21. Dane

The morning was unseasonably cool. A bright sun smiled down, and a rare breeze beckoned Atlantans toward a beautiful weekend.

At eleven fifteen, our first tone sounded. A rarely lit red light flared, three short beeps blared, and a mechanical female dispatch voice announced, "One ten. Repeat: one ten. Engine Four, Rescue One, Battalion Seven. Respond to major structure fire. Repeat: major structure fire. Two thousand Monroe Place Northeast, building two hundred. Repeat: two thousand Monroe Place Northeast, building two hundred. Channel twelve."

The peaceful quiet of a routine morning blurred into a frenzy of men and women darting from the locker room to the trucks, throwing on heavy suit pants and coats, and tossing gear and equipment into place. We hadn't had time to get everything in place much less do our routine safety checks of our equipment.

Our engine roared as Alex settled behind the wheel. Sami leaped in back with me as Burton slammed his door last.

"Battalion call?" I asked Sam, my brows peaked.

She shrugged. "Something needs containment, not just a little water."

"This is Monroe Place Apartments, right?" Alex yelled back, then remembered to don his headset and mouthpiece that allowed us to communicate over the roar of the engines. "They're outside our box. Isn't Station Twenty-Nine in the same city block as the complex?"

"Yeah," Sami answered, giving a thumbs-up where Alex could see it in the rearview mirror.

"Shit," I said, making eye contact with Sam. "That leaves our zone empty. This must be a shitshow."

Then I remembered half my softball team lived in Monroe Place. A spike of panic stabbed into my chest.

Sami read my thoughts. "I bet most of the residents haven't left for work yet."

I nodded, my lips forming a grim line.

By the time we pulled through the apartment complex gates, two ambulances and two other ladder trucks were already present. Three police cruisers were controlling traffic along Monroe Drive and its continuation, Piedmont Circle. More sirens blared in the distance, announcing the arrival of even more aid.

Residents in shorts and T-shirts, some still barefooted from being woken by the alarms, huddled across the parking lot against the wrought iron gate that surrounded the complex. A mix of horror, panic, and dejected resignation darkened their faces. Two of my team were among their number, but I couldn't stop to acknowledge them. The flames demanded my attention.

The ambulances were parked together at one end of the lot, with paramedics already busy treating residents. I noted two guys, their faces smeared with soot, wearing oxygen masks. The hollow look in their eyes spurred my anger toward the blaze.

Our truck turned parallel with building two hundred, and I glanced up from my window. Ravenous flames danced from a window on the top floor. I started to look away, to locate the chief in charge of the scene, when the unmistakable sound of windows rupturing drew my eyes upward again. The panes on either side of the one ablaze had shattered, and dark smoke was now pouring out of the building's new openings.

One man stood atop a ladder truck and guided water onto the neighboring building, keeping it soaked so the flames were less likely to catch. Command was being aggressive on this one.

Men and women of the Twenty-Ninth raced in and out, some ushering residents who'd been slow to respond to calls and alarms, while others carried axes and other equipment to battle the blaze or rescue those who might be trapped. In contrast to the terror that lined the residents' faces, those in uniform bore determined, focused gazes.

This was what we trained for.

The radio chatter of those already working the scene was rapid and clipped, the efficiency practiced for countless hours until engrained.

"Chain of command," an unfamiliar voice echoed in our ears. "Command post is to the west. Engine Four pull to the south and report. Medic to the trucks."

Our truck ground to a halt, and everyone hopped out. Sami grabbed her bag and ran toward the ambulances, while the rest of us reported to command.

A dispatcher's voice crackled over my headset, urgency threading efficiency as she spoke. "Alarm, copy, we have [inaudible] on scene, heavily [inaudible] apartment fire on third floor of building two hundred. Command will be on the western side of [inaudible]."

A stern-faced man wearing the white helmet of a fire captain turned as we approached. Without welcome or greeting, he pointed and said, "Four, pull a hand line. Twenty-two's deck gun should be operational any minute. Protect on the south."

"Yes, sir," Burton barked.

I was the lead firefighter, so everything we did to fight a blaze was my call on our team. Alex and Burton helped unfurl the hose, keeping it from getting kinked or caught on all the cars parked throughout the crowded lot. A moment later, I stood at the mouth of the hose, wetting down everything in my path on the south side of the building: landscaping, patios, the side of the building. It all needed protection lest the flames take control.

"Command, south exposure is wet. We have no exposure. Repeat: no exposure on the south," I relayed as soon as our area was good and soaked.

Another unknown voice broke through the chatter. "Command, we need a line to floor three. We've got a free-flowing fire, heavy involvement. I think there's a resident still inside one apartment."

The captain barked, "Four, get that hose up there. Now."

Before we could move, a thunderous blast drew all eyes to the second floor from an apartment we hadn't seen burning. Several windows blew outward, glass flying like tiny missiles across the yard and lot. As if angered by our efforts, orange and red burst from the gaps, brighter and taller than any seen above.

The captain's voice burst through our earpieces. "Dammit! Four, get over here. We need a direct attack from the west on floor two. Now."

Like dancers choreographed for the stage, Burton , Alex, and I grabbed sections of hose and lumbered in front of the new flames. Water welled, then surged from the hose, streaming in a high arc before vanishing into the inferno.

"Command, command, command! Mayday!" a young man screamed over the radio. "Mayday, mayday, mayday! [Inaudible] third floor. We [inaudible] help now!"

Three tones screamed, then an urgent voice broadcast on all radios across the city, "All units—mayday declared. Clear all traffic."

A second blast rocked the building, its shock rattling up my spine.

"Do not enter!" the captain barked. "Second explosion on floor two. All units evacuate. Repeat: all units evacuate."

"We [inaudible] too much. I can't carry [inaudible]. Oh god …"

The blur of a uniform raced past me, and I spotted Alex's last name on the butt of his coat.

"Alex, what the fuck are you doing? Get back!" I shouted into the speaker.

He didn't slow. If anything, he ran faster. Then I heard his voice, a sharpened edge, "There's a man down. I'm going in."

"Alex! God dammit," Burton called.

"Four, what are you doing?" the captain asked. "Get that man back. Do not enter. Do you hear me? Don't fucking go in there!"

A captain cursing over a live radio was rare, but the stupidity of what Alex was doing overrode protocol.

And then he vanished into the alleyway between units.

I jolted forward, but a hand gripped my arm and yanked me back. My head whipped around to find Burton , his jaw set and eyes grim. "Don't. Twenty-Nine is up there. Best thing we can do for him is beat this thing back."

He'd barely finished when three members of Twenty-Nine staggered down the stairs and into the parking lot, two holding each other up as they struggled to stay upright. EMTs raced forward, helping the wobbly soldiers to the ambulances. The captain appeared by their side, likely grilling them for a SITREP.

That left one injured man inside … and Alex.