Death Stalks the Fireline: 1, #2

By Jon Guinn

Jason Keeting has finally settled back into relative normalcy as the chief of Spruce Bay Fire in North Idaho after a series of harrowing and tragic incidents. With the help of an out-of-district firefighter acting undercover, he was able to assist law enforcement in the arrest of almost the entire board of fire commissioners in his small rural fire department. But just as the proverbial dust has settled and he has begun helping his fiancée, Jennifer, with the planning of their wedding, he receives a call from his good friend, Marty Jackson, the fire chief at a district just across the border in Whitman, Washington. Marty has been seriously injured in a cannery fire, the cause of which is suspicious and he asks Jason to fill in for him, running the district until Marty can get back on his feet. Jason readily agrees; however, within a day of arriving as the substitute fire chief, he finds himself in a quandary when the fire crews find themselves in danger while responding to what should have been the extinction of a simple wheat stubble fire. After several more similar incidents, Jason arrives at the conclusion that someone is targeting Whitman Fire firefighters. Incensed, Jason enlists Shaun Gaines, a trusted volunteer from his own fire district, to assist him in an undercover investigative operation. He soon regrets, however, pulling Shaun into the line of fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing
• Release date: Dec 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223199458

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J. A. G U I N N

ISBN 979-8-88540-405-1 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88540-406-8 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by J. A. Guinn

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing 832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335 www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

J. A. Guinn

I certainly learned a lot during the process of writing my first novel and getting it published, primarily because I am a better storyteller than I am a writer. After reading my freshman attempt, Brotherhood of Fire, a former Air Force colleague and longtime friend of mine, retired Colonel Steve Minnigerode, an excellent editor in his own right who loves editing as much as I hate it, actually offered to help conduct a technical edit of this novel. In addition, my lovely wife, Cathy, a retired English, and Creative Writing teacher, took it upon herself to conduct a complete edit for grammar, sentence and paragraph structure as well as for any inconsistencies in the story. As a result, we have spent several months going over this manuscript. They have both been more than patient with me as an inexperienced writer and self-editor. My heartfelt thanks and appreciation for Steve and Cathy’s long hours of work. Hopefully, I will carry some of the lessons learned into my next sequel.

1

As heavy, black smoke and rolling flames boiled across the ceiling, continuing to bank down lower and lower in the dilapidated old cannery, Chief Marty Jackson slowly returned to the land of the conscious. Disoriented at first, not remembering exactly where he was, he attempted to push himself up from the dirty, debris-strewn concrete floor, at the same time trying to get his eyes to focus. A flaming headache, coupled with intense lower body pain, assaulted his senses as Jackson finally comprehended his situation—the fire, the cannery, and then the loud crashing noise. As his vision came into better focus, he could feel the heat of the fire penetrating through his fire-resistant bunker jacket and pants and see the accompanying smoke swirling around him. Fortunately, the mask providing air from the tank strapped to his back was still held secure to his face by the straps around his head, allowing him to breathe normally. His helmet, however, was gone, and when he reached for his radio, his hand came up empty.

The ear-splitting siren from the 100-decibel PASS device attached to the chief ’s bunker jacket assaulted his hearing with its incessant blaring. The alarm had activated thirty seconds after he had stopped moving, serving as an alert to any nearby firefighter that a man was down. The intense pain in his lower legs with numbness creeping up his thighs signaled that he was badly injured and in need of immediate assistance. He found himself pinned down by a steel beam that had collapsed from the ceiling. Unfortunately, no amount of straining or pulling with his arms was allowing him to extract him-

self from the crushing weight. Eight feet away lay his helmet where it had landed as he crashed to the floor under the intense weight and force of the beam, and not knowing if he had been lying there for three minutes or thirty, he had no idea how much air was left in his tank. As he groggily pondered his dilemma, the low-air alarm from the regulator sounded off, providing him with his answer. He probably had no more than five minutes of air left.

The chief desperately searched for the handheld radio that should have been clipped to his jacket, coming up empty a second time. The smoke had not banked down to the floor yet, twisting as much as he could to look around, he still could not lay eyes on his radio.

As he took a couple of deep breaths, he twisted himself back to his original position. Chief Jackson tried to relax and think through his situation. He now recalled that one of his experienced firefighters, Rusty Hodges, had been only a few feet from him when the beam collapsed, but he could neither see nor hear his fellow fire- fighter. Finally, bending his body toward the steel obstruction as far as he possibly could without causing the pain to shoot up his legs, he could see Rusty on the other side of the beam lying at an awkward angle, not moving. The beam had knocked Rusty sideways, rendering him unconscious, but from the chief ’s vantage point, it didn’t appear to have pinned him to the floor. Briefly removing his mask, Jackson shouted out, Rusty! Rusty! Can you hear me? Then as a fit of coughing from the smoke overtook him, he quickly replaced his mask and focused on Rusty but still could see no movement from him. When he turned to yell at Rusty, he sensed that he was lying on something hard. He twisted his torso sideways to access the pocket in his jacket and discovered a large mag flashlight. As the chief, he rarely worked fires himself, so he had forgotten about the Maglite. Pulling it out of his pocket, Marty swept the light around toward the steel beam, which had his legs pinned. He could see Rusty at the other side of the beam, which was sticking up off the concrete floor, partially supported by some of the heavy wood beams. Marty wondered if there would be room to throw his flashlight beneath the beam toward Rusty, possibly jarring him awake if he wasn’t too seriously

injured. Since he didn’t have a lot of other options it was worth a try. The warehouse was so large, coupled with the roar of the raging fire, none of his other firefighters outside the building seemed to be able to hear his PASS alarm.

Maneuvering himself into a better position, Jackson threw the flashlight as hard as he could, watching it slide and bounce slightly across the concrete floor of the cannery, then slamming into Rusty’s outstretched arm. Rusty’s arm jerked toward his body and then moved back out a few inches. At least he seemed to be alive, though probably injured.

As the chief removed his mask once again and pressed his face as close to the concrete floor for any clear air he could find, he shouted again, Rusty! Rusty! Help! Jackson spotted a minor movement from his downed firefighter and then watched as he slowly rolled from his back to his side, facing Jackson. Even though they were separated by ten to fifteen feet on opposite sides of the beam, with smoke starting to bank down even closer to the floor, Jackson could see Rusty’s eyes flutter open inside his face mask. Finally, as if testing himself to see if he had any broken bones, Rusty pushed himself into a partial sitting position, slowly getting to his knees, and he then started crawling around the end of the beam toward Jackson. Chief, are you okay? What can I do? he shouted in a muffled voice through his mask.

My legs are trapped under the beam! You’re not going to be able to get it off of me by yourself, so get out of here and get help! Where’s your radio? Jackson shouted back in a pleading tone. From his almost prone position next to Marty, Rusty scanned the cannery floor, spotting the radio crushed beneath the steel beam that had knocked him to the floor. It’s destroyed, Chief!

Then get out of here and get some help, Marty managed to direct through a coughing fit.

How’s your air? Do you have enough? Very low, Jackson gasped. Go get help!

Without a second thought, Rusty first glanced toward the exit at the back of the warehouse, which he had observed as they entered the burning building. Unfortunately, it was at least 150 feet away and nearly obscured by smoke. The door they had originally entered

looked as though it might be closer, providing a way to help. With his air tank straps unbuckled, he removed the tank and harness from his back, laying it down on the concrete floor next to Jackson. Then, just before taking a breath from his mask, he lowered his head down close to the chief and yelled, I’ll be back! With his last lungful of air, he rose to his feet, parts of his upper body disappearing into the layer of smoke. His injured body would not permit him to move very fast, but shuffling as fast as he could manage while dragging one leg, he approached the door they had entered earlier.

Before he reached the door, however, he suddenly remembered that it had been jammed as they tried to exit earlier. So, he quickly changed direction, heading back toward the smoke obscured door he had dismissed before starting out. Halfway there, running out of air in his lungs, he dropped to the floor, expelled all the air in his lungs, and then inhaled air as close to the concrete floor as he could get. He knew that if he did not exit the building soon, he would not only lose his life there on the floor of that abandoned cannery, but he would also have failed to get help for his chief. Rusty struggled toward the door. In what seemed like forever but was only a minute, Rusty finally made it to the door and escaped out to the fresh air. As he collapsed on the concrete sidewalk outside the cannery, Rusty sucked in several lungs full of clean air. Then looking down the length of the building, he spotted several of his fellow firefighters shooting water on the fire with a two-and-a-half-inch hose about fifty yards away. When he shouted as loud as he could over the cacophony of noises that accompany a raging fire, he couldn’t raise their attention at first. But finally, with Rusty’s continued shouting, one of them turned his head in Rusty’s direction and tapped his partner on the shoulder. They quickly shut down the nozzle on the hose and came running toward him.

Meanwhile inside the cannery warehouse, as Marty Jackson started to take another deep breath of air from his tank, he heard a sucking sound in his mask as the last remnants of air pulled into his lungs. With what little air he was able to inhale, he quickly removed his mask, tossed it out of the way, and pulled Rusty’s mask toward him, placing those straps over his head. After he exhaled, he took a deep breath and then pulled the tank toward him to check the regulator for the amount of air left. Suddenly this air tank alarm also sounded, indicating he only had minutes of air left. Despite his many years of experience, panic began to set in as he thought that these could be the last few minutes of his life. He lowered his head back onto the concrete, attempting to slow and regulate his breathing in order to conserve air. He said a short prayer, telling God that he was ready if it was his time to go. At least he would die doing what he loved. However, if it wasn’t his time, he sure hoped the Lord would see fit to get his guys in there soon. Very soon!

Marty’s entire adult life had been spent with the fire service, most of it right there in Whitman, Washington. After high school, while serving as a volunteer with the Whitman-Mission Fire District, he had earned his AA degree from a local community college and was hired as soon as an opening presented itself. By the end of this year, he would have chalked up thirty-five years in the fire service. They had been really good years, but his wife, who he had lost to cancer a few years before, had occasionally bugged him about retir- ing. He was concerned he wouldn’t know what to do with himself once he retired, so he had stubbornly delayed that decision. At this particular moment, he was thinking maybe he had waited too long. Looking over toward the door through which Rusty had escaped, Jackson now could not even see the door, much less any of his personnel coming to rescue him. He thought he would soon be out of air, so he took a long, slow breath, which turned out to be only a half breath. Out of air, Marty removed his mask, placed his face as close to the floor as possible and desperately prayed that he could find fresh air near the concrete. But as he inhaled, he sucked more smoke than air, causing him to burst into a coughing fit. Within seconds, his eyes were burning. Then all he could see 

through his tearing eyes was an enveloping blackness as he lost   consciousness.

Death Stalks The Fireline

2

two days earlier

G ood morning, Jackie, Chief Marty Jackson cheerfully greeted his office administrator, Jackie Palmer, as he passed her desk on his way to the lounge area for his morning coffee. Jackie responded equally cheerfully as he grabbed his coffee mug. Morning, Chief.

Marty had a stack of paperwork to deal with this morning, especially concerning the new budget the commissioners were urging him to finish. Paperwork was the least interesting part of his job and always so time-consuming for his liking. As a result of the loss of his firefighter, Marvin Cash, two weeks earlier, he had been required to spend a lot of time on the funeral arrangements. Anytime a fire-fighter went down in the line of duty an LODD memorial service was held to honor him or her. It was a big production, but that was the least he could do. Cash had only been with his fire department for a little over two years, but he had proven himself to be both an adept firefighter and EMT during that brief time. His family, a wife and two adorable four-year-old twin daughters, were devastated. Marty had met with them several times to help the twins understand what had happened to their father, but he wasn’t sure the girls completely understood. They just missed their daddy.

As Chief Jackson sat in his big, overstuffed, swivel chair, he pulled the stack of paperwork out of his in-basket, dropping it in a messy pile on his desk. He took a large swig of coffee as he started to scan the first document. He had only gotten through the first paragraph when the klaxon sounded.

Whitman Fire, Engine 2, Engine 3, and Engine 5, structure fire at 3565 Rosewood Avenue. It’s the old cannery. Reporting party (RP) advised heavy smoke with flames showing.

Jackson shouted some expletives, throwing his hands in the air and then calming himself. He pulled the microphone from his hand- held radio, responding, Dispatch, structure fire at 3565 Rosewood Avenue. Copy. Engines 2, 3, and 5 are enroute as well as Whitman Fire 1.

Marty grabbed his bunker jacket off the hook as he rushed into the engine bay. He observed Engine 2 already in the process of rolling out, loaded with four of his on-duty personnel. Since he always parked his chief ’s rig in his designated parking space right in front of his office, he waited for Engine 2 to clear the parking lot before he pulled out. There was no need for him to arrive first, possibly getting in the way of his engines.

Marty knew the old cannery well. His EMTs had at least one medical call a week to that location to deal with transients or farm laborers who had established housing in various corners of the abandoned structure. The building was built in 1932 when agriculture of peas, asparagus, onions, and several other products were grown in great quantities in the valley, which was rich in agricultural soil. When the soil and climate in the area were first discovered as ideal for growing grapes, most of the other agricultural products had been plowed under. Now, several thousand acres of former farmland, from Whitman, Washington, all the way to the Columbia River were plush vineyards. No longer a need for the cannery, it closed down about ten years earlier, the only occupants being the homeless, occasional farm workers, and rats. Marty had heard that just a week earlier, a sheriff ’s department patrol had cleared everyone out of the cannery, but he figured that someone must have returned and started a small warming or cook fire that got out of control.

Marty arrived within five minutes of the tone-out, pulling over to the curb out of the way of the other incoming engines. He was disturbed by the amount of smoke and flames he could see pouring out of the broken windows of the building. This fire was not 

fire was not going to be as easy as he had first thought. He observed several storage buildings adjacent to the main cannery building, so he needed to deploy at least one crew to keep the fire from spreading to any of those structures. He was fairly certain that one of those buildings contained flammable liquids, which would likely explode if the fire reached them.

As the other engines arrived, he gave each crew its assignment and proceeded to walk around the building to better assess the situa- tion. One of his most likable firefighters, Rusty Hodges, was climbing out of the back of Engine 3. Rusty, he shouted. Rusty! Come with me!

What do you need, Chief? Rusty questioned, a big smile on his face as he lumbered toward the chief with a Halligan tool in his hand and his helmet sitting cocked on his head at a jaunty angle. Marty was impressed with Rusty when he first applied for a position with Whitman Mission Fire several years earlier. He was a quick learner and had a take-charge attitude which would benefit the young man as he moved up in rank. His esprit de corps was also contagious in the station.

Walk around with me. I want to see what this thing looks like. Although the building was quite long, there was no time to waste so their walk took only five minutes. A lot more smoke and fire poured from the building than Marty would have expected from just a cook- ing fire. Obviously, something else was going on.

Retracing their steps, arriving back to Rosewood Avenue where he had parked, Marty flagged down his captain, Duke Bishop. Duke, this fire has progressed significantly, but it’s not fully engulfed so I still want you to send a crew in on the slight chance someone might be inside, but only if the crew can do it safely.

I have two pairs already masking up, ready to enter, Bishop responded to the chief.

Although over an hour had passed since Marty’s arrival, the fire was still putting out a lot of energy, causing him to be concerned that it still might spread to the other buildings, even though his crews were doing their best to dampen it down. Fifteen minutes later,

after Captain Bishop exited the building with his two interior attack crews having searched for people inside, he approached Marty. We couldn’t do much, Chief. The fire is overtaking this end of the build- ing, but the good news is that we located no one in this area.

Okay, Duke. We may have to let it burn down, but we’ve got to keep it from spreading, so concentrate on that. Marty hated to let a fire get to the point where they just had to let it burn, but that appeared to be their only option. Turning to Rusty, he suggested, Let’s go around this far end of the building again. It doesn’t look too bad. We might be able to access that door down there that we just passed.

As they approached the door, with Rusty testing for heat with the back of his hand, they both heard a muffled scream from inside. Rusty grabbed the door handle and pulled. Thankfully it was not locked, the door barely budged open a couple of inches. He pried on the door with his Halligan bar, finally forcing it open enough for them to gain access. At first, smoke poured out, and then it sucked back inside, clearing the air a bit for them to be able to see. They could see flames up at the high ceiling with the smoke and fire slowly banking down into the large room. The walls of adjoining storage rooms or offices were also in flames, but where Marty and Rusty were standing was still relatively clear.

The area was a mess, containing various metal storage racks, equipment, and conveyor belt machinery occupying a lot of the space. As Marty and Rusty moved inside the building, they stopped and listened again, attempting to determine if what they had heard was actually a cry. Just as they decided they were mistaken they both heard another call for help. It was a weak cry and seemed far off. They both stopped and