49
At Velma’s call, Captain Debbie Smithey raced to the nearest hangar. The first vehicle she reached was a Striker airport fire engine.
She climbed up the short ladder into the passenger side of the monster eight-wheeled vehicle.
“Hey, you can’t be in here,” the driver, a senior airman—Christ but they got younger every day—was filling out a logbook.
“Drive!”
“Where? I’d need to check with the sergeant, he—”
“See these?” she tapped her captain’s bars.
“Yes…”
“Now f*****g drive before I shoot your ass.”
When he didn’t, she yanked her sidearm.
She didn’t have to point it at him, he started moving plenty fast.
The cockpit could seat five: driver, engineer, fire control, and two observers. The Striker had a bumper sprayer and a boom arm with a nozzle folded up on top of the vehicle.
