Into the Inferno - Earl Emerson [55]
For many long minutes I found nothing else on the Internet about the Citizens’ Fund for Truth, and then I came upon a Web site put up by a CFD firefighter named Charlie Drago called “The Truth about the Southeast Travelers Incident.” Unfortunately, the site was bollixed beyond belief, so that there was only the home page. Lots of tantalizing promises of links and other pages, but none of it worked. I tried a different Web browser, but that didn’t produce anything, either. Only the home page. No links. No contact information. No phone number. Also, the word incident had been spelled incedent.
I phoned the Chattanooga Fire Department main switchboard, told them I was a fire officer in North Bend, Washington, and was looking for Charles Drago. I was told he was on duty today and given a station house phone number, which I then called. “Yeah. Charlie’s working today. Let me get him for you.”
As did the woman who answered the phone, Charlie Drago had a Southern drawl so thick you could cut it with a chain saw. I explained who I was and detailed my situation. “You told anybody about this?” he asked. “Anybody at all?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then you’d better watch your ass, buddy. They’ll be coming after you. No shit. They’re probably following you right now. They’ll burn your home down. They tried to burn mine down. They’ll blow you to smithereens. I mean this. No shit. They’ll blow you to Kingdom Come. Your life ain’t worth a plug nickel.”
“Who will? Who will blow me to smithereens?”
“Them.”
“Who’s them?”
“Whoever was responsible for our incident at Southeast Travelers. Probably the same assholes who’re responsible for what’s happening to you fine folks. We lost three guys there. Well, one’s dead. The other two only wish they were.”
“Vic Swenson?”
“Yeah. He was one. How did you know that? You’re not working for the insurance company, are you? You bastard.”
“No, Charlie. I’m not working for the insurance company. I’m a firefighter in North Bend. What happened to these guys at the freight company fire?”
“They tried to burn my house down. You see my Web site? It’s all on my Web site.”
“I was just there. I couldn’t find anything on it.”
“Damn it! I posted that just yesterday. They trash my site. You know what else? I think they’re following me again. Hey. Check it out. If they’re not following you by now, they will be. Now tell me the truth. You’re not one of them, are you?”
“Charlie, I’m not sure—” Even as I spoke, the house bells clanged. This guy was crazy. I wondered why they even left him on duty. Battier than bat shit. “That’s our house bell, Charlie. We’ve got a call. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Vaya con Dios, amigo.”
“Sure, Charlie.”
I wasn’t on duty, but it was a long-standing tradition that extra hands hanging around the station responded in the event of a fire call. Had it been an aid alarm, I wouldn’t have bothered, but the tones were for a fire call, and when the dispatcher announced what we had, it came in as a trailer fire. Heavy black smoke reported by cell phone callers on the freeway. More calls were being received from neighbors out on Edgewick Road.
In our department most “smoke in the vicinity” calls turned out to be bogus, a yard crew burning brush, a hobbyist farmer tuning up his tractor, a woodstove stoked down too far.
At “working fires” our department relied on mutual aid from nearby departments and on volunteers, who would race from their day jobs or abandon their spouses at night to risk their lives backing us up. It was absolutely the best part of small-town America, and having been raised in the city, I loved every part of it.
Before I cleared the office, my girls