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If the point of terrorism is to terrorize, such is the point of panic.
There are tens of thousands of people now around that part of Manhattan, scared out of their wits as to what’s happening. The smoke, the gunshots, the resulting crush of people, the stampedes, the car accidents, the fights, even the looters or other criminals taking advantage of the situation…they are all possessed by fear.
And others are feeding upon that fear, responding to that fear.
At this moment hundreds of phone calls are being made:
I hear there’s an attack on One World Trade Center…
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Now the major cable news networks have broken in with the news, and now millions of people are watching the confusion in southern Manhattan.
The police, the fire department, the EMTs are all bravely responding, crowding the situation even more. News reporters and photographers are racing there. Friends and relatives of those working at One World Trade Center are also rushing to the scene. And there will be the hundreds upon hundreds of sightseers and curious folks moving there as well, wanting to witness history.
He checks his watch. Almost 11 a.m.
And with that area choked with people, with millions upon millions watching live as to what’s going on, then—oh yes, then—a cloud of toxic gas like nothing else made in this world will drift over the tens of thousands clustered there.
Rashad goes back to the eyepieces.
But not over him, of course. One of thosethump-thumps out there is a helicopter carrying highly paid and dedicated Serbian mercenaries, ready to pluck him off this hotel rooftop and fly him to safety at the right time, no matter what.
Wait.
He stands up, then looks again through the eyepieces.
The northbound train…
It’s stopped.
It’s not moving.
Rashad stands up, spine straight with concern and fury.
What has just happened?
Jeremy Windsor thinks of a phrase he picked up while deployed with a squad of American Special Forces in Pakistan:maximum effort,or getting the mission done even when you’re exhausted and bleeding, and bullets are zipping over your head.
He runs into the wide and modern-looking lobby of the Nansen Arms Hotel, across the tile floor, and past the small fountain with its circular settees and chairs. People are lined up with suitcases at their feet, patiently waiting to go to one of three stations at the check-in counter. Jeremy pushes his way through them and demands of the nearest clerk, “Quick! Where’s lift four?”
The Asian woman looks at him in confusion. “The what?”
“Lift four, where is—”
Bugger,he thinks.
“The fourth elevator bank, please—where is it?”
There are disgruntled murmurs behind him, but the woman points to his left and says, “Right down that foyer and to the left, sir.”
He breaks away.
Resumes running.
Past a news shop and a small café.
There.
