September 11, 2001, began as a morning of calm. The sun rose over Sarasota, Florida, and Andrew Card, White House Chief of Staff, felt relieved. “I told the President, today would be a comfortable day,” he recalled. President George W. Bush was scheduled to visit Emma E. Booker Elementary School, a trip focused on education—his favorite theme, “No Child Left Behind.” Children, classrooms, optimism: nothing could have seemed further from war.

But before the President even arrived at the school, faint ripples of news began to spread. A plane crash in New York. Early reports suggested a small twin-engine aircraft, a terrible accident, perhaps a pilot who had suffered a heart attack. Bush, Card, and the school principal all reacted the same way: shocked sympathy, but no sense of danger.

At 8:46 a.m., American Airlines Flight 11 struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

Minutes later, Bush entered a classroom of second graders, smiling, ready to read along. Card lingered by the door when suddenly, Captain Deb Loewer, serving as acting national security adviser on the trip, rushed to his side. Her voice was tense: the aircraft was not a small private plane—it was a commercial jet. Then, at 9:03 a.m., United Airlines Flight 175 slammed into the South Tower.

Loewer turned pale. “Mr. Chief, another plane has hit the World Trade Center.”

Card froze. Two planes meant this was no accident. America was under attack. He replayed his responsibilities in his mind. Does the President need to know this right now? The answer was undeniable: yes. But how to deliver the message without igniting panic in a room full of children and cameras?

At 9:05 a.m., Card approached the President’s chair. He leaned down, whispered into Bush’s right ear:
“A second plane hit the second tower. America is under attack.”

He stepped back immediately, three paces, not wanting the President to turn and engage in dialogue. He watched as Bush’s expression hardened. The President did not show fear, did not leap to his feet, did not disrupt the children reading aloud. Card later said, “I was pleased he did nothing that would reveal fear in front of the kids or the press. That would have delighted terrorists across the globe.”

But inside, both men knew the world had changed.

By 9:10 a.m., the classroom emptied. Secret Service agents scrambled. “Call Air Force One’s pilot immediately—we’re leaving now,” Card instructed. National news stations were already looping images of the burning towers. The FAA grounded all flights in and out of New York City, and reports surfaced that another American Airlines flight, number 77, had been hijacked.

At 9:31 a.m., Bush gave a short statement from the school, his face steady but grave. Moments later, his motorcade sped to Sarasota airport.

At 9:37 a.m., American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon. Card and the President were in the limousine, both on phones. Bush slammed his handset down in frustration: “I can’t believe I can’t reach the Secretary of Defense! How can I not get through to the Pentagon?”

Soon after, the FAA shut down all U.S. airspace, grounding thousands of flights across the country in an unprecedented act.

By 9:55 a.m., Air Force One roared down the runway before its doors had even closed, climbing nearly straight up into the sky, zig-zagging to avoid potential threats. The jet reached 45,000 feet, fighter escorts scrambling to join. Where to go became the next argument. Bush demanded Washington. Card countered calmly: “I know you want that, sir, but you don’t want to make that decision right now.” Bush shouted: “I am the President of the United States! We are going back to Washington!” But the pilot, Mark Tillman, overruled even the Commander-in-Chief. Until it was safe, the plane would not return. The first destination became Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana.

At 9:59 a.m., the South Tower collapsed. Live on television, the world gasped.

On Air Force One, Bush made the most agonizing decision of his presidency. Fighter pilots radioed for authorization: if another hijacked plane refused orders to land, should they shoot it down? Vice President Cheney asked the same by phone. Bush gave the order: yes. After hanging up, he turned to Card and said, “I was once a National Guard pilot. I cannot imagine what it would be like to get that order.” Card remembered his empathy clearly.

At 10:03 a.m., United Airlines Flight 93 crashed into a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Its passengers had fought back, forcing the hijackers to the ground. For years, Bush wrestled with whether his order had caused their deaths. But the truth was clear: the military had never reached the plane. The passengers themselves had made the sacrifice.

At 10:28 a.m., the North Tower fell. People jumped from the flaming heights; New York vanished beneath choking dust clouds. “We watched from the plane in silence,” Card recalled. “It was haunting. It still haunts me.” Nearly 3,000 lives were lost that day.

The President recorded an address at Barksdale, then moved to Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska, headquarters of U.S. Strategic Command. At 1:00 p.m., his remarks were broadcast nationwide. Only late in the afternoon did Air Force One return to Washington, escorted so closely by fighters that those aboard could see the pilots’ faces.

At 6:55 p.m., Bush landed at Andrews Air Force Base. By 8:30 p.m., from the Oval Office, he delivered a speech that would echo through history: “Our way of life, our very freedom, came under attack.” Smoke from the Pentagon still billowed into the night air.

For Andrew Card, the day would never end. Later that evening, after yet another threat forced the President and First Lady into the White House bunker—later revealed to be a false alarm—he finally returned home near midnight. “I felt lucky,” he said. “But 2,977 people did not come home. We owe it to them to remember. We owe it to them never to forget.”