STORIES OF HEROES by CRICKETBEAUTIFUL RATED FRT

A group expecting a quiet workshop get more than they signed on for.

Thanks Catherine Rees-Lay for the beta, Rosie for the idea, TIWF for giving it to me in a challenge, and SkyWench for the save. Feedback: Public or private, kudos or critical, whatever suits the hat you're wearing at the moment. I've given and received both. Any problems not pointed out will be repeated in future stories.

The day was bright and sunny, the precursor to what they hoped would be many more, and the end of a wet, windy, and altogether unsatisfying winter. Some icy patches hung on in the shade, but nothing to get excited about. The scenic caves would be re-opened for the tourists by the end of the month.

The building was sufficient to the needs of the day, with work tables and well-fingered geologic samples pushed to the sides. Sixteen chairs were arranged in a loose semi-circle, with one chair, table and easel at the front. Several books of short stories were on the tables along the walls, waiting to be read by people looking for a story to tell.

The workshop facilitator bypassed the introductions and started the first story of the day.

Back in the days when the world was young, there were two brothers, Douglas and Nyle. Douglas went out of his way to help people. Nyle concentrated on collecting wealth for a rainy day.

Outside, a squirrel ran from one tree to the next, landing on an old maple bearing the scars of years of maple sugar demonstrations -- an occupational hazard of growing too close to the main buildings.

One day, the two brothers were talking. Douglas told of how he had helped an old man plant seeds so he would have enough grain for the winter. Nyle said he should have spent the time planting his own seeds. "I have five acres of wheat, and in the fall I'll have enough flour to last all winter. I hope you don't expect me to give you any."

Larry ignored the weather and the wildlife, instead cursing the guy at head office while steering the rig around another tight corner on the dirt road. Sure the road's plenty big enough to get the rig in, he says. Just use the new GPS system and you'll be fine, he says. North on Victoria and the first right past Thake's Line. This ain't a road --

The GPS chose that moment to declare him three miles off course.

Better call David, see if he's got a better map of the area. Owe him a beer after this one, make up for teasing him about his collection.

"North on Victoria, second right past Thake's Line," said David.

"First right. That's what head office told me."

"No, second right. First's a tiny little thing, barely a line on the map, goes to a natural gas line monitoring station and the nature center for the caves."

"Bloody Hell."

"Might be enough room to turn around in the parking lot."

"Hope so. Backing up ain't an option. What about the busses?"

"They park in the big lot on the other side of the main road."

The three cars in the parking lot half-filled it. The monitoring station was on the far side of the lot, just beyond the path to the nature center. Barely room to swing a cat, let alone turn a rig filled with telephone poles.

And the only option he had.

Another time, Douglas told of how he had harvested apples for a widow with a sick child.

Nyle scoffed, saying he should have spent time harvesting his own apples. "I have enough apples in my cellar to last all winter, and then some," Nyle said.

"One day, you will regret not doing more," replied Douglas.

Pull forward, turn left, shift into reverse. Steer the trailer hitch -- move it left to make the trailer go right. Easy, let the trailer find its own way across the frozen ruts. Stare into the mirror and snug up close to the fence around the monitoring station.

Douglas ignored his brother, concentrating instead on shoveling out his neighbors and helping to fill the community ice house. Nyle filled his own small ice house.

Brake. Slide. Splinter. Bend. Break. Flame.

The old sugar maple never saw it coming. Nor did the people in the center. Stunned silence reigned as the building jerked off its foundation blocks and the walls buckled. The front door was confronted with flames; the back door was warped too badly to open. Plaster fell from the ceiling.

Alan considered the chess board again and chose a move at random. He knew Virgil was trying to help him stave off the boredom of manning the station, but this wasn't working.

"Hey, Virg?"

"Yes, Alan?"

"Something just came up. Can we put the game on hold for a bit?"

"Sure thing."

"What does it look like, Alan?"

"Uh, not quite sure, Father. I'll let you know."

"Should I call in the others, just in case?"

"Doesn't look like it, but I really should check it out."

"Okay, Son."

Alan waited until the connection was closed before wiping his brow. Try and tell a little white lie to spare his brother's feelings, and end up lying to his father. Not good.

He peered at the screens and reset the sensitivity, looking for something that would merit quitting the game. Not that Jeff wouldn't understand why he'd lied, but he'd look all disappointed and ask Scott if there weren't another way he could have handled the situation without actually lying.

Chatter from a diamond mine in northern Canada; small cave-in, everyone reported safe, one fellow in bad condition but the rescuers all working calmly. IR would probably get in the way more than help.

Something exciting over in Queensland. Mass destruction, panic, alien invasion. He listened until the commercial break.

Bit of a noise from California. Richter 3. Driver panicked and knocked over a utility pole; local firefighters extracted her as Alan listened.

Maritime Canada bracing for another snowfall.

Storytelling seminar in Ontario fell down a hole in the ground after a natural gas explosion. Local rescue operations hampered by the soft ground. Gas still burning, nearest cut-off valve not working.

"TB5 to Control."

"Come in, Alan." Jeff's voice.

"Looks like we're needed, near Georgian Bay, Ontario. Collingwood. Sixteen people trapped."

"Go on."

Alan gave the details, trying not to picture himself as one of the victims.

"Have they asked for our help?"

He had to be honest. "Not yet, Father."

"Well, keep monitoring the situation. It does sound like something we would help with, but we can't step in before they ask."

"FAB."

This was the worst part of the job. Listening to the rescue operations and the local radio station simultaneously, straining to hear the magic words, hoping he wouldn't miss them.

"If only International Rescue would come." Jeff had already been through this one. A wish was not the same as a request.

"I'm sure International Rescue would be able to save them." Again, not a request.

"Anyone know how to contact International Rescue?" Close enough.

"TB5 to Control."

"Come in, Alan."

"Collingwood, Ontario's asked for help. I'm sending the details now. Sounds like the fire's the bigger problem."

Forty minutes later, Scott approached the edge of the city.

"What's the local rescue frequency, Alan?"

"Main operations is channel 17, Scott."

"Collingwood Fire Department from International Rescue. Come in Collingwood."

The line opened with static, then a voice. "This is Chief Bader, Collingwood Fire and Rescue." Scott sometimes made a game of predicting how the locals would react based on their initial reaction. This one was disbelief.

"Can you meet me at the main parking lot? I don't want to set down in the trees. Bring a pickup truck with you."

"Yeah, ok." Yes, disbelief, and a bit of coolness. Bader was not the one who called for International Rescue.

"Save the thanks till the rescue's over. And make sure that no cameras go near any of our equipment"

Scott set his ship down just past the turn off. The man who came up to him was dressed in a uniform, not rescue equipment, and wore the name tag Bader. The man just behind him was also in a uniform, but had the look of many years wearing the equipment. His name tag read VanBurren.

"We really don't need you --"

"Thanks for coming."

Scott waved at TB1's open hatch. "I've got to get this stuff as close to the scene as possible." VanBurren nodded and waved to the driver in the pickup. Scott handed the men gear and supervised the transfer while they talked.

"I've been following radio reports, but didn't get all the details."

"Sixteen little old ladies and a driver," said Bader.

VanBurren elaborated. "Fire's stable, but the rock's getting pretty hot; stone doesn't like that, tends to crack. Lots of spring melt-water soaked into the area, too, and you can guess what happens when it evaporates. The explosion opened up a new sinkhole, and the cab's hanging down it. Driver's trapped. Sixteen people in the nature center. We're spraying the building down with water to keep it cool. They're safer in there than out here."

Scott nodded. "What about letting the gas burn out by itself?"

"The nearest cut-off is too far away. There's a lot of gas in the pipe between here and there."

They reached the edge of the safe zone and unloaded the equipment at Scott's direction. His first call was to Virgil and John in TB2. "Broken pipe looks like a blow-torch," he added. "Most of the flame is aimed over the back of the truck. The poles it was carrying are pretty much burned by now, so we don't have to worry about them falling. We'll start by rescuing the driver, then get that gas line capped. The building's got sixteen people in it, but they don't want to open it up until the fire's out."

"ETA fifteen minutes, Scott."

"FAB, Virgil. I'll have Bader clear the roads. It'll be a bit of a hike from the landing site."

John got out of his seat and went to the pod bay to do the final checks on the FireFly, get into his firesuit and strap in.

"Ready for landing, John?"

"FAB, Virgil."

John pictured the landing stages as he felt the shocks and rumbles through the frame. TB2 settled, released the pod, then rose on its legs. Virgil joined him when TB2 was secure, getting into his gear while John drove over the dirt road to the fire.

Scott came over when they reached the scene. "They need to get the driver out before capping the flame. Looks like pretty standard stuff, but the local crews can't get their climbing and cutting equipment past the fire to the cab. And watch out for the rig shifting. All that heat can't be doing the rocks any good. And there's water in the cracks, turning into steam. Makes them explode."

"Sounds wonderful."

Virgil and John drove the FireFly through the flame. On the far side was the hole with the cab hanging down. As Scott had said, nothing unusual. They fastened a heat-resistant safety line to the FireFly and John slid down it with the cutters. Virgil followed on another line with the Decetylene spraying everywhere to keep them cool. Twenty minutes later the unconscious driver was strapped to the backboard and safe in the ambulance.

VanBurren arrived at Mobile Control. He nodded at the rescuers splashing their faces with fresh water. "We're ready to blow out the flame."

Normal procedure was to create an explosion just past the end of the pipe, to temporarily remove the oxygen from the area, literally blowing out the fire, then bolt a cap to the collar on the pipe. This was the most dangerous time, when the gas was still flowing.

"Okay, then. We'll stay out of the way and let you work."

VanBurren spoke into his radio. A large "whumphff" sounded and the breeze shifted. A cheer went up from the sidelines as a team of locals moved in with cap and equipment.

The three brothers were shutting down Mobile Control when another explosion rocked the area.

"What the --"

"It reignited!"

Seconds later John and Virgil, still in their firesuits, were back in the flames, rescuing the workers. At the ambulance one of the workers talked around the oxygen mask. "Pipe ... warped. Need ... new collar."

"How?"

"Probably ... need to ... cut off ... two feet."

Scott asked, "What about the gas? The cutter will reignite it for sure."

The worker managed a shrug.

Scott looked at his brothers. They'd be the ones taking the risk. "Maybe we should leave it burning. Constant flame versus risk of explosion. Your gear should handle the heat for long enough to cut the pipe and attach a new collar."

"Sounds like the better option, Scott," John confirmed. Virgil nodded.

"We have a spare collar at the station," suggested VanBurren.

"Get it!"

The heat was bearable, but the surface was treacherous. Heat-cracked stone slid under their feet as Virgil and John juggled the cutting equipment around, over, around and under the pipe. By the time they returned to Mobile Control, VanBurren had the collar ready.

Scott looked at his brothers. Sweat was pouring down their faces. John drank water like it was going out of style; Virgil was only slightly more polite about it.

"What's the temperature over there, Virg?"

"Nothing the suits can't handle."

"I didn't ask about the suits."

"We'll handle it."

Scott watched while his brothers drove back into the flames, collar firmly held in FireFly's hydraulic arms. I should have insisted on taking a turn out there.

Another thirty minutes and the collar was welded on. John and Virgil returned for the cover. John started to object when he saw Scott in his firesuit, but Virgil simply nodded. "John can hold the cover with the FireFly while Scott and I bolt it on. It'll be faster that way."

Scott loaded the explosives into the back of the FireFly while his brothers changed oxygen tanks.

They set the explosives and returned to safety. In a replay of the previous hour, the flames went out. Only this time, it was a small craft with a helping hand painted on the side that carried the cover to the pipe end, and two International Rescue members who wielded the brass, sparkless tools.

Virgil directed his brother over the radio. The gas tried to push the cover away from the pipe.

"Angle it ten degrees, so the gas goes up," Scott suggested.

John did as asked and the two men put in two bolts, loose, but not loose enough to shake out.

"That's it, John. Push it closed."

John extended the hydraulic arms by the millimeter, listening to Virgil's calm confirmations for things he couldn't see. At last, the gap was closed, the pressure of the FireFly's arms holding the cover completely over the pipe end.

A wrench dropped from Virgil's hand.

"Back to the FireFly, Virgil."

"I'm fine, Scott."

"No, you're not. John, your turn."

"FAB, Scott."

Grumbling slightly, Virgil did as told. Well, at least it's not as tricky as holding TB2 over a rescue site.

Scott and John tightened the rest of the bolts. Another thirty minutes and it was done. Virgil released the cover and his brothers climbed into the back.

Rescuing the storytellers was well within the capabilities of the locals. Scott decided not to force the issue. Leave Bader some pride and all that. Besides, his own team still had a long flight ahead of them. He left Mobile Command set up till the end, just in case.

VanBurren checked with the hospital and confirmed that the driver's injuries weren't life-threatening, "But another hour and he'd've had it."

The "little old ladies" turned out to be 15 women ranging from late teens to mid-seventies, with two men amongst them. Severe heat stress and one broken ankle, but otherwise going to be fine. Three of them forced their way though the crowd, clutching their oxygen masks, to the men in blue.

"Thank you!"

"All in a day's work, Ma'am."

As they packed up, Virgil stood next to Scott. A chipmunk chattered from the edge of the parking lot, come back to see what had happened.

"Remember the stories Mom used to tell us?" Virgil asked.

"Yeah." He looked at the chipmunk. "How the Chipmunk Got Its Stripes."

"The Loon's Necklace."

"Anansi and the Tiger."

"Bre'r Rabbit."

"Tracy Boys -- Super Heroes."

"Looks like she got that one right."

"Yeah."