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Pairing: none
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: This fic and the two that follow it, discusses 9/11
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Face is at Benning, only a few months on the job, when the towers are hit. Hannibal is in DC, at the Pentagon, and nobody can reach him...
0848
Face is in the gym, the red read-out on the treadmill telling him he’s still got another five minutes to go on his run, his watch telling him he’s got exactly twenty-six minutes to report in to work, another ten after that before Major Smith gets pissed. As much as the man supports PT, he hates it when his officers aren’t in on time.
Relax, the lieutenant tells himself.
It's not like the boss is going to know. And Captain Lutz is far more laid-back about this sort of thing anyway.
Hannibal’s in DC this week, at some something-or-other at the Pentagon, along with General Morrison, who just took over as the Benning installation commander a few weeks back. Nice guy, one of those decent generals who gives a shit about something besides his next star, it seems. And there’s something between those two, Morrison and Smith. Face is sure of it. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but if it is what he’s thinking it is, then there’s a damn good chance that his boss of all of three months, Ranger extraordinaire, the soldier's soldier, might very well be...
“Turn it up!” somebody yells from the row of bikes, and Face startles out of his pointless musings to realize that almost everybody’s stopped.
And they’re watching the TV.
It’s the one of those big boxy towers, the World Trade Center. Smoke streaming out of out a gigantic hole up near the top.
Somebody in gray PT gear is turning up the volume on CNN.
“...viously a very disturbing live shot there. That is the World Trade Center, and we have unconfirmed reports this morning that a plane has crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. CNN Center right now is just beginning to work on this story...”
Face hits the “stop” button on the treadmill. It’s 0850. He’s got a sick feeling in his stomach, more from the way everybody’s gone quiet and still than what’s actually on the TV. “Gotta be an accident,” somebody murmurs, and he heads to the locker room.
No point in being any later to work than he has to be.
0916
He gets to the unit building, into the main area that serves as shared work space for the officers or Major Smith’s planning room, depending on the day. Face has his usual smile on and dumps his backpack in his desk chair, still wondering about whatever the hell that news report had been about.
“Kid,” one of the older officers, Captain Lutz, Smith’s second-in-command, yells from down by the row of TVs on the far wall, where the unit’s dozen or some officers are clustered up, a few of the enlisted guys starting to drift in, “you finally in? I was about to call you...”
Face winces and hurries over. Something’s going on. He can feel it in his stomach. “Yes sir, I was at the gym...”
“You see this?” Captain Miller asks, and points.
It’s FoxNews this time, the bright blue of the news ticker saying something about a second plane, and Face realizes the building that’s burning up there now isn’t the same one. Looks like it, but isn’t...
Second plane collides with WTC...NYC airspace closed by FAA...President in Florida...
Some reporter is speculating that it was an accident.
Captain Lutz is gripping the back of a chair with bloodless knuckles, and he doesn’t look over at the lieutenant. “The fucking plane banked. It banked, right into the fucking tower, you stupid bitch. It was trying to hit it...”
Face looks around. Nobody’s talking. Probably because nobody knows what to say.
He backs up, stomach flat out hurting now, heads for the back storage room where they’ve got the safe for the classified crypto equipment. Nobody’s even bothered to do this yet this morning. That’s daily procedures. Something’s definitely wrong.
Face flips through the combination and signs out the main key for the crypto routers and his hard drive, goes back to the main room.
Fox News has footage of the President on now. He’s in a room full of schoolchildren, some Secret Service guy in black whispering in his ear. He looks scared.
Face ignores the commentary and, over in the corner at his own desk, plugs in his hard drive. Gets his classified network account up. Clicks through all the warnings and the reminders about security and all that bullshit.
Pulls up the NORAD page.
And there it is.
“Fuck,” he groans, and Captain Lutz is coming over, that hand on the back of Face's chair now.
“What is it, kid?”
He scrolls down, just once, wanting to make sure he didn’t misread this, and shakes his head. “NORAD scrambled fighters to DC,” he says, pointing at the notification on the screen. “They’re speculating that it’s an attack.”
And just then, Giant Voice starts booming out across the base.
REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD. ALL PERSONNEL RETURN TO PRIMARY DUTY LOCATION IMMEDIATELY FOR ACCOUNTABILITY PURPOSES. BENNING IS ON LOCK-DOWN. ALL DEPENDENTS MUST BE ACCOUNTED FOR. BASE SCHOOLS ARE LOCKED DOWN. REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD...
Face tenses up as Command Post repeats itself again, something about those words, real world, freezing something in his blood. Captain Lutz pats his shoulder, just once, and starts barking orders for Captain Miller to recall everybody who’s fucking out right now, and I don’t care if their wife is going into fucking labor and for Face to see what the hell else you can pull off the goddamn SIPR and at the First Sergeant to go fucking get everybody in here, I want eyes-on, right now...
0939
Everything descends into the well-organized chaos of an ant hill for a little while. Rosters are pulled but the base telephone switch is jammed and half the phone numbers the first sergeant has on file aren’t right anyway. Information’s streamed off civilian and military sites combined but the servers are starting to have trouble with page requests. The news keeps showing video of the planes ramming the towers, different angles now, video from news vans of firefighters rushing to the scene. Some statement from the President that everybody stops and listens to.
Face, still on the NORAD’s site, can see there are at least two more planes, maybe as many as four, maybe more, that the agency’s tracking. Possible targets are being listed. The Capitol Building. The White House. West Point. The United Nations in New York. The Sears Tower in Chicago. Langley AFB. The P...
“Holy mother of God,” Corporal Keyes breathes.
The room goes dead.
The lieutenant looks up at the TVs. One’s on CNN, the other on Fox, another on MSNBC, but that center one, Fox News, that’s the one he’s staring at, because...
“It’s the Pentagon,” Captain Lutz says, cold and distant.
Face stands up, feeling weak. “Boss is at the Pentagon.”
“I know, kid. I know he is.”
“But...”
“Calm down, soldier,” Lutz says, dispassionate, but there’s a roughness to his voice that belies a swell of emotion underneath. “There’s nothing we can do about it. Calm down.”
Face wants to say that he is calm. He is. But he can feel the panic welling up in him now. Really feel it. Not the dull horror of what was there before, but real, honest panic, like he hasn’t felt since that day in Ranger training he thought he broke his leg and was going to get washed out of the program for a second, final time, like he hasn’t felt since he was a kid, alone with Father Richard.
And it’s not over seeing a hole blown clear through the Pentagon or the video CNN just cut to, people jumping from the burning towers. No. Not that. It’s... Face can’t really explain it to himself, why it’s such a horrible thought, why it makes him want to throw up, even contemplating the possibility of losing Major Smith, Hannibal, one of the best men he’s ever known and he’s only known him a couple of months...
“But sir!” he protests loudly.
But Captain Lutz is ignoring him, arms crossed, staring at the screen. He leans over to the unit First Sergeant, who’s right at his elbow. “Did you manage to get through to the boss, Steve?”
“Cell coverage is down on the East Coast, Captain, and DSN is completely fucked. Nothing’s getting through...”
Face clenches a fist, body trembling a little as Lutz pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning into his hands. Then somebody’s putting an arm around him, and the lieutenant looks up, right at Captain Miller, whose lips have gone white, pinched into a flat, hard line.
“It’s gonna mean a war, isn’t it?” the younger officer asks.
Miller nods, very slow. “It sure as shit better.”
Face can’t tear his eyes away from the TV. “That means us, right?”
And then the captain smiles, imperceptible, but smiling still. He has family in New York City, a brother-in-law who works in downtown Manhattan, if Face remembers right, but his cell phone’s still in his pocket. All the lines are down. No way to see if anybody’s safe. No way to find out who might be dead. “Tip of spear. First ones on the ground, I’ll guaran-fucking-tee you that.”
It’s amazing how much better that makes Face feel.
For a few minutes, as Captain Lutz goes back to Hannibal’s office to call everyone he can fucking think of, as NORAD announces, on SIPRnet and then on TV a few minutes later, that US airspace is closed indefinitely.
1007
On TV, in New York City, there’s an ash cloud reaching ten stories up, covering everything, rolling through the streets, people screaming, and the news tickers are saying that the South Tower collapsed, evacuations underway for the North Tower, first responders still in both, people trapped on the upper floors...
Face sits down, hard, in one of the chairs at the main briefing table in the room, looks down the table, one chair of man space, at Corporal Keyes, who sounds like he’s muttering to himself, and realizes he’s praying. Reciting a Psalm, more accurately, in Spanish. Very, very quiet, eyes squeezed shut.
One of Hannibal’s lessons comes back to him then, the one about doing what you have to do for your men, how your men come first...
And so, ignoring another pang fo fear that Major Smith is dead, pushing aside everything he’s feeling right now, Face reaches over, takes the corporal’s hand, and starts saying it with him.
“...aunque ande en valle de sombra de muerte, no temeré mal alguno; porque tú estarás conmigo...”
Face feels Corporal Keyes squeeze his hand, and he shuts his eyes, remembering morning Mass at the orphanage, the way the early light used to come through the stained glass windows, trying to think about the words, trying to focus on anything, anything but the fire and the pain pouring out of the television.
1305
Face’s SIPR screen is buzzing.
Every computer screen in the planning room is buzzing.
Alerts are being sent out as fast as the boys at Cheyenne Mountain, NORTHCOM, NORAD, NSA, CIA, FAA, fucking everyone can type out the emails.
Captain Lutz left for a meeting at the headquarters building an hour and a half ago, leaving everybody under orders to stay in the fucking building, so help me god.
Some of the guys are on the phone with their wives and girlfriends, the younger ones, their parents. All of them trying to explain the situation as best they can, that they may not be home that night, that they’re safe, that no, nobody knows what’s going on yet. Lying about that last bit, because the intelligence reports on SIPRnet are saying that it’s probably some terror group from the Middle East, maybe the same one that blew a hole in the USS Cole a couple years back. Al Qaeda, or something like that. But that information hasn’t been released officially yet, so nobody can talk about it.
Face doesn’t have anybody to call, so he’s working on an MRE instead. He’s not really hungry, and he hates these things, but he hasn’t eaten since yesterday evening. And a huge fucking box of the nasty prepared meals was dropped off about an hour ago by Logistics. They hadn’t known when the lock-down was going to end, either.
He’s got the entree packet in its little pouch and water bath, propped up against a binder, heating element working away. Since the lieutenant had most of the case to pick from, it’s not something gross like Chili-Mac. No, the Jambalaya actually isn’t too bad, if he remembers correctly from Ranger School. And it came with crackers and processed cheese spread, which he’s eating now.
The news droans on. Speculation about where VPOTUS Chaney is. That President Bush should be giving an address soon. More footage of the collapse, which now includes the North Tower too. Firefighters, trying to deal with the panic. Something about United Flight 93, crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. US skies cleared of all planes that aren’t military or emergency response craft. More video of the towers falling. Speculation. The Pentagon...
And Face can’t taste lunch any more.
They still haven’t heard from Hannibal. Or General Morrison. Brass is going fucking crazy, which is one of the reasons why Lutz is up at an emergency briefing at the headquarters building.
Then Giant Voice comes on again.
REAL WORLD REAL WORLD REAL WORLD. ALL US MILITARY FORCES HAVE BEEN PLACED ON FORCE PROTECTION CONDITION DELTA. ALL UNITS IMPLEMENT FPCON DELTA CHECKLISTS IMMEDIATELY. REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD. ALL US MILITARY FORCES HAVE BEEN PLACED ON...
Lunch bubbles away.
Face doesn’t feel like eating any more.
Where the fuck is the boss?
2034
The President’s speaking from the Oval Office. He looks shaken up to Face, like he’s aged ten years in a day, but his words are steady, his demeanor calm, belief in what he's saying evident.
It’s sort of amazing.
And everyone still in the room, worn themselves by the day’s constant news reports, by the conflicting reports, from one horrifying revelation after another, by the fact that the base is still on lock-down and everyone who lives outside the gates can’t go home, seems to be taking solace from it. Everyone seems to be calming down.
“...these acts of mass murder were intended to frighten our nation into chaos and retreat. But they have failed; our country is strong.
A great people has been moved to defend a great nation. Terrorist attacks can shake the foundations of our biggest buildings, but they cannot touch the foundation of America..”
Captain Miller got through to his sister, on a landline, about twenty minutes ago. Her husband had had an early meeting at the offices of Marsh Inc, at the World Trade Center. Evidently, that company had occupied the floors where the plane hit. Face had heard her on the phone. She was screaming. Miller’s in the first sergeant’s office right now, somewhere where the men can’t see him cry.
Face stretches himself. He lives off-post, so he can’t go home. He doesn’t really want to go home anyway. Doesn’t want to sit in his apartment and wonder what the hell’s going on with the boss.
“...search is underway for those who are behind these evil acts. I've directed the full resources of our intelligence and law enforcement communities to find those responsible and to bring them to justice. We will make no distinction between the terrorists who committed these acts and those who harbor them...”
Somebody starts clapping.
Face still doesn’t feel well. He wants to know what’s going on with Major Smith. Nothing. Not a word, all day. And he’s had a whole day to think about why it’s bothering him so much. A whole day to think about how the man talks to him, soft and strong at the same time, his clear tenor voice laying out how the world should be, ringing with the conviction that things could be so.
About how Hannibal treats him when they’re out on the range, praising him when he does something right, helping him work through whatever he’s doing wrong.
About how great it is, that the major has all the officers over to his house every Friday and Saturday, how he always lets Face flop on his sofa or in his spare bedroom if he’s drunk too much or doesn’t want to be alone that night or doesn’t feel like hitting the bars.
About the way he’s caught the boss looking at him, once or twice, eyes soft, almost curious, almost...
Oh hell. Oh no. He can’t. He can’t be in...
“...None of us will ever forget this day. Yet, we go forward to defend freedom and all that is good and just in our world. Thank you. Good night, and God bless America.”
2103
Face stands as the feed switches back to the Fox news room, the talking heads starting their commentary.
He feels overloaded, he can’t take any more, not sure if he's hollow or overfull or drained or what the hell it is, and he heads to the hall to get a bottle of water out of the snack bar.
It's a calming place for him.
Besides working out every morning and pumping five hundred rounds through his rifle every week, his primary duty in the unit is maintaining the snack bar. And, according to Major Smith, he’s made more money off it in the past three months than the previous Snack-O LT did in a year.
He’s rather proud of that. It’s all about being able to scam the munchies from the commissary, instead of buying it from Sam’s Club. A few well-placed smiles at the right ladies down there, and...
“You doin’ okay, kid?”
It’s an exhausted Major Lutz, gulping down a bottled Starbucks Frappucino, leaning against the fridge. He’s been in his office most of the evening, on and off the phone.
Face nods and grabs one of the non-chilled waters off the top shelf of one of his supply cabinets. “Have we heard from the boss yet, sir?”
It gets him a head shake. “No, no, nothing yet. They’re still trying to get a handle on who was in the building at the time the...the plane hit.” He finishes half the sugary coffee in one go. “They’re still trying to identify the casualties.”
“Fuck...” Face mutters, staring at his water.
“I just got off the phone with the brass upstairs. Seems we’re standing down for the night. Everybody’s free to go home, report time 0730 as usual tomorrow. No gym time, kid. Think you can handle it?” And the senior officer tries to smile.
The lieutenant nods back. He’s got no intention of going home right now. Not while the boss is still out there, somewhere.
“I’ll go tell the guys,” he says anyway
“Good man, Face,” Major Lutz says, and yawns.
2247
Face doesn’t realize he’s asleep until the ringing of the phone by his elbow wakes him up. He’s stretched out on his desk, drooling on his BDU sleeve, and his head is fuzzy as he jerks up. He was lost in some pale dream of ash and smoke, like plumes of gray reaching out to consume the world, and he shakes himself, bothered by clinging tendrils of it as he catches the receiver up on what has to be the sixth ring.
“Four Ranger Battalion, Strategic Planning Division, Lt Peck here. How can I help you?” he says, automatic as an M-16 cycling through the next round.
And he gets a brief chuckle in response. “Jesus, kid, what are you still doing at the office?”
Face looks at his watch. Fuck. Yes, it’s late. But there’s something about Hannibal’s voice on the other end, warm, saying that kid like it’s a mark of affection rather than some reminder of how green he is at all this Ranger business, that makes it all worth it.
Then he jumps a bit. Major Smith. On the phone. Major Smith. Not dead...
“Fuck, yes sir, umm...they had us all here until about two hours ago...”
“And you stayed?”
“In case you called. I was worried,” he admits, and bites the inside of his cheek. Fuck. Did that sound like something a girl would say? It sounds like something a girl would say. Fuck . “Umm, I mean...we haven’t had any word about you or General Morrison, and Command Post has been hounding Major Lutz for an update about your status, so I thought I’d stay, just in case...”
“Well, I’m glad you did, kid. I don’t have anybody’s house numbers and cells aren’t working at all right now...” There’s a pause. “The General’s fine. I’m fine. We’re both at Bolling right now, dead fucking tired, just got back. The Air Force boys are getting us a C-12 back to Benning first thing tomorrow morning, ETA...ten-thirty hours. Will that satisfy the brass, you think?”
Face nods, and then realizes with his sleep-fogged brain that the boss can’t actually see him. “I’ll call it in, sir.”
“Good, good.” Another pause, and Face has a sudden flash of Major Smith on his bed, laying back, big hand over his eyes as he talks. “How’s everybody holding up?”
“Captain Miller lost his brother-in-law, and everyone’s pretty shaken up...”
“How about you, kid?”
He knows Hannibal’s supposed to ask, but he’s still grateful for it, but... “I don’t really know. I guess...I didn’t think something was possible,” he admits.
And there should be something along the lines of don’t worry, kid, we’ll get the bastards or something like that, Face thinks. One of those martial, inspirational things. And Hannibal does say something like that, but not quite.
“I was in Afghanistan, with these people, the Taliban, back in 1989, kid. We were allies back then. They’re fanatics. If we’re going to be fighting them...” and the boss trails off. “It’s gonna be a tough fight, Temp. A long, hard, difficult, fight. You up for that?”
Face grips the phone tighter, taken aback by Major Smith’s use of his first name, feeling warm inside at the way he said it. Temp...and tells himself to get his head out of his ass. The man’s not...probably not... and, flustered like he is, his answer comes out...not how he intended it. “With you in charge? Fucking-A, sir.”
Hannibal laughs again, and then yawns, clear and loud. “Good to hear, Face. Good to hear. Call Command Post, tell them we’re okay, and then get yourself home and get some sleep, okay? You did good today.”
He feels a swell of pride at those words, emerging out from under the numbness that’s slowly started to set in. Even though the boss wasn’t here. Doesn’t know a damn thing about it. Really can’t say that with any certainty. But Face still feels it.
Maybe, that little voice whispers in the back of his mind. Just maybe...
But now’s really not the time.
“Yes, sir,” he says instead.
“Good boy,” Hannibal replies, and the line goes dead.
Face sits for a moment more at his desk, looking up again at the TV, which is still on. Showing the footage of the plane striking the tower again. They’re estimating the death toll at 2500, 3000. Maybe more.
The planes hitting again and again and again...
The buildings crumbling.
Like ant hills, kicked apart by some careless child’s foot.
Thousands of people dying over and over again.
Muted.
Silent.
Not for long, Face repeats to himself, wondering what Afghanistan looks like, what it’s going to feel like, jumping the static line on a live-op for the first time.
And makes his phone calls.
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: This fic and the two that follow it, discusses 9/11
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Face is at Benning, only a few months on the job, when the towers are hit. Hannibal is in DC, at the Pentagon, and nobody can reach him...
0848
Face is in the gym, the red read-out on the treadmill telling him he’s still got another five minutes to go on his run, his watch telling him he’s got exactly twenty-six minutes to report in to work, another ten after that before Major Smith gets pissed. As much as the man supports PT, he hates it when his officers aren’t in on time.
Relax, the lieutenant tells himself.
It's not like the boss is going to know. And Captain Lutz is far more laid-back about this sort of thing anyway.
Hannibal’s in DC this week, at some something-or-other at the Pentagon, along with General Morrison, who just took over as the Benning installation commander a few weeks back. Nice guy, one of those decent generals who gives a shit about something besides his next star, it seems. And there’s something between those two, Morrison and Smith. Face is sure of it. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but if it is what he’s thinking it is, then there’s a damn good chance that his boss of all of three months, Ranger extraordinaire, the soldier's soldier, might very well be...
“Turn it up!” somebody yells from the row of bikes, and Face startles out of his pointless musings to realize that almost everybody’s stopped.
And they’re watching the TV.
It’s the one of those big boxy towers, the World Trade Center. Smoke streaming out of out a gigantic hole up near the top.
Somebody in gray PT gear is turning up the volume on CNN.
“...viously a very disturbing live shot there. That is the World Trade Center, and we have unconfirmed reports this morning that a plane has crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. CNN Center right now is just beginning to work on this story...”
Face hits the “stop” button on the treadmill. It’s 0850. He’s got a sick feeling in his stomach, more from the way everybody’s gone quiet and still than what’s actually on the TV. “Gotta be an accident,” somebody murmurs, and he heads to the locker room.
No point in being any later to work than he has to be.
0916
He gets to the unit building, into the main area that serves as shared work space for the officers or Major Smith’s planning room, depending on the day. Face has his usual smile on and dumps his backpack in his desk chair, still wondering about whatever the hell that news report had been about.
“Kid,” one of the older officers, Captain Lutz, Smith’s second-in-command, yells from down by the row of TVs on the far wall, where the unit’s dozen or some officers are clustered up, a few of the enlisted guys starting to drift in, “you finally in? I was about to call you...”
Face winces and hurries over. Something’s going on. He can feel it in his stomach. “Yes sir, I was at the gym...”
“You see this?” Captain Miller asks, and points.
It’s FoxNews this time, the bright blue of the news ticker saying something about a second plane, and Face realizes the building that’s burning up there now isn’t the same one. Looks like it, but isn’t...
Second plane collides with WTC...NYC airspace closed by FAA...President in Florida...
Some reporter is speculating that it was an accident.
Captain Lutz is gripping the back of a chair with bloodless knuckles, and he doesn’t look over at the lieutenant. “The fucking plane banked. It banked, right into the fucking tower, you stupid bitch. It was trying to hit it...”
Face looks around. Nobody’s talking. Probably because nobody knows what to say.
He backs up, stomach flat out hurting now, heads for the back storage room where they’ve got the safe for the classified crypto equipment. Nobody’s even bothered to do this yet this morning. That’s daily procedures. Something’s definitely wrong.
Face flips through the combination and signs out the main key for the crypto routers and his hard drive, goes back to the main room.
Fox News has footage of the President on now. He’s in a room full of schoolchildren, some Secret Service guy in black whispering in his ear. He looks scared.
Face ignores the commentary and, over in the corner at his own desk, plugs in his hard drive. Gets his classified network account up. Clicks through all the warnings and the reminders about security and all that bullshit.
Pulls up the NORAD page.
And there it is.
“Fuck,” he groans, and Captain Lutz is coming over, that hand on the back of Face's chair now.
“What is it, kid?”
He scrolls down, just once, wanting to make sure he didn’t misread this, and shakes his head. “NORAD scrambled fighters to DC,” he says, pointing at the notification on the screen. “They’re speculating that it’s an attack.”
And just then, Giant Voice starts booming out across the base.
REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD. ALL PERSONNEL RETURN TO PRIMARY DUTY LOCATION IMMEDIATELY FOR ACCOUNTABILITY PURPOSES. BENNING IS ON LOCK-DOWN. ALL DEPENDENTS MUST BE ACCOUNTED FOR. BASE SCHOOLS ARE LOCKED DOWN. REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD...
Face tenses up as Command Post repeats itself again, something about those words, real world, freezing something in his blood. Captain Lutz pats his shoulder, just once, and starts barking orders for Captain Miller to recall everybody who’s fucking out right now, and I don’t care if their wife is going into fucking labor and for Face to see what the hell else you can pull off the goddamn SIPR and at the First Sergeant to go fucking get everybody in here, I want eyes-on, right now...
0939
Everything descends into the well-organized chaos of an ant hill for a little while. Rosters are pulled but the base telephone switch is jammed and half the phone numbers the first sergeant has on file aren’t right anyway. Information’s streamed off civilian and military sites combined but the servers are starting to have trouble with page requests. The news keeps showing video of the planes ramming the towers, different angles now, video from news vans of firefighters rushing to the scene. Some statement from the President that everybody stops and listens to.
Face, still on the NORAD’s site, can see there are at least two more planes, maybe as many as four, maybe more, that the agency’s tracking. Possible targets are being listed. The Capitol Building. The White House. West Point. The United Nations in New York. The Sears Tower in Chicago. Langley AFB. The P...
“Holy mother of God,” Corporal Keyes breathes.
The room goes dead.
The lieutenant looks up at the TVs. One’s on CNN, the other on Fox, another on MSNBC, but that center one, Fox News, that’s the one he’s staring at, because...
“It’s the Pentagon,” Captain Lutz says, cold and distant.
Face stands up, feeling weak. “Boss is at the Pentagon.”
“I know, kid. I know he is.”
“But...”
“Calm down, soldier,” Lutz says, dispassionate, but there’s a roughness to his voice that belies a swell of emotion underneath. “There’s nothing we can do about it. Calm down.”
Face wants to say that he is calm. He is. But he can feel the panic welling up in him now. Really feel it. Not the dull horror of what was there before, but real, honest panic, like he hasn’t felt since that day in Ranger training he thought he broke his leg and was going to get washed out of the program for a second, final time, like he hasn’t felt since he was a kid, alone with Father Richard.
And it’s not over seeing a hole blown clear through the Pentagon or the video CNN just cut to, people jumping from the burning towers. No. Not that. It’s... Face can’t really explain it to himself, why it’s such a horrible thought, why it makes him want to throw up, even contemplating the possibility of losing Major Smith, Hannibal, one of the best men he’s ever known and he’s only known him a couple of months...
“But sir!” he protests loudly.
But Captain Lutz is ignoring him, arms crossed, staring at the screen. He leans over to the unit First Sergeant, who’s right at his elbow. “Did you manage to get through to the boss, Steve?”
“Cell coverage is down on the East Coast, Captain, and DSN is completely fucked. Nothing’s getting through...”
Face clenches a fist, body trembling a little as Lutz pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning into his hands. Then somebody’s putting an arm around him, and the lieutenant looks up, right at Captain Miller, whose lips have gone white, pinched into a flat, hard line.
“It’s gonna mean a war, isn’t it?” the younger officer asks.
Miller nods, very slow. “It sure as shit better.”
Face can’t tear his eyes away from the TV. “That means us, right?”
And then the captain smiles, imperceptible, but smiling still. He has family in New York City, a brother-in-law who works in downtown Manhattan, if Face remembers right, but his cell phone’s still in his pocket. All the lines are down. No way to see if anybody’s safe. No way to find out who might be dead. “Tip of spear. First ones on the ground, I’ll guaran-fucking-tee you that.”
It’s amazing how much better that makes Face feel.
For a few minutes, as Captain Lutz goes back to Hannibal’s office to call everyone he can fucking think of, as NORAD announces, on SIPRnet and then on TV a few minutes later, that US airspace is closed indefinitely.
1007
On TV, in New York City, there’s an ash cloud reaching ten stories up, covering everything, rolling through the streets, people screaming, and the news tickers are saying that the South Tower collapsed, evacuations underway for the North Tower, first responders still in both, people trapped on the upper floors...
Face sits down, hard, in one of the chairs at the main briefing table in the room, looks down the table, one chair of man space, at Corporal Keyes, who sounds like he’s muttering to himself, and realizes he’s praying. Reciting a Psalm, more accurately, in Spanish. Very, very quiet, eyes squeezed shut.
One of Hannibal’s lessons comes back to him then, the one about doing what you have to do for your men, how your men come first...
And so, ignoring another pang fo fear that Major Smith is dead, pushing aside everything he’s feeling right now, Face reaches over, takes the corporal’s hand, and starts saying it with him.
“...aunque ande en valle de sombra de muerte, no temeré mal alguno; porque tú estarás conmigo...”
Face feels Corporal Keyes squeeze his hand, and he shuts his eyes, remembering morning Mass at the orphanage, the way the early light used to come through the stained glass windows, trying to think about the words, trying to focus on anything, anything but the fire and the pain pouring out of the television.
1305
Face’s SIPR screen is buzzing.
Every computer screen in the planning room is buzzing.
Alerts are being sent out as fast as the boys at Cheyenne Mountain, NORTHCOM, NORAD, NSA, CIA, FAA, fucking everyone can type out the emails.
Captain Lutz left for a meeting at the headquarters building an hour and a half ago, leaving everybody under orders to stay in the fucking building, so help me god.
Some of the guys are on the phone with their wives and girlfriends, the younger ones, their parents. All of them trying to explain the situation as best they can, that they may not be home that night, that they’re safe, that no, nobody knows what’s going on yet. Lying about that last bit, because the intelligence reports on SIPRnet are saying that it’s probably some terror group from the Middle East, maybe the same one that blew a hole in the USS Cole a couple years back. Al Qaeda, or something like that. But that information hasn’t been released officially yet, so nobody can talk about it.
Face doesn’t have anybody to call, so he’s working on an MRE instead. He’s not really hungry, and he hates these things, but he hasn’t eaten since yesterday evening. And a huge fucking box of the nasty prepared meals was dropped off about an hour ago by Logistics. They hadn’t known when the lock-down was going to end, either.
He’s got the entree packet in its little pouch and water bath, propped up against a binder, heating element working away. Since the lieutenant had most of the case to pick from, it’s not something gross like Chili-Mac. No, the Jambalaya actually isn’t too bad, if he remembers correctly from Ranger School. And it came with crackers and processed cheese spread, which he’s eating now.
The news droans on. Speculation about where VPOTUS Chaney is. That President Bush should be giving an address soon. More footage of the collapse, which now includes the North Tower too. Firefighters, trying to deal with the panic. Something about United Flight 93, crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. US skies cleared of all planes that aren’t military or emergency response craft. More video of the towers falling. Speculation. The Pentagon...
And Face can’t taste lunch any more.
They still haven’t heard from Hannibal. Or General Morrison. Brass is going fucking crazy, which is one of the reasons why Lutz is up at an emergency briefing at the headquarters building.
Then Giant Voice comes on again.
REAL WORLD REAL WORLD REAL WORLD. ALL US MILITARY FORCES HAVE BEEN PLACED ON FORCE PROTECTION CONDITION DELTA. ALL UNITS IMPLEMENT FPCON DELTA CHECKLISTS IMMEDIATELY. REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD, REAL WORLD. ALL US MILITARY FORCES HAVE BEEN PLACED ON...
Lunch bubbles away.
Face doesn’t feel like eating any more.
Where the fuck is the boss?
2034
The President’s speaking from the Oval Office. He looks shaken up to Face, like he’s aged ten years in a day, but his words are steady, his demeanor calm, belief in what he's saying evident.
It’s sort of amazing.
And everyone still in the room, worn themselves by the day’s constant news reports, by the conflicting reports, from one horrifying revelation after another, by the fact that the base is still on lock-down and everyone who lives outside the gates can’t go home, seems to be taking solace from it. Everyone seems to be calming down.
“...these acts of mass murder were intended to frighten our nation into chaos and retreat. But they have failed; our country is strong.
A great people has been moved to defend a great nation. Terrorist attacks can shake the foundations of our biggest buildings, but they cannot touch the foundation of America..”
Captain Miller got through to his sister, on a landline, about twenty minutes ago. Her husband had had an early meeting at the offices of Marsh Inc, at the World Trade Center. Evidently, that company had occupied the floors where the plane hit. Face had heard her on the phone. She was screaming. Miller’s in the first sergeant’s office right now, somewhere where the men can’t see him cry.
Face stretches himself. He lives off-post, so he can’t go home. He doesn’t really want to go home anyway. Doesn’t want to sit in his apartment and wonder what the hell’s going on with the boss.
“...search is underway for those who are behind these evil acts. I've directed the full resources of our intelligence and law enforcement communities to find those responsible and to bring them to justice. We will make no distinction between the terrorists who committed these acts and those who harbor them...”
Somebody starts clapping.
Face still doesn’t feel well. He wants to know what’s going on with Major Smith. Nothing. Not a word, all day. And he’s had a whole day to think about why it’s bothering him so much. A whole day to think about how the man talks to him, soft and strong at the same time, his clear tenor voice laying out how the world should be, ringing with the conviction that things could be so.
About how Hannibal treats him when they’re out on the range, praising him when he does something right, helping him work through whatever he’s doing wrong.
About how great it is, that the major has all the officers over to his house every Friday and Saturday, how he always lets Face flop on his sofa or in his spare bedroom if he’s drunk too much or doesn’t want to be alone that night or doesn’t feel like hitting the bars.
About the way he’s caught the boss looking at him, once or twice, eyes soft, almost curious, almost...
Oh hell. Oh no. He can’t. He can’t be in...
“...None of us will ever forget this day. Yet, we go forward to defend freedom and all that is good and just in our world. Thank you. Good night, and God bless America.”
2103
Face stands as the feed switches back to the Fox news room, the talking heads starting their commentary.
He feels overloaded, he can’t take any more, not sure if he's hollow or overfull or drained or what the hell it is, and he heads to the hall to get a bottle of water out of the snack bar.
It's a calming place for him.
Besides working out every morning and pumping five hundred rounds through his rifle every week, his primary duty in the unit is maintaining the snack bar. And, according to Major Smith, he’s made more money off it in the past three months than the previous Snack-O LT did in a year.
He’s rather proud of that. It’s all about being able to scam the munchies from the commissary, instead of buying it from Sam’s Club. A few well-placed smiles at the right ladies down there, and...
“You doin’ okay, kid?”
It’s an exhausted Major Lutz, gulping down a bottled Starbucks Frappucino, leaning against the fridge. He’s been in his office most of the evening, on and off the phone.
Face nods and grabs one of the non-chilled waters off the top shelf of one of his supply cabinets. “Have we heard from the boss yet, sir?”
It gets him a head shake. “No, no, nothing yet. They’re still trying to get a handle on who was in the building at the time the...the plane hit.” He finishes half the sugary coffee in one go. “They’re still trying to identify the casualties.”
“Fuck...” Face mutters, staring at his water.
“I just got off the phone with the brass upstairs. Seems we’re standing down for the night. Everybody’s free to go home, report time 0730 as usual tomorrow. No gym time, kid. Think you can handle it?” And the senior officer tries to smile.
The lieutenant nods back. He’s got no intention of going home right now. Not while the boss is still out there, somewhere.
“I’ll go tell the guys,” he says anyway
“Good man, Face,” Major Lutz says, and yawns.
2247
Face doesn’t realize he’s asleep until the ringing of the phone by his elbow wakes him up. He’s stretched out on his desk, drooling on his BDU sleeve, and his head is fuzzy as he jerks up. He was lost in some pale dream of ash and smoke, like plumes of gray reaching out to consume the world, and he shakes himself, bothered by clinging tendrils of it as he catches the receiver up on what has to be the sixth ring.
“Four Ranger Battalion, Strategic Planning Division, Lt Peck here. How can I help you?” he says, automatic as an M-16 cycling through the next round.
And he gets a brief chuckle in response. “Jesus, kid, what are you still doing at the office?”
Face looks at his watch. Fuck. Yes, it’s late. But there’s something about Hannibal’s voice on the other end, warm, saying that kid like it’s a mark of affection rather than some reminder of how green he is at all this Ranger business, that makes it all worth it.
Then he jumps a bit. Major Smith. On the phone. Major Smith. Not dead...
“Fuck, yes sir, umm...they had us all here until about two hours ago...”
“And you stayed?”
“In case you called. I was worried,” he admits, and bites the inside of his cheek. Fuck. Did that sound like something a girl would say? It sounds like something a girl would say. Fuck . “Umm, I mean...we haven’t had any word about you or General Morrison, and Command Post has been hounding Major Lutz for an update about your status, so I thought I’d stay, just in case...”
“Well, I’m glad you did, kid. I don’t have anybody’s house numbers and cells aren’t working at all right now...” There’s a pause. “The General’s fine. I’m fine. We’re both at Bolling right now, dead fucking tired, just got back. The Air Force boys are getting us a C-12 back to Benning first thing tomorrow morning, ETA...ten-thirty hours. Will that satisfy the brass, you think?”
Face nods, and then realizes with his sleep-fogged brain that the boss can’t actually see him. “I’ll call it in, sir.”
“Good, good.” Another pause, and Face has a sudden flash of Major Smith on his bed, laying back, big hand over his eyes as he talks. “How’s everybody holding up?”
“Captain Miller lost his brother-in-law, and everyone’s pretty shaken up...”
“How about you, kid?”
He knows Hannibal’s supposed to ask, but he’s still grateful for it, but... “I don’t really know. I guess...I didn’t think something was possible,” he admits.
And there should be something along the lines of don’t worry, kid, we’ll get the bastards or something like that, Face thinks. One of those martial, inspirational things. And Hannibal does say something like that, but not quite.
“I was in Afghanistan, with these people, the Taliban, back in 1989, kid. We were allies back then. They’re fanatics. If we’re going to be fighting them...” and the boss trails off. “It’s gonna be a tough fight, Temp. A long, hard, difficult, fight. You up for that?”
Face grips the phone tighter, taken aback by Major Smith’s use of his first name, feeling warm inside at the way he said it. Temp...and tells himself to get his head out of his ass. The man’s not...probably not... and, flustered like he is, his answer comes out...not how he intended it. “With you in charge? Fucking-A, sir.”
Hannibal laughs again, and then yawns, clear and loud. “Good to hear, Face. Good to hear. Call Command Post, tell them we’re okay, and then get yourself home and get some sleep, okay? You did good today.”
He feels a swell of pride at those words, emerging out from under the numbness that’s slowly started to set in. Even though the boss wasn’t here. Doesn’t know a damn thing about it. Really can’t say that with any certainty. But Face still feels it.
Maybe, that little voice whispers in the back of his mind. Just maybe...
But now’s really not the time.
“Yes, sir,” he says instead.
“Good boy,” Hannibal replies, and the line goes dead.
Face sits for a moment more at his desk, looking up again at the TV, which is still on. Showing the footage of the plane striking the tower again. They’re estimating the death toll at 2500, 3000. Maybe more.
The planes hitting again and again and again...
The buildings crumbling.
Like ant hills, kicked apart by some careless child’s foot.
Thousands of people dying over and over again.
Muted.
Silent.
Not for long, Face repeats to himself, wondering what Afghanistan looks like, what it’s going to feel like, jumping the static line on a live-op for the first time.
And makes his phone calls.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-03 08:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-03 04:44 pm (UTC)