At thirty-three, five foot seven, CeeCee had flashing brown eyes and a love of fine clothes that complemented her athletic figure. Years earlier, Lorne noticed her when each of them was taking a son to baseball practice. He nearly fell out of his car when she walked past. “Man! She is beautiful,” he thought.
CeeCee had traveled a winding road to happiness with Lorne, and the cellphone was a lifeline when her work took her away from him. They’d talk for hours, often five or six times a day, sometimes as many as ten to fifteen. The comfort of the other’s voice mattered as much as the subjects: their sons, two each from previous relationships; her work in airports and airplanes; his, as a police officer on the overnight shift in Fort Myers, Florida. Beyond work and kids, they’d talk about bills and chores and missing each other. As Lorne would say, they’d talk and talk, about “everything and nothing.”
CeeCee had become a United flight attendant less than a year earlier, at Lorne’s urging, after he recognized the emotional toll of her previous jobs, as a corrections officer in Miami and then as a police detective on the streets of Fort Pierce, Florida. When they began dating, Lorne was a police dispatcher in Fort Pierce, so to some extent they’d fallen in love over the airwaves, enchanted by the sound of each other’s voice.
During her six years on the police force, CeeCee had put her good looks to use when she went undercover to portray a prostitute, but she got more satisfaction from helping women and children victimized by crime and drugs. She’d often stop by the Bible Way Soul Saving Station, where her uncle was the pastor, and she became a role model at a Christian women’s shelter founded by two of her aunts. Her kindness had limits, though, replaced by toughness when dealing with criminals. CeeCee excelled in an Advanced Officer Survival course that included hand-to-hand fighting and takedown moves. Before marrying Lorne in May 2000, CeeCee picked up extra shifts and worked second and third jobs to support her sons, Jerome and Jevon, around whom her life revolved. She kept them focused on school, taught them to play baseball, and expected them to fight for loose balls on the basketball court.
Becoming a flight attendant allowed CeeCee to fulfill her dreams of traveling, meeting new people, and trading hardened criminals for the occasional drunken businessman. As a perk of the job, she and her family took sightseeing trips on days off and filled available seats on flights to Indianapolis, where Lorne’s two sons, Justin and Jordan, lived with their mother. They’d done just that the previous weekend, then returned home so CeeCee’s sons could be in school on Monday.
As the summer of 2001 flew past, CeeCee poured out her heart in a letter to the woman who had raised her, Carrie Ross, who was both CeeCee’s adoptive mother and her biological aunt. CeeCee mentioned rough patches of her past, then wrote that she was as happy as she’d ever been. She loved her new job as a flight attendant, and she credited Ross’s love and support for leading her to this high point in life.
Before flying to Newark on September 10, CeeCee squared away piles of laundry and filled the refrigerator with home-cooked meals. She hated to be away from her family, but she and Lorne didn’t want to uproot from Florida to her airport base in New Jersey. So CeeCee joined a group of her fellow flight attendants, each paying $150 in monthly rent for the Newark crash pad, and bided her time until she’d earn enough seniority to gain greater control over her schedule.
The morning of Monday, September 10, Lorne drove CeeCee to the Fort Myers airport, walked her to her gate, kissed her goodbye, and began a new day of serial phone calls. CeeCee didn’t reach the Newark apartment until eleven that night, and she wouldn’t get much rest. She’d been assigned an early flight out of Newark, an 8:00 a.m. departure to San Francisco. Even as her energy flagged, she didn’t want to stop talking with Lorne.
Two hours into their last call of September 10, which blended into their first call of September 11, CeeCee fell asleep clutching her cellphone and her teddy bear Lorne. The real Lorne hung up, certain that they’d speak again soon.
MAJOR KEVIN NASYPANY
Northeast Air Defense Sector, Rome, N.Y.
At forty-three, solidly built and colorfully profane, Kevin Nasypany had a name that rhymed with the New Jersey town of Parsippany, a military pilot’s unflappable confidence, and a caterpillar mustache on a Saint Bernard’s face.
On September 10, Nasypany woke with a full plate. He and his wife, Dana, had five children, three girls and two boys aged five to nineteen, and Dana was seven months pregnant. They also had a sweet new chocolate lab puppy that Nasypany had judged to be dumber than dirt. Their rambling Victorian house in upstate Waterville, New York, needed paint, the oversized yard needed care, and a half-finished bathroom needed remodeling. Plus, someone needed to close their aboveground pool for the season, a chore that Nasypany loudly proclaimed to be a royal pain in the ass.
To top it off, he had to protect the lives of roughly one hundred million Americans.
Nasypany was a major in the Air National Guard, working as a mission control commander at the Northeast Air Defense Sector, or NEADS (pronounced knee-ads). NEADS was part of the North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD, the military organization with the daunting task of safeguarding the skies over the United States and Canada.
Protection work suited Nasypany, who’d been a leading defenseman on his college hockey team. At NEADS, he and his team stood sentry against long-range enemy bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles sneaking past U.S. air borders, along with a catalog of other airborne dangers such as hijackings. Nasypany had joined NEADS seven years earlier, after an active duty Air Force career during which he earned the radio call sign “Nasty” and spent months aloft in a radar plane over Iraq, Kuwait, and Saudi Arabia during the First Gulf War.
On workdays, Nasypany drove his Nissan Stanza twenty-five miles to NEADS headquarters, a squat aluminum bunker that resembled a UFO from a 1950s sci-fi movie. It was the last operating facility in a military ghost town, on the property of the decommissioned Griffiss Air Force Base in Rome, New York. The obscure location was fitting: in the grand scheme of U.S. military priorities, defending domestic skies had become something of a backwater, staffed largely by part-time pilots and officers in the Air National Guard.
Working eight-hour shifts around the clock, three hundred sixty-five days a year, Nasypany and several hundred military officers, surveillance technicians, communications specialists, and weapons controllers huddled in the green glow of outdated radar and computer screens. Bulky tape recorders preserved their spoken words as they kept a lookout for potential national security threats over Washington, D.C., and twenty-seven states in the Northeast, Mid-Atlantic, and Midwest.
One of the many challenges for Nasypany was to keep his crews sharp amid the daily tedium of a peacetime vigil. Entire shifts would pass with no hint of trouble, which was good for the country but potentially numbing to NEADS crews. Then, perhaps a dozen times a month, an “unknown” would appear on a radar scope, and everyone needed to react smartly and immediately, knowing that a mistake or a delay of even a few minutes theoretically could mean the obliteration of an American city.
In most of those cases, the NEADS crew would quickly identify the mystery radar dots. But three or four times a month, when initial efforts failed, NEADS staffers would carry out the most exciting part of their job: ordering the launch of supersonic military fighter jets to determine who or what had entered American airspace.
Nationally, NORAD and its divisions could immediately call upon fourteen fighter jets, two each at seven bases around the country. Those fighters remained perpetually “on alert,” armed and fueled, pilots ready. The military had many more fighter jets spread among U.S. bases, but time would be needed to round up pilots and load fuel and weapons, and time would be an unaffordable luxury if America came under attack.
During the decade since the fall of the Soviet Union, America’s leaders had behaved as though the airborne threat had nearly disappeared. At fourteen, the number of on-alert fighters nationwide marked a sharp drop since the height of the Cold War, when twenty-two military sites, with scores of fighter jets, were always ready to defend against a ballistic missile attack or any other threat to North America. In fact, by the