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Eyewitness: The World Trade Center
By Fred Abatemarco
Editor in Chief, SPACE.com
posted: 30 June 2005
05:46 am
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NEW YORK -- I was uncharacteristically early for my meeting yesterday at Battery Park in lower Manhattan, some five blocks south of the World Trade Center. I typically take the Number 1 or 9 IRT subway to Rector Street, emerging literally in the shadow of the twin towers, and then walk south a few blocks. Biding my time at the Long Island Railroad station at 34th Street, I went street-side to a bank, then tried to make a cell phone call or two. The cell calls did not go through. I thought little of this at the time. One or two emergency vehicles zoomed south on 7th Avenue, but that didn't seem unusual, either. Until one police cruiser, speeding east on 34th Street, turned south on 7th Avenue, furiously weaving and dodging traffic with tires squealing on the turn. The digital clock above the entrance to Penn Station read 9:08am. |
Eyewitness: The Pentagon
by Lon Rains
Editor, Space News
WASHINGTON -- It is one thing to be sent to report on a war, or to watch one unfold on television, but unlike many of their colleagues in Africa, Asia and Europe, American journalists have no experience covering a war on their home soil. Like millions of other Americans, I was already in the office when my wife called and told me to run to a television because the World Trade Center had apparently been attacked. She works on a federal facility and they were already being warned to take precautions. As some of my colleagues began making phone calls, I joined a dozen others in the newsroom to watch the events live on television. We were sickened by what we saw as the first tower burned, but still unsure about exactly what was taking place. We watched in horror as a second plane hit the other tower, leaving no doubt that this was not an accident, but a coordinated attack. At that point, I had to tear myself away from the television to get to downtown Washington in time for a 10 a.m. appointment. As I headed out of the parking lot of our office in Springfield, Va., a Washington suburb, I turned on the radio and listened intently as the events began to unfold with reports that several planes had been hijacked. It was disturbing news but still seemed a distant threat images on television of a place you knew, but one that felt very far away. In light traffic the drive up Interstate 395 from Springfield to downtown Washington takes no more than 20 minutes. But that morning, like many others, the traffic slowed to a crawl just in front of the Pentagon. With the Pentagon to the left of my van at about 10 oclock on the dial of a clock, I glanced at my watch to see if I was going to be late for my appointment. At that moment I heard a very loud, quick whooshing sound that began behind me and stopped suddenly in front of me and to my left. In fractions of a second I heard the impact and an explosion. The next thing I saw was the fireball. I was convinced it was a missile. It came in so fast it sounded nothing like an airplane. Friends and colleagues have asked me if I felt a shock wave and I honestly do not know. I felt something, but I dont know if it was a shock wave or the fact that I jumped so hard I strained against the seat belt and shoulder harness and was thrown back into my seat. My first instinct was to grab the phone and call one of our reporters. I did and screamed repeatedly into the mouthpiece: "the Pentagons been hit, the Pentagons been hit." There was no doubt in my mind that this was an attack by the same unknown foe attacking New York. Next page: "Unfathomable, but real." | At 14th Street the subway conductor announced that the train was going out of service because of an "explosion downtown". I switched to a number 1 train across the track and as it left the station the conductor notified passengers that we would terminate at Chambers Street because of a "police action". I contemplated how far I would have to walk to my destination and congratulated myself on being ahead of schedule. But in the back of my mind, the image of that police cruiser and the sounds of emergency sirens wailing at street level above the subway tunnel awakened an ominous thought. Since the terrorist incident in 1993, the scary possibility that the World Trade Center remained a target for deadly destruction has been a distant but palpable fear for me and probably most New Yorkers. Minutes later, rising from the subway, that fear turned to horrible reality. I emerging from the subway at Chambers Street and West Broadway, some five blocks uptown from what was rapidly devolving into hell on earth. Dead ahead, the towers stretched skyward into an uncommonly clear and brilliantly blue sky. And I heard myself utter "Oh my God". With utter disbelief, I stared at billowing dark smoke, pouring forth from a gaping multi-story wound high up on the north tower. Stepping up to street level, I could see the second tower also ablaze. Flames were visible inside the torn facade of the building. At times, the flames leapt to the outside of the south tower, licking the exterior for three or four stories. My eyes kept returning to the north face of tower number one. At what I estimated to be 80 or 85 stories up, was a huge triangular hole, perhaps as much as 10 stores high at its apex. It was virtually centered and easily measured half the building's width. This, for sure, was no "police action" or "explosion", as we have ever known such occurrences. Whatever had ripped apart the north tower had definitely done so by entering it, not exploding from within. All I could think of was a missile: A very large missile. On the street, the stream and screech of emergency vehicles was unrelenting. In ten minutes I counted no less than 20 ambulances, fire engines, police vans and cruisers as well as unmarked cars, speeding south toward this disaster unfolding a few blocks downtown. The streets were crowded with pedestrians who stood, as I did: awestruck, motionless, necks craned upward in silent, hypnotic horror. We were numb in the knowledge that we were witnessing a real life version of towering inferno. My cell phone was useless and customers lined up, a dozen deep, for pay phones. I looked for a coffee shop or restaurant that might have a radio or TV on. Suddenly, six or more policeman began running north on the avenue, shouting for everyone to "get back, get back". A cry went up from the crowd and most of us hastily retreated north without really knowing what we were running from. By now, it was about 9:45am. I stepped into a corner deli, ordered a container of coffee and turned my attention to the television set playing behind the counter. I then learned the truth of what I was witnessing. Two hijacked airliners had crashed into the twin towers and a third had suicide-crashed into the Pentagon. A fourth was destroyed on the ground near Pittsburgh. Reports added that there was a fire on the Washington mall. On the screen was the same otherworldly view that held my gaze on the street. Smoke and flame poured from the World Trade Center buildings in an eerie silence. It seemed like a science fiction movie. It most obviously was not. Back on the street, I could only conjure questions as I returned to stare at the horror. Were passengers on these airliners? Probably. Was there any warning before the crashes? Probably not. Was this the work of suicide terrorists? Without a doubt. How could such an enormous and murderous plot be orchestrated? With the greatest of willful hate and malice and elaborate planning. By some very determined and skillful execution. Whoever did this, was out to achieve major destruction and death. They didn't come to bunt. And from the looks of it, they were successful. Next page: "Then the unimaginable happened."
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