1
TO THE FIELDS OF SHANKSVILLE
Most people in counterterrorism were talking about the likelihood of a doomsday scenario involving germ warfare or nuclear weapons. We feared that something would happen on a terrifying scale, but not that it would be done with conventional tactics—hijacking—that is reminiscent of the 1970s.
—JULIETTE KAYYEM,
National Commission on Terrorism
On the morning of September 11, 2001, as governor of Pennsylvania, I was unaware of the drama playing out in the cloudless sky overhead. I did not know that the Pennsylvania State Police were looking for me. I was tending my garden, removing the dead stems and leaves from the daylilies, cannas, and roses in one of several raised beds I had built around our house in Erie, the working-class city of my youth. As always, whenever I escaped the capital in Harrisburg for home, I lost myself in the rocky soil and earthy details.
Three hundred miles northwest of the governor’s residence—where more than a full schedule awaited my return later in the day—I once again felt the gardener’s sense of renewal. Public service was in my blood. I loved being governor of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and still had much to accomplish before my second and final term ended. But the garden was another matter altogether: It was mine to create. There was nobody pulling on my coat sleeves and no political compromises in the doing, except the bargains forged with Mother Nature for suitable weather. I love the varieties and textures of plants and the cycle of garden life. They offer lessons and comfort—the planting, the blossoming, the withering away, the rebirth the following spring. In that cycle the garden mirrors the capacities of human beings. Indeed, I love the sense of optimism gardening inspires: If I plant in the spring, flowers will bloom through the summer.
Early that morning I had visited my mother at St. Vincent Hospital, where she was recovering from surgery. She suffered from a variety of ailments, but she remained a source of strength to me. No bigger than a minute—with ankle weights, coming in maybe at 105 pounds—Laura Ridge was never a complainer. When I brought jelly donuts to her room, I asked how she felt. Although eighty-one at the time and obviously frail, she quoted in answer the classic American folk tune: "The old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be."
I’d return to the hospital, I thought, once my gardening duties were completed, and still have plenty of time before the state plane, a King Air turboprop, would be sent from the capital to take me back to Harrisburg. Once there, I’d get back to the business of governing. The last thing on my mind was terrorism.
What I didn’t know that morning was plenty. The state police called the troopers assigned to me, and they gave me the startling, incomprehensible news that two commercial airplanes had flown into the Twin Towers in New York City.
I was pulling into my driveway at the time. I went into the house, turned on the television in the master bedroom, and picked up the phone. I talked to Mark Campbell, my chief of staff, as I watched horrifying images repeated over and over: passenger jets were crashing into office towers, smoke was billowing, unimaginable horrors were occurring inside.
"What do you know?" he asked.
"I know what you know," I replied. Which was very little beyond what I was watching through the lenses of network cameras.
I said, "I don’t know if there are more planes in the air and other attacks coming." I thought, well, Pennsylvania has its own share of tall buildings and historic structures, and who the hell knows where this enemy, whoever it was, could be headed. I asked Campbell to ramp up operations at the headquarters of the state’s emergency operations center outside of Harrisburg. When I hung up, I watched a report from the Pentagon by NBC correspondent Jim Miklashevski. He was reviewing what the Department of Defense knew about what had happened in Manhattan. Suddenly, there was a loud explosion behind him. He ended his report, saying he needed to find out what had happened. It was, of course, the third civilian airplane turned into a missile—a direct hit on America’s military headquarters. And soon there would be a fourth, the one that would hit, quite literally, home.
In the time that has passed since that day, I have often pictured myself as a passenger in the cabin of United Airlines Flight 93. With the chances of survival slim to none, I have wondered what I would have done.
The sky above Pennsylvania was in the typical flight plan of United 93. It had originated at New Jersey’s Newark Airport, then flown due west toward San Francisco en route to its ultimate destination, Tokyo. The Boeing 757-200 had rolled down the runway at 8:42 A.M., about twenty-five minutes later than usual. That the flight was late taking off due to heavy airport congestion meant that its fate, though tragic, would differ from that of the three other passenger jets hijacked that morning by a well-rehearsed team of nineteen men intent on killing themselves while carrying out their stunning assault on America.
It appeared to air traffic controllers that United 93 was flying according to plan until 9:28 A.M., near the Ohio border, when the craft unaccountably went into a brief descent—seven hundred feet—and then: "Mayday" and "Hey, get out of here! Get out of here! Get out of here!" was heard and recorded at the FAA’s Cleveland Center facility.
By that point, it was clear that our country was being attacked by an enemy that used a far different strategy than any we had ever faced or even contemplated. This enemy hadn’t gone to the trouble of outfitting itself with ground troops equipped with mortars and supported by tanks, helicopters, and an aircraft carrier battle group. They had the ingenious and horrific idea of turning passenger planes, filled with humanity and thousands of gallons of jet fuel, into weapons of mass destruction.
By 9:15 A.M. American Airlines Flight 11 and United Flight 175, both out of Boston, had already hit the upper floors of the World Trade Center in Lower Manhattan, and another plane, American Flight 77, out of Washington Dulles International Airport, was headed for the Pentagon. The attack had by then brought destruction, death, and a state of national shock on a scale that immediately invited comparisons to that "date which will live in infamy," December 7, 1941.
Passengers on those three planes had been unaware that the hijackings were intended for a much different purpose than those they’d read about or seen on the news. Since the 1960s, when the phenomenon began with flights being diverted to Cuba, hijacking was used primarily as a bargaining tool. The hijackers held those aboard as hostages for ransom to secure the release of comrades held in prison, or other similar purposes. That was the era before the widespread phenomenon of the suicide bomber.
But to passengers aboard United 93, it appeared that a suicide bomber was aboard. Of the four men seated in the first-class section—Saeed al-Ghamdi, Ahmed al-Nami, Ahmad al-Haznawi, and Ziad Jarrah—who conspired to take over the cockpit by using their box cutters and knives, one also had a device strapped to his body. From the cockpit, Jarrah, the native of Lebanon who sat in the pilot’s seat after the attack on the cockpit crew, told the thirty-seven passengers over the intercom, "Ladies and gentleman, ladies and gentlemen. Hear the captain. Please sit down, keep remaining seating. We have a bomb on board, so sit." The other three hijackers on United 93—as were most of the nineteen involved that morning—were Saudi Arabians. But to the passengers flying over Pennsylvania, such distinctions were pointless.
Soon all aboard knew the deadly intentions of these men, if not their ultimate destination. Planners of the hijackings, it became clear in the days that followed, intended for the planes to hit their targets within minutes of each other. But United 93’s delay in taking off from Newark had meant there was a lag time—time enough for the news of the hijackings of earlier flights to reach the cockpit and the passenger compartment.
As the flight progressed—as Jarrah turned the plane south and then southeast over Pennsylvania and toward the nation’s capital—many aboard made emergency calls to relatives and friends using cell phones or the Verizon Airfones stored on the back of seats. In these emotional conversations passengers gave blow-by-blow descriptions, and they revealed at least three people had been killed: the captain, the first officer, and a flight attendant. The passengers learned about the attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon and so knew that they were aboard what had become a deadly weapon. They may have concluded that it was headed for Washington. They certainly were aware that if they didn’t act, another key target would be hit. (Later evidence indicated it likely would have been the White House or the U.S. Capitol.)
One of the passengers in first class, Tom Burnett, called his wife and said, "Don’t worry. We’re going to do something." Another in coach, Todd Beamer, tried to make a credit card call and was given the customer-service representative, who heard him say the words that became the American rallying cry: "Are you guys ready? Let’s roll."
Armed with information after calling their loved ones, discovering what had transpired, and knowing their fate was all but certain, they decided their deaths wouldn’t be in vain. In spite of the absolute horror and fear—what a monstrous emotional hurdle to overcome—they harnessed the energy, the commitment, and the will to fight back.
The black box, ultimately recovered, revealed that it is likely the passengers never were able to reach the cockpit. But as they were breaking down the door...
