Author’s Note: When Voyage
was on the air in the mid 60’s the episodes were set in the future - many in
the mid 70’s. Yeah, I know the
technology didn’t develop fast enough for Seaview to have really existed then,
but this was TV. The series Emergency!, about the Los Angeles County Fire
Department Station 51 engine crew and paramedic squad, aired from 1972 to 1977,
overlapping the time period for Voyage. Given that Station 51 was located in LA
County and Seaview based in Santa Barbara, it would not be inconceivable for
the two crews to have encountered one another…
Encounter 51
By Storm
The visibility was almost
down to nothing, with a marine layer fog as thick as pea soup. The deepening
twilight simply compounded the problem. Engineer Mike Stoker squinted through
the windshield as he eased the big fire engine down the narrow winding dirt
road along the edge of the cliff. He could hear the surf pounding on the rocky
beach below. If there was an aircraft down in this area, the chances of
survival for anyone aboard were very slim - and the odds of Engine 51 finding
them in these conditions were even worse. Stoker could barely see the emergency
lights of the rescue squad that trailed behind the engine in his rearview
mirrors. The report called in had not been specific on the location of the
downed aircraft - the caller had reported hearing a jet engine cutting out
followed by ‘a whistling noise and a big splashing, crashing sound’ somewhere
along this stretch of coastline. The caller hadn’t actually seen the aircraft -
the fog was too thick - so could only give a rough guess as to where the plane
had actually gone down. But from the description, Stoker feared that it was
down somewhere on one of the rocky beaches below them - if it hadn’t plowed
directly into the cliff face first. At least no one had reported an airliner
missing, so it had to be a private or military aircraft. Hopefully there’d be
no mass casualties to deal with.
Beside Stoker, Station 51’s
captain, Hank Stanley, was having the similar dark thoughts.
God, I hate plane crashes.
They’re worse than car wrecks - the higher speeds involved with aircraft tend
to really make a mess of the human body, not to mention aviation fuel fires…
although, the caller didn’t report seeing any fire or hearing an explosion.
That could mean any of several things, though. Since the engines had been
cutting out the plane might have run out of fuel - or sunk immediately upon
impact. Alternately, it might have impacted into a cove or overhang where the
resulting fire simply wasn’t visible to the caller.
He hoped that it was only the
first, otherwise they were unlikely to find the survivors - if any - in time to
be of any use to them. This time of year the water offshore was cold enough
that survival was measured in minutes rather than hours. If there had been a
fire, well, it was too late for anyone aboard before the station had even
rolled on the call. With night falling, the fog was likely to remain until
morning, making the search even more difficult, if not impossible. Hank feared
that they might have to call off the search until the next day when the fog
lifted. He reached for the radio mike.
“Engine 51 to Squad 51.”
“Squad 51,” came the reply
from his senior paramedic, Roy DeSoto.
“Roy, can you or John see
anything at all?”
“Negative, Cap. Even with the
spotlight we can’t see beyond the ditch. We can barely see the engine. Unless
they’ve come down right on the road it’s going to be hard to find them.”
The odds of that were pretty
slim, but Hank had to admit it was a remote possibility. “10-4, Squad 51. We’ll
continue on to the county line and if we haven’t seen anything by then,” he
paused, “we’ll have to call off the search until morning.” The moment of
silence told Hank that his paramedics weren’t happy at the prospect of having
to abandon the search. Well, neither was he, but stumbling around in the fog,
in the dark, wasn’t going to work and they all knew it. They really needed air
support, preferably in the form of a helicopter - and clear skies. Finally,
grudgingly, “10-4, Engine 51.” Unhappy rustling behind Hank told him that the
last two members of his crew, Kelly and Lopez, were just as unhappy with the
decision - but like the paramedics, they recognized the futility of continuing
on in these conditions. He sighed and turned his attention back to the ethereal
landscape creeping by outside the engine. It was just another four miles to the
county line.
A whining shriek shattered
the relative quiet of the deepening night, the sound of a battered jet engine
trying to spin up and start. The firefighters in the engine sat up in
amazement. Stoker slammed on the brakes, bringing the engine sliding to a halt.
The squad braked behind them. The men bolted from their respective vehicles and
rushed to the edge of the road, trying to pinpoint the origin of the sound. As
the scream of tortured metal echoed off the cliffs and ocean the firemen
realized that it had come from somewhere below them.
The unholy din wound down and
died. The crew of Station 51 exchanged stunned looks. This just wasn’t possible
- was it?
Captain Stanley was the first
to gather his wits. “Mike,” he said to his engineer, “Grab some ropes off the
engine. Roy, you and John get ready to rappel down to the beach. Kelly, go with
them. Lopez, help Mike work the lines. I don’t know how that plane survived
intact enough for the engine to still even try to run, but we’ve got to stop
that pilot before he manages to blow something up.” Grimaces from the rest of
the crew signaled their comprehension. They’d seen first-hand the result of a
jet engine shedding turbine blades; the pieces turned into deadly shrapnel,
slicing through anything and anyone unfortunate to be caught in their path. The
men hastened to their assigned duties, relieved that there was obviously
someone who had survived the crash and hoping to get to them before they made a
fatal error that would turn rescue into the grisly task of body recovery.
******
Lt. Commander Chip Morton was
thoroughly disgusted with himself. As he killed the power on the FS1 he muttered
profanities under his breath, causing his co-pilot, Patterson, to look at him
somewhat askance. Morton had a reputation for never losing control.
Well, he thought to himself, I haven’t really lost it -
yet.
But having a simple trip down
the coast from Santa Barbara to San Diego go so completely balls up was
definitely trying his patience. The headache he had from having a piece of
loose equipment hit him in the back of his skull wasn’t helping either. He
could feel the knot throbbing and a trickle of blood was seeping down his
collar. In addition, he was sure he’d acquired a wonderful set of bruises from
the safety harness. It was one of those days when he almost wished he followed
his dad’s footsteps and joined the Chicago fire department instead of the Navy.
Almost.
He eyed the still smoking
panels at the rear of the Flying Sub‘s cabin. Patterson had gotten the fire out
pretty quickly, even before they’d crash landed on the beach. Unfortunately,
the unexpected electrical surge had taken out one engine completely and damaged
the other too badly to run without risking turbine blades shearing off and
finishing the destruction. The radio was out and he hadn‘t even had time to get
off a Mayday. The flight computers were down; hell, even the main cabin lights
were blown. The only light was the lurid red emergency lighting. The Admiral
was a genius, and the very existence of FS1 reflected that, but if Chip were
him, he’d sue the electrical subcontractor. And have the fool investigated to
see if he was working for the People’s Republic instead of NIMR and the US
government. This sort of thing had happened too many times.
He unbuckled his harness to
climb out of his seat, taking care to hang on to the armrest as he did. When
he‘d gotten up before to assess damage and try to get FS1 powered up to limp
back to their base at Santa Barbara, he’d nearly blacked out. Chip knew he had
a concussion, but Patterson, having been unrestrained when they hit, had
slammed into a bulkhead. He’d acquired a broken left wrist, severely bruised
ribs and a blossoming black eye on the right side of his face. Patterson wasn‘t
in any shape to attempt repairs. Neither was he, really. At this point, though,
the whole issue was moot. The damage to FS1 was extensive enough that they wouldn’t
have been able to make repairs anyway. She was literally on the beach until the
Seaview could come retrieve her. Chip just had to figure out how to let
the boat know where they were.
*******
The firefighters finished
preparations to rappel down the cliff. Captain Stanley had elected to send
DeSoto and Gage down first, with just a handi-talkie and two heavy duty
flashlights. Since they couldn’t see to the base of the cliff, they couldn’t be
sure that there wasn’t water waiting at the bottom rather than a beach. Or that
the crashed plane was in truth directly below. Descending without equipment
would give the two paramedics a better chance to assess the situation and
locate the aircraft. Then if the site below was useable as a staging area,
Kelly would follow with the stokes basket loaded with their gear. If not, they
could then direct him to be lowered in a spot that was.
They indicated their
readiness to get on with the descent. At Hank’s signal, Gage and DeSoto dropped
over the edge of the cliff and were quickly swallowed by the night and fog.
Moving carefully, taking care not to lose sight of one another, it still only
took a few moments to reach the bottom. They were much relived to find that
they had a dry, albeit very rocky beach. The fog seemed to be not quite so
thick either as a bit of a breeze had sprung up off of the sea and was stirring
the air, dissipating part of the mist. Breaking waves perhaps 40 feet away were
barely visible in the beams of their lights. Roy pulled out the handi-talkie to
update their captain.
“HT 51 to Engine 51.”
“Engine 51.”
“Cap, we’ve got a dry, rocky
beach here. We’re beginning the search for the plane.”
“10-4, HT 51. We’ll stand
by.”
Roy stuck the handi-talkie
back in his turnout pocket. “Johnny,” he said to his partner, “it seemed to me
that the sound was coming from a little bit to the right.” He pointed north up
the beach. Johnny cocked his head to one side and considered.
“I think you may be right,
Roy. We’ll look that direction first.” He swung his flashlight around to play
the beam over their rock-strewn surroundings. A glint of metal flashed in the
light. The two paramedics looked at each other. It could be a soft drink can -
or a fragment from of the object of their search. They picked their way over to
investigate. The sparkle quickly revealed itself to be only one of many
metallic fragments scattered along a huge gash parallel to the beach, lined
with gouged and obviously displaced stones. The beams of the two flashlights
swung to follow the trail of destruction. A dark shape that suddenly gleamed
yellow in the light hunkered at the end of the impact path. They’d found what
they were seeking. Or had they?
There was definitely
something wrecked on the beach - but it sure as hell wasn’t an airplane.
The two paramedics stared at
each other in disbelief. A flying saucer? That’s what it unquestionably looked
like. Well, except for the two fins on the top. This was something they
certainly hadn’t dreamed of encountering and they weren’t quite sure how to
approach the situation. They stood silent and still for a long moment. Roy
could tell that his partner was feeling skittish by the way he shifted uneasily
in place.
“Johnny,” said Roy in a soft
voice, “it could be a hoax. College kids or somebody pulling an elaborate
prank.” He wanted very badly to believe that.
“And it could be real,”
Johnny breathed. He was almost trembling. It was clear he’d like nothing better
than to turn and sprint back to the cliff and get the hell out of there.
“Well, there’s only one way
to find out.” Roy pointed up the beach. “Somebody’s gonna have to go see what
it really is. We‘re here, so I guess that means us.” He pulled the handi-talkie
out of his pocket.
“HT 51 to Engine 51.”
“Engine 51.” It was Captain
Stanley.
“Cap, we’ve found something,
but we’re not sure what it is. We’re going to investigate.” Roy paused, then
added, “We may not have a crashed airplane. Over.”
“What?” Surprise was evident
in the Captain’s voice. “You want to explain that, Roy? Is this the crash site
or not?”
“We don’t know yet, Cap.
There’s something down here, but we haven’t quite figured out what’s
going on ourselves.”
“What? Where exactly are you?
I’m coming down. Stay put. Engine 51 out.”
“About 30 feet to the north
of where we came down the cliff.” Roy was secretly relieved that Captain
Stanley was coming down to take charge. He wasn’t sure what he would do if
that, that … thing turned out to actually be something from… wherever.
The rattle of stones from the
cliff a few moments later announced the arrival of the fire captain. The two
paramedics had chosen to retreat to the base of the cliff to meet him rather
than stand around within sight of the as yet unidentified craft - just in case.
All of Chester Kelly’s favorite grade B science fiction films featuring alien
invaders that they’d endured and ridiculed over the years suddenly didn’t seem
quite so absurd. Their efforts at convincing themselves that they were being
ridiculous were ineffective.
Once Hank had both feet on
the ground and had released himself from the safety belt, he turned to study
his paramedics. Their uneasy demeanor indicated that something had seriously
rattled the pair. The hair on the back of his neck stood up in response.
Anything that could shake these two had to be pretty serious.
“Okay, twits, this had better
be good,” Hank said.
“It’s this way, Cap.” Roy
pointed up the beach. “This is something you gotta see, cause I don’t know how
to explain it.” Hank started feeling his gut tighten as the three walked in the
direction Roy had indicated. It didn’t take long to reach the apparent impact
path. It was obvious to Hank that an airborne object had impacted with savage
force here and plowed a groove through the rocks. So what was the problem? He
shinned his light up the trail and found the object that had so unsettled his
paramedics.
Holy shit.
Out loud, “What the heck is
that thing!?”
*******
Chip was engrossed in the
charred guts of the radio, trying to salvage something useful when a flicker of
light through the windshield of the FS1 froze him in place. Someone was on the
beach. He couldn’t afford to assume they were friendly. Turning, he took two
steps to the locker and grabbed his gun belt with his Navy issue 45
semiautomatic. Patterson tried to sit up in the bunk, suddenly alarmed, but
Morton motioned him back down.
“What is it, sir?” Patterson
looked pale and sweaty from the pain of his injuries.
“We’ve got company. I don’t
think it’s any of our people.”
“What can I do, Mr. Morton?”
“Stay put. I’m gonna take a
quick look out the top hatch and see if I can tell anything about who they
are.” He matched action to words and crept up the ladder, easing the hatch open
with as little noise as possible. He put his head up just in time to hear someone
blurt, “What the heck is that thing!?”
Chip arched his eyebrows. Say
what? Flashlight beams revealed the presence of three firemen. Firemen? Chip realized he could dimly make out their
shapes, the shadows of helmets, turnout coats… The men approaching really were
firefighters. He glanced up at the cliff and realized he could see an
oscillating red glow in the fog indicating the presence of one or more vehicles
on a road above. He groaned, but whether it was in relief or dismay even he
couldn’t have said. Relief that it wasn’t a band of armed enemy agents trying
to steal the Flying Sub. Dismay that someone must have heard them go down and
called it in. Now Nelson’s top secret invention wasn’t going to be secret much
longer. On the other hand this did solve his problem of how to contact Seaview
and get Patterson some desperately needed medical attention. He just hoped
he still had an ass when the Admiral got through chewing on him. He ducked his
head down to speak to the crewman as he holstered his pistol. “Patterson, it’s
the fire department. Looks like a rescue party.” Patterson sank back in the
bunk with a sigh of relief.
Chip threw back the hatch.
The resounding clang echoed off the cliff. The three firemen stopped short and
all three flashlights suddenly focused on him as he climbed high enough to sit
on the hatch rim. He didn’t think he’d be able to get back up if he slid off
the hull onto the beach; anyway, there were some jagged tears in FS1’s hull
that had nasty looking razor sharp edges. He’d certainly slash himself severely
if he encountered one of them on the way down.
*******
Hank and the paramedics were
still 20 or so feet from the craft when the hatch on the top suddenly flew open
with a booming clang. They froze in place with their flashlights focused on the
hatch. A disheveled looking blond man in the khaki uniform of a United States
military officer climbed up and sat on the edge of the hatch. The man looked
like he’d been rolled in a rock tumbler.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Roy
beside his captain. Suddenly he and Johnny were both in paramedic mode, their
fear having evaporated. Whatever kind of vessel this was, at least it was
crewed by men like themselves, who bled the same color of blood. That they
could deal with. The three firefighters picked their way as quickly as they
could up to the side of the craft. Captain Stanley examined the hull, noting
the gaping rips and tears in the yellow painted metal. He called to the officer
above.
“I’m Captain Hank Stanley, LA
County Fire Department, Station 51. How bad are you hurt and is there anyone
else aboard? And,” Hank paused, “what is this thing?”
“Lt. Commander Chip Morton,
Nelson Institute of Marine Research. I’m just banged up a little.” Hank could
hear John snort in disbelief beside him. The man was obviously bruised and
there were smears of what looked like blood on his face and from what they
could see, down his back. “There’s one more besides me. Patterson. He’s hurt
pretty bad - broken wrist, bruised or broken ribs, black eye. He was putting
out the fire and didn’t get strapped back in before we crashed.”
The mention of fire put the
firefighters on alert. “Is the fire completely out? Any chance of it reaching
the fuel tanks?” Hank asked, concerned that they might have to snatch and run.
“It’s out. It was just a
wiring fire. There’s no chance of a fuel fire.” Morton had such a peculiar
expression on his face as he said this that Hank felt a twinge.
“Let me be the judge of
that,” said Hank. “What type of fuel does this thing run on? And you haven‘t
told me what it is yet.” Though come to think of it, he couldn’t smell any
leaked fuel. Morton’s expression looked a bit cornered.
“Ah, that’s classified.”
Hank turned a skeptical look
on him. “The fuel or what this thing is?” He put his hands on his hips and in
his sternest command voice said, “Look, I’ve got my crew and anyone else who
comes along here to be concerned about. If I need to have them take
precautions, I want to know about it... Now.”
Morton sighed and pinched the
bridge of his nose. Being the son and grandson of firefighters, he knew that
they did indeed need to know.
Well, he told himself, with FS1 down on the beach, her
secret was blown anyway. Especially once the fog lifted. And the Admiral’s
gonna kill me.
He said to the captain, “It’s
nuclear powered flying submarine. We call her FS1. But the reactor is shut
completely down. There’s no danger of radiation exposure.” At their startled
reaction, he held up a hand. “Look, I’ve checked the meters. The reactor’s
secure. You can check with your own Geiger counter.”
“I will,” countered Stanley.
He pulled his handi-talkie out. “HT 51 to Engine 51. Do you read?”
“Engine 51,” came the reply
from Stoker.
“Add the Geiger counter to
the equipment in the Stokes, the folding stretcher and the short ladder and
send Kelly down. We have two victims. Just in case transmissions are blocked,
stand by to have dispatch relay to Rampart. What’s the ETA on the ambulance?”
“10-4 on the Geiger counter.
ETA twenty minutes on the ambulance,” came Stoker’s reply.
Stanley motioned to DeSoto
and Gage. “See if you can get up there. I’ll go help Kelly bring the gear.”
Morton spoke. “There’s a
hatch at the rear, but I haven’t been able to get it open. You may be able to
free it from the outside. It’d make it much easier to get Patterson out that
way. Can you contact Nelson Institute in Santa Barbara? They‘ll need to come do
the examination and recovery on the wreckage.” The three moved around to the
back while he was speaking. Stanley examined the rear hatch then handed a small
pry bar he always carried in his turnout coat to Gage.
“See what you can do. I’ll be
back in a minute with Kelly. If you haven’t made any headway on it, we’ll use
the ladder to get in.” Hank addressed Morton. “I’ll have dispatch put a call
through to your people. Is there anyone in particular they should speak to?”
Morton sighed. “Admiral
Harriman Nelson or Commander Lee Crane. And,” he grimaced, “Doctor Will
Jamison. Tell your dispatcher to expect to get bellowed at if they talk to the
Admiral, though.”
“The other two won’t bellow?”
Hank asked with a touch of a smile.
“Well, not at the fire
department,” said Chip, looking bit forlorn.
Captain Stanley walked away
into the fog chuckling to himself. The two paramedics turned back to the
wreckage. Gage ran his hands around the hatch edges; the frame around it was
clearly warped. Deftly he inserted the pry bar under the lip of the hatch where
the locks engaged and tried to pop them loose. Nothing budged. Roy took the
tool and tried. He didn’t get any better results. Johnny called up to Morton,
“How big are the pins in these locks?”
Morton considered. “About
four inches long and one inch in diameter. But they should be pulled out - I
undogged the hatch earlier and the wheel turned alright.” He closed his eyes
and was silent for a moment as he collected his thoughts, then continued.
“Unless one of the pins is broken off, it’s just jammed.”
The paramedics could tell
that Morton’s injuries were starting to catch up to him. He’d obviously been
running on pure adrenalin. They needed to get to him for an assessment. Johnny
and Roy put their heads together in whispered consultation and decided that Roy
would try again to open the hatch while Johnny climbed up the back. The engine
exhaust outlets and rudder fins gave ample hand and footholds for the
paramedic. It was a matter of seconds for Gage to be at Morton’s side.
“Easy,” Gage told him. “Why
don’t you let me check you out here.” He pulled out his penlight and shinned it
into Morton’s eyes. The pupils were a only a tiny bit slow to react, plus
Morton flinched slightly away from the light. A head injury, probably a mild
concussion. Gage felt gingerly of Chip’s skull and soon found the large knot on
the back of it. Blood had run down the back of Morton’s neck and covered a
large part of his shirt, but the bleeding had already stopped and the blood was
starting to dry. He needed to be treated, but didn’t appear to be critically
injured. “Why don’t we get you back inside and check on your friend?”
“Okay.” Chip moved back down
the access ladder, Gage keeping a hand on his shoulder just to make sure he was
OK. Once inside Johnny surveyed the scorched interior. These guys were lucky to
be alive. He directed Morton to one of the pilot seats up front and got him
settled. The young man lying in the bunk watched him from one eye; the other
had swelled shut. Gage went over to him.
“You must be Patterson. What’s
your first name? Lt. Commander Morton said you weren’t strapped in at impact,
so tell me where you’re hurt.” Gage had pulled out his penlight to see by.
Shinning it in the man’s one open eye revealed no sign of a head injury.
“Steve, but most everybody
calls me Pat. I landed on my face and ribs, mostly, and my wrist. That hurts
the worst.” Gage gently probed the indicated areas and got gasps and flinches
as he encountered tender spots. He stood back.
“Well, Pat, you’ve definitely
broken the wrist and I think you may have fractured your right cheekbone. The
ribs don’t appear obviously broken, but you could have fractures. You didn’t
hit any part of your head other than your cheek? Pass out?”
“No. Just had the wind
knocked out of me.“
“In that case, I think you’ll
be okay right where you are until some more help gets here.” As Gage turned
away to check again on Morton.
“How’s Mr. Morton? When we
crashed the fire extinguisher hit him in the back of the head. He’s not acting
like himself. And the safety harness jerked him pretty hard.” The man’s voice
indicated worry.
“I’m looking after him,”
Johnny reassured the young man. “He’s got a mild concussion. We’ll work on
getting both of you to the hospital as soon as the rest of our crew gets here
with the equipment.”
A popping noise from the rear
of the cabin announced that Roy had succeeded in prying open the rear hatch.
The senior paramedic stepped in, followed by Captain Stanley and Chet Kelly
carrying the Stokes basket with their equipment. Chet’s eyes were huge as he
took in the futuristic craft, but he performed his duties as efficiently as
ever. Johnny had to give his partner a grin. A speechless Kelly was something
they seldom saw and he’d be willing to bet the condition wouldn’t last long.
The men quickly unloaded the
equipment and distributed it around the cabin where needed. Hank had the Geiger
counter in his pocket. At Johnny’s questioning look, Roy mouthed the words ‘no
radiation’. With a look of relief, Johnny turned to set up the biophone and
call the hospital. “Rampart, Squad 51. How do you read?”
Nothing. He repeated the
call, but again got no response. He looked at his captain. “We’ll have to relay
through dispatch.” Hank only nodded and pulled out his handi-talkie. He’d been
expecting communication problems. Areas like this, where they were down below a
cliff or hill, were frequently dead zones for the biophone. Once the relay had
been established, the paramedics got ready to proceed.
Chip promptly balked.
“I can’t go,” he stated, most
emphatically. “I’ve got to stay with the boat. Besides, Pat needs treatment a
lot more than I do.” The two paramedics turned exasperated expressions to their
captain. By state law, they couldn’t treat someone who refused to cooperate.
Patterson cleared his throat
to attract their attention. “Mr. Morton,
sir.” Pat spoke softly. “Maybe you’d better go with them too. The Admiral’s
gonna be real pissed if you don’t. You know how he’s always fussing at you and
the Skipper for ducking out on Doc. And Doc’s really gonna be on your case if
you don’t get yourself some help. You know how he’ll nag. Even the Skipper. Not
to mention Miss Angie. Remember what happened the last time she got mad at you
for skippin’ out of sickbay without Doc’s approval?”
This last elicited a
reaction. Chip twisted his face into a scowl and glared at Pat. “I can’t leave
the FS1 here unguarded, Pat. You know we can’t take a chance on letting this
technology fall into the wrong hands. You can’t do it, so it has to be me.”
Hank harrumphed, causing both
men to look at him questioningly.
“There’s already a deputy
sheriff on the way here, along with the CHP. Dispatch called for them as soon
as they realized your Nelson Institute was involved. Me and the engine crew
won’t leave until the scene is secured.”
Chip shook his head. “I don’t
think that’s gonna be adequate, Captain. What we really need is some of NIMR’s
security people or a platoon of Marines. If anyone does show up trying to steal
this ship, they’re likely to be armed to the teeth and prepared to kill anyone
that gets in their way. You and your people just aren’t trained for that sort
of confrontation.”
Hank was left momentarily
speechless. “Well, ” he said when he’d gathered his equilibrium back, “then we
ought to get you and Patterson out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Pat, yes,” said Chip, “but
not me. You have no conception of the damage the technology here could do in
the wrong hands. I’m not leaving until somebody who can properly defend and
guard this ship arrives.” At this point he folded his arms and put on his most
determined look. Hank realized that he’d just encountered the immovable object
and had the wisdom to acknowledge defeat.
“Gage,” said the captain,
“take Patterson out now. I’ll call dispatch to send a second ambulance and to
get back with the Nelson Institute to see what kind of security arrangements
they want here.” He held up his hand to forestall the inevitable protests on
the part of his paramedics and gave them his ‘do it now’ look. They knew him
well enough to know that at this point he’d tolerate no more quibbling on the
matter. They simply went to work preparing Pat to be transported.
In a matter of moments they
were ready. Johnny and Kelly lifted the Stokes basket with Pat and the
equipment and carried him out of the flying sub. Hank led the way, flashlight
in hand, so they could see where they
were going. As they quickly vanished into the inky fog, Roy turned back to
Morton with a shrug. “Just us, now.”
Morton shook his head and
told him, “You should have gone too.”
******
Gage was a worried man as
they attached the lines to the Stokes basket to lift Patterson up to where the
engine waited. He hated leaving his partner Roy behind, where he couldn’t even
see what was going on. He wished they could get a transport chopper full of
Marines here so the whole crew could leave, for Morton’s statements had
seriously unnerved the junior paramedic. Roy had been chosen to stay because he
had combat experience from Vietnam. None of the others did. Unfortunately the
fog had stubbornly settled in and it was now full dark as well. No flying in
this weather.
Not even for flying
submarines. The thought flickered
through Gage’s mind unbidden and brought a wry smile to his face. He had to
shake his head. In some ways that was even more unbelievable than a flying
saucer. But he’d heard rumors from some of his friends in the Santa Barbara
fire department. Strange things were supposed to happen at the Nelson Institute
of Marine Research. Strange things indeed, even for southern California, where
weird was a way of life.
Lines attached, Gage lifted
the handi-talkie Cap had given him and spoke. “HT 51 to Engine 51.”
“Engine 51.”
“We’re ready with the Stokes.
Bring us up.”
“10-4 HT 51. Out.”
The lines tightened and the
men began rising up the face of the cliff. Gage stayed as close as he could to
the basket, trying to protect Morton from the occasional dislodged stone. It
only took a few moments to reach the top; halfway up he heard the wail of a
siren announcing the arrival of the ambulance. He breathed a silent sigh of
relief.
Once up, it was a matter of
seconds to lift Pat out of the Stokes and settle him on the gurney, then load
him into the ambulance. He lifted the handi-talkie again. “Squad 51 to HT 51.”
“HT 51,” Roy answered.
“Just getting ready to
transport the first victim from the site.”
“10-4 Squad 51. Transport and
we’ll wait for another ambulance.”
“Squad 51, out.” Gage snapped
the antenna down on the handi-talkie and shoved it in his pocket. He swung up
into the back of the ambulance. Kelly closed the doors, then thumped on them
twice to let the driver know they were ready to transport. Hank was already
calling for a second ambulance and to get clarification on the security
arrangements. The ambulance pulled out and was quickly swallowed by the fog.
As Kelly started back to the
engine another set of lights appeared and resolved into the shape of a county
sheriff’s cruiser. It coasted to a stop and the lanky form of Officer Vince
Howard emerged. “Hey, Kelly,” greeted the cop, “Dispatch sent me out here to
guard a crash of some sort, but they weren’t very specific on the details. Just
told me to go loaded for bear. Can you fill me in on what’s going on?” He was
pulling out his bulletproof vest and shotgun as he spoke.
“Hi, Vince.” Kelly grinned.
If Vince didn’t know why he was here, he was in for a shock. Kelly’s stroked
his mustache as he considered whether or not to get in a bit of teasing.
Reluctantly, he decided now probably wasn’t the time or place, but once they
got back to the station, he intended for his alter ego The Phantom to have fun
with the paramedics. He’d be more than willing to bet they’d been as stunned by
what they’d found on the beach as he had been - and he’d had Cap there to warn
him before he saw it. He knew that Gage was really antsy on the subject of
aliens and flying saucers and he figured this was as close as any of them were
ever likely to come to one.
Vince eyed him with
trepidation, knowing Kelly’s penchant for pranks. He could almost see the train
of thought going through Kelly’s head. The little shake at the end, though,
told him that the man had decided now wasn’t a good time for nonsense. The cop
breathed a silent prayer of thanks. This situation was strange enough already
without 51’s high-jinks. “Well?”
“Oh, right.” Kelly shook
himself back to the present. “Man, this one’s definitely strange, like right
out of the twilight zone. You ain’t gonna believe it. Roy’s are down on the
beach with, get this, man, a flying submarine.”
They’d been walking to where
the ropes hung down the cliff. Vince stopped in his tracks and glared at Kelly.
Chet threw up his hands in mock surrender. “No kiddin, Vince. Just ask Stoker.”
He pointed to the engineer, who had just come around the front of the engine to
assist them down the cliff.
“Ask me what?” Stoker had a
safety belt in his hands for Vince.
“This clown is trying to tell
me there’s a flying submarine down on the beach.” His mouth fell open when
Stoker merely nodded.
“See, I told ya,” said Kelly.
“It’s from that Nelson Marine Institute or whatever in Santa Barbara.”
Which actually went a long
way towards explaining things. Vince had a first cousin who worked for NIMR as
an electronics technician aboard their research sub, the Seaview. Bo Howard had never actually revealed any details of the
things that happened, but he’d left no doubt that for a boat that was supposed
to be a research vessel, Seaview led a most extraordinary existence.
He’d once commented to Vince that he’d never understood how the phrase ‘may you
live in interesting times’ could be a curse until he went to work for NIMR. Seaview,
he’d said, was damned interesting at times, especially when the senior officers
were directly involved in something. Vince could feel a lump beginning to
congeal in the pit of his stomach. As Stoker helped him fasten his safety belt
on and hook up the lines, he looked over at Kelly and asked, “How many people
were there aboard this thing?” He hoped Bo wasn’t involved.
“Just two, an enlisted guy
that‘s already been transported and an officer. He’s still down on the beach
with Roy.”
Only one of Seaview’s
crew on the scene. Well, maybe the troubles would be small.
So why did he feel like he
was about to drop into a pit of snakes?
“Who are they?”
“The enlisted man is named
Patterson, I think. The officer was some guy named Morton.”
That would make him …Oh,
shit. The XO. A senior officer. A very
senior officer. One of the Seaview’s main trouble magnets. I’m screwed.
********
Roy slipped the handi-talkie
back into his turnout pocket when Gage signed off. There was little for Roy and
Chip to do now but settle back and wait.
The rear hatch creaked and
swung in.
“That was quick ….” Chip’s
statement trailed off, causing Roy to jerk around in alarm. He found himself
staring into the wrong end of an assault rifle. Two heavily armed men in black
fatigues stood in the hatchway. Judging from Chip’s expression, Roy didn’t
think they were the good guys. He carefully pulled his hands from his pockets
and raised his hands, not wanting to give them the slightest excuse to start
shooting. What no one else realized was that he had thumbed on the handi-talkie
and locked down the switch to broadcast only. He hoped it didn’t take the
engine crew long to figure out that they had most unwelcome company. Chip was
quickly and roughly disarmed, then bound to the ladder. He collected more
bruises to add to his already colorful collection, plus a split lip.
The two men scowled as they
surveyed the blackened interior of the Flying Sub. The one who appeared to be
the leader inspected Roy with misgiving. The presence of a fireman here meant
that the local authorities already knew the flying submarine was here. And
firemen didn’t travel alone. There had to be more around here somewhere. An
engine with a full crew at the very least, if not a rescue squad as well. Four
at the least and maybe as many as six. Plus the possibility of cops. That in turn
meant that Nelson and his Seaview probably knew and were already on the
way. His scowl deepened. Their plan was rapidly coming unraveled. He pointed
his assault rifle at Roy.
“Where’s the rest of your crew, fireman?”
“On the way to the hospital
with his co-pilot,” answered Roy. At the man’s look of disbelief he added, “I’m
a paramedic. My partner went in with him. I’m waiting for another ambulance for
him,” indicating Chip, “then I’ll follow it in.” The man’s response was to
strike Roy in the stomach with the rifle butt, driving the air from his lungs
and dropping him to his knees.
“Don’t give me that, fireman.
Your kind always travels in packs. Where’s the engine crew?”
“Not here yet,” wheezed Roy,
forehead down on the deck. He’d be damned if he’d tell this bastard where to
find his shift mates. He turned his head slightly and caught Chip’s eye; a
silent message passed between the two, understanding of the stakes, a pact
between warriors. Though it might cost them their lives they had to delay, to
protect both the engine crew and the Flying Sub.
********
Hank Stanley listened to the
radio with first puzzlement, then growing horror as he realized what was
happening down below in the Flying Sub. He jumped from the cab of the engine
and rushed to the edge of the cliff where Stoker and Lopez had just finished
getting Vince and Kelly hooked up to be lowered down. He grabbed both by the
arms. “Stop,” he hissed. They froze in place, turning startled eyes on him. He
squatted down to speak to Vince.
“Vince, there’s trouble down
there,” Hank informed him in a low voice. “Two men, armed. They’ve got DeSoto
and Morton.”
Vince dropped his head. He
knew it. Seaview’s curse. He took a deep breath and looked up at
Stanley. “I’ll leave Kelly here and go down alone.” At Hank’s shocked look, he
added, “Call for backup, but this won’t wait until they get here. If we do,
DeSoto is a dead man and Morton as well, or worse a prisoner. It has to be
done, Hank, even if it’s not standard procedure.” Vince’s grim expression
stunned the rest of the crew into silence. “And turn the lights out on all the
vehicles. Then you and your men hide. I mean it, Hank. There could easily be
more than two, probably are, in fact.”
Hank’s face settled into a
mirror image of Vince’s. “I agree on leaving Kelly here, but I’m going with
you.” As Vince started to protest, he added, “You don’t know where the Flying
Sub is or the interior layout. In the dark you could stumble around and never
find it. Besides, Roy is one of mine. I‘m the one who left him down there.”
The appearance of two sets of
headlights with rotating reds on top saved Vince from having to reply. The
lights resolved themselves into the shapes of two CHP cruisers. Hank quickly
stepped to the driver’s door of the lead cruiser. The officer was Barry
Baricza, better known simply as Bear. As he rolled down the window and took in
Hank’s dark expression, he stiffened in alarm.
Hank leaned in the window and
asked, “How much do you know about what we’ve got here?”
Puzzled, Barry replied,
“Dispatch just told us to come help the sheriff’s department guard a crash
site.” By now the second CHP officer, Jeb Turner had gotten out of his car and
joined them. He nodded in agreement.
Hank’s mouth tightened into a
thin line. “There’s a lot more to it than that. The craft that’s crashed
belongs to the Nelson Institute of Marine Research in Santa Barbara. It‘s NOT
an airplane. It‘s some kind of experimental flying submarine.” The two men’s
expressions said more clearly than words their understanding - and dismay. Hank
grimly nodded and continued. “There’s two armed men down there now. Hijackers,
pirates, I don’t know. They have one of the Institute’s officers, Lt. Commander
Morton, and one of my paramedics, Roy DeSoto, as prisoners. Roy managed to
leave his handi-talkie on and they apparently haven’t realized it yet. The
bastards are beating the hell out of Roy and Morton. Vince and I are getting
ready to go down.”
“You, Hank?” queried Bear.
Hank grimly smiled. “None of
you know where the Flying Sub is on the beach. I can take you straight there.
Plus I‘ve been inside it.”
“In the fog, in the dark?”
Jeb looked skeptical.
Hank shrugged. “We do it all
the time in smoke filled burning buildings.”
The CHP officers looked at
each other. Bear notified dispatch as Jeb grabbed their bulletproof vests and
shotguns. They followed Hank over to where Vince was waiting to rappel down. In
a matter of minutes the three had secured themselves to the lines and made
ready to descend. The four of them dropped off the edge and quickly vanished
from sight down the face of the cliff.
The remaining members of the
engine crew hastily turned off all of the lights on their two rigs and the
three police cars. Additionally, Stoker added the precaution of turning all the
radios volumes down after they’d informed LA dispatch of the current
developments. Then the three firefighters scrambled up the hillside above the
road and themselves vanished into the brush. They’d taken the last handi-talkie
- and all of the fire axes.
*******
Gage sat stunned in the back
of the ambulance listening on the handi-talkie to the events that were
unfolding. His stricken expression was matched by the look on Pat’s face. His
first impulse had been to tell the ambulance crew to turn around and go back,
but training and duty had overruled emotion - for now. There wasn’t a damn
thing he or Pat could do for Roy or Chip even if they did go back. It was
killing them both. All they could do was get to Rampart and wait.
Oh God, thought Johnny, what am I gonna tell Joanne? That
I went off and left Roy in a situation like that. I should have been the one to
stay, not Roy. He’s got a family and I don’t. Gage put his face in his
hands closed his eyes in despair.
Pat lay on the gurney,
staring at the ceiling of the ambulance. His inner turmoil matched the
paramedic’s. He wasn’t as close to Mr. Morton as Gage obviously was to his
partner, but he liked Morton. Plus Sharkey had told him before they left to
look out for the man.
A fine job I’ve done there, he told himself with some bitterness. I get
myself banged up and leave Mr. Morton for the wolves. Man, the chief is gonna
have my ass for breakfast and feed the rest to the sharks. If the Admiral
leaves anything at all of me, that is. And the skipper… Pat cringed at the
thought of his captain’s reaction. Those two were like the two paramedics,
partners and friends, a team. Pat couldn’t imagine what the Seaview would be
like without Morton there to serve as a buffer between the volatile Nelson and
the crew and to referee between the Admiral and Captain. Things could get grim
indeed. And it’s my fault. I should have insisted on staying too. Pat
turned his face to side and like Gage, closed his eyes in despair. He murmured
a silent prayer for the safety of his superior officer and the other fireman
while the ambulance wailed through the dark night.
*******
The team leader was getting
very frustrated. In spite of a savage beating, the red-haired paramedic
maintained that there had only been two of them and that his partner had taken
the other man from the Flying Sub to the hospital. When he’d finally thought to
scan the cliff for any signs of the firefighters’ trucks he found nothing. No
lights, no sounds from the road above. The Seaview’s executive officer,
Morton, backed the paramedic’s story. They couldn’t beat on him as much as they
might have liked, for the blood money they stood to collect specified that he
had to be in condition to talk. Well, he supposed it was actually possible that
the fireman was telling the truth.
Fat lot of good it does me, Monty thought to himself. FS1 was thoroughly smashed
on her underside, with an obvious loss of watertight integrity. The original
plan had counted on her going down intact in the water, so that they could
recover her with a minimum of effort and be gone before Nelson even knew she
was missing. No one had dreamed that Morton was a good enough pilot to make it
to shore. That’s why they’d picked a flight where he was piloting and neither
Nelson nor Crane was along. Their information was that Morton didn’t put in
near the amount of flight time that the other two officers did. As a result
they’d assumed that his skills wouldn’t be a match for the emergency they had
arranged. Clearly an erroneous assumption. Not only had Morton made it to the
beach, someone must have heard or seen the crash and called it in. So the local
fire department and police knew. It was a given that by now Nelson had been
notified and that a race was on the recover the Flying Sub. There wouldn’t be
enough time to try and drag the FS1 off the beach, let alone make sufficient
repairs to get her to float.
Shit. Well, at least
they’d get the money for Morton. He
sighed and stalked out the rear hatch to radio the aging diesel sub that was
waiting offshore that the plan to swipe the Flying Sub was a bust. They‘d be
returning with just the one prisoner. His employers were not gonna be happy.
He unexpectedly found himself
staring cross-eyed down the barrel of a shotgun resting on the tip of his nose,
with a very determined looking deputy sheriff on the other end of the gun. He
briefly thought of trying to grab the gun, but a shadow moving out of the
corner of his eye resolved into another cop, while a rattle of stones on the
other side suggested the presence of at least one more. Not good odds if he
wanted to go on living. He carefully raised his hands.
Shit. He’d been saying that a lot lately.
Vince motioned the man away
from the Flying Sub with a slight flick of his shotgun. They stepped off into
the fog far enough not be seen, where Bear joined them and frisked the suspect.
After collecting the man’s guns and radio they cuffed him. Vince leaned right
into his face and asked with a growl, “How many of your buddies are on this
beach?”
Monty thought of trying to
bluff his way out, claiming a horde of followers, but there was something so
bleak and forbidding in this cop’s expression that he decided it might be a
very bad idea. Somehow, he had a feeling that even if he did have dozens of men
that it would make this man no difference. He’d just be sure to take Monty down
with him.
“Only one,” he whispered.
“Inside. The rest are on a sub offshore.” Vince simply nodded and turned away,
vanishing back into the fog. Monty shivered. Man, that was one scary cop.
Jeb and Hank waited beside
FS1 for Vince to reappear. When he did, he held up one finger and pointed at
FS1. The two nodded. Jeb indicated by signs that he’d go in the top hatch.
Vince nodded and edged around to the back as Hank gave Jeb a leg up. Jeb eased
into position on top. They could both see Hank, but not each other. Hank stood
with both arms up; when he dropped his hands both officers would move in from
two different directions. Jeb and Vince both nodded to Hank once they’d gotten
into position.
Hank dropped his hands. Both
cops lunged inside FS1 with guns drawn, both shouted “Freeze” at the lone
remaining perpetrator. Gunshots bellowed in the confines of the Flying Sub.
Two, three. The boom of a .45 caliber pistol answered by the bark of .38’s.
Shouts. Hank stood frozen, not daring to breathe, his heart in his throat.
Vince reappeared out the rear
hatch. “The suspect’s dead. Roy’s in a bad way, but the bastard shot Morton in
the back. We need to get them out of here. The other one told me there’s a sub
offshore waiting for them. They may send in reinforcements - they can’t help
but have heard the shots.” Indeed, the two men could hear clangs and shouts
from the fog to seaward.
A light blossomed in the fog.
“Damn,” said Vince, “searchlight.”
But the light wasn’t pointing
at them. It was pointing south, away from where FS1 lay on the beach. The two
men shared a puzzled look - until they heard the roar of a shell exploding near
the submarine. The light abruptly went out and the shouting from the sub became
frantic. The muffled roar of diesel engines coming to life filtered through the
fog, but above it they could hear the whooping alarms of another vessel coming
in from the south. Another shell exploded in the darkness, bracketing the sub.
A flare burst overhead, illuminating the foggy night, revealing not only the
shape of the old WWII fleet submarine, but the silhouette of a Navy destroyer
bearing down on her. The old sub’s deck gun boomed defiance at the destroyer.
The reply was a hail of deadly fire from the oncoming warship.
Abruptly the night was lit by
a fireball that for a few seconds seared away the fog. Pieces of submarine
rained down on the ocean and beach. Hank and Vince lunged for cover under FS1’s
stern just as Bear and the first suspect appeared out of the fog; they dived
for shelter at the front. The noise had brought Jeb to the rear hatch to
investigate; he recoiled back inside with a yelp. It took several seconds for
the lethal rain of steel to end.
When the night had settled
back into an uneasy semi-silence, Hank crawled out from beneath the Flying Sub
and made his way inside. The body of the second hijacker lay just inside the
hatch, covered by a blanket from the bunk. Jeb had cut Morton loose from the
ladder and laid him on his left side on the deck. He was holding a folded sheet
from the bunk over the wound in the right side of Chip’s upper back. It looked
like it was in a position to have penetrated a lung. Chip had bloody froth on
his lips, but Hank couldn’t tell if the blood was from his lung or from the split
in his lower lip. He was conscious, but looked to be getting somewhat shocky.
Hank moved on to Roy. He was curled in a fetal position near the pilot’s seat.
His face was so swollen and bloody that Hank could only tell it was him by his
uniform. Hank sank to his knees beside his paramedic, aghast. He gently ran his
hands over Roy trying to assess the damage. It looked like the paramedic might
be bleeding internally. Hank looked around for something to cover Roy with and
spied his turnout coat up against a wall. He retrieved it and found the
handi-talkie still in the pocket, still transmitting. He lifted it up and
spoke.
“HT 51 to Engine 51.”
“Engine 51.” Stoker’s voice
was a lifeline in the night. “Cap, are you okay? What was that explosion?” It
was most unlike Stoker to break radio discipline, but it had been a hell of a
night.
“I’m okay. The US Navy showed
up and blew the hijacker’s sub out of the water. CHP has one of the two on
shore in custody, the other one’s code F. Morton’s been shot and Roy’s in bad
shape, but they’re both still alive.”
“What do you want us to do
now, Cap?” The voice asking was Kelly’s.
Hank honestly didn’t know. He
lowered his chin on his chest and reflected for a moment. “Stoker,” he asked,
“do you know the ETA on the ambulance?”
“LA cancelled it when the
shooting started, Cap.”
Damn. Well, he’d halfway expected that. The alternative was
to load Roy and Morton up on the back of the engine and transport that way.
They’d done it the time Gage had been bitten by the rattlesnake and again when
the ambulance carrying a heart case had been involved in a traffic accident.
“Okay, Chet, bring the Stokes back down. We’ve still got the folding stretcher.
We can transport on the engine. HT 51 out.” He snapped the antenna down and
stared at the radio for a moment before putting it into his turnout pocket.
A commotion outside caught
Hank’s attention. The inky fog had been replaced by a surreal glow. What the
hell… He got to his feet and walked to the rear hatch to peer out. The
light source proved to be the searchlights of the destroyer. He could also see
another bright glow farther offshore indicating the presence of another vessel,
though he couldn‘t tell what sort of ship it was. The destroyer had managed to
come to a halt not far offshore, since the sea bottom here sloped down fairly
rapidly. Hank could see that she was putting out boats. Some appeared to be
heading out to search for survivors or bodies from the sub, but one was
definitely making for the shore. Vince was walking down to the water’s edge to
meet it. Bear stood not far from Hank holding the one surviving hijacker firmly
by one elbow to keep him from bolting away.
The boat plowed through the
breakers and grounded on the beach. Armed seamen leaped out and took up
defensive positions around the boat. A short, balding officer stepped out and
walked up to meet the deputy sheriff. Several other men, including another
officer, remained in the boat, apparently waiting for further orders. Since
Hank had told Kelly to bring the Stokes back to him, he felt he’d best warn the
sailors that he had a man coming in and that the rest of his engine crew was on
the road above. He’d hate to see anybody else get shot tonight. Hank stepped
out of the back of the Flying Sub and headed towards the water‘s edge.
The naval officer saw him
coming and walked up to meet him. “Captain Stanley,” said the man as soon as
he’d gotten within speaking distance, “I’m Lieutenant Tobias Morgan of the USS Kinkaid.
We’ve been directed by the Navy to take charge of this situation and render all
possible assistance to the local authorities.”
“Well, you and your people
should be aware that I’ve got three firefighters here besides me that are not
on the immediate scene. Two are with the engine up on the road, while the other
is on his way down here with some of our equipment. Also there are two
seriously injured men in need of immediate medical assistance.”
Morgan nodded. “So Officer
Howard informed us. I’ve brought the ship’s doctor with me.” He indicated back
at the boat. “I’ll inform the Master at Arms and his people about your other
man coming in.”
“A doctor? ” Hank’s relief
was palpable. The lieutenant turned back to the boat and issued a rapid string
of orders. The sailors fanned out around the crash site, becoming indistinct
shadows in the radiant mist. The second officer in the boat disembarked, along
with another man carrying what Hank recognized as a medical bag. The two
hurried up the beach. The officer in the lead stuck out his hand to the captain.
“I’m Doctor Hauer. I understand you’ve got some casualties.”
“Yes,” said Hank, “one of my
paramedics has been severely beaten. I’m concerned he may be bleeding
internally. Lt. Commander Morton was shot in the back and could have a
punctured lung. They‘re both still inside the wreckage.” He indicated the FS1
with a wave of his hand. “We were reluctant to move them until we had too.”
“Show me.” The doctor was all
business. Hank breathed a sigh of relief and offered a silent prayer of thanks
as he led the way back to the Flying Sub.
********
Gage hovered by the base
station in Rampart’s Emergency Room with the head ER nurse Dixie McCall and Dr.
Joe Early, listening to the unfolding events. Dr. Kelly Brackett had finally
convinced him to hold off calling Joanne and had persuaded Patterson to let
himself be placed in one of the exam rooms for treatment. John paced nervously,
tossing the handi-talkie from one hand to the other, running whichever hand was
empty through his hair. He gasped with
Dix when Hank reported that the Navy had blown a sub out of the water, exulted
at the report of capture of one the villains and the demise of the other. But
when the captain reported on the conditions of Chip and Roy, he turned blindly
to the wall, shaking. When he realized that the ambulance had been cancelled he
suddenly slammed his fist into that same wall. Dr. Early and Dixie rushed to
his side, grabbing him before he could do himself any more damage. The two
quickly escorted him into the closest empty exam room.
Joe Early took Johnny’s hand
and carefully scrutinized the damage. The fingers were already discoloring and
starting to swell. “Well, Johnny,” said the white-haired physician, “I think
it’s safe to say even without an X-ray that you’ve broken some bones in your
hand.”
Gage hung his head. “Sorry,
Doc. But I just feel so guilty leaving Roy. I should have been the one to
stay.”
“Johnny, you had no way of
knowing what would happen. The fellow you brought in needed treatment. You and
Roy were both just doing your jobs.”
“But it’s gonna be at least
an hour before they can get here…”
“Didn’t Hank say there was a
Navy destroyer there?”
“Well, yeah. But…”
“Johnny, ships like that have
a doctor on board as part of the crew.” Gage’s head shot up in surprise. “He’ll
very likely be treated a lot more quickly than you think.”
Hope spread across the
paramedic’s face. “Honest, Doc?”
Early clapped a hand on
Johnny’s shoulder. “Honest. Now, let‘s get that hand of yours taken care of.
Roy’s going to give you a hard time about it, don’t you know.” Gage gave him a
sad smile. He knew that Roy would, too.
*******
Chip Morton lay on the deck
of the Flying Sub, his pain distancing him from the events around him. He
watched as people came and went with a detached disinterest. The part of his
mind that was still rational told him that it was shock. An all too familiar
place for him. He recognized Stanley when he came in. One of the black cops,
though. That one puzzled him. He seemed so familiar somehow. Chip could almost
picture him in his mind as part of the Seaview’s crew. But that couldn’t
be right. A detached part of his mind worried over the discrepancy like a dog
over a bone.
Funny, he thought to himself, the things you obsess over
at times like this.
When the doctor came in, the
lanky figure and the uniform fooled him for a moment into thinking it was
Jamison. But the face that eventually swam into his narrow field of focus was
unfamiliar. He felt vaguely disappointed that his shipmates hadn’t come to the
rescue yet. Normally he hated being stuck in sickbay, but right now he’d give
nearly anything to have Jamie and Frank there, hovering over him, making the
pain go away. He’d even put up with Lee fussing about him getting himself shot.
He’d done his best to dodge, but it was really hard to do while tied to the
access ladder.
More people around him. He
recognized the stocky little dark-haired fireman. They lifted him and placed
him on his side in a metal basket. Pain coursed through him like liquid fire.
He couldn’t help the groan that escaped. ‘Sorry,’ the fireman murmured to him.
Two sailors he didn’t recognize picked the basket up and carried him out.
Down to the sea. A part of
his mind recognized that they were taking him not to an ambulance, but a boat.
A ship? Not Seaview, for none of her crew was here. But he’d take a
ship, any ship, over a landbound hospital any day. He closed his eyes and
breathed in the salt air with a feeling of relief, even though the motion made
his body burn with agony. He was lifted and placed into the boat. There was dim
awareness of Roy DeSoto being lifted in beside him a moment later. Others were
boarding, but he began to drift away. As the boat bounced roughly in the
breakers, the last of his conscious awareness fled.
*******
Captain Stanley sat in the
boat beside his paramedic trying to get the Navy issue life jacket properly
adjusted for his lanky frame. It was just nerves, he knew as he watched as the
doctor and his corpsman tended the two injured men. He’d sent Kelly back to the
engine with his helmet and turnout coat since he was going with Roy aboard the
ship. Dispatch had directed the remaining crew members to return the trucks to
the station, though they’d been placed out of service until another crew could
be called in to replace the A shift. He rather expected that the Feds would be
waiting to interview them as well. He’d very likely get his turn in the
morning, if not sooner. He sighed as he contemplated the multitude of problems
this run had caused him. He just prayed that Roy would recover. On that
subject, Lieutenant Morgan had told him that he could call Roy’s wife on the
ship to shore once aboard the Kincaid, something he dreaded since she
wasn’t going to be able to get to the ship to see him.
The trip to the destroyer
didn’t take long, but at the same time it felt like an eternity to Hank. The
two injured men were quickly taken aboard and rushed to surgery while Hank was
escorted to the Captain’s quarters. There he found a Naval Intelligence officer
waiting for him, along with the Kincaid’s captain. Things, he soon
discovered, were in a state of uproar over the attempted theft of the Flying
Sub. It was almost certainly sabotage that had brought her down and both the NIMR
and the federal government were scrambling to find out who and how. He had to
almost laugh at some of the questions they had for him. He was just a simple
county fireman in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place at the
right time. He couldn’t decide which.
It was an exhausted Hank
Stanley who stood on the fantail of the Kincaid the next morning and
sipped a cup of coffee while he watched the sun rise over the California coast.
Morton had proved to be a very lucky man. He’d turned just as the bullet struck
him, so instead of penetrating a lung, it had deflected on a rib and wound up
just under the skin on his right side. Painful, but not life threatening. He’d
been transferred to the Seaview as soon as she’d arrived on the scene.
Roy had not been quite so fortunate; he’d had some internal bleeding as feared
and had been on the operating table for several hours. Still, it could have
been far worse. He’d stabilized enough in the hours since surgery that once the
fog burned off the Navy was going to airlift him by helicopter to Rampart.
He became aware of the
presence of two men beside him. He turned to find two officers whom he didn’t
recognize. One was a short, stocky red-haired man with a collar full of stars
and piercing blue eyes. The other was tall, slim and dark-haired, with hazel
eyes that seemed to mirror all the colors of the sea. It took a moment for his
tired mind to piece together the realization that this must be Admiral Harriman
Nelson and the Seaview’s captain, Lee Crane.
Nelson was the first to
speak. “Captain Stanley, I’m Harriman Nelson, Chip Morton’s employer. This is
Captain Lee Crane, Seaview’s captain. I want to thank you for your efforts on
Mr. Morton’s behalf. I’m very grateful.”
“And I as well,” said Crane.
“Chip’s a good friend as well as a fine officer and we’re relieved to have him
back.”
Hank made a small motion of
dismissal. “My crew and I were just doing our jobs, Admiral, Captain.”
Nelson smiled at him. “Perhaps
that is so, Captain. But I must say then that you and your people do that job
exceedingly well. If there’s ever anything that I or the Institute can do for
you, please don’t hesitate to ask.” The blue eyes bored into Hank’s brown ones
and he realized that the man was genuinely sincere in his offer. It wasn’t just
an empty gesture. Hank looked at the other man and saw the same earnestness.
Somehow it made the whole ordeal seem worth it.
*******
Epilogue
Chip opened his eyes and
found himself looking at an exceeding familiar scene - the ceiling of Seaview’s
sickbay. A small smile appeared on his face. He’d never let on to Jamie, but
this was one time he was very relieved to wake up in this particular place.
Blurred motion at the corner of his eye resolved into the lanky form of Doctor
Jamison coming over to check on him. Chip wiped the smile from his face and put
on his usual scowl that he wore when he was in sickbay. “Doc,” he croaked,
“when you gonna let me out of here?”
Jamison stopped dead in his
tracks - and burst out laughing. “You’ll live,” was all he said.
END