Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [97]
Finney climbed into the crew cab on Engine 26, buckled the snaps on his coat, turned on his portable radio, and switched it to channel one. Then he slid his arms into the straps of the self-contained breathing apparatus stored behind the seat. He couldn’t help it. He loved this shit. Getting up in the middle of the night to do who knows what. It was the most interesting job in the world. Anything could be out there waiting for him. Absolutely anything. As they pulled out of the station, he put the strap of his rubber face mask around his neck, screwed the low-pressure hose onto the regulator at his waist, then reached back with his right hand and opened the main valve. The warning bell chattered momentarily as air blew past and freshly energized the system.
Two minutes later they arrived at the location next to the Duwamish Waterway, where the foul-tasting odor of smoke hung in the chill night air. They were definitely about to fight some fire. Good, Finney thought. Love it.
The property was flat, as was all of the land for a couple of miles to the east. Behind them was a huge wooded hillside, West Marginal Way, a little-used four-lane road running along its base. Moments earlier the lieutenant on Engine 27 had taken charge on the radio, giving himself the title “Marginal Command,” an unfortunate choice of words. Engine 27’s driver worked the pump panel, and the third crew member occupied himself dragging a fifty-foot length of four-inch hose toward a hydrant.
“Stick with me!” Sadler said, pointing a finger at Finney as he climbed off the rig.
“Of course.”
Sadler opened a side compartment and began slinging his mask while Finney surveyed the buildings. There were two main structures: an older, smaller building to their left, with concrete walls and a flat roof; a newer concrete structure to the right. There was nothing pretty about either building, and the situation was strangely reminiscent of Leary Way, though they weren’t going to be shorthanded here. There were already three engines on scene, and Finney could hear more sirens down the road.
Between the buildings and almost directly in front of Engine 26 was a small parking area with a loading dock, two cab-over trucks parked inside the gate. It was in front of this loading area that Engine 11, Engine 27, and Engine 26 had clustered like bees around a concrete chrysanthemum.
Flame licked the inside corner of the building on the loading dock, black smoke crawling up the walls. Like a paste-on eyebrow dangling off a drunken actor, one melted rain gutter hung loose. Two firefighters from one of the other units charged toward the building hauling a line that was rapidly filling with water and would soon slow their progress to a crawl.
Around the eaves of the larger building, dense, black smoke puffed into the night sky. In places it crept out like a wraith, but in others it blew out under pressure as if from an exhaust pipe. It might have been coming from the fire near the loading dock, or it might have been indicative of something worse. “Bowman Pork Products,” Finney read off the side of one of the trucks. What could be burning except machinery and bacon fat?
Followed by a small man in a puffy gray ski coat, Lieutenant Parkhurst strode over to them. He’d established himself as incident commander and would be giving orders and assignments until a chief arrived.
“Gary,” Lieutenant Parkhurst said, stopping in front of Lieutenant Sadler, who was belting himself into his backpack, “this man says there’s a family inside.”
“Back of the warehouse,” said the man, nodding briskly. He was on the underside of forty and wore baggy black trousers, his ski coat zipped low enough to reveal a bow tie. A tri-colored ski cap covered his brow. “Whole family. I haven’t seen them. Not since eight o’clock.”
“Okay. Come on,” Sadler said, tapping Finney on the shoulder and walking in front of Parkhurst and the civilian. “Let’s go.”
“How many?” Finney asked, turning to the civilian, who looked vaguely familiar.
“Five. No.” He held up six fingers.