Ray Gorham: 77 Days in September

“Hey, Spencer,” she called out, “I think I know what’s wrong with the TV.”

Spencer was sitting on the floor in the corner of the kitchen, hard at work on a large dinosaur puzzle. A pterodactyl’s eyes peered from the piece he was using to scratch his head. “Are you done with the groceries? Are you going to fix it now?” he asked excitedly.

“No, not yet,” she answered. “Mommy can’t fix it. I think the power’s out,” she said with an exaggerated frown. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Mom,” Spencer replied. “What you need?”

“Go turn on the lights in the bedrooms and tell me if any of them work.”

“You bet,” he yelled over his shoulder as he lumbered to his feet and ran down the hall towards the bedrooms.

George Bush International Airport, Houston, Texas 16:30 EST

The two men from the stricken airplane stood on top of the berm, trying to make sense of the scene in front of them. Between where they stood and the far side of the airport they could see the burning wreckage of three other airplanes, all with thick, oily plumes of smoke billowing skyward and casting a gray pall over the area. In a neighborhood further to the east, no more than a mile from the end of the runway, Kyle could see a thick column of smoke there as well.

After a long silence Kyle finally spoke. “I don’t think they’re coming for us.” He knew it was a serious understatement, but could think of nothing else to say.

The man merely nodded, but his expression spoke volumes. After a few more minutes of observation they returned to where the survivors from their flight, along with a number of people who had come from nearby buildings to offer assistance, had re-gathered.

Kyle found one of the pilots on the edge of the group, giving aid to an injured passenger and pulled him to the side. The pilot was young, maybe 30 years old, and his face was smeared with dirt and sweat and smoke.

“What do you need?” the pilot demanded, glancing back at the older woman he’d been attending to.

There was a gold pin on the captain’s chest, the name K. Hansen was printed in black letters. Kyle swallowed and was about to speak when the man from the top of the berm took the initiative. “There’s something seriously wrong, sir,” he began.

When their conversation was over, the pilot strode back towards the group, cleared his throat and called out to the survivors. “Attention everyone! I need you to gather in here closer, please. Quickly!” He waited as people moved towards him. After about 30 seconds he addressed the group. “As you can see, there’s smoke on the other side of that bank of dirt.” He motioned towards the airport, and people turned in that direction. “I’d thought the smoke was from our crash, but I’ve just been informed that other planes have crashed as well.” A murmur went up from the group. “It appears likely,” he continued, “that emergency vehicles won’t be coming to our assistance, at least not for awhile. I recommend that we start to move towards the terminal where we can find some help. Those who are able, please help those who are not.”

“What’s going on?” someone shouted.

“I have no idea,” the pilot answered, his voice shaking. “I just know what I’ve been told. But I know help should have been here a long time ago.”

NORAD headquarters, Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado 16:32 EST

As the ranking commander at the time of the attack, Alan had the unenviable responsibility of communicating what little was known to those who ranked high enough to be informed.

General Glenn Young, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was on the line. “We don’t know,” Alan responded into the phone. “There were no military vessels in the areas the missiles launched from. We have two, small, navy vessels within one hundred miles of the launch on the East Coast, but that’s as close as we get.”

“Do we have any idea how effective the missiles were?” General Young asked.

“Preliminary indications are that this is a worse-case scenario,” answered Alan. “Obviously information is limited due to communication failures, but that in and of itself is an answer. All communication on the civilian networks is down. Our power supply has switched to self-generation. Satellite communication is no longer effective. NORAD has contact only through our military fiber optic networks. General, it’s bad. We just don’t know how bad yet.”

“The power’s out at my house in Virginia,” the general mused. “We were getting ready to head to the lake when everything went dead. I thought it was local until this phone started ringing.” General Young paused, his mind filtering rapidly through what he knew about a nuclear EMP. “If it’s as bad as the professors told us it would be, may God have mercy on us. I’ll contact the president once I figure out where he landed.” The general paused a second, then added quietly, “Alan, this may sound out of place, but I hope you find some time to pray. That may be our best hope for awhile.”

The solemnity in General Young’s voice reverberated in Alan’s ears. The general was typically a jovial individual, always upbeat and encouraging and one of the truly decent ones that Alan worked with, but today there was none of that. He sounded like a man who’d been told he only had weeks to live. “I will, sir,” promised Alan. “I’m sure I won’t be the only one.”

George Bush International Airport, Houston, TX 17:10 EST

A handful of survivors from Flight 17 moved slowly through the concourse, tired, bloodied, and shocked by the scene surrounding them. Kyle and Ed had helped an overweight, college student with a swollen ankle and knee abrasions into the terminal, along with a retired school teacher from Oklahoma who was physically fine, but suffering from shock.

After getting their two charges settled and finding a security officer to take responsibility for them, Ed and Kyle found two empty seats and dropped into them, exhausted and frightened.

Everywhere they looked it was chaos. People were pressed against the windows, watching the burning airplanes on the runways. Around the boarding counters frightened, unruly crowds gathered, demanding information, but receiving none. The occasional police officer or airport security personnel ran through the terminal, looking worried and official, but with no apparent plan of action. Parents stood guard over their children, protecting them from something unknown.

Kyle noticed that the monitors that usually displayed flight information were blank, and that the terminal was lit with sunlight and emergency lighting. “This looks like a war zone, Ed. What on earth is going on?”

“I don’t know, Kyle, but I need to sit down. Between my feet and my head, I’m about ready to fall over.”

Kyle nodded. “Wait here for me. I’m going to see if I can find someone who knows what’s going on.”

Ed’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Kyle calling his name. “I thought you might have abandoned me. What’d you find out?”

“I learned where there’s an emergency first aid office I can take you to, but that’s about it. I wish I knew more. Let me help you get down there.” Kyle assisted Ed to his feet and as they worked their way through the airport he described his 30-minute ordeal to find answers.

“So you’re saying they’re clueless?” Ed asked when Kyle finished.

Kyle nodded. “Total confusion. Practically on the verge of a riot. Security has no idea what’s going on, and everyone wants answers, which no one has. When I forced my way into the security office, some guy threw a punch at me before his wife pulled him away. I did get directions to where to take you to get looked at though. They were shocked to hear there was a crash that had survivors. The other planes that crashed were all airborne or landing apparently, but no one really knows for sure.”