Decision Points

by George W. Bush

  I had managed to suppress my emotion in public for the past two days, but this question brought it to the surface. I had been thinking about Ted Olson’s grief-stricken voice. I pictured the exhausted morgue team. I thought about the innocent children who had died, and those who had lost their mom or dad. The sorrow that had accumulated burst forth. My eyes filled with tears and my throat caught. I paused briefly as the cameras clicked rapidly. I regained my composure, put my hand down on the Resolute desk, and leaned forward. “Well, I don’t think about myself right now. I think about the families, the children. I am a loving guy, and I am also someone, however, who has got a job to do. And I intend to do it.”

  Later that day, Laura and I went to the Washington Hospital Center to visit victims from the Pentagon. Some had been burned over huge portions of their bodies. I asked one if he was an Army Ranger. Without missing a beat, he answered, “No, sir, I’m Special Forces. My IQ is too high to be a Ranger.” Everyone in the room—his wife, his doctors, Laura, and me—cracked up. It felt good to laugh. I left the hospital inspired by the courage of the wounded and the compassion of the doctors and nurses.

  Andy Card was waiting in the South Lawn driveway when we returned from the hospital. Before I could get out of the limo, he opened the door and jumped in. He told me there had been a bomb threat to the White House. The Secret Service had relocated the vice president, and they wanted to evacuate me, too. I told the agents to double-check the intelligence and send home as many of the White House staff as possible. But I was staying put. I was not going to give the enemy the pleasure of seeing me hustled around to different locations again. The Secret Service extended the security perimeter of the White House. We made it through the day. When we went to bed, I thought, Another day with no attack. Thank God.

  Nearly three thousand innocent men, women, and children were killed on September 11. I felt it was important for the country to mourn together, so I set aside Friday as a National Day of Prayer and Remembrance. I knew September 14 would be a grueling and emotional day. I did not expect it to be the most inspiring one of my life.

  A little after 7:00 a.m., Andy Card met me in the Oval Office for my national security briefing. The CIA believed that there were more al Qaeda operatives in the United States and that they wanted to attack America with biological, chemical, or nuclear weapons. It was hard to imagine anything more devastating than 9/11, but a terrorist attack with weapons of mass destruction would qualify.

  I asked FBI Director Bob Mueller and Attorney General John Ashcroft to update me on the progress of the FBI’s investigation of the hijackers. Bob told me they had identified most of the terrorists and determined when they’d entered the country, where they’d stayed, and how they’d executed the plot. It was an impressive piece of investigation. But it wasn’t enough.

  With Bob Mueller. White House/Paul Morse

  With John Ashcroft. Associated Press/Doug Mills

  “What are you doing to stop the next attack?” I asked. People nervously shifted in their seats. I told Bob I wanted the Bureau to adopt a wartime mentality. We needed to disrupt attacks before they happened, not just investigate them after they took place. At the end of the meeting, Bob affirmed, “That’s our new mission, preventing attacks.” Over the years ahead, he fulfilled his promise and carried out the most fundamental transformation of the FBI in its century-long history.

  After a phone call with Prime Minister Ariel Sharon of Israel, a leader who understood what it meant to fight terror, I began my first Cabinet meeting since the terrorist attacks. As I stepped into the room, the team broke out in sustained applause. I was surprised, and I choked up at their heartfelt support. The tears flowed for the second time in two days.

  We started the Cabinet meeting with a prayer. I asked Don Rumsfeld to lead it. He offered moving words about the victims of the attacks and asked for the “patience to measure our lust for action.” The moment of silence after the prayer gave me time to collect my emotions. I thought about the speech I would soon give at the National Cathedral. Apparently Colin Powell did, too. The secretary of state slipped me a note.

  “Dear Mr. President,” he wrote. “When I have to give a speech like this, I avoid those words that I know will cause me to well up, such as Mom and Pop.” It was a thoughtful gesture. Colin had seen combat; he knew the powerful emotions we were all feeling and wanted to comfort me. As I began the meeting, I held up the note and joked, “Let me tell you what the secretary of state just told me. … ‘Dear Mr. President, Don’t break down!’ ”

  The National Cathedral is an awesome structure, with 102-foot ceilings, elegant buttresses, and sparkling stained glass. On September 14 the pews were filled to capacity. Former Presidents Ford, Carter, Bush, and Clinton were there with their wives. So was almost every member of Congress, the whole Cabinet, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the justices of the Supreme Court, the diplomatic corps, and families of the victims. One person not there was Dick Cheney. He was at Camp David to ensure the continuity of government, a reminder of the ongoing threat.

  At the National Cathedral. White House/Eric Draper

  I had asked Laura and Karen Hughes to design the program, and they did a fine job. The speakers included religious leaders of many faiths: Imam Muzammil Siddiqi of the Islamic Society of North America, Rabbi Joshua Haberman, Billy Graham, Cardinal Theodore McCarrick, and Kirbyjon Caldwell. Near the end of the service, my turn came. As I climbed the steps to the lectern, I whispered a prayer: “Lord, let your light shine through me.”

  The speech at the cathedral was the most important of my young presidency. I had told my speechwriters—Mike Gerson, John McConnell, and Matthew Scully—that I wanted to accomplish three objectives: mourn the loss of life, remind people there was a loving God, and make clear that those who attacked our nation would face justice.

  With my speechwriters (from left) Dan Bartlett, Mike Gerson, Matthew Scully, and John McConnell.White House/Eric Draper

  “We are here in the middle hour of our grief,” I began. “So many have suffered so great a loss, and today we express our nation’s sorrow. We come before God to pray for the missing and the dead, and for those who love them. … To the children and parents and spouses and families and friends of the lost, we offer the deepest sympathy of the nation. And I assure you, you are not alone.”

  I scanned the crowd. Three soldiers sitting to my right had tears cascading down their faces. So did my lead advance woman, Charity Wallace. I was determined not to fall prey to the contagion of crying. There was one place I dared not look: the pew where Mother, Dad, and Laura were seated. I continued:

  Just three days removed from these events, Americans do not yet have the distance of history. But our responsibility to history is already clear: to answer these attacks and rid the world of evil. War has been waged against us by stealth and deceit and murder. This nation is peaceful, but fierce when stirred to anger. This conflict was begun on the timing and terms of others. It will end in a way, and at an hour, of our choosing.…

  God’s signs are not always the ones we look for. We learn in tragedy that His purposes are not always our own. Yet the prayers of private suffering, whether in our homes or in this great cathedral, are known and heard, and understood. … This world He created is of moral design. Grief and tragedy and hatred are only for a time. Goodness, remembrance, and love have no end. And the Lord of life holds all who die, and all who mourn.

  As I took my seat next to Laura, Dad reached over and gently squeezed my arm. Some have said the moment marked a symbolic passing of the torch from one generation to another. I saw it as the reassuring touch of a father who knew the challenges of war. I drew strength from his example and his love. I needed that strength for the next stage of the journey: the visit to the point of attack, lower Manhattan.

  The flight north was quiet. I had asked Kirbyjon Caldwell to make the trip with me. I had seen the footage of New York on television, and I knew the devastation was overwhelming. It was comforting to
have a friend and a man of faith by my side.

  Governor Pataki and Mayor Giuliani greeted me at McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey. They looked spent. The governor had been working tirelessly since Tuesday morning, allocating state resources and rallying the troops under his command. And rarely had a man met his moment in history more naturally than Rudy Giuliani did on September 11. He was defiant at the right times, sorrowful at the right times, and in command the entire time.

  Huddling with Rudy Giuliani (left) and George Pataki at McGuire Air Force Base. White House/Paul Morse

  I boarded the chopper with George and Rudy. On the flight into the city, the Marine pilots flew over Ground Zero. My mind went back to the helicopter flight on the evening of September 11. The Pentagon had been wounded, but not destroyed. That was not the case with the Twin Towers. They were gone. There was nothing left but a pile of rubble. The devastation was shocking and total.

  The view from the air was nothing compared to what I saw on the ground. George, Rudy, and I piled into a Suburban. We had just started the drive to the disaster site when something on the side of the road caught my eye. It appeared to be a lumbering gray mass. I took a second look. It was a group of first responders covered head to toe in ash.

  I asked the driver to stop. I walked over, started shaking hands, and thanked the men for all they had done. They had been working nonstop. Several had tears running down their faces, cutting a path through the soot like rivulets through a desert. The emotion of the encounter was a harbinger of what was to come.

  As we approached Ground Zero, I felt like I was entering a nightmare. There was little light. Smoke hung in the air and mixed with suspended particles of debris, creating an eerie gray curtain. We sloshed through puddles left behind by the morning rain and the water used to fight the fires. There was some chatter from the local officials. “Here is where the old headquarters stood. … There is where the unit regrouped.” I tried to listen, but my mind kept returning to the devastation, and to those who ordered the attacks. They had hit us even harder than I had comprehended.

  We had been walking for a few minutes when George and Rudy led us down into a pit where rescue workers were digging through the rubble for survivors. If the rest of the site was a nightmare, this was pure hell. It seemed darker than the area up top. In addition to the heavy soot in the air, there were piles of shattered glass and metal.

  When the workers saw me, a line formed. I shook every hand. The workers’ faces and clothes were filthy. Their eyes were bloodshot. Their voices were hoarse. Their emotions covered the full spectrum. There was sorrow and exhaustion, worry and hope, anger and pride. Several quietly said, “Thank you” or “God bless you” or “We’re proud of you.” I told them they had it backward. I was proud of them.

  With rescue workers amid the wreckage of the towers. White House/Eric Draper

  After a few minutes, the mood started to turn. One soot-covered firefighter told me that his station had lost a number of men. I tried to comfort him, but that was not what he wanted. He looked me square in the eye and said, “George, find the bastards who did this and kill them.” It’s not often that people call the president by his first name. But that was fine by me. This was personal.

  The more time I spent with the workers, the more raw emotions rose to the surface. To most of these men and women, I was a face they had seen on TV. They didn’t know me. They hadn’t seen me tested. They wanted to make sure I shared their determination. One man yelled, “Do not let me down!” Another shouted straight at my face, “Whatever it takes!” The bloodlust was palpable and understandable.

  Andy Card asked if I wanted to say something to the crowd. I decided I should. There was no stage, no microphone, and no prepared remarks. Andy pointed me to a mound of metal. I looked at Secret Service agent Carl Truscott, who nodded that it was safe to climb up. An older firefighter was standing atop the pile. I put out my hand, and he pulled me up next to him. His name was Bob Beckwith.

  Nina Bishop, a member of the advance team, had tracked down a bullhorn that I could use to address those assembled. She thrust it into my hands. The crowd was able to see me atop the mound, which I later learned was a crumpled fire truck. My first instinct was to console. I told them that America was on bended knee in prayer for the victims, the rescuers, and the families.

  People shouted, “We can’t hear you.” I shot back, “I can hear you!” It got a cheer. I had been hoping to rally the workers and express the resolve of the country. Suddenly I knew how. “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you,” I said, prompting a louder roar. “And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon!” The crowd exploded. It was a release of energy I had never felt before. They struck up a chant of “USA, USA, USA!”

  I had spent a fair amount of time in New York over the years. But it wasn’t until September 14, 2001, that I got a sense of the city’s real character. After the visit to Ground Zero, we drove three miles north to the Javits Center. I was amazed by the number of people on the West Side Highway waving flags and cheering. “I hate to break it to you, Mr. President,” Rudy joked, “but none of these people voted for you.”

  At the Javits Center, I walked into a staging area for first responders from across the country. I greeted firemen and rescuers from states as far away as Ohio and California. Without being asked, they had come to the city to serve as reinforcements. I thanked them on behalf of the nation and urged them to continue their good work.

  The building’s parking garage had been converted into a gathering place for about two hundred family members of missing first responders. The people in the room spanned all ages, from elderly grandmothers to newborn babies. Many were living the same nightmare: Their loved ones had last been seen or heard near the World Trade Center. They wanted to know if they had survived.

  I had just seen the debris of the towers. I knew it would be a miracle if anyone emerged. Yet the families refused to give up hope. We prayed together and wept together. Many people asked for pictures or autographs. I felt awkward signing autographs in a time of grief, but I wanted to do anything I could to ease their pain. I asked each family to tell me a little bit about their missing loved one. Then I said, “I’ll sign this card, and then when your dad [or mom or son or daughter] comes home, they’ll believe that you really met the president.”

  As I came to the last corner of the room, I saw a family gathered around a seated woman. I sat down next to the woman, who told me her name was Arlene Howard. Her son was a Port Authority police officer who’d had September 11 off but volunteered to help as soon as he heard about the attacks. He had last been seen rushing into the dust and smoke three days earlier.

  With Arlene Howard. White House/Eric Draper

  As I was getting ready to say goodbye, Arlene reached into her purse and held out her hand. It contained a metal object. “This is my son’s badge. His name is George Howard. Please remember him,” she said as she pressed the badge into my hand. I promised I would.

  George Howard's badge. I still carry it today. White House/Eric Draper

  I served 2,685 days as president after Arlene gave me that badge. I kept it with me every one of them. As the years passed, most Americans returned to life as usual. That was natural and desirable.

  It meant the country was healing and people felt safer. As I record these thoughts, that day of fire is a distant memory for some of our citizens. The youngest Americans have no firsthand knowledge of the day. Eventually, September 11 will come to feel more like Pearl Harbor Day—an honored date on the calendar and an important moment in history, but not a scar on the heart, not a reason to fight on.

  For me, the week of September 11 will always be something more. I still see the Pentagon smoldering, the towers in flames, and that pile of twisted steel. I still hear the voices of the loved ones searching for survivors and the workers yelling, “Do not let me down!” and “Whatever it takes!” I still feel the sadness of the children, the agony of the burn v
ictims, and the torment of the broken families. I still marvel at the bravery of the firefighters, and the compassion of strangers, and the matchless courage of the passengers who forced down that plane.

  September 11 redefined sacrifice. It redefined duty. And it redefined my job. The story of that week is the key to understanding my presidency. There were so many decisions that followed, many of them controversial and complex. Yet after 9/11, I felt my responsibility was clear. For as long as I held office, I could never forget what happened to America that day. I would pour my heart and soul into protecting the country, whatever it took.

  *The source of the reporting, a foreign intelligence service, remains classified.

  n October 17, 2001, I boarded Air Force One for my first trip out of the country since 9/11. We were headed to Shanghai for the Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation summit, a gathering of twenty-one leaders from Pacific Rim nations. The Secret Service was anxious about the trip. For weeks, we had received chilling intelligence reports about potential follow-up attacks. Yet strengthening America’s relationships in the Far East was one of my top priorities, and I wanted my fellow world leaders to see firsthand my determination to battle the terrorists.

  As Air Force One touched down at the Shanghai airport, I thought back to the dusty, bicycle-filled city I had visited with Mother in 1975. This time we made the forty-five-minute drive to downtown Shanghai on a modern highway. We sped past a sparkling new section of the city called Pudong. I later learned the government had moved roughly one hundred thousand people off the land to enable the construction. The skyscrapers and neon lights reminded me of Las Vegas. For Shanghai, the Great Leap Forward had finally arrived.