Captain Joe Ripani of the Courage Bay Fire Department would recall later that it hadn't felt like such a big deal. More like a Magic Fingers bed he remembered from a cheap motel on a family vacation when he'd been a kid. Just a little shimmy as the ancient plates far beneath the Earth's surface groaned and complained and rubbed against each other.
Joe glanced from one member of his squad to the next. Everyone had stopped in the middle of his or her task and taken note of the slight vibration. But no one really looked worried. It was California, after all. A little earthly movement was expected from time to time.
Still, Joe had a bad feeling in his gut. That little tremble telegraphed a tension that crept up his spine, setting off a too-familiar flare of anticipation with each vertebra it climbed. Not good. Salvage, the firehouse's big, black Labrador mascot, apparently had the same feeling. He went still, then whined fretfully.
A full fifteen minutes passed before the true disaster struck.
Jefferson Avenue Firehouse shook as the ground rumbled for an endless thirty seconds. Joe and his crew were already jumping into the necessary gear when the alarm sounded. By the time central dispatch passed on the location, the trucks were rolling out onto the street, sirens wailing.
Traffic on the streets of Courage Bay had come to an abrupt halt, with vehicles sitting haphazardly in the middle of intersections. Pedestrians were still running for cover, though the initial tremor had passed. They all knew that aftershocks could be every bit as lethal as the quake itself. And there would be aftershocks. For days, possibly even weeks, causing nothing more than minor distress, but all the while holding out potential for much, much more.
Joe's fingers tightened around the steering wheel of the firehouse truck. So far, there didn't appear to be too much physical damage. At least not that he could determine from the brief glances he afforded as he cut through the stalled traffic. No reports of fallen buildings, collapsed freeways or overpasses had rattled across the airwaves yet. But that assessment changed when he reached his destination.
The Madison Avenue parking garage had partially collapsed. Joe told himself that at two o'clock in the afternoon, most folks were likely safely tucked away in offices or the various shops that lined the downtown area. Lunch was long over. If he was lucky, the owners of the vehicles parked in the garage wouldn't be anywhere near the collapsed structure.
The instant he skidded to a stop outside the damaged garage, he knew the situation wasn't going to be that simple.
Dozens of pedestrians, co-workers and family members were crying out for help - loved ones or associates were trapped inside the building. A young woman, clearly pregnant, gripped several shopping bags as she frantically tried to explain to a police officer that her mother had gone for the car while she waited in a nearby boutique. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.
Blue lights throbbed and yellow tape fluttered in the breeze as a couple of cops worked to cordon off the area while half a dozen others struggled to hold back the panicked crowd of onlookers.
In the few minutes that had elapsed since the ground shook, Joe knew that a number of things had happened that the average person would not be aware of but would later be grateful for. Rescue resources had been dispatched in response to incoming calls. The first on the scene, whether paramedics, cops or firefighters, had assessed the situation and called for the additional resources needed. With this kind of disaster, the Incident Command System, or ICS, an emergency-management system used to coordinate personnel and equipment resources from multiple agencies, would be put in place.
But Joe had only one concern now. He tuned out the chaos and shouted instructions to his crew. "We'll cover one level at a time."
The parking garage stood four stories, the first of which was completely leveled. Dread pooled in his gut.
Anyone on that level would likely be beyond his help. He said a quick prayer for them and headed into the garage.
"Cap'n, you know we can't go in there until the engineers assess structural integrity." Shannon O'Shea's anticipatory tone belied her warning. "It's not safe."
Joe paused long enough to meet her gaze. "Is it your recommendation that we wait for that resource to arrive?" he demanded. He didn't really need to hear her answer. Shannon, like any good firefighter, was every bit as determined to go in now as he was, but someone had to say the words ... had to accept the responsibility for what could happen.
"No, sir," she retorted without hesitation. "I'm prepared to go in now." The other firefighters crowding behind her chimed in with their agreement.
"Let's roll." Joe gave the final authorization.
Conscious of the risk he'd given his squad permission to take, Joe led the way, climbing over the rubble to reach the second level. Slabs of concrete lay upended where T-bars had detached from the outside wall, allowing it to slowly collapse. Time would not be on their side.
"Looks like two and three could go at any minute," O'Shea noted, reaching the same conclusion that he had.
"Yep." Joe didn't slow in his upward movement. There was no time to stop and think. The right side of the second level had dropped several feet, while the entire third floor canted to one side, threatening to give at any second. "Guess that means we'll have to work fast," he said to her with a dim smile. Shannon was good. One of his best. He'd never needed her more than right now.
"And pray," she added, her own movements not slowing.
Dust from the settling debris filtered into his nostrils as he cautiously entered the second level and analyzed the situation. The sound of groaning metal echoed from somewhere. Damaged electrical system, he noted as he moved farther inside. The garage's interior lights would have been helpful, since rubble pretty much blocked the sun. Flashlights clicked on as his team pushed forward, spreading out and cautiously beginning the search for victims trapped in automobiles and beneath fallen debris.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Tremors by Debra Webb Copyright © 2005 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.