Page 1 of Fire & Ice

Chapter 1

The Halligan Baris crowbar-like, multipurposed tool that is widely considered to be the most versatile hand tool for a multitude of fireground tasks. It is not uncommon for some firefighters to be possessive over their favorite tool, or to show a particular one added affection.

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By the time the engine carrying Station Fifteen’s crew pulls up outside the dispatched address, Tripp Truett—noting the slight screech of the brakes and scratching a mental note to check the pads later—can already tell that the house is going to be a total loss.

“You can leave your masks off for now, boys.” Captain Gunnar’s calm and even voice filters in over the headset Tripp’s still wearing as he peers out the side window of the cab. As always, their platoon leader is both confident and reassuring, inciting the squad to follow his lead. Tripp’s not worried. His eyes wander across the fireground, dancing over men in bunkers, precariously propped ladders, and trucks with flashing lights. They finally catch and linger on the brilliant yellow and orange tones of the flames erupting violently from the third floor of the little rowhome, unable to keep from noticing the way they lick and light up the dark, midnight sky above.

It’s almost beautiful.Almost.

This is nobody riding Engine Fifteen’s first rodeo, and as such, no one makes the rookie mistake of bolting from the truck before it’s even been directed toward its final parking space. Out of the path from drafting hoses being laid (but still close enough to be useful), their engineer, Theo, throws the e-brake, whichsends the truck into a high-idle to drive power to the ladder and pump panel.

As Tripp awaits direction (with his air pack wedged awkwardly between him and the seat and therefore digging obnoxiously into his back), his blood thrums hot in his veins. It’s been many years and hundreds of fires both large and small since Tripp was new to all of this, but the shine has yet to wear off. This is what heloves,what he feels called to be doing, but that doesn’t mean the reality isn’t stressful.

Adjusting the straps of the pack where they press against the bunker jacket covering his chest, Tripp unconsciously double-checks every piece of gear he’s wearing. Almost a nervous habit, the routine to do so is second-nature. His hands move assuredly over his uniform while his eyes watch the fire, his brain and ears remaining alert and tuned in for Gunnar’s orders.

Most of Tripp’s gear is still in standby mode—his air tank is full, his PASS device has fresh batteries, and his self-contained breathing apparatus is hanging from his neck. His hood and gloves are tucked inside the helmet bearing his name and rank on the front, and the helmet itself is cradled protectively in his lap. Those items all stay where they are, for the moment. Since Gunnar instructed them to hold off on packing up fully, Tripp’s happy to oblige. He’s not trying to turn himself into a human oven-mitt any sooner than necessary.

The rest of his checklist includes things that he could (and has) donned in his sleep: heavy, fire-rated turnout pants, coat, and boots, and all of it stacked over his regular duty uniform blues.

Tripp does have a secret, though. No one can see, but in addition to all of his regulation safety gear, he’salsowearing his “happy hamburger” socks. Black, novelty tube socks, withred heels and little cheeseburgers stitched all over them. It’s innocent—just the tiniest act of rebellion squirreled away beneath layers of clothing and fire-resistant Kevlar. Good luck socks are Tripp’sthing, and sure, maybe no one actuallyknowsthey’re his thing, but no one can take them away, either.

The engine Tripp’s currently sitting in happens to be one of several trucks requested from his base, Station Fifteen, and since they were dispatched on an upgraded alarm, they’re late to the party. As the third company to roll up to the active fireground, it’s no surprise to see that the fight to beat the fire back is already going full-force. There’s a crew inside the house executing an interior attack, a second engine setting up for exterior shots, plus the Rapid Intervention Team (RIT, for short) is packed up and standing by, hoping to remain unneeded.

Tripp’s limited view from the truck’s window tells him that a Battalion Chief is here, judging by the Sup vehicle abandoned halfway up on the sidewalk. There’s also a handful of cop cars blocking traffic, and at least one ambulance curb-sitting a couple of houses down.

Distantly, over the crackling, snapping noise of the fire and people yelling to each other outside of the truck, Tripp hears Gunnar speaking into the radio clipped to his shoulder, communicating with whoever has scene command at the moment. Tripp assumes that would be one of the chiefs and the owner of that shoddily-parked Supervisor SUV—maybe Assistant Chief Walter, but probably Mickey Miller. Their Battalion Chief isn’t exactly one to sit this kind of thing out.

“Alrigh’ fellas,” Gunnar starts, relaying the message through the headsets from his place in the passenger’s seat at the front of the cab. “Chief Miller wants another stream on the northwest windows of the third floor, right where the visibleflames are pushing through. There’s a missing kid down on the first level, but Eleven is on it.”

The ‘Eleven’ Gunnar is referring to would be the first-in crew—the company on the initial dispatch, and the one currently rushing through the front door of the rowhome with their hose line charged and at the ready. Even though everyone on Engine Fifteen knew this was coming, there’s a murmur of disappointment-laced acknowledgment that ripples through the truck as Tripp and his crew nod and comply, exiting the vehicle with laden-downthudsas their boots hit the concrete.

The general dissent doesn’t linger. It lasts for only a fleeting moment before evaporating completely as everyone springs into action. Jealousy forgotten, they move efficiently as a team, working to get their truck ready and their hoses connected, charged, and firing as much water as possible onto the burning house.

Tripp’s eyes water when the smoky air hits them, but he blinks the discomfort away.

He gets the grumbling. He’s right there with his co-workers, not that he’d everoutwardlylet on. Every part of the job is important, every responding unit (and its crew) is as valuable as the next. There are no small tasks, everyone’s a hero, and blah, blah, freakingblah.It’s just that Tripp—and every other red-blooded, bunker-wearing human on this scene—reallywants to be inside of that house.

That’s just a fact. Firefighters do not sit around dreaming and longing for the day when they get to straddle a five-inch in the middle of a soggy street lit only by emergency lights, directing high-pressure water into a broken window high above their heads.

To be completely fair, that’s definitely not theworsttask in the world, either. Regardless, everyone wants to be the one on the nozzle. The hero leading the rescue team, theguy—gender neutral—in the absolutefuckingthick of it. No one wants to be left hanging on the periphery, standing on the edge of the action and doing the necessary—but not nearly as exciting—firefighter version of busywork.

And yet, that’s exactly where Tripp finds himself today. Orders are orders.

After just a few minutes, though, he ends up passing the hose off to a probie, Aydin, who’s dying for it. Tripp’s antsy, wanting to wander around and see what Mickey’s doing, what his plan is for this whole show. Hey, if he can’t get in on the real action, he can at least be nosy and find out what’s happening inside the burn straight from the source. Nothing more he can do for Fifteen right now, anyway. Well, besides making sure that Aydin sprays straight, and keeping Theo company at the pump controls.

There’s also the fact that in the several minutes Tripp was on the hose, there was absolutely no sign of Engine Eleven’s crew. Not a flash of bunker jacket or a single radio crackle. That’s sort of suspicious—makes Tripp’s skin crawl. At the very least, the crew should be updating command via their radios, but there are no PASS devices alarming, so they must be alright. Vaguely, Tripp considers the friends he has at Eleven and wonders who, exactly, is manning their station tonight.

He rounds the truck and lets Gunnar know that he’s going to take a look around, receiving the “A-OK” on his request without any kind of fuss. On the hunt for Mickey, Tripp has to pick his way around hose lines and the multiple hydrants being hooked up to help douse the flames—they’re everywhere, criss-crossing the pavement like snakes. Other crews are busysoaking the adjacent houses to prevent the fire from jumping, but there’s so damn manypeopleon the scene that Tripp feels almost superfluous.

Maybe Mickey’ll have something I can do,he thinks to himself, stupidly hopeful. Truthfully, smart money would be on Mickey calling him a dumbass and telling him to fuck off out of his hair so that he can concentrate properly, but Tripp’s just bored enough to risk it.

Before he can even walk five feet away from his truck, though, alarms start sounding. A combination of PASS devices activating from inside the house, emergency buttons being pressed, and panicked yelling over the radios themselves pierces the distracted fog of his brain and fills the night air.

“Tripp!” Gunnar hollers out from somewhere behind him, and Tripp whirls around, ready. “Pack up, cupcake. Eleven’s out, we’re taking over the rescue. That kid is still in there.”

In an instant, everything except for the task ahead of him flies out of Tripp’s head. His focus sharpens and narrows as he mentally reviews what will be expected of him, visually assessing the burning house using his limited knowledge of the layout in order to develop a plan of attack. In his peripheral vision, the RIT team—already packed up and ready—is charging through the darkened front door, off to rescue whoever went down from Eleven and to bring their whole team back out safely. The RIT assignment is ninety-five percent standing around doing nothing, and five percent pure adrenaline.

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