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