Taylor was sitting in his kitchen two evenings later, doing paperwork, when he got the call.
An accident on the bridge between a gasoline tanker truck and an auto.
After grabbing his keys, he was out the door less than a minute later; within five minutes he was one of the first on scene. He could hear the sirens from the fire truck wailing in the distance.
Stopping his truck, Taylor wondered if they’d make it in time. He scrambled out without shutting the door and looked around. Cars were backed up in either direction on both sides of the bridge, and people were out of their cars, gawking at the horrific sight.
The cab of the tanker had rolled up onto the back of the Honda, completely crushing the rear, before smashing through the wire barrier that lined the bridge. In the midst of the accident, the driver had locked the wheel as he’d slammed on the brakes, and the truck had whipsawed across both lanes of the road, completely blocking both directions. The car, pinned beneath the front of the cab, hung off the bridge like a diving board from its flattened rear tires, balanced precariously in a downward position. Its roof had been torn open, like a partially opened can, as it ripped through the cable along the side of the bridge. The only thing that kept the Honda from falling into the river some eighty feet below was the weight of the tanker’s cab, and the cab itself looked far from stable.
Its engine was smoking badly, and fluid was leaking steadily onto the Honda beneath, spreading a shiny veneer over the hood.
When Mitch saw Taylor, he came rushing forward to fill Taylor in, getting straight to business.
“The driver of the truck’s all right, but there’s still someone in the car. Man or woman, we can’t tell yet-whoever it is is slumped over.”
“What about the tanks on that truck?”
“Three-quarters full.”
Smoking engine . . . leaking over the car . . .
“If that cab explodes, will the tanks go with it?”
“The driver says that it shouldn’t if the lining wasn’t damaged in the accident. I didn’t see a leak, but I can’t be sure.”
Taylor looked around, adrenaline coursing through his system. “We gotta get these people out of here.”
“I know, but they’re bumper to bumper right now, and I just got here a couple of minutes ago myself. I haven’t had a chance.”
Two fire trucks arrived-the pumper and the hook and ladder, their red lights circling the area, and seven men jumped out before they’d come to a complete stop. Already in their fire-retardant suits, they took one look at the situation, started barking orders, and went for the hoses. Having come to the scene without going by the firehouse first, Mitch and Taylor scrambled for the suits that had been brought for them. They slipped them over their clothing with practiced ease.
Carl Huddle had arrived; so did an additional two police officers from the town of Edenton. After a quick consultation they turned their attention to the cars on the bridge. A bullhorn was retrieved from the trunk; gawkers were ordered to get back behind the wheel to vacate the area. The two other officers-in Edenton it was one officer per car-went in opposite directions, toward the end of the lines of the cars backed up on the highway. The final car in the line got the first order:
“You’ve got to back up or turn around now. We’ve got a serious situation on the bridge.”
“How far?”
“Half a mile.”
The first driver spoken to hesitated, as if trying to decide if it really was necessary.
“Now!” the officer barked.
Taylor speculated that half a mile was just about enough distance to create a zone of safety, but even so, it would take a while for every car to move far enough away.
Meanwhile the truck was smoking more heavily.
Ordinarily the fire department would hook up hoses to the nearest fire hydrant in order to draw all the water they need. On the bridge, however, there were no hydrants. Thus the pumper truck would provide the only water available. It was plenty for the cab of the truck, but nowhere near enough to control the fire if the tanker exploded.
Controlling the fire would be critical; helping the trapped passenger, however, was foremost in people’s minds.
But how to reach the passenger? Ideas were shouted as everyone prepared for the inevitable.
Climb out over the cab to reach the person? Use a ladder and crawl out? Run a cable somehow and swing in?
No matter what course of action they chose, the problem remained the same-all were fearful of putting any extra weight on the car itself. It was a wonder that it was still there at all, and jostling the car or adding weight might be enough to cause it to tip. When a blast of water from the hose was aimed toward the cab, their fears-everyone suddenly realized-were justified.
The water gushed violently toward the engine in the cab of the truck, then cascaded inside the shattered back windshield of the Honda at the rate of five hundred gallons per minute, partially filling the car’s interior. It then flowed with gravity toward the engine, out of the passenger area. Within moments water began to rush out from the front grill. The nose of the car dipped slightly, raising the cab of the truck-then rose again. The firemen manning the hose saw the ravaged car teetering in the balance and without a second to spare turned the hose away, toward the open air, before shutting it down.
To a man, their faces had gone white.
Water was still pouring from the front of the car. There had been no movement from the passenger within.
“Let’s use the ladder on the truck,” Taylor urged. “We’ll extend it out over the car and use the cable to haul the person out.”
The car continued to rock, seemingly of its own accord.
“It might not support the two of you,” Joe said quickly. As the chief, he was the only full-time employee of the fire department; it was his job to drive one of the trucks, and he was always the calming influence in a crisis like this.
It was obvious he had a point. Because of the angle of the wreck and the relatively narrow width of the bridge, the hook and ladder couldn’t approach to within an ideal distance. From where it could be parked, the ladder would have to extend out over the car to the side the passenger was on, an extension of at least an additional twenty feet. Not much if the ladder was at an angle-but because it would have to be positioned nearly horizontally out over the river, it would test the limits of what was safe.
Had it been a new-model fire truck, it probably wouldn’t have been a problem. Edenton’s hook and ladder was one of the oldest operating models in the state, however, and it had originally been purchased with the knowledge that the tallest building in town was only three stories. The ladder wasn’t designed to be used in a situation like this.
“What other choice do we have? I’ll be out and back before you know it,” Taylor said.
Joe had almost expected him to volunteer. Twelve years ago, during Taylor’s second year with the crew, Joe had asked him why he was always the first to volunteer for the riskiest assignments. Though risks were part of the job, unnecessary risks were something else, and Taylor had struck him as a man with something to prove. Joe didn’t want someone like that behind him-not because he didn’t trust Taylor to get him out of trouble, but because he didn’t want to risk his own life saving someone who tested fate unnecessarily.
But Taylor offered a simple explanation:
“My dad died when I was nine, and I know what it’s like for a kid to grow up alone. I don’t want that to happen to anyone else.”
Not that the others didn’t risk their lives, of course. Everyone involved with the fire department accepted the risks with open eyes. They knew what might happen, and there had been dozens of occasions where Taylor’s offer had been declined.
But this time . . .
“All right,” Joe said with finality. “You’re on the point, Taylor. Now let’s get to it.”
Because the hook and ladder was facing forward, it had to be backed off the bridge, then onto the grass median to reach the best possible position. Once the truck was off the bridge, the driver of the fire truck moved the truck back and forth three times before he was able to reverse toward the wreck again. By the time the truck was in position, seven minutes had elapsed.