Enduring Freedom, page 3
The news replayed President Bush’s short announcement, made from an elementary school in Florida. “Today we’ve had a national tragedy. Two airplanes have crashed into the World Trade Center, in an apparent terrorist attack on our country.” Shocked murmurs came from the people of Booker Elementary School who stood behind him. “I have spoken to the vice president, to the governor of New York, to the director of the FBI, and have ordered that the full resources of the federal government go to help the victims and their families, and to conduct a full-scale investigation to hunt down and to find those folks who committed this act. Terrorism against our nation will not stand. And now, if you’d join me in a moment of silence.” It was a brief moment before the president continued. “May God bless the victims, their families, and America. Thank you very much.”
There it was, the president confirming beyond a doubt that the nightmare was a terrorist attack. He talked about hunting these monsters down. Joe couldn’t wait for the bombs to start falling on whoever had done this. He wanted to see the tanks roll and the machine guns fire and—“I’m a soldier,” he said out loud. He’d actually fired an M240B machine gun at basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, that summer. Joe—Private Killian—had enlisted in the Iowa Army National Guard for the college money, so he could pay for his own education instead of having to accept one penny from his father. Besides basic training the summer before senior year and a month of infantry job training the summer after graduation, he was supposed to serve one weekend a month and two weeks every summer.
Plus wars.
I’m a soldier. Now my country is under attack.
“I’m a soldier,” he repeated aloud.
Mr. Kane looked at him sadly.
Joe was a real soldier now, and the country was at war. His National Guard armory could be calling his home right now. He might be shipping out to fight in some country tomorrow. He might be sent to New York to help. He had official responsibilities. His heart hammered in his chest, and his muscles, honed by a summer of hard Army workouts, were tight, tense the way they were before the bayonet course or hand-to-hand combat training. This wasn’t training now. This was war. He was a soldier.
“Mr. Kane?” he said. “I need to make a phone call.” He swallowed. “To check for orders.”
Mr. Kane nodded. “Good luck.”
He ran out of the classroom, cursing himself. He should have made this call a lot earlier. What if his unit was already suiting up? What if he was late? In the Army, a soldier must never be late.
In the hall, Joe heard the intercom signal sound, and the principal’s voice echoed all over the school. “Teachers, if you haven’t already, you may turn on the news. Students who do not wish to watch the news may be dismissed to the library at any time.” Mr. Tecklen paused. “Even though Iowa is a long way from New York, I understand that people may be frightened at a time like this. I want to tell you all that I have personally walked the grounds and the school, checking locks and making sure everything is secure. You are safe. I will not let anything happen to you. I swear to God. I will keep you safe. We’re going to continue doing the best we can today, supporting one another the way Riverside Roughriders always do.”
Joe nodded. It was a cheesy message. He’d had a hard time relating to all that school spirit stuff since the Army had given him a wider view of the world, but being in the National Guard had also taught him to respect good leadership, and Mr. Tecklen’s speech was something of a comfort. Joe had enough to worry about without also being afraid for the school.
A group of freshmen, out of their classroom for whatever reason, were messing around, talking, laughing, and shoving one another like they were little kids on the elementary school playground. How could they be so cheerful on a day like today? Why’d they have to block the whole hall?
I don’t have time for this. “At ease! Make way! Make a hole!” Joe shouted the way drill sergeants had done to quickly get through crowded hallways in the barracks. The freshmen jumped clear, and Joe ran on to the main office.
It was chaos. Mrs. Abrams, the school secretary, and Cynthia, one of the education aides, frantically answered phones.
“No,” Mrs. Abrams said. “Mrs. Yoder, the building is safe. You can come pick him up if you want to or wait for the bus to bring him home like always. No, I don’t have any more infor— You’ll have to watch the news like everyone else. I have to go now. I need to clear this line. Goodbye!” She hung up the phone a bit forcefully and put her hands over her eyes. Cynthia squeezed her shoulder. The phone rang again.
Mrs. Abrams sighed, then pressed her lips together and picked up the phone. “Riverside High School. This is Donna speaking. How may I help you? No, we do not plan to dismiss early. We believe it’s safer to keep everyone together. The parents of most of our students are at work, and we don’t think the kids should be sent home to be alone.” A pause. “Yes, you may come pick her up whenever you like.” She hung up a moment later.
Joe pushed to the front of a line of students and stepped up to the counter. “Excuse me. I need to use the phone.”
Mrs. Abrams’ phone rang again. So did the one Cynthia was manning.
It sounded like they were answering the same call over and over.
When Donna hung up again, Joe spoke up right away. “I need to make a phone call.”
Tabitha Blaylin, a white-blond junior who was super into band, entered the office crying. Cynthia came out from behind the desk and hugged her. “You’re going to be OK, sweetheart.”
“My . . .” Tabitha sobbed. “My uncle works at the Pentagon.”
Cynthia patted her back. “Well, I’m sure he’s . . . He’s probably OK.”
Both phones rang again.
“Mrs. Abrams, I need to use the—”
“Joe!” Donna shouted. “I’m busy! If someone calls for you, I’ll—”
“I’m National Guard,” Joe said. He hoped he had not spoken too dramatically, like the way TV FBI guys showed up on crime scenes, taking over investigations. It was a simple statement of fact. A crazy fact in a crazy new world. “I need to check for orders.”
Mrs. Abrams and Cynthia froze, their phones still ringing.
“Joe,” Mr. Tecklen said, gesturing toward the door to his private office. “You can use my phone.”
It was strange to be offered a seat in the principal’s chair, and Joe wondered what it felt like to be Mr. Tecklen right now. Joe shook his head. He had his own responsibilities. He called home, only to get the answering machine. “You’ve reached the Killian residence. Please leave a—” Joe pressed the star button, and a moment later the machine’s computer voice came on. “Please enter the code.” He keyed in the four digits that allowed remote access to the messages.
“Kathy, this is your mother. You’re probably at work. Or maybe you’re shopping for emergency supplies. Or I guess you could be—” Joe hit the six key to skip the rest of the message from Grandma.
“Don’t hang up! You don’t want to miss this exciting offer from—” Skip.
“Joe, Krista, this is your dad. Are you watching the news? It’s horrible. I just wanted to tell you both that I—” Skip. Definitely skip.
“End of messages,” the computer finally said.
That was it? Nothing from his armory? What was he supposed to do now? He’d hoped at least his team leader or his squad leader would have called. Unless something had come by email. But if it had, that was a problem. The school’s internet filter didn’t allow anyone to check web-based email.
“Everything OK?” Mr. Tecklen said from the other side of the room.
Joe understood what he meant, but it was kind of a stupid question. The CNN website on Mr. Tecklen’s desk was plastered with terrible information and photos of fire and smoke. “I need to check my Hotmail account.”
Mr. Tecklen pointed to his computer. “I don’t have the same lockouts as the rest of the school. Go ahead.”
A moment later he’d logged in to his email to find three junk ads. And one email from Sergeant First Class Black. A cold dread sank deep inside him, and his breath was shaky as he opened the message.
To: KillJo01@hotmail.com
From: Anthony.A.Black@us.army.mil
9/11/2001
8:38 a.m.
Subject: TERRORIST ATTACK [Unclassified]
All Delta Company Soldiers:
Several commercial passenger jets have been hijacked and used as weapons in terrorist attacks on U.S. soil. At this time, there are NO orders for activation of any of our soldiers. Unless you are reporting terrorist activity in your area DO NOT CALL THE ARMORY! Our phone lines must remain open for the Governor and other authorities. Maintain situational awareness. Do not travel any further than 60 miles from the armory without prior authorization. If you did not update your contact information at our last drill, or if your contact information has changed since then, notify your first-line supervisor immediately with the relevant information. Further instructions will come via your chain of command.
Sergeant First Class Black
Joe breathed a sigh and sank lower in the principal’s chair, his back squeaking on the leather. He blinked his eyes against the sting that came with the flood of relief. A minute ago his imagination had raged with images of him dodging bomb blasts and firing a machine gun in Saudi Arabia or Iraq or even New York. He’d been almost convinced that high school was over for him, that he’d be finishing his education through combat. In an instant, he’d returned to the reality that he was still a high school student. No war for him. Yet. The release of that tension came with a surge of adrenaline and emotion that was hard to contain and control.
“I have—” He licked his dry lips. “I have no orders. Not going to war.”
“Well that sounds like a good thing,” Mr. Tecklen said while Joe logged out. “I mean, you’re only in high school for crying out loud.”
Joe nodded, grateful that last statement was still true. “Thank you, sir, for letting me check in.”
“No problem. If you need anything like that again, let me know.”
By the time Joe returned to his journalism class in the computer lab, the news was reporting that federal buildings in Washington, DC, had been evacuated. All commercial flights across the country were shut down, and no flights were allowed to enter the country.
“What are we even doing here?” said Bobby Theisen, from his usual seat near the front of the room. “It’s not like we’re going to do any work today.”
Nicole Abbins glanced at him. “Where else should we go? What’re we supposed to do?”
“So we just go to our next class in a few minutes, like it’s no big deal? Just another class and nothing has changed?”
Joe sat at his desk near the back of the room, thinking about the rows of seats on the hijacked planes, wondering what it must have felt like to be aboard one of them, flying toward destruction. He could imagine the sadness and fear those people must have felt. The more he thought about it, the more he gripped his desk, fury tightening his muscles.
Worried there would be no gas available tomorrow due to war in the Middle East, Joe volunteered to fuel up both his car and his mom’s old minivan that night after school. The line at the gas station was three blocks long, giving him a needed break from nightmare news once he’d shut off the radio. Every station was all terrorist-attack coverage, all the time.
It was almost dark by the time Joe finally climbed the worn wooden stairs to their small apartment above Mom’s friend’s insurance office. It was all they could afford after Dad split, but it was kind of cool living right on the town square.
As soon as Joe entered, Mom looked up from some papers she had spread out on the kitchen island countertop. She offered a sad smile in greeting.
“How’d it go?”
“Long line. Gas station owner had to come out to stop one guy from filling up six big gas cans in addition to his truck. Crazy.” Joe nodded at Mom’s papers. “Still working?”
“Well, the store’s closed tonight and tomorrow,” Mom said. “Nobody wants to make it a Blockbuster night and rent movies. I thought I’d catch up on my paperwork, try to get corporate to send us more VHS. They’re pushing DVDs, but people around here won’t give up their VCRs.” She sighed. “Trying to make myself feel a little less helpless and useless.”
“Is it working?” Joe asked.
Mom shook her head.
“Anything new on the news?”
“No,” Mom said. “It’s all repeats, and it’s all horrible.”
The kitchen was open to the living room, and Joe flopped down on the sofa next to his sister, Krista. She said nothing but handed over a bowl of mini pretzels. Joe grabbed a few and crunched down. News coverage of the attacks continued, like scenes from the alien-attack disaster movie Independence Day he saw in junior high. They watched as terrified people ran away from the burning, and then collapsing, towers, and as firemen ran in the other direction to help. Every channel on TV, from the regular networks through ESPN, was running the horrible footage. They watched video clips of people hanging out the burning towers, waving clothes, begging for help. Many, knowing no help was coming, chose to jump to their deaths rather than face the fire raging in the building.
“We were supposed to have a volleyball game tonight,” Krista said. She let out a weak half laugh. “So . . . stupid to”—her voice grew rough with sadness—“think about that now.”
Joe put his arm around his sister’s shaking shoulders as she cried. “No,” he said after a long moment. “It’s not stupid. You’ve worked hard in volleyball. You’re fifteen. Volleyball should be one of your top concerns. Not”—he motioned at the carnage on the screen—“not this.”
That night, after Mom and Krista had gone to bed and Joe had finally shut off the TV, he didn’t even pull out his bed, just sat on the sleeper sofa, holding his pen over a blank page in his notebook. He needed to write about what had happened. But how could anyone write the story of today? He imagined the newspapers the next day. They’d all have big banner headlines in all capitals. He put pen to paper and wrote:
ATTACKED!
New York Washington D.C. New York, Washington D.C., Pennsylvania September 11, 2001
America suffered the deadliest terrorist attack in its history today. The total loss of life unknown. Several thousand innocent Americans were killed murdered today as a nation watched in horror.
In response, President Bush has promised the full resources of the federal government would be devoted to helping victims and finding those responsible the sick monsters who committed were responsible for the terrorist acts.
Across the country, people grieve and are furious
People are dead, and there’s nothing that can be done to change—
No words were enough.
He gave up and tossed his notebook and pen aside.
Joe had spent the summer in Army basic training becoming a soldier and listening to his drill sergeants talk about their time in the Persian Gulf War. America was the most powerful country in the world. Now America, for all her power, had been brought to her knees, nearly helpless, reeling from a massive attack and weeping for the dead. And Joe, watching those firemen rush in to help, hearing about fighter jet patrols protecting DC and about police and soldiers rushing to protect other sites, thought about being a soldier in this new war. He longed for his uniform and his weapon. It was the strangest paradox. Of course he wished this attack had never happened, and he wanted to continue with his normal life, running cross-country, hanging out with his friends, graduation, and then college. But longing for normal life seemed so pointless. Like Krista had said, that kind of thinking seemed stupid at a time like this. They’d murdered thousands and terrorized hundreds of millions, including his mother and little sister. If he had to be a soldier, then he wanted to get into the fight, to hit these terrorist monsters back hard. He wanted to protect his country and make them pay for the evil they’d done.
Kabul, Afghanistan
September 23, 2001
Baba Jan wasted little time before following through on his promise to keep the family safe. It had only been a little over a week since the terrible attack on America, and already he had purchased a house in Farah with help from his brother who lived there.
When Baheer had first heard the family would be moving to the small western city on the opposite side of Afghanistan, he’d been worried. Kabul had its problems, but it was Afghanistan’s most modern city. Would their new house even have modern toilets, or would they have to squat over dirt holes, which wasn’t uncommon? Baba Jan had grown up in Farah, and his brother still lived there, but Baheer had never visited. He hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult an adjustment.
Baheer was no stranger to moving. He’d moved with the family before, even across international borders. But this time was different. He was surprised at how much he regretted having to leave some of the people he’d come to know at school. He wouldn’t call them friends, exactly. With school discipline being so brutally harsh, there wasn’t much of a chance to get to know many of the other boys. But despite having to be constantly looking out for Taliban patrols, he and Rahim did talk to some of them on the bike ride to and from school.
He’d remember Malik, who was always telling the most unfunny jokes. Malik also loved Indian movies and once tried to style his hair like one of those actors. When the Taliban found out, they arrested him. Baheer and Rahim had caught up to Malik on the street a few days later. The Taliban had shaved his head, and they hadn’t been too kind about it. Another classmate, Mohammad, who absolutely loved soccer, had his bike smashed up by a talib after he was caught ringing the bell on his handlebars. Music was forbidden. What would become of these guys if the war Baba Jan feared came to pass, if Kabul was bombed to pieces the way Baba Jan dreaded?
