Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [126]
61. CARRIED AWAY BY THE CROCODILE
Engine 10 was parked at the base of the Columbia Tower on Fourth Avenue, the motor roaring as it powered the dual stage internal water pump, hose lines sucking water from a nearby hydrant. Finney walked over to the engine and ran his hand along the underside of the wheel well on the driver’s side before going inside the building.
Once inside, he was directed up the frozen escalators to the command post on four where Chief Smith had been temporarily left in charge.
“John?” Diana came toward him in full bunkers, her coat unbuttoned, flashes of a Hawaii Ironman triathlon T-shirt underneath. “John? I should have believed you. I’m sorry.”
“You would have been crazy to believe me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Try to get them to listen.”
“They have to listen now.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
Several homeless people who’d been asked to leave were protesting their ouster. On the other side of the room firefighters still awaiting assignments lugged equipment inside from Fifth Avenue, building a stockpile of compressed air cylinders, hoses, spare nozzles, chain saws, pike poles, forcible entry equipment, gas-powered fans.
Chief Smith was talking on a cell phone when Finney arrived. “Chief, whatever you think you know about a high-rise fire, put it out of your mind.”
“I’ll call you back,” Smith said into the telephone. “You know something I don’t, John?”
“I know if you fight this according to Hoyle, you’re going to lose people.”
Chief Smith grew more alert; he’d already lost two firefighters that year and didn’t need to lose more. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
“Of course not. But I know this place is booby trapped. Whatever you try, it’s going to backfire. Don’t go by the numbers, and don’t count on any of the building’s systems kicking in. I wouldn’t count on water from that engine outside either.”
“What engine? What are you talking about?”
“The engine pumping into the standpipe is a phony. All it’s doing is tying up the standpipe connection.”
“What do you mean a phony?”
“It’s not the real Engine Ten. It’s a fake built just for tonight.”
Staring resolutely at Finney, Chief Smith picked his white helmet up off the counter and held it under one arm. “Look around. Nobody has to tamper with any systems to make this bad! This is as bad as it gets. We’ve got what? Thirty firefighters? We need five hundred? Don’t tell me to break the rules. And don’t try to feed me any more of your harebrained conspiracy theories.”
Several people had been clamoring for Smith’s ear, and as he turned his attention to a police sergeant at his side, a large volume of ankle-deep water came gushing out the doorway of the nearest stairwell. Smith turned to Finney and said, “I guess that phony engine outside is pumping phony water, huh?” Several firefighters ran over to contain it, stacking rolled canvas tarps inside the landing to dike the flow. Even so, long fingers of water spread across the floor.
After a couple of minutes, Finney found Chief Reese speaking to Oscar Stillman in a cubbyhole on the other side of the elevators. Finney stopped just short of the corner and listened. “No, you will not call in a task force from Tacoma. Or from Bellevue. You will limit your losses, and you will fight a defensive fire.”
“Damn it, Oscar. I’m the chief, not you. And I am not going to let all those people upstairs die. You think that’s what I want as my legacy?”
“Screw your legacy. Get those guys out of the stairwells. Then get as many civilians out as you can. After that, pull back. What we’re talking about here is saving firefighters’ lives.”
“I’m not going to pull twenty firefighters out so I can lose two hundred civilians.”
“You want me to spill my guts about Leary Way?” Oscar asked, lowering his voice.
“You do what you have to. Our first directive is to save lives.”
When Finney stepped around the corner, he looked at Reese. “God, I thought you were part of this. One day I saw you coming out of this building behind