9/11-911                           This story is written for those who have a morbid curiosity about death and tragedy and what meaning it may have for the living, and for the survivors and loved ones of the victims of 911. All names are fictional as are the specific events. However, there are many factual components in the story related to timing of events and the structural collapse of the WTC. This story is not meant to open wounds, but to help some never forget, and to help others who must understand the last moments of a loved one in order to let the pain and memory rest.             Great care was taken to respect the survivors. All fictional names were checked to be sure they did not, by coincidence match any of the victims of that horrible day. While many events are accurate down to the minute and second, all persons and businesses are purely fictional.             The World Trade Center twin towers, like New York City, were tall, proud and stood out from the crowd. They were 110 stories high; Tower One, the North Tower being 1,368 feet tall, and Tower Two shy of being its exact twin by six feet at 1,362 feet tall. Combined, they held about 10,000,000 square feet of rentable space that was occupied on any given day by almost 50,000 people. The rentable space on each floor amounted to nearly an acre, or 43,200 square feet, nearly the combined floor space of thirty, average sized ranch homes.             It was called the World Trade Center for a reason. There was a bigger purpose than to provide space for its tenants. One purpose was to promote world trade, and world peace. Trading partners, when linked by common economies, are often reluctant to go to war or undermine the economy of the other. The two towers housed offices from over 430 businesses from at least 26 different countries. They were the world`s tallest buildings for a short time until the Sears Tower was completed in Chicago. Despite that fact and the fact that neither of the Twin Towers stands today, they shall always rise out of the ashes like the mythical Phoenix and remain tall in our hearts.               Ground crew were busy preparing American Flight 11 for its journey from Boston to Los Angeles. It was only 7:30 on a Tuesday morning, as the long line of passengers slowly made their way past the ticket counter, down the gate to the jet, where they waited while those in front stowed luggage before taking their seats.  It was like any normal, routine day at the airport. Crowds of strangers hauling their luggage behind them walked down the long shiny halls, past vendors selling gum and magazines and snacks, past hot dog stands that were preparing to open later that morning. Overhead pages, some in foreign languages boomed through the airport, anonymous voices that were largely ignored and just part of the ambiance of the bustling environment. Small electric carts beeped their way down the hall, their electric motors whirring as they swept past.             It was as normal as a day could be; giving absolutely no hint of the history making event that had already been set into motion. That`s how death and tragedy typically take center stage. Death is often disguised as routine, walking among the living who are too busy going about their lives to notice its cold and chilling presence, but it`s always there waiting to steal tomorrow. And with few exceptions, it comes as a surprise, as if tomorrow was a promise and that promise had been broken, our trust violated. As people hurried to their gates, their thoughts were filled with family or work, worries about money or health, and some dared to entertain concern about flying. Fear is not a stranger at airports. In the best of times people approach flying with some measure of worry and hesitation, somehow feeling safer on the highway even though statistics called those thoughts lies.  Had anyone considered the possibility of the horror that would lie ahead on Flight 11, being terrified would have been an understatement.  But no one`s imagination conjured up the events that were about to unfold, and it`s likely that only fifteen percent even gave any consideration of being in a plane crash, and if they did, the thoughts were quickly dismissed as routine cloaked the shadow of death. As passengers boarded Flight 11, some were anxious, some slightly fearful, but most simply boarded, found their seats and stowed their luggage and sat down as if their whole future was still waiting for them to write it.             Dan Powers was 29. He stood barely over six foot and was considered the short one of the four boys in his family. He had warm, green eyes that were intelligent, sharp and perceptive, sexy and full of expression. In high school the girls all commented about how cute he was, but his eyes were irresistible. In the blink of an eye they could go from looking happy and excited, to whispering of pain and sadness. It was as if all of his emotions were expressed through his eyes without the necessity of one word being spoken. Dan had a strong, athletic build, a soft kind face, and short dark brown hair with a touch of gray coming in on the sides. He considered coloring his hair, believing 29 was too young for any gray, and at least one morning a month he stood in front of the mirror for several minutes having a debate with himself over the pros and cons of hair coloring. No matter how strong his argument for either side, he always came back to the strongest argument of all, his wife loved the touch of gray and promised to always love it. Still, he kept a small bottle of Grecian Formula hidden in a drawer in the bathroom, tucked way in the back behind a pile of folded washcloths. His wife Beth knew it was there and periodically checked to make sure it hadn`t been used. Beth colored her hair because gray didn`t look well with blonde, or any color on a woman for that matter, according to her. She told Dan that when she was a great-grandmother, she`d let the gray finally show. Dan was a CPA for a large Boston accounting firm that was branching out into L.A. Because of his Harvard education, his strong work ethic and especially the way he worked so well with others, his boss personally requested he be the one to monitor progress in the L.A. office. Like any young man striving to build a great career and have more toys than the average man, it was an opportunity he couldn`t refuse. He disliked flying, and disliked being away from home even more. But not everything could be carried up the career ladder.  As he stood alone in the crowded airport, nearly oblivious to the activity around him, Dan kept thinking of Beth. She was home ill, fighting a bad cold that arrived every year about this time as if it was a seasonal requirement. It had been that way since she was a little girl growing up in the suburbs of Boston. Over the years the colds decreased in severity and duration, but always arrived on time every September. Two years ago it arrived late, and she didn`t become ill until mid-October. The break in routine was actually distressing, leaving her to worry that maybe an undiagnosed cancer was mucking up her schedule. That morning Beth woke only long enough to kiss Dan good-bye and call in sick to work. She was a paralegal for a large attorney firm and had hopes of one day attending law school. Being employed by a law firm would soon provide great benefits, but little if any, true comfort.             Dan tucked his garment bag into the overhead compartment, being careful as he moved aside an old duffel bag and two other carry-ons. He had discovered over the years that some passengers were extremely touchy about having their luggage rearranged by strangers unless it was the flight attendant.  When he was satisfied with the placement of his carry-on, and confident the overhead compartment would close without problem, he sat down in the window seat and fastened his seatbelt. He imagined that one day he would join the aisle seat crowd, those business people who didn`t fly for the view, and wanted to save as many seconds as they could upon landing by being able to exit quickly so they could hurry up and wait some place else. Dan still enjoyed the view of a window seat, but imagined that one day, as he grew older, he would lose the child-like curiosity and excitement of seeing the world from thirty thousand feet up. On a rare occasion and if the sky was clear, and the jet took a certain flight path, he could spot his home. In his den was an enlarged photograph of their home he had taken three months ago as the jet made its final approach for landing. Despite the graininess of the enlarged photo and its obvious amateurish appearance, he had hung it with all the pride of a fishermen displaying an award winning swordfish.  Plagued with boredom if he wasn`t constantly busy, Dan retrieved a Grisham novel from his briefcase and began reading. As the crowd of passengers squeezed through the aisle, every arm carrying something, a woman checked her ticket and then sat down beside Dan.             "Good morning," she said with a cheerful, melodious voice.             Dan lowered his book, looked over and smiled. "Good morning." He thought she seemed awfully cheerful for so early in the morning. "You must be going to L.A.," he said, a little unsure of exactly what to say to a stranger on a plane.             "I sure hope so. It`s a non-stop flight," she said with a wide grin. "I`m looking forward to getting home," as she sat back in her seat.             "I wish I could say I was going home. I live here in Boston. My wife`s sick and I hated leaving her this morning."             "Oh, anything serious?"             "No, just a severe cold." He paused a moment, held his place in the book with a finger, and offered his free hand. "I`m Dan Powers, accounting." They shook hands and he was impressed with the strong, firm grip and the softness of her feminine hand.             "Lisa Hodges, marketing."             "Ohhhhh."             "What does ohhhhh, mean?" she said smiling.             "I guess it didn`t surprise me. You seem so cheerful and outgoing. I guess those would be good qualities to have in your field."             "Yes, they are," she agreed. Lisa placed her purse on the floor between her feet and then leaned back in her seat.             "Well, cheerfulness and early morning flights fit together for me like a square peg and a round hole. Or is it a round peg and a square hole?" The woman laughed. "Oh, it`s not that early and you seem to be in a fine mood." "It`s the window seat. I`m like a kid when it comes to flying. I love looking out the window." "Me too," she agreed. "but I can`t wait to get home and asked for an aisle seat. Quicker exit that way. I flew in Sunday night for a big presentation on Monday, and I`m exhausted. I think my body is still operating on west coast time."             "Yes, I have that to look forward to," Dan said. "Do you have any family in L.A., or are you one of the millions of transplants who moved there from one of the other forty-nine states and Mexico?"             "No, I`m a little unusual.  I was born and raised in the L.A. area. I don`t know why, but I never had the sense to move away. There`s something beautiful and alluring about the area, but it`s also false and fairytale. My roommate is an aspiring actress, and sometimes I think half of the people in L.A. have aspirations of breaking into show biz."             "I`ve heard that. Just in the small firm we`re starting up, we have two people who have been extras in some movie. I have no idea which one and don`t really care. They`re still hoping for a bigger part, you know, to get discovered. One man was on The Price is Right."             "That certainly is a claim to fame!" she said with a giggle.             "Can you believe he even included it on his resume?" "That doesn`t surprise me at all. I think ninety percent of LA is delusional about their talent and chance of  becoming famous. Do you go out there often?"             "No, thankfully. Just once a month or so to check on our newest accounting firm. To be honest, I don`t care for traveling, but it scores points with the boss."             "And none with the wife I`ll bet," Lisa filled in for him.             "You got that right. You have anyone special in your life? Perhaps that`s too personal a question."             "No, don`t worry about that. Half the fun of flying is getting to meet someone new. I have a boyfriend. He`s a cameraman for a game show."             "Not..."             "Yes, can you believe it, The Price is Right!" They shared a laugh at how small the world really was. "I hear all about the wannabes that come onto the lot looking to become the next big star. It amazes me what some people call talent."             "Talent and TV have nothing in common!" They both laughed at the truth in that statement. "How long have you two been together?" "We`ve been dating about fifteen months."             "Any wedding plans?"             "Maybe. I think he might ask me on my birthday, which is next week."             Just then, the flight attendant began to announce the pre-flight instructions. A few passengers who were standing in the aisle quickly stuffed their belongings into the overhead compartments, slammed them shut and found their seats.                "Well, have a happy birthday," Dan whispered.             "Thank you."             The flight attendant reviewed all the safety instructions, made last minute pre-flight checks of all the overhead compartments, and then found their seats and strapped in.  The jet was filled with a cross section of Anytown, USA. There were a few small children, all under the age of ten, four married couples, one couple who had been married only four months, several grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, businessmen dressed in suits, men dressed casually in blue jeans and sweatshirts. Several businesswomen wore dress suits or slacks, and a few traveled comfortably in blue jeans and a T-shirt. Among the non-caucasian men, were a few of oriental background, several African Americans, and about ten who appeared of Middle Eastern decent. Among the ten were five causally dressed men who traveled light, appeared to be flying alone and blended in quietly with the other passengers. They fit in well with the melting pot of passengers aboard Flight 11. They politely took their seats and waited patiently for take off.              A few minutes before eight, the jet taxied to the runway and joined the short line of other jets waiting for takeoff.             "I hate this part," Lisa said.             "I hate landings," Dan replied, his mouth curving into a grin.             "Oh, that`s great. Between us, we`ll have fear sandwiched between the two events." They both laughed as the pilot throttled up the powerful jet engines and the large, Boeing 767 moved forward on the tarmac. The wings were filled with over 10,000 gallons of extremely flammable jet fuel. The jet had a maximum takeoff weight of approximately 450,000 pounds, a wingspan of 170 feet 4 inches, with a length of 201 feet. Its typical cruising speed was 530 miles per hour. In forty-seven minutes its speed would exceed 600 miles per hour. In a fully loaded 767, flying at an extremely low altitude where the air density is greatest and its resistance highest, the entire structure of the jet would begin to approach its point of self-destruction. Inside the 767 there were two aisles with three seats in the center in economy class, and two center aisle seats in business class. In first class there were two seats on either side of the aisle, and one in the center. It boasted a roominess that would soon feel tiny and smothering.             After the jet was air born at exactly 7:59 a.m., it banked gently around to head west. The Boeing 767 had a light passenger load of only 81 passengers, two pilots and nine flight attendants.  While still climbing, the flight attendants began to prepare the galley for beverage service. As soon as the seatbelt sign blinked off, people unbuckled their seat belt, got up, and headed for the restroom or to grab a different magazine. Some simply stood and stretched before returning to their seats. A few passengers opened the overhead compartment to retrieve reading material, a laptop or PDA from their luggage. Amidst the normal routine, and unnoticed by anyone, one by one, five Middle Eastern men got up from their seats, opened the overhead compartment and pulled out a small bag. They carried out their activities slowly, almost as if they were purposely delaying returning to the seats. But no one noticed because there was no reason to notice. One of men, Atta walked confidently toward first class, pushed aside the curtain dividing the two areas, and continued toward the galley.             "Can I help you sir?" A flight attendant asked.             He said nothing. With a sudden and rehearsed swiftness, Atta swung one arm around the woman`s neck, abruptly spun her around and pulled her towards him. Within a second, she was subdued in a chokehold with a sharp box cutter held against her throat.             "Hey!" a first class passenger shouted as he stood.             Suddenly, four other men rushed through the dividing curtain, each one holding a box cutter with a sharp, shiny razor blade exposed.             "Don`t be a hero," Atta spoke with a heavy accent. "If anyone moves, I will slit her throat then kill one of you." The passenger who was standing froze, looked Atta straight in the eyes, glanced around the first class section, and then slowly sat down. Quickly and without discussion, the four other terrorists subdued the flight attendants in first class, and three of them escorted the flight attendants to the rear of the aircraft. Atta and Al-Omas remained behind.             Atta retained his choking lock around the woman`s neck as he dragged her toward the cockpit door. Al-Omari kept watch over first class. "Open immediately," Atta commanded, striking the door firmly with his free hand. The woman stood still, her eyes widened with terror. The knife blade was pressed against her neck so firmly that even the slightest movement would bring blood.             Atta stepped back slightly and waited as his partner moved closer. A moment later, the co-pilot opened the cockpit door. He stood tall wearing a white shirt and minus his jacket. "What`s the problem out here?"             Al-Omari kicked open the door sending the surprised co-pilot sailing backward. His arms flailed outward in an attempt to grab something as he fell hard on the cockpit floor. The pilot turned around in his seat as his co-pilot landed on the floor beside him. "What the hell is going on!" The pilot demanded to know. "We are taking over the plane," Atta said firmly. He moved in front of the open door still clutching the woman. "If there is any resistance, we are prepared to die and to kill everyone on board this jet. I suggest you do not resist." The flight attendant tried to look away as the co-pilot fell, but Atta`s arm kept her head positioned so she had to watch. She gasped and the sudden noise made the terrorist tighten his grip around her neck. Her eyes were bugling and she was breathing hard.              Without a word, the terrorist pressed the knife blade against the woman`s throat until a tiny drop of blood emerged and dripped slowly down her neck. Without a word or warning, he pressed harder and slid the blade across the flight attendant`s throat. Blood squirted out and sprayed the wall beside the cockpit door. She screamed and immediately clutched her throat as the terrorist released her. A rapid gush of bright blood flowed between her fingers. Her contorted and twisted face drained of color, her knees buckled and then her eyes glazed over.  The terrorist shoved her to the floor and she collapsed like a small tower of Jello. A woman sitting in first class screamed and then suddenly fell quiet, sobbing nearly silently after the terrorist glared at her.             "If you follow our instructions, no one else will die." The co-pilot grabbed onto his empty seat and pulled himself up, never once taking his eyes off the killer.             "Both of you, get out. Now!" The terrorist commanded.             "Who will fly the plane?" the pilot asked.             "That is not your concern. I`m not going to say this again. Get out."             The pilot and co-pilot looked at each other. Both hesitated, and they knew what the other was thinking, but there was no immediate solution to the attempted hijacking. There was unusual and almost eerie silence in the cabin. The pilot slowly got up from his seat and stood beside the co-pilot. They slowly stepped out of the cockpit, moving cautiously as they walked past the terrorist leader. Two of the terrorists had stepped into first class to make sure no one tried to be a hero. Atta spoke firmly in his native language giving commands to the two remaining terrorists. They quickly grabbed the pilot and co-pilot, and with box cutters in hand, lead them to the rear of the plane where they would be tied up with duct tape. As they moved down the aisle there was near silence. Every passenger watched in silence.             Before they entered the business class, one man stood up and was abruptly struck across the face. He fell backwards into a woman passenger as blood spilled from his nose.             Atta looked behind him, his eyes glaring at the seated passengers, and then he stepped into the cockpit and slammed the door shut.             As the two pilots were lead to the rear of the plane, the terrorists warned the passengers to remain in their seats unless they wanted to die. The cabin remained unusually quiet and still. A sense of shock and disbelief had settled into the large jet, which now was feeling extremely small, stuffy and isolated from the entire world. "What`s going on?" Lisa asked quietly, leaning toward Dan. Her voice was nervous and breaking.             "I think we`re being hijacked." Other passengers were growing restless, looking around the cabin and whispering to one another.             "Attention everyone. In the name of Allah, we are now in control of this plane. I must warn you to strictly obey our instructions or be killed. If anyone tries to resist, we will begin killing passengers beginning with the two pilots. Unless you want to be responsible for someone`s death, you must stay in your seat. If you need to use the restroom, raise your hand and we will address your needs." There was a long pause before the deep voice boomed over the intercom again. "You must follow our instructions. You must remain calm and quiet, and must stay in your seats.  Anyone failing to follow these instructions will be killed immediately. I hope I have made myself clear." The intercom clicked off and the cabin fell completely silent. The hum of the jet engines was the only sound that filled the length of the cabin. A small baby began crying, and whispers of the mother trying to calm her infant floated among the seats.             "What are we going to do?" Lisa whispered.             "Nothing. We`re going to do nothing. Hopefully, we`ll fly to Cuba or Columbia or something, and they`ll let us all go."             "They don`t have any guns, do they?"             "I don`t know. But they have box cutters that they got on board somehow. I don`t really want my throat slit." Dan turned around in his seat in time to see one of the terrorists walking up the aisle. He was holding a box cutter in his hand and looked ready to use it. Despite the large size of the cabin, the six seats across and the two aisles, Dan was beginning to feel as if they were all seated in a tiny and crowded Lear jet with a narrow width and low ceiling. The air was beginning to feel stale and stuffy. They were on their own, at the complete will of their hijackers. Flying was normally a surrendering of power, of not being in the driver`s seat. That feeling of powerlessness had just been jacked up a few hundred notches. Dan looked around the cabin, wishing he had a gun, a parachute, something to help even the odds.             "You!" the terrorist said, pointing at Dan.             "Me?" his voice cracked.             "Turn around unless you`d like to join the pilot in the rear of the plane."             Dan quickly turned around and remained silent. There was nothing to say. He wanted to be as invisible as possible, and that meant remaining silent. The terrorist walked past him, staring him down with his dark eyes. Without warning, the jet began banking sharply to the left. Passengers suddenly looked out the window trying to determine where in hell they were going. Except for quiet whispering, and there was little of that, the cabin remained extremely quiet. No one moved, no one read a magazine or turned on their lap top. It became a jet filled with still and quiet statues.             Within several minutes, the four terrorists separated many clusters of passengers throughout the cabin. Almost out of some absurd kindness, they did not separate people who were traveling together. When they were finished, the 81 passengers were spread among the entire length of the aircraft. Dan and Lisa were allowed to remain in their assigned seats.             Suddenly a woman`s scream ripped through the quiet like a cannon shot, and then almost as suddenly, silence returned to the cabin like a thick, impenetrable fog. Some passengers turned around to see what was happening, but most sat motionless in their seats, wanting and not wanting to know, their faces white with fear and hands tightly clutching the armrests. Minutes moved like sluggish giants in a tight corridor. Anyone who glanced at their watch stared long enough to make sure the sweep second hand was actually still moving. Some simply sat staring, being careful to avoid any eye contact with one of the terrorists. Others pretended to be reading, but no one could plow through more than a sentence before they glanced up from the page again, totally aware of the precariousness of their own safety. In the cockpit, an air traffic controller attempted to contact the pilot to inquire about the course change. He received no response. The new pilot increased the jet`s speed and set the heading for New York City. Cleverly using a Global Positioning Device, Atta programmed the target`s address and used it to assist in guiding the jet. After several minutes, the pilot made an announcement over the intercom.             "This is your pilot. If you wish, you may use the in-flight phones to call whoever you would like. You may say whatever you like, but I must ask that you do so quietly. If not, we will help you become quiet." There was another click and the intercom fell silent.             "What do you think is going on here?" Lisa asked in a whisper. She rubbed her face nervously with trembling fingers.             "I have no idea, but I don`t like this at all. Why would they let us make phone calls, unless it doesn`t matter?"             "What do you mean, doesn`t matter?" Lisa`s face was twisted with fear, her eyes were widened circles and her brow wrinkled with tension.             He regretted making that comment. "I`m not sure. But something tells me we`re not going to Cuba." He looked at the phone on the seatback in front of him. Dan checked his watch. It was 8:20. They had only been in the air for twenty-one minutes. Beth was most probably still sleeping and maybe wouldn`t hear his call. He sat motionless and waited, wondering if the whole thing was a trick of some sort. Maybe they would kill whoever made phone calls. Maybe they would make them special hostages, telling their loved ones on the other end of the line to meet their demands or listen to them being murdered. He mind played with all sorts of possibilities, none of them positive. After an extremely long and endless minute or so, he heard someone making a call. He continued to sit motionless and heard another call being made. It was followed by another, and then another. He kept the debate going in his mind, wondering about the safety of making a call. So far, nothing had happened. Finally, he reached out and pulled the phone off its cradle. "I have to try and call home." He thought of saying this may be his last chance to speak with his wife, but decided against it. Dan leaned over, pulled out his wallet and retrieved a credit card. He swiped the card on the phone, nearly missing because his hand was trembling, and then dialed the number. "I hope she hears the phone," he said to Lisa. Dan placed the phone close to his ear and waited. After a long delay, the phone began ringing in suburban Boston in Waltham, Massachusetts.             It rang a second time, and he waited, and then a third, and he waited, and waited, and then a fourth ring and the waiting grew longer, and a fifth time, and he waited. Dan looked at his watch. It seemed he had to wait to verify the second hand was still moving.             He looked at Lisa. "I don`t think she`s awake. The damn cold medicine, probably knocked her out." It rang a seventh time, and after a long delay, an eighth, each ring seemed to take longer and longer, finally a ninth ring..... he`d never heard such a slow ringing phone before in his life.             "Helllloooo," spoke a hoarse and groggy voice. "Who`s this?"             "Honey? It`s me. You need to wake up, you need to wake up now and talk to me."             "Dan? What`s wrong?" She coughed to clear her voice. "Are you okay? Aren`t you on your flight yet?"             "Yes," then he repeated in a quieter voice. "Yes. That`s the problem. We`ve been hijacked."             Beth sat bolt upright in her bed. A pillow dropped to the floor unnoticed. "Dan! What do you mean, you`ve been hijacked?" Tears began forming. "Are you okay? Do they have guns? Is anyone hurt? Are you okay?"             "Honey, I`m okay. I think someone was hurt. I saw blood on one of the hijackers and I don`t think it was his." Why did he tell her that! What was wrong with him?             "How many are there?" She was sobbing now, hoping, praying that she was still actually asleep experiencing a cold medicine induced nightmare, a horrible nightmare that even in life, could never feel real. She looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. The red numbers glowed 8:22. It felt like three in the morning.             "There are five, I think. I haven`t seen any guns, but they have knives, box cutters. They`re flying the plane and I have no idea where we`re going, but from the position of the sun, I think we`re heading south. The pilot and co-pilot are sitting in the back of the plane. I don`t know if they`re okay or not."             There was heavy sobbing into the phone and spits of static clouded the sound. "Oh my God! Oh Dan! Are you going to be all right? What is going on? Do they know you`re on the phone? Pleeeease don`t let them hurt you." The sentence ended with tears and heavy sobbing. Beth looked at the clock again. It seemed to be the only proof she had that this conversation was actually taking place. The numbers glowed 8:23. Suddenly the numbers changed to 8:24. That small change in a minute was proof that the day was marching forward, moving ahead and spiraling out of control. In an odd sort of way, how digital clocks sliced time into such small increments reminded her just how precious every moment really was.             "I don`t know why, but they`re allowing us to make phone calls. I don`t know if I should stay on the phone for very long or not. I don`t know what I should do." Dan raised his head slowly and looked forward, peeking over the seat in front of him like a soldier expecting return fire. "Some of them are up in first class. They have the curtains pulled so I don`t really know what is going on. A lot of people are making phone calls." Soft crying sounds could be heard throughout the cabin. Dan noticed a few callers wiping their eyes as they held the phone tightly to their ear. He knew how they felt. Clutching the phone, embracing it was the only closeness to family that remained. "I love you so much, Beth. I don`t know if, I don`t know what`s going to happen. Please call my parents and my brother. He should be at work. Grab the address book in the den. His number`s in there." Dan blinked hard. He could barely see through the tears clouding his eyes. He needed to remain strong. There was no telling what he had yet to face. "I love you. I love you so much. You know, I never say that enough, I never tell you how much I appreciate you and everything you do for me. I`ve been working too much lately when I should be home more with you. I wish¾"             "Stop! Dan, don`t do this! Pleeeasse, don`t do this. You`re a wonderful husband and I couldn`t love anyone as much as I love you! Please tell me that things will be okay."             Dan paused, trying to picture Beth sitting up in bed, clutching the phone tightly, wiping her eyes with a soaked tissue. He had been working too much, willingly trading in memories of being together to get ahead in his career. Life was so short, way too short, and he had been racing through each day as if there was an endless supply of them. Why was that so easy for people to do? Why did money and things matter so much when the real wealth in life was the time with loved ones and the memories they created?             "Dan? Are you still there? Dan?" He could hear the panic across the miles.             "I`m sorry, yes, I`m here. I was just thinking. If something happens," his voice cracked. There was a lump in his throat the size of a large rock.             "Don`t talk like that. You`re coming home, I know you are. You have to!"             "Beth, if something happens to me, you must be strong. We have to consider what could happen."             "Stop!" Beth screamed into the phone. Her voice cut sharply through the static and the miles. "Stop it! Now stop talking like this. You`re coming home. I know you will. I love you so much. You`re not leaving me. I know you`ll be home. You have to be. You can`t leave me, you can`t leave me," she finished, her voice trailing off to tears.             "Okay, Beth, okay. Call everyone, and turn on the TV. Maybe there`s some news about what`s going on."             The conversation continued for a few more minutes, and each word was pulled from his heart. The longer they talked, the more impossible it became to find the right words, and to push back the growing flood of emotion that was tainted and stained with guilt and fear. He wanted the conversation to never end, and he wanted to end it immediately. When Dan finally said goodbye, it was like trying to talk fluently in a foreign language he had never spoken before. The goodbye seemed so final, like he had actually been witness to life`s end and he was still living. In the pit of his stomach he knew he would never see Beth again, never touch the softness of her hand, listen to her laughter, enjoy the warm moistness of her kiss or feel the wonderful sensation of her embrace. When Dan pushed the button to end the call, not one word existed in his thoughts of what to say next. People talked of being left speechless, but rarely were. There was always a remnant of a thought, a word waiting to be inflated into a sentence. This time however, his mind was completely blank. Not even an image existed in his thoughts. It was as if twenty-five billion brain cells had suddenly ceased functioning, save for a few that regulated the basic body functions that normally occurred without consideration. After a long pause that existed without the benefit of time, Dan absently handed the phone to Lisa. He glanced down and checked his watch. It was now 8:34. Slowly, the nightmare reappeared; thoughts sluggishly fell together into a sloppy pile, still not making any sense. Dan turned his head slowly and looked out the window. As his mind powered up on dying batteries, he noted the sun`s position and saw something familiar.             "I think we`re headed toward New York City." His voice was weak, robbed of strength by intense grief.             Lisa looked out the window, and then looked at Dan. "Here," she began, holding the phone. "Put this back. I could never in my life make a call like that.  Maybe I`m a coward, maybe I`m just scared to death, but finding the words to say what you just told your wife, is, well, I don`t know what it is. I can`t even talk well now."             Dan looked at her and looked at the phone she was holding. "Are you sure?"             Lisa nodded silently, and swallowed hard. Dan took the phone, replaced it and looked across the aisle. A woman was wiping a tear from her eye and talking on the phone. She looked to be about seventy, and from her appearance, Dan guessed she had money. Her clothes looked expensive and she wore beautiful diamonds on her fingers. He checked his watch again. It was now 8:37. Less than nine minutes remained before the jet would crash into World Trade Center 1, the North Tower. He knew something was going to happen soon. Life gave those that listened, an intuition that was rarely a blessing and often a curse. He knew, he was certain. Every glance at his watch reminded him that it had now become useless except for the minute and second hand.             Three of the hijackers continually moved quickly through out the plane. Their constant movement was aimed at keeping everyone off guard, unsure of their location and intentions. Yet, there was something else behind their movement. It almost looked like pacing, impatient waiting for an event to occur. It seemed they never stood still, bending over occasionally to glance out the window, and then talking to each other in their foreign language. At times they smiled at one another, and as time passed, their chatter became more frequent. For the most part, the passengers remained quiet; a few were crying, some sat silently in shock, staring forward or simply looking out the window at the Long Island Sound below them and to their left.               Dan looked out the window again, and then glanced at his watch. It was 8:38, and unlike only a few moments ago, the second hand seemed to be almost spinning.  

 

World Trade Center 1, North Tower

              It was 7:20 a.m. when James L. Jones arrived to work on the 101^st floor of WTC Tower 1, the North Tower. He was a brilliant electrical engineer for Cohen Electronics, which had been one of the first tenants of the tower when it opened in 1970. The owner, Ed Cohen was determined to have an office on the top floor, but settled for the 101^st. The view of looking in any direction for nearly fifty miles on a clear day was one of the few remaining pleasures he enjoyed in his life. Personal tragedy had decimated his once extensive library of enjoyment. Now all that remained was work, and looking out the window for inspiration.              In many respects, every floor of the north tower was nearly identical, though the configuration of the office cubicles and a few other minor variations gave each floor its own personality. The building`s core was occupied by a small area of elevators, restrooms and stairwells, leaving the entire perimeter of nearly an acre completely open for office space. The external structure or skin of the building provided the true backbone and strength and essentially held up the building. The lack of support beams and structures gave each floor a sense of expanse and space, reflecting the enormity of the entire tower. The weight of each floor was transferred to the tower`s powerfully strong sides, held in place by thick rivets and braces. In a sense, the support columns, often found within a tall building, were for the most part, moved to the perimeter of the tower. It was an ingenious and sound design that made the interior feel as large and graceful as the soaring view from outside.              As Jim exited the elevator, he could smell coffee. He walked with a casual confidence to his cubicle, set down his leather brief case, removed his suit jacket and hung it up on the shiny, brass coat rack just as he had done over five thousand times before; five thousand, one hundred seventeen to be exact, nearly fifteen years. He was probably one of the few employees in the entire World Trade Center who counted such things. He had a reason, and it wasn`t because he had an incurable obsessive-compulsive disorder that wouldn`t respond to therapy or medication. There were an exact number of workdays he wanted to reach before age sixty when he would semi-retire with his wife. It was a number only he knew, a number he likened to hitting the jackpot; it would be the day he started to really enjoy life and all it had to offer. Thirty years of employment, minus vacations, holidays and the rare sick day he grudgingly allowed himself, the number came to nine thousand, one hundred ten, or 9,110. The number held significance; September 11^th was the anniversary of when he first met his wife Ellen in 1980. Adding that year presented a problem, so instead of working 91,180 days, he rounded the year to a zero. It beat working himself to death for the sake of sentimentality.  Besides, 91,180 workdays amounted to over two hundred sixty-five years. That just didn`t seem practical. His wife thought he was just plain goofy. Satisfied his routine was intact and everything in its place, he smiled at the warm, morning rays of sun that enveloped his small space like an ethereal, translucent blanket, and then walked with a more casual, slower pace to the break area for a cup of fresh coffee. Often he made the first pot in the morning, but on occasion, someone arrived before he did.               "Good morning," Jim said to Vicky Bloomberg. She was a brilliant engineering student who showed great promise. The fact that she arrived so early was just one more indicator of her work ethic and dedication. Sacrifice was always rewarded in the corporate world.             Almost always.             "Good morning, Jim. I already made coffee."             "I could smell it as soon as I got off the elevator. When did you get in?"             "Just a few minutes ago. I couldn`t sleep. Kept waking up, tossing, turning, you know the routine. So I decided I might as well get a jump start on rush hour."             "Workload keeping you awake?" He asked as he walked over to the coffee pot.             "No, I don`t know what was bothering me. But every time I thought about coming into work, I thought about staying home." She took a sip from her cup and looked out the window.             "I have those days, too. Especially when it`s Monday and raining!" He chuckled and poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, shook in some sugar and powdered creamer, grabbed a plastic stirrer and stuck it into the coffee. Jim was forty-five, looked his age, but didn`t feel it. He was a tall man, six foot two, with broad shoulders and a waistline that was also growing broad. There was something about hitting the forty-year milestone that made staying slim a true battle of the bulge. Two years ago he essentially conceded defeat, tossed out his size thirty-five pants and purchased only size thirty-seven. The other battle in the two-front war of middle age was a receding hairline. He hated how it crept up behind him where he couldn`t see it coming, until finally, carrying a comb was more for ego than function. Jim had two sons in college, one studying English and the other drifting between majors, still undecided but leaning toward law. His wife Ellen was a nurse who worked part time, preferring to pursue her hobby of painting and volunteering. As soon as the kids were out of college and he hit the magic number, they planned to sell everything and move to New England, semi-retire and work only enough to fund their interests and desire to travel. Their goal was to build a beautiful two thousand square foot log cabin in the mountains of New Hampshire.             Jim picked up his coffee. "I couldn`t sleep last night either. Kept tossing and turning, wondering what number today was...,"             "The date?"             "No, it`s kind of a private joke in our home. I track the number of days I`ve worked and..."             "Oh yeah, I`ve heard about your retirement plans. Bill told me and said that when the time approaches, they`re going to get a pool together on what that secret number is!" They both laughed. "Still got a lot of time for that to happen!" "So, you couldn`t sleep either?" "No, don`t know why, just one of those mornings. I kept thinking of all the projects I`m working on at home. Refinishing the basement, planting some white pines in the back yard, that sort of thing. Thought today would be a perfect day to work outside." "It sounds like it," she agreed. "I finally quit arguing with myself and decided to make this day number five thousand, one hundred seventeen. Another day closer to that log cabin!" He stirred his coffee and tossed the plastic stirrer into the garbage. "How was your weekend? I never did get a chance to ask you yesterday."             "Too short, but aren`t they all? My boyfriend and I went to see his parents."             "Where do they live?"             "Danielson, Connecticut. It`s a cute little town in the northeast corner of the state not far from Rhode Island. It`s about an hour east of Hartford. We had a nice visit. It`s such a beautiful area. So many trees!" She took a sip of her coffee.             "That`s what I miss living near New York. But one day! My wife still talks about getting a bed and breakfast, but I don`t know if I like the idea of strangers spending the night all the time."             "That`s because you live in New York.  People in New England have a different attitude about people."             "So, what did his parents think?"             She shrugged her shoulders as she sipped on the steaming coffee. "I don`t think they`re thrilled that I`m Jewish."             "Typical. People get so worked up about stupid things, convinced that you`re not going to meet in heaven."             "Exactly. They`re Catholic. I don`t know where everyone thinks Jews go after they die."             "Same place as Muslims, Hindus and Lutherans!" They both laughed. "Seriously though, don`t let that stop you. That`s their problem to deal with. What do your parents think about it?"             "I think they share the same view as David`s, only from a Jewish perspective."             "Sometimes I think religions cause more prejudice than they cure." He looked over and noticed Ed Cohen, the CEO walk onto the floor and toward his corner office. "Looks like it`s time to get to work."             Vicky looked past Jim in time to see Cohen disappear into his office. "Is he ever cheerful in the morning?"             "No, but after working for Ed all these years, I like the guy."             "Why? He`s not very friendly."             "Ed`s not had the easiest life, and wealth can buy you things, but it can`t bring happiness. I know that`s a little overused, but it`s so true. He lost his wife and daughter to a car accident quite a few years ago and I don`t think he has much in his life except work. He`s a generous man though. He always gives a nice Christmas bonus."             "Christmas bonus?"             "Well, he calls it an end of the year income adjustment. He always encourages holiday decorations, no matter what your faith." Jim checked his watch. It was 7:45 a.m. Life was going to change in one hour. That`s how life was. Always the same day after day, and then never the same again. Except for illness, which left a trail of symptoms and hints of coming attractions, life generally cruised along with total unpredictability, and when it appeared too routine, it stopped being routine.             "I guess we better appear busy," Vicky added.             "Not me. I`m going to read the paper for ten minutes before I get to work on the Anderson project. Ed`s okay. Don`t let him scare you."             Vicky smiled, refilled her cup and then left for her tiny cubicle. Jim went to his desk. Outside the sun was shining brilliantly on the water. The morning sky was nearly clear with only a few scant wisps of clouds. It was starting out to be a beautiful Tuesday morning, and from the 101^st floor, they could see nearly forty miles in any direction.               The elevator bell dinged and the door opened followed by the exit of a tall young man. Thomas Glenn was twenty-one, had short blonde hair, a pierced left ear, and a persistent smile that nothing seemed to erase. As the elevator door closed, he headed straight for the freshly brewed coffee. He hated his name, which was reversible as he called it. Having two first names was frustrating, and new acquaintances always got them turned around, calling him Glenn one moment and Tom the next. Sometimes he didn`t even bother to correct them. A second elevator dinged and the door opened.             "Hey Tommy!" a voice boomed into the early morning office.             Tom Glenn turned around to see Bill Freeman stepping off the elevator, holding a black leather briefcase in one hand and a magazine in the other. "Yeah, what`s up?" Tommy replied.             "I finally remembered that magazine." He held it up as evidence. The cover sported a motorcycle, and Tom could see it was the latest issue of Cycle magazine. Bill walked briskly to the break area.