He started his new job at 7:30 AM. By 9:45 AM, he grounded America.

Kind: captions Language: en On September 11th, 2001, around 4,500 passenger planes were ordered out of the sky. Air traffic controllers had just 3 hours to empty American airspace. It's been described as a calm, orderly evacuation. It wasn't. It was pure, unadulterated chaos fueled by blind panic and miscommunications. Each second carried the threat of hundreds of innocent people dying. Getting those planes down safely was one of the most difficult tasks in aviation history. And for the man who did it, it was his very first day on the job. 7:30 a.m. September 11th, 2001. Ben Slaney arrives at his desk as the new National Operations Manager at the Federal Aviation Administrations or FAA's command center in H Hearnden, Virginia. The US sees about 50,000 flights on any given day with as many as 5,000 planes in the sky at any single moment. Now, everyone is Slimey's responsibility. He's in charge of about 50 specialists inside a room dominated by five giant screens. Each one shows weather patterns and countless plane trajectories. It was a high pressure environment, one that Slimey understands well. He used to be one of those specialists himself. Now he's the person overseeing America's skies. September 11th started well for him. About 3,000 planes were in the air when he arrived at work. There were zero extreme weather alerts. It was just a day that at first sight was looking like a breeze for the new boss. But elsewhere, something was happening that was about to make history. 8:14 a.m. Inside the Boston Center, air traffic controller Pete Zelevki gives the order. American 11, climb, maintain flight level 350. Silence. American 11, climb, maintain flight level 350. Still no response. American 11, do you hear me? Zeleleski tries another frequency. Again, nothing. figures it might be an electrical problem or an issue with the avionics equipment. The issue isn't on his side. All the other flights are responding. Flight 11 is officially Nordo. No radio contact. This is not usually a major cause for concern. In most cases, it's just a matter of a distracted pilot or a minor malfunction with the plane's equipment. 8:21 a.m. Flight 11's transponder signal disappears. Without a transponder signal, Zelevki has to rely on primary radar. Flight 11 is still there. A small blip moving across his screen, but most of the information normally attached to it has vanished. Zeleleski can't see how high it's flying, and that's how accidents happen. Zelefski calls over to his supervisor. "Hijacking?" asks his boss. It's a word no one in air traffic control ever wants to hear. Zalefki dismisses it. Sure, it is strange, but hijacking. This isn't the 1970s, but he keeps watching the blip on the screen, his heart beating a little faster every minute that the plane remains out of contact. Suddenly, the plane changes direction. It starts heading south. This isn't a minor movement to avoid bad weather. It is completely off course. Celelesi has no choice but to follow protocol. It is an extreme decision, but it is the only option. Sterilize. That means clearing the path of every single plane in the wayward aircraft's path. Then, Zeleleski hears something. The faint sound of a voice, possibly foreign. He can't make out exactly what the speaker is saying. And then it gets clearer. Nobody move. Everything will be okay. If you try to make any moves, you will injure yourself and the airplane. Just stay quiet. Celeleski's heart is pounding. He tells the controller next to him, "Take control of his other flights." And he shouts over to the supervisor, "John, get over here immediately, right now. It's got to be a hijacking." What they don't know was that about 5 minutes earlier, the flight attendant on that plane, Betty, had made a call to an American Airlines reservation center in North Carolina. I think we're getting hijacked. Two flight attendants had been stabbed. Something like mace had been used. And at that moment, another flight attendant is making calls from the same plane. Amy Sweeney is speaking to an American Airlines manager. Right as flight 11 begins rapidly descending. 8:28 a.m. Back at the command center just before all this happened, Ben Slimey's first day had been going well. He was just about to hold his first ever daily meeting and was about to head into the conference room with his brief when one of his specialists shouted over to him, "We may have a hijacking out of Boston." A hijacking on his first day. American Flight 11, a 767 out of Boston for Los Angeles. Slimey is informed. He doesn't panic. The system for dealing with hijackings has been built around the assumption that the hijacker will want something. Keep the other planes out of the way, cooperate, keep everyone calm, find out their demands, and get the aircraft onto the ground safely. Massive loss of life is rare, but if the hijackers don't have demands, well, that's harder to plan for. But there is a protocol for everything. Under normal FAA procedure, a hijacking confirmation would travel up through the agency all the way to the National Military Command Center or NMCC at the Pentagon for military assistance. Fighter planes can be deployed either to intercept the plane, guide it somewhere, or shoot it down. But that decision needs to climb the military ladder first. Approval would ultimately land at NES, the northeast air defense sector. But that isn't what happens on September 11th. There's no time. 8:38 a.m. Boston contacts needs directly. We have a problem here. We have a hijacked aircraft headed toward New York, and we need you guys to We need someone to scramble some F-16s. Flight 11 is only 9 minutes away from the World Trade Center. Inside needs, officers can't believe what they're hearing. They ask if it's real world or a drill. Just hours earlier, they had launched Operation Vigilant Guardian. It's a scheduled training exercise to prepare pilots for an attack on the homeland. Today's exercise is a simulated hijacking, but this is real life. Two F-15 fighters scramble from Otis Air National Guard Base in Massachusetts and head toward New York City, 153 mi away. Major Daniel Nasty Nash is in one plane and in the other, Lieutenant Colonel Timothy Duff Duffy takes the lead. With flight 11's transponder turned off, NE's operatives hunt for the plane using primary radar returns to guide the F-15s. There is just one problem. Their radar scopes are filled with hundreds of near identical blips. They're staring at a mix of planes, weather systems, and ground interference. Even flocks of birds are showing up on the feed. But it's already too late. 8:44 a.m. On flight 11, Amy Sweeney continues to speak to the American Airlines manager. She's asked to look outside and tell them where they are now. All she can say is they are flying low, very low. And then, "Oh my god, we're way too low." And then the call abruptly ends. 8:46 a.m. Flight 11 slams into the north tower of the World Trade Center, killing all 92 people, including the five hijackers on board. America and the world is not prepared for what comes next. 8:51 a.m. Flight 77 is carrying 64 people, five hijackers among them, from Washington DC to Los Angeles. When the hijackers take control, they're armed with knives and box cutters. As the plane deviates from its flight path, the Indianapolis Air Traffic Control Center tries and fails to make contact with it. The plane is descending and eventually turns back toward Washington. A fourth hijacked plane is on its way from Newark, New Jersey to San Francisco, but nobody knows it yet. 8:55 a.m. That's all we know, Mr. President. National Security Adviser Condisa Rice tells President George W. Bush before he enters a classroom at Emma E. Booker Elementary School in Sarasota, Florida. The information reaching the president is still confusing. The initial reports suggest a small twin engine aircraft has accidentally crashed into the World Trade Center. 9:00 a.m. The FAA and the airlines are only beginning to comprehend the scale of what's happening. Chaos is unfolding in the skies above America, and air traffic control and Ben Slimey need to take control. He can't understand how a pilot could steer his plane into the tower. Knowing the cost to human life, the pilot would have surely dumped it in the Hudson. If a gun was against his head, the pilot would have rather been shot than hit a building full of thousands of people. It's part of the training. If it means saving many more lives on the ground, you sacrifice yourself, even the passengers aboard your plane. For Slimey, it's about to get a whole lot worse. 9:03 a.m. As news filters through about Flight 11, United Airlines Flight 175 is banking sharply over Manhattan. Millions of people across America and the world watch the smoke plume from the North Tower on live television. Suddenly, a second plane roars into the frame. Flight 175 slices directly into the South Tower. Among the gasps, chatter, and tears, Slimey is told that more planes might have been hijacked. Slimey shouts across the operations floor, "Give me a first tier ground stop." It's an order he never thought he would have to make. A first tier ground stop means that any aircraft at airports immediately surrounding New York or destined for New York center airspace can't take off. It's the first major step of many he'll make today. He's like a rookie quarterback forced to play in the Super Bowl, except there is no playbook, no precedent, and no one to ask for advice. He watches the damage unfolding on the massive screens in front of him. This is not just a hijacking, he's thinking. It looks more like a war. 9:04 a.m. When the second plane hits, Air Force pilots Duff and Nasty are in their F-15s trying to understand what's happened to Flight 11. The second aircraft just hit the World Trade Center, the weapons controller tells them over the radio. Their immediate thought is, "What second plane?" "They had scrambled, expecting to intercept a hijacked aircraft, possibly follow it to an airport. Instead, they're seeing two burning towers ahead of them. It doesn't make any sense. Every instinct is telling them to act, to do something. Innocent people are dying. But they can't just open fire on a passenger plane over one of the most densely populated cities in America. Not based on a hunch that the enemy might be in control. With fire and smoke billowing in the distance, the pilots are forced to wait. 9:05 a.m. The president is sitting with his students when Chief of Staff Andrew Card walks over and whispers into his ear, "A second plane's hit the second tower." "America is under attack." Vice President Dick Cheney is at the White House wondering how the hell a plane could crash into one of the towers when he sees the second plane hit. This is no accident. The Secret Service immediately secures the White House grounds, but across various branches of government, officials are struggling to understand what is going on. The FAA, the White House, and Defense Department hold separate teleconferences. There's no single room where everyone is sharing the same information. Without realizing it, people are working at cross purposes, passing contradictory information down the line. 9:20 a.m. At the Pentagon, the National Military Command Center begins a significant event conference. All they know is two planes have hit the World Trade Center. Fighter jets have been scrambled for notice. The FAA has asked for an update. Silence. The FAA hasn't even been properly connected to the conference. To make matters worse, incorrect information is circulating. Flight 11 might still be airborne and headed toward Washington. 9:21 a.m. United tells its dispatchers to warn the aircraft in flight to secure their cockpits. One of the planes that receives that warning is Flight 93. 9:24 a.m. A message reaches the cockpit of Flight 93. Beware of cockpit intrusion. Two aircraft in New York hit Trade Center buildings. Flight 93 responds 2 minutes later asking United to confirm the warning. 9:25 a.m. Back at the command center, Slimey shouts over to one of his specialists, "Give me a list of the abnormal flights on one of the screens. The stressed out supervisors are trying to determine which aircraft might present a risk." 12 are designated as high-risisk for various reasons. Nordo, unexplained course changes, missing transponders. Any one of those planes could now be a missile. Slimey doesn't even know what the military is thinking. He has a military liaison officer, but so far they've received barely any information. Communicating with military leaders at NORAD or the likes of Donald Rumsfeld is above his pay grade. His job is the smooth running of passenger flights, making sure that traffic keeps moving safely, not dealing with what looks like an act of war. He makes the only decision he can that he hopes will save American lives. Ground stop Boston. Ground stop New York. No plane will take off from there. Then he receives the report that American Airlines Flight 77 is missing. There are thousands more aircraft in the skies. More are taking off every minute. Slimey has no choice. He makes a decision unprecedented in the history of American aviation. A nationwide ground stop. FAA advisory 031. No civilian flight anywhere in the USA will be taking off until Slimey says so. 9:26 a.m. Generate. Generate. Generate. That's the order being issued through NORAD. The attacks are clearly not isolated. No one knows exactly where the next one might come from. So generate means get as many available fighters into the air as possible. For needs commander, Colonel Robert Bob Maher, the fighters already airborne might not be enough. He starts reaching out to Air National Guard units across the Northeast. The nation is under attack. He tells them, "Get them in the air." But the Guard can't just arm its planes with missiles and start launching combat missions without authorization. The United States military, the government, it's all about following procedures. Procedures take time. Then again, it's not every day your country looks as though it's being invaded. The Air National Guard gives the order. Suit up and go. 9:28 a.m. Flight 93 is above eastern Ohio when suddenly it descends about 700 ft. Air traffic controllers in Cleveland receive a desperate mayday call. In the background, they hear the sound of struggle. Hey, get out of here. Get out of here. 9:32 a.m. Air traffic controllers hear a hijacker on United 93 telling passengers there is a bomb on board. Frantic passengers and crew are calling friends and family people have been stabbed. 9:37 a.m. Before anyone realizes Flight 77 has turned into a weapon, one trained right at the Pentagon. The plane strikes the heart of American military defense, erupting into a fireball. 9:38 a.m. Passengers aboard the plane captained by Rick Johnson have just been told that they won't be landing in Chicago. Shortly afterward, a flight attendant enters the cockpit. She's shaking. She's just heard a first class passenger using an airphone say that there's been a terrorist attack and the World Trade Center has been hit. Johnson can't believe it. It has to have been a small plane. The flight attendant shakes her head. It's serious. The White House, she says, has also been hit. At least according to this passenger. Johnson has the fuel, but he wants to get the plane onto the ground as quickly as possible. "What about Hamilton airport?" he asks over a car. "Yes," comes a response. A few minutes later, his plane is safely on the tarmac, but he is just one out of many more planes that need to land. For the controllers, the problem is much bigger than what's already flying over the USA. Hundreds of international flights are headed toward North America. There's no way they're going to be allowed to land on American soil. Some have been flying for hours. Some have enough fuel to turn around. Others definitely don't. American and Canadian air traffic controllers begin the monumental task of turning some aircraft back and diverting others to airports across Canada. Misunderstanding the order could get a plane shot out of the sky. Pilots are trained in standard aviation English not to understand unique orders. You can't land at San Francisco, an operator tells one pilot. The pilot suggests Oakland and is promptly told the United States is closed. Eerie silence follows. The weight of that statement hits the pilot. Whatever has happened is catastrophic. Our condolences, he tells the controller. 9:39 a.m. The NMCC's deputy director opens the call from inside the burning Pentagon. An air attack against North America may be in progress. NORAD, what's the situation? NORAD doesn't know. There are conflicting reports. Another hijacked plane might be heading toward Washington. The command center is in complete chaos. No one knows exactly what's happening and what has already happened or how to stop it. The president wants to return to Washington, but his security detail warns him to stay away. 9:40 a.m. At FAA headquarters, Jane Garvey is dealing with chaos. American Airlines CEO Don Cardi is asking her whether it's one of his planes that's hit the Pentagon. She doesn't know. At this point, American Airlines has still not confirmed that the aircraft was Flight 77. For God's sake, he screams down the phone. It is in the Pentagon. Can't somebody go look at it and see whose plane it is? Meanwhile, information about United 93 is moving from the command center to FAA headquarters. 9:42 a.m. The command center receives the news that a plane has hit the Pentagon. That's it. Slimey wants every single civilian plane down right now. It's a move that has never been done before. A colleague asks if he's sure. It's Slimey's first day on the job. There's no approval from high up, and he is about to empty the sky. Land them all, Slimey says. Thousands of planes, hundreds of thousands of scared, angry passengers. Clear the skies, he shouts to all of his specialists. Order everyone to land. Get everything on the ground now. His specialists start contacting air traffic facilities across the country. Pilots start receiving messages on the aircraft communication addressing and reporting system, AARS. This is an FAA alert. Increase cockpit security. Then something more surprising. land as soon as possible. Dplane the passengers normally. The command is the easy part. Now Slimey has to figure out the impossible. His specialists are overwhelmed with pilots and controllers all asking the same question. Where are all of these planes supposed to land? They can shut down airports and empty airspace, but thousands of planes suddenly traveling in different directions is a logistical nightmare. There is no saying that these planes will have the fuel to do as they're ordered. up in the sky. Some of the pilots don't seem to appreciate the enormity of what's happening. Many of them have no idea there's been an attack. So, receiving an order to land in some tiny Canadian airport and not Newark or wherever else state side is highly unusual. Slimey doesn't feel the need to explain. The pilots don't need the details, and Slimey doesn't know them anyway. No one does. He looks at the 11 ft screen. Every plane he sees is now a potential disaster. Just one of them is capable of causing mass destruction. if not at government sites or major buildings like the Twin Towers, then in any populated area. Slimey still questions whether he's made the right decision. Why has no one farther up the chain of command contacted him yet? Why is he learning so much of what's happening from CNN and not the government? His specialists look distraught as they watch the Twin Towers burn. And then Slimey hears one of his staff on the phone to a loved one. I love you. Goodbye. It's too much. Take CNN down, Slimey tells one of his team. He needs everyone's full attention on the job at hand, not the flaming towers. 9:46 a.m. Slimey and his team receive report