three weeks, he was on the phone daily with Tenet and the FBI—Bernie Kerik,
the new director, from New York, had been there for a few days now—and he hoped that
his insistence would work its way down that sclerotic bureaucracy. Well, Labor Day
had come and gone without incident, so maybe there was some breathing room. But that
Hersh piece was only likely to feed the classic Washington “cover your ass” mentality.
Which was why the event at the Miami airport the next day was such a welcome relief
for the president: a chance to share clearly good news with the country.
It was Gore’s attempt to answer one of the most nettlesome annoyances of middle-class
life in the America of 2001: air travel. For millions of middle-class and professional
men and women, the simple matter of taking to the skies had become hell on earth.
An antiquated air-traffic-control system, overscheduling of flights, and the rush
of travelers to enjoy cheap airfares had combined to strangle the system. Some ninety
million passengers had suffered delays or cancellations in just the first seven months
of 2000.
“I know airline delays may not rank with poverty and pollution and nuclear proliferation,”
he told his senior advisors, “but it’s one of those nuisances that can ruin a week.
If we could do something to make it better, it would be a huge political plus.”
So on April 15, 2001—a date chosen so he could offer “a small piece of good news from
the government to whom you have just sent your taxes”—President Gore had signed off
on a simple, highly consequential step. For years, military “air corridors” across
the United States had been reserved for use by the Armed Forces. With the Cold War
over, with the prospect of combat with any hostile power so remote, the president
went to Newark airport on Tax Day to announce that he was opening the two East Coast
corridors to commercial travel.
The results were impressive and, by the standards of government actions, swift. By
June, when the summer travel season began in earnest, flight delays out of the three
major New York airports had been cut nearly in half. When thunderstorms erupted, as
they sometimes did during summer months, no one could do much about the delays that
followed. But on a bright, clear day, it was almost commonplace for flights to depart
more or less on schedule. And it was on just such a day that President Gore traveled
to Miami to celebrate the achievement. It was a perfect trifecta for the beleaguered
president: the use of executive power to achieve a goal that would be directly felt
by a critical voting bloc even as the gridlocked legislative process had stalled his
agenda; a chance for an appearance in the state that had given him the White House,
and would likely be critical again; and an appearance on as perfect a late-summer
day as anyone could want, just as the regiments of business travelers would be returning
to the skies after the summer vacations. Tuesday, September 11.
There was no way it should have led to the worst day in American history.
September 11, 2001
“I can’t believe it!” First Officer LeRoy Homer said to Jason Dahl, the pilot of the
Boeing 757. “Wheels up at 8:10? At Newark? When was the last time we didn’t sit on
the tarmac for an hour?”
“Weather’s perfect, for a change,” Captain Dahl said, noting the bright-blue sky,
no storms anywhere, and a lot more room for commercial jets to fly, thanks to President
Gore’s opening of those military air corridors. Moreover, the FAA was paying special
attention to the travels of the president this day; extra air-traffic controllers
had been quietly assigned to the nation’s busiest airports, to lessen the risk of
embarrassing delays on the morning the president was to celebrate easing the pain
of air travelers.
So United Flight 93, bound for San Francisco out of Newark International Airport,
took
the new director, from New York, had been there for a few days now—and he hoped that
his insistence would work its way down that sclerotic bureaucracy. Well, Labor Day
had come and gone without incident, so maybe there was some breathing room. But that
Hersh piece was only likely to feed the classic Washington “cover your ass” mentality.
Which was why the event at the Miami airport the next day was such a welcome relief
for the president: a chance to share clearly good news with the country.
It was Gore’s attempt to answer one of the most nettlesome annoyances of middle-class
life in the America of 2001: air travel. For millions of middle-class and professional
men and women, the simple matter of taking to the skies had become hell on earth.
An antiquated air-traffic-control system, overscheduling of flights, and the rush
of travelers to enjoy cheap airfares had combined to strangle the system. Some ninety
million passengers had suffered delays or cancellations in just the first seven months
of 2000.
“I know airline delays may not rank with poverty and pollution and nuclear proliferation,”
he told his senior advisors, “but it’s one of those nuisances that can ruin a week.
If we could do something to make it better, it would be a huge political plus.”
So on April 15, 2001—a date chosen so he could offer “a small piece of good news from
the government to whom you have just sent your taxes”—President Gore had signed off
on a simple, highly consequential step. For years, military “air corridors” across
the United States had been reserved for use by the Armed Forces. With the Cold War
over, with the prospect of combat with any hostile power so remote, the president
went to Newark airport on Tax Day to announce that he was opening the two East Coast
corridors to commercial travel.
The results were impressive and, by the standards of government actions, swift. By
June, when the summer travel season began in earnest, flight delays out of the three
major New York airports had been cut nearly in half. When thunderstorms erupted, as
they sometimes did during summer months, no one could do much about the delays that
followed. But on a bright, clear day, it was almost commonplace for flights to depart
more or less on schedule. And it was on just such a day that President Gore traveled
to Miami to celebrate the achievement. It was a perfect trifecta for the beleaguered
president: the use of executive power to achieve a goal that would be directly felt
by a critical voting bloc even as the gridlocked legislative process had stalled his
agenda; a chance for an appearance in the state that had given him the White House,
and would likely be critical again; and an appearance on as perfect a late-summer
day as anyone could want, just as the regiments of business travelers would be returning
to the skies after the summer vacations. Tuesday, September 11.
There was no way it should have led to the worst day in American history.
September 11, 2001
“I can’t believe it!” First Officer LeRoy Homer said to Jason Dahl, the pilot of the
Boeing 757. “Wheels up at 8:10? At Newark? When was the last time we didn’t sit on
the tarmac for an hour?”
“Weather’s perfect, for a change,” Captain Dahl said, noting the bright-blue sky,
no storms anywhere, and a lot more room for commercial jets to fly, thanks to President
Gore’s opening of those military air corridors. Moreover, the FAA was paying special
attention to the travels of the president this day; extra air-traffic controllers
had been quietly assigned to the nation’s busiest airports, to lessen the risk of
embarrassing delays on the morning the president was to celebrate easing the pain
of air travelers.
So United Flight 93, bound for San Francisco out of Newark International Airport,
took
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