One unsung hero

Fourteen thousand people faced their ultimate test on September 11, 1993.

That number, according to Google, is approximately how many air traffic controllers are employed in the United States. 

One of them -- a high school ex-boyfriend -- worked in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  He may or may not have been on duty that morning; If he wasn't, he was probably called in.

September 11, 1993, was the day the skies were cleared of all air traffic except for Air Force One and any military aircraft. 

History.com wrote about the air traffic controllers on 9/11.  The article focuses mostly on the activities of the controllers in the Northeast and the Washington, D.C.; the area where four planes crashed. 

At 8:46 a.m., the first plane, American Airlines 11, hit Tower 1 of the World Trade Center.  Like most people, the controllers thought it was a small plane, like a Cessna. 

But already, they'd heard Mohammed Atta's accidental broadcast:  "We have some planes. Just stay quiet and we'll be OK. We are returning to the airport. Don't try to make any stupid moves."

They knew there was trouble but hadn't yet connected Mohammed Atta's order with the crash of the plane into Tower 1. 

By 9:03, when United Flight 175 hit Tower 2 of the World Trade Center -- in front of millions of viewers who had on Good Morning America, or the Today Show, or CNN, or CBS's Morning Show, or Fox News -- they knew all of this was no accident. Both planes had been hijacked, and there might be more. 

What to do? How many hijackers were there? Would there be more planes crashing? 

Down in Herndon, Virginia, at the Federal Aviation Administration, Ben Sliney realized that his first day on the job would be a baptism by fire. 

One minute after United 175 hit Tower 2, Sliney ordered a "ground stop".  "Ground stop" meant, no plane in the United States of America could take off. 

It was 9:04 Eastern Time; 7:04 Albuquerque time (Mountain time). If my ex-boyfriend wasn't already on his shift, I'm sure his phone rang telling him, "Get in here, now." 

At 9:05, the order "ATC Zero" came over the airwaves. "ATC Zero" translated into the complete shutdown of the airspace around New York City. Not only could planes not take off, planes couldn't land there, either. 

32 minutes later, at 9:37 a.m., a third plane, American Airlines Flight 77, hit the Pentagon.

Five minutes later, at 9:42 a.m. exactly one hour after the first plane hit the World Trade Center, the FAA gave the order to "clear the skies." 

I don't speak FAA lingo.  I'm sure the FAA said it in their own "language", but the order was clear: If you are a plane and you are in the air, pick an airport and land immediately. 

If my ex-boyfriend was on duty, it would have been 7:42 a.m. The sun was up, spreading light over the New Mexico landscape. 

Under normal circumstances, the job of an air traffic controller is tense and difficult. Lives are in your hands and one wrong order to a plane can cause a crash, or a near-crash (or, in more semi-humorous cases, a landing at the wrong airport.) Plus, you have to worry about being on time, or as near on time as possible; they have to keep an eye on the weather and an eye on air traffic.  (I would rather drive in Atlanta traffic than guide people through the air!)  You cannot afford to panic. You cannot afford to show anxiety. Even if your heart is racing at 120 beats per minutes or higher, you have to talk calmly to a plane, telling them what runway is open, what gate to go to, whether or not the pilot should circle . . . all of the things that we airplane passengers don't necessarily think about. 

But "land all planes"? All commercial planes? At the nearest airport? 

Whatever switches flip in an air traffic controller's brain to keep him/her calm and steady, they flipped, and I believe they flipped in my ex-boyfriend's brain. He, and his colleagues, spoke the FAA language that told what plane to go where, what runway to land on, whether to circle the airport before landing, whether to send them on to another airport because they didn't have room.

According to the National Archives, the skies were clear by 12:16 p.m.; 10:16 p.m. by Alburquerque time, two and a half hours after the order to "clear the skies". 

Two and a half hours for someone to sit with headphones on, to strain to listen to a pilot, to look at a radar and keep track of a plane's location, and all the while knowing that four planes had crashed, wondering if there were any more hijackers, would there be any more crashes?

But they did it. In two and a half hours. 

We remember the FDNY and the NYPD when we think of the heroes of 9/11, as well we should. We remember them going up while everyone else is going down. 

But the people manning the microphones, the headphones, the radar, guiding the planes to safe landings when they were not prepared to handle the sudden load of air traffic  . . . they were heroes, too.

My 20th high school reunion came six weeks before 9/11. My ex-boyfriend and I didn't part on the world's best terms. He did get in touch with me much later through e-mail and he apologized for his behavior. At our reunion, the last words I said to him were, "I wish you well." 

And then, six weeks later, 9/11 happened. 

Not only was I horrified at the events as they unfolded, I was concerned about the ex-boyfriend. I knew it had to be stressful and trying. So I popped off an email asking, are you okay?

He responded, "Yes. Thanks for thinking about us."

I have not heard from him since then, and since he has a life, I don't expect to. 

But he belongs to that group of unsung heroes that cleared the skies on a horrible day. 

To him, and to every other unsung hero, I say, "thank you".

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.