102 Minutes: The Unforgettable Story of the Fight to Survive Inside the Twin Towers (19 page)
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Authors: Jim Dwyer,Kevin Flynn
BOOK: 102 Minutes: The Unforgettable Story of the Fight to Survive Inside the Twin Towers
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Traveling against the flow of people in the concourse were five Port Authority police officers, wheeling a canvas laundry cart filled with Scott Airpaks, helmets, axes, and other tools. Sgt. John McLoughlin and four colleagues—Will Jimeno, Dominick Pezzulo, Christopher Amoroso, and Antonio Rodriguez—had collected the equipment in emergency-gear closets and were taking it to the north tower for officers waiting to go upstairs. Their supervisors were concerned about sending the officers in without the proper equipment. Some of them remembered how smoky the stairs had been in 1993 and did not think the rescuers would be much good without breathing apparatus. Four of the men walking with the cart were assigned to the Port Authority Bus Terminal in midtown and had just arrived by bus at the trade center. The fifth, Amoroso, had started his day at
the trade center and had already helped shepherd people from the building. He ran into Jimeno, his friend from the academy, as they passed each other in the concourse. McLoughlin, their leader, was a veteran of the trade center, a rescue specialist who had won a medal of valor for his conduct during the bombing and its aftermath in 1993. Now, as he led his team through the concourse toward the north tower, they had to weave through the great tide of people rushing in the opposite direction, toward safety.
the trade center and had already helped shepherd people from the building. He ran into Jimeno, his friend from the academy, as they passed each other in the concourse. McLoughlin, their leader, was a veteran of the trade center, a rescue specialist who had won a medal of valor for his conduct during the bombing and its aftermath in 1993. Now, as he led his team through the concourse toward the north tower, they had to weave through the great tide of people rushing in the opposite direction, toward safety.
For all its activity, the scene in the concourse was still measurably calmer than it had been when the first plane hit. The corridors had been filled with people at 8:46—it was the middle of rush hour and thousands of people were arriving for work—and the noise and descending smoke when the fireball shot down the elevator shafts sent the crowd scurrying in all directions, as if a man waving a gun were walking the halls. A feeling of order, of composure, had settled in during the ensuing forty-five minutes. Some people were now so relaxed that police officer David Leclaire had to pull them off pay phones. There was no time for that. At PATH Square, an open space in the center of the shopping concourse, cops waved people past the escalators that descended to the PATH lines to New Jersey. Service on PATH and the city subway lines had already been shut down, the trains rerouted or canceled. The few PATH trains already en route at 8:46 had simply sped through the trade center station and headed back out without ever opening their doors, thanks to quick reflexes by the dispatcher.
When the evacuees reached the escalators back up to Church Street, they were now the equivalent of two blocks away from the burning buildings they had fled. As they ascended, they passed a Borders bookstore that filled the prime retail space at 5 World Trade Center, at the corner of Church and Vesey Streets. Several Shop the World banners hung overhead, to mark the entrance to the underground mall. As the evacuees crested at street level, rescuers led the injured and weak into ambulances. To the people coming up the escalators, these officers were as essential as the railings on stairs. Sgt. Robert Vargas of the Port Authority police had not expected to see singed hair and lacerations and peeling flesh.
For many, despair had set in. Now, as Vargas stood by the escalators watching the line pass, he lectured himself to stay strong. He represented order, security, even sanity, at this point. He could not show fear, he told himself, only calm and self-control.
For many, despair had set in. Now, as Vargas stood by the escalators watching the line pass, he lectured himself to stay strong. He represented order, security, even sanity, at this point. He could not show fear, he told himself, only calm and self-control.
Upstairs in each of the towers the evacuation was nearly complete, at least on the floors below where the planes had hit. Most of the middle floors were empty and the first cadres of firefighters were largely alone on the stairs as they made their way past the 30th floor. For many of the tenants, crossing paths with the firefighters was a moment of surging, sustaining emotional power. Of course, most people had gotten to the stairs and down on their own; they had relied on each other to claw colleagues out of elevators. They had, in large measure, rescued themselves. Yet the sight of the firefighters selflessly ascending to rescue those who could not leave, to save the building from whatever hell was now consuming it, was a mighty antidote to the dread so many had felt. The firefighters did not earn in a year what some baseball players got for a game, but here they were, charging into the teeth of the fire, driven by a collective sense of duty that tempered their individual fear. Firefighter Michael Otten of Ladder 35 climbed the stairs in the south tower toward an uncertain future while his brother-in-law, the stockbroker at Mizuho also known as Michael Otten, walked down, toward home and family. If the two men took the same stairs, they did not see each other as the two lines passed, firefighters to the right, evacuees to the left. People patted the firefighters on the back. God bless you. Thank you. Be careful. Some firefighters remained stoic. Others made jokes—sometimes, the same joke. Steve Charest, a broker from the May Davis Group, carried a golf club down the north tower stairs from his office on the 87th floor. A fireman noticed it as he passed.
“Hey!” he said. “I saw your ball, a few flights down.”
A few floors down, more firefighters were coming up. One of them took a look at Charest’s club. “I saw your ball,” this fireman said. And, yes, it was a few flights down.
The firefighters felt fear, of course. They just didn’t discuss it much. Worrying was counterproductive, and they generally buried their anxieties beneath a gruff jocularity that treated each job as just another hellhole. Firefighter Joseph Maffeo of Ladder 101 took the extra precaution of carrying a can of tuna with him as he reported for his assignment in the Marriott Hotel. Maffeo always carried tuna to a fire. It was his meal, he told people, if he ever got stuck in something weird, like a building collapse, and had to wait to be rescued. Capt. William Burke Jr. of Engine 21 also prepared for whatever the morning might hold. He called a friend, Jean Traina, twice from inside the north tower, assuring her that he was safe and asking her to call his sister in Syracuse and other family members to spread the word. His voice sounded calm, Jean thought, for a guy at one of the biggest building fires in history.
“Please stay safe,” she told him.
“This is what I do,” Burke replied.
As fit and focused as many firefighters were, many were overmatched by the lengthy climb with their dozens of pounds of gear. Sharon Premoli, the financial executive whose spirits had been buoyed by the security guard singing a hymn on the 44th floor, noticed the exertion on their faces as several firefighters passed her on the stairs in the north tower around the 35th floor. Many of the firefighters were flushed and sweating, and Premoli knew that they were not yet halfway to her office on 80, let alone to the fires raging above. In the steaming heat of the stairwells, the office workers had ditched their jackets and loosened their ties, but the firefighters still wore their bulky coats and leather-clad helmets. Inevitably, the radio channels rippled with reports of firemen having chest pains. Engine 9. Squad 18.
At the 19th floor, dozens of exhausted firefighters were taking a breather, a startling sight to Capt. Joseph Baccellieri of the Court Officers Academy and the two sergeants, Andrew Wender and Al Moscola, who had rushed into the building with him. On their way up, the three court officers had been hopscotching floors with firemen they met on the stairs. They’d search one floor. The firemen would take the next. Most of the floors were empty, except for
stragglers who seemed incapable of leaving their computers. When the court officers got to 19, they saw crowds of firefighters lying in the hallways, jackets and helmets off—a surprising gathering, but then Baccellieri felt hot, too, wearing only a light shirt and pants. The 19th floor, it seemed, must be the place where people hit the wall when they climb stairs and are clad in fifty-six and a half pounds of coat, helmet, and boots.
stragglers who seemed incapable of leaving their computers. When the court officers got to 19, they saw crowds of firefighters lying in the hallways, jackets and helmets off—a surprising gathering, but then Baccellieri felt hot, too, wearing only a light shirt and pants. The 19th floor, it seemed, must be the place where people hit the wall when they climb stairs and are clad in fifty-six and a half pounds of coat, helmet, and boots.
On the 31st floor, a dozen firefighters slumped in the hallway. Firefighter David Weiss, a member of Rescue 1, yelled down stairway B for help. A cop, Dave Norman, heard him and called back. He’d be right up. Norman was an ESU officer assigned to Truck One and trained as an emergency medical technician. ESU cops typically did not ticket cars or make arrests. They rescued people, which made them among the most popular cops in the city—popular with everyone but firefighters. ESU rescue efforts at emergencies such as explosions and auto accidents, where firefighter rescue units thought they were in charge, were the single greatest point of friction between the two agencies. Mayors over the years had tried to iron out the differences, with little success. The jurisdictional lines were left too fuzzy to ever settle the dispute.
On September 11, though, no one was jostling in the north tower stairwell. “Norman, is that you?” Weiss yelled down the stairs. Indeed, the two men knew each other. Norman’s brother, John, was a fire chief who had once been assigned to Rescue 1. Norman pulled the medical gear from his pack. The ailing firefighters had their coats and helmets off, and their T-shirts were wet with perspiration. Some were dehydrated and were having trouble breathing. Others were having chest pains—so many, in fact, that a commander chastened them over the radio not to clog the airwaves with their complaints. Norman began administering oxygen and checking their vital signs. The setting was too somber for intramural rivalries.
Four floors below, in the 27th-floor offices of Empire Blue Cross and Blue Shield, Ed Beyea and Abe Zelmanowitz were still waiting to evacuate. Nearly all the people from 27 had already left, as had
nearly all the people from Empire, which had 1,900 employees spread across ten floors. Indeed, most of the lower floors of the north tower were clear by 9:30. But with the elevators apparently out and Beyea confined to a heavy, motorized chair, it would take several sets of strong hands and backs to carry him down, and the firefighters were busy now, still pushing their way upstairs toward the fire.
nearly all the people from Empire, which had 1,900 employees spread across ten floors. Indeed, most of the lower floors of the north tower were clear by 9:30. But with the elevators apparently out and Beyea confined to a heavy, motorized chair, it would take several sets of strong hands and backs to carry him down, and the firefighters were busy now, still pushing their way upstairs toward the fire.
The broken elevators had become traps not only for people who were stuck inside them, but also for those who could not get on them, like Ed Beyea. More modern, super-tall buildings had created special refuge elevators, with more durable construction, to serve rescuers and the disabled during emergencies. That had not been part of the practice during the late 1960s, when the final details of the trade center plans were being worked out.
As they waited for help, Beyea and Zelmanowitz moved about the 27th floor. They had been to the stairwell, to the elevator banks, and to a conference room where a firefighter told them to stuff wet rags underneath the doors. Several people did what they could to make those left on the floor comfortable. Anthony Giardina, an electrician who worked in the building, passed out Snapple and water from a hallway vending machine. Firefighters poured the drinks over their heads. One firefighter looked at Zelmanowitz as they stood together in the landing for stairway C. Zelmanowitz could have left much earlier, but the fire upstairs in the north tower seemed far away, the danger distant.
“Why don’t you go?” the fireman asked.
“No, I’m staying with my friend,” he replied.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people fleeing the north tower had seen the pair as they walked past them on their way to the lobby and safety. Keith Meerholz took a long look at Beyea and Zelmanowitz when the line of evacuees paused as he approached the 27th-floor landing. Meerholz, who worked for Marsh & McLennan, had been in the 78th-floor sky lobby when the first plane hit. He had been scorched by flames that spit from an elevator door. He then raced down the stairs, unimpeded, until he hit pedestrian traffic around the 38th floor. Now, as he approached 27, he could see that
the fellow in the wheelchair was younger than the man who stood with him. Maybe, Meerholz thought, he would help carry the paralyzed man down, get some help from one of the other young men in the stairway. But the firefighters seemed to have reached the 27th floor in great numbers now, peeling off to take a break and to replenish their wind. When Meerholz shuffled onto the landing, he ducked out of the stairs and onto the floor behind one of the firefighters. Perhaps the firefighters would have more solid information about what was going on—a bomb, a light plane, a helicopter—than Meerholz had picked up in the stairwell chatter.
the fellow in the wheelchair was younger than the man who stood with him. Maybe, Meerholz thought, he would help carry the paralyzed man down, get some help from one of the other young men in the stairway. But the firefighters seemed to have reached the 27th floor in great numbers now, peeling off to take a break and to replenish their wind. When Meerholz shuffled onto the landing, he ducked out of the stairs and onto the floor behind one of the firefighters. Perhaps the firefighters would have more solid information about what was going on—a bomb, a light plane, a helicopter—than Meerholz had picked up in the stairwell chatter.
“What happened?” Meerholz asked.
The fireman was bent over, panting.
“A plane hit each tower,” the fireman said. “But don’t tell anyone.”
Meerholz understood. The news could start panic. He felt charged with the urgency of getting out, and he turned back into the stairway, joining the slow, downward shuffle. The firefighters were on the scene. No doubt, they would take charge of the man in the wheelchair.
Downstairs, in the north tower lobby, Chief Pfeifer took an occasional glance up at the mezzanine level, where people shuffled toward the escalators. The view served as a scorecard of progress. The early, longer lines meant the floors above were still far from empty. Later, thinner lines showed progress. It was good, he thought, to see the windows on the mezzanine, which earlier had been blocked by the fleeing crowds.
A few feet away, at the fire command desk, Port Authority officials spoke into the elevator intercom system, trying to reach anyone trapped in one of the ninety-nine elevators. “Is anyone in the car?” they said. “If you can’t speak, hit the panel.” One by one, they had been trying to contact each of the cabs, using a command board designed to show them where each one was stuck. Less than 100 feet away, though, stuck at lobby level in an elevator with six other people, Judith Martin, the woman who had lingered downstairs to have a cigarette, could not reach anyone who could help her.
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