HE IS HALF ASLEEP when he feels his dad slam the brakes of his van. Larry Pickett Jr .'s head darts up from the back seat, and he squints his eyes to try to understand the mayhem on the road in front of him.

Smoke rising. Cars stopped. Wires down. People standing around. A man stuck in a car -- is he alive? Sparks buzz underneath his vehicle.

It's midnight on Aug. 31, a few miles south of West Point, New York, where Pickett is a sophomore safety on the Army football team. About 20 different things are happening at once, with just enough headlights aimed in opposite directions to make it more blurred than illuminated in the cool late summer air. Fifty yards away, a closed Dunkin' store provides a slight orange and pink tint in the background.

All six people in the van -- Pickett, his

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