Chapter 3
chapter
three
"Martinez, when's the last time that SCBA was decontaminated?" I asked, running my hand along the air bottle's housing.
"Last week after that garage fire on Maple, L.T.," he replied, pulling up the maintenance log on his tablet. "Full wash-down, dried, and inspected. Greco checked all the bottle dates this morning — we're all current through next quarter."
I nodded, checking the regulator connections myself. Trust but verify. "Thompson, how's that hose bed looking?"
"Like a work of art," Thompson called from the back of Engine 18, his voice dripping with pride. "Minuteman load, packed tight enough to bounce a quarter off. A-shift left us their usual triple-layer disaster, but we fixed that before coffee."
"Before coffee?" Martinez looked impressed. "That's dedication."
"That's survival," Thompson corrected. "You think I'm going into a fire with their spaghetti special? I choose life."
I climbed up to inspect his work. The hose lay in perfect folds, each section positioned for rapid deployment without snags. Thompson might be salty as hell, but when it came to the technical work, he was flawless.
"Outstanding. Benny, pump panel?"
"All green, Lieutenant. Pressure tested, foam proportioner calibrated, deck gun checked and secured." Benny Carter's voice carried the quiet confidence of twenty-three years on the job. "Running smoother than A-shift's bald heads."
"Hey now," Rodriguez called over from Truck 12, "leave Santoro's chrome dome out of this. That thing's a safety hazard — blinds pilots on approach to the airport."
My phone buzzed. Cap's ringtone, the one I'd chosen just for him. Simple Man. The joking died away immediately.
Everyone knew that ringtone.
"Excuse me," I told the crew, stepping into the apparatus bay where the engine noise would mask the conversation.
"Morning, Cap."
"Izzy." His voice sounded tired but steady. These days, I cataloged every conversation, noted every cough, every pause. "Just confirming today's appointment. Three thirty pickup still work for you?"
"Of course. Regular treatment?"
"Yeah, just the usual poison drip," he said with dark humor that didn't quite mask the fear underneath. "Margaret's coming, too. Says I need supervision."
"She's not wrong."
"Et tu, kiddo?" But I could hear the smile in his voice. "How's the shift going?"
"Quiet morning. Nothing big.”
"Always nice." He paused, and I heard him take a careful breath. "Alright. Stay safe."
"I will. See you at three thirty."
Cap's medical retirement had been processed two months ago, pancreatic cancer listed as having come from a line-of-duty exposure.
After thirty-two years of breathing smoke and chemicals, his body had finally said enough.
The treatments were buying time, nothing more, but we'd take every day we could get.
I hung up and rejoined the crew, pushing down the familiar knot in my stomach. Six more hours until shift change, then straight to pick up Cap. Focus on what you can control, Delgado.
"Alright, let's finish checks," I said. "Rodriguez, how's that ladder truck running?"
From across the bay, Rodriguez looked up from Truck 12's equipment compartment. "All systems green, Lieutenant. Hydraulics tested, stabilizers functioning, aerial smooth as butter. Checked and double-checked."
"Good. Make sure your crew's following decon protocols."
Rodriguez nodded seriously. The younger guys thought I was being paranoid about gear contamination, but they hadn't watched what thirty-two years of "just doing the job" could do to the best man you'd ever known.
"Hey, L.T.," Martinez called out, "you seeing this?"
I turned to find most of the crew gathered around the TV in the day room, staring at the screen with expressions of absolute horror.
On screen, actors in firefighter gear were standing in what appeared to be a kitchen, their SCBA masks dangling casually from their necks while smoke rolled past them.
"What the hell are they doing?" Thompson demanded, pointing at the TV.
"Milwaukee Fire," Benny said grimly. "Rodriguez put it on during breakfast."
"I didn't know it would be this bad," Rodriguez protested from Truck 12's bay.
On screen, one of the actors was leaning against a kitchen counter, his mask resting on the same surface where food was being prepared. The entire crew recoiled as if they were watching someone juggle live grenades.
"Turn it off," O'Malley called from the truck. "I can't watch anymore."
"No, wait," Thompson said, his voice filled with morbid fascination. "I want to see how much worse it gets."
The actor picked up his mask and put it directly on his face without any cleaning, having just had it sitting on a contaminated surface next to someone's lunch.
"JESUS CHRIST!" Martinez yelped, actually stepping back from the TV. "That thing's never been cleaned! Ever!"
"It's like they're trying to give themselves cancer," Rodriguez muttered.
"Ope, sorry there rook, but lemme tell ya how we do things in Milwaukee," the actor playing the seasoned veteran was telling his "probie" with theatrical wisdom, "When that bell rings, you grab your gear and you run into that fire like you're headed to a fish fry on Friday."
"Did he just say 'ope'?" Benny asked. "Do people actually say that?"
"Alright, enough torture," I said, though I'll admit I was transfixed by the horror show, too. "Turn it off before someone has a stroke."
"But L.T., they're about to eat food that was sitting next to the dirty gear," Thompson protested. "This is like watching a snuff film."
"Off. Now. That's an order."
Rodriguez grabbed the remote and switched to a cooking show. The visible tension in the room decreased immediately, though Martinez was still muttering about "criminal negligence" and "lawsuit waiting to happen."
"How do they expect people to take us seriously when that's what they put on TV?" Martinez asked, still looking genuinely shaken.
"Because most people don't know any better," Benny said. "They think it's just soot, not carcinogens. They see the hero shots, not the guys dying at fifty from throat cancer."
"Speaking of soot," Thompson said, breaking the silence with forced energy, "when's the last time you truckies actually cleaned your gear instead of just posing for calendar photos?"
"We follow protocol," Rodriguez shot back, grateful for the return to normal. "Unlike you water fairies who think soap is optional."
"Soap? We use industrial degreaser. You need it when you actually work for a living."
"Work? You mean standing around pointing a hose while we do all the thinking?"
"Thinking? Is that what you call it when you spend twenty minutes figuring out which end of the ladder goes up?"
"At least we don't treat nozzle time like foreplay. Maybe if you finished faster, we wouldn't have to ventilate so much."
"Hah! Makes perfect sense, 'cause teaching a truckie is like having sex with a rock. It's really fucking hard."
"Your wife tell you that?" Rodriguez grinned. "Makes sense, she's been looking for something hard — "
"Alright, children," I interrupted before Thompson could launch himself across the day room. "Save it for the training ground."
Battalion Chief Evans appeared in the bay doorway, coffee in hand like always. The man had a sixth sense for showing up right when the crew was getting rowdy. "Morning, Delgado. Equipment checks going well?"
"Yes, sir. All apparatus ready for service."
"Good." He glanced toward the day room where Thompson and Rodriguez were still trading glares. "Crew seems... spirited this morning."
"Just the usual engine-truck rivalry, sir. Keeps them sharp."
"Right." Evans shifted awkwardly, doing that thing where he wanted to say something but couldn't quite get there. "Listen, how's Captain O'Sullivan doing? Heard he's got another treatment scheduled."
"He's hanging in there. Stays positive. The whole department's been supportive."
"Good man. Thirty-two years of service, and half the department still calls him for advice." Evans nodded approvingly. "Hell, I called him last week about that hazmat incident on the south side. You tell him the battalion's thinking of him."
"I will, sir."
After Evans left, Thompson appeared at my elbow. "BC's not wrong about Cap. Man's got more friends in this department than anyone else. Did you know he showed up at Rodriguez's wedding? Kid didn't even work under him, but Cap heard his folks couldn't make it from Puerto Rico, so he stood in."
"That's Cap," I said. He had a way of knowing exactly when someone needed a quiet word or a firm push. He'd pulled me out of more than one dark moment over the years, especially after my dad died.
The alarm tones cut through our conversation. "Engine 18, Truck 12, Medic 402, respond to vehicle accident with possible entrapment, Highway 45 northbound at Montrose Road."
The world snapped into focus. The banter died. The crew moved as one.
"Engine 18 responding," I said into my shoulder mic, already swinging into the officer's seat. Behind me, I heard Truck 12's diesel roar to life.
The ride out was all business, Benny navigating traffic while I pulled up the location on our mobile data terminal. Highway 45 at Montrose — that was a bad stretch, a curve where people always took the bend too fast.
"Truck 12, Engine 18," Captain Miller's voice came over the radio. "We'll set up for stabilization. You guys handle fire suppression if needed."
"Copy that, Truck 12."
This was the dance — ego and rivalry vanished the second the tones dropped. Out here, we were one team with one goal.
We were first on scene by thirty seconds. A sedan lay on its passenger side against the guardrail, roof crumpled where it had made contact. Fluids leaking, that sharp smell of coolant and oil mixing with morning dew.
My training took over. "Benny, position us for a block. Thompson, Martinez, grab the water can and stand by. Truck 12's gonna need room to work."
Miller's crew was already pulling up, their movements efficient and purposeful. I saw O'Malley grabbing the combi tool while Rodriguez set up cribbing. My crew positioned for fire watch — with fluids leaking and a potential ignition source, we couldn't be too careful.
I made my way to the vehicle for patient contact. Inside, a young woman with wide, terrified eyes, suspended by her seatbelt, driver's side door crushed inward.
"Hi, I'm Lieutenant Delgado with the fire department," I said, my voice calm and steady. "We're going to get you out of here. What's your name?"
"Ashley," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I can't... I can't feel my legs."
"Okay, Ashley. Sometimes that happens when you're in this position. We're going to move very carefully. The truck company's the best in the city — they'll have you out in just a few minutes. Can you wiggle your fingers for me?"
She could. Good sign. I kept talking to her, maintaining that calm presence while Miller's crew worked the hydraulics. The sound of tearing metal and breaking glass filled the air, but Ashley's eyes stayed locked on mine.
Jack McKenzie from Medic 402 appeared at my shoulder, his trauma bag in hand. We exchanged a quick, professional nod — I'd been maintaining c-spine stabilization without even thinking about it.
"Patient is conscious and alert, Jack. Complaining of numbness in lower extremities, but that could be positional. Airway's clear. We'll have her out for you in three."
"Copy that, L.T."
In four minutes and thirty seconds, Miller's crew had the door off and the dash rolled. Jack slipped in with a c-collar while I maintained stabilization. Together, we got Ashley on a backboard and into Jack's care. As they loaded her into the ambulance, she grabbed my hand.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"You did great, Ashley. They're going to take good care of you."
It was a clean, efficient operation. Textbook. Engine and truck working together like we'd never exchanged a harsh word. That's what mattered out here.
Back in the engine, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving that familiar post-call quiet.
We'd controlled the chaos. We'd fixed the problem.
Miller's crew had already left — truck companies always cleared first, the glory boys — but there'd be a case of beer from them in our fridge tomorrow.
That was the way it worked. We talked shit, but we took care of each other.
"Good stabilization, L.T.," Thompson said quietly. "That girl was lucky you kept her calm."
"That's the job," I said, but I was thinking about Ashley's eyes, that terror slowly replaced by trust. This was why we did it. This was what made all the false alarms and politics worth it.
But as we drove back to the station, the knot in my stomach returned, tighter than before.
In four hours, I'd be sitting in a different kind of chair, watching a different kind of professional try to save someone.
I could cut a person out of twisted metal, keep them calm in their worst moment, coordinate a rescue with precision.
But I couldn't cut the cancer out of the man who was more of a father to me than my own had ever been.
And for that problem, there was no tool, no training, no textbook solution. There was only being there, the same way he'd always been there for me.
Three thirty couldn't come fast enough.