“Mm-hmm,” Joy says. “If you marry someone who really, really loves you.”
“Like Daddy?” Catherine asks.
“Yes. Like Daddy . . .”
IN THE CLAUSTROPHOBIC space of his heavy gear and face mask, Captain Campbell held on to that memory. He was a husband, a father. He did not want to die, not like this. Not here in this store, without the chance to see his family again. Without the chance to walk his daughter down the aisle. And what about being a grandfather? Was that too much to ask for?
He pushed on through the heavy smoke, his knees grinding into the floor. He imagined Joy at home on her knees. He'd never been much of a praying man himself, but he didn't discount the value of a wife who talked to God.
“You're not losing me yet,” he whispered.“Not if I can help it.”
He couldn't help it, though. Barely able to breathe, he felt disoriented by the blackness.
What was that?
His hand brushed against something slightly larger than the pipe. It was charged with waterâ
the hose!
He was back where he'd started, in the middle of the store, but a long trek stretched before him in the opposite direction.
Air. He needed fresh air. He was gulping at nothing, now that the canister on his back had run dry. He knew that to take off his mask would put him at risk of carbon monoxide poisoning. On the other hand, he had only a few breaths left.
How long could he crawl without oxygen?
Forty seconds, sixty? Maybe ninety, if he could force down panic and keep his respiratory system regulated?
He thought again of his wife and his daughter.
One knee forward.
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand.
Another knee.
Three-one-thousand, four.
Five, six, seven . . .
Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . .
His eyes were losing focus. His head was swimming. Blood pounded in his ears.
Forty-eight, forty-nine . . .
Movements slowing. Feeling sluggish.
Sixty-one . . .
He peeled off the mask, gasping, finding only toxic fumes that dried out his tongue and seared his throat.
Sixty-two . . .
Three . . .
“I love you, Joy,” he muttered. “Iâ”
“Captain!”
Strong hands scooped beneath his arms and jarred him back to the moment. He felt himself dragged along the path of the winding hose, his boots scrambling at the floor. He heard grunts and groans, and then he and his rescuer were exploding through the front doors into the blessed, oxygen-rich atmosphere outside, into swirling lights and cries of relief.
“Caleb found him. Look! The rookie found the captain from Station One!”
“Nice job, kid.”
“Captain, are you with me? We thought you were a goner.”
EMS personnel swarmed around, their voices smudged by the effects of carbon monoxide and exhaustion. He tried to sit up. He had to get back inside. He was held down, while someone pointed out the store's assistant manager seated on the nearby curb, with minor burns, but safe and sound.
“Tynes pulled him out,” another firefighter explained.
“My partner.” Campbell looked around. “Is he okay?”
“Man, I'm sorry.” Tynes stepped into view. “I thought you were right behind me, Captain. I tried calling over the radio, but you didn't respond.”
Captain Campbell nodded his forgiveness and closed his eyes.
A firm hand removed his brush jacket and his boots, letting the cool air work as a balm on his sweat-drenched frame.
Later, as the fire was brought under control and the ruckus quieted, he pulled himself up. Still weak, he felt guilty for not standing by his crew. And where was the man who had pulled him to safety?
On cue, the rookie clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You can relax, sir. We got it under control. We're just glad you're still with us.”
“Me, too,” Campbell admitted.
“We weren't gonna lose you. Not tonight.”
“Your name's Caleb? Which station you from?”
“Six. This was only my second real fire.”
“You did good, kid. I appreciate you coming after me. I truly do.”
“Well, I couldn't let anything happen to you, Captain. If I'm gonna take over your job someday, I need you to stick around to teach me everything you know.”
“Is that so?” Campbell raised an eyebrow and looked up into the rookie's soot-stained face. “Tell you right now, Caleb, that might take some time.”
“I've got time, sir. And I'm a quick learner.”
C
aleb Holt, rookie and recent hero, had been given orders to find the hose stretcher. What was a hose stretcher, though? He searched the fire engine high and low for the seemingly non-existent object, ducking his head into compartments and running his hand along every inch of the truck.
That's when Catherine Campbell strolled into the bay, the captain's daughter, his pride and joy.
Eighteen. Brunette, with natural highlights.
Catherine wore a summer dress, with a red mini-sweater tied off above her thin hips. The slight curve of her brown eyes was simultaneously alluring and friendly. “You must be Caleb.”
Her voice caused sparks to dance, somewhere deep inside him.
“Uh,well . . .”
“Unless you're going under a different name now,” she goaded.
“Caleb. Yeah, that's me.”
“Thank you for what you did. Saving my dad like that.”
He shrugged that off. “You're Catherine, right?”
“Word spreads fast.”
“Your father's proud of you. He has a picture of you in his office, but I never realized that you . . . Well, now I guess you're just more . . .”
“More what?”
“Uh, you're older.”
She grinned. “Yeah, I wish he'd put up my new picture instead. I was, like, what, fourteen in that one?”
“You looked like you were just a girl.”
“
Just
a girl?”
“Well, you know, not all grown up.”
“And now look at me.”A smile played over her lips. “All grown up.”
Caleb tried not to stare and shout a rousing
Amen!
This was the captain's daughter, and he knew he'd be better off not dwelling on the romantic possibilities. Plus, he was twenty-four years old. He'd been through his share of relationships, and the next time around he wanted something more substantial.
An eighteen-year-old? That was just asking for trouble.
Sure, physically speaking, she was grown up, but she probably still lived at home and had never paid so much as an electric bill in her life.
She was feisty, though, and he liked that. He'd always wanted a wife who had a mind of her own, not just some doormat for his own ambitions.
Easy there, big guy
, he told himself.
Give it another two or three
years.
“You know where my dad is?” Catherine said.
“He left awhile ago to meet the investigator at the burn site.”
“Okay. Guess I'll check back later.”
“Okay, then. Well, uh, good meeting you, Catherine.”
“You, too, Caleb.”
With that, Catherine Campbell pivoted toward the waning sun, leaving the rookie with her silhouette burned into his mind.
A
long the bay wall of the Albany Fire Department, Station One, grimy gear and smudged boots stood beneath yellow helmets that hung from hooks. Caleb Holt had just added his own to the collection, the word
Captain
stenciled upon it.
Ten years he had served this city. Now, at age thirty-four, he had earned the second trumpet on his white officer's shirtâone of the youngest ever to do so. He'd dreamed of this since age eight, and even though he dreaded some of the grisly scenarios he came upon in the line of duty, he loved his job, this city, and the group of guys he worked with.
Lieutenant Michael Simmons:
a tall, rangy black man with an angled chin.
Driver Wayne Floyd:
a loose-limbed jokester, with gelled hair above expressive blue eyes.
Firefighter Terrell Sanders:
a stocky, bald black man, always ready for a debate.
Rookie Eric Harmon:
a young, sturdy fellow, still trying to find his place.
In the manner of firefighters everywhere, they were a dependable bunch, fun-loving, and ready to go to any lengths to protect the citizens in their care.
Why, then, did Caleb have this gnawing unease in his gut?
Still smelling of soot and smoke from this morning's warehouse blaze, the young captain panned the bay area, where a red ladder truck sparkled and its bugle gleamed, ready to sound the alarm. A wide orange stripe, bordered with blue, ran along the cinder-block walls, broken only by the city's Fire and Rescue emblem, which boasted outlines of an ax, a helmet, a ladder, and a pike pole.
Everything looked good.
And still, that sense that something was wrong.
He brushed it aside and stared off at the water tower across the street. That tower had been here for years, ready to serve this historic firefighting community. On the firehouse lawn, a flagpole waved the American and state flags in the clear day's breeze.
“Wisdom, Justice, Moderation . . . In God We Trust.”
So read the words beneath Georgia's thirteen stars on a field of blue. The Peach State, one of the original colonies, was a great place to live.
Good job. Good location. Good crew.
But none of that solved the problems at home.
Caleb wandered outside, while Terrell Sanders used hand motions to guide Engine One back between the fire poles into the middle bay. The backup signal sounded, then Wayne hit the brakes as Terrell banged on the side of the truck.
Eric, the rookie, jumped down from the cab and rounded the front end. Beneath suspenders, his blue shirt was tucked into firefighting pants with reflective strips down the sides. He approached Terrell, his head hung low.
“Terrell, man,” he said.“My bad.”
“This ain't no game.” The black man poked a finger into his chest. “What you did was wrong. You playin' with people's lives.”
“C'mon, man.”
Terrell shirked any further discussion and stomped off in his boots, with Wayne at his heels.
Caleb went to the dumbfounded rookie. “Eric?”
“Yes, sir?”
“He's got a right to be upset with you. You left him in a dangerous spot and tried to be a hero.”
“But, Captain . . .” Eric took a breath and lifted his arms. “I thought I heard someone calling for help.”
“It was coming from
out
side the building.”
“But it . . . It was so dark. I couldn't see anything.”
“That's why you have to stay with your partner. He had no choice but to assume something had happened to you, and that you needed his help. You
never
leave your partner. Especially in a fire.”
Eric nodded and looked down.
“My rookie year,” Caleb said, “we almost lost one of our captains.”
“Captain Campbell?”
“That's right. His partner was running low on air and left him on his own in a burning store. The reason I'm even standing here today, as a captain, is because of the things that man taught me, but he could've been gone just like that. On your own, your chances of survival drop in a hurry.”
“Sir, weren't you the one whoâ?”
“I got lucky, Eric. I found him with seconds to spare.”
“Okay, listen. Terrell's worked with me the past three years and he's a good guy. Give him time to cool down, and then you give him an apology.”
“Captain, I know that I was wrong, but did you hear the way heâ”
“And make it sincere.”
“Yes, sir.”
Caleb slapped his station's newest member on the shoulder and left him on his own. To his credit, Eric kept his mouth shut and faced the lonely duty of washing down the truck and equipment.
IN THE FIREHOUSE dining area, Capt. Caleb Holt and his crew were gathered for lunch. They worked twenty-four-hour shifts, with forty-eight in between, clocking in at eight a.m. Alarms had kicked off this morning for them, and he knew they were all famished after skipping breakfast.
“Round two, gentlemen.” Lieutenant Simmons appeared with a second plate of hot wings and set it on the table along with a bottle of hot sauce.
“Wrath of God,” the label read.“Hotter Than the Lake of Fire.”
“Bring it on,” Wayne said. “How come you only make this once a month, Lieutenant? This stuff's good.”
“'Cause man can't live on chicken wings alone,Wayne.”
Wayne rubbed his belly. “This man can.”
“Nah, you need the four food groups.”
Caleb grabbed a few wings and passed the plate down the table. “He eats the four food groupsâsteak, fish, chicken, and pork.”
“Hey, that's all I need,”Wayne said.
Simmons made a face. “What you need is a bath. I can smell you from over here.”
Despite the banter, Caleb noticed Terrell shooting Eric a hard look. The rookie dropped his gaze to his plate and kept eating.
“What I smell like,”Wayne explained, “is a hardworkin' man. You should never be ashamed to smell like a man. That's why I don't wear deodorant.”
Eric looked up. “You don't wear deodorant?”
“Only if absolutely necessary. Now, if this Wrath of God sauce came in a roll-on, I'd be wearing it every day.”Wayne tapped a few drops onto his wings.
“I don't see how you eat that. That's insane hot.”
The alarm sounded and all five men froze, ready to burst into action. After four beeps, the dispatcher clarified that the call was going to Caleb's previous station: “Engine Six, Battalion One, respond to 1516 Brookfield Drive. Vehicle fire in back parking lot. Time out, 12:41.”