The conversation quickly turns from family updates to remembering where each of the boys were on 9/11. Peter tells me that he had just got home from a recording session on Thrive when he received a call from the studio asking him to turn on the telly. Seconds later Peter calls Jeff to tell him to turn on his TV, then quickly hangs up, eyes focused on the events that were unfurling in front of his eyes. Duncan jumps in and says that his wife came in and woke him up, sitting beside him on the bed, watching in horror as the second plane hit the tower. Thousands of miles away in Melbourne, Paul is watching the same events in Australian.

One by one the lads roll into their cocoons and slip into a deep sleep. I climb like King Kong scaling the skyscraper to the top bunk high above the others, and pray that I don't roll out of bed.

During the night I have dreams of being on tour with my favorite band. I dream that I am sharing a guitar solo with Paul on Something Beautiful. I run across the stage and take control of the vocorder from Jeff out on the B stage, and when Peter asks me what I want to hear, I say with the voices of a thousand angels, Haaaaabiiiiibiiii Rock! The crowd goes crazy! Next I run back from the B stage right up to the drum riser and relieve Duncan and take control of the kit just as the massive hydraulics lift me into the air and spin me round and round like a broken record at a bar mitzvah. I am loving every minute of it. The band and the crowd are chanting as I spin faster and faster until I am awoken by a beam of light as strong as a napalm sunrise on the dark side of the moon. I look up and see a dragon with smoke coming out of its mouth. I scramble around in my cocoon to find my glasses, the lenses now covered in a thin layer of ice, and put them on only to see that the smoke is actually the breath of Steve Campbell in the cold air of the bus, he is telling me to wake up and get ready to rock. The eagle has landed and we are in DC. I close my eyes and find myself back at the arena. The drum kit has landed and the crowds have left, I am alone.

One of the coolest things about being on the bus with the guys is that you are thrust into the middle of the family. I am invited by Paul to go and hang out while he gets his hair cut. We all want to look our best for the Pentagon. If you ever get the chance to hang with Paul, do it, you are in for a life changing experience! We compare prices and hair stylists between all the salons in the mall before settling on one salon that offers the right price and professional attention. One amateur move on the clippers and it could be all over, no guitar solo, one Mohawk in the band is just amazing! Paul gives me his Starbucks card and I quickly grab two double shot espressos, one iced and one hot and head back to the salon. The only chair available is the one with the hair dryer dome on it, who cares, no one is ever going to know that Habibi sat in that chair with the dome on it anyways! Our section of the salon is filled with laughter as Paul entertains the staff and some of the band's newest fans as bits of rocker hair float to the floor.

As we head out of the mall, I notice Paul looking in the window of a couple boutiques and assume he is window shopping for his wife until I catch him adjusting his hair in the window reflection at the Mac shop.

We meet our contact at the front of the Pentagon, who for security purposes will remain nameless, yet deeply appreciated. We will be lead through security checks that will search our personal belongings (if you know what I mean. . . wink wink. . .) as well simultaneously run background checks and credit reports. I have a couple over due movies and a possible unpaid parking ticket outstanding and decide to comply with full sincerity, lest I be denied entrance to the epicenter of military command. We are surrounded by machine guns and enough Kevlar to keep the Titanic afloat. Visitor badges are given with security clearance high enough to get us through the inner and outer corridors of the core corridors, the central courtyard, and down below street level to where the amps and speakers are humming and awaiting their masters. Along the way Paul pauses for a moment to look at a massive flag of the Stars and Stripes made out of pictures of people who lost their lives in the 9/11 attacks.

As we go deeper and deeper into the Pentagon we pass black vans with sliding doors with no windows. We pass bombproof doors leading to other doors leading to doors behind doors. There are signs that say forbidden, requiring memorized codes and retina scans, finger prints, and voice recognition. We also pass a coke machine with a scanner. The boys pause at a display case honoring the Australian ANZAC troops who fought along with our troops in WW II, remembering family friends who served. They say there are 17 miles of corridors in the Pentagon. We pass mile marker 18 and turn left and into the auditorium where we will be playing.

The guys, mostly dressed in black, do a quick sound check listening to their equipment and doing a quick sweep for bugs. We know there are people listening on the other side, perhaps in a small Russian fishing boat in the Potomac River… Security is so tight at the Pentagon that intelligence has even done a background check on the angelic voices on Jeff's vocorder, just in case . . .

The boys are professionals and sound check is over before the Joint Chiefs of Staff can find parking. We head for the door and along the way I notice Ben sitting in a chair with his foot up on a bag of frozen guitar picks. I walk up to him to see what happened. "I dropped a road case on my foot, mate!" "It really hurts, I think I might have broken it." "Bummer aye?" "No worries mate, I'll just wrap up all the broken bits with duck tape and keep rocking till I get home!" Home?!! Ben is from New Zealand . . .

Ben has done things for Habibi that have saved Habibi's life, like keeping Duncan spinning on the kit up in the air until Habibi could change his film and get the shot that made the poster. Duncan doesn't even know that one! It is Habibi's turn to take care of Ben, and so I volunteer to push him on an acquired rolling office chair all the way back through the never-ending corridors of the Pentagon and out to the parking lot. Ben thinks that I am being nice, but in reality I am using him as body shield in case there is a firefight in the hallway. . . Ben's ride ends out in the parking lot when the wheels catch fire and fall off the chair. The chair from 2204 has served us well and we leave it smoldering at the last cross walk in the parking lot, under surveillance by the security cameras and satellite feeds to Langley and Moscow.

Back in my room I pause for a moment staring at the phone on the wall across from my porcelain seat. I notice that there are no numbers to dial out with. When the phone rings and it is the president, what should I say. Should I stand at attention or stay seated? What would he say? Could he see me? Which guitar would he be playing? Would he be wearing black or perhaps he had begun to crack and was wearing that one green tee shirt reserved in his closet to remind him to wear black? I notice that the walls are moving in closer and closer with each conspiracy theory I think up and decide to call it a night and head to bed.

Call time is Oh-Niner- Forty-Five sharp, in the lobby mate. Habibi is dressed like a bodyguard in his black and white suit and ready for action. One by one Agent 808, Lucky 13, Triton Niner –Four and Black Bird One meet at the LZ for pickup by transport to the memorial service.

Today is 9/11 and we have been asked to lead worship at the Pentagon as well as do a spec-ops gig for the staff immediately after. There is excitement building in the air as we head through security and down the corridors leading to the Pentagon Auditorium.

We enter the stage area, this time the room is filled with enough brass and camo to start our own invasion or at least storm a Waffle House! There are Chaplain's from every armed force. There are readings from the Koran, Old Testament, New Testament, and a word from a Rabbi. There were a lot of painful memories revisited by those in the service as the Chaplain shared his personal testimony of being burned alive, 30 yards from the nose of the plane, which penetrated the building and blew it apart. I wonder to myself how the boys will connect with the people in the room, many of them having just relived their own horror stories of that day.

Before the service began, I saw Peter taking a look at the set list. He had taken it and a pen and done some last minute changes, deleting some songs and rearranging the order of the rest. He looked up, smiled and gave the list back as if he had just received orders from the supreme commander himself. I wondered why he had done that at the moment but kept running to get into photo position. Show Time!

The boys open with Blessed Be His Name. How true the lyrics to that awesome song, in times such as those on September 11th, 2001, when the whole world stood still, to remember that God is in control, that he has a plan, and even though we don't understand at the moment, He still knows our name and we are not forgotten.

Within seconds, the entire room is filled with worship. The testimony of the God's hand of protection on the Chaplin caught in the explosion of the plane's impact, and presence of the Lord in the music, simply amazing! I wish you could have been there with us, and that was just the first song!

The boys rock through their set list as the crowd is moved by the beat and the Spirit. The room is filled with worship as men and women in combat gear and officers in uniform with enough medals and ribbons to supply the next 3 Olympics danced side by side. I guess Peter did get those last minute coordinate changes from the supreme Commander after all!

When Peter finally brings the band to a close after an amazing extended version of I am Free, he and the band are met by the highest ranking Chaplain in the forces and presented with a folded US flag, which moments earlier was flying over the Pentagon. They also receive an official letter from the Pentagon thanking the Newsboys for their part in the remembrance of 9/11. The entire room stands and claps as the boys take one final bow and exit the room, flag in hand.

I move my way back stage with bottles of water for the guys and find Peter sitting in a room by himself, flag and plaque on the chair next to him talking on a phone with no numbers, perhaps he was talking to someone down the road, perhaps someone in a big white house . . .

Hundreds of miles from the Pentagon we pull over at a Waffle House to celebrate the last events. There is a round of grilled cheese and toe-mat-o sandwiches, a road tradition from days and tours gone by. I sit with Jeff and Duncan and order a pecan waffle, burnt crisp like a roadie after a US tour. We talk about the whole experience, how awesome it has been to rock the Pentagon. Duncan passes me the syrup as Jeff takes another bite of his sandwich, we save the left overs for Ben who is sitting on the bus with his foot in the refrigerator.