It was a dark and stormy Sunday morning in 2005, the kind of day that demands coffee and staying put. At 6:56 a.m., Mary and I were awake, eyes glued to the laptop’s radar, where Northern California drowned in angry swaths of yellow and red. The phone rang, slicing the silence. Bud, the on-duty Lead Mechanic, sounded calm but firm. “Mark, head to McClellan Air Park, grab a company truck, and get to Ukiah to cover the Cal Fire Base.”
I studied the radar, rain blanketing the region. “Bud, it’s a monsoon out there. No pilot’s flying in this. I’m not going.” Sundays meant double pay—$72 an hour for a pointless trip. Bud held firm, unmoved, and hung up.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. Jeff, the Program Manager, barked like a drill sergeant. “Mark, I’m ordering you to draw a truck and get to Ukiah. Now.”Mary, still beside me, frowned. “You’re not seriously following that ridiculous order, are you?”I sighed, her words cutting deep. “I have to.” Her eyes narrowed, a sliver of respect slipping away as I grabbed my keys.
The 20-minute drive to McClellan was tense, rain hammering the windshield. I collected my tools, climbed into the company truck, and steeled myself for the two-and-a-half-hour slog to Ukiah. The mountain pass was a death trap. Rain pounded down, turning my wipers into useless flailing arms, like trying to fend off a tidal wave. Semi-trucks thundered by at a reckless 80 mph, spraying walls of water. Cars weaved erratically, caught in the chaos. No turnouts, no cell signal—just me, the truck, and a road turning lethal.
Then, hell broke loose. Crashes erupted around me—semis skidded, tires shrieking; cars spun out, metal crumpling. The highway became a warzone, wrecks piling up in front and all around. My pulse raced, my Sheriff’s Deputy Academy training kicking in. Swerve, brake, anticipate—by sheer grace and honed reflexes, I threaded through the carnage, heart pounding, eyes darting to the rearview mirror, dreading a rear-end collision. People died in those crashes, their vehicles mangled beyond hope.
Once I cleared the accident scene, I pulled over, hands shaking. Survivors staggered from their cars, dazed, but there was nothing I could do. My mission became clear: get to cellular coverage and call 911. I pressed forward, rain still blinding, until I spotted emergency vehicles screaming past, lights flashing, already en route to the disaster.
When I rolled into the Cal Fire Base, soaked and seething, a female engineer met me with a stunned glare. “What the fuck are you doing here, Mark?”
“I don’t know!” I snapped, voice raw. “I nearly died getting here!” As expected, the base was a ghost town—no pilots, no action, just relentless rain battering Northern California.
My anger boiled over. I opened my cell and called McClellan. I told Bud about the insanity of the trip, the pointless risk. “Tell Jeff to call me,” I raged.
But it wasn’t Jeff who called. It was Marty, my favorite Cal Fire Chief, his voice warm and laced with his trademark wit. “Mark, why are you in Ukiah? It is raining all over the state.”
I spilled it all—Jeff’s absurd order overriding my refusal, the near-fatal drive, the deadly crashes, the waste of taxpayer money on my double-time pay for a base with zero fire risk. “This is madness, Marty.”
He chuckled, defusing my rage like only he could. “Alright, Mark, take it slow heading back. I’ll have a word with Jeff.” His humor pulled me back from the brink, but the sting of the day—the lives lost, the danger, and Mary’s disappointed gaze—clung to me like the rain. I have to take some responsibility for that day. I was in a strong union. I should have refused Jeff’s reckless-stupid order.