Completely Impassable
At 7 a.m., Anderson recommended a “Level A” entry to his superiors. Two men wearing fully enclosed blue HAZMAT suits and an hour's worth of air in tanks under those suits would enter the hot zone. Their goal was to find the civilians and walk them to an area of less contamination where a helicopter could land and lift them out. It was a risky maneuver. Typically, the entry team is required to exit the way they enter so they can be decontaminated immediately. But there was no way to bring unprotected civilians through the gas cloud, and a rescue chopper couldn't fly through it.
About an hour passed before Anderson's request was authorized, and another hour before the first HAZMAT team would enter the hot zone.
Within minutes of the derailment, Wayne Hale's eyes and skin were burning. He began coughing up blood. His brother-in-law Bob needed help to walk. Mary could barely breathe. There had been no further word from his stepmother and stepsister. It was time for Wayne, the builder and do-it-yourselfer, to do it himself.
He went out to his workshop to retrieve an oxygen tank he used in welding, but the door lock was stuck with acid corrosion. Every metal thing outside the house was dripping with acid, which turned to foam when it hit the ground. Every electronic appliance inside the house —— clocks, radios and television —— had ceased to function. The car was their one hope —— and only if the acid hadn't corroded the starting mechanism. Wayne grabbed the door handle. It burned his hand. The outside surface of the SUV was wet with acid. Wayne tried the key and the motor turned over. He couldn't drive across the swampy cornfields or down the old, unmaintained river road —— the county had closed that with a gate.
There has to be a way, Wayne thought. “Let's get out of here,” he told Mary and Bob. He had to check on Gene and Lois —— and see the derailment for himself. Wayne ripped down the shower curtain and taped it over the air intakes on the dashboard of the car. He helped Mary, still in her pajamas, and Bob, into the vehicle. Then he headed down the road hoping to find a way around the wreck.
It was 5：54 a.m. Using a cell phone, Mary again called 911 and told the operator that they were trying to escape in their green Suburban. The dispatcher passed that information to rescue workers.
Wayne drove a few hundred feet up the road, directly into the towering plume, and stopped opposite Gene's pink house. Holding his breath, he stepped from the Suburban. Rail cars were piled atop one another. Track had been ripped from its bed and lay crossways to the main line, as did several locomotives. It was completely impassable. He could hear voices yelling on the other side, and the chatter of two-way radios, but could not make out what was being said.
Wayne couldn't hold his breath any longer, couldn't get to Gene and Lois. He went back to the car and drove down the old, unmaintained road toward the river. But the steel eight-foot gate was padlocked and too strong to break. He tried the driveway of a deserted farmhouse. It, too, was barred by a locked gate.
Mary had passed out； she slumped in the seat. Desperate, Wayne wheeled around and rammed the gate with the backside of the Suburban. The gate didn't budge. Wayne had never quit at anything, but he was out of options. He could climb the gate and slog out through the mud, but Mary and Bob were too far gone for that, and he'd never abandon them. He drove back to the house. The air inside was even more stifling than out. It didn't really matter. They had gone home to die.
At 5：30 a.m. that June 28, 2004, SAFD Lieutenants Wally Yates and Jarrett Vocke were busy cleaning their equipment. As veteran members of the elite technical rescue squad and backup to HAZMAT, they'd spent half the night, four and a half hours, on a water rescue involving the evacuation of more than 40 families from a low-lying mobile home park following torrential rains. Exhausted, they'd rested for little over an hour when they were called to the derailment.
By 8：30, they were on the scene. At 9：00, they were at forward control with Lieutenant Anderson and the HAZMAT crew. They watched as a two-man team, their bodies fully encased in bulky, stifling suits, masks and air packs, entered the hot zone to look for the Hales in a green Suburban. But in the tangled maze of wrecked cars, the men became disoriented. They intended to go south； instead, they turned north, only to stumble across a body in the road （later identified as the Union Pacific conductor） and a farmhouse with no occupants. Wandering, they began to run low on air.
At 7 a.m., Anderson recommended a “Level A” entry to his superiors. Two men wearing fully enclosed blue HAZMAT suits and an hour's worth of air in tanks under those suits would enter the hot zone. Their goal was to find the civilians and walk them to an area of less contamination where a helicopter could land and lift them out. It was a risky maneuver. Typically, the entry team is required to exit the way they enter so they can be decontaminated immediately. But there was no way to bring unprotected civilians through the gas cloud, and a rescue chopper couldn't fly through it.
About an hour passed before Anderson's request was authorized, and another hour before the first HAZMAT team would enter the hot zone.
Within minutes of the derailment, Wayne Hale's eyes and skin were burning. He began coughing up blood. His brother-in-law Bob needed help to walk. Mary could barely breathe. There had been no further word from his stepmother and stepsister. It was time for Wayne, the builder and do-it-yourselfer, to do it himself.
He went out to his workshop to retrieve an oxygen tank he used in welding, but the door lock was stuck with acid corrosion. Every metal thing outside the house was dripping with acid, which turned to foam when it hit the ground. Every electronic appliance inside the house —— clocks, radios and television —— had ceased to function. The car was their one hope —— and only if the acid hadn't corroded the starting mechanism. Wayne grabbed the door handle. It burned his hand. The outside surface of the SUV was wet with acid. Wayne tried the key and the motor turned over. He couldn't drive across the swampy cornfields or down the old, unmaintained river road —— the county had closed that with a gate.
There has to be a way, Wayne thought. “Let's get out of here,” he told Mary and Bob. He had to check on Gene and Lois —— and see the derailment for himself. Wayne ripped down the shower curtain and taped it over the air intakes on the dashboard of the car. He helped Mary, still in her pajamas, and Bob, into the vehicle. Then he headed down the road hoping to find a way around the wreck.
It was 5：54 a.m. Using a cell phone, Mary again called 911 and told the operator that they were trying to escape in their green Suburban. The dispatcher passed that information to rescue workers.
Wayne drove a few hundred feet up the road, directly into the towering plume, and stopped opposite Gene's pink house. Holding his breath, he stepped from the Suburban. Rail cars were piled atop one another. Track had been ripped from its bed and lay crossways to the main line, as did several locomotives. It was completely impassable. He could hear voices yelling on the other side, and the chatter of two-way radios, but could not make out what was being said.
Wayne couldn't hold his breath any longer, couldn't get to Gene and Lois. He went back to the car and drove down the old, unmaintained road toward the river. But the steel eight-foot gate was padlocked and too strong to break. He tried the driveway of a deserted farmhouse. It, too, was barred by a locked gate.
Mary had passed out； she slumped in the seat. Desperate, Wayne wheeled around and rammed the gate with the backside of the Suburban. The gate didn't budge. Wayne had never quit at anything, but he was out of options. He could climb the gate and slog out through the mud, but Mary and Bob were too far gone for that, and he'd never abandon them. He drove back to the house. The air inside was even more stifling than out. It didn't really matter. They had gone home to die.
At 5：30 a.m. that June 28, 2004, SAFD Lieutenants Wally Yates and Jarrett Vocke were busy cleaning their equipment. As veteran members of the elite technical rescue squad and backup to HAZMAT, they'd spent half the night, four and a half hours, on a water rescue involving the evacuation of more than 40 families from a low-lying mobile home park following torrential rains. Exhausted, they'd rested for little over an hour when they were called to the derailment.
By 8：30, they were on the scene. At 9：00, they were at forward control with Lieutenant Anderson and the HAZMAT crew. They watched as a two-man team, their bodies fully encased in bulky, stifling suits, masks and air packs, entered the hot zone to look for the Hales in a green Suburban. But in the tangled maze of wrecked cars, the men became disoriented. They intended to go south； instead, they turned north, only to stumble across a body in the road （later identified as the Union Pacific conductor） and a farmhouse with no occupants. Wandering, they began to run low on air.