Glenn Beck - Miracles and Massacres - True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

Just south of the New York State border, in the Adirondack foothills of West Milford, New Jersey, Jeremy Glick slipped quietly into his backyard. As the predawn mist of an Indian summer morning began to clear, he closed his eyes and began running through the judo routine that had won him the college national championship eight years earlier. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed, and he visualized his beautiful wife, Lyzbeth, and his two-month-old daughter, Emerson—a name they’d chosen because of his fondness for the poet. Glick stepped forward as he practiced the Deashi Harai technique; his foot swept over and out and his muscles stretched taut on his six-foot-two, 220-pound frame.

Thirty minutes later, Glick stepped through the back door and into his home. It was dead quiet—no phones ringing, no babies screaming, no roar of commuter trains, honking of cabs, or growl of city buses—the kind of silence that only those who lead busy suburban lives can really appreciate.

Lyz and Emmy were still inside, the former undoubtedly trying to catch what little sleep she could after a long, restless night with their newborn. Jeremy had been up early packing for his flight to San Francisco. A couple of hours later, Lyz would be leaving to drive up to the Catskill Mountains with Emmy to visit her parents. Glick smiled. It took him a lot of years, but he finally understood what really mattered in life: family. And now he had one of his very own. He showered and dressed and quietly kissed Lyz and Emmy good-bye.

• • •

A few hours later—after first stopping to interview for a job that wouldn’t require so much travel—Jeremy Glick arrived at Newark International Airport and moved quickly through the security checkpoint. He walked to a monitor to confirm his gate number and saw the one word that every traveler dreads: CANCELED. It was flashing red right next to his flight number: United 93 to San Francisco.

Confused, Glick approached the ticket counter. “I’m sorry sir,” the agent said. “There’s been a fire in the airport where we are doing some construction and all of our flights have been delayed or canceled. If you provide me with your boarding pass and ID, I’d be happy to rebook you for tomorrow’s flight.”

Glick was by no means immune to the same anger and frustration that all travelers feel when their plans are disrupted, but judo had taught him discipline and control. Maximum impact with minimum effort. Anger was the opposite. It took a lot of effort, and it resulted in nothing. So, instead of letting frustration overcome him, Glick let his mind drift back to the positive: his family. It was too late to stop their trip to the Catskills, but at least he’d be in his own bed for another night.

Newark International Airport

September 11, 2001

7:03 A.M.

Jeremy Glick learned his lesson and checked the flight monitor before clearing security: DELAYED. At least that was an improvement from the previous day.

After going through security he headed to Gate 17 and called his in-law’s house, hoping to speak with his wife. Instead, his mother-in-law, Jo Anne Makely, answered. “Emmy had a rough night,” she told him. “I did what I could, but Lyz was up for most of it so she’s trying to get a couple hours of sleep in now.”

A pang of guilt stuck in his heart. He always helped with Emmy, especially on the challenging nights. “Tell Lyzzie I’m boarding the plane and I love her and I’ll call her when I get to San Francisco.”

7:42 A.M.

Ziad Jarrah boarded United Airlines Flight 93 and thought back on his now five-week-old argument with Mohammed Atta.

“We cannot do this without al Qahtani,” he had told Atta, their car idling outside Orlando International Airport. “All of the other teams have five. We will only have four.”

“We have waited for hours. Obviously he was turned away. There is no time for another. You must do this without him,” Atta said as he stepped on the accelerator.

Now, as Jarrah took his seat in the first row of the first-class cabin, he sat back and watched the others on his team board. Closing his eyes, he silently said his supplications and recalled the note he wrote to his girlfriend the previous night: “I did what I was supposed to do. You ought to be very proud, because it is an honor and you will see the result and everyone will be very happy.”

Still, the absence of Qahtani bothered him. Jarrah knew that he, and possibly one of the other men, could fly the aircraft. But with two people in the cockpit, that only left two to guard and defend the cockpit. They’d always planned and rehearsed with three.

Jarrah looked over his shoulder at the many empty seats behind him. That gave him some measure of comfort. Fewer passengers meant fewer opportunities to overpower his team.

A resolve came over him. It was time. He thought back to a video he’d made with Atta about eighteen months earlier. They’d both proclaimed their dedication to today’s task but he’d laughed through most of the taping as he’d tried to read his part of the script. Is this plan for real? he’d thought. It was so audacious, so . . . ridiculous. Could he really go through with it?

As the captain’s voice asked the flight attendants to prepare the cabin for takeoff, Jarrah realized that he would learn the answer to that question very soon.

Tarnak Farms Training Camp, Afghanistan

September 11, 2001

After his unexpected escort to the jetway in Orlando months earlier, Qahtani had returned to Dubai briefly, before flying to Kandahar to rejoin his comrades at the training camp near the airport.

Following three weeks of advanced infantry training, Qahtani was standing at the rope climb on the obstacle course when he heard a shout. He ran into the first room of the Habash Guesthouse and found dozens of cheering men huddled around a television set. On the screen was an image of the World Trade Center in New York City. One tower had a gaping hole in its side. Smoke and fire poured out as shards of glass and falling bodies rained down on the streets below.

As they watched, an airplane flew into the picture of the burning tower and struck the second tower, this time much lower than the first. The room erupted into another round of applause and celebration. Then, a new image: the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., up in flames. A third plane had struck.

Amid the cheering, Qahtani heard a voice.

“The next plane was yours, Qahtani. This is the most important symbol in Washington, D.C. Watch closely and you will be proud.” Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Al Qaeda’s operations officer—the man who planned and coordinated the logistics of the attacks—was smiling as he spoke.

“This was my plan.”

United Flight 93, 36,000 feet over Ohio

September 11, 2001

9:37 A.M.

Jeremy Glick watched the scene unfold before him as though he were watching a movie. The hijackers had stabbed the flight attendant, stormed the door of the cockpit, stabbed the pilots, and took control of the airplane. Meanwhile a man with a bomb strapped to his waist shouted at all of them to move away from the cockpit, toward the back of the plane.

Now seated in row twenty-seven, Glick picked up an air phone and called his wife in the Catskills. His father-in-law answered on the first ring.

“Jeremy, thank God. We’re so worried.”

Glick cut to the chase. “It’s bad news. Can you put Lyz on, please?”

A moment passed and Glick struggled to maintain his composure. When Lyz picked up he cut right to the chase.

“These three Iranian-looking guys took over the plane. They’ve got red bandanas, knives, and one says he has a bomb. I need to know, have other planes attacked the World Trade Center? That’s what some of the others are saying.”