Chapter 3 - The Ticking Bomb
I looked up at the eighteen-wheeler. It was a massive silver beast, and it was groaning under its own weight. The rear tires were entirely off the ground, the chassis resting on the crumbling edge of the icy shoulder. One strong gust of wind, and the entire rig would tumble down the hill.
Standard protocol in this situation was clear: wait for the heavy rescue and hazardous-materials teams. You do not approach a loaded, unstable fuel tanker.
But the hazmat crew was thirty miles away in gridlock traffic. They wouldn't be here for hours. And in negative fifteen degrees, the driver had maybe twenty minutes before hypothermia stopped his heart.
“Major, it’s too unstable!” Alvarez yelled as I started trudging up the incline. “If that thing shifts—”
“Keep evacuating the bus! Move them far downhill!” I yelled back.
I climbed the icy embankment on my hands and knees, the wind whipping ice crystals into my eyes. When I reached the cab of the truck, the damage was catastrophic. The front end was completely crumpled, the windshield shattered.
I pulled myself up to the driver’s side window and shone my tactical flashlight inside.
The driver was an older man, maybe in his sixties. His face was pale, his lips blue. He was pinned hard against the steering column, his left leg crushed beneath the collapsed dashboard.
“Hey,” I said, my voice loud and steady. “I’m Major Vance. I’m going to get you out of here.”
The man blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused. “Walt,” he rasped. “My name’s Walt. My leg… I can’t feel my leg.”
“I know, Walt. Hang on.”
I squeezed through the shattered window, contorting my shoulders to fit into the cramped, freezing cab. The metallic groaning of the tanker shifting beneath us was deafening. Every time the wind hit the trailer, the entire cab tilted another inch toward the cliff.
I pulled out my heavy pry bar and wedged it between the steering column and the crushed dashboard.
“Stay with me, Walt,” I said, leaning my entire body weight onto the pry bar. The metal squealed but didn't budge.
“So cold,” Walt whispered, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Hey! Open your eyes!” I commanded. “Tell me about your family, Walt. Where are you supposed to be right now?”
He forced his eyes open, swallowing hard. “Denver. My daughter’s house. I have four grandkids.”
“Which one causes the most trouble?” I asked, adjusting my grip and heaving against the metal again.
A weak, fragile smile touched Walt’s blue lips. “The youngest. Chloe. She just learned to walk. She’s a terror.”
“Good. You’re gonna be there to chase her around tomorrow,” I grunted. “On three. One. Two. Three!”
I shoved the pry bar with every ounce of adrenaline in my system. The dashboard let out a sickening crack and shifted upward just enough.
“Pull your leg, Walt! Pull!”
With a guttural cry of pain, Walt dragged his leg free. I grabbed him by the collar of his heavy coat and hauled him toward the window.
Suddenly, a massive gust of wind slammed into the broad side of the tanker trailer. The truck lurched violently. The ground beneath the front tires gave way.
“Go, go, go!” I roared.
I shoved Walt out the window, diving out immediately behind him. We hit the snowy embankment hard, tumbling down the icy slope.
Seconds later, the sound of screeching metal filled the air. The tanker finally lost its battle with gravity, sliding violently down the embankment and crashing onto its side precisely where the charter bus had been just moments before.
If we had waited for the hazmat team, the bus passengers would have been crushed.
I lay in the snow, gasping for air, clutching Walt’s coat.
“You okay, Walt?” I panted.
He looked at the destroyed truck, then at me, tears freezing on his cheeks. “You saved my life, son.”
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Only as the medics rushed up the hill to take Walt from me did I realize my hands were violently shaking.
What I didn’t realize, in the chaos and the blinding snow, was that a local news crew, stranded in the traffic jam, had been standing thirty yards away with a high-definition camera, broadcasting the entire rescue live on the evening news.
