West, Texas Mayor Tommy Muska has been talking for an hourbefore he finally breaks down and reveals the source of hisfortitude in the face of so much destruction, so much death.

A good-natured, highly animated figure, Muska also is a topinsurance agent in West, Texas—a city near Waco of about 2,800people that was immeasurably changed on April 17 when tens ofthousands of pounds of ammonium nitrate, used to feed crops,exploded at the West Fertilizer Co. with a force powerful enough tolevel nearby homes, shatter glass and bend metal fenceposts evenblocks away. Fifteen people were left dead and hundreds wereinjured.

Muska leans back deep in his chair to clear the view, and drawsa breath as if to steel himself.

He gestures at a photograph, likely a school picture, on theshelf behind him of a handsome young man. It's a photo that conveysa sense of levity that's hard to ignore, despite it seeminginconspicuous upon first glance.

“My strength comes from one thing,” he says, changing his toneand cadence to one unheard so far in our conversation. “And that isthat I lost Nick in 2005.”

Nicholas Wayne Muska died June 7, 2005 from injuries sustainedin an auto accident that his father recalls in painful detail. Theteen had just finished his sophomore year of high school.

“If you lose a son…this ain't nothing…nothing, compared tothat,” he says matter-of-factly. “That was a horror worse than anyof this stuff. You get through that, you can get throughanything.”

“Anything” in this case could include a number of things.Following the tragedy, as mayor, he had to act as the town'sspokesperson, face the national media and console the families ofthe innocents who lost their lives; as a volunteer firefighter (yetanother of his roles in West) he had to organize triage at the highschool football field to treat the injured, and face the deaths ofseveral close friends who were killed while fighting the fire whenthe plant exploded; and as an insurance agent, he had to help hisclients and neighbors start picking up the pieces of theirshattered lives.

“In a strange way, God prepared me for this moment from a longtime ago,” he says. “I truly believe that.”

A town forever changed

The West Fertilizer Co. explosion registeredas a small earthquake by the U.S. Geological Survey, and was feltmiles from the blast site. A huge black mushroom cloud cascadedinto the sky. Muska, who was less than two blocks away from theplant while rushing toward it to help fight the fire, was thrown tothe ground by the shockwave. 

The destruction was massive and widespread. Homes and schoolslocated within a stone's throw of the facility—some within just 100yards—on the other side of railroad tracks that run through thecenter of downtown were wiped out. About 140 homes were laid towaste or badly damaged.

Daniel Horowitz, managing director of the U.S. Chemical SafetyBoard, says the damage was “the worst of any chemical accident inthe CSB's history.”

Damage from the blast is considered unique: Structures weren'tblasted off foundations, knocked in one direction away from WestFertilizer. Rather, many homes were filled with air pressure, andthen collapsed inward when the air was sucked out. Roofs of homeswere rendered concave. Rafters snapped. Sheet rock, ceiling tilesand insulation littered living rooms throughout the town. Windowswere blown out. Car bodies were crumpled and dented.

Mark Hanna, spokesman of the Insurance Council of Texas, saysthe damages include “concussion-type losses.” That is, some homeslook normal from the outside but have suffered damage.

To illustrate the point, Hanna relates a conversation he hadwith one resident: “She had a can of beans on the kitchen counterand it exploded, but no windows of her house were broken.

“We're hearing a lot of strange stories related to the force ofthis blast,” adds Hanna. “It's like visiting the site of a tornadoand hearing about straw going through wood. It's hard tobelieve.”

One month after the explosion, block after block of homes in thesection of town closest to the former fertilizer facility areboarded up, awaiting demolition. Upon some of them arespray-painted messages: “Pray for West, TX,” “West Strong,” “Welove you, Nanny.”

An apartment complex stands barely a shell of its formerconstruction—the roof collapsed, the second floor buckled. Abackhoe scoops up the structure's remains. Personal possessions canstill be seen in living spaces and in the parking lot. Occasionallythe smell of rotting food wafts into the street. Two people—MarianoC Saldivar, 57, and Judith Monroe, 65—died in these apartments.

A middle school about a half-mile away isclearly uninhabitable, its façade stained black from soot. Thewindows of an intermediate school remain shattered. “We had threecampuses pretty much annihilated,” Muska says of West's fourschools, which are covered by a $60 million blanket policy.

Not a single window is intact at a nearby nursing home—insuredat $6 million—where the structural damage is beyond repair, itsroof inundated with giant holes where it succumbed to the inwardforce. Standing outside the facility, looking inside, it's hard tobelieve not a single death occurred here.

Inside his office at Muska Insurance Services, a downtown agencyhe purchased from his father, piles of insurance claims lay strewnabout his desk. One is Muska's.

The mayor's agency is busy fielding 150 claims, including morethan 20 totaled homes. His agency is handling insurance for aschool, the nursing home and an apartment complex.

He talks fast—jerking his body, leaning forward and back in hisdesk chair, rubbing his hands together, distracted momentarily byphone calls, laughing at times, it seems, so as not to cry.

When asked about the condition of his own home, his responsecomes in a tired laugh. “It's messed up!” he shouts. He sharesphotos of his house, where doors lay torn off their hinges andinsulation is strewn everywhere after the ceilings were rippedopen. His living room is littered with it.

“If I was sitting there when [the plant] blew up, I probablywouldn't be here,” he says. Instead, he was en route to the site ofthe blaze—where several of his fellow volunteer firefighters met anuntimely end.

The fire call came in at 7:29 p.m., Muska relates. The city'svolunteer firefighters and units were already on the scene eightminutes later. “For a volunteer department, to be there with threeunits in that time…” he trails off and continues recapping thetimeline.

The first-responders “hadn't been there 10 minutes and figuredout, 'Let's go on back' out to a safe position,” says Muska. “Theywere in the process of backing out. It didn't give them enough timeto get out.”

At about 7:50 p.m. the plant exploded. A dozen first responderswere killed.

“I lost some good friends,” he says, among them firefighter andcity secretary Joey Pustejovsky Jr., 29—whom Muska says he stillaccidentally calls.

An insurance disaster

The West Fertilizer facility, which began operations in 1962,existed long before the city expanded in its direction. Clearly,residents were unaware of the risk at West Fertilizer as the citymoved closer to it.

In the weeks following the explosion, it became apparent thatwhile several state and federal agencies were supposed to haveoversight of facilities like West Fertilizer, information on anydangerous amounts of materials contained there—if it was everobtained—was not readily shared.

“Did we know how much? No,” Muska answers when he's asked aboutthe amount of ammonium nitrate stored at the plant. “I don't thinkwe had any idea. We just grew up with it out there. Nobodyknew.”

Likewise, the Environmental Protection Agency says it is lookinginto whether the facility's operators complied with regulations,but the agency does not regulate ammonium nitrate: It isn'tconsidered an extreme hazard as a dry fertilizer. Additionally,lawmakers in Texas have scheduled hearings to determine if existingregulations for the handling of hazardous materials need to bechanged.

The Insurance Council of Texas puts insuredproperty losses for the disaster at about $100 million, but thatfigure could swell as claims are adjusted. The total includesestimated insurance payments for the plant, 140 homes, an apartmentcomplex, a middle school and a retirement center.

However, the West Fertilizer Co.—a $4 million/yearoperation—carried just $1 million in liability insurance and noexcess or umbrella coverage. That cover was provided by UnitedStates Fire Insurance Co., a member of Morristown, N.J.-based Crum& Forster, which is part of the Fairfax Group.

The Texas Department of Insurance says four state agencies withsome oversight—the Department of State Health Services, the Officeof the Texas State Chemist, Texas Commission on EnvironmentalQuality and the Texas Department of Agriculture—do not requiregeneral liability coverage at an operation like WestFertilizer.

Jim Brzozowski, spokesman for Texas-based Hochheim PrairieInsurance, says it has received some 100 claims, 31 of which areresidential total losses. The insurer has paid out more than $7million, not counting loss- adjustment expenses.

The town has filed suit against the Adair family, which ownsAdair Grain (West Fertilizer's parent company) and CF Industries,which supplied the fertilizer. The city seeks unspecified damages,alleging negligence.

Attorney Paul A. Grinke of Dallas-based McCathern PLLC predictshis clients and others involved in lawsuits against West Fertilizerwill “be left holding the bag.” Grinke represents severalsubsidiaries of W.R. Berkley Corp. that have filed a subrogationsuit also alleging negligence against West Fertilizer. The insurerscover individuals, businesses, and churches in town.

Eleanor Kitzman, the Lone Star State's former insurancecommissioner, says “there's always something to learn” from adisaster like the one in West, but “Having more insurance would nothave prevented this,” she adds. “This is more about public safetythan cost.”

Still, Muska says the claims process is going smoothly so far,although some residents are frustrated with the tedious process oflisting contents. Homeowners are also receiving a crash course indistinguishing between an actual-cash-value policy and areplacement-cost policy, he says, and there was another “smallhiccup” with some commercial claims: Several insurers delayedpayment while authorities ascertained whether the fire was causedby crime or a terrorist act.

After pursuing hundreds of leads and conducting even moreinterviews, federal and state authorities that combed the scene fora month could not determine what ignited the fire.

Muska called the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms andExplosives to clear up the snag by issuing a statement that theincident was not, in fact, terrorism. He says the site has sincebeen “turned back over to the owners, and their insurers andlawyers.”

Following such a catastrophe, one wonders if West will allowWest Fertilizer or another facility like it to rebuild.

“It has to!” Muska responds. “We can't have a town like thiswithout a fertilizer plant. There are farms all over, and farmershave to have their fertilizer. We can't move away from that.”

However, the mayor does acknowledge that thenext facility should stand at least a couple of miles outside ofWest, away from the population.

“It can't be back here—not after this,” he adds. “The peoplewould create such uproar that they'd prohibit it.”

However, one thing seems certain: The Adairs will not beinvolved in such a venture. Family spokesman Daniel Keeney has saidthe family is “not going to be in this business any longer.

“Right now they want to sincerely figure out what happened andencourage any actions that would minimize the likelihood ofsomething like this ever happening again,” he adds.

Ultimately, the decision on what will be built and where areactually outside West's authority, as West Fertilizer was locatedjust outside the city limit, on Stillmeadow Drive—on the other sideof the railroad tracks from a playground where metal posts thatonce held up basketball backboards are now dramatically bent awayfrom the former plant site. That determination will be made byMcLennan County, in which the town of West is based.

Further Fallout

In the time since the initial deaths, the town has held evenmore funerals. More than a dozen senior citizens who lived in theWest Rest Haven home—which was leveled in the blast—have died.Doctors say the stress from the event, as well as being uprootedand dispersed to surrounding nursing homes, may have beencontributing factors.

In June, the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) toldTexas Gov. Rick Perry it will not give West the additional funds itneeds to help restore its infrastructure—including amultimillion-dollar project to restore water to the affected area,and mend roads. The town's schools were counting on federal aid fortemporary classroom trailers while its schools are rebuilt orrepaired. Perry is appealing the FEMA denial.

Before the accident, West was on the verge of issuing acertificate of obligation to be able to afford an expansion to itssewer system. The certificate was based on water sales, 30 percentof which the city lost due to the explosion.

“We don't have a whole lot of money here,” says Muska. West hasan annual budget of about $2 million, “and that's based on housesthat were here [on the tax rolls]. I don't know about nextyear.”

West remains badly wounded—“emotionally zapped,” Muska says ofhis constituents. But they're not leaving. He speaks almostwistfully of attending a Little League game—a badly needed dose ofnormalcy.

Town leaders have passed a temporary ordinance to permittrailers in West in order to allow displaced residents a place tolive. Normally, trailers are outlawed in West.

At the Pizza House of West, where old album covers hang on thewalls, residents proudly sport T-shirts touting the West HighSchool Trojans' baseball district championship—and eat alongsidefederal investigators.

“They are resilient—religious and strong, and they are going tobe fine,” Muska firmly states in a manner not meant to convince,but to assert. “It's going to take a little time. That's what Westneeds.”

And as for this mayor/insurance agent?

“I have no clue where I'm getting my energy, 'cause I'm notsleeping!” he says.

“I don't know,” he adds, softer. “I just keep going.”