I will get back up. I will face my demons and the A330; after all, everything has been fixed, right? And my seniority number dictates that I don’t have any other choice if I want to keep working for Qantas.
My return-to-work coordinator, Adam, is relieved when I officially inform him of my decision. I’ve been off work for eight months, and the limits of worker’s compensation payments at the highest rate are approaching the twelve-month time limit.
Then, less than a week after I state my desire to return to work, Air France 447, an Airbus A330, is lost over the southern Atlantic without a trace. The date is 1 June 2009.
Adam immediately calls me to discuss this latest Airbus tragedy. ‘How do you feel about this accident?’ he asks.
‘What happened?’
‘They don’t know. It disappeared without any communication. The authorities don’t even know where the wreckage is.’
I already know all of this, as I’ve been following the story intensely. Another Airbus is down . . . why?
‘Well,’ I say, ‘I hope it was a bomb and not a problem with the flight-control computers like on QF72.’
Air France 447 disappeared over the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean. The event occurred at night and without any communication from the crew of any difficulties. In my mind, it fits the profile of a terrorist in-flight bomb attack, not a computer fault. I have experience in this area: after the 9/11 attacks, I worked on secondment to the Qantas Security Department as an aviation security specialist.
‘How do you feel about returning to work after this?’ Adam asks.
‘What difference does this make?’ I reply. ‘I’ll return as discussed.’
The wheels are in motion, but it will be up to me to tick the many boxes required to satisfy all the parties involved with my employment and licensing. The admin road back to the flight deck isn’t as clear-cut as I expected; it seems they’ve had to re-invent the wheel to cater for my unique circumstances.
The PTSD condition attached to my Airline Transport Pilot License means that the Aviation Medical Branch of the Civil Aviation Safety Authority has placed me under ‘special audit’. I’m considered a ‘complex case’ that requires a review and assessment by a panel of aviation medical specialists before my medical qualification is renewed and I’m cleared to undertake a requalification programme at Qantas. This vetting process is very frustrating, but it makes sense. When a pilot who’s been diagnosed with PTSD returns to the cockpit, the situation is full of uncertainty. But while my fight-or-flight body responses are referred to as ‘panic attacks’ in some circles, I’m not panicking and have taken exception to this label being attached to my situation.
Once these requirements are met, I receive my airline transport pilot licence and aviation medical, then commence my requalification in late June 2009. I’m certified as fit to fly, and that’s how I’m assessed.
My hope is that once I’m back in command I’ll desensitise and my body responses will diminish. What else can I do but try? There’s no instruction manual for PTSD, so it’s up to me to write one specifically for me. This will be a rocky road of trial and error, and no amount of preparation can prepare me for the corporate environment I’m returning to.
One of my first duties back at Qantas is to complete the emergency procedures course to renew competency in all the cabin safety equipment.
One half of the day is a pilots-only discussion, which involves analysing a mishap from another airline or from an internal event. The moderator asks me if I’ll tell the assembled group about QF72. Red-faced and with halting speech, I describe the event and its effects on me, particularly my body’s fight-or-flight response.
My next duty is a re-familiarisation exercise in the flight simulator, supervised by a training captain. ‘This is a freebie for you to get reacquainted with the A330, and to explore computer faults and the new operational procedure developed by Airbus,’ he explains. But I already know the QF72 failures can’t be replicated in a flight simulator, so I simply nod.
In the sim, I take the left seat and my instructor takes the right. After a routine review of cockpit preparation and starting the engine, we’re in the simulated air.
Even with eight months away from the flight deck, I find it easy to manage the A330. When everything works, it isn’t a difficult task; that’s the one benefit of its design. Failures are introduced to simulate, in my instructor’s mind, the QF72 failures. I handle them effortlessly because they’re singular, not multiple, while the warning system works as it was designed to, allowing pilot interaction and reconfiguration.
I decide to demonstrate the pitch rate from +2 degrees to -8.4 degrees that occurred on QF72. I don’t want to break the simulator, so I ask him to turn the ‘motion’ off, cutting power to the hydraulic pistons that move the simulator as it emulates the accelerations and decelerations experienced in normal flight. Once he secures the hydraulics, I slam the stick forward then back, trying to match the computer’s pitch rate – but the software in the flight-control system doesn’t allow me to move the tail as precisely as it can.
I point out that there’s at least a -0.8g acceleration generated at the aircraft’s recording point, but it was a much higher force in the back galley. ‘We’re lucky,’ I say, ‘that no one was killed as their heads and bodies slammed into the ceiling and through the plastic.’
My instructor’s ‘book knowledge’ is exceptional. However, the books don’t cover what happened to us.
After we’re finished in the simulator, he asks for my feedback on the session.
‘Acquaint yourself with the ATSB report and discuss its contents at every simulator session you conduct,’ I respond.
My training package starts the next day. Back in 2004, my initial training lasted eight weeks; this time it will take me three weeks to complete the package. My performance is assessed unconditionally, without consideration of the traumatic experience of QF72. I believe this is the correct approach to my requalification. I’m as focused and determined to succeed as I’ve ever been in my flying career.
25.
One month after starting my training package, I’m cleared for supervised flying in the A330. My first trip is to Narita, Japan. A training captain is there to supervise my performance.
I’ve decided to manage my flights in a different way from now on. The mass casualties on QF72 are at the forefront of my mind, and because I never want to revisit that scenario, I’ve changed my pre-departure routine to cater for my newfound precautionary approach.
As always, I make the time to walk through the cabin, introducing myself to the crew. They’re my team, so before we depart I want them to know who their captain is, and I want to make sure the lines of communication are open. In this age of secure flight decks, accurate and open communication from the cabin crew is essential in managing the many challenges that can develop during a long-haul flight. I want to cement trust between captain and crew.
After saying hello, I pass on the flight-time details and any anticipated turbulence areas that might affect their cabin service. Now I look each crew member in the eye and state that ‘no one gets hurt today’. I encourage them to contact the pilots if things get rough in the cabin. For some reason – and I’ve seen it firsthand – pilots can hesitate to put the seatbelt sign on during turbulence. It feels very different at the front of the plane compared to the rear of the cabin. The lightweight materials used in the construction of the aircraft’s structure generate more strength-for-weight, but also there’s more flex throughout the tube of the airframe. In turbulence, this flex is very apparent; you can see it if you’re in a position to look aft and see the tail swaying from side to side.
After my experience on QF72, I will never hesitate to put on the seatbelt sign and secure my passengers and crew.
Back on the flight deck, I’m engrossed in pre-departure checks and take-off performance calculations. Over the years, I’ve developed disciplined habits and I tap into them as I methodically work throu
gh the phases of the departure sequence.
Soon we’re at the holding point for the runway, ready for take-off. My heart rate is increasing, a bit more elevated than usual. Take-off and landing are the most critical phases of any flight – the proximity to the ground and the restrictions of landing gear and flaps make any abnormal situation at low altitude more difficult. I don’t feel nervous or excited, but my body is generating more chemicals than in the past for this rather routine phase of my flight. I compartmentalise that for later analysis and concentrate on the heavyweight departure.
Safely airborne, I engage an autopilot and transition into the more mundane monitoring of navigation and fuel usage. Internally, I’m on edge; externally, I’m as cool as the other side of the pillow.
‘How does it feel?’ my training captain asks, with a wry smile.
I ask myself the same question. Too early to tell, but it feels like I haven’t been off-duty for this eight-month period.
‘These planes fly themselves, don’t they?’ I respond.
As we climb, the air mass is smooth and conditions are safe for the crew to commence their duties. I monitor the CSM directing passengers to ‘keep seatbelts fastened while seated’ on the PA; not much more I can do on that topic as it is also part of my passenger greeting. But I know we’ll encounter thunderstorm activity in four hours as we overfly Papua New Guinea.
I’m not relaxed. The elation and joy I felt before are missing. I’m a circus bear, jumping through hoops under the supervision of my training captain. But if he’s satisfied, then I’ll be on track to getting back into command.
As we approach New Guinea, I’m manipulating the aircraft’s weather radar controls. On the horizon, billowing clouds flash from the energy of cumulonimbus formations growing over the mountains, while lightning bolts arc down from some of the more active cells. I call the back galley to let them know the seatbelt sign will be coming on and they must secure their areas in anticipation of turbulence.
My weather radar display is like an oil painting. Green, yellow, red and magenta blobs depict the varying moisture content of the cells and let me know about the areas of turbulence associated with the thunderstorms: green is light moisture and turbulence, while magenta is severe turbulence. After reading about the XL Airways and Air France 447 accidents, I’ve become even more conservative in managing my flight path to avoid precipitation and unpredictable temperature changes in the vicinity of these high-energy cloud formations.
I ask the first officer to illuminate the seatbelt sign and direct all passengers and crew to fasten seatbelts. As he makes his call, I scan my navigation display and plot a course around the biggest cells. I try to remain upwind of the thunderstorms but that won’t be possible tonight. A big moon is helping to illuminate the cells and their boundaries, as well as the lightning flashes silhouetting their vertical development. The complete vertical structure of a thunderstorm can be hidden from our weather radar. I’m using every clue to assist my deviations off our planned track to avoid the weather.
The band of adverse weather is at least 100 miles across, and I’ll just have to weave my way through as best I can. I decelerate to turbulence-penetration speed and turn on the engine’s anti-ice protection. As we enter the clouds, the aircraft reacts to changes in moisture, temperature and wind direction.
All my preparations to protect my passengers, crew and airframe are complete – now I have to work the radar as I find a way through the maze of cloud.
The windshields turn opaque as we enter the clouds, and the flash of the red anti-collision light and white wingtip strobes produce a disco light effect as we dodge the cells. The plane starts moving and feels like a car driving over cobblestones.
I’m scanning my instruments as I double- and triple-check the path of my avoidance plan. Rain is pounding on the fuselage and windscreens. The temperatures check okay, but I know that thunderstorms can change the temperature rapidly and severely. I’m not enjoying this rough ride very much; it’s like sitting in the dentist’s chair without novocaine while the drill whines and grinds into your teeth.
Suddenly, the plane starts to climb. The vertical speed indicator confirms my seat-of-the-pants sensation. A second later, the plane descends sharply. The autopilot is pushing it back towards its commanded altitude, and I feel light in my seat from the slight negative force. Instinctively, I grab the instrument glareshield with my right hand and move my left further onto my control sidestick. My stomach spasms as if someone has reached in and squeezed it. Annoyingly, my heart rate increases. I’m going into hyper-drive as I scan my instrumentation for any threat but, in an instant, the aircraft stabilises.
I take a deep breath and glance over at my first officer, calmly lounging in his seat with a slightly miffed expression as he observes my response to this little bump. I apologise for my abrupt reaction to this normal aircraft movement in turbulence.
This is my first introduction to the new me in the cockpit.
We exit the storm, revert to the routine of cruising in clear air and re-establish our planned route towards Narita Airport. I’m taking more deep breaths as covertly as possible, and the significance of my body response to the minor turbulence isn’t lost on me. I’d never reacted like this, even in the most severe turbulence, prior to QF72. Something isn’t right.
*
The old me never experienced panic or startle, not even when I was operating around an aircraft carrier at sea. I recall an incident when I was deployed on my first cruise aboard USS America as a ‘nugget’ pilot flying the F14. We were somewhere in the Arabian Sea, maintaining station and keeping the world safe. I was learning my trade as a naval aviator and I was learning fast.
I was on the wing of my flight lead, returning to the ship from a routine combat air patrol mission. It was daytime and the sea was calm, perfect conditions for a day trap aboard America.
After breaking into the landing pattern, I went through the routine drill of configuring for landing: wings swept forward, landing gear and flaps extended, hook down and harness locked. I decelerated to my approach speed and was trimming the tail for the proper nose position for landing.
I advanced the power but only one throttle would move. I tried more force to move the uncooperative throttle forward but no go. My left engine was stuck at idle power. I’d need more time to prepare for this approach and didn’t want to disrupt the landing recovery of the other aircraft lining up behind me. I needed to inform the Air Boss of my situation.
‘Boss, 110.’
‘Go ahead,’ came the gruff response. (Are all air bosses perpetually cranky?)
‘110. Stuck throttle on the left engine. Request delta and straight in approach to recover last.’
‘Delta’ meant I would orbit above the normal landing pattern altitude while the rest of the aircraft landed. It would also give me some time to troubleshoot my problem and prepare for a single-engine approach. Landing last would ensure minimal delays for the recovery if I encountered any further complications on landing. There were no land-based divert fields near the carrier.
‘Roger 110. Delta.’
With my experienced RIO, we went through the procedures for my approach and landing. I would need to fly a straight-in approach for our degraded condition and I maintained orbit behind the ship.
As the recovery progressed my situation started to deteriorate. An amber ‘left oil pressure’ caution light illuminated on the system panel. We quickly checked our emergency flip pad procedures. We decided to keep it running as our turn for landing was imminent.
I informed the Boss of our situation and we were cleared for approach and landing.
A single engine approach is a big deal in the F14. The engines are over 10 feet apart and the yaw generated requires careful use of the rudders to balance the aircraft. Also, precisely flying the single engine ‘angle of attack’ prevents the jet from torque rolling around the inoperative engine. We routinely practised this critical failure on land, but accidents still occur
red at sea when these parameters were not controlled effectively.
Calmly and methodically, I prepared for my approach. The deck was clear and the meatball in sight as I lined up on the ship. I was halfway through this first deployment and I was a seasoned carrier pilot by now.
I manipulated my power precisely to keep the meatball centred and each power change required a rudder input to keep the aircraft balanced and aligned with the ship’s landing area. Small, coordinated flicks of the wings kept me on the centerline.
My RIO called the ball and added ‘stuck throttle approach’ to the ever-vigilant LSOs watching my jet like hawks.
‘Roger ball,’ came the sharp response of the controlling LSO. And then he added: ‘Secure your dump.’ He was seeing something I wasn’t!
The ‘dump’ is the fuel dump valve that we routinely used to dump fuel out of our tanks to adjust our fuel quantity and weight for the arrested landing.
I wasn’t dumping fuel.
I was on full alert, flying my crippled F14 towards the welcoming arresting wires. As I approached the back of the ship, I got another caution light but I was too close to landing to worry about it.
I felt the forceful decelerating grab of the arresting wire as I landed and advanced full power on my good engine.
‘Secure your left engine!’ the LSO screamed.
Instinctively I reached up and pulled the ‘emergency fuel shut-off’ handle for the left engine. My quick scan of the caution lights showed an amber ‘left oil temperature’ brightly illuminated.
The flight deck fire crews quickly surrounded my Tomcat and gave me the cut signal to shutdown my other engine. Were we on fire?
I announced ‘emergency egress’ to my back-seater. We quickly unstrapped and ran clear of our smoking Tomcat.
I was in a huddle with my squadron maintenance crew when the LSOs appeared to debrief my landing. My left engine was smoking so badly they thought I was dumping fuel.
I watched my landing soon after on the closed circuit TV in our ready room. It looked like Thomas the Tank Engine was hitching a ride on the back of my F14. Thick grey smoke billowed from my left engine as I flew my approach.
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