by Scott Creighton (archived repost from May 25, 2009)
Prologue:
The Premise
Scott Creighton
Take
yourself back to that day when you watched or listened to the attack
on America; the day that everything changed. Remember where you were,
who you were with, and most importantly, how you felt.
Think
about the last few events of that day; how the news of the Pentagon
being hit by something was followed almost immediately by the
unexpected complete collapse of the South Tower (WTC 2). Remember how
we had barely recovered from that shock, one that we were forced to
watch in horror over and over again, when the unspeakable happened;
the North Tower (WTC 1) fell in exactly the same way; at an eerie and
almost supernatural speed as plumes of smoke and steel columns flung
across city blocks.
Now I
want you to put yourself in that very moment, once again, and prepare
yourself for the missing final act that never took place and yet may
be one of the most telling and condemning pieces of evidence in the
ongoing unofficial investigation of 9/11.
The
9/11 Shock Opera
- Flight 93 and Building 7 - The Grand Finale … that
wasn’t.
The
North Tower has fallen and people are in absolute disbelief.
The grey faces staring back at us through the live news reports tell
the story; they are blank with shock like infants in a war zone.
In
New York, the yelling and the screams have faded into history as the
dust settles… a deafening silence fills the air in your office or
your home… no one speaks save the babbling talking heads on the
news, all vying for their Peabody Award and their personal place in
history…
When
over the shoulder of a reporter we see, way off in the distance…
rising from the horizon, coming in from the south, low and just over
the murky blue of the Hudson Bay… Flight 93 on its final approach.
At
first the reporter doesn’t notice, but you do; everyone in your
office, everyone in your home, watches in silence. There is just no
way possible…it must be something else, a military plane scouring
the skies, protecting us, protecting America, protecting what’s
left of New York…and we all watch as it grows ever larger, just
over the reporters shoulder, while a sickening despair builds in each
of us silent TV witnesses till our fears become the unavoidable
realization.
It’s
not over.
A
scream somewhere off camera seems to snap the camera-man out of his
trance and he shifts ever-so-slightly his focus, your focus, to the
play’s approaching last act.
The
talking head finally shuts up and turns just in time to see Flight 93
diving from the tip of Lower Manhattan. There is no question, there
is nothing to say; Flight 93, in front of hundreds of cameras and
thousands of witnesses, and the millions watching live on TV., roars
past the remains of the lower New York City skyline, darts through
the remaining smoke and dust of the towers, and plows into Building 7
of the World Trade Center somewhere around the 7th
floor at over 600 mph. This is the area where the diesel fuel storage
tanks are kept in the building, and the resulting explosion is
something to behold. Orange-red flames reach all the way up the north
face of the building as someone in your office lets out a little
raspy scream. Whispered prayers float up from the crowd for those
lost souls onboard.
But
that is just the beginning.
Rumbles
immediately are heard and felt underfoot by the dust covered
survivors and first responders at Ground Zero a second after Flight
93’s tail disappears in the south face of Building 7.
The
rumbles continue and before the reporter can utter a word, as the
smoke cloud mushrooms past the top floor grey and red with menace,
more explosions and more flashes, more grey-faced people running,
their faces contorted masks of shear terror, and that terrible white
noise of panicked people yelling warnings incoherently to one
another, then the horrible reality sets in and we allow ourselves to
acknowledge that building 7 …is moving.
In 7
seconds flat, building 7 collapses right before our eyes just at that
moment when we thought there was no more; we thought we were safe and
the worst of the suffering was behind us. The Towers were hit, they
fell. The horror should have been over… but it wasn’t.
This
was the final act, the Grand Finale, as scripted for the street theater opera known as 9/11.
But a
funny thing happened on the way to Ground Zero, something that
changed everything in the plan to change everything; a fighter pilot
met Flight 93 route to New York and he may still yet be the
conspirators’ ultimate demise and our last best hope.
