Cheap Flights – The True Cost

Are We Taking Safety for Granted?

by Terry Tozer

It’s almost a shame to take the money on an evening like this. We are in the cruise, in smooth air and on a straightforward trip from Edinburgh to Gatwick. It is not as if we are flying over the Andes in powerful mountain waves, air currents that can suck an aircraft downwards at a shocking rate, or battling tropical thunderstorms. No, this is a simple commuter run of around one hour’s duration in a safe and ordered environment. Most flights of this nature are like minor surgical operations in one respect. You could not exactly describe them as routine but they usually go as planned and work out well. Today is like that and so far the flight looks fine.  

        Visibility down south is a bit murky but the forecast says it will be above the 300 metres required for the low visibility landing we are equipped to carry out. Although we are in a state of the art modern aircraft we do not have zero visibility landing capability but our system gets us where we want to go most of the time. It is much better than the old days when we needed twice that visibility to operate in bad weather.  We were used to frequent diversions then but that is a rare event now. 

        We have loads of fuel, so we have no worries there, but a low visibility approach is no time for complacency and the co-pilot Brian is not on very good form. His attitude is bad. He was dragged in for this trip at short notice but it is not my fault and we’re here to do a professional job. Having a sulky chip on his shoulder is unacceptable and it will require some discussion when we land. We haven’t met before but I’ve met his reputation and it isn’t good.

        We run through the descent and approach checks and start on our way down for the approach. As we descend into the murk I note that the fog has a yellow sulphurous character. It has a malevolent look, as if it is somehow toxic, I wonder if we’re breathing it in?

        One of the great things about major airports is the slick air traffic control. No groping your way around as if partially sighted, using instrument approaches that require the pilots to follow complex procedures without radar, in order to line up with the runway. Keep that for the Greek Islands, this is the UK and it is a benign user-friendly environment.

        So, the radar controller steers us to where we want to be; the aircraft is now locked onto the electronic rails of the Instrument Landing System (ILS), the pair of radio beams that will guide the aircraft to the runway threshold, it will do it all automatically now. Everything is set for landing, the undercarriage is down and all checks are completed. The autopilot follows the ILS beams with a precision neither I nor any other human could achieve and the instrument indicators are all perfectly centred. All is looking good.

        Our job now is to monitor our progress down to our decision height 100 feet above the runway. Once there we will either see the lights and I will disconnect the autopilot and land or, if I fail to see sufficient approach and runway lights to complete a safe landing, we will have to go-around and consider our options. The tower controller has now given the touchdown runway visibility as 350 metres and cleared us to land off the approach, which we should be able to do, as it’s 50 more metres than we need to be legal.

        As we pass through 1000 feet the controller says, “Runway Visual Range 150 metres.”

        Damn. That’s fog for you. That is below our limits but as we have just descended below 1000 feet we can legally continue for a “look see” and, if I get the lights in sight, we can still land - but it isn’t looking good.

        Brian gives me a progress call and tension mounts as we slide silently down through the fog towards the earth. The jet engines are so far behind us and on such a low power setting that we hear nothing but the gentle hiss of air over the cockpit skin. With no visual clues from the outside world it is only the instruments that tell us we are moving. The air is still and smooth, not even the slightest ripple of turbulence disturbs our progress.

        We are passing 200 feet, 100feet before I must decide if we can land or not. I check to ensure that my seat is raised to the correct height or the row of lights I seek will be hidden beneath the aircraft nose. At 150 metres visibility it is unlikely that there will be any lights to be seen in the split second of time I will have to make a decision.

        I place my right hand on the thrust levers and my left on the control column, my left thumb hovers over the red button that will disconnect the autopilot.

        Well, I can hope, can’t I? If it is a go-around it will be automatic and so the autopilot will stay connected.

        Brian is now glued to the aircraft instruments whilst I am staring at the yellow fog in the hope that some glow, some indication that the required number of lights will suddenly become visible. The numbers on the altimeter unwind with unreal slowness, 170ft, 150, 120. The tension mounts to a palpable level now as we both realise this isn’t working.

         “Decide,” says Brian, leaning forward ready to reach for the undercarriage lever.

        The altimeter says 100 feet right enough, I can’t argue with that, so is there any glow, any reference? No. None.

        “Nothing seen, going around,” I say and hit the button on the thrust levers that tells the aircraft to fly a missed approach, whilst at the same time pushing the levers smoothly and progressively to the “go-around” detent on the throttle quadrant.

        We both feel the silent surge of thrust from the two rear mounted jets. The aircraft pitches up to follow the flight director commands and begins to accelerate. “Gear up,” I call and Brian acknowledges and raises the undercarriage lever. The familiar sound of the nose gear doors and undercarriage follow, accompanied by a bell.

        I freeze inside. There is only one bell on this aircraft. It is the fire bell. I look up and sure enough the number two engine fire handle above our heads is lit up red and on the enunciator in front of us a big red light shines in the dim glow of the cockpit. It has ENGINE FIRE written on it. The bell still rings.

         “SHIT,” I think, and I expect Brian does too but he says, “Engine fire number two engine.”

        I call for the fire drill. The tower then asks our intentions and I realise we’ve not told him we’ve gone around. Brian silences the bell by pushing the big red light and tells the tower that we are executing a missed approach and have a problem too. The tower will wait for more information when we have the time.

        This has to be dealt with in spite of the dry mouth and increased pulse rate. Brian is sweating a little now, I notice, but I don’t waste time looking at him. I must monitor the aircraft’s progress as well as the fire drill. We cannot afford any mistakes.

        “Number two thrust lever,” says Brian placing his hand on it. I look, confirm that he has the right one and say so.

        He slowly moves the lever back into the idle position and as he does so the aircraft yaws to the right. All our thrust is now coming from the left hand engine only, which tries to push us off course.  The instruments all show the number two engine running down to idle. The autopilot adjusts the aircraft attitude and counters the right swing perfectly. I advance the remaining thrust lever to maximum thrust in order to give us all we can have.

        “Number two fire handle,” says Brian,

        I check to see that he has the right one and yell “NO!” He has his hand on the left, number one fire handle. We’re about to lose our only remaining engine! Jesus what is wrong with this guy?

        “Shit,” says Brian now thoroughly rattled and moves his hand to the correct handle. How could he get that wrong? The correct one has a fucking great red light in it. No, don’t go there. I can’t think about that. I must fly the aircraft. One of the classic mistakes is looking at details while the aircraft goes off on its own way heaven knows where. Like the US crew that flew their huge Lockheed Tristar into the Everglades swamp. They were all busy looking at a red warning light that wouldn’t cancel even though they’d solved the problem it was telling them about. Incredible but true.

        “Number two fire handle,” says Brian again.

        I make damned sure he’s right before agreeing and then I confirm that this time he has the correct handle. I still watch like a hawk as he pulls it and so, shuts off fuel and hydraulic fluid to the burning engine. He starts his stopwatch and calls to tell me that we may now retract our flaps. This will make the aeroplane smoother and slipperier with less drag, as our single remaining engine pushes us past the target speed.

        It occurs to me that this is how accidents happen. Some rogue element creates ever increasing problems until the overloaded crew screw up somewhere. Brian is my rogue element and now part of this problem instead of my backup.

        We are now climbing away clean and on the published missed approach procedure. All courtesy of the on-board computer which is navigating the aircraft.

        I witness Brian taking a look at the engine fire handle with its red light still illuminated. He fires the first fire extinguisher bottle into the engine and restarts his stopwatch for another 30 second wait. He runs through the checks with me. It is desperately slow. I guess he’s frightened of screwing up again but we can’t wait all day. We finally begin the tidy up items after an engine fire. The concentration necessary suppresses any feelings of angst at this point but they’re there all right. I have to force a sinking feeling of awful inevitability from my mind and stomach. This can’t be happening to me.      

        We know all this should work, we know the aircraft flies well on one engine but nobody wants to be here from choice and we must suppress the thoughts of how we might have been standing in the warm, safe, hotel bar by now with a post flight beer in our hands. It is vital that we just stick to the job in hand and follow company procedures.

        At moments like this, ordinary things, like wheeling a trolley around Sainsburys feel oddly attractive but we will have to wait for that pleasure. We must concentrate, this is the time when I earn that salary.

        I am concerned that the fire did not go out when Brian pulled the handle, cutting off all flammable liquid to the engine. It could be something very bad. I think of Concorde. They had a fire warning that they could not stop. It was because half the aircraft was on fire not simply the engine. Like them we can’t see the rear of the aircraft and…….Christ! Is that why the fog is yellow?

        I can’t think about that. If it is a big fire we really are in the poo and dire measures may be needed, like trying to land below required limits, fog or no fog. Or maybe Heathrow, it’s effectively next door and the weather is better there - just. If something is burning we need to be on the ground fast where everyone can evacuate the aircraft and the fire crews can reach us, but we cannot rush; discipline and accuracy are vital.

        The intercom light comes on. It will be the number one hostie Carol. Great timing but it could be important and I have not told them the full story yet.

        Not as I feared a tale of how the aft section of the aircraft is ablaze but, “I have a male passenger who’s having a heart attack, I’m sure its for real, he’s going blue.” 

        “Jesus what did I do to deserve this,” I think, but instead say, “OK Carol, we have an engine fire on the right and a missed approach to deal with, we’ll be requesting diversion and priority landing asap. Do what you can, secure the cabin and we’ll get back to you when we have a couple of brain cells to spare.”

        “OK,…..right,”  says Carol, obviously shaken.

        I ask if she can see anything unusual down the back, like a major fire. She can’t. Phew, that’s a relief. She’ll send Sharon down there to feel the right hand rear cabin wall just to make sure. I can’t let the guy with the heart attack affect me. There’s nothing I can do. Take stock and prioritise.

        The fire handle of number two engine still has a red light. Brian fires the second and final fire bottle into the engine. That’s it, we’re out of fire suppressant now. The clean-up checks are completed and I have two thrust levers back again, albeit that one of them does nothing more than help me feel normal. I ease the thrust back as we reach 3000 feet. The autopilot captures the altitude and the aircraft levels off. I hear the tower controller say, “Visibility now 500 metres do you want another go?”  Is the pope a Catholic?  “Please,” says Brian after getting the nod from me.

        That’s better, he seems more on the case at last, maybe the shock has sorted him out. How typical of the lottery that is crew rostering. Fate simply dictates that today, this totally unusual, unique day when some sadist with momentary control over my life chooses to throw all this crap at me, I get Brian as my First Officer when there are so many great operators out there.

        I have to prompt him to bring the tower controller up to date and request an ambulance for the male passenger and the fire trucks for us. Carol will have the cardiac case on oxygen but there’s little else she can do but hold his hand. I make a quick call to the cabin to give the girls the latest. It’s Sharon who answers as Carol is looking after the sick man.

        The red light goes out on the fire handle. Phew, so we’re not burning at least. The tower controller comes on the radio.

        “Sorry chaps not good timing but our radar’s gone down. Visibility is still 500 metres but it will be a procedural approach to runway 26 Left, you are number one. Manoeuvre as you wish, to establish on the procedure, and call me when you’re inbound.” So much for the hubris about slick mainland airports and a benign user friendly environment. Without radar we now have to do all the work ourselves by reading charts, timing our progress, with the aircraft stopwatches, and taking bearings from radio beacons. It is bad luck that when we have to fly a rare, non-standard approach, it is the day we have an emergency. OK, it’s what we’re paid for but we’re already busy enough and I can’t rely on Brian.     

        Brian and I look at one another but say nothing. It isn’t necessary but he shakes his head and there’s a wry smile on his lips. Well that’s an improvement anyhow, if he can smile instead of scowling.

        “Single engine approach and landing checks as far as you can go please Brian and just ensure I’m on the procedure and the profile as we go”.

        He acknowledges and we concentrate on our respective tasks as I slow the aircraft down to give us as much time as possible. If we are too fast, we may have to take up the holding pattern until all the checks are complete. This is no time for any more delay if we can avoid it but we must not rush.

        There are a lot of checks to complete and Brian is painfully slow and keeps making mistakes. My pulse rate is climbing due to Brian now. I need support not a liability.

       We need to program the aircraft systems to fly the published procedure that we must now use. There is a rustling of paper charts as we find the ones we need for this type of approach. We turn up our individual reading lights to see them clearly. The lamps create a pool of light near each side of the cockpit much brighter than the glow from the instruments. I will have to monitor everything Brian does but we will need low lighting, in order to keep our night vision, once we are set up for the landing. It is not yet dark, only approaching dusk but the fog makes it seem later than it is.

        The flight management computer is now worth its weight in platinum. Only last year we’d have had to fly the aeroplane and reset and follow several old “clockwork” instruments in the midst of all this.

        We may have slowed down but we’re still sliding silently along at 200mph and the clock is ticking. There’s little time available but we must be both fast and accurate.

        We get away without the holding pattern, heaven knows how. We fly directly outbound in the procedure and begin configuring the aircraft for landing. Anticipation is now a physical force, we must NOT expect to land off this approach, that way lies potential disaster. Every approach should be an approach to a go-around until you have all your ducks in a row and you can only believe that when you can definitely reach the runway, even as a glider.

        I somehow squeeze in a quick address to the passengers and sound as reassuring as my pulse rate will allow. First we set some flaps for landing. Then, once established on final approach and approaching glideslope, the electronic beam that will fly us down to the runway threshold, I say, “Gear down.”

        I hold my breath as Brian selects the undercarriage to the down position and we wait for the familiar clonks and clunks as the wheels are released to fall through foggy space.

        “Three greens,” he says. As the three green lights, one for each wheel, come on in sequence to indicate that our undercarriage is not only down but locked into position too.

        Phew once more, at least that worked. We complete our checks and settle into the approach attitude nicely. The tower then gives us some good news for a change. The visibility has dramatically improved. It is now only bad instead of appalling.  Great. But what is this attitude fluctuation that I see beginning?

        The nose of the aircraft is rising and falling, only slightly at first, then with greater amplitude. Brian and I look first at each other then back at the instruments and autopilot system. This has to be the autopilot doing this for sure as the ILS indications are not moving. Low visibility procedures will be in place at Gatwick. This means that nothing - no vehicle or person - that could interfere with the ILS that we are following will be allowed anywhere near the transmitters. We can do nothing but watch. The fluctuations get smaller, then bigger again. If this doesn’t stop there’s no way we can complete an automatic approach. The visibility is legal now for a manual landing at least, so it looks as if I’ll have to hand fly it and just hope the fog doesn’t suddenly get worse again, as fog so often does.

        I had better get in the groove sooner rather than later, we can’t afford another go around due to a mistake by me. I convey my plan to Brian. He doesn’t answer but I get a new voice in my headphones.  It says. “Leave it alone I want to see what happens”. Is this the devil speaking to me?                 

        No, it is our Chief Training Captain Mike, on the jump seat just behind me. I had forgotten he was there, so intense has the concentration been.

        “We’ll never get in if this oscillation continues,” I say.

        But Mike is god and a supernatural talent too can he be wrong? Brian is looking puzzled and now worried too, although he says nothing. No doubt licking his wounds after the cock-up. He’s not going to put his head above the parapet after that even if he thinks I’ve gone insane.

        “I want to see if this will damp out as we get nearer,” Says Mike.

        What? The oscillations are growing by the minute and any more we’ll be feeling sick let alone risking something awful.

        “But Mike…” I say.

        “Its OK,” he says, “Leave it alone.”

        I look at Brian again and can see what he’s thinking. Every fibre of my being wants to disobey Mike’s order. I don’t like this one bit and neither does Brian.

        Then suddenly we break out of cloud and there’s the runway, bang on the nose exactly where it should be. The relief is short-lived.  As we breathe out the aircraft starts to pitch up rapidly and the nose is soon 8 degrees above the horizon. Instinctively I reach for the control column.

        “Leave it alone,” says Mike firmly. “I want to see what the problem is.”

        I stop in my tracks and watch in horrified fascination as the aircraft’s nose then plummets downwards and the A23, that runs past the threshold of runway 26, rushes up towards us. We are going to die.

        Brian and I brace ourselves for impact. There is a shuddering deceleration and the aircraft stops as if it has hit a brick wall. The big red truck between us and the runway stops too, along with all the other simulated traffic on the road as we hang 100 feet above it, frozen in space.

        “Oh well, that’s enough of that,” says Mike and I realise he has hit the stop button on the simulator control panel, which he operates from his seat behind me. The simulator motion system has frozen us in time as well as space.

        “Jesus that was horrible,” says Brian.

        “Yes,” is all I can muster as my adrenalin stops surging and I sag into my shoulder harness. It certainly was and not just that clear vision of what death looks like either. Mike slides back his seat.

        “Ok guys, lets get a coffee and I’ll call the engineer, this toy has got a motion problem.”  “And Brian, we’ll need to look at some of that again won’t we?”  he says, “That mistake could have been embarrassing”. Always the master of understatement as well as the machine. “Great,” I think to myself, as I know I’ll also end up doing it all again too as Brian can’t operate on his own.  Brian won’t look me in the eye.

        Well, only another two hours of this and our six monthly recurrent check and training will be over and we will leave the two day simulator session better pilots for the experience, thanks to amazing technology and in this case an excellent trainer who runs an excellent training department. We will have practiced emergencies and unusual procedures unthinkable in a real aeroplane.

        They will range from sudden decompression at 37000 feet, to hydraulic and electrical failures and malfunctions of virtually every system on the aircraft. We will have flown and landed the aeroplane with no brakes, no steering, even no engines at all. With fires in the engines as well as the cabin, with only tiny limited standby instruments after all our systems have failed all at once and on and on it goes until you are begging for mercy.

        Good training is invaluable however, and no pilot likes feeling under-trained or out of practice. The modern simulator is a wonderful tool for experiencing just about every imaginary scenario with complete realism, yet without risk. The modern visual systems are so real that disbelief is suspended and you are there, flying or taxiing an aeroplane to the runway, that is all there is to it.

        We will look at this amazing tool and what pilots experience in their training sessions later in the book. But first it is worth looking at some history in order to see just how things have changed.

        And if you are wondering, yes that was from a real simulator session that I experienced, although on the day we had a few more problems that I didn’t mention here. What this session illustrates is how a combination of elements can come together to create the potential for an accident or incident.   

         The question of rank, human interaction as well as technical issues and the good fortune or lack of it that brings these things together on one particular day can conspire to create a potentially dangerous situation. These problems are dealt with professionally by pilots following well tried and tested practices, as this example shows.

There is one additional factor, not covered here, as we will see in the next chapter.