“Laura … it's me.”
She was unable to speak, overwhelmed with relief. It was Eric; he'd survived, after all. But as soon as the thought raced through her mind, so did the doubts. If it was Eric, why was it so quiet in the background? He still had to be in the middle of downtown Man—
“Laura, it's Clay … are you there?”
She swallowed back a sob. “I … I thought you were Eric.”
“I just woke up. Laura … are you watching it?” His voice was tense, frightened. “Eric was there, wasn't he? In the World Trade Center?”
“Yes. He called me right before—” Her composure broke, and three quiet sobs sounded over the phone line. “Right before the second plane hit.”
“How about since then? Has anyone heard from him?”
“No.” She took a series of quick breaths and saw dark spots dance before her eyes. She had to exhale, had to force herself to stay calm.
“Laura … are you okay?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I'm … waiting for his call.”
Clay did a loud breath, and his own fear was tangible. “You shouldn't be alone. I'm on my way.”
Clay was right. She needed someone to hold her and tell her everything would be okay, someone who loved Eric as much as she did. “Please, Clay. Come quick. The waiting is killing me.”
****
Jamie sat frozen on the floor in front of the TV, convinced that at any moment someone from the fire department would call and tell her everything was okay. Suddenly, the image on the screen changed to a live shot of the blazing north tower. Jamie heard the sound of distant shouts and sirens, then, in a surreal almost slow motion, the outer walls of the building peeled back, and it began to collapse. Like a house of cards, in a matter of seconds, the entire structure disappeared, sending a rush of smoke and ash through the streets of Manhattan and causing the cameraman to run for his life.
Raw terror filled Jamie's heart. If a hundred firefighters had died in the south tower collapse, then …
She stood and knew she had only a few seconds. She raced across the room, tore open the bathroom door, and positioned her face over the toilet. With every heave of her stomach, she prayed the same thing. Please, God … not Take!
When she was finished she wiped her mouth and stared at her face. It was pale and pinched, stonelike. As if she'd aged ten years that morning. She realized then that her mind-set had changed. The frantic sense she'd had until the collapse of the north tower was gone. There was no fire left to fight, no building left to evacuate. There were two possibilities. Jake had either been in one of the buildings, or he hadn't. If he'd managed to stay outside, Jamie was certain he would have found his way to safety. If he'd been in one of the buildings …
Fear placed its cold fingers around her throat and squeezed.
“No,” she whispered at her reflection. “Not Jake. Please not Jake.”
There was nothing to do now, nothing but sit by the phone and wait. Jamie couldn't inhale fully, couldn't will her heart to slow down. Instead, she shuffled out of the bathroom and took the chair closest to the phone. The TV played on in the background, and Brownie let out an occasional quiet whine. But Jamie didn't really hear any of it. There was only one sound that mattered, one sound that would give her permission to kick fear in the gut and send it on its way. The sound of the phone ringing, and a voice on the other end telling Jamie that Jake was all right.
She stared at the receiver, unable to fathom anything else, unable to blink. It would happen, it had to. Jake was okay. He had found a way to save himself, and Larry too. The phone call would come any minute, and that night they would talk about what could've happened.
They would order take-out Chinese food, and Jake could give Sierra horsey rides for an hour straight if she wanted. They would make love and hold each other, grateful that Jake hadn't been hurt. It was all going to be okay. It had to be; Jake had promised her.
And not once in all her life had Jake Bryan ever broken a promise.
THIRTEEN
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 10:33 A.M.
The dust was still thick, but Captain Aaron Hisel didn't care.
He was fifty-two years old, a veteran with mild asthma, but he was going back in if it killed him. There was no telling how many firefighters and civilians were trapped in the rubble. Most of them had to be dead, but as awful as the collapse was, someone might have survived. Every second counted, and he was desperate to make his way to the place where—only an hour earlier—the World Trade Center had stood. The past sixty minutes had been a series of terrifying nightmares, none of which seemed even remotely possible.
After arriving at the scene, Hisel and the men from Ladder 96 had reached the twelfth floor when they'd come across a group of handicapped people waiting alone in an office.
The firefighters had been able to get the disabled workers onto their backs, down the stairs, and outside to a transport bus half a block down from the World Trade Center. They'd been loading the people on the bus when the south tower collapsed.
“Run!” Hisel had shouted, and the entire unit scrambled into a nearby café.
“Our guys are in that building!” one of the men had shouted as they darted under tables. “The whole unit!”
The thunderous roar had echoed to the core of Hisel's being. When it finally stopped, he did a head count. Each of the eight men from Ladder 96 was accounted for. Their rescue of the handicapped workers had saved their lives.
“Okay,” Hisel had told the men. “Let's go find our guys.”
Lifting his shirt to cover his mouth, he led the others on a charge toward the collapsed south tower. But chaos reigned, and it was impossible to make progress. It took twenty minutes to reach West Street, and by then the warning was being sounded.
The north tower was about to go!
Once more Hisel and the rest of Ladder 96 ran for their lives and this time found shelter in a small flower shop a block away. Minutes later they felt the ground rumble and heard the same awful, unforgettable roar. The force of debris that followed the collapse of the north tower was like nothing Hisel had ever seen. It reminded him of footage he'd seen from Hurricane Andrew. Only this was worse, more like an atomic bomb, hurtling through the air waves of crushed cement, shards of glass, sections of walls, and automobiles. Even inside the store, each of his men had been knocked to the ground from the force of the collapse.
At one point a body had blown past them.
Then slowly, the air had cleared enough to barely see across the street. That's when Hisel had assessed his men one more time and ordered them to pair up.
“It's thick enough to get lost.” Hisel wasn't a barker like Maxwell, but he wanted to sound adamant on this point. He coughed twice. “The rubble will be unstable. There'll be pockets, some twenty, thirty feet deep or more. And remember, that jet fuel's still burning.”
Hisel didn't have to say the obvious. The death toll among firefighters was bound to be devastating. They headed once more toward West Street, where they'd parked their trucks just an hour ago. Hisel tried not to stare through the smoke at the sickening space in the sky where the towers had stood. Instead, he kept his eyes down, leading his men through a maze of debris and destroyed vehicles. Two inches of gray-white, siltlike ash covered everything, including body parts.
If Maxwell and the men from Engine 57 were still alive, it'd be a miracle.
Finally they reached the foot of a mountain of debris. Though the air was hazy and vehicles lay crushed all around them, Hisel had no doubt: This pile of broken cement and glass and crushed steel was all that remained of the south tower. He directed the men to spread out in pairs.
“Remember what I said.” He nodded at them and coughed again. “Be careful. Look out for each other. We need to get in there, find our guys, and get back to the station. I want every man accounted for.”
They set out, and Hisel thought about his words. No matter what the evidence before them s
uggested, he had to believe, had to hope. He nodded to one of the station's probies, Joe Landers, and the two of them took off together, walking along West Street.
“I want to find the rigs.” Hisel coughed again. “Just in case any of the men made it back to the engines.”
Landers nodded and kept his eyes on the ground.
As they walked, Hisel's cough grew worse. Acrid smoke burned his lungs, and he could taste the ash in his mouth. He stopped and bent at the waist, working to catch his breath. If he didn't find a way to filter the air, he'd have to turn back.
“You okay, Captain?” Landers was using a shirt to cover his mouth.
“Yeah.” He coughed again, this time until he could feel his blood rushing to his face. “Just slow.”
Why hadn't he covered his mouth earlier? He ripped his shirt open and grabbed the white T-shirt beneath. Shoving it up against his nose and mouth, he finally caught his breath, and they continued down the street.
Through the dense, smoky air they continued. Fire trucks—most of them destroyed—lined their path. But none of them belonged to Engine 57 or Ladder 96. They walked on, and then, up ahead, Hisel could just make out a pair of trucks. One was smashed to half its size, but the other … the other was still standing. “Those are the station rigs, aren't they?” He picked up his pace.
“Yeah.” Landers kept up, his tone excited. “Looks like it.”
Hisel was about to yell out, to see if anyone could hear him, when he saw something move beneath one of the trucks, the one that looked less damaged.
“Did you see that?” Landers stopped and stared at the spot where the movement had come from.
They were still thirty yards away, when a man crawled out from beneath the truck on his belly and then struggled to his knees.
Hisel and Landers ran to him, desperate to make out his face. When they were five yards away, Hisel stopped short. “Jake Bryan?” The captain let his head fall back and hooted out loud. “Jake Bryan! Yes! You made it!”
Jake blinked and swayed some. He was covered in ash, his head bleeding, and he had what looked like burns and scrapes over most of his face. In addition, his shoes had been blown off. There was no telling where his uniform was, but Hisel was certain the man was Jake.
“Hey, JB!” Landers reached him first. “Where's everyone else?”
“What …” Jake's eyes looked funny. He struggled to stand, and Hisel grabbed his arm.
“Steady, JB … take it slow.”
Jake got one foot under him, but as soon as he set his other one down, his knees buckled, and he went limp. Hisel eased him onto the ground and felt the pulse in his wrist. It was weak and racing. “He needs help.”
“Head injury.” Landers stooped over Jake.
“At least.” Hisel pointed Landers to the rig. “Check it out. See if anyone else is under there, or maybe inside the cab. We're still missing eight men.”
Landers jogged toward the fire truck while Hisel slid JB's eyelids up and examined them. They were equal, but too dilated, even for the cloud of smoke they were standing in. “Can you hear me, Jake?”
JB didn't move. He was unconscious. And depending on his injuries, if they didn't get him help fast, he might not make it.
Landers returned and met Hisel's eyes. “No one's there, sir. No men at all.” He was breathless as he shot a quick look at JB. “How is he?”
“Bad. Help me.” Hisel crouched down and scooped Jake into a chair-carry position. Moving as fast as he could, Landers took up his place on the other side of Jake and did the same.
With his free hand, Hisel kept his T-shirt smothered against his face. He only coughed twice as they struggled back down West Street and finally found a waiting ambulance. Two paramedics saw them coming and grabbed a stretcher.
“Where'd you find him?” one of them asked as he helped Hisel and Landers position JB on the stretcher.
“He's a firefighter. Jake Bryan from Engine 57.” Hisel's sides heaved, but he hadn't felt better in all his life. If Jake got help right away, he would make it. Hisel was sure.
With expert quickness, the paramedic strapped JB to the stretcher and began an intravenous line. “I know JB. We've worked lots of jobs together.” The paramedic looked up and met Hisel's eyes. “Where's his buddy, Larry?”
“We didn't find him. The rest of the men from Engine 57 are …” Hisel sunk his hands into his pockets and realized something. If the men he'd sent out to handle the search didn't find the missing men, they might all be dead. Eight firefighters from one station. Even more devastating was the fact that every other station in Manhattan had to be facing similar casualties. The enormity of the department's loss was something Hisel refused to consider yet. He cleared his throat but couldn't find his voice.
Landers stepped up and finished the thought. “The rest of the men are missing. We have teams of firefighters looking for them. That's how we found JB.”
The paramedics worked to load Jake into the waiting ambulance. One climbed into the back with JB, and the other shut the doors and headed for the driver's seat. “He'll be at Mount Sinai Medical Center,” the driver shouted as he climbed in the front seat. “Someone call his wife.”
Hisel and Landers watched the ambulance pull away, sirens blaring. When the sound had faded some, Landers drew a deep breath. “You ever meet Jake's wife?”
“Jamie?” Hisel's voice sounded choked. The events of the day were catching up to him, and a cold wind blew across the plains of his heart. He was not a man who cried easily or who expressed his emotions without being prompted. But here, standing in the ashes of the World Trade Center, facing the loss of hundreds of firefighters, Hisel had the strangest longing to find a quiet spot and simply weep. Of course that was impossible; the rescue was nowhere near finished. He exhaled slow and easy, steadying himself. “Sure, I've met her.”
“Yeah, well …” For a moment it looked like Landers wanted to cry too. Instead, he sucked in hard and gave a shake of his head as he patted the back of the ambulance. “Tonight, when I can't fall asleep because of the people we lost down here, I'm gonna think about Jamie Bryan. We may have to call a lot of wives and tell them their men are missing. But Jamie won't be one of them.”
Landers was right. Headquarters needed to be contacted immediately. People were no doubt frantic trying to find out who had survived and who was missing. He grabbed his radio from his back pocket and pushed a series of buttons. “This is Captain Aaron Hisel with Ladder 96. All of our men are accounted for and searching the rubble for survivors.” He hesitated. “Their wives need to know they're okay.”
There was static at the other end, and Hisel had to put his hand over his other ear to hear the dispatcher. “I'm sorry, I missed that.”
“We'll make the calls.” This time the words were clearer. “What about Engine 57 from your station? The unit was assigned to the sixty-first floor, south tower, is that right?”
“Right.” Hisel felt sick to his stomach at the thought. Eight men, all friends of his, more than sixty floors off the ground when the tower collapsed. It was unimaginable. “Most of the unit's missing, but we just found Jake Bryan near the station's rig on West Street. He was alone, so we're not sure what happened to the others.”
“I've got hundreds of people calling. Keep us posted as soon as you hear anything.”
“Will do. Hey, in the meantime do me a favor.”
“Anything.” The dispatcher was quick to answer.
“Look up Jake Bryan's file and add his wife to your list of calls.” Hisel thought about that for a minute. “In fact, call her first. She needs to get to the hospital.”
“I'll do it right now.”
Hisel could hear a smile in the man's voice. There'd been precious few bits of good news that morning. This was one of them. And as they hung up, a single ray of light shone through the shadowy cloud of smoke and ash and devastating loss that darkened most of Manhattan. Because in a few minutes, Jamie Bryan would know the truth.
That th
ough the world had been hit hard that day, her part of it was still intact.
****
The sirens rang out in the deepest area of his brain. He opened his eyes wide and looked around. He was in a vehicle of some kind, traveling very fast, and next to him was a man in a uniform.
“JB, can you hear me? How're you feeling?” The man leaned closer and looked hard at one of his eyes and then the other. “Looks like you got banged up pretty good.”
He blinked.
B? Who's B? And where am I? He wondered why was he in the fast car and who was the man next to him? He closed his eyes again and tried to remember.
“Jake, we're in an ambulance. We're getting you to the hospital.” The man's voice was kind, but urgent. “Hang in there, buddy.”
Panic punched him in the gut, and he opened his eyes. Who was Jake, and why did the man beside him think they were friends? He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain sliced through his head and he cried out.
“Take it easy, JB. Relax. Everything's gonna be okay.”
He let his head fall back against the stretcher. At almost the same time, the car stopped and the doors flew open. Suddenly, a blur of people surrounded him, carrying him from the vehicle toward what looked like a hospital.
A hundred questions came to mind, but he couldn't make his mouth form a single word. The moment they entered the building, a nurse came up alongside his stretcher and took his hand.
“Jake … we're so glad you made it.” Her expression changed, but she kept up with the stretcher as the men from the ambulance moved him down a hallway. “What about Larry? Did he leave the building with you?”
What was she talking about? What building? He'd been in a car, not a building. He tried to open his mouth, but his face was in too much pain. Finally he forced his lips to work, ignoring the searing feeling tearing at his cheeks. “Who … who's Larry?”
The men carried the stretcher into a large room where more people were waiting, but the nurse stayed at his side. “Larry Henning. He works Engine 57 with you.”
One Tuesday Morning & Beyond Tuesday Morning Compilation Page 16