Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [2]
Cordifis was an old-timer who meant no disrespect by calling Moore a “girl,” or by leaving her outside to tend the fan. Finney hoped she realized that, but thought she probably didn’t.
Finney put down the chain saw and pike pole. He wouldn’t be needing them to search. Now his tools consisted of the small department-issued flashlight on a clip on his chest and the four-pound service axe in a scabbard on his belt, the axe no truckman was ever without.
Inside, Finney could see Cordifis’s lantern for about four feet, after which it vanished. He kept track of the captain through the Darth Vader sound of his breathing in the facepiece and the casual conversation they always maintained when they worked together. He liked to keep a leash on the captain so he didn’t get into trouble. Cordifis had seen better days and sometimes couldn’t keep up with the rest of the crew.
It wasn’t too many minutes before Finney heard the wooden-bladed, gasoline-powered fan firing up behind them, sounding like a small airplane. The racket would serve as a marker for their entrance point. They were searching a forty-five-thousand-square-foot building, but Finney couldn’t see past the end of his arm.
Department protocol decreed that fans wouldn’t be set up without hose lines in position, lest the additional fresh air being pushed into the building feed the fire, but Finney knew Cordifis wasn’t afraid to bend the rules whenever the rules didn’t suit the situation. Finney had worked under by-the-book officers before, and he would take Cordifis’s commonsense approach any day. At least Cordifis knew how to think for himself—a quality Finney valued in emergency situations. Once the fan was running, the air would clear and they could finish their search before their rescue operation turned into a body recovery. If it turned out they were fanning the fire, they would turn it off after their search was complete.
The building would begin clearing as soon as Baxter and Reidel opened an outlet for the fumes, preferably smaller than the entrance and near the seat of the fire. The structure would become like a balloon with a pinhole in it, smoke rushing out that pinhole. The technique was amazingly effective. Finney heard a second fan rev up and knew Moore had set it up in tandem with the first to generate additional pressure inside the building. Still, the smoke wasn’t clearing. What the hell were Baxter and Reidel doing? They should have had an outlet hole by now.
Finney and Cordifis searched a series of small interconnecting rooms along the front side of the building, and as they exited each room, Finney placed a piece of white tape diagonally down the outside of the door to signal that the room had been searched.
Even though they weren’t doing much more than walking, Cordifis was breathing with effort. Their PPE—personal protective equipment—weighed more than fifty pounds; when fastened, their heavy coats were as warm as Arctic expedition parkas. Just walking was a chore. Much as he wanted to move more quickly, Finney forced himself to adapt to the captain’s pace. There was no point in wearing him out.
They moved about in the smoke for five minutes before they both bumped into a high counter and found themselves treading on material that felt like gravel. Moments later, the smoke abated somewhat and Finney suddenly realized he was outside the building, walking on nuggets of broken glass from the window Baxter had broken. They’d circled back through the interconnecting rooms without realizing it. It was easy to do and embarrassing as hell.
“Where’s that damned fan?” Cordifis asked irritably, when he realized they’d screwed up. “This place