PREVIEW

THE BERGSTEN FAMILY, among the first to settle in Agnew, was known for their integrity and firm belief in Agnew’s future prosperity. A third-generation Bergsten, Jim farmed more than three thousand acres with the help of his two sons, nephew, and brother-in-law. He was first to discover oil on his property. In addition to farming and ranching, he and his family continued to own and operate several businesses founded by his father. Few could remember when Jim had not helped them or a neighbor during a difficult time. For years, he and his wife, Ole Mae, hosted the Fourth of July community barbecue and reunion in front of the elementary wing of the all-grade school until her health began to fail. He’d served as mayor for more than twenty years and enjoyed a well-deserved reputation as a good, honest man.

He and Ole Mae lived in a modest single-story home on four hundred-eighty acres, three miles west of town. Two Quonset Huts with concrete floors housing large John Deere tractors sat a short distance behind the house. Loaders, plows, cultivators, and various other farm implements were parked between the two buildings. A shed housed a workshop and a tractor and its various farm tools used to plant his two-acre garden, and other projects around the house.

The garden consisted of corn, squash, carrots, cabbage, beets, peas, radishes, lettuce, cauliflower, and potatoes, most of which they gave away in town. An apple and grapefruit orchard and several raspberry and blackberry bushes were also free for the picking. To the west of the shed were two elevated five-hundred-gallon tanks, one gasoline and one diesel; to the east sat a brick smokehouse used to cure beef, lamb, pork, and fish.  Behind were stock pens, feeders, water troughs, loading pens and hay barns sufficient to run a two-hundred-head cow calf operation. 

* * *

Every building in town’s burning, Maria Valdez thought as she drove upwind to the Bergsten farm, hoping to find others seeking sanctuary. Air brimming with not-yet-combusted hydrocarbons made it impossible to breathe. Turning off the road, five pickups parked close together in front of the house provided a semblance of a heat shield where a group of older neighbors and farmers working the fields had gathered. Her jaw ached from the tension, noise, stench, and fear. Red-eyed and coughing, Maria’s daughter pleaded, “Mama, I can’t breathe. My eyes sting. Can we please go home?”

 
Maria’s eyes moved from face to face in the assembly. She finally spotted Carlos, grabbed their daughter, and ran to him. Together they held their four-year-old, already fearing the loss of their second and fourth grade girls at school. Looking up, Carlos saw Jack getting out of his soot covered pick up and coming toward them.

“I called Mary. She’s contacted San Antonio. They’re on their way,” Maria said as Jack approached. 

“You were gonna drop those calves at Mike’s. Is there a building left standing in town?” Carlos asked. 

“All gone. Part of the gym’s south wall all that’s left,” Jack replied. 

His hand on Carlos’s shoulder, Jack closed his eyes and took a deep, deliberate breath then for a few moments stared at the house where he’d grown up. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he pulled his powerful six-foot-four frame into the bed of the middle pickup and turned, raising his voice to address the gathering. “Look around! We’re almost everybody who’s still alive. Can’t wait for help. If we don’t stop it before it gets to the pumpjacks, all hell will break loose. Cell phone service is out. Maria’s sister called San Antonio. They’re on their way.”

Pointing to several older men in the crowd, he sent them to neighboring communities in search of help. “Mr. Martinez, can you check on the outlying farms and see how they’re doing? Anybody needs anything, send them here. The rest of us, let’s get to the Schneider’s with tractors, blades, plows, backhoes, whatever to start a fire break and keep this thing contained.”

Restricted to a walker, Jack’s mother had known she couldn’t attend the pep rally and have any hope of going to tomorrow’s game, so she’d stayed home. “Mom, Dad,” Jack called as he, Maria, and her four-year-old walked through the kitchen door. 
“What’s happened? What’s on fire? I was sweeping the kitchen when we heard the first explosion. Why is everybody in our front yard? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Dad and I can’t breathe, what’s going on?” she asked in a rush.

“Mom,” he stammered, holding her in a tender embrace, his face pale as he focused on his mother. His eyes narrowed, angry, afraid. “The train derailed. Oil exploded. The pep rally was on when the gym collapsed! No one had a chance…”  

* * *

The dispatcher’s message had been vague: an oil fire of unknown magnitude, involving an oil transport derailment. Nothing more. Adrian Uribe, Chief of Emergency Services District 3, Bexar County, hated responding to isolated flare ups in remote hamlets because carelessness outstripped a town's capability. On the horizon two dozen miles away, though, he saw black smoke churning skyward as he sped toward its source, knowing this was real. People had died, homes had been lost. The town of Agnew was in peril. At five miles out, fireballs surged, plumes of smoke belched ever upward, the indisputable stench of crude oil ablaze. Calling his dispatcher, he requested more help. 

Assessing the scene upon arrival, the fire’s enormity shocked him. In all his years, he had never witnessed anything comparable. City Hall, the Sheriff’s Office and the adjacent US Post Office buildings were reduced to seared concrete slabs, most of their bricks vaporized. Steel frames of cars, trucks, and farm implements lay twisted, scattered in all directions, interiors and tires ravaged by the inferno. The school gymnasium smoldered. Its collapsed roof revealed the remaining portions of its back wall. Fire raged unsuppressed.

The Chief had surveyed the situation, established a command post two hundred yards east of the railroad crossing, spoken with the Department of Public Safety Officer in Charge, and was concluding his call with his dispatcher when Jack Bergsten approached, removed his well worn straw hat, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and extended his hand and managed a meager smile. 

After introductions, Jack spoke. “Chief, pushed dirt for a fire break, patrolling the perimeter to keep the crops safe. No need setting half the county on fire. Got two of our guys at the end of the train, spraying water on the two tank cars closest to the fire, trying to keep them cool enough they won’t explode. We’ve all got wells and will be glad to shuttle water here or take you to our wells and fill your tankers if it’s faster.”

“You guys have done a remarkable job,” the chief replied. “Impressive. Very impressive, indeed. We’ve shut down the municipal water on the town site fire. Can’t use it because of contamination.  Need to put out any hot spots and cool the vicinity, not feed ‘em. Appreciate your offer for more water. If we can refill a tanker, we should be able to stay ahead of any town site problems unless the wind whips up. Even though you guys have worked this from the start, I can’t let civilians within five hundred feet of the fire due to the possibility of another explosion. I’ll send two men to relieve your guys. Smart but dangerous to keep those cars cool. Couple of my guys have farms. If you’ll let ‘em use your tractors, they’ll uncouple those last few cars and drag them out of danger. If you and your team will move ’em half, three quarters of a mile back, it’d be helpful.”