Peter turns his head to meet his wife’s eyes. ‘Are you alright?’
She nods, and they help each other sit up before propping Fuzzy up, too. Dazed, they slouch against the stowed metal meal carts as much as their injuries allow.
Peter, an experienced commercial pilot, ponders their position. What just happened? The seatbelt sign wasn’t on, and the pilots didn’t issue a turbulence warning. He concludes that the plane has experienced an unforeseen, un-forecast turbulence event. What else could generate this much movement and force?
*
The time is 1243.
Ross and I are still in the game; we have to be. Although our bodies remain electrified from the fight-or-flight response, we must get down to the business at hand. Our computer screens are lighting up with amber-coloured fault alerts. We’re 154 kilometres to the west of Learmonth Airport.
I take a deep breath and direct Ross to begin our reconfiguration procedures in order to deal with the failures we’re starting to see on our screens.
Methodically, we address the alert messages displayed on our screen. There are faults with the navigation portion of ADIRU 1, PRIM 3 and the control function of PRIM 1.
But it’s difficult to implement the procedures. I’m not allowed to use the autopilot as a result of the ‘unreliable speed’ condition. Because I am flying manually, my workload must be split between monitoring Ross and maintaining a safe flight path. Likewise, Ross must watch what I am doing as he runs through the reconfiguration. Meanwhile, we’re both distracted by the continuous warnings blaring out of our speakers. This routine is made even more complex by the uncertainty caused by our failing computer systems, as we try to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.
Our cockpit environment is degrading. Words can’t describe the workload we’re faced with. There are more problems displayed with the autopilot, a malfunction in one of the computers responsible for providing position information, and a problem – as I’d expected – with one of the three PRIM computers. Methodically, Ross and I perform what we hope will be life-saving surgery to our critically ill aircraft systems.
I’m slowly climbing back to 37,000 feet while using the information on the first officer’s flight display to confirm my speed and altitude. My airspeed and altitude information remains erratic. All the while, I listen carefully to Ross as he works through the error messages. In vain, I’m trying to use my systems knowledge to connect the dots and get things back to normal. But even though I’m still baffled, I don’t let my concentration wander from the immediate tasks before me. I don’t have time to worry, to feel frightened or to contemplate death, but I must suppress a bubbling anger at the overwhelming position I have been thrown into and without warning.
Ross reaches a critical point for the next failed system. We are now required to interact with the third primary computer, PRIM 3. The PRIMs move the control surfaces via hydraulic fluid lines, similar to your car’s power-steering system. Resetting the PRIM will move the valves that control these dedicated hydraulic lines as well as reset the system logic of the flight control system.
Ross needs to reset the control switch for PRIM 3. To do this, he must consult a special paper checklist. He’s searching the case at his side that used to contain his paper manuals – but they’re all behind him now, strewn over the cockpit floor.
I can see him in my peripheral vision, searching for his checklist, and I silently grab mine for his use. Even though the PRIM reset is simply a matter of recycling the switch off then on, the checklist procedure is full of cautions and advice. I have some previous experience in performing this reset, and we’ve practised it in the simulator during our training.
Ross is focused as he finds the relevant section for the reset procedure. He reads it aloud first, and I nod in understanding. He reaches up to the overhead panel, finds the switch marked ‘PRIM 3’, then looks at me to confirm he has the right one, and I nod again.
This switch is special, covered by a small guard that prevents inadvertent contact. Ross carefully raises the guard and pushes the switch to ‘off’. There’s a noticeable clunk as the computers adjust to the reset.
Immediately, the stall warnings stop, and I make a conscious note of this link from them to the PRIM 3 system.
For a few precious seconds, the flight deck is silent. Ross pushes the switch back in and the reset is complete. We’re also back at our cruise altitude.
I reach down to access the lower computer screen in the centre panel, where I select an overview of the flight-control system. All the various aircraft systems can be seen here, and green lines and boxes indicate normal operation. After the reset, all the components of our flight-control systems are showing ‘green’ – nothing abnormal has registered here.
In the time it takes for me to deselect the display, the warnings start again.
Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding! STALL! STALL!
6.
In the rear galley, Fuzzy and the Caseys realise they’re still in danger. The engines are changing pitch again; they must secure themselves as best they can while seated on the floor.
In the forward galley, Pete rises up on his knees as the floor starts to vibrate. The airframe is fluttering as it did before the first dive. Pete heroically takes action to protect Lisa. He reaches out to grab her tightly around her waist with one hand; with the other, he pushes up against the galley rail and wedges their bodies beneath it.
People all around Pete and Lisa begin to scream again. They’ve also realised this vibration signals the start of another dive.
Determined, Pete braces and waits.
*
The time is 1245.
The aircraft’s nose is starting to move. Instinctively, my grip on the sidestick tightens. ‘Don’t you do it!’ I growl under my breath.
The computers aren’t listening to me.
For the second time, the nose pitches down, propelling us towards the water below. Once again, I respond with full back stick as Ross and I are pushed towards the ceiling. Our shoulder harnesses help this time, but I must still brace against the instrument panel with my right hand to stay seated.
I know now my input is a useless gesture; the computers won’t grant me my command to stop the nose from pitching down. They’re in control, and they’re very confused.
‘You fucking piece of shit,’ I mutter at the computers as I’m once again confronted with a loss-of-control situation. I neutralise my sidestick as in the previous pitch-down – and once again, I get a windscreen full of the Indian Ocean.
I’m really pissed off now. In a flash, I suppress a growing fury as a harsh reality dawns on me: I’m in a knife fight with this aeroplane, and it has cut me twice. Is it really trying to kill me? I feel like I’m fighting with both hands tied behind my back, but I will not go down quietly. With a focused determination fuelled by my body’s chemical startle response, I vow to fight to the death if that is my fate.
*
The horror of the second pitch-down is thrust upon the 315 passengers and crew. They’re like a terrified child experiencing their first bumper-car ride at a theme park, waiting for the next collision and dreading it.
The seatbelt sign has been on for a few minutes now, and those who were able to have scrambled back to their seats and secured themselves. Those who are conscious have braced for the second of their sickening rides; others are severely injured or unconscious, lying helplessly on the floor. The conscious passengers struggle to hold them down, reaching out as far as their seatbelts allow, while the negative gravity elevates every unsecured person and object towards the ceiling. Many are screaming as the aircraft lurches down again, accelerating.
Will this be the one that ends their lives?
Still in the front galley, Pete is braced to fight the forces that lifted him off the floor a few minutes ago. As the floor presses into his knees, he maintains his tight grip on Lisa’s waist with one arm, while keeping a firm hold on the stainless steel railing. Together, they elevate off the floor.
Pete holds on courageously through the haze of what-the-fuck-is-happening. He’s aware that the two pilots are busy fighting for the lives of everyone on board, and knows he should be on the flight deck to assist. He’ll go there as soon as he can. For now, his duty is to protect Lisa and survive this second dose of violence.
As the second dive commences, Fuzzy and the Caseys are sitting on the floor, their backs pressed to the sides of the cart stowage area under the galley benches. Unsecured, they’re again subjected to the full gambit of lifting force – they rise up into the air before they’re thrown back down. Stunned again after ricocheting off the ceiling, they lie like three ragdolls on the debris-covered floor as if carelessly tossed there by a bored child.
Peter Casey pushes himself upright, his vision blurred by the blood flowing into his eyes. Through the searing pain of his injuries, he realises that this isn’t a turbulence event – something more serious is happening. Deeply worried, he knows that he, Diana and Fuzzy must quickly secure themselves, but he can’t move.
Fuzzy and the Caseys are huddled together, stunned and in pain, but they’re coherent. Suddenly, the curtains hanging across the galley entrance open and a passenger bursts in. He has a fully inflated life vest around his neck. ‘I must get out of the plane. I can’t breathe!’ His eyes are wide and his face is flushed as he moves towards the rear emergency exit door. The life vest is riding high under his chin and neck; the inflated bladders restrict his breathing.
Fuzzy springs to action as best he can, yelling at the man to deflate his vest and get back to his seat immediately. But the passenger, staring blankly, shuffles towards the emergency exit as if in a trance. In his panicked state, he doesn’t know how to deflate his vest.
It’s up to Diana to take the initiative. Somehow, she reaches up with a pen in hand and inserts it into the inflation valve, manually deflating the vest. Then she slumps back to the floor. The passenger smiles sheepishly in relief. Fuzzy again yells at him to get back to his seat and fasten his seatbelt, ‘Right now!’ The passenger disappears through the galley curtains and returns to his seat.
The three injured colleagues exchange looks of disbelief at this almost-comical encounter. Then they think about the decision this passenger has made – he’d rather put on a life vest and jump out of the plane, despite its altitude, and take his chances on surviving the fall into the ocean, than remain inside the torture-cell that the cabin has become. If military-style ejection seats had been fitted to this Airbus for passenger use, they would all have been activated after this second dive.
Diana struggles to her feet, her shoulder still burning from the impact of the first jolt. Filled with a grim resolve, she positions herself between her husband and Fuzzy, and together they shuffle towards the crew seats. Fuzzy is secured first; she assists him to the right-hand crew seat, strapping him in with the seatbelt and shoulder harness. He’s in agonising pain as he slumps forward against the straps.
Now Diana moves with her injured husband, shuffling towards the opposite crew seat. She gingerly lowers Peter onto the folding seat, then secures him with the full harness. He slips in and out of consciousness as he slumps against the restraining straps.
Diana remembers something: her airline emergency training stipulates that the escape doors must be manned in case they’re required to be activated on landing – if we can land.
With raised voices, the cabin crew are now telling all the passengers to fasten seatbelts and move debris from the aisles, which must be clear in the event of an emergency evacuation. Oxygen masks dangle like jungle vines from the exposed stowage compartments in the aircraft’s ceiling. Heroically, the crew don’t let their own injuries and fears prevent them from performing their safety duties.
But they’re aware of the terror of their situation – and it isn’t over yet.
*
On the flight deck, the confused computers have completed their second psychotic takeover of the controls. I’m in the recovery phase again, probing the sidestick with small nose-up inputs until the aircraft responds. The plane is descending in a nose-low attitude, so I must again try to recover as smoothly as I can. We lose 400 feet of altitude in leveling off and commence climbing back to 37,000 feet.
By this time, my cage has been rattled. I’ve been sucker-punched twice, powerless to stop the aircraft’s illogical and violent behaviour. How many more times will this happen? I can’t and don’t dwell on this question, but it’s a critical situation when the captain of the plane becomes an ineffective observer.
I feel betrayed by the automation, which has twice taken control of the plane away from me. How can it fail in such a complex and aggressive way? I don’t feel safe at all.
Something is moving on my chest above my left shirt pocket. I look down and am first shocked, then wryly amused to see my shirt fluttering. The fabric above my company wings is pulsating rapidly in synch with my pounding heart, and there’s a drumming in my ears. I’ve never experienced this extreme heart rate before; I estimate it’s at least 200 beats-per-minute. My life is at risk, so my body is responding.
‘Hey, Ross, check this out.’ I direct his gaze towards my chest.
His eyes flare in disbelief, and I realise that seeing your captain’s heart beat this fast must be confronting. I flash an exaggerated expression at Ross, summarising the what-the-fuck feeling we are experiencing. It’s a signal that I’m still functional enough to see the black humour in my body shifting into high gear.
To function effectively, though, I’ll have to reduce that heart rate and calm my body down.
‘Keep breathing, Ross!’ I coax again, to both of us.
I’m doing the same; taking exaggerated breaths, holding them for a few seconds then exhaling. It’s the drill of the professional athlete who’s about to shoot a free-throw; I have to force myself back down from this adrenalin overdose. My skin is electrified; not ideal for this life-or-death battle with the computers.
As we’re climbing back to 37,000 feet, the automatic pitch-trim wheel on the centre instrument panel isn’t moving. Normally, this function is part of the computer’s job of helping both the pilot and autopilot to fly with reduced force on the tail surfaces. The large black wheels next to each pilot’s knee move in response to the computers feeding in corrections to the tail, and they should be moving now as I raise the aircraft’s nose and climb again. But I notice a heavier feel in the control stick – turns out the computers have stopped helping me with this too. I check my primary flight display for the anticipated ‘USE MANUAL PITCH TRIM’ message emblazoned in red, but it isn’t there. I manually move the wheel to relieve my stick pressure.
This is another cut in my knife fight. Each system fault and aircraft manoeuvre adds to my confusion. I’m being pushed further into a state of ineffectiveness. This pitch-trim issue is another distraction I don’t need right now; I continue to swallow my frustrations and find a way to fly with the systems that are working at a basic level.
The stall and overspeed warnings keep blaring, and I suppress a sinking feeling that I’m trying to swim in a pool of quicksand.
I let Ross know we’ve lost the automatic pitch trim as more error messages are displayed. Again, the fault with the navigation module of ADIRU 1 is identified. We’ve already reconfigured that system but why is it active again? We skip it and move to the next alert message.
‘Alternate law – protection lost,’ Ross announces.
This message informs us we’ve lost the automated protection features of our flight-control system. These protections are computer-programmed boundaries that keep the aircraft in safe operation, despite the actions of the pilot, and assist if the pilot needs to perform extreme manoeuvres, for example, to avoid flying into a mountain. If these protections aren’t available, then Airbus has determined that computer control is degraded from the normal operation. An error message and corresponding reconfiguration procedure are generated for the pilots to manage.
The procedural pa
rt of this fault is minimal. It’s presented as a caution but there’s nothing for us to do. I dismiss this error as not applicable to our situation, and Ross agrees.
I’ve already been thrust back into the traditional role of a pilot through the loss of most of the automation installed to make my job easier, and I will keep the aircraft flying safely as I have done throughout my career, with or without computer protections.
That’s the gist of HAL’s alert message . . . I can’t protect you anymore, Kev. He’s done a piss poor job so far.
I direct Ross to clear that message, then I quickly scan my primary flight display for visual confirmation of our Alternate Law state of computer control. There should be a series of amber-coloured ‘noughts and crosses’ displayed on the blue and brown background of the nose-attitude indication, but they’re absent. A new question mark flashes before me: another false indication or another failure of the automation? I quickly store this snapshot into a subconscious compartment for further review when time allows.
My trust in the computer control is eroded to the point that I must question everything and this increases my workload further.
The warnings continue to bark at us through our speakers at maximum volume, reminding us that our knife fight is far from over.
Our next error message is more ominous.
Ross announces another failure in the operation of PRIM 3. There’s an amber-coloured fault light on the PRIM 3 control switch.
Why has it faulted again?
‘Reset PRIM 3?’ Ross asks, his finger poised on the switch.
After our previous reset of PRIM 3, the aircraft pushed the nose down a second time. If we reset it again, will the computers be allowed to continue their violent manoeuvres?
Maybe we need to keep this primary computer in its faulted state until we have ensured this reconfiguration is safe or required for our landing.
No Man's Land Page 6