Red Tide by G. M. Ford

returned, each man was holding a black rubber breathing device in his hands.
    “We’ll gear up and meet you in the street,” Ensley said.
    “What about the EMS virgin?” Bobby wanted to know.
    Ensley showed his palms to the ceiling. “He’s here when we’re ready…he comes along…if he’s not…” He made a c’est la vie face and stepped out into the street.
    A minute later, Bobby and his partner stepped out, leaving the van silent. Corso slid a hand across his torso and pushed the button on his watch. The dial lit up: it was ten twenty-seven. Give them six or seven minutes, he figured. Give them a chance to check their gear, get their orders and head inside. At that point everybody’s attention ought to be focused on what the team was doing. Be a good time to make a quick break across the sidewalk to the door to the Underground. He could feel the sweat forming on his forehead. He took a deep breath and waited.
    Four minutes in, he heard voices again and silently cursed. “Hey…” someone was calling. He squinted out through the louver just in time to see a blond guy in his late twenties step up into the van. He was so pale the freckles on his cheeks looked red as rouge.
    “Hey…” someone outside called again. “You hear me?”
    A tall man stopped in the doorway and turned toward the voice. A Seattle cop stepped into view. “This is an off-limits area,” he said. “I don’t know how the hell you got in here, but…”
    The stranger sat down on the metal bench, fished a laminated ID card from his pocket and waved it at the cop. “I’m Colin Taylor from Emergency Services,” he wheezed. “I’m supposed to meet some guys here and…” He looked fearfully over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to help out down in the station.”
    The cop leaned in far enough to scrutinize the plastic ID card. “You better hurry up. They’re just about ready to rumble,” he said. “I’ll go tell ’em you’re here.”
    Taylor got to his feet and pulled an orange outfit from the closet. He plopped down heavily onto the bench, worked one foot into the suit and then suddenly stopped. He massaged his temples, leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. His mouth hung open. His breathing was quick and shallow. He cradled his stomach with both hands as if he had an old-fashioned bellyache.
    He was still in that position when the cop returned. “You okay?” the officer wanted to know. Although Corso didn’t hear a response, Taylor must have indicated he was fine. “You sure?” the cop pushed. “You don’t look so good to me.”
    “No…no. I’m good to go.” His voice was flat and without conviction.
    The cop wasn’t buying it. Something about Taylor had the cop’s radar buzzing. He looked downhill, dug his front teeth into his lower lip and whistled. He windmilled an arm a couple of times. “Come on up here,” the gesture said. “Fast.”
    Half a minute later, a pair of blue-jacketed EMTs joined the officer in the doorway. “Have a look at this guy, will ya?” the cop said. “I don’t like his color.”
    Taylor sat up. Tried to wave the medics off, but by that time they were kneeling on either side of him, checking his pulse and shining a penlight into his eyes. “I’m telling you I’m okay,” he protested. “I’m just a little nervous is all.” He looked from one guy to the other with a plea for understanding in his eyes. “I’ve never really…you know something like this…”
    “You’ve got a heart rate of one eighty-five,” one of the EMTs said.
    “No way we can send you out with a rate like that,” the other one said.
    Seemed like a little confirmation was all his partner needed. He reached down and pulled the bottom of the haz-mat suit off of Taylor’s shoe. “They’re going to have enough to do down there without having to worry about you,” he said.
    He looked back over his shoulder at the cop. “Tell ’em he’s not gonna make it today,” he said. When