Tuesday, September 11th, 2011, began as a beautiful, late summer day in the Capitol Region. The muggy haze of July and August had passed on and left a bright blue sky. Mary Jo sipped coffee while reading the Washington Post at the dining room table. I dressed in regulation Air Force blue – shirt with open collar and name tag, knit pants and shiny black shoes – before kissing my wife and sleeping child goodbye. Glancing at my Omega watch – a treasured gift from Mary Jo – I waited for the bus at Seminary Road, marveling at the cloudless sky and low humidity. On the bus, I noticed the weather had seemed to put even the usually jaded and surly passengers of metro D.C. in a good mood. I counted not one but two smiles on the short commute to the Pentagon. Despite its reputation as the five-sided squirrel cage, the Pentagon was an intriguing, challenging place to work. Ironically, the ground breaking for the Pentagon had been held exactly sixty years prior – on September 11th, 1941. The monolithic mass of reinforced concrete and limestone was built in just 16 months, probably an all-time record for a landmark government contract – and this during World War II, no less. The Pentagon was the largest office building in the world. The entire Capitol building could fit in each one of its five wedge-shaped sections. It was a small city, really, and the workplace for about 20,000 people. A staff of two changed 250 light bulbs daily. The hallways stretched on for more than 17.5 miles and included 691 water fountains. On the lower level, there was a shopping mall where Pentagon workers could pick up a prescription at the CVS Pharmacy or a diamond ring at David Mann Jewelers. We called it “The Building” not as a term of endearment but as a simple, bland title for an edifice so large and plain. Though it felt like a dizzying labyrinth built to hold the Minotaur of Greek legend, architects bragged it was a marvel of efficiency. “You can get from any one place to another in just seven minutes,” it was said. Amongst the building’s occupants, however, it was well known that only an experienced action officer with a heightened sense of direction could accomplish such a feat. As an example, I once sent the new guy in our office on an errand to pick up a classified folder in the first basement of the Pentagon. “Access the mezzanine level via the third corridor, take the second right past the purple water fountain, then a left at the end of the hall,” I told him. We never saw him again. Actually, I made that up – but it could happen. The Pentagon was unique among the world’s military headquarters in that it’s open to the public for tours. Tourists were disappointed to learn the small building in the center courtyard of the Pentagon did not house a command center or nuclear reactor, as rumored, but a hot dog stand. We nicknamed it “Ground Zero.” My workday with Air Force Logistics, Maintenance and Installations began in Room 4A264. This room designation in the ever-practical building meant it was on the fourth floor (4) of the inner ring (A) and a little past halfway down the corridor. I’ve recounted the day of September 11th so many times it seems strangely surreal and yet all-too familiar. A few later, I recounted the experience to a reporter. I said: “The day began as just kind of an average morning, drinking coffee, checking emails, much like any other office.” At about 9:00 a.m., a coworker’s wife called and told him about a plane crash in New York. He turned on the TV and remarked, “It looks like somebody flew a plane into one of the World Trade Towers.” The rest of us quickly joined him and gathered around the TV, debating the size of the plane and the oddity of it all. Then suddenly, there was another plane, and we looked on in horror as the towers burned. About that time, a Muslim terrorist banked American Airlines Flight 77 through a 180 degree turn somewhere over the tip of southern Ohio and headed back to Washington D.C. Later, some speculated the Pentagon was on high alert or preparing strike plans against some unknown enemy, but we were completely unaware there was a plane headed our direction. In fact, we were watching TV. At about 9:37 a.m., American Airlines Flight 77 completed a tight circling maneuver over Alexandria and Arlington and then began an aggressive dive near Arlington National Cemetery. Diving at about 500 miles per hour, the Boeing 757-200 clipped light poles along the VA-27 roadway near the Navy Annex and slammed into the west wall of the Pentagon. The nearly supersonic impact of the aircraft instantly snuffed out the lives of all 59 people on board as it bored through limestone, steel and reinforced concrete in milliseconds. The horrific impact combined with 9,000 gallons of A-1 jet fuel to make for a devastating, explosive force that penetrated through three of the Pentagon’s five rings. It took the lives of an additional 125 people inside the Pentagon. From my office in Room 4A264 – about 615 feet from the point of impact – the explosion felt like the epicenter of a deep, though brief, earthquake. My coworkers and I steadied our feet, even as panic filled the air. Instantly pale and sweaty, we looked at one another with shock until a voice broke the silence: “My God, that felt like a truck bomb,” someone said. For a moment, we debated what to do - until Buddy Truax said, Let’s get the hell out of here!” Buddy was a good friend and colleague, and I followed him quickly out the door. Other than the shock and chaos, there’s little I remember about those moments, but I later described it to a reporter. I said: “It was a confused, chaotic, zombie-like walk to the outside.” By the time Buddy and I made it to the outside – a few of our coworkers trailing behind – there were already emergency response crews on-site with lights and sirens blazing. The grassy field by the west wall of the Pentagon was littered with wreckage – it would later be the site of a memorial – and a fire raged from the gaping hole left by the aircraft. Set against a beautiful blue sky, the Pentagon burned as we watched in horror. My colleagues and I felt an overwhelming grief and unfocused anger growing within us. For my wife and family, the experience was perhaps even more difficult and traumatic, as they didn’t know what was going on or if I was alive or dead for a time. Transportation was shut down, cell towers were overwhelmed and Mary Jo feared the worst. She heard secondary explosions, though we later learned they were the sonic booms of fighter aircraft. My father assured Mary Jo that “Brent was in another part of the building,” but he knew he couldn’t be certain. I’ve told the story many times since at club meetings, before church groups or school assemblies. Depending on the day or my mood, it can feel both frighteningly recent or like a long-ago event from another life entirely. One thing I’ve noticed is that before every group, every person remembers where they were, what they were doing and who they were with when they first heard of 9/11. It is a horrific, seminal event, forever ingrained in our memory. Ten years later, a reporter asked Silas if he remembered anything about 9/11. He said: “Not much. The people who did this thing are called terrorists and they’re not very nice people.” "Life After," Chapter 10 ("Two Years"), pgs. 162-166.
Posted on: Thu, 12 Sep 2013 03:15:52 +0000
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