Not willing to kowtow to terrorists, the Pentagon would rebuild immediately. In fact, crews and Pentagon officials wanted the Pentagon rebuilt by September 11, 2002—one year to the day of the attack. And the one eerie fact: Ground for the Pentagon was broken originally on September 11, 1941.
I thought back to something General Keane said: The plane had come in at a forty-five-degree angle.
And I was fifteen to twenty yards from the point of impact, I thought. If the airplane had come in straight, I’d be dead.
The more General Keane talked, the more overwhelmed I became with the situation. Then I thought of Lieutenant Colonel Bill McKinnon, my friend who saved me in Corridor 4 at the Pentagon. I was afraid he didn’t make it out, that he’d been found dead somewhere in the wreckage.
Intensely worried, I mouthed to Mel asking her about him. Mel didn’t know why I was so concerned. I hadn’t told her about my entire experience in the Pentagon since I still had to mouth everything, and telling the entire story would have been difficult with only mouth and hand gestures.
“Find out about Bill,” I mouthed desperately to Mel.
Seeing my anxiety, General Keane’s aide pulled out his phone and called someone to find out if Bill was among the missing.
Bill wasn’t on the missing list, so the aide obtained Bill’s home number and called him so Mel could speak to him.
Mel
Brian was extremely distressed about Bill McKinnon’s status, and I couldn’t understand why. I didn’t know about Bill’s role in Brian’s recovery. But Brian was adamant about finding out how Bill was.
When the general’s aide got Bill on the phone, I stepped out into the hall and spoke with Bill. That’s when I learned Bill was one of the guys who helped get Brian out of the hallway and to the triage. I felt weak in the knees when I talked to him. I knew, without a doubt, that God had used Bill McKinnon to save my husband. I told him that when Brian was stronger, Brian would want to see him. Bill agreed to come when the time was right.
After I finished talking with Bill, I returned to Brian’s room and told him Bill was fine and that he was looking forward to a visit.
I could see the huge relief in Brian’s eyes.
Eight
What Happened?
* * *
Journal 9/18/01
I have peace about this whole situation. I know God is sovereign and Brian is his. I still wig out and get scared, but God reminds me of his grace and sovereignty. Brian is only on loan to me. As I read the Psalms today I kept going back to the verse that reminds me the Lord is my rock and my fortress. I know I can crawl into his arms and rest!
* * *
Mel
Every day in ICU seems to be a big day. But September 18 was especially hard. Antoinette Sherman died today. She was the worst of the burn victims. It was horrendous. Her mom, Eloise, Antoinette’s boyfriend, Vincent, and I were in the waiting room when the nurse came out and said they were performing CPR on Antoinette and that it didn’t look good. We began reading Psalms and praying and crying together. Eloise walked down to the ICU doors and stood staring in at Antoinette’s room, watching the activity.
Less than half an hour later the nurse returned and told us that Antoinette didn’t survive. It was so devastating for her precious family. Antoinette fought so hard but was too badly burned. She left behind a nine-year-old foster son, Jamal.
It was difficult to witness their pain, especially knowing that I, too, faced the same possibility of losing Brian. Yes, Brian was now conscious, but he was by no means out of the woods. Even with the lighter moments, he was still very much in danger of taking a turn for the worse.
It was more than a week before I spoke in depth with one of the doctors. They’d been almost constantly in surgery dealing with seven ICU burn patients. I just wanted Dr. Jordan to provide me some peace of mind and answers about Brian’s prognosis. Dr. Jordan assured me that Brian was right on track with where he needed to be. However, because of the extent of his injuries, he would be in ICU for weeks.
I tried to spend as much time with Brian as the staff would allow. I brought in contemporary singer/worship leader Dennis Jernigan’s CD We Will Worship. Brian was able to lip-synch praise songs. We both tried to stay focused on God and his sovereignty.
Several members of the Washington Redskins visited the hospital on September 18, so I made arrangements for Matt to come to the hospital to meet them. Matt still hadn’t seen his father. Kristi, Brian’s nurse, went into the lobby, where Matt was talking to the football players, and explained that she had Brian really cleaned up, that he looked good, it wasn’t scary at all, and this would be a perfect time for Matt to see him. Matt was still uncomfortable and had to be convinced that seeing his dad was a good idea. Several of the players encouraged him and promised they’d be there for him, to help him be tough. Matt agreed. So seven days after the attack, our son made the courageous decision to visit his father.
Brian
I wanted to see my son so badly. I had asked about him since I became conscious, but I understood his anxiety and fears about seeing me. I could only imagine what I looked like.
Mel came into the room and told me about the Redskins wanting to visit. Then she said, “Matt’s ready to see you today.”
I was so excited, I could hardly wait. I decided I’d try my hardest not to show Matt my pain. And that was going to be a trick since I was still experiencing torture. But I wanted to be strong—just as I knew Matt wanted to be strong for me. Kristi placed blue towels all over my arms and head. Everything else was covered by the sheets. The only things Matt could see were portions of my face and my right foot sticking out from underneath the blanket.
While Mel helped Matt don a gown and gloves to keep my environment as germ-free as possible, the Redskins quarterback Jeff George and several other players also came into my room to visit. Normally that would have had me walking on cloud nine! But all I could think about was seeing Matt.
Finally Matt and Mel stepped into the room. I could feel my face light up when I saw him.
Matt stood there for a moment, taking me in. He was wearing a Redskins ball cap, and I could see his eyes beneath the cap go from fearful and cautious to anguish. He cried silently. I could tell he was trying to be brave. He took a deep breath and said in a quivering voice, “Hi, Dad.” I lifted my arm as high as I could to wave and mouthed, “I love you, Bud.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in that room—even the Redskins players were teary-eyed.
It felt so good and so difficult at the same time. What a great kid—and what a horrible thing he’s had to go through. I think that was a big growing-up moment for Matt. It was certainly a growing moment for me. I’d have given anything for my son not to see his dad go through this horrific experience. I wish I could have sheltered him from that. But as with everything else in this circumstance, I was helpless to control anything.
I think what made the visit hardest is that, in our own ways, both Matt and I were wondering, Is this the last time I’m going to see him?
Mel
I was so proud of Matt. I realized what a huge risk he was taking in seeing his dad. But I’m glad he did it in his time. We didn’t stay long with Brian since I wasn’t sure Matt could handle much on his first visit.
After we left, Matt asked about the thick, gooey, white substance on Brian’s face. “Will he always look like that?” Matt wondered.
I explained, “That’s Aquaphor. It’s a medicine, a lot like Vaseline, that they put on his face to keep it moist.” It was bizarre looking, but it wasn’t permanent.
Matt appeared to be relieved by my answer. Now he had a picture of what Brian looked like, and I hoped that would help ease his mind on those sleepless, worrisome nights. I told him I loved him, then the Vances took him back to their house.
Brian was scheduled for another surgery—this time it was for an aggressive scrub to get rid of what Dr. Jeng called “the green stuff.” Brian had developed a nasty, festering i
nfection. The painful surprises never seemed to end.
Brian
The pain of the explosion was minor compared to the pain I now experienced—the scrubbings, the infection, the grafts, the swelling. Nothing took away the hurt completely. While some medications dulled the pain, my skinned, burned body refused to stop screaming out in anguish.
I began to pray for the times when I would go to surgery—at least then I would be knocked out and would experience some relief.
But mostly I lay in my hospital room, unable to move, unable to take away the pain. I spent a lot of time waiting. Waiting for the pain to go away, waiting for my body to heal. Waiting and thinking.
I thought back to the morning of September 11, the Tuesday that had changed my life forever. There was nothing to warn me about the abrupt change in my future.
The morning had seemed so normal.
I awoke at 4:45 a.m., my normal time, in order to catch the 5:35 a.m. bus to the Pentagon. I shaved, made my lunch, and opened the door to let our dog, Hayley, go outside. Then I prepared my satchel, in which I carried my T-shirt and socks so I could change into my Army uniform when I arrived at the office. I kept my shoes, belt, pants, and shirt at the Pentagon with all the other things I needed. The Pentagon has a dry cleaners on the premises, so I would take my uniform there to have it cleaned rather than drag it home.
I kissed Mel and Matt and was out the door at 5:30 to walk to the bus stop about a block from our home.
I rode the bus as I normally did, which put me at the Pentagon Metro station. As I walked through the station, I noticed the big digital clock that hung over the escalators read 6:25 a.m.
I stepped through the turnstiles at the street entrance and saw the defense protective service officers assigned to the Pentagon. I took out my Pentagon employee access badge and swiped it through the turnstiles. Then I headed down the long halls toward my office area, 2E486—second floor, E-Ring, office 486—on the west side of the building.
I stepped into our department’s conference room, changed clothes, and sat down at my desk. Our pastor often spoke of the importance of starting your day with God, so I had developed a habit of reading a devotional when I first arrived at work. That day I read part of a Charles Stanley devotional book, On Holy Ground, that I was working my way through. But there was nothing particularly memorable about it. No hidden message to prepare me for what was about to happen.
After I spent about fifteen minutes reading my book, I grabbed my ritual morning Coke and began my day as the military assistant to the Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff for Installation Management (ACSIM).
I scanned the day’s headlines and some documents. Then I checked my boss’s and my e-mail, and checked over my boss’s calendar to make sure everything was set for the day.
I greeted my coworkers as they arrived and chatted for a bit about normal things—the day, what we had done the night before, the impressive heat wave our area was experiencing for a late summer day.
Fortunately, not all my coworkers were in the office that day. Major General Robert L. Van Antwerp and my boss, Jan Menig—a member of the Senior Executive Service (SES), the civilian equivalent to a general—had been in the office earlier but left around 7:45 for a garrison commanders conference across the street at the Doubletree Hotel. Once a year all the installation—military base—commanders throughout the Army get together to discuss the latest policies and programming.
The only other coworkers in were Colonel TW Williams, my counterpart, who was General Van Antwerp’s military aide, Cheryle Sincock, General Van Antwerp’s secretary, and Sandi Taylor, Staff Actions Control Officer for ACSIM.
Another coworker, Clara Toland, Ms. Menig’s secretary, usually arrived around ten o’clock. However, that day she was on leave because she was caring for her ill aunt.
Colonel Williams was in the office for a period of time, then stepped out to run errands.
At around nine o’clock, Sandi’s phone rang; it was her daughter, Sam, who worked in New York City. Sam told her mom to turn on the television—the World Trade Center had been hit.
Sandi got up quickly from her desk and said, “Sam just called and said a plane hit the World Trade Center.” Cheryle and I also got up from our desks and followed Sandi into Ms. Menig’s office, where the television was.
Sandi turned on the TV, and the three of us stood in Ms. Menig’s office and watched all the smoke pouring from the World Trade Center in New York City.
Immediately, Cheryle, Sandi, and I knew something wasn’t right. The newscasters were speculating that it might have been a Cessna plane that hit the building.
“That was no Cessna,” I said. It was a clear blue sky with no weather issues. It didn’t look like an accident.
We discussed the traffic patterns for LaGuardia and Kennedy. We knew no pilot would run a plane into a building—even if the plane experienced a catastrophic mechanical failure. A pilot would put it in the water to try to hurt as few people as possible. We knew this couldn’t be a plane simply having a problem with its takeoff because at that altitude, the traffic patterns of Kennedy and LaGuardia are all on the east side, not the west side of New York, the side where the World Trade Center sat.
“There’s no way that’s an accident,” I murmured. We kept discussing how it didn’t look like weather was a problem. It wasn’t instrument failure. This was either a catastrophic failure at a critical point in a critical path—something that would be so improbable it would be truly incredible—or it was a deliberate crash.
By this point, I’m sure there were people inside the Pentagon who were starting to take action, but our division wasn’t one of them. My department was Installation Management. We handled issues that were military-base-infrastructure related, such as military-base construction, environmental issues, things like that. We were just spectators like everybody else. So when the phone would ring, it was mostly from other spectators in the Pentagon saying, “Have you seen this?” For the most part, it was quiet because everybody else was watching the tragedy on TV.
At about 9:20 we watched the second plane enter the camera shot really quick on the right side and go behind the first tower. The next thing we saw was a huge explosion. That confirmed it for us. Now we knew this was no accident; this was a terrorist act.
We were shocked. It was difficult to watch, knowing that people were in those planes and those buildings and that we were watching their murders. I didn’t want to imagine the horrors they were experiencing. I began to realize the logistical nightmare the emergency personnel were experiencing. Two of the world’s largest buildings were on fire, and they were at elevations far higher than fire equipment would reach. Worse, the buildings were located in a very constricted area with lots of people, jammed traffic, and roads not wide enough to accommodate the traffic and the emergency vehicles.
I felt helpless and weak. I returned to my desk, which was just outside Ms. Menig’s office, to pray. That was the only thing I could do. Lord, be with the fire and police folks in New York at those buildings, I began.
For some reason, I never thought to call Mel. Usually Mel calls me about major news events. But she never phoned—and I never thought to contact her. Thinking about it now, I realized God must have blocked that thought from my mind. I wasn’t supposed to talk to Mel.
Sandi’s phone rang again. Sandi ran out around all the modulars in the open office area to catch her phone. It was her daughter, Sam.
This time Sam called to tell Sandi to get out of the building. Sam was concerned that the Pentagon would be a terrorist target. Sam told Sandi that she had a bad feeling about the Pentagon—and pleaded with Sandi to please evacuate as soon as possible.
Sandi told us what Sam had told her, but we disregarded it.
“No,” I said. “Not the Pentagon.”
There was never a fear—or even a serious thought—that we would be next.
“Those terrorists would have to be real idiots to go after the defense headquarters of the
United States of America,” I said as I sipped my morning Coke. “If they did that, they’d have the entire United States military after them.”
It must have been about fifteen minutes after that second plane hit that I felt the effects of the Coke. So I stood up and told Sandi and Cheryle, “I’ll be back in a moment.” Sandi was in the doorway to Ms. Menig’s office still watching the television. Cheryle had stepped back into the main office area to start working again. I stepped out of the office, turned to the right, and walked down the hall toward Corridor 4, then took a left toward the men’s room. It was about fifteen to twenty yards away from our department, about the length of two cars.
That would be the last time I spoke with Cheryle and Sandi.
* * *
I lay in the hospital bed and thought about Craig Sincock, Cheryle’s husband, and the pain he must be enduring.
Then I thought about Sam, Sandi’s daughter. I can’t imagine what she felt when she discovered that the Pentagon, in fact, had been hit—and her mom didn’t survive. To have a sense of impending doom, to call her mother and tell her, “Get out of the building!” Then to have her worst fears realized. My heart ached for her.
Yet there was no other warning of the danger. There was no sound of the roar of jet engines. Nothing.
Had I spoken with Mel and left twenty seconds later, I would have been in the path of the plane as I headed toward the restroom. Had I left for the restroom twenty seconds sooner, I would have been directly in the path of the plane upon my return from the restroom.
I lay on my bed and grieved the loss of my two close, dear coworkers.
I thought back to September 7, the Friday before the attack on the Pentagon, when our department had had a late-summer picnic. I remembered Sandi Taylor laughing and smiling during the day. She had worn a beautiful wide-brimmed hat and a multicolored dress, a departure from the muted tones she wore for work. I had even made a comment about how bright and fun she looked. Now that memory was bittersweet.
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