America is
under attack, and I want to hide under my desk in my cubicle. But instead I stand
with the other reporters in front of the TV. None of us speak. Two commercial
passenger jets hijacked from Logan Airport in Boston struck the World Trade
Center. How? Why? I see Manhattan
burning, the Twin Towers reduced to rubble, thousands of people running through
smoke-filled streets. A third jet hits the Pentagon, and a fourth plane heading
for Washington crashes in a Pennsylvania field. What the hell? President Bush is
aboard Air Force One heading to Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska, home of the
Strategic Command, which controls the United States’ nuclear weapons. Armageddon?
I file into the conference room with my colleagues. I can hear my heartbeat
pounding in my ears. “What the f--- is going on?” yells Harold, my editor, as
he tries to wrap his head around what is happening. I begin to shake. We are
all veteran reporters in the room, but there is dead silence. Yet it is our job
to inform the public, and our reflexes kick in. Harold barks out my assignment:
“Connect the dots. Tie this rampage with the first attack on American soil at
Pearl Harbor.” I go back to my cubicle and call my husband and speak to my
children. Then I block out everything but this story. What happened 60 years
ago? I find a former Army Air Corps mechanic, a Purple Heart recipient who was
stationed at Hickam Field near Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, when the Japanese
bombed the airfield. He had been on duty all night and was going to bed at the
time of the early morning raid. He tells me that he ran to get a rifle in the
hangar, and it was hit three times. He says that 200 men died there, and the
planes, barracks and hangar were heavily damaged. He says that 2,000 servicemen
lost their lives in the harbor. Yet he points out that Pearl Harbor was a
military target and an act of war, but the World Trade Center victims are
civilians. I speak to a widow, whose husband was an aviation machinist mate
first class aboard the Helena. She says that he was just getting out of bed,
putting on his shoes and planning to go to church when a bomb hit amidships.
She tells me that he ran up to the deck, and bullets from a Japanese plane flew
over his head and killed two men. She says that what her husband most
remembered about that day was the confusion and disbelief at the surprise
attack. I write the story on deadline. I climb the three flights of stairs in
the parking garage on wobbly knees. Today is the day that changes everything.
God help us!
