The Towers (5 page)

Then why did it hurt? To be sidelined, thrown away, when it felt as if he were just learning his demanding trade?

“E ring. Here you go.” Enders fitted his badge into the lock. Swung the door open, ushering Dan in. “You been here before, right?”

He had, though not in this rebuilt space. It smelled new. The walls of the cubicles were unstained, the pillars freshly painted. Only a few personal photos and notes had been taped up. Boxes of documents teetered in cubicles; people were still moving in. Otherwise it was the usual Navy office. Officers in khaki. Enlisted in blues. The desultory underhum of telephone conversations. The burnt-coffee and sweetish powdered-creamer smells of a coffee mess. The click and whisper as a printer converted GSA bond into hard copy. Four large televisions flickered at the front, the volume turned down, all on news channels. The NCC was staffed around the clock. Its thirty-plus watchstanders kept tabs on the location and readiness of naval units around the world and monitored news and the intelligence reports that came over the SIPRNET. The conference room was off to the side. A lieutenant with an aide's aiguillette stood outside it, briefcase at his Corfams, fiddling with a Palm.

“Well, I'll leave you here,” Enders said, and they shook. “Gonna be okay with Black Teflon? The Atomic Fireball?”

Niles's nicknames. “Been there before,” Dan said, but his gut was sinking away. He found his fingers checking his gig line, making sure his ribbons were in place. The gold insignia of the Surface Line. Was it really possible he'd take this uniform off for good? A deep breath. Okay. Another.

In the background someone murmured about a hijacked aircraft. Another voice said that was exercise play, disregard anything coming over the net from NORAD. Dan didn't think much about it. They had the watch. Not him.

The aide came to attention. “Commander Lenson? Admiral's expecting you.” He knocked twice and swung wide the door.

8:30 A.M., NEW YORK CITY

Molly Munford, one of the Cohn, Kennedy junior executives, met Blair at the airport. A stunningly poised young woman in Kate Spade and Gucci, Munford took her overnight bag and showed her to a black Lincoln idling behind a chain-link fence. Blair caught her appraising glance, top to toe. Her slightly widened eyes. Approval? Surely not envy. They made small talk on the way, looking out the tinted windows of the limo at Queens. She checked her makeup in a fold-down mirror.

The Brooklyn Bridge. She looked down on a three-masted schooner moored at South Street. Dan might like visiting that, when he came to town. If she took the job. Above it soared the incredible glittering rectangles of the Twin Towers, lofty, inhuman. Superhuman. Glowing in the morning sun, two enormous pillars of coruscating light.

Then they vanished, blotted out in the crowded canyons. The limo inched through the morning traffic block by block. Park. Fulton. Streets deep with sun and shadow. Sidewalk vendors hawked scarves, origami, watches, flowers. Elbows flew at shoeshine booths outside the subway entrances. Hundreds hurried across in front of the limo's grille as the light changed, then kept coming even as the driver nosed into the stream. He looked Pakistani. She tried
“Khush amdeed,”
and his back-turned face lit.

“You speak Arabic?” Molly asked, looking surprised.

Blair couldn't decide if she was serious or putting her on. “That's Urdu. I always tried to at least greet the officials I met.”

“You were a secretary at defense, right?”

“Undersecretary of defense,”
Blair corrected her. Could she actually be this naïve? Or was this Cohn, Kennedy humor? New York and Washington were both cities, but apparently more than distance separated them.

At Church the Lincoln idled behind others waiting to discharge, adding its own exhaust to the ascending golden clouds; then inched forward again, toward cathedral arches of soaring stainless that drew the eye up into aching blue. The plaza seethed with suited pedestrians of both genders. Water cascaded beneath a golden globe that gleamed in the sun, light rippling over its gold-and-black, strangely convoluted surface, centerpiece of a flower-ringed fountain. An attendant got her door and Blair swung her legs down, taking a firm stance on what looked like recently washed tile.

Her heels clicked on cream terrazzo as she followed her escort across the lobby. Cream marble and green carpet and scores of national flags hanging from the balcony. The tall windows echoed the arches with Gothic pointed apexes. Inside, the tower was showing its age. It looked seventies, with its flat, geometric surfaces, those strange arches that were only stamped-out shapes. Yet there
was
a cathedral-like feel to it, not holy, but busy. An impersonal, immanent, all-pervading power. She'd nosed this scent at the Capitol, now and then even in the SecDef's office. The heady scent of American capitalism, the worldwide web of money and money's potency.

Molly was negotiating with guards in blazers. Blair signed in, presenting her Virginia driver's license and Department of Defense ID. She clipped a blue-green visitor's pass to the lapel of her jacket.

Her pulse sped up. The lights seemed to brighten. She felt wealth all around her, energy, like a heavy jolt of caffeine. A hundred and ten floors of it. She caught herself lagging and accelerated to match Munford's sleek, calf-flashing Manhattan stride. The girl glanced at a Rolex. “We have a few minutes. I could take you down to the shopping concourse. Or would you like to go up to the observation deck?”

Blair wavered, torn.

“It's a heck of a view,” Munford added. “You can see the earth curve on a clear day. Like this morning.”

Stainless-steel doors whooshed open. They stepped into a cavernous metal space, brightly lit from above. Munford's finger hovered over the button. She gazed at Blair, penciled eyebrows lifted, waiting for a decision.

8:40 A.M., THE PENTAGON

Barry Nicholas Niles's dark cheeks and forehead were freckled with darker spots, his big hands, flat on the table, freckled too. He was in blues, the uniform set off with stark white at collar and cuffs and a blaze of ribbons down his chest and broad gold stripes that would once have paralyzed Dan but didn't anymore. Niles wore the crossed swords and red-and-white-striped oval shield insignia of the Joint Chiefs. His gold-barnacled hat lay on the table. Dan wondered why they hadn't met in Niles's office, in the E ring, instead of here, out of the way. Then knew: that was exactly why. As Dan came across the room, Niles blinked heavy eyelids, then slowly rose.

“Commander Lenson,” Dan said, though of course Niles knew exactly who he was.

“I'm standing for the Congressional, not for you.”

“I understand that. Sir.”

“Take a seat.”

“I'll stand.”

“Suit yourself.” Niles sank back into the leather chair like a hippo back into its river. They stared at each other. Finally the admiral said, “How's the neck? You could've taken medical retirement for that.”

“It's all right.”

“Blair? Nan?”

“Fine.”

“She'll land on her feet. By the way, heard about your promo board. Sorry about that.”

“I'd think it was exactly what you wanted, sir.”

A sigh. The big hands rose, suspended, spread. “This has never been personal, Lenson. It's the good of the service. Have you got plans? Vince Contardi could find something for you. Or Tom Leighty. We can find you a place on the civilian side. With Brookings, or CNA. Battelle—I offered you that a couple years ago. There's going to be a terrific up-ramp in spending, with this administration.”

“I wanted another ship.”

A smile. “We all want another ship, Dan. At some point we can't expect it anymore. You had
Horn
. Be content with that.”

Dan leaned forward and put his knuckles on the table. “I'm
content.
But I deserved another command. You can admit it. Come on. Nobody's listening. Just admit it.”

Niles blinked up into the hum of the air-conditioning. Finally he said, “Like I told you, it isn't personal. You're just not the kind we need running the peacetime Navy, Lenson. Maybe in sailing-ship days. But not now. You don't understand procedure, or loyalty, or political realities—what it takes to lead a complex organization. You're down at level four, second-guessing what's happening on level one. Second-guessing
us
. Which is why you ended up the way you have.”

“I get the mission done. I always have. How about Desert Storm? Signal Mirror?”

“Maybe, though I could argue that. But you also
get people killed
. Wherever you go, bad things happen. Is it coincidence? Maybe once. Not as often as it has with you. Maybe it's not bad judgment. Maybe you're just a Jonah. But at some point, we've got to throw in our cards and say, enough's enough.” Niles reared back.

“I did what I had to do.” To Dan's surprise, his voice didn't shake. He felt calm. That same coolness that had always come in battle, in extremis, when he'd had to act. “I made the right decisions. They might not have been what I was expected to do. But they were right.

“I thought we had something special in the Navy. We weren't like the other services. A commander had the latitude to disobey, if that was what the situation required. And the leadership, you'd stand behind him. That was our tradition. We were proud of it. Are we like the Army now? Don't think. Just follow the decision tree.”

“Fantastic,” Niles said, massive face darkening. To Dan's surprise the senior officer had actually lost his composure. The admiral flicked a hand, as if shooing away a fly. “Just—fucking—fantastic.
You
made the right decisions? Then you can retire with a clear conscience. We're done here. Get out.”

Dan stood bent a moment longer, searching for anything left to say; then straightened, mind abruptly empty. No point repeating himself. Niles was looking up again, evaluating him.

He came to attention, about-faced, and left. Leaving the past behind, and hoping a future lay ahead.

8:42 A.M., EST, UNITED FLIGHT 175

The pilot radios a report on a strange transmission he received from Flight 11 shortly after taking off. At the same moment, five Middle Eastern males stand from their seats, pulling out box knives and Mace. There's a struggle in the cockpit. The plane jerks and the passengers, cowed, cry out in fear.

The hijackers kill both pilots and take the controls. In less than twelve minutes, the aircraft is in their hands. They alter course. The new pilot's nervous or inexperienced, though, and flies so unevenly some passengers throw up. Others, as well as some of the flight attendants, get on their cell phones.

Some of the passengers huddle in back. They discuss storming the cockpit.

8:45 P.M., THE SOUTH TOWER

“The roof? Well … I'd better not,” Blair said reluctantly. “I'd like to look over some things before we go in. If that's all right? Maybe after we're done?”

“Sure, sure. Actually, he might take you over to the other building for lunch at Windows on the World. That's the top-floor restaurant.”

“Cohn, Kennedy's where? Which tower?”

“This one. South, 102 through 104. This elevator's the express to 78. We transfer at what they call the sky lobby and take the local to 102.” More people filed in, until the elevator was packed, the air thick with cologne and perfume. Most carried briefcases and were dressed for business, though one small, stooped man wore coveralls and carried a bucket. The car was one of the largest she'd ever been in, with smooth stainless walls she could see her face in, a mirrored stainless ceiling. It vibrated slightly, accelerating gently at first, then rocketing as large red numbers flickered and began racing. The floor pressed against her soles; her ears ached. The car rocked. But she'd flown in helicopters with military jock pilots showing off. She worked her jaw and her ears popped.

The corridors seemed pinched, narrower, when she and Munford stepped off. Blair leaned against cream marble as they waited for the next elevator. “Were you here when they bombed this tower? With the truck bomb?”

“That was a long time ago. Years. Heard about it, though.”

“Don't you worry a little, working here?”

Munford frowned. “What about?”

“Well … does it ever sway?”

“It leans, when you have a real high wind. But you know, you get used to it.”

They stepped out of the second elevator into a dimly lit, expensively furnished lobby. Curved sculptures floated within lighted glass, gold toned, deep red, deep violet. These seemed to refer to no object that actually existed, but for some reason, walking past, Blair guessed the artist had had Asian roots. Munford told a woman at a long, curved desk, “Ms. Titus, for Mr. Giory.”

“You can go right in, Miz Titus. Welcome to Cohn, Kennedy.” To Molly: “I'll tell Mr. Kennedy's secretary she's here.”

Past the lobby was a warren of cubicles. The floor was a carpeted football field, filled with the bee-hum of many voices. It sounded like a trading floor, all right. Munford led her in a complete circuit, pointing out various departments. Blair paused at a south-facing window. the whole harbor spread below. The Statue of Liberty was a toy on its soap-cake island. Tugs and ferries drew green wave-trains across glittering slate.

Four middle-aged men in shirtsleeves were arguing around a monitor. They stopped speaking as the women neared. Blair caught one admiring glance; another heavy with resentment. Uh-
huh
. The argument started again when they were past.

Hanumant Giory's office overlooked the city, so far below Blair instinctively steered away from the window. Wasn't that the Empire State Building? Was she looking
down
on it? The streets were dark grooves milled deep into some fantastic wilderness of strangely regular stone. Massive bridges arched across a slowly eddying gray stitched here and there with dancing spangles: the East River.