Authors: Eric Walters
“No argument here,” one of the voices said.
“Or here,” agreed the second.
“Good. Then please pass on those instructions to your traders. Take care, gentlemen, and we’ll talk soon.”
My father clicked a button on the phone and it went silent.
“That should work,” my father said to Suzie.
“You’ll keep them both happy without risking too much either way.”
“The middle of the road isn’t just for yellow lines and road kill,” my father said, now turning to me. “It’s usually the safest way to make a healthy profit while minimizing the risk. Does that make sense?”
“I guess so,” I admitted. “But it seems like there isn’t much difference between ninety-four, ninety-four and a half and ninety-five cents.”
Suzie giggled. “Those aren’t cents, those are dollars, so that’s a fifty-cent difference, per share, and we’re talking about a transaction involving over ten million shares. So that means a difference of about—”
“Five million dollars,” I said, cutting her off. I was always good with numbers, like my father. “I guess that is a big difference. And what happens if you guess wrong?”
“The buck stops here,” my father said, tapping his finger against the desk. “I’ve been lucky that most of the time I guess right.”
“I don’t think luck has much to do with it,” Suzie said.
“Luck is a big part of—”
There was a thunderous explosion and my eyes widened as a brilliant flash of light burst outside the windows.
I jumped backwards, bumping into Suzie, practically knocking her over. My father sprang out of his chair and jumped away from the window, nearly landing on his desk. The flash of light was gone. Outside the windows everything looked normal. We could see the North Tower right in front of us and the city stretching out beyond it.
“What was that … what happened?” Suzie gasped.
“There was an explosion of some sort and—”
“It’s … it’s snowing,” I said, pointing out the window. Unbelievably, inexplicably, it was snowing!
“Maybe that was lightning,” my father said, “and it produced some sort of freak snowstorm.”
It was a virtual blizzard of big, white, fluffy flakes that were blowing in the gap between the two towers. I stared at it, transfixed, not able to believe my eyes … but why were some of the snowflakes glowing red? It looked as though their edges were on fire … but snow couldn’t burn … could it?
“It’s paper!” my father yelled. “Thousands and thousands of pieces of paper, and they’re on fire!” He walked to the window. “Oh my God,” he said.
I stumbled over until I stood right beside him. There, just above us, the entire side of the North Tower was a gaping hole! Smashed windows, jagged edges and flames, thick black smoke billowing up while pieces of paper blew out and fluttered down. I blinked my eyes, I rubbed them, trying to understand, trying to comprehend what I was seeing. I opened my eyes again. It was still there. This couldn’t be real. I looked over at my father. His look of complete surprise, complete shock, mirrored my feelings and thoughts.
“What happened?” screamed out a voice from behind us.
I spun around. It was Phil. He and a half-dozen others spilled into the office. They looked worried, scared and confused—all of the things I was feeling.
“There’s been an explosion in the North Tower,” my father said. His voice was incredibly
calm. “Almost at the top … around the ninetieth floor.”
Everybody rushed forward to the window, pressing me forward, much closer to the windows than I ever would have gone on my own. My whole body shuddered and my knees were giving out. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was almost visible through my chest. I tried to shift away from the glass but couldn’t move against or through the crush of bodies.
“What sort of explosion?” somebody asked.
“Could have been a lightning strike,” Suzie said, echoing what my father had said when he thought it was snowing.
“Can’t be,” somebody answered. “The whole building is designed to absorb and redirect lightning. These towers get struck all the time with no damage.”
“Besides, there’s not a cloud in the sky,” another man said. “Lightning has to come out of somewhere.”
“Maybe it was a natural gas explosion,” another woman suggested.
“Nope. No natural gas in the buildings.”
“They could have been storing something flammable and it exploded.”
“On the top floors of the World Trade Center?” a voice asked, incredulously. “At the prices they charge for floor space in these buildings there’s no way anybody was using them for storage.”
“Do you think it could be a bomb?” Phil asked.
A bomb? I figured that was just insane. But his question remained unanswered as nobody said a word. Did that silence mean that it
wasn’t
such a crazy thought?
“Let’s not go rushing to any conclusions,” my father cautioned. “It could have been caused by a lot of things. Perhaps it was electrical, some sort of power surge or—”
“It was an airplane!” called out a voice from behind. We all spun around. “It was an airplane that hit the building. It’s on CNN.”
People abandoned the window and rushed out of the office toward the bank of TV sets. I trailed behind.
Up at ceiling level most of the screens were still showing the same talking heads—except for one. There, on the screen, was the building outside our window. There was black smoke billowing up and out of a gigantic gash … an ugly, raw hole that had erupted in the smooth glass skin of the building.
The camera panned around the tower. The footage was being shot from an airplane—no, a helicopter, hovering, circling around the building. A man reached and turned up the volume on the set.
“This is just in … I can hardly believe my eyes,” the unseen announcer said. “While we have few details at this time I can tell you what little we do
know. Just moments ago, at 8:46 a.m., a plane crashed into the North Tower, Building One, of the World Trade Center. It appears that it hit around the ninety-fourth floor. I repeat, an airplane has crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. At this time, and we are in the process of receiving updates, we do not know the size of the plane, nor do we know the reasons for the crash, whether it was a result of pilot error or equipment failure or deliberate.”
Deliberate? Why would a pilot deliberately crash a plane? It would be like suicide … wow … a public, spectacular suicide for the whole world to see.
“Got to be an accident,” somebody said. “You know how people are always buzzing around the buildings on those tours of New York, showing off the city for tourists. Just a matter of time, I guess … I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before this.”
Suddenly a second television screen flashed over to the same scene. Then another picture, then another and another, until there was a whole bank of TV sets, almost all of them showing the same thing. Funny, all the pictures were the same, but some of them were slightly out of sync. Then I realized why. These shots were being beamed to countries around the world and then bounced back here. This was being seen,
live
, by people around the world! How unbelievably strange.
Even stranger, this was all happening right outside our building, visible through the windows,
but we were all in here, huddled around the TVs rather than witnessing it with our own eyes. Maybe it was because seeing it on the screen, validated by the unseen announcer at CNN, made it more real.
No, that wasn’t it. Here, watching the screen, it was safe and sanitary. Looking through the window, with our own eyes, unshielded by the lens of the camera and the thick glass of the screens, it was too dangerous to look at, like staring up at the sun. By watching it on TV we felt removed, distant, and that distance gave us protection.
“At this time,” the announcer continued, “we have no word on fatalities.”
That’s right, there had to be injuries … deaths. The pilot of the plane, passengers, anybody who had been right there by the windows … the way
we
were right by the windows. That could have been us, a few floors lower and one building over. A shudder went through my body.
The screen was now split into two parts. On the left side was the image of the building. On the right was an announcer. Suit and tie, perfect hair and teeth.
“It would be expected that, aside from the plane’s pilot and any passengers aboard, there will be fatalities in the building from the initial crash and then the subsequent fire. It is reported that the plane crashed into the north side of the North Tower.”
“That can’t be right,” Phil said. “We can only see the
south
side of the tower. It had to have hit the south side. It must have just buzzed by our building.”
“Maybe what we’re looking at is where the plane came
out
of the building,” Suzie suggested grimly.
“No way, that isn’t possible. There’s no way a little plane could pass right through the whole—”
“I’m just receiving an update,” the announcer said, and Phil stopped. The announcer placed a hand against his ear. He was probably getting the information through his earpiece. “There is new information … it is now confirmed that the airplane that crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center was a commercial airplane.”
There were gasps. This was now even more unbelievable, but Suzie was right. We weren’t looking at the place where the plane had crashed into the tower, this was where it had crashed through the other side.
“While it is too early to know the exact number of fatalities in the building or on the plane, it can only be assumed that all passengers have perished. I repeat, it is assumed that all passengers aboard the plane have perished.”
I heard whimpering and turned around, away from the TV. There were two women, both crying, with their arms around each other. A third woman was crying just behind them and there was a man
beside her, working hard to force back the tears that I could see in his eyes.
Everybody else was solemn and silent. Aside from the announcer, the only other sound was the constant buzzing of telephones, left unattended and unanswered as everybody stood transfixed, frozen in place.
The image on some of the screens suddenly changed. It showed fire trucks, police cars and ambulances all parked haphazardly on the plaza at the foot of the buildings. All around them were emergency personnel, rushing into the building and escorting people out. I thought about that mass of people who’d been in the lobby of our building this morning. There had to be just as many people in that building as there were in this one, and they all had to get
out
of there.
“How many people work in that tower?” I asked.
“There are forty thousand in the two towers, so I’d imagine around twenty thousand,” Suzie said.
That was right, that was what my father had mentioned this morning.
“Yeah, but there wouldn’t be that many people there right now,” Phil said. “It’s still early.”
“And a Tuesday,” somebody else added. “People arrive late on Mondays and Tuesdays and leave early on Thursdays and Fridays.”
“Plus with the primaries being held today I’m sure there were lots of people who went to vote before coming to work.”
“Nevertheless,” my father said, “there are still a large number of people who have to leave the building as quickly as possible, and without using the elevators.”
“That’s right, they can’t use the elevators because of the fire,” somebody said.
“I can’t even imagine what the stairwells must look like right now,” Phil said.
“Well, Phil, you’re about to find out,” my father said. “I’m ordering the office to evacuate the building.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” somebody else said.
“No joke,” my father answered. “I’m not just in charge in this office today, I’m the fire warden for this floor. Everybody is going to leave.”
“But boss, I have a report due at the end of the day,” Phil said.
“It’s going to be due at the end of tomorrow.”
“And I have a big deal happening in just a few minutes,” another man said. “It’s a conference call with London and Paris.”
“London and Paris are going to have to talk together without you.”
“But it’s my deal!” he protested.
“It’s still your deal. If you leave right now you can get out of the building and re-route your line through your cellphone. Everybody, close down your computers, gather whatever you think you really need to do business from your homes—if
you really, really don’t think you can take a day off—and head for the stairwells.”
“The stairwells?” somebody called, and others seemed to be equally confused.
“Yes, nobody is going to use the elevators.”
“But it isn’t
this
building that’s on fire.”
“Rules are rules. Elevators are not to be used in the event of an evacuation. What if they have to turn off the electricity to the complex because of the fire? Does anybody want to be trapped for the day in an elevator?” he asked.
My whole body flushed and I felt almost panicky. The idea of being trapped in an elevator was like some sort of nightmare to me. Nobody else said anything, but nobody looked happy, either.
“Come on, I’m not asking you to walk
up
eighty-five floors. Take your time. Leave, go home, spend some time with your families. Now go.”
Nobody moved.
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” my father said. “That was an order. Everybody out, now.”
People became unstuck and started hurrying off to their cubicles or offices.
“Oh!” my father yelled out. “One more thing. Call home and let people know you’re okay. If they just turn on the TV they’ll be worried that it’s
our
tower that was hit.”
I hadn’t even thought about that. What would Mom think if she saw the TV? She’d be having a fit right now.
“I’ll call home,” I said to my father.
“Good. I’ll gather up my things. You can use the phone over there,” he said pointing to an empty desk. “Dial nine to get out.”
I grabbed the phone and quickly punched in the numbers—I hit the wrong button. I hadn’t realized until now that I was actually shaking. I hung up and started dialing again. It clicked and then started to ring.