No Man's Land

by Kevin Sullivan

  I move through the aircraft again to see who’s still onboard. Pete is talking with Diana Casey, offering her a drink of water. One of my crew keeps an elderly couple occupied with conversation. Another passenger is still immobilised on the floor with medical staff hovering around. I glimpse Rory sitting silently with Jill. They appear comatose but I know that the shock of our ordeal is starting to sink in.

  In the forward galley I grab a soft drink and a packet of nuts, wanting to keep my sugar levels high to help me cope with the hours ahead.

  As the plane empties, my cabin crew are assembled in the business-class area, remaining clear of the aisles. Of the nine crew, only two aren’t physically injured. Fuzzy is still in the rear galley waiting to be stretchered off the aircraft. All are shell-shocked, traumatised, their eyes open in a blank, thousand-mile stare; they’ve endured a hellish, life-threatening event. It’s my duty to try and explain it to them.

  I’m mentally preparing to deliver an operational debrief, which I’m required to give to my crew. I wish I knew more about the causes of our emergency, but this is more an opportunity to check on their welfare and answer their questions. It’s also a confidential briefing, so I wait until we have a lull in the cabin activity before I huddle them around me.

  I’ve never sugar-coated any explanations of technical issues to my passengers or crew; I explain everything in a way they’ll understand, without scaring them, and answer their questions as best as I can. This debrief is no exception. I take the time to describe the problems Ross and I faced during and after the pitch-downs.

  ‘We basically got ambushed. I didn’t move the aircraft and it certainly wasn’t turbulence. It could only be the computers.’

  ‘Can’t you override it?’ Kimberly asks.

  ‘No. It’s not part of the design.’ I answer bluntly.

  I also explain that the computers acted without warning, and this scenario of computer-generated manoeuvres in reaction to false data isn’t covered in our Airbus manuals. I discuss our diversion to Learmonth as the best choice, based on the serious injuries in the cabin and our distrust of the flight-control systems and the computers.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t let you out of your seats. I wasn’t sure if the computers would do it again and I had to keep you all safe.’

  They listen intently and shed a few tears, not only from the pain of their injuries but also in the confirmation that they’ve faced a near-death event.

  ‘I need a drink!’ a crew member confesses as I finish the debrief.

  Using my command prerogative, I ‘order’ someone to find some champagne and glasses. My crew deserve a drink for their heroic actions, and it’s a worthwhile distraction. They rummage through the forward galley lockers in search of champagne bottles. Fortunately, some have survived, but only plastic cups are available. The corks are popped, the cups filled.

  I salute my cabin crew and offer an old pirate toast. ‘Let’s have a drink while we still have breath, for there’s no drinking after death!’

  I take a sip but it tastes like I’m sucking on an old one-cent coin. It’s a strange reaction from my palate and my body, rejecting business class champagne. Trading my champagne for another soft drink, I return to the cockpit and wait for more communication from Sydney.

  We’ve been on the ground for about ninety minutes. The passengers are secure in the small airport terminal, and Qantas is working towards a rescue plan. I’m still not getting a mobile phone signal.

  My role as the captain hasn’t been relieved; I’ll probably be required to continue to exercise my authority in the hours ahead. A quote from General George Patton rises out of my memory: ‘Do more than is required of you.’

  I’ve done a lot already. Chunks are being torn off me as I absorb the strain and confronting scenes – but there’s much more for me to do. I’m still in command and this drives me to stay focused, to keep thinking, to be compassionate and to ensure our rescue is successful. My military experience has prepared me to accept this responsibility in the face of fatigue, frustration and extremis. I’ll continue to lead.

  16.

  My career in commercial aviation has been anything but boring and routine. I’ve been challenged by many equipment failures and severe weather events, and I’ve always managed them appropriately and efficiently. Many have been classified as extreme events: an uncontained engine failure with severe vibration; airframe and engine damage caused by severe hail on take-off; severe icing at altitude resulting in engine damage; and numerous fume events. Plus the myriad non-routine events that all commercial pilots must deal with in the course of their duties.

  I’ve learned from these events, but none have generated the body response or trauma that this one has. This scenario involving computers, denial of control and potential mass casualties is at a different level. It seems we’ve survived a science-fiction scenario, a No Man’s Land of automation failure on an unprecedented scale. I wasn’t in a position to guess what was happening or to make up a procedure. But I had to make some big decisions – extreme decisions to cater for an extreme event. Looks like my shit-magnet reputation will soar to new heights after this.

  I know my crew and I will be thoroughly questioned in corporate headquarters. I must try to make sense of what I saw, how I reacted and what I said. My compliance with company and Airbus procedures will be heavily scrutinised by safety and fleet management pilots.

  Have I missed something?

  I mentally review the sequence of failures and bad air data presented to me in the form of unreliable speed and altitude on my primary flight display tapes. But I can’t access the data that was generated from the ADIRU and presented to the aircraft’s computer systems. Perhaps the computers activated some ‘protections’ that are built into their software – but surely we should have been warned that these protections would be activated. Why hasn’t the post-flight report or the status summary indicated which modes were activated and for what reason? Like a bad partner, the computers systems went crazy then stopped communicating with me.

  This complex failure scenario was not raised during the Airbus conversion course. I doubt that even the Airbus test pilots have been exposed to this scenario.

  One thing is certain: the computers blocked my control inputs. For a pilot, loss-of-control is the ultimate threat. It’s our job to control the aircraft, and if computers and their software, by design, can remove that functionality from the pilot, then nothing good is going to come out of that.

  I know our decision to divert to Learmonth, instead of continuing to Perth, will be scrutinised. But what risks would we have taken if we’d flown the extra distance to Perth? I shudder at the thought.

  I find hollow solace from the doctor in Two and a Half Men: ‘If you put a tuxedo on a goat, it’s still a goat.’

  *

  The time is approximately 1630.

  The satphone is ringing again – it’s someone from the IOC in Sydney. The conversation concerns the rescue plan. Two aircraft will be sent to Learmonth, a 767 and a 717, to airlift the passengers and crew who are able to travel. The first aircraft will arrive around 1715, followed closely by the second. The Royal Flying Doctor Service has allocated five aircraft to assist in airlifting the more seriously injured from Learmonth to Perth.

  I brief my crew on the rescue plan while encouraging them to eat and drink to help them through this post-trauma phase. They’re still struggling with the shock.

  Now it’s time for me to share the rescue information with my passengers in the terminal waiting area. I try to compose my briefing to the 290-plus passengers on the walk to the terminal. Inside, I’m given access to the PA microphone but the staff member isn’t sure how to use the system. Finally a local police officer offers me the use of his megaphone.

  Okay, this is going to look interesting to the passengers, I’m thinking, but I accept his offer.

  Part of the terminal is being used as a staging area for the more seriously injured, while the other half is loa
ded to the brim with everyone else. Armed with my megaphone, I ask everyone to come closer and suppress a rush of emotion as my passengers form a semicircle around me to hear my news.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention? I have some information that I want to share with you regarding our rescue from Learmonth. I have been informed that two aircraft will be arriving soon to take us all to Perth. I know you all have belongings on the aircraft and I’m sure they will be returned to you soon. The hardest thing for all of us to do now is to be patient, and I ask all of you for your patience now.

  ‘As far as what happened during our flight, all I can say is that I don’t know what happened but I tried to stop it. But we are here now and we are safe. I know Learmonth is an isolated place, but the runway looked pretty damn good to me as we rolled out on final approach for landing! So please, be patient and we will all be out of here soon. Thank you.’

  As I mention seeing the clear runway on final approach, the entire crowd erupts in cheers and applause. Someone to my right is filming my speech and capturing the ecstatic response of the passengers.

  We’ve survived a profound near-death experience together, and now I can’t help feeling we might as well be marooned on a desert island; we are truly in a survival situation, and I’m still the man responsible for their safety.

  Everyone is frightened, concerned and traumatised. The loss of mobile phone coverage prevents them from contacting loved ones waiting for them in Perth. I spare a thought for my daughter, knowing she’ll see this event on the news when she arrives at her next hotel in southern Europe; I hope she gets my text message.

  I spot Fuzzy cocooned in a stretcher on the floor. Straps secure him and he has an enormous brace on one leg. My heart aches, and my body is burning at the sight of Fuzzy and his injuries. I kneel down and lock hands with him. Help is on its way, I tell him. He’ll have to be airlifted out by the Flying Doctors to Perth for treatment, without the support of his crew.

  Diana Casey and her two daughters are awaiting transport to the Exmouth Medical Centre. The girls aren’t injured – they kept their seatbelts on – but they are crying quietly. Peter has been ambulanced to the centre already and Di is waiting her turn.

  I’m having a difficult time absorbing all the pain, suffering and uncertainty enveloping my passengers and crew. I must carry this burden, but I’m bleeding emotional energy to maintain my strong face of command. I’m still in the knife fight, and the slashes are hitting home with every new challenge I face.

  The local airport staff are organising food and drink for the passengers and crew, and I marvel at their presence and compassion. The sleepy town of Exmouth has mobilised; many have volunteered to assist us at the airport.

  When I return the megaphone to the helpful police officer he tells me that the aircraft will soon be under police guard, so the crew will have to vacate it; I should go over to let them know. While we’re talking, a charter aircraft arrives on the apron, and WA police officers assemble on the tarmac. The first air ambulance has also landed, and its propeller is winding down while an ambulance from Exmouth Medical Centre approaches to transfer injured passengers. Help is nearly here.

  *

  The sun is getting low on the horizon as I climb the stairs to the aircraft. Some of the crew are still there, and we watch silently as the skies turn purple and red with the setting sun. I take only one photograph on this day: the sunset with the aircraft in the foreground, a serene scene as the mauve-hued clouds reflect off the white skin of the fuselage. The beauty of the sunset masks the carnage and violence that took place inside. There’s a collective, sombre pensiveness among the survivors with the reality that the day’s trial may have prevented us from ever seeing a sunset again.

  Police officers approach, and a sergeant cordially introduces himself to me. He’s tall and dark-haired with a neatly trimmed moustache, and tanned from the tropical sun that bakes his base in the small town of Karratha. He explains that the aircraft is now in lockdown and asks the crew to leave.

  I jokingly ask if the aircraft is a crime scene

  ‘Something like that,’ he replies.

  Reluctantly my crew gather their belongings.

  I’m permitted to stay onboard to monitor the satphone, but I accompany my crew to the tarmac in search of a suitable private area for them. One of the airport staff offers some baggage carts near the tarmac for the crew to use. I want them to stay together and away from the main terminal. The effects of the post-adrenalin response are taking their toll. All stare blankly as they sit on the carts; one is shaking quietly but not because she’s cold. They need some privacy now and to support each other until the airlift is organised.

  Across the tarmac, a van arrives, loaded with sandwiches and drinks. I grab a ham-and-cheese sandwich and a bottle of water. As I steal a quiet moment to eat, I spare a thought for Ross and the three remaining cabin crew members from the Auckland base. They’re young and this experience has brutally stolen their innocence. But possibly this innocence has been ripped out of everyone onboard, old and young alike. Sure, shit happens in aviation, but this disaster is shit of a different magnitude. If an aircraft accident involved this number of serious injuries, you’d expect to see the hull broken up, twisted and burning on the ground – not sitting serenely on a tarmac, intact, with a picturesque sunset in the background.

  On the tarmac, another air ambulance arrives and shuts down its engine. I’m still unaware of the numbers of seriously injured passengers and the nature of their injuries, but I know the rescue operation is in full swing. Twenty passengers are declared seriously injured and are to be sent to Exmouth Medical Centre to be examined for spinal injuries and ensure fitness for the flight to Perth via air ambulance. On-scene reports state that all are being categorised as having spinal injuries, including one of the pilots, and there are two cases of broken femurs.

  I make my way back to the aircraft and join the senior sergeant beside the left entry door. We admire the colourful light show of the setting sun, and I can’t help but think the scene should feature an esky full of cold beer at our feet.

  Matter-of-factly, he lets me know that a police photographic team are onboard recording images of the damage. I excuse myself and find them in the rear of the aircraft, moving methodically through the cabin. They’re capturing images of the punctured holes above the passenger’s seats, the busted-up galleys, the missing ceiling panels and luggage lockers, and the bloodied bandages and pillows strewn throughout the cabin.

  One of the toilet doors is open, and they take photos of the uprooted toilet that lies on its side. There’s blood on the walls here, too. I didn’t see this before. I suppress another shudder at the thought of the unfortunate occupant.

  The unmistakable roar of jet engines in reverse thrust signals the arrival of the first rescue aircraft. It’s 6.18 p.m. The 767 backtracks along the runway to be parked at a remote area. The tarmac is full to capacity with our A330 and various smaller aircraft, so the 767 must park somewhere else on the airfield. I’ve been told this aircraft contains customs and immigration officers, as well as the Qantas assistance team.

  Maybe I can relax a little now, I think to myself.

  But no, there’s still too much more to organise and oversee. I channel my resolve to ‘stay up’ . . . We are not out of here yet.

  As if on cue, a plain-clothes detective approaches me and cordially introduces himself. He’s young and blond, with an innocent but official air to his posture. He says he needs me to make a statement.

  I’m back on high alert. ‘What will this be used for? Is this a criminal investigation?’ I understand he’s only doing his job, but it’s highly irregular for an airline captain to be giving an official statement to law enforcement after an emergency landing.

  A terrible thought flashes through my mind. Has a passenger lost their life due to their injuries? My face reddens and my heart rate accelerates again.

  I consent to the interview process, and the detectiv
e takes out his yellow legal pad. At first I answer some basic background questions such as age, employment and flying experience, but when we get down to the nitty-gritty of the nature of the emergency, it becomes more complicated. I explain that, for an unknown reason, the aircraft pitched down.

  ‘So, the plane dived, is that right?’

  ‘No, it “pitched” down. There was altitude lost in the recovery, but this isn’t a dive.’ I pivot my hand to mimic the manoeuvre.

  ‘Okay. What caused the aeroplane to do that?’

  ‘Unknown.’ That might sound a bit fishy, but I’m still in the dark. I can’t truthfully state what caused the aircraft to malfunction; I can only tell him what I did and why I did it. I direct my explanation to the computers and automation failing, but this is too sci-fi for the detective.

  After about thirty minutes of our toing and froing, he records a statement that concludes with something like this: ‘I declare that this statement is true and correct to the best of my knowledge and belief and I have made this statement knowing that if it’s tendered as evidence, I will be guilty of a crime if I have wilfully included in this statement that is false or not true.’

  Once the detective is satisfied, I retreat to the sanctity of the flight deck, feeling more like an accused shoplifter at the local 7-Eleven than a captain who has successfully delivered his passengers and crew to safety. At least I haven’t been charged or hand-cuffed.

  *

  The sun has set and the airfield is cloaked in darkness. A quick glance at my watch shows the time is 1850.

  As Flying Doctor air ambulances prepare for departure, a minivan arrives at the terminal. Two of its occupants cross the tarmac, heading for me.

  A police officer standing guard at the entrance speaks briefly with my visitors before granting them access. They murmur a few ‘holy shits’ before they enter the flight deck. They’re company ground engineers from the Perth base; one is an avionics specialist I recognise from previous flights through Perth.