“Frank … hang in there, we're almost out.” It was a woman, her eyes wide as she kept pace behind a heavyset man with a red face.
Maxwell heard the conversation. “What floor you people from?”
“Fifty-two.” The woman stopped even with Maxwell. She put her hand on the heavy man and frowned. “I'm worried about Frank. He has heart trouble.”
“I'm fine.” The man was short of breath, but he kept walking. He waved back at Maxwell and the rest of them. “God bless you people … There's hundreds more upstairs. Don't worry about me.”
A cry came from somewhere above them. “Keep moving, people, please!”
The worried woman and the heavyset man began walking again, and the woman yelled over her shoulder. “How many more floors?”
“Eight.” Maxwell moved ahead. “Keep walking.”
Jake tried to calculate what they'd find when they reached the sixty-first floor. The building had been burning for about half an hour now. Seconds counted for any critical victims at or above the crash site. And if the stairwells were cut off at the seventy-eighth floor, what did that mean for the people trapped above it?
Again, Jake focused on the matter at hand. Ten floors … eleven … twelve … thirteen. They were making great time, taking three floors a minute. The tanks were heavy on Jake's back, and he was sucking air, feeling the exertion of the climb. God, get us up there in time to help those people … please. And keep us safe too, Lord. We're going to need it. He remembered the line he and Larry liked to say on the way to a fire. Their motto. No worries. Put out some flames … save a few lives … back in time for dinner.
It had been true every other time they'd taken a call. Jake could only pray it would be true today.
ELEVEN
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 9:22 A.M.
Eric Michaels could feel the building trembling.
It had started twenty minutes earlier with the explosion somewhere above him, a blast that had knocked Eric and everyone in the outside hallway to their knees. Immediately, his phone had gone dead, and at the same moment, Allen raced up to him. Together they ran into the main area where dozens of people were screaming at once. What had earlier been merely grave concern and alarm was now full-fledged panic.
“We've been hit! We've been—”
“A plane … another plane! A plane went through the—”
“It was coming right at us, then it disappea—”
The voices had shouted simultaneously, and it had been impossible to make sense of any of them. What Eric and Allen had been able to get was the obvious. A second plane had crashed—into their building this time—and they needed to get out fast.
“Elevators are out!” Someone had screamed the news, and a mass of people headed for the stairwells. There were three in the building, and each of them would eventually connect with the lobby. Eric considered joining the group. After all, the battery on his cell phone was dead, and Laura would be waiting for his call. Probably frantic by now. TV news would be reporting that a second plane had crashed into the south tower, and she'd assume he was somehow in the middle of the carnage.
But just as he'd turned toward the stairs, someone grabbed his sleeve. Eric spun around and found himself inches from Allen. The man's brows were lowered almost over his eyelids. “Where are you going?”
Eric glanced at the stairs and then back at Allen. “We need to get out of here.”
“There's no hurry, Eric. The stairs will be packed with people.” Allen cast a quick look back toward the office of Koppel and Grant. “I have three foreign transactions that have to be made now. Before the morning's up.”
Eric turned and stared at Allen. The man was crazy. “Can't you feel it?” His words ran together, and he had to fight to keep from jerking away and running for the stairs. Running for his life. “The place is shaking, Allen. We need to go.”
“Look.” Anger flashed in Allen's eyes. “Those crazy terrorists have done enough damage—they aren't going to ruin a couple hundred-thousand-dollar purchases on top of it.”
Eric's heart raced. He looked from Allen to the crowd at the stairwell and back at his boss again. It would take five minutes, ten even, for the crowd of people to file into the stairwell. Maybe Allen was right. “Okay.” He took off toward the office, and Allen fell in step beside him. “But let's make it fast.”
They rounded the corner through the door of Koppel and Grant and ran back to Allen's office. Allen worked the keyboard while Eric read from a handful of files. Ten minutes into the transaction, Hank Walden, one of their top financial managers, stuck his head in the office. “Guys, they've ordered an evacuation.” The man's eyes were wide, his breathing short and ragged. “Everyone has to go.”
Eric was about to say something when Allen held his hand up. “There's no smoke on this floor.” He kept his eyes on the screen. “We'll be finished in thirty minutes, forty at the most. We'll lose thousands if I wait on this.”
“Sir …” Walden exchanged a desperate look with Eric. “We don't have a choice, sir. The building's in trouble.”
Allen waved him off without looking up. “This is the World Trade Center. The building's fine.” He shot a hurried look at Walden. “Go! We'll be right behind you.”
With a final terrified glance at Eric, Walden disappeared, his footsteps echoing down the hallway and out into the main corridor.
Eric stared at Allen. “Can't it wait, sir? No one else in New York City is working right now.”
Allen only pointed to the files in Eric's hands and kept typing. Ten more minutes passed and Eric felt something change, something in the way the building trembled. Maybe it was his imagination, but the shaking seemed worse, more noticeable. Eric glanced out the window at the chaos reigning six hundred feet below. Buildings like this one were on rollers, weren't they? That could explain the movement—especially with the inferno blazing above them. But what if that wasn't the reason the building was trembling? Sixty-four floors was an awful long way up.
Eric shuddered.
“Sir …” He set the files on the desk and stood. “I'm going. I have a family to think about.”
Allen stopped typing and gave him a sad, disappointed frown. “I thought you were committed.”
Eric hated the way his boss's comment made him feel weak. He gave a single shake of his head. “I am committed, sir. I think we should both go. The building doesn't feel right.”
This time Allen sat back, crossed his arms, and directed his gaze at Eric. “You're not the man I thought you were, Eric.” He mumbled something under his breath as he looked back at the screen. Then without making eye contact with Eric again, he waved his hand. “Go … join the others. I'll finish it by myself.”
Eric didn't waste time giving Allen a response. He turned and raced down the hallway, hurrying through the maze of desks and partition boards as he made for the stairs. Along the way he found a man in his early twenties typing frantically.
“What're you doing? The building's being evacuated.”
“No one ordered an evacuation.” The man's fingers kept moving. “I'm on a deadline.”
“Listen, pal.” Eric's tone was frantic. “Yes, they have ordered an evacuation. The fire's headed this way.” Eric glanced at the wall, looking for the place where the computer was plugged in. The outlet was hidden by the man's desk, and Eric straightened and shouted at the man. “Get out!”
The man stopped typing and sent a vicious look at Eric. “It's my life. Leave me alone. I get a bonus if I finish this thing today.” He pursed his lips. “I'm not letting some fire twenty floors up stop me, you got that?”
Eric huffed and spun around, running once more for the stairs. Fine. If the guy wanted to stay, what was that to Eric? He reached the stairwell a minute later and yanked the door open. The place was empty, and he took the steps at a full trot. At the fifty-third floor he began seeing firemen trudging their way up.
“Anyone else up there?” one firefighter asked him.
“My boss �
� he has a few transactions to finish.” Eric huffed, trying to catch his breath. “And a crazy guy on a deadline. Won't leave his desk.”
The firefighters nodded and continued up. They were breathing hard, carrying what looked like fifty pounds of equipment each and refusing to slow down in their quest to reach the fire. Eric resumed his pace, and at the forty-third floor, he caught up with the line of people, all moving steadily down the stairs one flight at a time. That's when he noticed something.
The shaking was getting worse; it wasn't his imagination.
He could hear windows rattling beyond the stairwell, feel a subtle sway from above. Eric kept up with the group, wishing they could walk faster. What did the building's movement mean? Were helicopters dropping water on the fire? Or were the flames enough to shake a hundred floors of cement and steel? Whatever the cause, Eric didn't want to think about it. There was nothing he could do, nothing any of them could do but keep taking the stairs.
One step at a time.
The businesspeople making their way down were orderly and calm. Probably in shock, Eric figured. He knew none of them, and the people from Koppel and Grant were probably twenty floors below him by now. Eric tried to draw a deep breath but couldn't. The air in the stairwell was hot and thick and stale, tinged with a sense of barely controlled panic. Every time they cleared a landing, Eric would glance at the number on the door.
Thirty-one … thirty … twenty-nine … twenty-eight …
Six more floors and then it happened. Eric tripped on a briefcase left in the stairwell and tumbled face first down five steps. A piercing pain stabbed at his ankle, and he struggled to right himself. At that instant a hand reached out for his. Eric grabbed it, and as he worked to get his feet beneath him, a firefighter's helmet fell against his chest.
People were making their way down the stairs, still inching past Eric as he let the firefighter pull him to a sitting position. The man's helmet was near Eric's feet now, and he took hold of it. But just as he went to hand it back to the firefighter, something caught his attention, something inside the helmet. Eric peered at it and his heart skipped a beat.
It was a photograph of a little girl, four or five years old. And beneath the photo, in a child's printing, was written the name “Sierra.” Both were taped firmly to the inside of the helmet. Eric felt a lump in his throat as he leaned up to return it. With people still making their way past him, Eric locked eyes on the firefighter and felt his breath catch in his throat.
The fireman was staring at him too. And now that Eric could see the man clearly, the reason was obvious. The two of them could've been twins. Identical twins, even. Eric blinked hard. Was he seeing things? He'd heard of strangers having an uncanny resemblance. But he'd never seen anyone who looked this much like him. Exactly like him. Not ever. The short dark hair, square jaw, high cheekbones, blue eyes. Even their builds were the same.
Looking at the firefighter was like looking in a mirror.
Eric's mouth hung open, and he couldn't look away. So far the entire incident had taken five seconds—more than either of them had. Eric rose to his feet, his eyes still glued to the firefighter's. “Thank you.” He handed the helmet out toward the man.
“That's … that's my little girl.” The firefighter took his helmet back from Eric and set it on his head. “Better keep walking.”
“Thanks …” Eric wanted to say more. He wanted to thank the man for helping him up after his fall, for risking his life for all of them, for doing what he was doing, even though it might cost him everything.
Including the chance to see his little Sierra again.
But the moment passed, and the firefighter nodded one last time as he continued his climb up into the building. Eric worked his way back into the stream of people heading down. His ankle hurt, but he could do nothing about it now. They had to get out of the shaking building.
Fifteen … fourteen … thirteen …
Eric moved down the steps, but his mind was back on the twenty-second floor, back with the firefighter and the strange resemblance they shared. Something about the man's expression and the picture of his little girl, Sierra, seemed permanently etched in Eric's mind. It stayed with him, haunted him, made him certain that as long as he lived, he would remember forever the child's face, the way her picture smiled at him from the inside of the firefighter's helmet.
He reached floor number twelve … eleven … ten …
What was it he'd seen in the firefighter's eyes? A raw determination, an intense sort of focus to reach the victims on the upper floors regardless of the danger? Yes, that was it. And more than that, a peace. A peace that Eric knew nothing of.
Nine … eight … seven …
Eric's left ankle was numb now, and his heart raced within him from fear and exertion. But none of that mattered. The only thing he could think about was Sierra and her firefighter father. For a moment he thought about praying for the man. But then, what good would that do? The firefighter was going up, heading straight toward the inferno. And the building was shaking more now than before.
He won't come out, will he, God? He's going to die, and Sierra won't ever see her daddy again. For what? The people upstairs are probably dead by now, anyway. Smoke and heat and fumes. Who could possibly live through the nightmare that had to be happening from the crash site up.
Eric stopped moving for three heartbeats. Maybe he could run up and find the man, grab him, and insist he come down with the other sensible people. That way they could talk about their resemblance and compare notes. Were they related somehow? Was the man a distant cousin who had been born with identical features as Eric? If the firefighter continued making his way upstairs, Eric was almost certain he'd never know, never see the man again.
But there were too many people in the stairwell, and he had no choice but to keep moving down with the others. Six floors left, five … The shaking was getting worse now, bending the stairwell as though it were made of rubber.
“Get us out of here!” one man shouted from three floors up. “The whole thing's coming down.”
The whole thing? Even with the shaking, that was an idea Eric hadn't considered. Could the World Trade Center actually collapse? An ominous creaking came from somewhere in the core of the building as Eric rounded a corner onto the next floor. God help me! Just four more sets of stairs and I'll be out!
He moved as quickly as the crowd in front of him would allow, but even as he did he thought one more time of the firefighter and the little girl who obviously mattered so much to him. Almost at the same time another thought hit him. Why wasn't he worried about his own child, the boy he had never made time for? Josh had to know about this by now. And what about Laura? If the World Trade Center collapsed on top of him, he'd die without having told them the truth—that he did love them, even if he never showed it.
Never said it.
Sorrow filled his heart as he moved his feet one agonizingly slow step at a time. What had he done? He'd put success and position and money ahead of the people in his life. Laura, the woman he'd loved from the moment he first saw her. And Josh, the child who looked so much like her. The truth was, he didn't even know the boy.
When had he changed? Had it really been the loss of their tiny daughter? Was that when he began putting all his efforts into work and almost none of them into his life at home? He trudged down another seven steps to the next landing, and suddenly he knew. Of course that was when it had happened. He'd made a decision in the deepest place of his soul never again to depend on God or anyone else. God would let him down and people would die. The only thing he could count on was himself, and that was the way he'd lived every day since.
The air around him grew thicker, more oppressive, and the building was moving so much he could barely keep his balance. He thought about the last conversation he'd had with Laura. For the life of him he couldn't remember whether he'd even told her he loved her.
People all around him were screaming now, pushing more than before and desperate to
clear the building. Eric took the stairs as quickly as he could, but still he felt like he was moving in a kind of painful slow motion. One step … another … another …
The building was going to collapse on top of him, and he'd be buried alive … everything he'd done to make a success of himself had been for nothing, because now he was about to die, and Laura and Josh would never know how he really felt, how sorry he was for all he'd denied them.
Another step … another …
The building groaned and lurched, and in that instant Eric had a thought, a notion that seemed to come almost on its own volition. As long as he drew breath he could still pray. A horrific roar sounded from somewhere far above him, but Eric only worked his way down the stairs. And as he did, he begged God for something he never would have asked for prior to the disaster that morning.
A second chance.
Jake and Larry and Maxwell jogged up the last thirty floors. They were gasping for breath as they pushed their way onto the sixty-first floor, the site where they'd been told to set up a staging area. There by the elevator bank were twelve other firefighters, each working over victims sprawled out on the floor. Several men—including one Jake had worked with before—were setting up IV bags and giving shots of morphine.
“What can we do?” Maxwell lurched ahead with Jake and Larry behind him.
“They told us the elevators were working.” One of the men looked up, his face weary. “We sent two men and five victims down eight minutes ago. So far nothing's come back.”
“You mean the car stopped?” Jake came up alongside a woman whose arms and torso were burned nearly to the bone. He felt her neck for a pulse, but it was weak and thready. She was a pretty woman, in her mid-twenties with a wedding ring. Somewhere, her husband was probably crazy with worry about her, the same way Jamie was no doubt feeling about him.
“Hey, buddy.” Larry came up beside him. “She's not going to make it.”
“I know.” Futility welled up inside Jake. The disaster that morning was clearly an MCI—the code firefighters used to define a mass casualty incident. Any MCI meant that resources and energy had to be saved for victims who still had a chance. If a person was mortally wounded, firefighters were supposed to move on to the next victim.
The Tuesday Morning Collection Page 13
