Firehouse Magazine Reports
10 Days At Ground Zero
CURTIS S.D. MASSEY
From the April 2002 Firehouse Magazine
Part: ONE | TWO | THREE
DAY 2. The sun rises on the second day and it is almost as hectic as the first. So much is happening, with everyone working at a feverish pace. The site has now been dubbed “Ground Zero” by the media. It seems fitting, since the term harkens to the origin of a nuclear detonation and this certainly looks like one.
We all know, without saying a word, that time is running out for anyone trapped in the rubble. The largest fires are being brought under control. The formation of multiple rescue teams continues in order to probe in and around what becomes commonly known as “the pile,” the large debris field where the twin towers once stood. The estimated number of civilians lost is declining, now at around 5,000. Oddly, though, the number of missing firefighters is rising, to about 280 today.
Security around the site is getting much tighter. The National Guard has been brought in to establish a security perimeter. We are hearing reports of looting and even of one guy who said he was with FEMA, slipped past police and went down to the site, stealing personal effects from bodies lying in the street the first day. Marvelous. (Later, we were advised of a new threat – reportedly, three suicide bombers made it past security on foot and were targeting the command post. We also were told of a terrorist cell stealing a fire truck, loading it with explosives and driving it past a checkpoint, “so be on the lookout.” Another rumor surfaces about a truck filled with explosives that the state police intercepted trying to cross the George Washington Bridge into the city. Thankfully, these rumors were unfounded, but they still kept us on edge.)
Military helicopters constantly circle overhead, while jet fighters continue to patrol from a higher altitude. At least they won’t be attacking anymore from the air, I’m thinking. I spend most of the day trying to track down any blueprints that can be found on the complex. No one seems to know where a surviving set might be and it becomes more frustrating. The crews probing the sub-levels are trying to search a site 16 acres in size, under extremely difficult conditions. Some can find no access to these areas because stairwells are blocked by debris. We could really use those prints about now.
Out of the blue, my phone rings. Cell phone service must be back up. It is a supervisor from the General Services Administration, who was given my cell number by the incident commander. He has a nearly complete set of drawings of most of the complex, except for the twin towers and sub-level shopping concourse. Finally, something goes right! He is at the Federal Building, about 10 blocks from where I am. Asked if he can get them to the command post, I am told no, as he has no security clearance to the site. I tell him, “Neither do I, technically,” but agree to go to him. He states they are in “lockdown,” so he’ll meet me in the lobby and will escort me up to his floor. I tell him I’ll be there in 20 minutes.
Working my way back through a checkpoint, I am challenged by a National Guardsman for ID. I tell him I have none with me, but have been at the site for two days and am working with the fire department. He then explains that I need a clearance badge. I’m directed to a nearby building where the police department has set up its command post. I go there, only to find out that they haven’t started making any badges, so I am told to use my driver’s license until an ID process is established. My license is back at the hotel in my briefcase (I don’t carry a wallet). I go back to the checkpoint and advise the guard, who in turn, tells me I need an ID or cannot pass back through.
Just as a spirited discussion breaks out, once again, someone comes to my rescue. A guy wearing an FBI jacket overhears the conversation about why I have to get to the Federal Building and steps in, whips out his badge and vouches for me. Instant credibility! The next thing you know, he becomes my escort and fast friend. For the rest of my time spent at the disaster, he gets me anywhere I need to go – or he feels I should go. I mean anywhere. The Federal Building, the Jacob Javits Center (temporary home of FEMA), police and FBI command posts, the Mayor’s Office of Emergency Management headquarters, the mayor and governor’s command posts, you name it. He quickly acquires for me all the magical badges and IDs necessary to get around. His name is Mike (last name withheld for security reasons) and he is the real-life version of Superman. He’ll probably never forgive me for saying this, but I’m not kidding. He is a liaison officer to the FBI on loan from the NYPD, a select group called the Joint Task Force on Terrorism. In addition to being a detective, he is a paramedic and search and rescue expert, one of the best in the world. He is a member of both FEMA and New York Task Force 1 (NYTF1), an elite squad of police and fire urban search and rescue specialists. He has responded to, dealt with and investigated just about every major disaster affecting U.S. interests in the last 10 years. Everything from the two U.S. embassy bombings in Africa, to the U.S.S. Cole attack in Yemen, to the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, to the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing and the recent Puerto Rico hurricane. Now here he is, doing his thing again on his home turf. (He later investigated the anthrax incidents in New York, as well as the Queens airplane crash late last year – he was even the first officer to handle the Tom Brokaw letter.) This man is unbelievable. He does it all and is extremely intelligent. Not the guy you want chasing you if you’re a terrorist.
My new pal, Mike, gets me over to the Federal Building, where we choose the prints that are useful to us and head back to the site. He takes me to the newly established NYTF1 tent on Chambers and introduces me to all the guys, including one named Steve Spall. Steve is another search and rescue guru with the FDNY and knows Mike through the task force. You can tell quickly by the way he acts and speaks that he is an ace too, clearly “knowing his stuff.” Soon, we are advised that a few people have called 911 dispatch centers and reported themselves to be trapped in various places in the rubble. One woman claims she is trapped in a clothing store in the mall called Strawberry, another says she is in Duane Reade, a pharmacy. They couldn’t offer any details as to where they were in relation to nearby streets, so we are left to our own means in determining their location. The fact that the sub-grade mall is the largest shopping center in Manhattan, totaling 200 shops and restaurants, makes our task that much more difficult.
We break out the prints and start highlighting all the key features with markers, as we openly discuss how and where access can be made to the concourse. We find street-level airshafts and subway station entrances surrounding “the pile” and banter on the feasibility of each as access points. Steve and Mike come up with some terrific ideas and we plot a course of action to propose to command. After we finish, we split up, determined that if there are people down there needing to be rescued, then it was going to happen. I head over to the far side of the site to scout secondary entry points, sketch some things, then make my way to the command post. After the effort appears to be in full swing, I focus my attention on putting together important notes for the announced 10 o’clock briefing at the OEM command post, a converted elementary school at West and Chambers.
At the NYTF1 tent, I brush off the ever-present dust from a large trunk and plop down to begin compiling some key construction facts my office sent me on the twin towers, in addition to the hazmat list I promised Chief Haring. Word spreads that a rescue was accomplished, further raising hope that there are still live victims in the rubble. Everyone picks it up another notch with renewed vigor. Several hours later, I gather my notes and walk over to the OEM post a half-block away. Bustling activity surrounds the school’s cafeteria, where top-level personnel from all the agencies involved with the initiative are gathering to discuss how this incident is going to be managed.
I am introduced to Jeff Armstrong, the overall scene commander. Everyone, including the fire and police departments, even the feds, report to him. I end up working with Jeff quite a bit over the next week and a half and become highly impressed with his abilities and leadership skills. This is a guy who can handle pressure. Plus, he’s a really nice person, with his ego very much in check. Jeff states it’s time to start the meeting, grabs a bullhorn and brings the conversations to a halt.
The session begins. There is electricity in the room. The latest report on the rescue effort is reviewed, along with fatality and injury statistics. Multiple generators hum away outside in the courtyard. We are still without most essential services, but at least we have light and phones, thanks to the quick work of the phone company. By now, cables lay in the street in every direction as far as the eye can see. We expect to have temporary power within a few days.
After the most critical issues have been addressed, Chief Fellini introduces me to the audience. I feel a bit uneasy taking center stage, fumbling with all my charts and statistics, not really feeling like I fit in. During the briefing, I note how much material went into building the towers – over a million tons of steel, glass and concrete. This gives the superintendents of the debris removal an idea of what it will take to remove it from the collapse site.
I then propose my estimate of the types and quantities of hazardous materials that were present before the collapse and what may be in the smoke, in the way of fire byproducts. It is not very reassuring. I stress again that this is a major hazmat event, although clearly stipulating that I am not a hazmat expert. I explain that everyone working at the site may have been exposed to some serious chemicals and carcinogens. Decontamination will become an issue, as no one’s clothes can be deemed safe. I also bring up the topic of synergy. Puzzled faces stare back at me, wondering where I’m heading. I explain that when certain known hazardous materials, with their associated properties, are mixed together, new compounds can be formed, and no one knows the hazards or their effects on humans. I state that I am certain this has taken place, but I do not know to what extent.
There are looks of great concern from most of the audience. The topic then changes to search and rescue. I display an illustration of the core area of the towers. My suggestion is that at least 80% of the victims, dead or alive, will be found in and around the areas where the stairwells and elevator shafts once stood. I figure most of the rescue workers and civilians had to be off the floors at the time of collapse and moving up or down the stairs and in elevators. They are now probably somewhere at and below grade level, as the towers go down six stories below the street. The core being better shelter than an open floor offers us the best opportunity to come up with “live hits.” I also suggest that the highest probability of success for rescues will be found in the sub-grade concourse level beneath the plaza, between the towers, specifically in the food court area. There have to be void spaces there, and food and water are present, which should sustain life for at least several days. Victim dehydration is a big concern. If fresh air is present, of course, there’s at least a chance.
Although a grim task lies ahead, resources are precious and it is agreed they must be used wisely and effectively. Searches must be concentrated on the highest areas of potential survivability. My notes and drawings are done on large sheets of poster board and held up for the audience by a team member. It is crude, but it succeeds in getting the main points across.
Everyone seems to be clutching a bottle of water, as it is warm and everyone is working at a feverish pace. The faces staring back at me display tremendous determination and grit. People from all occupations and backgrounds are working together as one cohesive unit. A team. We have been attacked, yet no one is faltering.
Jeff takes over again and the briefing concludes with the agreement we all meet back here in six hours. I head over to the tent to see what the guys are up to. As I’m approaching the entrance, a police officer suddenly walks up to me and advises that they have just received a message that several fellow police officers are reported to be alive, but trapped in the rubble. It was reported at the scene itself by a nurse in uniform. She stated that she talked to her husband, a police officer, and was told that he and several fellow officers were trapped at a specific location. This report, though, is a hoax, and the woman ends up being unstable. What a waste of time and resources! The question arises whether the other reports are legitimate, although they must be acted on until proven false.
The scene remains a flurry of activity. The pressure and adrenaline remain high. The sounds of helicopters, construction equipment and portable generators fill the air. The night wears on, seemingly endless. After traveling between the command post and the NYTF1 tent for hours, fatigue is beginning to overtake me. The last sleep I had was two days ago and as activity away from the site slows approaching 3 o’clock, I can feel the adrenaline subsiding. After a brief conversation with Chief Haring, who is still working like a machine, I walk back through the security checkpoint to the dimly lit tent. The search crews who were there earlier have gone to the site. The two guys manning the tent are exhausted and trying to catch a quick nap. They too have been working long hours and it shows.
It is relatively quiet, even the radio has minimal activity, so I sit in a chair to flush my eyes again. The constant burning is annoying. I tilt my head, my eyes clamped shut, letting the cool liquid work its short-lived magic. The urge to rest is overwhelming, so I lean forward and put my head in my hands, letting my thoughts wander, taking me back through the past two days. A single light bulb behind the desk begins shorting, blinking off for a few moments, then back on again, over and over while the generators hum away outside the tent, in perfect cadence. One hour until the next briefing. No time to stop now, so back to work. I need to study those drawings some more. The night slowly turns into dawn and we have been blessed with excellent weather.
DAY 3. A new day unfolds on this tragedy, another day of hope. Everyone seems upbeat that we will pull another victim from the rubble alive, yet we all realize time is running out. Spirits slip when we are told the rescue made yesterday was of a rescue worker who had fallen into a void space, so nothing after day one. At the tent, now designated as Special Operations Command (SOC) HQ, I meet another search and rescue specialist from the FDNY, Bob Athanas. Terrific guy. Extremely talented and knowledgeable, just like Steve and Mike. We talk about the effort and our rapidly diminishing chances of success. Still no live hits.
The estimate for missing firefighters is now up to 300 and rising. Damn! Why is it going up? Steve Spall walks in and joins the conversation. He enlightens us that in Kobe, Japan, a baby was rescued after 13 days in the remains of a building brought down by the earthquake. We agree to use that as our benchmark. As Steve leaves the tent and heads back to “the pile,” he pauses to say, “We’ve gotta have a miracle here!” Then he strides on in silent confidence … and in defiance of it all. I envy him for his resilience and his courage to believe in miracles.
A volunteer steps in and hands out more water and sandwiches. Your choice again today, ham and cheese or cheese and ham. I go with the former and begin inhaling my first “meal” in 12 hours, washing it down with a bottle of water as I walk over to the OEM command post for another briefing. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I should make an effort to get back to the hotel for another shower, as the filthy clothes I’ve been wearing for the third day are getting to me – and probably those around me. I’ve since managed to contact my office and asked one of my guys to drive up to D.C., pick up my bags and bring them up to New York. The airlines are still shut down, and there is no word as to when they’ll start flying again. The New York Stock Exchange, another one of our clients, is closed as well and the losses are mounting.
After the briefing, I head back to the hotel. I make my way through security and walk toward Canal Street. Knowing how hard it is going to be to get back to midtown, I begin dragging just a bit in my gait. Then, I hear a fire truck coming down the street toward me, heading north as well. I step into the street and flag them down. They stop as I take note that the truck looks even worse than I do, covered in white, chalky dust. It is obvious this rig was close to the scene when the towers came down, yet other than being dirty, appears unscathed. The two guys up front agree to give me a lift.
I open the door to the jumpseat and climb in, almost tripping over a pair of shoes lying there in front of me. As I pull the door shut and the rig eases into motion, I notice other personal gear around me and judging by the condition of everything, it is obvious that it does not belong to the men up front. It’s all covered in thick dust. Then it hits me while we’re riding down Sixth Avenue that the guys who responded on this piece must not have survived, or they would have pulled their stuff off the rig by now, especially their shoes. Looking down at them, I remembered walking into the firehouse of two former colleagues of mine who were killed on the job and seeing their shoes lying on the floor of the apparatus bay. The boys headed out on what appeared to be a nothing call (“short in the panel box”) and never coming back, killed in a truss roof collapse within 15 minutes of leaving the station by a fire raging over their heads above two false ceilings. Here I am looking at those same shoes again, kicked off before a final run. My heart sinks for these brave souls and their families. A truck probably returning from the crew’s last alarm.
A strange feeling overtakes me as heavy, choking dust swirls through the cab with the wind, covering me with even more white powder. There is a slight sensation of riding in a “ghost” fire truck. As the engine winds its way through the streets, I stick my head out the side window for some clean air, watching the crowds on the sidewalks. Suddenly, one by one, they stop, cheering and clapping as we pass. It grows like an ocean wave, throngs of people on both sides of the street yelling and cheering at us. The guys up front solemnly wave their thanks and I feel compelled to do so as well to acknowledge them. I feel incredibly awkward as I raise my hand in thanks too, because these people are cheering heroes and I am not one of them. The heroes are the guys up front – and the men who wore the shoes I am standing next to. Men who will not be seeing their loved ones ever again. Men who laid down their lives doing what they do best, protecting the very same people who cheer us on from curbside. They are the heroes.
A feeling of reverence washes over me and for the first time since I arrived, the emotion of the event creeps up on me. I quickly fight off the thoughts and focus on matters at hand. The crowds cheer us on, block after block, until the truck pulls over and lets me off on 52nd street. I dismount and thank the men for the lift. I feel compelled to ask them the status of the engine’s crew, but decide not to. It is too obvious, I think, and I don’t want to hear the answer. Too many good men are missing. These are probably just a few of many heroes. Maybe they survived and are at a local hospital, I hope.
I quickly walk the next block to the hotel and am met in the lobby by Jimmy, a bellhop. Jimmy’s a great guy and he sees my state of attire. I am once again covered in dust, head to toe. He offers to give me a spare waiter’s uniform. I quickly accept. It’s dressy, but at least it’s clean. He brings a pair of black slacks and two white shirts up to my room, along with a pair of socks. I thank him profusely and head in the direction of a hot shower.
After getting out of the shower and putting on the fresh clothes, I actually begin feeling good about going back down to the site and possibly helping to get someone out alive before time runs out. I quickly switch on the TV to get an updated weather report and see for the first time the video of the planes striking the towers. I stand there awestruck, not really believing what I am seeing, yet knowing it is all too real. It did happen. The towers collapse before my eyes, captured on tape for a worldwide audience. A few moments that will replayed a thousand times over during the next few days. I watch it two or three times before jumping back into work mode and switching over to the Weather Channel. Great, a storm is heading our way, with heavy rain and high winds tonight.
I kill the TV and dart back out the door. The local police precinct once again rises to the occasion and gives me a lift in a patrol car down to the site. As we approach the scene on West Street, hundreds of people lining the street clap and hold up signs saying “Thank You” and “We Support You,” offering us sandwiches and water as we reach the security checkpoint. This is also reminiscent of Frank and Johnnie’s funeral back in Chesapeake, with the outpouring of public sentiment and support in our time of need. Letting us all know that they appreciate our efforts and that our losses will not go unnoticed – and hopefully not forgotten.
It leaves me with a warm feeling inside as I make my way over to Chief Haring to give him the updated news on the weather. He’s still going strong. His kindly manner exudes confidence in those around him and he welcomes me with a warm smile. He fills me in on the latest and I head over to the SOC tent, as darkness slowly envelopes the site. I run into Mike, Bob and Steve, ideas swarming around in their heads, spilling out into their speech. Mike remembers a model of the Trade Center’s sub-level, made up for the 1993 bombing trial. It’s been in storage in a New Jersey warehouse and he orders it brought to the tent. Soon, a truck pulls up and backs into the staging area. Meanwhile, the National Guard pitches in and rapidly builds a large table to set the model on. The sounds of saws and hammers fill the air.
As we talk about the arrival and assignments of USAR teams from throughout the country arriving in the city to help out, the scene’s activity continues at an energized pace. An hour later, the truck’s hydraulic lift gently lowers the finely crafted model to the waiting arms of a dozen guardsmen, all under the watchful eye of Mike. The costly model is then transferred over to one of the tents and on to the newly constructed perch.
Everyone in the SOC and NYPD tents gathers around, staring intently at our new “three-dimensional blueprint.” Steve and Bob come up with some great suggestions on access problems, with Mike adding an innovative idea based on expected conditions at these levels. The stability of the “slurry wall” (the perimeter barrier wall encircling the base of the complex) is discussed, since reports are coming in of major flooding on Level B-6, the lowest level. With river water apparently pouring in from compromised PATH tunnels used by New Jersey commuter trains, tension mounts as we discuss the effects of the water on the foundation walls. If the walls were to fail or even shift, it could destabilize “the pile” and greatly endanger the rescue workers operating above and just below street level. Also raised is the issue of the effect of all the heavy construction machinery moving around directly above the walls as water pours into open spaces below.
Communication of this newly discovered danger is quickly relayed to the fire department, police department and OEM command posts. Steve heads off for another probe into the sub-levels, while Mike and I head down to walk around the site for an up-to-date visual assessment. Bob stays at the tent, formulating solutions to problems almost as fast as they can be raised. At the command post, Chief Tom Richardson is right on top of things, conversing with various engineers about the water’s threat, as well as possible dewatering solutions.
Just when I think things can’t get any more tense, the storm front moves in. The wind begins to whip up, with gusts exceeding 30 mph, stirring settled dust back into a Maelstrom. Chief Fellini expresses concern over the broken window panes dangling precariously from tall buildings on all four sides of the site and the danger they present to the workers below. He had already assigned a contingent of men to clear glass from above, but there was a lot to do. The imminent suspension of activities until the storm passes forces Mike and I to head back to the hotel for some much-needed rest and food. After we make it back to midtown and the refuge of the lobby, the storm hits, unleashing a torrential downpour for several hours. Oddly enough, we are both too pumped to sleep, despite the overwhelming fatigue. Instead of heading straight to bed, we hang out in the lobby restaurant, talking, staring in disbelief as TV monitors portray the attacks over and over, from every conceivable angle. Our senses are continually bombarded by the madness of it all, hammering us to the point where we don’t want to look anymore, yet our eyes unconsciously turn back to the screen with every clip shown. Finally, at around 2 o’clock, we call it a day and part ways until the morning, each looking forward to a hot shower and a few unsettling Zs, as the rain comes down in gusty torrents outside. We agree to meet in the lobby at 7 A.M.
DAY 4. With the rain passing while we slept, Mike and I greet one another in the lobby, already looking forward to getting down to the site. It is sunny again, in the 70s. We eat a quick breakfast and then head back to work. After arriving, we are met with muddy streets and sidewalks where ash, dust and debris once lay, a foot thick in places. I’m still walking around in dress clothes, looking like a waiter and feeling very awkward.
Midway through a busy morning, I receive a cell phone call that my bags have finally caught up with me, due to the efforts of one of my employees. I had asked that Jim also bring with him 30 small 8 1/2-by-11-inch booklets containing all the site plans, USAR grids and “fire department summary sheets” for the surrounding buildings we have pre-planned. Labeled “F.D. Data,” these booklets contain valuable information and are quickly distributed to the OEM, fire and police command posts, in addition to all the FEMA teams. As a backup, Jim includes in his package extra complete pre-plans for the Empire State Building and the New York Stock Exchange, in the event they are targeted as well. I keep these at the hotel, in case they are needed.
After our morning talk with Steve, Bob and the guys at the SOC tent, I head out on my never-ending quest to locate the remaining blueprints we so desperately need, specifically for the twin towers’ sub-levels and concourse area. As I’m leaving the tent, I meet an entourage of federal agents who ask for me by name. I just know I’ve done something wrong and feel a sudden compulsion to place my hands behind my back to be handcuffed, or run like mad. They immediately ease my concerns by stating that they have been assigned to me to provide any assistance I might require in carrying out the tasks I’ve set out to accomplish. They are from the State Department and look like a serious group of people.
After some brief introductions, they let me know they have several vehicles staged and ready to take me anywhere. These are the same folks who provide transportation and added security for the President and other dignitaries when they visit the city. Each wears a dark-blue windbreaker with “State Department” emblazoned across the back in bold yellow letters and, yes, they carry big guns too. For the next six days, they prove to be an invaluable resource, taking me anywhere I need to go.
These folks are very, very good at what they do. They are highly professional, yet friendly and, as it turns out, great to work with. One of them even jokes about my “waiter look” and asks if I am going to be dressed like this the whole time we are working together. About this time, Mike comes to my rescue again, handing me three NYTF1 T-shirts and suggesting I put one on. He says it will help me in getting around the site and through security. My dress attire must be getting to everyone. Since I can’t take it anymore either and with my clothes finally having arrived, I ask the agents for a lift to my hotel. We are off on our first “assignment” together, in one of those big black Suburbans with the tinted windows. After quickly changing into some comfortable, casual duds and new T-shirt, I carefully double-bag all my clothes from day one, shoes included, and hand them to the maid in the hallway to be disposed of, along with a ten-spot. As contaminated as they are, I don’t ever want to wear them again and most certainly would not put them in my washing machine.
Out the door and to the Javits Center. The place has been transformed into one giant “holding pen” for all the FEMA teams. I hook back up with Mike and we walk over to speak with Fred Endrikat, the FEMA honcho and lieutenant of the Philadelphia Fire Department’s Rescue 1. Fred and I know one another, and it is good to see him again – and very good to see him here in New York. He is one of the best in the business in urban search and rescue and is a guy you want on “the big one.” His easygoing demeanor belies his commanding presence and strong spirit. With guys like him, Mike, Steve Spall and Bob Athanas, I know the people that might still be alive below grade are in the best hands possible. Their chances of survival couldn’t be higher with any other group of individuals. They are disaster specialists and are as talented as they come.
Unfortunately, the number of missing firefighters is now up to 320. I express my disappointment to Freddy that we still have not located all the needed blueprints to aid the cause, especially the important ones. Typical of him and in that low-key voice of his, he calmly says, “Curtis, don’t worry, the drawings will show up. We’re going to get through this whole ordeal OK. We can’t let them win and we can’t lose any more men than we already have, so let’s be sure we do this thing by the book. Everyone needs to focus on safety.” I walk over to the planning area with Mike, thinking how fortunate we are to have a man like Freddy here.
The FEMA architectural and engineering guys show us a hot-off-the-press aerial photo of the scene on poster-sized paper. It is quite a sight, seeing for the first time a bird’s-eye view of the devastation. There they are, the walls of the towers laid out across the street in several different directions away from the site, some in 20- to 30-story chunks, still connected. For days, I’ve walked right over some of these sections amid debris and didn’t even know it. You knew from pieces of the walls being imbedded in the sides of nearby buildings that it had not “pancaked” all the way down, as the news footage led you to believe. Here is the final confirmation. We can now finally view the “big picture.” It is an amazing thing to see. They quickly roll an extra copy up for us to bring to the command post.
Mike and I are off again, heading in different directions, promising to meet at the tent around dark. The agents whisk me back down to the site, going around heavy traffic on the West Side Highway. As we approach the first of several checkpoints, we notice the crowds of people lining both sides of the street, signs waving, clapping and cheering as we pass by. The driver taps the siren in thanks and we continue on our way. Everyone feels good about having so much support from the public and it goes a long way in keeping morale up, believe me.
Our activities push the minutes into hours and the day quickly draws to a close. Mike doesn’t make it back to the tent until late, as he’s handling 20 assignments simultaneously. He walks up to me around midnight and with exhaustion on his face says, “I’ve got a few things left to do, then let’s head back to the hotel and get some rest.” This is a guy who pushed himself so hard at Oklahoma City that he passed out in the shower, splitting his head open in the process. You can’t help but wonder if the general population even knows people like Mike exist, always putting duty before himself and probably his family.
After conversing with Jeff (the OEM incident commander) and Chief Richardson one last time, I make my way back to the tent, dragging a bit. Mike strolls in right on cue. After wrapping up a few last details, we leave the scene for the hotel. It is around 1 A.M. and we talk about getting something to eat, our first meal since this morning. Midtown slowly seems to be coming back to life, albeit in a muted form. We meet in the lobby restaurant after getting cleaned up to wolf down a quick meal before calling it a day. We discuss the frustration of not getting any live hits again today and it bothers both of us.
Across the room, a small party is gathered at the bar, apparently ignorant of the tragedy still unfolding only a few miles away. With intermittent pictures and video of the disaster showing on all the TV screens around them and fresh in the minds of all who were touched by the event, the group carries on as if they don’t have a care in the world. One of them, a very large woman, laughs with a loud, thunderous and, I might add, abrasive cackle that cuts right through me. A cigarette dangles precariously from her unsteady fingers. The other hand clutches a drink. You almost feel compelled to walk over and slap every one of them silly. It is obvious they don’t know anyone who was killed or are missing in the attacks and are completely unfazed by the tragedy of it all. Their display of callous indifference and total lack of respect for what has happened disgusts me. Mike and I decide to get up and leave after being unable to tolerate their behavior any longer. It is easily noticeable that the other patrons around them are as peeved as we are, including the bartender, judging by the look on his face. They are oblivious to it all, or simply just don’t give a damn. We shake hands in the elevator lobby and agree to meet at 6:30. Mike says we need to get down there a bit early, as the President is coming to town.
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