The horror delivered by that simple image was astonishing; I puffed out my cheeks and released a long, thin breath to maintain control. “Whoa,” I muttered.

As the numerous visuals began to coalesce into a story, the office came alive as if someone had double-tapped the play button. Howie clapped his hands sharply three times, shouted, “C’mon, people, let’s do some journalism.” He started rattling off assignments—gather, organize, report. This was Career Day for reporters; this was the type of story that made reputations and led to promotions and bigger jobs. This was Murrow in the blitz, Dan Rather on a rooftop after a Dallas flood. Maybe the attack took place some five thousand miles away, but we were in Washington, D.C., and the response would come from right around the corner. That was our bailiwick. Track down sources and find out how the government was responding. What was the military doing? How did our intelligence community fail? Three claps, and it was as if the starting bell had rung, the gates had sprung open, and the horses had burst onto the track; in an instant the newsroom had been transformed from startled spectators to journalists reporting a story.

“Cher,” I said, “call Jenny.” I’d start by finding out what was happening on the Hill. But two rings into the call I was stopped by the traditional newsroom expression of surprise. “Hol-lee shit!” someone shouted. “Heads up, everybody. Look at this.”

I swiveled Cher around. One of the side monitors was showing an entirely different scene. Several other monitors quickly switched to it. Thick smoke was pouring out of the entrance to a tunnel. An aerial shot from a helicopter or drone showed people scrambling out of smoke, through a gridlock of stalled vehicles. Soldiers, or maybe cops, were going against the flow, trying to get into the tunnel. It was like a scene from a monster flick. Only apparently this was real. The chyron reported: TERRORIST ATTACK INSIDE NEW YORK’S LINCOLN TUNNEL.

The other networks picked up this second attack. Screens were split between rescue operations in Pearl Harbor and the ongoing fighting in New York. Fire. Smoke. People running. Cameras were moving quickly, sweeping across the sky, then over the ground—visual panic. Accurately capturing the confusion.

I put on my headphones and began clicking between channels. Mostly I heard sirens, some shouting, gunfire in the background. Little of it matched any images; all of it reinforced the chaos.

A series of explosive flashes lit up the tunnel mouth, like lightning illuminating storm clouds; but victims continued emerging from the smoke. NYPD officers and firefighters were pushing, dragging, even carrying people to safety. Two officers crouched behind a ballistic shield and disappeared into the cloud, walking into the attack. It was a level of bravery I’d seen over and over, first in Iraq, then in the Big Sandbox. I was still awed by it. I could feel my heart being ripped open.

I closed my eyes. I was back in the mix. Rushing into the firefight carrying seventy pounds and seven years of combat experience. The world around me was exploding. Back in my personal comfort zone. It felt right.