We abruptly leave the turbulent air. It seems like minutes have elapsed since I strapped back in, but it might have only be a minute. I stabilise the aircraft’s nose attitude, then re-engage the automation to regain our assigned altitude of 39,000 feet. I report severe turbulence and windshear to air traffic control, then I take a deep breath. My heart is beating hard, but not near the level it was on QF72.
I give it a few seconds, then call the rear galley for a status report.
‘A bit bumpy,’ is the nonchalant response from my flight attendant.
I breathe a big sigh of relief.
This was a ‘classic’ jet upset caused by the environment, not the computer systems. We’ve dodged a bullet, but will I be nimble enough to avoid other bullets in the future?
30.
Over the next few months, there are three more significant Airbus accidents. The most significant involves pilot mental health.
The title of the report is chilling: ‘Deliberate Flight Into Terrain’.
Germanwings Flight 9525, an Airbus A320, was a scheduled service from Barcelona to Dusseldorf with 144 passengers and six crew. The first officer waited until the captain left the flight deck to use the toilet, then locked the cockpit door and deliberately flew the aircraft into the French Alps.
This accident is incredibly disturbing to me. There is a history in commercial aviation of pilot suicide events while on duty and here is another to add to the tragic list.
Unfortunately, this young pilot was battling depression and found a way to consult with different specialists and receive different medications from each one. He was declared unfit to fly by each specialist but failed to share those restrictions with his airline management. Then he abused the medications, mixing them without supervision. The result was his drastic conclusion to end his life with the use of an aircraft.
Automation can’t protect against a suicidal pilot.
The BEA report on this accident recommends further scrutiny of pilots with mental-health issues and promotes pilot support programmes.
I read an article that intimates there’s widespread denial in the airline industry about pilot mental health being an issue. Pilots tend to under-report their health, in general, and the only mechanism to identify issues is the personal responsibility of the individual pilot to self-report. A former Lufthansa official offers that it’s difficult to screen pilots who are determined to keep flying and are willing to lie in order to do so. If a pilot chooses to hide problems and symptoms, there are no existing tests to determine whether that pilot is healthy and fit to fly. Two doctors who were formerly employed at Lufthansa express their astonishment that pilots with mild or fading depressive disorders are taking antidepressants without the knowledge of flight doctors – and continuing to fly before and after the Germanwings tragedy.
This is a serious problem. The Germanwings accident should never become a reality for any airline if they truly value their employees.
I decided long ago to be responsible and mature in my management of PTSD, regardless of the negative impact it may have on my career longevity. But not every pilot is willing or able to do the same; this young Germanwings pilot decided to hide his situation and continue flying.
*
In April 2015, I’m challenged again, this time while operating a domestic flight from Perth to Sydney.
We’re flying a daylight sector and the weather is clear. The forecast shows a disturbed jet stream in the vicinity of our descent point, but our flight plan and weather package aren’t predicting turbulence. I have an experienced first officer and cabin crew onboard, and our passenger load is full.
Cruising at 41,000 feet and in smooth conditions, I notice solid cloud cover below, obscuring the ground. There’s no thunderstorm activity visible or displayed on our weather radar. Just in case, I let the CSM know of the potential for turbulent conditions, and plan to prepare the cabin early for our arrival in case we encounter turbulence on descent. We haven’t received any pilot reports of turbulence from air traffic control, but I want to minimise any risk of injuries.
On descent, the air is still smooth. When the plane encounters the cloud tops around 30,000 feet, we announce, ‘Passengers and crew, return to seats and fasten seatbelts’, and we illuminate the seatbelt sign. Crew have one minute to secure themselves.
Two minutes later, passing 26,000 feet, we encounter severe turbulence. ‘Severe’ means I have difficulty reading my instruments and the aircraft is moving violently. I use one hand on the glareshield to secure my position.
‘Kev, this is severe turbulence!’ the first officer remarks.
That’s his prompt for me to reduce the speed for turbulence penetration; my hand is already winding the speed back.
This is the worst turbulence of my career, and I can’t stop worrying about injuries. I hope the passengers have listened to our warnings and instructions.
Passing 20,000 feet, we’re in the clear. I tell air traffic control of the severe turbulence and the affected altitude band. A following Qantas aircraft hears our report and adjusts their descent to stay safe.
We all keep our seatbelts on for the rest of the flight, and I check with the cabin crew for any problems. They advise of no injuries but that many passengers were vomiting. They also advise that they weren’t able to stand or walk during the turbulence as they rushed to their seats. This last comment concerns me; I hope they were secure in their seats as warned.
After a routine landing, I wait by the front door to watch my passengers leave. Many are shaken but thank me for delivering them safely. I can smell the vomit tainting the air.
I approach the assembled crew for a company-mandated debrief of our turbulence encounter. As I join them, the CSM has already commenced her debrief. She reminds them of the requirement to be seated within one minute after our seatbelt announcement.
So it seems they were not seated. They had delayed securing themselves, and my worst fear of passenger and crew injuries was just narrowly averted. My stomach drops.
I step forward to offer some stern advice. ‘Are you nuts? If you’re injured at work then you become a liability. You cannot take these risks and expect to come out the other side in one piece. Take it from me, you place your health and career at risk by making your own turbulence assessment. Don’t ever do this again.’
My blood pressure is in the red zone as I walk off the aircraft. My worse fear almost became a reality.
As always, it’s up to me to self-assess and self-report if required. I’m deflating but still persevering; my performance is still at a high level. More damage is done in the aftermath of these types of extreme events, though. My increased vigilance and ultra-conservative approach have prevented passenger injuries again, but I sense that the precarious ledge I am navigating is narrowing.
*
On 31 December 2015, I’m scheduled to fly a six-day trip to Hong Kong, and the first stop is a night landing into Perth.
Severe turbulence is forecast below 5000 feet, along with high temperatures and gusty winds. These winds roll over the foothills to the east of the airport, becoming disturbed and unpredictable by the time they blow over the runway. The adverse conditions are confirmed as we check the weather before our descent.
I’ve uploaded additional fuel in Sydney to cater for several approaches and a diversion to Adelaide. Perth is an isolated airport and Adelaide is the nearest divert field, three hours’ flight time away, and unaffected by the gusty wind conditions.
Our landing is the first officer’s sector, but I decide to do this one myself. He doesn’t seem too upset about this. The A330 can be a handful landing in these types of conditions, and the nuances of the fly-by-wire system can be counterintuitive with the control management required to maintain an appropriate flight path to landing.
Also in preparation for rough conditions, we brief and prepare our cabin crew and passengers. As we approach the airport from the east, we hit the turbulent air. I allow the autopilot to intercept th
e runway centreline but am forced to disconnect the autothrust soon after. The wind makes the power surge against the wind gusts. I then disconnect the autopilot to stop the plane’s wild porpoising as it compensates for the turbulent air.
I manipulate the power manually to maintain my speed, energy and our vertical path towards the runway – but the gusts are severe. A few times I’m near minimum and maximum power to control the approach speed.
I’m on guard. As we cross the runway boundary, the nose is weather-cocked, pointing into the gusty wind like a sailboat on tack, but the aircraft is aligned with the centreline stripe and the engine power is maintaining my energy. I wait until we’re 20 feet above the runaway to kick the aircraft straight with the rudder, leaving the power on as I raise the nose to flare and wait for the wheels to touch before I reduce the engine thrust to idle.
We rock and roll down the runway, the aircraft decelerating while its wings are buffeted by the wind.
My first officer tells me he was grateful to be flying with me in those gusty conditions and in manual mode. I just shake my head and shrug. I was confident in my manual flying skills, as always. But it was the most turbulent, difficult approach I’d flown in my Airbus career.
Through the cockpit window we watch as an aircraft executes a go-around from an aborted landing.
My passengers and crew are all very complimentary and happy to be in one piece as I stand by the door and wish them a happy 2016. I think about holding my hat out to receive tips, but I just wave and say, ‘Happy New Year.’
Happy New Year, Captain Kev. I take several hours to power down for a fitful sleep at the hotel.
The next night we’re flying the red-eye service to Brisbane. The gusty winds are still blowing at Perth Airport, and windshear conditions are reported by an arriving aircraft prior to our take-off. ‘Windshear’ means abrupt changes in the prevailing wind’s velocity and direction. I inform my less-experienced first officer that I’ll be the pilot-in-command for the take-off. Windshear is an abnormal flight condition and potentially a serious risk.
As we taxi out to the runway, I brief my crew and passengers about the rough conditions. Our take-off procedure requires maximum thrust and, coupled with the strong winds, make for a space shuttle-like lift-off. I must lift the nose higher than normal to control our rapidly increasing speed and this allows for a quick exit from the turbulence. I hand over to the first officer and we set course towards Brisbane and the waiting sunrise. We arrive at dawn without further incident.
I arrive at our hotel, exhausted. Can’t I just have some uneventful flights?
The next morning, our crew meet at Brisbane airport for our departure to Hong Kong. There are three pilots for this flight, and together we look through all the usual paperwork. The weather forecast is fine but I stipulate an additional hour of fuel to cover any operational surprises. My pilots are happy to approve this, not wanting to manage the risk of a potential diversion.
Several hours later, we depart Australian airspace. Our flight progress has been smooth and routine.
Ding!
No, it isn’t the master caution chime this time – it’s a message from Qantas Operations Control: ‘FLIGHT WATCH ALERT’. There’s un-forecast low cloud and reduced visibility at Hong Kong Airport for our arrival. We’ll need an additional sixty minutes of contingency fuel to legally continue. Do we have enough?
I nonchalantly tear the message out of the printer and pass it to my wide-eyed first officer. His fingers move quickly to the keys on his navigation computer. I already know the answer but it’s good experience for him to check it himself. We have the required fuel, so I send back our response: ‘Affirmative.’
‘Nice fuel order, Captain Kev,’ I remark as I take a long drag from my imaginary cigarette. Without my extra order, we would have made an unscheduled stop in Manila.
The low visibility means a potential automatic landing into Hong Kong. As we approach our descent point, I take over as the flying pilot to complete an automatic landing. The automation does a good job helping us land in these greasy conditions. Aircraft are parked on taxiways everywhere around the airport; the adverse weather is generating huge delays.
I walk slowly to our waiting crew transport, feeling again like Iron Mike Tyson has me on the ropes after round three. In isolation these challenges would be relatively routine, but my PTSD complications can make them feel debilitating.
The following night we head back to Brisbane. Again, I order extra fuel because nothing goes according to plan with me these days.
It’s a remarkably clear night as we overfly a brightly lit Hong Kong and set course for Brisbane. Entering airspace controlled by Manila, we’re interrupted by a loud ding: another ‘FLIGHT WATCH ALERT’. This one has a more sinister message. A volcano has erupted, affecting our route with an active ash cloud above 40,000 feet drifting towards our track. To avoid the eruption, we’ll need to follow an amended flight plan. Do we have enough fuel for the new route?
The first officer and I load the revised route and check the fuel. The new routing clears the volcano by about 40 miles, but it’s too close for my comfort. I look at an alternate route providing 100 miles of clearance; we have enough fuel to cover that modification, too.
Once we have approval from Australia and Manila, we program our diversion and alter course. From my flight library I pull out the Quick Reference Handbook and open it to ‘Volcanic Ash Encounter’, then to ‘All Engine Flameout’. (Volcanic ash is a serious threat; Google ‘volcanic ash events for British Airways and KLM’.) I discuss contingencies with the first officer as we approach the volcano, isolated safely off our right wingtip.
While we transit the volcanic ash area, I’m in a high state of readiness, even though we’re comfortably upwind. Fate hasn’t been that kind to me of late, and I’m relieved when we pass through without incident.
Our flight is completed without any more distractions or surprises, but once again, I felt tired from absorbing the stresses presented during these six days. My reservoir of resolve had sprung some leaks. Outwardly, I was calm and cool, but I was bleeding energy.
I have survived the most difficult trip of my career; severe turbulence, low visibility approach, volcanic eruption and potential flight diversions. The aftermath is exaggerated by my increasing difficulties coping with the daily challenges of PTSD. I’m really starting to feel the strain by now and I know something has to change.
I wonder if my next trip will be the one where I become the cornered boxer and get pummelled to the canvas by something outside of my experience to handle. The body blows are starting to land and I’m feeling like I’m on the ropes.
Maybe I shouldn’t step into the ring again.
31.
Throughout most of my life, I never really thought about the end of anything I started. As a child building plastic aeroplane models, I couldn’t wait to finish one so I could start another. Every flight in my career had a start and a finish, but the end of one was only the beginning of another. The thought of my flying career ending was something I never contemplated, even though I knew it would happen one day. I would address that day when it came – and I’d be the one who ended it, on my terms if possible.
Flying fast jets is a young pilot’s game, as much as the egos of fighter pilots profess otherwise. Circumstance, lifestyle change and health are some of the variables that affect that conclusion. For me, it was a lifestyle change, and I accepted that conclusion gracefully and realistically.
In 1986, I was flying the Mirage 3 with the Royal Australian Air Force in my role as a US Navy exchange officer. I was married and had a daughter, and I was due to rotate back to sea duty in the navy at the end of this assignment. I chose to finish up my military career and not accept orders to a new squadron, which was destined to return to sea. I was a family man now – returning to sea duty and the stresses it can place on relationships wasn’t supportive of a stable family life.
I was a highly qualified and experienced fig
hter pilot, on track for an illustrious military career, and my country was still involved in the Cold War. Would the fight be weakened if I left the service? I agonised over this. But I realised that no one is indispensable, as much as we like to think we are. In the end, though it wasn’t an easy decision to resign, I felt it was the right one.
Flying a high-performance jet is a melding of human and machine. The aircraft and its performance become an extension of your being, like riding a Ducati motorcycle on steroids but in three dimensions. Separating yourself from this dependence is never an easy decision or process, but it must happen for each jet pilot at some point in their careers. When that day arrives, transitioning back into an earthbound mortal is nothing to look forward to.
My last flight would be a one-versus-one training mission for a young Aussie pilot doing the Mirage conversion course.
The flight was uneventful. The student pilot was aggressive and displayed excellent handling of his jet and in the strategies he used to defeat his ‘bandit’ adversary. I made him work for it, while he effortlessly fought off my attacks according to the mission profile.
I had briefed my wingman that we would return to base separately; I wanted to say goodbye in the right way to my squadron mates and to the fighter base where I’d flown for the previous three years. I was the first US Navy Exchange Pilot to the RAAF and my departure needed to be commensurate with that honour.
The Mirage is a magnificent machine at low level. The delta wing slices through the air effortlessly while the afterburner provides the potential for incredible speed. Buildings, trees, hills streak past the canopy in a blur while those unsuspecting on the ground don’t hear you’re coming until you blast past, adding to the pure exhilaration of flying a fast jet.
I would miss this part of military flying enormously. The RAAF pilots were excellent low-level hoons; I would show them what I learned from flying with them.
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