Authors: Eric Walters
“Excuse me!” my father called out loudly. “I need to speak to whoever is in charge.”
“That would be me,” a man said. He was standing beside a woman working at her desk. He was older, gray, thinning hair, dark suit, and, judging from his expression, he wasn’t a happy or friendly character.
“Hello, I’m John Fuller, from down the hall,” my father said. “And I’m not sure if you and your staff are aware that there has been a terrible—”
“Of course we’re aware there that a plane has crashed into the North Tower,” the man snapped, cutting my father off.
“Sorry, I just thought that since you were all still working that somehow you weren’t.”
“Can you tell me how us gawking out the window or watching TV could be of any benefit
to what is happening over there?” the man demanded gruffly.
“I agree that neither would help. I’m here because your staff needs to evacuate.”
“Evacuate? For what purpose? I’m sure
you
are
aware
it is the
other
building that was struck. Evacuating this building would have no benefit. In fact, it might even be harmful for those in the other tower.”
“What do you mean?” my father asked. He now sounded annoyed too.
“Sending everybody out of this building, flooding into the streets and subways might slow down the evacuation from the North Tower—the place where people
really
need to leave.”
I could see that everybody in the office had stopped working and they were witnessing the exchange between my father and this man.
“I can understand your position, but I disagree with it. The subways and streets can easily handle both buildings emptying—as they do each weekday at around five o’clock. You and your staff need to leave.”
“The only one who’s leaving is you. Get out so my staff and I can get back to work,” he barked.
“I will be leaving,” my father said.
I turned to him in surprise. I hadn’t expected him to say that or give up so easily.
“Right after you and your staff all leave,” my father continued. “I am the fire warden for this
floor and I am
ordering
you to evacuate.”
The man laughed. “I don’t care what you are. There’s only one person who gives orders in this office and you’re looking at him. And now, I’m ordering
you
to get the hell out of here and leave me and my employees to get back to work.”
My father had opened his mouth to speak when the lights suddenly started to flash and there was a loud
beep, beep, beep
that came from the overhead speakers.
“Your attention, please,” came a man’s voice. “Building Two is secure. There is no need, I repeat, no need, to evacuate Building Two.”
The man in charge of the office made a scoffing sound and shot my father a look of disdain.
“If you are in the midst of evacuation, you may return to your office using the re-entry doors on the re-entry floors and the elevators to return to your floor. Again, Building Two is secure …”
He went on to repeat what he’d already said.
My father looked embarrassed. He wasn’t used to being wrong … or at least to having it pointed out in such a public way. He turned and left the office and I rushed after him.
“Are we still going to leave?” I asked as I caught up.
He nodded his head. “We’re going to leave. I just hope that none of my staff responds to that message. I don’t care what anybody else says or thinks we should do. Our office is closed for the day.”
That was more like him: stubborn and clinging to his view even when it was wrong.
“Whether the building is secure or not we all need to go. It isn’t right to work while this tragedy is going on just outside our building. We will be evacuating the building.”
That worked for me. I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible anyway.
Suddenly the entire building shook, and I staggered to the side, tumbling into the wall. There was the sound of smashing glass and the big front doors of my father’s office shattered, exploding into a million pieces; ceiling tiles tumbled down, falling just in front of where we stood. Wide-eyed, open-mouthed, I stared at my father. His look of shock and the fear on his face sent a shiver through my body.
I pushed myself off the wall and tried to walk toward my father. My knees buckled and I put a hand against the wall to steady myself. No … wait … it wasn’t my legs that were shaky … the whole building was swaying back and forth! The lights flickered, faded and then came back on again.
“Dad … what … what happened? What’s happening?”
He looked scared. My father never looked scared. He was always calm and cool and in control. I felt even more afraid seeing
him
look afraid.
I staggered toward him as he moved toward me. He took my hand.
“What happened?” I asked again.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. The building is swaying.”
We stood there and I could feel the building moving, gently, back and forth. It seemed to go on forever but really it was no more than ten seconds before it came to a stop.
“Did the top of the other tower fall over … did it hit this building?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.”
Still holding my hand he pulled me along the corridor toward the shattered front doors of his office. A million tiny pellets of glass crunched under our feet as we stepped through the now open doorway. There were more tiles fallen from the ceilings, wires hanging down, filing cabinets knocked over and computers smashed on the floor. My father reached up and turned on one of the TVs. The screen snapped to life. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
“Oh, my good God,” the announcer said. “I don’t have the words to describe what I have just witnessed.”
He didn’t need words. The picture told the whole story. There wasn’t just one building on fire. The second tower—the tower we were
standing in—
was on fire too! My whole body trembled, and if my father hadn’t been holding my hand I think I
might have crumpled to the ground.
“Just seconds ago, live, before our eyes, a second plane crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center,” the announcer said. “Here is that dramatic footage.”
The screen changed and there was a shot similar to one we’d already seen: the North Tower, on fire, smoke billowing up into the clear blue sky. Then a plane—a gigantic airplane—cut across the sky, banked slightly to one side and slammed into the South Tower, disappearing into a cloud of smoke and dust and debris! This was completely beyond my ability to comprehend.
“At 9:03, a second plane crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. We saw it approach, cutting across the sky from the south, and then it just hit the building, disappearing, like it was sucked inside, converted to a gigantic ball of orange flame. There can now be no doubt: as with the first plane, this one was
deliberately
crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center.”
My father walked right up to the TV and began running his finger down the picture of the tower. What was he doing?
He turned to me. “Floor seventy-nine or eighty.”
“What about floor seventy-nine or eighty?”
“The plane hit this building at around the seventy-ninth floor … below us … we’re above the crash.”
I looked at him and then at the screen. Back to him again, and then my eyes settled finally on the smoke billowing out of the building. That couldn’t be right. We couldn’t be above because that meant we were trapped. That couldn’t be.
“M-maybe you’re wrong,” I stammered. “It’s hard to tell what floor it is because of all the smoke.”
“I counted,” my father said.
“Count again!”
“We do not as yet have much information about the passengers on the doomed airplane,” the announcer said. “What we do know is that at 9:03 a commercial airplane crashed into the South Tower, hitting at an angle that caused damage to floors seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one and eighty-two. Beyond that we have no information about fatalities in the buildings. And while we have no further information at this time, the pictures speak volumes. I can’t imagine that anybody on those floors could have survived the impact of a fully fueled commercial airplane slamming into the side of the building.
“To recap. At 8:46, American Airlines Flight 11 out of Boston crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Any doubts that may have existed that this was an accident have been completely eliminated as, at 9:03, a second
plane crashed into the South Tower in what is surely an act of terrorism … the worst act of terrorism in the history of this country.”
My father reached up and clicked off the TV. “Now we know what happened.”
My father’s voice was soft, measured, reassuring. And he didn’t look scared any more. He just looked as he normally did—in control, calm, cool.
“Now we have to decide what we do.”
“What
can
we do?” I asked. “We’re trapped.
We’re above the fire.”
“We’re above it, but that doesn’t mean we’re trapped.”
From behind us, in the corridor, came sounds. There were people, dozens and dozens of people, the ones who had been in the office that refused to leave. I looked around for that smug, stupid man who had refused my father’s order to evacuate. If he’d listened they might be safe now—safe, or dead. How far could they have gotten? Maybe they would have just made it a few floors down and they would have been somewhere on one of those floors when the plane hit. They would have been killed instantly. At least here they were still alive … still alive, but trapped, the way those people in the other tower were trapped … the way those two people were trapped who chose to jump rather than wait to be burned alive. I felt numb all over.
There were people standing in front of the elevator doors, madly pushing the button to try to call up the elevator.
“The elevators won’t be coming,” my father said, “and even if they did they wouldn’t be safe. Everybody has to take the stairs.”
Almost as one the people turned and started off down the corridor. We followed. There was a smell—a bitter, acrid smell—the smell of something burning … of course something was burning.
The door was pushed open. There was smoke coming out and up the stairwell! And it was already crowded with people—people climbing
up
from the lower floors. There was no noise except for the sound of feet against the stairs. Those entering from our floor started to climb up as well. I started to join in when my father grabbed me and pulled me to a halt.
“Wait,” he said. He stopped somebody who was climbing. “What is it like below?”
“The way is blocked … smoke … fire … there’s no way to get past the fire. We have to climb up, get as far away from the fire as possible and wait until the firemen come and put out the blaze.”
“Thanks,” my father said. “Thanks.”
My father motioned for me to follow him out of the stairwell and back into the corridor. We had to move through the traffic trying to move in
the other direction. Despite the urgency, the fear, the desperation, everybody was quiet and polite and orderly. There was no pushing, no bad words exchanged—hardly
any
words exchanged. I followed my father back to his office.
“What are we doing?” I demanded. “We have to get away from the fire!” I was feeling panicked. “We have to go up and get farther away from it!”
“We might decide to do that, but it might not be the best way to get away from the fire. We have to see if there are any other choices.”
I was struck by the strange image of those two people jumping. That wasn’t a choice.
“That man said the way down was blocked,” I argued.
“It might be or it might not.”
“But I could see the smoke!” I protested. “We have to climb up before the fire reaches us here.”
“The smoke travels a lot faster than the fire could. These buildings are designed to contain fires so they don’t spread from floor to floor.”
I felt a little relief. “But shouldn’t we just do what everybody else is doing and go to the top?”
“Doing what everybody else does isn’t necessarily the right thing. Do you know how many times I’ve done the opposite of what everybody else was doing? I bought when they were selling or sold when they were buying or—”
“This isn’t some stupid business deal!” I snapped. “This is our lives!”
My father placed his hands on my shoulders. “I know that. I’m not going to allow myself to panic. We have to take the time to make the right decision.”
I felt like brushing his hands aside and rushing back to the stairwell and up and away from the fire. I didn’t. He looked so confident, so sure of himself. He was usually right about things. He was one of the smartest people I knew.
“Okay?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Good. We’re going to go back to my office. You’re going to try to call your mother. We have to let her know that we’re safe.”
“Are we?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away and my whole spine tingled. “Let her know that we’re alive … that we’re okay for now.”
I nodded again.
We went back into the office. “Use any one of those phones,” my father said as he rushed off.
“Where are you going?” I asked, not wanting to let him out of my sight.
“My office. I have to get something from my desk.”
My mouth dropped open. What could possibly be that important that he needed to get it right now? Even with all of this happening all around us, people dying, people
dead
, us in danger, he was still thinking about business.
I picked up the phone. There was dead air, not even a dial tone. I pushed a button, trying to find a line out. Nothing. I grabbed a second phone. It was dead as well. Feeling even more panicky I reached for a third. There was no life. I dropped it to the floor. Then I realized that my father always had his cellphone with him. We could call with that.
I walked toward his office but stopped in front of the bank of TVs. I reached up and turned one on. The screen flickered for a split second and then came to life with the scene I knew would be there. The Twin Towers stood against the skyline, thick black smoke billowing out from gaping holes. I was in the second building, the one on the left of the screen, the one with the smoke coming from lower down. I slumped down and sat on the edge of a desk, looking up at the image. It wasn’t real. None of this could be real. It was like some bizarre movie, the product of some writer and Hollywood producer. I should see some interior shots of a movie star—probably playing a fireman—valiantly fighting the blaze and saving people. Or maybe a gigantic ape—King Kong—should be climbing the side of the building. Or helicopters should be plucking people from the roof … could they do that?