The 'Other' Tragedy
The attack on the Pentagon left heroes, victims, survivors, Here's their story
Now, it's time to start over again. All in keeping with the original design--the 17 1/2 miles of corridors that connect the five rings--right down to replacement limestone from southern Indiana quarries. The grand ambition has people working in the outermost ring by Sept. 11, 2002.
Derek Spector has driven past the Pentagon countless times, visual furniture in his daily life. On September 11, he was five blocks away, sitting with fellow firefighters at Fire Station No. 5 in Arlington, Va., watching TV as the second plane rammed into the World Trade Center. "You never know, it could happen here," a friend on the phone said. "No way, man," Spector shot back. Then he heard a plane, fast and low.
The hijacked jetliner, traveling at 350 miles an hour, was only about 100 feet from the ground when it cruised over Arlington police officer Richard Cox's head, just a quarter mile from the Pentagon. "It was low enough for me to see the reflection of cars and trees and buildings on its underside as it passed by," he says. "It was low enough for my heart to stop."
The plane clipped light poles on nearby Route 27 and a backup generator at the Pentagon, bouncing off the ground before plowing into the building at a 45-degree angle. Originally bound for Los Angeles, the jet, carrying 64 people, crashed between corridors 4 and 5, blasting the first and second floors of Rings E, D, and C. "You could feel the explosion in your chest," says Cox. At the fire station, the ground shook. "What was that?" Spector shouted. "A plane," firefighter Brian Roach said.
Chaos. Wayne Sinclair heard it before he felt it. He outfitted computers for the Army on the first floor of the D Ring. As usual that morning, Sinclair, 54, caught the subway so he could be at work by 6, always the first of the seven employees to arrive in Room 1D520. He made coffee, dashed off a few E-mails, tinkered with computers. Shortly after 9:30 a.m., he and his colleagues were watching the World Trade Center attack on CNN's Web site when they heard a thunderous roar.
Everything turned black. Smoke and fire engulfed the room. Walls crumbled. Desks, file cabinets, and computers hurtled through the air. "You couldn't see anything," he says. Some people were thrown to the floor. Sinclair could feel his face, ears, and arms burning. But he couldn't see them because the smoke was so thick. People screamed for help. Chaos reigned.
Down the hall from Sinclair's office, Jim Lynch, 55, was well into his workday morning in room 1D457, part of the Navy Command Center. Officially, Lynch performed behind-the-scenes communications wizardry. But most knew him simply as the Candy Man. For years, he briskly walked the Pentagon halls, listening to light rock on his Walkman and wearing bright orange, red, and yellow ties and tennis shoes. The Candy Man bought cases of gold-wrapped Werther's Originals and handed them out each day during his lunch break, a big-hearted fixture in the bureaucratic maze. Trish Hackett, an Air Force executive assistant, like so many, heard of him soon after she started her Pentagon job a couple of years ago. "One day, a friendly, smiling Kenny Rogers look-alike wearing earphones handed me a piece of candy, and I knew I had finally met the Candy Man." Lynch had planned to take that Tuesday off, but he had too much work to do. He started his day meeting over bagels and doughnuts with an employee from the Norfolk, Va., naval base. Later, Lynch returned to his command center office. After the attack, his wife, Brenda, frantically called his number; she couldn't reach him.
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