Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [53]
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It feels like I’m watching one of those melodramatic disaster movies. But this time it’s real, and Mike is inside.
It’s not long before the newspeople come up with video footage of the explosion in Mike’s tower, and what they have been saying now becomes clear: his tower was hit by a huge commercial jet too. No one knows what is really going on, but the images are scaring me to death. The towers are belching smoke, and the two plumes entwine, creating a giant black cloud of smoke that enshrouds the tops of both buildings. It’s billowing out and up at high speed and the breeze is pushing it at a low angle off to the side, where it expands and turns a light gray.
TV cameras are at the site now, and there are fire trucks everywhere. Emergency medical workers are setting up gurneys and IV racks. People are pouring out of the buildings and walking and running away, while other people stand and look up, stunned.
Every time they show the buildings, I think, Mike and Roselle are in there.
My heart beats hard, and I feel fear. I begin to pray. Please watch over Mike and the others in those towers. Lord, keep them safe and help them to make it out. Get Mike home safely.
I hear a noise by the side of my bed. A pair of soft brown eyes framed by two floppy, golden ears pops up over the edge of the bed. It’s Linnie, Mike’s retired guide dog. She can tell I’m upset. I don’t trust my voice to talk, but I stroke her head. Then I remember. Mike is not alone. He has Roselle.
I feel a tiny bit better. Then the phone rings. Maybe it’s him! It’s only been twenty minutes or so. I know he is probably not out yet. Seventy-eight floors wouldn’t go that quickly, unless he took the express elevators. Mike is safety conscious, and because of the fire, I think he’ll keep to the stairs. Maybe he is in the stairwell, calling me from his cell phone.
“Hello?” My hand clutches the receiver, hoping against hope to hear Mike again. It’s a friend named Mairead. She was already at work this morning but was sent home, along with most workers in the Tri-State area. She wants to know whether Mike was working in the city today. I tell her, “Yes, he’s there.”
Then the phone rings again. And again. As the word spreads about what is taking place in New York, people across the country, and I suppose the world, are turning on their TVs and watching the World Trade Center burn, and now friends and family are beginning to call. They all want to know if Mike is okay. And I can’t give them an answer.
Time is passing quickly, and I am concerned that I get to talk to my parents in Southern California before they receive a call from one of their friends. I punch in their number. My mom answers the phone in a sleepy voice, and I gently tell her she and Dad need to wake up because something big is going on. Then I tell her about the airplane attacks. “Turn on the TV, and I promise I will call as soon as I know something about Mike.”
The reporters are busy now, with events speeding up. President Bush, on a trip to Sarasota, Florida, makes a statement and says the country has suffered an “apparent terrorist attack.” All U.S. flights are grounded. A plane crashes into the Pentagon. And the White House evacuates.
I get up, get dressed, and take Linnie outside, but I feel like I don’t even have time to breathe. I stay in the kitchen and answer calls, always with the same unsatisfactory answer. And the phone won’t stop ringing. Our closest friend in New Jersey is my pal from high school and church youth group, Tom Painter. He calls to say he’s throwing his clothes in a duffel bag and heading