On September 11, 2001, while thousands of people were trying to get away from the danger in lower Manhattan, my brother Stephen was heading straight toward it. His shift as a New York City firefighter was over and he was supposed to meet his brothers for a round of golf, but the moment he heard that a plane had hit the World Trade Center, he turned his truck around. For Stephen, there was never really a choiceâpeople needed help, and he was going to help them.
My brother Stephen barely had time to think when news of a plane hitting the World Trade Centers North Tower came across the scanner inside his black 1990 GMC Sierra 1500 pickup truck just after 8:46 a.m. on September 11, 2001.
Perhaps that was fitting. In the few seconds that Stephen had to consider whether to keep driving from Brooklyns Park Slope neighborhoodâwhere his shift at FDNY Squad 1 had ended just sixteen minutes priorâtoward Staten Island, where he was supposed to meet up with the rest of us Siller brothers and head down to central New Jersey and play golf, there was no decision to make. A major accident or attack had just occurredâand countless innocent people needed help. The only direction for Stephen to drive was not away from the fire, but straight toward it.
As golf balls rattled and his clubs whipped to the other side of the truck, Stephen quickly turned around on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, put his foot on the gas, and began racing in the direction of the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, where he could drive under the river to lower Manhattan. He could see the thick smoke emanating from lower Manhattan as he tore down the BQE, wondering exactly what had happened and how fast he could get there. Having known Stephen his entire life, I am certain that one question dominated his mind in those frantic yet simultaneously measured few minutes: How many lives can I help save?
At some point while driving as fast as he safely could on the BQE, Stephen called his wife, Sally. He told her that some sort of aircraft had hit the World Trade Center and that even though hed already finished his overnight shift at the elite Squad 1 in Brooklyn, he was now driving toward lower Manhattan instead of home. Right after he said “I love you” and started getting ready to put down his Nextel phone, Stephen also asked Sally to please let his brothers know that he wouldnt be able to play golf that day.
Other than saving lives and the well-being of his wife and kids, I believe that there was an additional prominent thought going through Stephens mind as he got closer to the tunnel. This is no accident. This is a terrorist attack.
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For years, Stephen had told myself and others that it was only a matter of time before New Yorkâand specifically the World Trade Centerâwould be targeted a second time by international terrorists. He also believed that it was going to be a lot worse than the 1993 bombing, which happened the year before Stephen became a firefighter. While my brother deserves credit for his foresight, his prediction was hardly unique within FDNY ranks, as many senior department leaders (like my friend Sal Cassano) all the way down the totem pole to firefighters like Stephen believed that another attack
