Bilbo, one of Bingham's friends who left a message that day 10 years ago. "Overnight, it was time to grow up." Sept. 11, 2001, inspired three of the callers to change their careers, with one committed to do more good "to counterbalance the evil." One lost faith in this country, another's was renewed by it. Still another, who is gay like Bingham, found new faith in himself. And for two men whom Bingham considered role models, the American flag holds new meaning. Perhaps the most poignant message of all came near the end, from a stranger in Washington, D.C., who knew she was sending her message into the abyss, but whose words echo still. The cellphone, like nearly everything else on Flight 93, incinerated as the plane crashed into a Pennsylvania farm field. But weeks later, Bingham's mother, Alice Hoagland, asked the cellphone company for her son's mobile access code. Compelled to find some way to keep close to her son, she wanted to retrieve any final messages, including two of her own. What she heard, in a prerecorded female operator's voice, astounds her even now: "You have 44 unheard messages." On a recent summer morning, in the living room of her Los Gatos mountain home where she raised her only child, Hoagland replayed for a reporter the messages she had recorded on an old cassette player. She hadn't listened to them in nearly a decade. The pain was too great. But on this day, with her head in her hands, she allowed the voices to rain down on her again. 'Don't know if you're flying' "Hi, Mark, this is Judy. I don't know if you're flying or what because I just heard that all the plane traffic has been grounded today after the attack in New York and in Washington. I hope I can reach you, anyway, today. I just would like to know if you are in the air or what's happening, and it's very worrying, with these things." It was shortly after 6:40 a.m. at Judy Curtis' Portola Valley home when she first called her boss at the Bingham Group, a scrappy little public relations company with an office in San Francisco and a satellite in New York. Alerted by a phone call from a colleague, she had turned on the TV to see the twin towers billowing with smoke, but standing, and the Pentagon in flames. She knew Bingham was supposed to be flying from Newark to San Francisco that morning, but she had no idea, nor did most Americans, that Flight 93 had been hijacked only minutes earlier, the pilots killed, and the plane set on a new course -- making a U-turn over Ohio toward Washington, where the White House or the U.S. Capitol were likely targets. "Hey, Mark. It's Ken. I am absolutely in shock right now. I can't get over this, what's happening. I am in Walnut Creek at Gary's house. Why don't you give me a call here? My God, this is just devastating. I can't believe this." Ken Montgomery knew Bingham would be coming home to California for a weekend wedding, but because his buddy was "not a morning person" he figured the odds were against him being on a flight that early. (Bingham had been running so late that morning, it turned out, he was the last to board Flight 93.) Montgomery and Bingham met at Cal in the early 1990s, when Bingham played rugby and Montgomery was known as the "Mic Man," the yell leader for school sports. Montgomery was home in the Bay Area for a brief visit while volunteering at an orphan care program in Malawi, Africa. Back then, when Montgomery was still idealistic, he considered himself an international activist, a believer that where there's trouble in the world, the U.S. should help. He doesn't believe that anymore. "Hey, Mark, this is Dad, just calling to see how you're doing. I'm looking at that big wreck. Man, I hope you're not too close to that. Give me a call when you can." Jerry Bingham's voice was breaking. Divorced from Hoagland decades earlier, he was living in Florida -- a place he left after 9/11 to be closer to the crash site. He was on a painting job that morning when he left his message. He didn't know his son was at the back of a plane planning a counterattack with fellow passengers, including Los Gatos High graduate Todd Beamer who worked for Oracle, New Jersey marketing executive Jeremy Glick, and San Ramon businessman Tom Burnett. The group learned of the East Coast tragedies from calls to their wives. Burnett told his wife, Deena, he was getting help from his "seatmate" from first class and a handful of other passengers. Bingham had been two seats away in 4B. One last call home At 6:44 a.m., Alice Hoagland woke up to a ringing telephone. It was her son calling on a GTE Airfone from the back of the plane. "I want to tell you I love you. I'm on a flight from Newark to San Francisco," Hoagland recalls her son telling her. "Three guys on board have taken over the airplane. They say they have a bomb. You believe me, don't you, Mom?" She barely had a chance to respond when she heard the mumble of men's voices, then the line went dead. She turned on the TV, saw the news and realized Flight 93 was part of a "grand and ugly scheme." As a United Airlines flight attendant, she knew something had to be done. She called him right back, but she was flustered, frantic, miscalculating East Coast time by an hour (it was actually 9:54 a.m.). "Mark, this is your mom. It's 10.54 a.m. The news is that it's been hijacked by terrorists. They are planning to probably use the plane as a target to hit some site on the ground. If you possibly can, try to overpower these guys, if you can, 'cause they'll probably use the plane as a target. I would say go ahead and do everything you can to overpower them, because they're hellbent. Try to call me back if you can. You know the number here. OK. I love you, Sweetie. Bye." Uncertain if her message got through, she called again a minute or so later, urging him to "group some people and perhaps do the best you can to get control of it." She let out a heavy, anguished sigh, before saying, "I love you, Sweetie. Good luck. Bye." Just three minutes after her first call and perhaps in the midst of her second, at 9:57 a.m., Bingham and the other passengers began their rush to the cockpit. "Let's roll," one of them said, a now-legendary quote heard by an operator listening to the open phone line, and later attributed to Beamer. The cockpit recorder in front picked up the rest of the yells, screams and struggles as the passengers overpowered the two terrorists in the main cabin and pushed forward. "In the cockpit!" one male passenger shouted. "If we don't, we'll die!" It's unclear whether they breached the cockpit in the final seconds, but when it was played to relatives of the passengers months later, Hoagland recognized the voice of her son yelling "Get 'em!" The two remaining hijackers in the cockpit pitched the plane up and down, side to side to throw the rebellious passengers off balance, then agreed in Arabic to "finish it off" -- according to the cockpit recording -- rather than lose control to the passengers. At 10:03 a.m., as the hijackers shouted "Allah is the greatest!" and one male passenger yelled out "No!" the plane turned upside down, then crashed in a field in Shanksville, Pa., leaving a deep cross where the wings went in. Bingham never heard his mother's messages, but Hoagland is tormented by what she didn't say. "I should have told him about the cockpit key. I've relived this a billion times. I should have told them to use the fire extinguisher as a weapon, break liquor bottles to use as weapons." At the smoldering crash site, little was left but errant personal belongings -- nail clippers, a melted comb, a damaged copy of "The Best of Times," and a "Keep Smiling" key chain attached to what looked to Hoagland like a flight attendant's cockpit key. Every passenger died on impact. But in a chilling fact of mobile phone technology, every call made to Bingham's phone in the hours and days after the crash -- some 38 more -- heard Bingham's disembodied voice, professional, concise and clear: "You've reached the mobile voice mail for Mark Bingham. Leave a message and I'll return your call." 'See you maybe -- one day' Bingham's outgoing message, so simple, so unaware, haunts one of the callers -- fraternity brother Mark Wain -- who, looking back, still has the uneasy feeling that he was "having a conversation with a man who was already dead." In New York, as relatives of the missing began arriving at ground zero holding up photographs of their loved ones, as Hoagland began getting calls in California from the media; the messages kept logging into Bingham's voice mail. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, the tenor of the messages began to shift, from hope ("I'm sure you're doing fine") to desperation ("please send me an email or something") to finally, an awkward goodbye ("Well, Mark, see you maybe -- one day.") What many of the callers began to realize, as the horrific images of the day seared into their souls, was that this was the dawn of a new era for America -- and for themselves. "It is that day, that morning," one caller said, his voice bold and angry, "and I'm wondering where the hell you are." A legacy to share The Boeing 757 with 33 passengers, seven crew and four hijackers had probably just crashed when Todd Sarner, best friends with Bingham since their days at Los Gatos High, called the first time. He called a second time, about 10 a.m. in California, some three hours after the crash. "Sorry to call again, but a little freaked out watching all this stuff and I know, you know, anyway, just give me a call when you can." He knew what most Americans didn't as they watched the pundits and politicians on TV late that day and into the next herald the courage of the heroes of Flight 93. Mark Bingham, past president of his Chi Psi fraternity, captain of his rugby team, a 6-foot-4, 230-pounder who ran with the bulls in Pamplona and clobbered a mugger on a San Francisco street, was gay. Just like his fraternity brothers did when Bingham came out at graduation, people would be "forced to re-evaluate some of their old notions of what a gay man was." It was a lesson for all, he thought, a story that needed telling. A year later, he met a movie producer and the documentary "With You" was born. "Selfishly, I wanted something I could watch and show my son as well," said Sarner, whose son is now 8. "I just know Mark would have been a huge, huge part of his life. He would have been Uncle Mark. When I think about it, it's devastating." Dareke Fleming, a fraternity brother, also left a message that morning. A young man working in property management back then, he was trying to find his true passion. Placing the call, he planned to report back to the guys that Bingham was fine. "So if you could just give us a quick call back and let us know," he said, "would appreciate it." As he mourned his friend in the days that followed and watched the firefighters digging through the debris at ground zero, Fleming's purpose became clear. He needed to "clinch the anger, to make a difference in what had happened." He wanted to be the guy there with the shovel. "I wanted to be there with the dogs finding somebody. Sending money to the Red Cross wasn't going to fill the need to help somebody, for me. I needed to be on the inside. Being a firefighter, being a soldier, being a cop -- that's what occurred to me as being the right act. It was too late for this one, but maybe I can make a difference in the next one, if there is a next one." He went back to school and became an emergency medical technician, a job in San Jose he's held ever since. 'If I were to die tomorrow' Bingham's buddies on the gay-friendly San Francisco Fog rugby team were also worried. It was well before noon -- the fires were still raging at the Pentagon -- when Bryce Eberhart called, urging Bingham to "just shoot a message to the fogger or let me know you're OK and I'll put up a message." He worked in consumer tech back then. He switched to nonprofits and just took a job working in childhood education. "It makes me feel like I kind of own it instead of the terrorists," he said. "I just really wanted to commit myself to having as much meaning in what I was contributing as possible. I just felt that if the events of 9/11 took my life on a trajectory for more good, then it counterbalanced the evil the terrorists brought into the world." Mark Wain called his old college buddy just as New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani was about to start a news conference and tell reporters that the casualties at the twin towers were "more than any of us can bear." Still, Wain left his message to "make sure everything is OK with you." In the days and weeks afterward, Wain kept asking himself, "if I were to die tomorrow, in some freak accident, or whatever, what would I want my life to be?" He was a software engineer at Microsoft in Seattle at the time, but he had always dreamed of opening a cafe. "Whether it was fear of making a jump, or fear of giving up a cushy job with a good salary or whatever, fear is what drove my lack of going forward." Not only did he quit his Microsoft job to move close to his girlfriend in L.A., he opened a string of cafes he calls Caffe Luxxe. "I'm willing to take more risks, whether it's emotional risks or financial risks for the sake of just experiencing life and being there, instead of sitting on the sidelines and watching it go by." A new political view "Hey, Mark, this is Mary, Damon's mom. Just trying to check out, make sure that you and Amanda are OK. If you have a chance, try to give Damon a call because, um, he's a little concerned, so, hopefully all is well with you and you were nowhere near the tragedy today." Damon Billian and his younger brother, Jason, had already left messages on Bingham's phone, with no response. Mary Billian was like a mother to Bingham, her sons like brothers. Because Alice Hoagland was often traveling as a flight attendant, Bingham spent many nights at their home. Those were days when Mary Billian couldn't imagine herself as anything other than the Irish Democrat from Boston her parents raised her to be. In the 1960s, she was a hippie, protesting in the streets against the Vietnam War. "I became more conservative after that day," she said. "Now, I no longer see war as a negative." And she's paying more attention to immigration policy. "We let anybody come across our borders," she said. "We don't really protect our nation." She's no tea partyer, said Billian, 60, but "the Democratic Party has become what I used to despise about the right wing -- they seem to be intolerant." Now, she says, "I don't think there's anybody in Washington that represents me." Finally, a revelation Jim Wright, of Danville, called early in the morning, one of the few who knew that Bingham -- whom he had been dating for nearly four months -- was supposed to be on a Newark-to-San Francisco flight that morning. With no word, he called again late in the afternoon -- just as President George W. Bush was returning to the White House and preparing to address the nation. "I'm really praying you're OK, buddy. I'm worried. Anyway, um, call me, you know, somewhere, leave me a message anywhere, anytime. I don't care. Um, just to let me know you're OK." He didn't find out until he saw Alice Hoagland on TV that night that Bingham was dead. He was 44 back then, and had always kept from his co-workers the fact that he was gay, worried the wrong boss could hinder his advancement. The next morning, though, he walked into the office with a new resolve. "I didn't care any longer. I had been in love with someone I was very proud of. I didn't feel I needed to hide it. I felt like, you know what? I don't care anymore if people know I'm gay." Ever since, "it's never been something I've hidden." Old symbol, new meaning "Hey, Mark. It's Steven. ... Bill and I are a little worried about you. Give us a call as soon as you get this. Let us know you're OK." Before Sept. 11, the American flag held little meaning to Steven Gold, who, with his partner Bill Hollywood, considered themselves Bingham's "gay parents," serving as role models for a long-term relationship. "We never hung the flag out before 9/11," said Gold, 51. "Now it holds special value because it honors Mark and all those we lost. In a very real way, he gave his life for the flag." And ever since, from Memorial Day through the week of Sept. 11, at the front door of their Springfield, N.J., home, the American flag flies. "Mark, this is Tom Bilbo. I was just giving you a call trying to see if you're OK. I heard your name, or someone with your name, mentioned on the news and just wanted to try to get a hold of you. Anyway, I'll try to reach you later." Before Sept. 11, Bilbo was reluctant to fly abroad, "afraid of what could happen." But the courage of Bingham, whom he had only met a few weeks earlier, gave him more confidence in himself. "You see people like Mark and the people on Flight 93 who said, 'We're not going to let you get away with that.' Well, some of that lives on," he said. "Now, I dare you to try something because I'm here." Since 9/11, he's become more committed to his own community of Vallejo, where he serves on the beautification commission and volunteers at the local museum. As horrific as 9/11 was, he said, America persevered. "It makes me feel that humanity -- that the good is greater than the bad." Tribute from a stranger In the decade since her son's courageous last stand, Hoagland has become a fighter herself. In front of Congress, she has demanded stronger airline security. She's become an unwavering advocate for gay rights. But in her living room, listening to the very last messages on her son's voice mail, the woman who has "always dreaded people who come apart at the seams," let the tears flow. These final callers spoke of her son in the past tense -- something she has a hard time doing to this day. "Uh, I don't know who will get this message," the caller said. "I'm a fr--, was a friend of Mark's and I just saw his picture across the CNN. If this gets to Mark's mother, please accept my condolences." Hoagland took a deep breath, then listened to the message from the stranger. The woman, who can't even remember how she tracked down Bingham's phone number, sounded momentarily stunned when she heard Bingham's recorded voice. "Hello? Um. This message is for the family of Mark Bingham. My name is Randa Steblez. ... I own a large child care center in Washington, D.C., next to the White House. ... I want to commend the heroism of Mark Bingham. Without Mr. Bingham, we might have been targeted ... It could have been a direct hit on the White House and also upon the lives of these little children, numbering in the hundreds." Had the plane not crashed in Pennsylvania, investigators believe it would have hit its Washington target in as few as 10 minutes more. Steblez keeps a file of the heroes of Flight 93, and every Sept. 11, she pins up a memorial in the entry hall of Owl School, with photos, flags and flowers. "Our sympathies and our sadness are there," the message said, concluding: "God bless you all." When the messages ended, Hoagland clicked off the recorder and wiped away her tears. She couldn't sleep that night, reliving her loss, striving for comfort in the recorded voices of her son's friends, in all their tragic beauty. She has promised herself she will reach out to the callers, many whom she hasn't met, to thank them for caring, for helping her grieve. But she still hasn't found the strength.
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