By Christmas Eve, Colorado’s light snowfall had mutated into a blinding, dangerous blizzard. Interstate visibility collapsed to zero. Shortly after 1800 hours, our unit was activated to support state and county emergency responders. We were the first organized military response unit to reach the nightmare near mile marker 214.
A charter bus carrying nearly forty passengers had skidded and rolled onto its side. A civilian pickup had jackknifed nearby, and further uphill, a massive, unmarked commercial transport truck leaned dangerously toward the frozen, crumbling shoulder.
“Alvarez, coordinate with State Patrol,” I ordered my sergeant, shouting over the roaring wind. “Get those ambulances positioned downhill. Nobody approaches that transport truck until we know what it’s hauling.”
The chaos inside the bus was deafening—terrified parents screaming for their children in the dark. I climbed onto the exposed side of the metal hull, ripped open the emergency roof hatch, and began hauling passengers out into the biting cold, one by one.
Then a shout cut through the howling wind. The driver of the transport truck was alive.
His name was Walt. He was an older man, pinned by his left leg beneath the crushed steering column as the truck cab shifted precariously on the ice. Waiting for the heavy rescue crew was the standard protocol. But Walt was fading fast, his skin the color of wet ash.
