These comments are met with solemn silence; I’m briefing them on my last-ditch manoeuvre to stop us from going into the ground at the hands of our confused computers. I’ll use full rudder input if necessary to keep the nose above the horizon should the computer try to execute another pitch-down.
‘It will be visual procedures for a visual approach. Manually flying. Manual thrust. Manual pitch trim. Manual braking. Manual Fucking Everything,’ I add in disgust.
‘I’ll use the full length of the runaway to keep the brakes cool, and I’ll check the nosewheel steering on the runway. If we have to go around, I’ll clean up and fly downwind for a visual circuit. Any questions?’
They nod their heads in understanding.
We’re now in the serious phase of flight. It’s time to land.
‘Approach checklist, Pete.’
Pete runs through a challenge-and-response checklist to confirm we’ve covered all the required items to commence an approach to landing. The issue with PRIM 3 is presented again in our review of inoperative systems, and I reluctantly agree to shut it down. Turning it off is different to resetting it for operation. Fortunately, we remain flying.
‘Approach checklist complete,’ Pete announces.
‘Okay, let’s have a look at the runway and parking apron.’
I manoeuvre our jet to a point abeam the runway and dip our left wing down. Below us is Learmonth Airfield. We crane our necks to see the runway markings and turn-off points from the cockpit windows on the left side. One-third of the way down the runway is the turning area to access the parking apron; we’ll have to stop on the runway, turn around and taxi back along the runway to park in this area. We see the airport terminal and another support building; it’s a far cry from the international airports we are used to servicing. There are no aerobridges here, so we’ll be parking somewhere on the tarmac and use external steps. Some support vehicles are parked nearby.
I extend upwind as I continue to descend.
Already, I’m preparing myself for the landing. I know what my body will try to do to me when we’re safely on the runway; it will flood me with all the chemicals that make up the ‘post-adrenalin-you-are-safe’ phase, to assist the body in purging the adrenalin released during our death dives. Landing safely is only one phase completed. We have a long day ahead, and I can’t allow myself to come down until all my passengers and crew are safely in Perth.
13.
Our altitude is 11,000 feet, and I reduce the power and increase the nose attitude to stop our rate of descent, feeding in manual nose-up trim through the big black trim wheel next to my knee as we decelerate.
‘Control check,’ I announce.
We are getting down to business now and entering a phase of uncertainty. The flaps will be extended to ensure that they will actually work and that the jet will not react adversely. The three pilots are all working very well together and our minimal communication is strictly procedural. I know everyone in the plane is thinking the same thing that I am . . . will we land without any further drama? The 10,000-foot runway below is a big carrot dangling in front of us and we must be patient to ensure we can get there safely.
It’s my responsibility to ensure we can and I am prepared.
We’re at our minimum clean speed and below the maximum speed for the first phase of flap extension. I continue to manually trim the nose up as the speed decreases.
I order flap extension to Position 1.
Pete reaches down to move the flap handle.
‘Speed check. Flaps 1.’
Pete repeats my request, checks the speed is correct for extension, and selects the flap lever to the first detent, Position 1. We watch the progress of the flap extension on the upper screen, which shows its movement in green as my grip on the sidestick firms. It stops at Position 1, and Pete winds the speed back through the selection knob. ‘Flap 2.’ Pete repeats the process and selects the flap handle to the second detent. He sets the speed to approximately 180 knots.
So far, so good. The flaps have extended normally, and I complete an S-turn to the left and then to the right, checking for any abnormal feel or stick response.
Good enough for me! I’ll land in this configuration if I have to.
‘You guys happy?’ I check. I’m really asking if they’re satisfied that the aircraft is controllable and that we can continue our approach. They nod and flash a thumbs-up as I push the nose down to commence our approach.
‘Set Altitude 3000.’ This is my altitude target to intercept the 10-mile point on the centreline from the runway. Pete dials in 3000 feet through the altitude selector knob. The yellow command bars on my primary display are giving me good targets to fly, but I keep crosschecking my attitude and speed with the other instruments.
Pete selects the PA button on his radio control panel and announces to the passengers that we’ve started our approach – and that they must remain seated with belts fastened. We keep them informed now as we get closer to landing.
The mood on the flight deck is tense as we descend. Three pairs of eyes are scanning the instruments, watching my manipulation, ready to announce any deviations from a safe flight path. The stall warnings and the master caution dings continue. I know I’m not stalling but it’s very spooky to be descending towards the runway with these serious warnings ringing in our ears. These audible distractions add urgency to our situation; the last thing any pilot wants to hear is the stall warning as the ground gets closer.
The time is 1325 and I’m descending rapidly, maintaining 180 knots. We’re approaching 5000 feet of altitude, heading downwind away from the airport. I am positioned to turn left towards the airport now. I want to be at 3000 feet of altitude, 10 miles from the runway. The higher speed and minimum power are making the manual flying a bit easier. As we carve off altitude, I take a few deep breaths.
It’s show time. The dominoes are falling fast and furious as we approach the runway.
I’m on full alert now. My shoulders crunch forward; my instrument and visual scan rate are at 150 per cent. I’m tapping into my body’s chemicals again to focus on delicate movements of the control stick, adjusting the trim wheel as we decelerate, while smoothly manipulating the power.
I’m back in the physical and mental space of a carrier landing, but I’m feeling very vulnerable. The pilots are reaching a critical point in our emergency. The lower we get, the less altitude we have to recover from computer-commanded manoeuvres.
The tension is building as we approach Runway 36.
*
The time is 1327.
Pete makes his final broadcast to traffic in the Learmonth area. ‘All stations Learmonth. Qantas 72, an IFR Airbus A330. Ten-mile finals. Runway 36.’
Then he makes a another public address.
*
In the cabin, everyone listens closely to Pete’s announcement that we’re on final approach. He also instructs passengers to follow crew instructions.
The passengers and cabin crew are already aware that our landing is imminent – they can clearly see the burnt-orange earth surrounding the airport.
The cabin is very quiet. Some people are still crying, but everyone on the flight is hoping, praying, for a safe landing.
The end of their nightmare is a few minutes away.
*
‘Speed.’
We are closing in quickly on the welcoming runway. Pete is doing his job, reminding me that my speed is higher than it usually should be. But this isn’t a normal approach or circumstance.
‘Acknowledged,’ I reply.
Speed is my friend now. My whole body is on alert for any external control inputs that I’m not making. I am still flying through a computer and the warnings are continuing. I don’t trust anything the computers are trying to tell me now. If the plane starts to pitch down, I hope my high speed will give me a chance to snatch the nose up before I am denied control again. It’s a big weight on my shoulders. Our approach is like running through a hidden minefield.
&
nbsp; I’ll work towards slowing down soon, but not quite yet.
‘Gear down,’ I announce to Pete, as I point at the lever and gesture in a downward motion. The extra drag of the landing gear will keep my speed under control and help with my descent.
He pulls down the landing-gear handle.
The gear doors snap open and the aircraft vibrates as the gear extends. When the gear locks into position, the noise level increases in the flight deck. We watch as the upper display screen confirms gear down and locked.
‘Gear down,’ Pete confirms. He reaches across the centre instrument console and moves the speed-brake lever up, arming our working spoilers for deployment on landing. They will automatically deploy when the main wheels touch the runway and assist with the braking.
I check my rate of descent against my intercept point. I’m a little high but I can accept that. My energy is good; speed is life.
I take my eyes off my instruments for a quick look up towards the runway. The lights are all on, thanks to Ross, and I confirm that I’m slightly high. I take another deep breath as I align QPA with the runway.
As we descend towards 2000 feet, my anticipation grows. The stall warnings and chimes continue; they’re more significant at this low altitude. All three pilots scan the centre display screen and monitor our performance.
I glance at Pete. ‘Are you satisfied that we aren’t stalling?’
We must both confirm that my energy and flight path is safe because the aircraft is warning us that it is not. No confusion regarding our aircraft’s safety can exist. With these warnings still active, the plane could conceivably pitch down again.
‘Yeah, Kev,’ he replies. ‘I’m happy.’
Our capability to recover from any computer-generated upsets is diminishing as our altitude decreases and we approach the runway. I’m still locked on to my instrumentation, searching for errors or faults while confirming that my approach is stabilised for landing.
The three pilots are working together, each physically and mentally coiled like a rattlesnake with anticipation. In my mind, I recite the Top Gun prayer: ‘Dear Lord. Please don’t let me screw up!’
‘Flap 3. Final flap. Landing checklist,’ I announce as I level the aircraft at 1500 feet.
Pete selects the flap lever to Position 3 and recites the challenge-and-response landing checklist: ‘Auto thrust.’
‘Off.’ It’s a manual thrust approach.
‘ECAM memo.’
‘Landing. No blue.’
This is an automated systems check to ensure the aircraft is configured correctly for landing. ‘No blue’ means there are no unactioned items affecting our landing that are recognised by the automation or displayed on our centre screen. At least this system is working.
Both pilots confirm: gear is down, automatic spoilers are armed, flaps are in Position 3 and seatbelt signs are on. The wheel system is displayed on our lower centre screen and also confirms our landing gear is down and locked.
‘Speed,’ Pete prompts.
‘Correcting.’
I’m gradually increasing the nose attitude as the aircraft decelerates to our planned final approach speed. I advance the power levers and adjust the trim wheel to match the speed. Normally, thrust control and pitch trim are automated functions – but not today.
We’re nearing the runway; it’s about 1000 feet below us. I continually probe and confirm, through my sidestick inputs, that I’m still in control of the jet. The glidepath lights show I’m maintaining the correct rate of descent and aiming to land 1000 feet in from the end of the runway. Two big white stripes painted on the runway mark my aiming point.
The approach is stabilised, and the runway is growing in our windscreens. I’m running out of altitude should anything adverse happen, but I stay alert and continue with the task of flying the plane. I adjust the position of my feet on the rudder pedals, just in case I need them.
‘Manual braking. Go around altitude 3000.’ This is my verbal reminder to the pilots that our automated braking system is also inoperative; we’ll climb to 3000 feet if we have to discontinue this approach.
‘500 feet. Stable.’ Pete confirms we’re 500 feet above the runway, and confirms speed, glidepath and rate of descent satisfy the ‘stable approach’ criterion.
‘Roger.’ I commence scanning up the length of the runway, using my peripheral vision to gauge the point I will raise the nose and land. I mentally pinch myself, a reminder to ‘stay up’, and to prevent my body from flooding my system with ‘You’re safe now, Kev’ chemicals. The end of this flight is still a long way off.
In my peripheral vision I see the ‘piano-key’ stripes that mark the beginning of Runway 36. They’re passing underneath the aircraft as I raise the nose to reduce the rate of descent for landing. Before the wheels contact the runway, once again I remind myself to ‘stay up’.
Thud.
I smoothly reduce the thrust to idle as the main wheels touch down, then I pull the engines into reverse thrust and vector their exhaust forward to help us decelerate.
As the nosewheel makes contact with the runway, we can hear wild cheers and applause through the dense metal of the bulletproof cockpit door. We streak past the turn-off for the parking apron. I quickly glance to the right and catch a glimpse of the emergency response waiting for us: two ambulances and a volunteer fire truck, side by side near the parking area. I have to turn around on the runway and taxi back to park there.
I maintain the engines in reverse and gradually apply the brakes as the aircraft decelerates through 100 knots and down to taxi speed. I know I have to be gentle as my feet press forward on the rudder pedals to initiate the manual brakes, and I’m careful not to push too hard: hot brakes would further complicate our situation.
‘Seventy knots,’ Pete announces. This is his prompt for me to deselect reverse thrust in order to prevent the engines stalling at slow speed.
‘Roger,’ I say as I stow the engine reverser levers to the forward position.
I glance at my two pilots, their faces awash with relief that we’ve safely landed our stricken jet. ‘So, a little excitement in an otherwise dull day,’ I quote, in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger accent from the movie True Lies.
They look at me with their mouths slightly open in astonishment, before giving me exhausted and satisfied grins.
I’m anything but relieved. I know we’ve cheated death, and no encounter with death is ever fulfilling.
14.
Qantas Flight 72 has landed safely.
In the cabin, crew members rush to access first-aid kits. Despite their injuries, they’ve found the courage and energy to attend to the injured throughout the aircraft. But not Fuzzy. He remains strapped into his seat, seriously injured.
I take a deep breath and mentally open a new procedural box: we must now taxi safely to park our stricken Airbus.
As we decelerate towards taxi speed, my left hand slides down to the nosewheel-steering control in front of the control stick. I move it left, then right. The nosewheel deflects accordingly, the aircraft moving as I command. I turn our big aircraft around and go back down the runway to reach the parking area.
Even though we’re on the ground, the pilots must maintain an operational discipline. The unfamiliarity of Learmonth Airfield keeps us on edge as we taxi towards the small terminal. I know that as soon as we shut down our engines, we’ll be inundated with calls from headquarters seeking information. I’m not looking forward to this.
As we enter the apron we see support staff from the airport, signalling for us to align the aircraft with a yellow line painted on the tarmac. We are the only aircraft at the airfield, but all of us visually check our obstruction and wing clearance as I turn the A330 to align with our parking position.
I select the parking brake; Pete deals with switching our power source; and Ross orders the cabin crew to disarm our emergency escape doors. I hear the thunk-thunk-thunk as crew members slide the disarming levers on the two front doors.
&n
bsp; I switch off and secure our engines. As they wind down, for a moment we can stop and reflect. I hold out my open hand and the three of us clasp hands like The Three Musketeers for a job well done. I know this event will bind us together for the rest of our lives.
But all is not at peace – the flight deck still resounds with abbreviated ST-STA-ALLL warnings and the incessant dinging of the master caution messages. We are dumbfounded and disgusted. The computers think we are still flying and continue to warn us. My hunch that they were all false is vindicated.
The time is 1342. The Qantas Flight 72 mayday and diversion are complete.
‘Pete, shutdown checklist. Ross, you can open the door.’
As they carry out these duties, I reach down to get my mobile phone out of my bag. My daughter is on holiday in Europe with her boyfriend, but I’m sure our event will be broadcast around the world. Contacting her is my highest priority; she’ll work out very quickly that it’s my flight plastered on CNN.
I send her a short, coded text message: ‘I’m okay and I love you.’
The text is sent just as my phone starts ringing. I don’t recognise the number but, obviously, it’s someone who knows me.
‘Sully, it’s Scoob. Are you okay, mate?’
It’s Captain Steve Anderson. He’s the welfare officer from our pilots’ association.
‘How’d you know to call now? I’m a bit busy.’
‘We’ve been tracking you! What happened? Are you injured?’
What happened? A question I still have no idea how to answer.
‘I’m okay,’ I say, ‘but we have severe injuries. I don’t know what happened. She was a very sick jet and she wouldn’t let me help her. I gotta go.’
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