11 briefing, delivered by a bright CIA analyst named Mike Morell, covered Russia, China, and the Palestinian uprising in the West Bank and Gaza Strip.
Shortly after the PDB, we left for a visit to Emma E. Booker Elementary School to highlight education reform.
On the short walk from the motorcade to the classroom, Karl Rove mentioned that an airplane had crashed into the World Trade Center. That sounded strange. I envisioned a little propeller plane horribly lost. Then Condi called. I spoke to her from a secure phone in a classroom that had been converted into a communications center for the traveling White House staff. She told me the plane that had just struck the Trade Center tower was not a light aircraft. It was a commercial jetliner.
I was stunned. That plane must have had the worst pilot in the world. How could he possibly have flown into a skyscraper on a clear day? Maybe he’d had a heart attack. I told Condi to stay on top of the situation and asked my communications director, Dan Bartlett, to work on a statement promising the full support of federal emergency management services.
I greeted Booker’s principal, a friendly woman named Gwen Rigell. She introduced me to the teacher, Sandra Kay Daniels, and her roomful of second-graders. Mrs. Daniels led the class through a reading drill. After a few minutes, she told the students to pick up their lesson books. I sensed a presence behind me. Andy Card pressed his head next to mine and whispered in my ear.
“A second plane hit the second tower,” he said, pronouncing each word deliberately in his Massachusetts accent. “America is under attack.”
Andy Card delivering the terrible news.
My first reaction was outrage. Someone had dared attack America. They were going to pay. Then I looked at the faces of the children in front of me. I thought about the contrast between the brutality of the attackers and the innocence of those children. Millions like them would soon be counting on me to protect them. I was determined not to let them down.
I saw reporters at the back of the room, learning the news on their cell phones and pagers. Instinct kicked in. I knew my reaction would be recorded and beamed throughout the world. The nation would be in shock; the president could not be. If I stormed out hastily, it would scare the children and send ripples of panic throughout the country.
The reading lesson continued, but my mind raced far from the classroom. Who could have done this? How bad was the damage? What did the government need to do?
Press Secretary Ari Fleischer positioned himself between the reporters and me. He held up a sign that read “Don’t say anything yet.” I didn’t plan to. I had settled on a plan of action: When the lesson ended, I would leave the classroom calmly, gather the facts, and speak to the nation.
About seven minutes after Andy entered the classroom, I returned to the hold room, into which someone had wheeled a television. I watched in horror as the footage of the second plane hitting the south tower replayed in slow motion. The huge fireball and explosion of smoke were worse than I had imagined. The country would be shaken, and I needed to get on TV right away. I scribbled out my statement longhand. I wanted to assure the American people that the government was responding and that we would bring the perpetrators to justice. Then I wanted to get back to Washington as quickly as possible.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a difficult moment for America,” I began. “… Two airplanes have crashed into the World Trade Center in an apparent terrorist attack on our country.” There was an audible gasp from the audience of parents and community members, who were expecting a speech on education. “Terrorism against our nation will not stand,” I said. I closed by asking for a moment of silence for the victims.
Later, I learned that my words had echoed Dad’s promise that “this aggression will not stand” after Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. The repetition was not intentional. In my notes, I had written, “Terrorism against America will not succeed.” Dad’s words must have been buried in my subconscious, waiting to surface during another moment of crisis.
The Secret Service wanted to get me to Air Force One, and fast. As the motorcade charged down Florida Route 41, I called Condi from the secure phone in the limo. She told me there had been a third plane crash, this one into the Pentagon. I sat back in my seat and absorbed her words. My thoughts clarified: The first plane could have been an accident. The second was definitely an attack. The third was a declaration of war.
My blood was boiling. We were going to find out who did this, and kick their ass.
The shift to wartime was visible at the airport. Agents carrying assault rifles surrounded Air Force One. Two of the flight attendants stood at the top of the stairs. Their faces betrayed their fear and sadness. I knew millions of Americans would be feeling the same way. I hugged the flight attendants and told them it would be okay.
I stepped into the presidential cabin and asked to be alone. I thought about the fear that must have seized the passengers on those planes and the grief that would grip the families of the dead. So many people had lost their loved ones with no warning. I prayed that God would comfort the suffering and guide the country through this trial. I thought of the lyrics from one of my favorite hymns, “God of Grace and God of Glory”: “Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour.”
While my emotions might have been similar to those of most Americans, my duties were not. There would be time later to mourn. There would be an opportunity to seek justice. But first I had to manage the crisis. We had suffered the most devastating surprise attack since Pearl Harbor. An enemy had struck our capital for the first time since the War of 1812. In a single morning, the purpose of my presidency had grown clear: to protect our people and defend our freedom that had come under attack.
The first step of any successful crisis response is to project calm. That was what I had tried to do in Florida. Next, we needed to sort out the facts, take action to secure the nation, and help the affected areas recover. Over time, we had to devise a strategy to bring the terrorists to justice so they would not strike again.
I called Dick Cheney as Air Force One climbed rapidly to forty-five thousand feet, well above our typical cruising altitude. He had been taken to the underground Presidential Emergency Operations Center—the PEOC— when the Secret Service thought a plane might be coming at the White House. I told him that I would make decisions from the air and count on him to implement them on the ground.
On the phone with Dick Cheney aboard Air Force One on 9/11.
Two big decisions came quickly. The military had dispatched Combat Air Patrols—teams of fighter aircraft assigned to intercept unresponsive airplanes—over Washington and New York. Air-to-air intercepting was what I had trained to do as an F-102 pilot in the Texas Air National Guard thirty years earlier. In that era, we assumed the targeted aircraft would be a Soviet bomber. Now it would be a commercial airliner full of innocent people.
We needed to clarify the rules of engagement. I told Dick that our pilots should contact suspicious planes and try to get them to land peacefully. If that failed, they had my authority to shoot them down. Hijacked planes were weapons of war. Despite the agonizing costs, taking one out could save countless lives on the ground. I had just made my first decision as a wartime commander in chief.
Dick called back a few minutes later. Condi, Josh Bolten, and senior members of the national security team had joined him in the PEOC. They had been informed that an unresponsive plane was headed toward Washington. Dick asked me to confirm the shootdown order I had given. I did. I later learned that Josh Bolten had pushed for clarification to ensure that the chain of command was respected. I thought back to my days as a pilot. “I cannot imagine what it would be like to receive this order,” I told Andy Card. I sure hoped no one would have to execute it.
The second decision was where to land Air Force One. I felt strongly that we should return to Washington. I wanted to be in the White House to lead the response. It would reassure the nation to see the president in the capital that had been attacked.
Shortly after we took off from Sarasota, Andy and Eddie Marinzel, the wiry athletic Secret Service agent from Pittsburgh who led my detail on 9/11, started to throw cold water on the idea. They said conditions in Washington were too volatile, the danger of attack too high. The FAA believed six planes had been hijacked, meaning three more could be in the air. I told them I was not going to let terrorists scare me away. “I’m the president,” I said
