Chief Sinclair crawled on his hands and knees, probing everything he could reach and memorizing each turn and corner in case he needed a quick escape. Even though he had a facemask on, he couldn’t see an inch in front of him in the dense, thick smoke. He could make out the glow from the center of the fire in the distance, and, as he moved closer, saw three or four other hot spots jump and grow brighter. He moved quickly but systematically through the search pattern. He felt the heat from the fire increase as he moved further into the interior of the building. Despite his air pack he could faintly smell smoke. He took short, deliberate breaths to conserve the air in his tank.
He knew he was at risk. He had no water supply to protect his search and rescue efforts. No water supply and no firemen to back him up. All the hours he had spent on training were being ignored, as he anxiously searched through the fallen debris. One of his men was missing. The only way he was going to leave the building would be if the warning bell told him his air supply was running out. He had to find his man.
Sinclair heard loud pops from the fire’s center, and he knew it had enough momentum to start burning out of control. He spotted more and more offshoots from the central glow. The situation was getting desperate. His instincts were never wrong. Yet, he continued groping through the debris. Finally his hand felt something. A boot. He heard a groan. As Sinclair jumped and moved to the fallen firefighter, he instantaneously felt an incredible amount of heat waiting just above where he had been crawling. The heat was so intense he couldn’t risk wasting time to adjust the other’s mask. But he had to give him every chance to live. He had to make sure.
The mask seemed secure. They both had enough protective gear on to shield them for a few moments. Everything told him that there was little time left before the fire would burst out of control. He grabbed his comrade’s arms and pulled him up with one motion, into the traditional fireman’s carry. He had practiced this so many times he automatically knew exactly how to balance the weight of the victim to the flex of his knees in order to accomplish the maneuver. Sinclair did an about face and started to retrace his steps to the exit.
Time seemed to crawl and, simultaneously, to race with lightning speed. Sinclair moved automatically, determinedly. At last he saw the glow of flashing lights on the fire trucks in the distance. He moved toward the beacon of illumination, knowing that it signaled the way to the exit and safety.
“I am too old to be doing this,” growled Sinclair as he approached the doorway, all the while balancing his injured buddy on his right shoulder.
“Not only too old Chief, you’re really too ugly to be doing this!” groaned Lieutenant Roggette, the injured firefighter. “If my leg wasn’t broken I’d be carrying your sorry ass out of here!" Sinclair felt an intense moment of relief. Roggette was conscious. They started laughing just as they heard a loud blast and a very distinct whooshing noise. It was the beginning of a flashover. Sinclair began to move even more quickly toward the exit. The whole situation was intensifying, but neither of them expected that the ensuing explosion would rock the building through its foundation.
The force of the first blast hit as they were less than three yards from the exit. Rubble and fire engulfed both men instantaneously and without warning. Intense heat seared the protective gear. A large panel of wood hit Sinclair in the back of the head and knocked him off balance. He stumbled forward, losing the grip he had on the injured firefighter. Totally off balance, he pitched face forward toward the floor, falling debris raining on him. Then the full force of the explosion reached the firemen. They were picked up like rag dolls and slammed toward the doorway. They never made it out. Both of them were encased in burning rubble and pieces of concrete as the interior of the building began to collapse around them.
The Chief twisted to cover Lt. Roggette one more time with his own body before the concussion of the explosion took its toll. Both men were unconscious before they hit the ground for the final time.
Sinclair’s mind started to drift through the emptiness to when everything in his life changed—September 11, 2001.
