Against All Enemies (4 page)

I
RAN THROUGH THE
W
EST
W
ING
to the Vice President's office, oblivious to the stares and concern that brought. I had been at a conference in the Ronald Reagan Building three blocks away when Lisa Gordon-Hagerty called to say an aircraft had struck the World Trade Center: “Until we know what this is, Dick, we should assume the worst.” Lisa had been in the center of crisis coordination many times in exercises and all too often in the real world.

“Right. Activate the CSG on secure video. I'll be there in less than five,” I told her as I ran to my car. The CSG was the Counterterrorism Security Group, the leaders of each of the federal government's counterterrorism and security organizations. I had chaired it since 1992. It was on a five-minute tether during business hours, twenty minutes at all other times. I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was 9:03 a.m., September 11, 2001.

As I drove up to the first White House gate Lisa called again: “The other tower was just hit.” “Well, now we know who we're dealing with. I want the highest-level person in Washington from each agency on-screen now, especially FAA,” the Federal Aviation Administration.

As I pulled the car up to the West Wing door, Paul Kurtz, one of the White House counterterrorism team, ran up to me. “We were in the Morning Staff Meeting when we heard. Condi told me to find you fast and broke up the meeting. She's with Cheney.”

Bursting in on the Vice President and Condi—Condoleezza Rice, the President's National Security Advisor—alone in Cheney's office, I caught my breath. Cheney was famously implacable, but I thought I saw a reflection of horror on his face. “What do you think?” he asked.

“It's an al Qaeda attack and they like simultaneous attacks. This may not be over.”

“Okay, Dick,” Condi said, “you're the crisis manager, what do you recommend?” She and I had discussed what we would do if and when another terrorist attack hit. In June I had given her a checklist of things to do after an attack, in part to underline my belief that something big was coming and that we needed to go on the offensive.

“We're putting together a secure teleconference to manage the crisis,” I replied. “I'd like to get the highest-ranking official from each department.” My mind was already racing, developing a new list of what had to be done and done now.

“Do it,” the Vice President ordered.

“Secret Service wants us to go to the bomb shelter,” Condi added.

I nodded. “I would and…I would evacuate the White House.”

Cheney began to gather up his papers. In his outer office the normal Secret Service presence was two agents. As I left, I counted eight, ready to move to the PEOC, the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, a bunker in the East Wing.

Just off the main floor of the Situation Room on the ground level of the West Wing is a Secure Video Conferencing Center, a clone of the Situation Room conference room except for the bank of monitors in the far wall opposite the chairman's seat. Like the conference room the Video Center is small and paneled with dark wood. The presidential seal hangs on the wall over the chair at the head of the table.

On my way through the Operations Center of the Situation Room, Ralph Seigler, the longtime Situation Room deputy director, grabbed me. “We're on the line with NORAD, on an air threat conference call.” That was a procedure instituted by the North American Aerospace Defense Command during the Cold War to alert the White House when Soviet bombers got too close to U.S. airspace.

“Where's POTUS? Who have we got with him?” I asked, as we moved quickly together through the center, using the White House staff jargon for the President.

“He's in a kindergarten in Florida. Deb's with him.” Deb was Navy Captain Deborah Lower, the director of the White House Situation Room. “We have a line open to her cell.”

As I entered the Video Center, Lisa Gordon-Hagerty was taking the roll and I could see people rushing into studios around the city: Donald Rumsfeld at Defense and George Tenet at CIA. But at many of the sites the Principal was traveling. The Attorney General was in Milwaukee, so Larry Thompson, the Deputy, was at Justice. Rich Armitage, the number two at State, was filling in for Colin Powell, who was in Peru. Air Force four-star General Dick Myers was filling in for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Hugh Shelton, who was over the Atlantic. Bob Mueller was at the FBI, but he had just started that job.

Each Principal was supported by his or her member of the CSG and behind them staffs could be seen frantically yelling on telephones and grabbing papers. Condi Rice walked in behind me with her Deputy, Steve Hadley. “Do you want to chair this as a Principals meeting?” I asked. Rice, as National Security Advisor, chaired the Principals Committee, which consisted of the Secretaries of State and Defense, the CIA Director, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and often now the Vice President.

“No. You run it.” I pushed aside the chair at the head of the table and stood there, Condi visibly by my side.

“Let's begin. Calmly. We will do this in crisis mode, which means keep your microphones off unless you're speaking. If you want to speak, wave at the camera. If it's something you don't want everyone to hear, call me on the red phone.”

Rice would later be criticized in the press by unnamed participants of the meeting for “just standing around.” From my obviously partial perspective, she had shown courage by standing back. She knew it looked odd, but she also had enough self-confidence to feel no need to be in the chair. She did not want to waste time. I thought back to the scene in this room when the Oklahoma City bombing took place. President Clinton had walked in and sat down, chairing the CSG video conference for a few minutes. While it showed high-level concern and we were glad to have him there, it would have slowed down our response if he had stayed.

“You're going to need some decisions quickly,” Rice said off camera. “I'm going to the PEOC to be with the Vice President. Tell us what you need.”

“What I need is an open line to Cheney and you.” I turned to my White House Fellow, Army Major Mike Fenzel. The highly competitive process that selected White House fellows had turned out some extraordinary people over the years, such as another army major named Colin Powell. “Mike,” I said, “go with Condi to the PEOC and open a secure line to me. I'll relay the decisions we need to you.”

Fenzel was used to pressure. As a lieutenant, he had driven his Bradley Fighting Vehicle down the runway of an Iraqi air base shooting up MiGs and taking return fire. As a captain, he had led a company of infantry into war-torn Liberia and faced down a mob outside the U.S. embassy. (Eighteen months after 9/11, Fenzel would be the first man to parachute out of his C-17 in a nighttime combat jump into Iraq.)

“Okay,” I began. “Let's start with the facts. FAA, FAA, go.” I fell into using the style of communication on tactical radio so that those listening in the other studios around town could hear who was being called on over the din in their own rooms.

Jane Garvey, the administrator of the Federal Aviation Administration, was in the chair. “The two aircraft that went in were American flight 11, a 767, and United 175, also a 767. Hijacked.”

“Jane, where's Norm?” I asked. They were frantically looking for Norman Mineta, the Secretary of Transportation, and, like me, a rare holdover from the Clinton administration. At first, FAA could not find him. “Well, Jane, can you order aircraft down? We're going to have to clear the airspace around Washington and New York.”

“We may have to do a lot more than that, Dick. I already put a hold on all takeoffs and landings in New York and Washington, but we have reports of eleven aircraft off course or out of communications, maybe hijacked.”

Lisa slowly whispered, “Oh shit.” All conversation had stopped in the studios on the screens. Everyone was listening.

“Eleven,” I repeated. “Okay, Jane, how long will it take to get all aircraft now aloft onto the ground somewhere?” My mind flashed back to 1995 when I asked FAA to ground all U.S. flights over the Pacific because of a terrorist threat, causing chaos for days. It had taken hours then to find the Secretary of Transportation, Federico Peña.

“The air traffic manager,” Jane went on, “says there are 4,400 birds up now. We can cancel all takeoffs quickly, but grounding them all that are already up…Nobody's ever done this before. Don't know how long it will take. By the way, its Ben's first day on the job.” Garvey was referring to Ben Sliney, the very new National Operations Manager at FAA.

“Jane, if you haven't found the Secretary yet, are you prepared to order a national ground stop and no fly zone?”

“Yes, but it will take a while.” Shortly thereafter, Mineta called in from his car and I asked him to come directly to the Situation Room. He had two sons who were pilots for United. He did not know where they were that day. I suggested he join the Vice President.

Roger Cressey, my deputy and a marathoner, had run eight blocks from his doctor's office. Convincing the Uniformed Secret Service guards to let him back into the compound, Roger pressed through to the Situation Room. I was relieved to see him.

I turned to the Pentagon screen. “JCS, JCS. I assume NORAD has scrambled fighters and AWACS. How many? Where?”

“Not a pretty picture, Dick.” Dick Myers, himself a fighter pilot, knew that the days when we had scores of fighters on strip alert had ended with the Cold War. “We are in the middle of Vigilant Warrior, a NORAD exercise, but…Otis has launched two birds toward New York. Langley is trying to get two up now. The AWACS are at Tinker and not on alert.” Otis was an Air National Guard base on Cape Cod. Langley Air Force Base was outside Norfolk, Virginia. Tinker AFB, home to all of America's flying radar stations, was in Oklahoma.

“Okay, how long to CAP over D.C.?” Combat Air Patrol, CAP, was something we were used to placing over Iraq, not over our nation's capital.

“Fast as we can. Fifteen minutes?” Myers asked, looking at the generals and colonels around him. It was now 9:28.

I thought about the 1998 simultaneous attacks on the American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. There was the possibility now of multiple simultaneous attacks in several countries. “State, State. DOD, DOD. We have to assume there will be simultaneous attacks on us overseas. We need to close the embassies. Move DOD bases to combat Threatcon.”

The television screen in the upper left was running CNN on mute. Noticing the President coming on, Lisa turned on the volume and the crisis conference halted to listen. “…into the World Trade Center in an apparent terrorist attack on our country.”

During the pause, I noticed that Brian Stafford, Director of the Secret Service, was now in the room. He pulled me aside. “We gotta get him out of there to someplace safe…and secret. I've stashed FLOTUS.” FLOTUS was White House speak for Mrs. Bush, First Lady of the United States, now in a heavily guarded, unmarked building in Washington. Stafford had been President Clinton's bodyguard, led the presidential protection detail. Everyone knew that, despite the Elvis hairstyle, Stafford was solid and serious. He told presidents what to do, politely and in a soft Southern drawl, but in a way that left little room for discussion.

Franklin Miller, my colleague and Special Assistant to the President for Defense Affairs, joined Stafford. Frank squeezed my bicep. “Guess I'm working for you today. What can I do?” With him was a member of his staff, Marine Corps Colonel Tom Greenwood.

“Can you work with Brian,” I told Miller. “Figure out where to move the President? He can't come back here till we know what the shit is happening.” I knew that would not go down well with the Commander in Chief. “And Tom,” I directed at Colonel Greenwood, “work with Roger—Cressey—on getting some CAP here—fast.”

Stafford had another request. “When Air Force One takes off, can it have fighter escorts?”

“Sure, we can ask,” Miller replied, “but you guys know that CAP, fighter escorts, they can't just shoot down planes inside the United States. We'll need an order.” Miller had spent two decades working in the Pentagon and knew that the military would want clear instructions before they used force.

I picked up the open line to the PEOC. I got a dial tone. Someone had hung up on the other end. I punched the PEOC button on the large, white secure phone that had twenty speed dial buttons. When Major Fenzel got on the line I gave him the first three decisions we needed. “Mike, somebody has to tell the President he can't come right back here. Cheney, Condi, somebody. Secret Service concurs. We do not want them saying where they are going when they take off. Second, when they take off, they should have fighter escort. Three, we need to authorize the Air Force to shoot down any aircraft—including a hijacked passenger flight—that looks like it is threatening to attack and cause large-scale death on the ground. Got it?”

“Roger that, Dick, get right back to you.” Fenzel was, I thought, optimistic about how long decisions like that would take.

I resumed the video conference. “FAA, FAA, go. Status report. How many aircraft do you still carry as hijacked?”

Garvey read from a list: “All aircraft have been ordered to land at the nearest field. Here's what we have as potential hijacks: Delta 1989 over West Virginia, United 93 over Pennsylvania…”