Cause for Concern

Mike Ahearn cruised along I-80 two miles east of Hillsdale. Although the speedometer registered seventy-five miles an hour, from his perch high above the road, he was in complete control of his fully loaded 18-wheeler. The halogen lights of his huge rig offered unparalleled visibility to the edge of his high beams some three hundred yards ahead. He loved his blue and yellow tractor-trailer unit, the only home he knew.

Flicking his Fuzz-buster to the off position, he turned up the volume on the CD player mounted on the dash. The sweet sounds of Patsy Cline filled the cab and he settled back in his seat, both hands lightly controlling the huge steering wheel.

The weekend traffic out of New York City had been brutal. Now, nearly 150 miles west of the metropolitan area, he could relax. Westbound auto traffic was thinning out as Sunday night turned into Monday morning. The long haul truckers owned the highway. With luck, in a few hours he would cross the Ohio border and leave Pennsylvania behind. The Border Truckstop would be a good place to chow down and catch a few hours’ rest before continuing on to Los Angeles, his final destination.

A mile east of Cabot University, an odd thump pulsed through the steering wheel. This section of I-80 was rough, abused by millions of vehicles, many of them 18-wheelers like his own. Had he not been alert, he probably would not have noticed. He decelerated slightly, rolled down the huge side window and savored the fresh night air flowing into the cab. He reached down, adjusted the volume on the CD, effectively drowning out the road noise and the deep growl of his Detroit Diesel engine. He checked his side mirror, searching for debris or the road kill he might have hit.

Seconds later an explosive flash illuminated the interior of his cab and lit the countryside in a blinding white light, transforming the warm spring night into daylight, brighter than the morning sun. Then thunder louder than any summer storm filled his cab. He lost control as an immense shock wave buffeted his fifty-three foot rig.

He reacted instinctively, his powerful arms and legs struggling to regain control of his tractor-trailer unit as huge chunks of flaming debris rained down from the night sky, pummeling the cab, littering the highway ahead. He laid down dual black skid marks as he fought to slow the truck. Tires squealing in protest, he bounced across jagged debris.  Two rear tires blew with the explosive sounds of  gunshots.

Unable to avoid the wreckage littering the highway, he plowed along out of control, his rig buffeted by tornado-like winds. The huge tractor-trailer veered back and forth across the three westbound lanes as Ahearn fought to keep the rig upright. Unable to keep the unit on the westbound lanes, he tore across the grassy median strip, dirt and debris flying and ploughed into the oncoming eastbound traffic. Fighting with all the strength his two hundred fifty pounds of muscle and sinew could muster, he careened directly into the path of an equally out-of-control tractor-trailer tearing along the eastbound left lane next to the median strip.

He braced for the inevitable crash. He jerked the wheel to the right, trying to get his rig back onto the median strip just as the oncoming driver similarly tried to avoid a head-on collision. At the last second, the two giant rigs sideswiped each other, forcing Mike’s rig deep into the median strip that was alive with burning debris.

Desperately, he rode it out. Hanging onto the huge steering wheel, he wrestled the rig down the middle of the median strip, tapping the brakes, fighting to keep the tractor-trailer upright, careening through the deep swale separating the east and westbound lanes.

After what seemed an eternity but in reality was less than ninety seconds, he slowed the rig and brought the monster under control. Adrenaline flowing, muscles in his arms bulging and aching, and sweating profusely he steered the slowing tractor-trailer up the gentle side of the median onto the westbound lanes of I-80.

Surrounded by devastation and flaming debris, he steered around burning vehicles...autos, pickup trucks and sport utility vehicles...blowing his air horn frantically as terrified people vacated their cars and spilled onto the highway. He finally brought his heavily loaded truck to a screeching halt.

Heart pounding through his sweat stained T-shirt, he grabbed the CB and punched the transmit key. “Holy Christ! “This is Fat Man out of Fresno, California. Explosion! Explosion!” he screamed.

“On I-80 in Hillsdale, about a mile west of the Cabot University exit! My God, I almost lost my rig! I almost lost my rig!” he sobbed. “There’s flaming debris and wreckage everywhere. Traffic’s at a standstill; wrecked cars and long haul rigs are in flames on both sides of the road! People are scattered all over the highway, injured and dying. I see at least three bodies lying in the median strip. Get help...emergency vehicles, ambulances, fire trucks...get some cops out here!” he pleaded, his voice breaking.

The night sky lit up with multiple flashes brighter than the brightest fireworks ever displayed on the Fourth of July. Rolling shockwaves rocked the huge rig as a hailstorm of flaming debris rained down from the night sky now as bright as day.

“Somebody out there talk to me!” he screamed into the mike. He stopped transmitting, switched to receiving messages, laid his head on the steering wheel and sobbed as huge chunks of debris tore jagged holes in the aluminum sides of his trailer, crashed onto the cab and seared the grass in the median strip and along the edge of the road.

Clutching the CB mike in his huge hand, he prayed for a response. “Somebody, anybody! Please come in,” he begged.