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!”
My name is Jeff Bailey. 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.
Welcome to my World
