102 Minutes: The Unforgettable Story of the Fight to Survive Inside the Twin Towers (3 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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He and Paugh lugged the part into the police office. “It’s evidence, put a sticker on it,” Reiss said.
“A plane hit the building,” Paugh said.
“It’s a big plane,” Reiss added. “It’s not a Piper Cub. This is a bi-i-i-g fucking wheel.”
For hundreds of people on the upper floors of the north tower, death had come in a thunderous instant. The remains of one man who worked for Marsh & McLennan, which occupied space on the 93rd to 100th floors, would later be found five blocks from the tower. American Airlines Flight 11 had flown directly into the company’s offices. The impact killed scores of people who could never have known what hit them.
Flight 11 had hit 1 World Trade Center, the north tower, at 450 miles an hour, having traveled the full length of Manhattan Island, fourteen miles from north to south, in less than two minutes. When it slammed into the north side of the building, the plane’s forward motion came to a halt. The plane itself was fractionalized. Hunks of it erupted from the south side of the tower, opposite to where it had entered. A part of the landing gear landed five blocks south. The jet fuel ignited and roared across the sky, as if the fuel continued to fly on course, even without its jet. Much of the energy deflected from the speeding plane shot in waves down the skeleton of the north tower. The waves pulsed into the bedrock, rolled out to the Atlantic Ocean, and along the bed of the Hudson River. The impact registered on instruments in Columbia University’s Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory in Palisades, New York, twenty-two miles to the north, generating signals for twelve seconds. The earth shook.
2
“It’s going to be the top story of the day.”
8:47 A.M.
SOUTH TOWER
SOUTH TOWER
I
n the south tower, the one that had not been hit, the explosion brought Michael Sheehan to his feet. New Yorkers love the fable of their own imperturbability, to boast of how unflappable they remain whether confronted with a rooster that has gotten loose in the subway or a prime minister crossing Lexington Avenue. Yet no one could be blasé about explosions at the trade center. Not only height, mass, and population distinguished that patch of land and sky. The 1993 bombing marked it as an icon and target. Even if the memory of that attack had lost some of its vigor, it still slept fitfully in every pore of the place. Terrorists had already tried to kill these buildings and all in them. With the first bloom of fire on September 11, 2001, that history welled from memory into the moment. The force of Flight 11’s impact not only registered on seismographs miles away, it also jolted the people moored to the trade center workday.
n the south tower, the one that had not been hit, the explosion brought Michael Sheehan to his feet. New Yorkers love the fable of their own imperturbability, to boast of how unflappable they remain whether confronted with a rooster that has gotten loose in the subway or a prime minister crossing Lexington Avenue. Yet no one could be blasé about explosions at the trade center. Not only height, mass, and population distinguished that patch of land and sky. The 1993 bombing marked it as an icon and target. Even if the memory of that attack had lost some of its vigor, it still slept fitfully in every pore of the place. Terrorists had already tried to kill these buildings and all in them. With the first bloom of fire on September 11, 2001, that history welled from memory into the moment. The force of Flight 11’s impact not only registered on seismographs miles away, it also jolted the people moored to the trade center workday.
Sheehan normally sat with his back to a window that faced west, overlooking the Hudson River. Now he was peering out the window, unable to see much. The glass was just twenty-two inches across, no more than the width of a magazine spread open, plus six
inches. To see south or north was impossible. The towers had been designed by an architect who feared heights, and his antidote to acrophobia in the world’s tallest building had been skinny windows. That way, anyone unnerved by the unnatural height could look out while gripping both sides of the window.
inches. To see south or north was impossible. The towers had been designed by an architect who feared heights, and his antidote to acrophobia in the world’s tallest building had been skinny windows. That way, anyone unnerved by the unnatural height could look out while gripping both sides of the window.
Halfway up one of the highest human-made structures on earth, the stunted view permitted Sheehan to see west, but in no other direction. He glanced toward the street, saw nothing that could explain the blast, then pulled his head back and spotted confetti blowing overhead, in a blizzard. The same drafts carried billows of smoke. That was enough for Sheehan. He spun around.
He faced a room full of people who might have been dressed for work in construction, or an outing to the gym, or a day of golf. Brokers for Garban ICAP, they worked elbow to elbow along a line of desks fitted with telephones and computer screens, part of a company that handled $200 billion a day in transactions among commercial banks and institutions that dealt in bonds. Sheehan, forty years old, wore running shoes—his father was the late Dr. George Sheehan, the cardiologist and running guru of the 1970s—and he put them to immediate use. He raced for the exit.
Another broker, George Nemeth, stood between him and the door. Sheehan did not notice him. He ran Nemeth down and kept going. Less than a minute after the explosion, Sheehan was heading down the stairway. He sized up the crowd—maybe twenty or thirty people from his office of about two hundred. What were the rest of them waiting for? he wondered. That George Nemeth was still picking himself off the floor, Sheehan had no idea. That Sheehan himself had accidentally knocked Nemeth clear off his feet, he did not have the faintest notion. And he knew nothing about an airplane.
For a long moment, Sarah Dechalus thought the fire was trying to leap the 131 feet from the north tower to the south tower. Holding a fax that she had just picked off the machine, she watched from a window on the 98th floor of the south tower as orbs of fire blew
from the north tower. In minutes, the television cameras of the world would be pointing at the same scene. Now Dechalus stood at the precise altitude where Flight 11 had struck the other tower. On the same floor, Marissa Panigrosso had been at her desk listening to Donna Summer music on headphones, so she felt the explosion as much as heard it. A hot blast slapped her in the face, as if the door of an oven had suddenly been thrown open. So intense was the heat that papers on desks were singed. Whatever had happened in the north tower, waves of anxiety were now moving through the south tower.
from the north tower. In minutes, the television cameras of the world would be pointing at the same scene. Now Dechalus stood at the precise altitude where Flight 11 had struck the other tower. On the same floor, Marissa Panigrosso had been at her desk listening to Donna Summer music on headphones, so she felt the explosion as much as heard it. A hot blast slapped her in the face, as if the door of an oven had suddenly been thrown open. So intense was the heat that papers on desks were singed. Whatever had happened in the north tower, waves of anxiety were now moving through the south tower.
In their offices—Dechalus and Panigrosso worked for Aon, an insurance company—the steady, regular momentum of a workday suddenly slumped. In its place came the clatter of alarm. Panigrosso rose. All around her, people stood. Some screamed. Dechalus ran for the elevator. Panigrosso was stuck in place. She sat one desk from the window, but feared going any closer. Others edged forward, because they had to know.
“Get away from the windows,” a New York–accented voice commanded. “Everybody get away. Stay calm. Go to the stairs.”
It was Eric Eisenberg, one of the bosses at Aon. A new element was shaping the day: not ritual, not shock, but instructions. Panigrosso snapped out of her fog. “Let’s get moving,” Eisenberg hollered. She followed him and another supervisor, Gary Herold, toward the stairway.
Dechalus, waiting at the elevators, did not hear these directions. She carried an ID card, but not her Palm Pilot, or money, or even her handbag. Maybe she should get them. Suddenly, Eisenberg turned up in the elevator lobby. “Start going down the stairs,” he ordered. Dechalus turned for the stairway, along with others who had been waiting for the elevator. She ran into Panigrosso. Eisenberg, meanwhile, continued his rounds.
At that hour, thirty-two Aon employees had arrived at work on the 98th floor. On the other side of the building, Sean Rooney also had gotten a glimpse at the devastation. He called his wife, Beverly Eckert, at her job in Connecticut, but she had not yet arrived. He left a voice-mail message for her shortly before nine.
“Hey, Beverly, this is Sean, in case you get this message. There has been an explosion in World Trade One—that’s the other building. It looks like a plane struck it. It’s on fire at about the 90th floor.
“And it’s, it’s—it’s horrible. Bye.”
Deep inside the 84th floor of the south tower, surrounded by the hushing of air-conditioners that cooled the computer equipment, Richard Fern neither heard nor saw anything. His alert came when the lights flickered—a power waver—which he knew could cause problems with the systems he ran for Euro Brokers, a trading operation. He rose to investigate. On the trading floor, where many of the brokers began their day at seven in the morning, they now watched at the windows, appalled and frightened, discussing how a bomb must have gone off in the other tower. The place was crammed with computer screens, keyboards, digital displays. Tiny fans were clipped onto many of the computer screens to provide some relief from the heat of all that hardware.
At her desk in the “repo trading pit”—an area specializing in repurchase agreements involving currency trades—Patty Troxell heard the thump. She stayed at her desk, but the areas around the windows quickly became crowded. The faces that turned away were billboards of distress. Seated next to Troxell, her friend Karen Yagos spoke. “Grab your bag,” Yagos said. “We’re going.” Next to them, Ann McHugh also rose to leave. She had recently joined Euro Brokers from Cantor Fitzgerald, which operated in the other tower—and where she had been working in 1993. As the women headed toward the stairways, McHugh tried to calm Troxell. And Troxell’s boss, Ed Mardovich, well regarded for his cool temperament, did not even leave their cluster of desks. He told Edward Keslo, who had just begun work at Euro Brokers the day before, that the disruption probably involved the automatic window-washing gadget that ran on tracks along the outside of the building. Keslo decided to leave anyway, prodded by the alarm in the deportment of Jose Marrero, a jack-of-all-trades who worked for Euro Brokers’ facilities department. Marrero, who served as one of the fire wardens for the
floor, was anxious, but could not persuade many people to leave. Mardovich and nine others on the repurchase desk—half of the twenty people working there that morning—stayed. Nearly fifty of Euro Brokers’ traders also remained.
floor, was anxious, but could not persuade many people to leave. Mardovich and nine others on the repurchase desk—half of the twenty people working there that morning—stayed. Nearly fifty of Euro Brokers’ traders also remained.
All of them were seated or standing in the southeast corner of the tower, trying to look out the windows. Rich Fern had emerged from the computer room and got his first view of papers and flames drifting across the sky. He went to another office, and took in an even more distressing view of flames shooting from gashes in the other tower. More fire wardens appeared and started to usher people toward the stairs. These wardens, like Jose Marrero, were Euro Brokers employees who had volunteered to clear the floor during fires or provide guidance in a crisis in which evacuation might be required. The program had been given fresh emphasis at the trade center after the 1993 bombing, although wardens had been required for most skyscrapers long before then. In effect, they were a human measure meant to make up for what the Fire Department saw as the safety deficiencies in tall buildings like the trade center that had been erected under the 1968 building code. That code, championed by the real estate industry, had made it cheaper to build tall buildings and more profitable to own them. It had been enacted over numerous objections from the Fire Department, which complained that fire safety was being compromised. After fires in two new skyscrapers had killed five people in 1970, the city required owners of private skyscrapers to operate a fire warden program as part of Local Law 5, a package of safety measures enacted at the request of the fire commissioner, John T. O’Hagan.
As for the trade center, executives of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey often boasted that the agency had voluntarily used the 1968 code in the construction of the towers, even though it was not required to do so because it was not bound by the laws of either of the two states that had created the agency. But when it came to complying with Local Law 5, the Port Authority was sporadic; the real estate industry had challenged the legality of the new requirements, and not until the New York courts finally dismissed the case did the Port Authority move to install sprinklers, which
were generally regarded by fire-safety experts as the most critical of the new requirements, not to mention the costliest. Many of the other features of the law received nominal attention, if any. There was little the Fire Department could do about it. Private landlords caught slacking on Local Law 5 were forced to publish mea culpas in big display advertisements that explained the provisions of the law and their importance. The Port Authority, however, existed beyond the requirements of Local Law 5, and the all-but-invisible warden program was an example of the fitful role fire-safety issues had played in the daily life of the towers before the 1993 bombing. Now, Marrero and the other wardens were taking a powerful role in clearing out people who hesitated. Even so, they were having a hard time with some of their colleagues—particularly the ones who conducted financial trades.
were generally regarded by fire-safety experts as the most critical of the new requirements, not to mention the costliest. Many of the other features of the law received nominal attention, if any. There was little the Fire Department could do about it. Private landlords caught slacking on Local Law 5 were forced to publish mea culpas in big display advertisements that explained the provisions of the law and their importance. The Port Authority, however, existed beyond the requirements of Local Law 5, and the all-but-invisible warden program was an example of the fitful role fire-safety issues had played in the daily life of the towers before the 1993 bombing. Now, Marrero and the other wardens were taking a powerful role in clearing out people who hesitated. Even so, they were having a hard time with some of their colleagues—particularly the ones who conducted financial trades.
As the evacuation from Euro Brokers began, a television was tuned to CNN, which reported that a plane had crashed into the trade center. The report made it clear that the problem was confined to the north tower. Given that they were in the south tower, many on Euro Brokers’ trading floor were not prepared to bail out just then.
Under the Port Authority’s safety program, tenants could turn to the fire command desks in the lobbies for guidance in a crisis. These desks were staffed by fire-safety directors, positions that required training and certification, another requirement of Local Law 5. A single button permitted them to deliver public-address-system announcements; other equipment on the consoles enabled them to adjust ventilation systems and monitor elevators. A private contractor, OCS Security, provided the staff who manned them. The Port Authority had cut their numbers in 1997, eliminating positions in the “sky lobbies”—the 44th and 78th floors—that were not required by code after the installation of a new automated fire alarm system. In the south tower, the deputy fire-safety director on duty at the moment the crisis began was Phil Hayes, a retired firefighter who had worked for many years in Brooklyn. In the earliest moments
after the impact on the north tower, Hayes did not have any information or guidance for the tenants of the south tower; from his position in the lobby, he had no view of the blaze high above him, nor did he have the benefit of hearing from a fire safety director on the 44th and 78th floors who would have been able to see from those sky lobby windows, or would have heard from tenants on the high floors that the papers on their desks were singed by the heat of the fireball. Instead, he contacted his counterpart at the lobby desk in the north tower.
after the impact on the north tower, Hayes did not have any information or guidance for the tenants of the south tower; from his position in the lobby, he had no view of the blaze high above him, nor did he have the benefit of hearing from a fire safety director on the 44th and 78th floors who would have been able to see from those sky lobby windows, or would have heard from tenants on the high floors that the papers on their desks were singed by the heat of the fireball. Instead, he contacted his counterpart at the lobby desk in the north tower.
Phil Hayes:
Yeah, this is the, uh, fire command over at B tower.
Yeah, this is the, uh, fire command over at B tower.
Male A:
Yeah, we got, uh, a major explosion over at the trade center here. It might be an aircraft.
Yeah, we got, uh, a major explosion over at the trade center here. It might be an aircraft.
Phil Hayes:
Okay, yeah, we just wanted to get some direction on evacuation. But I’m not going to do anything until we hear the boss from the Fire Department or somebody.
Okay, yeah, we just wanted to get some direction on evacuation. But I’m not going to do anything until we hear the boss from the Fire Department or somebody.
Male A:
Okay.
Okay.
Phil Hayes:
Okay?
Okay?
Male A:
Okay.
Okay.
Phil Hayes:
Because we don’t know what it is yet.
Because we don’t know what it is yet.
Male A:
Okay.
Okay.
Phil Hayes:
Okay.
Okay.
With no clear understanding of what was happening, Hayes was being cautious about giving instructions to the people in the building. And upstairs, the tenants were proceeding by habit or instinct.
The messages had been delivered three or four times a year, and they could not have been more emphatic: In an emergency, do not go back to your desk to pick up anything. Just get up and go down the stairs. For eight years, Michael Otten had stood in the corridors of the 80th floor during those quarterly drills. They usually turned into schmooze sessions with friends from his company, Mizuho Capital Markets, and its corporate affiliate, Fuji Bank. Under one
name or another, the bank had space on every floor between 78 and 83. Not a few people, Otten included, would inch back toward work, if there was more pressing business and if the drills dragged on. Still, he had managed to absorb the instructions about getting out, fast. Despite all that training, and even with his boss, Yuji Goya, hollering that it was time to leave, Otten had turned back for the soft leather bag his wife had given him for Christmas, with the minidisk player and his cell phone and medical information for managing his son’s diabetes.
name or another, the bank had space on every floor between 78 and 83. Not a few people, Otten included, would inch back toward work, if there was more pressing business and if the drills dragged on. Still, he had managed to absorb the instructions about getting out, fast. Despite all that training, and even with his boss, Yuji Goya, hollering that it was time to leave, Otten had turned back for the soft leather bag his wife had given him for Christmas, with the minidisk player and his cell phone and medical information for managing his son’s diabetes.
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