The Chaotic Scene
Just southwest of San Antonio, Texas, where the Medina River curves through lush farmland, a Union Pacific rail line crosses the stream and then a dirt country road. Less than a quarter-mile from this intersection, Wayne and Mary Hale lived in a little off-white house with shiplap siding Wayne had built with his own hands 39 years before.
Just before dawn on June 28, 2004, the couple were soundly sleeping. Lulled by the white noise of an air conditioner, they didn't hear the grinding squeal of steel on steel as two trains rolled toward each other along the same track.
An eastbound Burlington Northern with 123 empty cars was pulling onto a siding to give way to the fully loaded Union Pacific that was heading west to Tucson at 45 mph. The load of the UP was unremarkable except for one car —— a white tanker containing 15,656 gallons of liquid chlorine.
As the UP train rumbled past the Burlington, a horrible sound like an explosion in an echo chamber shattered the stillness of the rural landscape. The Burlington's last cars had not cleared the main track. The UP train tore right through them.
At 5：03 the whole house shuddered. Mary Hale, 64, was jolted awake, coughing, her eyes burning. An overpowering, pungent smell of bleach hung in the air. A moment later, the phone rang. It was Lois Koerber, Wayne's stepsister, who lived with his stepmother, Gene Hale, in a little pink house just up the road, a stone's throw from the rail line. “There's been a train wreck,” Lois said, gasping out the words. “There's a chemical of some kind.” She'd already called 911.
“We'll come down there,” Mary told her and turned to wake Wayne. He was up, moving and already struggling to breathe. His insides felt on fire.
When the two trains collided, millions of pounds of steel and cargo imploded. Sparks ignited the trains' diesel fuel. The tanker car that was filled with chlorine ripped open and the contents began to vaporize, creating a poisonous cloud of green-yellow gas. When the vapor settled on anything wet —— and it had rained all night —— it formed hydrochloric acid, which ate away at whatever it touched. Metal, wood, vegetation, flesh —— especially the moist linings of the lungs.
A consummate handyman who could repair almost anything, Wayne, 67, didn't know what the fumes were, but he suspected they were chlorine —— and if so, he knew they were lethal. Racing through the house, he woke his brother-in-law, Bob Whitworth, 74, who had stayed with them overnight. Bob had heart trouble and would be especially vulnerable.
Together, Wayne and Bob tried closing the windows, but already acid had corroded the metal casings, sealing them in place. They crammed the window openings with chair cushions, clothes, towels, anything they could find to keep the fumes out. It did little good and ironically locked in the toxic vapors that were filling the home. While Wayne and Bob were working, Mary made the first of what would be seven calls to 911. She was told they should get out of the house.
Three county fire departments responded to the 911 alert. The initial information they received was that a woman was choking on smoke. The first unit arrived on the scene at 5：15. They came in regular gear, anticipating that they would be fighting a regular fire. Seeing the level of destruction and realizing there was a chemical leak, they relayed the news to the San Antonio Fire Department. Twenty-seven minutes had elapsed before Lt. John Anderson at the SAFD HAZMAT squad was called. It was the first of many delays, and jurisdictional and procedural disputes, that occurred that day. Communication was further slowed by incompatible radios used by the various emergency services. Anderson's specially trained and equipped team didn't arrive at the crossing until 6：15.
A 29-year veteran with the SAFD, six of those years with HAZMAT, Anderson quickly assessed the chaotic scene. Four locomotives and 35 rail cars had derailed. They were jackknifed, standing on end or stacked on top of one another like heaps in a junkyard. A liquid plume from the ruptured car was shooting 300 feet into the air, forming a jaundice-colored fog. Funnel-shaped and as much as 100 yards long, the cloud drifted in a northerly direction toward two houses. The smell was sickening. Small diesel fires billowing black smoke were scattered here and there.
Anderson needed a closer look at the wreckage. With a chlorine meter clipped to his belt, he climbed one of the wrecked cars 50 yards upwind of the plume. Then he learned that civilians were trapped in the two homes beyond the wreckage —— down a dead-end road with no way to drive out.
Just southwest of San Antonio, Texas, where the Medina River curves through lush farmland, a Union Pacific rail line crosses the stream and then a dirt country road. Less than a quarter-mile from this intersection, Wayne and Mary Hale lived in a little off-white house with shiplap siding Wayne had built with his own hands 39 years before.
Just before dawn on June 28, 2004, the couple were soundly sleeping. Lulled by the white noise of an air conditioner, they didn't hear the grinding squeal of steel on steel as two trains rolled toward each other along the same track.
An eastbound Burlington Northern with 123 empty cars was pulling onto a siding to give way to the fully loaded Union Pacific that was heading west to Tucson at 45 mph. The load of the UP was unremarkable except for one car —— a white tanker containing 15,656 gallons of liquid chlorine.
As the UP train rumbled past the Burlington, a horrible sound like an explosion in an echo chamber shattered the stillness of the rural landscape. The Burlington's last cars had not cleared the main track. The UP train tore right through them.
At 5：03 the whole house shuddered. Mary Hale, 64, was jolted awake, coughing, her eyes burning. An overpowering, pungent smell of bleach hung in the air. A moment later, the phone rang. It was Lois Koerber, Wayne's stepsister, who lived with his stepmother, Gene Hale, in a little pink house just up the road, a stone's throw from the rail line. “There's been a train wreck,” Lois said, gasping out the words. “There's a chemical of some kind.” She'd already called 911.
“We'll come down there,” Mary told her and turned to wake Wayne. He was up, moving and already struggling to breathe. His insides felt on fire.
When the two trains collided, millions of pounds of steel and cargo imploded. Sparks ignited the trains' diesel fuel. The tanker car that was filled with chlorine ripped open and the contents began to vaporize, creating a poisonous cloud of green-yellow gas. When the vapor settled on anything wet —— and it had rained all night —— it formed hydrochloric acid, which ate away at whatever it touched. Metal, wood, vegetation, flesh —— especially the moist linings of the lungs.
A consummate handyman who could repair almost anything, Wayne, 67, didn't know what the fumes were, but he suspected they were chlorine —— and if so, he knew they were lethal. Racing through the house, he woke his brother-in-law, Bob Whitworth, 74, who had stayed with them overnight. Bob had heart trouble and would be especially vulnerable.
Together, Wayne and Bob tried closing the windows, but already acid had corroded the metal casings, sealing them in place. They crammed the window openings with chair cushions, clothes, towels, anything they could find to keep the fumes out. It did little good and ironically locked in the toxic vapors that were filling the home. While Wayne and Bob were working, Mary made the first of what would be seven calls to 911. She was told they should get out of the house.
Three county fire departments responded to the 911 alert. The initial information they received was that a woman was choking on smoke. The first unit arrived on the scene at 5：15. They came in regular gear, anticipating that they would be fighting a regular fire. Seeing the level of destruction and realizing there was a chemical leak, they relayed the news to the San Antonio Fire Department. Twenty-seven minutes had elapsed before Lt. John Anderson at the SAFD HAZMAT squad was called. It was the first of many delays, and jurisdictional and procedural disputes, that occurred that day. Communication was further slowed by incompatible radios used by the various emergency services. Anderson's specially trained and equipped team didn't arrive at the crossing until 6：15.
A 29-year veteran with the SAFD, six of those years with HAZMAT, Anderson quickly assessed the chaotic scene. Four locomotives and 35 rail cars had derailed. They were jackknifed, standing on end or stacked on top of one another like heaps in a junkyard. A liquid plume from the ruptured car was shooting 300 feet into the air, forming a jaundice-colored fog. Funnel-shaped and as much as 100 yards long, the cloud drifted in a northerly direction toward two houses. The smell was sickening. Small diesel fires billowing black smoke were scattered here and there.
Anderson needed a closer look at the wreckage. With a chlorine meter clipped to his belt, he climbed one of the wrecked cars 50 yards upwind of the plume. Then he learned that civilians were trapped in the two homes beyond the wreckage —— down a dead-end road with no way to drive out.