rode shot-gun as Hank pulled the engine out of the bay, the truck not far behind. Smythe and McConnike had traded shifts for the week, much to Hank's relief.

His captain nodded. "Let's hope that doesn't go up too. That dealership is huge," he said.

They arrived at the scene. Even in the deepening gloom, they could see puffs of dark gray smoke rising from the back of the building. "L.A., this is engine 11 at the scene. We have a one-and-a-half story car dealership, 300 by 500, smoke showing from the rear," Captain Smythe said into the microphone before jumping out of the engine compartment.

"10-4 Engine 11."

His men gathered around. "Truck, come with me and let's take a look at what we have. Engine, tag that hydrant and get some inch-and-a-halfs ready."

The men scrambled to obey. Hank and the engine crew finished their tasks and stood at the ready, waiting for their next orders. Time passed. Hank started to pace, his long legs taking him from one end of the engine to the other quickly.

"You think something's wrong?" firefighter Steve Caudillo asked.

Hank paused in his pacing. It wasn't Captain Smythe's style to take so long for size-up. The engineer picked up the radio microphone.

"Engine 11 to HT 11. What is your status?"

Nothing.

"Engine 11 to HT 11. What is your status?"

Nothing.

"L.A., this is Engine 11," Hank said into the mic.

"Go ahead 11."

"Can you raise HT 11?"

"Stand by."

The men listened as Sam Lanier tried to raise HT 11, without success.

"That's negative, Engine 11."

"10-4, Engine 11 out," Hank said. A small crowd of people stood to the side, no doubt wondering why the engine crew was standing around aimlessly as smoke filled the air around the building. But the men of Engine 11 gave them no heed.

"Shit," Hank said under his breath. "Steve, Jim, you guys wait by the front door with those lines. I'm going in."

"Why the front?" firefighter Jim Cook asked. "They went in the back."

"Because if something got them in back, you twit, we're walking right into it," Hank grumbled. Cook and Caudillo gave each other a "there's Hank being paranoid again" look, and grabbed a line.

Hank Stanley walked to the front of the building. The glass windows and doors didn't reveal anything particularly sinister. He walked in, carefully stepping around various cars. The building lights were off, but the parking lot lamps shone through the windows and illuminated his path. Gray smoke hovered at the ceiling. As he walked, he tried to remember the last survey they had done of the place. He vaguely remembered a large showroom in back. It seemed as good a place as any to start.

The Webster Chevy Emporium was a monstrosity in the sense that it was the biggest car dealership in L.A. County. A front area housed the latest models of whatever car was hot at the moment. A rear area, twice as big, with a tall ceiling, showcased the rest of the collection. Webster's TV ads claimed it was the largest indoor showroom in the world. At that moment, with flop-sweat running down his temples and his footsteps echoing from the oak parkay floor, Hank was ready to believe it. He saw a door labeled "Hold on to your hat, you are about to enter the land of your dreams!" Assuming that was the entrance to the larger showroom, he reached for the door handle and pushed…

…and walked into a nightmare.

*

Captain Smythe and his truck crew held flashlights as they wandered through the showroom toward a small office, where the smoke was thickest. They wore no SCBA's; all were seasoned veterans with an inbred disdain for anything that smacked of surrender to the red beast.

The office door had a sign: "tire shop." Dark gray smoke could be seen leaking from under the door. The men groaned.

"Yeah, we got us a little tire fire all right," Smythe said with disgust. "How the hell did that happen?" He ripped off a glove angrily as he reached for his handy-talky to bring the engine crew in and request a second alarm. He opened his mouth to make the call, but all that came out was a yelp of pain. A blistering hot glob of white-gray goo had landed on his bare hand. He dropped the HT in surprise and looked up.

"Holy shit!" he yelled. "Run for it."

They retraced their steps between the cars as more globs of burning hot goo fell from the ceiling. Their fits of coughing echoed through the showroom. There were periodic cries of pain as a burning glob connected with a bare face, or a pants leg.

"What the hell?" Captain Smythe cried in frustration and fear. They were his last words before the truss roof -- its thin, criss-crossed metal support beams heated to the point of collapse -- folded over their heads. They never had a chance.

*

Hank Stanley saw the globs raining down from the ceiling… saw smoke billowing from the tire office… saw the remains of the roof on the far end of the showroom floor. What he didn't see was any sign of his station mates. "What the hell?" he said, unknowingly echoing his captain's last words. Then he sprang into action.

*

More than a year later, fire investigators released the final report on the chain of events that led to the tragedy. An electrical fire ignited the office, which in turn ignited the tires. The tires, which were stacked to the ceiling, heated the Styrofoam tiles that the owner had illegally installed as sound-proofing and insulation in the truss roof. The white globs raining down on the helpless captain and truck crew of Station 11 were melted Styrofoam. If the roof hadn't killed them, the burns and fumes from the Styrofoam probably would have… fumes the crew couldn't smell because the stench of the thick tire smoke overrode all other odors.

In their report, the investigators included a footnote on the competent and brave actions of Engineer Henry Stanley, who upon realizing that something was terribly wrong, took it upon himself to assess the situation and summon the help needed to mitigate an otherwise horrible incident. The footnote ended: "Stanley has since accepted a promotion, and is now captain of L.A. County Station 51, in Carson."

*

1976, Los Angeles County

Mike reappeared from behind the squad, where he had been answering the call of nature.

"Pack up, we're getting out of here." His voice had an uncharacteristic edge of command. The others immediately jumped up, looking at him questioningly.

"I just overheard on the HT. Cap came across burning brush and flying embers on the fire road up there." A crackle on the HT interrupted his explanation.

"HT 51, this is Engine 51."

"Go ahead Cap," Mike replied.

"You heard?" Cap asked.

Mike knew exactly what Captain Stanley was referring to. "That's affirmative," he answered.

"Let me know when Gage and DeSoto get there," Cap's voice said amid the static.

"Already here Cap," Mike replied, watching the men in question as they packed gear into the squad.

"Good, good. Don't wait for me. Get the hell out of there. I won't be far behind. Engine 51 out."

"Is it coming this way?" Roy asked as Mike tossed the HT into the front seat of the squad.

"It's up north past the main burn," Mike replied, waving vaguely at the hills ahead. "He drove into some flying embers. I didn't hear the whole transmission." But he had heard enough.

Chet couldn't contain himself. "But is Cap gonna be OK? Maybe we should wait." The rest of the men looked at Mike. It was obvious the same question was on their minds.

With a calmness that hid his own inner turmoil, Mike said, "The wind is all over the place now. If it's spreading north, it could just as easily spread south. He said 'get the hell out.' So that's what we're going to do."

As if God himself was trying to underline the wisdom of Cap's order, the wind shifted yet again, and the smell of newly burning brush traveled by on the smoky breeze. The men tensed and quickened their pace.

*

15 minutes later, they were driving as fast as Roy dared down the hard bumpy road that led to the command center. Unfortunately, with Chet and Johnny clinging to the back of the squad, that meant their speed rarely exceeded 10 miles an hour.

A particularly deep rut sent the pair scrambling for hand-holds. "Hey!" Johnny and Chet yelled in tandem. They were miserable, and not just because of the bouncy ride. The dust and ash had rimmed their eyes red, and their throats were scratchy and sore. They considered donning their SCBA's at the next opportunity to save their throats from further harassment.

Mike and Marco allowed themselves a brief grin, enjoying the relative luxury of the squad's cab. But Roy was too busy concentrating on driving to join in their fun. The shifting winds, and the dust and ash, were making navigation more difficult by the moment.

"Stop!" Johnny yelled suddenly, his voice rasping ever so slightly. He banged on the roof of the cab. "Roy, stop!"

"What?" Chet asked. "Why are we stopping?" He whipped his head around in confusion.

"Look!" Johnny said, pointing back where they had came from. "Is that a car? Roy, stop!"

Roy stopped, but not without some grumbling. "This had better be good," he muttered. He stepped out of the squad, followed by Mike and Marco, the trio squinting in the dusty sunlight.

"Right back there," Johnny said as he sprang from the back of the squad. "C'mon guys."

They followed.

"Yowzah," Chet said as he looked down past where the road ended and the valley resumed. A pick-up truck was about 200 yards below them. It was upright, but none of the men could tell if anyone was inside. Steam appeared to rise from the front of the engine.

Mike cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hey," he shouted toward the car. "Anyone down there?" The echo of his voice through the canyon was the only reply.

"John? Roy?" he said. His question was unstated, but immediately understood. They headed back to the squad to get their climbing gear.

"I'll go with them. You guys," he said to Chet and Marco, "why don't you stay up here for now and get the stokes and stuff ready in case we need it?"

"Gotcha Mikey," Chet said. He and Marco jogged over to the squad and started pulling out equipment. Mike radioed command to advise them about the situation and the delay.

Johnny tied three ropes to the squad. The trio donned gloves and started to head down the steep slope. The dust floated upward as they half-slipped, half-trotted down toward the pick-up truck, hanging on to the ropes to steady themselves. Their dark blue pants turned dusky gray, and their eyes watered as grit floated into them with abandon.

The wind increasingly troubled their every step. Mike and Roy wore their unform shirts untucked and unbuttoned after the morning's digging. Their shirts flapped and fluttered in the gritty breeze. Johnny, who had long ago removed his uniform shirt altogether, wore a sleeveless t-shirt that was quickly turning filthy from sweat and ash. His hair flew into his eyes, and he constantly swiped at it to clear his field of vision.

As they got closer, they could hear the motor running. Closer still, it became obvious that someone was sitting on the driver's side. Johnny reached the pick-up first, and looked inside. Mike and Roy saw him freeze momentarily, then straighten up.

"Uh, guys? He's in there, but he's pretty dead," Johnny said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"You sure?" Roy asked, craning his neck to peek around his partner's body at the person inside. With a quick intake of breath, he drew back again. "Oh yeah," he said quickly. "You're sure."

Mike made his way to the driver-side window and tentatively looked in. The windshield was spidered with cracks, and spattered with what had been the unfortunate victim's gray matter. He supposed this probably qualified for what his friend Craig Brice had once explained to him as "injuries incompatible with life." He reached in to turn the ignition off, forcing himself not to recoil when his arm brushed the dead man. Stepping back from the pick-up, he opened his mouth to suggest that they get out of there quickly.

"Let's…." he paused, and sniffed.

"What?" Roy asked.

Mike said nothing, but quickly stumbled around the front of the pick-up, looking underneath the vehicle. The steam that they had noted earlier was increasing in volume.

"What is it?" Johnny asked as well, bending down to look at whatever it was Mike was sniffing at. "Shit," he said, almost immediately. "I see it Mike. It's over here."

By now, Roy also saw what the other two men had seen. The heat from the long-running pick-up truck's engine -- or maybe it was the exhaust -- had ignited the bone-dry brush underneath. Already the brush under the truck was glowing orange-red, giving off sparks and releasing tendrils of smoke. The steam had briefly masked the smoke from the fire, long enough for it to eat into all the brush under the pick-up.

"Chet! Marco!" Mike yelled up to the two. "Bring shovels, the extinguisher and the piss can! We've got a fire down here!" A recent department memo had prohibited firemen from using the impolite slang term for the water pump can, but the engineer mused silently that this was no time for niceties.

Roy and Johnny kicked dirt under the pick-up, while Mike stomped on every glowing twig he could find. But their footing was treacherous, and the shifting wind was devious. They just could not move as quickly as the red demon. By the time Johnny joined Mike on the other side of the pick-up to chase down the flaming foliage, it was too late. Brush was smoking all around them. Their eyes burned, and their noses ran freely with blackened snot. Frustrated, Stoker kicked at the pick-up truck's bumper.

"Damn it!" he growled. It was time to admit defeat, and think of the safety of his men. "Come on, let's get the heck out of here," he yelled at Roy and Johnny, who were still trying to kick dirt over as much brush as they could. He allowed himself a few seconds to wonder about the dead driver, before realizing that the body's fate was out of their hands now.

"Chet! Marco! Forget the stuff. We're coming up!" he yelled in their direction. As they scrambled up the slope, Mike grabbed at a rope with one hand, and fished the handi-talkie out of his back pocket with the other.

"Latigo Canyon base, this is Squad 51," Mike spat into the HT. His voice broke, his larynx a victim of too much dust and smoke.

"Go ahead, 51."

"Our victim is a Code F, and we have an ignition point here. We are attempting to bring it under control, but we don't have sufficient equipment."

"Do you need a water drop at your location 51?" the disembodied voice of Chief McConnike asked.

"That's affirmative," he rasped. His head was starting to pound.

"The closest chopper is heading for Captain Stanley's incident, but we'll get him over to you as soon as possible. Head back to command and keep us informed. Base out."

Mike pocketed the HT and grabbed at the rope with both hands. He followed Roy and Johnny up the slope to relative safety. All three were coughing as Chet and Marco pulled them the last few feet.

"You OK, Mike? Guys?" Chet asked with concern. Johnny was breathing hard, while Mike had his hands on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. Roy, who felt marginally better, replied for the three of them.

"We'll put Johnny and Mike up front with me, so they can suck a little O². Let's just get the hell out of here."

Mike's throat burned from the smoky exertion, and his eyes were swollen half-shut from dust and smoke. He gratefully took a seat in the front of the squad and accepted the O2 mask from Roy, closing his eyes and sucking in the clean air.

*

"Latigo Canyon base, this is Squad 51." The voice belonged to Roy.

"Go ahead, 51."

"We are on the fire road heading south to your location. The foothill has collapsed into the road ahead. We can't go any further, and the fire is coming up behind us pretty fast."

The radio transmission jerked Mike out of his daze. He opened his eyes the best he could, and saw the problem up ahead.

"Oh man," Johnny said under his breath, dropping his O² mask. The dry summer had left little but dust for tree roots and other underbrush to hang on to. Road and foothill collapses were the occasional result.

An unfamiliar voice answered Roy's transmission. "We have a chopper on the way, 51. They're refilling right now, but we'll take care of you, don't worry. Figure the ETA at 5 to 10 minutes. If you can't get past the obstruction, your best bet is to stay put."

Mike looked behind them. All he could see was smoke. Looking forward again, there was yet more smoke. It appeared their little fire had quickly grown into a big problem. He turned back to Roy. "They're kidding, right?" the engineer asked incredulously.

Roy shook his head. "10-4, Latigo base," he said with doubt in his voice.

Mike took the radio from the senior paramedic, switched channels, and keyed the mic.

"Engine 51, Squad 51."

"Go ahead, Michael," Cap's voice floated from the speaker.

"How are things looking by you?"

"The water drop cooled things down here. But everything south of me is an inferno. I'm stuck going the long way around to get back."

"10-4 Cap," Mike replied, with some relief. At least their leader was safe now.

"You guys OK out there? I'm hearing some radio traffic I don't really like," Cap asked, in a failed effort to sound light-hearted.

Mike didn't see much point in telling Hank how dire things really were. "We're working on it, Cap," he said evasively. "Squad 51 out."

*

Meanwhile, Marco and Chet had hopped off the back of the squad, and were surveying the problem. Both had donned SCBA's to keep the dust and smoke out of their faces while riding on the back of the squad. Both lifted their masks in unison to consider their options, revealing similar soot marks ringing their faces.

They peered on tip-toe over the pile of dirt and rock. "It's only about 15 feet wide. I think we can dig this out," Chet said.

"I think we have to dig this out," Marco said emphatically.

"At least enough so the squad can get by without tilting too much."

"Yeah," Marco agreed. As it stood now, if the squad tried to navigate the pile of dirt, it would likely tip over and tumble down the canyon. And the dirt was so loose, foot traffic was out of the question. "Let's run it by Mike."

They replaced their masks and trotted back over to the squad, where Roy was just putting the radio back into its holder. They indicated to him that he should roll down his window.

"We can dig it out, Mike," Chet said.

"We can," Marco echoed.

"It's loose enough," Chet added.

Mike considered for a moment. "We may trigger another collapse, worse than the first," he mused in a raspy voice, playing devil's advocate. "Or we may not dig enough, and tip the squad into the valley."

"Or we may die surrounded by fire," Chet snapped.

Mike ignored the outburst and voiced his next thought. "Do we have enough SCBA's for everyone?"

"I don't think you and Johnny should dig," Roy started. "You…."

"Fuck that," Mike said with a suddenness that made the men jump. "I don't want to die, and I'm sure Johnny doesn't either. We'll all dig. Do we only have the two SCBA's Roy?"

Johnny answered, feeling left out of the conversation until now. "Yeah, only the two, but a dozen air bottles." He was already half out of the squad, his nervous energy helping him forget, at least briefly, his burning lungs and itchy throat.

Mike responded quickly. "I just got a bunch of oxygen. Marco and Chet, trade off on an air pack, Roy and Johnny, trade the other one. I'll grab some when I can. Let's move."

They grabbed their shovels and started digging into the mess ahead, fear driving their movements into a rapid, spasmodic effort.

*

Between the water drop and the fortuitous arrival of engine 86, Captain Stanley encountered no problems in extinguishing the flaming brush in his immediate vicinity. But he had noted with some concern that they hadn't been able to stop the fire from spreading back the way he had come. One more big wind shift, and it would be heading north again.

His quick radio chat with Mike had fueled his misgivings. Something was not right. He needed to be back there with them… had to be there… felt like a body part had been torn away from him. But as his mind screamed out his inadequacies and uselessness -- and as he shook with hatred of himself and his situation -- he made one of the hardest decisions of his life.

"Take care of them, Michael," he whispered. Then he put Engine 51 into gear and followed 86's crew north into safer territory.

*

Mike wasn't feeling capable of taking care of anyone at the moment, especially following the latest radio transmission from command.

"Latigo Canyon command to Squad 51."

"Go ahead, Command," Mike gasped into the HT. He scrabbled at boulders with one hand, while holding the handi-talkie in the other.

"The wind has grounded the choppers, 51." It was McConnike, sounding uncomfortable and apologetic. "We don't know when they'll get out there."

The men of 51 exchanged a quick glance, their eyes glittering bright with fear.

"We copy that, Command," Mike said. He wanted to take the HT and whip it at the ground. "Can someone come at the collapse from the other direction?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Visibility is getting pretty bad, 51. We'll start someone your way, but I can't promise an ETA. How are you hanging in there?"

"We're trying to dig our way out," Mike replied. Dig our grave, more likely.

"We're all behind you, 51. Keep up the good work, and God-speed. Command out."

"51 out," Mike choked out, a sudden mouthful of dust cracking his voice. To those listening on the frequency, including Captain Stanley, it sounded suspiciously like despair.

*

As Roy dug viciously into the dirt, he kept a worried eye on his crewmates. Johnny had the airpack now, so he was OK. But Mike looked bad, with his swollen eyes and wheezes that were audible now without a stethoscope. And now that it was Marco's turn to wear the SCBA, Chet wasn't looking all that great either.

I'm sure I'm no prize right now either, he thought wryly. Man, if I die, Joanne is going to kill me. His lips twitched upward at the silly thought, then frowned in concentration again as the thought of his wife and children fueled his shoveling efforts.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Johnny was handing him the mask. Roy took it gratefully and put it on, hearing the regulator's familiar suck-and-click noise as he took a deep breath. Connected to the pack on Johnny's back like an umbilical cord, Roy resumed shoveling.

*

Chet didn't want to admit it, but he wished he hadn't given the airpack back to Marco so soon. A mouthful of dirt early on in the digging process had triggered a coughing fit, and it was all he could do to keep from barfing all over the place as post-nasal drip triggered by the smoke and dust filled his stomach.

He cast about for something to think about, anything other than the dire straights he was in now. The only thing that came to mind was the vision of his mother, clutching the rosary she had brought on the boat from Ireland, lighting a candle for the children who had died at Our Lady of Angels. He shook the image from his mind, and kept on digging.

*

Marco was mad. It was an unfamiliar feeling for him, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

I haven't seen my parents in a month. And now I'm going to die. This will kill Mama. This isn't happening. He pulled away rocks and small boulders with Mike, ignoring the tightness in his chest and the sweaty dust tripping into his eyes. I'm not going to die. Not this way. I will live. And the day after we get out of this, I'm taking them both out to dinner. No, wait, them and Rosita and everyone. Or maybe I'll make dinner. Mama will want to, but I don't want her working that hard.

He dug on, planning the menu for the first day of the rest of his life.

*

Is this how you died Buck? Was it the smoke that got to you first? Or the fire? Johnny took short, quick breaths, trying not to give into the panicked urge to grab the mask back from his partner prematurely. Every so often he felt a tug at the airpack on his back as the hose from the mask hampered Roy's movement. Neither wanted to take valuable time swapping the pack from one back to the other.

As he dug, Johnny considered Mike's words earlier. No, he didn't want to die. His mind wandered, and he remembered a day in childhood when he was in town with his parents and saw a baby with soot on his face. His father explained that the child's grandmother had died. "When someone dies, we blacken the faces of children. The spirits don't like black and won't take them away by mistake."

Johnny looked at his crewmates. All had faces and forearms blackened by sweat, ash and dirt. He prayed that would be enough.

*

The removal of heavier rocks had evolved into a mind-numbing rhythm for Mike. Grab a small boulder too big for the shovels. Heave it away. Grab another. Heave it away. Grab another. Heave it away. He could barely see. Other than grabbing a quick breath every now and then from Marco's mask, he could barely breath either.

Everything he thought about now narrowed into his task – move rocks. Moving rocks meant living. Moving rocks meant saving his men. Meant coming home to his wife and son. Meant proving to dad that he wasn't going to get anyone killed. Even if it meant killing himself.

"Mike," there was a hand on his shoulder. Roy's. "Mike, I think we're through. Let's get out of here."

They ran for the squad, Roy and Marco grabbing the engineer under his arms and dragging him as he finally lost his attempt to stay conscious.

*

This time it was Chet's turn to ride up front and suck O². He looked at Mike, who sat slumped between them. The engineer was awake, but lethargic at best. Even Chet could tell that his breathing didn't sound right. "Roy," he coughed out, "Is he going to be OK?"

"I don't know," Roy mused, in an uncharacteristic display of uncertainty. Streaks ran down his cheeks following a quick saline rinse to clear his vision. He could see now, but the smoke and ash still posed a driving hazard. "We all ate a lot of smoke and dust. His airway could be swelling up. I have him on 15 liters and it doesn't seem to be making a difference. Yours and Johnny's lungs are sounding pretty crunchy too. But we don't dare waste time stopping to contact Rampart."

Roy stopped talking as he realized his audience was looking worried. "But I'm sure it's not that big a deal," he added in a brighter tone. "We'll get checked out and I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Yeah," Chet said, and put his oxygen mask back on. He wasn't fooled by Roy's change in tune.

*

A mile from command, an ambulance met them, alerted by a quick message from Roy.

"Who's getting on with Mike," Johnny asked as they loaded the semi-conscious engineer into the back of the rig.

"I think we need to send Chet too. He's got some major rhonchi going on. He may have aspirated some particulate matter or dirt. And I dare say you should go to," he said, bracing himself for the inevitable protest.

"Me?" Johnny said, splaying his hand against his chest. "I'm fine. Just a little lung irritation, that's all."

Roy considered his partner carefully, noting the slight retractions around Johnny's collar bones as he breathed and the wheeze that hadn't yet abated. He changed tactics. "Well, with Mike out of commission, Cap and all the white-shirts will need the next senior person to give report. So why don't you go on the ambulance while I head to command. I'm sure Rampart will order a neb treatment for Mike and Chet, and they can't administer it to themselves."

Johnny knew when he was beaten. He grabbed the biophone and drug box, and climbed into the back of the ambulance, taking a seat next to Chet. Roy tossed up a few more supplies and shut the door.

"I didn't think he'd go for it," Marco said. He had been silently listening to the exchange.

"I'm glad he did," Roy said. "Now let's get ourselves over to command. The quicker we give a report, the quicker we shower and eat."

*

Mike slowly came to awareness. First, awareness of a tube in his throat. But he was breathing on his own, of that he was sure. Then, awareness of voices. "Michael," someone was saying, along with some other indistinct words. There were only three people in his life who called him that. One was his mother. They didn't sound like his mother. He opened his eyes, which felt dry and scratchy. The other two people who used his given name with regularity were present: Beth and Cap. He was in a hospital room, at Rampart he assumed.

He felt Beth's hand in his, and squeezed it. She turned away from Captain Stanley, with whom she had been discussing Mike's condition, and looked at her husband with joy.

"You're back!" she said with a huge smile.

He nodded slightly. The tube prevented speech. He pointed at it questioningly.

"You're breathing over the vent now. But they're leaving it in a little while longer, just in case," she explained. He was frustrated at her nurse-speak, but assumed that breathing over the vent was a good thing, judging by the tone of her voice.

"You were really out of it for a while there," Cap said. "We're glad to have you back to the land of the living." He patted his engineer on the thigh.

He was glad to be back too. But how could he ask about the others? Luckily Cap seemed to sense his question.

"Roy and Marco are fine, back on shift already. Johnny and Chet spent the night here, and then went home too. They'll probably be cleared in the next day or two. The fire is 80 percent contained, thank goodness."

Mike was confused. Back on shift already? Spent the night? How long have I been here? He looked at Beth questioningly.

"Your airway swelled shut a few hours after you got here," she supplied. "Luckily they had intubated you when you arrived, in anticipation of something like that happening. It took two days for the swelling to go down. You've been awake before now, but I'm guessing this is the first time you really remember being awake?"

Mike attempted to nod again. Then he put his forearms together and made a rocking motion.

"Charlie's staying with Roy and Joanne," Beth answered. "I'll bring him by later."

Captain Stanley interrupted. "Yeah, and when he's older, you can tell him the tale of his dad the hero, who was caught in a brushfire and lived to make captain some day. That is, unless this taste of command was a little too intense for you." Hank grinned at him.

Mike smiled the best he could around the tube. His relief was almost palpable. Everything worked out OK. No one was dead. And he would be a captain some day. His father was wrong.

*

It was a busy night at the DeSoto household. Beth and Mike came by to get Charlie, now that Mike was out of the hospital. Johnny and Chet stopped over for a celebratory beer after getting clearance to go back to work. And Marco brought over leftovers from some big dinner he had recently prepared for his family. He had promised enough for all.

Joanne popped a large tray of enchiladas into the oven to reheat them. "It sure is easier to have a party when the food is already provided," she said to Marco. "You can bring these kinds of leftovers anytime you want."

"Mama and I cooked together for the family over the weekend. We tried, but we just couldn't eat it all," Marco smiled, remembering the gathering.

"I bet your mother was happy to see you alive and well."

"I told Papa the whole story, but I edited it for Mama. You know how that goes," Marco said, blushing slightly. "Luckily she doesn't read the paper much."

"I got most of the story out of Roy," Joanne said. She drew closer and lowered her voice. "But is there anything you might want to add?"

Marco thought for a moment. "Just that Roy saved our lives, with his driving through all that mess and just by being there for Mike. Mike was making some tough decisions, and it was Roy who was behind him the whole time."

Joanne stood stock still, tears welling in her eyes. "Don't you dare tell him I'm crying," she said, swiping at her face. "I feel like a slobbering idiot."

"It's OK," Marco said, and tried to put an arm around her. But she turned away abruptly and busied herself in another container of leftover Mexican food. He understood, and walked out of the kitchen to give her some space.

*

Roy and Mike sat on the couch in the living room, waiting for Beth to come downstairs with Charlie. They were watching the news, waiting for the sports report, when the anchor announced that the cause of the Latigo Canyon fire had been traced to an exploding propane tank on a camper.

"That figures," Roy said. He looked down at his right wrist, where a faded scar from a tar burn still remained after all those years. He traced the scar with his finger.

"Figures," he repeated, more quietly this time. Mike nodded slowly in agreement.

*

Johnny and Chet sat on the back porch, drinking from beer bottles and telling Roy's son Chris some slightly embellished tales about their brushfire adventures.

"I'm telling you, the fire was this close," Chet said, his pointer fingers almost touching to illustrate his point. "And the smoke, you couldn't see the guy next to you, it was so thick."

"Wow," was all the astonished boy could manage to squeak out.

"Chris?" Joanne's voice floated out from inside the house.

"Yeah Mom?"

"Come here and get the garbage."

Chris looked at his dad's crewmates. Garbage can wait, he thought. This is getting good.

"You'd better go help your mom," Johnny said. "Then you can come back and hear how your dad and me and Mike climbed down through flames and flying embers to check out a crashed pick-up truck while Chet and Marco sat on their butts by the squad."

"Hey!" Chet protested. "It didn't start burning until after you climbed down there. You're supposed to put out fires, not start them, ya dummy!"

Christ laughed, and left to check out his mother's garbage situation. Johnny and Chet took another pull on their beers. Without an audience, boasting about their near-death experience had lost its appeal. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Not something I'd like to do again," Chet said.

"Ditto you there," Johnny agreed.

They sat silently again for another minute.

"I, uh, I thought we were gonna buy the farm there for a minute," Chet said.

"Yeah, me too," Johnny said. "Me too."

It was the closest thing to a heart-to-heart talk the Phantom and the Pigeon had ever had. With that behind them, the pair settled back into their porch chairs and watched the sun set beyond Roy's back yard.

*

Captain Stanley sat at the kitchen table at Station 51, sipping his coffee and reading the paper. It was a good day today; Mike was back on shift for the first time since their adventure. As Hank had anticipated, Stoker arrived early.

"Hey Cap," Mike said as he walked in the door. He headed over to the coffee pot, and was pleasantly surprised to find that Hank had already made it. Usually that job fell to Stoker, since he was always in first. C-shift had an early morning call, so the pair had the kitchen to themselves.

"Hey Mike," Captain Stanley replied. "Good to see you back. Feeling good I hope?"

"Fit as a fiddle," Mike said, smiling. He sat down and grabbed the sports section.

"I wanted to tell you something, before the others got here," Cap started. Mike put the paper down and looked intently at Hank. The captain was nervously twisting an ad insert in his hand, carefully folding it into increasingly smaller squares.

"I just wanted to say that I, uh, I want to, uh, apologize… apologize for leaving you guys out there. I wouldn't have if I had even suspected a problem…"

Mike interrupted him. He had felt something like this coming for a few days now; he was just surprised it took the Captain so long to come out with it. "Did you know the wind was going to move the fire our way?" he asked.

"Well, no, but…"

"Did you ground the choppers?"

"No, but…"

"And did you make that road collapse. Or that guy crash his pick-up."

"No…"

"So stop the guilt trip. Everyone is fine. Let it go…. sir." Mike grinned.

Captain Stanley rolled up a newspaper section and whacked at the engineer with it. "Let it go, huh? Like you let it go when I drive your engine? I think I'll let Chet drive today, just to show you how I can let it go."

Mike's eyes widened. "I'll lay myself in front of the wheels first," he declared. "You had better not let that man anywhere near the steering wheel. Besides, I got my license back yesterday."

The rest of station 51's crew stood in the doorway, watching the exchange and laughing, except, of course, for Chet.

"What's wrong with my driving?" he interrupted. "I drove bigger stuff than that in the Army. I can't believe you won't let me drive the engine. Caa-aap, please? Can I drive? Mikey may not be 100 percent yet and you may need someone to take over. Please? C'mon Cap….."


THE END



Author's notes: Thanks to my always-patient beta reader, Rose, as well as my wife the grammar queen (sorry dear, but I insist on credit this time), and Nan the California geography savior. Any mistakes or butchery in geography, medicine, brushfire behavior, grammar or anything else are ultimately mine and mine alone.

Cap's song came from the musical the Fantastiks.

The auto dealership fire was based on a real fire in Chicago's south suburbs a few years back. It killed two firefighters. The Our Lady of Angels fire was also real, unfortunately, and 92 children and three nuns lost their lives.

DeSoto and Salazar are also real historical figures…look 'em up if you don't believe me.

Click on Smokey to send feedback. If you want more stories to read, you have to let the writers know you like their stories!

Return to Logbook