by Richard Todd
The man in black wheeled around to see the commotion behind him.
“Get down!” Kyle ’01 shouted.
Behind the man in black, al Omari was running toward him, wielding a box cutter in his right hand. The man in black ducked as Kyle ’01, crouched on the floor, grabbed the Leatherman in his seat and hurled it at al Omari’s face.
Kyle ’01 knew the Leatherman wasn’t a balanced throwing knife. Though he didn’t expect to do serious damage with the throw, even if the knife hit al Omari’s face with the blunt end, it could buy a split second for Kyle ’01 to position for the kill.
To Kyle ’01’s amazement, the Leatherman blade hit al Omari squarely in his left eye. The metal handle protruded from his eye socket. Al Omari screamed, joined by the screams and shouts from passengers in business class as they began to scramble out of their seats. The man in black seemed more awestruck than shocked. He grabbed the flailing, screaming al Omari from behind and broke his neck with a crisp twist. Al Omari fell limp to the aisle floor.
“Nice throw,” the man in black said. “I owe you.”
“My pleasure,” Kyle ’01 said. “Special Forces?”
“Danny Lewin,” the man replied. “Sayeret Matkal.”
“No shit?” Kyle ’01 said. “Kyle Mason, Delta Force.”
Kyle ’01 couldn’t believe his crazy good luck.
Daniel Lewin was the brilliant 31-year-old co-founder of Akamai, a company created to address the growing problem of Internet congestion in the dot.com era. A Ph.D. candidate at MIT, Lewin had written a set of algorithms that dramatically boosted Internet performance.
Prior to Akamai, Lewin was a Captain in the Sayeret Matkal, an elite counter-terrorist Special Forces unit of the Israel Defense Force. Kyle ’01 could not have asked for a more perfect warrior companion.
Danny pulled the knife from al Omari’s face and handed it to Kyle ’01. Al-Omari’s dead body shuddered.
“I believe this is yours,” Danny said.
Kyle ’01 took the knife, wiping the blade on his jeans, “Let’s go,” he said, motioning for Danny to move forward on the left aisle while Kyle ’01 slipped to the right. In front of the cockpit door, Waid al Shehri held a box cutter in his left hand and a mace can in the right. At the sight of the two commandos, he began to scream in Arabic and swing his box cutter wildly. Danny grabbed a pot of hot coffee from the galley and splashed it in al Shehri’s face. As an encore, he gave the hijacker a stiff whack on his scalded face with the pot, breaking his nose. Al Shehri screamed and cursed, flailing his knife wildly in the air and spraying mace. Kyle ’01 moved to grab the wrist of the hijacker’s knife hand. At that moment, the plane tilted to the left, throwing all three men off balance. Kyle ’01 missed al Shehri’s wrist. He felt the hijacker’s knife accidentally cut his neck as he crashed into the plane’s main cabin door. Blood began to pulse from the wound.
Danny regained his balance and unloaded a side kick to al Shehri’s gut, doubling him over. He followed up with a flying front kick that connected with the hijacker’s chin, snapping his head back against the cockpit door. Al Shehri crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Danny looked at Kyle ’01. Kyle ’01’s hand was pressed against his neck. Danny could see from the blood pouring from between Kyle ’01’s fingers that he was in trouble.
“Danny, we don’t have much time,” Kyle ’01 said. “Get some help and I’ll brief you.”
Kyle ’01 felt his legs begin to buckle beneath him. He slumped against the main cabin door and slid to the floor, pressing his fingers against his neck wound.
Danny called for help. In moments, Danny, flight attendants, and several passengers were huddled around him.
One of the flight attendants knelt beside Kyle ’01 and applied a damp towel on his neck wound.
“I’m Betty, I’ll take care of you,” she said with a kind smile.
Kyle ’01 reached into his pants pocket with his blood-soaked hand and retrieved his military ID to show to the dozen people gathered around him.
“My name is Kyle Mason,” he said. “I’m a major with the Army 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta.”
“Delta Force,” Danny echoed.
“Danny here is with Sayeret Matkal, Israel Defense Special Forces. Here’s our situation. Hijackers have taken control of the plane. We’ve taken out three. Two remain in the cockpit. They are flying the plane. They are on a suicide mission to crash this plane into the World Trade Center North Tower. You cannot negotiate with them. You must retake control of the plane or everyone on this plane and a thousand more people in the tower will die. Do you understand?”
Danny, the flight attendants, and the passengers nodded and softly voiced, “Yes.”
Kyle ’01 continued, “They may claim to have a bomb, but they don’t. They have knives and mace. Nothing else. What time is it?”
Danny looked at his watch, “8:22,” he said.
“You’ve got about 20 minutes,” Kyle ’01 said. “Betty, you’ve got keys to the cockpit?” Kyle ’01 asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Give them to Danny,” Kyle ’01 said.
Kyle ’01 looked at the group, “what are your names?” he asked.
“I’m Chris.”
“I’m Phil.”
“I’m Amy.”
“I’m John.”
“Dianne.”
“Barbara.”
“Karleton.”
“Peter.”
“Carol.”
“David.”
“Renee.”
“Jeff.”
“Sara.”
“Jean.”
“Karen.”
“It is a privilege to meet you,” Kyle ’01 said, smiling. The passengers and crew returned his smile.
“I don’t know what you did for a living yesterday, but today, you are heroes,” said Kyle ’01. “There are only two of them against many of you. They don’t stand a chance. Danny will make the plan. He knows what he’s doing. Listen to him.”
“Now, go get your plane back,” said Kyle ’01.
The team nodded, “Yes!”
The team withdrew to make their plan. Kyle ’01 closed his eyes and sighed, slumping against the door. He felt weight on his back as the plane banked to the left. The hijackers were following the Hudson River south to Manhattan and the towers.
“Thank you, Betty,” Kyle ’01 said.
“I’ve got you,” Betty said, “Just take it easy and hang on.”
Boston Air Route Traffic Control Center
Nashua, New Hampshire
September 11, 2001
08:20 hours
In a darkened room, Air Traffic Control Specialist Pete Zalewski sat in front of his console watching an array of lines and characters on his display. Clusters of glowing green characters on his screen, known as “targets” represented vital information for the aircraft he was charged with managing in his airspace—identification, altitude and airspeed. The targets moved along vector lines on the display, representing the aircrafts’ direction.
The information displayed in the target clusters was signaled to air traffic control by transponders on the aircraft. The detailed altitude, speed, and direction data supplied by these transponders enabled controllers to manage a multitude of aircraft simultaneously with precision.
Along with dozens of colleagues, Zalewski was charged with managing air traffic over one of the busiest air spaces in the country. Millions of planes, carrying tens of millions of passengers, were directed by the Boston Traffic Control Center each year. Pete’s job, like that of his colleagues, was to make sure that these planes stayed out of each other’s way.
One of the targets on Pete’s screen had him worried. After issuing a routine set of instructions to the pilot of American flight 11, the pilot had failed to acknowledge his order to climb to an altitude of “350”—35,000 feet. In the six minutes since American 11 went dark, Pete had tried to raise the flight a dozen times, varying radio frequencies, even using t
he emergency channel. One of his colleagues, Tom Roberts, asked another American flight in the area to contact American 11 on American’s company channel—no good. American 11 was “NORDO”—no radio contact.
Suddenly, the target on Pete’s screen changed direction, veering to the right. It was off course, headed for Albany, New York. Moments later, the transponder data disappeared from Pete’s screen. American 11 had turned its transponder off. Pete, and his fellow controllers were flying blind.
Pete and his fellow controllers scrambled to create a safe zone, clearing the airspace in front of American 11. While the controllers could still determine the plane’s location and direction from ground radar data, without the transponder’s altitude data, the controllers were forced to move planes from a huge swath of airspace—from the ground all the way up to 35,000 feet.
Minutes later, Pete watched American 11 make another unauthorized turn—this time to the south. Seconds later, a voice sounded on American 11’s frequency.
“We have some planes. Just stay quiet and you’ll be ok. We are returning to the airport,” said Mohamed Atta.
Atta thought he was communicating to the passengers via the plane’s PA system. He was unaware that American 11’s captain, John Ogonowski, had discreetly held down the push-to-talk button on his steering yoke, enabling Boston Air Traffic Control to hear Atta’s commands to the passengers and crew.
Seconds later, Pete heard Atta’s voice again, “Nobody move. Everything will be ok. If you try to make any moves, you’ll endanger yourselves and the airplane. Just stay quiet.”
Horrified, Pete screamed to his supervisor, John Shippani, “John! Get over here right now!”
American Airlines Flight 11
Southeast New York
September 11, 2001
08:35 hours
Kyle ’01’s face was pale. His white dress shirt was drenched crimson with blood. He had seen enough people bleed out on the battlefield to know that he didn’t have much time. Assuming Danny’s assault team succeeded in retaking the plane, assuming the pilots put the plane down at JFK, and assuming emergency personnel were waiting at the tarmac, Kyle ’01’s heart would have stopped beating about five minutes before the main door opened.
Betty sat next to Kyle ’01 on the floor, holding a blood soaked towel on the right side of his neck. Though she hadn’t done the math, Betty knew Kyle ’01 was in very bad shape. Kyle ’01 reached into his pocket with a bloody hand to retrieve his phone.
“I have to make a call,” Kyle ’01 said.
“You’re not serious,” Betty said.
Kyle ’01 turned his head slightly to look at Betty, “I have to say goodbye.”
Betty began to protest, then stopped. She knew Kyle ’01 was right.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“No—thank you—I’ve got it,” Kyle ’01 replied.
He keyed the speed dial on his phone. It rang.
“Hello?” Padma answered.
“Are you at home?” Kyle ’01 asked.
“Yes, I’m exactly where you told me to be,” Padma replied cheerfully. “I miss you. When am I going to see you again?”
Tears began to run down Kyle ’01’s face. Though he was coming to terms with his death, he couldn’t bear to give Padma this terrible news. He paused, struggling to find words.
Padma sensed trouble, “Kyle? What’s wrong?”
“I’m not coming home.”
“Oh God! No,” she gasped. “No! No! No!”
Though Padma knew the possibility of Kyle ’01’s untimely death was a risk that came with their marriage, she assumed she would have more than 48 hours of married life with him before she was widowed.
Kyle ’01 listened to Padma sob on the phone, unable to speak.
“I am so sorry,” Kyle ’01 said, “I wanted to live with you. You don’t know how much I wanted to live with you.”
“I do know,” said Padma, crying.
Padma tried to pull herself together. “I need to be strong for you,” said Padma, crying. “What can I do for you? Tell me what you need.”
“I was supposed to be the one to protect you,” said Kyle ’01.
“I know that you already have,” said Padma.
Betty continued to press the blood-soaked towel against Kyle ’01’s neck. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Beloved,” Kyle ’01 said, “know that if there is any way I can be with you, I will. I promise I will. There is no other place I want to be.”
“I am selfish, but I don’t want you to rest. I want you to haunt me forever,” she said.
“I will be your ghost. I feel sorry for the next guy who tries to date you.”
Padma laughed through the tears. Kyle ’01 loved her deep laugh.
“I don’t,” she said. “I want to see the look on his face when you rattle your chains.”
Danny appeared in the galley space in front of Kyle ’01. He looked at Kyle ’01. It was time.
“I am so sorry, love. I have to go now,” said Kyle ’01.
Padma sobbed.
“Goodbye my love,” he said.
“Goodbye, beloved,” Padma cried. “Please take my love with you.”
“I will, love. Always.”
Kyle ’01 heard Padma crying as he closed his phone and set it on the floor. He wiped tears from his face. Kyle ’01 heard the engines throttle back and felt the plane descend—rapidly. They didn’t have much time. He looked up at Danny.
“You good to go?” Kyle ’01 asked Danny.
“We’re set,” Danny replied.
“Alright then, rock & roll,” Kyle ’01 said.
Danny nodded to the others in the aisle. A phalanx of passengers and crew huddled behind him. Karen Martin, a flight attendant, pushed past Danny to take her position at the cockpit door, key in hand. Chris Mello, a strapping football and rugby star stood to the right of the cockpit door, armed with a fire extinguisher. Karleton Fyfe, a financial analyst, stood behind him as backup. Flight attendants Jeff Collman and Sara Low took up positions in the galley, ready to hand off pots of boiling water and fire extinguishers to the assault team. Behind the assault team, every crewmember and passenger were queued up in both aisles, ready to back up the first wave team in case they failed. The plane was descending rapidly, flying erratically. The passengers and crew steadied themselves as best they could by holding seats and bulkheads.
Kyle ’01, too fragile to move, remained propped against the main cabin door. Betty remained with him.
“GO!” said Danny.
Karen turned the key and door latch. Danny kicked the door hard. Waid al Shehri was caught flat-footed, watching the view out the cockpit windshield, his back leaning against the cockpit door. The door knocked him forward, his face crashing on the cockpit center console. He screamed as Danny grabbed him by the collar and belt and tossed him out of the cockpit onto his back on the floor. Chris smacked al Shehri hard in the face with the fire extinguisher. Al Shehri screamed as his nose and skull cracked. Jeff and Sara dumped boiling water on his face for good measure as the passengers began pummeling the life out of the hijacker.
Danny entered the cockpit, followed by Chris. At the base of a brilliant blue sky, northern Manhattan was coming into view in the panoramic cockpit windshield. Atta was seated in the co-pilot’s seat on the right, with Captain John Ogonowski still seated in the pilot’s seat, but slumped in his chair. First Officer Tom McGuinness was strapped into the jump seat behind the captain. He was injured, but alive. Hearing the commotion behind him, Atta whipped his head around to see Danny and Chris.
“Don’t make any stupid moves!” screamed Atta.
“They’ve got a bomb!” yelled Tom McGuinness, pointing at a device on the cockpit floor, a piece of clay with wires and a circuit board.
Danny grabbed the fake bomb and ripped out the wires.
“They’ve got Play-Doh,” said Danny, dropping the contraption and reaching for Atta’s head.
Atta turned the aircraft yok
e sharply, rolling the plane to its right. Danny and Chris were thrown to the cockpit wall. Atta rolled the plane to the left, crashing the assault team to the opposite wall. Chris fell across Tom McGuinness’ knees, as Tom unstrapped himself from the jump seat to assist.
Atta continued to roll to the left, inverting the plane. Danny, and the passengers and crew were tossed to the plane’s ceiling. Atta throttled the plane’s engines to 100 percent. The engines roared in response as the plane hurdled toward the city.