We could evacuate now, run a precautionary slow evacuation, or we could wait for stairs and de-plane the passengers directly into the buses. I decided we were safest on board, but that we should keep the cabin crew in the alert phase ready to evacuate on any call of fire. I am happy with my decision not to evacuate the passengers. It was made after consulting the other pilots, considering every threat we could see and imagine.
I then jumped on the public address and told the passengers everything we had just discussed in the flight deck. The passengers were safer on board, and when they realised this they started to relax.
Matt and I sat in the cockpit for two hours with the ‘passenger evacuation’ checklist ready to go; the cabin crew were at the ‘alert phase’ and had been ready to evacuate at the blink of an eye for two long hours – the longest alert phase in Qantas’s history.
The threat of fire was high, but it did not eventuate. And with every passing second the threat diminished as the firefighters hosed the brakes and the fuel was covered by foam. The situation was stabilising and we waited for the fire crews to give us the ‘safe’ call.
After twenty minutes of this highly stressful situation, the brakes had cooled and the fuel was thoroughly covered in foam and water – I thought the worst was over. The fire controller told us that Engine 1 was still running, but he was much more relaxed than he’d been in our first conversation.
Dave Evans had turned on his mobile and was talking to the Qantas Crisis Centre in Sydney to give them an update. I assumed they’d be pretty worried. At the same time, Harry got on his phone to the engineers in Sydney to see what we could do about the engine.
The Qantas engineers told Harry to go out and walk around the engine, and have a look. When Harry said the environment wasn’t conducive for a walk right now, they suggested we transfer fuel from Engine 1’s feed tank to Engine 2’s. But that had been our nightmare for almost an hour and half – the fuel pumps didn’t work and the transfer galleries were busted. Harry was dispatched to pull circuit breakers in the upper electronics bay, and to try and transfer fuel from the fuel panel under the aircraft, but none of these ideas worked. There was even an attempt to open the engine’s cowls and manually shut a fuel valve, but alas the cowls are electrically operated and the left wing was electrically dead. This Rolls-Royce engine that worked flawlessly in the air kept to its creed – nothing stopped it then, and nothing would stop it now.
We waited for another few minutes while the engineers in the Crisis Centre spoke to the appropriate people. A team of Changi ground engineers were sent out to try and shut down Engine 1 but they couldn’t stop it. And then the word came back: we were cleared to ask our fire crews to turn their water pumps into Engine 1.
The firefighters pumped as much water as they could into that engine, at one point training two nozzles into it. They couldn’t deploy more than one fire truck to kill the engine as the firefighters’ primary function is to stop the escape slides and passengers catching fire during an evacuation. They almost won. The engine had faltered, wound down and almost died. But then the fire truck ran out of water at the last second and, in a final testament to Rolls-Royce resilience, the igniters kicked in and that big Trent 900 just started up again. As far as indefatigable machinery is concerned, it’s worth mentioning that the engine was designed to ingest 3 tonnes of rain and hail per minute – that’s a lot worse than the heaviest rain showers.
We couldn’t shut Engine 1 down: we couldn’t starve it of fuel and we couldn’t drown it in water.
By this stage the brakes had cooled and the foam had smothered the fuel. Matt and I were in the flight deck guarding the aircraft. Matt said, ‘Nice landing, Rich.’ I replied, ‘This aircraft is buggered for a month!’ No one could argue with that.
CHAPTER 27
Qantas is Not Going to Like This!
I had decided we would disembark the passengers from the aircraft via stairs and buses, as it was less dangerous. The stairs had arrived but the buses were not forthcoming. In frustration, David used his phone to call the Qantas office in Singapore and then the Qantas Crisis Centre in Sydney.
We were still very busy. At this point all of us on the flight deck were working as a very efficient team. Matt and I were in the front seats ready to action the evacuation checklist if a fire broke out. I made PAs to the passengers about every ten minutes updating them with what was happening. Harry was working with the Sydney engineers to try and extinguish Engine 1. Dave was trying to get buses to the aircraft. Mark was on a continuous loop around the aircraft talking to the passengers and keeping them informed.
The APU’s air duct had been severed so the APU was unable to power the air conditioners. The lack of airconditioning on the dead plane was starting to distress some of the passengers. It was 30 degrees Celsius outside in the midday sun, and it was getting hot and muggy on board. So I got on the PA – still our only communication channel with the cabin – and told the passengers, ‘Sorry about the delay to de-plane and the lack of airconditioning. We’re currently not in comfort mode, we’re in safety mode and your safety is our only priority. We are waiting for buses to arrive before we de-plane.’
I didn’t blame them for being annoyed. Everyone on that plane was hot and sweaty. Michael von Reth sent a messenger to the cockpit to say that passengers needed to go to the toilet but they were being kept in their seats. I said, ‘Let them go but keep the door areas clear in case we have to evacuate.’
So they went to the toilets and they clogged the doorways, and I had to go back on the PA and warn the entire plane of the situation: we were in safety mode and no one could block the exits. If they didn’t follow my instructions and keep the doors clear, then I would turn the seatbelt sign back on and force everyone to stay in their seats. Our approach worked.
The engineers back in Sydney still wanted a personal account of what the engine looked like, and our first set of stairs had arrived on our right side. Dave went out and made the first inspection: ‘Oh, it was a total shock. Unbelievable, it was unbelievable. To look at that engine up close was just gobsmacking. It’s the only way to describe it.’
Matt took the next look: ‘I didn’t expect the whole back of the engine to not be there. I mean the only thing holding the back section of the engine on was the shafts, the turbine shaft. The whole intermediate pressure turbine was gone. To look underneath and still see fuel leaking out of the fuel tanks, and just be walking around, it was actually a bit surreal. There’s all this, you know, retardant foam blowing around through the air, and I’m just sort of wandering around under the plane and fuel leaking everywhere, and it, it’s weird.’
Dave Evans took my seat and I walked through the entire aircraft talking to passengers. Some of the passengers called out to me. One said that I should open the rear doors to let some air in. I told them I didn’t want to do that without either stairs or a slide attached to it. An open door is one less door that can be opened to deploy an escape slide, and there was no way we could guarantee that a person or child might not fall out of an open door. But I also told them that if anyone felt close to fainting or collapsing, that the local cabin attendant was authorised to bring them forward in the aircraft for additional care. The passengers now understood my reasoning and so started to relax and accept their predicament.
With the passengers secure, I walked outside into the warmth and haze of the Singapore tropical noon, then down onto the runway where I saw for the first time the scale of the damage. I briefly met some of the firefighters who had covered the ground in foam and cooled the brakes. A fire officer guided me under the plane towards the left wing. I was shocked by the amount of damage I saw, and my first thought was how remarkable the aircraft was to stay together and fly so well when so much had failed, and how lucky the 469 of us had been to make it back to Singapore alive. The wing was opened up like a sardine can with impacts and holes everywhere. Fuel was gushing out of multiple holes. I was dumbstruck to see Engine 2 from the side, with the gaping
hole exposing the engine’s core right down to the low speed rotor. It’s a view I don’t think any pilot had ever seen before, and it’s one I’ll certainly never forget! Remarkably, the engine pylon was twisted and the engine was hanging off the wing by just two bolts yet it hadn’t fallen away. The belly was sliced, four tyres had overheated and deflated (a thermal fuse prevents them exploding), and fuel and foam covered the ground.
The passengers would have panicked if they saw this view, so I was even more resolute now to unload the passengers from the right-hand side, from the stairs directly onto the buses so they did not see the damage I was seeing.
It was a smorgasbord of destruction. A total mess. But we were alive! We were all so very lucky. The events that day could have transpired so very differently. I would have many months in front of me to read the investigators’ and engineers’ reports on what damage had been sustained and how fortunate we were that the aircraft kept flying. The reality is that most events where the turbine discs fail end in disaster. So the residents of Batam Island were lucky we were flying an A380 that day, for if it were a lesser aircraft, there would have been a lot more collateral damage.
Climbing back into the aircraft, I told Michael von Reth to disembark the passengers methodically and carefully down the steps when the buses arrived. I then made my way back to the cockpit.
I keyed the PA and thanked the passengers for their cooperation, and told them the aircraft was now stable and that they’d be leaving the aircraft shortly. I handed them over to the care of the cabin service manager and his crew, and said their instructions were to be carried out to the letter and no one was to carry any luggage off the plane; it was all to be left behind. I also requested that, once in the terminal, they were to stay assembled in the areas they were directed to by the airport management. I signed off by saying I would follow them back to the terminal building where I would conduct a full debrief and explain everything. The standing order in an emergency evacuation is that passengers may take no luggage. And that means no luggage except what you can carry in your pockets. The last thing we needed after all our efforts to secure the passengers’ safety was for someone to trip while trying to carry a bag down the stairs. I explained this very carefully to everyone, and only a few complained.
Matt’s wife, Georgie, called too. I didn’t hear any details but I remember him saying afterwards: ‘Georgie says we’re all over CNN. No wonder she was crying . . .’
It was 12.40 pm, 52 minutes after we stopped, when the first passenger stepped off the aircraft, and down the stairs into the waiting buses. It was a great relief. The aircraft brakes had cooled, but there was still tonnes of fuel on the ground and so the crew were still at high alert, and Harry was still trying to shut down Engine 1.
At this stage, with the aircraft stabilised, the stress was easing and I found myself with a moment to reflect. I was proud of the teamwork displayed by the crews. I gathered my thoughts, and then I put my hand on Matt’s shoulder and thanked and then congratulated him on the way he had handled such a stressful event.
During our otherwise orderly evacuation, one passenger tried to leave the plane with a roller bag. Michael von Reth, who was monitoring every passenger movement, stopped the passenger and said, ‘I told everyone not to take any luggage.’ The passenger, an Aussie, said curtly: ‘Well, the bag is here with me, so what are you going to do about it?’ Michael grabbed the bag and threw it with full force through the air right across to the other side of the aircraft and said, ‘That’s what – now get off!’ No one appeared at the door with any luggage after that.
At 1.20 pm Singapore time I got a text message from Coral: ‘Holy cow – that was close. It’s all over the news. Rowly called me just before the news broke. So glad you’re safe. Call me when u can. Love u, Coral.’
I wouldn’t reply until 1.48 pm, when I sent a reply: ‘Can’t call yet – still have probs shutting eng down.’
Michael carefully counted every passenger as they disembarked – he had counted 440 souls when the last passenger exited for the bus. We could tell the Qantas Crisis Centre to now write 440 against the passenger count on the right side of their white board.
Michael and I knew well that a very large whiteboard was mounted on the back wall of the Crisis Centre in Sydney. The board was split into two columns: in the left column were spaces where the crisis staff wrote totals for men, women, children, infants and crew, and a total at the bottom. I knew someone had already written a large ‘469’ at the bottom of the left column. The right-hand column contains similar spaces, but also lines for ‘uninjured’, ‘hospitalised’ and ‘unaccounted for’, and a ‘Total Souls Onboard’ at the bottom. I knew everyone in the Crisis Centre would be watching that total slowly creep up as news flowed in, praying for it to match the left – so was I. These thoughts were foremost when I spoke to the passengers in the aircraft on the ground. My sole motivation now was to get a 469 into that right column – and everything else was irrelevant.
Ideally, an airline wants to make the two totals match. But you can’t make them match if the people you want to count are wandering around Changi Airport, talking to the press, looking for a beer, a sandwich or a Valium! We would have some help from airport management, in that the passengers could be escorted into certain lounges and not allowed to pass through customs. But it’s a big airport and my colleagues’ experiences had reminded me that after a crisis such as this the passengers would not act rationally. So we needed to keep the group together until Michael and his people had done their counts and reported them to me. The passengers had done nothing wrong – they couldn’t be physically restrained by airport security or the police.
With most of the passengers off, the tension eased in the flight deck. We started to think about the investigations, interviews and the analysis of every detail of this flight that would come. Matt told Dave that when he filled out my route check form, he could create a new check for ‘degree of difficulty’ and mark it as ‘extreme’.
Mark asked me what I wanted written into the technical log. Nancy-Bird Walton’s big red technical log is a sort of captain’s log that must be annotated at the end of every flight, listing the flight details and any aircraft unserviceabilities. Mark’s question made me revisit the events that we had just grappled with over the last four hours. An exact log report would fill many books. After reflecting for a while, and to Mark’s surprise, I asked him to write down this short and succinct summary: ‘Engine 2 failed on climb out around 4000.’ Our Air Safety Incident Report that is sent to the Australian Transport Safety Bureau would report just the same.
It was 1.40 pm when the last passenger disembarked the aircraft – that’s one hour and 52 minutes after we stopped on the runway, and three hours and 39 minutes since the engine exploded. I swung immediately into the next mode – passenger debriefing. I handed over my command of the aircraft to Dave to stabilise the aircraft with the engineers. Before I stood up from my seat I grabbed the summary sheet that contains my private notes for conducting the flight. It was remarkable – I had not written one word on the page since the engine had exploded; the Airbus computer systems had displayed everything I needed to know during the flight. It was a wonderful testament for the Airbus information systems. I grabbed my Qantas hat then circled the entire cabin, checking with the cabin crew that all zones were clear of passengers. When I finally arrived at main door 2 right, ready to leave the aircraft, I looked at Michael's watch; it was about 1:50 pm. The cabin crew had been at the alert phase for a whopping two hours since we had landed – a record for any airline.
I descended the aircraft stairs and located a policeman, who took me to the passenger terminal. As we left the runway and crossed over the runway’s holding point, I looked back through the car’s rear window. I squinted as I caught the enormity of the sight of the sad and dishevelled Nancy-Bird Walton dowsed in the Singapore midday sun. Beneath her, rivers of dirty foam flowed around her deflated tyres and the six fire trucks administering i
ntensive care.
It struck me that I had been wrong when I’d told Matt the aircraft would be buggered for a month; it would be wrecked for a year. And it wasn’t going to look good on the news.
It was an emotional moment for me. Watching that huge, battered bird sitting there, surrounded by firefighters, police, ambulances and airport personnel, I felt guilty, like I was running away from the scene of a crime that was somehow my fault. But just as I was starting to feel overwhelmed another thought lifted my spirits. I recalled meeting the aircraft’s namesake, Nancy-Bird Walton, ten years before, and then again at the naming ceremony in October 2008 when the first A380 was delivered to Qantas. She was a spritely, short, 93 year old with piercing pale blue eyes, who had been taught to fly by Charles Kingsford-Smith when she was seventeen. She’d then gone on to create the air ambulance service in outback New South Wales. She smiled and told the audience, ‘I was asked if Qantas could name this plane after me, at my 90th birthday three years ago, and I made it my decision to stay alive.’ When a bottle of champagne was cracked to christen the aircraft, Nancy cried, ‘Don’t scratch my aeroplane!’
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