9/11 Trilogy
Short Stories By Gary J Byrnes
9/11 Trilogy - First published in 2011 by Gary J Byrnes on Smashwords.
Copyright 2011 © Gary J Byrnes.
The right of Gary J Byrnes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright & Related Rights Act, 2000. All rights reserved.
In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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This ebook is freely distributed for your personal enjoyment. This ebook may not be re-sold but may be given freely to other people as long is it is not edited in any way. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Novels by Gary J Byrnes, in print and ebook formats, available from all good online retailers.
@garyjbyrnes
9/11 Trilogy
Dedicated to all the innocents who lost their lives in the terrorist atrocities of 11th of September 2001 and in the ensuing conflicts.
1. THE GARDEN AT THE INN
"A similitude of the Garden which is promised unto those who keep their duty to Allah: Underneath it rivers flow; its food is everlasting, and its shade; this is the reward of those who keep their duty, while the reward of disbelievers is the Fire."
- The Glorious Koran. Surah 13. Ar-Rad, The Thunder. V 35.
I was face down in a smoking crater, my hands pressed to my ears, while fire and rage rained down all around me. Thundering shock waves shook my bones. A deafening roar came closer and I peered out of my hole to look for the source of the noise. No more than twenty metres away, a Soviet Hind helicopter gunship screamed past, sweeping the ground with its nose-mounted cannon which lashed fire all around the plain. Was I in hell?
I peered in the direction from which the gunship had come. Another helicopter approached, this time firing its unguided rockets in a pattern that mercifully stopped short of my hiding place. On the road ahead were two Soviet tanks, two armoured personnel carriers and some trucks. Flames licked the tanks and APCs. Bodies were scattered on the ground all about, some on fire. A few Russian soldiers were still alive, firing wildly at a position off to my left where the Hind was also concentrating its attention. Dusk was falling in the valley that stretched beyond.
Both helicopters circled round to bring their armaments to bear on what I knew must be the position taken by my comrades. I had lost my AK during the ambush, after the helicopters surprised us; my mind was disorientated from the explosive concussions and my eyes and ears were bleeding. A picture came to my mind of an anti-aircraft missile. I remembered that I had been carrying a Stinger on my back when we ambushed the Russian armoured patrol. Then I knew that I was in Afghanistan and we were winning a war against one of the world's Godless superpowers.
I carefully crept forward out of my hole and began feeling the ground in the gathering gloom. Smoke from the destroyed vehicles was burning my eyes and adding its stinking blackness to the approaching nightfall. I knew that time was short for the helicopters, which did not have night-flying capabilities. A dull glint caught my eye. I crawled a short distance on my stomach. It was my Stinger round, a launch tube with a missile inside. To make it operable, I had to find the separate grip stock and a battery coolant unit. I saw a body a few metres from me. It was my Stinger team colleague. His head had been blown off by the helicopter. He was just seventeen years old. I would mourn him later.
He had carried the grip stock and three batteries in a backpack and, fortunately, they were undamaged. I had been well-trained in using the Stinger and within seconds I had fitted the grip to the launch tube and attached a heavy cylindrical battery. The battery coolant unit is vital as it supplies power to the missile until it launches and also supplies argon gas to cool the heat detector in the missile's nose. So my weapon was ready for firing. The first Hind had completed its circuit and was now coming straight for me. Its cannon blazed and rockets leapt from its wing pylons, turning the ground around me to smoking ruin. Shrapnel and rocks flew at me and I felt pain lash my body. Though my body pulsed with adrenalin and fear, I was ready to die as a martyr, fighting in the name of Allah. This readiness gave me a great elation deep inside. If this helicopter killed me, I would go directly to heaven, where Allah would meet me and give me eternal life and happiness. Only later would I come to appreciate how much of an advantage this gave us over our foes. Heaven for us was guaranteed, but the Christians and Jews were unsure whether they would go to hell or to their heaven. Truly a man must fear death if eternal damnation might await him? But I would not let this helicopter kill me. I was determined to destroy it and save my comrades.
I looked through the sight and put the Hind into the central range ring. I was ready to fire when a Russian soldier opened up on me with his Kalashnikov. A round pierced my side and I fell to the ground in agony. I looked towards my enemy in time to see a rocket-propelled grenade slam into his position, blasting him to pieces. I glanced towards my brothers and saw my commander. He was reloading his RPG launcher and gave me a thumbs-up and a big smile. Ignoring my pain, I retrieved my Stinger launcher and reacquired my target. With the Hind back in my sights, I pushed the safety actuator forward and down. This activated the missile's seeker, which gave a low tone. I then depressed the uncaging switch and heard the high-pitched whine which signalled that my missile had locked onto the enemy craft's engines. I kept my bearing on the helicopter as it passed directly over my head. With its exhaust ports in my sights, I squeezed the trigger. My missile shot forward from its launch tube. Lancing fire and thunder, it roared after the gunship. Within two seconds, it hit its target and a mighty explosion tore the gunship asunder. It fell to the ground and secondary explosions from its own munitions finished the job that my CIA-supplied missile had started. There would be no survivors from its two man crew.
I quickly removed the used launch tube, grabbed another BCU and looked around for a new missile round. As I scanned the sky, I could see the other gunship turn away and flee. The surviving Russians from the burning convoy fought on, knowing that they stood no chance, but knowing too that we did not take prisoners. I had to find a gun, so I laid down the Stinger and left my hole. As my eyes combed the ground near where I had found my headless colleague, shadowy figures emerged from the smoke and dust beyond. One of the shadows came towards me and a man with God in his eyes, the beard of a Believer and an assault rifle held easily in his hands, called to me.
'May Allah forever aim through your eyes, brother Muhammad. Come, let's finish these infidels off,' he shouted joyously.
It was Osama, my commander in MAK, the Muslim organisation which had brought me from Pakistan to fight the disbelievers who had invaded the land of our Muslim brothers. I had met Osama just a few months before, at a Stinger training camp run by our American allies. Then I joined Osama’s unit. With the Stinger, I brought down many enemy helicopters. Truly that marvellous device would bring us victory over the hated Russians.
'I have no gun,' I answered hoarsely.
He took an American-made automatic handgun from his waistband and threw it to me as Russian bullets hit the ground all around us. I cocked the gun and ran forward with my five brothers. There were only four Russians still alive. They crouched behind rocks and fired sporadically in our direction, still in total shock from the severity of our assault. Minutes before, we'd detonated two one thousand pound landmines when the tanks reached target position. Then we fired RPGs at the APCs and used heavy machine guns and AKs to kill anyone who tried to escape. We had killed more than twenty already. The survivors' faces were blackened and tear-streaked. They shouted at each other in panic. RPG rounds slammed into their positions as our AKs spat lead in controlled bursts. After a few minutes, the Russian fire stopped and we carefully approached the smoking convoy. All were dead, save one, a badly wounded sergeant. His right arm was blown off at the elbow and his eyes were wide with fear. Osama ordered that he be treated and returned to our base for questioning. He would be killed after he told us what he knew but, for now, a tourniquet was applied to his upper arm, stopping his arterial bleeding. He was given a morphine injection to lessen his pain, but the terror remained in his eyes. Osama turned to me.
'You have been shot,' he said, gesturing to my side.
I looked down and saw the gaping bullet wound on my left side, just above my belt. The pain was now starting to fight its way through my body's adrenaline surges.
'Yes, but I lived to see this great victory,' I replied, looking into the eyes of my leader.
'Allahu-Akbar, God is great, now rest,' he answered as he took a morphine injection from my first-aid pack and stuck it into my thigh, then dressed my wound.
'Allahu-Akbar.'
I sat on a rock while my comrades checked the area for further survivors and useful munitions. No more Russians were alive and a number of AKs were retrieved, along with a quantity of ammunition. We returned to our ambush site to search for the missing Stinger round. We found it and covered our dead comrade with rocks. Osama recited a few words from the Qur’an and we moved on. We walked a kilometre to our jeeps, which were concealed in a rocky gorge. Osama wrote in his notebook. The smoke from the destroyed convoy and helicopter could still be seen against the glowing sunset as darkness fell over the valley. We loaded the jeeps and began the drive to Jalalabad. Our prisoner begged for mercy but, as we spoke no Russian, his pleadings fell on deaf ears. After a while, he became quiet. A comrade checked his pulse and found that he had died. His body was kicked from the moving jeep as we drove through the night. Every bump on the rocky trail sent darts of pain across my abdomen. Eventually, I passed out.
I woke early the next day in a Mujahideen field hospital near Jalalabad. Our forces encircled the city and its only means of resupply was by Russian airlifts. My torso was bandaged tight and a saline drip was fixed to my arm. I tried to sit up, but pain shot though my body and I collapsed back onto my bed in agony. A Kuwaiti medic came to me and asked how I was feeling. He gave me some more morphine. Morphine is such a magical reliever of pain, it was truly fortuitous that Afghanistan was the best place in the world to grow the opium poppy.
Osama came to see me in the afternoon. He was accompanied by an American commando, who waited at the entrance to the tent.
'I must take a journey with my American friend,' he said, though he cast a curse on the man in Arabic.
'Where are you going? Can you trust him?' I asked, continuing the conversation in Arabic.
'The Americans are a necessary evil. We need their help now, but perhaps they will eventually come to regret it. Allah needs us to make sacrifices. I will return in a few days. Take these notebooks and study them when you can. Guard them with your life. The Russians are almost finished, but our work here is not. Here are some books you might also enjoy,' he said, handing me three paperbacks.
I later learned that he was going to an intelligence briefing with other Mujahideen leaders, Pakistani intelligence officers and American special forces to plan the final destruction of the Russian invaders. He was given another large amount of cash by the Americans, to assist with the running of his unit. As the pain ebbed from my body and waves of pulsating opiate pleasure enveloped me, I fell into a deep slumber, gripping the notebooks tightly.
The next day, I awoke feeling much better. I was able to sit up in my bed and began to read. The paperbacks included one in English, 'Catch-22' by Joseph Heller, which made the US military look like deluded clowns. Very enjoyable. But I read that much later, choosing instead to concentrate on Osama's notebooks. Osama was a major player in a coalition to control the global supply of opium, the base ingredient for heroin. The plot brought all the key players in the region together. Warlords, politicians, even the CIA profited. Income from the opium trade, which amounted to many hundreds of millions of dollars per year, was used to fund the war against the Russians. Some of the cash found its way into the pockets of Afghan peasants and migrant workers - their only income. Osama's notes led me too to his conclusion, that the Americans would try to suppress the opium trade once the war was won and their aims had been achieved. The Mujahideen role in the opium business mainly involved organising workers to tend the crops and giving security to plantations and opium convoys. Many of the opium cultivation areas were known only to us. We would ensure it stayed that way. The Americans were happy to facilitate our supply of heroin to the bleak cities of Europe so they could keep their spending on the war to a minimum. Defeat of the 'Evil Empire' on the battlefield was the Christians' sole objective in Afghanistan and, to them, there were no rules.
Few expected that Islam would become their target after the Soviets and no Muslim expected that we would see American armies occupying the homeland of the Prophet, with Saudi Arabia, Iraq and even Afghanistan itself becoming regional military bases for the Crusaders. As that first Afghanistan war drew to a close, we fully expected to stay on in the region and concentrate on the opium trade, while studying the Qur'an with some of the great Islamic scholars and Imams in the region. Osama had spoken of going to war against Israel after Afghanistan, but defeating the Russians remained our only goal in those days. So much has happened since 9/11. Many surprises, but much has gone to plan also.
So I studied Osama's notes. I learned about the opium cultivation methods used in Afghanistan, the crop cycle and the network of warlords, civil servants and diplomats that was used to export the different forms of the drug. Osama was examining how to develop heroin processing labs. These would allow us to refine the raw opium into a drug that is worth ten times as much. An excellent long-term strategy, I agreed. When Osama returned, two weeks later, my injury was healed. A 7.62mm round had gone through my side, without damaging any vital organs. He was very happy and gave me joyous news. The Soviets had signed a peace deal and would begin withdrawing their forces from Afghanistan within weeks. Word spread around the camp and everyone’s mood was lifted greatly. He told me to rest for another two days and then we would go to Pakistan for some comfort, as a reward after our months of bitter combat.
I lay on my bunk, a wide smile fixed to my face. We had defeated the largest army in the world. Allah was truly with the Mujahideen, the Soldiers of God. Afghanistan had long been in the Soviets’ sphere of influence. After the fall of the Shah of Iran, the Americans lost valuable listening posts and a military partner very close to the Soviet Union. When Deputy President Hafizullah Amin murdered Afghan President Taraki in 1979, he did so with American assistance. The Soviets, fearing that America would move into Afghanistan to make up for the loss of Iran, reacted. In December 1979, barely three months after he assumed control of Afghanistan, Amin was murdered by Soviet Spetsnaz commandos and four armoured divisions rolled in from the north. Karmal, leader of the Afghanistan Marxist party, was installed as president and the war of Islamic resistance began. The embryonic Mujahideen met in Peshawar and Pakistan’s President Zia agreed arrangements to supply the Soldiers of God with the funding and military supplies that flowed in from the Islamic world and the Godless West. In uniting Muslims from across the region, the Soviets had shown us our true power. For almost ten years, we fought the Soviets at close quarters, where their artillery and air power were useless. Now they knew defeat. No Godless Marxist-Leninist ideology could withstand the might of Islam.
Osama came for me and we travelled by jeep to the mountains on the border with Pakistan, the road to Peshawar. These high lands would yet become my home. We inspected poppy fields and met our Mujahideen brothers in scattered bases. We stayed for a few days in a comfortable hut at the end of a long, lush poppy valley. We were hidden from the barren plains as paradise must be from disbelievers. Osama marked his chosen locations for the heroin laboratories on a map he carried and drew a sketch of the valley.
By then, I had a clear grasp of how opium was cultivated and its economic importance to the poor Afghanis that made up ninety-nine percent of the population. We decided to travel onwards with an opium shipment which was headed for Peshawar.
We set off at sunset, using well-travelled mountain paths and avoiding all roads and villages. There were twelve mules in our caravan, each laden with two large baskets of raw opium. The caravan was protected by six Mujahideen fighters, each armed with an AK, knives and rocket-propelled grenades. The Mujahideen were fearsome men, having fought in some of the bloodiest battles against the Russians. They came from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria and Egypt. They were my brothers and I felt safe with them, though we were in the most lawless place on earth. We had little to fear from the Russians, they were concentrated towards Kabul, but there were risks from bandits and Pakistani police. Occasionally, desperate bandits and border police would work together to try and steal Mujahideen opium. They rarely succeeded, but they were indeed devious.
We travelled on mountain ponies, which were sure-footed and had great endurance. The mountains were impressive, with towering peaks as far as the eye could see. It was cold at altitude and the scarcer oxygen meant that it was no easy trip. We crossed into Pakistan at the highest point on our journey, the trail covered in snow and the mules slipping often but proving their worth many times over. The border was marked with an Arabic inscription painted onto a boulder beside the trail. It read: 'One day, there shall be no borders between Muslim lands; we shall be one nation under Allah'. We smiled at this, each believing it completely.
The journey was uneventful and, four days later, we were on a low hill overlooking Peshawar. Our comrades continued north, into the Khyber pass, with their opium-laden mules. The frontier town of Landi Kotal, famous for its trade in drugs and guns, would be the destination for our opium. Once a fair price had been agreed with traders, the money would be spent on weapons or brought to one of the Mujahideen’s private bankers in Peshawar for later use. Osama and I continued directly to Peshawar, as the caravan would have little need of our guns now that we were in Pakistan proper and stealth was its best weapon. I looked forward to relaxing and rebuilding my strength in Peshawar. Osama was fired with enthusiasm for establishing a base of operations for our brave fighters. A phantom base for a phantom guerrilla army.
We approached the outskirts of Peshawar from the west, with the imposing Balahisar Fort appearing to gaze at us and the other travellers on the road from the Khyber Pass. We would raise very little interest, just two dusty men on ponies, but we took the precaution of concealing our weapons in our saddlebags, keeping our automatic pistols tucked inside our robes. As we passed into the fort’s shadow, Osama reminded me that it had been built by the Mughals in the sixteenth century. It now housed Peshawar’s government offices and would, one day, be a target for us. We stayed in Old Peshawar and travelled to Chowk Yaadgar, the place of remembrance, a large public square which had been the focus of rallies against the British occupiers, and later, the Indian enemy.
'We will find a discrete inn, where we can rest without raising suspicion,' said Osama.
We found a good, family-run establishment with stables. We put our ponies in for food and a wash and cleansed ourselves of the dust and dirt from our trek over the mountains. We then went to the nearest mosque, as we had not prayed in clean surroundings since leaving Jalalabad.
'Having fed our souls, now we must change some money and feed our bodies,' smiled Osama.
We returned to Chowk Yaadgar and strolled across to the money changers on the west side of the square. The setting sun cast long shadows across the square and the bankers squatted in the coolness of evening’s fall. Rows of men, mostly fat and wealthy looking, sat on hand-knotted carpets, their safes behind them, calculators and armed guards at close hand. Osama selected a money changer with whom he had an acquaintance.
In a matter of seconds, the money changer had calculated how many Pakistani rupees we would receive for our American dollars. After commission, it was almost thirty thousand rupees for four thousand dollars. That would be enough to get our organisation up and running, paid for by the Americans. He counted out the rupees from his safe and put the money in a finely woven waist pouch. Osama tied the pouch around his waist, while the banker counted the dollars. The deal was done. We shook hands and, as night fell, went in search of some food.
As we crossed the square, I suddenly felt great relief. It came upon me like a wave. We had left the war behind us and were surrounded by our own people, true Muslims, every one of whom supported our war against the Soviets. The inscription we had seen in the mountains was true, Allah united us and would help us to raise Islam to its destined position as the world’s leading faith. As my mind relaxed, I became aware of the scents of flowers wafting on the warm air. Peshawar is famous for centuries as a place of gardens and blossoms. The scents blended with the irresistible smell of food and we made our way to a restaurant whose sign proudly proclaimed the finest chappli kebabs in Pakistan. We found a quiet table and were soon waited upon by the owner. He brought us chapplis, plates of naan bread with a spicy burger of beef mixed with corn flour, tomato and chillies with eggs on top. We ate the chapplis ravenously and washed them down with steaming hot green tea.
When our hunger was satisfied, the owner offered us a smoke of his hooka pipe. We were so happy to be in Peshawar, we accepted his offer. As the cool smoke entered my lungs, the nagging pain from my bullet wound faded away. Soon after, I was in a reverie. The sights, the sounds and the smells all around me carried me to a place I had not known, a plateau of peace and contentment. In the many years since, I have not known such peace.
Soon, Osama began chattering with great enthusiasm about our organisation and how we would operate. MAK had brought us to Afghanistan, but it was controlled by the Pakistanis and Saudis, with too much influence from the Americans. We would create a new body, one with Islamic purity at its core and respect for its members more important than any geopolitical power games. We decided to use our money to purchase a guest house there in Peshawar. This would become our transit point for fighters going to, and coming from, Afghanistan and our heroin distribution centre. Our base. We would also use it as an administrative centre. Every fighter who joined our cause would have his personal details, including next-of-kin, kept here. Any fighter who gave his life in the service of Jihad would be mourned properly and his family would know of his braveness. Later, when Osama was given more of his family’s fortune, all Al-Qaeda martyrs would go to heaven knowing their families would be looked after financially.
We had used Peshawari inns as transit posts for much of the war in Afghanistan. But the Americans and Pakistanis knew where they were. This would be the first inn known only to us.
The next morning, after prayers, we sought out an inn suitable for our needs. After a few hours, we discovered the perfect place. It was beside the Chowk Yadgar bird market and looked a fine building. The sign outside read ‘Singing Bird Guest House’. It had a heavy, carved wooden door and ornamental balconies outside each window. We had brought our baggage and horses with us so that we could book into the potential acquisition as travellers and assess it in secrecy. The entrance hallway was wide and airy and the man seated at the desk welcomed us with a smile.
'May Allah be thanked for bringing you to us,' he said. Where have you come from?
'We have travelled far and are in need of some rest,' answered Osama.
'You don’t have the dusty appearance of two who have travelled far,' ventured the innkeeper, though he did not have an interrogative tone to his voice.
'We arrived late last night and stayed in the first inn we found,' answered Osama.
'Well I thank you for coming to me today. I have not had good business these past years. With the war, nobody wants to travel to Kabul. But at least peace is now in the air.'
'Would it be possible for us to get a large room to share? One with a good view of the square?'
'But of course. May I take your names for the register of guests?'
We gave false names and the man showed us to our room. It was perfect. Soft, clean beds, good washing facilities and an excellent view of the square. We could observe many comings and goings without being seen ourselves. And always birdsong in the background. Beautiful, uplifting birdsong.
The inn had sixteen bedrooms, a dining area, an ample kitchen and a good-sized office. It was secure, with buildings to either side and a walled garden to the rear. The inn could only be entered by the front door. The little garden provided an oasis of calm and beauty. Caged birds of all hues sang at sunrise and sunset. Well-watered plants, lush succulents and climbing ivies, the palpable coolness of shade all calmed the mind and soothed the body. It was a blessed place, a gift.
That evening, we had dinner with the innkeeper, who was a widower and whose children had long since grown up and left him. Osama enquired as to his trustworthiness. Osama had a gift of asking someone unknown to him a direct question. He could judge a man by his answer and could tell whether or not he could be trusted. He believed the innkeeper was honest and asked him directly if he would sell the inn to us, for use as a Mujahideen safe house.
The innkeeper thought our proposal over for a long while, asking many questions. We answered each question patiently. In the end, he agreed on a price of twenty-five thousand rupees, plus a monthly salary. We gave him all we had. He said it would be enough to cover all guests' costs for many moons, six at least. He seemed content, shaking our hands to seal the bargain before he retired to his bed.
Osama and I sat in the tiny garden late into the night, drinking mint tea and whispering about our achievement like excited children. Such plans we had. Such hopes, such dreams. The new moon showed her face to us, an omen of hope and success. So Al-Qaeda was truly born that night, in a garden of sleepy birds, fragrant flowers and dancing fireflies.
(This story was expanded to a full-length novel, THE DEATH OF OSAMA BIN LADEN.
Available free from www.scribd.com/garyjbyrnes.)
2. TUESDAY
One Tuesday, morning sunlight flooded into the room. Two people on a bed. One slept heavily, her bare breasts above the covers, rising and falling to the slow rhythm of her tiny, nasal snores. The other was awake, retching painfully into a large, white plastic bag. Ed's Easy Market, Sixth Avenue. Cartoon picture of Ed.
The self-harmed casualty sat on the edge of the bed, his bare feet heavy on the polished wooden floor. As another wave of nausea racked his body, he clenched the bag between his shaking knees, spitting more bright yellow bile to join the quarter pint that had come up in spasms over the previous hour. What is bile? He couldn't find an answer. How would you describe it? Battery acid, what that would taste like. About every four minutes, his body convulsed and ejected the poison it made itself. His tonsils burned and his throat was a volcano. After a while, the retching eased; there was nothing left, not even bile. The rhythmic retching continued, but it was just a painful mime, unproductive. The agony subsided.
He resolved, for the sixth time in his life, to never drink again. Remembering Jimi Hendrix and how he died, he walked unsteadily to the bathroom where he made a foul-smelling, amber piss. After washing his hands and face, with its puke-encrusted lips, he felt a little better. In the kitchen, he found some Alka-Seltzer and took two in a tall, frosted glass of water. He stood, waiting. After a minute or so, his stomach heaved and he threw up in the kitchen sink. He stood some more. After a few minutes, his body grew to like the traces of drug it had leeched from the drink before expelling it. So he took some more. This stayed down.
Returning to his bed, he gazed for a few moments at the woman. What was her name? Jacqueline? J something. It would come. She looked like the kind of woman he always ended up with when he got too drunk. Silicon tits, model type. Her profile did have a strong touch of classical beauty to it, though. Result. Religion? Is she Jewish? Could be. Jesus, what a killer hangover. He got back into bed and sleep on, no college today, no anything. No nothing. Sleep the hangover from hell off, then try and have sex with her later. Maybe. Try and have an orgasm he would remember. What will she think?
His body was grateful for the water, the bladder release and the acid-neutralising painkillers, so it gave him the precious reward of sleep. It was just after 8.30 am and he rested in the arms of Morpheus (his expression). But the world turned, then came off the rails without him. Tom's comatose body twitched uneasily. He entered an edgy dream, in which he prepared a special meal for his gathered family and the rice kept turning into maggots. Dream Tom didn't understand what was happening and tried to laugh it off while hitting the booze. Pina Coladas. Meanwhile, a hijacked passenger jet flew low over the Village, not far from his apartment. Then it slammed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
An unusual sound followed. The cockroaches, living their frantic lives in the floors and walls around the dormant people, felt it loudest. A low rumble passed through the apartment building, racing through the tunnels and concrete, the fabric of Manhattan. Downtown, shattered glass, molten metal, fire and people rained onto the crowded streets. Tom's lover rolled over.
After a time, another jet flew low over the stunned city and hit the second of the Twin Towers. Another low rumble. Then more quietness. Emergency sirens screamed in the distance, comfortably far away. They slept on as the sun crept towards Greenwich Village, just outside their loft apartment's wooden-blinded window. Well after nine, the phone shrieked incessantly and woke him. She pulled the light quilt over her head, pouting her lips, but keeping her eyes tightly shut against what was a clear morning outside. He rubbed his head as he walked to the phone. It being cordless, it could be anywhere. His aching brain had an extra sensitivity, so he found the handset quickly. It was under his neatly-folded jeans, there at the edge of the black leather couch.
'Hello...'
'Oh Tom, you're okay. Thank the heavens.' It was his mother, the one who had given him everything.
'Yeah, I'm fine. You sound frantic. What's wrong, Mom?'
'There's been an awful thing. Haven't you seen the news? Put it on.'
'I don't know where the remote is.'
'The Twin Towers have been attacked.'
'You what?'
'Just now. Turn it on.'
'Hang on.'
He put the phone on the coffee table, his hands trembling again. He scanned the room, then checked behind the couch cushions, under it and in the kitchen. No joy. Then he found the remote in the bathroom. He pointed it at the TV, squeezing the number 5, news channel, button as he walked back to the phone, still unphased.
'Hi Mom. Got it. Now what happened again?'
He never heard her answer. For at least thirty seconds, maybe longer, the news channel delivered overwhelming sensory overload. It was really happening. Smoke billowed from both towers. From every angle it looked bad, real bad. Flames leapt furiously from the shattered skyscrapers. At least the impacts were high, he thought, anyone below should be fine. Pity those poor bastards up top, who once enjoyed the most spectacular views in the world. Surely there should be helicopters pulling people off the roof? Can't they drop water from planes, like with forest fires? Confusion, crazy thoughts.
'When did this happen, Mom?'
'Less than an hour ago. Why are you still sleeping? Were you drinking?'
He couldn't take her lecturing, not now, so he cut her off gently, thanking her for the call. Pushing the end call button, he realised that he'd forgotten to ask if she was alright or needed any help. Later. For now, prioritise. Break the news to the lady in the quilt. Straighten up a bit. Shower? Go to bar. Chumleys? Drink. Flee city? If advised by emergency services, yes. If not, stay put and get drunk. Sounds like a plan. In a moment of clarity, he remembered her name. Jasmine. More clarity, please, he said in silent prayer to the God of Memory.
'Jasmine. Jasmine, darling,' he gently shook her shoulder.
This was the perfect opportunity to show his sensitive side. Mustn't blow it, he thought, she's a beauty, best I snared in quite a while. The TV grabbed his attention with garbled reports about more hijacked jets in the sky. Maybe ten of them. Maybe heading for New York. All high buildings being evacuated. Holy Christ!
'Jasmine. Honey, you've got to wake up.'
'Stop. Go away. Can't a girl have a lie-in any more? What's this city coming to?'
'I'm sorry to wake you, honey. Something terrible's happened and you should know.'
She tuned out of her slumber and opened her eyes. As he explained what had happened, she saw the television. It was replaying footage of the second impact. Jesus H Christ! Did you see that?
'Oh my God!' she screamed as she jumped onto her knees. 'Daddy! He's in the tower!'
'They're doing everything they can to rescue them. I'm sure he'll be fine.'
Now the TV footage showed bodies falling from the towers' heights. Yes, I'd jump too, thought Tom.
'I'm going down there. I'm going!'
She found her crumpled clothes on the couch, all classy designer gear, never looked quite so swanky in the cold and sober light of day. She was badly rattled. But she still looked good.
'Wait. You won't be allowed near it. Surely you can see that?'
'Well I have to try.'
'Does your Dad have a cellphone?'
'Yes.'
In an instant, he had his phone and handed it to her as she stood with her skirt at her knees and her eyes swollen with ready tears. As she punched in her father's number, he went and got some orange juice and started a fresh coffee brew. He put her juice on the coffee table and waited for the coffee. The TV said that there were more hijacked planes in the air. It seemed that a genuine attempt to destroy America was in progress. Jasmine screamed. Wrong number. Slow down, girl. Try again. A pause. A delighted scream.
'He's okay! He's okay!' She held the phone to her chest with the pleasure of a child. Tom smiled. She kept talking to her dad. The coffee machine sighed deeply, its brewing job complete. He poured two cups.
'NutraSweet? Cream?'
She didn't hear him, so he put it all on a stainless steel tray. He placed it by the OJ for her and took his coffee to the patio door. The blinds withdrew noisily to reveal a panicky situation below. Some people were running, most were walking quickly. The casual Village vibe had given way to an edgy hurriedness, more like Wall Street. He opened the door and stepped out onto the first floor, wrought iron balcony. The sound of a low-flying jet startled him. He spilt some coffee on his leg as he looked up at a jet coming out of the still-rising sun. It was low alright. An attack? It's gone. As he rubbed the burning coffee off his thigh, he remembered that he was naked. On any other day, he might have drawn some appreciative whistles and comments from the street below. Not today. People rushed by, their faces confused and anxious. So he went inside and found his clothes.
Pulling on his expensive jeans, his eyes remained stuck to the flatscreen TV, the silver bringer of bad news. For once, TV was a matter of life and death. Air Force jets patrolling Manhattan. That must be what went by just now. All aircraft grounded. All aircraft? That must be thousands of jets. Aircraft heading for Washington DC. More planes heading for Manhattan.
'Are you getting all this?'
She sat on the leather couch, her legs curled up under her body, the quilt off the bed and covering her so that only her model face was on view. She had tears of relief streaming down her reddened cheeks.
'It doesn't look good, does it?'
'No. Not good at all. How's your Dad?'
'On his way uptown, on foot. All the subways are closed. He says it's mayhem down there. He works on a low floor, the twelfth, so he got right out after the first plane hit.'
'Where's he headed? You guys live in Queens, am I right?'
'Yeah. You weren't so trashed after all. He's going to come for me and we'll walk up to the Queensboro Bridge and try and get across that way.'
'If it's still standing.'
He didn't mean to alarm her and regretted his comment, but the annihilation of the city was fast-becoming a possible prospect. Jesus. Drink. Smoke.
'It'll probably take him a couple of hours to get here. I'm having a spliff. Want a smoke?'
'Nah. But Tom, if you need to see your family or anything, I understand. Just go ahead.'
'I might have to make tracks soon, babe. It should be safe enough here for you, yeah? Would you mind? I'd hate leaving you here alone.' He was pleased with himself for keeping up the nice-guy front. Truth was, he actually did care about her, but was happy for her.
'You're so sweet, Tom. Can we get together again soon?'
'I'd really like that, babe. You're gorgeous.'
Now fully dressed in genuine Ck jeans and an open-necked white shirt, service-ironed, Tom realised that he hadn't had a shower. He decided not to bother today, just today. Who's going to pass comment on his personal hygiene today? Should be safe enough. He made a joint, with a large Bambu cigarette paper, a bud of finest Caribbean sensimilia and a cardboard filter. But what if the water goes? What if the power goes?
'I'm going to smoke this and have a shower. You need to take a shower, just go ahead. Take anything you need. Hear me?'
He went to the balcony again. It was busier now. Everyone had decided to get home. If we're going to die, it won't be at some dumb office with people we don't even like, it'll be with the wife, the kids, whoever. We'll all die together. One big, happy, dead family. He inhaled deeply, then coughed until he almost choked. The next inhalation was easier. A feeling of pleasurable lightness, accompanied by a tingling in his limbs, hit Tom and forced his ass onto a deck chair on the balcony. He continued to smoke, Jasmine calling out the latest grim updates. Washington had been hit. The damn Pentagon. Can you believe it?
'THC, please do your duty. Remove me from this brutal reality. Take me to a better place. No more clarity required. Can I just close my eyes and make it go away?'
He closed his eyes. Time melted, his stress eased. Two jets screamed by overhead. Must be more fighters, he guessed. No way any civilian jet's going to be allowed over Manhattan today. No fucking way. He finished the whole joint, then stood up dizzily. Looking out towards Bleecker, the heart of the Village, he felt disjointed, disconnected. The city rushed by. A flock of pigeons rose suddenly from a nearby roof. They wheeled through the clear sky and flapped by the balcony. Then a distant rumbling grew into a heavy roar. The balcony trembled beneath his feet.
'Hey Jasmine! You won't believe this! It's like an earthquake or something!'
'Tom, look! Jesus! Look!'
He went inside. Jasmine sat on the couch, transfixed by the TV, her right index finger pointing at the image of the South Tower collapsing in a monstrous cloud of dust and debris. It was slow motion horror, but more hideous than any Stephen King story. This was real. Unbelievable, but real. The World Trade Center coming down? Surely not?
'Holy fucking shit! I don't believe this! Is this for real?'
Her only response was to let her arm flop down onto her lap, then burst into tears. Again. Tom was torn between having a quick shower and watching the unfolding drama. The TV folks were certainly stunned and seemed to be losing their collective grip on the situation. The chunks of evil news raced relentlessly across the bottom of the screen. New footage of a smoking hole in the Pentagon Building jostled with images of the tower collapsing and nervous anchors. For the first time, Tom heard screams from the street outside. It was only just gone ten. He hugged Jasmine, her hot tears messing up his shirt. He decided to call his mother.
'Hi Mom. I knew you'd be in the office. You okay?'
'Fine, fine. You?'
'Still in one piece. Why don't you get home?'
'You know we've to finish a big order for tomorrow. Mr Lauren doesn't like to be kept waiting, you know.'
'I know, I know. But maybe he'll make an exception for today?'
'Well I don't know, do I?'
'Call him. Just call. You'll see.'
'The staff are a bit nervous, I must admit.'
'They're shitting themselves, Mom. Can't you see that? Call fucking Ralph, will you?'
'Thomas!'
'Sorry, but you're going to have to excuse a little bit of fucking language, Mom.' Silence. 'Look, I'm sorry.'
'Why don't you come up to us, Tom? Midtown's a lot further from all this than where you are. I'd like to see you. I would.'
Done deal.
'You're staying put? Okay, I'll get up there at some stage. Call me on my cell if there's any change of plan, will you?'
'I promise. See you soon. Take care. Good boy.'
Jasmine stayed on the couch. She hadn't touched her juice or her coffee. Tom cursed his parents' Pakistani work ethic, then offered her a fresh cup, which she refused. She was in mild shock.
'Look, babe. I need to shower and I'm not going in there until you drink something. It'll do you good. Trust me.'
She drank some juice, so he took a shower. The bathroom was open plan, with the shower tray in the middle of the floor and a transparent plastic splash curtain hanging from the high ceiling. He quickly stripped, turned the big, old water knob and was soaked in a second. The water pressure was one of the key reasons he'd chosen this apartment over all the rest. Even by New York standards, this shower could kill. The water beat him relentlessly until his skin tingled. Like tiny fingers, it massaged his skull, soothing the last traces of his lousy hangover. The day had begun badly enough, but had since descended into some kind of farcical nightmare, one that's too ridiculous to be perceived as real, especially by an injured and dehydrated brain.
Water off, he slipped and slid across the marble floor to the towel cupboard. Choosing a huge, fluffy, white towel, he briskly dried his body and short black hair, then wrapped the towel around his waist. Feeling much better. Outside, Jasmine still sat transfixed by the TV.
'Okay, babe?'
'I'm fine. This is getting worse. A plane's come down in Pennsylvania of all places.'
'You're shitting me.'
The TV confirmed this latest event in a confused and psychotic morning. No confirmed reports of more jets heading for us, though. Could this be construed as good news, the absence of more bad news?
'Well I feel great. You should shower. I promise I won't try to get in there with you. Oh, Jasmine?'
'Yes?'
'Last night. Did we?'
'I'm so flattered. Not,' she smiled. 'No, stud. You were way too trashed. Like way.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be. It was kinda nice just to cuddle. Really.'
'Really?'
'Really.'
'Thanks. Now where's my Yves Saint Laurent?'
He looked through a chest of drawers and found a bottle of Polo. Very apt. A splash felt like a fragrant slap in the face. Perfect. Some gel in his hair, white gold neck chain, ring and Tag Heuer watch. Fresh shirt. Check in mirror. Not bad. The double shower crossed his mind once more, but he dismissed it quickly. Sure, she might enjoy a bit of intimacy, on a self-reassuring, fin-de-monde kind of trip, but he wasn't going to shower again. Cellphone. Wallet. Besides, he just wanted out. Out into the maelstrom of the most awful day in history. Big gulp from big bottle of chilled Evian. History was literally being made all around him. Somebody would have to write that history down and TV just didn't cut it, from an experiential point of view.
'You going now?'
'Yeah, babe. I just gotta get out there. See my folks, you know?'
'You're good. Will you call me later?'
'Sure, what's your number? Did I get it from you last night?'
'No, but it's in your phone. I put it in while you were smoking that joint.'
'Thanks, babe. I'll call you. You sure you'll be okay here? Look, you better take a spare key, in case you need to go out for anything. You never know what'll happen.'
He found an elegant, ethnic leather key chain in a kitchen drawer and handed it to her. The fob was an elephant design and it had two keys linked to it for eternity, one for the apartment and one for the outer door. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. The salty smell and taste of a beach. She stayed on the couch, phone on her lap, tissues in her hand, TV bawling out its rumbling war news. He pulled on a tan leather sports jacket and blew a kiss from the open doorway, gently pulled the door closed and he was gone. Her eyes returned promptly to the TV while, inside her brain, she could think only of her recent, fading childhood and her last birthday party before her parents' divorce.
He closed the outer door, again quietly, and emerged from the safety of home into the wild ride of the street. His street. Minetta Street. Sidewalk radar on, expect the unexpected. Left to Bleecker and Sixth. Try Chumleys, see if it's open. Vodka. There were less people on the street now, which was still in deep morning shadow. No familiar faces, no neighbours. Sixth was busier, sunny, with crowds of office workers streaming up from downtown, all headed north. There were many tear-streaked faces, fading wills and fearful vibes. Not good. He was surprised at the numbers until a young Indian man told him that the Mayor had ordered the evacuation of everyone from south of Canal Street. Then his nervous face faded back into the crowd. Tom slowly crossed the avenue, the few cabs and buses swamped by people on the hoof. Snatches of conversation and dazed exclamations flew at his ears.
'Oh my God,' the ubiquitous phrase that was on everyone's lips.
'I saw it, I tell ya,' a young Hispanic man in a crumpled suit.
'Yeah on TV, like the rest of us,' his friend, who wore no jacket, sweating heavily.
'It was an American Airlines plane,' said a woman in office suit and sneakers, fifty-ish.
'I still can't believe this,' her companion wailed as she fell to her knees beside a newspaper vending machine. USA Today.
Tom went to help her up, but the friend gently shooed him away.
'There's nothing you can do. She hasn't heard from her husband. In WTC 1.'
Tom turned back into the heaving human current, his heart sinking by the second. Lots of dead people stories to come yet. The human cost hadn't really hit him until then.
'Keep going. Keep going. You can do this,' a grey-bearded man, overweight, panting, sweating and yet moving with determination, northwards to safety and maybe to sanity.
'Any news on your radio?' a black kid to his friend.
'What?' replied his friend, pointing to his headphones.
'Help, please. Help,' a feeble voice. Not a child, an old person.
He looked to his left and saw an old man sitting cross-legged on a cast-iron manhole cover. It had Brooklyn Foundry 1913 embossed on it, in strong, smooth relief. The man was pale and grey, you could almost say wizened. Tom easily lifted the old man's frail, exhausted body to the sidewalk.
'You from Brooklyn, old man?' A hunch.
'Yes, I need to get home to my wife. She's real scared and the phones are down.'
'Well you're going uptown, you know that?'
'God damn. Damn it. I was carried by the crowd. The trains are finished. I don't know.'
'Look, your best bet is to head back downtown a black, go left on Houston and keep going straight until you see water. Then you should see the bridge, down to your right. I heard it's open for people to walk across. Can you handle this?'
'I think so. Thanks. I was honestly lost, can you believe that? I lived here forty years and I got lost.'
'That's okay. You need water or anything?'
'Please.'
Tom found a street bottled water dispenser, fed it some coins and opened a plastic container of H2O for the old man. He gladly drank some of its life-giving contents. Tom twisted the cap back on and stuffed the bottle in the old man's wrinkled overcoat. Then he pointed towards the corner and reminded him to stay on the inside of the sidewalk, take the first left, then look for the Brooklyn Bridge. And off he went, weaving unsteadily against the human tide.
'Poor fucker,' said Tom.
He left Sixth, the Avenue of the Americas, at last, and turned onto Bedford Street. Quieter now. People still rushed by, just not as many. Then, a curious thing. Two men were walking uptown on the opposite side of the street, right by Chumleys unmarked door. They were white, dusty, like phantoms. He crossed to them. Closer, he could see that they were businessmen, with once-expensive suits, briefcases still gripped pathetically, their contents rendered pointless by a terror from the sky. The men's eyes and mouths were wet stains in their complete coating of fine, dry age.
'What?' was all that Tom could ask. They stopped.
'From the tower. When it collapsed, we were five blocks away. This dust cloud came across. Like nothing you ever saw.'
'Like Hell, that's what.'
'You guys look like you could do with a drink.'
They looked at each other, still dazed and confused, but knowing he was right. They had survived the worst, surely? Tom hugged them both together, inhaling the acrid dust and having communion with these eyewitnesses to the horror.
'Come on. You're standing right outside my favourite bar and it looks open.'
He pushed the door which, being clean of any form of advertising or signage, you either knew what lay behind, or you didn't. Simple as that. He held it open as the two honoured guests walked through, both feeling slightly ashamed at their desperate condition. Not to worry. A similarly dust-attired woman sat at the bar, drinking a large Martini and smoking a thin cigar.
'Barman, these two gentlemen have survived downtown and they deserve a drink, if you please. Whiskey, guys?'
They nodded, hugged the dusty woman and took seats at the bar beside her. The barman was a friend of Tom's and, Tom knew, wouldn't charge these men today.
'Two whiskeys, Dan. Large.'
'And yourself, Tom?'
'I think a vodka tonic. Or should I have a screwdriver? No, tonic, for now, thanks.'
Pulling over a high stool, Tom put a fifty dollar bill on the counter. The barman charged him only for the vodka tonic.
'Survivors drink free here today,' he said.
With this sentiment, Tom couldn't agree more. It's part of western culture to have a stiff drink in times of great stress. Well, if this wasn't the perfect excuse to get loaded, what was? As he settled into his drink, he savoured the oasis effect of the bar. It calmed him. Time slowed again.
There were maybe a dozen other people in the bar, including the three dust-covered ghosts. Everyone looked at a TVs. Different channels showed different takes on the events, but there was no getting away from the shocking truth. The barman had been listening to a radio, which he brought to where Tom was sitting.
'Police band,' he said, with a curious grimace, like it was even more bad news. He increased the volume.
'This is 17. I can't hear from anybody. Hello?' a panicky, woman's voice.
Bursts of harsh static broke the snatches of talk as they skimmed the emergency services' bands.
'No survivors here,' a tired man.
'What's with the water pressure?' a man, speaking from a great distance, like the moon.
'Seven people reported missing in this office. You want names?' a police woman, with a Hispanic accent.
'Could be about to go,' a young man,.
'Thousands, I don't know,' a woman, matter-of-factly.
'The hospitals are okay, everyone's either dead or fine,' a tired-sounding middle-aged woman.
'Six units went up, then it came down. That was that. They're all dead! Everyone!' a breathless fire-fighter.
'Looting at 36th and Broadway. Any chance of some back-up?' a breathless cop.
This last piece of news startled Tom. That was near his parents' clothing factory and office. The thought of a breakdown in society, with lootings and killings hadn't occurred to him before then. He turned his attention from the radio, looking to the TV for more on this. The barman took the radio away.
'Could you get me another, Dan?'
'You okay, buddy?'
'Man, in a freaky kinda way, I feel good. Just glad to be alive, I guess.'
'Here's to that,' replied Dan, placing a fresh drink before Tom and tapping the bar counter with his knuckles. This meant that the drink was on him.
Tom smiled and moved closer to the two men he'd brought into the bar. They were sharing their experiences with the dusty woman, so he didn't interrupt, just listened. They spoke of the horror of seeing the second jet hit, as all the offices for blocks around had downed tools to gawp at the tragic spectacle. What they thought was a stupid accident suddenly became something far more sinister when the second plane flew in low. Before tens of thousands of disbelieving witnesses, World War 3 was declared. The two men were financial consultants and they spoke of seeing people jumping from a thousand feet up and of the fire crews racing to the heart of the darkness. The conversation made the hairs on the back of Tom's neck stand up. Then there were cries from the cluster of drinkers near the TVs. The second tower fell to earth. Oh my God.
The bar was filled with cries of dismay and exclamations to God. This was a killer blow. Maybe it had been inevitable after the collapse of the first tower. But it still shocked. The dusty woman burst into tears. She was comforted by her ghost companions. Tom called his mother. No answer and no machine. He swallowed his drink and looked around the dark bar. Covers of books by Hemingway, Salinger and Kerouac were framed proudly on the walls. All drank in Chumleys at one time or another. Tom had always hoped that some of their residual presence would rub off on him. He wanted to be a writer more than anything else. But he hadn't really tried it, as of yet. He knew his parents would blow a gasket if he even hinted at not wanting to take over the business. He resolved to at least try to write and, if it worked, to hell with fashion, let his sister take over.
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