It was a late summer morning in the nation’s largest city. The sky was clear and the sun bright with promise as it rose above the horizon. By 8:44 a.m., many people were already in their offices at the World Trade Center. Others were on their daily commute while some still lingered over breakfast, enjoying a second cup of coffee. For most, this appeared to be just another day, no more or less auspicious than any other.
A morning like any other
One minute later, all of that changed — for everyone living in New York City and, indeed, for the entire nation. At 8:45 a.m., an American Airlines Boeing 767, carrying 20,000 gallons of jet fuel, crashed into the north tower of the Trade Center. Watching this replay on television from my home in Seattle, I thought — and hoped — that it was all a devastating and freakish accident.
But eighteen minutes after the first plane crashed, a second one struck the south tower, sealing the fate of the two towers and the people trapped within them. Then, at 9:37 a third jet struck the Pentagon, causing the partial collapse of one of the building’s five walls. Twenty-six minutes later, as passengers on United Air Lines Fight 93 battled a small group of hijackers for control of the plane, the aircraft slammed into the ground outside of Shanksville, PA, killing all aboard.
