As I finish the call, Lisa wanders into the cockpit, her arms limp at her sides like those of a zombie. She’s distraught and shell-shocked. ‘What the fuck was that?!’
I take her hand and squeeze it. I know it must have been hell in a cabin full of frightened and injured people. No airline training would have prepared her – or any of the crew – to deal with this scale of casualties and violent manoeuvring. The good news is that she isn’t physically injured, thanks to Pete’s heroic actions.
‘I don’t know,’ I tell her, ‘but we’re safe now. I need you to coordinate with the medical staff when they come onboard. They’re moving up the steps to the aircraft now. Do you need anything? Are you okay to do this?’
I keep holding her hand as she nods. Our hands separate, and she disappears back into the cabin. Moments later, I hear an entry door open; the emergency responders enter. Pete makes another announcement, telling passengers to remain near their seats and to keep the aisles clear for arriving medical staff.
The satphone is ringing now. It will be the company calling from the Integrated Operations Centre (IOC) at our airline headquarters in Sydney. The master caution dings and stall warnings continue, adding confusing background noise to our discussions. Before I sign off, I explain that we have two live dogs in our cargo compartment and request assistance to unload them before it gets too hot.
Hopefully, they can arrange a cargo technician to come up to Learmonth with everyone else. We say our goodbyes.
*
With a break in the action, Pete is accessing the post-flight report from the aircraft’s maintenance computer. Any system failure or fault is recorded and can be accessed readily after the flight. Engineering and maintenance personnel routinely use this summary to rectify any defects before the next flight.
‘Let’s have a look to see what happened,’ Pete offers, with the air of a TV crime-scene investigator.
The paper summary streams out from the slot of our small onboard printer, the inkjet rattling and whining with each row. Pete reads it like an old stock market tickertape as he feeds it through his hands.
‘Did you order a copy of War and Peace, Kev?’ he asks, as the printer continues to spew forth the report.
‘Ho-ly shit. Check this out!’
We huddle together and examine the printout. At time 1240, just minutes after I returned for duty, ten simultaneous failures were recorded.
The first group of failures originated in the internal reference and global positioning module that form part of ADIRU 1. Only one of them was presented to me and Ross for action – a fault in the navigation part of that unit. But now we can see the cascading effect this fault inflicted on the many other systems that are dependent on position data from this computer.
Other faults were recorded to systems such as the captain’s navigation map display and the two channels of the global positioning system. Critically, faults in the electronic flight-control system were recorded but weren’t identified to the pilots. These are the computerised systems that maintain the aircraft within the safety of its defined operational boundaries.
Additionally, a fault in the air-data module of ADIRU 1 was recorded. This is the internal module that converts and distributes air data, such as airspeed, altitude and angle of attack, to appear on the pilot’s primary flight display and for use by the PRIMs. Why wasn’t this fault revealed to us? If it had, the flight would have been completely different. That portion of ADIRU 1 would have been turned off and we would have proceeded to Perth without injuries, loss of control or unreliable speed.
Over the next five minutes, another barrage of failures was recorded: the autopilot disconnections, faults to the primary flight-control computers (PRIM 1 and PRIM 2) that weren’t displayed, and a fault to PRIM 3 that was displayed. The change to the Alternate Law system of control was recorded at 1245.
We sit in shocked silence. Now it becomes clear why we unable to comprehend what was happening and why our Airbus went berserk: these are serious failures that removed the automation we were trained to rely upon. The computer systems became confused and continued to warn us of serious dangers that weren’t present. This gave us many opportunities to get it wrong – the path to potential pilot error is watermarked all over this summary.
I make a quick assessment as I stare at the summary. We had survived a total meltdown of our electronic flight-control system, along with an overload in the operation of the centralised maintenance control computer. This prevented us from interaction and reconfiguration to recover essential systems such as automatic pilots, trim and thrust, pressurisation, braking, and accurate airspeed and altitude information.
This summary doesn’t fully explain what exactly happened, though. Were protection modes activated to save us from what the computers perceived as an external threat? If so, which modes and why? This critical information is not displayed to the pilots nor is it part of the Airbus design.
‘I think we are pretty fucking lucky to be sitting here,’ I conclude.
Ross and Pete nod solemnly and their eyes drop in comprehension.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did, and now we’re left to clean up the mess.
We’ve been parked now for about fifteen minutes.
Pete gets out of his seat. He needs some space to ponder what could have been. ‘I’m going out into the cabin and do a circuit, show a face,’ he says. At my nod, he ducks out through the open flight-deck door.
With pen in hand, I retrieve the summary and flip it over to the blank side. ‘Okay, Ross. Let’s make our own summary of what happened while it’s fresh in our minds.’
Through the post-adrenalin haze, we start re-creating the sequence of events, using the post-flight report’s time markers as reference points. While we try to concentrate on this task, the flight deck is still dinging from the system faults, and we continue to get the truncated st-a-all warnings. Unbelievable. The aircraft’s computers still think we are airborne!
The satphone is ringing again. It’s a representative from our engineering department who wants to give us some guidance in preserving the flight data and cockpit voice recorder: the aircraft’s black boxes (they’re actually orange). We copy down the procedure, then action the appropriate switches on the overhead instrument panel to prevent this data from accidently being erased.
The engineer offers to help us de-energise the flight warning system. Finally, we’ll have some quiet on the flight deck. The incessant warnings are a constant reminder of our fucked-up flight.
Ross and I copy down the selection of circuit breakers that will be pulled to de-energise the computers of the flight warning system. They live in the electronics bay, under the flight-deck floor, and I vacate my seat to access the trapdoor and ladder for Ross. He disappears down the ladder. Within a minute, the alerts have been disabled as the warning systems computer is deactivated.
Silence at last!
Ross climbs back into the flight deck, and we secure the small access door. We continue to work on our summary in Pete’s absence.
*
I’ll learn later that the QF72 mayday call at 1254 prompted an emergency response that mobilised the assets of the entire state of Western Australia.
The WA Police activated their Emergency Operations Centre to coordinate the rescue operation at their headquarters in Perth. This facility was commissioned only a few months earlier, and the QF72 emergency would be the first test of the centre’s capability.
Ten minutes after we declared the mayday, the Centre received notification of a Qantas Airbus diverting to Learmonth with instrument failure. Twenty minutes later, the flight number was confirmed, along with the fact that we would be making an emergency landing.
The Exmouth regional medical centre was informed of the requirement for medical support. This centre mobilised its two ambulances, a doctor and two nurses to meet the aircraft. Concurrently, the offices of customs, immigration and quarantine were notified of the emergency diversion; they scrambled to prepare for tr
avel to Learmonth.
When QF72 landed safely, the Australian Transport Safety Bureau was notified of the situation.
Within minutes of the aircraft parking, the first casualty reports started to filter in. They identified fifteen casualties involving severe lacerations and fractured limbs. The Emergency Operations Centre coordinated with the Royal Flying Doctor Service and mobilised their aircraft to provide medical support.
The Centre also organised charter flights to airlift police officers from surrounding areas into Learmonth to assist with the emergency response.
At 1408, medical staff from nearby Carnarvon Hospital were mobilised to assist. Over the next hour, the numbers of injured were updated and serious injuries were reported. The State Crisis Centre was activated at 1540.
We soon witness the amazing effort of the WA emergency response.
15.
Pete returns to the cockpit from his inspection of the cabin, looking visibly affected by what he just witnessed. He is distracted and deep in thought as he takes his seat.
I look at Pete. ‘Bad?’
He nods and slumps back into his seat. His face is flushed and his injured nose is showing swelling.
‘Keep an ear to the radios, Pete.’
I’ve been waiting for him to return. It’s now my time to ‘walk the walk’.
The scope of my next course of action isn’t lost on me. I’m still the captain, and there are no company representatives present to relieve me of that responsibility.
I’ve been trained in the responsibilities of ‘keeping watch’, an integral requirement for every navy man. A ship at sea never sleeps; it operates 24/7. In times of reduced activity, watches are set. Every member of the ship is rostered to keep watch, even the pilots in the Air Wing, and there are specific duties every watch-keeper must follow. The eleven General Orders are taught to every member of the Armed Forces in basic training, and committed to memory.
The Fourth General Order states: ‘To quit my post only when properly relieved.’
As the captain, QF72 is my watch. I will remain on duty until relieved – whenever that will be.
Leaving the flight deck, I come across a group of medical responders. ‘How’s it going?’ I ask.
I know they’re overwhelmed by the number of injured passengers and crew; it’s etched on their faces. They tell me they’re progressing towards the rear of the aircraft and treating the more badly injured in that area, but they’ve run out of neck braces.
‘How many did you bring?’
‘Twenty-six, our entire stock at the medical centre.’
Shit.
‘Okay. Are you able to source more? Can we assist through our company? Will you be looking to disembark those who are able to walk soon?’
They’re working on it, they say, and I leave them to continue with their duties. I won’t micro-manage them but I will certainly support their efforts in any way I can.
I’ve decided that my first public address to the cabin won’t be made from the cockpit. My passengers and crew will be looking to me for leadership and compassion, so they need to see me as I talk.
From the entrance to the cabin, I can see the many seat rows and people standing in the aisles. It’s my first look at the destruction caused by the pitch-downs. I pull the cord on the communication handset to its maximum length and start my announcement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain.’ I hold up my hand so all can see me in the cabin, even those still seated.
Heads jut out from every seat row as far back as I can see.
‘Welcome to Learmonth.’
This is met with cheers and applause from everyone who is able to celebrate.
‘We are safe now, and we are working to get you off the plane as soon as we can. We’re communicating with our company, and they’re working on a rescue plan to fly us out of here and down to Perth. I thank you for your patience and understanding. Please remain near your seats as the medical team assists those who are injured. I will be making my way through the cabin now. Thank you for your attention.’
Stowing the handset, I start a walk that will change my life.
The cabin looks like the aftermath of two opposing armies engaged in hand-to-hand combat on the Western Front. There’s blood on the walls, and on the faces and clothes of the injured. There are hideous star-shaped holes in the ceiling that look like the Incredible Hulk punched them. They hold the remnants of the hair and bloodied scalps of those whose heads have punctured the aviation-grade plastic. The resulting wounds could easily have been made with a large serrated knife, raked along the victims’ scalps.
Bloodied bandages and pillows are strewn in the seat rows and aisles, mixed with the debris from broken luggage lockers and ceiling panels.
Can you actually see a person’s heart as it breaks? Parts of my psyche are being brutally ripped out of me as I move through the war zone that was once the cabin of an A330. I try to remain strong. But as I speak with my passengers and my courageous crew, seeing their injuries, feeling their grief, my heart is cracking.
Moving down the aisle, I’m asked the same question by my bewildered and bruised passengers: ‘What happened?’
What can I say to them? I answer sincerely that I don’t know exactly what happened but I tried to stop it. It’s a bad state of affairs when the captain of his aircraft doesn’t know the reasons for its violent behaviour.
We have many young children onboard, some secured in bassinets on the bulkheads and others on their parent’s laps. I’m seeing them now as I move into the economy section. The parents are holding their children and trying to console their pain and tears. All of them have been injured in some way; most likely they were playing on their parents’ laps after finishing lunch. Contusions are developing on some, while others are wearing bloodstained bandages.
My heart is dissolving; as a parent, I sympathise with those who’ve helplessly witnessed their children being injured. Their accusing, silent glares burn into me like lasers, communicating the unsaid message: ‘Look what you did to my child.’ These images are seared into my memory. I can only offer sympathy and support as I continue my torturous walk towards the rear of the cabin.
My best poker face, which I wore when I entered the front of the cabin, has completely dissolved by now. But it isn’t until I enter the rear galley that my heart receives a death blow.
The floor is littered with broken shards from the economy-class plastic cups, as if sprinkled with multicoloured icicles. Beside them lies Fuzzy, legs immobilised and splinted. I kneel next to him and clasp his hand in a brotherly grip.
What can I possibly say to him? My face must say something that no words can convey. He thanks me and thanks God that I’m his captain.
Tears are welling in my eyes as I try to comfort him. My face is burning in anger, in frustration, in compassion, as I release his hand. My heart splinters.
The stainless-steel handhold connected to the galley bench has been bent . . . Did a metal meal cart hit that bar, or a human body? I shudder in disbelief at the force required to deform that bar.
I must keep moving; I must continue my cabin inspection.
Across from Fuzzy, still in the crew seat, is Peter Casey. He has a bandage on his forehead partially covering his badly bruised left eye; blood is seeping through. His arm is immobilised in a sling, and his shirt is covered in a mix of blood and red wine. He looks like the victim of a violent home invasion, and I gaze upon him in shock and sympathy.
Peter and I engage in some brief conversation; as a pilot, he’s curious to know the reason the plane manoeuvred so violently.
‘Oh my god, Peter. Are you okay? Is that blood on your shirt?’
‘Some of it is, some is from the red we were drinking before we got knocked out. What the hell happened?’
I repeat my feeble answer that the computers went berserk, adding that I still don’t fully know the reasons but they weren’t pilot-induced or turbulence-related. My face is flushed and my eyes are wet wit
h suppressed tears as I leave Peter in the care of the medical responders.
Slowly I make my way forward again. I can’t stop staring at the cabin’s ceiling, and my memory permanently records the busted plastic holes still holding on to hair and bloodied remnants of scalp, the broken luggage lockers, the dislodged ceiling panels and exposed ducting. It’s a nightmare reality, not of my doing, and not in my power to prevent.
It’s very lucky no one lost their life during the pitch-downs.
A male passenger asks me to explain the aircraft’s behaviour. I offer my canned reply, which he accepts. I must look sad because he asks: ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m okay, thanks. It’s just going to be a long day.’ I’m a lousy liar.
Passing the forward galley again, I meet with some of my crew. Samantha has a bruised eye, Kimberly can’t move her neck without pivoting from the waist like a robot, and Tasha is favouring an injured shoulder. Rory is active in his zone, interacting with the passengers there.
This is such bullshit . . . how could this happen?
I sense that throughout the aircraft, the uninjured passengers are becoming impatient with having to remain onboard; we need to organise their disembarkation as soon as possible. I return to the cockpit, and Pete volunteers to pursue it with airport staff out on the tarmac.
Back in my seat, I look for my uniform tie in the stowage area near my side window but I can’t find it. Then I check my mobile phone, hoping for a message from my daughter, and discover the reception has vanished.
*
Pete liaises with the local airport staff to disembark passengers and move them into the terminal. Although it’s spartan and not designed to handle this many people, the local staff are bending over backwards to make it work.
It takes about forty-five minutes for the plane to be nearly emptied; those who remain will have to be stretchered off due to the serious nature of their injuries. I stand next to the forward door, offering encouragement and asking again for patience as the able-bodied passengers file past. I see relief, worry and pain on all the passengers’ faces, but I also see gratitude sparkling in their eyes.
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