by Steve Alten
In response to independent experts’ unsettling discoveries, the National Institute of Standards and Technology released a thousand-page report containing explanations that contradicted every known case study of high-rise-building fires. The report never accounted for thermite residue; nor did it acknowledge the mysterious lake of molten steel. NIST officials also refused to address the series of explosions reported by hundreds of eyewitnesses moments before the towers collapsed. Or the videotape evidence of Building-7's collapse, which clearly showed squibbs — puffs of smoke created by demolition explosions — coming from each floor as the tower pancaked at near-free-fall speed.
More than four hundred independent architects and engineers disputed the NIST findings — to no avail. America had been attacked, and Americans wanted retribution, not ridiculous conspiracy theories.
It was during Patrick Shepherd’s second deployment that he first learned of the controversial 9/11 Truth Web sites from a fellow soldier. The accusations infuriated him. So what if the towers were known health hazards, filled with asbestos? So what if Building-7’s collapse was reported by the BBC forty minutes before it actually happened? Or that the tower housed the second largest covert CIA station in the country, as well as the SEC offices investigating Enron’s and WorldCom’s frauds. True, Larry Silverstein, the new owner of the World Trade Center, had shut down a few of the Twin Towers’ elevator shafts for “upgrades” a month before 9/11, but so what? How could any loyal Americans believe that elements within their own government could have aided and abetted such a nefarious terrorist attack, using the event as an excuse to invade Iraq? It was utter nonsense.
The mainstream media refused to buy into it, and most Americans, Patrick among them, refused as well. But as the years went by, and the deployments mounted, Patrick’s mind began to warm to the evidence, and the toxic thoughts turned his heart stone-cold.
He learned that modern history was littered with false-flag events — acts of violence, organized by ruling elites designed to direct blame at an enemy in order to amass the public’s support. In 1931, the Japanese blew up sections of their own railway as a pretext for annexing Manchuria. In 1939, the Nazis fabricated evidence of a Polish attack against Germany to justify their invasion of Poland. In 1953, the United States and Britain orchestrated “Operation Ajax,” a false-flag event that targeted Mohammed Mosaddegh, the democratically elected leader of Iran. Nine years later, President Kennedy stopped Operation Northwoods, a Department of Defense plot that would have blamed Cuba for a rash of incidents, including the hijacking and crash of a US commercial airliner. Years later, another false-flag operation — the Gulf of Tonkin incident — escalated the Vietnam War.
Three thousand innocent people had been murdered on September 11. As horrific as it was, the numbers were almost negligible when compared to the history of modern warfare. Hitler had exterminated six million Jews. Pol Pot had systematically eliminated over a million Cambodians. The Chinese were massacring Tibetans on a daily basis. Genocide had wiped out a million in Rwanda. The US invasion had killed a million Iraqis… even though Saddam had had no weapons of mass destruction, and Iraq considered Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda a sworn enemy.
To the military-industrial power brokers and Wall Street’s elite, three thousand casualties were nothing compared to Iraq’s oil reserves and a trillion dollars in no-bid contracts and military expenditures.
Seated in the backseat, Patrick recalled the moment the truth about September 11 had finally clicked. It was the last day of his fourth and final deployment, the day he had realized that the country he loved had been taken over by the corporate elite, that he had killed innocent people to support their empires of greed, and that he was destined to burn in Hell for his actions, never to see his soul mate again.
Staring at the burning bridges, Patrick registered the familiar copper taste of hatred in his mouth. It was a hatred that had blinded him for the better part of eleven years, an anger so deep that it smothered every ounce of love he had ever felt, destroying every decent memory, blocking every speck of Light. And in this sudden moment of clarity, another truth surfaced its ugly head…
“They’re going to incinerate Manhattan.”
His fellow passengers turned to face him.
Paolo gripped his wife’s hand. “Who’s going to incinerate Manhattan?”
“The feds. The Department of Defense. It’ll happen soon, probably when the sun comes up. It might have happened hours ago had they gotten hold of this vaccine.”
“How do you know this?” Pankaj asked.
“Back at the VA hospital, I overheard Bertrand DeBorn threatening to spill the beans about anthrax and the attacks back in 2001.”
“Kogelo’s secretary of defense?”
“What does anthrax have to do with—”
“The anthrax originated from CIA-run labs. I’m guessing Scythe was designed in a similar lab.”
“For what purpose?” Paolo asked.
“To invade Iran. Since we lack the manpower to take over another country, the intel guys came up with a new plan. We unleash a biological like Scythe, gut the country’s militia, then ride in with the vaccine and negotiate peace.”
“I don’t believe that,” Francesca stated emphatically. “I refuse to believe it. This is Manhattan, the Big Apple. No one’s going to incinerate the most populated city in America.”
“They don’t care,” Shep said, closing his eyes. “We’re simply numbers on a ledger sheet, acceptable losses. They’ll incinerate Manhattan, blame Scythe on a bunch of terrorists, and the next thing you know, it’ll be World War III.”
Governor’s Island
6:20 A.M.
Alone in the darkness, marooned on the moldy mattress on the damp concrete floor, Leigh Nelson’s body convulsed as she heard someone cross the first floor directly overhead. Terror gripped her mind as the heavy-footed soldier descended the wooden steps.
She cried out as he approached.
“No more waterboarding, I promise. I brought you something to calm your nerves. Can you sit up?” Jay Zwawa helped Leigh Nelson into an upright position, the female physician’s muscles trembling. He handed her the open bottle of whiskey.
She forced it to her lips and drank. Drained a third of the bottle before he could take it from her. Her insides were on fire, the internal heat soothing her frayed nerves.
“You okay?”
“Why did you torture me?”
“Why? Because I was following orders. Because the world’s gone crazy. Because common sense got tossed out the window the day presidents decided chicken hawks like Cheney and Rumsfeld and DeBorn knew more about running the military than men who had actually served in the armed forces.”
“I hate you and your damn wars, and your insane biowarfare programs. I hope and pray every maggot and warmonger involved burns in Hell.”
“I suspect you may get your wish.”
She cowered as he reached into his jacket pocket—
— withdrawing a cell phone. “Call your family. Tell them you’re okay. Nothing more.”
With a trembling hand, she took the device and dialed.
“Hello?”
She broke into a sob. “Doug?”
“Leigh! Where are you? Did you get out of the city? I’ve been calling you all night!”
She gazed up at Captain Zwawa through a pool of tears. “I’m okay. I’m at an Army base on Governor’s Island.”
“Thank God. When will you be home? Wait… are you infected?”
“I’m okay. Are you okay? Are the kids safe?”
“We’re all here. We’re okay. Autumn’s right here next to me. Autumn, you want to say hi to Mommy?”
A groggy child’s voice said, “Hi, Mommy.”
Leigh burst into sobs. Her throat constricted as she talked. “Hi, baby doll. Are you taking good care of Parker and Daddy for me?”
“Yes, Mommy. Are you taking care of Patrick for me?”
Leigh’s heart pounded in her ear
s.
Jay Zwawa’s eyebrows rose, his expression darkening.
“Honey, Mommy has to go. I love you.” She powered off the phone, terrified. “I took him home to meet my family. He bonded with my little girl.”
The captain pocketed the cell phone. Without another word, he trudged up the bare wooden steps, locking the door behind him.
Leigh Nelson crawled off to a corner of the basement and retched.
Battery Park
6:21 A.M.
Ernest Lozano followed Sheridan Ernstmeyer into the apartment building lobby, their guns drawn. The small marble foyer was dark, save for a lone yellow emergency light blinking along the ceiling.
Shadows crawled. Moans rose from coughing victims. Muffled screams reached out from first-floor dwellings. The foul air reeked of death.
Lozano was losing his composure quickly. “This is bullshit. DeBorn’s infected, he could be dead before we even make it back outside.”
“Shut up.” The female assassin searched for a stairwell, her cardiovascular system amped up on adrenaline and amphetamines. “Over here.” She yanked open the fire door, releasing a cat. The skittish house pet scurried past them into the darkness.
“Floor?”
“Huh?”
“Shepherd’s wife, what floor is she on?”
“Eleven. Sheridan, this is a fool’s errand.”
Turning to face him, she aimed the barrel of her 9mm at his mask. “DeBorn’s a survivor, he’ll make it out of here alive. Will you?”
“You’re crazy.”
“You mean I’m a crazy bitch. That is what you were thinking, isn’t it, Ernie? Go on, make a menstrual reference. We’ll see who will be the one bleeding.”
The eyes peering at Lozano from behind the woman’s mask were frenetic. “Let’s just find Shepherd’s wife and get the hell out of here.”
She poked his chest with her index finger. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.” Backing away, she turned and headed up the concrete stairwell.
TriBeCa, New York
6:24 A.M.
The death of a child was profoundly unnatural, a perversion of existence. Children were simply not supposed to die before their parents. When it happened, it unleashed boundless grief, a pain so intense, the emptiness so encompassing that it could spiral the bereaved parent into oblivion.
David Kantor had been to war. He had treated children missing limbs. He had held their lifeless bodies in his arms. After five deployments spanning two wars, the medic had never grown immune to any tragedy involving children. Only this was different. A sight so heart-wrenching that only the overwhelming need to find his daughter prevented him from a mental breakdown.
David staggered from one classroom to the next, the beam of his flashlight uncloaking Scythe in its most evil form. Infected by plague, the youngest had huddled together on the floor like a newborn litter of puppies, drawn to one another’s body warmth. Human snowflakes stained in blood.
She won’t be here. These are the elementary-school students. Find the seventh graders.
David heard someone moaning. Moving quickly toward the sound, he cut across the corridor into the library, his flashlight homing in on the source.
The headmaster was lying on the carpeted floor, his head propped on an encyclopedia. Rodney Miller opened his eyes, each labored gasp exhaling a breath of blood.
“Miller, it’s David Kantor.”
“Kantor?”
“Gavi’s father. Where is she? Where are the older kids?”
The headmaster struggled to form words. With a final gasp, he muttered, “gym.”
Chinatown
6:26 P.M.
A driving wind whipped the East River into a rabid chop, stirring the muddy cloud bank hanging over Manhattan into an atmospheric maelstrom. Below the toxic ceiling of carbon dioxide and chemical compounds, the survivors of Scythe huddled on rooftops, each patch of elevated asphalt a refugee camp, the buildings’ apartments having long been abandoned to the dying, the streets to the dead.
Pankaj Patel ground the gears of the gray Volkswagen microbus as he drove southwest along Henry Street, the bonnet of the clunky five-speed relic sideswiping awnings and everything else littering the tight sidewalks. He passed beneath the remains of the Manhattan Bridge. Turned right on Catherine Street. Drove another two blocks before he was forced to stop.
The north — south thoroughfare known as the Bowery was a virtual pileup of cars, buses, and trucks that occupied every square foot of asphalt and sidewalk as far as the eye could see. Most of the passengers caught on the Bowery had long since abandoned their vehicles, seeking bathrooms and food. Those few who had steadfastly remained inside their cars managed to avoid the pandemic into the night, only to find themselves trapped on their island of sanctuary with nowhere to go.
The silhouette of Chinatown’s redbrick buildings and rickety fire escapes loomed beyond the Bowery’s moat of vehicles like a medieval castle.
Pankaj turned to the others. “We have two choices: Remain here and die, or attempt to pass through Chinatown on foot. It’s a short walk to the Financial District from here, then it's clear on to Battery Park and Paolo’s brother-in-law’s boat. Manisha?”
“My crystal has calmed. My spiritual guide is in agreement.”
“Virgil?”
“Agreed.”
“Paolo?”
“Francesca’s water broke, she just had her first contraction. What happens when the baby starts coming?”
“We’ll have to make do… find a cart or something to wheel her around in. Patrick?”
Virgil nudged Shep awake. “Your wife and daughter are close. Are you ready to continue on?”
“Yes.”
Exiting the minibus, the seven survivors made their way across the Bowery on foot, climbing and sliding over the hoods and trunks of cars until they reached an eighteen-wheeler. The produce truck was lying on its side, blocking their entrance into Chinatown.
Sixteen hours earlier, the Asian enclave had been a crush of humanity, thousands of tourists filtering through dim sum restaurants and bargain hunting along the cluttered narrow streets. By mid-afternoon, the tourists had fled. By dusk, the Asian ghetto had segregated itself from the rest of Manhattan. Organizing quickly, Chinatown’s leaders had cleared the streets of vehicular traffic as far north as Canal Street, ordering access into the community sealed off from all outsiders, the borders barricaded with over-turned delivery trucks.
Pankaj signaled them to follow, the psychology professor having located an accessible fire escape. “We’ll climb up to the roof, then make our way south to Columbus Park.” Scaling a trash bin, he reached up and grabbed the lowest rung of a steel ladder, drawing it down from its slide axis.
Minutes later, the group was ascending the side of the building, the rusted slats of the fire escape’s steps creaking beneath their weight.
United Nations Secretariat Building
6:32 A.M.
The emergency generator had been powered on, its tentacles rewired to distribute electricity only to the building’s six elevators. In the lobby, the process of disseminating Racal suits began, the self-contained hazardous-environment apparel loaded onto carts and sent by military escort to the suites still harboring survivors.
On the thirty-third floor, President Eric Kogelo and his staff had already received their suits. The leader of the free world has been awake for almost thirty hours, under enormous pressure. Throughout the long night, he had been assured by CDC physicians that his fatigue and low-grade fever were simply a result of exhaustion and not Scythe. Kogelo had pretended to accept their verdict but had chosen to isolate himself inside his private office “just as a precaution.”
That the buboes had swelled along his groin and not his neck had helped hide the truth from the rest of his staff. Only John Zwawa at Fort Detrick knew that the president had been infected, the colonel hell-bent on delivering a cure by the time Kogelo arrived at Governor’s Island.
“Mr. Pr
esident, the vaccine is in Manhattan, being acquired as we speak. If the buboes only appeared six hours ago, then we still have time. I know it’s difficult, sir, but try to remain calm.”
For a while, Kogelo had remained calm, tasking himself to leave video messages to his wife and children, his vice president, Congress, and the American people. Internal hemorrhaging had forced him to stop, each blood-drenched cough raking his lungs with pain.
Now, as he lay on the leather couch in his Racal suit, he prayed to his Maker that he be allotted a little more time… to see his kids again, to hold his wife—
— and to forestall the war that would end all wars.
Chinatown
6:37 A.M.
One level after another, they continued their ascent on the rickety fire escape. Manisha kept a watchful eye on Dawn, Pankaj assisting Virgil. Paolo helped Francesca up the narrow trellis-like steps, his wife’s progressing labor forcing her to pause every eight to nine minutes to “ride” a contraction.
Patrick was the last to step off the fire escape onto the eight-story building’s summit — an expanse of tarmac and gravel that revealed a disjointed maze of silhouetted rooftops. Some were flat, others angled, almost none equal in height, creating a labyrinth of shadows that concealed brick ravines and interconnecting bridges, pipes and heating ducts, air conditioners and chimney stacks, antennae and satellite dishes — all jutting out at varying degrees in the darkness.
“This way,” said Pankaj, certain of the direction yet unsure of the path. Ushering them to the west, he resumed the lead—
— when the asphalt suddenly rose before him in undulating waves, the shadows becoming people. Huddled beneath blankets, hundreds of Asian men, women, and children awaken to greet the invaders with utter silence, the dying light from their lanterns casting an unworldly aura upon the confrontation.