Dann Stadler - Angels in the Fire: The Dramatic True Story of an Impossible Rescue

Its 8 p.m., Thursday, September 7, 1989, and Mark Payne is finishing the day at his fathers car dealership in Riviera Beach, Florida. Hes hungry and wants something to eat. However, what he really craves is something to drink, not merely to slake his thirst but to satisfy his urgent need to flood his brain and body with numbing spirits.

He stops at a nearby restaurant and orders his first drink. By his last glass of whiskey, just before midnight, hes forgotten about his hunger. His goal for the night is satisfiedhis mind is numbed, his senses are dulled. Despite his unsteady walk and failing several times to get his key in the car door, he crumples his body into the drivers seat, cranks the engine to life, and heads home, some ten miles north. When he reaches the on-ramp to I-95 North, he briefly thinks about his last arrest, a DUI some seven months ago, and hopes he wont pass any troopers on the way. With just a few miles to go, he laughs off the risk and puts his Grateful Dead tape in, blasting the music.

Payne travels nearly thirty miles past the exit to his home in Jupiter. Somehow realizing the mistake through his alcoholic haze, he knows he has to head back south. Thinking hes on the two-lane road that he usually takes home, he pulls his car over to the right shoulder, waits for the other cars to pass, and makes a wide U-turn. Knowing his wife might worry about him being so late, he steps on the gas and cruises along at 70 miles per hour.

Payne has no idea that he is now traveling the wrong way, heading south on the far right side of the northbound lanes on the six-lane divided freeway of I-95. He has U-turned himself and his red BMW into an unguided missile. The Grateful Dead keep pounding in his ears. It is the last thing he will ever hear.

Dann and Tracey Stadler are driving the same stretch of road that night, returning from their fourth-anniversary dinner to Traceys parents house in Port St. Lucie, Florida, where they are vacationing from their home in Wisconsin.

Florida State Trooper Sydney Wright is also on I-95 that night, patrolling the freeway. Now just after midnight, she is about ten miles north of Port St. Lucie, traveling southbound when the first call comes over the radio from dispatch: Red vehicle seen traveling southbound in the northbound lanes, just past Midway Road. It is about twenty miles south of her location.

Maybe its a mistake , Wright thinks. Its easy to get confused on the dark roads and see headlights that seem to come from the wrong side of the road. Still, her stomach tightensshes seen far too many crashes caused by wrong-way drivers. The CB radio crackles with the rough voice of a trucker. He too reports a small red car going the wrong way. A few minutes later the dispatcher comes on with yet another report. With her sirens wailing and lights flashing, Trooper Wright accelerates through the darkness.

At 12:35 a.m. the final call comes in: Accident with injuries reported, I-95 North, mile marker 109, two miles south of County Road 714. Vehicle fire reported. Wrights adrenaline surges and her heart sinks. Oh no. He got someone.

The sudden impact between the two cars sends a bright fireball over the highway, surely seen by every driver within half a mile. Just as quickly, the fireball evaporates and leaves a flickering hulk of twisted metal in its place on the road, the two cars now crumpled to almost half their original size and standing just inches apart. Almost a dozen cars come to an abrupt halt and some of the occupants race toward the smoldering masses of metal. Fear rips through the night air. There is no way anyone could survive a crash that horrific. Troy Lynne reaches the cars first; the driver of the red BMW is clearly dead. Lynne looks at the other car, which is still burning. Incredibly, both people inside are stirringalive!

He tries to open the doors, but they wont budge. The front end of the car is pushed in more than four feet; the doors are jammed shut. Lynne can see the flames stabbing at the drivers legs. He waves frantically toward the horde coming upon the scene, shouting for a fire extinguisher.

I have no recollection of that night following my admonition to Tracey to keep her seat belt on. Tracey doesnt recall the actual crash, as she was likely sleeping, but the rest of her memories are terrifyingsave for an all too brief divine interlude.

After our violent impact, Tracey could only look at me in confusion, silently imploring What happened? I stared back. Then I reached over to try to unbuckle our seat belts. It was too much for Tracey to comprehend. Am I dreaming?

The screams outside the car brought her back to reality. As she told me later, her brain could not process anythinghow the accident happened, where we were, how badly wed been hurt, the extent of the damage, or even our names. Her head was swimming with incredible pain and dizzying thoughts. She could see flames licking at my legs and heard me scream.

Other vehicles began coming upon the wreck. The second shift of a nearby factory had just ended, and a trio of men in one vehicle moved into action. They were Mike Debevec, Ben Williams, and Kyle Longwell. As they raced to the scene with a co-worker, Mike Walters, some grabbed fire extinguishers, but nothing seemed to calm the flames. Gas was gushing in spurts from beneath our Ford sedan, and with every surge a loud whoosh erupted as it hit the pavement and ignited.

Lynne and others tried to pull Tracey out through a small opening between the sunroof and window, but it was as though they were trying to lift the entire car with her. Everything from the bumper in had collapsed on Traceys lower body. She screamed as her rescuers tried to move her amid the intensifying heat.

As Lynne and others continued to try to extract Tracey, Debevec realized I had caught fire and ran to my side of the car with Walters and Longwell. They tried to force open my door without success, so they pounded the window with their fists and rocks, but it seemed to resist every blow.