Fire In His Bones

By Gary Ryman

“Dave, we do a great job in this department with every victim we encounter except one, the one in the mirror. You’re a victim and you either don’t know it or won’t admit it,” Chief Mann said. Captain Dave Michaels attained his dream job as the company commander of Rescue Squad 1, one of two such elite units in Fairmont County. But the dream turns into a nightmare, literally, when his crew is first arriving after a North Korean sponsored terrorist bombing of a library slaughters a visiting Kindergarten class. The “old school” Michaels resists help as his life spirals downward. Removed from his company and saddled with a desk, Michaels faces the loss of his job, wife, and family. Assigned to develop a rescue squad training program, the project turns out to be more valuable than imagined, teaching him about himself and helping him deal with the mental trauma. The assignment and the help of a firefighter counselor reopens the fire house door. Restored to command of a truck company, Michaels works through his struggles to reach a stronger place, at the same time wondering if the deadly attack was a lone wolf or are more in the wings?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Ryman
• Release date: Aug 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370190157

Gary Ryman

Gary Ryman is the author of Fire Men: Stories From Three Generations of a Firefighting Family. Beginning his firefighting career in a quiet area of upstate New York, he was a college live-in firefighter in a station in Montgomery County, MD while attending the University of Maryland and then moved to the rural hills of northeastern Pennsylvania. He is the past Chief of the Scott Fire Company in Scott Township, Pennsylvania. Ryman has over thirty years in the fire service as a volunteer and has held positions from Firefighter to Chief and had the incredible opportunity to fight fire with both his father and his son, making him the middle of the Oreo. He has a Bachelors degree in Fire Science from the University of Maryland and a Masters degree in American History from American Public University. He is employed as a fire protection engineer and is at work on two additional books.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The two girls worked at the kitchen counter with meticulous care. The directions printed out from a Web page had been highlighted in yellow, annotated with additional comments in pencil, and set to the right of their work area. They had been cautious about gathering their ingredients, purchasing exactly what the recipe called for without deviation and spreading out the acquisitions from four different stores, as they’d been taught. Their utensils were as carefully laid out and organized as a chef’s in a five-star restaurant.

Other than the unusual tools and ingredients they worked with, the two looked like ordinary teenage girls cooking a new dish for the first time. There was no giggling or horseplay, though. Hye Su and Jin Kyong were deadly serious in their tasks.

The two Korean girls—North Korean, as they thought of themselves—went by their given names at home. In the world outside, these had been Americanized into Susie and Jenny. Born in the United States, both spoke accent-less English but were fluent in their native language, which was spoken at home. Their mother and father had been sent to the United States twenty years before.

Tall and thin with classic long, black hair and almond eyes, the two looked like twins, although they were a year apart in age. They had grown up working for their mother and father at the Korean grocery they ran for the local immigrant community and an increasing number of gourmands who enjoyed cooking with foreign ingredients. Working at the store kept them close to their cultural roots and purpose for being in this country.

Be careful, and make sure the plastic bag is rolled down to cover all of the threads on top, Susie told Jenny.

It looks good. Start adding the powder, Jenny said, holding the plastic funnel in place.

The powder was topped off with a model rocket motor, its wire fed through a small hole predrilled in the cap. With the plastic bag carefully folded up from over the threads and tucked into the top, Susie slowly screwed on the cap like a safecracker turning a dial. The girls completed the second device in a similar way and then connected the wires to electric timers that were taped to the cylinder. They slipped each unit into a separate backpack, newly acquired for the project. They would add a battery to each device just before use.

Cleanup was easy: they stored the leftover black powder and rocket motors together in a small cabinet beneath the counter—probably not the best of ideas. They placed the backpacks in a small broom closet.

Do you want to go to the mall for a while? Jenny asked.

When the door clicked, the girls’ father walked into the kitchen and inspected the girls’ work area. He noted that the counter was clean; they had not spilled even a grain of black powder. Pleased, he pulled a well-worn, folded piece of paper from his pocket and looked at it as he had done multiple times every day since receiving it.

His wife, the girls’ mother, entered the kitchen and saw him looking at the message. She frowned. The paper should have been burned after he had read it the first time. Even better it should never have been printed at all.

Stop that, she said in Korean. You know what must be done.

That does not make it any easier, sending our daughters into harm’s way.

We knew twenty years ago when we were sent here that an order could come. The plan you made is good. We have raised our daughters properly. They know their responsibility, their loyalty, is to the supreme leader.

He nodded.

Give me the paper, she said.

He stood silent, still holding it in front of him. She reached out and took it, then walked to the sink. Laying it on the counter, she picked up a box of matches and removed one. Glancing down at the paper, she read the decoded message again as she lit the match. She held the paper over the sink, lighting the corner and watching the flame climb. As the fire charred and then burned the words attack America, she dropped it into the sink. A second later it was ash, and she turned on the water to flush the black residue down the drain.

We have our orders and must follow them, she said, turning back to her husband.

Yes, I know, he said, hesitantly. Our daughters will succeed.

A few miles away at Edgemont Elementary School, the new kindergarten teacher, Ms. Simpson, sat in the principal’s office.

I like your plan, and I’m sure the children will love a field trip to the library, Mr. Sullivan said as he signed the papers in front of him.

So far four parents have agreed to come along, so I think we’ll have plenty of supervision, the teacher said.

It’s a beautiful building. Great architecture. Unfortunately, I have a meeting that day, or I’d love to come along, Sullivan said.

Chapter 2

The new office felt like home—comfortable, familiar, and yet a step up from Dave Michaels’ previous digs. The gray chair at the desk wasn’t real leather, but it was heavy-duty and quite expensive. A hardened computer, ruggedized for the abuse it would take, rested to his left. The office was designed for around-the-clock use with lighting to accommodate day or night. It was early, fifteen minutes before seven in the morning. He had just relieved the previous occupant.

Captain Michaels settled into the front right seat of the heavy rescue squad and looked around the cab. Even with the frame of the airpack poking into his back, the seat felt as comfortable as the overstuffed blue recliner in his living room. He still was amazed he was here. Making captain was something he’d hoped for but never counted on. Although he had scored well on the promotional exam, a checkered record with chiefs and a thick personnel file filled with both complaints and commendations made promotion far from certain.

Outside of the fire station, Michaels was just a normal-looking guy; he wasn’t stocky or thin, short or tall, and his brown hair was just beginning to show the odd fleck of gray at the temple. In his late thirties, he expected the gray to spread like weeds, and as fast, considering that the snow-white thatch on his father’s head had come early. Everything about him said average until he put on a set of turnout gear and a helmet.

The station alarm sounded, breaking Dave’s reverie.

University Boulevard and Columbia Pike for the auto accident, Engine 61, Squad 1, Medic 6 respond, 0654, the bored sounding dispatcher said over the speakers.

Dave jumped out of the cab, kicked off his duty shoes, and stepped into his bunker boots, pulling up the pants with one smooth, practiced motion. He swung his heavy brown coat on and climbed back into the cab, seating himself in his new office. In less than thirty seconds, the massive toolbox rolled into morning rush hour.

Reaching the scene, Dave watched his new team go to work. The two-car crash snarled traffic for miles in four directions, both from the obstruction that had been created and from the rubberneckers. Only one occupant remained in a car, confined by a jammed door more than trapped. The medics didn’t want her climbing over the center console to exit on the passenger side.

Two Asian teenagers, a boy and a girl, stood nearby watching the squad crew execute the quick door pop. Hundreds of dry cleaning tickets blew in the breeze like confetti. The doors of the car where the youths had exited hung open. Dave stood, hands in the pockets of his turnout coat, observing his guys, not thinking much about the debris lying around. The cop handling the accident picked up some of the blowing papers and the mirror housing that had been snapped off by the impact. He reached in the driver’s window, popped the trunk release, and walked to the rear, raising the lid and dropping the materials in, noticing but not registering, the two propane tanks stuffed beneath a blanket. The miscellaneous contents had bounced around in the collision: some tools, pieces of black iron pipe, and a box of plastic bags. He missed the look exchanged by the two teenagers standing behind him. People’s cars were full of incredibly strange shit, you learned quickly in this job. The cop slammed the trunk shut.

There was a short screech as the metal bent under the force of the hydraulic tool, followed by the requisite pop as the latch released, allowing the driver’s door to be bent back. In fewer than three minutes, the door was open, and the medic evaluated and talked more to the woman, presumably the mother of the two teens. She shook her head, declining transport to the hospital in spite of the objections of the young firefighter.

Dave ignored this minidrama—there was nothing special here—and helped the crew pick up their tools. In another five minutes, the squad headed back to quarters. In the station, at his real, non-mobile desk, Dave completed the uncomplicated incident report. As quickly as he hit the send button, he forgot about the call, one of the many thousands of minor ones he’d responded to in his career.

Dave’s head was floating over getting this job, like a teenage boy in love for the first time. A month previously, the retirement of the department chief and two captains made for a game of musical chairs. The promotion of Deputy Chief John Mann to the big chief’s job was a surprise to many who had assumed that one of the other deputies, Harold Hanson, was a shoo-in for the top job.

Making captain was the fulfillment of a dream. Being handed Rescue Squad 1 was like winning the lottery. Rescue Squad 1 and 2 each covered half the county, and one of them was dispatched on every reported structure fire. When combined with the pins and cut jobs—auto accidents—that each responded to, they were the two busiest companies in the county, running over 4,000 calls a year each.

Dave walked out of his office and back over to the rig and began to go through each compartment. Fires and wrecks weren’t the only things the squads responded to. Hazardous materials incidents, confined space, trench, high-angle, and swiftwater rescue calls were all part of their portfolio. Anything out of the ordinary drew the response of one of the big toolboxes. The rigs were expensive for a fire truck with no pump and a total water capacity of two-and-a half gallons—in a pressurized water extinguisher—with the longest ladder a folding utility type carried on the roof. But with the complement of complex rescue tools carried in the myriad compartments, the total price tag exceeded one million dollars a copy.

Dave was working and the crews were still around the kitchen table when newly promoted Chief Mann stopped at Station 24 just after shift change. He grabbed a cup of coffee from the restaurant-sized Bunn coffeemaker on the counter and pulled up a chair at the monstrous, heavy, blond wood table with a bloodred 24 painted in the center. The dayroom and kitchen, if this were a house, would be called open-concept. The commercial kitchen flowed into the eating area, with the television section at the far end of the large room.

As on most mornings, there were newspaper sections scattered across the table, headlines screaming about the latest international crisis—this one nuclear proliferation—supplemented by doughnut boxes, coffee cups, and yogurt containers. The television was tuned to one of the morning news shows, where the talking heads repeated the newspaper headlines.

Mann said hello to the older guys he’d worked with in the past and introduced himself to a few of the younger firefighters he didn’t know. With the chief in the house, it didn’t take long for the normal morning conversation to end as the guys awaited the purpose of Mann’s visit.

I really want to listen more than talk, but I want to emphasize to all of you that my door is always open. I know that sounds like bullshit, but I mean it. If you have an idea, if you think the chain of command isn’t handling a problem for you, come see me. There will be no repercussions. Does anybody have anything? With that, he sat back and let the troops start up again. No one offered any specific ideas or complaints, but he didn’t expect that in a group environment like this. There were normal bitches about apparatus maintenance and cuts in overtime. He laughed at a few jokes, told one himself, and then drained the last of his coffee.

As Mann headed for his car and the guys to their morning equipment checkouts, Dave walked toward the office to check his department e-mail and start the daily paperwork.

Got a minute, Dave? Chief Mann asked.

Sure, Chief. What was he going to say? No?" Dave thought. The two walked out onto the front hardstand. The chief leaned against his red Chevy Tahoe.

I’m sure you know there are a couple of captain’s slots open and probably one more coming once the deputy and battalion slots are filled because of my move. I know you’re high on the list.

Yes, sir. I’m number three if I remember correctly.

Well, I wanted to tell you personally that you’re getting the first slot. Congratulations, Captain.

Thanks, Chief. That’s fantastic. It’ll be hard to leave the truck and this crew and go back to being a float again, but it will be fun just the same. Newly promoted officers usually were assigned as the fill-in for others on days off, vacation, or sick leave.

You won’t be living out of your trunk, Dave; that’s the other part of this news. I’m giving you Squad 1.

Uh, Chief, there’s got to be a dozen qualified senior captains out there already. Isn’t that going to make some waves? Dave asked.

Probably, but I don’t give a shit. I’m throwing the unwritten seniority rules out the window. I want the best officer for the job, not necessarily the one with the most seniority, and that’s you.

I appreciate the vote of confidence, Chief. Dave was stunned. Will I still get to pick my own team? Another one of the unwritten rules was that the squad captains had the final say on transfers into the companies if there was a vacancy.

Yes, that’ll still be up to you. I’m picking the officers I think are the best, and I expect you to do the same with the firefighters. There’s one other thing, though. Chief Hanson has volunteered to step up and take on some dotted-line supervisory and coordination responsibilities for the squad companies, hazardous materials unit, and the like. I think coordination for our special operations units has been lacking, so I agreed.

Did he volunteer before or after you told him you were giving me the squad? Dave asked. Chief Mann smiled.

I know the two of you have some history. I did actually read your file, Dave. His name is quite prominent in there, I’m sure you know. He chuckled. Michaels didn’t. Increasing Hanson’s dislike of Dave was the arrest and conviction of Hanson’s ex-wife on charges including homicide, arson, tax evasion, and a slew of others committed before the last chief retired, derailing his candidacy for the top job. Dave’s part in the investigation just added to the list.

Like I said, Dave, it’s dotted line. The squads still report to the operations chief like every other company. I’ll tell you the same thing I told Chief Hanson. You’re both professionals, and I expect you to act like it and make this work.

Okay, Chief. Dave sounded skeptical.

Chief Mann grunted and opened the driver’s door of the Tahoe, signifying the end of the conversation.

The promotion and transfer, along with a few others, will be announced on Friday. Keep this to yourself in the meantime, and again, congratulations, Dave.

Chapter 3

The early first run of the day didn’t remotely cement Dave’s place with his new crew, especially since he was following Captain Fitzgerald. That Fitz, revered by his troops, knew and was enthusiastic about the choice of his successor helped some, but firemen are from Missouri—show me.

As a lieutenant, Dave worked an occasional overtime shift on the squad, so he knew many of the guys already—there were no females on any of the three platoons yet, which was one of the new chief’s unstated goals. He knew following Captain Fitzgerald would be a challenge. Gaining the acceptance and confidence of his troops was the first task. Changes to this already excellent unit could follow.

One of the least pleased about Michaels’ assignment was the senior man on Dave’s own B-shift, Ricky Rogers. The twenty-seven-year firefighter, who could retire the second his unhappiness quotient got too high, had little tolerance for change and none for officers he didn’t respect. A shift with Ricky for a float or fill-in officer whom he took a dislike to could be memorable, and there were a number of lieutenants and a few captains who regularly turned down overtime on the squad if Ricky was working.

Michaels tried to make it seem like any other shift. Never one for formal lineups, he made the riding assignments at the kitchen table over coffee at the shift change, keeping everyone in their comfort zones.

Ricky watched the young captain from his standard seat at the end of the table, conspicuously perusing the newspaper. He was tall, thin, and balding, and his moustache was his most impressive feature. Dark, thick, and wide, it covered his upper lip and drooped toward his chin—but not in the Fu Manchu style preferred by some of the younger guys. It gave him a forbidding look. The stache hid his mouth, which, when combined with his searing eyes, gave him a formidable but almost indecipherable face. Furious or happy, it was difficult to determine just by looking at him, and more than one officer had drawn the wrong conclusion over the years. Most made the error only once. The meet and greet with Ricky would come on Ricky’s territory. They’d be spending the remainder of the twenty-four hours together in the cab of the squad.

Rogers went through his checks meticulously as the other guys joined him, and soon the bay was singing with the melody of running power tools. The new officer passed a couple of easy tests this morning, he thought. At least he hadn’t pulled any new captain, my company now bullshit. On the first run of the day, that nothing wreck, he’d stayed out of the way and let them do their jobs.

The morning proceeded normally. They ran two box alarms and a wreck and had not gotten close to the scene of any of them before being returned by the first arriving units. On the way back from the third call, they picked up meatball subs for lunch and sat down at the big kitchen table with sodas from the machine in the station. Ricky pointedly broke out his newspaper again. Their conversations in the front of the rig had been perfunctory as none of the runs required any navigation assistance from Dave. Clear right, was the most Dave had said at various intersections. He was answered by a grunt, if at all.

The engine company that shared the house with the squad was out finishing up a medical assist call, so the kitchen was quieter than normal, particularly with Ricky’s studied silence. Dave and Bob Meyers and Chris Donahue, the other two firefighters, talked sports while they ate.

The four were about halfway done with their sandwiches when the double whoop of the station alert for the squad sounded and the speaker volume kicked up. The dispatcher’s voice filled the building. Engine companies 29, 36, 28, and 15, Trucks 29 and 15, Squad 1, Medic 36, Battalion 3 respond for the building fire, 11235 Stewart Lane, Box 29-10, at 13:05.

The foil wrap that everyone used as a plate closed around the remnants of each sandwich in a practiced motion. Thank god for the microwave, Dave thought. Fire station meals were chosen based on the ease of reheating the dish. The chairs scraped on the floor as each guy pushed back from the table to head for the apparatus floor.

Meyers’ and Donahue’s bunker pants were lined up, one pair on either side of the open doors to the rear walk-in section of the squad. Each unzipped and kicked off their station boots and stepped into their leather bunker ones, pulling the heavy tan pants to their waist. The elastic red suspenders went over their shoulders. Meyers climbed into the rear of the box, with Donahue following. Their coats and helmets lay waiting for them on the bench seat, which ran the length of the box. Self-contained breathing apparatus units were mounted on the vertical diamond plate wall just above. There were four air packs mounted there for some unknown reason, but there were almost never more than two firefighters in the rear.

The two were a Mutt and Jeff team. Meyers was a twenty-year veteran who lived, ate, slept, and breathed firefighting. Of medium height, he had a weight lifter’s build, his T-shirts as tight as sausage casings and his reddish hair kept short with a military high and tight. Divorced with a fourteen-year-old daughter who always seemed to text him in the middle of calls, he was learning all over again about adolescent girls.

Donahue was the rookie of the shift, although there were no real rookies on the squad. An eight-year veteran, he had been brought into the company two years before. Four of his first six years were spent in one of the busiest truck companies in the county. Newly married with no kids, he had gone to school part-time, recently finishing his bachelor’s degree in fire science. He was number two on the lieutenants list, and with the number of retirements, he hoped to move up in the next spate of promotions. Tall and thin, he looked like the student he was, and he typically wore a quizzical expression on his face. Ricky Rogers nicknamed him Professor early on.

Ricky pulled on his bunker pants and climbed into the cab, sans coat and helmet, which were stashed in the compartment behind the driver. Dave dressed completely while the overhead door opened and the big diesel engine came to life. The red-and-white LED lights that covered the big box and cab began their cadenced flashing while the old-fashioned roto-ray light on the front, below the windshield, began spinning, it’s main concession to modernity that the bulbs were also of the LED variety.

With everyone in, Dave pushed the responding key on the laptop mounted to his left, and Ricky eased the rig out the door. Dave pulled his headset on and pressed the