102 Minutes: The Unforgettable Story of the Fight to Survive Inside the Twin Towers (24 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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“How are you doing, Mike?” Hansson asked.
It was more than a casual question. Warchola looked Hansson in the eye.
“I’m doing fine,” he replied.
Another lieutenant taking a break on the 35th floor, Kevin Pfeifer of Engine 33—brother of the battalion chief—recognized Hansson from other fires. As Hansson sipped iced tea, he and Pfeifer discussed pairing up so they could scuttle half their load and make the climb a bit easier. Just as they were bringing the idea to Richard Picciotto, the battalion chief taking a break on 35, the building began to shake.
“What’s going on?” Smith asked Picciotto.
The chief was not sure. A moment later, Hansson—and probably Pfeifer, as well—heard a cry of “Mayday! Evacuate the building” from Picciotto’s radio. It is possible that this was the message sent from 6 World Trade Center by Lieutenant Pfeifer’s brother, although Chief Pfeifer had not used the term “mayday,” not realizing the other tower had collapsed. While some firefighters in trouble gave mayday calls, there is no clear evidence that any chief specifically issued that most urgent of distress warnings.
In any event, Chief Picciotto told them all to leave. Then he hollered the order to other fire companies on the 35th floor. No one among that group knew the other building had fallen, but the urgency of the situation seemed apparent to Warren Smith, the lieutenant who had been thinking about dropping gear. When firefighters pull back from a high-rise, it usually involves dropping down a few floors, not leaving the building entirely.
Something’s fucked up beyond what we can handle,
Smith would remember thinking. He and the other officers shouted out the orders to leave. Kevin Pfeifer rounded up his troops. Gregg Hansson turned to his men, and said, “Drop your gear and get out.” Robert Byrne, a probationary firefighter on his first job, followed to the letter what he thought Hansson intended: Byrne put down not only his tools and rope, but also his face mask—a piece of equipment used for breathing when the air is fouled by smoke or dust.
Something’s fucked up beyond what we can handle,
Smith would remember thinking. He and the other officers shouted out the orders to leave. Kevin Pfeifer rounded up his troops. Gregg Hansson turned to his men, and said, “Drop your gear and get out.” Robert Byrne, a probationary firefighter on his first job, followed to the letter what he thought Hansson intended: Byrne put down not only his tools and rope, but also his face mask—a piece of equipment used for breathing when the air is fouled by smoke or dust.
Hansson and his men went to stairway A, where they spotted Lt. John Fischer and a few firefighters from Ladder 20.
“Not all my guys are here,” Fischer said. “Where is everybody?”
One of the firefighters replied, “I think a couple of them went upstairs.”
Fischer was annoyed. “We’ve got to stick together,” he said. He
got on his radio and tried to contact them, but got no answer. He had to go up and get them.
got on his radio and tried to contact them, but got no answer. He had to go up and get them.
“I’m going down,” Hansson said. “I’m taking my men down.”
He saw Fischer start up the stairs.
Eight floors below, on the 27th floor, another congregation of firefighters and police officers had gathered. After the collapse, two fire captains, Jay Jonas and William Burke, split up to check the windows, Jonas to the north and Burke to the south. Jonas could see nothing through the windows on the north, and circled back to the vestibule. Burke returned with his report.
“Is that what I thought it was?” Jonas asked.
“Yeah,” Burke said, “the south tower’s just collapsed.”
“We’re going home,” Jonas said, giving the order to leave.
The firefighters began to clear off the floor, though many did not realize why they were being sent back downstairs. Still waiting on that floor were Ed Beyea and Abe Zelmanowitz, who had already turned aside many suggestions that he leave Beyea behind to the care of firefighters. Now the firefighters themselves were packing up to go. Firefighter Rich Billy, in need of a break, had been left on the 27th floor by Lieutenant Hansson. Billy continued the ritual of clearing each floor—he counted eight people still on 27, including Beyea in his wheelchair and Zelmanowitz—and the firefighter felt he had taken over responsibility for Beyea.
Billy recognized Captain Burke, an officer he had once worked with, and told him that he had taken charge of Beyea. It was evident that Rich Billy, on his own, could do little to evacuate Beyea.
“We’ve got to get them out,” Burke said. At that moment, Lieutenant Hansson arrived from the 35th floor. He was there to pick up Billy, whom he had left behind. Hansson heard some talk about using an elevator—in fact, Captain Burke had come up to the 20th floor on an elevator that few firefighters realized was working—but he wanted no part of anything but a staircase leading directly to the ground. In any case, Burke was taking control of the situation. That was fine with Hansson. He told Billy to come along, and they left the floor.
Burke had his own company of firefighters, from Engine 21. In
their recollections, Burke told them to head downstairs, and they did not notice for a couple of floors that he was not with them. When they radioed back, Burke told them he would meet them at the rig. If William Burke was indeed still with Beyea and Zelmanowitz, that would have surprised few who knew him. Burke, like the two friends from Empire Blue Cross and Blue Shield, was another variation on the theme of bachelor life. Forty-six years old, he had worked for twenty-five years as a lifeguard on Long Island, at Robert Moses State Park. One day, the oldest living former lifeguard came to the beach, and his fondest wish was to swim in the ocean one more time. The man was frail, and in a wheelchair. Burke lifted the man into the waves and swam with him. Then they shared a beer.
their recollections, Burke told them to head downstairs, and they did not notice for a couple of floors that he was not with them. When they radioed back, Burke told them he would meet them at the rig. If William Burke was indeed still with Beyea and Zelmanowitz, that would have surprised few who knew him. Burke, like the two friends from Empire Blue Cross and Blue Shield, was another variation on the theme of bachelor life. Forty-six years old, he had worked for twenty-five years as a lifeguard on Long Island, at Robert Moses State Park. One day, the oldest living former lifeguard came to the beach, and his fondest wish was to swim in the ocean one more time. The man was frail, and in a wheelchair. Burke lifted the man into the waves and swam with him. Then they shared a beer.
The elevator door was moving as he pushed it. Chris Young almost didn’t believe it was happening. The other times he had tried, the door would not budge. Now, with no more effort, it was sliding out of the way, toward the corner of the car.
Young was elated. Being stuck in the huge north tower elevator alone had gotten very old—and very scary. The thirty-three-year-old temp from Marsh & McLennan had been waiting nearly ninety minutes to be rescued. It had been more than half an hour since the people trapped in the other elevator nearby—Judith Martin and the rest—had last answered his calls. It had been twenty minutes since the elevator had shaken so violently again that he dropped to the floor in a ball.
When he first got stuck, Young had not been too worried. In fact, he initially blamed himself for his predicament. He’d been coming down in one of the express elevators when he decided to test out a precept from adolescent physics—the one that says if you jump up in a speeding elevator, you will somehow create a state of floating weightlessness worthy of NASA. A few jumps later, though, his spirit for adventure drained when the elevator suddenly bounced to a stop.
Over the ensuing hour, the dust, the screams, the alarms and the other people who were stuck near him in the lobby had persuaded
him that something much larger and more serious than his own antics was involved. He had no idea what that was, though, and the building staff he reached over the elevator intercom would only say there was “an emergency situation.”
him that something much larger and more serious than his own antics was involved. He had no idea what that was, though, and the building staff he reached over the elevator intercom would only say there was “an emergency situation.”
Young was similarly mystified about why the doors were suddenly so easy to open. He would find out later that the collapse of the south tower had knocked out the power in its twin, and disabled the motor that normally kept the doors from opening between floors.
When Young looked out into the lobby, the exhilaration of escape quickly lost steam.
There was no one there.
No one.
The bright, modern lobby of tan marble and polished chrome had been replaced by ruin. Debris was everywhere. As Young stepped from the elevator, his feet sank into several inches of pulverized concrete dust. It muffled his footsteps as he hustled toward the windows facing West Street, stepping out through one that was broken. Outside, he looked up, toward the offices on the 99th floor where he had been earlier that morning. Smoke and fire were shooting from the upper floors. “Oh, my God,” Young said. A firefighter grabbed him and told him to keep moving.
Among the parties searching floors in the bottom zone of the building was a team led by Inspector James Romito of the Port Authority police. At the collapse of the south tower, Romito listened to his radio, then turned to the half dozen people accompanying him. The searches were over, he said. They were getting out of the building. Frank DiMola, a civilian Port Authority worker, had been helping Romito as he worked his way toward the command center on the 64th floor.
“Two is down,” Romito said.
“Building 2?” DiMola asked.
“Building 2 is down,” Romito said.
Romito’s search crew was at least the fourth agency to cover the same ground, for the same task: checking the floors for office
workers. All those searches of floors represented another fortunate inefficiency, like the extra loads of gear that slowed the firefighters from getting higher into the building. During the evacuation from the 1993 bombing, firefighters ended up searching the millions of square feet of office space multiple times, a point of frustration noted stingingly in the reports prepared by the fire chiefs after that attack. Even so, little had changed in the eight years since then. Once again, duplicative searches were under way. Firefighters searched floors. The Police Department’s Emergency Service Unit also reported that it was searching floors. Joseph Baccellieri’s team of court officers and Port Authority police had searched all the way up to 51. And the group led by Inspector Romito also was searching floors. This time, the multiple searches had the beneficial effect of keeping many rescuers closer to the ground. Yet the lack of coordination among the agencies, particularly between the Police and Fire Departments, would have other costs.
workers. All those searches of floors represented another fortunate inefficiency, like the extra loads of gear that slowed the firefighters from getting higher into the building. During the evacuation from the 1993 bombing, firefighters ended up searching the millions of square feet of office space multiple times, a point of frustration noted stingingly in the reports prepared by the fire chiefs after that attack. Even so, little had changed in the eight years since then. Once again, duplicative searches were under way. Firefighters searched floors. The Police Department’s Emergency Service Unit also reported that it was searching floors. Joseph Baccellieri’s team of court officers and Port Authority police had searched all the way up to 51. And the group led by Inspector Romito also was searching floors. This time, the multiple searches had the beneficial effect of keeping many rescuers closer to the ground. Yet the lack of coordination among the agencies, particularly between the Police and Fire Departments, would have other costs.
The word to leave finally got to Steve Modica, the aide to fire chief Paolillo, who had watched, uncomprehending, as police officers pounded down the stairs at the 30th floor. A fire captain, coming down after the police officers, shouted at him.
“Evacuate! Evacuate! I want everyone to evacuate the building.” Then the captain continued down. Modica tried to reach Chief Paolillo, but couldn’t raise him. He switched to all three channels used by the department. He still could not get anything. He considered the circumstances, and would recall thinking: “We were doing nothing. Nothing. What’s the plan? Nobody had a plan.” He started down the stairs.
On the street outside, the ESU police wanted more intelligence, quickly, on the status of the remaining tower. In the frenzy of radio transmissions, the dispatcher demanded attention, and with some effort, got through to the police helicopters hovering over lower Manhattan.
“Aviation base, ESU One needs someone to, one of the aviations, to check Tower 2 and give them an update,” the dispatcher said, giving the address of the destroyed building, but with no one in doubt about the question.
The answer came at 10:07, eight minutes after the collapse of the south tower. The pilot of Aviation 14, Tim Hayes, replied with a grim forecast.
“Advise everybody to evacuate the area in the vicinity of Battery Park City,” said Hayes. “About fifteen floors down from the top, it looks like it’s glowing red. It’s inevitable.”
To be certain that the message was delivered, the dispatcher repeated it, practically word for word, so that all the police officers on the air heard the warning. “All right, he said from the fifteenth floor down, it looked like the building was going to collapse and we need to evacuate everybody from the vicinity of Battery City,” the dispatcher said.
A moment later, Greg Semendinger, the pilot of the other police helicopter, Aviation 6, also reported in.
“I don’t think this has too much longer to go,” he said. “I would evacuate all the people within the area of that second building.”
No matter how many times the police dispatcher repeated that message, none of the firefighters in the north tower—by a factor of ten, the largest group of rescuers in the building—had radios that could hear those reports. Indeed, many of them could not hear reports from their own commanders. The ESU police officers did spread the word as they evacuated, urging everyone they saw, firefighters and civilians and other rescuers, to leave at once.
The tide that had drawn them all up the stairs was now slowly turning, even though the demise of the south tower, and the grave peril in the north, remained broadly unknown to the firefighters.
For more than eighty minutes, the bridge and tunnel engineer Patrick Hoey and his Port Authority colleagues on the 64th floor had waited dutifully, as instructed, for the firefighters or the police to arrive. No one showed up. Nothing was stopping them from leaving, except the direct instructions they had gotten at 9:11 to “stand tight” and wait for the rescuers. They would get other messages, of course, from family, friends, even from Port Authority colleagues outside the building, who urged them to get out, who reported that
the police were now saying people should leave. The police sergeant who first told them to stay was among those who later tried to send word to get out. As hundreds of workers from higher floors had walked past, the people on 64 wet their coats and put them under the doors to bar the smoke. They taped crevices. Many in the room had been through the exasperating 1993 evacuation, the arduous walk through biting, choking smoke. Perhaps that could be avoided this time. Staying put was official policy in a crisis—evacuate only those floors in the direct vicinity of the fire. Although the fire and Port Authority police commanders had abandoned that approach by 9:00 and ordered a full evacuation, the message did not seem to reach Hoey and his colleagues. The public-address system in the north tower had been severed by the attack. Hoey and the other Port Authority employees had lights and working phones. At one point, Hoey and his colleague Pasquale Buzzelli had traveled across the floor, looking for places where the smoke was seeping in. They found a door that was open, closed it, and then taped it shut. That had worked, for a while. Then the south tower collapsed—although they did not realize it—and in the shuddering that followed, more smoke appeared. People who had been debating for an hour whether to leave, against what they thought was the official advice, decided to make a go of it. By then, sixteen people were left on the floor.
the police were now saying people should leave. The police sergeant who first told them to stay was among those who later tried to send word to get out. As hundreds of workers from higher floors had walked past, the people on 64 wet their coats and put them under the doors to bar the smoke. They taped crevices. Many in the room had been through the exasperating 1993 evacuation, the arduous walk through biting, choking smoke. Perhaps that could be avoided this time. Staying put was official policy in a crisis—evacuate only those floors in the direct vicinity of the fire. Although the fire and Port Authority police commanders had abandoned that approach by 9:00 and ordered a full evacuation, the message did not seem to reach Hoey and his colleagues. The public-address system in the north tower had been severed by the attack. Hoey and the other Port Authority employees had lights and working phones. At one point, Hoey and his colleague Pasquale Buzzelli had traveled across the floor, looking for places where the smoke was seeping in. They found a door that was open, closed it, and then taped it shut. That had worked, for a while. Then the south tower collapsed—although they did not realize it—and in the shuddering that followed, more smoke appeared. People who had been debating for an hour whether to leave, against what they thought was the official advice, decided to make a go of it. By then, sixteen people were left on the floor.
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