America Deceived II
“Hit the plunger.”
General Barker pressed the red button.
Freight elevators, stationed near underground support columns, exploded. Trapped energy tore up through the basement levels, demolishing chunks of the main lobby area as prominent, thick marble tiling dislodged from walls and crashed to the floor, shattering into jagged pieces.
The earpiece transponder commanded, “Hold steady, the next plane incoming, e.t.a. 15 minutes.”
Back in New Jersey…
“Holy shit. Did you get that on film?”
“I did. It was better than I thought.”
UMS employees broke into another dance. An elderly lady, who history soon remembered as single-handedly solving 9/11, watched from her bedroom window while dialing the police.
Inside the adjacent tower, cubical office workers, security personnel, cleaning ladies, secretaries, maintenance men, janitors, assistants, and bellhops pried their faces away from the windows, lined up and started marching orderly down stairs, assisting the handicapped and lifting the feeble as they evacuated the South Tower.
The South Tower Public Address system blared several times and announced, “Do not evacuate. Fires in the North Tower are under control. Remain in the South Tower as there may be falling debris outside. Please return to your offices.”
People looked up at the anonymous voice emanating from dimpled metal boxes and kept walking. The trusting ones turned around and returned to their high rise offices.
One of the trusting ones, while walking back upstairs, thought about the evacuees, ‘Fools, hope a steel beam drops on your heads.’
The South Tower PA system blared and announced again, “Do not evacuate, return to your offices at once. This is for your own safety. Fires in the North Tower are under control. The South Tower is not in danger. Return to your offices at once.”
Just as the trusting one sat at his desk on the 80th floor, he glanced at the walnut clock his daughter gave him, 9:02:54 a.m…
United Airlines Flight 175 disappeared like a cartoon-cutout, swallowed whole by the South Tower, between the 78th and 84th floors. Enormous titanium airplane engines tore from their wings, sailed through offices, bathrooms, gyms, doors, hallways, safes, beams, walls, kitchens and crashed to the street, blocks away. Office paper birds flew out of the gaping hole and gently floated to the ground carrying names of the dead.
On the clearest day of the year, New York City clouded up.
Nestled snugly inside the Emma E. Booker Elementary schoolhouse in Sarasota Florida, the President of the United States kept reading the mesmerizing, magical book to the second grade class, “… ‘Yes,’ her dad said. ‘That goat saved my car.’…”
As per the script, Andy Card entered the room from stage left and delivered his lines.
“We are under attack.”
The President raised his eyebrows, turned the page and continued, “… ‘The car robber said, ‘something hit me when I was trying to steal that car’. The girl said, ‘My goat hit you’…”
CNN interrupted the President’s Book Club and broadcasted footage of Palestinians celebrating Saddam Hussein’s 1991 invasion of Kuwait with the headline, ‘Palestinians celebrate 9/11.’ Reuters and AP picked up the news and plastered it across the World.
Behind the hardened area of the Pentagon, a board meeting took place…
“Does everyone have their laptops? Open up the section regarding the Pentagon’s Budget. Use your installed hardware, internet’s down again.”
A century-old civilian accountant raised his hand and interrupted, “I was just over in D.O.D. and the internet’s running fine over there. Perhaps you should check it again.”
The Pentagon’s Budget Analyst tried to connect his computer.
“No dice, no signal. Without further interruptions, scroll down the page to a folder labeled Department of Defense spending, fiscal years 1999-2001. That is where we were told to search.”
“Search for what,” asked a lifelong bookkeeper who sat on a folding chair in the corner of the room.
“Missing money, a whole shit load of it.”
The medal-less Pentagon employees laughed. They asked all at once, “How much is a shit load?”
“2.3 trillion. Obviously none of you watched C-Span yesterday as I instructed.”
Civilian workers of Resource Services Washington sheepishly looked to the ground, a few laughed.
“I’ll fill you in. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld testified on Capital Hill yesterday and he talked about money missing from the Pentagon’s budget. Over two trillion dollars.”
“And he called me yesterday. First time in my career, he called personally. He instructed me to schedule this early meeting and said that it is the task of everyone in this room to find it. Find the trillions. His exact words.”
A quota-hired receptionist creaked open the door and slid into a seat in the back row. The Senior Budget Analyst snapped, “You’re late.”
“Sorry, it’s just that as I was arriving, I heard on the radio that a plane hit the World Trade Center. Possibly even two planes.”
He grabbed a remote and pressed the power button, the wall-mounted television flickered.
“Tv’s out too. No Internet, busy phones and no television. This is a real first rate outfit we’re running here.”
He clicked off the television and said, “Let’s get back to business, Secretary Rumsfeld told me these trillions of dollars missing from the Pentagon budget are our number one priority.”
Deep below multiple levels of heavy metal blast doors, bolted inside the cold, steel White House bunker, the Vice-President slithered into his tall black leather chair, gnawing on Beef Jerky. He sat hunched, more like coiled, in a corner. Saliva pooled in his mouth. Scotch was the order of the day. Nobody does this sober.
Reference: E.A. Blayre III, wrote his own death warrant on the eve of the Revolution.
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