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Crash and Burn
     
    “We’ve got incoming.” The dispatcher’s voice
on the radio was all studied nonchalance. That was the Marine Corp
for you. Sergeant Dane Roberts figured an announcement of the
apocalypse wouldn’t generate much more concern, but that was okay.
His crash unit had this handled.
    The fighter jet streaked towards the runway,
smoke and flames trailing from the right-hand engine. Yeah.
Incoming was an understatement. The jet screamed closer, the
engines laboring. If the plane’s nose cleared the landing strip,
he’d personally buy the pilot a lottery ticket. The co-pilot’s seat
had ejected, so Dane wasn’t the only one who had his doubts about
how this particular landing was going to play out.
    “Here comes tonight’s first customer.” Riding
shotgun, Clint wrapped his hands around the turret grips. He leaned
forward, blue eyes intent on the accident unfolding in front of
them. Even in civvies, Clint looked military. Big and
broad-shouldered, with his hair buzzed close to his scalp, he
seemed tough as shit. When he put on the gear, however, he was
unstoppable and totally intent on taking out the fire and finishing
the job. The downed pilot at the end of the runway was damned lucky
Clint had been in the pit today. “Man, we should have brought
popcorn. We’re going to have fireworks.”
    This part of Crash, Fire and Rescue sucked.
Dane sat in the fucking truck as the action unfolded outside and he
couldn’t do a goddamned thing to stop it. All he could do was
process the scene and be ready to go when he spotted his opening.
Watch close enough and he’d know where the jet would go—and make
sure he was there as fast as possible. Today’s pilot was damned
good. He kept the nose up while the jet fought all the way down,
but the landing gear hadn’t dropped and that sent the plane
hydroplaning down the runway. The jet was one of those new
experimental birds and something had clearly gone wrong.
    On the radio, dispatch repeated Crash
crash crash, which merited a No shit, Sherlock . The
dispatcher had to be a newbie, because Dane could hear the faint
note of panic as the man sucked air and repeated the call. Of
course, there was still a hope in hell that the pilot would pull it
out. Nope, not happening today because, right on cue, the jet
cartwheeled. Game over . The tail separated and then the nose
planted deep. No explosion, though, so Dane might have just enough
time to pry the pilot out.
    “Son of a bitch,” he cursed and floored the
gas. That jet had probably been carrying a thousand gallons of fuel
and he already spotted flames. “Go! Run and gun!”
    The low whistle from Ryder, the crewman
currently occupying the third spot in the truck, summed up the
destruction perfectly. As a second tour veteran, Ryder had seen his
share of crashes. “Total wipe out.”
    The dead-in-the-water plane slid in on its
belly, narrowly missing the control tower and planting itself
straight down the middle of the runway. Yeah. Dane pressed down
hard, giving the truck more juice. As they shot forward, he spotted
other CF&R trucks in his side view mirror, pulling in behind
the jet as it passed. Now they were all in a race against time to
reach the end of the runway.
    “She’s down and burning.” From his position
in shotgun, Clint calmly tightened his hold on the truck’s pistol
grips, aimed and fired like a video game gone bad. Water shot from
the hose thirty feet in front of the cab, beating down the initial
flames so Dane could bring them in close.
    God, he hated this part of the job. Not
knowing if he’d get there in time left a hollow feeling in the pit
of his stomach. Slamming on the brakes, he parked the truck on the
edge of the runway. His guys didn’t need a 4-1-1 about how this was
going down. They all knew their parts in today’s drama. Swinging
down from the cab, he yanked up his protective hood and grabbed a
handline. Fuck . Even at the textbook safe distance, he could
smell the fuel