The Politics of Flight 93

This much we now about Flight 93 that was hijacked on 9/11: The terrorists flying the plane were turning it back toward Washington, to use it as a flying bomb against the Capitol of the United States where Congress was in session. At that time, the flight crew had probably already been murdered by having their throats cut.

By using their cell phones, the passengers found out that other hijacked planes had already been flown into both of the World Trade Towers. They may have known about the third plane that hit the Pentagon. The passengers reasonably concluded that their plane was intended for a similar fate, and that they and many others would die in the planned crash if they did nothing.

Led by a group of four large and strong men, they rushed the cockpit to try to take back control of the plane. They used the only "weapons" they had – their strength, their commitment, a beverage cart, and pots of boiling water. From the evidence on the cockpit voice recorder, they did get into the cockpit. The plane either crashed during this struggle, or the terrorists crashed it deliberately as they were losing control.

One of the last communications from anyone on the plane was Todd Beamer's exhortation to the others, "Let's roll."

The simplest way of dealing with people who say the United States should not act at all, or not act now against terrorist threats looming in the future, may be this: All such people should be asked this question –

To Secretary General of the United Nations, Kofi Annan: What would you have done? Would you have sought the agreement of all nationalities aboard Flight 93, before you did anything? That would include, of course, negotiating with the ambassador of the terrorists. If you could not get such agreement, would you have just sat there in your seat, waiting to die?

To the editors, reporters and columnists of the New York Times: Would you have concluded that the evidence wasn't clear? That Todd Beamer hadn't "made his case"? That no one had proved the "alleged" terrorists were going to kill everyone on the plane? Would you have pulled out your laptops to write up the story, sitting in your seats, waiting to die?

To Li'l Tommy Daschle, Majority Leader of the Senate: Would you have said, it's too early to make a decision on this now. Politics should not be involved. Let's just wait until after the election to decide on rushing the cockpit? Besides, "I want to be the man in charge, not Todd Beamer"? Would you have sat in your seat, waiting to die? And while you are pondering that question, keep in mind that Todd Beamer and the other passengers may just have saved your life and those of all your colleagues. Have you ever heard the quote, "Mercy drops down from Heaven like the rain. It falls on the just and the unjust alike."?

To the so-called leaders of the European Union: Would you have said, this is an American plane, not a European one. Unless the European airlines are involved (and we have no reason to think they are), this is not my problem? Would you have grumbled quietly about the quality of the food, the vintage of the wine, and the arrogance of the American passengers, blaming America's foreign policy for putting you in this situation, and sat in your seats waiting to die?

To the so-called leaders of France: No need to even pose the question. You're cheese-eating surrender monkeys. Next.

To the Muslims in America: Would you have exchanged high-fives with your "brothers" on the plane? Wished them well? Accepted their apologies for the unfortunate need for your demise? Said with them, "Allah akbar," and asked to go to the cockpit so you could have a good view of the "glorious strike against the infidels"?

To Dan Rather and CBS News: Would you have said, "This story isn't all about me"? Would you have said that it's important to understand the grievances of the hijackers? Would you have asked your cameraman to set up, so you could get an interview with one of the hijackers, and tried to borrow Todd Beamer's cell phone for the important business of patching the clip through to the news desk? Would you have imagined the glory of saying on live television as the plane was going into its final attack mode, "This is Dan Rather, reporting from close to Ground Zero"? Would you resent the passengers for cheating you out of this once-in-a-lifetime scoop?

To Geraldo Rivera: You know that Dan Rather is a washed-up wuss. You would have gotten the interview, and jumped out the door of the plane with the tape in your pocket, in hopes they would find your body, play the tape, and award you the first ever posthumous Emmy, right?

To the Framers of the Constitution and the victors in the American Revolution: No need to ask you the question. You already answered it in writing. Your answer is found in the final paragraph of the Declaration of Independence which you signed under the threat of being hung by the neck until dead as traitors to King George III. You pledged your "lives, fortunes and sacred honor" to the cause. That's answer enough.

To the readers of these columns: I have no doubt of what you would have done, either. You would have acted just as Todd Beamer and the others did. You would have tried to reach your families, to tell them what was happening, and say, "I love you." Then you would have joined Todd and the others in the effort to save all your fellows, and all those on the ground who were the targets of the terrorists on your plane. You would have known your task was nearly impossible, but you would have done it anyway.

This is really a simple question. That is the secret of "the politics of Flight 93."

What would you have done, on Flight 93? Ask it of yourselves. Then ask it about all those who claim to be leaders – leaders in public office, opinion leaders, whatever. The respective answers to that simple question could do a lot to define the future of the United States, and the worthiness of those who would claim to be her leaders in the perilous times ahead.

Nice parable. Reminds me of the train wreck scene from Atlas Shrugged:

It is said that catastrophes are a matter of pure chance, and there were those who would have said that the passengers of the Comet were not guilty or responsible for the thing that happened to them.
The man in Bedroom A, Car No. 1, was a professor of sociology who taught that individual ability is of no consequence, that individual effort is futile, that an individual conscience is a useless luxury, that there is no individual mind or character or achievement, that everything is achieved collectively, and that it’s masses that count, not men.
The man in Roomette 7, Car No. 2, was a journalist who wrote that it is proper and moral to use compulsion “for a good cause,” who believed that he had the right to unleash physical force upon others—to wreck lives, throttle ambitions, strangle desires, violate convictions, to imprison, to despoil, to murder—for the sake of whatever he chose to consider his idea of “a good cause,” which did not even have to be an idea, since he had never defined what he regarded as good, but had merely stated that he went by “a feeling”—a feeling unrestrained by any knowledge, since he considered emotion superior to any knowledge and relied solely on his own “good intentions” and on the power of the gun.
The woman in Roomette 10, Car No. 3, was an elderly schoolteacher who had spent her life turning class after class of helpless children into miserable cowards, by teaching them that the will of the majority is the only standard of good and evil, that a majority may do anything it pleases, that they must not assert their own personalities, but must do as others were doing.
The man in Drawing Room B, Car No. 4, was a newspaper publisher who believed that men are evil by nature and unfit for freedom, that their basic interests, if left unchecked, are to lie, to rob and to murder one another—and, therefore, men must be ruled by means of lies, robbery and murder, which must be the exclusive privilege of the rulers, for the purpose of forcing men to work, teaching them to be moral and keeping them within the bounds of order and justice.
The man in Bedroom H, Car No. 5, was a businessman who had acquired his business, an ore mine, with the help of a government loan, under the Equalization of Opportunity Bill.
The man in Drawing Room A, Car No. 6, was a financier who had made a fortune by buying “frozen” railroad bonds and getting his friends in Washington to “defreeze” them.
The man in Seat 5, Car No. 7, was a worker who believed that he had “a right” to a job, whether his employer wanted him or not.
The woman in Roomette 6, Car No. 8, was a lecturer who believed that, as a consumer, she had “a right” to transportation, whether the railroad people wished to provide it or not.
The man in Roomette 2, Car No. 9, was a professor of economics who advocated the abolition of private property, explaining that intelligence plays no part in material production, that man’s mind is conditioned by material tools, that anybody can run a factory or a railroad and it’s only a matter of seizing the machinery.
The woman in Bedroom D, Car No. 10, was a mother who had put her two children to sleep in the berth above her, carefully tucking them in, protecting them from drafts and jolts; a mother whose husband held a government job enforcing directives, which she defended by saying, “I don’t care, it’s only the rich that they hurt. After all, I must think of my children.”
The man in Roomette 3, Car No. 11, was a sniveling little neurotic who wrote cheap little plays into which, as a social message, he inserted cowardly little obscenities to the effect that all businessmen were scoundrels.
The woman in Roomette 9, Car No. 12, was a housewife who believed she had the right to elect politicians, of whom she knew nothing, to control giant industries, of which she had no knowledge.
The man in Bedroom F, Car No. 13, was a lawyer who had said, “Me? I’ll find a way to get along under any political system.”
The man in Bedroom A, Car No. 14, was a professor of philosophy who taught that there is no mind—how do you know that the tunnel is dangerous?—no reality—how can you prove that the tunnel exists?—no logic—why do you claim that trains cannot move without motive power?—no principles—why should you be bound by the law of cause-and-effect?—no rights—why shouldn’t you attach men to their jobs by force?—no morality—what’s moral about running a railroad?—no absolutes—what difference does it make to you whether you live or die anyway? He taught that we can know nothing—why oppose the orders of your superiors?—that we can never be certain of anything—how do you know you’re right?—that we must act on the expediency of the moment—you don’t want to risk your job, do you?
The man in Drawing Room B, Car No. 15, was an heir who had inherited a fortune, and who kept repeating, “Why should Rearden be the only one permitted to manufacture Rearden Metal?”
The man in Bedroom A, Car No. 16, was a humanitarian who had said, “The men of ability? I do not care what or if they are made to suffer. They must be penalized to support the incompetent. Frankly, I do not care whether this is just or not. I take pride in not caring to grant any justice to the able, where mercy to the needy is concerned.”
These passengers were awake; there was not a man aboard the train who did not share one or more of their ideas. As the train went into the tunnel, the flame of Wyatt’s Torch was the last thing they saw on earth.

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