QF32

by Richard de Crespigny

  There’s one potential problem with automation: that it will be accompanied by complacency and ignorance.

  The 747–400 would consign the older Classic Jumbos to ‘legacy’ status, but at a cost to the industry. As the Classic drifted into history, it took with it the manufacturers’ philosophy of building aircraft around the captain and engineer. The Classic’s captain and engineer knew every part of their aircraft intimately: how it was designed, how to operate it. When the systems failed, these legacy crews knew how to diagnose the problem, apply a remedy and avert a disaster. Their legacy aircraft might have been simple, but the crews could save their jet whether it was stalled, spinning, inverted, falling apart or on fire.

  Today, jet engines fail on average about once in every 300,000 engine hours. For a four-engine aircraft, that means only one in every three and a half pilots will ever see an engine failure in their entire career. Well, that’s the theory. In practice the die rolled differently for me. I’ve experienced three engine failures while I’ve been in the seat and two engine failures when passengering. Surely I must be protecting the odds for others!

  The first engine failure I experienced was a textbook example. It was on 1 October 1993 and I was flying out of Frankfurt for Bangkok with Captain John Pickhaver – a gentle man, a great mentor and a fantastic pilot – and Second Officer Des Howson. John’s son John and daughter Anne were both on the flight deck observing the sector. We had taken off at our maximum take-off weight of 397 tonnes; the auto­pilot had levelled the aircraft at 6000 feet while waiting for aircraft to pass above us. All of a sudden, an EICAS message ‘ENG 2 – LOW OIL PRESS’ displayed on our centre console. This message was not normal, but it was also not alarming.

  As Des read through the QRH checklist, I felt my yoke (steering wheel) start to rotate – the autopilot had inadvertently wound in about half of the aileron roll control. This was unusual! We looked at the engine instruments closer and then it dawned upon us. Engine 2 had failed at an idle thrust! The failure was so gentle neither John nor I had detected it – even when we were at maximum take-off weight. John was cool; there was no rush. We continued on towards Munich, trying twice to restart the engine but without success. We then spent an hour dumping 100 tonnes of fuel to get our weight back down to our maximum landing weight before we made our approach and landed back at Frankfurt.

  John and Anne were amazed. They watched their father and me take our time and methodically go through all the processes to try and restart the engine before we decided to give the flight away and return to the airport. It was a controlled, zero-stress flight, and it was a delight to have experienced this under John Pickhaver’s excellent command.

  My second engine failure was not so pleasant.

  It was January 1994 and Captain Warwick Tainton and I were at Bangkok airport about to fly a 747–400 to Sydney. When we arrived at the aircraft in the afternoon we discovered it was unserviceable. Engine 4 had two 30 foot-long fire loops that surround the engine to detect an overheat condition between the engine and the engine nacelle (cover). We could depart with one fire loop failed, but on that day both fire loops had failed and the aircraft was grounded, awaiting spare parts. There were no spare fire loops in Bangkok, and so the aircraft would be delayed five hours awaiting the replacement parts to be flown in from Singapore.

  While Warwick was talking to the passengers in the airport lounges, I watched over the aircraft. Over a period of two hours I reviewed the flight history of the aircraft, both in the technical log and in the history files stored in the central maintenance computer (CMC). What I found alarmed me. The CMC had been logging continual exceedances for the past 20 hours. The vibration sensor for the high-speed rotor in Engine 4 was recording the maximum value. What made the research more distressing was that the two fire loops that had failed in Bangkok had failed during the previous sector in Frankfurt, and the aircraft had been delayed a few hours while replacement loops were found in Europe.

  I was very uncomfortable! I went down to see the engineers at the engine and asked to view the failed fire loops. Along its 30-foot length, both loops had fractured side by side. I asked the engineer: ‘Does this look like a vibration fracture to you?’ He answered, ‘Perhaps.’ I added: ‘Well I don’t want to fly this aircraft, because the vibration sensor shows a full-scale deflection even at idle RPM and the engine is clearly showing signs of distress. It’s trying to tell us something.’

  I went to see Warwick and told him of my concerns. We talked to the engineers and agreed that after the loops were replaced we would start Engine 4 and then make a decision.

  A few hours later, we started Engine 4 with the new fire loops installed. I’ll never forget it. The engine sounded like a lawnmower with an angry ‘buzz saw’ type growl. The vibration sensors for the engine went to full-scale deflection. We refused to take the aircraft, but pushed the thrust up slightly to 20 per cent to enable the CMC and the aircraft logging systems to record the engine parameters.

  We had only had the engine at 20 per cent thrust for about ten seconds when . . . KABOOM!

  A compressor blade in the high-pressure compressor fractured. Flames shot out of the engine, reaching as far forward as the cockpit. The flash that night illuminated the precincts at Bangkok airport. We now needed a new engine, which was a challenge to the Boeing 747 fleet worldwide as no one had ever ferried (fifth podded) a spare 747–400 engine before on the wing of a 747–400. We were stranded in Bangkok for five days before the replacement engine could be installed and enable us to return to Sydney.

  The lessons from this incident were obvious. I had followed my instincts, tempered by years of study, training and experience. I was confident and sure of my decisions. We were the last line of defence to protect the passengers from threat. Be prepared, be confident and don’t compromise.

  And I’ll be extra careful the next time I hear an engine sounding like a lawnmower!

  CHAPTER 10

  The Far Side

  Many commercial pilots have backup skills and qualifications that they nurture should the day ever arise when they don’t want to fly anymore, or they fail their licence checks or annual medical.

  My interest in personal computers developed through my military career. I ordered the very first Compaq Portable PC in 1984 while I was on assignment in the Sinai Peninsula. The name ‘portable’ was tenuous since it weighed 30 kilograms, was as big as a suitcase and had no battery backup – but it did have a handle!

  I read piles of books on software development and was soon able to write computer programs for the RAAF in my spare time. Once I joined Qantas, I visited the offices of a leading software company in Sydney to see about a part-time job as a programmer and started writing code for them.

  Coral and I started Aeronaut Industries in 1985 to manufacture ‘The Flying Kneepad’ for fighter pilots in the RAAF and, later, civilian pilots. In 1987 we decided to expand Aeronaut into a software company. The next three years were very enjoyable. I spent time off at home and overseas writing code.

  We’d always wanted to have an extra stream of income as a backup should something go wrong at Qantas. We’d already had our first child, Alexander, born in July 1989 and, although we always planned to have two kids close together, the next pregnancy six months later was a wonderful surprise. There is nothing like children to focus your mind on financial security.

  It became clear the future lay in importing, distributing, supporting and supplying training tools for software developers, and we realised I’d need a year off flying to make it work. Economists declared Australia was going into recession and Qantas requested pilots to take leave of absence. What an opportunity! I got my leave and included a new requirement that Qantas would keep my simulator checks going and my licence current so I could return after the break and slip straight back into the seat. Qantas agreed.

  The business grew so fast I needed a second year off to get things under control. We were selling to some large organisations and the word was spread
ing: we had great tools and offered good advice.

  In 1990, to stay current for my Qantas licence I not only had to do the 747–400 simulators every six months, but I also had to do an annual route check. A route check is when you fly a sector and a check pilot sits behind you, remaining silent, and assesses you on how well you fly, manage the aircraft and your crew, and comply with SOPs. If you fail the route check, your pay stops and you cease flying for Qantas.

  So in September 1990, after having taken six months off, I flew to Singapore to do my route check. I was to land at Changi, go to the hotel for a sleep, and then fly back to Sydney the next day. The whole sector would be 36 hours. Our daughter was due at this time, but Coral said, ‘Go, I’m not close.’

  But when I arrived at the hotel in Singapore, Coral called me from the hospital delivery room. She continued to call me between contractions, until the fourth call when she cried and told me we had a daughter, Sophia. Talk about lousy timing! I had set aside just 36 hours in an entire year to do my route check, and that’s when my daughter was born.

  I remember announcing this to the passengers as I flew out of Changi on Father’s Day, 1990.

  Coral began working with me full-time in the business at Aeronaut. I found the technical side easy, but I was useless at the back office accounting, clerical and marketing side. I needed Coral and we made a fabulous business team.

  Aeronaut grew rapidly with Coral at the helm. To this day, Australia’s largest retailer and half of Australia’s hotels run on our databases. We’d built ourselves a secondary source of income, we gave ourselves a very good standard of living and were able to send the kids to good schools and take them skiing every year. It was fun to be in the computer business, but Coral had taken over and I needed a physical challenge. I wanted to get back to flying and Qantas was expecting me to return.

  In 1992 I returned as a first officer on 747–400s, and it suited me to stay in that position. When on long layovers in overseas ports, I took every opportunity to meet with the leaders at the best software companies – an opportunity I wouldn’t have had if I was stranded behind a desk in Australia – and I’m sure most of the IT executives I spoke with had no idea I was a Qantas pilot fronting for my wife’s company back home.

  My plan was to remain as a first officer on the 747–400 until I had sufficient seniority to get a 747–400 command course. I loved the 400 and didn’t want to operate any smaller, low-tech alternatives. I also didn’t want to fly short sectors within Australia. So I let pass the opportunities for 737 and 767 command, and flew the more challenging long-haul routes to US and European destinations. All was going to plan: Qantas was expanding, I had been cleared to commence command training and I expected to start my training in 2004. These plans would be thrown to the wolves when Qantas blocked ‘vertical pro­motion on the 747–400’.

  The block was to stop people flying the 747s as a first officer and then captain. There was a worry that complacent first officers might be promoted to become complacent captains. Qantas thought the best 747 captains were those that had streamed through multiple aircraft types on their path to command.

  I had been kneecapped. I had delayed taking a command on minor aircraft so I could simply move from the right-hand seat to the left-hand seat and retain knowledge for the wonderful 747 and long-haul operations. But now I had to move to another aircraft to get my command – which one?

  Airbus was the new boy in the aviation industry – the maverick. Its heritage started with the Concorde (the first commercial aircraft to have fly-by-wire flight controls and digital computers), through the A300, A320 and the A330. The company intrigued me, not just as an aviator but also as a software developer. Airbuses were crammed with computers – they ran the plane – and I was curious how the software was designed and how it worked. Qantas had traditionally been an all-Boeing company, but in a surprising shift Qantas ordered ten Airbus A330s and twenty A380s. The A330 would arrive in 2002.

  I started reading up on the A330 and getting really enthused. But I was also very sceptical of Airbus; I’d heard all the stories of the unfortunate accidents that had beset the manufacturer, and if I were to be comfortable flying Airbus aircraft I’d have to drill down into the reasons for these ­accidents and know how I would prevent similar mishaps. The more I read, the more excited I became. The A330 is a remarkably advanced aircraft. My scepticism evaporated; here was my route to a Qantas command.

  Gaining my command on the A330 would not be easy. I would be changing from long haul to short haul, from Boeing to Airbus, from first officer to captain – and all at once. I’d be dumping the Boeing philosophies I’d learned over the preceding eighteen years and replacing them with Airbus’s entirely new philosophy, almost tantamount to learning how to fly again. I would be flying sectors in regions and to airports I’d never visited before. It would be particularly hard making the Airbus conversion as well as stepping up to commanding the plane. I asked Murray Crockett, the management pilot in charge of the A330, if I could make life easier for myself and Qantas if I converted to the A330 as a first officer for the first six months to get used to the aircraft, then undertook my command course. Murray said no – there was no protocol in the training department for this process. I was the first to undertake conversion and promotion courses at the same time.

  So it was A330 command or nothing. My colleagues called me crazy, and I thought perhaps I was a little bit crazy, but the thrill, challenge and the rewards of commanding the world’s most advanced aircraft were too good to knock back. I saw Airbus as the future of aviation. So, I thought, why not?

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘Embrace’

  I was the tenth first officer to convert to the A330. The two courses took me a gruelling five months to complete: three months for the conversion followed by two months for the command course. I almost gave up on the command course. It was only with the help of the training and fleet managers that I gained my captain’s rank.

  When you convert to a new aircraft you are taught the basic systems architecture, the location of switches and pushbuttons, and what happens when they are selected. You also have to learn what can go wrong with the aircraft, and what to do about it. On the Airbus conversion it was considered enough to show pilots the basics of flying the aircraft and managing the checklists. But my brain worked differently.

  I have more difficulty converting to new aircraft than most other pilots. I have to learn the machine from the ground up, not from the buttons and checklists down. I don’t like controlling machinery I don’t fully understand, a habit formed when pulling apart motorbikes and cars as a teenager. I need to understand the philosophy of how the machine is designed and assembled so I can understand the limits and standard operating procedures. I have to know the purpose for every checklist, rather than just relying on what the computer displays. When I converted from the Boeing 747 to the Airbus A330, I had to replace all my knowledge of Boeing philosophies and methodologies with the Airbus equivalents, not a trivial task because Airbus and Boeing aircraft were built and operated very differently. There was a lot to learn; I went through all the manuals, and I phoned engineers and I questioned designers and talked to test pilots until I fully understood what I was about to take control of. My brain was spent by the time I’d finished the A330 conversion course, and I hadn’t even started the command course.

  The first simulator flight on the command course was from Tokyo to Fukuoka. I had spent days studying countries and airports I’d never flown into, in a plane I’d never flown and with new checklists. The session got difficult when the cockpit filled with smoke, reducing our visibility to just 30 centimetres in the flight deck, the electrics were degraded to 5 per cent, and many of our navigation and radio systems were degraded. The weather at all the Japanese airports was appalling and the first officer was withholding proper support.

  I was exhausted and drowning. I talked to a friend about my concerns. He said, ‘Just push through and finish it!’ I didn’t agree. I
had reached my limit and I needed a break.

  I told one of the executives in the training section, ‘I’m hating this – I feel so uncomfortable, I’m failing.’ He said, ‘You’re not failing – you’re testing yourself and seeing where your weaknesses are.’ I wasn’t convinced. I knew I was a good pilot and that I could fly, but I was angry and embarrassed that I was having trouble. He told me he was going to work with me and that he’d get me through.

  I was so exhausted I couldn’t stand the thought of more sectors in the simulator. So I went to the fleet manager, Murray Crockett, and asked for a week off the program to study. Murray knew me well from time we had spent together on the 747–400s. He looked at me and said, ‘I’ll give you three weeks off, but only if you don’t look at a book for the first two weeks.’

  I went away with Coral and returned happy and refreshed, and I was able to finish the simulator sessions. I then completed the final command check where you fly five sectors in the A330 with a senior check pilot. If the check pilot has to say anything, you fail. I flew my five sectors, and when I finally shut down the engines at Sydney I looked down and saw the captain’s epaulets waiting for me on the centre console.

  My peers didn’t know how I did it – I had taken on too much at once and, luckily, I was given some R&R when I really needed it. That’s what good management is: knowing when to ease off the pressure and how to get the best out of people. And that’s what good pilots do: they know their limits.

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  It’s important to understand the difference between Boeing and Airbus aircraft.

  All aircraft perform within the physical laws of gravity, lift and propulsion. They have essentially the same types of moveable flight control surfaces: ailerons, flaps, slats, elevators, spoilers and rudders. These surfaces move, enabling the aircraft to do the seemingly impossible: take off and land on short runways, and cruise fast at high altitude where the air is so thin that, in the case of a decompression, the crew and passengers would start becoming unconscious within nine seconds.