Opening dialog and rescue reference from the episode “Audit” aired April 7, 1973.
What makes a man a hero,
is it courage, hidden deep?
Is it sacrifice in face of horrors,
of which he cannot speak?
Will we know what he has done,
in our hearts, his memory keep?
Would you recognize a hero,
if you passed him on the street?
~ Nan~
In memory of those who served
Memorial Day 2003
BY Sparky & Nan
“Rampart, we’re runnin’ out of time. This man wants me to take off his leg.... What am I gonna do?”
“Fifty-one, I can’t advise you on that. Nobody can. Whatever you do, you’ve got to decide.”
Not this time, he didn’t.
Thanks to Johnny crawling under the fallen lumber and tangle of iron rebar, finally freeing the leg, Roy had been spared at the last minute from having to make a difficult decision. Apparently, though, neither one had been able to shake the specter of the “almost” situation thrust upon them during yesterday’s rescue.
Roy paused hesitantly in the open doorway to the rec room. Johnny was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the table, chin cupped in his hands. A glass of milk and a stack of cookies sat in front of him, untouched. Roy had discovered it wasn’t unusual for him to be off in his own world when he was alone, but this time Johnny looked a little lost, wherever he was. Roy knew the feeling. Johnny had asked him a hard question for which he’d had no answer. He still didn’t.
Roy guessed Johnny must have sensed his presence. Without turning his head, he pushed a chair away from the table with his foot.
“Have a seat, Roy.”
They’d worked together for less than nine months, but were already good at reading each others’ minds. Most of the time, Roy joked it was a scary thought, but when it came right down to it, he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
Roy sat down, unconsciously mimicking his partner’s pose, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Johnny not sleeping was one thing, not talking was an entirely different matter. He’d been unusually quiet since they had left the hospital parking lot twelve hours earlier, a rare occurrence that lingered even now in the early morning hour.
“Johnny, you okay?”
Drawn back to the present as Roy helped himself to a cookie, Johnny slouched in the chair, and rubbed his eyes.
“Just tired. Can’t seem to sleep.”
“I’ve noticed. This is the third time you’ve gotten up since midnight.”
Johnny’s half-smile was more cynical than amused. “You’re counting. Can’t sleep either, huh?”
“No. No, I can’t.”
It didn’t take a mind reader to know they were thinking about the same thing. Finding a way to talk about it was the hard part.
“Roy, everything turned out okay. He’s alive. He’s still got two legs.” Johnny thought he sounded like he was reciting a prepared statement more than offering reassurance.
“I-I know,” Roy said haltingly, finding the peace of mind that should have come from that knowledge more elusive than a butterfly.
Johnny tried again. “You know what Milt said to me in the ambulance?”
“No, what?”
“He said maybe it was high time he learned to dance.”
Roy laughed softly. “I’m glad he’s gonna have the chance.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Johnny fell silent again, toying with a cookie for a few seconds before dunking it in the milk.
Both men felt the faint undercurrent of tension between them. There had been no argument, no difference of opinion, no… anything. Yet it was there. Something unspoken. Unresolved.
True to his nature, Johnny was the one who wouldn’t let it go, always in pursuit of the bottom line. “Roy, you know what I said? About bein’ glad it was you and not me? I was being honest, but I would’ve been right there with you. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. But…, it’s not the same as being the one to have to make the call.”
“No, I… I guess not. But, next time it could be me that has to decide.”
Roy knew Johnny needed an answer. He didn’t know how to tell him that, even if he had one to offer, it wouldn’t make it any easier if and when it fell on Johnny’s shoulders to make a choice like that. He also didn’t know how to tell Johnny that wasn’t the problem.
“I… I still don’t know what I would have done. I really don’t know if I could have done it.” Roy knew his confession fell short of what Johnny wanted to hear, but it was an honest opinion, as far as it went.
Johnny fiddled with another cookie, starting to voice his thoughts several times with a short intake of breath, stopping without actually producing a word. He seemed to be playing devil’s advocate with himself, trying to find his own answer, since Roy couldn’t come up with one that satisfied him.
“You know, at… at first, I… couldn’t believe they’d even suggest such a thing. I couldn’t believe he wanted you to do it. Milt… he practically begged you to take it off. If I had been in his spot, I don’t know what I would’ve wanted. But, you know Roy, it would have been his decision, not yours. His life was more important than his leg. You heard him. Of course, thanks to you, he’s got both.”
“Johnny, you’re the one that crawled under there and got him free.”
“Well, that was easy compared to what he asked you to do.”
“Easy?” Sometimes Johnny’s fearlessness amazed him. “If that form had given way then, we’d probably still be trying to dig your body out. I saw the way you looked up at the wall just before you went under that mess. You knew you were taking a big risk.”
“I wouldn’t have if you’d decided to do what he asked. I would’ve helped you. It’s good you waited.” Johnny’s voice lowered to a near-whisper, stunned once again by the magnitude of what they had faced. “Man, to think we might have taken off his leg, then found we could’ve gotten him out before that wall collapsed....”
“… But, we didn’t.” Roy cut him off, uncomfortable with the credit Johnny was giving him.
Johnny fidgeted in his chair, trying to figure out why a rescue that had ended well was keeping him awake. It was more than Roy’s uncertainty over making the decision, although that was part of it. Something kept nagging at the back of his mind, and one glance at Roy told him he wasn’t the only one bothered by it. “So…, what’s the problem?”
True to his nature, Roy would have preferred to let the subject drop. “You’re the one who can’t sleep. You tell me.” His attempt to dismiss it backfired, drawing a look that fell somewhere in between disappointment and frustration.
“I’m missin’ something here. I don’t know, Roy. You tell me why you can’t sleep.”
Roy had learned early on that Johnny could be persistent to the point of being obsessed, but deep down, he realized this was important -- to both of them -- and Johnny would push and prod until he heard the truth. All the pieces were right there in front of him. Johnny just couldn’t see how they fit together. Roy saw it clearly now. Perhaps…, he’d known all along.
“All right.” Taking a deep breath, Roy stiffened his back and looked Johnny straight in the eyes. “Don’t you see? I knew we couldn’t wait for Dr. Early, but I was stalling. Do you understand, Johnny? I was stalling. I was willing to risk Milt’s life -- and let you risk yours -- just so I wouldn’t have to be the one to take his leg off. That wall could have collapsed any time. I would have been able to get out, and so would the others, but both of you would’ve been trapped. Buried under a ton of concrete. That’s the problem. It wasn’t about what Milt would have had to live without the rest of his life. It was about what I would have had to live with for the rest of mine. I didn’t… I didn’t want that responsibility, and I could have cost both of you your lives. I wasn’t thinking about saving his life, or his leg. I wasn’t thinking about you, Johnny. I was thinking… I was thinking about me.”
Long-winded coming from Roy, the confession didn’t fail to find its mark. He couldn’t tell for sure what the look meant this time, before Johnny got up and walked out of the room. Roy watched him go, wanting to say something more, but there was nothing more to say. He sat alone in the dark for a long time, knowing he’d lost something… something more important than their partnership, more important than their growing friendship. It wasn’t only Johnny’s respect that he’d lost. His own had walked right out the door, too. Roy didn’t know if he could ever get it back.
And, that… was a very scary thought.
* * * * * * * *
Only half-awake, Roy pulled the blanket over his head to ward off the pre dawn chill that had invaded the dorm. He’d seen Johnny get up an hour earlier, and slip into his bunker pants and boots, and put on his shirt before leaving the room. Laying there, Roy had debated whether he should follow and try to talk to him again, or leave him alone. Hard to come by sleep had finally made the decision for him.
If it hadn’t been for the sound that accompanied it, they would have thought it was an earthquake that suddenly jolted them from their bunks. A second and a third explosion in quick succession rattled the windows. Uncertain which direction it was coming from, Stoker went to the back bay door and Kelly to the front. Stanley grabbed the mic.
“LA. Station 51. We have a still alarm. Stand by for exact location.”
“Station 51. LA standing by.”
“Cap! It’s the refinery.” Kelley raced back into the dorm room. “It’s already burnin’ like a sonofabitch.” The words were barely out of his mouth when the shock waves from another explosion rocked the building.
“LA. Station 51. We have multiple explosions and fire at the refinery across the street from the station. 2042 East 223rd Street. Repeat. Multiple explosions and fire at the refinery directly across from Station 51.”
The tones began sounding before he finished. “Station 51. Station 36. Engine 34. Truck 210. Engine 43. Squad 45. Truck 14. Battalion 14....” The calls continued to go out until a full four-alarm response was summoned. “… Explosion and fire at refinery. Entrance at 2042 East 223rd street. Cross street Wilmington. 2042 East 223rd Street. Time out 05:52.”
No point jotting down the address of this one, the engine pulled out ahead of the squad while Roy waited for Johnny to put on his turnout coat and get in. The entrance to the refinery was east of the station, barely a block away. 51s was first on the scene in under two minutes. The engine laid down hose for the trailing paramedics to hook up to the hydrants before joining the rest of the crew. Occupied with the urgency of the situation, their two AM conversation was the furthest thing from their minds.
That task completed, Roy and Johnny reported to Captain Stanley. In between shouting hurried directions over his HT to a long line of incoming units, Stanley sent DeSoto with Kelly and Lopez, and Gage to look for someone from the refinery who could tell them if there had been any men working on the tanks or towers when they blew.
Thick smoke, black and oily as the crude that burned, billowed like clouds in the sky, blocking the sunrise from ground level view. Intense heat in rippling waves visible to the eye pushed the men back, as the early stages of the battle ensued. Dropping to the ground for safety when another explosion ripped a nearby tower, they quickly sprang to their feet to attack again. Greedy flames fed on the fuel that spilled into the containment moats surrounding the tanks, ignoring the water directed their way. Special units were laying down foam as fast as they could generate it. At least a half-dozen tanks were involved, and more were threatened.
Battalion Chief Miller arrived to assume command of the incident. Hank Stanley filled him in, pointing out the apparatus assignments. Plans for potential evacuation of the immediate area, and for containment of the fire, began to take shape. Anxious company personnel arrived to let them know records were being checked to see who was working where, and if anyone was unaccounted for. They had routinely drilled for such disasters, but the timing of the accident had created confusion. Employees had been leaving and arriving in the process of a shift change, and coming up with the information was going to take time.
Time. In all the commotion, fifteen minutes had passed before Stanley realized he hadn’t seen or heard from Gage. The HT he’d pocketed when the BC showed up, whipped out again.
“HT51. This is Engine 51.”
Stanley jogged in the direction of the buildings Johnny had headed for, stopping when he reached a spot where the smoke thinned enough so he could see more than twenty feet in front of him. The block-walled structures were far enough away from the blasts that they hadn’t sustained evident damage. There was no sign of anyone, or any activity.
“HT51. This is Engine51. John, do you copy?”
Stanley had seen him grab the HT from the squad. He knew Johnny wouldn’t have gone to assist another crew, or a victim, without radioing his location so critical minutes weren’t wasted, wondering where he was.
“HT51. This is Engine 51. John, can you read me?”
There had to be a logical explanation for his disappearance and failure to respond. Stanley uttered a curse for letting so much time go by without checking. It was his responsibility to know where his men were and what they were doing at all times. Concern overshadowed guilt for now. His error was a matter he’d take up with himself and the Chief later.
First, they had a missing man to find.
* * * * * * * *
Roy felt the pull on his shoulder from behind. Standing not more than a foot away, Captain Stanley was shouting at him, but the words were lost in the roar of the fire. His gesture to leave the hose and join him was understood. Roy made sure Marco and Chet knew he was letting go of the line, and followed the captain to the engine. Gratefully accepting a drink of water, Roy downed it in two gulps, then removed his helmet to wipe at the sweat streaming from his temples.
Thinking he looked a little shaky, Stanley waited for a minute until Roy took a breath. “You all right?”
“Yeah, Cap. Just hot. Chet and Marco are gonna need a breather, too.”
“They’ll get some relief pretty soon. We’ve got more companies on the way now. Roy, have you seen John since we got here?”
Startled by the unexpected question, Roy looked toward the squad. “No, not since we reported to you.” He didn’t like the feeling that rolled his stomach any more than he liked the look of distress on his captain’s face. “Why?”
Stanley clenched the HT for lack of anything else to release his frustration. “I haven’t heard from him in over twenty minutes. Not since I sent him to find someone to tell us if there was anyone working in this area when it blew.”
“Well, Cap, maybe he went to help out one of the other crews. Or found a victim.” Roy knew that Stanley would have investigated those possibilities, but it was the most reasonable thing that came to mind.
“No, Roy, I’ve checked. No one’s seen him. He took the HT, but he’s not responding. If he’d have found a victim, he would have called for assistance by now.”
“But, Cap, he’s got to be here somewhere.” Roy looked around again to satisfy himself Johnny wasn’t in sight. “Which way did he go?”
With a sweep of his hand, Stanley indicated the deserted buildings. “Over there. I’m gonna ask the Chief if we can check it out. Get another drink of water while I do that, then we’ll see if we can’t find him.”
“I’m fine, Cap.” Roy started to leave, only to be held back by a hand clamped on his shoulder.
“Look, Roy. Do what your captain says. Get another drink and cool down a minute. If John is hurt, you’re not gonna do him any good if you’re ready to pass out from heat exhaustion. And, if he’s not hurt…. He’s gonna need you to help him walk when I get through with him.”
Opening his turnout coat and downing another drink of water helped calm the queasiness in his stomach, but did nothing for the tight knot forming there. Roy didn’t take his full minute before putting his helmet back on and going to join Stanley.
They split up to search the cluster of buildings. Some were offices, some tool rooms, others were used for parts storage, but none were occupied. The doors were all locked, and no one answered when they pounded on them. They peered in windows and saw nothing. They called Johnny’s name, but to no avail, meeting up again after a fruitless ten minutes.
Stanley pulled out the HT again, and shrugged. “Worth another try,” he muttered.
“Yeah.” Roy’s worried eyes roved the area again for any sign Johnny had even been there.
“HT51....”
Both men spun around. Static. Faint, but there. Another HT. Stanley tried it again. “John…? John, can you hear me?”
They followed the sound to a small parking lot behind the buildings they’d just searched. There was a small, bunker-type building they hadn’t checked earlier, but no sign of Gage. Roy walked around, looking for a clue. The HT was there. Somewhere.
Roy finally spotted something. “Cap! Over here.”
Using his shoulder, Roy pushed a heavy trash dumpster a few feet away from the wall. Kneeling down to reach behind it, he retrieved the handi-talkie first, then groped for something else.
“What is it, Roy?” Stanley anxiously peered over Roy’s back, but couldn’t see anything.
“I’m not sure, Cap. It looks like a....” Roy pulled a bundle from behind the dumpster, and held it in his hands, swallowing hard. “… like a turnout coat. It… it’s wrapped around something.”
The name GAGE stared at them. Disregarding the condition of the coat, Roy turned it over to lay on the asphalt, pulling away the folds. He and Stanley both blanched when they saw the contents. A helmet and a pair of gloves. Badge 330. Name tag, J. Gage Paramedic.
Roy picked up the gloves while Stanley crouched beside him for a closer look. “Is that what I think it is, Roy?”
Roy nodded, tightlipped.
Stanley put his hand on Roy’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s not his. Maybe....”
“… Cap. It’s gotta be his.” Roy’s voice was tense with emotion. “Somebody didn’t want us to find this.”
“Then, why’d they leave the HT on?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they were in a hurry, or maybe Johnny-”
A sound. A movement. Something caused Hank Stanley to look over his shoulder in the direction of the bunker. We’re being watched. The instant the thought flashed through his mind, he was on his feet. “Roy? Let’s get outta here.”
Puzzled, Roy started to protest, until he noticed the look of urgency in Stanley’s eyes. “Cap, what?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling.” His sixth sense was in overdrive, warning of immediate danger. “There’s someone in there.” Stanley reached for Roy’s upper sleeve, yanking hard to convey the message they were leaving. Now. No discussion.
Roy quickly wrapped his partner’s coat around the rest of his belongings. With the image of Johnny’s blood-soaked gloves fresh in his mind, it took all his willpower not to look back at the building. His sixth sense told him Johnny was in there.
It just wasn’t telling him what he really needed to know.
* * * * * * * *
By the time they returned to the command post area, a number of other cars had arrived. The Chief from Battalion 7, an Assistant Chief from HQ, and fire team investigators were on the scene, as were several sheriff’s deputies. Stanley and DeSoto hurriedly wove their way through the small crowd. Bits of conversations, meaningless to them in their haste, reached their ears.
Chief Houts and the PIO are on the way.... rerouting traffic.... roadblocks.... team’s talking to the wife....
The extra personnel, even the Chief Engineer, naturally came along with a volatile four-alarm industrial fire. The presence of the deputies wasn’t out of the ordinary, and both men were relieved to see the familiar faces of Vince Howard and Lance Shaffer. Breaking into their conversation with Chief Miller with a hurried, cursory apology, Stanley explained where and how they’d found Gage’s things. When he relayed his suspicions that someone -- other than Johnny -- was inside the building, the deputies reacted swiftly to the news. If there had been any doubt in Stanley’s mind about his gut instincts, they were quickly erased when Shaffer said, “I’ll make the call,” then headed to his car.
“The call?” Roy asked, unaware yet of the latest developments.
“SWAT team,” Vince replied coolly, as he reached for the bundle Roy was clutching to his chest. “Roy, I’m gonna need those things. They could be evidence. Did you touch anything besides the coat?”
Before Roy could answer, Stanley jumped in. “Chief. Vince. What’s going on?”
“Hank, I’m sorry.” Miller’s brow wrinkled in deep concern. “We’ve had a report this fire wasn’t an accident. I’ll let Deputy Howard explain. I need to talk to headquarters and update them on the situation here. You’ll excuse me.”
“Yes, sir.” Stanley stood aside to let him pass.
Miller paused, conveying more sentiment with one look than a thousand words could have, then left. It was enough to send a little shiver racing down the spine.
Vince motioned for Roy and Stanley to follow him to his squad car, away from the noise and hustle of those involved in the fire fighting activity. He laid Johnny’s coat on the front seat, looking at it carefully for the first time. “What happened? It’s cut up pretty bad.”
“I don’t know,” Roy answered. “It wasn’t like that the last time we saw him wearing it.”
“Okay, Vince,” Stanley said impatiently, “What’s the story?”
Details were still sketchy, but Vince gave them what he knew. “We had a call from a woman by the name of Virginia Hutton this morning shortly after 06:00. She lives about a mile from here, and heard the explosions and saw the smoke. Mrs. Hutton thinks her husband may be responsible for this. She said he’s ex-Army and knows all about explosives.”
“You mean a… a bomb?” Roy asked incredulously. “But, why?”
Vince shot a glance at the other deputy who was still on the radio with headquarters before answering Roy’s question. The look on Shaffer’s face told him something was up.
“According to her, he was fired from his job here about a month ago. She said he’d been threatening revenge, but never thought he’d go through with it. Said he wasn’t the type, but after she heard the explosions, she checked the house. He was gone. Several rifles were missing. A team of detectives are at her house now to check out her story. Until we hear from them, we’re operating under the assumption Mrs. Hutton’s telling the truth.”
Rifles, Roy repeated to himself. He took a shaky breath. “How does Johnny fit into this?”
“We don’t know. We’re not sure he does.” Vince glanced at the bundle on the front seat. “But, it’s possible he spotted the guy, and....”
“Hey, Vince,” Lance Shaffer called as he joined them. “SWAT’s on the way. They want us to cordon off the area around those buildings. The detectives confirmed the woman’s story. They found some wiring and other stuff in the garage. It seems Hutton has been under a doctor’s care as an outpatient at the VA Hospital for the last four months. They’re on the way over there now. The missus has given the hospital permission to talk to them and release his records.”
“What about Gage?” Stanley reminded them there was another party possibly involved. “He could be hurt. His coat’s torn up. There’s blood on his gloves.”
“Maybe it’s not his,” Vince suggested. “Maybe Hutton got hurt and Johnny tried to help him, and got himself in a jam.”
“I wondered about that, but how do you explain the coat? His badge and name tag?” Stanley countered. “Gage wouldn’t have taken them off, and then tried to hide everything. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Vince couldn’t disagree, but refused to draw conclusions. “At this point, we can only assume we may have a hostage situation, and that one or both of them are injured. Until we know more, no one goes anywhere near that building.”
Roy’s anxious frustration was about to overflow. “What can we do?”
“Nothing,” Shaffer responded, knowing that wasn’t what the firefighters wanted to hear. “The SWAT team should be here in about ten minutes. If Hutton is in that building, hopefully they can talk him into surrendering. They’ll try to find out if Johnny’s in there with him and what his condition is. Until then, nothing, Roy. Sorry.”
“Sorry,” Roy mumbled angrily under his breath. “Cap, we’ve got to do something. Johnny....”
Stanley shook his head. “Roy. We could make things worse. They’re right. We don’t know that John is in there. And, if he is, we don’t know he’s hurt. We need to get out of the way and let these men do their job. I’ll report back to the Chief, and then we’ll tell Chet and Marco and Mike. They should hear it from us, don’t you think?”
His words aside, it was hard for Stanley to walk away. Harder still for Roy. Trailing slowly behind, unanswered questions dogged his every step. Whose blood? Why the badge and name tag? Were they even in that building?
And, the one he feared most....
* * * * * * * *
Though the blaze continued unabated, the Department’s investigators had been able to gather enough evidence to suggest one or more explosive devices had triggered the incident. Necessary precautions were taken to keep men and equipment as far from the cordoned-off zone as possible, while still effectively working to bring the fire under control. The building was situated far enough behind the other structures, that danger of potential rifle fire hitting them was minimal. Except for DeSoto, 51s crew remained on the job, if for no other reason than to keep themselves occupied while they waited.
Shortly after seven AM, the SWAT team was on the scene and in charge. Men were deployed in strategic locations to prevent anyone from leaving the area, while an attempt to determine if someone was in the building, now designated as “the bunker” was underway. Of solid block wall construction and a rock roof, it was long and low, with small, thick transom-style windows front and back, and only one door in and out. Designed for storage of hazardous waste prior to disposal, it had been unused for over a year. The windows were darkened. There was no sound.
So far, all they really had was a probable disgruntled ex-employee, one missing fireman, and his captain’s unconfirmed report that the suspect they sought was inside.
Company personnel records had revealed that forty-three year old Southern-born Duane Hutton had been a model employee for twelve years, soft-spoken, even-tempered, well-liked. Over the last six months, his file had filled with reprimands and suspensions for everything from missing too much time, to dangerous work habits, to suspected drinking on the job. To the best of their knowledge, attempts at recommending counseling had met with flat-out resistance. His friends had begun to avoid him, and his supervisors had given up. The final straw had been a fist fight with a coworker, grounds for immediate dismissal.
Sheriff’s vehicles formed a half-circle in the parking lot at a distance of fifty-yards from the building, providing a safety barricade in case shooting erupted. The squad, now out of service, was parked near by. With his promise to stay out of the way, Roy had been granted permission to be there, in the event his medical services were required. Two other squads were at the scene of the fire, standing by if needed. Roy nervously waited next to Vince Howard as LASD Special Weapons Team hostage negotiator, Captain Russ Sinclair, lifted the bullhorn.
“Duane Hutton. We know you’re in there. We want you to put your weapons down and come out with your hands up. So far, no one’s been hurt. Let’s keep it that way. You’ve got two minutes.”
Roy leaned toward Vince, whispering, “Two minutes? Then what?”
Vince shrugged his shoulders. “Gotta start somewhere. This kind of thing could go on for hours, maybe days. Depends.”
“On what?”
“What the guy has in mind.”
Roy nodded as though he understood.
Two minutes passed. Nothing had happened. Sinclair repeated the message, and two more minutes passed. Nothing. If Hutton was in there, he’d picked a perfect spot to hold off an army. The possibility of a firefighter as a hostage limited their options. They had to know if anyone was inside, and there seemed to be only one way. Someone had to make a move.
Several armed SWAT team members took up position on one of the windowless sides of the bunker. On Sinclair’s subtle signal, they plastered their bodies against the outside wall, inching around the corner toward the door. In order to get past the first window undetected, they dropped to their bellies to crawl the rest of the way. Neither one noticed or heard the window slowly open.
Sinclair suddenly shouted, “MOVE!” An object dropped from the window before it slammed shut again. The two men scrambled for the side of the building as a hand grenade rolled and stopped in the spot they had just vacated. “TAKE COVER!” was the next shouted command, and everyone watching and waiting ducked behind cars, or whatever else afforded protection.
The grenade never went off. It looked real enough when viewed through powerful binoculars. Sinclair took no chances, and had his men back away. The maneuver had paid off anyway. He had confirmed a live target. Negotiations could begin.
“Hutton. We’re not gonna try anything that stupid again. We just needed to know if you were in there.” The captain firmly believed in the philosophy that more flies were caught with honey than vinegar, but he could play hardball with the best when the time came. His approach was relaxed, conversational, non-confrontational at this stage of the game. “Look, we seem to be missing one of our firefighters. Name of John Gage. Have you seen him?”
At the mention of Johnny’s name, Roy tried to slip out from behind the squad car, only to have Vince pull him back by his arm. His heart jumped to his throat when the window cracked open again.
“What do y’all want with him?” There was a hint of a slow Texas drawl in the clear, resonant voice.
Sinclair had just obtained his next piece of information. Gage was inside, too. “He’s a friend of ours. We just want to know if he’s okay. We found his gloves. There was blood on them. You know anything about that?”
There was no response, but the window didn’t close.
“Hutton? Some of Gage’s buddies out here are kind of worried about him. What should I tell them? They just want to know if he’s okay.”
“You’re lyin’.”
“No, it’s the truth. We’re not asking you to send him out. Can we talk to him? Will you let us do that?”
“He can’t talk right now.”
Roy took a step, restrained again by Vince. “Roy. Be patient. Sinclair knows what he’s doing. If anyone can talk that guy out of there, without anyone gettin’ hurt, he’s the man.”
“Duane?” Sinclair paused for a split-second. “Mind if I call you Duane? My name’s Russ. I’m here to see if we can resolve this little matter in a peaceful way. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. I need to know about Gage, though. Let me talk to him, so I know he’s all right, and then we’ll give you some time to think things over.”
“I know why you wanna talk to him. He don’t know nothin’. He ain’t who you think he is. I’m not gonna let you hurt him any more.”
“Duane, I take it that means he’s injured? I need to know if he needs a doctor. We won’t hurt him, we’ll help. We just want to help. What do you say?”
There was a short delay of about fifteen seconds on the response. Fifteen seconds that stretched forever.
“You got a doctor with you?” Hutton sounded suspicious, but his question opened a door.
Sinclair glanced in Roy’s direction. “We’ve got a paramedic here. A good one. Send Gage out by himself, and we’ll take care of him.”
“You’d like to get your hands on him again, wouldn’t you? No. Send the medic in here. Alone. Hands in the air. Any false move, and he won’t be comin’ back.”
Sinclair held his hand up to tell Roy to stay where he was. “Duane, I can’t do that. I can’t ask an unarmed man to risk his life. This is between you and me. Send Gage out, then you and I’ll figure out where to go from here.”
“Forget it. I told you he don’t know nothin’, and he’s not comin’ out. I’ll take care of him.”
Adept at knowing when to compromise, Sinclair agreed. “All right, Duane. We’ll do it your way. Give me a minute to talk it over.”
In addition to holding a degree in criminal psychology, Russ Sinclair had dealt with enough real-life hostage situations in his twenty-five year career to get a quick read on the man holding the cards at the moment. Gage was in there all right. Probably seriously injured if his abductor was willing to let a doctor in to see him, but alive. Duane Hutton either had a conscience, or wasn’t willing to risk a murder rap. Underneath it all, though, something was just a little off. Hutton sounded more like he was protecting his victim than threatening him.
Sinclair cautiously withdrew from behind the safety of his car to join Roy and Vince. “DeSoto....”
“I’ll go,” Roy said without hesitation.
“Hold on a minute. I need to make sure you understand what you’re walking into. That man....”
“… That man is holding my partner hostage. Johnny’s hurt. I don’t need to know anything else.”
Sinclair had always admired firefighter’s gutsy attitudes, but he knew from personal experience looking down the barrel of a rifle at close range could make the bravest man say his prayers, even if he didn’t believe. If he went through with it, DeSoto’s life could depend on how cool he could play it, and how fast he could think on his feet. Sinclair had to be sure the paramedic was sure of his decision.
“Yes, you do. We don’t know anything about Hutton. Sounds like he’s gone off the deep end. He could be lying. Maybe Gage really isn’t in there. Maybe Gage is already dead. Maybe he needs a new hostage. You go in, you might not come out alive. Are you willing to gamble he’s telling the truth?”
Roy couldn’t help having second thoughts. Joanne. The kids. But, walking into dangerous situations was part of the life he had chosen, part of the life his wife had accepted the day he first pinned on his fireman’s badge. It was possible he was Johnny’s only chance.
“I’ll go,” Roy repeated firmly.
Captain Sinclair saw the gritty look of determination, and agreed. “All right. I’ll clear it with your Chief. You’ll find a bulletproof vest in our van over there. Deputy Howard will give you hand putting it on. Then, I’m gonna talk to Hutton again, and tell him we’ll do this his way. I’ll find out how he wants to play it, and you’ll go only if I’m as satisfied as I can be under the circumstances that he’s not gonna blow your head off.”
The color drained from Roy’s face. “You don’t mince words, do you?”
“Occupational hazard. Sorry.” Sinclair offered a wry smile. “Tell you what, DeSoto, when this is all over, I’ll buy you and your partner a beer. You know…, it’s not every guy who would do what you’re doing for him. He’s a lucky man.”
“Yeah. Well, Johnny’s not just any guy either. You think he… Hutton… will let me bring any medical supplies in with me?”
“I’ll ask. Just let me know when you’re ready. Any questions?”
“Just one,” Roy said quietly. “Do you think Johnny’s dead?”
“The truth? I could be wrong. You need to know that. But no, son, I don’t think he’s dead. If I did, I wouldn’t let you go in. Whatever Hutton’s frame of mind, I think he knows two healthy hostages are more of a liability than an asset. So, his letting you in tells me Gage is alive, but hurt.”
Sinclair’s confident attitude and steadfast belief that Johnny wasn’t dead relieved Roy of some of his anxiety. The men parted company to get ready for the next step.
Vince Howard helped him put on the vest, then stood back to give the man a minute to himself. When Roy turned around, Vince saw his eyes were clear of any doubt, and if there was fear there, he had disguised it well.
“Ready?”
“Yeah. Vince, if.... You know…, just in case. Would you tell Joanne… tell her I said I love her.”
A husband and father with a dangerous job himself, Vince nodded, understanding this was no time for platitudes. “I’ll do that, Roy.”
Just don’t make me.
* * * * * * * *
“Roy, you sure you know what you’re doin’?”
“Yeah, Cap. It’ll be okay.”
The thought of losing one man was hard enough for Stanley to take, let alone two. “I wish there was some other way.”
“So do I, but…, it doesn’t look like it. Captain Sinclair thinks it’ll be all right. He’s been through this before, you know. Vince says he’s the best. Look, Cap, they’re… uh… they’re waitin’ for me.”
Ironically wishing it was a burning building he was sending his man into, Stanley gave him an order. “In and out, Roy. Bring John with you. We’ll be waitin’.”
The men silently shook hands, the look in their eyes saying all that needed to be said.
He was given one last opportunity to change his mind. He didn’t take it, even though Hutton had insisted he remove the vest. Roy figured a bullet through the brain would kill him as surely as a bullet through the heart anyway. What he didn’t like was the fact he wasn’t being allowed to bring so much as a Band-Aid with him.
Sinclair was of the opinion they could use that to their advantage. “If he won’t let you bring Gage out, it gives you a reason to have to leave. You go in there, check out your partner, look around and try to memorize every detail you can, then tell him you’ve got to get supplies, or Gage is going to die. Even if he’s not, Hutton needs to be convinced he will if he doesn’t get treatment. The fact he’s letting you in tells me he doesn’t want that to happen. Every bit of information you can give us about the setup of the room, what weapons he has, if you see any way we could surprise him…. Every little thing you see, even if it doesn’t seem important to you, could make a difference. Do you understand?”
Roy took a deep breath. “I got it.”
“All right, then, let’s get this show on the road.” Sinclair raised the bullhorn again.
“Duane. You there?”
“What’s takin’ so long? You gonna send that medic in or not?”
“He’s on his way right now. Duane, he’s not armed, and he doesn’t have anything that could be used as a weapon. His hands will be in the air. I want your word you won’t hurt him.”
“Send him in. I ain’t gonna hurt him, unless he does somethin’ stupid.”
Roy took a step around the car, not failing to notice how many rifles were trained on the front door, waiting for a split-second window of opportunity. Otherwise, the men were under orders not to fire unless Hutton became the aggressor. Roy wasn’t sure if that was comforting or not.
“DeSoto.”
Roy looked over his shoulder at Captain Sinclair. “Yeah?”
“Good luck.”
Roy’s hands went in the air, and he started the longest fifty-yard walk of his life.
* * * * * * * *
He didn’t need to see it to know what it was. Roy’s eyes didn’t have a chance to adjust to the darkness before the cold steel barrel of a rifle pressed behind his left ear. Ex-Army himself, firefighter, rescue man. Didn’t matter. It scared the hell out of him.
“Don’t turn around. On the floor. Face down, spread-eagled.”
Whatever the man wanted, the man was going to get. Roy flattened himself on the floor, silently enduring a rough, thorough frisk, until Hutton was apparently satisfied he had no weapons hidden anywhere on his body. Ordered to get up slowly with his hands locked behind his head, Roy complied again without saying a word.
“You’re an American.”
Still virtually blind in the darkness, and confused by the statement, Roy decided the less he said, the better off he’d be for the moment. A simple “yes, I am” was the safest thing he could think of. Hutton spun him around, jamming the barrel of the rifle under his chin. Roy swallowed hard as he looked into eyes that burned with hatred and distrust.
“What are you doing with them?” Hutton demanded in an angry tone.
Playing along was hard when he didn’t understand the game. “Them?” Roy asked. The rifle jammed harder into his jaw, snapping his head back. Wrong question.
“Don’t play games. You a traitor or a prisoner?”
Roy felt just a shred of relief. “Prisoner?” The pressure of the rifle eased slightly. Right answer.
Hutton backed away, still suspicious. “You don’t sound too sure of yourself.”
Roy turned instinctively at the sound of a moan from across the room, only to be jerked back around again. This time his eyes lit with anger, stopping himself short of pulling his hands from behind his head and shoving the gun away. Eyes adjusting now, he took in the make of the rifle, and the fatigues and dog tags Hutton was wearing. Caution was barely winning out over his impatience to get to Johnny. “He’s hurt. Just let me take a look.”
Hutton shook his head. “You’re not touchin’ him until you answer a few questions. I wanna know your name, rank, what unit you’re from, and where and how you came to be a prisoner.”
Another moan had Roy fighting with himself to stand still. He was beginning to think he understood, though. Judging by the man’s age and employment information, Roy guessed Korea, not Vietnam, but he couldn’t be sure. During his sixth-month tour of duty as a medic in the US hospital in Germany, he’d come in contact with a lot of Vietnam vets and heard enough stories to fake it, but his knowledge of the Korean War was limited. This was no time to ask the wrong questions, or give the wrong answers.
He took a chance. “DeSoto, Roy. Sergeant. 21st Evac hospital. Pusan.” Roy was thankful he’d listened to Dixie the rare times she’d spoken of her wartime experience in Korea. “Our jeep hit a land mine. I woke up in a POW camp.” When the gun didn’t fire, he assumed he’d guessed right.
The pain-filled moans were growing louder. Hutton instructed Roy to stay put, then moved across the room. Keeping the rifle pointed at Roy, he crouched down beside a cot, speaking softly, laying a gentle hand on Johnny’s shoulder to calm him.
“Lieutenant, can you hear me? There’s a man here, says he’s a medic. He’s an American. I’m not sure I trust him, but I’m gonna let him take a look at you. I swear, if he makes one wrong move, I’ll kill him. He hurts you, he’s dead. You got my word on that, sir.” Hutton stood up and called Roy over.
Having no idea who Hutton thought Johnny was, Roy knelt beside the cot, relieved just to see him alive. “I need some light in here,” he said, with as much authority as he could muster with a gun stuck in his face. “Now.”
With the rifle in one hand, Hutton reached with the other to turn the knob on the camping lantern on the table next to the cot, until the room was lit enough to see more clearly. “Remember what I said…,” he warned.
Roy was focused on his assessment of Johnny’s condition. Barely conscious, and obviously in tremendous pain, Johnny didn’t seem to recognize him. Roy spoke quietly for a minute, finally getting him to stop thrashing around long enough to get some vitals, and take a look at his injuries. There were a multitude of small cuts on his right arm and the right side of his face, but it was the holes and rips in the legs of his bloodied turnout pants that drew Roy’s immediate attention.
“Did you shoot him?” Roy asked, without looking up.
“No, I didn’t shoot him,” Hutton snapped indignantly. “Stupidassed question. I wouldn’t shoot an officer. Musta happened when his plane crashed.”
Unequivocally understanding they were no longer in Carson, California in 1973 in Hutton’s mind, Roy carefully pulled away the blood-soaked towel that had been wrapped around Johnny’s left thigh. The wound was still bleeding heavily. Roy flinched when he saw the problem, but didn’t hesitate to do what needed to be done.
“Johnny. Listen to me. Try not to move around.” Roy looked at Hutton, biting back the anger that crept into his voice. “I need more towels. Get them for me.”
“This ain’t no hotel,” Hutton shot back. “That’s the only one I got.”
Roy’s hand automatically reached behind his back for his scissors, forgetting he hadn’t been able to bring them in with him. “You got a knife?” he asked.
“I ain’t givin’ you no knife.”
“Look, I have to try to stop the bleeding.” Roy tried hard to be patient. “I need to use his T-shirt as a bandage until I can get some supplies. It needs to be cut off. I don’t have time to argue with you. Either give me a knife, or do it yourself.”
Hutton waved the rifle at him. “You move away. I’ll do it.”
Reluctantly standing up and backing away, Roy tried to make Hutton understand it wasn’t that simple. “We need to get his boots off and cut the pants, too. It’ll take both of us to do it to keep from moving him too much. We’re not careful… he could bleed to death in minutes.”
When he spoke directly to Johnny, Hutton’s voice softened again. “Sir? I know you’re hurtin’. We’re gonna take good care of you. You just take it easy, okay?”
Johnny’s dazed eyes blinked in virtual slow-motion, clearly not comprehending anything.
Hutton warned Roy again, “I’ll be watching every move you make. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt him no more.”
Roy hoped the man’s genuine compassion toward Johnny was something he could use to his advantage in getting them out of there. He pointed at Hutton. “I’m going to need to use your belt as a tourniquet. I have to control the bleeding,” he explained, “or he’s going to die.”
They stared at each other for a long few seconds, before the rifle was lowered and put aside, and the belt unbuckled. Working together, they cut away Johnny’s shirts and pants, making every effort to carefully peel the material away without adding to his pain. Roy gritted his teeth when he was finally able to get a good look at the ugly shrapnel wounds in both legs, concluding Johnny must have been caught by flying shards of metal when one of the homemade bombs had exploded. It certainly explained the condition of his coat. The gashes in his upper right calf looked painful, but not life threatening. The left leg was the bad one. A thick, jagged piece of metal, three inches long, was imbedded in his inner thigh. No telling how deep it went, but the location of the wound and the amount of blood worried him. If the femoral artery was even nicked, Johnny’s life was in serious jeopardy.
No longer conscious, Johnny was nonetheless reacting to every painful touch and movement. Continuing to talk to him the whole time, Roy packed the T-shirt around the wound, taking care not to disturb the fragment. With Hutton’s help, he slipped the belt around the upper leg above the point of entry, and tightened it, then checked his watch. Five minutes and he’d loosen it for thirty seconds to let the blood circulate to the lower leg and foot, hoping the bleeding would slow before he had to do that too many times. Handled wrong, Johnny could lose his leg, assuming he didn’t lose his life first.
For the first time since he walked through the door, Roy took a much-needed minute to breathe. He sat down on the floor with his back against the cot, and put his face in his hands while he tried to think. When he finally looked up, Hutton was carefully covering Johnny with a blanket.
“Is he gonna die?” Duane asked softly.
Roy hoped Johnny couldn’t hear what he was about to say. “He needs to be in a hospital. That fragment has to come out, or yes, he’s going to die.”
“Then, take it out.”
“I can’t. I’m just a para… I’m just a medic. He needs a real doctor. It needs to be taken out in an operating room where they can clamp the artery. As much as it’s causing the bleeding, that piece of metal is probably acting like a plug. I pull it out, he could bleed to death in no time.”
Duane pondered that for a long time. “What happens if you don’t take it out?”
“He could still die. He’s already lost a lot of blood. He could go into shock and his heart could stop. The wound could get infected. He could get blood poisoning.” Roy was beginning to wish he didn’t know as much as did. “It would just take him longer to die, and cause him more pain. You said you didn’t want him to hurt any more. Let us go. Let me get him to a hospital while there’s still time.”
It was Corporal Duane Hutton’s moment to breathe and to think.
Roy watched the emotions play across Hutton’s face. Concern, confusion, fear, regret. When he finally spoke, his voice was filled with doubt. “I promised the lieutenant I wouldn’t let them hurt him any more, but....”
“Duane? Is everything all right? It’s been quiet in there.”
The sound of Sinclair’s voice over the bullhorn snapped Hutton out of his indecision, sinking Roy’s hope that he was going to surrender.
When Hutton grabbed the rifle again, Roy tried to distract him, and bring the subject back to Johnny. “No one’s gonna hurt him. He needs to be in a hospital where they can help him. That’s all we want. Just let him go.”
“Why? You want to fix him up, just so they can torture him some more? He don’t know nothin’. He’s just a kid who loves to fly. He ain’t no spy, but they won’t believe him.” Hutton shook his head. “I ain’t turnin’ him over. I won’t let them get their hands on him again. I’ll find a way out, and if I can’t.... I made him a promise, and I intend to keep it.”
Roy had a frightening feeling he knew what that promise was. He honestly believed Hutton would kill all three of them, if it came to that. It was up to him to buy some time.
“Corporal? He needs medical attention, if he’s gonna live long enough to make it out of here. Let me go back outside. I can convince them I can keep John… the lieutenant alive. If they want him bad enough, they’ll give me the supplies I need and let me come back in. That’ll give you time to think of a way to get us out of here.” Roy waited while the suggestion sunk in. “Look, I want to go home, too,” he pleaded, “I got a wife and two kids waiting for me back in California. Let me get the lieutenant fixed up, and we’ll all get out of here together.”
“I gotta think about this. Just shut-up and let me think.” Hutton stalked across the room, and leaned heavily against the door, while he sorted out his options.
Roy checked Johnny’s leg. The bleeding had slowed as hoped, but ran freely again when he loosened the belt. Waiting just long enough for the blood to circulate a few times, he tightened it again, swallowing hard when Johnny groaned in agony. He needed bandages and IVs and pain meds. He needed a doctor. When Johnny settled down again, Roy did what he was supposed to do, committing everything around him to memory, while he waited for Hutton to make a decision.
“All right, you can go,” he finally announced. “I’m givin’ you fifteen minutes. You come back with nothin’ but medical supplies, you understand? No tricks.”
“No tricks,” Roy promised. “I’ll be back as fast as I can, but, it’ll take a while to get everything I need. Thirty minutes. I need thirty. Before I go, I’ve got to show you what to do with the tourniquet. It’s important you do it right, or he’ll never walk again.”
Ten minutes later, Roy shielded his eyes as he stepped outside into the bright California sunshine. Leaving Johnny behind -- somewhere in Korea, twenty years ago -- in the untrained hands of a deranged soldier, was the toughest decision he’d ever made.
Fate, however, wasn’t about to let him off so easily.
* * * * * * * *
The man standing next to Russ Sinclair could have been invisible for all Roy cared in his rush to take care of business. Expecting a barrage of questions, he was grateful when the captain simply asked if he was okay. He spotted his own captain nearby, with the biophone line open to Rampart, and the medical boxes ready. Asking them to wait, Roy hastily explained it was imperative he speak with a doctor, and if they listened in, some of their questions would be answered.
The look on Roy’s face, as he reached to take the outstretched phone from Hank Stanley, gave everyone a hint of the gravity of the situation, long before he spoke.
“Rampart, this is Rescue 51.”
“Go ahead, 51. Captain Stanley has filled us in. We’ve been standing by. Is Johnny with you?”
“Rampart, that’s negative. He’s still inside.”
“All right, Roy. Tell me what you’ve got.”
Rubbing the back of his neck to massage the tension, Roy took a deep breath, and slipped into an almost impersonal recitation of his victim’s status. It was a necessary defense mechanism. “He’s got shrapnel wounds in both legs -- two in the right calf, with minor bleeding. Another one in the upper left thigh with moderate to heavy blood loss. I’ve applied a tourniquet. The metal fragment appears to be embedded pretty deep. I can’t tell for sure, but the femoral artery may be involved. Vitals are… BP is 80 by palpation. Pulse weak and thready. Respirations 16 and somewhat labored. No sign of other injuries, except for minor cuts and abrasions. He was briefly conscious. Rampart, he… Johnny’s aware of pain.”
That last sentence hadn’t been impersonal at all. If anyone listening had been unsure of how badly Johnny was hurt, the halting emotion in Roy’s voice set the record straight.
“Understood, 51. Has the leg been immobilized?”
“More or less. I used his shirt to bind his legs together. I’m going back as soon as I can gather the supplies I need. Dr. Brackett, how long can it go before that fragment has to come out?”
“It’s hard to say, Roy. Any movement of the leg could be a problem.... If the fragment shifts, it could sever the artery. Outside of that, he’s at risk of complications from infection or blood poisoning within twenty-four hours, maybe even sooner. It just depends. You also need to be careful with the tourniquet and not cut off the circulation to his lower leg. Too much tissue damage, and the leg might have to be amputated. Any estimate on how much blood he’s already lost? There’s always the risk of shock.”
Brackett hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know, but somehow hearing it out loud made it more real. More deadly. “Negative on the amount of blood loss so far. Rampart…, what if I try to remove the fragment?”
“I wouldn’t recommend that, unless it’s absolutely necessary. You could have all sorts of problems on your hands, not the least of which is Johnny bleeding out. Is there any chance you can get him out of there?”
“I don’t know, Rampart. It doesn’t look good. I can keep IVs going, and give him some MS, but if things start to turn, I don’t know what I can do. Dr. Brackett, I … I need to get back inside soon.”
“All right. Stand by, 51.” There was a silence on the other end of the line, before Brackett came back on.
“Roy, I’m on my way over there right now in an ambulance. Can you make sure the police let me through? Don’t leave until we have a chance to talk. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Ten-four, Rampart. Five minutes.” Roy put the phone down, and heard Sinclair pass the word to clear the doctor’s way, before stepping up to introduce the new arrival.
“Captain Stanley, DeSoto, this is Dr. Gerald Townsend. He’s on the psychiatric staff over at the VA Hospital in Long Beach. He knows our man pretty well. I think you need to hear what he has to say.”
The casually dressed, middle-aged Dr. Townsend had that same steady handshake and calm, down-to-earth tone of voice as Russ Sinclair, quickly gaining Roy’s confidence as they talked for a minute. Sympathizing with his undisguised anxiety, and Stanley’s look of helplessness, the doctor offered his help in packing up bandages and IVs while they exchanged information. Sinclair listened in, waiting his turn at asking questions.
Townsend held the backpack open for Roy while he talked. “The Duane Hutton I know really isn’t a violent man. I don’t think he meant for Gage to get hurt. I’ll do everything I can to help, but I need you to tell me what your impression of Duane’s mental state is right now. Does he seem irrational or confused at all?”
“Doc,” Roy started impatiently, “he thinks he’s in Korea. He thinks Johnny is a lieutenant, a pilot, and that everyone out here is North Korean, who happen to speak perfect English. I’d say that’s pretty confused. He won’t let Johnny go because he thinks he’ll be tortured. I think Hutton would kill Johnny himself before he’d let that happen, because he thinks he’s protecting him. I’d say that’s irrational, wouldn’t you?”
“You’re right and you’re wrong,” Townsend replied thoughtfully. “Duane is obviously suffering a flashback, but it doesn’t sound like he’s confused or thinking irrationally within his reality. That’s important. It means there’s a good chance of getting him to recognize the truth of where he is and what he’s doing. It just has to be done carefully.”
“And, how are you gonna do that, Doc? Hutton isn’t going to let anyone else inside. And, how long is it going to take? Johnny doesn’t… Johnny doesn’t have much time. Neither do I.” Roy looked at his watch. He’d already been outside for ten minutes. Hutton had grudgingly given him thirty. He’d understood about the tourniquet, but Roy didn’t want to take a second longer than necessary, and risk not being allowed back in.
“I’ll come up with something,” Townsend promised. “Roy, let me tell you a little bit about Duane and what happened to him in Korea. Maybe it’ll help you understand and deal with him better. During an attack against the North Koreans, Duane was cut off from his unit behind enemy lines, and taken prisoner. While he was in the POW camp, a young Air Force lieutenant was captured and brought in after his F86 was shot down by a Russian MIG. Fighter planes were sometimes used for reconnaissance missions, and the North Koreans were after details about the plane’s equipment and instruments. No one would admit at the time it was a high-tech spy plane, but the odds are pretty good it was. The pilot had been injured in the crash, and was apparently in pretty bad shape, but that didn’t stop them from trying to beat the information out of him.”
Townsend paused while Roy sorted through the drug box, choosing the meds he figured Brackett would have him take. Morphine, atropine, epinephrine, fluids -- D5W, saline, lactated ringers. They all went into the backpack on top of the 4X4s, pressure bandages, and rolls of Kerlex. The BP cuff and stethoscope were nestled on top of everything else.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Roy apologized, “I think I have everything now.”
“I understand. I know time is a factor. According to Duane, he managed to escape from the camp when a guard wasn’t watching, and took Lt. Caldwell with him. Naturally, the soldiers followed, and they had to hide more than they were able to travel. It took him five days in freezing weather to hook up with an American unit again. The lieutenant had broken his leg in the plane crash, and Duane carried him on his back the whole time. The doctors at the MASH unit where he was taken said by the time he made it to safety, the lieutenant had probably been dead for almost forty-eight hours. Hutton was running a high fever, suffering from pneumonia, and so out of it, they said he didn’t know he’d been carrying a corpse all that time.”
“That’s rough,” Roy admitted, not entirely without sympathy.
“It gets worse. No one could confirm Duane’s story about the POW camp. You have to understand.... There was a great deal of heated debate within the 8th Army over his regiment at the time, Duane’s battalion in particular. The 24th was the last segregated combat company in the military, and they suffered accusations of cowardice and desertion and breakdowns in the chain of command. Some went so far as to suggest he had deserted his unit, came across the dead pilot, and made up the whole story to keep from getting court-martialed. It apparently got pretty nasty, with a lot of racial overtones. In the end, no one could prove anything one way or the other, and since the 24th was being disbanded anyway, he was awarded a bronze star, given an honorable discharge, and sent home.”
“So, why after all these years…?” Stanley asked.
Townsend shook his head. “I wish I had the answer. I counsel a lot of vets from the Korean War these days, and every one has a different story. I’ve seen Duane any number of times over the last four months. At first, it was the news reports about POWs and MIAs in Vietnam that began to affect him. On top of that, there’ve been a lot of protests over the number of blacks that were sent into combat in Nam, and it’s dredged up a lot of the old rumors and controversy about their performance in Korea. Somehow, Duane’s story got out, and he started getting besieged by some of the more militant protesters to get involved in their “cause.” That’s when the nightmares began. He started having trouble socializing, and began to withdraw more and more. Then, when he lost his job, things really went downhill. But, believe me, I never thought he would do anything like this, or I would have had him admitted. I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Something must have happened to make him do this. I’m guessing that being caught in the middle of the explosions triggered the flashback.”
The three men stood up, watching the ambulance with Kelly Brackett drive up. All that information, and Roy didn’t know what to do with it. “What do you suggest? Do I tell Hutton he’s not in Korea, and that Johnny’s not Lt. Caldwell? Or do I go along with him, and hope he remembers on his own? Either way, with what’s happened, do you think he’ll let us go?”
“I think it could be dangerous to try to tell him the truth. I think you just have to go along, and let me try to talk to him after you’ve had a chance to get Gage taken care of.”
Feeling he had no choice but to agree, Roy nervously looked at his watch again. He still had information Sinclair wanted, and he had to talk to Brackett. Too much time was going by.
Captain Sinclair made it easy for him, and let him talk without interrupting. Roy quickly related the setup of the room, and the fact it was stocked with food and a cot and a lantern, meaning Hutton had planned this for some time, and had planned to hold up there for a while. He had seen three M1 semiautomatic rifles, a large box full of clips to go with them, a handgun, and at least four grenades. Sinclair asked a few more specific questions, then excused himself to talk with his team, asking Roy to check in with him when he was ready to go back.
Townsend had introduced himself, and Stanley had updated Brackett, by the time Roy got to him. Having foreseen the need for quick action, he handed Roy a list of written orders for IVs and meds. They ran over what Roy had put in the backpack, and Brackett was satisfied with the contents.
“I brought a surgical kit with me, Roy, for when you get Johnny out of there. We might have to operate right here. I’ll stay as long as it takes.”
“I appreciate that, Dr. Brackett. But, what happens if he… if he doesn’t let us go in time?”
“I seem to remember we had this same conversation yesterday. I can’t advise you on that, Roy. No one can. Whatever you do, you’ve got to make the decision.”
Roy thought if he was a praying man, he’d ask for another last-minute reprieve. Only this time, Johnny wouldn’t be there to bail him out. With their rec room conversation, and Johnny’s reaction, weighing heavily on his mind, Roy got ready to make that fifty-yard walk again.
Russ Sinclair handed him a small two-way radio, and kept another one. “Frequency is set just for communication between these two units. The rest of the world doesn’t need to tune in. Let Hutton see you have it up front, so he doesn’t think you’re trying to sneak it in. Tell him you need to be able to talk to the doctor if Gage gets worse. He might take it away from you, but at least it’ll be there. Maybe you’ll be allowed to use it if you can persuade him it’s the only way to keep your partner alive. From what you said, it sounds like he might cooperate in that regard. What I really want is for Dr. Townsend and myself to be able to talk to Hutton without using this bullhorn. We’re keeping them away from here, but word has leaked out and we’ve got the media lurking, just itching for a story.” Sinclair frowned in disgust. “I can see it now. ‘Black Korean War hero goes off deep end and takes white fireman hostage.’ Then, we’ll have everyone from the politicians to the Black Panthers on the evening news, blowing this out of proportion and exploiting it to further their own political agendas.”
“Nothing’s ever simple, is it?” Roy asked.
“Son, if it was, they wouldn’t need to pay us those big bucks we bring home.” Sinclair shrugged in apology for his sarcasm. “You ready?”
“Yeah. Time’s almost up.”
Sinclair admired the man’s courage and selfless dedication to his friend. Speaking earnestly now, he made a solemn promise. “DeSoto, I.... We’ll get you out of there. Alive. Your partner, too. You have my word on it.”
“I hope so, Captain.” Roy actually managed a smile. “You owe us both a beer.” Levity at the moment seemed an absurdly warped, but somehow natural reflexive defense against the insanity surrounding them.
Sinclair gave him a thumbs up. “If I can get you out of this mess for the price of a few beers, I’ll retire a happy man.”
He missed Roy’s response, muttered under his breath as he walked away. Who said anything about a few?
* * * * * * * *
“Roy?”
His eyes snapped open. Roy quickly sat up, ignoring the stiffness in his backside from sitting on the floor against the wall for so long. He scrambled onto his knees and moved around to the side the of the cot. Johnny’s eyes were still slightly unfocused from the effects of the last dose of morphine, but the agitation and disorientation that had been present during several earlier periods of consciousness were gone.
“Hey, Johnny. How you doin’?”
“I… I don’t know. I think I hurt. Can’t tell.”
“You’ve got a little bit before the morphine wears off. You let me know if you start feelin’ it, okay?” Roy checked the IVs, then his vitals, none of which were where they should be, but were holding steady. The bleeding had stopped hours earlier, the tourniquet no longer needed, but the belt was still loose around the leg, just in case. Roy carefully lifted the bandages. He looked up to see Johnny watching him, hoping he’d been able to hide his reaction to the latest bad news.
“What time is it?”
Roy had just looked at his watch when he’d taken Johnny’s pulse. “Six-fifteen.”
“Oh,” Johnny said, frowning. “Morning?”
Glancing over at Duane Hutton, who was watching the exchange from across the room, with the rifle laying across his lap, Roy shook his head. “No, it’s evening. You’ve been asleep for quite a while.”
“Yeah? Still tired.” Johnny’s eyes looked around the room in confusion. “Roy? Where am I?”
Roy rummaged through what was left in the backpack for a thermometer. Johnny was warm, his face flushed. Doubting his explanation would be understood, Roy steered the conversation in another direction.
“You remember what happened?”
His thought processes still dulled by the drug, Johnny struggled to remember. “Um… an explosion. Tried to duck. Guess I… I didn’t? Roy, m’ legs hurt.”
“I know.” Roy slipped the thermometer under Johnny’s tongue. “Be quiet for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Hutton warily stood up when Roy approached him. “He sounds like he’s doin’ better. It’s almost dark. Can he travel?”
With his hands full taking care of Johnny, Roy had managed to keep his frustration under tight reign most of the day, but it was getting harder to do as time wore on. “No, I told you he can’t be moved with that piece of metal in his leg. I’ll have to give him some morphine again pretty soon. Look, he… he’s running a fever. The wound is showing signs of infection. That fragment has to come out. He needs to be in a hospital. We can’t wait much longer.”
“You’ve been sayin’ that all day. Looks to me like he’s gettin’ better, not worse.”
Playing on what he knew of Duane’s story, Roy tried a different tact. “That won’t last long if the infection gets worse. Hutton, you were… you’ve been in combat for a while now, right? You must have seen someone with gangrene? It’s that serious. Even if he lives, he’s gonna lose that leg unless something is done soon. How do you think he’s gonna feel about that? To know you could’ve helped him, and you didn’t?”
Hutton’s temper flared at Roy’s challenge. “How do yo think he’s gonna feel when they start torturing him again? To know I turned him over to them? I told you before. I made a promise. It ain’t gonna happen.”
“Then, let a doctor come in here and take care of him,” Roy argued angrily. “There’s one right outside. The same one you let me talk to earlier.”
Hutton didn’t like Roy’s attitude, and put the barrel of the rifle to his chest. “I’m telling you one last time. No one comes in.” When Roy didn’t back down, he pressed the gun harder, with his finger on the trigger. “You get back over there and do what you need to do for the lieutenant. You keep him alive. We’re gettin’ out of here tonight. I can arrange it so you stay. Permanently.”
Ignoring the implied threat, Roy warned again, “You move him, and you’ll kill him.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re just sayin’ that to try to trick me. It’s not gonna work. I suggest you shut up now, and get over there and make sure he’s ready to travel.”
“All right.” Feeling he’d pushed as hard as he could without getting himself shot, Roy put his hands up in a show of resignation. “Will you at least let me talk to the doctor again?”
Hutton shook his head. “I don’t trust you. I’ve told you too much. You need somethin’ from the doctor, I’ll ask the questions.”
Roy allowed himself a ray of hope. Hutton had let him use the radio twice to talk to Brackett, but turned it off after Roy was done, refusing to talk to either Sinclair or Townsend himself. Both men had tried using the bullhorn, but he wouldn’t have any part of it. If there was such a thing as the eleventh hour, Roy knew this was it, both literally and figuratively. Johnny called him, and with a last hard look at Hutton, he turned his back on the gun.
“Roy?” Johnny held the thermometer in a shaky hand. “It’s startin’ to… to hurt real bad.”
Roy took the thermometer and read it in the dim light. Almost 102. "Your temp's elevated, Johnny. Let me get you something for it first, and start a fresh IV. Then we'll take care of that pain. You should be feelin' better in no time.” Even with his best bedside manner, he couldn't hide the truth.
Johnny’s eyes followed his movements until Roy finally looked at him again. “Bad?”
Crouching down again, Roy remained silent, staring at the floor while he decided just how much Johnny needed to hear. “Yeah,” he said softly, “it’s bad.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know, Johnny. I guess you heard. He’s not going to let us go. If he tries to move you again, and that fragment digs in deeper....”
“… Take it out.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
Roy lifted his head, reacting sharply to the accusing tone in Johnny’s voice. “Johnny, you don’t understand. If I move it the wrong way, it could sever your artery. I don’t have any way to keep you from bleeding to death if that happens.”
“What’ll happen if you don’t take it out?”
“There’s still time....”
“Time to wait for someone else? Don’t wanna lose m’ leg, Roy.”
“Better than losin’ your life.”
“Not your decision. Mine. Willin’ to take the chance. It’s simple. Just don’t… don’t move it the wrong way.”
Roy watched Johnny’s eyes slowly open and close several times. Checking his pulse and BP again, Roy noted the increased heart rate, and the low pressure. That, along with a fever and the reddened area around the wound, indicated infection had set in. He knew it was possible the removal of the fragment could slow its progress, but the risk was too great.
“What are you… you gonna do, Roy?” Johnny asked lazily. He was drifting, beyond caring again, as the new dose of morphine took effect.
“I’m not going to let you die, Johnny.” Roy wondered if Johnny understood what he meant, but it was too late to tell him. He was asleep again.
Roy turned down the lantern light, and gently covered him with another blanket. He walked back to the other side of the room, and held out his hand for the radio.
Hutton hesitated, then handed it over without an argument. “What are you gonna do?” Duane echoed Johnny’s question, shaken by the realization DeSoto wasn’t playing games.
Roy looked across the darkened room, knowing Johnny had been wrong. It wasn’t Johnny’s decision to make, any more than it had been Milt’s yesterday. It was his, and his alone. It was one he’d have to live with for the rest of his life.
* * * * * * * *
Kelly Brackett just wanted to punch someone.
He wouldn’t have even minded if they punched back. Amazed how violent situations brought out the violence in normally civilized men, he took a few deep breaths to quell his rising anger. He needed to do something. Like Hank Stanley, he’d felt about as useless as a bump on a log all day. When there had been nothing better to do, they’d had a lengthy conversation about it. Stanley wasn’t any more used to having someone else call the shots when it involved his men, than Brackett was when it involved medicine.
Highly motivated, type ‘A’ personalities, used to being in control, used to knowing how to conquer their “enemies,” be it fire, or illness, their frustration knew no bounds today. Sinclair and Townsend were running the show outside, and Brackett and Stanley felt like they were merely along for the ride. Especially tough to swallow was the fact the ultimate shots were being called by a man living in an altered reality, while John Gage and Roy DeSoto were trapped there with him, their fate entirely in his hands. The talk hadn’t helped. It had only increased their shared sense of impotence.
Then, there was this last conversation with Roy. Staring at the radio in his hand, Brackett waited impatiently to hear from him again, although he knew it might be a while. They’d discussed the pros and cons of Roy’s decision, and in the end, Brackett couldn’t tell him if it was right or wrong, good or bad. It was one more thing outside the realm of his control. All he could do was dispense advice and wish him luck. If it hadn’t been so damned serious, he would have laughed at the irony of that. Luck wasn’t something either paramedic had going for himself today, and everyone knew it.
The fire at the refinery had been brought under control, the sun had set, and the descending darkness brought a strange calm to the scene. Somewhere along the line, the optimistic anticipation of a resolution to the standoff had turned into a deathly quiet vigil. Stanley had left for a while to spend some time with the rest of his off-duty crew. Sinclair was holding a briefing for the Chiefs and PIOs from the fire department and the sheriff’s department, who in turn, would deal with the media and the local politicians. Until he saw Townsend walking in his direction, Brackett hadn’t been aware that he’d been gone, too.
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth when Townsend handed him a large Styrofoam cup filled with some of the blackest coffee he’d seen in a while, and that was saying a lot. “Thanks,” he said, grimacing at the bitter, lukewarm taste, but downing it without hesitation.
Townsend tiredly leaned against the car door. “Did I miss anything?”
“Roy radioed. Johnny’s running a fever. Looks like an infection has set in.” Brackett got out of the squad car and handed the radio to his counterpart. “He’s talked Hutton into letting him keep the radio open in case he needs to talk to me. I tried to read between the lines in what he said. I got the impression Roy was trying to tell me things are getting touchy in there in more ways than one.”
“Sinclair is on his way back. He should be here in a minute. What… what about Gage? You think he can hold out much longer?”
Brackett banged his fist against the roof of the car, making his frustration known. “Roy said he was going to wait another thirty minutes, and if nothing has changed, he’s going to try to remove the fragment. He’s going to have to dig in there and pull it out with his bare hands. It’s risky. Hell, it’s damned dangerous. If the artery starts bleeding, he’s going to have to keep it clamped with his fingers. He’s got nothing else.”
Neither man said anything for a minute, until Townsend broke the grim silence. “I guess there’s not enough morphine he can give Gage to keep him from feeling that, is there?”
“Not without killing him from an overdose. There’s got to be a way to get them out of there.”
“I talked to Sinclair about an idea I had....” Townsend’s explanation was cut off by the captain’s return.
“Doc, one of my men said you spoke with DeSoto. What’s the word?” Listening to what Brackett had to say, Sinclair hoped more than ever Gerald Townsend’s idea would be the answer to their dilemma.
Another sheriff’s squad car pulled up, and Vince Howard got out. Walking around to the passenger side, he opened the door.
Brackett’s dark expression turned black when he saw who got out. “What’s she doing here?”
“I asked her to come,” answered Townsend, “but I didn’t expect her to come dressed like that.”
“You asked her?” Brackett stood rooted to his spot while Sinclair went to talk with Dixie McCall. “Why?”
“Because I think she can help. Because she wanted to help.”
“She’s not going in there,” Brackett huffed.
“That wasn’t my intention. I just want her to talk to Duane over the radio. I think he’ll listen to her.”
“Then, why is she dressed like that?” Brackett took in the sight of Dixie in olive green pants, matching jacket, faded green T-shirt, and dog tags around her neck. “And, how do you know Dixie, anyway?”
In spite of the gravity of the situation, Townsend smiled inwardly at Kelly Brackett’s protectiveness, including a hint of jealousy in the way he asked the question. Dixie had admitted to being in love with the good doctor at one time, and even though she’d said that relationship had cooled, he could see Brackett still harbored some strong feelings for her.
“I’ve known Dixie for years. We met when she first got back to the States from her tour of duty in Korea. She’d been through a lot, and tough as she was… and still is…, she had some things to talk out. We ran into each other again a few years ago when she was visiting a friend at the hospital. Since then, Dixie’s become one of a few nurses who come in regularly to spend time talking with some of the men. Nothing formal, nothing official. She just comes to visit. We find that many of the vets will open up to a woman, especially one who’s been through what they’ve been through, seen what they’ve seen. They’ll tell her things they won’t tell another man.”
Brackett wondered just how much there was he didn’t know about this woman he thought he knew intimately. Rarely mentioning the war, she’d never discussed her volunteer work at the VA hospital.
“Does she know Hutton?”
“They’ve talked a couple of times while he was waiting to see me. From what she said, he never told her much, but I thought maybe, if he heard her voice, he’d at least listen to her.”
“I suppose it’s worth a shot,” Brackett agreed, “but I still want to know why she’s dressed like that. She’d better not be thinking....”
“I’d better not be thinking what?” Dixie asked, as she walked up with Sinclair.
“I know that look, Dix. You’re not going in there.”
“Listen, Kell. I don’t know Duane Hutton well, but the man I met didn’t strike me as a murderer. If I can get in there and talk to him face to face.... Well, I don’t know. Maybe I can convince him to put his gun down and put an end to this.”
“No....”
“Kell, it’s not your decision. Johnny’s and Roy’s lives are on the line. They’re my friends. They’d do the same for me.” Dixie rested her hand on his arm, her voice softening. “You know I’m right.”
Brackett looked to Sinclair for support, but found none. “She’ll just talk to him first, and we’ll see how it goes. Since the radio’s been left open, it’ll make it that much easier. Think about it, Doc. If Hutton lets her in, we’ve not only got a negotiator inside, you’ve got a nurse to help with Gage.”
Brackett was adamant. “I don’t like it. Too much could go wrong.”
“No one said you had to like it, Kell. But, I’m going to do it anyway, you know that.” Dixie smiled, without disguising the sadness in her eyes. “I’ll be okay. It’s Johnny we need to worry about, isn’t it? Captain Sinclair said he’s running a fever now. That can’t be a good sign. If Roy’s going to remove that fragment, I can help. Kell…, it’s Johnny’s life we’re talking about.”
Brackett hated it when she was right, which was most of the time. Having learned the hard way it was pointless to argue when her mind was made up, he unhappily gave up the fight. Taking the radio from Townsend, he hailed Roy. They waited. He tried again, and finally Duane Hutton answered.
“This is Dr. Brackett. I need to talk to Roy… to Sergeant DeSoto.”
“He can’t-”
In the background they heard a strangled scream, and a frantic shout for help. The radio went dead.
With a simple tick of the clock, time had truly become the real enemy.
* * * * * * * *
Roy had seen blood before. Lots of it. Not that it never made a later impression on him, it wasn’t something he usually thought twice about at the time. Now that it was over, he was going to be sick. More than the blood on his hands, it was the intensity of the pain Johnny had suffered that made him turn to hide the heaves that shook his shoulders, twisted his stomach, and made him gag.
Grateful Hutton had known what to do without being told, Roy still couldn’t look at him without animosity. Deluded though he was, he’d caused this to happen. While Johnny might not remember this day clearly, Roy would never be able to forget it. He was drained, exhausted.
The ultimate paradox was the almost heartbreaking tenderness in Duane’s voice, in his touch, when he spoke to Johnny, as he knelt next to the cot, smoothing a giant hand over his fevered forehead. With a tinge of something bordering on jealousy, Roy wanted to shout at him to get away, but couldn’t find it in himself to do it. In his delirium, Johnny had struggled against Roy, pushed him away, begged him to stop hurting him. He watched Johnny finally calm down, responding to Hutton’s soft drawl and gentle manner. Perhaps that was the ultimate paradox.
Just when all the swirling emotions in the room were beginning to sort themselves out, a knock at the door sent them spiraling out of control again. Hutton grabbed the rifle, stood up and took aim at the door. Roy froze and Johnny nearly panicked, unaware of what was happening, except to sense the sudden tension that filled the air.
“Corporal Hutton. This is Lieutenant McCall. Let me in.”
Dixie’s distinctive voice, familiar to each of them, distracted Hutton long enough for Roy to collect his thoughts and react. Not quite fast enough, though. The butt of the rifle swung, catching him in the back of his head. Stunned, but not unconscious, he stumbled and dropped to his knees. The nausea that had threatened once, returned in spades when he felt the gun barrel at his temple.
“Duane, what’s going on in there?” Her voice remained even, authoritative. “Let me in.”
It was at that moment Duane Hutton’s altered reality began a collision course with the present. Confusion mounting, his finger eased from the trigger and he moved the rifle away from Roy’s head. Growing more agitated, Johnny called for Roy, who could do nothing but lay on the floor and put his hand on the cot beside him, in the hope Johnny would know he was there.
Duane stood at the door, no longer knowing what to do, what to believe. This time when Dixie urged him to open the door, he complied, still cautious enough to stand out of the line of fire he knew would come if he presented a target.
Dixie quickly stepped inside. She jumped a little when he slammed the door closed behind her. Her first instinct was to rush to the cot where Johnny lay, his legs covered in blood, to where Roy was crumpled on the floor, his hand resting on Johnny’s arm. Instead, she steeled her nerves and slowly turned around to face Duane Hutton.
“Corporal, I want you to put the rifle down and help me with these men,” she ordered. Holding out a backpack similar to the one Roy brought in, she offered it for inspection. “There’s nothing but medical supplies in there, but go ahead and look.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Hutton ran his hand through the pack. Satisfied, and appearing embarrassed at doubting her word, he pushed it back.
“Now, I want you to help me take care of Sergeant DeSoto and Lieutenant Caldwell. Then, we’re going to have a talk.” Dixie’s confidence that she had at least temporary control was raised when he put the rifle down and followed her across the room. “You take care of the lieutenant, while I tend to DeSoto,” she suggested, relieved when he did as she asked.
Roy groaned when she felt the bump on his head. “Dix....”
“That’s Lieutenant McCall to you, Sergeant,” she reminded quietly. “Can you sit up?”
With her help, Roy managed to do that, and scoot back so he was resting against the wall. “What are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely.
“I’ve come to save the day, what else?” Her dark humor wasn’t intended to make him laugh, but delivered with her deadpan expression, it seemed to go a long way toward making him feel better. “How’s Johnny?”
Roy glanced at the cot, where Hutton was once again talking softly with Johnny. “Not good, Dixie… I mean, ma’am. He was moving around so much with his fever and the pain, I didn’t think I had a choice. I pulled the fragment out. There was a lot of bleeding, but not from the artery. I guess it was spared after all. Dix…, if I’d known, or done something sooner, maybe Johnny wouldn’t be in such bad shape. Maybe....”
“... Roy, don’t second guess yourself.” She could see the self-recrimination written all over his face. “None of this is your fault. You did everything you could. Let’s not give up. If there’s a way out of this, I intend to find it. Are you going to be all right?”
“Yeah. The stars have stopped dancing.” He put his hand to the back of his head, feeling the sticky blood and the bump. “I’ll stay out of the way of rifle butts for while, though.”
She handed him the backpack. “There are clean bandages and some more IVs and MS in there. Kell thought you might be running low on everything as long as you’ve been in here. Do you need any help with Johnny? I want to try to talk to Duane privately and see if I can’t get him to let us take Johnny out of here.”
Roy started to get up slowly, letting her help him until he was steady on his feet. “I can take care of him....” He hesitated, remembering this time. “… Lieutenant. Dix, be careful.”
Dixie tapped Duane on the shoulder, and he moved out of her way. She sat lightly on the edge of the cot, taking Johnny’s pulse, as much from habit, as wanting to find a way to comfort him. When she took her hand away, he reached for it again. His eyes were glazed with fever and pain and drugs, but she imagined she saw a John Gage smile in there too. Dixie patted his hand reassuringly, trying not to give away her grief over his condition. “Hang in there, Johnny,” she whispered, holding his hand until he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
Standing next to the six-six height of Duane Hutton, Roy thought she might have looked diminutive, if not for the determined set of her jaw and the air of authority she assumed. He knew then she could handle herself, and set about taking care of Johnny.
Assuring Duane that Roy would cooperate and not try anything foolish again, Dixie led him back across the room, as far away as they could get to avoid distractions from the conversation she wanted to have. They settled on the floor, backs against the cold wall. She had talked with enough veterans of more kinds of wars than the obvious ones, to know patience was a virtue. Dixie also knew Johnny was on borrowed time.
“Tell me about the lieutenant,” she said softly.
Expecting a dressing-down, Duane Hutton’s whole face smiled when she asked about him. “I never met anyone like him in my whole life. I only knew him for a few days, but he had that somethin’ special about him, you know?”
Dixie nodded, stealing a look across the room. “I know someone like that.”
“He was a couple years older’n me, but he reminded me some of my kid brother. He was hurtin’ so bad, ma’am, I couldn’t believe he could lay there and say things that made me laugh. He told me stories about growin’ up on a farm in Iowa with his seven brothers and sisters, and how much trouble he used to get into with his folks. Said all he ever wanted to do his whole life was be a pilot. When most of us were out hot wirin’ our first car, he stoled a plane. An old crop duster that belonged to a neighbor. He crashed it and walked away without a scratch. I guess his mama whupped him pretty good, then she and his daddy paid for lessons, cause they knew he would do anything to fly again.”
She waited while Duane sat quietly for a few minutes. His smile faded and his eyes slowly filled with anger. Not the kind that frightened her. The kind she’d seen too many times in too many victims of the untold atrocities of war. It was her own. It was an anger over the sense of helplessness they had endured time and again, over the tragedies no one had the power to change, over having to function normally inside a waking nightmare most civilized people couldn’t begin to comprehend, over the inability to remain sane in a world filled with insanity.
Duane’s voice trembled as he recalled those dark days that changed his life forever. “His leg was broke. When they’d take him away to question him, you could hear him screamin’ in pain. They’d kick his leg and twist it all around. I don’t even wanna tell you what else they did to him. No man.... Lord, Miss McCall, no man should have to go through that. It would go on for so long, it… it made me want to scream for them to stop. I didn’t, though, ‘cause I... I was afraid they’d do that to me.”
Drawing his long legs up to his chest, Duane wrapped his arms around his knees and leaned forward, picking absently at his boot laces.
“Duane, it’s all right.” Dixie reached out to touch his arm, to connect with him, to empathize with him. “You weren’t being selfish. We… we were all afraid for our own lives. You weren’t the only one.”
He wanted to smile at the warmth of her gesture, but his heart was saddened by what he saw as a failure on his part. “To this day, I still wonder if I’d of done somethin’ then, maybe it would’ve turned out different.”
Roy heard the words. Virtually the same regret he’d just shared with Dixie. In spite of all that had happened today, it struck a chord deep inside, and he wanted to tell Duane he understood, that being human didn’t mean they had failed. He wanted to tell him that any man could find himself in a situation he didn’t create, powerless to control the outcome, regardless of the decisions he makes, and it didn’t mean he was weak.
It was a tough lesson being dealt with by everyone involved. For Roy, it was a hard-won truth on the road to recovering his self-respect. He looked at Johnny, who was laying quietly with his eyes half open, watching him, listening too.
Duane sighed deeply, feeling the need to share more about the young pilot who had left such an indelible mark upon his life. “When they’d bring him back, he’d lay there and talk about going home again, and about all the girls he had waitin’ for him. Accordin’ to him, he had a list a mile long. For all his talk about bein’ a plain ol’ farm boy, I could tell he was really smart. He kept tellin’ them he just flew the plane and didn’t know nothin’ about all the fancy stuff on board. I knew better, and so did they, but he wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to know. Hell, ma’am, I don’t even know what he knew, but they sure wanted it pretty bad. He made them so mad, I thought they’d kill him, but they’d just beat him for a while and then throw him back in the pen.”
When he paused, Dixie murmured, “Sounds like quite a guy.”
“I told you he was somethin’ special.” Duane almost puffed up with pride for having known the lieutenant. “When he hurt so bad he couldn’t hardly talk, he’d ask me to tell him about myself. No one had ever asked me to do that before. I wasn’t no one special. Just Duane Hutton, born and raised in a dirt-poor town in west Texas. There was just me’n my brother and my mama. M’ daddy disappeared when I was six. So, I told him the stories we’d heard from an old Texas Ranger that used to live outside of town. Cowboy Pete was what we all called him. Us kids thought he was a real hero, and we all wanted to be Rangers when we grew up. Lieutenant Caldwell said I told the stories like they were my own. I’d heard them so many times, I guess sometimes I wished they were mine. I always wanted to be a hero like him…, like Cowboy Pete.”
Dixie shifted sideways to look at him more closely. “The way I heard it, Duane, you are.”
He shook his head vehemently. “I wasn’t no hero. Some said I was a coward. Oh, I was scared. Ma’am, I was so scared…, but I wasn’t no coward neither. I didn’t desert my unit. It wasn’t a made-up story like Cowboy Pete’s. I was in that camp, and Lt. Caldwell was alive when we left it.”
“I believe you, Duane,” Dixie quietly assured him, watching him struggle to continue, his face contorting with sorrow, as tears filled his eyes, remembering like it was yesterday.
“That night, they beat him real bad. Even in the dark, I could tell he was cryin’. I didn’t know what to do, so I just crawled over and held him in my arms and let him cry. He told me he couldn’t take it any more, and he wanted to make them so mad they’d just kill him. He told me was scared that they’d make him talk. He said it was too important to our country to let them know what he knew, and that he’d rather die than be a traitor. He was the hero, Miss McCall, not me. Not me. And then… and then he made me promise to help him. I didn’t know what he meant. I thought he wanted me to help him escape. I didn’t know,” Duane shuddered in despair. “I swear on my mama’s grave, I didn’t know, so I gave him my word.” Duane wiped furiously at the tears in his eyes, needing to finish telling a story he’d never shared with another living soul. The words began to pour as steadily as his tears.
“Then later, the guard was drunk and forgot to lock the gate after he put our food inside the pen. Lt. Caldwell told me to go by myself and get help, but I knew he wouldn’t last, so I took him with me. He was kinda scrawny. Wasn’t nothin’ to carry him, but it was cold, and I got so tired that we had to stop a lot. They were so close on our trail, there was several times I thought we’d be caught for sure, but we always managed to get away. One mornin’, I woke up and smelled the smoke from their campfire. They were about a hundred yards away, but they didn’t know we was there. It was too dangerous to try to move, so we just stayed hiding all day. The lieutenant was… he was freezin’ and there wasn’t nothin’ I could do to keep him warm enough. All I could do was hold him, but I was so cold myself, it didn’t do any good. He was… he was shiverin’ hard and his leg was hurtin’ real bad, and he couldn’t keep from making noise. He was afraid they’d hear him and… and take him back and make him talk. That’s when… that’s when....”
Realizing Duane couldn’t go on at that point, Dixie looked across the room again, giving him some privacy and time to compose himself. Roy was sitting on the floor, his head bent. Johnny’s hand rested on his partner’s shoulder. She suspected the tale of friendship and sacrifice was hitting close to home for those two.
Rather than the break helping, it served only to add to Duane Hutton’s anguish. He was crying so hard, the words choked in his throat, but he forced them to come. “I argued with him. But he… kept sayin’ I promised. He told me I had to do what he asked. He said a man… a man always keeps his promise.” Tears streamed down Duane’s cheeks, as broken sobs wracked his body. “He begged me. Lord forgive me…, he begged me to keep my promise.”
Dixie’s own eyes filled with tears of horror and compassion. She knew by the complete silence from across the room, Johnny and Roy had understood. Lieutenant Caldwell and Corporal Hutton had each carried out his duty with courage and with honor, but Duane had never seen his part that way. Just as he had let Lt. Caldwell cry in his arms, she let him cry in hers, hating once again the things war does to drive a simple man to commit such an act. Some would call it murder, some would call it mercy. Some…, including herself, would call it a living hell.
Duane finally pulled himself from her embrace, and dried his tears. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. In the confession, there had been some measure of peace granted to his tortured soul for what he had done twenty years ago, but he knew he still had to answer for his actions this day.
Her hand touched his arm again. “Duane, you know where you are, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you know we have to get John Gage to a hospital. Will you let us do that now?”
He stood up, and offered his hand, helping her up, too. “Can I talk to him for a minute? In private? I-I wanna tell him something. Then you can go.”
Dixie looked at Roy. He nodded, and left Johnny’s side to stand by her. Duane gently held Johnny’s hand in his. They couldn’t hear what he said, but they did hear Johnny answer him, ‘s okay. Duane took something out of his shirt pocket and pressed it into the palm of Johnny’s hand and closed his fingers around it, then stood up and moved away, with tears trickling down his cheeks again.
Roy found the radio and let them know they were coming out. The cot would do double duty as a stretcher. Making sure the IV lines were securely in place, Roy picked up one end of the cot, Dixie the other, while Duane opened the door.
“Duane, you’re coming, too,” Dixie said, although it sounded more like a question. “Dr. Townsend is outside. He’ll see you get the help you need. I’ll be there if you need me.”
“Yes ma’am. Thank you. You go on ahead, and let them know I’m comin’ peaceful-like. I’m just gonna get your medical bags for you.”
Johnny moaned when they jostled him, and intent on delivering him to the waiting ambulance, neither Roy nor Dixie heard the door softly close behind them.
They hadn’t gone more than twenty yards when the shot rang out.
* * * * * * * *
Roy got out of his car at the same time Dixie got out of hers. Russ Sinclair pulled into the parking lot while they were walking toward the door. They waited for him to catch up. Dixie looked up at the crumbling sign over the door. “Nice place. You come here often?” she asked Roy.
He shrugged with a smile. “Johnny picked it. It’s in walking distance to his apartment. He can’t drive yet, but he’s walking every day.”
“Well, as long as the beer’s cold, and the food’s hot, who cares?” Sinclair asked, swinging the door open.
They spotted Johnny sitting alone in a booth in the back of the bar. He waved them over with a smile. Dixie and Roy sat across from him, Russ slid in next to him.
“Do you come here often?” she asked Johnny.
“Sure do,” he answered happily. “Me ‘n Chet come here to bowl all the time.”
The other three looked around, then looked at each other.
“You mean, you and Chet come here to shoot pool,” Roy corrected him.
“We do?”
The waitress came by to take their drink order. “Beers all around. On me,” Sinclair reminded them.
“Even for lover-boy, here?”
Dixie laughed heartily. “How many has he had already?”
“Just one.”
“Just one?” Roy asked doubtfully.
“Yeah. Just one too many.” The waitress laughed, too. “Don’t worry. We’ll see that he gets home safely. We’ve done it before. We all kinda look after him.”
“So, Johnny. Mike Morton tells me you’ll be going back on light duty next week, and back to the station in another three if all goes well,” Dixie said. “I bet you’re looking forward to that.”
“Yeah, he said I’d be fit as a faddle… fat as a fiddle....” Johnny frowned, knowing that wasn’t quite the way it went. “Ready to go back to work. Three weeks.”
“Is he always this happy when he’s drunk?” Sinclair had visited Johnny in the hospital several times, officially and unofficially. They’d hit it off, and had already planned a fishing trip after Russ retired in the fall and moved north.
The waitress brought the beers and took their dinner orders. Burgers and fries all around. On Sinclair’s tab, although Johnny offered to help pay. He’d gotten his check from the IRS for $4.72, a result of the audit he’d fretted about for a week back then.
Their lighthearted banter eventually slipped away, knowing why they had come together. It had been three long months since that day, and it was not only time for Russ Sinclair to pay up, it was time to put it behind them.
Not as drunk as he wanted to be, Johnny reached in his shirt pocket, holding the object in his hand before laying it carefully in the middle of the table. It had a sobering effect on all four of them. It was Duane Hutton’s bronze star.
Johnny had a hard time finding which of Duane’s words he wanted to share, but finally settled on the last thing Duane had said to him. “He told me medals were for heroes, and it didn’t belong to him. He said he had wanted to give it to Caldwell’s parents, but he could never find them. I don’t know why, but he seemed to think I should be the one to keep it for the lieutenant.”
In the somber silence that followed, Dixie was the first to pick up a glass and raise it in the air. “To Corporal Duane Hutton, American hero.”
Roy’s glass followed, “To Lieutenant Kip Caldwell, American hero.”
Russ added his tribute, “To all the heroes we’ll never know.”
Johnny took a long time joining in. They waited while he stared at the medal on the table. He finally picked up his glass, and held Dixie’s curious eyes with his for a minute, then met Roy’s across the booth.
He raised his glass, as he softly added his salute. “To the heroes I do know.”
A tear sparkled in Dixie’s eye as she remembered something Duane had said, hoping he had finally found the forgiveness he deserved.
I always wanted to be a hero just like him.
“To Cowboy Pete,” she added.
Johnny and Roy shared a look that took them back to another day, another conversation in the small hours of the morning at the station.
Johnny tipped his glass to Roy, his meaning clear between best friends. “To Cowboy Pete.”
Their glasses touched. Four people joined in memory, four voices joined in unison....
“To heroes.”
* * * * * * * *
What makes a man a hero,
is it courage, hidden deep?
Is it sacrifice in face of horrors,
of which he cannot speak?
Will we know what he has done,
in our hearts, his memory keep?
Would you recognize a hero,
if you passed him on the street?
~ Nan~
