work by a shortage of computers.
The frequent budgetary shortfalls at the Counterterrorist Center had left the unit without all of the technology it needed to deal with the attacks that morning. Congress and the White House had consistently financed the CTC with an on-again, off-again approach—after a terrorist strike, the money came flooding in. Then, when the strike faded from memory, cash dried up. Managers at the center had been forced to cut back on equipment and operations in order to stay afloat. On this horrific morning, no one in the unit doubted that a new and huge injection of funds would soon be on the way. But that prospect was no help in navigating the crisis now.
Then a supervisor had an idea. Almost all of CIA headquarters had been evacuated; the CTC was the only unit that remained fully staffed, despite concerns that those who stayed might be killed in a subsequent attack. There were computers everywhere in the building—some packed for delivery, others on people’s desks. There was a way to close the equipment gap after all.
The CTC could start stealing.
Staffers were sent out to track down whatever equipment they could find at other CIA divisions. Over the next twenty minutes, they returned carrying tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of computers.
• • •
At the Justice Department command center, a young lawyer named John Yoo sat at a tacky wood-laminated table, fielding questions from officials all over Washington.
Two months before, Yoo had joined the Office of Legal Counsel, a little-known unit of the department that provides legal advice to the executive branch, a responsibility that earned it the nickname “the president’s law firm.” To take the post, Yoo had gone on leave from his job as a professor at the University of California’s Berkeley School of Law, where he had gained a reputation as an expert on international law, American foreign policy, and separation of powers under the Constitution. For years, he had written articles for law reviews about the scope of presidential authority, arguing that in a time of war, the executive had a sweeping claim to act independently from the other branches of government.
His first months at Justice had been quiet and his assignments pedestrian, like analyzing a treaty about polar bears. But now, in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks, Yoo’s legal expertise was suddenly a gold mine.
The questions were momentous. Are we at war? Had the terrorists just fired the first shot? Can we use force in response? What level of force? If we know that the terrorist group behind this is in Afghanistan, can we attack there?
Calmly, Yoo recited the same answers over and over. “We’ve been attacked,” he said. “We’re in a state of war and can use force in response.”
But, he added, there were conventions governing the tactics. Any action would have to be proportionate, and anyone targeted must be a combatant.
There were also rules, he said, that applied to how to treat captured enemies. “You can’t use force just to interrogate.”
• • •
Air Force One leveled off at forty-five thousand feet, far higher than most commercial jets could fly. Inside, television monitors were turned to a local Fox news broadcast; the signal stayed strong because the aircraft was circling over the Sarasota area, its pilots unsure where to go and fearful that the president’s plane might be attacked.
That concern was sparked by an anonymous phone call that morning to the Secret Service claiming that Air Force One was the terrorists’ next target. Officials who heard about the threat considered it credible because, they were told, the caller had used the code word for the president’s plane—Angel. But that proved to be false; the reporting agent, in relaying the message about the call to his superiors, had spoken the code word. The caller hadn’t.
In response, a group of F-16 fighters were scrambled, under orders to escort
The frequent budgetary shortfalls at the Counterterrorist Center had left the unit without all of the technology it needed to deal with the attacks that morning. Congress and the White House had consistently financed the CTC with an on-again, off-again approach—after a terrorist strike, the money came flooding in. Then, when the strike faded from memory, cash dried up. Managers at the center had been forced to cut back on equipment and operations in order to stay afloat. On this horrific morning, no one in the unit doubted that a new and huge injection of funds would soon be on the way. But that prospect was no help in navigating the crisis now.
Then a supervisor had an idea. Almost all of CIA headquarters had been evacuated; the CTC was the only unit that remained fully staffed, despite concerns that those who stayed might be killed in a subsequent attack. There were computers everywhere in the building—some packed for delivery, others on people’s desks. There was a way to close the equipment gap after all.
The CTC could start stealing.
Staffers were sent out to track down whatever equipment they could find at other CIA divisions. Over the next twenty minutes, they returned carrying tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of computers.
• • •
At the Justice Department command center, a young lawyer named John Yoo sat at a tacky wood-laminated table, fielding questions from officials all over Washington.
Two months before, Yoo had joined the Office of Legal Counsel, a little-known unit of the department that provides legal advice to the executive branch, a responsibility that earned it the nickname “the president’s law firm.” To take the post, Yoo had gone on leave from his job as a professor at the University of California’s Berkeley School of Law, where he had gained a reputation as an expert on international law, American foreign policy, and separation of powers under the Constitution. For years, he had written articles for law reviews about the scope of presidential authority, arguing that in a time of war, the executive had a sweeping claim to act independently from the other branches of government.
His first months at Justice had been quiet and his assignments pedestrian, like analyzing a treaty about polar bears. But now, in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks, Yoo’s legal expertise was suddenly a gold mine.
The questions were momentous. Are we at war? Had the terrorists just fired the first shot? Can we use force in response? What level of force? If we know that the terrorist group behind this is in Afghanistan, can we attack there?
Calmly, Yoo recited the same answers over and over. “We’ve been attacked,” he said. “We’re in a state of war and can use force in response.”
But, he added, there were conventions governing the tactics. Any action would have to be proportionate, and anyone targeted must be a combatant.
There were also rules, he said, that applied to how to treat captured enemies. “You can’t use force just to interrogate.”
• • •
Air Force One leveled off at forty-five thousand feet, far higher than most commercial jets could fly. Inside, television monitors were turned to a local Fox news broadcast; the signal stayed strong because the aircraft was circling over the Sarasota area, its pilots unsure where to go and fearful that the president’s plane might be attacked.
That concern was sparked by an anonymous phone call that morning to the Secret Service claiming that Air Force One was the terrorists’ next target. Officials who heard about the threat considered it credible because, they were told, the caller had used the code word for the president’s plane—Angel. But that proved to be false; the reporting agent, in relaying the message about the call to his superiors, had spoken the code word. The caller hadn’t.
In response, a group of F-16 fighters were scrambled, under orders to escort
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