Never Forgetting: Seven Friends Who Died on 9/11

But for things beyond our control…their names were scrawled on bombs that fell on Taliban targets in late 2001. But to me, 25 years later, they seem alive. Commanders Dan Shanower and Vince Tolbert, CO and XO, Jonas Panik, Darin Pontell, Angie Houtz, Jerry Moran, Julian Cooper. These seven friends died at the Pentagon on 9-11. I will never, ever forget them.

The day was sunny, like any other.  On any other day, I might have been at the Pentagon, a reservist often with the active component, our unit “Chief of Naval Operations – Intelligence Plot,” or CNO-IP.

We had just moved spaces, from an older interior spot to the newly completed spaces, fourth ring of the Pentagon, 150 feet from the outside. Our job, loosely described, was to look for bad guys. On that day, they were.

Commander Shanower was studious, often hunched over his blue screen, quieter. Vince was an aviator, managed by walking around, cheerful, interested in everything, football hero, father of three, son of a Vietnam War veteran.

Jonas was a big guy, another football player, Naval Academy, power lifter who liked opera, aviator. Darin, another Academy grad, had been on the USS Eisenhower, wanted to be a fighter pilot like his brother, but demurred when his brother was killed flying. He wanted to save his parents the worry.

Angie was always smiling, an ultimate professional, spent time at the Office of Naval Intelligence in Suitland, was the one who trained me at CNO-IP, able to summon great focus, always wore a cross.

Jerry was a year younger than me, married, two kids, dynamic. He coached his daughter’s softball team, had just been recognized, brought him to tears. He ran classified video to the CNO. If we went for coffee, we brought got it for two. Julien was a quiet professional, dutiful, always happy to help.

On 9-11, they were there, in our new spaces. Others were not, as a matter of scheduling. The job we did was focused on specific things, a contained group in a contained place, small in number.

That morning early, I was flying to Phoenix from DC for a speech. I recall – odd in retrospect – as I entered the airport, a thought washed over me. Such a thought never had entered my mind before, never has since; if a plane was going to be hijacked, it would not be mine on a no-name airline.

Once aboard, I fell asleep. I was suddenly awakened somewhere over Kansas by the pilot announcing the president had ordered all planes to land where they were. We were landing in Wichita. Dozens of planes formed up – nose to tail – and curled down into Wichita.

No one was vocal; most were just curious, in a “what is going on?” sort of way. My thoughts went to air traffic control; the system is triple redundant. Since we were flying, it was not an EMP –  electromagnetic pulse. It had to be some threat on the system. Based on the pilot’s voice, I think he also did not know – until we were down – what was going on.

Once down, we learned the Twin Towers had been hit and fallen, like hearing Chicago was wiped off the map - hard to comprehend, shock. Just inside, I saw the Pentagon had been hit. I rented a car; I needed to get back to DC.

I dropped an older lady at her home in Cincinnati; families kept up for years. Through the night, I drove 23 hours. One by one, learned my shipmates, all seven, were gone. Our wedge had been hit.

I volunteered for active duty that night, later served at ONI and Pentagon, as we grappled with war, We reconstituted the CNO-IP, got integrated into a joint unit, triaged threats, did what needed doing.

Looking back, three thoughts stick from that night. Beyond sadness and the need to get back, the night was empty, silent ambulances rushing unneeded blood to waiting military aircraft; flags were draped over every overpass, for a thousand miles; and prayer groups were everywhere, candles along roadsides across the nation. The unity was complete, sobering, but would prove fleeting.

In time, I served, the nation moved forward, and we did battle with terrorism – which hit us directly and took my friends that fateful day 25 years ago. Today, and forever, I remember. They were each brave patriots, dedicated that day and all days to our nation and our freedom. They were my friends. Strange it was, weeks later, to see their names etched on bombs to be dropped on Taliban targets.