The 9/11 Machine

by Greg Enslen

  “Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “We believe you. We’ve been through all the information that you gave to Marburger, and it all checks out, up to this point, obviously. There is no way to corroborate future events.”

  Marburger nodded and turned to Don. “They are just trying to get the measure of you. We’re meeting with the president tomorrow.”

  Fleischer looked up from the iPad, not paying attention.

  “Can I keep this?” he asked.

  2.7

  Presidential Briefing

  Later that evening, Card and Fleischer met the president in the briefing room, recounting their dinner meeting with Dr. Ellis. Printouts of some of the newspapers and magazine covers from the CD were arrayed on a large table in front of them.

  “And we think this is legit?” the president asked—even though it was after 9 p.m., he was still in his suit and tie.

  “I’m not sure, sir, but there are a lot of details he cannot know. He had a handwritten copy of Dr. Marburger’s acceptance speech, and the handwriting matches. Dr. Marburger had just started drafting his version the day before, and comparisons of the two documents, including the punctuation and writing, were uncanny.”

  Bush nodded, looking at The 9/11 Commission Report. Card handed it to the president, who began thumbing through it.

  “I’ve done some preliminary work on this,” Card said, “which Dr. Ellis just turned over. There are stunning amounts of detail in the book, including classified intelligence from the Clinton administration. So far, everything is 100 percent accurate. This book says that the hijackers trained here in the United States for their piloting duties. Most of them are currently in Germany, completing their plans before coming to America in early August. It’s really very frightening, if this plot were to come to fruition.”

  Bush nodded. “What about this other Dr. Ellis—what happened to him? The one who supposedly came back in time and delivered all this stuff,” he said, indicating the table in front of them.

  “Dead. Died upon entering our timeline, according to…our version of Dr. Ellis,” Fleischer said.

  “‘Our version?’” the president smirked. “Really? Different versions of the same person running around?”

  Card shook his head. “No. According to Dr. Ellis, two people can’t occupy the same space together. He described it as saying you couldn’t have two trees growing in the same space—either there is one tree or no trees, but not two trees or a hundred. Once the second version enters the timeline, according to Ellis, the first one remains and the second one fades. He said the other Dr. Ellis started bleeding from his nose and mouth and then died on his couch,” Card said, pointing at the CD. “The body faded out of existence moments later.”

  The president looked incredulous. “‘Faded out of existence.’ Sounds like an episode of The Twilight Zone to me, boys.”

  “I know,” Card said. “But to answer your earlier question, his background checks out. The FBI did a quick check on the guy—it shows exactly what we thought. He’s a famous, brilliant theoretical physicist whose specialty is quantum mechanics. He’s been happily teaching and doing theoretical research for ten years. But if someone were ever going to be successful in building a time machine, this would be the guy. Or an older version of this guy, with ten more years of research and a really good reason to succeed.”

  Bush nodded. “And no ties to terrorism? How are his finances?”

  “No, finances are normal, nothing out of the ordinary,” Card replied. “Pays his taxes, owes money on his mortgage, etc. He’s the real deal. And he’s never had any contact, as far as we can tell, with any questionable entities or persons.”

  Ari Fleischer leaned forward. “What about Marburger? He seems to believe the guy. Wants to go ahead and start building the machine.”

  Bush shook his head. “We don’t need any damned time machine. Sounds like a load of bunk, anyway. What worries me is this stuff about what happens after the attack. I don’t like that sound of that President Bush. Sounds like an asshole.”

  The others said nothing.

  The president smiled, looking at them both. “No disagreement? Interesting. I love the way Cheney gets him declared unfit and moves into the driver’s seat. What about his other information? How close is it?”

  They were quiet for a moment, and then Card flipped open another folder. “So far, it’s been dead on. This guy knows what’s going to happen and when. We can use this.”

  “Notice how he only hits the high points,” Fleischer said, tapping the reports. “Too bad there aren’t any stock tips in there.”

  “Or baseball scores,” Bush agreed. “I’d love to know how the Rangers do. But seriously, if we move forward with him, then we have to assume this information is credible. What do we know about these supposed terrorists?”

  Card looked at him. “There’s the problem.”

  “What do you mean?” Fleischer asked.

  Card looked at them both. “Well, we really only have one chance to verify the information in the report and make it work to our advantage. We don’t get a second chance.”

  Fleischer looked confused. “Why?”

  “Because this information is of use to us only as long as we don’t change anything,” President Bush said, understanding what Card was driving at. “As soon as we change something, we’re flying in the dark.”

  “Right,” Andrew Card said, nodding. “This information comes to us from a time when no one did anything to change it, because no one knew to change it. Once we change something, new stuff may start to happen, events and other things that we can’t predict.”

  “The more changes we make, Fleischer said, “the less valuable this information is.”

  Bush nodded. “So, what you’re saying is, we pick the right time to intervene?”

  Card nodded. “Right.”

  “So, we only get one shot,” Bush said.

  “And we have to wait a while,” Card added.

  “Wait? Why?” Fleischer said.

  Card leaned forward. “Well, if we just go in and stop this, no one will give us credit for stopping something huge from happening. It’ll just be a random arrest of a bunch of Middle Eastern thugs.”

  Bush read part of the next section of the summary report in front of him. “Who is this Mohammed Atta? Do we have any info on him? He’s the leader, right?”

  “Yes,” Fleischer began, looking at his report. “He’s supposedly the leader. He’ll fly one of the planes—the first plane—into the World Trade Center’s North Tower. And Dr. Ellis’ information matches what the FBI knows: In July 2000, he enrolled at Huffman Aviation International in Venice, Florida. In December, he was back in the Miami area, practicing on a Boeing 727 simulator. He returned to Germany and left again in May 2001, first travelling to Spain. He’s in Florida right now.”

  The room fell silent. A navy steward entered, quietly setting down some coffee and a small tray of pastries before exiting.

  “Kinda scary, thinking about it, huh?” Card asked, looking up from the report. “What if these guys were successful?

  Bush nodded. “They’re using our own free society to get the training they need.”

  “Bastards,” Fleischer said low, under his breath. “Over 21,000 dead, including half of Congress. Did you see those pictures of the Pentagon? It’s half gone.”

  “No one will believe any of this,” the president said, shaking his head.

  They were quiet for a few long moments as each read parts of the report. Bush sipped at some of the coffee the steward had brought in.

  “Couldn’t we… oh, I don’t know,” Fleischer began. “Could we release what they were planning—maybe even some estimated casualty numbers?”

  Card shook his head. “It wouldn’t have the same impact. No one knows how this would affect the economy.”

  “Did you guys read the magazine headlines from a year after the incident?” Fleischer asked. “Time said that the president was a lock for reelection.”
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br />   Bush looked at him sharply. “You’re not suggesting we let this happen...”

  “No, no, no, of course not,” Fleischer said, waving his hands. “I could never live with myself, if we could’ve done something to prevent it and didn’t. I’m just saying that no one, outside of the people who’ve seen this information, will truly appreciate how big a bullet we dodged. Or will dodge.”

  Bush smiled. “This time travel stuff really plays hell with the verb tenses.”

  “So what do we do?” Fleischer asked.

  “I suggest that we do what we do best in D.C.—form a super secret committee to study this,” Card said, pointing at the files. “Then we decide when to act. I’m guessing we intervene the day or a few days before, when all the terrorists are in place and the operation is a go. We storm the planes, seize the terrorists—they’ll all be carrying small box cutters. We parade them out and then announce exactly what they were planning to do.”

  “Good,” the president said. “No one will believe us.”

  No one answered. After a moment, Fleischer asked the question that was on all their minds.

  “What about Marburger? And Dr. Ellis?”

  Card nodded. “I say we hold them close to the vest. Put them someplace quiet—let them run the intervention committee. Get them and some guys in a think tank and figure out the perfect time to step in. After that, I suggest we have them start building. It took the other Dr. Ellis years to build his, so we might as well get started.”

  2.8

  A Messy Desk

  Cassandra sat at her desk, reading through FBI reports and taking notes on a small yellow pad. Her desk was surrounded by dozens of others, but hers was a complete mess. Books were piled precariously on the edges, and papers sprouted from every drawer and in plastic and paper bags on the floor.

  Seeing something in a report she was reading, she turned and scooted some papers out of the way, revealing a keyboard. She tapped at the computer on her desk and reached up to adjust the monitor, and, in the process, knocked a stack of papers off the desk. They cascaded to the floor like a waterfall. A fellow reporter snorted as she walked by. Cassie ignored it, tapping away at the computer, when her phone rang.

  “Washington Post. Cassie O’Neil.”

  She listened for a long moment, still typing, then stopped. She turned slowly and rooted for a pad and pen, or anything to write with.

  “Hang on. OK. Today?” she asked. “No orders on the books?”

  She jotted more information down, then continued listening. After a minute of nodding and a few more quick, bird-like questions, she hung up the phone and stood, knocking over another stack of papers. She ignored them and walked across the large room, where a score of other reporters were working, hunched over their own computers, and stuck her head in an office. The nameplate on the door read Mike Foreman, Editor, City Desk.

  “Mike,” Cassie said quietly.

  The man looked up at her and grunted.

  “I need to talk to Jenkins over at the Pentagon. Might be on to something. Anybody have any contacts at the FBI?”

  Mike nodded, reaching for his Rolodex. “Yeah, I do. Why?”

  Cassie shook her head. “Not sure, yet. Something’s getting investigated, pretty high level. A source just called me. I need to know if it’s on the books, or if it’s coming from the Bureau.”

  Mike looked at her for a moment, and then nodded. “OK. Let’s meet in ten minutes.”

  2.9

  Tea

  In Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on the evening of July 6, three men were seated around a small table in a dining room. Middle Eastern music played quietly in the background. They were eating flatbread and sipping hot tea and discussing a series of plane trips they had recently taken—each had been able to successfully conceal a small, metal box cutter on them and had made it onto their flights with no difficulty.

  The three men had been taking intensive flight training over the past six months. They were quietly discussing the relative difficulties of flying large passenger jets when a phone on the wall in the kitchen rang.

  One man stood, answering the phone.

  “This is Atta,” he said in Arabic.

  After a long pause, he replied back into the phone.

  “God is Great. This is excellent. Thank you. Praise be to Allah.”

  Atta walked back over to the table and sat down, regarding the others. They remained silent for a long moment, before one of them, Marwan al Shehhi, spoke up.

  “Is that the news we’ve been waiting for?”

  Atta nodded.

  “Yes, my brothers.”

  The third man, Ziad Jarrah, nodded and smiled.

  “The other teams have passed through Canadian customs without incident. God is Great. We are now in the final stages.”

  Groups of other Saudi Arabians were entering the country—each pilot had a team of people under him. “Are we to help get them settled?” Shehhi asked.

  Atta nodded. “I’ll be traveling in a few days to Madrid, so you’ll need to get them settled. Get them new IDs, and the younger men seem to enjoy going to the gym.”

  Shehhi nodded. “Madrid?”

  “Yes, to meet Binalshibh. I’m sure he’ll pass along the final instructions.”

  Jarrah spoke up. “I agree with you—I think the Capitol would be a better target. Why does bin Laden want to strike the White House?”

  Atta shook his head and ate. “I’m not sure. He prefers it, so it shall be.”

  “Will you mention Indian Point?” In their familiarization flights over the New York area, Atta had mentioned the nuclear power plant as a potential target, but the other pilots were leery—the airspace over nuclear plants was more heavily restricted, so they were unable to do reconnaissance flights. The chances of getting shot down during the actual attacks would be increased

  “Yes, I’ll mention it. But I think he will not approve.” Atta looked at them. “Soon, the target list will be set, and we’ll move into the final phase.”

  He raised his glass of tea to the others and drank deeply.

  2.10

  Lawrence Livermore

  On the morning of July 10, Ellis was just finishing up his room service breakfast when there was a quiet knock at his door.

  “Come in,” he called. He knew the Secret Service agent posted outside his door had a keycard.

  The door opened and the agent poked his head in. “Dr. Ellis, Dr. Marburger is here for you.”

  Ellis nodded and Marburger entered, panting.

  “Don, you’ve got to get packed.”

  “Good,” Ellis said. “I don’t like this waiting around, John. Not one bit.”

  Marburger nodded. “I know, Ellis, I know.”

  “You asked me down here to hold more meetings with the committee, which we did, and then you said to hang around town and wait. That was three days ago, and I’ve been held up here, cooling my heels. With a babysitter, no less,” he said, pointing at the door. “What’s going on?”

  John glanced at the door and shrugged. “It was just for your own protection. There are rumors going around. But I just heard from Andrew Card—the committee is finished. The president approved our recommendations and wants to meet. Now. After that, we’re heading to Livermore.”

  “No, that’s not going to work,” Ellis said, thinking of the warehouse in Red Hook and his family. He needed to be nearby—

  “It’s okay,” Marburger said. “You’ll be back in a week. The president wants to discuss the committee’s recommendations and the machine. They have already set up a secure facility and are starting to create components for the machine. He wants us out there to oversee the project. The president wants it done as soon possible, just in case.”

  Don thought for a second and nodded. “OK, but I need to get back soon—I have to be with my family on 9/11, just to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

  Marburger nodded. “Absolutely.”

  2.11

  A Leak

  One m
onth later, on the morning of August 12, 2001, Andrew Card and several other White House staffers were in the White House Situation Room, seated around a big conference room table. Everyone in the room was quietly eating bagels and drinking coffee from the table set up on one end of the room. Card noticed that no one was talking.

  Everyone stood when President Bush entered the room, but he waved them back down into their seats and began pacing around the table, his face an angry scowl.

  “Just how the hell did this happen?” the president asked before he even sat down.

  No one answered.

  “Have you read this yet?” he asked rhetorically, holding up a copy of this morning’s Washington Post. Of course, everyone had read it—it was the point of the meeting.

  Andrew Card had noticed a change, a focused sense of urgency in the president, since learning about the impending terrorist attack and its devastating effect on the future United States. Card had also noticed a hardening in the president’s demeanor—it was as if the event had already taken place in his mind, and now he was determined to make sure it didn’t really happen. He’d been on edge, less likely to want to discuss policy or diplomacy with the Chinese or carry on lengthy conversations about trade policy or the environment.

  President Bush only wanted to know how the investigation was progressing. And he wanted daily updates on the machine.

  As they got closer and closer to the date of the attack, Card had seen the president’s stress level ratcheting up, day by day.

  Now, he was mad. They had a leak.

  The president looked down the table at all of them, then plopped down in the chair and began reading. “Sources in the Bush Administration are reporting that a high-level anti-terrorist committee has been created to study possible indications of a major terrorist strike to take place in the next six to eight weeks. Sources would not confirm whether these strikes were to occur in the United States or abroad, or any other details...”