The Towers (12 page)

“This is exactly what I hate about this town. What I don't understand is, why did I come back?”

She shook his arm. “Don't be a child! Of course it'll be your movie. Your name'll be on it. Now come back to the table, protest, give in, then ask for something
you
want. You can't have everything your way. You know that. You grew up here.”

Teddy ground his teeth, looking away from her. “Fuck it. Make her the pilot,” he grated, in a strange, low voice. Dominic came past with champagne and Teddy grabbed a flute off the tray, spilling some, chugging it as he pushed out of the sunlight, off the patio, into the bar. Shaking her head, Dittrich went back to the table.

He stood watching the television, the air cold on his sweaty arms after the hot glare on the patio. No one around him said anything. They just stared at the screen.

After a while Muruzawa came in. Then Loki. Last, the Germans. They all stood together watching.

Werner's cell went off. He flinched and walked back outside to answer. When he came back, he said, “We are sorry. There will be no financing. Not now. Not with this. The plug is pulled. It is no one's fault. I am very sorry.”

Teddy set the empty glass on the bar. The footage kept running, over and over, the immense towers collapsing on themselves, thousands of tons of concrete and flesh turned to pillars of ochre smoke that flowed slowly as a thick toxic syrup into the streets.

“Where are you going?” Loki said, snagging Teddy's sleeve. “We can salvage this. Let me massage the financials. Forget Morocco. We'll shoot in Arizona. Give 'em a couple of days. They'll come back. Teddy!”

Teddy Oberg half turned on his way out. He said, eyes not really on her, “Sorry, Loki. Hanneline.”

“Teddy. I've put my time in on this too.
Where do you think you're going
?”

“Thanks for everything.” He waved vaguely, as if all this were already ten thousand miles away. “I got a war to go to.”

 

2

Alexandria Hospital, Alexandria, Virginia

SOMETHING
in his throat. He was breathing, somehow, but something was wedged there. Choking. Trying to get it out. Can't move hands. Tied up.

The Black.

Coming to again, indeterminable millennia later, floating up. So they had him in the tank. The aliens were so cunning. Convincing him he was human, when he was anything but. They'd try again, though, he was sure. Try to convince him he was from Earth.

Forcing something down his throat. Sucking his brain out of his skull. The humming began, then the horrible sucking and gurgling as the machine began eating him. He didn't want to. He
didn't want to
—

He opened his eyes to brilliant light and snouted alien faces. He couldn't move. They'd paralyzed him with their stingers. Implanted their horrible eggs.

“Is he responsive?”

“Mr. Lenson. Are you awake? Don't try to talk. Blink up at me. There's a trachea tube in your throat.”

He blinked. They discussed him as he drifted floating, helpless, a stellar-grade agony in his lungs. Was he still in the saucer?

One of the faces said, “This might hurt.”

When the tube came out, it was as if his whole trachea were coming out with it. A terrifying suspicion dawned: He
was
human.

“He felt
that
,” a female voice said.

The male voice. “Don't try to talk. You're in Alexandria Hospital. We'll give you something for the pain.”

The sting of an injection. He fell through centuries of silver sea, then slowly surfaced again. This time the face over him looked familiar. Dark-haired. Gray eyes like his own.

“Nan,” he croaked. Her hand was warm on his arm. He flinched. Something was biting his finger. He lifted it to see a cord trailing off out of his vision.

“Don't talk, Dad. You breathed so much smoke your larynx swelled up and your airway collapsed. The doctor said you'll be all right. He took the restraints off. But you have to lie very still and drink some of this when you can.”

She was lifting his head like a child's. The way he'd used to lift hers when she was sick. Tears blurred. He was human. He was alive. She was his daughter.

Then it all rushed back, the impact, the explosions, the fire—

He grunted and she had to hold him down. When he gave up thrashing and concentrated on keeping the air coming, she sat back, folding her arms just the way her mother used to.

“You're going to rest now,” she said. “And when you wake up, I'll be right here.”

On that note, he thought of telling her he loved her. Tried, perhaps, to say so; but finished neither the thought nor the utterance before he slid back down. A fish in a warm, thick sea …

*   *   *

“MR.
Lenson. Are you listening? You had a close call with smoke inhalation, at the Pentagon. You remember the attack?”

“Yes … when?” He was horribly hoarse and thirsty. He seemed to remember something, but it kept teasing away when he got close. “Nan! Where—”

She leaned into view over him and he relaxed. The doctor went on, “That was yesterday. You came here in critical condition, but you seem to be pulling through. Some military people were here asking about you. Including a very large, very impressive African-American man. You weren't conscious, so we didn't access him. He said to tell you, ‘I pay my debts.'”

“‘I pay my debts,'” Dan echoed. But didn't understand. The only very large, impressive-looking black man he could readily think of was Nick Niles. But somehow, he couldn't see the guy taking time out to visit. Much less admit to owing him anything.

“I'd say you're out of immediate danger, but we want you to stay for observation. You're getting medication for your pain and also to reduce the swelling. You may notice shortness of breath with exertion. It‘ll take time for your lungs to fully heal. Do you smoke?”

“… No.”

“Then don't start. You may have residual scarring and shortness of breath. You may have persistent hoarseness. I want to keep you here at least another day.”

“… Others.”

“We have plenty of beds, if that's your question. Everyone's being treated.” The doctor rose, glancing toward the door. “I have other patients, but I'll be back. Press the button on the side of your bed if you need attention.”

“I'll take care of him,” Nan said. She groped across the sheet, and he felt her hand again.

*   *   *

SOMETIME
later he suddenly remembered and tried to get up again. “… Blair.”

But he could read in her face his daughter didn't want to answer. He waited for the bad news. To help, he muttered, “I was on the phone with her. Just for a few seconds. After the South Tower got hit. She was with some others. Trying to find a way out. Something about an elevator. We didn't get to talk long.”

“We don't know,” Nan said. “I called Grandma. She hasn't heard anything either. Grandpa's getting packed to drive to New York and look for her.”

She took a breath and looked away. “But … the towers collapsed. The whole World Trade Center. Some people got out. She might be all right. But I won't lie to you, Dad. You always said, people you love deserve the truth. And the truth is, a lot didn't make it out. Thousands.”

He closed his eyes. Didn't want to believe it. That didn't mean it hadn't happened. But it was like Schrödinger's cat. As long as he didn't know she was dead, she might still be alive. Some people said they could feel if the other was dead or alive. He doubted he was that intuitive.

“Mom called. She wanted to know if you were all right. I told her you were here. I hope that was okay.”

“Sure, sure.” He and his ex didn't get along, and now that Nan was grown, they didn't bother with the appearances. He tried to tug himself upright and succeeded. The room was smaller than he'd guessed.

He saw what he wanted. But just getting his upper body vertical had exhausted him. His throat felt as if somebody had thrust a hot poker down it. Nan plumped the pillows and he sank back. “Television,” he muttered. She hesitated, then handed him the remote.

He watched all that afternoon. There was nothing else on. The cameras kept replaying the collapse, then cutting to the wreckage. Hundreds of police and firefighters had been inside. Teams were cutting their way in, searching for survivors. So far, though, there didn't seem to be much hope. If Blair had gotten out, where would she go? He remembered his cell and sent Nan into the closet. His clothes were there, but the phone wasn't. Fallen out of his pocket, most likely. He asked her to call Blair's cell, but didn't even get voice mail.

He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. The drugs. Probably his blood still wasn't carrying all the oxygen it usually could, either. But as he watched the screen hour after hour, several conclusions sank in.

Someone smart and determined had studied America for a long time. He, or they, had used suicidal fanatics to turn fuel-laden airliners into deadly weapons. Most astonishing, the plan had worked to perfection, except for one aircraft, whose passengers had apparently revolted. Given their lives, but saved what the commentators seemed to think was either the Capitol or the White House.

The president had seemed first bewildered, then confused. Then he'd simply … disappeared. To an “undisclosed location”—a strange and somehow ominous locution. Dan figured it meant Air Force One, dropping from the sky at remote bases to refuel. The military's airborne command posts would be aloft too, the ones that screamed out of Langley and Colorado at a moment's notice. The vice president seemed to be making all the decisions. The networks occasionally showed the Pentagon, which was still burning.

At first he was numb. Then angry. Thousands of innocents. A darker day than Pearl Harbor. Civilians had died there too, yes, but they hadn't been the primary targets.

Then anger itself soothed beneath the silver singing of the drug, and he saw more deeply.

Whatever had designed this was no unlettered barbarian. He understood the language of symbols, and the oceans of molten hate on which the tectonic plates of culture floated. Bin Laden, if he was indeed responsible—and he seemed to be the primary suspect, according to the networks—had attacked the towers once before. He'd attacked Washington before too, a strike Dan, and others, had aborted at the last moment, delivery aircraft already in flight, a deadly cargo swelling their aluminum bellies.

This time he'd succeeded, and burned his message into eyes and memories around the world. Now every American thought of Islam as the enemy. Already the most ignorant and violent were attacking women who covered their heads, shooting out the windows of mosques, harassing anyone who even looked Middle Eastern to them. Every Muslim now carried that image too, but subtly altered to a two-horned syllogism:
America is my enemy,
and
America is weak
.

The United States would strike back. Its leaders would counter
America is weak
by setting in concrete
America is my enemy.
Go to war, and create millions of united enemies where there'd been scattered hundreds.

But not striking back would only confirm the charge of weakness, of softness, of a rotten empire ready to be brought down.

An irresolvable dilemma.

Exactly as bin Laden had planned. No doubt he was celebrating today, wherever he was.

All this the drug showed Dan with unbending clarity. He lay staring at the screen, his daughter beside him, overcooked spaghetti, limp lettuce, and lime Jell-O untouched on the tray. And felt the world change.

What would his role be? First, they had to locate the men behind this. Then, destroy them. Inevitably, the initial response would be largely Navy. The sea service owned the forces on station around the world. There'd be carrier air strikes, missile strikes. Later, perhaps, the Marines and SEALS would go in.

And there was Blair. Playing into bin Laden's plans or not, he'd avenge her. And the thousands of others who'd died in those obscene columns of ocher smoke. That scorched-black, still-smoking patch of Pennsylvania hillside. The still-flaming roof of the Pentagon.

He watched, listening to the panic, the uncertainty, the bewildered rage. Watched again panicked thousands streaming through ash-shrouded streets. Then turned down the sound and reached for the plate. He wasn't hungry. His throat flamed. But he forced himself to chew, then swallow, hauling the plastic fork up trembling again and again.

Soon he would need all his strength.

 

3

Sana'a, Republic of Yemen

DEAD
air yielded to a ringtone. Aisha's hand tightened on the phone. The office had belonged to the regional security officer, but the task force had taken it over. A small room on the third deck, windowless, with a secure phone, whiteboards, a SIPRNET terminal cadged from the defense attaché, a folding table. She visualized the telephone beside his bed, in Wilkes-Barre. Beside the Chinese-style furniture his ex-wife had picked out. Checked her watch again; he should be home from work by now. If he'd gone in today; from what they were saying on CNN, a lot of people hadn't.

A click. Then silence. “Albert?” she said. “Bertie, is that you?”

“Aisha?”

She closed her eyes, visualizing his kind brown eyes, his hound-dog face. They'd met aboard USS
John C. Stennis,
during the battle group's deployment to the Arabian Gulf. Albert had been a Programs Afloat College Education instructor, teaching algebra and beginning calculus. As the only civilians aboard, it had seemed natural to sit together in the wardroom, or carry their trays to the same table on the mess decks. Over the weeks between ports, a friendship had grown. They'd kept in touch afterward by e-mail and made a date to meet again when they were back in the States.