I nod and give my first officer a thumbs-up. ‘Have a good rest, Pete. I’ll call you up thirty minutes before our descent point. I have control.’
Pete exits the flight deck, and I’m alone.
The time is 1239 in Perth.
I scan my instruments and the systems panels above my head; all the lights are out, indicating the systems are functioning as designed. A single chime alerts me to a call from Ross outside the cockpit, requesting access. After confirming his identity, I remotely unlock the cockpit door. As he slides into the right-hand control seat, I nonchalantly ask him if he took the time to wash his hands. He chuckles as he straps in and leaves me guessing.
‘No change, Ross,’ I report, meaning there have been no modifications to the aircraft parameters that existed before his toilet visit.
De-deet. De-deet. De-deet, shrieks from the cockpit speakers, signalling a warning that the autopilot has disconnected. The red master warning light is illuminated.
The time is 1240.
‘Shit,’ I mutter with disdain. I must fly the aircraft manually now using my sidestick, trying to maintain my altitude while searching for information to explain the autopilot fault. I scan the instruments to find the cause as I direct Ross to cancel the red warning light and accompanying aural warning.
I call for the reconfiguration procedure to address the autopilot problem while instinctively engaging the second autopilot. I need to unload myself from the task of maintaining altitude and devote my attention to troubleshooting the fault messages appearing on our computer screens. Our altitude deviates slightly during my manual flight but quickly stabilises with the autopilot corrections. My instrument scan doesn’t provide the reasons for this malfunction.
Before we can action the other faults, the relative calm of the flight deck is shattered:
Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!
STALL! STALL!
Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!
I’m thinking, Now what?
Perplexed, but still calm, I scan my instruments to find the causes of these serious warnings generated by the aircraft’s computer systems. The red master warning light is on again, and a red ‘OVERSPEED’ message is emblazoned on top of my primary display. The Overspeed warning alerts pilots that the high speed limit for the aircraft has been exceeded.
The altitude and speed indications on my screen are jumping up and down; the computers can’t display the altitude and speed that were normal seconds before.
Now my navigation display has gone blank. Critical systems are shutting down, and the computers aren’t telling me the reasons. The loud stall warning indicates that we’re at a critically slow speed while the overspeed indicates we’re at our maximum speed too.
It makes no sense to me. Moments before, we were in stable flight; nothing in the outside environment has changed.
We’re lucky that this is a daylight flight. I can see the horizon; one minute ago I was in straight and level flight and my cruising speed and power were stable. We’re in a calm and clear air mass with no turbulence or cloud. Are my computers crashing or reacting to something I can’t see or control?
The time is 1241.
‘Ross,’ I say, ‘call the forward galley.’
I ask Pete to return to the cockpit – we need all hands on deck to manage this confusing mess.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly as I keep scanning my instrumentation in the midst of the continuous stall and overspeed aural and visual warnings. I’m searching for clues to indicate the cause of our worsening situation. I’m still calm and in control, but my confusion is building.
*
In the cabin, Pete has started his rest break with a visit to the forward galley, chatting with Lisa, our customer service manager, and drinking a coffee. The meal service has finished, and the remainder of the cabin crew are starting their rest periods before our arrival into Perth.
In the rear galley, Fuzzy Maiava is cooking his crew meal in the oven. Two off-duty staff members, Diana Casey and her husband Peter, have joined him, and they’re having a chat while sipping on glasses of wine.
Diana is an active customer service manager in the domestic division, and Peter is a senior captain on the Boeing 737 fleet. Both are based in Brisbane. Travelling with them are their two teenaged daughters, seated in another part of the cabin, and together they’ve been on a holiday to celebrate Peter’s successful recovery from a long-term medical issue.
Adding to this festive mood, Fuzzy lets the Caseys know that today is his birthday and he’s planning to have some celebration drinks in Singapore on our return.
Fuzzy notes the timer on the oven: thirteen seconds until his meal is ready.
Throughout the full cabin, passengers are moving around, visiting friends in other parts of the plane and waiting patiently to use the toilets. Small children are unbuckled, playing on their parents’ laps. There’s a lively, party atmosphere – it’s the way air travel should be.
*
While Ross is contacting Lisa through the interphone system, I disconnect the autopilot and revert to manual control. My speed and altitude tapes are still jumping around, so I can’t use them with any accuracy. I shift my scan to a group of secondary instruments for another source of speed and altitude information, and I crosscheck them with what’s displayed on the first officer’s side. They match, meaning I can use them safely while I control the aircraft manually with my sidestick.
I’ve figured out I’m dealing with an abnormal condition that Airbus has labelled ‘unreliable speed’.
Unreliable speed means that the information values displayed on my main airspeed and altitude instruments are not reliable or that they are false. This is not displayed as a warning or caution message because the automation doesn’t make this critical assessment; it is up to the pilot to interpret. In the past, this condition has usually resulted from something blocking the airspeed-measuring probes mounted on the fuselage near the aircraft’s nose. The non-normal condition requires me to fly the aircraft manually, without the autopilot and auto thrust, while we try to address the problem.
My concentration is elevated now as my fingers lightly touch the sidestick while I manipulate the controls to maintain my altitude. We rarely fly the aircraft manually at these high altitudes, and my stick inputs need to be small and smooth. The incessant warnings keep blaring in the flight deck, no matter how much we try to silence them.
I’m getting mildly annoyed, but I must focus on controlling the aircraft in this loud and distracting environment. Confusion is creeping into my brain as I scan my instrumentation, but the computers are much more confused than I am – to the point that they believe we’re in an extreme danger and won’t stop warning us.
I assess that I’m surely not in danger from anything outside the plane. I don’t agree with the computers that the aircraft is in a threatened position.
The time is 1242.
My concern is growing. These are serious warnings that by design require immediate action, but looking out the forward cockpit window confirms we aren’t under threat. These warnings have to be false. The cause isn’t displayed and I am dealing with the results of their confused state. I won’t act until the computers identify the malfunction, as we were trained to do in our Airbus course.
The cockpit environment is loud and distracting. I can’t access the information that the plane’s computers are generating and using. Somehow, though, the computers are reacting to information that’s valid enough for them to disconnect the autopilot and issue all these warnings.
We haven’t come across an event like this in our Airbus training. It seems the many computer systems that control the aircraft are shutting down, but we don’t know why. The highly automated systems, designed to make our job of flying the aircraft easier, are failing.
I must maintain safe control of the aircraft as I’ve been trained to do, but I know I’m being thrown into uncharted territory.
5.
The time is 1242:27.
I’m thinking about the next step in the checklist procedure for unreliable speed, removing the yellow flight director bars and disconnecting the auto thrust. At the moment, I’m managing to maintain my altitude by using the secondary instruments and the first officer’s display, but it’s like steering your car from the passenger seat. I am hoping this is a transient hiccup in our automation and I can fly like this if it doesn’t fix itself.
I try to make sense of what is happening, methodically and clinically.
Ross is talking on the interphone; he’s made contact with the cabin to coordinate Pete’s return.
Suddenly, the nose of the plane dips slightly. Instinctively, my grip on the sidestick tightens and I’m on high alert; I haven’t commanded that movement.
*
Pete is still in the forward galley finishing his coffee. He stiffens, sensing an abnormal vibration through the floor as if the tail is fluttering. The cabin interphone rings; it’s Ross calling to get Pete back to the flight deck. Lisa answers the interphone call, just as Pete perceives a change in the engine’s pitch.
The group of off-duty Qantas employees in the rear galley also hear the engines’ pitch change – a decrease in sound that has, in their experience, signalled the commencement of descent from cruising altitude before we reach our destination. They look at each other and at their watches, and they’re perplexed; there are still two hours of flight time before our arrival into Perth.
*
In the seat of my pants, I feel another uncommanded movement. ‘Don’t you . . .’ I growl at the Airbus.
But I don’t get to finish my stern warning to the aircraft’s computers. The plane’s nose begins to pitch down, violently and aggressively, accelerating its rate of movement like a roller-coaster about to speed down its tracks after reaching the top of a loop. The negative g-force is increasing and elevating me out of my seat.
In the right seat, Ross struggles to understand what’s happening as the plane accelerates its nose-down trajectory. Then, spookily, the contents of the flight library beside his seat rocket towards the deck’s cramped ceiling.
The leather- and plastic-covered manuals are heavy, but the forces generated by the aircraft’s violent manoeuvre have made them weightless – Ross has to swat them away like a persistent swarm of flies. Then they’re thrown to the rear of the cockpit.
Thud.
They explode on impact with the floor, scattering their contents behind our seats.
I grunt, my jaw clenched, as I yank my control stick to the full limit to stop the pitch-down. Because my shoulder harnesses aren’t fastened, I’m bracing myself on the instrument panel glareshield to keep myself seated. I have to push hard to maintain my seated position.
‘Shit!’ Ross hisses as the plane’s nose carves through the horizon.
There’s a roar as the Airbus’ huge wing moves through the air as it pitches down. Then a crash in the cabin reverberates through our reinforced cockpit door.
*
Pete hears an enormous bang as he and Lisa are elevated off the floor. At first they’re surprised – what’s happening? Their surprise turns to shock as they’re slammed into the ceiling.
The highest g-forces are generated in the rear galley. Fuzzy and the Caseys are propelled into the ceiling with a greater impact than Pete and Lisa. The three are stunned by the impact; they remember going up but not coming down. They’ve been knocked unconscious.
Throughout the cabin, the scene is the same. It looks like NASA weightless training for more than a hundred astronauts. But this aeroplane is manoeuvring violently, with massive g-forces, and the cabin walls aren’t cushioned. People are screaming. Luggage from the overhead lockers crashes onto some passengers’ heads, while other passengers are hurled towards the ceiling.
Abruptly, the screaming stops. It sounds like a horror movie where a person is attacked by an alien, screaming in terror until the violent creature ends their life. Those unrestrained by seatbelts are pinned helplessly to the ceiling.
The cabin interphone in the front galley, still on an active call to the flight deck, records the mayhem on the aircraft’s voice recorder black box.
*
I’m not feeling calm and in control anymore. The plane is out of control; something is terribly wrong.
My aggressive use of the sidestick hasn’t stopped the nose from continuing its downward plunge. I know that people in the cabin must be trapped against the ceiling. As I brace myself in my seat, my windscreen is filled with the blue of the Indian Ocean. A terrible glimpse of a possible outcome is projected into my consciousness – am I going to wind up in the water? Is my life going to end today?
It seems like time is standing still. I’m presented with a choice: keep pulling back on the control stick, even though it isn’t generating any response, or let go.
Instinctively, I release my pressure on the sidestick. Out of my subconscious, a survival technique from a previous life rises up: Neutralise! I’m not in control so I must neutralise controls, return the sidestick to the centre and not make any input. I never imagined I’d use this part of my military experience in a commercial airliner.
An eternity passes. The plane is on a collision course with the Indian Ocean, and my sidestick seems as useless as a piece of overcooked spaghetti. Is my control stick completely dead? Gingerly, I probe for control with small sidestick inputs and hope like hell I’m granted control again, while the deepest part of my brain records this moment: the potential end of my life.
Finally, I feel some response.
The computers return control to me as I move my sidestick. I don’t want to move too abruptly, fearful of hurting the passengers and crew, so I move as slowly as possible to bring the nose up. Our nose attitude is almost 10 degrees down. The aircraft has lost 690 feet of altitude in our dive as I carefully level out. It’s the most gentle manoeuvre of my flying career. My hope is to smoothly lower people from the ceiling.
‘What the fuck was that?!’ Ross exclaims as we begin our crippled climb back to our cruise altitude of 37,000 feet.
A simple yet profound question, and there’s only one possible answer.
‘It’s the PRIM,’ I reply, using the abbreviation for the primary flight computers.
The pilot must interact with the plane through the computers and it is the PRIMs that move the control surfaces. They have decided to move them aggressively, despite my command to stop them.
I know these computers initiated all this mayhem, because what else could it be? I certainly didn’t command it, and the outside environmental conditions didn’t cause the plane to dive. But although I’ve lamely answered Ross’s question, my response doesn’t do enough to explain what’s happening to us.
‘Handing over, Ross. I’m putting on my shoulder harness.’
He takes control of the plane as I urgently reach back, grab my harness and push the metal clips into the buckle at my waist. I also pull my lap and crotch straps tighter. Because I don’t know what’s causing the aircraft to go crazy, I must be secure in case it happens again.
For a few seconds, Ross gets the opportunity to manually fly the A330 at high altitude. Not many commercial pilots can experience that these days, especially after a jet upset.
‘I have control,’ I say as I take over again from Ross, allowing him to secure his shoulder harness.
I look over at Ross. His eyes are flared wide as he scans his instruments, searching for clues. His gaze is locked in tunnel vision, as is mine – eyes open but maybe not seeing.
I feel like I’ve just skulled 100 double espressos. My body feels electrified, my eyes are jittery and vibrating, and my skin is hot.
The flight deck is a mess and so are our bodies, charged with the fight-or-flight chemicals released during our violent, life-threatening dive.
‘Take some deep breaths, Ross,’ I coax him. ‘Hold it. Exhale. Keep breathing.’
We need to calm down, to try and overcome our nervous system reactions so we can
function and think.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘Seatbelt signs on and make an announcement, Ross.’
Somehow, Ross has beaten me to the punch – during the pitch-down he reached up and swiped the fasten seatbelt switch. He announces over the PA system, ‘All passengers be seated and fasten seatbelts immediately!’
I still don’t know why the computers took this shocking action. My eyes keep rapidly scanning the instruments, but the Airbus continues to withhold its secrets.
I accept that we’re in danger and try to keep a cool head. We’ve survived a violent loss-of-control, and we are in the dark. As the captain, I must try to return everything to normal and make sense of our deteriorating situation. The aircraft systems designed to protect us are failing and trying to harm us. Why?
*
Although I had tried my best to be gentle, the many passengers pinned to the ceiling came crashing down as positive g-force was restored by the aircraft’s recovery manoeuvre. Throughout the cabin, people are screaming and moaning.
In the front galley, Pete and Lisa also crash to the floor. Pete comes down first on his face and shoulders, then Lisa lands on top of him, shaken but unharmed.
Stunned, his eyes watering in pain, Pete gets up onto his hands and knees. It looks like a bomb has exploded in the forward galley. The steel locks on the meal carts’ doors are torn open, disgorging their food trays and garbage onto the floor. Likewise, bottles of wine have shattered, and red liquid covers the floor and walls like pools of blood. The air-conditioning ducts are exposed in the ceiling, their plastic cover panels strewn throughout the cabin.
There’s even more devastation in the rear galley located near the aircraft’s tail, which bore the full brunt of the massive force generated by the dive. The Caseys and Fuzzy are lying on the galley floor, badly injured. All three remember being elevated by the negative g-force, but none can remember coming down. Diana’s shoulder is burning in pain. Her husband lies next to her, bleeding from a large gash on his forehead. She hears moaning close by – Fuzzy is groggy and in agony. Diana is horrified to see part of his leg bone protruding through his torn pant leg.
No Man's Land Page 5
