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Mike Stoker caught him looking at the clock again. "Worried?"
Captain Hank Stanley eased back in his chair. Chilly air wafted under the door and around his legs. No one who lived outside Los Angeles ever believed it got cold in the city, but he knew better. On this mid-January afternoon, the skies were drizzly and the thermometer was stuck at forty eight degrees. A temperature Hank's parents back in Baxter might envy, but not one he particularly relished. If he'd wanted cold weather, he would have stayed in Idaho.
Hank twisted a pencil between his fingers. "What would I be worried about?"
Mike offered him a half-shrug. The lanky engineer sat on the other side of the desk, the log book in his lap. "Almost four hours."
"John and Roy can take care of themselves." True enough. John Gage and Roy DeSoto were capable men, two of the finest Hank had ever worked with, and he had no particular reason to fret over them being on a run for four hours. The squad's schedule was often busier than that of the engine company, and on some shifts Hank barely saw the two paramedics.
"Four hours, though," Mike said.
Hank looked at the clock. The assist call from the Coast Guard had come in at lunch time. He doubted the paramedics had taken more than two bites of Chet Kelly's chili dogs before being toned out for the rest of the afternoon. The engine had been idle, the foul weather the source of a little cabin fever, and Hank had resorted to having Chet and Marco Lopez polish just about everything in the station that had a shiny surface. He could very faintly hear the two men arguing in the kitchen about something. The tones didn't sound too shrill yet, so he decided to give them a few minutes before telling them to knock it off.
Mike looked at the telephone.
"I'm not going to call Dispatch." Hank shoved the pencil back into pencil holder. "If there's trouble, they'll let me know."
Another forty five minutes passed, and still no sign of Squad 51. Hank watched Mike take the flags down and observed the heavy flow of traffic as the refinery across the street changed shifts. Marco was cooking fried chicken for dinner, but the hearty smell didn't cheer the captain much. Every fireman held fast to a superstition or two, and Hank was no exception. Quiet days make busy nights, he thought glumly. A grisly car accident. A four-alarm fire raging out of control across a city block. An earthquake. Some calamity was sure to disturb his crew that night.
Or maybe some calamity had already happened to Squad 51, and Dispatch had simply forgotten to call him. Likely? No. Beyond the realm of imagination? Not when it came to Gage and DeSoto. One of them had been bitten by a snake, the other had gotten snake venom in his eyes. One had broken a leg when a building exploded. The other had been thrown head-first out a window by a flashing fire. In fact, if he started counting the times either one of them had been injured - no, better not to start down that path. Hank was just lucky none of his men had ever been disabled or killed.
The phone rang. Hank's heart jumped. He heard Marco pick up, speak, pause and then answer in Spanish. Not Dispatch, then.
Mike brought the folded flags inside. The engineer said nothing, but he looked at the clock and Hank read his mind.
"They're fine," he said.
He went into the day room and surveyed the table. Chet had only put out four settings.
"There's six men at this station," Hank said pointedly.
Chet blinked. "Huh?"
"Six. Not four."
"Johnny and Roy aren't here, Cap."
"I know that, you twit," Hank replied. "But they'll be back soon."
Chet scratched his chin and looked at Marco. Marco raised his eyebrows and turned back to the stove. Chet tried to share his puzzlement with Mike, but the engineer had taken refuge behind the sports pages.
"Since when do we put out plates if they're not here?" Chet asked.
"New rule," Hank said, feeling foolish even as he said it. "Just do it, will you?"
"Sure, Cap," Chet said, in the exact tone firefighters used when their captains made up crazy new rules.
Fifteen minutes later, just as they sat down to eat, Hank heard the squad back into the bay.
"Prodigal sons," Mike said to Hank.
Hank leaned back in his chair and waited for Roy and John to appear. John would come in with a burst of energy, ready with some wild tale of adventure and misadventure on the high seas. Roy would trail behind him, no doubt worn out by the day's events or his partner's natural exuberance. In just a short time they'd probably be gone again, off to treat heart attack victims or people with paper cuts, but at least Hank wouldn't keep imaging them trapped in a submerged helicopter somewhere off Long Beach.
A minute passed. A minute and half. But there was no sign of Hank's two paramedics.
"Must have been a bad one," Marco said around a mouthful of corn.
Still no John or Roy.
Hank debated with himself for another thirty seconds, then pushed back his chair and went to investigate. The squad's tires had tracked mud on to the bay floor. The faint drip of water off its fenders and guards was the only sound Hank heard. A glimpse of dark blue brought him around to the driver's door, where he found Roy half-slumped behind the driver's wheel with his arms folded across his chest. Johnny sat beside him, head tilted back as he squeezed the bridge of his nose.
"Everything okay?" Hank asked.
Roy took in a deep breath. "Hey, Cap. Don't mind us. We're just arguing."
Hank decided to ignore the fact that he'd heard no raised or angry voices. "Arguing about what?"
"Who gets to take a shower second," Johnny said.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but curiosity won out. "Second? Why not first?"
"Because the first person to take a shower has to actually get up," Roy said.
Johnny said, "And that would take too much energy."
Hank knew what bone-deep exhaustion felt like, how it dragged on a man's blood and muscles and made even the simple act of standing comparable to hiking up a mountain. He remembered driving home once after a particularly grueling shift and falling asleep in his own driveway. Roy and Johnny looked as tired now and he had felt then, both of them pinched and ashen in the harsh fluorescent light. Their uniforms were dark with water, their hair stiff from salt and wind and sea.
"Besides," Johnny added. "I think I'm frozen to this seat."
"What's wrong with the heater?" Hank asked.
"Doesn't work." Roy shivered a little. "Died this morning."
Hank waited, but the two paramedics didn't move an inch.
"You want me to decide for you?" Hank said. "Go eat dinner first. That'll get you started."
Roy knuckled his eyes. "Won't matter. We'll probably get called out in ten minutes."
"Eat," Hank ordered.
Hank watched them stumble away like sleepwalkers. Roy limped a little. Johnny rubbed his right hip. Hank stood with his hands on his hips, considering options, and then went into the office. One quick phone call later, he rejoined his crew around the dinner table. Johnny had dug into his chicken with zeal, but Roy seemed interested only in his mashed potatoes. Chet was needling them.
"Five hours, huh? You milked that run for all its worth. What did you do, stop off to have drinks at the officers club over on the base? Pick up a pretty Coast Guard yeoman?"
Johnny gave him a dour look. "Yeah, that's exactly what we were doing, Chet - if you don't count the part about swimming around in six-foot waves and getting our heads bashed against rocks."
"Bashing your head against a rock might be an improvement, John," Chet offered cheekily.
"What was the situation?" Hank asked.
Roy fought a yawn. "Drunk driving at sea. Some people should never be allowed near boats, you know?"
"Anybody drown?" Marco asked.
"Nope," Johnny said. "One guy was pretty bad. The others were lucky. Hey, who cooked this? It's not as burned as usual."
"I did," Marco said. "You each owe me a dollar fifty."
Mike said, "You still owe me three dollars from last week, Marco."
"Hand it straight to me, pal," Chet told Mike. "You owe me four dollars from our last poker game."
Roy stood up. "If anybody wants any money from me, I'll be in the shower."
"Use all the hot water," Johnny warned, "and I'll have to kill you."
Hank watched him go over the rim of his coffee cup. "You two get checked out at Rampart?"
"Rampart was a madhouse," Johnny said. "Must be a full moon."
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"No," Johnny admitted. "But we're okay. Just water-logged."
"And you smell like rotten fish," Chet added.
The phone rang. Marco scooped it up and answered. After a moment of listening, he covered the receiver. "It's for you, Cap. Battalion."
Hank went to take the call in his office. Fifteen minutes later, he ambled toward the bickering and complaints he heard coming from the lockers. Roy was half-dressed in a fresh uniform. Johnny wore only a towel around his waist. Dinner and the luxury of hot water had put a little color back into their cheeks. One of the squad boxes lay open on the bench as they patched up themselves and each other.
"Ouch! That stings!" Johnny hissed as Roy dabbed at a scrape on his back.
"Stop whining," Roy said. "It's for your own good."
"I just got off the phone with Bob Tucker," Hank said. "The Coast Guard called him. Is there anything you forgot to tell me about today's run?"
Johnny rubbed his damp hair with a towel. "Forgot? I don't think so."
Roy shook his head.
Hank leaned against the doorway. "Some small detail about being trapped in a sinking boat?"
The partners exchanged glances.
"Oh, that part," Johnny shrugged. "It wasn't much."
Roy fingered a bump on his right elbow. "And I wouldn't say 'trapped.'"
"That's the exact word Captain Rogers at the Coast Guard used. He said both of you went to pull the injured man out from below deck and the boat capsized. It was a miracle you ended up in an air pocket and managed to swim out with the victim."
Johnny stood up and reached into his locker for a T-shirt. With a shadow of the famous Gage grin he said, "You know us, Cap. Miracles are just part of the job."
Hank couldn't tell if they were merely being modest or if the accident truly hadn't fazed them. Some firemen, like Chet Kelly, turned small incidents into rousing epics of heroism, courage and adventure, complete with sound effects and a certain amount of dramatic license. Others, like Mike Stoker, might save a dozen lives under the most adverse of conditions and then shrug it off as a normal part of the job. Johnny was normally the boasting type, Roy the reserved one. Maybe, once Johnny got his energy back, they'd be hearing about the rescue at sea ad nauseam.
"Captain Rogers was pretty impressed. He's going to send a letter over commending your bravery," Hank said.
Roy stood up to pull his pants on. "Anyone would have done the same."
"Hold it," Johnny said, putting his hand on Roy's back and bending to take a better look. "You've got a big scrape on the back of your leg."
"Do I?" Roy twisted. "Didn't even feel it."
"Let me clean it."
Hank studied the two of them. He tried to imagine the scenario as Captain Rogers had reported it. A forty-foot cabin cruiser that strayed too close to the rocks. High seas, inclement weather and the incoming tide didn't bode well for a rescue. Roy and Johnny had flown out to the scene on a chopper, beating the nearest Coast Guard cutter by a good thirty minutes. The boat owner, a San Diego entrepreneur, had suffered neck and head injuries. The wife and two teenage daughters were nearly hysterical. The family was no sooner safely in the chopper when the boat capsized. Roy, Johnny and the victim had been trapped in cold and oily water, surrounded by flotsam and hidden dangers. Keeping calm under those circumstances would have required every ounce of their faith, fortitude and confidence.
"What's the matter, Cap?" Roy asked.
"The two of you are going to give me a head full of gray hair."
Johnny looked bewildered. "What did we do?"
Hank shook his head. "Never mind. There's apple pie for dessert."
Chet and Marco had already started the dinner dishes. Mike had turned on the TV and was watching the national news. Hank surveyed his men with satisfaction and then took his favorite chair. He had paperwork to catch up on, a host of reports to fill out, but for the moment he was content to enjoy the relative peace and quiet. Johnny came in to grab some pie, and within fifteen minutes was sound asleep on one end of the sofa. Chet took a rubber band and began fashioning a slingshot.
"Don't you dare," Hank warned.
"But, Cap - "
"You heard me."
Roy wandered in with his arms folded. He still looked cold, despite his thick sweater.
"Why don't you follow your partner's example and rest up?" Hank suggested.
With a pointed glance at the clock, Roy said, "No use. It's been too quiet - almost an hour since we got back. We're overdue for a run."
"Just try," Hank said, biting down on a prediction that the squad wouldn't get called out for at least another hour. Or so Sam at Dispatch had promised. It was a huge IOU to call in, but it wasn't the first time a squad or engine company dropped off the top of the availability list for a little while. Back when Hank had been a probie, he had thought the fire department played no political games, treated each employee fairly and went exactly be the book. Time and experience had taught him otherwise. He had no intentions of jeopardizing some innocent civilian by slipping Squad 51 out of service, but he didn't want Roy and Johnny going into the field and making a dumb, fatal mistake, either.
"Maybe I'll just shut my eyes for a few minutes," Roy said reluctantly. A half hour later, when Hank went to use the bathroom, he found the blond paramedic stretched out on his bed and dead to the world. Hank dropped a blanket on top of him. When he returned to the day room, he found someone had provided Johnny with one as well. No one looked up at Hank's return or admitted the kind gesture. If Chet had done it, Hank would have suspected him of lacing the folds with itching powder. But Chet was industriously polishing his shoes and Johnny didn't look restless.
"I think it's going to be a quiet night," Mike offered.
Hank didn't agree. Although he felt better with all his men under one roof, the uneasiness that had bothered him all afternoon had not abated. He didn't want to jinx the rest of the shift by saying so, though, and instead opted to flip through the pages of the TV Guide. "Anything good on?"
"The Disney movie's got Kurt Russell in it," Marco said.
"My kid sister saw him in the supermarket last month," Chet said. "She said he's fatter than he looks."
Mike said, "Let's watch '60 Minutes.'"
Hank agreed with Mike. Chet agreed with Marco. They flipped a coin, and Kurt Russell won. Despite his best intentions, Hank found himself enjoying the story of the inventor of an invisibility spray. Johnny's faint snores and the drumming rain provided a steady background accompaniment. Nine o'clock rolled around without a single alarm, and Hank began to believe they would make it through the night without any kind of calamity.
At quarter past the hour, a long series of tones blasted through the station. And the call proved to be every bit as bad as Hank feared.
***
The sky glowed orange on the horizon. Hank saw the halo shifting and growing against the clouds, a living thing in its own right. He shifted his gaze down to the treacherous downhill twists and turns of Coldwater Canyon. Not much traffic this time of night, but not much room for cars to pull over, either. The rain on the asphalt made driving even more treacherous than usual. Beside Hank, Mike fought to balance speed, safety and several tons of steel.
"Watch it," Hank warned as, a hundred yards ahead of them, the brake lights of the squad lit up. A driver in a Toyota had start to turn left directly in Roy's path. Roy honked angrily and Mike followed suit with a blast of the air horn.
"Idiots," Mike muttered. He had once told Hank that fires didn't worry him - getting to fires worried him. Hank remembered his own days as engineer vividly enough to empathize. He tried not to be too obvious as he braced himself against the next turn. Visions of the Ward LaFrance tumbling into a ravine made him hold his breath for a moment.
"That brake pedal work over there?" Mike asked, a glint in his eye. Hank looked down and saw his foot jammed against the floor.
"Keep your eyes on the road," Hank growled.
Roy led them down the road and across the thoroughfare of Ventura Boulevard. They were in 78's suburban territory now. Apartment buildings started to outnumber ranch houses as the preferred type of development. The streets were laid out in a planned grid, but jogged off unexpectedly into cul-de-sacs. With his window cracked open, Hank could already smell ash and smoke on the breeze. The glow led and Squad 51 led Mike north past Moorpark. The radio squawked, and Captain Joe Baker's voice rang through the cab.
"Engine 51, be advised - you'll have to park on Woodvale. You won't get onto Breman."
Hank soon saw why. Breman Street was shaped like a crescent moon, accessible only from the side street. The north end dead-ended into a long, narrow apartment complex. The other butted up against a footbridge and the walled-in Los Angeles River. A dozen more apartment buildings crowded next to each other on the street, with cars parked solidly from one end to the other. Engines 78 and 88, Ladder 21, Squad 78, two police units and an ambulance left Roy and Mike with no place to park their vehicles except on Woodvale. He jumped down to hook up to the nearest hydrant. Marco and Chet began pulling a two hundred foot hose. Hank fought his way through gawking spectators to the Joe Baker's side.
"That end unit is fully involved," the incident commander barked out. Garish light showcased the other man's features. "Twenty apartments. Anyone left there is toast. Fire jumped to those two adjacent buildings. There's a gas station right behind us, on Woodman. You take over on that unit there. Make sure everyone's out."
Hank signaled Johnny and Roy to don their SCBA's. The building Baker wanted him to cover had been built Tudor-style, with a stucco exterior, exposed beams and a slanted roof that was already smoldering. The thick smoke billowing down the street made it impossible for him to gauge more details. Rain might have helped, but the winter weather had abated into a barely discernible drizzle. Johnny and Roy jogged up the exterior stairs and began pounding on doors. Marco and Chet started watering down the building in hopes of saving it.
"My baby!" a woman yelled over the din and roar. "My baby's in there!"
Hank looked around and saw the police holding back a woman with frizzy red hair. "Where?" he demanded.
"Apartment four! In the back! My baby - "
He didn't stop to ask why she had left the child alone. Recrimination and blame could come later. Hank keyed his radio button and said, "HT 51, check apartment four in the back." Even as he said the words, his stomach twisted into a knot. Losing kids was one of the worst parts of the job. Property had value both financial and sentimental, but family was irreplaceable. He heard Johnny acknowledge the order and saw the two paramedics move down the landing to the last door. They had to break it down to gain access. They disappeared inside, and for two very long minutes Hank heard and saw nothing from them.
Just twenty feet away, Station 88's crew was trying to knock down the flames shooting out of the Mediterranean-style "Villa Bella" apartments. Out of the corner of his eye, Hank glimpsed their nozzleman suddenly swing his hose on the first floor garage. Maybe he had a premonition, a firefighter's sixth sense, but the warning came too late. A searing light blossomed out of nowhere, followed a split-second later by a deafening explosion and a furious roar of sound. Whatever blew in the garage - paint? gasoline? - triggered a smaller blast on the east side of the Tudor, where flames shot out of shattered windows and up toward the night sky with an insane glee.
The twin percussion blasts knocked down 88's team. Glass and debris sent Marco and Chet to the ground down as well. Thrown momentarily off balance, Hank righted himself and ran to his crew. He grabbed each by an arm. Chet looked badly dazed and Marco had a bloody gash over his right eye. Their 1-3/4 inch line jerked wildly, pumping water uselessly onto the wet grass. Over on the grounds of the Villa Bella, the men of 88 weren't moving. Only vaguely did Hank hear another alarm go out over the radio. His ears rang in memory of the blast, and his vision had a distinctly watery blur.
"Get back!" he ordered, steering his men toward the street. "Are you badly hurt?"
Chet bent at the waist and put his hands on his knees. Marco jerked his head toward the injured firemen on the lawn. "Get them," he said, and hooked his arm around Chet as if together they could keep each other steady. "We're okay!"
Hank glanced up at the Tudor. Black smoke billowed out of the shattered windows on the first floor. Somewhere above that inferno, Johnny and Roy might be in need of assistance. But the men of 88's definitely needed help and needed it immediately. Hank grabbed the nearest and began dragging him to safety. No time to judge and catalog injuries. Someone else took care of the back-up man. Shouts and helping hands surrounded Hank, and the paramedics from Squad 78 assumed control.
"I need help over here!" Hank yelled, and two burly guys from the newly arrived Engine 24 grabbed the fallen line. Red flames filled Hank's vision and smoke clogged his throat. He frantically scanned the second floor, but saw no sign of Johnny or Roy. Flames shooting up from burning bushes made the stairs impossible to pass. "HT 51, report!" he ordered into the radio. "Gage, DeSoto!"
Joe Baker appeared at his elbow. "Where are your men?"
"Second floor, in the back!" Helplessness swept through Hank. How many minutes had elapsed? How bad was the visibility up there? For all he knew, a floor could have given way. His two paramedics might be lying in agony, burning alive or slowly suffocating under debris. He swung around, reassuring himself that at least Marco and Chet were okay. Someone from 78's had taken them to the curb and was checking them out.
"Get a ladder over here!" Baker shouted. "And another line! We've got men trapped."
A hot and wild urge took over Hank's limbs. He started for the stairs despite the fact he had no SCBA, no hose, no possible means of ascent. He didn't care. He would not let his men die. Pride had nothing to do with it. Neither did his duty and responsibilities as their captain. They were his friends and, in the tight-knit fraternity of firefighting, his sworn brothers. He would lift concrete with his bare hands. He would pass unscathed by flame. He would defy all known laws of physics and combustion and get them out -
Baker grabbed him by the waist and hauled him backward. "Where are you going?"
"They're up there!" Hank shook himself loose. "Gage and DeSoto!"
"Control yourself!" Baker ordered. "We'll get them out."
A hollow promise. One that couldn't possibly be kept. Horror turned to numbness as Hank saw the roof ignite. Fire below and fire above. No chance of survival. The brave men of Squad 24 must not have realized it yet, because they grabbed a ladder and ascended the west side of the building. An axe made quick work of a window that hadn't shattered yet. Two men climbed into the deathtrap and were immediately swallowed up.
Chet tugged on Hank's arm. "What can I do?" he asked, his voice raspy, his eyes rimmed red.
"Nothing," Hank murmured. "Pray."
Baker was standing for no sentimentality. "You want to be useful?" he told Chet. "Grab that hose!"
Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Forty. The weight of grief began to settle on Hank's chest. He had known that Johnny and Roy were exhausted and hurting after the Coast Guard rescue. Why hadn't he requested substitutes and sent them home? He saw himself from afar and cursed his uselessness, his inability to lift a finger to help his own men. Why was he standing there like an idiot? Why didn't he help? His legs carried him forward again. Hands held him back.
John, Roy, I'm sorry, he thought.
One of the rescuers from 24's appeared at the window with the burden of another man in his arms. Hank gasped. Someone shouted. The limp body was passed down the ladder to waiting hands below with quick, careful efficiency. Gage or DeSoto? He couldn't tell. This time, when Hank ran forward, Baker let him go. Charred turnouts. A torn air hose. A flash of blond hair. Hank swung around, his eyes tearing from flying ash, and watched the window. The next victim out was only one foot long and swaddled in a dirty blue blanket. Hurry, hurry. Another unconscious victim - finally! Johnny! - his mask cracked, his arms dangling limply as he was carried down. Hank took his dead weight at the bottom of the ladder and carried him to the triage area.
Within only a minute, Roy was coughing and gasping under the flow of direct oxygen. Johnny took a moment longer to revive. On his knees in the grass beside them, Hank gave a silent and heartfelt thanks. Relief made it impossible to anything more than watch them breathe. But there was a fire that still needed to be put out, and after several more seconds Hank staggered to his feet and went to finish the job.
***
Two hours on scene. The long, grim trip back to the Station with only Mike as company. Grimy with soot and sweat, Hank rolled down the window, turned his face to the night and closed his eyes. At the station, he wandered restlessly through the empty rooms and tried to fill the hollow feeling in his stomach with coffee. Battalion called in replacements, men who straggled in with grim curiosity.
"What went wrong?" Charlie Dwyer asked.
"Who's hurt the worst?" Hank Hill wanted to know.
The B-Shift captain, Joe Simpson, had only one question for Hank. "Are you okay to drive?"
"I'm driving him," Mike said firmly, and leaned over to snag Hank's car keys from his unresisting fingers.
If they exchanged any words during the drive, Hank didn't remember them. At Rampart, Mike let Hank off at the curb and went to find a parking space. Firemen and family members had crammed into the waiting room. The wives clutched handkerchiefs and purses and babies. Grim-faced men carried coffee cups from one side of the room to the other but never stopped to drink any themselves. Conversation was muted. Although none of the injured were thought to have life-threatening injuries, bad things were known to happen in hospitals. Hearts gave out. Lungs closed down. Nothing was ever guaranteed.
Hank stopped in the doorway, only vaguely away of the gazes turned his way -some compassionate, some curious, some accusing. He didn't see Joanne DeSoto. Surely she'd already arrived? He'd called her first thing upon return to the fire house. She would certainly hold him accountable for her husband's injuries. His peers would judge him - that's Hank Stanley, he froze up during a fire -and his superiors would remember him as a coward. He could live with that as long as his men all survived and could return to their families and careers.
"Hank," someone said, and he turned to see Frank Howard. The older man looked rumpled and tired in the unflattering light, and the tail of his pajama top stuck out from under his sweater. The battalion chief pulled him down the hall to a quiet corner.
Hank swallowed the lump in his throat. "How are they?"
Although tests were still pending, the situation didn't look as bad as first feared. On 88's side, Chuck Parisi had a concussion. Mark McElvaney, the nozzleman, had a broken arm. On 51's side, Johnny's shoulder was banged up and Roy had second degree burns on his hands. Marco was getting stitches. Chet had been checked out and sent home.
"Lopez told me you jumped right in there when all hell broke loose," Howard said. "Good job."
"Wasn't me," he said. "I was useless."
"I heard you pulled Parisi and McElvaney out."
"That's not quite how it happened."
Howard clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't be so modest."
"It's not modesty," Hank started to say, but a nurse at the front desk called out that Howard had a call and the chief went off to answer it.
Dr. Kelly Brackett came out of treatment room one, scanning a chart in his hands. Hank was surprised to see the head of emergency medicine working so late at night. Beneath his white coat, Brackett wore dress shoes and expensive black slacks. Maybe a dinner date had been interrupted.
"Doc?" Hank asked, when it looked like Brackett might turn and head the other way down the hall.
Brackett turned around. "Hank. I knew you'd be around somewhere."
"My men doing okay?"
"Come see for yourself."
Brackett took him into treatment room three. Johnny lay half-dressed and reeking of smoke, one leg swinging lazily off the exam table, his right shoulder in a sling. He wore a lazy grin that spoke to the power of painkillers. He was waving his discarded nasal canula in the air and telling stories to a young nurse with red hair.
" - and then the floor gave out, just like that! Flames shooting out all over the place - " Johnny tore his attention from the woman long enough to say, "Cap!"
"How do you feel, John?"
The paramedic's grin grew wider. "Just fine."
"His shoulder's not broken," Brackett said, "but he won't be lifting hose for awhile."
Johnny folded his left hand behind his head. "How's Roy?"
"He's not quite as happy as you are," Brackett said.
Hank added, "Chet and Marco got banged up a little, too."
Johnny coughed and then shook his head. "Bad day all around, huh? But it could have been worse."
Hank looked at Brackett. "Did he tell you he was trapped in a sinking boat this afternoon?"
Bracket's eyebrows rose. "No, he didn't."
"No fair, Cap," Johnny complained. "Talking about me like I'm not here." He gave the nurse a charming smile. "But let me tell you, that was pretty dangerous too. We went to help the Coast Guard - "
"Excuse me," Hank said to Brackett and the nurse. His heart felt lighter than it had just a minute earlier. "I know this story."
Roy and Joanne were in treatment room two. Someone had brought Joanne a stool, and the exam table was propped up for Roy's comfort. Husband and wife sat quietly with their heads bowed close together, and Hank got the distinct impression he was interrupting an intimate moment. He started to back out and close the door, but Roy had already seen him.
"Come in, Cap," he said, his voice hoarse with smoke and ash.
Joanne squeezed Roy's thigh. "No talking, remember?"
A gentle roll of his eyes told Hank what Roy thought of that medical advice. Both of Roy's hands were bandaged, and he still wore the canula to assist his breathing. The paramedic used his forearm to bump the Styrofoam cup in Joanne's hand.
"More ice chips?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I'll be back." Joanne shot them both a warning look. "No talking."
The door closed softly behind her. "Everyone okay?" Roy croaked out.
"Reasonably okay."
"Baby?"
With a start, Hank realized he hadn't even thought about the child Roy and Johnny had gone in to save. "I didn't ask. I'm sure it's okay."
Roy coughed for several seconds. Hank's chest ached in sympathy. When he was done, Roy waved his hands a little. "Can't work for awhile."
"We'll survive without you," Hank reassured him.
"Johnny behaving?"
"Hitting on a nurse," Hank said.
"That's my partner," Roy replied. "Thanks for getting us out."
Hank stuck his hands in his pocket studied the bandages on Roy's hands. "I didn't do anything."
"That's not what Marco says."
Curiosity temporarily washed away Hank's guilt. Just what the heck was Lopez telling people? Before he could ask, Joanne came back in with the cup of ice chips. "I could hear you in the hall," she said disapprovingly, and Hank took that as his signal to leave. He might be a fire department captain, but in hospital rooms, wives easily outranked him.
Marco and Mike were standing by the payphones. Marco had his head tilted and part of his bandage pulled up. "See? Twelve stitches."
"Lopez," Hank said, "the point of having a bandage is that you leave it on."
"Mike wanted to see."
Mike raised his hands in disavowal.
Hank adopted a stern tone. "What are you going around saying?"
"What do you mean, Cap?"
"You told Chief Howard I pulled Parisi and McElvaney to safety."
Marco patted his bandage back into place. "You did."
"What do I look like, Superman?" Hank asked in exasperation. "I certainly wasn't any use to Gage or DeSoto."
A bald statement, that, and not one he'd intended to make to either of them. A captain had no right to lay his own insecurities or doubts on the backs of his men. They needed to see him as strong, confident and decisive. They needed him as a role model, someone they could respect.
"Cap," Mike said, "you're not on some weird guilt trip, are you?"
"Sometimes you do that," Marco added.
So much for being a role-model. Hank glowered at both of them. "Go home," he growled. "You've got the luxury of the rest of the night off."
"I'm your ride," Mike reminded him.
"Now you're Marco's ride," Hank said. "Get out of here."
After they left, Hank grabbed himself a cup of coffee and went outside. Frank Enton, the portly captain of 88's, stood in the shadows sucking on a cigarette. The clouds had cleared out, leaving the brightest of stars visible in the sky.
"Nasty business," Frank said.
"How are your guys?" Hank asked.
"Complaining. They hate hospitals."
"Mine, too." Hank turned his collar up against the chill. "We were lucky."
Frank flicked ashes into a potted palm. "I tell you, there's nothing worse than seeing your own guys go down. Makes you wonder what the hell you did wrong."
"I know what you mean."
"Remember Paul Harper? Over at 79's? My first captain. Big guy, survived Iwo Jima. When I made rank, he told me that a little self-doubt was healthy. Keeps you on your toes."
Good advice? Bad advice? Hank couldn't tell. Maybe in the morning he'd be able to think more clearly. Maybe he'd see the night in a whole different light. Marco didn't seem to think he'd done anything wrong. Neither did Mike. The incident commander, Joe Baker, might have a few words of advice for him about his impetuousness the next time they met up. Trying to run into a fire without gear was a stunt worthy of John Gage - in fact, Hank could distinctly remember a time when he'd had to keep Gage from storming in after his partner - but maybe he could be forgiven for that lapse in judgment. Maybe.
"Oh, what the hell," Frank said, stubbing out his cigarette. "Everyone's alive and there are going to be more fires to fight tomorrow. I'm going home. How about you?"
"I'm going to stick around for a little longer," Hank said. "See you later."
After a few minutes, he went back inside. The crowd in the waiting room had scattered, leaving behind the jetsam of worry - crushed cups, scattered magazines, someone's black sweater. Hank thought about finding Chief Howard and asking him for a lift. Maybe he would just call a cab instead. The decision was too difficult to make. He plopped down on the nearest sofa, stretched out his legs and leaned his head back. Rampart was kind of nice at one o'clock in the morning. Quiet, for a change. Almost soothing.
The next thing he knew, Johnny was shaking him awake. Roy and Joanne stood behind him.
"Hmm?" Hank asked, disoriented.
"Come on, Cap," Johnny said. "It's time to go home."
His thoughts muddled, Hank followed the other three to the parking lot. Still dark out, still cold, but the tinge of dawn was in the east. They climbed into Joanne DeSoto's station wagon, filling the interior with the smells of burned wood and plastic that lingered in their clothes. Joanne dropped Johnny off first at his apartment near the marina, then swung north and west on the nearly-empty freeways toward Hank's house in Gardena.
"Thanks," he said when they let him off.
"See you, Cap," Roy managed around a mouth-splitting yawn.
"No talking," Joanne said as they drove off.
Hank turned toward his house. Karen met him at the door. She had both hands wrapped around a cup of tea, and her hair spilled wildly down the back of her checkered bathrobe. "You're home early," she said. "Where's the car?"
He wrapped her in his arms, nearly spilling the tea, and pulled her close enough to smell the fruity scent of her shampoo.
"Bad shift?" she asked.
"Not really," he said. "Just another day on the job."