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// First Worker 
// Story: Report From Rescue Company 1 
// by BRBrony9 
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The group of fireponies in firehouse 25 clustered around the walkie-talkie in the kitchen, tuned to the Hooflyn dispatch frequency. 'It's not looking good over there,' Lieutenant Coppertop muttered. 'A fifth alarm inside a half hour?'

'This is nuts. An aircraft carrier on fire? The hell is the Navy playing at?' Striker questioned. 'I'm glad I'm not on a Hooflyn company today.'

'Well don't hold your breath,' Chief Firebrand muttered. 'There might be plenty of work for Manehattan companies over there, too. Depends if they can get it under control.'

Ember Dawn munched on an oatcake, partly from hunger, partly from nerves. Surely Engine 25 weren't going to get called over to this fire? So far today they had responded to a pair of medical runs for cardiac symptoms, and a single-vehicle auto accident with no injuries. Routine, standard, normal. Not an aircraft carrier on fire. That wasn't normal.

'Car 3 to Hooflyn.'

The radio crackled. Car 3 was the callsign of the Chief of Department, the highest ranking uniformed officer in the MFD, a unicorn mare by the name of Starfire Storm, who had responded to the scene to take command once the scale of the incident had become clear. Her aide and chauffeur was now speaking into the radio.

'Go ahead, Car 3.'

'Progress report for Hooflyn Box 0904. At this time, Car 3 has fire on the lower decks of a 1000-foot by 300-foot dry-docked aircraft carrier. We have twelve lines stretched into the vessel, all in operation. Three tower ladders are set up for equipment transfer and evacuation. Primary searches throughout the vessel are underway, they will be heavily delayed due to the size and layout of the ship. At this time we have a total of ninety-two 10-45s, codes to follow. We still have approximately one thousand workers unaccounted for. By orders of Chief of Department Starfire Storm, transmit a sixth alarm on this box, K.' 

'Ninety two 10-45s?' Deep Blue muttered. A 10-45 was the radio code for a fire-related injury to a civilian, either from burns or smoke inhalation.

'Forget that. A thousand workers unaccounted for?' Striker shook his head in disbelief. 'That's fucking nuts. A thousand?'

Beep-Boop.

'Engine.'

'Shit, here we go...!' Striker grunted, leaping from his chair. Dawn's heart nearly froze in his chest as he jumped up as well.

'Engine goes!' Dark Flash, acting as the housewatch pony, shouted out across the apparatus floor. 'Relocation to Hooflyn, Engine 94's quarters!'

Dawn relaxed a little. A relocation was treated as an emergency in terms of running with lights and sirens on, but it was not a call to the scene of the carrier fire. When resources in any specific borough or geographic area were severely depleted by a major incident or a particularly high number of minor calls, units from elsewhere in the city would be relocated in to occupy the vacant firehouses and ensure continued coverage of the affected area. That's all it was; they were moving to another firehouse to cover for Engine 94.

They mounted up, and they rolled out, siren wailing, heading down to the Ponyburg Bridge. The huge plume of smoke from the fire was visible as they turned onto the roadway, drawing a mixture of mutters and grunts of disbelief from the crew. The aircraft carrier was vaguely discernible through the haze, wreathed in the products of the combustion which was ongoing inside it. 

Dawn's heart picked up again, as he knew his brother was down there somewhere. He uttered a brief, silent prayer to Celestia for Blaze to be alright, to survive the incident and come out unscathed. His brother was tough, resourceful, physically strong, everything needed from a member of the Rescue Company. But he was still a pony, and ponies could get hurt.

'Engine 25 to Manehattan, leaving your frequency, going to Hooflyn,' Coppertop spoke into the radio. He changed frequencies, in time to hear the tail end of another progress report from the scene. '...searches are still ongoing on all decks. At this time we have a total of one hundred and twelve 10-45s. EMS has determined that of those, we have a total of ninety code 4s, eight code 3s, and fourteen code 1s.'

'Fourteen dead...' Dark Flash shook her head sadly.

'We still have approximately one thousand workers unaccounted for. By orders of Chief of Department Starfire Storm, transmit a seventh alarm, and special call three additional ladder companies and one additional rescue, K.'

'10-4, Car 3.' There was a loud and long alert tone. 'Hooflyn announcing a seventh alarm has been transmitted for box 0904, the Hooflyn Navy Yard, for a fire on board an aircraft carrier. Hooflyn announcing a seventh alarm transmitted for box 0904, Hooflyn Navy Yard, fire is on board an aircraft carrier. Time is 11:40 hours, dispatcher 210.'

Dawn shook his head in disbelief. A seventh alarm fire on his second tour on the job? When his father joined the department, there was nothing officially beyond a fifth alarm; the fifth was as high as the signals went. Anything beyond that would have to come as special calls for individual units, or in extreme cases, a 'Borough Call,' when units from another borough would be summoned to a particular location in that borough in order to assemble and then respond into the major incident. The process was streamlined in modern times thanks to computer-aided dispatch, and now the number of alarms called could theoretically rise from five to ten to twenty to thirty and into infinity, until the entire department was at the scene. At least Engine 25 had not been assigned.

'Engine 25 to Hooflyn, on your frequency responding to relocation,' Coppertop spoke into the radio during a lull in traffic. He received an immediate response,

'Engine 25, what is your current location, K?'

'Engine 25 to Hooflyn, we are on the Ponyburg Bridge,' he replied. There was a momentary pause with an open mic; ponies could be heard speaking hurriedly in the background, the hubbub of a very busy dispatch communications office. 

'Alright Engine 25, you're being redirected,' the dispatcher answered back after a moment. 'Take in the 7th alarm, box 0904. Respond to South Street and report to the staging area, K.'

Dawn's heart both sank and raced at the same time. They were being redirected to the fire; his first fire. His first fire ever.

Striker, sitting beside him, gave him a nudge in the ribs. 'Hey, kiddo. Forget that false alarm the other day. This, THIS is what you tell your foals about.'

Dawn nodded slowly. This wasn't his first run, but it was his first worker- his first working fire. This was what his foals would ask him about. This was what they would want to know. Daddy, daddy, daddy was a firepony! What was your first fire, daddy?

He thought of Rosebush Roulade. They had met at college when he had been studying for his degree in Fire Sciences, following in the hoofsteps of his brother. She had been there in the student union's nightclub one evening, and so had he, and there had been many drinks, and he had found himself in bed with the red-and-pink Pegasus mare, waking up the next morning hardly remembering a damn thing. What he did remember was that he wanted more of her, and he thanked Celestia every day that more of her was exactly what he managed to get. Over the following years, they had dated and wooed each other, until their college years were done. He graduated with a degree in Fire Sciences, and she had hers in Economics, and now they lived in a loft in the borough of Princess. 

He had to smile a little at his luck, and also his misfortune. He loved Rosebush, he loved, or thought he loved, firefighting. But this was no ordinary fire, and his brother was there, and maybe he loved him more than he loved Rosebush, and if he didn't, then...it didn't matter. He loved them both, and he loved his dad, and he had to make his dad proud of him. He had to make them all proud of him.

'Engine 25, 10-4. Responding to the 7th alarm,' Lieutenant Coppertop replied to the order. Once they were off the bridge, they headed down to the surface streets and along toward the Navy Yard. They headed in through the gate, into the interior of the yard, where dozens of emergency vehicles were parked up. There were engines with coiled hoses spilling out, trucks with their ladders raised high, ambulances with their rear doors open to take patients, the Mask Service Unit refilling air bottles, and there were the Rescues- Rescue 2, Rescue 4- and Rescue 1, Dawn could see. Nopony was in the rig. Nopony was around the rig. That meant his brother was in there somewhere, in the ship, in the fire and the smoke and the hell of this burning vessel. 

He knew that Blaze had been in many fires before, as a member of truck and engine companies, but this felt to him somehow different. This was a big fire, a huge fire, and maybe it was no more dangerous to an individual firepony than a fire in a private house or a laundrette. But it certainly seemed that way.

The engine came to a halt and the crew dismounted. Dawn followed, and he adjusted his SCBA and his helmet in preparation for going into the fire. 

'Hey, 25!' somepony called. Dawn looked around, to see another firepony in full gear and wearing a grin. 'Got a probie on this call? Good luck with that!'

'Not just a probie, this is his first worker!' Striker replied with a cheery grin. Nothing seemed to dissuade him from possessing such a facial expression.

'Oh, seriously?' the other firepony laughed. 'Well Celestia be damned. Hey, probie! Good luck, kid! This is a hell of a debut for you!' 

Dawn closed his eyes for a moment. The other pony may laugh, but deprecation of fellow fireponies was a common trait amongst members of any fire department. It was a coping mechanism, one with which outsiders may well find no affiliation, and may well find offensive in terms of the teasing and hazing applied to members. But it was considered a broadly important means of integrating new members into the important synergy needed to form a good team of fireponies. No matter what some outsiders may think of it, hazing in the fire department was alive and well. It was a way of dealing with the stress of the situation and the very real danger they were about to walk into.

Coppertop returned from the command post. 'Alright, 25! We're relieving Engine 243 on their line. Hangar deck. Gear up, check your masks and bottles. Keep your eye on your air meters, especially you, probie. You're the backup, so you stick like glue to Striker, ok?'

'Got it, sir!' Dawn nodded. He gave his equipment a once over, and then did the same again and again, partly to be absolutely sure and partly to distract himself from the fact that this was his first working fire, and as the other firepony had said, it was a hell of a debut.

'Don't worry, kiddo,' Striker gave him a nudge. 'Stick with me and you'll make it home to...what was her name, you said? Rosebud Rub?'

'Rosebush Roulade,' Dawn replied. 'You ever seen a fire like this before?'

'Not exactly,' Striker replied, as Engine 25 headed for the ship. 'This is a first, probably for everypony here.'

The engine crew were guided up one of the ladders to the hangar deck. Dawn made his way up. Smoke was billowing out from the hatchway that led inside. 'Alright, follow this line in!' Coppertop called. 'Set your radios on Fireground 1. Masks on, check your meters, don't get separated. Keep one hoof on the line at all times. Look out for your brothers and sisters. Good luck, Celestia protects.'

Striker led the way. He was riding as the nozzlepony, and would be operating the hose when they reached and relieved Engine 243. As backup, Dawn was right behind him, ready to take over if needed, and if not, to ensure the line was functional; straightening out kinks, making sure the hose wasn't caught on doorways or obstacles, and making sure it wasn't damaged. It was the assignment most fireponies didn't want, because it lacked the glamour of the nozzlepony beating back the flames with his precision sprays of water, but it still exposed them to the same dangers. As a result, it was the assignment usually assigned to a probie.

Dawn followed Striker in after affixing his mask. He was no longer breathing fresh, natural air, but instead air from his back-mounted cylinder. The tank was supposed to last 45 minutes, giving breathing air for three quarters of an hour. But under the strenuous conditions of a fire, with heavy physical exertion, heat and stress, the true operating time was usually about half of that, sometimes even less.

The smoke, even just inside the entrance, was thick. It poured out at them; it was like walking through a blizzard with a blindfold on. Their masks protected their faces from the irritating particulates, kept the smoke from their lungs and kept them breathing, but it didn't help them see any more than a few feet ahead at best. Dawn kept a hoof on the line as instructed, and the other on Striker's rump. Dark Flash followed behind, doing the same to him to keep on track and keep the unit safely together. 

The companionway was narrow and heavily charged with smoke, but the hoseline already laid by Engine 243 led them to where they needed to go. The corridor ended and they found themselves in the hangar deck, and in contrast, it was like emerging into a huge subterranean cave. It was still smoke-filled, but here, most of the smoke had risen to the ceiling, which was some twenty feet above the floor. Normally filled with aircraft, the hangar instead was loaded with construction materials and supplies for the refit. There were planks of wood, spools of wire, scaffolding, generators, lights, crates and barrels, mobile cranes. There were even individual buildings, small wooden huts constructed to store particular supplies or to act as rest areas for the workers. Most things there were flammable, and much of it was burning, having spread from the initial spot where the fire had started. Flames were in full command of the far end of the hangar, a wall of heat and fire, an inferno contained within the steel hull of the carrier.

Eight hose lines were deployed on the hangar deck, water pouring out and spraying the blaze, a deluge to try and quench the flames. Everything that could burn was burning, and the 2-1/2 inch diameter hoses could only do so much against the flames. If this blaze was burning in a building, it would have been surrounded by tower ladders and deck guns and hosed down with high-caliber streams. But this was not a building; it was a ship, and all of that smoke and heat had nowhere to go. Whenever one of the hose streams splashed on the steel structure, the water flashed into a cloud of steam. The walls and ceiling and floor of the hangar bay were hot enough to cause the effect, as the heat had been building and building with no reliable way of dissipating. While some of the smoke had found outlets to the exterior through vents and hatchways, there was simply too much of it for the area to be reliably vented, and so much of the rest of the vessel was charged with the stuff, filling companionways and compartments and contributing much to the panic among the large numbers of workers. 

There was no doubt that this was a potential disaster in the making. All the ingredients were present; heavy fire, thick and plentiful smoke, difficulty in accessing the fire, the confusing layout of the ship, large number of missing and trapped workers. Hooflyn Box 0904 could turn into a massacre.