‘No – don’t fuck with it,’ is my instruction, and my decision.
Ross announces that the reconfiguration is complete and clears the centre screen.
The time is 1246. I’ve been on the flight deck for seven minutes. In that time, our world has been flipped upside down, and Ross and I are fighting for all our lives.
I need to reassure my passengers that their pilots are still alive, too. I hand over control to Ross and press the PA button. ‘This is the captain. We are obviously having some problems with our flight-control system. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened. I’ll get back to you shortly.’
Short and sweet, but what else can I tell them at this point? I’m being honest but I really don’t know what is happening to us. I report what I see and let them know we are still working.
*
As my voice carries from the PA system throughout the cabin, the moaning, crying and sobbing immediately stop. It’s deathly quiet as the whole plane listens to the short announcement.
Now they know the pilots are still functioning and still fighting! A small, collective sigh of relief drifts through the cabin. Their spirits are elevated, and their chances of survival are enhanced.
*
I notice my speed and altitude tapes are still jumping around and unreliable. My right thumb slides over to the manual disconnect button on the left thrust lever fitted to the central console; this removes automatic control of the engine’s power. I push it, placing the engines into my manual control. It’s also part of the unreliable speed procedure and now I have the time to action that step. The unreliable speed procedure is designed to remove the automation to prevent erratic operation. Could have fooled me.
‘Manual thrust, Ross,’ I announce to confirm my selection.
A new distraction adds to our confusion. Cleared of all the previous errors, the centre display is blank, but now the master caution chime becomes active:
DING!
The amber master caution light illuminates, directing our attention to the centre display screen. We catch a fleeting glimpse of an amber message as it flashes onto the screen – then, to our surprise, it disappears.
Immediately after, there’s another chime, then another message that disappears, only to be replaced with another sequence of chime, flash of a message, disappearing act. These chimes add to the cacophony of the ever-present overspeed and stall alarms.
I didn’t even get a chance to ask, ‘Can it get any worse?’, because it already has.
7.
Extreme flying and elevated body response are part of an aircraft carrier pilot’s job description. Landing on the pitching deck of a ship, day or night, is a dangerous occupation that never wanes into the ordinary, even after a thousand traps. There are no margins for error; the precision required to survive carrier operations places every pilot on the edge of their mental and physical capacity.
Every naval aviator who’s landed aboard an aircraft carrier has been exposed to the physiological phenomenon of fear-based body response, We conveniently categorised it as adrenalin release and we had to learn to cope with it effectively in order to survive. It has been recorded that a fighter pilot’s heart rate is significantly higher while they’re conducting a carrier landing than it is during the rigors of dogfighting. After a ‘night trap’, it would routinely take hours for our bodies to settle down enough from our high adrenalin levels to allow us to sleep. We referred to this post-landing condition as being ‘wired’.
One of the most difficult landings I experienced occurred on my first deployment onboard the USS America, when I was flying the F-14. I was attached to the Fighting Aardvarks of Fighter Squadron 114 (VF-114) as part of Carrier Air Wing 11. My logbook notes the date as 1 July 1981, the month before we arrived in Perth. Our deployment had commenced in April, and my total carrier landings were approaching the 100 mark.
The carrier group operated in the southern Arabian Sea, an area we nicknamed ‘Gonzo Station’. GONZO was an acronym for ‘Gulf of Oman Northern Zone of Operations’ and defined our operating area. This region was in the grip of the southern monsoon, with severely degrading visibility due to low clouds as well as gusty winds blowing mounds of dust from the Arabian peninsula out to sea. The dust mixed with sea spray, creating some challenging weather conditions.
On the day of my difficult landing, I was returning to the carrier from a routine combat air-patrol mission. In my back seat was ‘Chain’, my radar intercept officer: an experienced, second-cruise veteran.
We were instructed to enter a holding pattern and assigned a time to commence our instrument approach to the ship. The weather conditions had deteriorated significantly; our routine day landing now required an instrument procedure to deliver us to a point for a visual landing using ‘the meatball’. Carrier (and training base) runways have an optical landing system that projects a precise visual glidepath to the pilot to guide him into the arresting wires of the ship. This is required because our landing area is constantly moving as the ship maintains its course and our landing area is so short. On earlier systems, the optimum glidepath was indicated by a glowing orange sphere, hence the nickname.
At the assigned approach time, I commenced my descent from 5000 feet. My target was to arrive at 1200 feet, 10 miles behind the carrier in the landing configuration of gear and flaps down. I’d then receive radar guidance from the carrier’s air traffic control centre to a point less than a mile from landing. From there, I should see the ship and the angled landing area to complete the landing visually using the meatball.
This was the plan. But naval aviation is a constantly changing plan, so pilots learn to adjust and improvise to survive.
I entered a cloud layer that seemed to envelope the whole Earth as I descended below 1000 feet on my approach. I was flying on my instruments while following the guidance provided by the carrier-based precision controller. They are the best on the planet and would guide me precisely to my decision point.
It looked like my canopy was covered in frosted glass, a grey opacity with no sky or water visible. Only my instruments and the monotone instructions of the precision controller defined my position in space and distance.
Approaching two miles behind the ship, I started ‘peeking’ through the forward canopy to visually acquire the angled landing area. Normally, it was visible by this point, but I remained encapsulated in a grey blob of cloud. In my rear-view mirrors, I glimpsed Chain craning his head to the side in search of the carrier. We were getting closer to the ship but we couldn’t see it. The precision controller continued to guide us.
One mile behind the ship, we were approaching the visual transition point. The aircraft was about 300 feet above the water; I knew I should see the back of the carrier and the landing area centreline and the meatball. I didn’t see anything.
Chain asked a quick question. ‘See the ship, Sully?’
‘Negative,’ was my curt but precise response.
The controller made his last guidance instruction. ‘Three quarters of a mile, call the ball.’
I was now required to transition to visually flying the meatball, and Chain would make a transmission confirming this, along with our aircraft side number and our fuel state. The landing signal officers (LSO) monitored this call; they were positioned on the left side of the landing area, providing guidance and safety to landing aircraft.
We were on hot mic and Chain asked, ‘Sully?’ as we progressed past the ball call position.
I hesitated for a tenth of a second, hoping the ship would miraculously appear, but I didn’t see anything. It was up to me to make the next call. ‘Clara.’ That meant: ‘I need “clarification”.’
I didn’t see the ball. I didn’t see the ship.
I didn’t see anything!
It would be the only time in my carrier career that I uttered this confession of blindness to the LSOs. They would have to guide me once I made this call.
Simultaneously, I realised that, based on my rate of desc
ent and tracking, I’d have to abort my approach in the next second – I was drifting to the right of the ship, where the rescue helicopter orbited, and getting dangerously close to the ocean.
As my hands tightened on my engine throttles to initiate the ‘wave off’, the LSOs transmitted, ‘Bring it back hard left, Sully!’
They could see me from their position, and, instinctively, I slammed my control stick to the left. Immediately, the deck and the meatball appeared, so I transmitted, ‘Ball.’ Then, full stick to the right to align with the centreline, keeping the meatball centred, I landed with full force of a carrier landing. My hook caught an arresting wire as I added full power and welcomed the violent deceleration as the wire slowed me down.
I had to quickly clear the landing area, but my legs were shaking considerably as I displaced the rudder pedals and tried to follow the directions of the flight-deck marshaller. We were parked right next to the angled landing area and had front-row seats as the remaining aircraft attempted to land.
Chain piped up from the back, ‘Good job, Sully! Check out the mast!’
The ship’s mast was 60 feet above the level of the flight deck, and the flight deck was 60 feet above the ocean. The top of the mast was obscured with cloud, which meant the cloud layer was about 100 feet above the ocean – 100 feet below our landing limits! I’d just completed a manual approach well below our landing minimums, which probably explained my bad case of ‘machine-gun legs’. I hadn’t experienced this type of extreme body response before.
We retired to the squadron’s ready room, my sweaty face still bearing the red outline of my oxygen mask around my nose and mouth. Soon the LSOs entered solemnly, like a rugby scrum of white-vested clerics searching me out. Their hair was dishevelled and their faces greasy from the wind, sea spray and desert sand that had been pelting them for the past forty-five minutes on their exposed platform. They scrutinised me as the Air Wing LSO delivered his debrief. My extreme manoeuvring earned a ‘nice correction’ comment and a grade of ‘okay’, meaning ‘good landing’, a small reward for getting aboard from an extreme position.
As I listened to their assessment, the closed-circuit TV in our squadron ready room was replaying the recovery. My extreme manoeuvres were there for all the ship’s company to see. I took a long drag on an imaginary cigarette. ‘Thanks for getting me aboard, Paddles,’ I offered, after an exaggerated exhale. (LSOs earned their nickname in pre-meatball days when they used two brightly coloured paddles to give visual instruction to landing pilots.) With a few wry chuckles and grunts, the scrum left in search of other pilots to debrief. I slumped back into my chair and mentally flew the approach over and over again as I watched the CCTV; my recovery was replayed several times. I was still sweating, the ship’s air-conditioner was too feeble to help me cool down and my flight suit material was too dense to allow any fresh air to touch my clammy skin. My heart was still racing, but I was enjoying the buzz from the chemicals my body was providing. I felt elated and energised.
I mentally patted myself on the back for getting aboard on such a difficult day, then stored this new physical sensation in my Filofax of memories. Crazily enough, I never really felt threatened with death in my military career.
We commonly refer to these threat chemicals as adrenalin, but there’s more than one ingredient; it’s a complex mix of hormones released by the body’s glands to prepare you for a threatening event.
QPA was providing plenty of stimuli.
*
‘Emergency cancel, Ross.’
Below the centre screen in the cockpit is a small panel containing an emergency cancel button. It’s there to cancel nuisance alerts and noises associated with non-routine events, which the pilot determines to be false. Well, all of them are false, and now we’re getting even more of them through the dinging of momentary error messages appearing and disappearing on our screen.
Ross pushes the emergency cancel button. He pushes it again. And again.
The dings and stall alerts continue. We aren’t allowed to silence them because this system, too, is computer-controlled and confused.
Great.
I feel cheated, like I’ve just driven out of the caryard with a newly purchased, state-of-the-art automobile that’s, in fact, a lemon. I believed the salesman’s glowing pitch and handed over my hard-earned cash, and the fine print in the warranty says they won’t fix it. I’m far from impressed; in fact, I’m furious.
Silently, I review the condition of my high-tech A330: manual rather than automatic thrust; manual pitch trim; manual flight; aircraft behaviour that’s outside the realm of our training and knowledge base; and a cockpit flooded with confusing warning and caution alarms that can’t be silenced. I’m flying through a high-tech computer, but which one is moving the controls? It could be any one of the three primary computers or two secondary computers, but this information isn’t displayed to me.
I have other serious issues to factor in: a planeload of passengers who have probably suffered injuries, especially after the first pitch-down, and we’re still two hours’ flight time to our destination, Perth. I’m starting the think we may not get there.
Add to that, the two on-duty pilots are trying to operate through the buzz of adrenalin overload after facing the probability of flying into the ocean under rogue computer control. We are wired, but this isn’t the good buzz of a daring carrier landing – it’s inhibiting our ability to analyse the situation and perform minute tasks.
Our altitude has stabilised at 37,000 feet again. My sidestick inputs generate a twitchy response from the aircraft now. I must make smaller, lighter inputs to keep things smooth. Is this a consequence of Alternate Law? Another distraction thrown into the complex equation I’m trying to solve.
We have to get our first officer back in the cockpit to help out, so I ask Ross to make contact again through the interphone.
*
In the forward galley, Pete and Lisa have survived the second pitch-down. The cabin interphone call from minutes ago is still active, the handset dangling by its cord. Lisa tries to make an all-stations call to her crew to find out their status; no one answers. She resets the handset, frustrated that she can’t reach them.
The interphone rings a second later; it’s Ross calling from the flight deck. ‘Tell Pete he can come up now! We’ll watch him and open the door.’
Lisa acknowledges, but doesn’t really want the first officer to leave her. ‘Pete, you can go up now. They’re waiting for you!’
Before he makes his dash, he straps her into her crew seat next to the galley. Then, like Usain Bolt out of the blocks, Pete sprints towards the cockpit door, picking his way around fallen luggage. He hears the electrical bolt of the cockpit door unlatch and pushes it open.
He’s back on the flight deck, slamming the door behind him – but he isn’t prepared for the paper charts and folders littering the floor. He almost loses his footing as he scrambles into his seat, which Ross vacated seconds before.
*
‘It’s a shitfight out there,’ Pete says as he straps himself in. ‘I think I broke my nose.’
I look over at him; his eyes are wide open, trying to take in as much information as possible while he adjusts to being back on the flight deck. The bridge of his nose is reddening.
‘Congratulations,’ I reply in an exaggerated tone, like he just won a crappy prize on a gameshow. ‘Strap in, we’re in trouble.’
With those words – words I’ve never even contemplated uttering in any previous emergency situation throughout my entire extreme flying career – I’ve aptly summarised our position.
The stall and overspeed warnings welcome Pete to our own shitfight. I quickly let him know that the dives were computer-generated and I couldn’t stop them with my control-stick inputs. I then state our roles for the remainder of the flight: I’ll remain as the active pilot, and Pete will assume the support role.
‘Declare a “mayday”? Learmonth?’ he prompts, adding that he observed passengers an
d crew with injuries. Pete is on the ball.
I’ve already contemplated the divert decision. Our aircraft is in a state of systems meltdown, and I have no real choice but to land as soon as possible. Thanks to air-force requirements, the Learmonth runway is long enough for an A330. The civil facilities are modest – typical of those for a small regional airport – but our company has certified that Learmonth is suitable for use as a diversion airport, and it’s definitely right for us now. Continuing on to Perth could expose us to further pitch-downs and more passenger injuries.
I modify Pete’s first idea. ‘No, Pete, let’s start with a “pan”, not a “mayday”. Degraded flight controls and injuries in the cabin.’
A pan declaration is the international urgency signal to communicate a degraded flight situation that doesn’t pose an immediate danger to anyone’s life or the aircraft at the time of transmission. A pan call is an alert to air traffic control and rescue agencies that a serious issue exits, asking them to prepare to provide assistance. It’s pilot-talk for ‘Hey, we’ve got a problem and we’ll get back to you.’
Mayday is different; there’s a serious threat to life and to the continued safe conduct of the flight. Emergency assistance is required. I need more information before I can justify an upgrade to a mayday.
Ten minutes since this began, it’s time to let the world know we need help.
Soberly, I’ve already concluded that we’re heading into mayday territory now.
8.
Pete makes his pan call to Melbourne Air Traffic Control: ‘Melbourne Centre. Pan-pan. Pan-pan. Pan-pan. Qantas 72. Qantas 72. Qantas 72. Experiencing flight-control problems and we have injuries in the cabin. Require diversion to Learmonth and tracking direct to Learmonth.’
‘Qantas 72, Melbourne Centre. Pan acknowledged. Track direct Learmonth. Cleared to descend to 35,000 feet.’
I know that the controller will be scratching his head, trying to make sense of the blaring background alerts that accompany our radio call for help.
No Man's Land Page 7
