Report From Rescue Company 1

by BRBrony9

Progress

'Progress report for your 7th Alarm at Box 0904. At this time, Car 3, Chief of Department Starfire Storm, has a fire on the hangar deck of a 1000ft-by-300ft dry-docked aircraft carrier. We have eighteen lines stretched and in operation. Four tower ladders are set up for transporting equipment and personnel. Fire is on the hangar deck, with extension to the galley deck and the machinery deck. We have a heavy smoke condition throughout the vessel. Primary searches are underway but will be heavily delayed. At this time, we have a total of two hundred ninety seven 10-45s. EMS is working on the codes for them. Fire is still doubtful. By orders of Chief of Department Starfire Storm, special call one additional Squad Company, two additional Ladder Companies, two additional Battalion Chiefs, and the second Tactical Support Unit, K.'

Ember Blaze laid the unicorn down on the large black sheet. Black did not mean dead, necessarily; technically, under triage conditions, it meant sufficiently likely to die even with medical intervention that resources cannot be wasted on treating the victim. In cold, hard facts, it meant that those unfortunates would simply be left to expire whenever Celestia called for them, at whatever point their injuries would prove naturally fatal. To tie up expert doctors or nurses or paramedics on attempting to treat such cases would be at best futile, and at worst, criminally negligent, if there were other victims whose lives could be saved with their help, but which would almost certainly be lost without it.

It was the calculus of triage, and it was among the most unpalatable aspects of any firepony's job. Blaze fully understood the reasoning behind it, and the necessity of the system. Medical resources were limited, just like any other aspect of emergency response. There were only so many medics on scene. They had to do the best they could for the greatest number. Anypony marked as red tagged had critical injuries, but they were injuries which the medics had deemed were treatable with on-scene resources to a level where the patient could be transported to hospital with the expectation that they would reach it alive. That was the key to triage; treating and transporting somepony barely clinging to life, who would require the attentions of several ambulance crews to stabilise enough to even move onto a stretcher, not to mention a trauma team at the hospital, only to most likely die anyway, was a terrible waste of resources.

At a smaller incident, like a car accident with three or four victims, additional ambulances could be called for without putting too much of a strain on resources. But this fire was producing prodigious numbers of injured ponies. Some merely needed a couple of minutes' oxygen therapy, or a simple bandage or dressing. Others would have needed immediate admission to an intensive care unit to have even the smallest chance of survival. They were the black tags; some still clinically alive, but on the verge of death. All the medics could do was administer pain medication and move on to treat those who were treatable.

Blaze saw a small group of fireponies nearby, helmet off, turnout coats undone or removed, sweat pouring from their bodies, sitting dazed or bleary-eyed and resting against the side of an ambulance. He was tempted to go and join them, for he suddenly felt the fatigue of the operation. But it wasn't over, and he knew he had more left to give, if it was needed. He returned to the Rescue rig for another air bottle, swapping it out and heading back up the ladder to the galley deck.

There he found the rest of his unit. The paint lockers had proven empty, no other victims. He had to wait for those who had not swapped out tanks before to go and collect fresh bottles of air before getting their next assignment. More compartments needed searching; they were going in once again.

Ember Dawn followed the hose, his sweaty hooves moving along it as though he were playing out a rope for somepony else to grab hold of. This was crazy; this was insane. Wasn't it? Or was this simply what he had signed up for? No. No firepony signed up expecting to be in the bowels of a burning aircraft carrier, on their second day on the job, faced with a hellscape such as this. It was like the videos he had seen of the forest fires way out in the west of Equestria, where a fire front simply ripped through a section of woodland, towering flames leaping from tree to tree, an unstoppable juggernaut even in the face of fire breaks, bulldozers, deck guns, heavy hoses, helicopters and even converted airliners that unleashed deluges of water or fire-retardant spray onto the fire. That was what this was; it was a forest fire, contained inside a huge steel shell, and he was right in the middle of it.

The flames still had control of the far end of the hangar bay, burning through the intricate web of scaffolding, storage sheds and supply crates. Eventually, of course, it would expend all of its fuel and burn itself out, but by that stage the ship would be a write-off, and hundreds of ponies would be dead, succumbing to the fumes and smoke. The fire had to be controlled, and that was what the hoses were trying to achieve. Each was manned by two fireponies, doing the best they could, but the water output was simply not adequate to fight such a large fire. Deck guns and tower ladders were out of the equation due to the nature of the fire; it was indoors, not exposed to the elements, and unless somepony could teleport a fire engine inside the hangar, they could not be brought to bear.

Even with the larger-calibre 2-1/2 inch hoses, and even with a dozen of them, it was a steady slog against the wall of fire. Dawn stayed with Striker, as they were the nozzle team. In such an open environment as the large hangar deck, there was no need for a door control pony. The chauffeur, Deep Blue, was not operating the engine from which the hose was being supplied. Coppertop could keep charge over them, but the only ponies actively doing anything from Engine 25 would be Striker and his backup, Ember Dawn.

The duo moved in, replacing the ponies of Engine 243. Even through their masks they looked exhausted; the heat from the fire, all contained inside the hull, was severely debilitating, even more so than in any building fire except a high-rise tower, which suffered from similar ventilation problems, long stretches, and difficulty of access. There was simply nowhere for the heat to go; in a normal structure fire, the roof, the windows, or both would be opened up to draw heat and smoke away from the advancing hose lines. There was no such option here.

Striker took the nozzle and set to work. 'You ready, kiddo?' he shouted.

'Y-yeah!' Dawn replied with a nod that looked more determined than he felt. He gave Striker a tap on the shoulder, and the Pegasus opened up the hose, which writhed and bucked for a moment as the water burst from the brass tip. Striker didn't bother with the usual procedure of aiming at the floor for a moment to ensure a positive water flow; he had just seen the ponies of Engine 243 playing their stream with no issue. Instead he aimed directly for the seat of the blaze, joining the other hoses as they sprayed water, the primary currency of the fire department.

Manehattan was lucky because it had a limitless supply of water. Even if the city water mains were to be damaged in some way, salt water could be drafted from the harbour or either the West or East rivers by fireboats and engines, and pumped wherever it was needed for firefighting; though not an ideal solution because salt water would corrode fittings and cause potentially greater damaged in the process of extinguishing a fire, if the alternative was to let a building burn down, then salt water would most certainly be used.

Dawn checked the hose behind him to make sure it was still intact and functioning. It was. He then checked his air meter, and checked again just to be sure. The last thing he wanted was to suffocate on his first working fire. He knew that his brother was somewhere at the scene, and that spurred him on to overcome his fear at the flames, the heat, the smoke, the scale of the incident. He had been through smoke training at the Academy, of course, crawling into burning containers to rescue dummy ponies, but that was all ultimately a controlled environment. An instructor sat constantly watching the cameras from the control room, ready to hit the stop button at a moment's notice, opening a dozen vents, activating fans, cutting the flames, if the cadet should get into difficulty. This? This was real life.

Ultimately, however, and luckily for the fireponies, while conditions were grueling and tiring, there was little imminent danger to them. In any other building burning with such intensity, it was entirely likely that the roof would collapse, or an upper floor would come crashing down onto a lower one. The Canterlot would not do that. It was made of metal, and while, with a high enough heat, the metal could melt, even then it would only drip down upon them. That would be enough to cause severe burns, of course, but it would not mean instant death. Even if such melting occurred, hose lines could be repositioned, There would be time; it would not be an instantaneous collapse, as could happen in a building.

Dawn found that, the longer he spent on the fireground with nothing bad happening, the stronger he felt, mentally if not physically. He grew more confident that he, Ember Dawn, could truly withstand the rigours of the fireground. He could take the stress and the potential danger, for this was no training exercise. This was a real, working fire, and one that seemed to astound even some of the veterans in its scale and scope. He kept a close watch on the hose. There were no problems, no kinks or bends. Everything was working just fine.

Striker played the hose back and forth across the blaze that was consuming so much construction material. Slowly, very slowly, but equally surely, the onslaught by the Manehattan Fire Department told true. Slowly, the fire began to darken down, fade just a little, just slightly. It was a positive sign. It meant the fire was being cooled, contained. Water continued to pour in, an endless stream playing through the hoses from the pumps of a dozen engines.

Another half hour passed, and Dawn's air tank was nearing empty. So was Striker's, and together they called for relief. Engine 220 came in to replace them, and they headed for the exit, the same way they had entered the ship. Together, they made their way out, and together, they stripped off their masks and breathed in lungfuls of fresh, clean air.

'Hey...I tell you what,' Striker spoke. 'Damn good job in there, kiddo. Damn good job. A steady hoof on the tiller, that was just what was needed. You did good, Dawn.' He slapped him on the back appreciatively.

'Thanks...' Dawn smiled. That was his first worker, then. His first fire, one of the largest the department had seen in a good long while. They would be going back in, of course, once they had refreshed, and replaced their air tanks at the Mask Service Unit. But even if he dropped dead of a heart attack right then and there, Ember Dawn could truthfully say that he had given a good account of himself, done the best he could have hoped for. He hadn't broken down in tears of fear, he hadn't turned and fled. He had been there to support and back up his fellow fireponies, which was exactly what he was expected to do. He was proud of himself. He knew his brother would be, too.

Rescue 1 went back into the smoke, doing the job they had been trained for. As the fire darkened down and the smoke changed colour gradually from black to grey to white, they continued the search, finding and recovering another half dozen victims. Once their air was out, they headed back to the pier, tired, streaked with soot, covered in sweat, but knowing they had done a good job.

Two RAC units, Recuperation and Care vehicles, were at the scene, along with several ambulances devoted entirely to helping fireponies. The RAC units carried ice boxes, cold towels, blankets, simple snacks, sports drinks, water and juice, as well as the facilities for making hot drinks if the weather was cold. Everything exhausted fireponies needed to help them recover their strength after a grueling ten-round contest against a stubborn fire. The members of Rescue 1 were directed there; they had done their bit, played their part well in the whole huge symphony.

Blaze grabbed a bottle of sports drink, throwing a cold towel around his neck. He had removed his bunker jacket and helmet, wearing just his pants and the t-shirt that went under the jacket. He would have taken everything else off, but he was too tired. The conditions inside the ship had been extremely draining, thanks to the amount of heat and smoke that had been retained inside. At a normal fire, much of it would have been able to vent out through natural holes in the building. But the Canterlot, like every other Navy warship, was designed to seal up, to be airtight if necessary, as a protection against potential enemy nuclear, biological or chemical attacks. The only openings were those made by fireponies, or those that just happened to be in open condition, like hatchway doors and ventilation ducts. It made for punishing conditions for fireponies, but even more punishing for the workers, who had no protective gear. That was why hundreds of them now sat in the triage area and in half a dozen borough hospitals. It was also why the black sheet now held over fifty corpses, awaiting the arrival of the city medical examiner's mortuary wagons.

Blaze slumped down, slurping the orange-flavoured sports drink, finally cooling off. The ship, gradually, was cooling off as well. He sat and watched the smoke oozing out from every open hatch, fireponies scrambling up and down a dozen ladders. The fire would not be completely out for some time, but it was heading in the right direction, he could tell.

'Hey, Rescue. I see your firehouse buddies are here. That's a long way for 'em to come!' somepony commented. 'Must be a big fire to get the la-di-da midtown mob down here in Hooflyn!' There were a few chuckles of good humour in reply, but Blaze looked around. What did he mean? Firehouse buddies?

His eyes scanned half a dozen engines, and then he saw it. Engine 25. 25 was here, parked up. His brother was here, and he hadn't even known it. Seized by new energy, he stood and went in search again, this time not for a victim, but for his brother.

He found Dawn on the other side of the rig, resting, his back propped up against the front wheel. It took Dawn a few seconds to recognise the pony who appeared in front of him, but when he did, his reaction was immediate. He stood, half-smiled, then grinned, and then hugged Blaze tightly. They slapped each other on the back, laughed, shared a few moments of silent reflection and understanding. Now, Dawn knew. He knew what his dad had been, and what his brother was. He truly understood now, what it meant and what it took. For he was a firepony now, just like them.

'Final progress report for Hooflyn 8th Alarm, Box 0904. Car 3, Chief of Department Starfire Storm, reports she had a fire in a 1000ft-by-300ft dry-docked aircraft carrier. At this time, all fire on board is extinguished. Overhaul operations are underway. We have four watch lines in operation in case of flare-up. Secondary searches are complete throughout the vessel. EMS reports a total of eight-hundred-seventy-three 10-45s. Six hundred and ninety are green tags, one hundred and eleven are yellow tags, twenty are red tags, and we have fifty two black tags. By orders of Chief of Department Starfire Storm, place this fire under control, K.'

'10-4 Car 3, fire is under control. Duration of your incident was twelve hours, six minutes.'