Tuohey didn’t like the look in Atta’s eyes. The deadest eyes I’ve ever seen, he thought. Like the devil himself.
There is nothing in airline protocol or regulation that gave Tuohey any standing to detain the men. He’d be in big trouble with the airline if he needlessly hassled two legitimate businessmen. Instead, Tuohey looked straight into Atta’s eyes. “Mr. Atta, if you don’t go now, you will miss your plane.”
6:00 a.m. Colgan Air Flight 5930 departs for Logan.
6:15 a.m.—Marblehead
I pulled on the shade next to Jack’s crib, once, twice, until it stubbornly inched up to let the sunlight in. I hated waking him up, but if I didn’t, David would be late for work and I would be late for my flight.
“C’mon, my sweet boy, time to get up,” I said softly, pulling Jack’s blanket back and gently taking Special Doggie, a favorite stuffed animal, from his arms. He reached up for me and snuggled his head into my shoulder. For a moment, I breathed into his hair and pressed his sleep-warmed body into mine. I sighed as I carried him to the changing table, wishing for more time.
6:20 a.m.—Logan Airport, Terminal C
Ahmed al Ghamdi and Hamza al Ghamdi walk up to the United Airlines ticket counter. The customer service agent they first approach is unsure about a document one of the men presents, so she sends them to a more seasoned representative to check their paperwork.
“I need a ticket,” one of the men says to the second representative.
“No, you have a ticket,” she answers after looking at his documents. “You can check in.”
With two bags to check, the representative asks the routine security questions. “Did you pack your bag yourself? Has it been in your possession the whole time?”
Each man seems to have trouble understanding the questions. She very slowly repeats them. Once the men finally answer to her satisfaction, she hands them their boarding passes. The two men walk quickly to the nearby security checkpoint.
6:30 a.m.—Marblehead
Jack settled back on our bed, and I tucked a blanket around his legs as David handed him a sippy cup of juice. I reached for the remote, then turned on the TV and flipped the channel to the PBS station, hoping Sesame Street, Jack’s favorite, was on.
“Hey, I already called first shower!” I teased David, as I raced him to the bathroom door. He grabbed me in a bear hug and answered, “Only if you kiss me first.”
I happily obliged, and as I stepped under the hot stream of water, I counted the seconds in my head until the next step in our morning routine. There was a loud knock on the bathroom door. Here it comes, I thought, already smiling.
“Hey, hon!” David called. “Doug’s on the phone.”
I played along. “Doug, who?”
“Doug MacDonald from the water department. He says he’s getting complaints that someone in Marblehead is using up all the hot water.”
If David took his shower first, it was me at the other side of the door making the “Doug” joke. There was simple intimacy to our goofy joking, and we grinned at each other as David headed into the bathroom for his turn. I reached to pick up Jack and settled him on my hip to carry him downstairs for breakfast.
6:45 a.m.—Logan Airport, Central Parking Garage
Three men, Wail al Shehri, Waleed al Shehri, and Satam al Suqami, pull their rental car, a white Mitsubishi, into a space in the Logan garage reserved for long-term parking. Another Logan passenger has just parked in the next spot and is still sitting in his car. One of the three men opens the passenger side of the rental car door. He stands there with the door open, fiddling with something in the front seat. He either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that he’s blocking the man in the next car from being able to open his own door.
After a few minutes, the Logan passenger gets tired of waiting for the man to move and carefully opens his door, pushing the door of the Mitsubishi. The Logan passenger expects a reaction—a glare, or even an apology for blocking his way—but the man does not react at all. Neither do the two still sitting in the car. They just stare straight ahead. The passenger thinks their behavior is strange but has no reason to be concerned beyond that. He heads to his terminal to catch an early-morning flight.
6:45 a.m. Marwan al Shehhi checks a single bag onto Flight 175.
Approximately 6:46 a.m.—Logan Airport, Terminal B
Atta and al Omari walk off the Colgan Air flight from Portland into the US Airways concourse of Terminal B. A baggage handler immediately begins unloading the checked bags from the belly of the plane. He sees Atta’s bags are tagged for transfer to American Flight 11.
Shouldering their carry-on luggage, the two men cross a parking lot to the other Terminal B concourse. The signs are unclear and they stop and ask someone for directions. They then walk quickly to the sliding glass doors leading to American Airlines.
6:52 a.m.—Terminal B
Atta’s cell phone rings. It’s al Shehhi calling from a Terminal C pay phone. The two men knew each other well, having spent much of the year before together at the same flight training school in Florida. They confer for three minutes.
6:53 a.m.—Terminal C
Fayez Banihammad and Mohand al Shehri check in at the United ticket counter. Banihammad checks two bags, al Shehri, none.
7:15 a.m.—Marblehead
“Bye, little buddy,” I said to Jack, kissing him on the head. “I love you.”
“Love you, hon,” David called, carrying Jack’s backpack in one arm and Jack in the other as he walked down the front steps. “Have a great day.”
7:20 a.m.—Terminal C, United Airlines gate 19
Passengers couldn’t help but smile back at the redheaded gate agent with the twinkle in her eye. “Good mornin’,” she said. “Have a great flight!” Marianne MacFarlane had been at work since before dawn. Her mom had dropped her off, as usual, at the lower level of Logan’s Terminal C. She planned to board United 175 last, after she’d helped board all the passengers, to head to the West Coast for a short vacation.
Marianne loved everything about working at an airport and had since the moment she started selling flowers out of a cart in Terminal D as a teenager. But she especially loved the benefit of flying for free. She and her mom, Anne, regularly flew to Disney in Florida—her favorite place on the planet!—just to get haircuts at the Contemporary Resort She had four cross-country flights to choose from that morning and settled on Flight 175.
7:23 a.m.—Terminal C, gate 19
Fayez Banihammad hands his boarding pass to the gate agent. He’s followed by Mohand al Shehri. The two men walk down the jet bridge and take seats in first class, 2A and 2B.
7:27 a.m. Marwan al Shehhi boards with Ahmed al Ghamdi. They sit three rows apart in business class.
7:28 a.m. Hamza al Ghamdi boards the United flight. He sits in business class, 9C, in the same row as Ahmed al Ghamdi, who’s in 9D. All five hijackers are now on board United Flight 175.
7:31 a.m.—Terminal B, gate 32
Wail al Shehri and Waleed al Shehri hand their boarding cards to the gate agent. They walk down the jet bridge and settle into seats 2A and 2B. Just minutes before the boarding door is closed, Atta and al Omari walk onto the plane. Their seats are in business class, 8D and 8G. Satam al Suqami walks right past them and sits in 10B. All five hijackers are now on board American Flight 11.
7:32 a.m.—Marblehead
Taking advantage of a few rare minutes of quiet at home, I reached into my briefcase and pulled out the background memo for my meeting in Washington later that afternoon.
It was entitled “Meeting with Jane Garvey” and dated “September 11, 2001.” Garvey was the administrator of the Federal Aviation Administration, the agency that regulated civil aviation in the United States.
The memo was from Kristen Lepore, a well-regarded Massport colleague and state public-policy expert whom I’d worked with at the State House. I read he
r succinct summary: “It is my understanding that you will be meeting alone with Jane Garvey. Assistant Secretary Michael Jackson is planning to stop by during the meeting. Items you should raise include: 1) Filing of the Final Environmental Impact Statement (FEIS); 2) The MITER Study; 3) Timing for the Record of Decision.”
Kristen’s briefing memo made clear what I already knew. Today’s meeting with Garvey was a critical step to receiving federal approval for Logan’s new runway. I’d been working on this regional economic priority nonstop for the two years I’d been at Massport. But since it had taken nearly thirty years to get the controversial project to the edge of approval, I knew I needed to navigate these last steps perfectly.
As I continued reading, though, I shook my head in frustration. The technical points I’d make in the meeting about the length of the runway, its projected use, and its environmental impact weren’t going to make a difference. She knows all this! I thought to myself. I had been getting nowhere with Garvey, once a Democratic political operative from Massachusetts who was intimately familiar with Logan’s operating constraints. At one point, she was aviation director there, essentially the person who ran the airport, before moving to federal posts in Washington. I’d often thought about our somewhat parallel career tracks and wondered if I, too, would eventually move to a federal position.
I figured Garvey was caught between a rock and a hard place on the runway decision. The state’s all-Democrat congressional delegation and Boston’s Democratic mayor still fiercely opposed the project because of neighbors’ fears it would lead to increased air and ground traffic. So I’d requested that Assistant Secretary Jackson, from the US Department of Transportation, attend today’s meeting to make the point to her, without subtlety, that the Bush Administration supported building new runways at the nation’s airports. I hoped the counterpressure would prompt Garvey to agree to a compromise.
Today’s meeting is my checkmate move. I hope so anyway, I thought, closing the briefing and putting it back in my bag.
7:40 a.m. American Flight 11 pushes back from gate 32 and begins taxiing to the runway.
7:58 a.m. United Flight 175 pushes back from gate 19 and begins taxiing to the runway.
7:59 a.m. American Flight 11 takes off from Logan.
Shortly before 8:14 a.m. Flight 11 reaches an altitude of 26,000 feet, just shy of its cruising altitude of 29,000 feet. The flight attendants begin preparations for cabin service. An FAA air traffic controller radios directional instructions: “American 11 turn twenty degrees right.” Flight 11’s crew replies: “Twenty right American 11.” Seconds later, air traffic control radios Flight 11 again, this time instructing the aircraft to climb to 35,000 feet.
There is no response.
8:14 a.m. United Flight 175 takes off from Logan.
8:19 a.m.—On board American Flight 11
Flight attendant Betty Ong contacts the American Airlines Southeastern Reservations Office in Cary, North Carolina, via AT&T airphone to report an emergency aboard the flight. “The cockpit is not answering. Somebody’s stabbed in business class,” she says. “I think there’s Mace. We can’t breathe. I don’t know, I think we’re getting hijacked.”
8:21 a.m. Someone in the cockpit switches off the transponder, which relays the aircraft’s location to air traffic control.
Shortly before 8:25 a.m.—FAA Boston Center, Nashua, New Hampshire
An air traffic controller monitoring Northeast air traffic hears two clicks over the frequency assigned to Flight 11. “Is that American eleven trying to call?” the controller asks. Five seconds later, a man with a foreign accent tries to address the passengers but mistakenly transmits a message to air traffic control: “We have some planes. Just stay quiet and you’ll be okay. We’re returning to the airport.”
Approximately 8:45 a.m.—Swampscott, Massachusetts, en route to Logan
“Do you mind pulling over so I can get a cup of coffee?” I asked my colleague James Roy, who was dropping me off at Terminal B for my flight. “Want one?”
I have plenty of time, I thought to myself. I don’t take off until ten. Getting through security should only take a few minutes.
Back in the car, coffee in hand, I reached over to flip on the radio. I turned the dial to the local news station, WBZ Newsradio 1030. Once I found the right station, I rummaged through my briefcase—a last-minute check to make sure I remembered the plane ticket. The paper ticket was still stapled into its travel agency–issued envelope, and I glanced at the details: “US Air Flight 6517. 10:00 a.m. lv. Boston, arr. Washington Reagan 11:31 a.m. Date: 11 Sept. Status: OK.”
Status: OK
As James pulled to a stop at a light, I went through a mental checklist. Ticket. Briefing. Did I pack a change of clothes for Jack? Backgrounder and directions for meeting tonight. When I returned to Boston later, I would be observing a focus group of Logan passengers. They’d be questioned about their attitudes toward renaming Logan’s terminals. The terminals were named A, B, C, and E, skipping D. The missed letter is a quirk from years past when a wing of an existing terminal was used by one particular airline. Someone at the time thought it would be easier for travelers to find their gate if the airline had its own terminal designation. When the airline moved, D was dropped, leaving Logan with its alphanumeric dilemma. That night, I’d get to gauge the reaction of regular and occasional Logan travelers to the proposed solution of numbering the terminals like they did at New York’s JFK airport, or whether simply changing the name of E to D would help or be even more confusing.
8:49 a.m.—En route to Logan
“Listen to this,” James interrupted my thoughts. There was a breaking news report. A plane had hit the World Trade Center, the announcer said.
I assumed the crash was an accident, caused by a small private plane. “Wow, that’s terrible,” I said, turning up the radio. “I’m glad we’re not going to New York. It’s going to be a mess down there.”
My cell phone rang. “Ginny, it’s Julie. Did you hear?” Julie Wasson was my assistant. “Do you want to cancel the trip?”
Canceling hadn’t crossed my mind. “No, I’m not letting Garvey get out of this,” I answered.
8:52 a.m. An air traffic controller asks Flight 175 to recycle its transponder to the proper code. There is no response.
8:53 a.m.—Logan Airport
The radio crackled in Rudy Chiarello’s Massport truck. Rudy, a Logan veteran, typically spent his shift on the airfield, monitoring activity. His radio call signal was “Port 25.” Logan’s air traffic control tower supervisor advised Port 25 that “American Flight 11 from Boston to Los Angeles had lost radio contact.”
Rudy immediately radioed John Duval, “Port 20,” the airport’s deputy operations director. John was sitting at his desk on the fifth floor of the air traffic control tower. He had just hung up from a call with his son. “Dad, a plane just hit the World Trade Center,” his son had told him, having seen the breaking news report on TV. John also thought it was probably a small single-engine plane. Until the radioed alert from Rudy: “John, something big is happening and it can’t be good.”
John immediately called Ed Freni, his counterpart on the aviation staff who dealt with Logan’s airline issues. Ed was in a management training seminar at Logan Office Center and stepped into the hall to take John’s call. After hearing the news, he walked quickly back into the training session, ironically named “How to Deliver Bad News,” to tell the leader he had to leave. “I’ve just been told the worst news possible,” he said.
My radio call signal was “Port 1.” Believing I was already in Terminal B waiting for my flight, Logan officials began paging my name over the public address system with an urgency I was later told caused some passengers to wonder if something was wrong.
8:57 a.m. Flight 175 turns to the northeast and levels off at 28,500 feet. One minute later, it heads toward New York City.
Approximately
8:58 a.m.—Revere, Massachusetts
The phone rang in the Revere “double-decker,” the two-family home where Anne MacFarlane lived with her daughter Marianne. Anne had been up since before dawn after waking Marianne and dropping her off at the airport for her morning shift. “Otherwise she’d never get there,” Anne recounted later. She reached for the phone. It was her son George, a firefighter in Chelsea, Massachusetts, calling from the station. “Ma, turn on the TV, a plane has hit the World Trade Center in New York.”
Approximately 9:00 a.m. The FAA’s New York Center informs the United Airlines air traffic control coordinator that Flight 175 is missing from radar.
9:03 a.m.—Revere, Massachusetts
Anne, still watching television at home, gasped as she watched a jetliner fly into the World Trade Center during the live broadcast.
The second plane striking the tower. The explosion. The ball of fire. The black smoke. When I thought later about the image of 9/11 many of us carried most closely, I always thought about the families of passengers on United 175 like Anne who saw it live. Not knowing at the time that they were watching their children or spouses being murdered. But knowing later. Then knowing always.
9:03 a.m.—En route to Logan
James and I listened as a reporter described the chaotic scene from street level in New York.
“Another plane has just crashed into the South Tower!” he exclaimed.
“Oh my God, it’s terrorism,” I gasped.
On My Watch Page 4