September 11, 2001, 7:59 a.m.
An American Airlines twin-engine Boeing 767 surged down the runway at Boston Logan International Airport and lifted powerfully into the sky.
As the engines mounted on both wings roared at maximum output and the aircraft steadily gained altitude, the captain, Donovan, kept his eyes fixed ahead, skillfully adjusting the throttle with practiced hands.
Seated beside him, First Officer David checked the altimeter and picked up the radio, exchanging communications with air traffic control.
"Control, this is AA11. Currently at seven thousand feet, climbing to ten thousand. We'll be turning to a heading of two-five-zero."
[AA11, roger. Cleared to climb to twenty-five thousand feet. After that, proceed on the direct route to Los Angeles.]
"Roger. Climbing to twenty-five thousand feet."
[AA11, have a good flight.]
"Thank you. I hope you have a good day, too."
After ending the transmission, David reached out and lightly pressed a button on the console.
Moments later, the aircraft pierced through a thick layer of clouds, and a deep blue sky spread out above them.
Donovan, a former Air Force captain and a veteran pilot with twenty-three years of experience, kept his hands on the controls and asked,
"What's our current altitude?"
"We've just reached twenty-five thousand feet."
"Good."
Donovan gave a small nod. True to his cautious nature, he double-checked the altimeter himself, then flipped a switch on the console upward.
A status indicator appeared on the main display as the autopilot engaged.
Carefully releasing his hands from the controls, Donovan watched the aircraft fly steadily without a hint of instability, then leaned back against his seat.
"The world's really come a long way. Back when I was flying C-141 transport planes in the Air Force, we had to take turns at the controls and fly nonstop for a full day from Charleston Air Force Base in South Carolina all the way to Vietnam. Now the computer does all the flying for you."
"Are we doing the military stories again?"
David let out a small chuckle as he filled in the flight log.
"I swear I've heard the same story at least a hundred times."
"Just wait until you've served yourself. You'll end up exactly like me."
Smacking his lips lightly, Donovan suddenly asked as if something had just occurred to him,
"By the way, didn't you say your younger daughter's birthday is in three days?"
"Yes. Luckily, I don't have a flight that day, so we're taking the family to Disneyland."
"Olivia must be thrilled."
"She really is. She's been marking off the days on the calendar, counting down to when we go."
Donovan replied with a nostalgic look on his face.
"Kids grow up fast. If you don't want to regret it later, it's best to spend as much time with them as you can right now."
"That's true."
David pulled his wallet from his pocket and quietly unfolded a family photo.
In the picture, a young blonde girl was smiling brightly, her face full of playful mischief.
"She's going to be a real beauty when she grows up. You'll have plenty of boys crying over her."
"Not a chance. I won't let them take a single step into my house."
As David put his wallet away while saying that, Donovan burst into hearty laughter.
At that very moment—
The cockpit door flew open, and two burly Arab men rushed inside.
Startled by the sudden intrusion, both pilots froze in shock.
"Who are you?"
"You're not allowed in here!"
Up to that point, the cockpit had not yet been equipped with reinforced anti-hijacking locks. Though rare, there were occasional cases of passengers opening the wrong door or wandering in out of curiosity.
Thinking this was one of those cases, David stood up with a stern expression and moved to force the men back out.
"Get out. Now!"
The instant he tried to push them away, the man with closely cropped hair reached inside his jacket, stepped in close, and suddenly thrust something forward.
"Ugh!"
A cold blade plunged deep into David's abdomen. He let out a strangled cry and doubled over.
"Ghh—!"
Collapsing to his knees and falling to the floor, David's vision caught sight of the men lunging toward Captain Donovan, who was scrambling to his feet in alarm.
"David! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
Donovan swung his fist at the attacker rushing him, smashing it up into the man's jaw.
But he couldn't evade the blade wielded by the second assailant as it drove into his side.
The pain was excruciating, like a red-hot iron spike being driven straight through his flesh, and Donovan screamed.
"Aaagh!"
Staggering, he collapsed heavily into the pilot's seat as the two attackers mercilessly slashed at him with sharpened plastic knives.
As blood from Donovan's wounds pooled across the cockpit floor, David's fading vision blurred, then plunged into total darkness.
***
8:21 a.m., Boston Air Traffic Control Center.
Inside the expansive room, dozens of air traffic controllers wearing headsets sat at their stations, eyes fixed on their console screens as they monitored the movements of every aircraft within their assigned sectors, twenty-four hours a day without pause.
As the air traffic police responsible for ensuring the safe flight of dozens, even hundreds of aircraft in the sky, they all carried a strong sense of pride and stayed fully focused on their duties without letting their guard down.
"American Airlines flight AA11, this is Boston Center. If you can hear us, respond! American Airlines flight AA11, do you copy?"
Center Director Beach, sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, frowned as he heard the urgent voice of Elio, a rookie controller, calling out while staring at his console.
"What's going on?"
As Director Beach stepped closer and asked, Elio turned his head with a tense expression.
"American Airlines flight AA11, which departed from Boston Logan International Airport, has deviated from its planned route. We're attempting to establish communication, but there's no response."
When Director Beach looked at the console screen, he could see the dot labeled AA11 veering far off its designated flight path and heading in an entirely different direction.
"What was its original destination?"
"Los Angeles."
The moment he heard that, Director Beach knit his brows deeply.
"Then it should be flying west, but it's heading south."
"That's why we've been calling repeatedly, but there's been no response at all."
"How long has communication been lost?"
Elio checked the clock mounted on the wall and answered immediately.
"About ten minutes."
Director Beach's expression hardened into a scowl.
"And what exactly have you been doing all that time? If something seemed off, you should've reported it immediately!"
"I thought it might just be a signal glitch or a navigation system malfunction, so I was trying to verify it first…" Elio muttered defensively, shoulders hunched.
"It's not just slightly off course. It's completely deviated and flying in an entirely different direction. One glance should've told you this wasn't normal!"
Director Beach snapped irritably, pointing at the screen.
His raised voice drew attention. Other staff began standing up or turning their heads to see what was happening.
"Give me the mic."
"Yes."
A thoroughly intimidated Elio removed his headset and handed it over.
Director Beach pulled it on, leaned forward, pressed the transmit button, and personally hailed Flight AA11.
"This is Boston Center. American Airlines Flight AA11, you are significantly off your assigned route. Is there an issue with the aircraft? Respond immediately!"
He waited tensely, but when no reply came, his expression stiffened further.
"American Airlines Flight AA11, do you copy?!"
As a blinking IRS signal on the console caught his eye, Director Beach stared at it intently, a sense of dread creeping in. Elio fidgeted and murmured,
"Could it really be a malfunction?"
Straightening up, Director Beach replied in a rigid voice,
"If that were the case, they would've turned back to Logan or made an emergency landing at a nearby airport."
"Then…"
Running a hand over his smoothly shaven jaw, Director Beach paused to think. Then, with a grave expression, he spoke again.
"We need to notify the Federal Aviation Administration and the Air Force."
Just as Director Beach picked up the phone to place a call on the direct line, Elio—who had just put his headset back on—widened his eyes and shouted urgently,
"We're receiving a transmission from AA11!"
"Put it on speaker."
As Director Beach set the receiver back down, Elio hurriedly pressed a button on the console, switching the audio to the speakers.
[…Hey, folks. We've taken control of the plane. If you behave yourselves, no one will be harmed. We're heading back to the airport, so clear the runway.]
"...!"
The moment English spoken with a heavy Middle Eastern accent echoed through the room, the air traffic control center erupted into chaos.
A hijacking—an airborne seizure—was underway.
"Damn it!"
Realizing that the worst-case scenario he had feared was now reality, Director Beach let out a harsh curse without thinking.
As the other staff members stared in shock, Elio spoke with a shaken voice.
"Th-this is a hijacking, isn't it?"
Director Beach clenched his lower lip tightly, unable to respond right away.
"AA11 has turned off its IRS signal!"
At another controller's frantic shout, Director Beach hurriedly checked the console screen.
The IRS signal for American Airlines Flight AA11, which moments earlier had been blinking and moving like the others, was now gone.
"Damn it all… this is insane."
Once the inertial reference system (IRS), which displayed an aircraft's real-time position, speed, heading, and nose direction, was shut off, tracking the movement of a hijacked passenger plane became extremely difficult.
Sensing that something was deeply wrong with the hijackers' actions, Director Beach immediately began responding according to protocol, issuing rapid instructions to the staff watching him.
"Declare Code Red across the entire airspace and track where they're taking the aircraft using radar. And warn all other flights that AA11 has been hijacked so they stay alert!"
"Yes!"
"Understood!"
"There's a risk of a major accident. Clear all airspace along AA11's direction of travel!"
"Hurry!"
Everyone was visibly shaken, but they moved in perfect coordination, forcing calm into their voices as they carried out their tasks.
Director Beach picked up the phone again to notify the Federal Aviation Administration and the Air Force.
At that moment, a female controller seated in the front row jumped to her feet, her face drained of color, and shouted back toward him in a near scream.
"United Airlines Flight UA175, which also took off from Boston Logan, has suddenly deviated from its route and lost radio contact!"
"What?!"
Still holding the receiver, Director Beach turned to the console screen. Sure enough, United Airlines Flight UA175 had veered far off its assigned route and was moving southwest.
"No way…"
Then, just like AA11, its IRS signal cut out and vanished from the display.
"What on earth is happening here?!"
In his twenty years on the job, there had never been a single hijacking. Now, two were unfolding simultaneously. Something catastrophic was clearly underway.
TL/n -
AA11 refers to American Airlines Flight 11, the first plane hijacked during the September 11, 2001 attacks. It was a Boeing 767 scheduled from Boston to Los Angeles, and tragically crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
UA175 refers to United Airlines Flight 175, the second plane hijacked during the September 11, 2001 attacks. It was a Boeing 767 scheduled from Boston to Los Angeles, and it struck the South Tower of the World Trade Center.