With a jolt, the cat accelerated my T-2 forward, slamming my head and body back into my ejection seat. I grunted. I was gauging the thrust and acceleration, confirming that this shot was ‘good’ and not ‘soft’, which might have thrown me into the ocean. In just over two seconds, my jet was accelerating along the linear track from a standing start to flying speed plus 15 knots.
Airborne, I whooped inside my oxygen mask – on the catapult no one can hear you scream, as we used to say.
What a ride. I was hooked. Is Uncle Sam really paying me to do this?!
‘605, turn downwind. Hook down.’
‘605.’
I had to maintain my focus until I completed my qualification. After all, everyone on the boat was trying to kill me. Three more sequences to go to finish my qual.
Safely back at NAS Beeville, I walked back to the hangar. I revelled in my sweat-soaked, smelly flight suit. I was walking tall and proud, filled with accomplishment and confidence. I was now a ‘Tailhooker’, the nickname for a carrier pilot.
It seemed like it was all over in thirty minutes, but my logbook shows the whole sequence was three hours and twelve minutes from launch to recovery.
11.
The time is 1257.
‘Okay, guys,’ I say, ‘listen up.’
Any conversations are put on hold – it’s time for me to brief the cockpit crew on the initial phase of my plan.
‘We’re diverting to Learmonth. We are flying, we have engines, and we’ll keep flying. My plan is to enter a holding pattern over the airfield, and we’ll continue to descend and prepare for our landing as we circle. We have flight-control problems, so we’ll do a control check at 10,000 feet with the flaps extended. If the plane is okay, we’ll fly the instrument approach for Runway 36. I will nominate instrument procedures for a manual landing. We’re stuck with manual thrust and manual pitch trim, and I’m in manual control. They need thirty minutes to prepare for us, so let’s take it slow and continue our prep. Questions?’
They solemnly shake their heads.
I pause, still commanding their attention. ‘Looks like I picked a bad day to quit sniffing glue.’
We all chuckle at my reference to the classic film Airplane! – or Flying High – a satire of the aviation disaster genre. For a very brief moment, our concerns are abated.
Our situation is bad; it’s very bad. But it must be salvageable and the way out must be simple. That is my job and I must dig deep into my experience to pull a rabbit out of the hat. The plan better be a good one because I know things will happen quickly, like falling dominoes, down to our landing. I still have to work out how to negate any pitch-downs at low altitude. And once we land? Well, I won’t be able to relax – we’re in an isolated area, and I’ll still be the captain until help arrives.
The time is 1300.
We are descending through 25,000 feet at our minimum speed and at a manageable rate of descent of 800 feet-per-minute. Our track is direct to overfly the runway. We can see it now, surrounded by the red-orange earth of Western Australia.
I hand over control of the aircraft to Pete; it’s time for me to speak with my passengers and crew. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. Obviously, we are having some problems with our flight controls. Also, I’m aware that we have some serious injuries onboard, and we need to access medical treatment urgently. We are diverting to Learmonth Airfield, near Exmouth, and we should be on the ground in about fifteen minutes. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened, and we’ll be on the ground as soon as possible. Thank you for your attention.’ I’m trying to sound as calm as I can in the face of our situation.
The first phase of my strategy is complete, establishing ourselves overhead Learmonth airport. I am still pondering the scenario of a pitch-down at low altitude. How can I stop it?
I hear Pete commence broadcast calls to alert aircraft in the Learmonth area of our arrival. All aircraft airborne in our vicinity know we’re tracking to Learmonth from our mayday call, but Learmonth is an uncontrolled airport, with no control tower or radar, and we are responsible for our own separation with other aircraft.
Pete says, ‘All stations Learmonth, this is Qantas 72, an Airbus A330 inbound from the southwest on descent FL 200. Intentions are to hold to the south of Learmonth before landing Runway 36. Estimating circuit area time one zero. Qantas 72.’ He has alerted all aircraft in the vicinity that we’re operating as a commercial flight; our current altitude of 20,000 feet; and our landing intentions and arrival time in the airport area of 1310.
‘I have control, Pete.’
I silently search my Filofax of military experience to find a strategy for addressing a low level pitch-down. If we pitch down again to the same degree, we could easily smash into the hard red earth short of the runway. I want to maintain speed for as long as possible before I slow down and prepare the aircraft for landing. I need options to cater for aggressive computer-commanded manoeuvres.
I conclude that I need energy at low altitude, and this energy will come in the form of speed. For a fighter pilot, speed is life.
Little did I realise I would face a one-versus-many battle in my commercial flying career. It’s me against the confused and failing computers of this Airbus A330. It isn’t a fair fight; knife fights never are. This fight is getting personal, and I will fight to the death.
*
We overfly the runway and start circling over Learmonth. I can adjust the diameter of the circle to maintain sight of the runway and allow time to descend. It also provides a reassuring image of the runway below to my worried passengers.
The easy part of my strategy is complete.
The next part of my strategy must now address the problem of erratic flight controls and the confused computers that manipulate them. The control check at 10,000 feet will confirm my level of controllability with the wing flaps extended. This is a common consideration in military flying, as the check confirms the aircraft’s speed and manoeuvrability at approach speed. Checking the slow speed flight capability is best determined at a safe altitude before doing it for real.
I’m not sure how the computer’s interaction with the erroneous data they’ve been sampling will affect our landing configuration and approach. It’s an educated guess; all I know at this point is the computers are reacting to something I can’t see and I don’t trust anything they are doing. I need to ensure other aspects of control aren’t affected by the multiple computer faults, and doing this at 10,000 feet will give me the space to deal with any more control difficulties.
The final part of my plan provides the tool for me to maintain energy and speed for the approach and landing.
As a student naval aviator, I was taught to fly the precautionary emergency landing (PEL) for each specific type of aircraft I flew. This was practised in the event of a real emergency involving issues with engine performance, degraded fuel systems or quantity, or a requirement to get a degraded aircraft on the ground quickly while still being able to use the ejection seat if necessary.
The PEL is a spiralling, descending approach. It starts at a medium altitude above the runway and corkscrews around in a constant turn to deliver you aligned with the runway centreline for a steep final approach to landing. Energy is maintained at a higher-than-normal speed to cater for an expeditious landing. I learned and taught this manoeuvre in both the T-2 and the Mirage, and even the space shuttle flew a similar pattern for recovery.
Flying a modified precautionary emergency landing procedure will give me energy in the form of speed at low altitude. I want to minimise the time in the landing configuration with landing gear and flaps extended because my manoeuvring potential is then limited. My thinking is to maintain a higher approach speed for as long as possible to provide energy to try to arrest, or restrict, any pitch-downs near the ground. My target is to be at 1000 feet in landing configuration and at the appropriate approach speed, a requirement mandated by Qantas policies.
It’s the only strategy I
can come up with that will give us a chance of surviving a computer pitch-down on approach. It’s a gamble, but I’m managing the risk with the self-confidence to execute my plan successfully.
While I mentally assemble this landing strategy, I’m manually flying and navigating our possessed Airbus towards Learmonth, talking to air traffic control on my radio while monitoring Pete’s call to the maintenance unit on the satphone. It’s unlikely the engineer on the other end will be able to resolve our plight. I also have to keep Ross in the loop as he prepares the charts for our arrival. The near overdose of our body’s fight-or-flight chemicals doesn’t make this multi-tasking easy.
Imagine a juggler who balances rotating plates on sticks. At times, he has eight or more rotating at once on his table as he races from plate to plate, manipulating the sticks to keep the plates spinning near the horizontal as the sticks slow and the plates wobble. Ross, Pete and I each have our own set of plates that need attention.
As we enter the holding pattern and descend, I silently agonise over my strategy’s effectiveness if I have to manoeuvre aggressively at low altitude. I know my other two pilots are also contemplating my actions if the plane does anything extreme at low altitude.
There are no published checklists or procedures to address our compromised situation, so I have to prepare for a last-ditch effort if things start failing close to the runway. Our jet is flying safely for the time being and I will brief them on the final bits of my plan very soon.
12.
The master caution continues to chime. Ding. What was that? Ding. What was that? At what point do I totally ignore this enormous distraction? Pete’s finger stabs again at the emergency cancel button. No go. The chimes and dings keep sounding off, and the three of us glance at the centre display screen when they activate; we’re hoping to see a message displayed long enough to allow us to interact with it.
Ross is on the interphone again with Lisa. He instructs her to remain seated with the belt fastened. She asks, ‘Should I prepare the passengers and crew for an emergency evacuation, or will it be a normal landing?’
I overhear bits of this conversation, and I like the way she thinks.
Ross is looking at me, his eyebrows raised, for my answer.
I let slip a wry chuckle. ‘Normal landing . . . as “normal” as it can be at this stage.’
‘Normal landing at this stage,’ Ross says.
I prepare myself mentally, and physically, for the next phase of our emergency management. Soon we’ll come together and look over our plan, reading through the approach checklist.
I’ve been joking around with my two pilots a little, trying to help them to calm down and function better. My underlying message is: Hey, if Kev is joking and relaxed, maybe ‘The Fox’ has it wired . . . right?! I need Ross and Pete performing and supporting me at the highest level for the next stage of our battle.
Pete is still on the satphone talking to the maintenance unit. But at the same time, he’s making selections and setting flying targets while I change the aircraft’s speed, altitude and heading. He’s also monitoring the distance-measuring equipment, a ground-based navigational aid that provides distance information to our aircraft about its position relative to the airport; this is another manual tool we’re using to help us maintain our situational awareness. In between these tasks, Pete continues to broadcast information to other aircraft in the area as we descend and establish ourselves in the holding pattern.
‘All stations Learmonth. Qantas 72 entering the visual hold overhead. Descending to One-Zero Thousand. Qantas 72.’
I look over at Pete and give the finger-across-the-throat signal: time to end the call. Maintenance are unable to resolve the problem, and it’s causing further distraction. We can’t afford any more distractions right now.
*
The time is 1315.
For the past ten minutes, we’ve been slowly and cautiously descending in our circular pattern over the airport. We’re approaching 20,000 feet, and now we need to come together for the next, and most important, phase of our emergency.
We have to prepare to get this baby on the ground.
Pete glances over at me. ‘I can’t leave you guys alone for one second,’ he jokes.
Ross and I chuckle as I shrug. Pete’s quip is a good sign; he’s actively managing his startle response, too, and I know his awareness is where it should be.
‘Let’s have a good look at the status page now. Ross, prepare a brief for the approach to Runway 36.’
It’s time to fine-tune our approach and landing plan.
Pete starts reciting the litany of inoperative systems. How will they affect our landing? There are some big-ticket items listed, each one represented by an abbreviation that I instantly recognise but would confuse any layperson. It is an overwhelming list and we examine it carefully. Lots of systems aren’t working but I fall back on the things that are: the engines, the landing gear (which can be extended manually) and, of course, the three pilots.
First, we must use a flap setting less than the normal full landing flap. Our approach speed will be faster than normal, which is fine with me. It will affect our landing distance calculation; fortunately, the runway is 10,000 feet long.
Second, the automatic braking system isn’t available. Normally, the brakes will activate automatically as the aircraft makes contact with the runway, but I’ll have to apply them manually. I glance at our gross weight: 183,500 kilograms. We’re 3000 kilograms less than maximum landing weight, but I must be gentle on the brake application to prevent overheating. Too much temperature on the brakes transmitted to the tyres could cause them to deflate or explode. This must also be factored into our landing distance calculation.
Third, some of our spoilers aren’t available. These are panels on top of the wing that deploy on landing, ‘spoiling’ the lifting force of the wing and putting the weight of the aircraft onto the landing gear to optimise braking. Our landing distance calculation must also factor in the loss of the spoilers.
Finally, the automatic thrust system is off. I had deselected it earlier in accordance with the unreliable speed condition. Normally, the automatic thrust system is linked to the sidestick movement during a manual approach; when you pull back on the sidestick, power is increased, and vice versa to reduce power. This isn’t a significant item for me to manage, because I practise manual thrust landings routinely, but it does add another factor for the landing distance calculation.
‘Okay, Pete. We’ll use the GNSS Approach RW36.’
A GNSS (global navigation satellite system) approach is a non-precision approach using GPS satellites along with latitude and longitude waypoints, instead of the raw navigational beacon points from land-based aids. It can position us more accurately with the runway to aid in my visual transition to landing.
Pete nods as he dives into his navigation keyboard to select and load this approach into our computer flight plan. Then I hear him quietly muttering in frustration as he tries to interact with the computer. ‘It won’t load, Kev.’
I take it in stride and instinctively improvise. ‘Okay, visual approach, 10-mile final, using visual procedures. You can back me up with the distance and recommended altitudes on final.’ Each approach chart has an altitude-versus-distance scale to assist the pilot in managing the correct vertical profile to the runway and we’ll just use our eyeballs to help us get to where we want to be.
I’ve nominated visual approach and visual procedures because these will keep our procedures simple. All pilots will be ‘heads up’, looking outside as we progress on the approach. Pete can access the raw distance transmitted by the airport’s navigational beacon and compare it with recommended altitudes to confirm I’m flying a three-degree approach path.
‘Ross, check landing distance with flaps 3, two spoiler pairs inoperative, manual brakes, wind calm and landing weight 184,000 kilograms.’ I know we can land comfortably with the runway available, but this is a required computation, especially for our degra
ded landing configuration.
Ross inserts these parameters into our ‘performance’ laptop that is pre-loaded with take-off and landing software and will assist in the calculation. It’s an industrial strength clunker of a laptop and it weighs a tonne. He hands the laptop to Pete for a second independent calculation and confirmation. Pete gets the same figure as Ross, meaning we have enough runway to land safely. It’s like a gameshow without a prize.
The pace of preparation is increasing and no time for my characteristic flippancy. Its absence shows I have my game face on.
Although our nosewheel steering system isn’t on the list of failures, I note that I’ll check it on landing and mention this to Pete and Ross. It’s also computer controlled and, if it’s affected, I won’t be able to turn the aircraft after landing.
Pete and I discuss the unusable airspeed information on my primary display; it’s still jumping around erratically. Normally, the flap limit speeds and the computed approach speed are nicely displayed as coloured markers adjacent to the numerical speeds on the vertical speed tape display. I won’t have these visible cues available. Pete confirms he’ll manually set the speeds as he has continued to do while we extend the flaps and slow to final approach speed. I must keep crosschecking my speed performance with the standby instruments and Pete’s primary display, as I’ve been doing since my display became unusable.
I’ve been carefully stacking the dominoes; our preparation is almost complete. Now I must formally verbalise my plan and discuss our limitations and contingencies. The cockpit voice recorder will capture everything I say.
‘Ready to brief? Okay, we have multiple inoperative systems, which we have reviewed. We have plenty of fuel for multiple approaches and we are below maximum landing weight. We’ll do a control check around 10,000 feet. If that’s all okay, we will descend and shoot for a 10-mile final at 3000 feet. I’m going to fly a high-speed approach, and I hope that the higher speed will allow me to try and arrest any nose-down manoeuvres by the computers at lower altitude. I’ll use the rudders if I have to and minimise altitude loss.’
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