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SEPTEMBER DAY By Larry Schweikart, author of the best selling, "A Patriot's History of the United States" OFFICIAL WEB SITE |
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3RD EXCERPT - From Section Two - The Day |
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World Trade Center, Tower 1 When Callahan’s men reached the second floor mezzanine where there was a direct exit walkway, it was obstructed by debris. Callahan noticed outside one of the blown-out windows, on the plaza, chairs had been lined up for a concert around the golden globe. There are people in those chairs. No, not complete people. Then it dawned on Callahan that the concert never took place---that the bodies and body parts he saw there were from the jumpers. The command post is abandoned. This is bad. “It looks like World War III down here,” said Callahan, coughing through the dust. The men started moving debris, and found they could clear a door. “OK. Through here.” He received grim but energetic nods from the other firefighters. They started across the large walkway that connected the WTC to other buildings, but Callahan held them up as they continued to hear the bodies and falling metal slam on the causeway above. “Wait a minute---we don’t know if we can dodge all this. You guys will wait here a minute, I’ll check it out.” Again, nods. “I’m coming with you, Mike.” It was Brian Brennan. Callahan paused, then jerked his head. “Come on, then.” They quickly crossed through a passageway filled with dust, their flashlights barely cutting through the din. When they found a set of doors ahead, Callahan half expected them to be locked, but they swung open. Down the hall, Callahan could see other doors, probably leading to one of the other WTC buildings. Damn, I’ve lost my bearings. I don’t know which building that is. He pointed to the doors, and Brennan sprinted over to them, crossing the long hallway in a few seconds. The doors were open, too. “This looks good,” Callahan said. “We can get out here. Oh, and try your radio. See if you can hail anyone.” Brennan checked his radio. More static. “Sorry, Mike, nothin’s working.” It seemed like eternity, but finally they saw the doors to the WTC lobby. But no firefighters! Where were the men I left here? “Where’d they go, Mike?” “I don’t know. Maybe they found another way out.” Callahan checked his watch: 10:28. Then he heard the low rumbling, followed by the swoosh of air pockets as entire floors collapsed. Only this time it was right above them. He had never heard a sound like that before, like a mountain falling in on top of them. “We won’t make that cause way!” Callahan frantically looked around. “B Stairwell. Move!” Above them they could hear a familiar pattern. BOOM. . . SWOOSH . . . BOOM. . . SWOOSH as each floor imploded and the air was sucked upward. It sounded like a massive train sweeping by, only it was above him, an earthquake and tornado rolled into one. The whole thing took eight seconds---Callahan was sure it took longer, because he and Brennan made it down one more flight before the entire stairwell seemed to give out under them. All went dark, and while he couldn’t see what was happening, he swore he was surfing. Literally, the floor of the stairwell was both collapsing and sliding downward over other debris. Somehow, Callahan didn’t lose his balance, but he did lose Brennan, who disappeared in the dark void. This is the end. A firefighter’s end. He sailed downward, yet his feet never left concrete. I’m surfing on a damn slab of concrete underneath a collapsing building! Finally, his “board” smashed abruptly against something---he couldn’t tell what in the dark---and he was covered with pellets of rock, gravel, concrete, and, above all, dust, or, at least, it felt like rock, gravel, and dust because he couldn’t see anything. The train sound stopped, replaced by occasional pops of frayed electric wires, which provided a moment of light, and the continued rainfall of debris. Wherever I am, I’m alive, and I’m underneath what was the World Trade Center. How far underneath, he had no clue. “Brennan? Anyone?” There was no response, and fear gripped Callahan that he’d not only die down here, but die alone. “ANYONE DOWN HERE?” West Street, Two Blocks from the North Tower By 10:25 the North Tower looked like a massive smokestack, its upper floors entirely obscured. At 10:28, it began its implosion as the radio “spike” antennae fell straight through floor after floor. Unlike the South Tower, the North Tower did not tilt at the top, but flattened straight down, its dust and debris spewing out from the middle like a grey volcano. In less than two minutes, the second of the two tallest buildings in New York had vanished. Vinnie LaScala had put on his firefighter gear while still answering phones. When the first off-duty fireman came in, LaScala said, “The station’s yours. I’m going down to the WTC.” “Vinnie, wait. You can’t just run out! Vinnie!” But it was too late. He was already hoofing it to the scene of the attack. That had been more than 20 minutes ago, and once he got to the WTC grounds, he found command vehicles buried under rubble, firemen walking around covered head-to-toe in soot and ash, and saw no faces he recognized. “Hey, anyone see #71?” he asked a pair of older firefighters who sat taking oxygen from an EMT truck. Both shook their heads. “I heard they were in the North Tower,” one of the men said, and Vinnie realized that was the one still burning. No sooner had he started toward the building when he heard the awful noise and turned the other way, taking whoever he could with him. Then he saw the onrushing tidal wave of dust and debris, and for a split second, he was tempted to plant his feet and ride it out, before common sense took over. Vinnie leaped toward a doorway, which, as it turned out, led to Yao’s Supermarket. He fell through, on the floor, as the dust and debris tsunami thundered past. Mr. and Mrs. Yao (or, that’s who Vinnie thought they were) held each other tightly behind the counter, unable or unwilling to speak. After a few seconds, when it was clear that dust---and not debris----was all that remained, Vinnie gave them a thumbs up and went back outside. Perplexed, the Yaos returned his thumbs up. Tora Bora Mountains, Afghanistan Since fleeing the Sudan in 1996, Osama bin Laden had alternated between one of his training camps near Pol-e Khomn, about halfway between Mazar-e Sharif and Kabul, and his main headquarters on the Afghan-Pakistani border opposite Peshawar. After Bill Clinton had tried to blow him up with cruise missiles in 1998, bin Laden moved frequently, and Clinton’s missiles did significant damage to the facilities at Pol-e Khomn. But forewarned by informants in the Pakistani intelligence service---who, in turn, were notified by the White House as protocol for getting flyover clearance for the cruise missiles---bin Laden had evacuated all of his troops. The missiles hit an empty camp. Bin Laden returned to Pol-e Khomn not long afterward. There was little rebuilding necessary: after all, what is a terrorist training camp but a few firing ranges and some buildings to practice taking hostages? The most difficult thing to move was the ammunition and arms, but even those could be relocated in a matter of hours. Now, with the moonlight reflecting off the imposing Tora Bora Mountains in the distance, bin Laden sat in a small shack with only Zawahiri and Malid, gently stirring a goat stew. It was late for dinner, but, then, tonight promised to bring great news. Methodically bin Laden served up a portion to his physician and his assistant, along with a traditional Afghan pita-type bread, and then ladled the stew into his own bowl. Both men quietly ate, Zawahiri rocking back and forth, awaiting the vibration of his cell phone. Malid stared, apparently lost in thought. Bin Laden had kept most of the details of this event from him. He knew little of what was happening tonight---actually, yesterday, in America—except that it was big. Many in the camp speculated bin Laden was going to assassinate Clinton, having failed to kill George Bush. Others thought a massive round of truck bombs was planned for America, England, or France. Whatever it is, Sharif has been extraordinarily cautious. I have never seen an operation run so tightly. Malid knew only that, somehow, Khalid Sheikh Mohammad was right in the middle of it, and that money had come from Iran and Iraq. Lots of money. But money for what? Truck bombs aren’t that expensive. Since the cruise missile strike, bin Laden had increased his security even more. He avoided using any land telephone lines, and conducted all his conversations by cell phone. Still unaware that the CIA had found ways to “hack and track” his cell phone numbers---although without the speed or reliability they needed to respond fast enough to kill him---Zawahiri now awaited a cell call from one of bin Laden’s former “sleeper” agents in New Jersey, a man named Moqtar. It was not his real name, nor did bin Laden even know the man’s name. He was a recruit from al-Zawahiri, and had been planted years ago for one specific mission. Moqtar was to deliver a first-hand damage assessment. Bin Laden patiently slurped his stew, checking his watch, calculating the hour in the United States. At long last Zawahiri’s cell phone vibrated. He clicked it open, “Wait. Tell Sharif.” The man gulped, aware he was now talking to bin Laden. Then blurted out, “Sharif! It was incredible. Both towers are down---utterly eliminated. They didn’t just burn and leave the lower part of the buildings. Both totally collapsed. I can see the skyline from here. No part of them remains. You have done it, Sharif!” Bin Laden flashed his eyes at Zawahiri, and gave him a cold affirmative jerk of his head. Zawahiri’s face broke out into a broad smile. Malid still looked on, puzzled. “And Washington? Are the White House and Pentagon also destroyed?” Bin Laden sensed that the plan had not been entirely effective. Moqtar hesitated. Unlike Saddam, bin Laden did not have a reputation for meting out punishment to those who brought bad news, but there was always a first time. Moqtar cursed the fact that he had to be the one to tell bin Laden that part of the plan had failed. Bin Laden sensed the change in Moqtar’s mood. “What happened to the Washington planes?” he snapped. “Sharif, the Pentagon plane came in too low. It hit just on the edge of the building. The destruction is massive. Many Americans dead.” “But,” bin Laden replied, repressing his fury, “the Pentagon remains?” Moqtar could feel the anger from thousands of miles away. “Yes, Sharif.” “And the White House?” bin Laden coldly asked, already suspecting the answer. “We do not know what happened. The aircraft went down somewhere in Pennsylvania, without damaging anything except an empty field. There are rumors that the American government had the plane shot down. Others say the passengers staged a revolt. It is still a magnificent victory, Sharif!” There is no more to be gained from reprimanding this fool. He is a mere scribe---a reporter. Bin Laden decided to cut him off graciously. “You have your instructions, Moqtar. May Allah bless you. We are not finished with the Great Satan.” Although he was unaware that his cell transmissions were intercepted and, on a delayed basis, translated and analyzed, he still exercised great caution when speaking on any phone, and routinely kept the channel open for mere minutes. He flipped off the cell phone and passed it back to Zawahiri. “Both towers are down, but the Pentagon was only wounded, and the airplane targeting the White House was destroyed before it got to Washington.” “Towers, Sharif?” asked Malid. “What happened?” Bin Laden’s face broke into a broad smile as he explained the attack in detail. “Thousands dead,” he said, closing his eyes as if to replay it in his mind. “Thousands.” Malid was shaken, but tried not to show it. Thousands of innocents? For what purpose? What was accomplished other than death? Zawahiri interrupted his thoughts. “We must move immediately with the second wave, Sharif,” offered Zawahiri. “Activate the attacks on Los Angeles and London and Chicago.” Bin Laden angrily waved his hand. “Do you think I did not already do so? There is something wrong. Use the contacts---get Moqtar to call me back. There is more I need to ask him.” Zawahiri assented, placing a call to a German al-Qaeda member, who relayed the coded instructions to a Londoner, who then relayed them again to Moqtar. After fifteen minutes, bin Laden’s normally steel resolve began to fray as he paced outside the small shack. Finally, the cell phone vibrated again, but before the Saudi could speak, Moqtar exclaimed, “They grounded all the planes within 30 minutes. Heathrow is shut down. There is no attack on Parliament. The second wave cannot occur.” “It is not possible,” bin Laden snapped. “The Americans could not have moved so quickly.” “Yes, it is true, Sharif. The FAA grounded the planes after the second aircraft hit the New York building. Every pilot was instructed to land immediately within a certain radius. If the plane was close to its destination, it was allowed to complete the trip, but otherwise all planes will be on the ground within the hour. No overseas flights are admitted in without a fighter escort.” Bin Laden stood stunned, breathing heavily, holding the phone at his side. Zawahiri sensed immediately something was wrong. “The Americans reacted faster than you expected?” “Yes,” bin Laden nodded, now starting to pace. Moqtar still hung on the other end of the line from New Jersey, neither aware that CIA analysts were tracking the call and plotting coordinates in Afghanistan while the FBI moved on Moqtar’s location. “How could they have responded so quickly? I should never have changed the original plan. We should have taken all 10 planes at once.” “And risk that the CIA or the FBI would have put the pieces together earlier? It’s a miracle they were as incompetent as to miss the clues from Ramsi Yousef and the earlier bombings. They have many of our people in custody, but their weak, western values will not allow them to use torture to extract confessions. No, the more ambitious plan would have been marvelous if it had worked, but I fear that even the Americans could not have failed to detect what was about to happen.” Bin Laden reluctantly agreed. “I suppose you are right. But I miscalculated. I thought the American bureaucracy and the financial power of the airlines would force the weak American politicians to keep the airports open. At the very least, I thought the anger of stranded passengers would require the government to permit at least some flights on a reduced level.” By now, bin Laden had completely forgotten Moqtar on the cell phone. “This new president is not as easily intimidated as the previous one,” Zawahiri offered. “Bah! He is no different. You will see. He will send some missiles at our camps. He may even order some aircraft to bomb the mountains. But the Americans will never again risk their mighty ground army in combat, especially in the Middle East. Even against Saddam, they carefully avoided invading Iraq, because they feared the fayedeen and the mujahadeen. It is a show army, designed to impress the cowardly Europeans and the corrupt Russians. It is no different than the beautiful and impotent Swiss guards around the Pope, or the elaborately-clothed horse guards who supposedly protect the Queen of England. No, the Americans will not use their army, and certainly not in Afghanistan.” “Perhaps, but we did . . . ” (and Zawahiri carefully used “we” here) “er, miscalculate the rapidity of the aviation system’s response.” Suddenly bin Laden realized Moqtar still waited on the cell phone’s open channel. Uttering an Afghan curse, he jerked the phone to his ear. “What is happening with the law enforcement agencies? Have they started a crackdown on Muslims?” Surprised to again be a part of the conversation, Moqtar had to shake himself alert again. “Um, no Sharif. So far they have done the expected things---tightening border security, airport security. But no one is rounding up Muslims. The statements from the New York mayor and the president---he’s only made one brief speech from that school---have been entirely devoted to New York and Washington, not revenge.” Bin Laden passed this information on to Zawahiri and grinned. “The fools! Even now they don’t understand us. They will no doubt send the vaunted CIA to try to negotiate with the Taliban for our extradition.” At this suggestion, Zawahiri beamed. The Americans were so predictable. Malid had sat quietly, piecing everything together. It was clear that no matter how devastating the attacks were, they came nowhere near to succeeding as planned. Does he really understand what he did? He has declared war against the Americans in a way they cannot ignore. Before they thought it was a game, a minor irritant, like a gnat on an elephant. Does he really believe they will do nothing? And is this what a mighty religion has come to? As a child, I heard Imams preach against the sins of the Mahdi, who butchered innocents in Khartoum out of “obedience” to Allah. How is this different? Bin Laden again addressed Moqtar in the cell phone. “Contact me at our appointed time with additional information. We have already exposed ourselves too long, though I doubt the Americans are clever enough to track these discussions. At that time I want to know the changes in security, and, most important, the policies that the American government plans to introduce to ‘counter’ the threat we now pose.” He clicked the cell phone shut, still lamenting losing the long-planned second strike on Parliament, Los Angeles, and the Sears Tower. At one time, before Zawahiri talked him out of it, bin Laden had 10 aircraft in five cities on two continents all striking major civilian targets within minutes of each other. But the rapid reaction by the American FAA had even grounded flights coming out of Europe and England, halting not only the Los Angeles/Chicago strikes, but nullifying the London attack. “Perhaps you were right, my friend,” bin Laden said to Zawahiri. “Perhaps the plan was too ambitious. Instead of ten planes and ten explosions, we have three. Nevertheless, we destroyed the center of their financial empire and struck at their vaunted military command center. They will never forget this day!” Maybe that is not such a good thing, Sharif, thought Malid. “Malid,” said bin Laden, “as per the decision to add ‘insulation,’ you will be the go-between for the next operation.” “The next operation, Sharif?” Malid felt sick. If the previous operations were any indicator, more innocents would die. “Yes, Malid, one that will hurt the Americans like nothing so far.” Allah have mercy, thought Malid. “For now,” bin Laden continued, “we must leave here. Get my driver, and collect your things. We move quickly. Tell no one else we are leaving.” Panic? thought Malid. Is this the Lion of Afghanistan? The great Sharif? “You fear an American attack here, Sharif? I thought you said the Americans lacked the will for such a strike.” Malid followed him into what served as a bedroom. “One cannot be too careful,” bin Laden said, throwing things in his small bag. “Move, Malid. We will leave in 15 minutes.” So the Americans are not as weak as you let on. This Bush president has you worried, does he? |