102 Minutes: The Unforgettable Story of the Fight to Survive Inside the Twin Towers by Jim Dwyer, Kevin Flynn Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jim Dwyer, Kevin Flynn
all right?” Peter asked.
“Yeah, I was just over at the window, but, my God, I don’t know if people were falling or jumping, but I saw people falling to their death,” Stephen said.
“Oh, my God,” Peter said.
“They’re human beings,” Stephen said. As he spoke, a public-address announcement was coming over. Stephen was being summoned, less noisily, but just as insistently, by his telephone on the trading desk. Since the traders all worked elbow to elbow, the phones lit up, rather than rang, to signal an incoming call.
“I gotta go,” Stephen declared. “The lights are ringing and the market is going to open.”
All of KBW’s New York traders were at or near their chairs, ready for the 9:00 opening.
3
“Mom, I’m not calling to chat.”
8:48 A.M.
NORTH TOWER
O n the 91st floor of the north tower, Mike McQuaid and his crew of five electricians hunted for a stairway. They were two floors below the bottom of the impact zone of Flight 11, in a wholly ordinary space that had been transformed in the last two minutes into a warren of collapsed ceiling tiles and fallen walls. Even so, the materials that made up the rubble were light and the corridors to the exits in the center of the building remained passable. The stairwells, though, were another story entirely. Two of them had been reduced to smithereens. The remaining one, toward the northwest side of the building, was open. So they would be able to get out, after all. One of the electricians forgot his cell phone, and he hustled back to get it. As the others waited, McQuaid stuck his head into the offices of the American Bureau of Shipping, and hollered, “Anybody there?”
Most of 91 was empty—the American Bureau of Shipping was the only commercial tenant on the floor, occupying about a quarter of the space—and it happened to be on the northwest side, near the open stairway. Already, most of the eleven people in that office had collected themselves and started down.
Now a woman in a red hat came their way.
“I’m the last one,” she declared.
Then they heard two other people from an area near the elevators. Vanessa Lawrence, a Scottish-born artist who worked on the floor, had just had taken one step out of the elevator when the concussion ran through the shaft. Gerry Wertz, a purchasing manager for Marsh & McLennan, was still in the elevator, on his way to the 93rd floor for a meeting. Someone had dropped a hand grenade on the roof of the car, he thought. He pitched forward and jumped from the car onto the ground. The ceiling and wallboards had collapsed. Behind them, the elevator seemed to disintegrate. At the height of the shock, Wertz could not quite understand what Lawrence was saying through her Scottish burr.
A moment later, the electricians hollered to them, leading them by voice toward a center corridor. One of the electricians was trying to make a two-way radio work, but could not get through.
“We’ve just got to get down,” Wertz said, and the electricians led them toward the open stairwell.
The worker in McQuaid’s crew returned with his phone, and they were ready to go, the last of the eighteen people on the 91st floor. As they stepped into the dark, surviving staircase, they were at a borderline. Three or four inches of drywall had been blasted off the stairwell walls above them, exposing the structural steel, and plugging the stairs that led up. Every single person had gotten off the 91st floor, but no one from the higher floors was coming down: the stairs to the 92nd floor were blocked tight, just like the stairs that Gerry Wertz would have encountered in the Marsh & McLennan office on the 93rd floor, had he not leapt and been thrown from the elevator on 91.
Just above them, on the 92nd floor, Damian Meehan of Carr Futures was discovering the same boundary, from the other side. He called his brother Eugene, a firefighter in the Bronx.
“It’s really bad here,” Damian said. “The elevators are
“Yeah, I was just over at the window, but, my God, I don’t know if people were falling or jumping, but I saw people falling to their death,” Stephen said.
“Oh, my God,” Peter said.
“They’re human beings,” Stephen said. As he spoke, a public-address announcement was coming over. Stephen was being summoned, less noisily, but just as insistently, by his telephone on the trading desk. Since the traders all worked elbow to elbow, the phones lit up, rather than rang, to signal an incoming call.
“I gotta go,” Stephen declared. “The lights are ringing and the market is going to open.”
All of KBW’s New York traders were at or near their chairs, ready for the 9:00 opening.
3
“Mom, I’m not calling to chat.”
8:48 A.M.
NORTH TOWER
O n the 91st floor of the north tower, Mike McQuaid and his crew of five electricians hunted for a stairway. They were two floors below the bottom of the impact zone of Flight 11, in a wholly ordinary space that had been transformed in the last two minutes into a warren of collapsed ceiling tiles and fallen walls. Even so, the materials that made up the rubble were light and the corridors to the exits in the center of the building remained passable. The stairwells, though, were another story entirely. Two of them had been reduced to smithereens. The remaining one, toward the northwest side of the building, was open. So they would be able to get out, after all. One of the electricians forgot his cell phone, and he hustled back to get it. As the others waited, McQuaid stuck his head into the offices of the American Bureau of Shipping, and hollered, “Anybody there?”
Most of 91 was empty—the American Bureau of Shipping was the only commercial tenant on the floor, occupying about a quarter of the space—and it happened to be on the northwest side, near the open stairway. Already, most of the eleven people in that office had collected themselves and started down.
Now a woman in a red hat came their way.
“I’m the last one,” she declared.
Then they heard two other people from an area near the elevators. Vanessa Lawrence, a Scottish-born artist who worked on the floor, had just had taken one step out of the elevator when the concussion ran through the shaft. Gerry Wertz, a purchasing manager for Marsh & McLennan, was still in the elevator, on his way to the 93rd floor for a meeting. Someone had dropped a hand grenade on the roof of the car, he thought. He pitched forward and jumped from the car onto the ground. The ceiling and wallboards had collapsed. Behind them, the elevator seemed to disintegrate. At the height of the shock, Wertz could not quite understand what Lawrence was saying through her Scottish burr.
A moment later, the electricians hollered to them, leading them by voice toward a center corridor. One of the electricians was trying to make a two-way radio work, but could not get through.
“We’ve just got to get down,” Wertz said, and the electricians led them toward the open stairwell.
The worker in McQuaid’s crew returned with his phone, and they were ready to go, the last of the eighteen people on the 91st floor. As they stepped into the dark, surviving staircase, they were at a borderline. Three or four inches of drywall had been blasted off the stairwell walls above them, exposing the structural steel, and plugging the stairs that led up. Every single person had gotten off the 91st floor, but no one from the higher floors was coming down: the stairs to the 92nd floor were blocked tight, just like the stairs that Gerry Wertz would have encountered in the Marsh & McLennan office on the 93rd floor, had he not leapt and been thrown from the elevator on 91.
Just above them, on the 92nd floor, Damian Meehan of Carr Futures was discovering the same boundary, from the other side. He called his brother Eugene, a firefighter in the Bronx.
“It’s really bad here,” Damian said. “The elevators are
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