A SEA STORY: THE UNTOLD STORY OF THE U.S. NAVY RESPONSE TO 9/11.

by Joseph Pignataro

  The open mouth of the Chief suddenly shut as his military brain processed what Joe was actually trying to say.

  "Okay, Chief," he started again. "What did you need?"

  Not to be outdone, the Chief suddenly swerved and changed directions.

  "You know, just because you're coming to the end of your enlistment and you're not going over the Pond with us, doesn't mean that you shouldn't give a shit."

  "Chief, the fact that I'm getting to the end of my—"

  "As long as you're rifling through Uncle Sam's pockets for a paycheck, you need to act like you're a sailor. Got it?"

  Joe paused again to regain his composure. This one-sided conversation was a typical one with the Chief. It was like this guy put himself on pause every day and just waited for the opportunity when he saw you again to press the play button. At times, his arguments seemed to come directly from the Plane of Chaos, because there was no rhyme, nor reason for his contentious displays.

  "It's not like I’m gonna miss anything, anyway, Chief," Joe said quietly in an off-handed way as he looked around for an excuse to exit this debate graciously.

  "You think that just because we're doing military exercises that you're not learning anything?" the superior asked pointedly. "You think that I do this and don't learn something new every day?"

  "No," Joe answered as his gaze continued to search the ship's grey exterior. The Chief saw that this was going nowhere and he sighed loudly.

  "Pigz, I'm sorry that the Navy's not fulfilling all your wildest dreams," Chief B. went on in a softer tone. "The recruiters are world-renowned liars. They promise you the whole kit and caboodle and you swallow it, hook, line and sinker."

  Joe rolled his eyes. Could this guy possibly squeeze in one more cliché?

  "Let's get to work," he barked as he thumbed Joe on his way.

  "Roger that, Chief," came Joe's dejected response as he began to make his way to his duty station. As he walked away, the Chief's voice came to him again. "I hate to see you go, though, Pigz."

  Joe halted and quietly assessed the words. Turning, he smiled crookedly at his superior.

  "Really?"

  Chief B. tried to remain unattached from any emotion that may even suggest that he had anything but an icy sheath surrounding his heart.

  "Well, I'm gonna need someone good to fill in when I lose Chavez."

  "Chavez?" Joe said with disdain as he wrinkled his nose.

  "He is one of my best Tomahawkers," qualified the Chief.

  "I thought I was the best," stated Joe defiantly.

  The supervisor chuckled derisively. "You have to actually blow shit up, Pigz. Not just run simulations." The Chief stares for another moment and then pivots to walk away. Suddenly, he halts again and speaks without turning back. "Guess you'll never know that feels like, huh?"

  Joe began to clench his fights, but instead, he held his temper.

  "Guess not," he responded in his most reserved tone. The recruit continued to watch as the Chief resumed his gait in the other direction.

  "Oh, by the way," he suddenly spoke again. Always has to have the last word, Joe thought bitterly. "Reenlistment bonus is up forty grand." Joe's face softened. The Chief then turned to face the quiet sailor. "That'd pay a shitload of bills, wouldn't it?" He finally turned with a smile and called out, "Something to think about, Pigz." As he waddled away, he began whistling, "We're in the Money".

  Joe's eyes narrowed again and he shook his head in frustration. He absolutely hated how all these career types, these "lifers", always tried to screw with his head. It was annoying and it was insulting. But then he thought about it, Forty grand.

  The passage to his duty station was narrow and uncrowded. Many of the sailors who would normally be aboard were actually off-post enjoying their families or friends. Since deployment wasn't until later that week, the ship was only half-staffed with its crew. To Joe, this was actually sort of a relief. It was nice to be able to spin your thoughts in your own head without having to deal with some of the inane and boyish conversations that would be so commonplace in these quarters. Not that there wasn't a time and place for sophomoric behavior (Lord knows, Joe enjoyed it, too) but this early in the morning, there was something to be said for peace and quiet. And solitude. And coffee.

  At the end of his journey, Joe stood in front of the sign marked "WARNING: DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED." This was the Tomahawk missile equipment room and Joe pretty much owned it. It was a prestigious position in the first place to be a Tomahawk missile technician, but Joe was doubly proud of his record of achievement. However, as had been so succinctly (and cruelly) pointed out by Chief B., his impressive record was with simulation only. How was a sailor in his position, though, able to get the kind of combat experience that he touted as being significant when the U.S. was pretty much in a constant peacetime state?

  Joe wrestled with these facts. Of course, peace was better than war. After all, he had an infant son to think about who would be growing up in this crazy world. Why add war to the mix? But hadn't soldiers and sailors been pondering this for all eternity? The compassionate, conservative part of the man was always wishing, hoping, and praying for peace. But then there was the military man who was trained, drilled, and trapped within a constant state of readiness for war. The dichotomy was really nagging and senseless.

  Joe gained access to his small duty station that consisted of a cramped chamber filled with lockers, computers, television, six-foot-tall processor cabinets, a few swivel chairs, radio equipment and a table. Locking the door behind him, he unzipped his bag and removed a covered plastic bowl of food. Joe tossed the bag on the floor at the foot of the lockers and flopped down heavily into his cushioned console chair. Turning on the television, he muted the audio and removed the plastic wrap from the bowl.

  "Chili…" he said to himself in a low voice, "…breakfast of champions."

  The food was cold, but it was delicious, nevertheless. Picking up the telephone receiver at his left, he dialed a number and tucked the phone into the cradle of his neck and shoulder.

  "Armory," came the answer at the other end, "Gee-Em Three Seputa." This was one of Joe's best friends, Gunner's Mate Third Class Dominic Seputa.

  "You need to marry that girl," Joe stated as he slurped the chili from the spoon.

  "You need to swallow, bitch."

  Joe coughed and choked on the chili. Swallowing quickly, he resumed.

  "I said, you need to marry that girl."

  "I'm hung over," replied Dominic. "Goodbye."

  "Hey, I'm just sayin'," continued Joe. "She's a good girl and she's carrying your kid, for Christ's sakes."

  "Okay, that right there, my friend," Dominic said tiredly, "is what we call an oxymoron. If she's so good, why's she carryin' my kid?

  "Oh, speaking of morons," Joe quipped back, "when you going to pop the question, huh?"

  "Pop the question?" Dominic's voice said away from the receiver in disgust. "I'm gonna pop you in the mouth! I'm goin' to sleep." The line goes dead on the other end.

  Joe smiles to himself as he hangs up the phone and takes another mouthful of chili. Picking up the remote, he unmutes the television.

  "You're looking at live video from our skycam," the TV newscaster's voice stated in a direct, but casual way. "What appears to have been a large aircraft has struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center."

  Joe's eyes snapped up to the television screen, his mouth closed and chewing. He turned up the volume with the remote. There, on the screen, above a "Breaking News" banner, was a shot from the top of a not-so-distant skyscraper, looking south. The picture showed the Twin Towers, the northern structure slightly to the right of the South Tower. The closer North Tower appeared to have an enormous, black, airplane-shaped gash in the upper levels of the building. Clouds of rolling grey and black smoke were constantly issuing from the gaping hole and floating up into the bright blue skies.

  "Witnesses on the streets below have told us that the plane slammed into the si
de of the tower at approximately eight-forty-five…about eight minutes ago…and you can see massive amounts of black smoke pouring out of the side of the building."

  His face was stony as the scene drew his eyes like a hypnotic spiral pattern.

  "There is a lot of speculation as to the type of aircraft that has struck the tower, but we cannot say for certain exactly what that would be," the newscaster's voice continued. It was a truly surreal moment for both anchor and for spectator alike. A woman anchor's voice suddenly entered the conversation.

  "It's interesting to note that another famous tall structure in Manhattan, the Empire State Building, was struck by a Bee-twenty-five World War Two bomber in July of nineteen-forty-five," she began, acting as if this was an excellent opportunity to play Trivial Pursuit on the air. The other anchor resumed.

  "From the angle of this camera, you're looking at the North Tower of the World Trade Center. You'll recall that, several years ago, this was the target of a terrorist plot to blow up the building, where a bomb went off in the basement-level parking garage."

  "My God," Joe found himself whispering as he imagined the poor people who were inside the building at the time of impact.

  Picking up the telephone again, he dialed Dominic in the armory.

  "Dominic!" Joe began dramatically.

  "I'm not asking her, you turd!" was Dominic's terse rejection.

  "Turn on your television, asshole!" Joe went on, ignoring Dominic's paranoia. "A fuckin' plane just flew into the World Trade Center!"

  There was a pause.

  "Nice try," he said in reply, "but I'm not asking her."

  "Turn on the fuckin' TV!" Joe yelled. "Christ!"

  "Seriously, man," Dominic moaned. "I'm in bed and I'm really comfortable."

  "It's the World Trade Center, you stupid dick!" Joe bellowed again. "Get the fuck up!" A groan was heard from the other end of the phone.

  "Good night."

  A click occurred as Dominic hung up the phone once again. Joe knew he couldn't possibly hear, but shouted an expletive into the phone anyway.

  "What we do know is that a large aircraft…" the anchorman continued, "possibly a seven-forty-seven…flew into the North Tower of the World Trade Center at approximately eight-forty-five this morning. It's being surmised that there were, thankfully, not as many people inside the building at the time of the crash because it was so early in the morning, but we cannot know that for sure. We will bring you more information as it becomes available, but, until then, we will continue to keep our cameras on the World Trade Center while this tragedy unfolds."

  Joe felt eerily frozen in time, his arms and legs unable to respond. Part of him thought it ridiculous to be at all worried for the integrity of this structure. They had just gotten through saying that the Empire State Building had suffered a similar disaster in the Nineteen-Forties. This building had to have been built in the late-sixties, early-seventies. There was no reason to believe that a structure built in modern times would have any problem withstanding this kind of an impact.

  Despite all his inward assurances, however, he had one large, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach for reasons he could not explain. His watch alarm beeped for the top of the hour as he continued to watch the television screen, enraptured by the events in front of him. He finished his chili slowly and without even realizing that he was eating while he listened to a former spokesman of the FAA talking about the freakishness of this accident. Then, it happened.

  From the right side of the camera lens, a large, passenger-size aircraft streaked from out of the shot and angled left, its wings tilting badly, slamming into what appeared to be the same North Tower building! Joe watched the scene in horror. Open-mouthed, he stood suddenly and pointed to the screen where the plane had just impacted.

  "Ho-lee…" he began slowly as his eyes remained trained on the site.

  "It appears that there has been a major explosion on the scene," the anchorman commented as he seemed unaware of what had just occurred. "As has been stated previously, the possibility that a fuselage has just exploded inside the building seems to have—" The anchor cut himself off as he appeared to be receiving conflicting reports. "It seems that there is a commotion on the streets below," he said hesitantly. "We are being informed that the explosion actually occurred in the adjacent South Tower and not in the North Tower where the plane actually hit."

  "It was another plane, you idiot!" Joe screamed at the TV. His eyes continued to watch as the confused anchor fumbled for the right words and a proper explanation of what had just happened on live television. Backing slowly away from the desk, he turned and unlocked the door to his station. Opening the door, he peered down the passageway in both directions, hoping to see someone so that he could compare notes and confirm what he had just witnessed. The passageway was silent and absent of all movement.

  Ducking back in and approaching the television, the anchorman continued.

  "We are switching to our ABC local affiliate where they have captured video from a different angle than what you are currently watching. Let's listen in on this local broadcast…"

  The video roughly switched to another camera view, where the North and South Towers could now be viewed side-by-side, the northern structure on the left side of the screen. Smoke could clearly be seen pouring out of both buildings now and a similar gaping black hole could be seen in the South Tower, but at least twenty stories lower than the wound on its sister.

  "…clear whether or not this could be some sort of technical issue with the on-board navigation equipment, but if that is the case, the odds of both of these aircraft hitting these particular two buildings within about fifteen minutes of each other are astronomical."

  "Astronomical!" Joe yelped. "Is this guy kidding?"

  Picking up the phone, he dialed his friend in the armory.

  "Dominic, don't hang up!" Joe barked into the phone before his buddy could even complete his official phone salutation.

  "Aw, c'mon, man," Dominic whined. "You cannot be serious about—"

  "Dom, I think terrorists just attacked the United States!" Joe found himself saying, although he wasn't sure why he was even saying that. A pause on the other end occurred before Dominic found his voice.

  "Okay," he answered simply.

  "Two fuckin' planes just flew into the World Trade Center!" Joe said as he pointed to the television screen. "Two planes, man! And I just watched the second one hit—right on live tee-vee!"

  Before Dominic could respond, a buzzing sound could be heard over the PA system. Both of the sailors paused and pricked up their ears to listen.

  "All hands report to the helo hangar. All hands report to the helo hangar."

  Joe looked up at the speaker above him and waited for anything else. When the system audio cut out, Joe peered back toward the television screen. The smoke continued to pour out of both buildings as a couple of news choppers circled the damaged skyscrapers.

  "Dom," Joe said softly, "there's some serious shit goin' down."

  The other end of the line was dead.

  Tommy Banks was a relatively new EMT who was working hard at becoming a full-timer himself. His day usually consisted of rising at the crack of dawn and assisting the team in preparing all the equipment for the day's duties. There were a multitude of supplies to stock and re-stock, machinery to be inspected and maintained, and vehicle checks to be fulfilled before a team could actually get out on the road in order to save lives.

  As he prepared his bandage stock, he tapped on the window of the small access door to the front cab of the ambulance where his partner sat behind the wheel, filling in the vehicle logbook. Eric gazed over his shoulder as Tommy shouted to him through the glass.

  "Call Bernard and tell him we need four hundred milliliter syringes and fourteen gauge needles," he called out loudly. Eric's face turned doubtful.

  "We don't need that shit," came his muffled reply.

  "Hey, you want me to do the checklist, or what?"

&n
bsp; Eric's response was a dismissive wave of the hand as he turned back to face the front. Tommy shook his head and murmured, "Asshole," before closing and clasping the metal cabinet.

  The day was beautiful, with clear blue skies as far as the eye could see. From their vantage point in New Haven, they could see all the way across the bay to Lighthouse Point Park. There were so many sailing vessels in the water that day that it was almost a shame to have to work rather than to sit here peacefully listening to the oldies and enjoying the gorgeous view.

  As Tommy climbed into the cab, he adjusted his uniform that was just a bit too small for his lanky six-foot-five frame. It never failed. Whenever he was issued a uniform, it was always too short in the arms and too tight in the chest.

  Going through the motions of their shift, Tommy picked up the receiver to the radio and clicked the button, speaking into it crisply and cleanly.

  "This is Unit Three-Four-Echo-Sierra, radio check, over."

  "The radio works fine," Eric muttered as he continued to work on his log sheet. Tommy gazed over with slightly squinted eyes, ready for a quip, when he noticed that Eric was actually working on a crossword puzzle. Looking more intently at the page on the clipboard, Tommy chuckled.

  "Four-letter word for 'keg' is 'cask', you fuck-wad," he said as he shook his head and rolled his eyes.

  "What?" came Eric's confused stammering question.

  "Keg!" he shouted toward his partner. "Beer comes in a keg. It's not another word for keg. Jesus, how'd you pass the National Registry, man? Seriously." Eric ignored his comments as he searched for the problem area of his puzzle. Tommy looked down at the radio with sudden interest. "What the fuck," he murmured.

  "What?" asked Eric without looking up from his clipboard.

  "This radio's on," he continued as he reached forward to adjust the dial. Clicking the receiver speak-button a few times, he noted the audible flup-flup of the frequency and tried again. "This is Unit Three-Four-Echo-Sierra, radio check, over."