The 9/11 Machine

by Greg Enslen

  But leaders in the region did not fail to notice that, without the immediate support of the United States, Israel was a sitting duck.

  On July 2, Iraqi forces made it across the Jordanian border and also crossed the Israeli border, joining in the fight. As the sun set on that day, Israel was fighting back, but they were being overrun by the combined forces of several countries, and the citizens of Israel were fighting with trained soldiers, engaged in house-to-house combat, warring fiercely to defend their homes.

  Still, the American president waited.

  Finally, on the evening of July 2, 2002, he went on TV and announced America’s intentions to defend the defenseless Israel. Iraq, Jordan, and Syria were ordered to withdraw all troops from Israeli territory, or an attack would come.

  3.23

  Last Day at Red Hook

  July 4th, the American holiday, began in 2002 like any other morning.

  By the end of the day, a not-insignificant portion of the American populace would be dead or dying.

  The elder Dr. Donald Ellis, of course, had no way of knowing this. His knowledge of the other timelines he had experienced was useless—too many changes had been made, and events had skewed off on a completely different, unpredictable tangent.

  But he wasn’t blind, and he had more experience in international geopolitics than most people. The unrest in the Middle East, coupled with President Gore’s reluctance to openly support Israel, had pushed the region into war. And now he, like the rest of the nation and the world beyond, were waiting to hear the president’s primetime speech tonight, which would hopefully outline a path towards peace. But with Israel back on its heels and more Middle Eastern nations’ forces pouring into Jerusalem and Haifa, Ellis didn’t think that Israel would survive.

  He and Stevens were busy at the Red Hook warehouse, boxing up the final components of the machine. Most of the rest of the machine had already arrived at its new location, where the younger Dr. Ellis, Terry, Cassie O’Neal, and a group of technicians were working to reassemble it. The new location was near the Indian Point Energy Center, a nuclear power plant located on the Hudson about eighty miles north of New York City.

  They’d selected a location that was still convenient to New York City. And Ellis had learned his lesson—after all those troubles with power lines and the batteries in the last timeline, he’d needed a new power source that he could rely on.

  Security would be better, and the location was certainly less populated, the elder Ellis thought as the final truck pulled out. He and Stevens walked out and locked up. Ellis had been in Red Hook for so long, it didn’t seem right to see the place empty. He glanced across the river and saw the South Tower, standing there by itself—in this timeline, that plane had been intercepted before it could get to New York. The pilot had instead crashed the plane into Baltimore’s M&T Bank Stadium, home stadium to the Baltimore Ravens NFL team, and the latest death toll for that attack was up to 22,000. The team of hijackers for the fourth plane had evidently been used instead for the failed attempt on the president’s life at Andrews Air Force Base.

  Ellis always wondered what had happened to the other two teams—in the second timeline, there had been six planes hijacked, but in this one, three planes and the assassination team had been activated. Did that mean at least two teams of sleeper agents were still out there?

  “Looks strange, doesn’t it?” Stevens asked as they climbed into the car.

  Ellis nodded and got in to drive. They pulled away, following the boxy white van that carried the final shipment of components—they were down to parts and components that could fit in a box van, instead of the flatbed trucks they’d used before to move the larger machine sections.

  They had used the machine itself to transport much of the interior furnishings from the Red Hook warehouse to the new one. Computers, machine shop components, the contents of the office and Ellis’ apartment—teleportation worked so well, they’d moved much of the warehouse’s contents in just a few hours.

  Ellis had gone through a few times—it was mind-boggling to be standing on the pad in Red Hook and then instantly be sixty miles away in Buchanan, New York. Of course, he was traveling between two warehouses, so the scenery wasn’t that great, but the process still amazed him.

  But the actual machine could not transport itself, and therefore it had to be disassembled and carried, piece by piece, to Indian Point.

  Ellis often mused about the possibility of having two machines. If he had, could he transport one with the other? Could he move the machines around ad infinitum, making the physical locations of the machines moot? If machine A could be counted on to move machine B out of harm’s way, and vice versa, then it would take a coordinated attack on both at the same time to disable them.

  Or what if he could transport rock from the interior of a mountain, hollowing it out, and then transport one machine inside it? His mind raced at the possibilities for safe locations for the machines—the middle of the Amazon Rainforest, the bottom of the ocean, the far side of the moon? Each one introduced logistical problems, but none were insurmountable. As long as he had the unlimited power of the mini-reactor, Ellis knew there were possibilities too numerous to grasp.

  If worst came to worst, he could even hide the machines in time. Could he use one machine to transport another back in time? How would that impact the timeline?

  It was about two hours to Buchanan with traffic, Ellis thought, so they should get there before noon. Once they arrived at Indian Point, it would take only a day or two to integrate the parts and get the machine back up and running.

  Ellis didn’t like having the machine taken apart. He felt like his life insurance policy had lapsed, and he was dragging his feet before he signed the next one. There was no safety net now, and nothing could be done until the machine was reassembled.

  3.24

  Twelve Men

  Twelve Middle Eastern men boarded three different commercial passenger jets on the morning of July 4, 2002, and took their seats in the first-class cabins, waiting for takeoff.

  Seven of the twelve men appeared on a no-fly list of known or suspected al Qaeda members that was regularly published and updated by persons at the CIA who tracked al Qaeda. Unfortunately, those provisions in the Patriot Act that required information sharing between agencies and the FAA and TSA had been taken out of the version passed by Congress and signed by the president. Gore had felt that keeping the information secret was more important than sharing it—even among responsible agencies.

  But an up-to-date, comprehensive no-fly list might have flagged two of the men for additional checks. And enhanced screenings would possibly have located the small box cutters that each one carried.

  Perhaps more layers of security would have done nothing. In fact, Mohammed Atta, the leader of the Christmas attacks, was, by chance, selected for additional screening and pulled out of line at Bangor Airport on that morning, but the cursory inspection he received was a joke.

  The planes were all airborne at about the same time—the flights had been selected carefully. And on these planes, the cockpit doors had not been strengthened. Another provision of improving airline security had been that the airlines were “encouraged” to implement certain safety improvements, along with strengthening various physical aspects of the planes themselves, including reinforced cockpit and entry/exit doors, viewports in cockpit doors. The airlines had also been encouraged to install backup ventilation systems for the cockpit, separate from the rest of the plane, and better communications systems between the flight deck and other airline personnel on board. The government also suggested that airlines install complicated and expensive “chaff” systems to prevent incoming missiles from striking a plane. The government also strongly recommended the airlines hire, at their own expense, air marshals to fly on random planes to bolster security.

  But because of the additional expenses and the fact that these were simply suggestions from the federal government, instead of mandates, most of the
major airlines ignored them. It was the thinking among many airline executives that they had already had their disaster, so the chances of another attack, involving multiple hijacked planes, were close to zero.

  Shortly after takeoff, the terrorists made their coordinated assaults on the cockpits of their planes.

  In all three cases, within just minutes, the planes were under their control. On the flight out of Los Angeles, the pilot lay bleeding to death in a seat in first class, while on the St. Louis plane, the passengers and flight crew were herded to the back of the plane.

  Based on what happened during the Christmas attacks, the al Qaeda teams understood that they would not be able to control the passengers. During the Christmas attacks, passengers had been told that the terrorists had a bomb on board and that they would be landing soon. The passengers had no idea that the planes themselves had been turned into guided missiles, aimed at critical U.S. targets.

  But subsequent hijacked passengers might assume they were racing toward the same fate and fight back.

  In the cockpit of the plane that had recently taken off from Newark Airport, the new pilot toggled a few switches that controlled the cabin air mixture and air pressure. He reduced the cabin pressure and pulled on the pilot’s emergency oxygen mask, which was stowed next to the pilot’s seat. Next to him, another hijacker did the same with the copilot’s silver oxygen tank and mask. The pilot also flipped another switch, disabling the emergency oxygen masks in the main cabin.

  In the cabin, passengers suddenly felt short of breath, exhausted, and weak. It was immediately clear what was happening—by lowering the cabin pressure and reducing their oxygen supply, the pilot was putting the passengers in a state of hypoxia. One by one, the passengers and flight crew passed out.

  On the passenger plane that had been crashed into the Baltimore Ravens’ stadium, the passengers had revolted, trying to retake control of the plane. But on this flight, there would be no on-board resistance.

  3.25

  Road Trip

  They were making their way out of the city, just passing Woodlawn Cemetery north of the Bronx, when the first reports of plane hijackings came on the radio. Stevens reached to turn the radio up as the elder Ellis craned his neck, looking for planes in the sky.

  “We know at least two planes have been hijacked,” the reporter was saying. “There have been no calls or demands from the hijackers, but the primary concern seems to be that the planes will be used as missiles to strike at sensitive targets. Fighter jets have scrambled and are patrolling over Washington, D.C., and New York.”

  “Christ, not again,” Stevens said, his voice low.

  Ellis had his eyes back on the road again.

  “I knew it was a bad idea to disassemble the machine. We’ve got no recourse, if something really bad happens.”

  Stevens nodded. “Let’s just get to Buchanan. Maybe they’re trying again for the Trade Center or the president.”

  Ellis nodded. “I wonder where Gore is.”

  3.26

  Alert

  President Gore was forty-five feet under the White House, in the hardened Presidential Emergency Operation Center, a bunker constructed beneath the East Wing by President Kennedy after the debacle at the Bay of Pigs, which was thought to be exacerbated by a lack of real-time information and communications between the White House and teams in the field. The bunker was designed to correct that problem.

  “Three planes?” Gore asked.

  “It looks like it, sir,” Chairman Anderson of the Joint Chiefs spoke from one of the large television screens. “We’ve only got the three unaccounted for, and fighters are searching for them now.”

  Sandy Berger, Gore’s National Security Advisor, spoke up, pointing at a document. “We’re still operating under the no-shoot-down policy that you instituted during the Christmas attacks. Do you want to update that?”

  Gore leaned back and looked at Berger. “Why, do you think I should?”

  “Yes, clearly,” Berger said. “If the fighters can find these planes and shoot them down, it’s a no-brainer,” he said, before looking up and quickly adding “sir.”

  “I don’t think it’s a no-brainer—I’m not comfortable shooting down planes full of innocent civilians.”

  Berger sighed. He decided to drop the subject for the moment.

  “OK,” Anderson said on the screen. “We’ve got something. A pair of F-16s out of Scott Air Force Base is shadowing a commercial jet that has dropped to 10,000 feet. I’m working to get video now.”

  “Why would they reduce altitude?” Berger asked. He knew that most commercial airlines flew at between 30,000 and 35,000 feet for the bulk of the flight.

  “Not sure, sir,” Anderson answered, even though Gore had been talking to Berger and the others gathered in the Operations Center. “OK, I’m getting F-22 nose cone video.”

  3.27

  Chicago Plane

  With the cabin doors open, it was a lot harder for the terrorists to keep their balance. Wind howled through the plane, gusting and knocking them off their feet. Two of the hijackers were still in the cockpit, flying the plane, but two more were working in the back, wearing portable oxygen masks.

  On the floor of the cabin lay the passengers and flight crew. A few of them still moved listlessly. One burly man had even managed to stand up and take a very weak swing at one of the hijackers.

  He’d been the first one out.

  Now, they worked together, carrying passengers, one by one, to the open door of the plane and, after a second, tossing them out into the wind.

  After throwing out the final passenger, one of the hijackers remained at the open door, fighting the wind to peer outside at the fighter jets that were flanking the plane. Just in case they were looking, he waved.

  3.28

  Nose Cone Video

  “What are they throwing out?” Gore asked, leaning forward. They were watching grainy, black-and-white video, streaming live from the nose cone of one of the F-22s.

  “People,” Anderson said simply over the video link.

  The room went silent.

  “Passengers,” Berger said. “Innocent passengers are dying, sir. We need to shoot down this plane. There’s no telling—”

  “Where is it going?” Gore shouted. “What’s the flight path? It looks like they’re going north, to Chicago. Maybe the Sears Tower? And someone draft up a shoot-down order. Now!”

  The others at the table scrambled to find papers as Anderson turned back to the screen.

  “We’re not sure, sir, but it looks like Chicago.”

  Gore shook his head and looked at the screen. On the grainy video, he saw a hijacker lean slightly out the open airplane door, look at the fighter jet following him. In a surreal moment, Gore saw the hijacker wave at the camera.

  3.29

  Over Los Angeles

  The plane over Los Angeles didn’t have far to go, so the hijackers dispensed with the plan to throw the passengers from the plane—instead, they had simply lowered the cabin pressure and temperature, until the passengers and flight crew passed out. The plane was flying low—and three of the four hijackers were pulling on parachutes.

  “Is he going to be okay?” one of them asked, nodding at the cockpit.

  “Yes, I think so,” another answered. “He is committed, but he also knows that someone must live to tell the tale. Between the three of us, at least one should avoid capture. They will be welcomed in New Mecca as a conquering hero.”

  The others smiled and then each, in turn, walked to the door. Fighting the winds that buffeted them, the men jumped.

  From the cockpit, the remaining hijacker scanned the ground beneath him for landmarks. He knew he needed to get to the coast, but he was looking for the highway, Interstate 5, to follow. It would go south and approach the coast, jagging southeast and hugging the water. He tipped the plane and followed the road over San Clemente and then began his descent. He could see below him the twin domes of the San Onofre Nuclear Generating
Station. Perched on the side of highway, the station was just feet from the ocean.

  He aimed the plane’s nose at the crisscrossing lattice of pipes and metal tubes between the two domes. From above, the rounded tops almost looked like the glittering domes of the Muhammad Ali Mosque in Cairo.

  “Allah Akbar,” the man said quietly as the ground rushed up toward him. He held the control column as steady as he could, even as his heart pounded in his chest.

  3.30

  Shoot It Down

  “They’re terrorists,” Sandy Berger answered.

  “I know. I just don’t see why they are throwing people out of the planes. It serves no logical purpose,” Gore answered.

  “It doesn’t matter—they’re trying to scare us.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can keep that out of the press,” Berger said, watching the screen.

  Anderson came on the screen from the Pentagon.

  “They’ve struck, sir. A nuclear power station, one located south of Los Angeles. San Onofre, between L.A. and San Diego.”

  “Oh, no,” Gore said, bewildered.

  “Jesus,” Berger said quietly, sitting back.

  Gore stood. “Not a nuclear power plant. The radiation will kill thousands, tens of thousands.” He looked around at the others in the room. “It could cause a nuclear winter, wipe out all plant life…”

  Berger spoke up. “Anderson, it’s more important than ever to find that missing plane.”

  “Byron Nuclear Power Station,” one of the other people in the situation room said, looking up. She apparently hadn’t thought she was talking that loudly and now, the room fell silent.