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The most harrowing hour of Mike McCormick’s life took place on a sunny September morning in 2001.
At the time, McCormick — now a professor of Air Traffic Management at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University — was working for the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), managing New York Center airspace and leading a workforce of 500.
It was 8:42 a.m., and he’d just gotten a message on his Blackberry that he can still recite by heart today, 23 years later.
Possible hijack. American 11. Boeing 667. Flight level 310. Albany, southbound.
His first thought of the aircraft was, “They’re going to come in New York Center’s airspace.”
Then the phone rang. Crew from American Airlines had spoken with a flight attendant aboard the hijacked plane. The hijackers had bombs and knives. One flight attendant was already dead.
McCormick alerted a supervisor. He requested a military intercept. He called New York Approach Control: They were tracking the hijacked plane as it flew along the Hudson River.
Through the phone, McCormick heard a colleague give a haunting play-by-play. They could see the plane approaching fast, flying low, in the city, they told McCormick, who could only listen. “It just hit the north tower.”
It was 8:46 a.m.
‘We Have Another One’
There was no time to think.
Just as the first tower was hit, a controller in McCormick’s office announced that a second aircraft had been hijacked. They could track its speed and altitude but no radio comms.
“We are under attack,” McCormick said, aware even then of his unique position: No one outside of his office knew that a second plane was coming, let alone had the ability to track its route toward Manhattan. “So I believe I am the first person in the world that said, ‘We are under attack.’”
First, he rallied his team: “Make no assumptions,” he told them. “Be prepared for anything.”
Then he called FAA headquarters — seven times in 13 minutes — to lobby for a national shutdown.
It was 9:03 a.m. when United Airlines Flight 175 collided into the World Trade Center’s north tower.
That’s when McCormick declared the New York Center airspace, covering Philadelphia to Boston, as ATC Zero, a designation typically reserved for power outages and other tech-related issues. This essentially “closed” the airspace.
“I decided, we’re under attack. They’re using aircraft as weapons,” McCormick said. “The only way that I can work to stop it is to remove the weapons.”
He started assigning his team members roles: You — shut down the facility. You — escort visitors out of the building. You — account for missing workers.
At 9:35 a.m., the rest of the national airspace was closed, but there were still a few rogue aircraft being monitored.
McCormick got on a teleconference with FAA leadership, and together they watched American Airlines Flight 77 approach Washington, D.C.
“Ten miles from the White House … nine miles from the White House … eight miles from the White House,” a voice on the call counted down.
McCormick knew the White House was an unlikely target, due to its size and difficult angle of approach. But it was clear: Catastrophic impact to our nation’s capital was imminent.
At 9:37 a.m., Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon.
During that past hour, the United States had suffered the deadliest terrorist attack in its history — one that took nearly 3,000 lives and injured more than 6,000. Those 60 minutes altered the country’s identity in ways that it is still coping with today.
But McCormick wasn’t thinking about any of that yet. He wasn’t thinking much at all. Instead, he only felt: anger.
“Anger that they would use something that I love — aviation — to attack our country.”
At 10:02 a.m.: United 93 crashed into an open field in Pennsylvania, brought down by a passenger revolt onboard.
Finally, the skies were empty of the roughly 2,900 aircraft that so recently populated the airspace. It was over. But McCormick’s relief was short-lived, quickly replaced with a slew of new questions.
‘What Do We Do Tomorrow?’
Within hours, McCormick brought in healthcare workers and clergy to support his colleagues. Then he stood on a table in the cafeteria to brief his entire team at once.
“Remember: We’re in New York,” McCormick recalled of the conversation. “Many of the team have friends and spouses and relatives who live in Manhattan. Many of those family and friends are first responders.”
None of this was protocol. There was no protocol, because the attacks that occurred on 9/11 were unprecedented. But McCormick had been a firefighter, paramedic and Marine. All in all, he worked for the FAA from 1982 to 2015. He was no stranger to crises.
“I’d had some level of experience in having to make urgent, life-threatening decisions in a short period of time, then moving on,” he said. “The question became: What do we do tomorrow?”
A full airspace shutdown meant that not even medivac helicopters could fly into crash sites to administer aid. Bank checks and currency could not be transported by air, essentially stalling the transfer of money and shutting down the economy. Flight programs across the country were closed.
McCormick slept in his office for the next 10 days, too busy to leave.
- He outlined new vetting procedures for pilots, cabin crews and airports.
- He developed policies for commercial aircraft to operate in the same airspace as the military, which was conducting 24/7 patrols over every metropolitan area in the country for months after the attacks.
- He and his team secured all air traffic data from Sept. 11, in preparation for investigations.
- He oversaw the development of a plan to transport the U.S. Air Force to Afghanistan, even before counterattacks were ordered.
- And over the next three years, he would serve three tours in Iraq, training civilian air traffic controllers. “There’s not a province in Iraq that I haven’t been to,” he said.
McCormick reflects on all of this plainly. He resists emotional explanations and hardly recalls a tearful breakdown from his teammates, either. When he describes his colleagues’ perspectives, though, it’s easy to see that he’s also describing himself.
“People wanted information, and then, people wanted to do something,” he said, remembering those who waited in miles-long lines for ferries and rental cars, navigating around closed bridges and tunnels to travel through traffic across multiple states to help. “People were doing extraordinary things to try to do the right thing.”
‘Make a Difference Every Day’
Two days before September 11, 2001, McCormick celebrated his birthday in Manhattan with his family. It was his son’s first time at the World Trade Center. They bought ice cream cones then washed their hands in a pond between the towers. McCormick remembers pointing high up to glass windows in the sky and telling his son about a friend who would start work there tomorrow.
“Going back to the city on Sept. 21 was gut-wrenching,” he said. “Tens of thousands of posters that read, ‘Have you seen this person?’ Looking at a pile of rubble taller than the buildings around it. American flags all over Manhattan.”
But he also felt pride on that day, even as the dust from so much destruction stung his eyes. He was proud of the resiliency of his people, he says, in this land he calls home.
“Their ability to overcome and restore not just New York but the rest of the country, I think, is a thing that I remember most proudly,” he said.
That’s why he does what he does at Embry-Riddle, teaching the next generation to lead the aviation industry into a safer future.
“This is an exciting career field where you make a difference every day,” he said. “All you have to do is go to any airport in America and watch people come home and hug their families. That’s why we do it.”