“They took all the footage off my T.V.
Said it's too disturbing for you and me
It'll just breed anger, that's what the experts say
If it was up to me I'd show it every day.”
“Have you forgotten how it felt that day
To see your homeland under fire
And her people blown away?
Have you forgotten when those towers fell?
We had neighbors still inside
Going through a living hell.”
“Have You Forgotten,” by Darryl Worley
Have You forgotten?
By Mike Straw
On the circa 1503-07 thirteen-centimeter-diameter copper Lenox Globe in the collection of the New York Public Library is the Latin phrase, "Hic sunt dracones," or, “Here be dragons,” an expression employed to represent that, at this point, you’re entering the unknown, the primary source of Mans’ fear.
When your terrified child asks you, “Daddy, how will you stop the bad men,” what’s your answer? A shame-faced, “We’ll just wait for the mercenary proxy-guardian ‘police,’ that’s their job.”
If they’re not there now, they’re already too late; but in any case, how are they supposed to get there? “We’ll just dial nine-one-one and wait.”
Hey, good answer.
It worked great for the thousands of unconstitutionally-disarmed World Trade Center victims. Be honest with your innocent tyke: tell him, “It’s not my job- I’m not getting involved!” Then he’ll really love you.
On September eleventh 2001, Mohammed Atta and his grinning jackals knew they had tactical superiority because they were illegally armed: the unconstitutionally-disarmed sheep were incapable of resisting their illegal aggression- and nearly three thousand innocent Americans were tragically slaughtered as a direct consequence.
Improperly applied mercy always costs innocent lives, just as it did on September eleventh 2001.
Samuel Adams advised, "Contemplate the mangled bodies of your countrymen, and then say, 'What should be the reward of such sacrifices?’”
Thomas Jefferson, who knew firsthand, soberly observed, “From time to time, the tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of tyrants and patriots. It is its natural manure.”
The very atmosphere about Ground Zero daily provided pacifist yuppie New York social fascist elitists with the actual fragrance of that patriotic manure created from the paste of the one thousand seven hundred ninety-six innocent citizens never recovered, their final resting place, the aptly-named Fishkill Dump, there for eternity to rot, unburied, literally, merely dust in the wind.
Don’t fret if you missed the opportunity- it’ll come to you soon.
Theodore Roosevelt, the first man to employ the term “White House,” who habitually carried a legal defensive firearm at all times said, “No greater wrong can ever be done than to put a good man at the mercy of a bad, while telling him not to defend himself or his fellows; in no way can the success of evil be made surer or quicker. Speak softly and carry a big stick!”
Big Brother, in the clown façade of the Federal Aviation Administration, a bloated, complacent bureaucracy incestuously in bed with the profit-loving airlines, told paying passengers on flights over New York, Pennsylvania and Washington on September eleventh 2001, “You’re incompetent to undertake your own protection. We, the Divine Lawgivers, are far wiser than you mere ignorant peons, and you must accede to our ‘reasonable’ demands or face egregious fines and prison.”
To our eternal regret and sorrow- and their families’, they blindly accepted the despotic terms, dooming not only themselves, but innocent thousands of others, who couldn’t grasp the obvious fact that a beneficent and all-knowing “government” was cruelly depriving them of a hard-won, God-given, Constitutionally guaranteed right, and thereby, ultimately, their very lives.
American Airlines flight eleven , a Boeing 767 from Logan in Boston to Los Angeles with ninety-two souls aboard, initially piloted by John Ogonowski, fifty-two, hijacked by evil Muslim fanatics Satam Al Suqami (seat 10B) , Abdulaziz Alomari (seat 8G) , Waleed Alshehri (seat 2B) , Wail Alshehri (seat 2A) , and Mohamed Atta (seat 8D, the likely pilot) , plowed through the eighty-fifth floor of the north tower of a soaring New York landmark, the quarter-mile-high World Trade Center traveling four hundred seventy miles per hour, loaded with over ten thousand gallons of fuel little different than napalm: Jet “A,” the standard aviation fuel, rated to produce one thousand five hundred degrees Fahrenheit.
Near the back of the plane, flight attendant Betty Ong calls Vanessa Minter at American Airlines reservations in North Carolina, employing a seatback GTE Airfone. She states the hijackers sprayed something in the first-class cabin to keep people out of the front of the plane that burns her eyes, and she’s having trouble breathing. She declares they "just gained access to the cockpit."
In hushed tones, she tells of passenger Daniel Lewin brutally murdered and a crew member killed, ending her call repeating the phrase, "Pray for us." Flight attendant Madeline "Amy" Sweeney identifies four hijackers and provides the seat numbers for them. Just prior to the impact, she’s asked on the phone if she can recognize where she is. She replies, "I see the water. I see the buildings. I see buildings," then after a pause, a quiet "Oh, my God!" in terrified recognition of her impending fate, and the line goes dead.
Only eighteen minutes later, United Airlines flight 175 , another doomed Boeing 767 from Logan in Boston to Los Angeles initiallypiloted by Victor Saracini , fifty-one, hijacked by evil Muslim fanatics Marwan Al Shehhi (the likely pilot) , Mohand Alshehri (had flight training) , Ahmed Alghamdi , Hamza Alghamdi , and Fayez Ahmed Banihammad (had flight training) , carrying sixty-five innocents to their fiery deaths, smashed through the southtower, including businessman Peter Hanson, who managed to call his father crying, "Oh, my God! They just stabbed the airline hostess. I think the airline is being hijacked."
Thirty-two agonizing minutes later, the south tower pancaked; twenty-three minutes later, the north tower would tragically follow. Jeff Birnbaum, president of Broadway Electrical Supply Company: “When we got to about fifty feet from the south tower, we heard the most eerie sound that you would ever hear. A high-pitched noise and a popping noise made everyone stop.
We all looked up. At the point, it all let go.
The way I see it, it had to be the rivets. The building let go…
I stood there for a second in total awe, and then said, ‘What the fuck?’ I honestly thought it was Hollywood.”
"It looked like the end of the world," related Abdullah Jones, forty-four, an office assistant who was standing a few hundred feet from tower two when it collapsed: "It was a massive inferno, worse than any movie.
It was hell breaking loose."
The revered icons of predatory “government” domination of their subjugated citizens lay smashed and broken, appearing as mere discarded toys in the massive pile of rubble that had just been twin one-hundred-ten-story soaring towers with a combined weight of more than one-point-five million tons visible from at least twenty miles away: the south tower, built in 1972 was one thousand three hundred sixty-two feet tall, and big brother north tower, constructed in 1970 was one thousand three hundred sixty-eight. Sixty-eight miles of steel, more than two hundred thousand tons, were employed in the their construction, enough to make three more Brooklyn Bridges.
The four hundred twenty-five thousand cubic yards of concrete poured was enough to build a thoroughfare from New York to Washington D. C.
Cruisers of the arrogant mercenary proxy-guardian “police,” paid for by your extorted tax dollars, lay crushed as if by some petulant giant, expensive fireengines lay strewn, destroyed by mighty forces, ambulances appeared like eggs carelessly dropped from a height; all of them densely coated in billowing dust, as if to intensify the disdain they were held in, the inevitable price of those foolish enough to trust others for their safety, indeed for their very lives.
Courageous but tragically unarmed Jew Daniel Lewin, who once belonged to Israel Defense Force’s elite top-secret counter-terrorist unit, Sayeret Matkal, was callously murdered by Muslim fanatic Satam Al Suqami.
As he made his way to his seat, Daniel observed perspiring Al Suqami furtively peering about like the trapped rat he was in the seat directly behind his. Daniel had sufficient experience to instantly recognize the well-known look of guilt on the slimy weasel’s face. Alarms and red lights were furiously going off inside his head.
Already in condition yellow, he instantly jumped to condition red. Upon hearing the all-too-familiar cry of “allahu akbar,” Daniel jumped up, ready to do battle to defend his precious life. Too late, his heartless assassin had already gleefully employed the traditional method, fatally slashing Daniel’s undefended throat.
Fourteen minutes after the dastardly sneak attacks, in slavish adherence to the universal principle that action always beats reaction, the impotent federal bureaucracy charged with “protecting” America’s skies shut down all New York City area airports; four minutes after that, the Port “Authority” commanded all bridges and tunnels area closed.
Nineteen minutes later, the FAA halted all flight operations at airports, the first time in u. S. history that nationwide air traffic’s been halted.
Not four minutes afterward, American Airlines flight 77, a Boeing 757 from Dulles outside Washington to Los Angeles with sixty-four innocent souls aboard hijacked by evil Muslim extremists Khalid Almihdhar (seat 12B), Majed Moqed (seat 12A), Nawaf Alhazmi, Salem Alhazmi (seat 5F), and Hani Hanjour (the likely pilot) crashed into the most widely-recognized symbol of America’s military might, the Pentagon.
It wasn’t only in far-off lands like Germany and Cambodia that tyrannical “government” was gleefully erecting an eternal memorial to itself formed from the grinning skulls of its myriad murdered victims, unlawfully prevented from defending the precious lives of both themselves and their beloved families.
In New York City, a teen’s teacher frantically rushed into the room: "She told us to turn off the television," he said, observing that his teacher, a card-carrying member of the evil social fascist union, was in a state of shock.
In the Biblical city of Nablus, thousands of Palestinians celebratedthe dastardly sneak attacks, blissfully chanting “Allahu akbar,” “Our god is great” in Arabic, and gaily handing out candy.
At a symposium at the University of Lebanon, a radical Muslim fanatic, eagerly supported by his comrades, compared themselves to Nazis, boasting, “Just like Hitler [slaughtered] the [innocent] Jews, we are a[n] Islamic nation of jihad, and we should fight the Jews and burn them.”
Jubilant Muslim childrenexulted over the murders openly in the streets.
Those who were cheering belonged to the elite of the Paris of Middle East: professionals wearing double-breasted suits, charming blond ladies, pretty teenagers in tailored jeans.
Here in the land of the Free, on a day of national mourning and prayer, a Boca Raton company had its acrimonious managers arrogantly confiscate some cheap Chinese-made American flags from somber employees' cubicles, claiming other workers might find them “offensive.”
At that proud final bastion of communist brainwashing in America, the University of California-Berkeley, callous organizers of day-long tribute to the unarmed victims of September eleventh considered "The Star Spangled Banner" too patriotic, divisive, and political, so they summarily excluded it.
Cigar store “Native American” Ward Churchill, chair of Colorado University’s Ethnic Studies Department, who holds only a Master of Art degree from that knowndiploma mill, Sangamon, and whose publicity photo features him in sunglasses and camouflage field jacket, grimly clutching an AK-47, suggested, “If there was a better, more effective, or in fact any other way of visiting some penalty befitting their participation upon the little Eichmanns inhabiting the sterile sanctuary of the twin towers, I'd really be interested in hearing about it… the [teams] who struck on September eleventh 2001 manifested the courage of their convictions…”
Have you ever heard the expression, “cruel fate?”
Michael Lomonaco, executive chef of the spectacular fifty-thousand-square-foot Windows on the World restaurant, located on the one-hundred-seventh floor of the World Trade Center’s north tower, offering commanding views of the city and serving about eight hundred diners nightly, the highest-grossing restaurant in America- with revenues of thirty-seven-and-a-half million dollars- oversaw the four hundred loyal employees who worked there, a close-knit family from twenty-five diverse countries.
Read, "The Harm in Being Harmless" by Jay Dyson. Have you ever heard the expression, “everything happens for a reason?”
Lately, chef Lomonaco’s eye had been bothering him, so just coincidently, on September eleventh 2001, he chose to stop on the way to work for an eye exam. As a result, Michael Lomonaco miraculously survived, but seventy-three of his esteemed employees tragically died that momentous day.
Bangladeshi waiter Mohammed Shamim miraculously survived only because, unlike his two very close friends, he happened to be a couple of minutes late that particular day, only getting as far as the elevator- and then came the loud crash that sent everyone in the lobby racing out of the building in abject terror.
Mohammed doesn't feel so lucky.
Six months after the horrific attack, he’s still out of a job.
Often earning fifteen-hundred dollars a week, he grumbled, "I thought I was going to buy a house. I was happy. I should die so my family would be taken care of. I'm alive so they can't do anything.”
He could’ve been Ronnie Clifford from Cork Ireland, who fled the World Trade Center within an inch of his life, only to tragically discover his cherished sister Ruth, forty-five, and innocent four-year-old daughter Juliana had been on the first hijacked plane.
He went through the front door on the ground floor and a lady about three seconds in front of him was engulfed by a terrific fireball. She subsequently died.
It wouldn’t be until half a long, grueling decade later that thirty-four surviving workers- entrepreneurial immigrants like Mohammed- including waiters, cooks, food runners, busboys and dishwashers, finally abandoned futilely clinging to handouts falsely promised by predatory “government” and proudly provided themselves a much-needed leg up by opening the four-thousand-square-foot Colors cooperative restaurant at 417 Lafayette Street near Astor Place and the Public Theater at the edge of the East Village, within walking distance of hallowed Ground Zero.
Moroccan-born waiter Mamdouh Fekkak, forty-three, struggled to support two young children while running a catering cooperative to raise money for the new venture. "It's been so hard after September eleventh, with some people still depressed after years of trying to find work- odd jobs or a shift in a restaurant here and there," he recounted.
Another partner, Ataur Rahman, forty-nine, is a Bangladesh-born banquet waiter who’s starting from scratch to support his wife and three children, including a girl born in 2004. "Thank God, we have some hope now... Good things happen from bad things," he proclaimed.
The new restaurant has a menu proudly featuring real American cuisine, and offers changing specials from each of the twenty far-flung nations its industrious owners represent. "We will never forget our seventy-three brothers and sisters, but we don't want people to come and eat at our restaurant because of September eleventh," Mamdouh soberly declared. "People come for pity one time, but they won't come back. We want them to come to Colors because of the food and great atmosphere."
It was an uphill struggle all the way: “No banks would provide loans to this restaurant, and Lower Manhattan Development Corporation did not either,” tersely related Saru Jayaraman, executive director of the not-for-profit Restaurant Opportunities Center of New York.
About half of the two-point-two million dollars in funding came from Good Italian Food, a consortium of Italian cooperatives, with the remainder from Restaurant Opportunities Center. Niggardly ”government” contributed nothing, but stands greedily with its sepulchral hand eternally out.
The dastardly sneak attack not only murdered innocents in the towers, freelance photographer William Biggart died when the towers fell- on him.
Simon Oliver, thirty-four, a British lawyer working on the fifty-seventh floor of tower one related: "Suddenly, the building lurched violently forward, I was flung across my desk, the building suddenly corrected itself. Then it moved forward very violently again.
I was standing right by the window and just on the other side I saw what I now appreciate was the remains of the plane, and that was a truly horrific sight. It was falling three feet in front of my face. It was burning fuel that was alight, there were chairs going past, there were things that I won't tell you about."
The section of the fiery fuselage he witnessed plunged onto the roof of WTC five, huge pieces of landing gear landed two blocks away at Forty-five Park Place.
A woman was nearly killed by part of one of Flight 175’s massive engines that sliced into her back as she stood innocently on the sidewalk three blocks away at twenty-four Murray Street, near its intersection with Church.
Robert James, manager of a sporting goods store near the complex, was in the basement when he heard the explosion. He came above ground to see at least five bodies plunge from the skyscraper: "They looked like rag dolls. It was like the kind of thing you see in movies."
Just a few minutes after American Airlines flight eleven, streaking in at a mere nine hundred feet, hit at over five hundred miles per hour, large objects were falling from the top of the World Trade Center's north tower. At first, it seemed like mere debris.
"It took three or four to realize they were people," says James Logozzo, who’d gathered with co-workers in a Morgan Stanley boardroom on the seventy-second floor of the south tower, just forty yards away from the north tower. "Then this one woman fell." She fell closer to the south tower, he recalls. James saw her face. She had dark hair and olive skin, a white blouse and black skirt. She fell with her back to the ground, flat, staring up. "The look on her face was shock. She wasn't screaming. It was slow-motion. When she hit, there was nothing left," James recounts.
When he got to the street forty-five minutes later, he looked up. By then, his building had been struck by United Airlines Flight 175. From the ground, he saw two more people jump. This time, they were from his building.
The incredible arrogance of cowardly “government” in unconstitutionally denying honest citizens the God-given right to defend their own lives reduced the choices of thousands of innocent Americans lulled into dependence on power-mad politicians to, not whether to end their existence, but merely how to painfully die.
Those comfortably earning nearly half a million dollars annually, sumptuously dressed in the finest garments, boasting ownership of extravagant luxury houses, yachts and automobiles, unmindful of the price of their elegant repasts, were ruthlessly reminded that their “security” constitutes only that which they prudently carry upon them daily, not what they casually delegate to mere mercenaries.
The pathetic jumping started shortly after American Airlines flight eleven hit at eight-forty-six A. M. Innocent citizens jumped continuously as the precious one hundred two minutes that the north tower remained standing went up in smoke and flame. The last two innocent citizens jumped as the north tower began to fall at ten-twenty-eight A. M. For those who jumped, the fall lasted ten timeless seconds.
They struck the ground at just less than one hundred fifty miles per hour, aptly referred to as terminal velocity. Innocent citizens jumped from all four sides of the north tower. They jumped alone, in pairs and in groups.
Most came from the north tower's hundred-first to hundred-fifth floors, where the Cantor Fitzgerald bond firm had offices, and the hundred-sixth and hundred-seventh floors, where a conference was underway at the Windows on the World restaurant. Cantor Fitzgerald lost eight hundred employees on September eleventh 2001.
Every soul in the Windows on the World restaurant agonizingly perished in flames, after deceitfully receiving calm reassurances from brave “authorities” that their daring rescue was imminent.
Others leaped from the ninety-third through hundredth floor offices of Marsh and McLennan insurance company. Intense smoke and heat, rather than flames, pushed innocent citizens into this horrific choice.
“Oh, I could never do that,” you swear. Really? Turn on your stove. Place your hand on the burner. Leave it there.
Eric Thompson, who worked on the seventy-seventh floor of the south tower, went to a conference room window after the first jet hit. He was shocked when a man came to a north tower window and leapt from a few floors above the fire. Eric looked the man in the face. He saw his tie flapping in the breeze. He watched the man's body strike the pavement far below. "There was no human resemblance whatsoever," Eric relates.
On flight eleven, Betty "Bee" Ong, forty-five, of Andover Massachusetts was working coach class. “The cockpit is not answering their phone," Betty calmly informed the American Airlines operations center. “There's somebody stabbed in business class, and we can't breathe in business. Um, I think there is some Mace or something. We can't breathe. I don't know, but I think we're getting hijacked.
I'm sitting in the back. Somebody's coming back from business. If you can hold on for one second here, they're coming back. Our Number One (flight attendant) got stabbed. Our purser is stabbed. Nobody knows who stabbed who. We can't even get up to business class right now, because nobody can breathe. Uh, our Number One is stabbed right now.
Our Number Five, our first class passenger- er, our first class galley flight attendant and our purser have been stabbed. And we can't get into the cockpit. The door won't open. We can't even get into the cockpit. We don't know who's there," Betty says, before the call abruptly ends in an ominous dial tone.
Flight eleven struck the forty-fourth through ninety-eighth floors of the north tower, shooting heat and smoke up elevator shafts and stairways in the center of the building. Within minutes, it would’ve been very difficult to breathe.
That drove innocent citizens to the windows one thousand one hundred to one thousand three hundred feet above ground.
On the south side, firefighters reported thirty to forty bodies on the roof of the twenty-two-floor Marriott Hotel, adjacent to the north tower. On the west side, falling victims crashed onto the awning covering the circular VIP driveway.
The thudding of living victims at this entrance can be heard on a remarkable video taken near there by French cameraman Jules Naudet, who captures the fiery murders of all aboard American Airlines flight eleven as it crashes into the north tower.
On the east side, innocent citizens plummeted into the plaza, best known for its globe sculpture. Blood covered the glass walls and revolving doors that led to the plaza from the second-floor mezzanine in the north tower. Innocent citizens evacuating the north tower trudged numbly past this ghastly scene. "The windows were red ... and bits of bodies were outside.
We were stunned and amazed," says Richard Moller, who escaped from the seventy-eighth floor. Victims who jumped had a profound influence on the evacuation. A falling female victim killed Danny Suhr, a firefighter from Engine 216 , who only then moved their command post away from the building to avoid them. Bodies were landing with audible rushes of air, muffled thuds, and thick red splashes that looked like paint.
In the south tower, people had a close-up view of terrified innocent citizens plunging to their gory deaths from a building that was a mirror image of their own. "I looked at a couple of people jumping, and that was it. I'd seen enough. I said, 'We've got to get the hell out of here,' " recalls Jaede Barg, who worked for Aon on the south tower's hundredth floor.
"Look, mommy," two-year-old William Watt gasped, pointing to the tiny figures plunging down. His anxious mother, rejoicing that she lived here in the social fascist firearm-free paradise of New York, had never once even allowed the little dear to point his finger in fun and say, “Pow!” lest he become traumatized for life. Now the little darling had the amazing good fortune to watch these cartoon-like figures right here in real life.
Unlike Wile E. Coyote, however, these unconstitutionally-disarmed citizens didn’t get up again. The horror inspired Doug Seubert to write a poem for the WTC Jumpers:
He came back,
This time for me.
On the 110th floor I was so close to God
I could almost grab his beard.
Never before has heaven been this close to hell.
I can feel its fire on the floors below
Raising ash and paper and smoke
Thick as Satan’s laughter.
At the window, shattered,
I look for salvation and he tempts me,
Dares me to jump,
Whispering a psalm in my ear
He spits as he speaks:
“He will bid his angels watch over you.
With their hands they will support you.”
I mumble “Amen,”
Close my eyes and sense the rush of air.
I cannot breathe until I finally feel
Those hands of angels
Hard as cement against my face.
Many south tower survivors say the horrifying evidence of their own eyes, the sickening sight of unconstitutionally-disarmed citizens leaping, created an urgency that made them flee immediately and ignore arrogant announcements by ignorant “authorities” falsely promising that it was safe to complacently return, like lemmings, to their desks in the waning moments before the doomed buildings ultimately collapsed.
They couldn’t even account for themselves:
Port “authority” mercenary proxy-guardian “police” department officer Murray: [mercenary proxy-guardian] “police” desk, Murray.
Ed-OCC: Murray, this is Ed at the OCC. Is Alan Reiss around anywhere?
PAPD Officer Murray: Uh, he was here. I don’t see him right now.
Ed-OCC: Uh, OK. We got the director, Levin’s wife, and also the governor, looking for Levin.
PAPD Officer Murray: Uh, my understanding was Levin was not up in his office.
Ed-OCC: He wasn’t.
PAPD Officer Murray: Yeah, that’s my... that’s my understanding. I don’t have anything confirmed on that.
PAPD Officer Murray: All right.
Ed-OCC: All right. (hangs up)
Reiss, then-director of the trade center: Hi, this is Alan Reiss.
Christy Ferer, Levin’s wife: It’s Christy Ferer, Neil Levin’s wife.
Reiss: Hi... (overlap)
Ferer: Hi. I know you’re crazed... I don’t want to bother you, but the governor is looking for Neil, and so am I. And no one can find him.
Reiss: Right, and they ... I tried his cell phone a number of times. I’ve sent him pages. And I really don’t know where he is, or Ernesto Butcher, or Karen Eastman.
Ferer: OK, well, Ernesto was seen on the first floor, according to Doug, uh, Carpolaro or whoever. Reiss: Doug Karpiloff, yeah, one of my guys.
Ferer: Right... And, um, but, um, you all... do you know for a fact that he wasn’t in the office?
Reiss: I don’t know that for a fact.
Ferer: Uh-huh. He had a seven... did you see his driver, John, around?
Reiss: No. I’m at the [mercenary proxy-guardian] “police” desk. I was on the mall when this thing happened.
Ferer: Right. Oh, I’m sorry to bother you... (overlap)
Reiss: That’s OK... (overlap)
Ferer: But they’re looking for him for a press conference. They’re looking for him and...
Reiss: Well, he... if he’s walking down the fire stairs, it could be two hours till he gets down.
Ferer: Right, OK... Reiss: I mean, God forbid. I went through this in ninety-three.
Ferer: Uh-huh... uh-huh... Thank God you did (inaudible/overlap) someone who’s experienced like that...
Reiss: Well, you know, someone’s watching out for me upstairs. I’m gonna say a lot of prayers...
Port Authority Executive Director Neil Levin was killed.
Sgt. Holland: Port “authority” [mercenary proxy-guardian] “police,” sergeant Holland.
Jeannie McIntyre: Yes, sergeant Holland, this is Jeannie McIntyre. Is my husband in that building that just collapsed?
Holland: Yeah, we heard from him. There’s... none of... none of our guys are hurt and injured right now.
McIntyre: He was going up.
Holland: Yeah, I know. But it’s... we, none of our... none of our people were injured.
McIntyre: Are you sure? Because he was going up the stairs. He told me. (upset)Holland: I understand. We don’t have... we don’t have any reports of any... of any of our people injured. All right? I... I understand, it’s going to be awful, you know.
Officer McIntyre died.
At ten-fifteen A. M., sixteen minutes after the south tower collapsed, one dispatcher asked, "Are they still standing?
The World Trade Center is there, right?"
Richard Stearns, who worked on floor eight of the north tower soberly reports a mercenary proxy-guardian “police” van had gone past at one point ghoulishly playing a loop tape of a message, "You are all going to die, run now."
Elizabeth Belleau’s morning commute stalled, then transformed to horror as the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel filled with choking smoke and the panicked driver abandoned the bus.
"I saw bodies falling out of the World Trade Center- oh, God, jumping, falling, glass and smoke," she sobbed, heaving at the image.
David Hsia worked in the World Trade Center shopping mall: “Looking up, we started to notice that people were jumping out of One WTC. It wasn't from the blast, and they were very much alive. Their arms were flailing and people behind me yelled and turned away in utter horror.”
"I don't know what it was like up there, but it must have been hell," related firefighter Paul Curran of New York Fire Patrol Three, covered in a thick coat of gray ash outside a makeshift command post in the Gee Whiz restaurant at Greenwich and Warren streets: "There were a lot of jumpers. I saw bodies hit the upper-level concrete of the second floor overhang of Tower One.
Others were falling into West Street."
Firefighter James Duffy: “I saw about twenty to thirty people jumping out from the upper floors and hitting rigs and the pavement and the ground and apparatuses, and the glass atrium of the Marriott they were hitting. I guess about five or six jumpers jumped at a time.” A firefighter from a ladder company: “We looked out at the Trade Center window and there was the Vista Hotel. There had to be thirty, forty jumpers sprayed out all over the roof.
As I was looking out the window another jumper comes by, kind of like clipped the edge of the roof and just vaporized. There was no longer a body, just a big cloud of red.” Fire trucks on West Street were painted red by the blood and full of body parts of the jumpers; the heavy rigs were driving over limbs. An arm got stuck in a wheelwell.
Panicked surviving municipal employees frantically scrambled to uncover thousands of unconstitutionally-disarmed victims who’d never be located, dust-caked ambulances with lights flashing eerily in the swirling residue and doors hastily flung ajar idled, empty, and tense doctors at hospitals throughout New York anxiously waited in vain to treat patients who’d never arrive.
Medics at the scene witnessed images that’ll stay with them forever. "I saw a human hand on the street," revealed medical technician Benjamin Fogelm, twenty-eight, "We had to try not to step on body parts."
Of the unsuspecting thousands calmly going about their daily lives that fateful morning, the broken, lifeless bodies of only two hundred ninety-one innocent citizens were recovered intact.
Frantic Daphne Bowers of Brooklyn, adopting the same approach as many others, arrived at Bellevue hospital clutching a picture of her adored twenty-eight-year-old daughter Veronique, who was working at the World Trade Center: "She called me, when the building was on fire. She called me and said, 'Mommy, the building is onfire. There's smoke coming through the walls. I can't breathe.' The last thing she said was, 'I love you Mommy. Goodbye.'"
Aon Corporation employee Michael Egan, stuck on the one hundred fifth floor, called his wife Anna: “I was about to ask him who are the people with you, that's when we both saw it. We both said, ‘Oh no, I love you darling.' The line dropped and the building fell.”
Ronald DiFrancesco was one of only three Euro Brokers employees on the eighty-fourth floor of the south tower at the time the second plane hit. Another sixty-one, “protected” by their “government” died. “There were all kinds of people lying down, people were overcome with smoke, probably about fifteen or so people, on the landing, in the stairwell,'' he said. “I was panicked. I wanted to see my wife and kids again. I don't mean to sound like a Bible thumper. But somebody lifted me up.
Everyone else was starting to go to sleep. It was an aberration that I got up,'' he said. “I figured I had to get up and go. I got scared and edgy (as well as claustrophobic) and bolted for somewhere out. It was a survival thing. I don't really know how to tell you. I am grateful that I got out. It was a little bit of a miracle.''
Getting down was, at first, not easy: “I had to break my way through some drywall and slide down through stairwell and go through some fire and stuff,'' around the seventy-eighth floor. He ran the rest of the way. As he left the building, it was already collapsing. Of eighteen people who were at or above impact at the time the south tower was hit, severely-burned Fiduciary Trust employee Donovan Cowan- his burns were on fifty percent of his body- was one of only two who got out alive- and his friend, Doris Torres, died several days later.
Donovan was at the elevator at the seventy-eighth floor sky lobby: “As soon as I hit the button, that's when there was a big boom... I remember feeling this intense heat. The doors were still open. All I remember was looking around after that and seeing people on the floor, just sprawled out, knocked out, blood everywhere, people crying. One guy had his insides they were like totally out, like a horror movie. I thought it was a bomb, I didn't know it was a plane.
So I went down seventy-eight flights. I remember being bloodied up, but I don't remember pain from my burns. It wasn't until I got down to the bottom that I started to feel weird.''
New York state department of taxation employee Ling Young is one of only twelve people to escape from the seventy-eighth floor of the south tower. She doesn't think she ever lost consciousness, but was immediately aware of being covered with blood. She couldn't see through her glasses: “I cleaned them and looked around. I just saw a piece of flat land, just like dead bodies all over the place. I saw some people up against the wall, people just chopped up. I mean, their legs were just chopped off.'' She got out to Church Street, where she was placed in an ambulance. Moments after it pulled away to take her to a hospital, the tower she had just been in tragically collapsed to the ground.
Another distraught woman whose missing husband worked on one of the upper floors declared, "I wish I could go and dig myself. He could be dying and I’m not there to hold his hand. He could be in pain and I can't help him."
Twenty-four hours earlier, Bill Coscarelli was an anonymous motorcycle mechanic from Long Island, a member of the intrepid Guardian Angels.
But on September eleventh 2001, he was transformed into that rare thing, a man who really deserved the description of hero, trudging away from the enormous breaker's yard that was once the fabled World Trade Center.
Bill, his scarlet Angels beret dulled by a film of silt, a grappling iron over his shoulder, had his reward for spending all day and all night crawling through the wreckage: he’d helped to save the life of one of the seven people rescued where perhaps thousands died simply going about their work.
"He was a [mercenary proxy-guardian] ‘police’ officer from the New York Port Authority," recounted Bill, thirty-six, standing against the backdrop of the obscene stumpthat was all that remained of One Trade Center tower, burst open like a Christmas cracker, a horrifying, inadvertent piece of public art.
“Apparently, he was from the sixty-fourth floor and he was up to his neck in debris that they had to take away piece by piece. They said they were going to amputate his leg but they didn't do it. They were trying to see if they could identify him by the serial number on his [‘government’-issued firearm]. He was moving his head. He was talking a bit and saying 'yes' because everybody was talking to him."
The immigrant from Argentina talked about how he helped to save a life in the dark: "The [mercenary proxy-guardian] ‘police’ officer was right on top of the debris. I'm sure I walked over him maybe thirty times before we realized he was a guy.
I went up to the parking lots and looked for people in the elevators. People are dead in the basements.
We found two bodies, covered in dust and metal, but you've got to remember it's been twenty-four hours now and we've only found a few people alive.
I found a lot of stuff to use, [mercenary proxy-guardian] ‘police’ and fire equipment lying around.
There were big aluminum pieces of the planes. It's hard to find people.
We found some people and they were squished. There's not much of them.
They were squished so hard that basically there's nothing.
We were asking for small body bags because otherwise they were going to get lost.
We were marking the bags and saying 'that's a body.' We found two half-guys.
It's really bad in there, a lot of confusion.
I thought, 'I can't just watch this on television.' If I didn't do it I would just feel... I drove to Brooklyn and then walked about an hour to get here. Probably I'll come back tonight." A worker at Ground Zero described what was found in the rubble in the way of objects other than the towers' steel: “You have two hundred-ten story office buildings. You don't find a desk. You don't find a chair. You don't find a telephone, a computer. The biggest piece of a telephone I found was half of a keypad, and it was about this big: (makes a shape with his hand about four inches in diameter).
The building collapsed to dust.”
When mercenary proxy-guardian “police” sergeant McLoughlin, officers Will Jimeno, Antonio Rodrigues, and Christopher Amoroso timidly entered the damaged south tower one floor under the main concourse area, where all the stores are, then became trapped by falling debris after the north tower was struck, it wasn’t NYFD or even fellow mercenary proxy-guardian “police” who rescued them: it was heroic Marine staff sergeant David Karnes who’d sped to the site from his home in Connecticut, and sergeant Thomas, telling them, "Buddy, I am not leaving you." Diligently searching for survivors, sergeant Karnes revealed, "I just had a sense, anoverwhelming sense come over me that we were walking on hallowed ground, that tens of thousands of people could be trapped and dead beneath us." Help arrived in the form of Chuck Sereika, a former paramedic with an expired license who put pulled his old uniform out of his closet and rushed to the site.
Officer Jimeno related, “I didn't know it was the tower.
I just hear the most horrifying noise I've ever heard.
It was like a huge train coming at me with the roar of the devil.
I don't think Hollywood could ever duplicate that sound, and it is right above me, coming down.
Everything is shaking.”
Sergeant McLoughlin and officer Jimeno were the final living beings rescued.
Officers Rodrigues and Amoroso died. They had to bring them down one burning eighty-foot valley of massive steel girders sickeningly bent like proverbial pretzelsand hideously snapped like mere twigs, and then up another smoking four-story mountain. Then down, four stories again, then finally across the wide expanse of West Street, still deep with twisted steel and smoldering debris, through the big entrance of the World Financial Center and then through to the back of the Financial Center and out to Vesey Street to where the temporary morgue was.
There was shattered steel and crumbled concrete everywhere, and it was a tough, tough trip, a long ordeal to bring them down.
It wasn’t until December twentieth 2001- more than three months later - that the persistent Ground Zero fires were finally put out.
At ten-fifteen A. M., sixteen minutes after the south tower collapsed, one clueless “government” dispatcher asked, "Are they still standing? The World Trade Center is there, right?"
In "American Ground," author William Langewiesche reveals, "The looting was shadowy, widespread..."
A ladder truck recovered from the pile of fallen debris: "Its crew cab was filled with dozens of new pairs of jeans- still tagged, folded and stacked- from The Gap. It was hard to avoid the conclusion that the looting had begun even before the first tower fell, and that while hundreds of doomed firemen had climbed through the woundedbuildings, this particular crew had been engaged in something else entirely."
Tourneau's marketing boss Andrew Block reported that his downtown inventory was wiped out, and not by toppling towers: "There were maybe twenty watches left in the store out of a few hundred."
On September thirteenth, former correction officer Roland Abarrategui and unemployed “security” guard Johnny Dunham were arrested.
One office building near Ground Zero was "systematically rifled for valuables," Langewiesche wrote: "Whether by errant firemen, [mercenary proxy-guardian] ‘policemen’ or construction workers hardly mattered.
All three groups were at various times implicated in a widespread pattern of looting that started even before the towers fell, and was to peak around Christmas with the brazen theft of office computers."
Shops and restaurants in the retail concourse beneath Five World Trade Center were looted. "It was calculated," revealed second lieutenant Peter Fluker, Company C's second platoon leader: "It was done with crowbars and heavy equipment and some sharp, blunt objects that were used to smash open big doors and jewelry cases.
They were rescue workers of some sort."
Across from Ground Zero, a shocked D. J. Kerr found her luxury loft looted.
Even the flag raised at the scene of the World Trade Center attack was stolen by scurrilous mercenary municipal employees off a privately-owned boat, and was subsequently turned into a memorial sculpture and a “government” stamp to commemorate the deaths of mercenary municipal employees who were merely doing the job they contracted to do for pay.
it was discovered that thirteen ghoulish FBI (Secret “Police”) agents had been stealing chunks of concrete, pieces of metal, u. S. flags and a Tiffany globe paperweight from the hallowed September eleventh 2001 national gravesite, Ground Zero.
One depraved agent nonchalantly shipped eighty pounds of gruesome debris to his home office, although private citizens have been prosecuted and slapped withprison sentences for taking items from the site.
In August 2002 in Minneapolis Minnesota, the Tiffany globe mysteriously turned up in an FBI (Secret “Police”) field office.
Agent Richard Marx’s supervisor, the special agent in charge of the Philadelphia FBI (Secret “Police”) field office, admitted that agent Marx removed numerous items -airplane parts, melted firearms, a street sign, and eight Americans flags.
Republican senator Charles Grassley of Iowa fumed, “The unseemly and ghoulish grave-robbing and filching does cast shame on the FBI (Secret “Police”) as an institution in the eyes of the public, and that warrants a strong response.''
None of the morbid agents was so much as disciplined, let alone fired, but twenty-five-year special agent Jane Turner, the honest agent who justly fingered the thief, was.
The birth pangs of the oft-heralded end of the age had begun: asymmetrical warfare , where deadly invisible enemies unexpectedly appear in our midst, wreak sudden destruction, and then simply evaporate again. For the first, indeed, the only time in their mundane, complacent, predictable existences, an enormous event so catastrophic, so monstrous, had occurred that citizens each briefly put away their petty bickering, their childish feuds, in order to, if only this once, gather together in genuine heartfelt sorrow to mourn their appalling losses as Americans inflicted by our turbaned “friends,” the Wahabbist Saudis, in a way not experienced since it’d occurred to an earlier generation mourning the passing of an assassinated young president, or even before that, a nation justly outraged over yet another dastardly sneak attack by an evil Empire.
In the subsequent fear-saturated days, as an emotional plethora of Chinese-manufactured American flags sprouted, some came at last to believe and understand what too few had been so fervently preaching all along: only you are ultimately responsible for your own precious life and “security.”
Others, shaken to their core and justifiably suddenly fearful for their beloved families’ safety, the scales of ignorance at last slapped from their complacent eyes, privately inquired what reasonable steps they need take to become legally defensively armed before the next anticipated illegal assault.
True story: in 1993, Ramsey Yousef, the architect of the previous attack on the World Trade Center, was being delivered to the New York federal courthouse for arraignment. As the “government” helicopter was passing over the sorely-wounded Twin Towers, a grinning FBI (Secret “Police”) agent snidely taunted the wily terrorist, “Ya didn’t get ‘em, did ya?”
Stony-faced Yousef, arrogantly meeting his gaze, ominously replied, “Not yet.”
In the words of patriotic composer David Grant in his eye-opening song, “Kabul to Manhattan, the boys of Flight 93,” “There are no innocents in Kabul or Manhattan, everyone is a soldier.
Everyone is a target,” pointing out that in spite of copious hollow rhetoric to the contrary, their benevolent “government” had yet to actually prevent a single crime, let alone any unprovoked act of war upon a peaceful People, that same despotic “government” was not only prepared- already had the unconstitutional plans in place- not only to “sacrifice” the lives of every mere taxpayer in the nation- man, woman and innocent child- to save their miserable, worthless hides, also had the evil plans in place to turn every living citizen into a slave, confining them in a vast gulag of American concentration camps (it isn’t the first time- ask any descendant of the remnant of Native Americans) and then gas them to death in the precise fashion as their bloodthirsty Nazi forbears, callously disposing of the mass of murdered bodies by cremating the innocents.
Cyril Richard "Rick" Rescorla was personally responsible, as vice-president of “security,” for saving the lives of over two thousand six hundred terrified employees of Dean Whitter, as the entire world watched the tragedy unfold on September eleventh 2001.
A man of opinion, he said of the 1999 Columbine tragedy, after mercenary proxy-guardian “police” responded to the school- and then simply sat there- "…[ mercenary proxy-guardian] ‘police’ were sitting outside while kids were getting killed. They should have put themselves between the perpetrators and the victims. That was abject cowardice!"
"The dumb sons of bitches told me not to evacuate," he said during a quick call to his best friend, Dan Hill- whose life he’d saved back in his LZ x-ray days- who’d been watching the disaster unfolding on TV.
"They said it's just Building One. I told them I'm getting my people the fuck out of here," decisive action that saved two thousand seven hundred innocent lives.
Morgan Stanley regional director John Olson saw Rick coolly reassuring colleagues in the tenth-floor stairwell. "Rick, you've got to get out, too," John informed him.
"As soon as I make sure everyone else is out," Rick calmly replied, a reaction formation to his yet-rampant survivor guilt- the same extraordinary lieutenant Rescorla who, thirty-six years before, as Platoon Leader, B Company, Second of the Seventh Cavalry led the desperate bayonet attack on the morning of November sixteenth 1965- had personally gotten to know every soldier in his command and although his losses were miniscule compared to every other command, took each man’s loss as a personal failure, still suffered insomnia decades later.
After firmly encouraging those escaping the firestorm raging above, saying, “today is a day to be proud to be American," Rick was last seen singing “ God Bless America ," bravely ascending the fire stairs of the doomed south tower. Stephan Newhouse, chairman of Morgan Stanley International, confirmed at his memorial service that Rick was spotted as high as the seventy-second floor. For his self-sacrificing service to others, sixty-two-year-old Rick Rescorla was posthumously awarded the Medal of Freedom, a rare and appropriate employment, for once .
As he sat comfortably unaware in the White House as United flight 93, a Boeing 757-222 with tail number N591UA, from Newark International in the evil social fascist oligarchy of New Jersey (absurdly now renamed “Liberty” International) to San Francisco inexorably zeroed in on him, “reasonable restrictions” solicitor-general Ted Olson received a frantic cell phone call from aboard doomed flight seventy-seven on its trajectory toward the Pentagon: his distraught wife Barbara and ex-Navy fighter pilot Charles "Chic" Burlingame amiably frittered away their few final minutes trying to decide who else could solve their problems, since Ted and his buddies determined an airplane was a “reasonable” place to unconstitutionally restrict legal defensive firearm access by law-abiding unorganized Militia members.
One of the other doomed passengers informed Ted’s frightened wife that he and some others were about to attempt to subdue the hijackers. His stern last words to her were, "Please, wait for the ‘authorities.’" Oh? The impotent jackbooted predatory “government” thugs can fly now? Baa.
Aboard flight 93, hijacked by evil Muslim extremists (in spite of two clear warnings, one specifically to bar the cockpit door, sent by savvy flight dispatcher Ed Ballinger) Saeed Alghamdi (had flight training), Ahmed Alhaznawi, Ahmed Alnami, and five-foot-eleven, one hundred eighty-pound Ziad Jarrah (seat 1B, the likely pilot), six-foot-two former high school quarterback and avid hunter Tom Burnett, thirty-eight, of Bloomington Minnesota, a dedicated student of world war two who’d reverently visited Normandy three times, displayed busts of three of his favorites in his office, Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt and Winston Churchill, called his wife Deena and reported, " …The plane has been hijacked… They've already knifed a guy…”
Then, momentarily succumbing under the stress to his intense childhood brainwashing, “Call the FBI (Secret ‘Police’)."
Tom speaks about the bomb he'd mentioned earlier, saying, "I don't think they have one. I think they're just telling us that. The guy they knifed is dead."
"He's dead," Deena repeated numbly. "Yes, I tried to help him, but I couldn't get a pulse."
"Tom, they are hijacking planes all up and down the East Coast. They are taking them and hitting designated targets. They've already hit both towers of the World Trade Center."
In her beloved husband's bathrobe, she informs him about the sneak attack on the holy altar of American power and might, the Pentagon. He asks if she’s notified indifferent impotent “government” thugs. She replies, “They didn’t … know about your plane.”
Deena heard Tom relay the news across the aisle to six-foot-five former member of the University of California's national championship rugby team Mark Bingham, thirty-one, of San Francisco California: "Oh my God, it's a suicide mission."
He says the Muslim terrorists are talking about crashing the plane into the ground. "We have to do something." He says that he and others are making a plan: "A group of us (constituting disparity of force)." "It's up to us. I think we can do it." He says, "I know we're going to die.
There's three of us who are going to do something about it. We can't wait for … ‘authorities.’ I don't know what they could do anyway. It's up to us. Deena, if they are going to run this plane into the ground, we’re going to do something. Just pray, Deena, pray.”
Always a leader, holding himself to exceedingly high standards, Tom always wondered how he’d have fared on that long-ago day in Normandy: he was about to find out. Near the end of the tape, Deena heard Tom barking directives. She knew he’d reached the cockpit. He’d done his job.
"It is totally obvious listening to that flight recorder that they made it into the cockpit. You cannot listen to the tape and understand it any other way," explains Tom’s grieving widow Deena, still employed as a flight attendant, now author of " Fighting Back ."
Six-foot-one, two hundred twenty-pound judo champion Jeremy Glick, thirty-one, of Hewitt New Jersey, an all-state wrestler for Saddle River Day School in Northern New Jersey, a man so big he literally had a hard time getting in and out of his seat, calls his wife Lyz, describing the hijackers as Middle Eastern, Iranian-looking.
They put on red headbands and the three of them stood up, yelled, and ran unchallenged into the cockpit.
How accommodating is the magnanimous united States? The Muslim fanatics, dedicated to the conquest of the united States, received their flight training here.
They received their martial-arts training here. The evil social fascists have fashioned a nation so submissive, we actually politely hold the coats of those about to brutally murder us.
A frantic radio transmission with terrified voices screaming “Mayday!” and “Get out of here!” is heard.
He was sitting in the front of the coach section, but was sent to the back with most of the passengers. They claimed to have a bomb, which looked like a box with something red around it. His second call was far more urgent: "There's bad men on the plane, let me talk to Lyz," Jeremy told his anxious father-in-law, Richard Makely.
He tells her that the passengers are taking a vote whether they should try to take over the plane or not, then proudly informs her that all the men on the plane have voted to courageously attack the hijackers. Jeremy wondered what to employ for a weapon. "I have my butter knife from breakfast," he joked sarcastically. Mercifully, Jeremy will never find out that after this tragic day, unconstitutionally-disarmed sheep won’t even get that.
A hijacker can be heard on the cockpit voice recording ordering a woman to sit down.
A woman held in the cockpit, presumably purser Debbie Welsh , forty-nine, of New York City New York implores, "Don't, don't." She pleads, "Please, I don't want to die." Her grieving husband Patrick confirmed, "knowing Debbie," she would have resisted.
It’s been speculated that she boldly attempted to perform CPR on either Mark "Mickey" Rothenberg, fifty-two, of Scotch Plains New Jersey, the first stabbed- for the heinous crime of simply having a Jewish name- or one of the viciously-slashed pilots, and courageously refused to stop when the fanatic hijackers callously ordered her to let them die.
Do you recall the Bible passage, “Blessed are the peacemakers?”
“Mickey,” by all accounts, would’ve been the first to attempt to calmly mediate a situation, even one he knew nothing about: it cost his life.
Sandy Bradshaw, thirty-eight, of Greensboro North Carolina, calls her husband saying, ''Have you heard what's going on? …My flight has been hijacked with three guys with knives." She grimly tells him that they’re in the rear galley filling pitchers with hot water to employ against the determined fanatics. "Everyone's running to first class. I've got to go. Bye."
Courageous unconstitutionally-disarmed unorganized Militia member Todd Beamer, thirty-two, of Cranbury New Jersey, a die-hard athlete and a former basketball and baseball star at Los Gatos High School, a take-charge guy, reported that one passenger was murdered, and later, that pilot Jason Dahl, forty-three, of Littleton Colorado, and first officer LeRoy Homer Junior, thirty-six, of Marlton, New Jersey were mortally wounded.
Devoutly religious Todd didn’t whine and cry or try to form a committee to study the crisis immediately at hand, he didn’t complacently wait for “someone else” to solve it for him, he and those courageous heroes aboard flight ninety-three literally fought for their precious lives.
Elizabeth Wainio, twenty-seven, of Baltimore Maryland, advises her stepmother, "Mom, they're rushing the cockpit. I've got to go. Bye."
CeeCee Lyles, thirty-three, of Fort Pierce Florida, a mercenary proxy-guardian “police” officer and detective for six years, yelled in awe to her husband, "They're doing it! They're doing it! They're doing it!"
What were the odds the brave unorganized Militia members could’ve proved successful?
Richard Guadagno, thirty-eight, of Eureka California, and Trenton New Jersey, a wiry five-foot-eight dynamo- "in a word, intense," had completed federal law-enforcement training, was manager of the Humboldt Bay National Wildlife Refuge in northern California. His LE creds were recovered from wreckage in the area of the cockpit.
Louis "Joey" Nacke the Second, forty-two, of New Hope Pennsylvania, a five-foot-nine, two hundred-pound life-long weightlifter with a Superman tattoo on his left shoulder.
Nicole Miller, twenty-one, of San Jose California was an outdoors and exercise buff, taught body-sculpting classes to IBM workers. Her sister, Tiffney de Vries recounted, "She was brave, heroic, strong-willed, and would have fought back with all her might.”
Lauren Grandcolas, thirty-eight, of San Rafael California, an EMT devoted to fitness and the outdoors who hiked, jogged, kayaked and zipped around her neighborhood on in-line skates. Her brief cell phone call stated that: "there was a little problem on the plane.”
Jean Peterson, fifty-five, of Spring Lake New Jersey, a retired nurse, rode with her local ambulance service as an EMT. With a nursing degree from the University of Rochester and a master's of education degree from Columbia University, she actually taught nursing.
Hilda Marcin, seventy-nine, of Budd Lake New Jersey, described as a bundle of energy and enthusiasm: when living in crime-plagued New York City, had righteously chased a burglar from her home with a billy club!
Bill Cashman, sixty, of West New York New Jersey, an enthusiastic outdoorsman practiced karate for ten years, working himself up to a red belt, and was on his way to Yosemite National Park to go hiking with his good friend
Patrick "Joe" Driscoll, seventy, of Point Pleasant Beach New Jersey.
At ten-oh-two-seventeen- only fifty-two seconds before the end- the unusual phrase, “Turn it up,” an Australian expression, by hulking New Zealand-born Alan Beaven, forty-eight, of Oakland California, is heard on voice recorder, indicating the citizen-heroes had successfully achieved their objective.
Consider: if hijacker Jarrah were still in control, would it have made sense to utter this phrase?
Logical deduction allows us to infer that former flight controller Andrew "Sonny" Garcia , sixty-two, of Portola Valley California, or professional pilot Don Greene, fifty-two, of Greenwich Connecticut, and the vice president and chief executive officer of the Safe Flight Instrument Corporation of White Plains New York, who’d learned to fly at age fourteen, had been safely installed there. His world view was neatly summed in an axiom he'd taped to the wall of his New York office: "Fear- who cares?"
These weren’t by any means your average complacent sheep fat and ready for slaughter, and realizing they were up against the very finest Satan had to offer, the Savior they fervently appealed to gently placed His finger on the scales.
"It was almost as if someone had hand-picked a group of people that could carry out an insurrection against the hijackers," marvels Washington correspondent Gregory Gordon of the Minneapolis Star Tribune. He’s definitely on the right track: after dutifully taking their assigned place on the taxiway, flight 93 patiently marinated for the better part of an hour before eventually receiving clearance for takeoff, providing a critical opportunity to have the startling news of the other sneak attacks relayed to them, allowing the three dozen valiant patriots to formulate a hasty, desperate plan- a luxury not afforded the innocent hundreds of their viciously-murdered fellow fliers; each of the other doomed planes was taken over within the first five minutes of flight, but on board flight 93, the four fanatic Muslim assassins- pointedly minus their scheduled fifth comrade, arrogant Mohamed al-Qahtani, impeccably dressed in black, arrested by Border Patrol agent Jose Melendez-Perez despite flashing a genuine Saudi passport on August fourth after traveling from Dubai to Orlando Florida- casually sat down to enjoy a leisurely breakfast- literally, their last supper- before brutally slaughtering the complacent infidel sheep.
It was the closest he’d ever get to the u. S: the Muslim extremist was captured in Afghanistan fighting alongside the taliban, and is now a pampered guest at exclusive Club Gitmo. Why does Amendment Two of the u. S. Constitution specify the particular condition that the Militia must be “well-regulated?”
Lemme clue ya: it ain’t so the vice president can get a better bead on the nearest lawyer: it’s because the brilliant Founders had only recently lived it themselves that they wanted for disparate patriotic citizens, although unfamiliar with the courageous Militia member next to them, to have a level of training and experience similar enough to give them at least a fighting chance. Can you imagine fiery Patrick Henry simply dialing nine-one-one?
Thanks to evil social fascists, things are getting worse for law-abiding citizens: at least the Founders possessed muskets.
At least twice a week, “government” publicly rehearses what, before September eleventh 2001, would’ve been unthinkable: shooting down a civilian airliner suspected of being hijacked by terrorists.
Of course, such a drastic solution would only be contemplated under the most dire circumstances, like on November twenty-fifth 2003 over Miami airport, when all-knowing “government” tyrants frantically scrambled fighter jets to shoot down an American Airlines plane with one hundred twenty-six innocent passengers on board after terrified flight attendants assumed a seventy-nine-year-old woman would attack them.
“Government” at its best: they’ve eliminated the need for terrorists, and will now publicly murder innocent unconstitutionally-disarmed citizens themselves!
This reveals what monstrous evil extremist victim disarmament organizations have gaily planned for you: the total inability to justifiably immediately protect yourself as an individual, but the instant ability of the very “government” that swore a binding oath to protect you to legally murder large numbers of its own innocent disarmed unorganized Militia members without proof, without due process, without trial, without Constitutional protection, on the thoroughly discredited evil social fascist utilitarian legal theory of “the greatest good for the greatest number!”
Wake up! If you foolishly believe that mere Men, impotent “government,” can somehow “protect” you, you’re dead wrong.
Dramatically securing the barn entry after the tragic loss of the equine, “government” has studiously made a public spectacle of confiscating harmless trinkets and strip-searching innocent octogenarians, vainly trying to calm the frightened sheep.
The appropriate line from “Blazing Saddles” comes to mind: “Gentlemen, we must save our phony-baloney jobs!”
There are some organizations out there that actually admit that unorganized Militia members exist, and may in some tiny way have some meager purpose in life, but certainly aren’t as useful or powerful as mercenary proxy-guardian “police!”
Just look at the hoopla surrounding the dead public-service employees at the World Trade Center -they’re called “heroes!” I don’t care if they were Gods -they were simply there for one reason: they were only authorized as paid employees representing the interests of the individuals comprising the city -mere mercenaries.
Todd Beamer’s stirring last words? Just before his inspiring call to arms of “ Let's Roll!” he humbly requested GTE-Verizon supervisor Lisa Jefferson to join him in reciting the Lord's Prayer, known to Jews as the Kaddish.
Consider: of all the cell phone conversations from doomed flight 93, only those from Todd to Lisa were recorded for posterity. It’s that shared prayer that will endure forever.
It’s not the only reassurance from above: the tremendous impact of the plunging aircraft with the unyielding ground at over five hundred seventy miles per hour practically obliterated every object, simply pulverizing them. One of the few precious mementoes recovered was Don and Jean Peterson’s cherished Bible- virtually intact.
Todd’s unheralded legacy?
Same as all patriots: just a hole in the ground against a stand of hemlock at the out-of-the-way, nondescript site of an abandoned strip mine in rural Shanksville Pennsylvania.
On the afternoon of September thirteenth, the flight data recorder and cockpit voice recorder were recovered, buried twenty-five feet deep at the impact site.
While sifting through the wreckage, FBI (secret “police”) investigators reported finding a belt-clip, serrated, locking-blade knife, as well a “badly damaged” commercially-manufactured cigarette lighter about two and three-fourths inches long with a concealed blade of about two-and-a-half inches.
It’s not the first time such a device has shown up: in early January 2001, the Air Force Office of Special Investigations reported that a cigarette lighter with a concealed knife blade was involved in an incident in Woodinville Washington. The device is a working cigarette butane lighter with a spring-loaded blade hidden inside.
The blade is approximately two inches long and is released by sliding up the latch on the side of the lighter.
The blade doesn’t fold open but slides tip-first out of the top of the lighter.
It’s retracted by a spring action and by sliding the latch downwards- the whole process can be done very quickly.
The lighter-knife was recovered from a suspect who claimed that he’d purchased it for $7.99.
He didn’t get a very good deal: Edgework Imports Incorporated of Dallas Georgia, for example, offers either the Eagle Lighter With Knife or the Wolf lighter With Knife, both with a two-inch side opening blade for $3.49.
An officer with the Eatontown New Jersey mercenary proxy-guardian “police” recently discovered a switchblade/lighter on a shoplifter arrested at a local mall similar to a lighter/knife located during a traffic stop in another New Jersey town in 2005.
The device has a small silver button on the upper corner of the lighter and, when pushed, a two-inch blade springs out, locks into position, and is also fully functional for producing a flame.
An innocent-looking cigarette lighter knife was also confiscated recently during an arrest by the Holyoke Massachusetts mercenary proxy-guardian “police.”
One of them could very well have been one of two purchased by master terrorist Mohammed Atta before the unwarranted sneak attacks- the first on June twenty-fifth 2001 in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, and another on July eighth 2001 in Zurich Switzerland.
The following month United respectfully changed the designation to “flight 81.” Both Lisa Beamer and Melodie Homer have defiantly flown it as tangible proof the Islamic fanatics hadn’t succeeded.
Today, a simple granite marker- purchased with private donations, not your extorted tax dollars- reverently marks the hallowed place. It reads, “To the first Citizen Heroes of the twenty-first century. The passengers and crew of flight ninety-three. ‘Let’s Roll!’ 09-11-01.”
Thanks , Alan, Bill, Debbie, Don, Elizabeth, Hilda, Jean, Jeremy, Joey, Lauren, Mark, Nicole, Patrick, Richard, Sandy, Sonny, Todd, Tom.
Without your selfless example, it’s virtually certain that the unconstitutionally-disarmed citizens aboard American Airlines Flight 63 on December twenty-second2001 going from Paris' Charles De Gaulle International Airport to Miami International Airport would’ve never summoned the courage and fortitude to save their own precious lives- since, of course, the despotic “government” which cruelly disarmed them was, as usual, nowhere to be found when the desperate seconds ticked by.
A horrified flight attendant witnessed Richard Reid attempting to light a match on the tongue of his shoe igniting the PETN plastic explosives with a triacetone triperoxide detonator, and ineffectually tried grabbing his shoes, but he simply pushed her to the floor, so she screamed desperately for help.
Another flight attendant unsuccessfully tried to stop him, but he fought her and bit her thumb. The six-foot-four inch fanatic Islamic terrorist was only subdued by mere passengers.
This type of explosive assault was similar to the one which killed a Japanese businessman named Ikegami on December eleventh1994 aboard Philippine AirlinesFlight 434 after a bomb slyly left under seat 27F by Ramsey Yousef went off over Minami Daito Island, and another was rumored to have destroyed Boeing 747-131 registered as N93119, TWA flight 800, on July seventeenth 1996 minutes after takeoff from New York's John F. Kennedy International Airport: "This was a bomb on board, without a doubt.
You do not get these kinds of catastrophic mid-air explosions in airliners without an explosive on board," terrorism expert Larry Johnson declared at the time.
James Kallstrom, assistant director of the New York FBI (secret “police”) office, told reporters it looked "pretty darn conclusive" that either a bomb or a missile caused the explosion.
You bravely accomplished what despotic, lying predatory “government” could never have.
These are the heroic unorganized Militia members evil social fascists as dedicated to the overthrow of the u. S. as the terrorists, like Boxer, Clinton, Dean, Feinstein, Gore, Kennedy, Pelosi, Schumer, and vindictive Sarah Brady, et al were terrified to prudently trust with legal defensive firearms, arrogantly condemning them- and as a direct consequence, thousands of other trusting innocents- to a horrible untimely death- minus their worthless dwindling few Constitutional “protections,” of course.
Sadly, the most ironic twist of fate occurred when the unorganized Militia aboard flight 93 held an impromptu old-fashioned town meeting and individually voted, as the citizens they were, to bravely take back their airplane, thereby sparing the worthless lives of the very social fascist politicians who unconstitutionally disarmed them to begin with!
After September eleventh 2001, according to the Congressional magazine “Roll Call,” the fat-cat hypocrites dedicated to unconstitutionally disarming you were lining up in droves to purchase the biggest legal defensive firearms they could carry.
The International Herald Tribune reported that the FBI (Secret “Police”) ran four hundred fifty-five thousand background checks and one hundred thirty thousand permit checks in only the six months after September eleventh 2001.
Even as heroic Tom Burnett experienced his unsolicited moment of panic, so did his beloved wife Deena, justly fearful of her cherished husband’s life: when informed of the plan to courageously retake the plane, she initially parroted her training as a flight attendant: ”No! Just sit down and be quiet!
Don’t draw attention to yourself!”
To this day, she bitterly regrets saying it.
The craven cowards on flight eleven foolishly heeded the insane “advice” of vindictive Sarah: “Give them what they want! Don’t resist!”
The gutless pansies on flight 175 stupidly believed the harebrained “counsel” of predatory “government:” “Be a good little victim!”
The complacent sheep on flight seventy-seven imprudently trusted the ludicrous “opinion” of crooked politicians: “Conform- or suffer the consequences!”
The predictable result?
The majority of the bloodthirsty fanatics on September eleventh 2001 tragically succeeded in their vile plot.
The patriotic spirit of Paul Reverewasn’t lost in the late seventeen-hundreds, but is yet awake in this generation, and the valor of Bunker Hill, the courage of steadfast Militiamen who didn’t shoot until they saw the whites of their adversaries' eyes... the gallant company aboard flight 93 resolutely pressed through the overwhelming odds against their success.
With their dying breath, they proudly hoisted the tattered American flag higher into the sparkling sky than it’d seen in many weary decades.
James Robbins of United Press International was the only one with courage and insight enough to get it right: "The Era of Osama lasted about an hour and half or so, from the time the first plane hit the tower to the moment the [unorganized] Militia of flight ninety-three [proudly] reported for duty."
Read, “Among the Heroes,” by Jere Longman, Let's Roll: Ordinary People, Extraordinary Courage by Lisa Beamer, and view the videos “Let's Roll: The Story of Flight 93,” “ The Flight That Fought Back,” “ Flight 93,” United 93 ,” and “ Portrait of Courage: The Untold Story of Flight 93 .”
Long after mere passengers had saved the nation's capitol from attack, “officials” in Washington engaged in a frenzied and farcical exercise aimed at murdering them all.
At one point, vice-president Dick Cheney bragged that on his orders the military had "taken a couple of aircraft out." The only thing that can be proved that Cheney’s actually shot (besides his big mouth off) is his hunting companion, seventy-eight-year-old lawyer Harry Whittington, in the face with a shotgun during a quail-hunting trip in Texas on February eleventh 2006.
Our all-knowing “government’s” considered response to these murderous overt acts of asymmetrical warfare?
So desperate is predatory “government” to convince the mindless sheep that such independent thinking is to be discouraged at all costs that a treacherous whitewash panel called “the nine-eleven commission” is set up- at vast taxpayer expense- to alter, distort, block, and deny any evidence that mere taxpayers were able to immediately justly defend their own precious lives, extending even to obscure encyclopedia entries about the event.
First, vengefully deciding that in future terrorist assaults involving hijacked jetliners, to eliminate the “middle-man” by gleefully murdering the unconstitutionally-disarmed passengers themselves.
Second, and perhaps more important, by angrily declaring that users of Microsoft's Flight Simulator video game will no longer be able to crash a replica 757 into a realistic graphic of the World Trade Center. Incredibly, the despotic Nation Park Service seeks to desecrate this hallowed site, erecting a virtual Islamic mosque- slyly tagged a blood-red "Crescent of Embrace," a mihrabpointing almost exactly to Mecca, replete with a soaring ninety-three -foot minaret disguised as a “Tower of Voices”-still an Islamic prayer-time sundial.
Proof that nefarious forces are at work is the decision to display forty-four translucent blocks on the flight path to the crash site, including the four cut-throat Islamic assassins, instead of just forty translucent blocks dedicated solely to the murdered heroes.
On September eleventh 2001, the band Blue, a euphemism for “obscene,” was recording in New York and witnessed the wanton destruction of the World Trade Center. Worldly band member Lee Ryan diplomatically opined, “Who gives a fuck about New York when elephants are being killed? Animals need saving and that’s more important!”
Sadly, Blue wasn’t recording in the World Trade Center.
Stephen Jukes, Reuters’ slimy global head of news makes obvious both his-and his organization’s- loyalties: “We all know that one man’s terrorist is another man’s ‘freedom fighter’ and that Reuters upholds the principle that we do not use the word ‘terrorist.’
To be frank, it adds little to call the attack on the World Trade Center a terrorist attack.” Personally, I’m quite saddened that Reuters didn’t choose the World Trade Center for its headquarters.
The false moral equivalence between malevolent attacker and righteous defender is closely related to the vile moral relativism one must possess to be capable of uttering such a deceitful falsehood as, "One man's terrorist is another man's ‘freedom fighter.’"
The difference between a so-called ‘freedom fighter’ and an actual terrorist is found in the character of the methods of each, as much if not more than in the stated goals of each.
Genuine freedom fighters target the arms of those oppressing them -military personnel, infrastructure employed to deliver and facilitate force, political figures associated with the regime engaged in the oppression, et cetera.
Bloodthirsty terrorists, by contrast, specifically and deliberately target civilians. Terrorists seek to create political change through purposely creating fear and chaos.
That fear is delivered not simply to the political figures associated with the terrorists' discontent , nor even to the arms of that entity, but to the populace of the targeted community or nation.
Declarations such as "one man's terrorist is another man's ‘freedom fighter’" are merely a means of evading our responsibility to exercise sound moral judgment in what we do and what we believe.
There exists a system already in place for hundreds of years to cover such eventualities. It’s called the Constitution.
If only this brainless, spineless Nation of Cowards (see the superb book of the same name by the brilliant scholar Jeff Snyder -its an absolute must read) would only act on their belief in our Constitution!
If only ten percent of the passengers on one of the doomed airliners on September eleventh 2001 had chosen to live up to their responsibilities as unorganized Militia members and decided to carry -had they been legally allowed -there would have been twenty to thirty champions, like Todd Beamer, to face the enemies of liberty.
Do you think the outcome would have been different?
Due to the sheer premeditated criminal cowardice of self-important social fascists like Boxer, Clinton, Daschle, Feinstein, Kennedy, Kerry, Lautenberg, Lott, McCain, Reno, Schumer, and Thurmond, over three thousand innocent Americans were murdered without even a chance to justly defend themselves!
More people, innocent citizens, not military combatants, were killed on September eleventh 2001 than died at Pearl Harbor.
More people, innocent citizens, not military combatants, were killed on September eleventh 2001 than died on D-Day.
This gang of devil social fascist tyrants is the same one that whispered in the appreciative ears of bin Laden, Hussein, Khomeni, Pol Pot, Tse-Tung, Mussolini, Stalin, Hitler, and Caligula, and they most assuredly deserve the same fate!
We’re engaged in a war against evil and tyranny, and cowardice in the face of the enemy is a capital offense.
Let’s use the language of the evil social fascists and ask “how many more must die?”
Let’s do it for “the children” and leave them a better, stronger world!
It’s truly said that we get the “government” we deserve!
What were the final thoughts of nearly three thousand unconstitutionally disarmed Americans as they stared, transfixed in horror, both out of and into the doomed World Trade Center buildings on the bright, fateful morning of September eleventh 2001?
There’s an old cartoon by Gahan Wilson depicting a rumpled middle-aged couple out for a stroll through the heart of the dangerous city at night.
He’s blowing smoke off the end of a still-smoking double-barrel shotgun he’d deftly pulled from under his trenchcoat, broken open to eject the spent shells while just in front of them is a dead elephant on its back.
His startled wife tells him, “O. K., so you were right!”
But you do what you want, and then live with it.