No Man's Land

by Kevin Sullivan

  My jet was taken down to the hanger bay for an extensive repair. An oil pipe had failed and the resulting heat had fused the mechanical linkage of the left engine throttle mechanism. The stainless-steel oil pan had been reduced to a molten mess by the extreme heat.

  Any further delay to our landing would have had severe consequences.

  Ignorance is bliss, but I handled that precarious emergency in Ice Man-like fashion.

  That was the old me. I’m starting to miss him.

  *

  Our flight proceeds without further incident. ‘Welcome back, Kev,’ my training captain announces after a smooth landing and safe arrival at our parking gate. He compliments me on my aircraft management and manipulation.

  I’m quiet and perplexed; my triumphant return to my passion feels like walking into a party with all the balloons deflated. Give it some time, I coax myself, trying to cut myself some slack. After all, it was my first trip back after eight months off, in an aircraft that had behaved maliciously without all the causes fully identified.

  But I’m concerned by my twinge of body response in the turbulence. Before QF72, nothing in my commercial aviation career ever phased me – now the sensation of negative g caused by the autopilot has triggered a reflex previously foreign to me. Because it didn’t negatively affect my performance, I put it in a mental compartment for later inspection.

  Before I go to sleep, I quickly message my daughter to let her know I’ve survived my first supervised flight without incident.

  *

  On the bus from our hotel to the night flight back to Sydney, my training captain passes me a sheet of paper. ‘What do you think?’

  It’s the pre-departure summary that notes any special loading, passenger requirements, delays and maintenance issues. It also designates the registration of the aircraft we will fly. As he watches me intently, I read the rego letters of our plane: VH-QPA.

  ‘So?’ I reply. ‘QPA is probably the best A330 we have now. All the computers have been stripped and replaced with new ones. Are you worried?’ I shrug. ‘I lost my uniform tie on this plane, so maybe I can find it now.’

  I have an objective approach to life and to stress – I don’t generate drama or emotion and will brutally strip it away when making big decisions.

  Unfortunately, one of the cabin crew overhears our short discussion. ‘What’s wrong with this aeroplane?’ he asks, sounding superstitious.

  With a hand gesture I defer the question to the training captain; he initiated the drama, so he can defuse it.

  ‘Oh, this was the aircraft involved with QF72,’ he says. ‘It’s okay now.’

  ‘QF72? What was that?’

  I raise an eyebrow at my training captain and leave it to him.

  It’s a scene that will be repeated many times in the years ahead.

  *

  After two and a half hours of uneventful cruising, it’s time for my break. I brief the training captain on our progress, fuel usage, weather and closest divert airports, then I exit the flight deck. My rest routine involves a walk through the cabin, visiting with the crew and checking on the passengers. I stop in one of the galleys for a drink of water and a chat before navigating through the darkened cabin to our pilot rest area.

  With frustration, I notice that most passengers have unclipped their seatbelts while they sleep, despite my standard public address and the pre-departure safety briefing.

  The pilot rest facility has no windows so it gets very dark, with only one or two small indicator lights burning faintly. The bed isn’t that comfortable after years of use, but at least we can lie flat. I listen to the dull drone of the engines before inserting some earplugs, fastening my seatbelt and drifting off.

  Ding.

  My deep sleep is disrupted and I wake with a jolt. I hear the characteristic master caution ding on the flight deck all the way through the bulkhead wall of the crew rest and my heavy foam earplugs. I sit upright in the bunk, remove the plugs and strain to hear any other warnings or chimes.

  Then I pick up the interphone.

  ‘Flight deck,’ comes the answer to my call.

  ‘Hey, it’s Kev. Everything okay up there?’

  The two pilots chuckle.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ the training captain asks, sounding surprised.

  ‘Yeah. I’m pretty sensitive to that sound for obvious reasons. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Relax, Kev, it was a minor cabin temperature issue and we’ve sorted it out. Go back to sleep!’

  I hang up and lie back in the bunk. How did I hear that? I’ve never done that before and rarely micromanage operations on the flight deck from the crew rest. Another reflex change in my psyche has identified itself, raising my level of confusion. Why is this happening? My first trip back is evolving into a journey of discovery – of the new me. Perplexed, I try to go back to sleep.

  As the rising sun glows below the horizon, I return to the flight deck. We’ve passed New Guinea and soon will be talking with Brisbane Air Traffic Control as we continue south on our track to Sydney. The air mass is still, we’re in clear air and the pre-dawn lightshow is on display. The horizon is a watercolour of vivid hues contrasting against the blackness of the sky above, the glowing reds, oranges and yellows of the sun’s rays projecting into the atmosphere.

  I crane my neck around and look back towards the wingtip at the indigo darkness of space to the north, sparkling with the stars and planets, illuminated by the light of the approaching dawn. I’ve missed this time of day during my extended break from flying; it’s a special treat to view the changing light from 39,000 feet. The sun is rising rapidly, the sky changing quickly and brightly, prompting me to put on my sunglasses. I know I still belong here.

  Our approach into Sydney is smooth and uneventful. QPA has behaved itself, and my training captain has very few comments on my performance as we exit the aircraft. My passengers and crew are happy and relaxed as I observe them dissolve into the arrivals terminal. But I’m feeling hyped and fatigued. Despite the routine arrival and landing, my body hasn’t responded appropriately. The nice buzz I used to feel at the completion of a flight has been replaced with something I can’t describe. It’s similar to the feeling I had when we landed in Learmonth; it’s the fight-or-flight body response rather than the glow of an endorphin release.

  *

  After a few days off, I’m scheduled for my final supervised flight to cement my return to line operations. It’s very routine: fly to Perth, one night off, fly back. I fly as well as I ever have and pass with minimal comment.

  In August 2009, I’m cleared back as an operating captain. Although I’m not elated about being requalified, I’m certainly relieved – I’ve made a herculean effort to return to the A330, in the face of an ongoing investigation into a failure of titanic proportions. Things have changed, though. Can you ever comfortably walk down a street where you were attacked? Can you ever sleep soundly in any house where you’ve survived a violent home invasion? Faced with a near-death or violent event that makes you question whether the outcome will be life or death, is life ever the same?

  Now that I’m back in the air, in accordance with the self-reporting policy it’s up to me to raise a flag and identify myself if I am experiencing any health issues. If you don’t identify yourself, then everything is okay . . . right? I’m an accidental hero, left alone to travel a hard and unchartered road to recovery. I must use what I have to survive. It reminds me of the way I had to use the systems that were still working to land in Learmonth. I have my health, my job and my sense of humour. My daughter still loves her dad, and my core group of friends are still supportive. I haven’t experienced the darker, more extreme behaviours that PTSD can produce. This is the choice: to be a survivor and not a victim, and to rebuild.

  My colleagues are still peppering me with questions on the particulars of QF72, when all I want is to re-establish myself in the air. It all starts to whittle away at me, and I find myself feeling exhausted at the end of every fl
ight. It’s like getting in a boxing ring with Iron Mike Tyson – dancing around the ring and trying to dodge his punches is slowly wearing me down.

  On 18 November 2009, the Australian Transport Safety Bureau publishes a media release about the ongoing investigation. It brings up two significant points: an update to the computer software by Airbus, and an opinion regarding the AF447 accident investigation.

  The Airbus software updates address the algorithms that caused the dives. They also improve the way air data is processed by the flight-control computers from the air-data computers. The installation period will occur over the next twelve months.

  The ATSB compares AF447 and QF72, addressing concerns that the two are related. The conclusion is that there are no similarities, because of a difference in the ADIRU models and the sequence of failures that generated a problem with the aircraft’s displayed airspeed. I don’t agree – I believe the weak link in the Airbus design is being revealed. It reminds me of what happened to the XL Airways flight. If the sensors become blocked or damaged, they’ll send erroneous data values into the ADIRU; the ADIRU will package this value and distribute it as it’s designed to do.

  I look at it simply: if a dog turd goes in to the ADIRU, it’s processed then packaged, and a dog turd comes out in a digital value from the ADIRU. This is then distributed to all the user systems, generating a tsunami of poo – in this case failures. Erroneous speed or altitude is the by-product and difficulties can escalate if the computers activate protections. The pilot is left confused and overloaded in a life-or-death battle to save the day.

  This is on my mind each time I step back into the A330.

  26.

  Public expectations of pilots are very high. What other occupations command the same levels of responsibility and performance, or have such a direct influence on the safety of several hundred people at one time? It takes a massive leap of faith to purchase an airline ticket and confine yourself in an aluminium tube for hours, traversing through an extreme environment with turbulence and thunderstorms, to be safely delivered at your destination. Routinely, pilots are ranked as having one of the top trusted occupations in the world, along with paramedics, nurses, doctors, law enforcement officers and firefighters.

  Modern society places enormous pressures on all of us. Most people want a home and a family, to enjoy a loving and secure relationship, and to excel in our chosen professions. For a lot of Western men, ‘failure to achieve’ is the greatest fear driving us forward. Many of us have been groomed from childhood to perform, to suffer in silence and to not show our emotions. All of this sets us up for problems when our goals come unstuck, paving the way for depression, medical complications or all of the above.

  I’ve watched many interviews with combat veterans from both sides of conflict in countless wars, who are now in their senior years. They always react emotionally when asked to recall what they had to do in war and the comrades they lost – fifty, sixty, seventy years after their ordeals. They had their innocence torn out at an early age, and they’ve been forced to manage that for the rest of their lives.

  These warriors are from a generation that required traumatic memories to be suppressed. I witnessed this in my father, but at the time, I didn’t really comprehend the sensitivities involved. I have already decided that I will not walk in these footsteps.

  Pilots are expected, from early in our careers, to self-analyse and self-critique as we perform our technical duties. But this process may fall short when it comes time for us to check our emotional pulse and to accept that our stresses cause distractions that may, at some stage, adversely affect our ability to perform.

  As a military pilot, I soon learned the fine art of compartmentalisation. We had to be clinically brutal in mastering and employing this mental process to survive our dangerous environment. The inability of an officer to manage stress doesn’t bode well for professional progression. Slamming an unforeseen complication into a mental box is a skill set that ensures survival in the short term – but at some stage, the gooey contents must be removed from that box and managed appropriately.

  Building up a collection of leaky mental boxes without emptying them routinely paves the way for serious social and psychological issues.

  I’m a master compartmentaliser, and it’s time I open up my QF72 boxes.

  In early March 2010, I twice have to deal with unusually severe turbulence while the autopilot generates significant negative g to maintain altitude. I manage these events effectively and safely, but my body doesn’t. I’m holding on to the glareshield again as my copilot lounges in his seat and observes my body language with a perplexed look.

  On 8 March, I self-report to management. I can’t continue to fly responsibly in light of the distractions I’m dealing with. To examine the contents of my leaky boxes, I need time away. I hate being grounded again, but I have to try to recognise the triggers of these body responses, and to come up with strategies to manage them. I could have tried to endure my hell in silence, but I know it’s best for me to be open.

  I look upon my decision to stop as courageous and responsible. A pilot doesn’t have a leg to stand on if he’s hiding psychological issues and mismanages an operational event in the course of managing his own stresses.

  I don’t know how much time I’ll need to figure out what’s causing my body responses. I know I’ll need professional advice, so I consult two psychologists, who assure me that this post-trauma condition should diminish in time. But, as the weeks go by, I feel more burdened. I feel like it’s up to me to sort myself out and raise any concerns.

  Following sustained self-examination, particularly based on hours in the cockpit, I finally work out that my body’s response to negative g has been rewired.

  The autopilot’s operation in turbulence can be abrupt; whenever the pilot commands an altitude to be maintained, the autopilot will carry out that command aggressively with a pitch correction. The magnitude of the vertical displacement is met with an appropriate correction, and negative g can often be generated as the autopilot pushes the aircraft back down to the commanded altitude.

  My body is automatically reacting to the negative g in turbulence as it did during the computer pitch-downs. To my parasympathetic nervous system, which is outside my conscious control, negative g equals loss-of-control and mass casualties. Exposure to negative g, in any form, generates a startle response that instantly sends a mini-dose of fight-or-flight chemicals through my body. The same is true for my body’s reactions to the various warning and caution alerts.

  All the ones and zeroes of my emotional operating system have been modified, and not just in a professional context. For the first time in my life, in many social situations I’m experiencing hot flushes and a beet-red face, and the feeling is like being embarrassed on steroids. And, unfortunately, these emotional episodes are becoming the norm.

  Absorbing the stresses and challenges as the captain of QF72 was akin to jumping on a hand grenade. I saved my passengers and crew, survived the explosion but sustained critical damage to my psyche. A big hole has been blown out of me and it’s not going to fill itself in. Perhaps the best healing I can hope for is scar tissue lining the rim.

  It’s a small relief that I’ve identified the triggers. They aren’t dissipating, and I’ll have to face them on practically every commercial flight.

  *

  Qantas gets in touch with me, Ross and Pete. They’d like to recognise our handling of the QF72 accident with an award.

  The Excel Award routinely acknowledges excellent performance from staff in the line of duty. We accept the offer and attend an awards ceremony celebrating those who have received an Excel.

  Ross and Pete bring their wives, Mel and Claire, to the ceremony. Mel and Claire have endured eighteen months witnessing the event’s impact on their husbands.

  After we’ve accepted our award and return to our table Mel and Claire give us a standing ovation. These loyal women want to help their hero husbands, but don’t know h
ow. Still, later that evening, they speak to two managers and tell them they want their husbands back to what they were before the event. It reminds me just how destructive PTSD can be, not only for the sufferer but for their loved ones and colleagues too.

  There is a more prestigious award – the Chairman’s Award. My crew deserve to receive it, and in 2009 I try to broker it for them. They would have worn their pins proudly on their uniforms every time they went to work (for those who were able to return) and received the accolades from their fellow cabin crew that they deserve.

  But if you aren’t wearing a Chairman’s Award pin, no one can ask you what happened, I guess.

  I’ve never worn my Excel pin. It lurks somewhere in a corner of my sock drawer.

  27.

  I’m cleared to fly again in August 2010. My professional performance remains above average, despite the gradual decline in my personal life. But the slow rot of PTSD is manifesting itself. If I can’t develop different strategies to manage my body responses, the demise of my career is on the table.

  In May 2011, the Australian Transport Safety Bureau contacts me. The draft of their final report is available for review and comment from the interested parties. I’m desperate for the investigation to be finalised so I can move forward. I’m not worried about the results but I want closure. And I want to know that all the causes have been identified to renew my trust in the design. The previous reports haven’t commented on my decisions or the performance of the crew and, naturally, I’m anticipating their findings on these topics.

  I review my draft of the ATSB final report and am impressed with its scope and objectivity. Finally, I’ll learn exactly what went wrong and what has been done to prevent it from recurring.

  The ATSB interim and preliminary reports identify and summarise the root causes of the computer failures. Firstly, air-data values from the ADIRU 1 had somehow been corrupted during the processing phase and distributed to the primary flight-control computers (PRIMs). Secondly, faulty algorithms installed in the computer software permitted the corrupt data to be used as valid; this made the PRIMs activate protection modes in response to the erroneous data. Up to this point, the workings of the ADIRU and the faulty algorithms have not been discussed but are now explained in the final report.