9/11-911
Tim Krzys
 This story is written for those who have a morbid curiosity about death and tragedy, and for the survivors and loved ones of the victims of 911. All names are fictional as are the specific events. However, there are many factual components in the story related to timing of events and the structural collapse of the WTC. This story is not meant to open wounds, but to help some never forget, and to help others who must understand the last moments of a loved one in order to let the pain and memory rest.
Great care was taken to respect the survivors. All the fictional names were checked to be sure they did not, by coincidence match any of the victims of that horrible day. While many events are accurate down to the minute and second, all persons and businesses are purely fictional.
The World Trade Center twin towers, like New York City, were tall, proud and stood out from the crowd. They were 110 stories high, Tower One, the North Tower being 1,368 feet tall, and Tower Two shy of being its exact twin by four feet at 1,362 feet tall. Combined, they held about 10,000,000 square feet of rentable space that was occupied on any given day by almost 50,000 people. The rentable space on each floor amounted to nearly an acre, or 43,200 square feet, or about the combined floor space of thirty, average sized ranch homes.
It was called the World Trade Center for a reason. There was a bigger purpose than to provide space for its tenants. One purpose was to promote world trade, and world peace. Trading partners, when linked by common economies, are often reluctant to go to war or undermine the economy of the other. The two towers housed offices from over 430 businesses from at least 26 different countries. They were the world’s tallest buildings for a short time until the Sears Tower was completed in Chicago. Despite that fact and the fact that neither of the Twin Towers stands today, they shall always rise out of the ashes like the mythical Phoenix and remain tall in our hearts.
American Flight 11 was preparing for its journey from Boston to Los Angeles. It was only 7:30 on a Tuesday morning, as the long line of passengers slowly made their way past the ticket counter, down the gate to the jet, where they waited while those in front stowed luggage before taking their seats. It was like any normal, routine day at the airport. Crowds of strangers hauling their luggage behind them walked down the long shiny halls, past vendors selling gum and magazines and snacks, past hot dog stands that were preparing to open later that morning. Overhead pages, some in foreign languages boomed through the airport, anonymous voices that were largely ignored and just part of the ambiance of the bustling environment. Small electric carts beeped their way down the hall, their electric motors whirring as they swept past.
It was as normal as a day could be, giving absolutely no hint of the history making event that had already been set into motion. That’s how death and tragedy typically take center stage. Death is often disguised as routine, walking among the living who are too busy going about their lives to notice its cold and chilling presence, but it’s always there waiting to steal tomorrow. And with few exceptions, it comes as a surprise, as if tomorrow was a promise and that promise had been broken, our trust violated. As people hurried to their gates, their thoughts were filled with family or work, worries about money or health, and some dared to entertain concern about flying. Fear is not a stranger at airports. In the best of times people approach flying with some measure of fear and hesitation, somehow feeling safer on the highway even though statistics called those thoughts lies.
Had anyone considered the possibility of the horror that would lie ahead on Flight 11, being terrified would have been an understatement. But no one’s imagination conjured up the events that were about to unfold, and it’s likely that only fifteen percent even gave any consideration of being in a plane crash, and if they did, the thoughts were quickly dismissed as routine cloaked the shadow of death. As passengers boarded Flight 11, some were anxious, some slightly fearful, but most simply boarded, found their seats and stowed their luggage and sat down as if their whole future was still waiting for them to write it.
Dan Powers was 29. He stood barely over six foot and was considered the short one of the four boys in his family. He had warm, green eyes that were intelligent, sharp and perceptive, sexy and full of expression. In high school the girls all commented about how cute he was, but his eyes were irresistible. In the blink of an eye they could go from looking happy and excited, to whispering of pain and sadness. It was as if all of his emotions were expressed through his eyes without the necessity of one word being spoken. Dan had a strong, athletic build, a soft kind face, and short dark brown hair with a touch of gray coming in on the sides. He considered coloring his hair, believing 29 was too young for any gray, and at least one morning a month he stood in front of the mirror for several minutes having a debate with himself over the pros and cons of hair coloring. No matter how strong his argument for either side, he always came back to the strongest argument of all, his wife loved the touch of gray and promised to always love it. Still, he kept a small bottle of Grecian Formula hidden in a drawer in the bathroom, tucked way in the back of a drawer behind a pile of folded washcloths. His wife Beth knew it was there and periodically checked to make sure it hadn’t been used. Beth colored her hair because gray didn’t look well with blonde, or any color on a woman for that matter, according to her. She told Dan that when she was a great-grandmother, she’d let the gray finally show.
Dan was a CPA for a large Boston accounting firm that was branching out into L.A. Because of his Harvard education, his strong work ethic and especially the way he worked so well with others, his boss personally requested he be the one to monitor progress in the L.A. office. Like any young man striving to build a great career and to have more toys than the average man, it was an opportunity he couldn’t refuse. He disliked flying, and disliked being away from home even more. But not everything could be carried up the career ladder.
As he stood alone in the crowded airport, nearly oblivious to the activity around him, Dan kept thinking of Beth. She was home ill, fighting a bad cold that arrived every year about this time as if it was a seasonal requirement. It had been that way since she was a little girl growing up in the suburbs of Boston. Over the years the colds decreased in severity and duration, but always arrived on time every September. Two years ago it arrived late, and she didn’t become ill until mid-October. The break in routine was actually distressing, leaving her to worry that maybe an undiagnosed cancer was mucking up her schedule. That morning Beth woke only long enough to kiss Dan good-bye and call in sick to work. She was a paralegal for a large attorney firm and had hopes of maybe one-day attending law school. Being employed by a law firm would soon provide great benefits, but little if any, true comfort.
Dan tucked his garment bag into the overhead compartment, being careful as he moved aside an old duffel bag and two other carry-ons. He had discovered over the years that some passengers were extremely touchy about having their luggage rearranged by strangers unless it was the flight attendant. When he was satisfied with the placement of his carryon, and confident the overhead compartment would close without problem, he sat down in the window seat and fastened his seatbelt. He imagined that one day he would join the aisle seat crowd, those business people who didn’t fly for the view, and wanted to save as many seconds as they could upon landing by being able to exit quickly so they could hurry up and wait some place else. Dan still enjoyed the view of a window seat, but imagined that one day, as he grew older, he would lose the child-like curiosity and excitement of seeing the world from thirty thousand feet up. On occasion and if the sky was clear, and the jet took a certain flight path, he could spot his home. In his den was an enlarged photograph of their home he had taken three months ago as the jet made its final approach for landing. Despite the graininess of the enlarged photo and its obvious amateurish appearance, he had hung it with all the pride of a fishermen displaying a trophy, award winning swordfish. Plagued with boredom if he wasn’t constantly busy, Dan retrieved a Grisham novel from his briefcase and began reading. As the crowd of passengers squeezed through the aisle, every arm carrying something, a woman checked her ticket and then sat down beside Dan.
“Good morning,” she said with a cheerful, melodious voice.
Dan lowered his book, looked over and smiled. “Good morning.” He thought she seemed awfully cheerful for so early in the morning. “You must be going to L.A.,” he said, a little unsure of exactly what to say to a stranger on a plane.
“I sure hope so. It’s a non-stop flight,” she said with a wide grin. “I’m looking forward to getting home,” as she sat back in her seat.
“I wish I could say I was going home, I live here in Boston. My wife’s sick and I hated leaving her this morning.”
“Oh, anything serious?”
“No, just a severe cold.” He paused a moment, held his place in the book with a finger, and offered his free hand. “I’m Dan Powers, accounting.” They shook hands and he was impressed with the strong, firm grip and the softness of her feminine hand.
“Lisa Hodges, marketing.”
“Ohhhhh.”
“What does ohhhhh, mean?” she said smiling.
“I guess it didn’t surprise me. You seem so cheerful and outgoing. I guess those would be good qualities to have in your field.”
“Yes, they are,” she agreed. Lisa placed her purse on the floor between her feet and then leaned back in her seat.
“Well, cheerfulness and early morning flights fit together for me like a square peg and a round hole. Or is it a round peg and a square hole?”
The woman laughed. “Oh, it’s not that early and you seem to be in a fine mood.”
“It’s the window seat. I’m like a kid when it comes to flying. I love looking out the window.”
“Me too,” she agreed. “but I can’t wait to get home and asked for an aisle seat. Quicker exit that way. I flew in Sunday night for a big presentation on Monday, and I’m exhausted. I think my body is still operating on west coast time.”
“Yes, I have that to look forward to,” Dan said. “Do you have any family in L.A., or are you one of the millions of transplants who moved there from one of the other forty-nine states and Mexico?”
“No, I’m a little unusual. I was born and raised in the L.A. area. I don’t know why, but I never had the sense to move away. There’s something beautiful and alluring about the area, but it’s also false and fairytale. My roommate is an aspiring actress, and sometimes I think half of the people in L.A. have aspirations of breaking into show biz.”
“I’ve heard that. Just in the small firm we’re starting up, we have two people who have been extras in some movie. I have no idea which one and don’t really care. They’re still hoping for a bigger part, you know, to get discovered. One man was on The Price is Right.”
“That certainly is a claim to fame!” she said with a giggle.
“Can you believe he even included it on his resume?”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all. I think ninety percent of LA is delusional about their talent and chance of becoming famous. Do you go out there often?”
“No, thankfully. Just once a month or so to check on our newest accounting firm. To be honest, I don’t care for traveling, but it scores points with the boss.”
“And none with the wife I’ll bet,” Lisa filled in for him.
“You got that right. You have anyone special in your life? Perhaps that’s too personal a question.”
“No, don’t worry about that. Half the fun of flying is getting to meet someone new. I have a boyfriend. He’s a cameraman for a game show.”
“Not…”
“Yes, can you believe it, The Price is Right!” They shared a laugh at how small the world really was. “I hear all about the wannabes that come onto the lot looking to become the next big star. It amazes me what some people call talent.”
“Talent and TV have nothing in common!” They both laughed at the truth in that statement. “How long have you two been together?”
“We’ve been dating about fifteen months.”
“Any wedding plans?”
“Maybe. I think he might ask me on my birthday, which is next week.”
Just then, the flight attendant began to announce the pre-flight instructions. A few passengers who were standing in the aisle quickly stuffed their belongings into the overhead compartments, slammed them shut and found their seats.
“Well, have a happy birthday,” Dan whispered.
“Thank you.”
The flight attendant reviewed all the safety instructions, made last minute pre-flight checks of all the overhead compartments, and then found their seats and strapped in. The jet was filled with a cross section of Anytown, USA. There were a few small children, all under the age of ten, four married couples, one couple who had been married only four months, several grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, businessmen dressed in suits, men dressed casually in blue jeans and sweatshirts. Several businesswomen wore dress suits or slacks, and a few traveled comfortably in blue jeans and a T-shirt. Among the non-caucasian men, were a few of oriental background, several African Americans, and about ten who appeared of Middle Eastern decent. Among the ten were five causally dressed men who traveled light, appeared to be flying alone and blended in quietly with the other passengers. They fit in well with the melting pot of passengers aboard Flight 11. They politely took their seats and waited patiently for take off.
A few minutes before eight, the jet taxied to the runway and joined the short line of other jets waiting for takeoff.
“I hate this part,” Lisa said.
“I hate landings,” Dan replied, his mouth curving into a grin.
“Oh, that’s great. Between us, we’ll have fear sandwiched between the two events.” They both laughed as the pilot throttled up the powerful jet engines and the large, Boeing 767 moved forward on the tarmac. The wings were filled with over 10,000 gallons of extremely flammable jet fuel. The Boeing 767 had a maximum takeoff weight of approximately 450,000 pounds, a wingspan of 170 feet 4 inches, with a length of 201 feet. Its typical cruising speed was 530 miles per hour. In forty-seven minutes its speed would exceed 600 miles per hour. In a fully loaded 767, flying at an extremely low altitude where the air density is greatest and its resistance highest, the entire structure of the jet would begin to approach its point of self-destruction. Inside the 767 there were two aisles with three seats in the center in economy class, and two center aisle seats in business class. In first class there were two seats on either side of the aisle, and one in the center. It boasted a roominess that would soon feel tiny and smothering.
After the jet was air born at exactly 7:59 a.m., it banked gently around to head west. The Boeing 767 had a light passenger load of only 81 passengers, two pilots and nine flight attendants. While still climbing, the flight attendants began to prepare the galley for beverage service. As soon as the seatbelt sign blinked off, people unbuckled their seat belt, got up, and headed for the restroom or to grab a different magazine. Some simply stood and stretched before returning to their seats. A few passengers opened the overhead compartment to retrieve reading material, a laptop or PDA from their luggage. Amidst the normal routine, and unnoticed by anyone, one by one, five Middle Eastern men got up from their seats, opened the overhead compartment and pulled out a small bag. They carried out their activities slowly, almost as if they were purposely delaying returning to the seats. But no one noticed because there was no reason to notice. One of the men, Atta walked confidently toward first class, pushed aside the curtain dividing the two areas, and continued toward the galley.
“Can I help you sir?” A flight attendant asked.
He said nothing. With a sudden and very rehearsed swiftness, Atta swung one arm around the woman’s neck, abruptly spun her around and pulled her towards him. Within a second, she was subdued in a chokehold with a sharp box cutter held against her throat.
“Hey!” a first class passenger shouted as he stood.
Suddenly, four other men rushed through the dividing curtain, each one holding a box cutter with a sharp, shiny razor blade exposed.
“Don’t be a hero,” Atta spoke with a heavy accent. “If anyone moves, I will slit her throat then kill one of you.” The passenger who was standing froze, looked Atta straight in the eyes, glanced around the first class section, and slowly sat down. Quickly and without discussion, the four other terrorists subdued the flight attendants in first class, and three of them escorted the flight attendants to the rear of the aircraft. Atta and Al-Omas remained behind.
Atta retained his choking lock around the woman’s neck as he dragged her toward the cockpit door. Al-Omari kept watch over first class. “Open immediately,” Atta commanded, striking the door firmly with his free hand. The woman stood still, her eyes widened with terror. The knife blade was pressed against her neck so firmly that even the slightest movement would bring blood.
Atta stepped back slightly and waited as his partner moved closer. A moment later, the co-pilot opened the cockpit door. He stood tall wearing a white shirt and minus his jacket. “What’s the problem out here?”
Al-Omari kicked open the door sending the surprised co-pilot sailing backward. He fell to the floor landing hard on his back.
“We are taking over the plane,” Atta said firmly. He moved in front of the open door still clutching the woman. “If there is any resistance, we are prepared to die and to kill everyone on board this jet. I suggest you do not resist.” The flight attendant tried to look away as the co-pilot fell, but Atta’s arm kept her head positioned so she had to watch. She gasped and the sudden noise made the terrorist tighten his grip around her neck. Her eyes were bugling and she was breathing hard. The pilot turned around in his seat as his co-pilot landed on the floor beside him. “What the hell is going on!” The pilot demanded to know.
Without a word, the terrorist pressed the knife blade against the woman’s throat until a tiny drop of blood emerged and dripped slowly down her neck. Without a word or warning, he pressed harder and slid the blade across the flight attendant’s throat. Blood squirted out and sprayed the wall beside the cockpit door. She screamed and immediately clutched her throat as the terrorist released her. A rapid gush of bright blood flowed between her fingers. Her contorted and twisted face drained of color, her knees buckled and then her eyes glazed over. The terrorist reached out and shoved her to the floor and she collapsed like a small tower of Jello. A woman sitting in first class screamed and then suddenly fell quiet, sobbing nearly silently after the terrorist glared at her.
“If you follow our instructions, no one else will die.”
The co-pilot grabbed onto his empty seat and pulled himself up, never once taking his eyes off the killer.
“Both of you, get out. Now!” The terrorist commanded.
“Who will fly the plane?” the pilot asked.
“That is not your concern. I’m not going to say this again. Get out.”
The pilot and co-pilot looked at each other. Both hesitated, trying to figure out if there was a solution to this attempted hijacking. There was unusual and almost eerie silence in the cabin. The pilot slowly got up from his seat and stood beside the co-pilot. They slowly stepped out of the cockpit, moving cautiously as they walked past the terrorist leader. Two of the terrorists had stepped into first class to make sure no one tried to be a hero. Atta spoke some firmly giving commands in a foreign language to the two remaining terrorists. They quickly grabbed the pilot and co-pilot, and with box cutters in hand, lead them to the rear of the plane where they would be tied up with duct tape. As they moved down the aisle there was near silence. Every passenger watched in silence.
Before they entered the business class, one man stood up and was abruptly struck across the face. He fell backwards into a woman passenger as blood spilled from his nose.
Atta looked behind him, his eyes glaring at the seated passengers, and then he stepped into the cockpit and slammed the door shut.
As the two pilots were lead to the rear of the plane, the terrorists warned the passengers to remain in their seats unless they wanted to die. The cabin remained unusually quiet and still. A sense of shock and disbelief had settled into the large jet, which now was feeling extremely small, stuffy and isolated from the entire world.
“What’s going on?” Lisa asked quietly, leaning toward Dan. Her voice was nervous and breaking.
“I think we’re being hijacked.” Other passengers were growing restless, looking around the cabin and whispering to one another.
“Attention everyone. In the name of Allah, we are now in control of this plane. I must warn you to strictly obey our instructions or be killed. If anyone tries to resist, we will begin killing passengers beginning with the two pilots. Unless you want to be responsible for someone’s death, you must stay in your seat. If you need to use the restroom, raise your hand and we will address your needs.” There was a long pause before the deep voice boomed over the intercom again. “You must follow our instructions. You must remain calm and quiet, and must stay in your seats. Anyone failing to follow these instructions will be killed immediately. I hope I have made myself clear.” The intercom clicked off and the cabin fell completely silent. The hum of the jet engines was the only sound that filled the length of the cabin. A small baby began crying, and whispers of the mother trying to calm her infant floated among the seats.
“What are we going to do?” Lisa whispered.
“Nothing. We’re going to do nothing. Hopefully, we’ll fly to Cuba or Columbia or something, and they’ll let us all go.”
“They don’t have any guns, do they?”
“I don’t know. But they have box cutters that they got on board somehow. I don’t really want my throat slit.” Dan turned around in his seat in time to see one of the terrorists walking up the aisle. He was holding a box cutter in his hand and looked ready to use it.
Despite the large size of the cabin, the six seats across and the two aisles, Dan was beginning to feel as if they were all seated in a tiny and crowded Lear jet with a narrow width and low ceiling. The air was beginning to feel stale and stuffy. They were on their own, at the complete will of their hijackers. Flying was normally a surrendering of power, of not being in the driver’s seat. That feeling of powerlessness had just been jacked up a few hundred notches. Dan looked around the cabin, wishing he had a gun, a parachute, something to help even the odds.
“You!” the terrorist said, pointing at Dan.
“Me?” his voice cracked.
“Turn around unless you’d like to join the pilot in the rear of the plane.”
Dan quickly turned around and remained silent. There was nothing to say. He wanted to be as invisible as possible, and that meant remaining silent. The terrorist walked past him, staring him down with his dark eyes. The jet began banking sharply to the left. Passengers suddenly looked out the window trying to determine where in hell they were going. Except for quiet whispering, and there was little of that, the cabin remained extremely quiet. No one moved, no one read a magazine or turned on their lap top. It became a jet filled with still and quiet statues.
Within several minutes, the four terrorists separated many clusters of passengers throughout the cabin. Almost out of some absurd kindness, they did not separate people who were traveling together. When they were finished, the 81 passengers were spread among the entire length of the aircraft. Dan and Lisa were allowed to remain in their assigned seats.
Suddenly a woman’s scream ripped through the quiet like a cannon shot, and then almost as suddenly, silence returned to the cabin like a thick, impenetrable fog. Some passengers turned around to see what was happening, but most sat motionless in their seats, wanting and not wanting to know, their faces white with fear and hands tightly clutching the armrests.
Minutes moved like sluggish giants in a tight corridor. Anyone who glanced at their watch stared long enough to make sure the sweep second hand was actually still moving. Some simply sat staring, being careful to avoid any eye contact with one of the terrorists. Others pretended to be reading, but no one could plow through more than a sentence before they glanced up from the page again, totally aware of the precariousness of their own safety. In the cockpit, an air traffic controller attempted to contact the pilot to inquire about the course change. He received no response. The new pilot increased the jet’s speed and set the heading for New York City. Cleverly using a Global Positioning Device, Atta programmed the target’s address and used it to assist in guiding the jet. After several minutes, the pilot made an announcement over the intercom.
“This is your pilot. If you wish, you may use the in-flight phones to call whoever you would like. You may say whatever you like, but I must ask that you do so quietly. If not, we will help you become quiet.” There was another click and the intercom fell silent.
“What do you think is going on here?” Lisa asked in a whisper. She rubbed her face nervously with trembling fingers.
“I have no idea, but I don’t like this at all. Why would they let us make phone calls, unless it doesn’t matter?”
“What do you mean, doesn’t matter?” Lisa’s face was twisted with fear, her eyes were widened circles and her brow wrinkled with tension.
He regretted making that comment. “I’m not sure. But something tells me we’re not going to Cuba.” He looked at the phone on the back of the seat in front of him. Dan checked his watch. It was 8:20. They had only been in the air for twenty-one minutes. Beth was most probably still sleeping and maybe wouldn’t hear his call. He sat motionless and waited, wondering if the whole thing was a trick of some sort. Maybe they would kill whoever made phone calls. Maybe they would make them special hostages, telling their loved ones on the other end of the line to meet their demands or listen to them being murdered. His mind played with all sorts of possibilities, none of them positive. After an extremely long and endless minute or so, he heard someone making a call. He continued to sit motionless and heard another call being made. It was followed by another, and then another. He kept the debate going in his mind, wondering about the safety of making a call. So far, nothing had happened. Finally, he reached out and pulled the phone off its rest. “I have to try and call home.” He thought of saying this may be his last chance to speak with his wife, but decided against it. Dan leaned over, pulled out his wallet and retrieved a credit card. He swiped the card on the phone, nearly missing because his hand was trembling, and then dialed the number. “I hope she hears the phone,” he said to Lisa. Dan placed the phone close to his ear and waited. After a long delay, the phone began ringing in suburban Boston in Waltham, Massachusetts.
It rang a second time, and he waited, and then a third, and he waited, and waited, and then a fourth ring and the waiting grew longer, and a fifth time, and he waited. Dan looked at his watch. It seemed he had to wait to verify the second hand was still moving.
He looked at Lisa. “I don’t think she’s awake. The damn cold medicine, probably knocked her out.” It rang a seventh time, and after a long delay, an eighth, each ring seemed to take longer and longer, finally a ninth ring….. he’d never heard such a slow ringing phone before in his life.
“Helllloooo,” spoke a hoarse and groggy voice. “Who’s this?”
“Honey? It’s me. You need to wake up, you need to wake up now and talk to me.”
“Dan? What’s wrong?” She coughed to clear her voice. “Are you okay? Aren’t you on your flight yet?”
“Yes,” then he repeated in a quieter voice. “Yes. That’s the problem. We’ve been hijacked.”
Beth sat bolt upright in her bed. A pillow dropped to the floor. “Dan! What do you mean, you’ve been hijacked?” Tears began forming. “Are you okay? Do they have guns? Is anyone hurt? Are you okay?”
“Honey, I’m okay. I think someone was hurt. I saw blood on one of the hijackers and I don’t think it was his.” Why did he tell her that! What was wrong with him?
“How many are there?” She was sobbing now, hoping, praying that she was still actually asleep experiencing a cold medicine induced nightmare, a horrible nightmare that even in life, could never feel real. She looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. The red numbers glowed 8:22. It felt like three in the morning.
“There are five, I think. I haven’t seen any guns, but they have knives, box cutters. They’re flying the plane and I have no idea where we’re going, but from the position of the sun, I think we’re heading south. The pilot and co-pilot are sitting in the back of the plane. I don’t know if they’re okay or not.”
There was heavy sobbing into the phone and spits of static clouded the sound. “Oh my God! Oh Dan! Are you going to be all right? What is going on? Do they know you’re on the phone? Pleeeease don’t let them hurt you.” The sentence ended with tears and heavy sobbing. Beth looked at the clock again. It seemed to be the only proof she had that this conversation was actually taking place. The numbers glowed 8:23. Suddenly the numbers changed to 8:24. That small change in a minute was proof that the day was marching forward, moving ahead and out of control. In an odd sort of way, how digital clocks sliced time into such small increments reminded her just how precious every moment really was.
“I don’t know why, but they’re allowing us to make phone calls. I don’t know if I should stay on the phone for very long or not. I don’t know what is the right thing to do.” Dan raised his head slowly and looked forward, peeking over the seat in front of him like a soldier expecting return fire. “Some of them are up in first class. They have the curtains pulled so I don’t really know what is going on. A lot of people are making phone calls.” Soft crying sounds could be heard throughout the cabin. Dan noticed a few callers wiping their eyes as they held the phone tightly to their ear. He knew how they felt. Clutching the phone, embracing it was the only closeness to family that remained. “I love you so much, Beth. I don’t know if, I don’t know what’s going to happen. Please call my parents and my brother. He should be at work. Grab the address book in the den. His number’s in there.” Dan blinked hard. He could barely see through the tears clouding his eyes. He needed to remain strong. There was no telling what he had yet to face. “I love you. I love you so much. You know, I never say that enough, I never tell you how much I appreciate you and everything you do for me. I’ve been working too much lately when I should be home more with you. I wish¾”
“Stop! Dan, don’t do this! Pleeeasse, don’t do this. You’re a wonderful husband and I couldn’t love anyone as much as I love you! Please tell me that things will be okay.”
Dan paused, trying to picture Beth sitting up in bed, clutching the phone tightly, wiping her eyes with a soaked tissue. He had been working too much, trading in memories of being together to get ahead in his career. Life was so short, way too short, and he had been racing through each day as if there was an endless supply of them. Why was that so easy for people to do? Why did money and things matter so much when the real wealth in life was the time with loved ones and the memories they created?
“Dan? Are you still there? Dan?” He could hear the panic across the miles.
“I’m sorry, yes, I’m here. I was just thinking. If something happens,” his voice cracked. There was a lump in his throat the size of a large rock.
“Don’t talk like that. You’re coming home, I know you are. You have to!”
“Beth, if something happens to me, you must be strong. We have to consider what could happen.”
“Stop!” Beth screamed into the phone. Her voice cut sharply through the static and the miles. “Stop it! Now stop talking like this. You’re coming home. I know you will. I love you so much. You’re not leaving me. I know you’ll be home. You have to be. You can’t leave me, you can’t leave me,” she finished, her voice trailing off to tears.
“Okay, Beth, okay. Call everyone, and turn on the TV. Maybe there’s some news about what’s going on.”
The conversation continued for a few more minutes, and each word was pulled from his heart. The longer they talked, the more impossible it became to find the right words, and to push back the growing flood of emotion that was tainted and stained with guilt and fear. He wanted the conversation to never end, and he wanted to end it immediately. When Dan finally said goodbye, it was like trying to talk fluently in a foreign language he had never spoken before. The goodbye seemed so final, like he had actually been witness to life’s end and he was still living. In the pit of his stomach he knew he would never see Beth again, never touch the softness of her hand, listen to her laughter, enjoy the warm moistness of her kiss or feel the wonderful sensation of her embrace. When Dan pushed the button to end the call, not one word existed in his thoughts of what to say next. People talked of being left speechless, but rarely were. There was always a remnant of a thought, a word waiting to be inflated into a sentence always on deck ready to push forward. This time however, his mind was completely blank. Not even an image existed in his thoughts. It was as if twenty-five billion brain cells had suddenly ceased functioning, save for a few that regulated the basic body functions that normally occurred without consideration. After a long pause that existed without the benefit of time, Dan absently handed the phone to Lisa. He glanced down and checked his watch. It was now 8:34. Slowly, the nightmare reappeared; thoughts sluggishly fell together into a sloppy pile, still not making any sense. Dan turned his head slowly and looked out the window. As his mind powered up on dying batteries, he noted the sun’s position and saw something familiar.
“I think we’re headed toward New York City.” His voice was weak, robbed of strength by intense grief.
Lisa looked out the window, and then looked at Dan. “Here,” she began, holding the phone. “Put this back. I could never in my life make a call like that. Maybe I’m a coward, maybe I’m just scared to death, but finding the words to say what you just told your wife, is, well, I don’t know what it is. I can’t even talk well now.”
Dan looked at her and looked at the phone she was holding. “Are you sure?”
Lisa nodded silently, swallowed hard and handed him the phone. Dan took the phone, replaced it and looked across the aisle. A woman was wiping a tear from her eye and talking on the phone. She looked to be about seventy, and from her appearance, Dan guessed she had money. Her clothes looked expensive and she wore beautiful diamonds on her fingers. He checked his watch again. It was now 8:37. Less than nine minutes remained before the jet plowed into World Trade Center 1, the North Tower. He knew something was going to happen soon. Life gave those that listened, an intuition that was rarely a blessing and often a curse. He knew, he was certain. Every glance at his watch reminded him that it had now become useless except for the minute and second hand.
Three of the hijackers continually moved quickly through out the plane. Their constant movement was aimed at keeping everyone off guard, unsure of their location and intentions. Yet, there was something else behind their movement. It almost looked like pacing, impatient waiting for an event to occur. It seemed they never stood still, bending over occasionally to glance out the window, and then talking to each other in their foreign language. At times they smiled at one another, and as time passed, their chatter became more frequent.
For the most part, the passengers remained quiet; a few were crying, some sat silently in shock, staring forward or simply looking out the window at the Long Island Sound below them and to their left.
Dan looked out the window again, and then glanced at his watch. It was 8:38, and unlike only a few moments ago, the second hand seemed to be almost spinning.
World Trade Center 1, North Tower
It was 7:20 a.m. when James L. Jones arrived to work on the 101st floor of WTC Tower 1, the North Tower. He was a brilliant electrical engineer for Cohen Electronics, which had been one of the first tenants of the tower when it opened in 1970. The owner, Ed Cohen was determined to have an office on the top floor, but settled for the 101st. The view of looking in any direction for nearly fifty miles on a clear day was one of the few remaining pleasures he enjoyed in his life. Personal tragedy had decimated his once extensive library of enjoyment. Now all that remained was work, and looking out the window for inspiration.
In many respects, every floor of the north tower was nearly identical, though the configuration of the office cubicles and a few other minor variations gave each floor its own personality. The building’s core was occupied by a small area of elevators, restrooms and stairwells, leaving the entire perimeter of nearly an acre completely open for office space. The external structure, or skin of the building, provided the true backbone and strength and essentially held up the building. The lack of support beams and structures gave each floor a sense of expanse and space, reflecting the enormity of the entire tower. The weight of each floor was transferred to the tower’s powerfully strong sides, held in place by thick rivets and braces. In a sense, the support columns, often found within a tall building, were for the most part, moved to the perimeter of the tower. It was an ingenious and sound design that made the interior feel as large and graceful as the soaring view from outside.
As Jim exited the elevator, he could smell coffee. He walked with a casual confidence to his cubicle, set down his leather brief case, removed his suit jacket and hung it up on the shiny, brass coat rack just as he had done over five thousand times before; five thousand, one hundred seventeen to be exact, nearly fifteen years. He was probably one of the few employees in the entire World Trade Center who counted such things. He had a reason, and it wasn’t because he had an incurable obsessive-compulsive disorder that wouldn’t respond to therapy or medication. There were an exact number of workdays he wanted to reach before age sixty when he would semi-retire with his wife. It was a number only he knew, a number he likened to hitting the jackpot; it would be the day he started to really enjoy life and all it had to offer. Thirty years of employment, minus vacations, holidays and the rare sick day he grudgingly allowed himself, the number came to nine thousand, one hundred ten, or 9,110. The number held significance; September 11th was the anniversary of when he first met his wife Ellen in 1980. The year presented a problem, so instead of working ninety-one thousand, one hundred eighty days, he rounded the year to a zero. It beat working himself to death for the sake of sentimentality. Besides, 91,180 workdays amounted to over two hundred sixty-five years. That just didn’t seem practical. His wife thought he was just plain goofy.
Satisfied his routine was intact and everything in its place, he smiled at the warm, morning rays of sun that enveloped his small space like an ethereal, translucent blanket, and then walked with a more casual, slower pace to the break area for a cup of fresh coffee. Often he made the first pot in the morning, but on occasion, someone arrived before he did.
“Good morning,” Jim said to Vicky Bloomberg. She was a brilliant engineering student who showed great promise. The fact that she arrived so early was just one more indicator of her work ethic and dedication. Sacrifice was always rewarded in the corporate world.
Almost always.
“Good morning, Jim. I already made coffee.”
“I could smell it as soon as I got off the elevator. When did you get in?”
“Just a few minutes ago. I couldn’t sleep. Kept waking up, tossing, turning, you know the routine. So I decided I might as well get a jump start on rush hour.”
“Workload keeping you awake?” He asked as he walked over to the coffee pot.
“No, I don’t know what was bothering me. But every time I thought about coming into work, I thought about staying home.” She took a sip from her cup and looked out the window.
“I have those days, too. Especially when it’s Monday and raining!” He chuckled and poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, shook in some sugar and powdered creamer, grabbed a plastic stirrer and stuck it into the coffee. Jim was forty-five, looked his age, but didn’t feel it. He was a tall man, six foot two, with broad shoulders and a waistline that was also growing broad. There was something about hitting the forty-year milestone that made staying slim a true battle of the bulge. Two years ago he essentially conceded defeat, tossed out his size thirty-five pants and purchased only size thirty-seven. The other battle in the two-front war of middle age was a receding hairline. He hated how it crept up behind him where he couldn’t see it coming, until finally, carrying a comb was more for ego than function.
Jim had two sons in college, one studying English and the other drifting between majors, still undecided but leaning toward law. His wife Ellen was a nurse who worked part time, preferring to pursue her hobby of painting and volunteering. As soon as the kids were out of college and he hit the magic number, they planned to sell everything and move to New England, semi-retire and work only enough to fund their interests and desire to travel. Their goal was to build a beautiful two thousand square foot log cabin in the mountains of New Hampshire.
Jim picked up his coffee. “I couldn’t sleep last night either. Kept tossing and turning, wondering what number today was…,”
“The date?”
“No, it’s kind of a private joke in our home. I track the number of days I’ve worked and…”
“Oh yeah, I’ve heard about your retirement plans. Bill told me and said that when the time approaches, they’re going to get a pool together on what that secret number is!” They both laughed.
“Still got a lot of time for that to happen!”
“So, you couldn’t sleep either?”
“No, don’t know why, just one of those mornings. I kept thinking of all the projects I’m working on at home. Refinishing the basement, planting some white pines in the back yard, that sort of thing. Thought today would be a perfect day to work outside.”
“It sounds like it,” she agreed.
“I finally quit arguing with myself and decided to make this day number five thousand, one hundred seventeen. Another day closer to that log cabin!” He stirred his coffee and tossed the plastic stirrer into the garbage. “How was your weekend? I never did get a chance to ask you yesterday.”
“Too short, but aren’t they all? My boyfriend and I went to see his parents.”
“Where do they live?”
“Danielson, Connecticut. It’s a cute little town in the northeast corner of the state not far from Rhode Island. It’s about an hour east of Hartford. We had a nice visit. It’s such a beautiful area. So many trees!” She took a sip of her coffee.
“That’s what I miss living near New York. But one day! My wife still talks about getting a bed and breakfast, but I don’t know if I like the idea of strangers spending the night all the time.”
“That’s because you live in New York. People in New England have a different attitude about people.”
“So, what did his parents think?”
She shrugged her shoulders as she sipped on the steaming coffee. “I don’t think they’re thrilled that I’m Jewish.”
“Typical. People get so worked up about stupid things, convinced that you’re not going to meet in heaven.”
“Exactly. They’re Catholic. I don’t know where everyone thinks Jews go after they die.”
“Same place as Muslims, Hindus and Lutherans!” They both laughed. “Seriously though, don’t let that stop you. That’s their problem to deal with. What do your parents think about it?”
“I think they share the same view as David’s, only from a Jewish perspective.”
“Sometimes I think religions cause more prejudice than they cure.” He suddenly noticed Ed Cohen, the CEO walk onto the floor and toward his corner office. “Looks like it’s time to get to work.”
Vicky looked past Jim in time to see Cohen disappear into his office. “Is he ever cheerful in the morning?”
“No, but after working for Ed all these years, I like the guy.”
“Why? He’s not very friendly.”
“Ed’s not had the easiest life, and wealth can buy you things, but it can’t bring happiness. I know that’s a little overused, but it’s so true. He lost his wife and daughter to a car accident quite a few years ago and I don’t think he has much in his life except work. He’s a generous man though. He always gives a nice Christmas bonus.”
“Christmas bonus?”
“Well, he calls it an end of the year income adjustment. He always encourages holiday decorations, no matter what your faith.” Jim checked his watch. It was 7:45 a.m. Life was going to change in one hour. That’s how life was. Always the same day after day, and then never the same again. Except for illness, which left a trail of symptoms and hints of coming attractions, life generally cruised along with total unpredictability, and when it appeared too routine, it stopped being routine.
“I guess we better appear busy,” Vicky added.
“Not me. I’m going to read the paper for ten minutes before I get to work on the Anderson project. Ed’s okay. Don’t let him scare you.”
Vicky smiled, refilled her cup and then left for her tiny cubicle. Jim went to his desk. Outside the sun was shining brilliantly on the water. The morning sky was nearly clear with only a few scant wisps of clouds. It was starting out to be a beautiful Tuesday morning, and from the 101st floor, they could see nearly forty miles in any direction.
The elevator bell dinged and the door opened followed by the exit of a tall young man. Thomas Glenn was twenty-one, had short blonde hair, a pierced left ear, and a persistent smile that nothing seemed to erase. As the elevator door closed, he walked straight for the freshly brewed coffee. He hated his name, which was reversible as he called it. Having two first names was frustrating, and new acquaintances always got them turned around, calling him Glenn one moment and Tom the next. Sometimes he didn’t even bother to correct them. A second elevator dinged and the door opened.
“Hey Tommy!” a voice boomed into the early morning office.
Tom Glenn turned around to see Bill Freeman stepping off the elevator, holding a black leather briefcase in one hand and a magazine in the other. “Yeah, what’s up?” Tommy replied.
“I finally remembered that magazine.” He held it up as evidence. The cover sported a motorcycle, and Tom could see it was the latest issue of Cycle magazine. Bill walked briskly to the break area.
“Hey great!” Tom said, as he grabbed two Styrofoam cups. “Is that the issue with the article on the new Yamaha?”
“It’s in there! I think you should consider buying it. You need a bigger bike if you’re going to go cruising with us next spring.” There was a group of North Tower employees who formed a loosely held together motorcycle club that focused on touring the New England area. There were only about nine members, and on any given ride, about half were present.
Tom laughed as he poured two cups of coffee. Bill came up to the break area, handed Tom the magazine and grabbed his cup of coffee. “Hey thanks. Appreciate it.” He took a careful sip of the hot liquid. “Think your wife will let you buy it?”
Tom laughed as he flipped open the magazine, trying to locate the table of contents. “I would think it’s only fair. After all, she must have an equal value in shoes!” They both chuckled at the remark.
“Yeah, what is it with women and shoes? I have a brown pair, a black pair, and a pair of tennis shoes.”
“Got me. But every woman I’ve met is the same way.” He located the table of contents and quickly flipped to the article. “Now that’s a sweet bike!” He stared down at the photo as Bill looked over his shoulder.
“Sure is, but I’ll stick to Harleys.”
“Where is the spring trip next year?”
“P-town,” Bill said, referring to Provincetown Massachusetts on Cape Cod. “We’re planning for late May, early June. We’ll probably set the date in March and make motel reservations then, too.” Just then they all noticed Ed Cohen coming their way. He had a walk that quietly said he was the boss, but as usual, his facial expression was blank.
They all turned and said good morning in what sounded like rehearsed unison.
Ed nodded hello and glanced at the magazine. “Motorcycles, huh? If I was younger, I think I’d buy one.” Both men looked up from the magazine with surprise. Neither knew what to say.
Ed smiled. His smiles were always weak, as if his facial muscles had very little practice making such expressions. His frowns, which were not all that frequent either, were much more pronounced, outlined with creases and wrinkles. “You look surprised. No, shocked.”
“I am,” Bill replied through a weak grin. “I didn’t know you even liked motorcycles.”
“I wanted to buy one many years ago, a Honda, but my wife didn’t think it was a good idea with us just starting to raise a family. She wanted me around, I guess.” The remnants of the smile quickly evaporated.
“It’s not too late,” Tom said. “They’re a lot of fun, and great for reducing stress. There’s nothing like being out there feeling the wind.”
Ed rubbed his chin, his brow wrinkled in thought, and then he walked over and poured himself a cup of coffee. He always preferred it black and couldn’t understand why anyone drank it any other way. He took a sip of coffee, set the cup down and picked up the magazine.
“Humfff,” he said, as he flipped through the pages. “They sure have changed since my younger days.”
“Malcolm Forbes owns a few motorcycles,” Tom said.
“Really?” Ed replied, suddenly interested.
“So does Jay Leno,” Bill added.
“Hmmfff! No Hollywood type ever impressed me with their preferences and habits,” Ed shot back, still looking through the magazine. “When did you say this trip of yours was?” He looked over at Tom.
Tom looked surprised and caught off guard. His mouth hung open as if it had frozen just before getting out the first syllable of a short word. “Ah, well, we were looking at sometime in the spring.”
“When?” Ed wanted to know.
“May or early June. By then, the weather is usually a little nicer.”
Ed nodded as he flipped through the last few pages of the magazine. He stopped suddenly, folded the pages over and looked at an ad. “They make three wheelers?” he asked, looking over at Bill.
“Yes, they do. You can buy one for about fourteen thousand, or more depending on what you want. Harley makes a nice side car setup for twenty-eight.”
“Hmm, a side car. Guess three wheels would be easier to learn on, wouldn’t it?” Ed asked, still looking at the picture of the trike in the magazine.
“Much easier. They ride a little differently, but you still get the feel of riding a motorcycle.”
Ed continued to study the ad for the longest time. Bill and Tom remained silent, sipping their coffee and glancing at each other, both wondering about the sudden interest and friendly socializing. Ed was never a very sociable type, certainly never one for small talk over coffee. Work time was spent on work talk. It’s not that he was unfriendly, just a very private individual who appeared as if he didn’t know how to conduct himself outside the business world.
Ed closed the magazine and handed it back to Tom, and then picked up his coffee. “Maybe it’s time I start living. It’s a shame to have so much money to live on, but so little to live for. Maybe we could stop at a dealership some weekend and you guys could make sure I don’t get ripped off by a salesmen who sees me coming for miles.” He smiled, and this time his grin was wide enough to touch his eyes.
“Be glad to,” Bill answered.
“Sure, sure, that’d be great. I’m thinking of buying a new bike, too,” Tom said.
Ed looked at his watch. It was already past eight. “Guess I better get to my desk and set an example.” He winked at the two men and walked to his office.
“Now if that wasn’t something!” Bill remarked.
“Maybe he’s finally coming out of his depression. I’m sure that was a helluva blow, losing both his wife and daughter in the same accident. How many years ago was that?”
“Maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago. I would think a person doesn’t completely recover from something like that. I feel for the guy. Maybe now, he’s finally getting around to living again.”
“I wonder if he got on medication?” Tom thought about it a moment. “Guess we better get to work,” he said. They took their coffee, Tom tucked the magazine under his arm and went into the mail and supply room. He did all the odd jobs, and was more or less an administrative assistant of sorts. Cohen gave him the job because he was going to class part time for engineering. It was all Tom could afford at the time, and he was hoping to eventually go to full time night school.
Angela Hurst was probably one of the best administrative assistants in New York, if you believed what Ed Cohen had to say about her. He occasionally joked that if anything happened to him, she’d probably be the best one to run the company. It was a comment that didn’t set well with some of the men, but not one could honestly disagree. She was smart, witty, efficient, could spell like she had a Webster’s crammed into her skull, wrote extremely professional letters, kept the office running smoothly, had a flawless filing system and was always cheerful and optimistic. Ed paid her top dollar. If he lost Angela, it would take two people to replace her position. She was Ed’s assistant, the receptionist and the office manager. As an extra bonus, she was attractive. She had long brunette hair that looked so full and filled with highlights, she looked like a TV commercial for shampoo. Everyone liked her, and for good reason. She was simply a good person. Angela was thirty-five, married to a fireman, and had two children, a girl who was thirteen, and a boy who was nine. Her mother babysat while Angela and her husband worked.
“Ang, could you come here a moment?” Ed called from his office.
Angela got up from her desk and walked into Mr. Cohen’s corner office. She had a walk that attracted every male eyeball within sight. “Yes, what can I help you with?”
Ed swiveled his large leather chair around, crossed his legs and looked up at Angela. “I was thinking of getting a motorcycle. What do you think?”
“A motorcycle?”
“Well, a three wheeler, or trike. Or perhaps a motorcycle with a sidecar.”
She smiled. “What brought all this about?”
“I don’t know. I just got up this morning with a feeling about life. I decided I’ve wasted enough of it. It’s time to live a little, do the things I’ve always wanted to do. Who wants to die with a long, exhausting list of regrets? What do you think?”
Angela nodded. “I think you should go for it. My husband wants to get a motorcycle, but right now that’s a luxury we can’t really afford. Maybe in a few years.”
Ed chuckled. It sounded so familiar. Life swept by like a series of fast forwarded movies that hid the entire plot. Then, before we know it, we’re staring at retirement, dealing with growing health problems and aches and pains and we know for certain that life just isn’t going to get any better. “I agree. I think I should. Next Spring I want to travel more, have fun, do things with people. I live in this big apartment across from Central Park and I don’t even know anyone in the area. I’m ashamed to say that. Aside from the wonderful people I work with, I’m a stranger in this city.”
“It’s never too late to change,” Angela replied. “What got you on motorcycles? Was it Bill and Tom?”
“No, no, neither.” He paused, and rubbed his chin in thought, then folded his arms across his chest. “It was me. I wanted one years ago, when I was about your husband’s age, but I didn’t get one, probably for the same reasons.” He paused. Memories sometimes stung, and any memory of his lovely wife and daughter were difficult to think about. He nodded his head a few times. “Yup, I need to do that. Just wanted to know what you thought.” He looked at his watch. It was 8:27. In eighteen minutes, the floor was going to shake like one helluva earthquake.
Angela returned to her desk. The office was still not fully teeming with life. It was still early. Most people didn’t arrive to work until much closer to nine. In New York City, commuting was both an art and a science, and it was nearly impossible for everyone to arrive at work by eight. The subways, bridges and highways could only be choked with just so much traffic. Between eight and nine work got done, but it was more often than not, a warm up for the day. Emails got answered, papers organized, yesterday’s work glanced at, but rarely did anyone get too intensely involved. Things always changed after nine when everyone had arrived at their desks.
At 8:39, Vicky went into the break area to make fresh coffee for the later arrivals. She tidied up the area, cleaned a few drips of coffee off the countertop, and then prepared a fresh pot. As she glanced out the window at the brilliant morning, she noticed a jet flying low. She’d never spotted a jet in that area of the sky before. Flight paths and flight times were very routine. If most people checked an area of the sky the same time each day, they’d be surprised at the consistency of jet trails streaking across the sky. You couldn’t set your watch by them, but a jet was usually within a few minutes of their schedule. Still, having been a New Yorker for such a long time, a person can tells signs like a woodsman looks at a broken branch to track an animal through the forest. She continued looking out the window. The jet was in the distance, but no matter what she told herself, no jets had ever flown in that area before. At least not at this altitude. As the image grew bigger, it seemed even more odd to her. Wasn’t that a dangerous flight path for any jet? New York was not only full of millions of people, but it had an awfully lot of huge buildings to bump into. The jet grew larger and larger and Vicky continued watching. Now, she was pulled to it by an intense curiosity. Something was different in a subtle way, but it wasn’t the jet that seemed out of place that really bothered her, it was the feeling in her gut that kept her standing there watching.
The jet grew larger, and closer. It turned slightly, adjusting its flight path. If it hadn’t been such an insane thought, she could’ve sworn the jet was aimed right for her. But, that was impossible. The distance was too great to really be certain of such things. It was probably a trick of the mind, a lack of sleep, a little fatigue playfully tossing around thoughts of fantasy. It was really difficult to realistically conjure up images of the impossible. When something has never occurred, it was very difficult to imagine it. But still, that jet loomed larger and closer, moving quickly and she was certain it was coming right for her.
“Hey Ang, come here a minute!” Vicky called, never taking her eyes off the window. It was 8:43 and thirty-two seconds.
“Be right there. What’s up?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m seeing things.” The early morning light might be playing tricks, casting shadows in just the right way to make something appear differently.
Angela walked over to the window where Vicky was standing. “What are you looking at? Is Spiderman out there?” She giggled. It was always like Angela to find humor anywhere she could fit it in.
“No,” her voice trailed off to silence as she stared at the rapidly growing image. It was getting closer. It had to be! “See that jet out there? Isn’t it flying low? Have you ever seen a jet flying in that area? I don’t remember ever seeing one flying like this before.” Her words came out quickly, like they were fired from a shotgun.
Angela walked up closer to the window, held a hand over her eyes like a visor and searched for the jet. “Oh, I see it.” She squinted in the morning sun. “That does seem like a really strange place for a jet to be flying. Maybe they’re having engine trouble and lowered their altitude. They could be coming in for a landing.”
That could be. She hadn’t thought of that. Still, the idea didn’t make sense, though she felt foolish for not wanting to consider it an option. “Doesn’t it look like it’s coming right for us?”
Angela leaned into the window and stared intently. “Yes, it does.” Suddenly she felt something disturbing inside, a growing feeling that she was looking at a scene that didn’t make sense, but it should. It was 8:44.
The jet loomed larger and closer. It seemed dangerously close to other buildings, though it was flying above all of them. Helicopters were a common sight, but they were a totally different situation. Jets didn’t buzz around the city as if they had become a new tool of commuters. “Something is not right. Not right at all,” Vicky said. She took a step back from the window. The jet continued flying in a straight path, and it appeared headed right for the North Tower. That was impossible. When something has never happened, the eyes convince the brain they are liars.
“Oh my God!” Angela screamed. She took a few steps backward as the jet grew closer and closer coming at them like a giant missile.
United Flight 11
Dan looked over Lisa and out the window. That was definitely New York City below, and they were flying very close to it and the buildings. Three passengers had been murdered, and that event kept everyone else in their seats. There were going to be no heroes on Flight 11. Dan had guessed the woman’s scream earlier in the back of the jet was a reaction to the murder of the two pilots. What else could it be? he thought. After seeing how brutal the hijackers could be, almost as if they didn’t care at all what happened, he started to wonder what they were headed for. And the phone calls. That was totally a mystery. It was another piece of evidence that lead him to believe they were not being hijacked to land anywhere. These terrorists had something else in mind.
Crying could be heard in pockets throughout the cabin. People whispered, some got up and were escorted to the bathroom, one man asked for and received a couple tiny bottles of vodka to drink. He gulped them down and remained in his seat, staring out the window and whispering almost silently to himself. Perhaps he was praying. Dan couldn’t be certain.
“Why are we flying so low and so close to New York?” Lisa asked, as she leaned toward Dan.
“I’m not sure, but I have a sick feeling about this.”
“What do you mean?” Lisa was looking pale, the color had drained from her cheeks and there were growing creases scratched onto her face.
“I’m not sure.” That wasn’t entirely true. He had a feeling they were going to crash somewhere, but it seemed so far fetched and absurd that his mind kept telling him that fear was ruling his thoughts and he mind was filling with insanity. Still, he seriously wondered. He looked at the phone and considered calling his wife again. Some people had remained on the phone the whole time. Dan imagined the reliving of pain when that credit card bill came in the mail. It seemed like a very morbid thought, but those kind of those burst into his mind at will now. He looked at his watch. It read 8:43. He looked out the window again. The huge buildings below really did remind him of giant toys, perhaps an exceptional Lionel train set up, long ago started by a father for his son, and continued even though the young boy was now a married man and a father himself. At this angle, the city didn’t look real. Tiny cars moved sluggishly on the congested streets below, mirrors and glass occasionally glistening in the morning rays. Long, thick shadows cast by the skyscrapers left many streets still in the dark. Tiny red taillights glowed dimly as people enjoy a few last moments before terror would strike them in the heart and soul. He wished he could see where the jet was headed.
Suddenly the jet banked slightly, leveled a little, and then banked again. Every passenger reacted to the movement. A few women screamed, most groaned, or called out. One man, a Muslim who sat three rows behind, began praying. Most simply grabbed the armrests tightly.
Then he saw it, the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It loomed like a huge blockade to their left. Dan noticed immediately their altitude definitely appeared lower than the 110 story building. It didn’t take more than a second for him to guess what was going to happen.
“Say a prayer Lisa,” he said. His voice was rapid. He felt palpitations ripple and flutter through his chest and suddenly felt short of breath. Dan quickly looked behind him and noticed two terrorists in coach were both standing in the aisle. He turned and looked forward. The curtain had been pulled open and he could see that in first class, there were two more terrorists standing in the aisle, each one holding tightly on to a seat. They knew! They knew exactly what was going to happen and they knew they were about to die.
“Why? What’s wrong? What’s going to happen?” Lisa’s words shot out like machine gun fire.
Dan turned and looked at Lisa. Her face was scratched with terror. There was no color in her cheeks, and her eyes screamed the truth of what she knew in her heart. Behind those eyes there was a rapid display of images and memories. There was a spooky blankness to her eyes that he had never seen before, but they vaguely resembled the eyes he had witnessed at a funeral home of someone who had lost everything that mattered in their life. “We’re going to crash, I think we’re going to crash! These terrorists are going to try and bring down the World Trade Center.”
“Oh my God!” Lisa screamed. Other passengers turned and looked at her, but most had retreated into some internal world of their own where they still maintained some control. Lisa began crying and tears poured from her eyes in a way he had never seen before in a person. They were not single tears but more of a tiny stream of grief that flowed down her cheeks. “Please, you must be wrong! We can’t be, we just can’t be.”
She leaned into Dan and he held her, but looked over her shoulder and out the window. Lisa’s whole body shook as she sobbed. The buildings grew larger and closer. The jet engines were straining, going full throttle. The entire jet shook as if they had just encountered violent turbulence. The plane banked slightly, but did not level off. Dan looked out the window, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to close his eyes tightly, hold Lisa as close as he could and brace for the enormous impact he knew was seconds away. Lisa continued sobbing, and he heard others doing the same. Tears moistened his own eyes though he tried to push them back. Facing death with tears seemed both natural and wrong at the same time. Every thought was jumbled and mixed up. Someone was screaming into a phone, saying ‘I love you so very much.’ Some were whispering prayers. A person yelled, ‘oh my God!’ He held her close and tight. He could suddenly see one of the World Trade Center Towers, he wasn’t sure which one. In seconds, it grew huge, sprouting like it had come out of nowhere, dwarfing everything around. Sunlight glistened off the windows in spots of blinding reflections. Many offices were lit, but a few stilled looked quiet and dark, waiting for their occupants to arrive.
Then it was there. The north tower filled the window in an instant. He noticed people going about their normal office routine, sitting at desks, walking around cubicles. In the span of one or two seconds, his line of vision changed from seeing a large section of the tower to seeing only a few floors, and they were way too close. Suddenly, time seemed to slow. His mind took crisp and clear snapshots of images inside the windows. He saw two women standing by the window a few floors up, staring, one covering her mouth in shock. A few sat at their desk in the glow of a computer screen, some talked on phones, others stood talking with co-workers, or were walking, totally unaware of what was going to occur. In an instant, Dan thought it odd how such things happened, catching people off guard, suddenly destroying life’s routine.
And then it hit with a deafening blast.
The sound blew into his ears with a crushing deafness. Metal scraping metal, glass shattering, and a roar that would drown out the sound of a train locomotive or approaching tornado. He’d seen both in his life. Everything happened in an instant, yet flowed by totally unattached to the clock. Perception was warped and time had ceased to be a tool of measurement. The last second of his life slowed, and suddenly the noise had dissolved into a background whisper that his brain did not seem to register.
He heard the wings being ripped off the fuselage, but he saw it happen more than he heard it. In an instant a shadow darkened the cabin as the still intact jet stormed into the tower going over six hundred miles per hour. He saw cubicle dividers explode and be swept away. Papers, chairs, desks all became airborne, and in the mixture of items, he could see people suddenly plucked from their innocent postures and flung about like weightless feathers. Nearly everyone appeared as though they had no clue as to what had just occurred. Dan saw one woman running in the opposite direction. A man was following close behind. It was so very odd some of the details his mind could pick out from the blurry, compact and explosive mass. The man who was running was nearly bald. He wore gray pants and a blue shirt. His red tie was swept over his shoulder and waved in the air. And then in an instant, he was consumed by the ravage of the explosion.
A blinding and brilliant orange flash suddenly devoured the shadow of being inside the tower as ten thousand gallons of jet fuel ignited. The cabin was filled with a blinding light and with the ripping, deafening roar of the explosion. At that moment it seemed everything began to short out. His hearing was gone. The jet bounced and rocked violently. He heard the piercing music of people screaming all around him. The fuselage began to disintegrate like pieces of paper Mache being struck by a baseball bat. The blinding orange light from the fireball stormed into the cabin, followed by an intense, roasting heat.
Passengers were violently ripped from their seats and flung forward like weightless objects, hitting obstacles in their path with a dull and hollow thud. Nearly all of the seats were yanked from the floor and went crashing forward. In an instant the huge, compressed mass of passengers and seats raced forward like an out of control mob. The overhead compartments shattered, flinging debris into the cabin. The intense heat and fire devoured many in an instant, melting everything it touched or approached.
In the cockpit, Atta held tightly onto the controls. He watched the approaching tower with the intensity of a man in a trance from meditation or prayer. When the nose of the jet hit the glass side, the wall immediately surrendered and opened up for the screaming jet. The jet’s windshield shattered and sprayed Atta with tiny glass shards. His face was ripped into bloody ribbons as his body was tossed forward. The nose of the jet began to collapse and the fuselage crumpled from the impact. His bloody face smashed into the control panel and in an instant his features were obliterated in a spray of shredded flesh and blood. He let out a loud groan as the air was instantly squeezed from his chest, and then he fell forever silent as his body was obliterated. A woman standing by her desk was holding a cup of coffee as she suddenly looked up at the crashing sound and was met with the nose of a Boeing 767 racing towards her at over 600 miles an hour. In an instant she was struck, tossing parts of her body in several directions at once. In less than a second, forty-five people on the 90th floor vanished as the huge fireball devoured everything in its range.
A huge fireball and gray plume of smoke and debris exploded on the side of the impact. Out of the opposite side of the building, a huge fireball exploded. Office contents, papers, desk chairs, tables, desks, lamps, file cabinets, ceiling tiles, window glass and other items mixed together in a confusing expanding mass of debris were flung out of the ripped open walls of the North Tower. The lighter debris caught the gentle air currents of the early, sunny morning and sprouted wings and floated gracefully toward the street, raining down on New York like an enormous ticker tape parade. Speeding past the flying mass of spreadsheets, reports and file folders, a man with arms flailing and legs kicking fell rapidly to the street below. A woman on the thirty-ninth floor was standing by the window enjoying the crisp, clear morning as Robert Murphy fell screaming to his death. She dropped her coffee and screamed. Heads bobbed up behind cubicle walls as if they were all balanced on giant springs that were suddenly released.
The time was 8:48.46 a.m.
The explosion from the jet fuel blew out every window on several floors above and below the point of impact. The stairwells, which were surrounded by mere drywall, disintegrated into a mass of rubble that coated the steps, making any attempts of walking extremely difficult. The nearly acre of office space of each floor quickly filled with thick, choking smoke. The remaining office contents immediately burst into flames, fed by the remaining fuel that was not devoured by the huge fireball.
Dan held tightly onto Lisa. Huddled together, alone with their thoughts, with snapshot images that rapidly paraded through their minds, they crashed into the seats in front of them, sliding forward with the speed and force of a giant piston. A single, large tear spun away from Lisa’s cheek and landed on Dan’s lip. He tasted its saltiness, thought of his beautiful wife, and then the two of them were devoured by the crash and the fire.
They felt nothing, except for two seconds of fear, a brief deafening sound, and the bee sting of the impact that lasted far too short a time to truly register as pain. And then they felt peace, they heard the whispers of bliss, and as their bodies were torn apart by the enormous forces of the impact and explosion, they were no longer there to sense anything of this world.
As the large 767 ripped into the tower, the 170 foot wingspan was only slightly narrower than the tower, leaving only about 16 feet of clearance on each wing tip. Before the wings were ripped from the jet, they acted like a giant plow ramming their way through several office floors. Barely twenty feet inside the tower, the wings exploded and fell away as the main fuselage shot further into the tower like a giant airborne torpedo, and disintegrated before the tip of the jet could even get near the opposite wall. Nearly everything between the 93rd and 98th floor crumbled and surrendered to the exploding jet.
Floors collapsed with a thunderous noise, crushing office workers while they sat at their desks, reading newspapers, filing papers, talking on the phone, hearing only a loud thud, followed immediately by an explosion before they were suddenly killed.
United Flight 11, a Boeing 767 with 92 people onboard, 92 souls with countless memories and many loved ones left behind, was gone forever. On the west coast in Los Angeles, a few people were shutting off alarm clocks, or having their first cup of coffee, eating breakfast, or taking their morning shower, each one of them thinking about the reunion they would enjoy at the airport in a few short hours as they waited to pick up friends or family, and it would be a wait that would never end,
World Trade Center, North Tower, 101st Floor
On the 101st floor, nearly all of the twenty-eight staff of Cohen Electronics who were to report to work that day had arrived. Three people had called in ill, and five others were taking vacation time. One person was to attend his mother’s funeral that morning and had stayed home.
Angela saw the huge 767 racing straight for the World Trade Center. The jet banked slightly as it turned toward the tower. Her screaming immediately caught the attention of everyone in the office. People stood up and peered over their cubicle walls, several stepped out from behind their walls into the aisle, all of them staring at Angela. No one needed to have anything explained. They could all see the jet coming straight for the tower. Both Angela and Vicky began backing up from the window, both too frightened to move quickly. Vicky covered her mouth and held her breath. The sight of the jet in a place it should never be stunned her, leaving her shocked and speechless. Seeing the painted nose of a 767 racing to a collision with the World Trade Center, staring it down with nowhere to go pulled the breath from her. The speed of its approach was impossible to judge. There was nothing to benchmark it against. NASCAR fans saw nothing in comparison as they watched small cars race around at 200 miles per hour. Flying aboard a 767 at a normal cruising speed of 530 miles per hour seemed slow and dreamlike as distant clouds and the world below provided no method for comprehending its true speed. Seeing a jet in this situation was just totally foreign to the brain.
It approached the tower with what seemed to be the swiftness of lightning. Every second it grew larger in the window. Distant one second, and huge the next. The other office workers raced toward the two women. Some simply stood behind their tiny, cubicle walls, hopelessly wondering if they would offer even the smallest safety from an impact. As the jet nearly filled the entire view out the window, Bill Freeman, whose office faced the approaching 767, thought he saw a single pilot in the cockpit. In the split second of that visual encounter, his brain took a haunting snapshot. The man guiding the 767 was smiling. In the time it took to blink, the jet had disappeared.
There was a huge THUDDDDDDDDD, the kind of sound that was immediately recognized as a huge object hitting another huge object. The entire floor shook. Windows shattered and shards of glass were sprayed across the office. Suddenly walking or standing was like being on the deck of a ship during a violent storm. And then everyone felt it, the swaying of the tower. It was not a back and forth sway, the kind so often felt on extremely windy days. It was the sway that touched every nerve and rubbed it raw. The building tilted away from the impact. Many stood still and held their breath as they felt the tower continue to move. It went on forever, the waiting, every nerve in their feet waited for the sensation of the swaying to end. Nerve endings in the balls of their feet and in their heels went on high sensation alert as each toe gripped the inside of the shoe. But the tallest building continued to sway away from the impact. They could all feel it and every one of them pictured the giant tower toppling over onto the bustling streets of New York. The sensation was dizzying.
“It’s tipping over!” Vicky screamed. She wrapped her arms around herself and braced for the inevitable.
“It can’t! It can’t!” Angela yelled.
No one moved. They were all frozen in place, their feet paralyzed with fear, minds conjuring up cartoon-like images that the slightest movement would tip over a 110 story building. The swaying continued, growing more gradual as each tenth second slipped by. Seconds slipped by like sluggish minutes do when you stare at your watch. And then finally, the swaying slowed. Some pictured an image of the tower breaking at the base like a large tree being snapped off in a high wind.
And then finally, the swaying sensation gave way to a vibration. In the mixture of panic, confusion and fear stoked paralysis, the jet exploded and sent shock waves through every fiber of the building. The entire panoramic view of New York was immediately erased as a huge, orange fireball erupted outside the window. The entire office interior was briefly painted orange. There was a roaring SWOOOSH sound followed by a billowing cloud of smoke and dust. Debris exploded into the air, some of it seemed to float for a moment before being snatched by gravity and pulled toward the earth. Papers fluttered in the wind like injured birds that would fall to their death. As the office workers stared, they could recognize some objects. Aside from the waterfall of paper, Bill saw a stapler shoot through the air. Jim stared with disbelief as a dented, black file cabinet shot past the window, and Angela saw a desk and chair fly into the sky. She couldn’t be certain, but it did appear as if someone was still sitting in the leather desk chair.
“Oh my God! What the hell has happened?” Ed Cohen asked, as he walked out from his office. The floor was littered with objects, that only a few seconds before, had sat on desks.
“A jet, a jet crashed right into the tower!” Vicky said. She was crying now, and the sobbing made her speech shaky and stop and go.
“A jet? You have to be kidding?” Cohen responded. But he knew she wasn’t kidding.
The swaying had stopped, but the sensation of having felt it still teased the nerves that tried to verify it was no longer present.
The entire office fell silent for a brief moment. It was as if each individual was stunned, trying to comprehend exactly what had happened. Cohen was the first to break the brief silence.
“We need to assess the damage, determine exactly what is going on.” He looked around the large, open office. Every eye was watching him. “George, Nick, and umm….” Cohen turned his head and scanned every face. “David, why don’t you check out the stair wells, call security, and let’s stay calm and first find out what our situation is before we panic.”
The three men left for the stairwell. Nick told the other two he would call security.
The North Tower continued to bleed thick smoke from its wound. Small groups of the office staff gathered and talked about what had just happened, recalling their fear, what they had seen or felt, and above all, the unbelievability of it. Many returned to their desks and made phone calls, most amazed the phone lines still worked. There was an odd mixture of urgency, panic and calmness that was about to be eroded away. Cohen walked over and stood by the window. Debris still floated in the sky. Thick, choking grayish brown smoke continued to bellow out of the building.
“I had a hard time getting through to security,” Nick said as he rejoined the gathering. “They’re still assessing the damage and what’s going on. They said to sit tight for now and keep them informed of any problems we encounter.”
“Thanks Nick,” Cohen told him.
“I smell smoke!” Angela said loudly. As if on command, everyone started sniffing the air.
“I smell it too,” Vicky added.
“So do I,” Jim and Bill both said in unison. Others nodded in agreement.
“Got problems!” George said as he returned from the stairwell, David following on his heels. Both men were walking quickly. “The stairwell is rapidly filling with smoke, and it’s thick. It’s also feeling pretty hot the lower you go. We couldn’t go more than a flight and a half down.”
“There’s one helluva fire,” David added, obviously winded from the stairs and short, brisk walk.
Several of the women gasped, yelled ‘oh no’, or made some comment of their fear.
“What are we going to do?” one woman shouted. It was Clara from the accounting department. Normally very calm and quiet, she looked too tightly wound and ready to burst if anyone did so much as poke her in the ribs.
Cohen turned around and stepped away from the broken window. He looked toward the area of the stairwells and noticed that thick smoke was now finding its way to their floor. “It looks like we better come up with a plan, and soon. Nick, call security back, tell them our situation and find out what they would advise we do. And hurry!”
Nick ran to his office to make the call.
“That smoke is getting thicker,” Jim began. “If we can’t go down, and I assume we can’t because of fire, we’ll need to go up.”
“And how will that help?” Leslie asked.
“It’s better than frying,” Jim shot back. “Besides, we can get up on the roof and hopefully a helicopter can rescue us.”
“Let’s wait and find out what Nick is told,” Cohen suggested. He noticed the thickening smoke that was creeping up the stairwell. “Is that door closed?” he asked, referring to the stairwell.
“It’s closed,” George told him. “But the smoke is pretty thick. It’s probably also coming up the air vents.”
The office staff was growing restless. No one stood in one spot for more than a few seconds before they began pacing across the floor. Some ventured near the stairwell, others walked to their desks, but didn’t sit down, some stared out the broken windows, keeping their distance, while others simply paced aimlessly around the office. Wind blew into the numerous windows, stirring papers and blowing them onto the floor. Small groups of individuals wandered around the office, talking, looking out the window, falling silent and giving in to their worry and fear, thinking of families, wanting to touch the ground again, that from the 101st floor, seemed like a whole world away and impossible to get to. The air was quickly becoming chilled.
Tom Glenn was standing alone by the window, envious of the beautiful sunny day with temperatures in the low seventies, and here he was trapped high above the streets of New York with no apparent way out. It didn’t look good. He stared out a window that was still intact; grateful for a quiet moment alone that he knew would not last long. Tom reflected on his life, shocked by the calmness he felt as he faced certain, or maybe just probable death. Giving up so quickly was not his trait. Maybe there was something to faith that couldn’t be measured, quantified or fully proven. That’s why it was faith. As he stood there staring out the window, he felt a giant hand of calmness wrap around him. He stood silently, arms folded across his chest, when he noticed a thin, jet trail. Against the backdrop of blue it was difficult to see anything flying. He leaned closer to the window to cut out the glare, squinted his eyes and stared into the distance. Among the clear skies he noticed the metallic sheen of a jet. He stared at it for the longest time. There was really nothing else to do at the moment, and he needed the distraction from thoughts that were growing increasingly morbid by the second. The plane appeared to grow larger, and closer. It didn’t seem to be on any normal course for an airport.
“Does anyone have a radio?” Tom yelled suddenly, still staring at the jet. It was 8:59.
“We’re hunting for one now,” Bill yelled back.
Tom continued staring and was soon joined by others from the office. Jim stood beside him looking through the wisps of smoke and the growing haze that was encircling the building. “What are you looking at?” Jim finally asked.
“A jet. Over there,” he said pointing.
Jim held a hand over his eyes and peered out the window. “Oh, I see it. Looks like it’s coming right for us!”
“You don’t suppose…..” Tom began.
“Yes, it is. Hey Bill, did you find a radio yet?” Jim yelled
“Yeah, there was one on Hugh’s desk,” Bill yelled back from across the office. Bill turned up the volume, leaving the radio plugged in on the desk. Everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to the emergency broadcast. In less than a minute, their worst fears were confirmed.
The smoke was growing thick, looking like a morning fog in the office. By now, it was covering the nearly acre of office space, and getting thicker.
“We need to get off this floor,” Cohen said as he walked up to the group now crowded around the radio.
“There’s another jet coming this way too. Look!” Tom said. He walked closer to the window. Everyone followed him to the window.
“This is amazing. I don’t know if that’s the right word, maybe unbelievable,” Cohen said. “I never would’ve thought of using planes as weapons.” He shook his head as he stared at the jet. It was close enough to see windows. It was 9:02. By now, the curtain of smoke was thicker and no longer transparent. People were beginning to cough and hack.
“I just quit smoking two weeks ago,” Martin Cain said. He coughed again, and by now, his eyes were beginning to sting. “I really wish I had a cigarette.”
“Let’s get off this floor, and now” Cohen ordered. His eyes were watering now.
“Look!” Bill yelled, his arm outstretched and his finger pointing to the window. They all turned and looked as the huge 767 jet came up on the south tower. It banked sharply and turned toward the tower, then disappeared behind it. Nearly everyone screamed as the jet crashed into the South Tower. An enormous fireball erupted, spraying the air with more office debris. Bill thought he saw one or two people falling in the midst of the smoke, flames and mass of confetti.
“Oh my God! What is happening?” Tom yelled. The entire group of office staff crowded around the windows, staring at the huge plumes of smoke erupting from the tower. More debris continued to flutter to the ground. While they watched, their office continued to fill with thickening smoke. A similar thought ran through each their minds; two jets implied maybe three, or even four. They were a city under siege, and there was no telling what would come out of the skies next.
“We need to evacuate this floor,” Cohen said. “The smoke is getting too thick. Are the phones still working?” More and more people were coughing and hacking.
“I can’t reach security. The line’s been busy,” Tom said in rapid speech.
“Keep trying,” Cohen answered. “Now, let’s get everyone together in the center area. Bill, why don’t you and a couple others go upstairs and see what’s going on up there. And hurry. We need to move quickly.” He coughed, and felt the slight sting of smoke in his eyes. It was growing hazy like a crowded bar on band night.
Bill grabbed a couple of other men, Hugh Lawrence and Pete Murray and rushed to the stairwell. As soon as he opened the door, smoke poured into the office like thick cotton that could be picked apart. “I need a towel or something!” he shouted. Hugh Lawrence ran to the janitor’s closet, running like a tight end racing for the winning touchdown. He was fifty-one, fully gray and slightly balding in the back. For his five-eleven frame, he was carrying an extra forty pounds, and was noticing it now, but he kept running, ignoring the pain in his legs. He wished he had spent more time at the gym and less time at the bagel shop. Hugh opened the closet door and quickly rummaged through the contents. He tossed out mop heads, pushed aside rolls of toilet paper and paper towels, allowing them to spill onto the floor. He found nothing except tiny cleaning rags the size of a washcloth. He grabbed a handful and ran back toward the stairwell.
“This is all I could find,” he said, out of breath and puffing hard. He held out the handful of rags.
Bill took the rags and looked at them. “I guess this will have to do. Go soak these in some water, and hurry.”
He handed them back to Hugh, who ran to the break area, placed them under a full stream of cold water and returned, water dripping from his hands. “Here you go.”
Bill took the rags, handed one to each of the other two men, and motioned for them to follow him. He walked quickly into the plume of smoke and disappeared. The other two men followed, covering their faces and trying to see through the stinging, blinding smoke. Bill found the steps and began hurrying up to the next floor, knowing there weren’t many more floors to go. The smoke filled the entire stairwell. On each floor, Bill pushed open the door to frightened faces. He noticed most people were huddled near the long, tall, narrow windows.
“How are you folks doing?” he asked as he stepped onto the 105th floor. His eyes were burning fiercely now, and he was coughing.
“It’s not good,” a man said. He looked to be about forty. Maybe late thirties. Bill couldn’t tell with all the fear scratched onto his face. “We’ve broken open some windows for air. We’ve seen some jumpers from the lower floors. Man, it must be hot for people to jump like that. The fire is moving this way.”
Bill studied the man’s face. Pete and Hugh stood behind him. “We better keep going up. I don’t think we can go down, not with several floors on fire. I’m sure that jet fuel caused a huge fire.” Bill turned, opened the stairwell door, and the three men covered their faces and climbed higher. As each man took another step higher, they wondered what was going to happen next. Were firemen on their way up? Would it make a difference? Would they even arrive in time? One by one, they each began to wonder if the tower would even remain standing.
The 911 desk was under a barrage of phone calls. The lines were overloaded, and operators could only imagine the horror that was occurring.
9:09.21 A male called and stated that at the South tower, people are jumping out the side of a large hole, and no one is catching them.
9.09.43 Caller from the 104th floor of the South tower, all stairs are blocked.
9.10.22 South tower, stuck elevator on floor 104. People trapped and yelling from inside.
9.12.18 Male caller states that there are about 100 people on the 106th floor. Requests instructions on how to stay alive.
9.15.34 Observers notice several jumpers from the windows of the North Tower.
Bill, Hugh and Pete returned to their floor and quickly begin leading people up to higher floors, which provided only a marginally better situation. Only about twenty made it before the stairwell became too choked with smoke.
9:17.39 A male caller states the stairs on the 105th floor have collapsed.
9.19.58 Evacuation to top floor of the North Tower begins.
The top floor of the North Tower became packed with people. Each of them reeked of smoke that was quickly filling the entire floor. People sat, rubbing their eyes, crying, holding onto a bottle of water or soft drink, and sitting against the wall in shock. Others kept running around the acre sized office floor desperately trying to find a way out. But 110 floors is a long way to safety. No one remained near the elevators. Listening to the cries and screams of people trapped became too much to bear.
9.22.23 Male caller states he is on floor 84 of the south tower. Says he cannot breathe when suddenly the call is disconnected.
9.32.14 South Tower, people gain access to roof, hoping to be picked up by a helicopter.
Cohen and his remaining office crew huddle near broken windows, trying desperately to breath fresh air. The floor is rapidly filling with smoke and growing hotter, as the flames crept closer and closer.
“It must be over a hundred in here,” Cohen says.
“At least,” Bill replies. “Think we’ll get,” he stopped and coughed, trying to clear his lungs. It is getting to be more and more difficult. “Think we’ll get out of here?”
“Doubt that,” Tom answers. He wipes the sweat from his face using his shirttail. “I hate this. I hate dying like this.”
“I wish I could tell you that you were wrong, but I can’t,” Bill replies.
Angela and Vicky are huddled together near a window crying quietly. Angela continues staring at the other tower, looking for signs that a rescue might be taking place somewhere, one that would be repeated for them, but nothing happens except for a raging fire and billowing smoke. Then suddenly, there is a shift. The entire top of the south tower breaks free and begins to crumble down as one big, intact section.
“Oh my God!” Angela yells. “Look! It’s falling over!” She screamed louder than she had ever heard herself, and many others joined her.
“Oh God!” Bill yells. Everyone on the floor turns and stares out the window. They watch as the top few floors break away in unison as a single block and begin to crumble and fall over. As the top of the tower tips and begins to fall, the floors beneath it collapse, and suddenly there is a huge plume of brown, gray smoke and dust ejected into the air. They stare in shock as the South Tower collapses almost perfectly, one floor pancaking on top of another, leaving a thick cloud of dust where the tower once stood. .
10.12.35 A male caller from floor 105 states he can barely breathe.
“We’re going to die!” a woman screamed. The top floor of the north tower is filled with sobbing, crying and very little conversation.
“I never thought something like this would happen,” Bill said in a low, defeated voice. He leaned toward the broken window and took in a deep breath of air. It still smelled like smoke and he coughed as the air filled his lungs.
“It’s amazing,” Ed told him. He repositioned himself on the floor, moving away from shards of glass. “I should’ve lived life differently after my wife and daughter died. I’ve wasted so much time.” The words sounded so out of place and foreign, as if someone invisible sitting next to him had spoken. He had never really mentioned their death for all these years. Instead, he held it inside, stuffed away his feelings and buried his life in his work.
“We never know how to really live life until most of life is gone,” Bill told him. “I suppose I should react differently to all this.” He looked around at a room filled with heartbreak. People were on the phone, frantically trying to reach loved ones, talking to their spouses, parents or children, some were still calling 911, screaming into the phone, desperately looking for an escape. He had given up. He had seen a couple of people falling past the windows, and it was a sight that was tattooed on his brain, a moving image he kept replaying no matter how hard he tried to stop it.
“We never act like today is the last day,” Tom said. “There’s always tomorrow. Everything can get done tomorrow. We don’t say I love you because of tomorrow. We don’t take time to smell the roses, because of tomorrow. And then suddenly, today, this moment, and maybe a few minutes more is all we have left, and tomorrow is no more than a dream.” He hacked and coughed, feeling the smoke burning deeper into his lungs. The air was getting worse and the heat was growing unbearable.
Angela walked over, pushed aside some glass with her foot, and sat down. “I wonder if my husband is down there,” she said, looking out the window at the mass of fire and police vehicles. Her husband was a fireman, and from the looks of the scene, every fire station in the city had responded.
“Did you get a hold of anyone?” Bill asked her.
“I tried. Kids are in school. My mom’s not home, and can you believe it, I can’t remember the number to the fire station! My mind just won’t work right.” At that moment, her husband was racing up the stairs with scores of other fire and police officials. He was on the forty-fifth floor.
“I talked to my wife. I told her I’d try to get out and not to worry. I don’t want her last memories of my voice to be panic,” Bill said.
“I’ll bet that was difficult,” Ed replied. He wiped his eyes and stared out the window at the column of smoke and dust that was slowly blowing away. There was once 110 story tower outside that window, and now nothing but a memory of what had stood there. It was almost impossible to comprehend. He checked his watch. It read 10:25. The second hand was sweeping past 6 and he stared at it a moment, feeling that every second was more precious than he had ever imagined. He suddenly realized how worthless money truly was.
There was a loud rumble coming from the floors below. The building shook slightly and vibrated. As a floor collapsed, it weakened the structure even more. The sides of the tower were similar to an exoskeleton; it held the building up. The floors that were attached to it transferred the weight to the outer skin of the tower. As each floor collapsed, the sides weakened and began to bow outward. The raging fire in the floors below reached over a thousand degrees. The steel began to sag, the rivets weakened and one by one, they failed. Parts of the lower floors began to buckle. The creaking could be heard on all the floors above.
Elevators swayed slightly, and trapped occupants screamed, banging on the doors begging for help. Some trapped in higher elevators had already succumbed to the fire and smoke.
“What’s that noise? What is it?” Angela yelled. She sat up and began coughing. Sweat poured down her shiny face.
“The fire,” Ed replied. “Try to sit back and breathe slowly,” he told her. He knew, the building would not last much longer. Watching the south tower collapse, even though it was hit second, foretold their fate. He was sure of it. The thought gave him an inkling of what it must be like to sit on death row.
There was a loud crashing sound and a huge plume of thick, grayish smoke bellowed up from the stairwell. Everyone leaned into a window and sucked in what little fresh air they could. The floor beneath them shook and vibrated slightly as lower floors began to fail. The screaming continued in short bursts, following by quiet sobbing.
One man, not from Cohen’s office, got up and walked over to a desk and grabbed a large leather chair. He wheeled it closer to the window; picked it up with strength only a dying man can possess, and tossed it through the tall, narrow plate of tinted glass. The window immediately surrendered and the chair disappeared as it fell to the ground 110 stories below. Everyone turned and looked. Screams from lower floors could be heard. The man calmly walked over to the window, kicked away large shards of pointed glass at the window base, and calmly jumped.
“Oh my God!”
Several women screamed and the sound was piercing.
“Damn it’s getting hot in here,” Tom commented, trying to ignore what had just occurred. Beads of sweated covered his face. His shirt was soaked. “It must be a hundred-twenty in here.”
“Reminds me a little of Phoenix,” Bill answered. The temperature was rising quickly. There were more rumblings from the floors below, only louder this time. The building felt as though it had moved slightly. Everyone looked around, studying the fear in everyone’s face. They were eyes of terror, resignation and sadness. They were eyes that had given up hope and were merely waiting for the inevitable. It amazed Bill how death could be faced so calmly, almost peacefully. Only a few continued fighting it.
There was another loud rumbling and this time the screams on the lower floor rose like thick and choking smoke. The floor shook violently. Pencil holders and other small items danced across desks. A lamp fell to the floor, its sound barely noticed. The tower shook and trembled, and loud THUDDDDS filled the air. The noise rose up and became a loud and thunderous roar that filled everyone’s hearing.
Suddenly it felt like sitting in a huge elevator whose cable had just broken. There was a brief moment of feeling nearly weightless as the floor beneath them collapsed. It buckled unevenly, first one side buckled and then the entire floor gave way. Almost in unison, everyone threw up their arms like roller coaster riders often do when the coaster tops the peak and begins a rapid descent. Nothing but piercing screams filled the air.
Bill looked over at Ed Cohen and saw a look of peace on his face. He knew he was going to meet his beloved wife and daughter whom he had ached for all these years. The floor fell several feet, maybe two stories before slamming hard into something. Furniture that had become briefly airborne came crashing to the floor. And then that feeling of weightlessness again. Glass shattered. Desks and office furniture moved about as if everything had suddenly sprouted legs and was running for safety. Loud crashes from below nearly drowned out every human sound. And then there was a horrible feeling of falling as the lowered floors finally gave way and collapsed. The walls caved in and the floor began to break up. Bill grabbed onto the window blinds to keep from sliding across the buckling floor, but the blinds immediately gave way and fell on top of him. Ed Cohen simply let the crumbling floor toss him about. His expression never changed, and the last time Bill saw him, he was sure Ed was smiling, even if just a little. Tom rolled away into a blast of smoke and disappeared. Orange flames erupted, shooting up through the broken floor before retreating briefly, then reappearing even stronger. In the rapid span of a second, the heat grew unbearable, and what didn’t immediately catch fire began to melt. The screams were snuffed out as smoke and fire enveloped the top, collapsing floors.
The crumbled 110th floor began falling, riding a wave on top of the other floors beneath it. Every time the sandwich of collapsed floors fell onto another floor, there was a backbone, jarring thud before the next floor gave way, and it continued like that, one floor collapsing onto another. Each jarring thud came in rapid fire succession, and for those still conscious, it sounded similar to a machine gun going off, only a little slower. The noise was deafening, and those who were still alive, could not even hear their own thoughts as the tower continued its rapid collapse.
At 10.29.42 all calls from the north tower were disconnected. 595 souls left for home, leaving the earth in a flood of tears and sorrow that only their loved ones could truly comprehend, and many could not even do that.
And somewhere in the collapse, Angela met her husband.
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