off just when it was supposed to; as did American Flight 11 out of Boston’s Logan
Airport, headed for Los Angeles; United 175, also headed from Boston to L.A.; and
American Flight 77, leaving Washington’s Dulles International for Los Angeles. With
only thirty-seven passengers on board United 93, it promised to be an easy day’s work
for the seven-person flight crew. For flight attendant CeeCee Lyles, it was a particular
contrast to her previous work; for six years she had worked as a police office and
detective in Fort Pierce, Florida, before leaving in 2000 to take up the work she
had wanted since childhood. Lyles would often recall how some in her family thought
a flight attendant’s work was more dangerous than police work. Sure, if you’re threatened by a passenger who wants one more drink.
It was just after the plane had reached cruising altitude—8:40 a.m.—when three men
suddenly stood up, wrapped red bandanas around their heads, and forced their way into
the cockpit. A moment later, a voice came over the loudspeaker system:
“Ladies and gentlemen: Here the captain. Please sit down and keep remaining sitting.
We have a bomb on board. So, sit.”
Within minutes, several of the passengers had gotten on their cell phones or the onboard
Airfones to call home and report what was happening. But as far as the plane’s passengers
and those at home knew, this was a hijacking no different from the ones that had plagued
the world decades earlier; presumably, the hijackers would fly the plane to Cuba or
some other foreign destination, release their demands, and eventually, the passengers
would be set free. Indeed, a moment later, the plane made a sharp turn and began heading
southeast, destination unknown.
It was not until CeeCee Lyles reached her sister at 9 a.m. that anyone on board had
a sense of what was happening.
“I’m watching the TV,” her sister said, “and they’re saying that a small plane just
crashed into the World Trade Center. An accident, they’re saying.”
“I’ve got to go,” Lyles said. She ran to the back of the plane, where most of the
passengers and crew had been herded, and told them what had just happened at the World
Trade Center. “I think we’ve got to take this plane back,” she said. “This can’t possibly
be a coincidence.”
Three minutes later, as the passengers and crew were trying to determine what to do
next, Lyles’s phone rang again.
“Another plane just hit the other tower!” her sister screamed.
“All right, let’s roll!” passenger Todd Beamer said to the group.
And if the passengers had had a little more time, if United 93 had been delayed even
by fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps they could have seized control of the plane,
or at least taken it down before it reached its destination.
But time had run out. Because President Gore was determined to broaden his appeal
to the American middle class with a simple change in air-traffic rules, United 93
took off on time that day; which meant there was no gap between the hijacking of the
flight and the three other jets—which meant that at 9:04 a.m. on the morning of September
11, 2001, United 93 was two minutes away from a direct hit on the United States Capitol.
* * *
It was a matter of protocol that put Dennis Hastert on the floor of the House of Representatives
at nine o’clock in the morning. Every fourth legislative day, the speaker of the House
was required to open the session. And it was the unlikeliest confluence of events
that had put Denny Hastert in the speaker’s chair. A stocky, genial, unprepossessing
man, Hastert had become a well-known figure in Yorkville, Illinois, as a high school
teacher and wrestling coach—so well known that he’d won a seat in the Illinois House
in 1980 and a seat in the U.S. House six years later. His affable personality and
his friendship with House Republican leader Robert Michel won
Airport, headed for Los Angeles; United 175, also headed from Boston to L.A.; and
American Flight 77, leaving Washington’s Dulles International for Los Angeles. With
only thirty-seven passengers on board United 93, it promised to be an easy day’s work
for the seven-person flight crew. For flight attendant CeeCee Lyles, it was a particular
contrast to her previous work; for six years she had worked as a police office and
detective in Fort Pierce, Florida, before leaving in 2000 to take up the work she
had wanted since childhood. Lyles would often recall how some in her family thought
a flight attendant’s work was more dangerous than police work. Sure, if you’re threatened by a passenger who wants one more drink.
It was just after the plane had reached cruising altitude—8:40 a.m.—when three men
suddenly stood up, wrapped red bandanas around their heads, and forced their way into
the cockpit. A moment later, a voice came over the loudspeaker system:
“Ladies and gentlemen: Here the captain. Please sit down and keep remaining sitting.
We have a bomb on board. So, sit.”
Within minutes, several of the passengers had gotten on their cell phones or the onboard
Airfones to call home and report what was happening. But as far as the plane’s passengers
and those at home knew, this was a hijacking no different from the ones that had plagued
the world decades earlier; presumably, the hijackers would fly the plane to Cuba or
some other foreign destination, release their demands, and eventually, the passengers
would be set free. Indeed, a moment later, the plane made a sharp turn and began heading
southeast, destination unknown.
It was not until CeeCee Lyles reached her sister at 9 a.m. that anyone on board had
a sense of what was happening.
“I’m watching the TV,” her sister said, “and they’re saying that a small plane just
crashed into the World Trade Center. An accident, they’re saying.”
“I’ve got to go,” Lyles said. She ran to the back of the plane, where most of the
passengers and crew had been herded, and told them what had just happened at the World
Trade Center. “I think we’ve got to take this plane back,” she said. “This can’t possibly
be a coincidence.”
Three minutes later, as the passengers and crew were trying to determine what to do
next, Lyles’s phone rang again.
“Another plane just hit the other tower!” her sister screamed.
“All right, let’s roll!” passenger Todd Beamer said to the group.
And if the passengers had had a little more time, if United 93 had been delayed even
by fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps they could have seized control of the plane,
or at least taken it down before it reached its destination.
But time had run out. Because President Gore was determined to broaden his appeal
to the American middle class with a simple change in air-traffic rules, United 93
took off on time that day; which meant there was no gap between the hijacking of the
flight and the three other jets—which meant that at 9:04 a.m. on the morning of September
11, 2001, United 93 was two minutes away from a direct hit on the United States Capitol.
* * *
It was a matter of protocol that put Dennis Hastert on the floor of the House of Representatives
at nine o’clock in the morning. Every fourth legislative day, the speaker of the House
was required to open the session. And it was the unlikeliest confluence of events
that had put Denny Hastert in the speaker’s chair. A stocky, genial, unprepossessing
man, Hastert had become a well-known figure in Yorkville, Illinois, as a high school
teacher and wrestling coach—so well known that he’d won a seat in the Illinois House
in 1980 and a seat in the U.S. House six years later. His affable personality and
his friendship with House Republican leader Robert Michel won
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