No Man's Land

by Kevin Sullivan

  I go through the sequence of events with them, highlighting the many failures and faults, the ineffectiveness of my efforts to stop the aircraft’s manoeuvres and the scrolling faults. I may as well be describing a brutal mass murder, judging by their widening eyes and gaping mouths. I explain that the destruction in the cabin was caused by the bodies of the passengers and crew being catapulted into them and that, perhaps, I’m pretty lucky to be giving them a face-to-face debrief.

  They look at me as if they’ve just met Lazarus. This explanation is unknown territory for them too; there is no history of this happening before on an Airbus.

  The avionics engineer starts to access the maintenance computer and the post-flight report through the computer keyboard. He asks me questions as he sees the array of faults and failures summarised on the screen. ‘Did you action this fault?’ ‘No, it didn’t latch.’ ‘How about this one?’ ‘No, none of those latched.’ I summarise the faults that did latch, which allowed us to reconfigure, and finish by expressing my view that the aircraft systems experienced a complete crash and we were understandably confused.

  As the engineers access the electronics equipment area under the floor, I hear the sound of jet engines roaring in reverse thrust as another rescue aircraft touches down.

  17.

  Somewhere in Europe, my daughter and her boyfriend arrive at their next destination, check in to their hotel and settle into their room. My text message has my daughter on edge as they turn on the television to the English channel for CNN. Plastered on the screen is the ‘breaking story’ of the Qantas flight from Singapore to Perth, and the ensuing emergency landing in remote Western Australia with multiple casualties.

  ‘Dad was flying to Perth today. It must be him!’

  Her boyfriend offers his feeling that someone else is involved in this accident, not me, but she has received a text message like this before from me and is certain I’m involved in this disaster.

  There isn’t much information due to the remoteness of Learmonth. She tries to call my mobile phone but it diverts to message bank. Her concern grows as fast as her sorrow; at least she knows I’m ‘okay’ from my text message. She’s desperate for more information but it will be hours before I can speak with her.

  *

  At the Exmouth Medical Centre, the staff are working quickly and methodically. The facility is working at overcapacity, with six beds to cater for the twenty seriously injured. As they arrive, they’re X-rayed to see if there’s evidence of spinal injury.

  The Casey family is here, finally reunited and resting after their examination. Diana and Peter have been cleared of spinal injury, but they’ll require more tests to determine the full extent of their injuries. Diana’s shoulder is now quite stiff, and Peter’s face is swelling and changing colour in response to his violent collision with the ceiling. They’re resting in adjoining beds, their daughters nearby, as they await information on their airlift arrangements to Perth, courtesy of the Royal Flying Doctors. There’s calm in the eye of the storm.

  Then a nurse tells them that their daughters must return alone to the airport for their airlift flight. The air ambulance doesn’t have enough room to transport them all together. Diana pleads with the medical staff to make other arrangements to keep the family together, but her request can’t be granted. Her distraught daughters are in tears as they’re led away. One of the assisting female doctors, who has been using her own private vehicle to ferry passengers to and from the medical centre, volunteers to take Diana’s girls back to the airport.

  Soon Diana and Peter are loaded into an ambulance for the thirty-minute drive to Learmonth Airport. Although the medical staff have cleared them to fly, Diana can’t move her shoulder, despite some pain-relief injections, and Peter’s face has swelled to the point of closing his left eye. He’s had a tough twelve months battling a serious medical condition, and Diana refuses to leave his side.

  *

  The Qantas Link 717 arrives. It shuts down its engines and disgorges its load of support personnel.

  Another wave of activity approaches. Two representatives of the Australian Transport Safety Bureau (ATSB) have arrived. It turns out the aircraft has been placed in lockdown by the ATSB to facilitate their investigative processes.

  Like the engineers, the investigators are visibly awed and horrified. The destruction in the cabin looks like a goldrush-era saloon after a bar-room brawl, unlike anything they’ve experienced before in their careers as safety investigators. I introduce myself to them as they solemnly commence their investigation. I don’t offer any statement at this time.

  I gather my bag and make another quick scan around the flight deck for my uniform tie, missing since the first pitch-down. It’s nowhere to be seen; it has been swallowed into the bowels of QPA.

  I hesitate near the forward exit door, capturing the carnage in my memory. It’s fitting that I’m the last to depart QF72. Fortunately, I didn’t go down with the ship, I muse, but too damn close for comfort. As I walk down the steps, I flash back to my navy days. Whenever a senior ranking officer departed the ship via the gangway, there would be an announcement and a ringing of the forecastle’s bell. I’m leaving my ship now, my command. Ding-ding. Ding-ding. Captain Kev, departing.

  The tarmac is full, squeezed to capacity with three more air ambulances, a Westwind charter jet that has flown the customs and immigration staff in and the 717 rescue aircraft. The aircraft are parked, primed and ready for action.

  Near the tarmac I join Pete, who’s talking to the captain of the 717. He’s astonished as he listens to our description of the Airbus A330’s systems meltdown. ‘You know what they say . . . if it ain’t Boeing, I ain’t going,’ he quips.

  I’m surprised to see two of our passengers occupying the tarmac. Sitting in their cages are our live-cargo dogs, somehow extracted from the bulk cargo hold despite a lack of appropriate equipment; the Qantas engineers have improvised. ‘Who let the dawgs out?’ I sing as Pete rolls his eyes. I’m relieved they’re in the fresh air, tails wagging and patiently waiting for their ride to Perth.

  There’s a lot of activity on the tarmac but not much is happening. The 717 captain’s forehead is furrowed in concern as he checks his watch. ‘I was supposed to be airborne at eight o’clock. I told the assistance team that if I’m not loaded and airborne soon, I’ll run out of duty time.’ If he can’t fly because his duty period is exceeded, then accommodation for 150 people will have to be found in Exmouth – a tall order.

  Pete and I take action. We emphasise to the company assistance team the urgency of this situation. Minutes later, we’re relieved to see passengers making their way towards the waiting 717. I stand in front of the aircraft and make eye contact with the young captain in his cockpit. I give him a thumbs-up; he smiles and returns the gesture.

  *

  In Sydney, Captain John Killingback is informed of the QF72 mayday. When he’s told that I’m the captain, he springs into action. We are neighbours and close friends.

  He first calls the president of our pilots’ association and offers to travel to Perth immediately to act in a supportive role for the pilots. The president agrees and tells him to get to the airport as fast as possible to travel on the last flight to Perth – it departs within the hour!

  As John packs his bag with essential items, he calls the chief pilot to offer his services as a direct representative of flight operations. The chief pilot also agrees and confirms he’ll assist in John’s travel.

  After giving his wife a quick kiss, John is out the door and racing to the airport, thirty minutes away by car. He arrives at valet parking in a cloud of smoke, throws his keys to the attendant with ‘I’ll be back in a couple of days’, and sprints towards the departure gate, bounding up the escalator. He doesn’t look back at the perplexed valet staring down at his keys.

  Alerted by Qantas operations, the ground staff are waiting for John at the departure gate. They usher him down the aerobridge and through the entry door. He’s the l
ast to board. As he nonchalantly waves to the pilots in the cockpit, the door is secured behind him and the plane commences its departure.

  *

  Another friend and colleague, Captain Phil Paterson, is now back in Perth after completing his day of flying. He heard our mayday call while he was airborne. He, too, has communicated with the chief pilot and flight operations management. Like John, he offers his participation in a supportive role for the pilots once we arrive in Perth.

  The deputy chief pilot instructs Phil to do whatever it takes to help the pilots.

  *

  The time is 2133.

  It’s getting late. We watch as the 717 departs for Perth. At the insistence of the special assistance team, a few of my crew are on board, although we are all reluctant to be separated. The plane is dispatched with only minutes of pilot duty time to spare.

  A minibus is shuttling passengers to the 767, parked at the far end of the runway. I feel a bit like a shepherd tending my flock, ensuring their journeys are completed.

  There are three more air ambulances on the tarmac now, waiting for their fragile cargo. I admire the operation of the Flying Doctor flights and their crews, and I’m in awe of the efforts of the many medical staff mobilised to support our rescue. Someone, somewhere, has their finger on the pulse to ensure this side of the rescue is progressing well.

  The terminal is empty with the exception of the WA Police officers and local airport staff. The tarmac is still buzzing, and QPA holds the dominant position, parked on the right-hand side. From my angle, it looks like a venomous insect with its highly curved wing and pointed tail, ready to inflict more damage on an unsuspecting prey. We were its prey.

  This is the point that I walk away from it.

  My crew is solemn and silent. We’re leaving this nightmare behind. Maybe I can relax a little . . . maybe.

  As I climb the stairs to the 767 behind my crew, I glance one last time at Learmonth Airport. I’m the last to board our rescue aeroplane.

  When I enter the business-class area, I’m met with irritated stares from the passengers. After surviving the horror of the pitch-downs, they’ve been here for hours, waiting to depart. The patience I asked for when we landed has eroded; it’s been a long and emotional day. I’m grateful when these passengers offer sporadic claps and cheers as my crew and I move towards empty seats in the rear of the cabin.

  Through the vibration of the cabin floor, I feel the forward entry door close with a thunk. I tighten my seatbelt and look out the window as the second engine is started. One of the PC-12 air ambulances is on the runway, wing lights illuminated and white strobe lights flashing, ready for take-off. Who occupies the stretchers in the back of that aircraft, I wonder?

  The 767 is taxiing forward and onto the runway. The strobe lights are beating quickly, illuminating the area where I’m seated. I force myself to stay awake to watch the tarmac disappear beneath me as we depart for Perth. The pilots turn onto the runway centreline, the 767 rotates, and we are airborne.

  As Learmonth disappears behind us, a massive weight pushes me back against my seat. It isn’t from the force of the take-off – I’m overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted. My body is sinking into the seat, and I won’t fight it now. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.

  Captain Kev, departing.

  18.

  ‘Hi, honey. It’s me.’

  ‘Dad! What’s happened?! Is that your flight I see on CNN? I’ve been trying to call you all day!’

  She sounds quite angry with me, and I can understand her frustration and fears.

  ‘Yes, honey, it was me. I sent you a message to say I was okay . . . Did you get that?’

  ‘Yeah, but why didn’t you call me?!’ Here voice is choked with tears of relief mixed with frustration.

  I explain the lack of mobile phone signal at Learmonth and that I’ve been a ‘bit busy’ until now. I assure her I’m safe in Perth and wasn’t physically injured.

  I promise to call her later when I get to the hotel. I ask her to think about returning early from her trip, as I believe Qantas will offer to assist her in coming home. I tell her I love her and ask her to try to settle down, now the worst is over.

  It’s been less than an hour since we touched down in Perth at one in the morning. The passengers clapped and cheered as the aircraft decelerated. I twisted around and made eye contact with Pete and Ross; they responded with wry, weary grins and exaggerated exhales. As the passengers filed out of the plane, some looked back and waved at the crew in thanks. I wondered how soon these travellers would venture onto an aircraft again after this ordeal, if ever. I doubted that Airbus would be at the top of their preferred aircraft list after this frightening day.

  I lingered in the back with my crew until all the passengers had deplaned. On my way out, I thanked the cabin crew of this rescue flight. Reaching the main cabin door, I looked back to ensure all my crew had disembarked before I walked out into the bridge.

  I was the last QF72 survivor to leave the 767. My duty as the captain of my flight was then complete.

  My friend Captain John Killingback, who had rushed here to help me out, was among the throng of airport staff lining the aerobridge. I smiled and walked straight over to him, relaxing a little. He’s very good at handling people and isn’t afraid of stepping on toes to achieve an outcome.

  We were led to where two trauma specialists and a GP were waiting to assess us.

  The GP started with me. ‘Are you physically injured?’ he asked.

  I told him I was fine, but that some of my crew may need medical evaluations at a hospital.

  *

  When the minibus delivers my cabin crew to their hotel, I’m relieved to see the media aren’t in attendance. I hug each crew member and promise to see them later in the day.

  Soon enough, the minibus is pulling up outside my hotel. The media aren’t here either. All I can think about now is a shower, but we have no clean clothes – our bags are still in Singapore. John has invited me to his room to talk and have a beer, but my clothes are quite ripe and I have to freshen up.

  I stay under the shower a lot longer than usual. I finish with a blast of cold water to cool my flushed and burning body. The difficult part now is, what do I wear?

  The phone rings; it’s John asking if I’m coming over. ‘Yes, yes,’ I say, ‘calm down.’ I take a whiff of my uniform shirt and decide it should be buried or burned. My underwear isn’t in any shape for recycling, either. I find a terrycloth bathrobe in a closet, but it’s very short, more suitable for lounging around at the Playboy Mansion than having a beer with my fellow pilots. Oh well, it will have to do.

  I feign a shy, sheepish manner as I saunter into John’s room and try to sit in a position that will prevent my block-and-tackle from escaping my risqué robe. John, in his most parental voice, rebukes me with an ‘Oh geezus, Kevin!’ and we all have a laugh at my expense. Someone hands me a beer. It’s ice-cold but tastes horrible – once again, alcohol doesn’t sit well with my palate, as with the champagne in Learmonth. I put it down.

  ‘What? You’re not going to drink your beer?!’ Ross exclaims in mock horror.

  This is sacrilege in Australia and my colleagues take great delight in chiding me about it, along with my comical robe.

  We settle down and try to re-create our flight briefly for John’s benefit. I know the Sydney managers will ask him for his comments later in the day. He listens carefully as we share our most critical recollections of the flight, but it’s four in the morning and I’ve been up since six the previous day . . . seems like a lifetime ago.

  I give John a manly hug in thanks.

  He doesn’t skip a beat. ‘You’re not my type.’ Especially in my fetching terrycloth robe.

  I know he’ll be traumatised by the memory of me in that robe, and I’m eternally indebted to him for his assistance on the worst day of my life. He’s a good mate in every way.

  I collapse into bed. The pillow has the gravitational pull of a black ho
le as I glance at the time: 0430.

  *

  Diana and Peter Casey are finally airlifted to Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital in Perth, where Peter, along with Fuzzy, is admitted to intensive care.

  Somewhere in the city in a hotel are Peter and Diana’s daughters. As soon as she’s discharged, Diana goes in search of them, walking the eight blocks to their hotel. A quick call to the room has them down in the lobby in an instant for a tearful reunion.

  *

  I don’t remember dreaming, but something in my subconscious wakes me like an electric shock. I bolt upright, quickly scanning my room to get my bearings. Oh yeah, I’m in Perth, safe in the hotel. It’s 6 a.m. The sun is up and my blackout curtains aren’t doing their job very well. I can’t go back to sleep; my body is still hot and I feel like I’m in a vice.

  I try to make sense of the past twenty-four hours. I’m feeling exhausted but, like any professional pilot, I commence a self-critique of my actions yesterday. Could I have done anything different, anything better? Have I completed the flight in accordance with the aircraft operating manuals and company policies? I answer ‘yes’ to all these questions.

  I also have a deep, burning pride for the heroic actions of my crew in the face of this cataclysmic accident. There’s no company training that covers this type of scenario, and somehow they adapted and performed admirably.

  I know all onboard will be adversely affected with the confronting reality that they were faced with a life-threatening event. Despite my history of flying aeroplanes from the decks of aircraft carriers, I must swallow the bitter pill of reality and conclude that this is already affecting me too. Even though we’ve survived something truly life-threatening, I can’t extract any joy from this reality.

  When I vividly recall the image of the ocean in my windscreen and my helplessness as I tried to arrest the computer’s manoeuvres, my threat response fires up anew. My memory replays the images of the injuries to my passengers and crew, the bits of scalp dangling from the broken plastic, and the children crying in their parents’ arms with bruised and bandaged heads. That recollection activates something in me, and I start to sob. I sob like I never have before. Is it the post-adrenalin recovery sequence? Or is it a jab of self-pity?