False Flag by Dick Croy - Story vs. Denial. Fact-Based Fiction re 9/11 and Continuing False Flags

© FALSE FLAG By Dick Croy

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful,

          committed citizens can change the world.

 Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

                                                Margaret Mead

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“Only puny secrets need protection. Big secrets are protected by public incredulity.”

Marshall McLuhan

INTRODUCTION

When a good friend contacted me three or four years after 9/11 to tell me the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon were an inside job, aided and abetted by elements within our own government, I was furious.

“I’ve never known Sharon to read a newspaper in her life,” I fumed to my wife when she asked why I was so angry. “And she expects me to believe her hare-brained story about 9/11?”

Joy had never met Sharon but had heard enough of my L.A. stories to know who she is. Both of us are expats now, Sharon in Portland and me back in my hometown in the Midwest. We’d kept in touch fairly regularly, but this conviction of hers about 9/11 made me wonder how well I knew her after all.

“I’ll send you a video,” she said. “Just watch it with an open mind, okay?”

It arrived a few days later: a documentary of poor production quality and implausible conjectures appropriately titled Loose Change. I did try to watch it with an open mind but heard myself muttering expletives and invoking the names of the Lord and his only begotten son as if I were overhearing someone else. Someone who sounded as if he was about to lose it at any moment. Thanks in part to my dismissive if not entirely negative critique, my wife had no interest in watching it.

It did get me thinking though. Mostly about why such a horrific event had ceased to oppress my thoughts as it once had, until being reintroduced by Sharon with her long distance call and this amateurish but indeed rather thought-provoking video. How had 9/11 faded so completely from my mental radar screen?

My much younger cousin Lisa had been one of the nearly 3,000 victims on that terrible day. I wasn’t particularly close to that side of the family but sent condolences after learning of her death, then obsessed for days about how it might have occurred. I didn’t know the details and wasn’t about to probe. After a while, Lisa’s untimely end became submerged in the enormity of the metastasizing tragedy, for our own country, then for the people of Iraq and Afghanistan and for the world at large.

Two years ago I learned that her parents had divorced and wondered what role Lisa’s death might have played in the breakup of their marriage; a substantial one, I guessed. She’d been their only child. My uncle Frank was an executive engineer with a major construction company in Kansas City. I knew little about Lisa’s mother Linda.

Loose Change and its reverberations reawakened my interest in 9/11. It seemed almost as if a film of some kind, like condensation on a mirror, had been wiped from my mind. This didn’t happen all at once. At the computer I’d find myself idly Googling 9/11-related subjects, at first out of curiosity, then as one hyperlink led to another, more like our little dog Riley on the scent of a fresh animal trail in the backyard. After a few days, or maybe it was a couple of weeks of this kind of exploration, it became obvious that I had broken through into the vast, what was then still “subterranean” world of Conspiracy theories. And suddenly I felt paranoid, as if I could be observed somehow. As if my online presence in forbidden realms could be detected by Big Brother.

It was my good fortune, however, to come across a posting by Peter Dale Scott, a Canadian poet, former diplomat and English professor widely recognized for his conceptualization of deep politics, which theorizes “that in every culture and society there are facts which tend to be suppressed collectively, because of the social and psychological costs of not doing so.” Scott managed to reassure me that my sudden fear was normal, to be expected. I shouldn’t allow it to keep me from learning what I could about the real world we live in.

What, I wondered, did my uncle think about 9/11, and all the conspiracy theories growing up around the collapsed towers like thorns in an animated fairy tale? Did I dare ask him? From what little I knew about him Frank was a conservative, level-headed person, an engineer and executive after all, from the heart of the Midwest. But no one in the family seemed to know much about Frank these days, even how to contact him. He no longer worked for the company where he’d built his successful career. Apparently didn’t even live in Kansas City nor did my Aunt Linda, his ex. I began discreetly to look for him on the Internet. Didn’t find him on Facebook or LinkedIn or by Googling his name.

Finally one day after I’d pretty much quit looking for him, I came across the name Frank Nolan in a 9/11 survivors group listing. Contacted a guy on their Website, convinced him I was the nephew of a Frank Nolan who’d lost his daughter, and gave him my phone number and email address. Frank emailed me the next day to confirm that his colleague had given him the right information, then gave me his own cell number, in New Jersey, and a good time to call.

I called.

A week later we were sitting in a booth across from each other in a restaurant in Somerville. Just an hour from New York City but with a downtown that, aside from the prevalence of good restaurants, has the ambience of a small town in the Midwest. Frank had done some homework and was aware that I’d published a few things; in fact he spoke favorably about two pieces he’d found on the Internet.

“That’s why we’re having this meeting,” he said. “I’d like you to tell the story of how and why my daughter died.”

In that first hour we spent together Frank proceeded to lay out the short version of what I would come to learn was a much larger body of work, representing not only his own research but that of hundreds of others, many of them scientists and engineers like himself but also including military and intelligence personnel, first responders to 9/11from police and fire departments, professionals in all walks of life who just don’t believe the accepted version of what happened that day and what had led up to it.

It was way too much to absorb. To say that I left our introductory meeting reluctant even to consider the undertaking he’d proposed would be an understatement. Despite my own tentative forays into the 9/11 conspiracy forest, there was just too much about what my uncle had told me that I frankly couldn’t believe.

I had business to take care of in the city – which had made meeting Frank feasible in the first place – then planned to return home. I told him I’d think about what he’d said and get back to him in a week or so. Frank said he knew he’d overwhelmed me, that he really hadn’t expected an immediate answer. He would email me information he considered particularly relevant; after I’d digested all of it, however long that took, I’d be better prepared to make a decision. He’d provide additional info and leads at my request.

“I want you to tell the story your own way,” he said. “Otherwise it’s going to get lost in all the other information that’s available to anyone willing to look for it. The choir’s being preached to with brilliance and passion, but it’s time to enlarge the congregation. Exponentially.”

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