There, that should do it. He turned off the intercom.
The hard stuff was over. And it hadn’t been that hard at all. In fact, it had been easy. A twitch under Jarrah’s eye echoed a twitch in his brain as something bothered him. He wished he could pray, like Hanjour, but prayer wouldn’t help the anxiety he felt now. What bothered him was that it had been too easy. Nothing had gone wrong.
• • •
Potomac TRACON handles air traffic going into and out of all the airports around Washington D.C., Baltimore and Richmond. The heart of the facility is a round, windowless room, where computer terminals are arranged in several circular patterns, each wider than the rest, like a little solar system. At 9:48, a red light blinked on one of the terminals. Co-pilot O’Rourke’s last move had set off the light, and now an alarm sounded as well, letting controllers know a hijacking was in process. The controller at the panel, who’d been monitoring Flight 143, had never seen such an alarm before, and now, as she tried to assess what was going on, she lost the signal from the plane – the transponders must have been turned off. Had only the transponders gone off, certain procedures would come into play – but along with that alarm? Shivers ran up the controller’s spine as the impact of that red light hit home.
She collected her wits and remembered that procedure called for her to immediately notify her supervisor in this situation, which she did. The supervisor would then notify FAA headquarters in Washington. The FAA had a hijack coordinator, who was Director of the FAA Office of Civil Aviation Security.
After getting this process started, the controller tried to contact the plane on the emergency frequency, but there was no response.
“What’s going on there?” the controller next to her asked.
“Damned if I know,” she replied, hoping against hope it was only some technical fluke.
• • •
The Director of the FAA Office of Civil Aviation Security hadn’t been on the job the last time planes had been hijacked five years earlier, but when he saw the notification from Potomac TRACON – a hijack alarm, no ability to contact or track the plane – he knew right away what he was dealing with. He picked up the phone and called the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center to ask for a military aircraft to follow the flight. NMCC would then seek approval from the Office of the Secretary of Defense to provide military assistance. The Defense Secretary’s office would coordinate with the North American Aerospace Defense Command to track the plane.
Everything started moving very quickly. At the Pentagon, Harry sat in his private conference room meeting with generals in Iraq (via a video screen). He had missed an earlier urgent phone message from Virgil. Everyone in the conference room swung their heads toward the door when it opened with no warning and an aide ran in and whispered in Harry’s ear. This was very unusual, as Harry never allowed interruptions in a meeting unless there was an emergency. The generals in Iraq and in the conference room looked at each other nervously.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Harry said, getting up quickly and rushing out of the room.
Harry stepped into his private office and closed the door. His first call was to the NMCC. They told him that two F-15 alert aircraft stationed at McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey were taking off now to follow the hijacked plane. Because the transponders were off, it wouldn’t be possible to track the aircraft’s identity or altitude, only the plane’s primary radar returns.
“The planes are carrying live missiles and ready to fire, correct?” Harry asked the fellow at NMCC.
“These planes are just for surveillance, sir,” the NMCC official replied.
“I asked you if they’re ready to fire!” Harry yelled.
“Well, yes, they are, but it’s a hijacking, right? We’re just supposed to track it.”
“Let me speak with the commander there,” Harry said. “Now!”
In the short time Harry waited on the phone for the commander, he sent a message to Virgil asking him to come in, ASAP. As the commander answered, Virgil burst through the door to Harry’s office holding his phone and a notebook, and Harry held up his hand to silence him.
“Crowe, this is Harry,” the Defense Secretary said into the phone as Virgil stood next to his desk, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “We have a hijack in process, a Southwest 737 that took off from BWI and is headed to Boston. There’s no transponder signal and the pilots aren’t responding to radio. You have two F-15s trailing this plane. I want to be kept apprised minute by minute on this. I have reason to believe the hijackers are heading the plane toward New York. Let the fighter pilots know we may ask them to take extraordinary measures. Got it? Good.”
He set the phone down and held out his palms toward Virgil as if to say, “What next?”
“Do we know how far the plane is from New York City?” Virgil asked quietly, standing alert at Harry’s desk. Beads of sweat formed on his face.
“Nope, but couldn’t be much more than 20 minutes away,” Harry replied. “It took off from Baltimore heading north at 9:11.”
“We’ll have to make a quick decision on this,” Virgil said, a line of sweat now trickling down from his forehead. “Those planes might need to fire. Today’s the day the WTC condos opened. Plus the anniversary of attacks by Arabs against Jews in what was northern Palestine. I don’t think there’s any coincidence.”
“You know that and I know that, but any decision on this one has to be approved by the President of the United States,” Harry said. He picked up another phone and began to dial.
• • •
Lead flight attendant Wendy Harris grabbed the phone with shaky hands to call the flight control center, yet forced her face to avoid showing the panic that tightened her lungs. The passengers around her near the front of the plane stared at her, looking expectant, frozen in their seats. A mother softly cried, rocking her baby, and an old man in a business suit prayed, as did a young couple behind him. They’d witnessed the struggle up front, and they’d seen the two men burst into the cockpit with a gun and shove the door closed. The passengers averted their eyes from Captain Billings’ body, bleeding in the front of the cabin. Their eyes spoke of fear, but a calm fear, as if the worst was over; after all, even the hijacked plane would eventually land, like the one in Beirut back in the 1980s. They knew the 2001 hijackings had ended in a collision, but that had been an accident. And the co-pilot’s announcement a few minutes ago reassured them that the craft was still in good hands.
Harris felt less confident. “Hi, this is Wendy Harris on Southwest Flight 143,” she told Potomac TRACON. “We’ve been hijacked by two men with guns. They killed Captain Billings and they’re locked in the cockpit with the first officer.” She turned her back on the passengers as she continued. “I heard a voice over the intercom but I don’t think it was the co-pilot. I think it was one of the hijackers.”
“Please repeat yourself, did you say you’re on a hijacked plane?”
Harris tried to control her temper. She spoke louder.
“I said, this is Wendy Harris. I’m the head flight attendant on Southwest 143. We’ve been hijacked.”
“Thanks, Ms. Harris – yes – we’re aware your plane has been hijacked. Has anyone been hurt?”
“I told you – they killed Captain Billings. They’re in the cockpit now with the first officer – Kevin O’Rourke. I don’t know who’s flying the plane.”
“OK, OK – Ms. Harris – let me get my supervisor.”
Harris waited breathlessly. She was standing in the tiny kitchen right behind the cockpit. As she stood there with the phone, she looked out at front of the cabin again, where the passengers sat pale and silent, their anxious faces looking to her for direction. “I’m on the phone with flight control,” she told the ones in front. “They’re going to tell us what to do. Just stay calm.” She knew her words were empty, and so did the passengers, yet the mother nodded, holding her baby close. The plane continued to fly steadily, with a reassu
ring hum from the engines, but it was descending.
“Wendy Harris, this is Bob Tucker,” a voice said over the phone. “I’m in charge at Potomac TRACON. We’re aware of the hijacking, and I want you to help us out. Whoever hijacked you turned off the transponder, so we need to track you down. Can you look out the window and tell us what you see?”
“Hold on a second,” she said, putting the phone down. She walked a few steps into the cabin and stepped into the right side of the first row. “Excuse me,” she said to the two passengers there – a business-suited young man clutching the arm rests and an older lady who looked like she was praying like the others. Outside, she could see a coastline – they must be headed out over the Atlantic. Just then, the craft’s left wing tipped down (there was a collective gasp from the passengers) and the plane turned left. They were heading up the New Jersey coast.
She got back to the phone and told the controllers what she saw.
“How high up would you estimate you are?” Tucker asked her.
“Well, we were at 37,000 feet around the time this happened, but we’ve been descending,” Harris replied. “I’d say we’re maybe at 20,000 feet now.”
“Thanks, Ms. Harris – I know this is hard, but you’re helping us a great deal. Can you tell us the seats the two gentlemen were in?”
“Seats 2C and 3A,” Harris said. “Please, can you tell me what to do?”
“Ms. Harris – can I call you Wendy?”
“Yes, OK,” she replied.
“Wendy, we’re trying to communicate with the cockpit. We’re waiting to find out what these guys are demanding. Once we know, we’ll escort them to a safe airport where they’ll land, and we’ll negotiate to let everyone off the plane. So you might see military planes out the windows. Let the passengers know they’re only for escort. Believe me, we’ve planned for crimes just like this, and we have a playbook. The hijackers probably have a gun pointed at O’Rourke and will make him fly the plane where they want. Just make sure all the passengers relax and let them know they’re going to be safe. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Harris said. “I’ll try. Please – please don’t go.”
“I’ll be right here, Wendy,” Tucker replied. “I’m with you all the way.”
• • •
In the cockpit, behind the heavy, sealed door, things continued to go smoothly for Jarrah and Hanjour. They had the plane under control, and had turned north to follow the New Jersey coast. The coast was like an arrow pointing right to New York City, and all they had to do was keep the plane in a straight line and ignore the steady calls over the radio asking them to state their position. Hanjour had his hand on the wheel and kept the plane in a steady descent, now down to around 15,000 feet.
“Level it out,” Jarrah said. “We’ve still got a while to go.”
“We’re getting close,” Hanjour said. He was peering out the front window, trying to get a glimpse of the city ahead, but so far, it wasn’t visible. “I’ll take it down to 9,000 and then it will be easy to go down to 900 when it’s time. Al-hamdu lillah.”
Jarrah nodded, even though he didn’t completely agree. Hanjour was the pilot; he would leave him to do his job. Every now and then Jarrah turned around, as if to make sure the door hadn’t somehow magically opened. He still felt jittery, waiting for something to go wrong. But his doubts about the mission were long forgotten. Now he was determined to see it through. “Watch out for other planes,” he told Hanjour, thinking back to 2001. Luckily, there were no other hijackers with inexperienced pilots to worry about, but they had descended quite a bit from the position they were supposed to be in, and Jarrah feared some Cessna pilot might take off from a nearby small airport and run into them.
• • •
“We’ve got Flight 143 in sight,” the head F-15 pilot, Captain Reggie Jones, told controllers, speaking on a military feed that the FAA, the NMCC and the Defense Department could listen in on. Two F-15 Eagles, each loaded with air-to-air missiles, had locked in on Flight 143 and trailed it closely, but below and behind it, out of sight from the cockpit. “He’s at flight level 150 and descending, approaching Asbury Park headed straight north up the coast. We’re right behind him. Awaiting further instructions.”
“Roger,” came the response from the controller at McGuire. “Stand by for further instructions.”
“Roger.”
Flight 143 was less than 70 miles – about 13 minutes flight time – from New York City.
In a matter of moments, air traffic controllers cleared the airspace between Asbury Park and New York of all other aircraft. Flight 143 had the skies ahead to itself.
The headset of Capt. Jones, the head pilot of the F-15s, crackled back to life with a call from NMCC. “We suggest you fly along alongside the cockpit of the passenger jet and see if you can get a glimpse of the pilots.”
“Roger that,” Jones said over the roar of his engines.
Jones maneuvered his craft alongside the jet, rising level to it for just a moment, and managed a brief look into the cockpit from just a few hundred feet before pulling away.
“It appears the hijackers have control of the plane,” Jones radioed back to controllers. “I see no sign of the crew.”
Inside the cockpit of Flight 143, Hanjour grabbed Jarrah’s elbow in panic and gestured forward and to the left. A silver military craft with a long nose and two tails was flying past them at very close range.
“OK – just relax,” Jarrah said, a bit surprised at how quickly they’d been intercepted by the Air Force, but wanting to calm Hanjour. “They know about us – no surprise. They’re not going to do anything.”
“Flight 143, please respond,” a voice over the radio said. “We request you land at Kennedy Airport and release all passengers safely. The U.S. Air Force has you under surveillance. We can discuss your demands after we have a guarantee that no passenger will be harmed. Please reply.”
“What do we say?” Hanjour asked, hands gripping the control wheel more tightly.
“Nothing,” Jarrah said. “Let me do the thinking. You just fly this bird.”
Jarrah felt surprisingly calm. The message over the radio actually contributed to his sense of control. It was obvious the military had no idea what they planned to do with the plane. They were treating this as a simple hijack situation. And their concern about passenger safety meant they wouldn’t take any chances that might hurt the people on board. He was less worried than ever about their mission being thwarted. Even once they got near the towers, the military wouldn’t realize until too late what they planned to do. He wouldn’t reply to the radio calls. He was certain the passengers had already told authorities that the hijackers planned to land the plane. No use engaging in extraneous conversation.
Hanjour pointed ahead to the horizon excitedly. “Look – I see them! I see them! The towers! We’re on target. We’re going to destroy the infidels’ monument!”
Sure enough, Jarrah could now see the tops of the two towers peeking over the horizon. They were still a good 30 miles away, but visibility was clear and they’d be there in minutes.
“You’d better descend some more,” Jarrah said. Hanjour nodded, neither of them saying another word. Hanjour maneuvered the plane lower and the Air Force plane veered off to the left and out of view. The sour air seemed to palpate with their combined heartbeats, the adrenaline in them both coursing through their veins as they closed on their target.
• • •
In Harry’s office, Virgil listened as the Defense Secretary spoke with the President. He could only hear Harry’s side of the conversation, but he was too upset to sit still. He paced back and forth in front of Harry’s desk. The transmissions from the Air Force pilot, which he and Harry had listened in on a few moments earlier, concerned him. It didn’t sound like the military fully grasped the situation. They were going to let the plane keep flying, and it was headed right for the towers. To make matters worse, it didn’t sound like the President understood, either.
“Yes, sir,” Harry was saying. “I realize the import of such a decision. But I’m asking you to give me the permission to carry out the order if necessary.”
Harry listened for a while, looking at Virgil as he spoke.
“Yes, Mr. President,” he finally said. “I know it’s unprecedented. But I feel very strongly about this. We could have thousands of civilians in danger… how do I know the plane is targeting the towers? Sir, there’s no time to go into it all. You just have to trust me on this one.”
Those words struck a dagger into Virgil’s heart. His entire mid-section felt ice cold, and he could barely stand on his wobbly legs. He knew Harry’s evidence was based on Virgil’s own research and advice. If the President gave Harry permission to shoot the aircraft down, and Harry acted on it, the entire operation would rest almost solely on Virgil’s hunch. And however good his hunch was, there wasn’t necessarily any way it could be proven. After all, if the plane were shot down before hitting the towers, what proof would there ever be that the hijackers planned to hit them? Virgil’s word – and Harry’s belief in Virgil’s word – was all they had to stand on. And there could be a price to pay, with more than 100 civilians on the aircraft dead and no proof the passengers had been in danger of being killed.
Harry nodded. “Yes sir. Yes sir. I will. Thank you sir. Bye.”
He put the phone down and looked at Virgil.
“We have permission to shoot the plane down if it comes within five miles of the towers,” Harry said with an air of finality. “I think it’s our call, now.”
The radio crackled again. It was the Air Force pilot.
“They’re descending rapidly,” Capt. Jones said. “We’re awaiting instructions.”
Harry had a direct line to the lead F-15 pilot, and he used it now.
“This is Harry Deaver, Secretary of Defense,” Harry said. “Prepare to fire on my command.”
Jones hesitated only half a second. He’d never heard of a scenario like this, with the Secretary of Defense giving an Air Force pilot a direct order. This was like something out of a movie. “Yes sir,” he said. “Prepare to fire on your command.”
The Towers Still Stand Page 27
