Last War (26 page)

    
The woman, a tall, attractive, and curvy, dark-skinned lady, walked in. He knew her. After he finished ordering his lunch, he spoke to the American informant.

    
“Tiffany. How are you?”

    
“I’m great, and you?”

    
Their conversations were always pleasant. This conversation felt no different. Her radiant teeth always shined from her brilliant smile. It complemented her glowing chocolate skin. After they exchanged polite pleasantries, as usual, she opened her file.

     “Our Secretary of D
efense, Joel Hubbard, has a request of the Iraqi government. It’s an issue of American national security.”

    
“OK. Shoot.”

    
“They’ve got some word that there’s going to be an attack on American soil within the next two weeks. Have you heard anything about that?”

    
“No. I sure haven’t. I can snoop around and see what’s happening back at the homeland; put some agents and assets on the case, maybe.”

     “
Yeah. We’re gonna need you to peep around and see what it is you can figure out for us. Mr. Hubbard says it’s urgent.”

    
“I’ll bet. You said two weeks? You guys are on this late. But, I’ll see what I can find out.”

    
“Thanks, Nosir.”



     “We continued some friendly talk, and then she left.” Nosir told Jason.

    
“Well, what was so weird about that?” Jason asked.

    
“Three days later, she came back screaming at me.”

    
“What did she say?”

    
“The same freakin’ thing she said the first time! Except, this time, she was angry. Fuming. She demanded that I find something.”

    
“What happened in between? What had changed?”

    
“Nothing. I was calling around to some of our allies and informants and trying to figure out what was going on.”

    
“What did you find out?”

    
“Absolutely nothing. No one knew anything. I told her that. I told her, I said, ‘the only person that is introducing this idea is you. You’re the only one in the world with intelligence on this attack.’ I know nothing. No one in Pakistan, Israel, Russia, or anywhere has had any knowledge. I sent spies—they found nothing. I called other embassies in the areas. Nothing. The only source I had on the attacks was Tiffany. I told her, if they felt really good about their leads, then it’d be their call. I didn’t find anything.”

     “What did they do after that?” Jason asked.

     “They didn’t do anything until after the terrorist attacks. They moved their troops into Iraq looking for WMD.”

     “Did they suspect Iraqi involvement? Was it retaliation?”

     “It was a follow-up.” Nosir said. “In 1991 the U.N. ordered Iraq destroy their mass weapons of destruction. Iraq didn’t. They hid the MWD from the U.N. which lead to the world’s eventual distrust of Iraq, who had used MWDs irresponsibly.”

     “Was Iraq planning on doing anything else with them? Why did they keep them?”

     “Not that I know of. They kept them to protect themselves from Iran. In doing so, Iraq remained a threat to world peace. America felt they had made a mistake not taking Saddam out of power in the Gulf War. The war in Iraq was strictly about a regime change. 9/11 was used as a way to gain public approval.”

     “So, are you saying this was planned…
”

     “No. I’m only saying what I just said. I’m not reading any more into it.”

     “OK, Nosir. Thanks. How about Tiffany? Do you have any idea where can I find Tiffany?”

    
“I haven’t heard from Tiffany for two years now. I haven’t the first idea.”

“OK. Thanks, sir
.”

    
Jason hung up the phone and dialed Harold Davis, again.

    
“How’d it go?” Harold asked.

    
“I doubt he knows anything about the operation, but I think I got some good info. Any info is good. Do you have any time tonight? I’m really pressed for time, and I don’t know how many more opportunities I’ll get to see you in person to speak about what we need to talk about.”

    
“Yes. Meet me at the 86, now.”

    
“OK.” Jason chuckled. “The good ol’ 86. I’m on my way.”



     The ringback on his phone made Vice President Fredrick Tyson’s pulse race. A tight clasping of his hands dried his sweaty palms.          

    
“Hello, Brendenhall Hotel International.”

    
“This is the Vice President of the U.S. Fredrick Tyson, and I wanted to speak with the chairman of the Brendenhall Group.”

    
“May I have your member number, sir?”

    
“Sure. TY345FT098.”

    
“One moment.”

    
A small elevator jingle played in rotation over the phone earpiece for 15 painstakingly long minutes before a scratchy old voice cut in between.

    
“Hello, Mr. Tyson. What’s new on the scene?”

    
“Sir, we just wanted to tell you we had to make a few adjustments to Operation F.A.I.T.H. We ran into a roadblock bigger than we expected, and we’ll need to adjust to proceed in the same timeframe as mentioned in our last meeting.”

    
“Do we need another emergency meeting? Or can we trust you’re on top of it?”

    
“We’re on top of it, sir. We’ve begun the adjustment plan now. No worries, just a heads up so that you’ll note.”

    
“Do you need our help?”

    
“Yes. Your guys at Mercedes, and engineers at Lasheed Marcus will do. And maybe a physicist or two. It’s imperative we get this done immediately. Thanks.”

    
“When can we meet?”

    
“As soon as possible.”



New York City

March 2003

     “As the commission exists, our mandate is to look back and learn the vital lessons of 9/11; to look forward, to make recommendations to leave the United States, and its people, safer.” The chairman opened the 9/11 hearings.

    
Jason sat in the back of the room with a hat on. He had Czyra next to him. The call for answers projected a silent echo throughout the room, and Jason knew this is where he may quietly get some answers from 9/11. Not because he was confident any of these officials would tell the truth, but because, apparently, he had worked in cahoots with this administration.

    
How much was The Summit involved
? He was determined to fill in the blanks.

    
The first man called to the front was a 9/11 survivor. His entire face was deformed. All but his nose was burned. He sat down slowly, and faced the row of men that comprised the 9/11 commission.

    
“Hello, sir. State your name, and your story.”

    
“I’m Don Jenkins.”

     “OK, Mr. Jenkins. Where were you when you realized we were under attack?”

     “I was on my way up to the 77
th
floor, when I heard a crashing sound that threw me against the wall, at about floor 60.”

     He started into his account:



    
The jolt was so violent, change from his jacket fell to the floor. A fireball flamed through the cracks of the door setting Don on fire. Following that sequence, the elevator began to plummet some twenty floors before catching itself. The immediate stop threw him to the floor. The pain Don felt rolling on the ground -- which was extremely hot -- was not something he knew how to put into words.

    
All he could do was scream for help. A cry that would seem to bounce off of the metal elevator walls and reach only his ears.

    
Every-so-often, the elevator would creak and drop a few inches.

    
Don had no clue what was going on, but after just less than a minute of rolling on the scorching elevator ground, the flames he was engulfed in went out. He struggled to his feet. The intense heat blazed off of his steel surroundings. It was like he was in an oven.

    
He reached out to pull himself up with the leverage the handle that wrapped around the elevator was supposed to provide, but instead he burned his palms, and dropped back to the floor, like sausage on a grill. He inspected his steaming hand. His body was under fire longer than his hand. He caught a glimpse of his bloody face in the reflection of the flaming door.

    
Rolling to his knees, he struggled in agony to his feet. The door was becoming more fragile.

    
Don ripped off his suit jacket, wrapped it around his hand, and opened a box located under the elevator buttons. There was a fire extinguisher inside.

     H
e grabbed the extinguisher and fired away at the dying flames flickering through the cracks of the elevator door.

     He
was fully aware that this wouldn’t be the end of his survival. After not cooking to death, he’d need to figure out his escape. It had been some twenty minutes, and there was no word of anyone coming to get him. He had heard a garbled message earlier informing him of an elevator malfunction, but, it didn’t feel like a situation that he should sit around and wait for rescue.

    
He picked up his fire extinguisher, and with all his might—which wasn’t much, at all—he rammed the extinguisher against the door.  



     Don went mute, leaving a deafening silence in the hearing room. Not one breath, cough, or sound of shuffling feet uttered. Everything that could have mattered at that point and time, did not matter. Despite them knowing the ending, the only thing everyone wanted in that courtroom, at the moment, was for Don to be able to get off of that elevator. He became emotional for a few seconds.

     T
he silence was broken with the subtly abrasive voice of the chairman speaking into the microphone. His voice echoed, “Would you mind telling us how you got out of the elevator and to safety? Take your time.”

    
“I just kept banging.” Don said bursting into a teary speech. “I just kept banging. I wanted the door to break, or someone to hear—or even the extinguisher to burst and end my life quickly. I needed relief from the smoke and heat. Then I heard a man yell loudly, ‘Stand back.’”

    
Don grabbed another tissue from the box that sat before him. “I heard banging on the other side. I sat in the corner of the elevator until I saw the tip of something sharp pierce the door. It was the FDNY.”

    
After the reverb from Don’s talking stopped, the same silence filled the room.

    
“So, from there, you took the staircase down?” A man on the commission asked.

    
“Yes. I took the staircase down, aided by a few firemen.”

    
“Did you hear any noises? Bangs? See anything weird?”

    
“I didn’t pay that much attention. When I got out of the elevator, it was extremely smoky. I could only think about two things: one, get out of this building. Two: what damage was done to my body. That’s it, and that’s all.”

    
“Ok, thank you Mr. Jenkins. That’s all. Thank you for your moving account.”

    
After a series of family members gave their stories before the commission, a group of five people who worked for the FAA, the Pentagon, and NEADS were called to testify. They all sat at the cloth-covered table with their briefcases. They each, like a synchronized swimming, or music band, pulled out their folders, and shuffled themselves into place before they were put under oath.

     L
eft hand on the bible, right hand in the air, each one of them swore to tell the truth.

     “I’m interested to see what these guys gotta say.” Czyra whispered to Jason.

     “Yeah, me too, since these where the idiots I had to deal with on that day.”

    
Each of them had a personal investment, and a motivation to seek answers. The questioning had begun.

    
“Which one of you were the first to receive news that there was a hijacked plane?”

    
“That would be our department, sir.” The FAA official said.

    
“OK. Take it from there, then.”

