A reading from Not On My Watch

Disclaimer: My website host is upgrading their host interface. Please, bear with me as I upgrade my sites.

I originally copyrighted NOT ON MY WATCH under the title I’M A MARINE. The screenwriters who worked on the project suggested the name change to NOT ON MY WATCH and I agreed. I also added some new story elements during the name change. The screenplay is available upon request at: jeff.bailey4007@gmail.com. These are the opening pages of NOT ON MY WATCH.

The burning metal superstructure surrounding Cassie hissed at her. The cockpit of a fighter jet was tight to begin with, but once it was crumple in a crash, it was almost too snug to allow her to take a deep breath. The heat was unbearable. She inched forward, feeling her way through the swirling smoke and trying to use her diaphragm and stomach to draw her breath instead of expanding her lungs. The roar of the flames overstimulated her hearing until all sound faded to white noise. She blew out a breath and pulled herself further into the burning structure. She tried to orient herself each time the occasional flashes of light from the flames penetrated the smoke enough for her to see shadows.

Cassie, Lance Corporal Cassandra Sing, USMC, estimated that one more squeeze into the void would bring her close enough to the pilot to feel for his body. An explosion sounded nearby, shaking the structure. The metal casement seemed to close in even tighter, intensifying her claustrophobia. The explosion also added to her sense of urgency. As if aviation fire rescue wasn’t dangerous enough, Cassie was a U.S. Marine aviation fire rescue specialist. When she fought an airplane fire or rescued a pilot, there was the possibility of live bullets and bombs in the plane. The explosion meant that she had to hurry. Burning flight fuel, bullets, and bombs don’t play well together.

Cassie maneuvered onto her side and reached forward with her free hand, making it even harder to draw a breath. But, her effort was rewarded. She felt the slack face of the Marine pilot just out of sight in the darkness. She pulled the small rescue-breathing mask from the Velcro connector on the shoulder of her canvas fire jacket and fitted it over the pilot’s face. Procedures dictated that she first protect the pilot’s ability to breathe whenever there was a possible nuclear weapon or nuclear material onboard the aircraft. Aspirated radioactive metals wreak havoc on the human body. With the mask in place, she reached back down to her waist, retrieved her field knife, and cut the pilot free of his harness. The heat was beginning to leach through her fire jacket.

The pilot fell against Cassie like a sack of wet sand and pinned her head against the metal structure. The loss of that tiny bit of space compounded her growing claustrophobia. Another small shot of panic coursed through her as the adrenaline hit her blood stream. She couldn’t suppress a little scream. The roar of the fire consumed the sound. She could not give in to panic. A fellow Marine’s life was at stake. She would not falter.

After blowing out another breath, she inched her way back out the way she entered, pulling the dead-weight of the pilot behind her. Breathe, scoot, pull, breathe, scoot, pull. She had a long way to go.

As she moved, she heard the report of an incredibly loud Claxton horn from somewhere outside the burning fuselage. The flames stopped with a whispered, final puff. The smoke swirled away. The recorded roar of the fire stopped. The metal fuselage lifted off her from above and pivoted away on hinges. In relief, Cassie took a quick, deep breath. She, and the pilot next to her, turned to look up at the cloudless, blue sky above them. Both pulled off their breathing apparatus and turned their attention to the fire training NCO standing over them.

The sergeant gave one short order, “I’m terminating this confined spaces exercise. Corporal Sing fall-in with the rest of your class.”

As the NCO turned back to the rest of the class, the acting pilot jumped up and offered Cassie a hand up, which she accepted.

As he pulled her to her feet, he said with real sincerity, “Thanks for saving my butt today, Marine.”

He put his fist out at chest level. Cassie fist bumped the offered compliment, and replied with an, “Oorah.” Lance Corporal Cassandra Sing was not only smaller than most Marines, at five foot four, she was smaller than most female Marines. After the bump, she pulled her fist away quickly. She didn’t want anyone to see that her hands were still shaking.

As she took her place in ranks with her class, she dropped her fire helmet and air pack at her feet and waited for the members of the class to settle down. She also did a quick scan of the surrounding area (Marine training becomes instinctive). The fire-training facility looked like the open tarmac of a major airport: flat, hard, and barren of anything living or flammable. It seemed like she could see forever. The open countryside of Central Oklahoma was the perfect location for a military fire-training center. The nuclear weapons facilities on the other side of the base made it equally ideal for a nuclear materials fire-training center.

Cassie’s class consisted of firefighters from all five branches of the service. Some were aviation fire fighters like her. Others were trained shipboard, submarine, and even structural firefighters. The students at the school included pilots who might fly a plane with a nuclear weapon on board, medics who might treat Americans exposed to radiation, RadCon (Radiation Control) technicians who might evaluate an area or building for radiation safety, bomb squad specialists who might neutralize a nuclear weapon, and firefighters who might fight a nuclear-weapon-involved aviation fire. They all had one thing in common. They were collectively on temporary duty at the Fort Sill Nuclear Weapons Depot to learn to fight a fire when nuclear materials or nuclear weapons might be present.

Three men in uniform stood in front of the class. One was the training NCO, dressed in Army utilities, who personally supervised the day-to-day instruction. The second was the commanding officer of the training facility. He wore an immaculate, khaki office uniform. The third man was obviously an Army officer, but he wore a stereotypical civilian fire captain’s uniform.

The class training NCO spoke up. “We’re suspending the training schedule for the rest of the afternoon. Class will resume at zero seven hundred tomorrow in classroom six. Read chapter five in your training manual, Elements of Radiation Detection. There may be quiz at the start of class tomorrow. This is Base Fire Marshall McDermott. Listen up!”

The Fire Marshall didn’t waste any words. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a situation. We have an expanding grass fire on the north perimeter of the base. Normally, we only monitor a grass fire as long as it doesn’t threaten any structures or lives. This fire is quickly approaching the perimeter fence, which means that it is going to spread into the surrounding civilian countryside. That’s unacceptable. The base commander has authorized me to mobilize this fire-training class to assist the base fire brigade to fight this fire.”

Fire Marshall McDermott realized for the first time that Cassie was wearing desert style utility boots. He stopped addressing the class and focused on her, “Marine, where are your fire boots?”

Cassie snapped to attention, “Sir, the fire training locker does not have regulation fire boots in my size. I have special permission to train in utilities.”

McDermott considered this for a moment then said, “Very well, but you will avoid hot spots, is that clear.”

“Clear, sir.”

McDermott turned back to the class, “It’s time to stretch your legs, get dirty, and fight a real fire. Report to the equipment locker room and equipment-up for a grass fire. Fall-in at the staging area in ten minutes.”

McDermott abruptly turned his back to the class and started a conversation with the Training officer.

The training NCO stepped up and shouted, “Fall out!”

I write action/thrillers with a nuclear theme because I worked in nuclear related industries, from nuclear weapons to nuclear research, for fifty years. In The Defect, I tell the story of a terrorist attack on a nuclear power plant and why the government covered it up. I based the story on true events. Deer Hawk Publications has scheduled to release of Not On My Watch. Not On My Watch is about a female, aviation firefighter in the U.S. Marines who witnesses the murder of two M.P.s. She decides that it is her duty to stop them. The screenplay version of Not On My Watch is available on request. Keep in mind that I write nuclear thrillers. The Chilcoat Project is about the theft of nuclear weapons secrets from a national laboratory. True events form the core of the story-line of The Chilcoat Project. The Radioactive Boy Scout is the inspiration for my current project, Wine Country, a case of industrial sabotage. The screenplay version of Wine Country is in development. I have five more thrillers story-boarded for future development.