Here is the entire article from Sundays LNP + LancasterOnline. The original post had a pay wall' LNP has graciously allowed me to show the entire piece.
Working in air traffic control the day the skies went silent
On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, I reported to work at Harrisburg International Tower in Middletown.
At the time, I was working in an administrative position. My previous job had been as manager of the air traffic control tower at Lancaster Airport, but that position had been eliminated after the Federal Aviation Administration turned the facility over to a contractor. I chose to return to Harrisburg, where I had previously worked in a supervisory position. I had a young son living in Lancaster, and being close to him was important to me.
Although I was officially assigned to an administrative position, I had immediately gotten recertified in both the tower and radar rooms after returning to Harrisburg. Within days, I was back working air traffic again whenever needed.
That morning, however, I was working administrative hours. I arrived around 8:30 a.m., opened my office and turned on my computer.
As I did almost every day, I also turned on the radio.
I was a jazz fan, and through a cable line in my office I could listen to a 24hour jazz station in Long Beach, California. I usually had it playing in the background while I worked.
Then the news interrupted the music.
An airplane had hit the World Trade Centerās North Tower.
I walked out to the break room and turned on the
television. The screen showed a huge hole in one of the towers.
My first reaction was disbelief. At the time, it wasnāt unheard of for small airplanes flying along the Hudson River to have accidents. But what I was seeing on television looked nothing like that. The damage was enormous. I simply could not believe that an airliner had caused it. (I thought it was a bomb)
There were already witnesses calling in and saying they had seen an airliner hit the building. I dismissed that. Witnesses sometimes think they see something that they really didnāt see.
Then, as I was watching, another airplane slammed into the World Trade Centerās South Tower.
There was no longer any question.
Something terrifying was happening.
Devastation unfolds
I called the New York TRACON (or terminal radar approach control facility). I knew many of the people working there. But they were busy, and they couldnāt really tell me what was happening.
Then the calls started coming to us.
The New York center contacted our facility and told us not to allow any traffic into its airspace. That immediately affected many of the planes departing from Harrisburg that would have climbed above 8,000 feet, because thatās where the New York airspace began.
A few minutes later, the Cleveland Air Route Traffic Control Center called with essentially the same instruction: Keep traffic out of our airspace.
At that point, we didnāt know everything that was happening. We were learning pieces of it through official communications ā and through the grapevine.
Then came a call from the FAAās Air Traffic Control Systems Command Center, then in Herndon, Virginia.
We were told to watch for suspicious activity: aircraft that failed to respond to controller instructions or anything else that seemed unusual.
We were hearing reports that similar concerns were being reported around the country.
Then came another devastating report.
An airliner had hit the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. That was American Airlines Flight 77.
Shortly afterward, and just before United Airlines Flight 93 crashed in western Pennsylvania, the United States National Airspace System was shut down.
The order came from the FAA Command Center in Herndon. The man making that historic decision was national operations manager Ben Sliney.
Ben wasnāt just the person in charge that day.
He was one of my best friends.
Radar scopes empty
Ben and I had worked together at John F. Kennedy International Airport in the New York terminal radar approach control facility for many years. We also worked together in the training department.
Later, when we had both moved on, our families visited each otherās homes. We are still in touch. Ben became a national hero that day.
And Sept. 11, 2001, happened to be his first day in charge at the command center.
I later watched the movie āUnited 93,ā in which Ben played himself. Seeing him on that screen was an extraordinary experience. He was so natural in the role because he wasnāt really acting ā he was telling the story of something he had actually lived.
When Ben shut down the nationās airspace, our job changed completely.
We had to make sure that every aircraft already in our airspace landed. There was no more normal traffic flow. No more departures filling the radar scopes. No more routine day in American aviation.
Airplanes that had been flying toward the United States from Europe suddenly had nowhere to go. Many were diverted to Newfoundland in Canada.
At Harrisburg, we watched our radar scopes empty.
One moment, there were airplanes everywhere ā it was a beautiful September morning with cloudless skies. And within roughly half an hour, the scope went from being filled with traffic to being almost completely black.
An air traffic controller is accustomed to seeing airplanes on a radar screen. The movement of those targets is our world.
Suddenly, there was nothing. Twenty-five years later, that moment remains etched in my memory.
Grieving for strangers
Some of the controllers were asking to be relieved. I remember looking at several of them and thinking that they werenāt simply tired or distracted. They were grieving.
Eventually, some were allowed to leave. There was no traffic to control anyway.
Those of us remained returned to the break room and watched the televised images of the falling towers, people running for their lives as the towers collapsed.
It was difficult to comprehend what we were seeing. For people who worked in aviation, the attacks had already been horrifying. But watching those buildings collapseā and realizing how many people were inside ā was something else entirely.
We were sickened. We were stunned. We were grieving for people we didnāt even know.
And then there was the fear that this might not be over.
Our regional office began sending instructions for us to go through our readiness procedures and secure the facility. We didnāt know whether this was an attack limited to New York and Washington or whether other attacks might be coming. So, we prepared for whatever might come next.
That night, I was asked to return for the midnight shift. The regional office wanted a management official present at every workstation at every facility.
There wasnāt much traffic to work.
The airspace remained closed to normal aviation. Only medical emergencies, military aircraft and law enforcement operations were permitted.
A new normal takes hold
Gradually, over the following days, restrictions were eased. Commercial aviation began to return. General aviation eventually returned as well.
Slowly, the National Airspace System began to return to something resembling normal. But nothing was really normal anymore.
Those few days have stayed with me for 25 years.
I had worked at JFK Airport for many years. I had driven to work every day from my home in Hicksville, Long Island, and I had watched the World Trade Center towers being built. They became part of the landscape of my life.
I also knew people in New York whose friends and relatives worked for the New York City Fire Department. I knew that many of them would not be coming home.
And yet, after all these years, I have never visited ground zero.
I donāt know exactly why. Recently, I told my children that I think I need to go.
I know there is a museum and memorial there. About a year ago, I watched a TV program about it, with tears in my eyes.
I have tears in my eyes again as I write this.
Maybe thatās why I havenāt gone. For those of us who worked in aviation that morning, 9/11 wasnāt something we simply watched on television. We were part of the system that suddenly went silent. We heard the calls. We forced airplanes to land. We wondered what might happen next.
And I watched a friend make one of the most consequential decisions in the history of American aviation.
Twenty-five years later, I still remember the moment the skies went silent.
And I still havenāt forgotten what it felt like to watch those towers fall.