Miracles and Massacres: True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

12

The Missing 9/11 Terrorist: The Power of Everyday Heroes

Orlando International Airport

August 4, 2001

Jose Melendez-Perez stood and observed the first row of customs agents screening passengers seeking admittance to the United States. From afar it all seemed pretty routine: Name, passport, nature of trip. Then give them a stamp and let them through. But Melendez-Perez knew better. This job was far from routine.

He checked his watch, his eyeglasses slipping a little down his angular nose. He stroked his salt-and-pepper mustache and reflected on how his job was not unlike combat: moments of extreme intensity, followed by long periods of quiet during which even the best were challenged to maintain their focus and discipline.

Seventeen hundred hours, he whispered to himself. After two combat tours in Vietnam and twenty-six years in the U.S. Army, Melendez-Perez found no need to transition to “civilian time.” His life was about protecting the United States of America—be it with a gun in some far-off land, or with a badge right here within shouting distance of one of the biggest tourist attractions in the world.

The muted television in the operations center was tuned to Fox News. The big stories of the day played out in a seemingly endless loop: large protests at the G-8 Summit in Genoa; Robert Mueller confirmed as FBI director two days earlier; a small car bomb attack in London, perpetrated by the IRA. The biggest news seemed to be about President Bush’s recent visit to Kosovo and NATO’s commitment to send peacekeeping troops to Macedonia to quell a Muslim uprising in the former Yugoslav republic.

Melendez-Perez thought back to the recent security briefings. There had been a few warnings in the aftermath of the G-8 Summit, but nothing that warranted a state of heightened security.

Melendez-Perez’s supervisor walked over and handed him a file. “Got a Saudi. No English. Incomplete I-94 and Customs Declaration. You got secondary.”

Melendez-Perez nodded. “Roger,” he said.

Incomplete arrival or departure forms and customs declarations were not unusual—especially among those who didn’t speak much English.

Walking to the holding room, he rehearsed the usual process in his mind: question the traveler; check his credentials; determine his eligibility to be admitted into the United States. Question, check, determine eligibility. Routine, but important. Never one to be complacent, Melendez-Perez put on his game face and ran through his checklist of tasks.

First task: secure an interpreter. He looked up the on-call Arabic translator and saw that it was Dr. Shafik-Fouad. He called, explained the situation, and put him on standby. The next step was to review the subject’s information. Melendez-Perez opened the file and scanned the important details.

Mohammed al Qahtani had departed Dubai for London, checking one bag, before arriving here in Miami on Virgin Atlantic Flight 15. Melendez-Perez knew that many Saudi nationals connected from Riyadh or Dubai through London in order to visit Disney World. Nothing unusual here, he thought, as he stepped into the small waiting room, quickly scanning the twelve faces to identify his subject.

“Mohammed al Qahtani,” he called, staring directly at the man who was the best match for the picture in the file.

Melendez-Perez watched as Qahtani lifted his dead eyes from gazing at the floor and locked his black irises onto him. The subject wore a black, long-sleeved shirt, black pants, black shoes, and a black belt with a silver buckle. He had a wild black mane, thin facial hair, broad shoulders, and a scowl that could probably melt ice.

“Please follow me,” Melendez-Perez said, indicating the way with his hand. He led Qahtani to a small room that resembled an interrogation cell, but he left the door open. The illusion of free will, he thought as he ushered the Saudi into the room.

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Three months earlier: May 11, 2001

Mohammed al Qahtani dug his foot into the sand like a bull about to charge a matador. His basic training instructor stood nearby with a stopwatch. Qahtani’s heart raced with anticipation.

“Thalatha, ithnan, wahed . . .” Three, two, one . . .

Qahtani sprinted toward the mud pit covered in barbed wire—navigating it with ease, spitting grit as he charged forward to the rope climb. His powerful shoulders and long arms helped him scale the wall in record time as he flipped over the backside and high-stepped through a series of old tires.

Qahtani knew that he was on a record pace, and, if he finished that way, he would likely be chosen to go the front lines to fight the Northern Alliance. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to demonstrate his personal courage and fervent dedication to Islam.

After that it would be up to his commanders to decide if he would be chosen for another mission—one that had been whispered about in tents and caves for a long time, but one that no one outside of senior leadership seemed to know much about. Qahtani didn’t care about the details. If it was important to the cause, he wanted in.

Inshallah. God Willing.

Orlando International Airport

August 4, 2001

Melendez-Perez leaned across the small gray table and put Dr. Shafik-Fouad on speakerphone. At the sound of the interpreter’s voice Qahtani smirked, as though a familiar accent implied he had an ally.

“On the phone is Dr. Shafik-Fouad. He is our interpreter. I am Officer Melendez-Perez of United States Immigration and I am empowered to ask questions of you so that we may determine whether you are able to be admitted to the United States.”

Melendez-Perez waited while Shafik-Fouad translated. Qahtani’s icy stare remained steady, as though he were a boxer attempting to intimidate his opponent.

“Why don’t you have a return ticket?” Melendez-Perez asked.

Qahtani stood and pointed his finger at the immigration agent.

“I have no idea where I am going next. How can I buy return ticket when I don’t know where I will be?”

As Dr. Shafik-Fouad interpreted, Melendez-Perez’s eyes narrowed. He’d heard these kinds of responses before. In Vietnam, assassins were often not told of their final destination or target. This ensured that they would have no intelligence to share if they were compromised. While this Saudi in front of him was a long way from a Vietcong mercenary, Melendez-Perez felt the resonance of a familiar chord.

He pressed ahead.

“Who is picking you up at the airport?”

“A friend.”

“What’s his name?”

“He is arriving at a later date.”

“Then how is he picking you up?”

“He arrives in three or four days.”

“Then who is picking you up?”

“I am traveling for six days.”

“Where are you staying?”

“A hotel.”

“Which one?”

“I forget the name.”

“If you don’t speak English and don’t have a hotel reservation, you will have difficulty getting around Orlando.”

“There is someone waiting for me upstairs.”

The rapid-fire questioning from Melendez-Perez, translated by Dr. Shafik-Fouad, had either confused Qahtani or trapped the Saudi in his own lies.

Not wanting to lose momentum, Melendez-Perez kept pushing.

“Who is waiting for you?”

“No one is waiting for me. I am to call him when I get to where I am going.”

“What is his phone number?”

“You do not need to know these things! This is personal and you do not need to contact him.”

Melendez-Perez stood. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Panjshir Province, Afghanistan

Three months earlier: May 18, 2001

His obstacle course time the previous week had indeed impressed his superiors and Qahtani had been granted his wish to be sent to the front lines. Now he was running again, sprinting at full throttle, his wavy black hair tousled by the hot May winds of Afghanistan. Today the mud pit and old tires had been replaced by Northern Alliance troops—and they were not far behind.

As he scrambled downhill, the mountains north of Bagram, Afghanistan, cast large, black shadows against the gray twilight. Darting along the rocky goat trail with his AK-47 rifle, shale and pebbles skidded beneath his boots, falling over the cliff onto the rocks far below. While his instructors had warned him not to venture beyond the front lines, Qahtani knew that, to stand out, he’d have to do something extraordinary. That meant disobeying orders, but the upside was that, if he succeeded, his superiors would recognize his devotion to Allah and his willingness to sacrifice his own life for the cause. Never once did he consider that his self-centered foray into enemy territory might have consequences for that cause if he were captured.

Athletic and powerful, Qahtani widened the distance between him and his pursuers, but the narrow path soon turned into an open stretch of trail that led to a road. He wondered if they would pursue him beyond the entrance to the fabled Panjshir Valley, the place where “the Lion of Panjshir,” Ahmad Shah Massoud, had destroyed the Soviet army thirteen years ago, in 1988.

Night had fallen and the darkness closed a tight fist around the looming mountain peaks. Qahtani leapt over a rock and was forced down into a narrow gorge with a well-maintained gravel road running through it. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a Hilux pickup truck rounding the hairpin turn he had just avoided.

Almost immediately rapid machine-gun fire came from the truck, growing more intense, and more accurate, as Qahtani raced toward the gatehouse. How fast can I run fifty meters?

He darted past the cantilevered metal arm that blocked vehicle access and dove onto the bank of the adjacent river, water raging loud enough to drown the sound of the approaching truck.

The pickup was close behind him. Bullets sparked off the metal trusses of the fence surrounding the gorge as Qahtani risked the current and slipped across the river, up the opposite bank, and onto a trail that led into the mountains.

He paused and took several deep breaths, trying to get as much oxygen to his starving lungs as possible. He had made it.

An odd squeaking noise disrupted his brief celebration. He looked back at the gate. The metal arm was lifting as the truck sat waiting patiently, like a panther about to leap—less than one hundred yards away. Men stood in the bed of the pickup, searching for him in the darkness. A large spotlight flicked on, silhouetting the .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the back.

Qahtani dove over the side of the trail into a shallow valley. His heart pounding through his chest, he slithered along the ground as far as he could. For the first time since his self-directed mission had begun, he sensed failure. As he crawled along the ground he thought back over his brief, insignificant life. In his teens he had drifted from job to job, never proving worthy enough to stick anywhere. He had no education to speak of and had little practical talent in anything other than athletics.

His last job before embracing this new path in life was as an ambulance driver in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. By then, Qahtani had absorbed the radical sermons of his local mullah for so long that he’d finally approached him to ask how he could join in the fight against the infidels. His mullah sent him to Syria to study and train with like-minded Muslims. It was there that he’d become a true believer and realized that his calling was to join in the jihad against the West.

Now, as he hid from the searchlight mounted on the Northern Alliance truck in a rocky outcropping, that trip to Syria, and his subsequent stop in Iran, seemed like ages ago. He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the truck engine rev and tires crunch off toward the valley. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath: I have survived. He prayed that his commanders would view his actions as courageous, rather than defiant.

Qahtani looked at the night sky with its tiny lights flickering brightly against the darkness. Perhaps, he thought, his life would be like that: a flickering light against the endless void of darkness.

Orlando International Airport

August 4, 2001

Melendez-Perez paced the halls, thinking through the situation, which was more delicate than it appeared. While his instincts screamed that something was wrong, he knew that denying entry to a legitimate Saudi national could have serious professional consequences.

But he also knew something else: His instincts were the only thing that had kept him alive in Vietnam. He trusted them implicitly.

Returning to the small room, Melendez-Perez began a different line of questioning, but Qahtani quickly lost control again. The Saudi was standing up, leaning forward, his hands on the table, leering, and shouting.

Melendez-Perez remained calm. “Sit down, please. I’m not finished. You have two thousand, eight hundred dollars in cash and a one-way ticket to Dubai will cost you two thousand, two hundred. How will you get money for both travel in the United States and your return?”

“Someone will bring me money.”

“Why would someone bring you some money?”

“Because he is a friend.”

“How long have you known this person?”

“Not too long.”

Melendez-Perez stood and left the room again.

• • •

“I am placing you under oath. It is a serious offense to lie to an immigration officer.”

Qahtani’s eyes narrowed at the translation of what Melendez-Perez had just told him, but he agreed. After the swearing in was read, translated, and recited, the questioning continued.

“Who is picking you up?”

“I won’t answer,” Qahtani said.

Shafik-Fouad, whose sole purpose thus far had been to interpret and relay Melendez-Perez’s words, spoke out of turn. “Something’s not right here.”

Melendez-Perez agreed and he saw a dark cloud of fear slide across Qahtani’s eyes. For the third time in ninety minutes, he left the room.

• • •

His feet as cold as ice cubes, Melendez-Perez walked to the operations center and checked NAILS, the National Automated Index Lookout System. It came up empty—Qahtani had no countries interested in his arrest. That would’ve been too easy, he thought to himself.

Melendez-Perez reentered the interview room with several documents and a small container. Qahtani stared at him intently as he wrote on several different forms. “What is your occupation?”

“Car salesman,” Qahtani said.

Melendez-Perez returned the Saudi’s icy stare as he removed an inkpad and began to take Qahtani’s fingerprints. He grasped his fingers one by one, placing them on the pad, rolling them back and forth, gathering ink, and then pressing them firmly into the hard, white stock paper.

Oddly, Melendez-Perez perceived a softening of Qahtani’s demeanor. Perhaps the Saudi believed this to be a good sign. Maybe he was under the impression that the fingerprints were the final part of the admittance process.

The paperwork complete, Melendez-Perez stood again. “You do not appear to be admissible into the United States. I am offering you an opportunity to withdraw your application. I will escort you to the gate for the next departing flight to Dubai, where you will pay for your return ticket.”

As the interpreter relayed Melendez-Perez’s message, Qahtani looked from the phone to Melendez-Perez’s face and shouted, “You cannot do this! Why do all of this paperwork? Why put me through this? You are harassing me! I will not pay!”

Melendez-Perez remained calm. “If you do not pay for your ticket, then we will detain you here in the United States until such time that you do.”

Qahtani, looking defeated, reluctantly agreed. “I will pay,” he muttered.

• • •

Standing at the entrance to the jetway, Qahtani turned back toward Melendez-Perez and spoke one final time—now using perfect English.

“I will be back.”

Dania Beach, Florida

August 5, 2001

Ziad Jarrah jabbed tirelessly at the heavy bag until his instructor slowed him down.

“No need to destroy the bag, Ziad. What do you want to work on today?”

But Jarrah wasn’t working on anything except venting his anger. He and a friend had made the long trip from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando International Airport yesterday, waiting for hours before finally giving up on their arriving passenger, who was apparently a no-show.

He continued to pummel the bag, ignoring his instructor and temporarily abandoning the perfection with which he had been playing his role as a moderate, westernized Muslim. Conflict stormed in Jarrah’s mind as sweat streamed down his face. His oval wire-rimmed glasses were cocked oddly on his nose as his fists let loose their fury.

His life was a study in contradiction. On the one hand, he was smart, educated, and fluent in English, German, and Arabic. He had a beautiful girlfriend in Germany, whom he called nearly every day. He was living a life that many people only dreamed of. On the other hand, it was this life that also made him the perfect person to wage jihad against the West. No one ever saw him as a threat because there was no reason for him to be one.

Though raised as a Christian in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon, Jarrah became friends with Muslims while at school in Germany. Under their tutelage, he had begun to believe in the extreme reaches of Islam.

For months he had been taking self-defense classes at this Florida gym. He had perfected sleeper holds, defensive maneuvers, and rapid-fire jabs. But, unbeknownst to most people, these weren’t the only things for which Jarrah had been training. The previous December he’d begun training in a flight simulator, pursuing his childhood dream of becoming a pilot.

West Milford, New Jersey

September 10, 2001

Just south of the New York State border, in the Adirondack foothills of West Milford, New Jersey, Jeremy Glick slipped quietly into his backyard. As the predawn mist of an Indian summer morning began to clear, he closed his eyes and began running through the judo routine that had won him the college national championship eight years earlier. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed, and he visualized his beautiful wife, Lyzbeth, and his two-month-old daughter, Emerson—a name they’d chosen because of his fondness for the poet. Glick stepped forward as he practiced the Deashi Harai technique; his foot swept over and out and his muscles stretched taut on his six-foot-two, 220-pound frame.

Thirty minutes later, Glick stepped through the back door and into his home. It was dead quiet—no phones ringing, no babies screaming, no roar of commuter trains, honking of cabs, or growl of city buses—the kind of silence that only those who lead busy suburban lives can really appreciate.

Lyz and Emmy were still inside, the former undoubtedly trying to catch what little sleep she could after a long, restless night with their newborn. Jeremy had been up early packing for his flight to San Francisco. A couple of hours later, Lyz would be leaving to drive up to the Catskill Mountains with Emmy to visit her parents. Glick smiled. It took him a lot of years, but he finally understood what really mattered in life: family. And now he had one of his very own. He showered and dressed and quietly kissed Lyz and Emmy good-bye.

• • •

A few hours later—after first stopping to interview for a job that wouldn’t require so much travel—Jeremy Glick arrived at Newark International Airport and moved quickly through the security checkpoint. He walked to a monitor to confirm his gate number and saw the one word that every traveler dreads: CANCELED. It was flashing red right next to his flight number: United 93 to San Francisco.

Confused, Glick approached the ticket counter. “I’m sorry sir,” the agent said. “There’s been a fire in the airport where we are doing some construction and all of our flights have been delayed or canceled. If you provide me with your boarding pass and ID, I’d be happy to rebook you for tomorrow’s flight.”

Glick was by no means immune to the same anger and frustration that all travelers feel when their plans are disrupted, but judo had taught him discipline and control. Maximum impact with minimum effort. Anger was the opposite. It took a lot of effort, and it resulted in nothing. So, instead of letting frustration overcome him, Glick let his mind drift back to the positive: his family. It was too late to stop their trip to the Catskills, but at least he’d be in his own bed for another night.

Newark International Airport

September 11, 2001

7:03 A.M.

Jeremy Glick learned his lesson and checked the flight monitor before clearing security: DELAYED. At least that was an improvement from the previous day.

After going through security he headed to Gate 17 and called his in-law’s house, hoping to speak with his wife. Instead, his mother-in-law, Jo Anne Makely, answered. “Emmy had a rough night,” she told him. “I did what I could, but Lyz was up for most of it so she’s trying to get a couple hours of sleep in now.”

A pang of guilt stuck in his heart. He always helped with Emmy, especially on the challenging nights. “Tell Lyzzie I’m boarding the plane and I love her and I’ll call her when I get to San Francisco.”

7:42 A.M.

Ziad Jarrah boarded United Airlines Flight 93 and thought back on his now five-week-old argument with Mohammed Atta.

“We cannot do this without al Qahtani,” he had told Atta, their car idling outside Orlando International Airport. “All of the other teams have five. We will only have four.”

“We have waited for hours. Obviously he was turned away. There is no time for another. You must do this without him,” Atta said as he stepped on the accelerator.

Now, as Jarrah took his seat in the first row of the first-class cabin, he sat back and watched the others on his team board. Closing his eyes, he silently said his supplications and recalled the note he wrote to his girlfriend the previous night: “I did what I was supposed to do. You ought to be very proud, because it is an honor and you will see the result and everyone will be very happy.”

Still, the absence of Qahtani bothered him. Jarrah knew that he, and possibly one of the other men, could fly the aircraft. But with two people in the cockpit, that only left two to guard and defend the cockpit. They’d always planned and rehearsed with three.

Jarrah looked over his shoulder at the many empty seats behind him. That gave him some measure of comfort. Fewer passengers meant fewer opportunities to overpower his team.

A resolve came over him. It was time. He thought back to a video he’d made with Atta about eighteen months earlier. They’d both proclaimed their dedication to today’s task but he’d laughed through most of the taping as he’d tried to read his part of the script. Is this plan for real? he’d thought. It was so audacious, so . . . ridiculous. Could he really go through with it?

As the captain’s voice asked the flight attendants to prepare the cabin for takeoff, Jarrah realized that he would learn the answer to that question very soon.

Tarnak Farms Training Camp, Afghanistan

September 11, 2001

After his unexpected escort to the jetway in Orlando months earlier, Qahtani had returned to Dubai briefly, before flying to Kandahar to rejoin his comrades at the training camp near the airport.

Following three weeks of advanced infantry training, Qahtani was standing at the rope climb on the obstacle course when he heard a shout. He ran into the first room of the Habash Guesthouse and found dozens of cheering men huddled around a television set. On the screen was an image of the World Trade Center in New York City. One tower had a gaping hole in its side. Smoke and fire poured out as shards of glass and falling bodies rained down on the streets below.

As they watched, an airplane flew into the picture of the burning tower and struck the second tower, this time much lower than the first. The room erupted into another round of applause and celebration. Then, a new image: the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., up in flames. A third plane had struck.

Amid the cheering, Qahtani heard a voice.

“The next plane was yours, Qahtani. This is the most important symbol in Washington, D.C. Watch closely and you will be proud.” Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Al Qaeda’s operations officer—the man who planned and coordinated the logistics of the attacks—was smiling as he spoke.

“This was my plan.”

United Flight 93, 36,000 feet over Ohio

September 11, 2001

9:37 A.M.

Jeremy Glick watched the scene unfold before him as though he were watching a movie. The hijackers had stabbed the flight attendant, stormed the door of the cockpit, stabbed the pilots, and took control of the airplane. Meanwhile a man with a bomb strapped to his waist shouted at all of them to move away from the cockpit, toward the back of the plane.

Now seated in row twenty-seven, Glick picked up an air phone and called his wife in the Catskills. His father-in-law answered on the first ring.

“Jeremy, thank God. We’re so worried.”

Glick cut to the chase. “It’s bad news. Can you put Lyz on, please?”

A moment passed and Glick struggled to maintain his composure. When Lyz picked up he cut right to the chase.

“These three Iranian-looking guys took over the plane. They’ve got red bandanas, knives, and one says he has a bomb. I need to know, have other planes attacked the World Trade Center? That’s what some of the others are saying.”

“Yes, Jer. Planes have crashed into both,” Lyz said.

Glick was silent a moment, stifling a sob as he soaked in the full magnitude of what was happening.

“You need to be strong, Jer,” Lyz said.

“I know.” But at that moment Glick wasn’t thinking about himself. “I just need you to be happy,” he said. “I love you and Emmy so much.”

They spoke quietly for a few more minutes, professing their love for one another. Then Glick said, “Whatever decisions you make in your life, no matter what, I will support you.” It was the ultimate act of love: having the courage to see past his immediate danger and into his family’s future.

“We’re taking a vote to rush the hijackers,” he said. “Do you think the bomb is real?”

“No. I think they’re bluffing. I think you need to do it. You’re strong. You’re brave. I love you,” Lyz said.

A long pause.

“I think we’re going to do it. I’m going to put the phone down. I’m going to leave it here and come right back to it.”

Glick and the other men who voted to overtake the hijackers huddled and introduced themselves to each other: Todd Beamer, Mark Bingham, and Tom Burnett.

Glick was listening for skill sets as the men spoke. Bingham played rugby, Burnett was a quarterback in college, and Beamer played baseball. Good, four athletes, he thought.

Glick saw Beamer go back to his seat and pick up the air phone he’d left hanging. He spoke into the receiver for a moment and then turned to Glick and the other two men. “You guys ready? Let’s roll.”

Kandahar, Afghanistan

September 11, 2001

Qahtani paced nervously. The television room in the guesthouse was still full of revelers rejoicing in Al Qaeda’s successful attack on America.

Yet, there still had been no word on United Flight 93. And then, hours later—it finally came: a breaking report from Al Jazeera. An airliner had crashed in a farmer’s field in someplace called Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

“The initial reports,” the anchor said, “are that passengers of United Flight 93 overpowered the hijackers, preventing them from striking their intended target, which is believed to be either the White House or the U.S. Capitol.”

Khalid Sheikh Mohammed turned toward Qahtani and said, “You stupid Bedouin.”

As he lost control and began to sob, Qahtani ran from the guesthouse and hid inside one of the tunnels of the obstacle course. He hugged his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth inside the sweltering culvert. The encounter at the Orlando airport five weeks earlier kept running through his mind.

Nineteen others had made it. He had not. Bin Laden and Zawahiri had recruited him, selected him, and trusted him.

And he had failed.

Tora Bora Mountains, Afghanistan

Three months later: December 2001

After the reports of United Flight 93 reached the training camp, Qahtani thought he would be killed immediately to send a message to the other fighters. “Each plane with five men was successful,” Khalid Sheikh Mohammed had said. “The one plane with four men—the one you should have been on—was not. So you tell me, Qahtani, what should be the price for your failure?”

He expected death, but what he got instead was a one-way ticket to Tora Bora to fight the Americans. Now, cowering with thirty others in a dark cave, he sat, waiting for the moment that an American daisy-cutter bomb would carry out the sentence he’d been spared just months earlier.

But the bomb never came.

A few days into his stay in the mountains, Qahtani’s commander gathered the men. “Our position has been compromised,” he said. “The Americans and Northern Alliance are just over the ridge. We must go.” They left the cave in a rush and fled toward Pakistan.

Less than thirty minutes after their departure, Qahtani saw the explosion before he heard the sound. Their cave had taken a direct hit from an American bomb.

• • •

Hours later, as night fell, Qahtani heard machine-gun fire in the distance, followed by the thump of two mortars. The echoes of combat reverberated from the mountains onto the valley floor near Parachinar, Pakistan. The Americans were closing in from the north.

He pressed forward quickly through the narrow streambed. The other fighters followed behind him in single file, sometimes turning to spray random rifle fire at the advancing enemy.

With his senses deadened from lack of food and sleep, Qahtani at first missed the noise. By the time he realized that he was hearing engines idling, they were too close. And it was too late.

Automatic weapon fire began to ping overhead as armored vehicles closed in around them. Qahtani’s first instinct was to flee. He ran toward a canyon about a hundred yards away. Reminded of his escape from Panjshir, he was encouraged. This was an opportunity for redemption directly from Allah. He may have failed in Orlando, but he would not fail here.

The thought was just beginning to take hold in his mind when he was tackled from behind and handcuffed by a group of Pakistani soldiers. He and his comrades were dragged along the ground and loaded onto the backs of several trucks.

The soldiers placed a burlap bag over his head and he was soon transferred to the Americans. He heard their voices. Crisp and authoritative. He felt someone with large hands grab his fingers. One by one they were pressed into something soft and cold and then rolled from side to side.

Camp X-Ray

Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

January 2002

Sergeant Raul Romeo watched the military C-17 Globemaster airplane taxi and then drop its ramp. Military personnel escorted the prisoner onto the hot tarmac. The man wore an orange jumpsuit, white shoes, black socks, earmuffs, and a black cloth over his eyes.

An experienced interrogator, Romeo was excited about the inbound package. He was a fresh capture and rumored to be a highly placed Al Qaeda operative. He waited with his hands clasped behind his back until the man was directly in front of him.

“This is prisoner number 063,” the escort said. “Says he was in Afghanistan as a falconry expert.”

Romeo smiled. “Falconry? That’s what they all say.”

The handler returned the grin. “He was captured with an AK-47 and twenty-nine of his best falconry buddies.”

For all the details the handler seemed to know about this man, he still could not answer the most basic question: What is his name?

Camp X-Ray

Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

Ten months later: November 17, 2002

On a warm November morning, Sergeant Romeo’s commander called him into his office. Romeo reported with a sharp salute. “Sergeant Romeo reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Two things,” the major said. “Look at this.”

Romeo took the piece of paper from his commander and saw that he was looking at a fingerprint analysis between a set of prints taken on August 4, 2001, at Orlando International Airport and a set taken in December 2001 in Jalalabad, Afghanistan.

“Your guy was the twentieth hijacker,” the major said.

Romeo read the report and looked up. He and his friends had heard all of the speculation about a missing hijacker, but it had just been rumor.

The major continued, “Detainee 063 is Mohammed al Qahtani. Nothing he has told us since he’s been here is true.”

Sergeant Romeo gathered himself. “You said there were two things.”

“Right,” the major replied, handing him another sheet of paper. “New interrogation techniques, hot off the press—and approved all the way up the food chain. How’s that for timing?”

Romeo scanned the sheet. Restraint on a swivel chair, deprivation of sleep, loud music, prohibition of praying, threats of rendition to countries that torture.

His commander just shrugged. “Let’s see what it gets us.”

Camp X-Ray

Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

November 28, 2002

Sergeant Romeo called Sergeant Lisa Smith and said, “Get 063. It’s been over a week. We’re ready.”

The interrogation room was musty. Romeo directed Smith to place the blindfolded prisoner in the swivel chair in the center of the empty room with the air conditioner set at maximum blast.

After fifteen minutes of silence, Romeo removed Qahtani’s blindfold. “Take a look at these.”

On the table Smith had laid out pictures of each of the hijackers. Qahtani looked down and then quickly looked away.

Romeo paced behind Qahtani. “Go ahead. Look at your successful brothers. You failed them, didn’t you, Mohammed al Qahtani?”

Romeo watched as Qahtani visibly reacted to his name. Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought. He exchanged glances with Smith, who was now stationed directly in front of Qahtani.

Smith pointed to the Arabic words she’d written on the chalkboard in front of Qahtani: Liar, Coward, Failure.

“This is you!” she shouted.

Qahtani closed his eyes and shook his head. “Na’am.” No.

Romeo leaned in from behind him and shouted into his ears.

“Look at the pictures, Qahtani! You are the twentieth hijacker! Tell me about your training! Tell me about your commanders! Where is bin Laden?”

Qahtani jumped at Romeo’s voice. He looked down at the pictures and began to quietly sob. Romeo knew he must be feeling guilty for not completing his mission. Guilt was something he could use.

“Who was your leader?”

“Osama bin Laden.”

Romeo stopped. For the first time in nearly a year of captivity, prisoner 063 had provided a truthful answer.

“Why did you go to Orlando?”

“I wasn’t told the mission.”

“Who was meeting you?”

“I don’t know.”

Romeo spun around and slammed his hands on the table, the carefully spread photos bouncing into the air and landing askew, some skittering to the floor.

“Who was on the plane with you?”

“I was by myself.”

“You’re wasting my time!” he lied. The truth was that these answers were, for the first time, getting them somewhere.

“Give me one name! One name of someone who trained you!”

Qahtani looked up, tears streaming down his face.

“I have to use bathroom. Please.”

“One name!”

“Abu Ahmed al-Kuwaiti. Taught me Internet.”

“Internet? You’re going to fly an airplane into the White House and you give me the name of your tech support guy?”

Romeo walked out of the room, calling over to Smith. “I’m done with him. Make him go to the bathroom in the bottle in front of you.”

Returning to his cube, Sergeant Romeo quickly entered this new name, al-Kuwaiti, into the database: 063 claims Abu Ahmed al-Kuwaiti taught him how to use the Internet. Follow up with Defense and Central Intelligence Agencies.

Islamabad, Pakistan

Seven years, nine months later: August 4, 2010

CIA paramilitary operative “Ron” listened intently to the voice on the intercept.

For years, Ron and his teammates had been trolling for any usable scrap of information—but, like the tip lines the police use after a serious crime, most of the information they’d received was only marginally useful at best. Ron was on the lookout for names of highly placed operatives or mentions of weapons of mass destruction. But long ago, when the hunt for bin Laden had first begun, they’d decided that messengers would help lead to the ultimate quarry.

“We’ve got someone talking about a courier!” Ron said to the small group huddled in the plywood-paneled communications room of the safe house.

“What’s the name? We need a name!” the station chief answered.

“He’s calling him Sheik al-Kuwaiti.”

“That’s got to be the same guy.”

“I’ve got his number and recorded voice. We’re triangulating his position right now,” Ron confirmed, simultaneously relaying the information and coordinates to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

“Abbottabad, Pakistan,” Ron reported. Quickly the satellite spun to the location on the outskirts of the capital of Islamabad. It was a large compound framed by a trapezoidal wall.

Looks fit for a sheikh, Ron thought to himself.

Abbottabad, Pakistan

May 2, 2011

2:00 A.M.

The point man from Navy SEAL Team Six’s Red Team had rehearsed it a thousand times, but he was still shocked when he saw the unmistakable face of Osama bin Laden staring right back at him.

The SEAL fired his Heckler & Koch 416 carbine as bin Laden dove back into his bedroom. While the SEAL’s index finger reflexively squeezed the trigger, he thought about Jeremy Glick and the brave passengers on Flight 93, all those who had perished in the 9/11 attacks, and all those who had come before him in the wars.

Stepping into the bedroom, he saw that bin Laden was on his back, two of his wives shouting at him. A teammate shot one of the women in the leg and pushed them away. Another pumped two more rounds into bin Laden’s heart.

The point man made the call over his radio: “Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo!”

Osama bin Laden was finally dead. And while it may have been a Navy SEAL’s bullet that struck the fatal blow, it was a long-ago airport encounter between a young Saudi extremist and Jose Melendez-Perez, a veteran who continued to serve his country, that first sealed his fate.

This story is dedicated to all of the American heroes who’ve fought in the War on Terror. Melendez-Perez is a perfect example of how an ordinary person can make an extraordinary difference, but he’s not the only one. Each of us has the opportunity to prove that every single day.