The Towers (9 page)

He hit
SEND
again, despairing, and to his astonishment connected. A weird clicking, but her voice behind it. “Dan. Dan? Is that you?”

Relief flooded him. He had to put a hand to the TV support to stay on his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, it's me. You all right, hon? We're watching all this on TV.”

“Not exactly,” she said. Someone was shouting in the background. A crash. Screams. “What's going on? Do you know?”

Someone had turned up the audio on the displays. He could barely hear her. He pressed the phone to his skull so hard it hurt. “Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Not exactly. Dan? Dan, you still there?”

He goggled at the screen, which was replaying the plane sailing, coasting into the building, though it must have been hurtling, followed again by that intense yellow-red flame. “Yeah. Yeah. I just saw a plane hit—”

“What? Another one?”

“There were two. Airliners. One targeted on the North Tower, the other on the South. You're okay, God, I thought—”

“I'm not exactly … okay.”

They were talking past each other, as if she couldn't hear, or only got him intermittently. He clamped a palm over his other ear, turned away from the televisions, from the screams and cries of horror. “Where are you? You're not still in the—”

“We're still in the tower. We were trapped in the elevator. Were you trying to call?”

It was so much like some special-effects-laced movie that he felt numb. Over and over on the screens flame bloomed, the deep, hot marigold laced with black of burning fuel. “Yeah. Yeah. You're in an elevator? Can you get out?”

“We already did. Right now we're on I think the ninety-second floor.” She coughed. “A lot of smoke.”

He closed his eyes. She was nowhere near safe. “Stay low. Under it.”

“Yeah, well, can't do that. It's under us, smoke's coming up through the floor.” She coughed and the phone rattled. “I've got to—”

“Get out of there.”

“This is a strike against the homeland,” Niles was bellowing behind him. “Whoever did this, there's more on the way. The CNO's out of the building. I'm acting in his name. All ships, all jet bases to Threatcon Delta. Pass that direct to all fleet commands. Get me the watch commander at NMCC. Scramble Oceana, Lemoore, and Miramar. I want fighters over Norfolk and San Diego and a CAP over every carrier. Who's our nearest Aegis cruiser to New York? Where's
Yorktown
?”

“Gulf of Mexico, sir.”

“Who else? Where's
Normandy
? Get her under way. Get her headed up the coast.”

Dan stood back. The space, filled with horrified onlookers only seconds before, was electrified now. Every phone being spoken into. Every keyboard in use. In minutes every Navy warship would be at general quarters, every shore base locked down. Fighters would be launching from every airfield.

But they hadn't been the target.

He tried to take a step back. Think analytically. This enemy, whoever they were, hadn't struck at a military base like Pearl Harbor. They'd hit the Twin Towers. A strategic target? As far as he knew, strategy didn't get plotted out of downtown Manhattan.

The only theory that made sense was Giulio Douhet's. Douhet had advocated striking sites important to a country's sense of self, to spur it into a reaction that would let the attacker decimate the defensive forces.

But why not attack Washington, then? The White House or Congress would make headlines, if that was what this enemy wanted. Six years before, a suicidal truck driver had stolen a Cessna and crashed it into the White House lawn.

As a charter member of the Tomahawk community, he still weighed in on the classified chat rooms. Talked to targeteers and operators at conferences. One of the submariners he'd trained had told him about a mission in the Sudan. A shadowy figure they'd had Tomahawks dialed in for personally. As soon as they got six hours' warning, enough to program the inertial guidance, they'd launch. But they'd never gotten that notice, and the missiles had stayed tubed until the end of the deployment. Later strikes against training camps in Sudan and Afghanistan had missed him too. The shadowy doctor who'd built the bomb that had destroyed
Horn
had worked for him, or had been rumored to. All directed by the same puppet master.

So if it was bin Laden, their paths had already crossed. But how could one man do this? Saddam made more sense. Humbled in the Gulf War, he must want revenge. Maybe these weren't airliners, but rented cargo jets loaded with fuel and explosives.

But again, if it was Saddam, wouldn't he be hitting Washington?

Or was it the Chinese? North Koreans? Cubans? Domestic terrorists, like McVeigh and Nichols?

Or someone they'd never imagined, didn't know about at all?

The problem wouldn't be lack of suspects. When you were the sole remaining superpower, it was King of the Hill. If you toppled, all the others would cheer. Until the next kid mounted the sandpile.

He shook himself, watching the Towers burn, and remembered:
Blair
. Tried the phone again. Fruitless. He was almost out of charge, anyway. He looked around. Everyone had something to do, except him. There—a vacant cubicle. If he could get online, log in to SIPRNET … he slid in. Photos of wife and kids. The guy was a Canadiens fan. Dan booted up, but the password screen stonewalled him. He tried his passwords from TAG, his old National Security Council log-in. Nothing worked. He slid the drawer out and looked inside, checked both sides of the monitor for stickies. Nada.

He spotted Niles at a table with the watch captain. “Sir?”

The admiral barely glanced up. “Make it fast, Lenson.”

“I know the Sit Room captain. I can get you a line to the PEBD. In the White House basement. If I could get a password—”

“I have someone working the White House,” the captain said.

Niles nodded, heavy lids drooping, then flicked his hand. “Go on, Lenson. We'll manage.” The tone was dismissive:
We don't need you.
The realization burned up through Dan's gut to his face as they stared at him, Niles smiling slightly. Then they sobered, looking back at the screens.

Dan wanted to say something, but it felt useless. Picayune, in the face of disaster. He swung away for the door. Going, but unsure where. He had no duty station. No general quarters station. How ironic that when the shit finally hit the fan, he was out of the loop. He glanced at the clock: 0943.

He turned left and then left again into the shining, brightly lit corridor. Then halted, though he had no idea why.

A tremendous explosion quaked the floor and blew the overhead lights down on him in a spray of glass, plunging the corridor into instantaneous darkness. He slammed into the deck, blown down by a shock wave. His jaw struck tile.

*   *   *

A
lacuna, a gap in consciousness. He emerged staggering, surrounded by fire alarms and shrill screams. He stood in the open between two of the Pentagon's concentric rings. The ground was asphalted, like a road. Into it, through an arched hole in the beige brick big enough to drive a pickup through, a pile of … debris … as tall as a man had been blown out on the asphalt and was burning fiercely with yellow-orange flames that gave off a dark, oily smoke. The same marigold hue he'd seen only minutes ago on the screen; the color that said instantly to anyone trained in shipboard firefighting
fuel fire.

He had no idea how fuel had gotten here. Maybe a bomb had set off a fuel tank of some kind. Yes—a bomb. No doubt concealed by someone on the building teams during the reconstruction Enders had been talking about.

All these thoughts stopped dead as a human figure, on fire from feet to head, stepped out of the flames and walked stiffly down the pile of burning debris. It slowly collapsed as it reached the road. The sight was so bizarre he stood unable to move. Then, making himself breathe again, he pushed the door open and raced toward the fallen figure, catching the blast of radiant heat and a queerly familiar smell. One exactly like the exhaust of a turbine-powered ship, such as
Barrett
or
Horn
.

When he crouched by the body, the fat and skin were still burning. He couldn't even tell if it was male or female, though the Corfams looked small enough to be a woman's. Above him gigantic, repetitive globes of visible gas were venting from the hole in the building. As they hit open air, they flashed into flame, like fluid spouting from the mouth of a circus fire-eater. Paper and wooden debris flashed into flame. He shielded his face with one arm. From the corridor other men ran out onto the drive. Navy in khakis, Air Force in blues.

Dimly, past the gushes of incandescent gas, he made out a figure staggering aimlessly. It didn't seem to see the exit. Others moved behind it, deeper in hell. Fire was cascading down all around them. They wouldn't be alive long, as it took hold. Exactly like an engine-room conflagration. If they didn't get out now, they'd lie down, overcome by smoke, and die where they fell.

A gap showed below the gushes of flame, above the smoking debris. He took a deep breath, crouched, and ran up the pile, bricks grating and turning under his shoes. Heat blasted his skin. He buttonhooked left as soon as he was through. Faintly, from behind him, came the grating of other shoes on the rubble.

The cavelike interior was dark except for the flame and the buzzing spark of short circuits above him. Fire roared to his right, flowing down in a liquid fall. He straightened and instantly got zapped by a live wire in the sagging ceiling. Melting material plopped softly, smoking, starting small fires where it hit. One drop seared his shoulder. Maybe this wasn't a smart idea. The ceiling creaked ominously. Then he caught the elusive figure again, more distant, moving like a wayward ghost through the murk.

He started forward, stepped on something soft, and looked down. It was a face. He bent beneath a blanket of woolly, black smoke forming at chest level and began to dig. Tossing aside hot pieces of jagged metal, charred publications, dozens of pieces of red plastic and three-ring scarlet board he recognized as Top Secret snap binders. Other hands joined his and he turned streaming eyes to one of the men from the drive. “Gimme a hand,” the guy said, and Dan took a step back and saw a shattered rack of electronics lying across the fallen man's thighs. Another man joined them, this one in an Air Force uniform. They got the victim free and the others dragged him off toward the hole.

Dan glanced at it, at daylight like the exit from a hellish Haunted House; then bent in a racking, phlegmy cough. He hoped somebody was doing the same for Blair, wherever she was.

The smoke reeked of burning fuel and plastic. A soldier in dark green trou and light green shirt, thirtyish, uncovered, mustached, appeared from the smoke and Dan grabbed him. “Let these guys handle the ones closest to the door.”

“We stay together?”

“Stay together.”

“Mick.”

A distant siren was followed by
“Attention. A fire emergency has been declared in the building. Please evacuate.”

“Dan.” They shook once, quick, hard, and Dan saw a piece of torn blue-gray cloth from some sort of curtain and picked it up. He tore it in half and handed part to the sergeant and wrapped the rest over his own mouth.

The plopping spatter from above was growing, as was a strong stink of burning … horsehair? Looking up, he saw more fire up there. Swell. The wiring was melting. Probably whatever rebar was holding up the sagging concrete too. This wasn't unfamiliar territory. Every Navy man put in thousands of hours in fire parties, fire drills. With a three-inch hose and a fire party behind him he could fog down this space, cool it below flash point, and start pushing that fire back. Fog and foam.

But he didn't have a hose. He hesitated, then went on, stepping carefully over shattered electronics, smashed, smoking computer monitors, a shining hydraulic strut, a bent, jagged cage of steel bars. Mick followed. This had to be a SCIF, a radio-shielded space for classified comms. That made sense of the red plastic too.

He came to a blasted-apart concrete wall and climbed through. A piece of rebar came off in his hand. He started to throw it away, then kept it.

Past the twisted bars lay a zone of shattered, burning plywood. It was covered with fuel, not all ignited yet. He stepped over an instrument panel that looked as if it had come from an aircraft. Something pink and gray had been forced through it as if by enormous pressure. It glittered with particles of glass. The soft drops plopped and sizzled down. The smoke was getting thicker. He came across scorched cans of ginger ale and soda and cracked one and poured it over the cloth. That helped, but his eyes were tearing so badly he couldn't see where to step. They should have full-face masks and OBAs. Helmets, firefighting boots, gloves, flash gear. Not Certified Navy Twill uniforms whose woven polyester was beginning to melt-laminate itself to his shoulders. Another body, facedown; he turned the head over; past help, blasted to white bone from the chest up.

He left it and staggered on, turning back only once to make sure of the exit. The round light glowed smaller now, vague through the smoke. Couldn't lose sight of that. That panel had been off a plane, a big one. So was the shattered aluminum that glittered and steamed all around. He stepped on something and lifted his shoe. A purse. A hand with a ring still on it gripped it.

Two planes on the Towers. Another here. Where else? The CIA? The Capitol? The Statue of Liberty?

Another ten yards and he'd turn back. While he could still get out, though his khakis were torn and his hands burned and his shoes were smoking.

By now he and the air force guy weren't walking, but clambering on blistering hands and torn knees over toppled cubicles, piles of smoking paper, smashed computers, cables and wires tangled with pieces of concrete and partition walls and blasted-off chunks of the pillars. Not all that different though than when he'd had to crawl through
Horn
's shattered hull. A moan diverted him and he groped in the obscurity, pulling up toppled dividers, but couldn't find anyone. The moan didn't come again. He found another body, a piece of jagged aluminum driven through its chest.