This story, a multi-parter, is in response to a retired challenge on the KMG 365
page. I thought the premise, which appears in italics below, was tremendous.
I decided, in writing this tale, to focus on the aftermath and fallout
from such a tragedy, as opposed to the rescue and injuries, since the latter
were so well covered in the other responses. My technical knowledge is limited,
so I would ask you to bear with. And many thanks to my greatest fan, critic,
and best pal - Debbie. This is written with fond memories of the E!-themed
trip to Greece: Joy and Rohnny, making "Cap" faces at the cafe in Plaka,
and watching the scene in the wrecking yard with Mike and the jaws way too many
times! "Firemen! I LOVE firemen!" This story references my first offering, "The Numbers Game, Parts 1 and 2", which can be found on The Stoker Battalion. It is not critical that they be read beforehand, but it helps ! An Arc Through Fog His sweeping arm, all grace and gentle power, The darkness cuts and segments with the force of wings descending. From craggy dwelling places overlooking seas and wonderlands He makes his dive through all our ages, an Arc Through Fog. John Miles "A Falcon in Flight" The visibility was almost nil. The marine layer was a thick as pea soup. Stoker squinted through the windshield as he forced as much speed as possible out of the heavy rig. "It's the next right, Mike," Captain Stanley advised. He had been glaring out the window, searching for familiar landmarks. The view was so obscured by fog that everything took on an alien, almost surreal appearance. Stoker slowed and made the turn, but suddenly a cold hand grabbed his gut and would not let go. Everything started happening in slow motion. He slammed his foot onto the break, but it did no good at all. Where the road should have been was nothing but air. Roy and Johnny watched in horror as the rig careened off the road and disappeared into the fog-bound ravine. "Roy!" Johnny braced himself against the steel frame of the squad, slamming his foot down on a nonexistent brake pedal, fully expecting the squad to follow the engine towards disaster. In the driver's seat, Roy reacted with complete presence of mind. He had been following close behind the engine, so as not to lose sight of it in the fog; but he had maintained a safe enough distance to preclude the danger of a sudden stop. That little bit of extra distance now bought him the time to bring the squad to a jerkish halt only inches from the edge of the ravine. Yet neither paramedic had the luxury of feeling anything like relief. Forcing a calm they did not feel into their singular manner, they got wordlessly out of the vehicle and moved cautiously towards the site where the rig had gone over. The limited visibility showed them a sheer, rocky drop-off before blending into the fog only a few yards below. Beyond that, they could see nothing. "My God, it goes almost straight down." Johnny's voice was filled with quiet dread. "Can you see if it levels out at all?" Roy asked, straining his eyes against the swirling cloud of mist. "I can't tell." Roy went back to the squad and reached for the mic. "L.A., this is Squad 51. Engine 51 has gone over the embankment into the ravine on Paxton. I can't give a more accurate location due to the fog, but I think we're close to the Culverton Bridge. We're going to need help here." "Ten-four, Squad 51," came the acknowledgment, so detached and professional. That sort of dispassionate demeanor was what Roy needed right now; it was what he was counting on. This was not the time for excessive emotion. If his crewmates were still alive, they would be depending on the steady, level-headed competence of the two paramedics. Roy stayed at the radio long enough to hear the dispatcher call out another engine company to take 51's aborted run, as well as another to come to 51's aid. He then tried to contact the engine, but his inquiries were met with silence. He returned to where Johnny was calling out into the ravine. "Is anyone answering?" Johnny shook his head. "No. Roy, we'd better to get down there." "They're sending Station 12 to help us. One of us needs to stay up here until they arrive," Roy replied. "I'll go down." Roy could see that Johnny was mentally already half-way down the cliff. Holding him back to wait for Station 12 would be like trying to rein in a thoroughbred. Roy nodded once. "I'll join you as soon as 12 gets here." They both returned to the squad to retrieve the equipment. The first thing to accost his senses was the pain in his shoulder. Next came the coldness in his legs. He opened his eyes. The world had turned red. The entire world - red. It could be a dream. That would explain the terrible and unbelievable memories trying to push their way to the foreground. The image coalescing in his mind was something so horrific that it could not have happened. It had to have been a dream, a nightmare. He lay perfectly still for several seconds, contemplating this idea. That was when he was forced to admit that the pain was real, too real for the shifting patterns of a dream. He was not asleep. He was awake. He was awake, and the rig had been involved in an accident. That fact established itself firmly in his brain. Marco raised a trembling hand to his forehead. His fingers came back with blood on them. That explained the red world. No . . . that wasn't it. It wasn't blood that had turned everything crimson. Marco reached out his hand, and his palm came into contact with the cold smoothness of polished metal. The engine. He was looking at the engine - balancing, by some miracle, less that six inches from his face. A shudder spasmed through his body as he realized that he was no longer in the engine, but under it. He turned his head slowly to take in his situation. He was lying with his lower body submerged in shallow water. From the waist up, he was on top of a thick tuft of spongy grass. The engine, poised directly overhead, had just narrowly missed crushing the life out of him. Something had stopped the downward motion of the rig mere inches above him. He carefully extricated himself from his precarious position; but when he was clear of the wreckage and able to take full stock of the scene, he could not believe his eyes. As a fireman, Marco was used to seeing all manner of disaster; but the sight of the engine, upside down and wedged tightly between the walls of the ravine, affected him in a way he had not expected. It froze him in place. For several seconds he could not move. Then something instinctive took over, rousing him from his horrified stupor, and jolting him into action. His own injuries were pushed aside, overrun by adrenaline and desperation. He crossed over the shallow stream that ran along the bottom of the ravine and approached the cab. Already, he could see that the cab had pancaked upon impact. The shattered remains of the driver's side window littered the ground like tiny gems. Climbing up onto the rocky outcropping that served as the cab's perch, he peered inside the crumpled steel frame. Staring back at him from the far side of the cab was Captain Stanley. Blood dribbled from a gash at his hairline, and the entire left side of his face was smeared red. He was sitting relatively upright, as much as the compacted cab would allow, one arm trapped somewhere behind him and out of sight, the other arm extended towards his engineer. His hand rested on the back of Stoker's head, a useless gesture of reassurance, but it was the best he could do. "Marco." Captain Stanley's voice was airy and thin. "Cap, are you alright?" "Not really," came the reply. A pause. It was a great effort to speak. "Mike's hurt," he finally managed. Marco did not need to be told this. The front of the engine looked like an accordion, and Stoker's legs were trapped in the folds between the crushed dashboard and the steering wheel. His upper body was twisted at a bizarre angle, so that he was lying with his chest nearly flush against the roof of the cab. His head was turned to one side, and Marco could see the thick, frothy blood at his mouth and nose. He could hear the gurgling sound with each breath. Internal bleeding. Stoker's eyes were open, but they had a glazed, transparent look to them. A visceral knot formed in Marco's stomach. He reached in, almost violently, and felt along Mike's neck for a pulse. Rapid and thready. It wasn't too late. Yet, Marco knew it would only be a matter of minutes if they did not get help soon. Mike was suffocating with his own blood. "Chet?" Captain Stanley asked. "I don't know, Cap," Marco replied. "I haven't had a chance to look yet." "Go look." A grimace crossed the captain's face, then as it faded, he continued. "I'm here with Mike. Go look for Kelly." "Are you sure, Cap? Mike looks like he needs help right now," Marco asked. "I'm sure." The truth was that Captain Stanley knew there was nothing any of them could do for Mike under the circumstances. The engineer was trapped, his injuries inaccessible. Captain Stanley doubted that he himself was much better off than Stoker, for he was having trouble concentrating, and it was taking most of his energy to hold the increasing pain in his side at bay. Moreover, they had no medical equipment with them. The best they could hope for was that the squad had not met the same fate and that Johnny and Roy were in the process of orchestrating their rescue. Thirty yards below the level of the roadway, the steep descent of the ravine gave way to a somewhat gentler slope covered with sparse vegetation. Immediately, Johnny could see where the engine had plowed through the ferns and scrub bushes. He followed the gouge to where it disappeared over the edge of another precipitous drop. He descended along his line a short distance to a second gradual slope. As he picked his way down, he noticed that the fog thinned out a bit. He could see perhaps ten yards in any direction now. He paused to get his bearings, and that was when he heard a faint groan coming from somewhere in the tall grass to his right. Johnny stopped in his tracks. Even though the voice was weak and distorted, he recognized it immediately as Chet's. "Chet?!" He tramped through the grass, going less than ten paces before coming upon Kelly lying prone on the ground. Right away, Johnny ascertained that his crew-mate's condition was serious. He was pale and trembling. The right leg of his trousers was blood-drenched above the knee. An ugly abrasion ran the length of his jaw on one side. Johnny dropped down beside him. "Chet? Chet, can you hear me?" Chet opened his eyes to regard Johnny as a manner of acknowledgment. "It's going to be alright," came the statement of confident assurance. "I'm gonna take care of you. Just take it easy." As he spoke, he checked along Chet's limbs. Compound fracture of the right femur. Johnny could feel it protruding against the cloth of Chet's trousers; and judging from the amount of blood, the artery had been damaged. Johnny slid his belt off and secured it around Chet's leg as a tourniquet. "Roy! I've got Chet! Send the equipment down in the stokes!" Johnny shouted, then lowering his voice to a quiet, authoritative tone, he addressed Chet. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" "My stomach," Chet replied with a grimace. Johnny opened Chet's turnout coat and his uniform shirt. His eyes were immediately drawn to a swollen, reddish patch just above the belt-line. Internal bleeding. Heavy bleeding, if the size of the site of discoloration were any indication. "Marco?" Chet's voice issued forth in little more than a whisper. "I don't know Chet," Johnny replied. "We're working on it." "Cap?" "Okay, Chet, I'm going to need you to keep quiet. Don't worry about the rest of the guys. We're going to get to them. Right now, I want you to take it easy and don't talk." Suddenly, from somewhere below, came the sound of a voice calling out. Johnny straightened up and listened. "Johnny! Roy!" It was Marco's voice! "Marco?!" Johnny shouted. "Yes! Yes! It's us! We're down here in the bottom of the ravine!" "We're coming!" Johnny replied. "We're up here with Chet, but we'll be down to you as soon as we can! Is anyone hurt down there?" "I'm banged up a little." Marco played down his own injuries. "But Cap and Mike are hurt pretty badly, I think. Is Chet okay?" "We're taking care of him. Just hang on, Marco. We'll be down there soon!" Johnny looked back at Chet and smiled optimistically. "Marco sounds pretty good, Chet." "He said Cap was hurt bad," Chet wheezed out. "We're going to get to them. It'll be alright, Chet. We've got help on the way. Now, you just stay quiet and let me look at you." And for once, Chet was silent. "Cap . . ." Captain Stanley's eyes snapped open. He had been drifting in and out, but the sound of his name snatched him back to wakefulness. Actually, it wasn't so much the sound of his name, as it was the voice that had spoken it. He looked down at Stoker. His engineer was struggling to speak. "Mike?" A long interval passed during which Captain Stanley began to think Mike was not going to answer. But then Mike's voice came in a splutter. "I'm sorry." Captain Stanley swallowed down the taste of something bitter in his mouth. It might have been blood or bile or anger or even sympathy. He did not know if the feeling of nausea creeping up into his throat was from injury or emotion. He only knew he could not let Stoker shoulder the blame for this. Not entirely. And not at the moment. "It's not your fault, Mike," he said in a strained voice. "No-don't try to talk. It's okay." Stoker fell silent again with only the sound of his liquid breathing to testify that he was still alive. Marco appeared again in the broken-out window. "Cap, Johnny's up there! They found Chet. He's alive." Captain Stanley managed a nod. He was losing the battle to suppress his own pain. It had been important to him to maintain his calm, for he knew his men were relying on him for strength. But now, he wanted nothing more than to let go and lapse into unconsciousness. "Help's coming, Cap. Hang on a little longer," Marco pleaded. He leaned in closer to check on Mike. The blood from engineer's mouth and nose had formed into a sticky puddle on the roof of the cab. His eyes were closed now, and there was no visible movement in his body. Marco placed a hand on his back. A slight rise and fall. He was still breathing, but slowly and with difficulty. "Stay with us, Mike," he said quietly, but he suspected his words were not being heard. Except, perhaps, by God. Now that Marco knew that Chet was accounted for and being taken care of, he could turn his full attention to his captain and Stoker, only he did not know what he could do to help. He knew how to pray, and that might be the most he could do right now. And then came the sirens. Captain Percy Jerrod approached Roy. "What's the status, Roy?" he asked directly. "The engine went over right here. Johnny's down there now with Chet. The rest of them are further down in the ravine. We don't know the extent of their injuries, but it sounds like two are hurt pretty badly," Roy replied. "I've got Rampart on the biophone." "Running a relay?" "Yes. The biophone can't make contact from down in the ravine." Captain Jerrod looked over the edge. "Blasted fog. Can barely see my hand in front of my face. You going down?" Roy nodded. He already had his line ready. "I'll send Myers and Smith down with you," Jerrod said, referring to his own two paramedics. "And I'll have Banks and Elledge go help Gage." Roy gave a curt nod. He made sure his line was secured, scurried over the edge, and began his way down. As he descended through the fog, he felt a strange sense of isolation, which dissipated as he came upon the spot where Johnny was tending to Chet. "How's he doing?" Roy asked. Johnny gave a twist of the head that indicated bad news. "Captain Jerrod's sending Banks and Elledge down to give you a hand," Roy informed him. "I'm going down to the engine." Johnny nodded. "Be careful. This isn't exactly the strongest footing." Roy continued on into the depths of the ravine, reaching the bottom after a descent of another fifty yards. Marco was waiting for him. "Thank God you're here, Roy." Roy put his hand up to Marco's forehead where a large contusion was forming. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" "My shoulder. My hip smarts a little. It's not bad-" "What about your head, here? Do you feel dizzy? How's your vision?" "I'm okay, Roy." Marco had already begun to turn away towards the cab of the engine. "But Cap and Mike need help. They both look bad." Satisfied that Marco was in no immediate danger, Roy raised his eyes to take in the engine. Looking at the bent and crushed pile of steel and metal, he shuddered. It was inconceivable that any of them should still be alive. Roy climbed up onto the ledge. "Mike? Cap?" Captain Stanley did not even open his eyes. "Hurry, Roy." "We're going to get you out of here, Cap," Roy said with the same voice of conviction that he used in every emergency situation. It was his strongest asset - even more so than his skills as a paramedic. Roy DeSoto knew the importance of a positive demeanor, especially when faced with such trying circumstances. If he could make the victim believe everything was going to be alright, that was half the battle. Roy had learned over the years that if he gave everything he had, if he fought the hard battle, so would the victim. If he approached a situation with defeatism, he conveyed that sense of hopelessness to the victim. Those were the ones he was going to lose. And Roy did not like the idea of losing. His heart had not grown the calluses of indifference over the years. If anything, his sensitivities had become more pronounced. He checked Stoker's pulse and respirations. Not good. Not good at all. But not unexpected. Roy did not need the benefit of advanced equipment to identify Mike's dilemma. He was aspirating blood. An internal hemorrhage somewhere in the thoracic cavity was slowly filling Mike's lungs with blood. And there was not a thing they could for him as long as he remained trapped in the cab. Even once he was free, it would take a surgical team to draw the blood of the lungs and repair the damage. A paramedic's effectiveness with this sort of injury was extremely limited. Time was the deciding factor now. He reached across to Captain Stanley to get his vital signs. "Where are you hurt, Cap?" "Everywhere," came the barely coherent answer. His thoughts were becoming disjointed, overlapping, incomplete. He wasn't even sure what the question had been. "Marco, can we get to Cap's door from that side?" Roy asked. Marco dashed under the engine, took a quick look, then returned. "No! There's nothing to climb up onto." Roy passed his handie-talkie to Marco. "Tell them we need the jaws. And tell them to hurry. We don't have much time." Marco relayed the message then looked to Roy. "Captain Jerrod says Myers already has it with him and is bringing it down," he informed Roy. Roy remarked internally that Jerrod was always one step ahead, and he was grateful for it. He had been glad to hear when Station 12 was called out to assist with the accident. Captain Jerrod was one of the better captains in the county, and he ran a tight ship with a competent crew. Less than a minute later, Greg Myers and James Smith arrived at the bottom of the ravine. Roy filled them in on the situation while Myers took Marco in hand, checking over his injuries and forcefully convincing him to sit down while they worked to free his crewmates. Smith joined Roy up on the ledge. He could not suppress a vocal of expression of disbelief as he looked inside. "Boy, they're really wedged in there." A pause. "We won't be able to get to Captain Stanley until we get Stoker out." "Then let's get started," Roy replied. "Greg, we need the jaws up here," Smith called down. "We're also going to need stokes for all of them." "And a way to get them out of here," Roy added. "We can't get them up the way we came down, not without beating them around and eating up a lot of time that they don't have." Myers handed up the jaws then radioed Captain Jerrod. Once he had received his instructions, he climbed up to just below the ledge in order to be heard above the sounds of the jaws doing their job. "The captain says there's a bridge over the gorge about twenty yards further up the road. He wants us to try to take them up there, and they'll drop some lines over and bring them up that way." "Okay," Roy nodded, something in the back of his mind vaguely registering a strangeness about what Myers had just said. A bridge twenty yards ahead. Twenty yards. What had Stoker thought he'd been turning onto? What had he seen - or not seen - in the fog that had caused him to turn in the wrong place? Roy pushed the questions aside. The 'why' and 'how' hardly mattered at the moment. What mattered was saving these men's lives. Blame, guilt, accountability - they had no place in the current order of business. "What about Chet?" Roy asked. "How are they getting him out?" "They're taking him out up top, since he wasn't so far down. The ambulance is already there," Myers replied. "Elledge is coming down to help us." "Okay, I think I've got it here," Smith announced. "We can slide him out . . . Christ, how did he get twisted around like this?" "Keep him on his stomach. He has to stay face-down," Roy instructed. He and Smith maneuvered the now unconscious engineer out of the cab and handed him down to Myers and Marco. "Okay, Cap, let's get you out of here," Roy said, crawling into the space left by Stoker, ignoring the pool of blood in which he was kneeling. Captain Stanley's left arm was pinned behind him, between the seat and the rear wall of the cab. "James, his arm's trapped behind the seat, and his weight is holding it down. We're going to have to lift him up to free his arm," Roy said over his shoulder. "I'll lift and you see if you can squeeze in here . . ." A constricted groan was all that Captain Stanley permitted to escape his lips as they moved him. Roy once again was reminded of why he so admired his captain. Despite the fair amount of man-handling, Cap had borne it well. Delicacy was not going to get the job done; and Roy knew that no matter how rough things were now, they were going to get rougher. A lot rougher. **** It seems I have no tears left. They should have fallen- Their ghosts, if tears have ghosts, did fall-that day. Edward Thomas Tears Roy sat down and held a cup of coffee out to his partner. Johnny took it with a feeble, "Thanks." Neither man spoke for several minutes. They were both wretched - exhausted and dazed. What had started out as a routine run had turned into a waking horror. A matter of seconds had changed everything. At last, Johnny set the coffee down without having taken a single sip. "I don't get it, Roy. How could it have happened?" he asked, his dark eyes focused on an indiscriminate point somewhere on the far wall. "I mean, how could it have happened?" Roy did not have an answer. "Mike wouldn't make a mistake like that," Johnny went on, his voice taking on an urgency. "He'd never make a mistake like that. One minute they were there in front of us, the next . . . man, this is unbelievable." "He must have gotten disoriented in the fog," Roy offered. "You could barely see ten feet out there." "You could barely see five feet," Johnny replied in an agitated voice. "And the markings on that road were so faded. They need to repave and repaint that whole stretch through there. How could anyone expect Mike to see where he was going?" Roy heard the defensiveness in Johnny's voice. "No one's accused Mike of being at fault, Johnny," he reminded him gently. "But they're going to. You know they're going to, Roy." Gage stood up and strode across the room and back, his movements abrupt and filled with anger. "There's going to be an investigation, and they're going to look for someone to pin this on. Who else can they blame? Mike was driving. He's our engineer. They're going to decide it was his fault." "Don't get so worked up," Roy said, himself sounding nearly lifeless. "I think we have more important things to consider right now than whether or not they decide to conduct an investigation." Johnny moved over to the window and stood there, arms crossed tightly in front of him. His rage melted into distress and sadness. "You're right," he said quietly, not daring to say more, as if expression of his worst fears might somehow make them come true. The door to the Rampart emergency staff lounge opened, admitting Chief McConnikee. "Roy. John." He paused to shake Roy's hand and to notice that the fiery-tempered Gage was completely out-of-sorts. "Is there any word yet?" It was Roy who answered. "Marco's going to be okay. He'll be laid up for a few days. We don't know about Cap, Chet or Mike yet." "Captain Jerrod told me they were in bad shape." It was a statement and a question. "Yeah," Roy said in a near-whisper. Chief McConnikee looked at the two bedraggled men before him. "How are you two holding up?" "We're hanging in there," Roy replied. A short silence followed, broken by Chief McConnikee. "What the hell happened out there?" "I'm not sure," Roy replied. Chief McConnikee took in a heavy, paternal breath. "Stoker got lost in the fog?" "He wasn't lost, Chief," Roy replied. "I just don't think he could see where he was going." "None of us could," Johnny interjected. "You couldn't see a thing out there, not a thing." "He thought he had come to the turn," Roy provided, then after a short pause, he added miserably, "He hadn't." He cleared his throat. "There's not much shoulder on Paxton, not much room for error." Chief McConnikee nodded his understanding. "No guardrails. I'm well-acquainted with that stretch of road." He sat down next to Roy. "Have you gotten in touch with their families yet?" "We told the front desk where they could contact the next-of-kin. I just-neither of us was in any condition to make the calls, Chief. I'm sorry," Roy replied, then as an afterthought, he added, "Cap's wife is out of town, visiting some friends. We don't know who they are or how to contact them." He lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, Chief." "Don't apologize. It's understandable." The minute-hand on the wall clock made its incremental progression amidst silence. Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. At nearly thirty minutes, the door opened and Doctor Brackett entered the room. Roy was on his feet instantly. Johnny left his place next to the window and went to stand beside him. "Doc?" "Let's all sit down," Doctor Brackett suggested, then he turned to greet Chief McConnikee. "Chief, it's good to see you again. I wish it was under different circumstances." "So do I." They sat. Doctor Brackett's capable eyes scanned over the three men. "I won't sugarcoat things." He looked at Johnny and Roy. "You saw their injuries. You know what we're dealing with. I think Doctor Morton already told you that Marco's going to be okay. He had a broken collarbone, a couple cracked ribs, and a mild concussion. We'll keep him here for a couple days for observation, then he'll be out a few weeks. Chet's in surgery now." His expression fell somewhere between a grimace and a frown. "His chances are about fifty-fifty. There's severe abdominal bleeding, plus he has a compound fracture of the right femur. The artery was punctured when the bone broke. He's lost a lot of blood. They're repairing the artery right now and doing an exploratory at the same time to find the cause of the bleeding in the abdomen. Once they've stopped that and he's stabilized, then they'll set his leg." The faces of his audience were neutral. He continued. "They'll be taking Captain Stanley up to the OR in about five minutes. His left arm and collarbone are broken. He's got some internal bleeding - it looks like a ruptured spleen. They'll know more once they've got him on the table. He's also got a pretty heavy concussion, but his vitals have been holding steady. It's looking pretty good." Another pause. "Mike's in surgery. He's got four broken ribs on the right side and a punctured lung. There's also some abdominal bleeding. They're conducting simultaneous operations to repair the lung and do an exploratory to find the source of the blood in the abdomen. It looks like you got him in here just in time. There was a lot of blood in his lungs, a slow seepage through the puncture. Another couple minutes and it would have been too late." "He'll be alright?" Roy asked. "We'll know more when he comes out of surgery, but right now, it looks good." Doctor Brackett waited a few seconds to see if there would be any questions. No one said a word. "I have to get back in there," he announced. "You can stay in here as long as you like. As soon as we know more, I'll be out to tell you." "Yeah, thanks, Doc," Roy said, his voice sounding like a recording in his head, words without thought, without meaning. He looked around aimlessly for something to do. "I guess . . . I guess I should call Joanne. It looks like we're going to be here all night." Chief McConnikee nodded. Although he hated to admit it and he would never tell the two men in front of him, his thoughts were not only for the injured firemen he stood a good chance of losing. He had to face practical matters as well, the foremost of which was how he was going to replace the engine and its A-shift crew. Then there was the question of what to do with DeSoto and Gage. They were coming to the end of their three-day shift, but would they be in any sort of mental state to return to work after their three days off? Chief McConnikee knew where the two paramedics would be spending every waking moment - here, at Rampart. Then they would be returning to a station filled with strangers - not strangers, but not the crew they were used to. A forced leave of absence might be in order; but then again, that might give them too much to dwell on what had happened. It would require serious consideration, for Chief McConnikee could not disregard the last and most dreaded aspect of the practical matters. The investigation. The wheels were already in motion. They had started turning the instant Engine 51's demise had been reported. The Deputy Fire Chief was likely appointing someone at that very moment as the principal investigator. Within twenty-four hours, that appointee and whoever else comprised his team would be descending upon Rampart, upon the two dazed paramedics sitting in the staff lounge, upon whomever was coherent enough to give an account. And judging from DeSoto's and Gage's states-of-mind, Chief McConnikee did not feel confident that they would hold up well under pointed questioning. Chief McConnikee felt his ire rising. Wasn't it possible that sometimes, just sometimes, an accident was just that? An accident? As firemen, didn't he and his superiors see and hear about things like this every day? So, why was it so hard to accept the idea of an accident, plain and simple, when one of their own was involved? Marco looked up at the sound of the door opening. It was Roy and Johnny, and Marco was glad to see them. He had been installed in this patient room, where he was the only occupant, less than an hour ago; and the feeling of aloneness was already wearing on him. "Hey, Marco," Johnny said with a genuine smile. Here then, at least, was one bright spot - Marco was going to be okay - and Johnny latched onto it with his usual intensity. "John, Roy." Marco, however, was not smiling. "They won't tell me anything." "It's still too soon," Roy replied. "They're still operating." "On-on all of them?" Roy nodded. "Did the doctors say anything about their chances?" Roy and Johnny were both silent for several seconds, each waiting for the other to decide whether or not the truth was in order at the moment. At last, it was Roy who answered. "Cap and Mike are going to be alright," he said. "They'll both be laid up for a while, but they're going to make it." A pause. "Chet's not so good. Doctor Brackett said he has about a fifty-fifty chance." Marco lowered his head and groaned. "Oh, no, no. This isn't right." He shook his head minutely. "Why was I permitted to walk away from that, when the rest of them-" Knowing his voice was about to break, he stopped speaking. Johnny chastised him. "You can't think things like that, Marco. You can't feel guilty because you were able to walk away." Marco said nothing. The door opened. Chief McConnikee walked in. With him was Chief Brayson from department headquarters; and two captains, Detz and Junkers, both of whom were familiar to the three 51 crewmembers. Brayson was the deputy fire chief for the state of California. He was known for being a strict disciplinarian, without much sense of leniency or pardon. Yet, he was also considered to be fair and unbiased. It had been in his scope of responsibility to assign members to the board of inquiry, thus accounting for the presence of Captains Detz and Junkers. Captain Detz was from Station 19 in X county. He was a good, steady man with over 30 years of firefighting experience under his belt. His reputation as a masterful firefighter was known throughout the state, and he was held in a kind of awe by his fellow men in blue. He had resisted all attempts to get him to test for chief. Being a station captain was all he had ever desired, and he had never even entertained the idea of moving up into an office job. This sort of tasking, to head up a board of inquiry, irked him and grated on his nerves, for it took away from his primary job. But he had grown used to it. With his years and his experience, he had been called to participate on or head up several such boards. Yet, he had dreaded none of them as much as he dreaded this one. Andrew Detz might not know Mike Stoker on a personal level, but he knew him very well on a professional level. He had heard the volumes of praise heaped upon this man - his accomplishments, his skill, his leadership abilities. And he had seen him in action during several brush fires and cross-county alarms. Award ceremonies, conferences, equipment and technique demonstrations, training scenarios . . . Mike Stoker was at every event. It was clear that the powers-that-be were grooming him for great things. Three years earlier, their efforts had almost been overcome by tragic events. A series of murders had struck several firehouses, with 51 slated to be the crowning jewel. Stoker's abduction and subsequent rescue had left not only Stoker, but an entire department, shaken. Even after the danger had passed, there had been great concern in the department that one of its most brilliant engineers might decide to give up firefighting altogether. The abuse Stoker had suffered, simply because of his chosen profession and two men's lust for vengeance, had been unimaginable - until it had happened. And then, the likelihood that Stoker would be driven away by horrible memories had become very real. But Stoker had not quit. He had come back to the job he cherished and the men he loved. There had been remarkably little change in his demeanor. He had remained his usual reticent, yet buoyant self - a quick healer, both in body and mind. The most noticeable fallout from his unfortunate experience had been his decision to put off taking the captain's test - a decision his coworkers looked upon with a degree of bafflement, as well as understanding. Stoker had never spoken of his reasons for delaying taking the test. He would only allow that he was happy where he was, and that he was in no hurry to leave his friends at the station. But last week he had taken the test - nearly three years later than originally planned, but still . . . the thing was done. The results were due out in two months. This thought was running like a current through the back of Captain Detz's mind now, as he stood in Marco Lopez's hospital room, looking at the three firemen before him, contemplating the best way to tackle an unpleasant task. Beside him stood Captain Steve Junkers, a man whose presence deepened the frowns already on the faces of DeSoto, Gage, and Lopez. Steve Junkers defied understanding. He was a relatively new captain, pinning on his bugles two years ago. He was Mike Stoker's contemporary, and there had always been an unspoken rivalry between the two men. Or there had been a rivalry until the events of three years ago, when Stoker had abandoned the race and contented himself to stay at Station 51. Something about that decision rankled Steve Junkers. The capitulation of his foremost competitor had managed to lessen his own feeling of accomplishment at his selection for promotion. And even worse, the intervening years had only served to further strengthen Stoker's popularity within the department. The limelight had not shifted. It still shone quite splendidly, but not in accordance with Junker's notion of correctness. Damn, Mike Stoker did not even know what to do with the attention he received. But Steve Junkers . . . he would know. He would know what to do with accolades and recognition. But the business at hand involved no such thing as accolades. It was recognition, certainly, but of a very negative kind. And Steve Junkers felt his heart pounding within his chest at the prospect of investigation. "Lopez, how are you feeling?" Chief Brayson asked, walking over to the bed to take a look at the injured man. Marco had never seen Chief Brayson before, and he was sure Brayson had never seen him. This was a courtesy call, a "concern" visit. But it was a visit from one of the top dogs, and Marco responded appropriately. "A little sore, Chief, but I'll be okay." Brayson nodded. "Good, good. You look like you came through it pretty well." Marco looked down, and Roy and Johnny saw the guilt they had tried so hard to quell creeping back into his face. "I was lucky." Chief McConnikee cleared his throat. "Roy, John, Marco, this is Captain Detz and Captain Junkers. They've been appointed to head up the board of inquiry." Introductions were made, hand-shakes exchanged. "They'd like to get started immediately, if you fellas feel up to answering some questions," Chief Brayson stated. "While the accident is still fresh in your minds," Captain Detz added, his voice a studied combination of compassion and business-like efficiency. Roy and Johnny looked at each other. Marco continued to stare into his lap. "Yeah . . . I guess that would be okay," Roy said at last. "Good," Captain Detz said with a nod. "The sooner we can get this overwith, the better." **** "We were following pretty close . . . twenty or thirty feet, I'd say, trying to follow the engine's taillights through the fog," Roy related, his voice in a neutral narrative. "I wasn't really sure how far away we were from the bridge, and you couldn't see any road markings or signs. When the engine turned, we turned. The next thing I knew, the engine was gone." "Gone?" "Over the embankment." "But you were able to stop in time," Captain Junkers noted. "Yes." "Did you actually see the engine go over the embankment?" Junkers again. "We saw it disappear. It took a second to realize what had happened," Roy replied. "Do you recall seeing the engine's brakelights?" This from Captain Detz. "I can't remember," Roy replied. "Gage?" "Me neither." "How fast were you going?" Detz asked. "About twenty-five, thirty miles per hour," Roy replied. "So, Stoker was doing about the same?" Roy nodded. "That seems rather fast for the conditions you described," Captain Junkers remarked. The two paramedics said nothing. "Do you think the speed was too fast?" Captain Detz asked, looking first at Roy. Roy hesitated. "That's hard to say." "Your opinion?" Silence. Then Captain Detz rephrased the question. "If the squad had been in the lead, would you have been going that speed?" "I don't know," Roy replied. "That's the honest truth." "What's the normal speed limit on that road?" Junkers asked. Roy and Johnny exchanged glances again. "Fifty, I think," Johnny replied. "I'll check," Junkers said, jotting down some notes on a pad of paper. "Did you think the engine's speed was excessive for conditions?" John replied, "No. We were out on a rescue. Time was critical-" "We understand the nature of emergency work," Captain Junkers interrupted. He did not need some hot-shot paramedic telling him about the urgency of a emergency service. "So, you don't think Stoker was going too fast?" "He wasn't going too fast," Johnny stated forcefully. "Have you examined the accident site yet?" Roy asked tepidly. "Very briefly," Detz replied. "The fog is still pretty thick out there. We'll take the full team down tomorrow; but right now we wanted to talk to you men, try to get everything you can remember." A pause. "You said the engine turned. So, Stoker didn't drift off the road. He actually turned onto a road that wasn't there." Roy nodded. "I guess so." "Were there any signs you could see that might have made him think that there was a road there?" Captain Detz again. "I couldn't see that far. We saw him signal, then turn." Detz looked at Johnny. "Did you see anything?" "Nothing." Captain Detz was quiet, contemplative. At last, he looked at Captain Junkers. "Do you have anything else you want to ask for now?" "No. Not now." "We're going to need you two to give us written statements," Captain Detz said. He took out a couple of forms and gave an explanation on how to fill them out. "We'll come back in an hour or so to go over them with you." "Where are you going right now?" Roy asked. "To see Lopez," Captain Junkers replied. "Listen, he's been through a bad time. Take it easy on him." Captain Detz nodded as he got to his feet. "Will do." Once the two investigators had left the room, Johnny immediately turned to Roy. "You think he was going too fast, don't you?" "I didn't say that." "You didn't deny it, Roy! Your silence said an awful lot. You think he was going too fast!" Roy swallowed. "He was going fast. I don't know if it was too fast. But he was going fast. Mike always drives fast, Johnny. We both know that." "I don't know that," Johnny protested. A grimace crossed Roy's face. "Cap knows it." "So, what are you saying, Roy? You think this is Mike's fault?" "Johnny, I'm not saying anything. Who knows what the right speed was for going through that fog?" Johnny scowled and began writing. Seeing his partner's agitation, Roy tried to diffuse the situation. "Johnny, I'm not blaming Mike. You know I wouldn't do that. It was just an accident. Mike made a mistake. We can't pretend that he didn't. But I don't blame him for making a mistake. It just happened." Johnny ignored him and kept writing. Roy looked at the flushed, averted cheek of his partner. This was no time to try and talk to him. It would be best to let the moment pass. Later on, when the anger and shock of the whole situation had subsided to tolerable levels, maybe then Roy could set things straight. **** Marco did not feel like answering questions. All he wanted was to have his own questions answered. But no one seemed willing to shed any light on the status of his crewmates. To his repeated inquiries, the answer was always the same. "We'll know more later." He at least knew that Captain Stanley had come out of surgery less than fifteen minutes ago, after six hours on the table. Maybe six hours wasn't such a long time, but to Marco, it mightaswell have been six years. Captain Stanley's condition was reported as fair and stable. "We'll know more later." No one ventured much in the way of a prognosis, and Marco had the distinct impression that the staff had been ordered not to say anything that might upset him. For surely, there had to be some opinion of what Captain Stanley's chances were. But that information was being guarded like a military secret - a fact which deepened Marco's sense of dread and only succeeded in making him surly. He felt no compulsion to answer questions when his own were being evaded. "I really don't feel up to answering any questions," he told Captain Detz. "Besides, I don't remember much about it." "Can you tell us what you do remember?" Captain Junkers pressed. "Not now." Captain Detz made a small motion to silence his companion when it appeared that Junkers was going to try to force the issue. "We understand," Detz said in a voice that reminded Marco of his own captain - a voice that confirmed genuine commiseration at the same time as maintaining a steady, professional assurance. "We'll come back tomorrow. You try to take it easy, Lopez." Marco watched the two captains leave. Try to take it easy. There was no hope of such a thing. Did no one realize what he was faced with? Did no one realize that three of the most important people in his life were hovering somewhere between life and death, and that no one would tell him whether they hung more closely to the one than the other? Could no one fathom the gruesome images he held in his head? Of his captain and his engineer, in pain, twisted and bleeding. The site of the engine, smashed and overturned? And Chet? What about Chet? He had not seen him since the accident. He knew Chet was still alive only because Johnny, Roy, and the staff at Rampart had told him so. Marco's throat constricted involuntarily around a swell of emotion. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. It was true that he did not remember much from the accident itself. But what he did remember held him in its uncompromising grasp. It was a flurry of sensations, really. Nothing more. The feel of the engine turning. It was a smooth motion. A sweeping arc through fog - like an aircraft descending through clouds. And then everything had broken into pieces. There had been a moment, a spasm, of incalculable horror; and then his next memory was of waking up to find that world had turned red. There was nothing helpful in what he remembered. Nothing the two captains could use in their investigation. No incriminating statements. No pointing of fingers. It had been an accident, plain and simple. And Marco was not going to make it into anything more. **** Captain Junkers crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall of the elevator. "This is going to be like trying force ink out of a squid." Captain Detz raised an eyebrow at his companion's choice of language. "Interesting way to put it," he replied. "You can put it however you want, Andrew, but these guys are tighter than clams." Detz inclined his head in a gesture of concession. "Does that surprise you? You know what it's like. You've had your own station." "Yeah, but that was only for a year. Now, I'm a just another staff stiff," Junkers replied. "That's what you get for impressing the top dogs. You run the risk of them wanting you on their team." "Someone's got to do it." "You don't miss being down at a station?" "Not much." Captain Detz did not pretend to be surprised. He knew Steve Junkers. He knew his type. Junkers was on a fast-track to the top. Fighting fires was not so important to him as establishing policy and doling out authority. Money and authority - his two prominent drivers. Detz was not bothered or put off by Junkers' ambition. He might not agree with Junkers' motives but that would not stop him from working with the man. "Well, I'll tell you, I wasn't too thrilled about being pulled away from the station for this," Captain Detz announced. "At first, I couldn't believe it when Brayson told me what had happened. It's a miracle they weren't all killed." The elevator came to a halt and the two men stepped out. "A miracle." Captain Junkers shook his head. "I suppose you could call it that. But it's an abomination that something like this could have happened." "It was an accident, Steve." "Of course, it was an accident. I don't think Stoker would drive the engine over a cliff on purpose." Junkers stopped, and Detz turned to face him. "But I'm not going to gloss over this investigation just because the department's golden boy is the one in the hot seat." "No one's suggesting you gloss over anything, Steve. It's just that I don't want you assigning responsibility or guilt until the investigation is completed. I'm the senior board member, and I don't want anyone to go into this thing with preconceived ideas or biases." He paused. "Quite frankly, I'm surprised they put you on this board, knowing your feelings towards Stoker." "I have no feelings where Mike Stoker is concerned, one way or the other." Andrew Detz grinned. "I'm glad to hear that." They continued walking, as Detz added inwardly, And I'm not a fool." **** Hank Stanley felt like his body was cast in stone. There was not a part of him that didn't hurt. "My God, what's happened to me?" He opened his eyes. A woman was looking down at him. She was wearing white. She looked like a nurse. Captain Stanley's eyes moved past her, taking in the bright lights and the white particle board ceiling. The place looked sterile. Why couldn't he talk? He couldn't even swallow. Something was jammed down his throat. It was one of the most uncomfortable and unnatural sensations he had ever experienced. He reached up with both hands to remedy the situation, but he had the impression that his body was not really obeying his demands. The woman in white had his left wrist in her hand. "Everything's alright," she said. "Just take it easy. We don't want you to pull that out now, do we?" Captain Stanley felt something tighten around his left wrist, restricting his movement. Yet, he continued to try, pulling and twisting his arm, trying to free himself of whatever it was that held him bound. He had to get this thing out of his throat before it drove him crazy. Damn it! Why wasn't his body following his orders? A few seconds passed, then he saw Doctor Brackett leaning over him. "I'm in the hospital. Jesus Christ . . . I'm in the hospital." "Hank, I want you to nod if you can hear me," Doctor Brackett said. Captain Stanley nodded. "What in God's name has happened to me?" "You're at Rampart. Everything is going to be alright. You're going to be okay. Right now, I just want you to try and relax. We're going to take good care of you." "Get this damned thing out of my throat! Tell me what happened!" Doctor Brackett could see the growing agitation and frustration in his patient's face and manner. It was still early. Hank Stanley had only come out of surgery four hours ago. He was still in recovery, still dependent on machines to regulate and monitor his vital functions. His state of consciousness was tenuous. He was not completely with them yet, but he was no longer under the full grip of the anesthesia. Anything they told him at this point would be lost over the next few hours as he continued to slough off the effects of the anesthesia. "His vitals are holding steady, Doctor," the nurse reported as Doctor Brackett shined an annoying light into Hank's eyes. "He sure wants that tube out." "Don't they all. If he still looks good in a couple hours, he'll get his wish. In the meantime, keep him in restraints. We don't want him to pull it out or do something else to hurt himself." More poking and prodding. "Everything looks good. Listen, Carol, if he starts to become too restless, page me immediately." Doctor Brackett smiled at the pretty black nurse. "Hank Stanley isn't known for being the best patient in the world." "Well, he's been a pussycat so far," Carol replied, returning the smile with one of her own. She looked down with fondness at the man lying in her charge. She did not know Captain Hank Stanley extraordinarily well; but what she did know was enough to make her hold the man in high esteem. Here was a man who commanded authority and respect wherever he went. And it was not something he had had to work for. It came naturally to him. People sensed intuitively that Hank Stanley was competent, capable, and decisive. But more importantly, they knew that he cared. The human aspect of his character was not overshadowed by his staggering efficiency. If anything, one increased the other. Captain Stanley was a magnet, drawing to him the strong and able, as well as the helpless and confused. He could lead his men at the same time as comforting the distressed - and do both with equal success. He was an unlimited source of strength. It was rare to find such an inspiring leader. But it was even more rare to have such a man in one's care; and in a way, Carol felt privileged. It was a bizarre notion, but perhaps it would give her time to get to know the man even better, to further increase her appreciation of him - this fireman, this leader of firemen. Mike's eyes fluttered open onto a circle of concentrated stares. For an odd instant, he had the impression of being on display. A shiver of discomfort ran through his body, then he lay perfectly still and quiet. He recognized some of the faces peering down into his. Doctor Brackett. Nurse McCall. Doctor Early. The fourth person, a surly-looking nurse, was unknown to him. Doctor Brackett smiled. "Hello, Mike." Mike hesitated before answering in a tone of voice as if replying to a trick question. "Hello." "How do you feel?" "I-I'm in the hospital?" Doctor Brackett was still smiling. "Yes." Mike's gaze wandered around the circle. They were all looking at him with the same kind, sympathetic expressions. "Why am I here?" he asked. "What's happened?" Doctor Brackett glanced at his companions then back down at Mike. "You were involved in an accident." "An accident?" Doctor Brackett studied Mike's face for a few seconds before replying. "An accident with the engine." Mike's eyes widened slightly. "The engine?" "You don't remember?" "The guys-are they alright?" "They're going to be okay," Doctor Brackett assured him. "What happened?" Mike's voice, still weak and sloppy, had a frantic edge to it. "What's the last thing you remember, Mike?" "I . . . I think . . . dinner," came the fumbling reply. "Chet made dinner . . . but we got called out." "Do you remember driving through the fog?" Mike closed his eyes and struggled to focus his memory. Fog . . . fog . . . he'd driven the engine through fog hundreds of times. They were indistinguishable as individual events. It was as if his entire life had been lived through rolling banks of obscurement. "I'm not sure," he replied at last. He saw the neutrality on the faces hovering over him. That neutrality was a learned expression, a must for the medical profession. Mike Stoker knew that something unpleasant had yet to be imparted. "Tell me . . . what happened? Did I-did I do something wrong? Please, tell me what happened!" "The accident's still under investigation, Mike," Doctor Early replied. "No one's saying it was your fault." He paused. "The engine went off the road into a ravine." Mike turned his stunned gaze from face to face. No one contradicted what Doctor Early had said. But he couldn't be right. He just couldn't. "Are you sure?" Mike asked. "Yes, we're sure," Doctor Brackett replied. "I-I don't remember that." He looked terrified. "I don't remember that at all." Doctor Brackett exchanged grave glances with his colleagues. "That's okay, Mike. Don't worry about that right now-" "Cap? Where's Cap? Chet? Marco? Where are they?" Mike's voice had the ring of panic in it. "Mike, I want you to calm down and listen to me." Doctor Brackett put his hands carefully on Mike's shoulders. "Listen to me, now. You were all injured in the accident, but everyone is going to be alright." "I want to see them," Mike insisted. "Let me see them." "You'll be able to see them later," Doctor Brackett tried to assure him. "But right now, you need to take it easy. You've sustained some serious injuries, and you're going to have to stay still and quiet. But I promise you, Mike, your crewmates are going to be alright." Mike took a few deep breaths - as deep as he could manage. His chest felt heavy and dull. His eyes wandered over the faces peering down into his. He had been in this situation before - once before. He still recalled it as if it were yesterday. He recalled the suffering, and he recalled how much he had despised it. Lying in bed, weak and feeble, helpless to carry out even the simplest tasks. He had hated it, and so in an extraordinary example of mind over matter, he had pulled himself out of misery and plunged full-speed ahead. He had regained his life and his certainty. And yet . . . here he was again. Only this time he had no recollection of what had brought him to this point. Not a single filamentary thread of memory. Nothing. "How did it happen?" he asked finally, driven more by a need to know than by courage. His audience traded glances among themselves. It was Doctor Early who replied. "They're not completely sure yet, Mike. From initial accounts, it sounds like you became disoriented in the fog and turned in the wrong place." "What did-how could I turn in the wrong place?" Doctor Early frowned. "It sounds like you thought you were turning onto the bridge." He saw Stoker staring back at him with anxious eyes. He wasn't going to make him beg for details. "But it wasn't the bridge. There was nothing there." Mike stared at Doctor Early for several long seconds. "I couldn't have made a mistake like that," he said at last. "It's like I said, Mike; the accident is still under investigation. No one's saying you did anything wrong." "The engine . . . did I wreck the engine?" "Mike, I don't want you to think about that right now-" "I am thinking about it," Mike cut Doctor Brackett off. "You're saying I had an accident, but I don't remember. I don't remember any of it." Doctor Brackett could see the confusion in Stoker's eyes, and he tried to head off his worries. "It's normal for people to have some memory lapse after this kind of trauma. But you can believe me. I wouldn't lie to you. You did have an accident with the engine. Your crewmates will be alright, and no one is blaming you." Mike did not reply. Inside his head, his own voice spoke louder and more powerfully than Doctor Brackett's. "It can't be true. They've made a mistake. It can't be true. I couldn't have made a mistake like that. They're wrong. They have to be wrong." Only he had no memories to prove it. **** Chet looked up at the sound of the door opening. It was Marco. This was a relief. Since waking up to find himself in the hospital two days ago, Chet had been bombarded by an unending maelstrom of doctors, nurses, specialists, investigators, family, and friends. Roy and Johnny had stopped by earlier that morning. Their visit had been short. They had known, going in to visit him, that Chet would not be up to any extended effort. He was still somewhere in the hazy domain of pain and painkillers, and the concentration needed to pay attention to the steady flow of medical staff and visitors was more than he could summon, for the time-being. Roy and Johnny had stayed just over thirty minutes, witness to Chet's drugged half-grins and his hopeless attempts to stay alert and interested. They had left, confident in his recovery, but frowning at the timeline. Of the four men who comprised the engine crew, Chet had suffered the most severe injuries. While the doctors were bold enough to consider him "out of the woods", they kept a vigilant eye on him. His condition was fair, his prognosis good. Marco walked over to the bed. Chet saw the sling cradling Marco's arm. And he saw the bandage on his forehead. "You, too?" His voice was slurred, like a drunk's. "Oh, it's nothing," Marco replied. "Just a few bumps and bruises." He looked closely at his friend, lying before him, propped up by pillows and pulleys. This was the first time Marco had seen Chet since the accident. For the past two days, the staff had refused to let Marco out of bed for anything other than a trip to the restroom or for examination purposes. The sight of Chet, usually supercharged and hyper-energetic, reduced to a sluggish, bedridden inpatient was something to which Marco could scarcely reconcile himself. "How's Cap?" Chet asked. "He's doing okay. They moved him to a patient room. Him and Mike are sharing a room." Chet nodded vaguely. "Mike?" "He's going to be okay." "Roy and Johnny told me he doesn't remember a thing about the accident." Marco nodded. "Not a thing." "That's kind of funny." "What is?" "That he'd forget something like that." Marco frowned. "I don't think he's forgotten it. I think he's blocked it out somehow." "That makes sense. He'd want to forget . . . you know? He was the one driving." Marco was silent. "Detz and Junkers were here yesterday," Chet grimaced. "They were asking questions. I was too spaced out to answer." "You're still kind of spaced out, Chet," Marco said. "I don't think you're ready to answer their questions." "Yeah . . . right now, what I have to say wouldn't help Mike's case much." "It wasn't Mike's fault," Marco replied. "Was anyone else driving?" Chet challenged. "You're still out there, Chet." "No . . . I'm in here. And I'm in here because Mike drove the engine right off the road-" "Stop it, Chet. You're definitely drugged out." There was no sense in discussing it any further. The best thing to do was to try and direct Chet's thoughts elsewhere. Arguing with Chet Kelly was a losing battle, especially when Chet wasn't quite in his head. Marco could only hope that Captain Detz and Captain Junkers would realize that any account Chet might give them at this point was tainted by pain and drugs. "They'll be moving you out of here tomorrow," Marco said cheerfully, referring to the ICC. "And since I'm here for a couple more days, it looks like we're going to be roomies." "Just like at the station." Marco grinned. Already, he had succeeded in diverting Chet's attention. "Except the food's not as good," he said. "No firemen's stew." "Marco?" "Yeah?" "I don't want to see him." Marco's grin faded. "Who?" "Mike." How to respond to this statement? "I don't think you have to worry about seeing him for a while. He's laid up and you're laid up," Marco replied at last. "I don't think I could bear to look at him right now." "Chet, come on-" "I know what I'm saying, Marco." "No, you don't. You're drugged up, and you're not thinking clearly. Mike's your friend. This was an accident - nothing else. He didn't drive off the road on purpose." "The end result is still the same-" "Chet!" "It was foggy, and he was going too fast-" "Chet! Listen to me! You've got to stop it. You are definitely not in your head right now. You're so doped up you're not thinking straight. But if you say those things to the inquiry officers, they're going to pin this on Mike, and he could lose his job." "We've already lost our jobs." Marco swallowed down the dread bobbing in his throat. "You have to stop talking like that. This isn't like you, Chet." That was the truth. This wasn't like Chet at all. **** But maybe God will cause to be- Who brought forth sweetness from the strong- Out of our discords, harmony Sweeter than a bird's song. R.E. Vernede A Listening Post Captain Stanley rubbed his eyes. "Look, Andrew, I know you're just doing your job, but we've gone over this already," he said wearily. "I don't know what more you want me to say." Captain Detz looked as worn out as Captain Stanley. "I'm sorry, Hank. I just want to make sure I get all the facts straight, that nothing's left out. My team went out to examine the scene again yesterday. I've got to tell you, Hank, it's not looking good." A pause. "There's at least twelve feet of grass shoulder between the road and the edge of the drop-off. Even if the front of the engine had gone over, the rest should have bottomed out, and you would have been grounded - on the shoulder. But that didn't happen. The engine went right over, and there's no sign that the bottom of the engine scraped anywhere on the ground. That means Stoker had to have been going pretty fast." "What's pretty fast? We've been over this, Andrew." "Speed excessive for conditions." "Which is? Thirty miles per hour? Five miles per hour? None of us could see a damned thing! I'm the one who told him it was the next right. It's just as much my fault as it is anyone else's!" Captain Stanley's eyes shot over at the empty bed next to his own. Mike had been wheeled off to x-ray ten minutes earlier for another look at his lungs, a follow-up, to make sure his condition was still improving. "Hank, your own men are making this difficult. Gage and DeSoto are like recordings. Lopez is vague. And Kelly won't say a word. Your own actions are incriminating your engineer. It's like you're all trying to protect him-" "And why shouldn't we? For God's sake, he made a mistake! He turned in the wrong place, and he's paying for it. Believe me, he's paying for it! But that's not enough, is it? This is a witch hunt, and they're dying to burn someone at the stake. He was guilty before this thing even started. Am I right?" "Hank, you're upset-" Captain Detz began, but Captain Junkers cut him off. "Listen, Captain Stanley, we're not trying to frame anyone, if that's what you're implying. But I think it's time you and your men faced some unpleasant facts. First of all, an entire engine crew has been taken out of action. A very expensive piece of county property has been completely demolished. The state won't allow something like this to simply be swept under the rug. Now, Stoker can't recall a thing. The rest of your men are being evasive. It's like Andrew said, you're incriminating your own man. Unless you can give us something to prove that Stoker wasn't negligent-" "How about a flawless record? How about finishing second on the engineers' exam? How about the fact that he's been recognized as one of the top engineers in the state? Is all of that just thrown aside now? Does one mistake undo all of that?" "When it's this costly a mistake . . . yes." There was a strange glint in Junkers' eyes. "You want to crucify him," Captain Stanley accused. "After everything he's been through in the past three years . . . you still have it in for him, don't you, Steve? You're still competing with someone you already outrank." Captain Junkers shook his head. "I'm only trying to conduct a fair investigation, and I don't think they would have put me on this board, if there were any fear that I would act unaccordingly." "Gentlemen, that's irrelevant to what we're trying to accomplish here," Captain Detz interrupted. "I don't think it's at all irrelevant," Captain Stanley replied. He looked at Junkers. "I don't think you can approach this investigation without bias." "Hank," Captain Detz sighed. "Look, my personal belief is that the accident was a fluke, that Stoker truly thought he was turning in the right place. I could chalk it up to a mistake, but right now, I've got to agree with Steve. There are some powerful city officials who were horrified by what had happened. This accident, this mistake has raised all sorts of issues - about safety, training, promotion testing . . . but it boils down to one thing - money, taxpayer money. Yes, Mike may have made a mistake, but he's an experienced engineer. And his mistake was a grave one. Even if I wanted to write this off as a mistake, I don't think the headquarters would be so agreeable. They're under a lot of pressure from the city council to make sure this sort of thing never happens again." Captain Stanley clenched his teeth. "And the way they ensure that is by firing one of their top engineers." He paused. "I want you both to leave. This is too much for me to listen to right now. You're giving me a headache." "Hank-" "Not now, Andrew. This is too much. I can't listen to any more of this right now." Captain Detz nodded. He looked to Captain Junkers, and together, they left without another word. Hank Stanley felt the angry shiver of rage and fear rattle through his body. He knew what was going on. He knew someone was going to pay. Someone was going to have to give the pound of flesh. The ropes were already being drawn around his engineer, and he was unable to do anything to stop it. The door opened, admitting Mike in a wheelchair, being propelled along by a young, gruff-looking intern. After helping Stoker back into his own bed, the intern departed; and Captain Stanley found his eyes drawn over to where his engineer was lying with closed eyes. "You okay, Mike?" "Exhausted. Lots of tests." And he looked exhausted. Thoroughly and utterly exhausted. Hank Stanley took a moment to collect himself. How much more did they think Stoker could take? How much pain and abuse could be leveled against one man before ruining him for good and all? The kidnapping. The accident. And now, on top of that, someone wanted to make an example of him. It wasn't going to happen. Captain Stanley was not going to let it happen. Stoker was his man - a damned good man. He was not going to see him fall victim to yet another man's sense of justice. Hank Stanley had some contacts. And Stoker's record of impressive service could not suddenly be wiped away, as if it had never existed. "Rest, then," he said quietly. "Just rest." The visibility was almost nil. The marine layer was as thick as pea soup. Stoker squinted through the windshield as he forced as much speed as possible out of the heavy rig. "It's the next right, Mike," Captain Stanley advised. He had been glaring out the window, searching for familiar landmarks. The view was so obscured by fog that everything took on an alien, almost surreal appearance. Stoker slowed and made the turn, but suddenly a cold hand grabbed his gut and would not let go. Everything started happening in slow motion. He slammed his foot onto the break, but it did no good at all. Where the road should have been was nothing but air. Mike Stoker screamed. His eyes shot open onto darkness. His breath was coming hard and rapid. He was drenched in sweat, his entire body shaking. The sound of another man's voice so startled him that he jerked violently, feeling the pain deep in his chest - a reminder that he was still not well. "Mike? Mike, are you okay, pal?" Captain Stanley's voice. Mike raised his hands to his eyes. "My God . . ." "Mike?" In the next moment, Captain Stanley was standing next to Mike's bed. "What is it?" "I remember," came the whispered response. "Remember . . . the accident?" Mike nodded. Captain Stanley waited to see if he would go on. "I-I drove right off that cliff . . ." This was what Captain Stanley had feared. Stoker's memory block had been a blessing in disguise, sparing Mike the horror of recollection and self-reproach. But now, fate had turned against Stoker - against all of them - thrusting them headlong towards a battle that Captain Stanley was determined to win. "Why didn't anyone tell me?" Mike said. "It was my fault." "Mike," Captain Stanley put a hand on Stoker's arm. "The investigation is still going on-" "That's why Chet won't see me-" "Mike, stop. You have to stop this," Captain Stanley demanded with authority. "Listen to me . . . they're still investigating. They may decide circumstances made the accident unavoidable. But if you blame yourself, they're going to blame you, too." "But it was my fault!" Mike burst out. "I turned onto nothing . . . it was my fault!" "Get a hold of yourself, Mike. No one could see a thing out there. We were all disoriented-" "Cap-" "It was a mistake, Mike! Get that through your head! It could have happened to anyone-" "Don't say that!" Mike cut him off. "Cap, please . . . don't say it. It didn't happen to anyone. It was me. I don't . . . I don't . . . how? I'm always so careful. How could I have made a mistake like that? I just . . . I don't understand . . ." Captain Stanley took an awkward one-handed hold of Mike's wrists and drew his hands down. "Mike, look at me and listen to what I'm going to tell you. It's important." He waited until he had Mike's attention. "They want to blame somebody. All they're seeing is lost dollars and manhours. They want to hold someone accountable. Right now, they want to blame you. But I think Captain Detz realizes that this was just an accident and not a case of negligence. And that's what it was, Mike. You have to believe me. I know what I'm talking about." He paused to try and discern if he was getting through to his distraught engineer. "You can't say it was your fault. They'll let you dig your own grave, Mike. Tell them the truth, that's all they need. It was the work of circumstance. You're not to blame." Mike stared at his captain for several seconds through the darkness. At last, he said simply, "I'm scared, Cap." "Don't be," Captain Stanley replied. "Everything's going to be alright." **** "What was it that made you remember?" The question had come from Steve Junkers. Mike looked at him and tried his best to maintain an accommodating outward appearance. "A nightmare," he replied. "A nightmare?" Junkers raised an eyebrow. "About the accident," Stoker supplied. "Are you sure what you're remembering is the actual accident and not your dream?" Captain Detz asked. "The dream was my accident. They're the same." Detz nodded. "Okay then . . . why don't you tell us what happened." Mike began directly. "I thought we had come to the turn. I thought I could see the road. I was sure I was in the right place." He paused, his gaze shifting to nowhere in particular. "By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. I braked, but it did no good." "How far into the turn were you when you realized you had made a mistake?" Junkers asked. Mike thought about that question for several seconds. "I-I think I was completely through the turn." "You didn't realize you were driving over the shoulder?" "I did-but not soon enough." "Did the engine slow down at all when you braked?" Mike gave an imperceptible headshake. "No . . . I think we were already on the way down. It's not completely clear in my memory." "Do you remember what speed you were travelling?" "Between thirty and forty . . . it all depended. The fog was thinner in some places than others. But I slowed down to make the turn." "What did you slow down to?" Detz asked. "I don't remember. I wasn't looking at the speedometer then. I just slowed down enough to make the turn." "Captain Stanley told you to take the next right turn, correct?" This was from Junkers. "I-I'm not sure. I think he said the turn was coming up or something like that," Mike replied. "Did he tell you when to turn?" "No. I turned when I thought we had come to the bridge." "And you don't recall seeing anything that made you think you'd come to the bridge?" "No." "Why did you turn where you did, then?" Junkers pressed. "Something must have made you turn there. You were over twenty yards away from the bridge." "I don't know why I turned there. I thought I was in the right place." "You've driven that stretch of road before?" Captain Detz asked, already knowing the answer. Mike nodded. "Dozens of times." "Have you ever driven it in the fog before?" Mike nodded again. "Often?" This was from Captain Junkers. "Five of six times." "Across the bridge?" "Yes." "So, do you consider yourself to be familiar with that road?" Junkers again. Mike was growing frustrated and annoyed. "Yes, I'm familiar with it. But I don't drive it every day or often enough to know where everything is in the fog." Both Captain Detz and Captain Junkers could hear the defensive agitation in Stoker's voice. "Mike, I know these questions may sound inane or make you uncomfortable, but we need to be sure we've done a thorough job and collected all the facts," Andrew Detz explained. "I didn't do it on purpose," Mike said quietly. "Nobody thinks you did," Detz replied. "Then why is there an investigation?" Captain Detz felt his shoulders sag. To hear such a question coming from a man like Stoker . . . it was a signal of uncertainty, an indication of defeat. "It's routine procedure whenever there's an on-the-job accident. You know that, Mike," Detz replied. Stoker nodded. He did know it. He knew it very well. Even a scrape in the squad's paint job had to be reported. He regretted asking the question. It made him sound defensive and hopeless. "But there are certain questions that need to be answered," Junkers added. "What questions?" "The main question is whether or not negligence caused the accident." Junkers let the sentence hang in ominous silence. Captain Detz studied the look on Mike Stoker's face. It was the outward reflection of an internal struggle. And Andrew Detz, knowing the kind of man Stoker was, feared that the struggle would end in Stoker's guilt-ridden embrasure of all culpability. "My negligence," Mike stated without emotion. "Primarily." Captain Detz could barely keep the pain out of his manner. "You were the one driving, Mike." "The issue is whether you were driving too fast for conditions," Junkers announced. "I don't speed," Mike informed them. "There are no speed limits when you're enroute to an emergency. It's not a matter of speeding. It's a question of going too fast for conditions," Junkers repeated with emphasis. "What would have been an acceptable speed?" Mike asked. "Where visibility is less than five yards, fifteen miles per hour is the authorized maximum," Detz replied, fully aware that Stoker must know this as well. "From what you and your crewmates have told us, the visibility was less than five yards. All of you have admitted to going over fifteen miles per hour. You may have slowed down for the turn, Mike, but there's no sign that the rear of the engine ever grounded out. That means you had to have still been going relatively fast." Mike was silent. "At a slower speed, you would have realized your mistake and still had the time to stop," Junkers added. Captain Detz reacted with subdued anger at this remark. All was still speculation, and the if-then of Junkers' statement was premature. "I never meant for it to happen." Stoker's voice was frail. "Everyone knows that, Mike." Captain Detz had a terrible feeling that his worst fears concerning this investigation were about to materialize. The next moment proved him right. "I've never made a mistake like that before," Mike whispered. "I don't know how it could have happened. I-I must have-I must have been confused and-I don't know. I almost killed them. I almost killed them all." Steve Junkers pounced. "Of course, you were confused. But you still weren't able to stop in time. That indicates one of two things. Either you were going too fast or you weren't paying close enough attention to-" "Or it was just a combination of circumstances," Captain Detz interrupted with a meaningful scowl telegraphed in Junkers' direction. Mike Stoker sat quietly. At last, he asked, "You won't blame Captain Stanley, will you?" "We're not trying to blame anyone, Mike," Captain Detz insisted. "It wasn't his fault," Mike went on, as if Detz had not even spoken. "I was the one driving. It was my error." Captain Detz could not suppress a frown. "I promise you we'll be fair, Mike." He stood up to leave and Junkers followed suit. "I'm going to leave the form for you to give us a written statement." A forlorn pause. "I'll be back to pick it up later this afternoon." The only acknowledgment he received was Stoker's feeble nod. "Steve, let's make something clear," Andrew Detz began. "You're going to come to Stoker's defense," Captain Junkers inserted. "No. I'm going to come to yours." He paused significantly. "I can ask that you be removed from this investigation. I will do just that if you don't follow established inquiry procedures." "What procedures have I not followed?" "You're baiting him, asking him leading questions-" "How am I baiting him?" "Your questions about Captain Stanley made it sound like you were trying to frame him. And what did Stoker do immediately? He deflected any possible blame away from his captain directly onto himself." "He said it himself, Andrew. It was his error. He was the one driving. His own words. Not mine." "It was his error. He was the one driving. That doesn't mean he was negligent. I want you to stop fishing for an admission of negligence from him." A pause. "This is your first board of inquiry, Steve. Certain practices are not only forbidden, but they could blow the entire investigation on a technicality. I don't want that to happen here. I want this thing to go as smoothly and quickly as possible. These men have suffered enough already. I don't want to make this any more painful than it already is." Junkers' expression was plaintive. "I'm just trying to be thorough - like you said, Andrew. Thorough and fair." **** Chet had never imagined it could be possible. And he had never felt so lousy in his life. It was not a physical thing - that part was bad enough; it was bitterness, and it was dreadful. Two weeks had passed since the accident. Marco had long since been released. Mike had gone home two days ago. And Captain Stanley was going home today. Chet had one more week before he would be reevaluated for release. He sat up in his bed, watching what had to be the most absurd soap opera ever; but still, it took his mind off of other, more troublesome thoughts. There was a single knock at the door, then Captain Stanley popped his head around the corner. "Hey, Cap." Kelly tried to sound cheerful. Captain Stanley came into the room. "I wanted to come by before I go home." "So, you're finally getting out of here," Chet said with a grin that could not conceal his unease. "You'll be getting out next week," Captain Stanley replied. "Yeah . . . that time is going to crawl by," Chet groaned. Captain Stanley smiled his understanding. "You're right about that. I'm not looking forward to spending the next four weeks at home." He paused. "It'll be two months before we're all together back at the station." "If we can all pass the physical." It was a serious concern, disguised by a feeble attempt at humor. "Of course, we'll pass." There was a short silence. "What about the investigation?" Chet asked. "It's still in progress," Captain Stanley replied. "They're mostly examining the accident scene now. You know, these things take weeks to complete. Sometimes months." He paused. "Mike's been suspended, pending the completion of the investigation." Chet frowned. "How's it looking?" "It's hard to say. The evidence points to a simple accident. But Mike is practically indicting himself. He's starting to believe he was negligent." At length, Chet spoke with a sincerity in his voice that his crewmates seldom heard. "I don't want him to be penalized for this." He swallowed and looked at the ceiling. "I don't want to see him get hurt again." "None of us does." "I refused to see him, Cap." "I know." "I made up all sorts of excuses, but the truth is I was angry. He must have known that I just didn't want to see him." "He knew, Chet," Captain Stanley replied. "He didn't blame you for it. He knew how seriously you'd been injured. He was able to understand that you weren't ready to see him." "Cap . . . you don't know . . . he came to see me the day he checked out. I told him I didn't feel well, and that he should leave." Chet sounded wretched. "He's one of my best friends, and I've been pushing away every attempt he's made to . . . to . . ." "To apologize," Captain Stanley provided. "Right . . . for something that wasn't even his fault." Chet rubbed his forehead. "Oh Cap, I treated him badly." "Chet, you didn't accuse Mike. You didn't say anything against him. Your refusal to see him may have saved you both some nasty scenes. If you had seen him when you were still angry and bitter, I think it's very likely you both would have said things that might have made a reconciliation impossible. You did the right thing, Chet. Mike understands." "I don't blame him for what happened, Cap," Chet emphasized. "I know that, Chet. We all know that." **** John Gage hit the showers with a vengeance. The White Knight. Again. And he had Chet Kelly to thank for it. Kelly hadn't even been back at the station for a week before the phantom had made his first appearance. Salt in the sugar bowl. Everyone had been bitten by that one. And then a Phantom favorite - flour in the sheets. Gage's sheets, to be precise. It wasn't the first time Johnny had fallen victim to this particular prank. Still, he had grown complaisant, and the last thing he had expected Chet to do upon his return to work was to launch an immediate campaign to annoy everyone as much as possible. And the worst part was that Johnny wasn't sure whether to be grateful or rueful. He decided, standing beneath the pounding water, that he would be grateful while plotting his revenge. He turned off the water and came out of the shower, snatching his towel from the rack near the door. He could smell the coffee brewing. It was already seven o'clock in the morning. The station had been called out at five o'clock for a rather hairy traffic accident and had returned only fifteen minutes ago. Shift change was in an hour. Johnny got dressed and joined his crewmates around the kitchen table, helping himself to the coffee Roy had just poured for himself. Roy, so used to this habit of his partner's, was already pouring another cup. "You know," Johnny began, reaching for the sugar, "It was such a nice, quiet few months." Marco made a very vocal second of this statement. Chet leaned forward and scanned the faces at the table. "Yeah . . . nice, quiet, and boring. It's a good thing I came back when I did, or I might have found you all meditating and wearing mood rings." "The only one around here who might wear a mood ring is you, Chet," Johnny replied. "I thought I had come to a relatively sane place until . . . say, oh, about a week ago." This was from John Glover, Stoker's replacement. "Yeah, welcome to the real Station 51," Roy said with a one-sided grin. "Mike didn't warn me about any of this Phantom business," Glover went on. "I'm going to get him back for this." There was a short silence, then Glover asked, "Has there been any more word about the investigation? It's been over two months." Captain Stanley cleared his throat. "The investigation's completed," he replied. "We're just waiting for a review date." "Any idea when that will be, Cap?" Roy asked. Captain Stanley's answer, given immediately, was a lie. "Not yet. Hopefully, we'll hear something in the next day or two." The truth was that the date was already set for the next day. The only men in Station 51 who knew this fact were Captain Stanley and Mike Stoker. They were the only two who would be present for the review. Mike had implored his captain not to say a word to his crewmates. He did not want them to be anxious on his account. And he wanted the luxury, if the news were bad, of choosing the time and place to inform his crewmates. If the news were good, he was looking forward to surprising them at the station. "How's he holding up?" Glover asked. "I haven't seen him in a while." "He's doing good," Captain Stanley replied. "Martin Pearcy keeps pretty close tabs on him. They both live out the same way. He says Mike seems to be handling things pretty well." A knowing grin crossed Captain Stanley's face. "Mike would never tell us even if something were bothering him, so we're reduced to third-party surveillance." "Is there-do you have any idea what the results of the investigation are?" Glover asked in a tepid voice. "None whatsoever," Captain Stanley replied. "They're being very closehold with everything. But I can't see how they can come to anything other than simple error. Mike wasn't negligent, and he wasn't willful. I don't think Detz will let it go any farther than that." "Let's hope so," Glover replied. "Stranger things have happened." **** Mike sat in still silence. Captain Stanley paced. The inside of department headquarters was of dark wood paneling, made somehow gaudy by the fluorescent overhead lights. The place, which had never seemed depressing before, seemed nothing but dark and sinister now - as far as Mike Stoker was concerned. So, this was it. The investigation was over. For something that had seemed so cut and dry, so predetermined, it had taken a considerable amount of time for the inquiry board to present its findings to the state-level reviewing official. But now the moment had arrived, and both the engineer and his captain had been summoned to headquarters to hear the outcome of the investigation. Captain Stanley paced. "Why can't they ever start these things on time?" Mike gave his captain a partial grin. "I'm not in any hurry." "Well, I am. I want to get you back behind the wheel," Captain Stanley replied, returning his smile. "I'm starting to think I should have cleaned out my locker," Mike said with a shaky laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. Then you'd just end up having to bring it all back." Captain Stanley squeezed Mike's shoulder. "Think positive." Mike nodded. "I'm trying." The door to the conference room opened. Captain Detz stepped out into the hallway. "Hank, Mike, we're ready for you." Mike stood up and looked to Captain Stanley for a sign of reassurance. Captain Stanley nodded once with determination. Together, they went inside the room. Behind them, Captain Detz closed the door. |