Alarms sounded last night at 3:35 a.m. at Colonial Oil as crews battled a major fire in the refinery. Units responded from Lennox and Schmedleyville. The blaze was not brought under control until about 8:30 a.m. No injuries were reported, but crews were still watering down hot spots and assessing damage as this edition went to press.
Damage assessment continues, but it is clear that the affected portion of the plant, which produces gasoline and diesel fuels, motor oils, and lubricants, will be shut down for an unknown length of time.
Company spokesman Guy LaDush said the refinery will be out of operation, ‘for at least three months,’ and this fire happened only three months after a major fire put a unit at the Nanticoke refinery out of service for an estimated six months.
That event sent pump prices skyrocketing across the eastern half of the country.
Company officials say they will be purchasing fuel from U.S. suppliers to meet demand and noted, “We are fortunate that reserves and inventories are relatively high.”
‘The fire couldn’t have happened at a better time,’ thought Brubaker.
Renewed calls for government intervention or a roll-back on fuel taxes have been met with polite disinterest. Guardian-Standard senior news editor Ken Noble was at his desk when he heard the call, and obtained extraordinary photos and first-hand impressions as police blocked off sections of Highway 47 and 47B, sections of Elizabeth, Clark Street and other points using emergency planning procedures. Officers were called in on overtime for the emergency. Fire units responded from all four city fire stations. Colonial Oil fire crews and fire teams from adjoining plants fought the blaze initially.
“This seasoned observer saw flames shooting five hundred feet in the air…the heat was intense…bright as daylight, you could drive while typing text messages by it…the noise of the flames was like the stereo in a drift car, or, or maybe a tornado…trucks, sirens, flashing lights…shouting men, hoses, foam, slipping and sliding, a lot of smoke, like a really good concert…black, greasy smoke that made you want to choke up…a Holocaust of money going up in flames…a veritable firestorm of burning automotive products…oh, the humanity…”
“Well, well,” said Brubaker. “The plot thickens. And gas prices were already high enough.”
Forgetting about the rest of the paper, he opened up a can of beer before it got too warm. Putting his feet up on the desk in the garage, he sipped at it. Then he pursed up his mouth, working his lips in and out, back and forth. Like sometimes when he tied to scratch the bottom of his nose with the stubble on his upper lip.
Like a channel cat with a nose for trouble, sniffing at some rather obvious bait, perhaps brushing his upper lip against the line.
Something was tugging at his subconscious. If he were to simply relax, perhaps it would come.
“Serenity is mine,” he murmured.
Breathe in deeply, let it out slowly. Yes, the thought was there. Now let the words form in coherent order.
“Gotcha, motherfucker.”
He had it. A paragraph in a book, one he got from the Bookmobile so very long ago.
Probably about grade five.
“A rum-besotten night watchman had an accident with his lantern, and the whole field went up, threatening the town of Oil Wells. The flames could be seen as far away as Croton, Pistrolia and Watertown. In the end, three men were killed battling the blaze. Not just the Wallace property; but four adjoining properties were completely destroyed. Prices shot up from $1.80 per barrel to $75 or more…the good times were back in Oil Wells, Pistrolia and other surrounding communities…men like Ben Wallace and Mike Farrow, one minute staring bankruptcy in the face, suddenly the next minute bought bigger lots and put up huge mansions in the towns of Pistrolia and Oil Wells…”
The year was about 1897.
Who gave him the rum? And the kerosene lantern?
Who hired him in the first place?
“Another thing. As long as the Nassagewaya, the city, the county, the province, the feds, and the industry all argue for different things; different sets of noble goals, that health study won’t ever happen.”
The federal government, who were on the hook for the cost; said they wanted, ‘a consensus,’ before funding it. They were totally cynical. It was a nice, easy way out. The lobbyists kept talking about ‘air pollution,’ and offering money for a study.
The funny thing was, air pollution seemed well-enough documented already.
So were the health problems. It was the link that was missing. Or links, plural.
“All other things being equal, the simplest explanation must be the truth. But how does that help? How the fuck would you ever prove it?”
No answer from the crucifix hanging on the wall.
“The Nassagewaya have nothing to lose by a health study. The city? The county? The industry? The feds? Oh, yeah.”
Locally; it would result in a lot of bad press, making it difficult to ‘re-brand,’ the city as a kind of ‘Venice of the North,’ a retirement haven for bourgeois, upper-income snowbirds who needed a Canadian pied-a-terre to retain their hospitalization benefits. If the story broke, local media outlets could hardly ignore it…could they?
Chuck tried to keep his own cynicism in check; to take it into account. What did industry have to lose but millions of dollars in liabilities? Arguably; they stood to lose billions of dollars in profits. An image from, ‘Our Man Flint,’ the James Coburn film, flashed through his mind.
“The phone company rules the world.”
“There is nothing new under the sun,” murmured Brubaker.
Unfortunately, he was oh, so wrong about that.
Chapter Nineteen
Human remains found near park…