Survivor's Guilt

chapter eleven

The rig lurched to a stop as close to the scene as possible, near the corner of Church and Liberty, in the shadow of Building Four of the World Trade Center complex. Haustin jumped out and rolled open the bins containing their equipment, distributing tools, oxygen tanks and rolls of hose, all the while snatching quick glances at the blackness billowing above and trying to envision the conditions. Smoke would have filled the hallways, drop ceilings had likely collapsed, blocking exits, and elevator cables sliced by the plane would have sent cars crashing to the ground floor, killing anyone inside instantly. His hands trembled, and he shook the offending action from them.

Captain Welch walked into the middle of their tight, focused group and spoke, "Command Center is set up in the lobby of the north tower, tower one. They're getting calls from people trapped above and below the burning floors. All emergency services and fire systems are dead inside. We won't have any help internally."

So no additional fire suppression, just as he'd predicted. Wonderful. Haustin peered hard at the others, drawing comfort from their resolute expressions and catching Paulie's eye. He'd known the guy since high school and had never seen him as unyielding as he was now. Not even the rookie, Alex, showed a trace of fear. It would come. It was the first thing he'd learned in the two years since he joined up. Haustin might not admit it aloud, but today would be unprecedented, an event that would change their lives. He felt it in his bones.

"Concentrate on the fire. Distractions will kill you. Only chumps get burned while gawking at the scenery," he lectured in his head, a mantra his father had instilled in him and one he passed on to each new rookie he met.

This was simply another job, that was the mentality they had to cling to. They didn't have the luxury to dwell on the fact that tens of thousands of people came through these buildings every day. Tens of thousands of people with the potential to die. Haustin's pulse sped up, and he drew in deep breaths, forcing himself into that familiar place where everything faded, except for what was expected of him. It worked. The screams, sirens, and the roar of the fire sharpened his attention. He imagined it was how a soldier felt before going into battle; focused, scared, pumped up, and ready to kick some ass.

"Alright, let's go. Keep your heads up as we get close. Got reports of all kinds of shit falling."

The second the words exited the captain's mouth, a low droning sound penetrated Haustin's ears, and he turned to stone. Another plane. The noise grew louder, drowning everything else, and over the roof of Building Four, a flash of silver glinted in the sun.

"Get down!" he shouted, his body reacting before he finished.

Everyone ducked as a massive fireball burst from the north face of the south tower, almost directly above them, shooting flame and debris into the sky and scattering it onto the streets. Haustin couldn't draw air into his tightened chest as the ugly truth of the situation sank in. It had to be an attack. They needed to get their asses in there.

Haustin watched hesitation cloud the captain's eyes and his mouth went dry. The man normally had unflappable nerves—old school and hard as granite. Captain Welch gazed around, stunned, but the indecision didn't last long. He bent, groping for his helmet which had been knocked to the ground, and faced his crew.

"Okay, we're still moving to tower one, to Command. I'm sure they'll send us into two, but we need to report in anyway."

Their superior led them around the front of Four, upriver against the panicked streams of people exiting both towers. Every face reflected terror, pain, and, most prevalent, vacant expressions of shock. The closer they drew to tower one, the worse the chaos grew. Thousands spilled onto the streets and the mezzanine, most too scared to stop and gawk. The second plane had upped the panic level, and desperation polluted the air, thick as the smoke, embracing everyone.