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Captain Emma Taylor worked through the stretching exercises she always performed before an approach to landing. This day was long for her and her crew, a flight from London Heathrow to the Lynden Pindling International Airport in Nassau, Bahamas, with an intermediate stop just past the midpoint at the L. F. Wade International Airport in Bermuda. The first leg to Bermuda had taken just over three hours, and after an hour-and-a-half to refuel and swap out a few passengers, they took off for the remaining two-and-a-half hours to Nassau.
Taylor loved flying in general and the Airbus 321 LR in particular. The plane was the latest in the narrow-body family of Airbus airliners, with increased fuel capacity for over-water flights—“LR” meant Long Range. She was delighted working for the relatively new airline Pan-Commonwealth, built to compete with the UK state airline British Airways using more economical, smaller cabin planes for routes between the UK and Commonwealth Nations in Africa and the Western Hemisphere. This particular route was her favorite this time of year—nine hours of work, then two days off in a lovely beach hotel in Nassau before another two legs back to London’s dreary cold and wet.
Her co-pilot, First Officer Samesh Patel, handled the flying on this leg, although he was doing little more than monitoring the plane’s performance with the autopilot engaged. She liked Patel and the four flight attendants servicing the cabin, and they regularly flew together. PCA was founded by an eccentric billionaire, but run by some old-time Royal Air Force and Fleet Air Arm fliers. They firmly believed in crew integrity and teamwork and kept crews together for scheduling whenever practicable.
Taylor was a statuesque five foot eight, and at forty-two, her shoulder-length blonde hair was just starting to show hints of gray. She was ex-RAF, a squadron leader tanker pilot who opted to leave the service for the higher pay and politics-free world of commercial aviation. Her application to British Airways was met with marginally polite disdain, which led her to PCA—a far better deal in her mind. She was still recovering from the breakup of a childless marriage to another RAF officer—she was happily single with nothing in the works but her current job.
Patel came through the commercial pilot route, working several jobs to pay for the training and qualifications to get him an airline transport pilot license. Then he slogged through the grueling pace of working up through the commuter lines after moving to the UK from Australia, finally landing a coveted major airline job with PCA. Patel was devoted to his wife and two children. Although he was not very outgoing, Taylor liked him personally and admired his diligence and dedication to the craft. Unlike some of the other pilots she had worked with in the RAF and PCA, she had complete confidence in Patel.
Chief Steward Richard Burgess led the crew in the cabin. He was a seasoned flight attendant with twenty-two years at British Airways before coming over to PCA. He was consistently cheerful and patient and had a fantastic sense of humor. His safety briefs were more like standup comedy routines that never failed to engage the passengers. He was celebrating his fifteenth wedding anniversary tomorrow, and his husband Gerry was among the passengers on this flight.
The only rub on this trip was the weather. A rare early Spring depression was moving through the northern Bahamas, generating an unusual amount of thunderstorm activity at the tail end of their route today. Taylor could see build-ups in the distance, which boded for a bumpy ride ahead. It was time to check in with approach control. With Patel on the controls, Taylor’s job was communications, and she handled the radio call to the oceanic air traffic control center.
“Miami Center, Peregrine Four-Zero-Three, two hundred to Nassau, ready for approach, over.” PCA’s company callsign Peregrine was another subtle jab at their rival British Airways, whose callsign for international flights was “Speedbird.”
“Peregrine Four-Zero-Three, Miami Center, roger. Information India current, runway one-four in use at Lynden Pindling, expect visual approach, altimeter two niner eight three. Descend and maintain flight level two four zero.”
“Miami Center, Four-Zero-Three, roger, two niner eight three, leaving three eight zero for two four zero. Are you showing any convective weather? Over.”
“Four-Zero-Three, Miami Center, affirmative. Satellites and PIREPs show medium to heavy convective activity, from three-three-zero to zero-two-zero out to one hundred fifty miles from Nassau. Airfield and approach are clear within sixty miles. Over.”
“Miami Center, Four-Zero-Three, roger, we may need to maneuver. Over.”
“Four-Zero-Three, Miami Center, no traffic in your area. Maneuver at discretion, over.”
“Miami Center, Four-Zero-Three, roger, out.” She turned to Patel and added, “Let’s cruise down to twenty-four thousand, Sami.”
“Roger, Boss,” Patel dialed in the new altitude and selected a constant speed descent.
Taylor picked up the intercom phone and pressed the call button. After a minute, Burgess picked up and said, “Cabin here.”
“Chief, we are starting down now. Looks like some rough stuff ahead, so get everything tied down, please.”
“Oh, Skipper. You always have to make things interesting, don’t you?”
“It’s what I live for,” she said with a smile as she pressed the “Fasten Seat Belts” announcement button. She hung up the handset and selected the weather radar on her main cockpit panel screen. The multicolor display was ominous, almost a continuous line of heavy rain cells stretching across the sixty-degree scan ahead. As they got closer, she saw a gap opening slightly to the right of their current course. “Sami, looks like a hole to the right. I make it around two-three-zero. Let’s slow to two-seventy.”
“Roger, coming right to two-three-zero and two-seventy.” As Patel dialed in the new settings, the aircraft responded with a slight bank to the new heading while the thrust levers pulled back to slow the plane. Taylor wanted to stabilize the altitude before they got near the weather ahead, and two hundred seventy knots was the recommended airspeed when dealing with turbulence.
As they approached the weather line at a little over seven miles per minute, Taylor was distinctly displeased to see the “gap” she had picked out was closing. It was still the best route in sight, but they were going to take a beating. “Better go on manual, Sami.”
Patel grasped the sidestick control with his right hand, laid his left on the thrust levers, and punched the autopilot release button. “Autopilot off.”
“Right,” Taylor said, scanning back and forth between the dark gray mounds of cloud approaching fast and the increasingly red trace of the weather radar. Her stomach flipped, as it always did when they first punched into the solid-looking cloud wall. Almost immediately, the eighty-seven-ton aircraft began bouncing as it passed through the alternating up- and down-drafts in the center of the cloud. After a few seconds, the plane broke into clear air and steadied down.
“So far, so good,” Patel said.
“Hold on. We’re not through yet,” Taylor replied. “Come about fifteen degrees to port,” she ordered, selecting the least red-looking path ahead. They punched into another boiling gray cloud a few seconds later, and the change was immediate. The A321 entered a period of violent bucking that only grew worse with time. When she began having difficulty reading the instruments, Taylor had had enough. “Start a climb, Sami!” As Patel pushed the thrust levers forward, she pushed the radio button and said, “Miami Center, Peregrine Four-Zero-Three, we are in severe turbulence at flight level two four zero and need to climb, over.”
“Four-Zero-Three, Miami Center, approved. Climb at discretion. Are you declaring an emergency? Over.”
Taylor was about to reply when the sound of rapid-fire hammering nearly made her jump from her seat. Hail! She did not have time to press the transmit switch before a series of sharp gunshot-like sounds came from behind. Her eyes immediately went to the center screen of the cockpit panel, flashing emergency and displaying turbine temperatures in the red. “Bloody Hell! Compressor stalls—reduce power!”
It was too late. Large hailstones and rain flooded both engines, blocking airflow and allowing the burning combustion gases to backfire into the compressors, spiking the temperature and damaging the rotating and stationary vanes. Taylor watched in horror as the engine speed and torque plunged, first on the right engine, then the left. “Flameout number two, flameout number one! I have the controls!”
Instinct and training immediately kicked in for both pilots. As Taylor grabbed her sidestick and pulled the thrust levers back to idle, Patel reached up and punched the button to deploy the Ram Air Turbine. A small pod holding an emergency generator locked into a position where the aircraft’s slipstream could spin its propeller, providing electrical and hydraulic power lost when the engines shut down. “Your controls, RAT deployed!” Patel announced. He reached down to the pocket beside his seat, drew out the emergency procedures book, and ran through the checklist.
They were punching out of the storm, at least, as the clouds fell away and bright sunlight illuminated the cockpit. Taylor set the optimum glide airspeed using the pitch attitude, then keyed the radio transmitter. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Peregrine Four-Zero-Three has dual engine flameout, total power loss, over.”
“Peregrine Four-Zero-Three, Miami Center, roger. Say number of souls and fuel on board and position.”
“Center, Four-Zero-Three, one two six souls, twenty-four thousand pounds, zero two four and one hundred fifty-three from Nassau, over.”
“Peregrine Four-Zero-Three, Miami Center, copy one two six souls, twenty-four thousand pounds, zero two four, one hundred fifty-three from Nassau. Nassau has you radar contact but stay with me. We are standing by this frequency, out.” The air traffic controller knew the crew would have their hands full and cleared off to let them get to work.
They were dropping fast toward the bright blue Atlantic. Patel was running through the main engine restart procedure, having already started the auxiliary power unit to supplement the RAT. They would have time for one restart attempt on each engine. If they could get one relit, it would provide enough thrust to keep them in the air. While there was always hope, Taylor geared herself for the most likely outcome, that neither engine was salvageable. With eight miles of travel possible before they ran out of altitude and over fifty to the nearest land, they were going to end up in the water, a nightmare scenario for a fully loaded airliner.
Taylor grabbed the intercom handset and pressed the call button. Burgess answered immediately, “Cabin, here.”
“We’re going in, Chief. Get them ready for it. We’re going to try for the Hudson River scenario, so keep the aft doors closed.”
“Understood, Captain. I have two burly beauties from the RN on guard in the last row. You worry about bringing us in safe. We’ll be alright back here.”
Taylor smiled slightly. I might have known. God bless you, Richard! “Well done! I’ll ring the bell five seconds before contact. Get them moving as we come to a stop.”
“WILCO. Godspeed, Captain. Out.”
The scenario Taylor referred to involved the ditching of a similar Airbus in New York’s Hudson River when bird ingestion knocked out both its engines shortly after takeoff from La Guardia airport. The flight crew executed a masterpiece of judgment and skill, saving everyone on board. Not so easy this time. They landed in the sheltered water of a river—we’ll have waves and swells to deal with.
“Peregrine Four-Zero-Three, Miami Center, Nassau is losing radar contact. Observe you heading two one five magnetic, over.” Surveillance radar was limited to line of sight, and at this distance, the aircraft dropped below the radar’s horizon at around thirteen thousand feet. The controller would use the aircraft’s last heading, descent rate, and speed to estimate the impact point to be passed to rescue forces.
“Center, Four-Zero-Three, roger, estimate six miles to contact, over.”
“Four-Zero-Three, Center, copy. Best of luck, Captain. Out.”
“No joy, Captain,” Patel said as he took his hand off the starter.
“Right, leave it. Give me flaps four at one thousand.” Taylor had held off the flaps until the last possible moment. They would reduce the aircraft’s touchdown speed dramatically, but also added significant drag. “Ring the cabin bell once you position the handle.”
“Will do, Captain.”
They were passing through two thousand feet now, and Taylor could see the swells clearly. Stirred by the prevailing east-northeasterly trade winds over thousands of miles of ocean, the waves were running roughly in a direction aligned to their present heading. She began a ninety-degree turn to bring the aircraft heading parallel to the swells, rolling level as they passed through one thousand feet, and Patel dropped the flaps and rang the bell. She knew Burgess and the other flight attendants were shouting at the passengers to brace for landing, gripping the seat or bulkhead in front of them and bending over at the waist.
As the water rushed upward toward them, Taylor pulled back on the sidestick, trading airspeed to arrest their descent in a flare maneuver. The tail section contacted the water first with a growing tugging sensation. Stay level, you beauty! The wings quickly lost lift, and the aircraft settled into the water. Taylor held her breath as an on-coming swell caught the left wingtip and engine nacelle, yawing them abruptly to the left and her eyes grew wide as the nose plunged into the water with a loud thud. She released her breath when the cockpit windows emerged from the water. Thank you, God! She pressed the transmit switch on the radio one last time. “This is Peregrine Four-Zero-Three in the blind. We are down in the water, commencing evacuation.” She took off her headset and turned to Patel with a sad smile.
“That one was a bloody beauty, Captain,” Patel said with a nod.
“Thanks, Sami. Let’s get moving.
The evacuation of the passengers was orderly, with less hysterics than one would typically expect in a situation as dire as they all faced. Filing out the forward cabin doors and four over-wing exits, the passengers made their way to the large life rafts inflated alongside. Taylor and Patel watched from the cockpit door, and when Burgess, the last person in the cabin, gave them a thumbs-up before going out one of the wing exits.
It was understood in these situations that the captain would make one last check for stragglers, if practicable. There was already flooding visible at the opposite end of the aircraft, but Taylor had to concede that a final tour was feasible, as frightening as it was to go deep within a sinking plane. Lovely.
Patel sensed her anxiety and said, “I can go walkabout, skipper.”
Taylor shook her head and said, “Skipper’s job. Off you go, Sami. Get a count. I’ll be along straight away.”
“Very good, Captain. Be careful,” Patel said, then stepped through the door.
Taylor walked aft down the passageway between the seats, checking each row. As she passed the middle rows with the over-wing exits, she was already knee-deep in water and anxiously looked out onto the wings. The plane was pitching up and down slowly with the passing of the sea swells, as the last-second pivot had turned the aircraft’s nose into them. Four flight attendants have already checked. Do I really need to do this? Taylor swallowed hard and continued down the aisle.
She was almost waist-deep in the rapidly flooding cabin when she reached the rear and, after peaking in both lavatories, turned and hurried forward. She climbed out through one of the wing exits, walked to the nearest raft, and jumped in, to the cheers of the passengers. Taylor looked around and spotted Patel in another raft. “Report, Number One!”
“All present and correct, Captain! No deaths, thirteen injuries, none serious!”
“Good! Let’s cast off, but we need to tether the rafts together!”
“Very good, Captain!”
Progressive flooding claimed the Airbus five minutes later, which sank upright, her white tail painted with the PCA falcon logo finally disappearing into the blue Atlantic. “Alfa-Delta was a good ship, Captain,” Burgess said softly, referring to the aircraft’s tail number G-PCAD. “And a proper lady—never once showed her knickers.”
“She was that,” Taylor replied, brushing away a tear. So much for my airline career. Still, thank God I didn’t kill a hundred-odd people in the process.
She caught Patel’s eye in the adjacent raft and gave him a rueful smile. His face was grim, and he silently mouthed, “Check your six,” then nodded past her. Taylor turned and saw clouds building to the west, as ominous as those they had come through in the northeast.
I spoke too soon.
They had just made the turn into the Northeast Providence Channel for the last leg in their journey to AUTEC for a few weeks of testing on the squid and other new equipment. Ben was wrapping up some paperwork in his stateroom when Bondurant’s voice boomed from the 1MC, “Captain to the Bridge!”
Ben grabbed his cap, bounded to the ladder, and was on the Bridge within twenty seconds, with Sam right behind him. “Captain on the Bridge!” Bondurant said.
“Carry on. What’s happening?” Sam asked.
“Big-time SAR case, Captain. A commercial airliner is down one hundred and ten miles northeast of here. Our orders are to proceed there at max speed. I have changed course toward the approximate position, and Main Control is bringing the third main online,” Bondurant said.
“Well done! Carry on.” Sam replied.
As Ben stepped over to the communications position, he could hear the whine of a diesel engine starter as the remaining two increased speed. The message on the chat from the Rescue Coordination Center in Miami was terse:
CGC KAUAI proceed at max speed for mayday-downed aircraft in position 27.0N 77.4W. PCA flight 403 reported total power failure, radar and radio contact lost. Position correlated with EPIRB signal on 406 MHz. Casualties UNK, reported 126 POB. CGNR 6017 ENR from Nassau, ETA 1.5 hrs. CGNR 1718 ENR from Clearwater, ETA 1.3 Hrs. KAUAI assume OSC on arrival.
An icy ball formed in Ben’s stomach. His father was an airline pilot with United Airlines and a former naval aviator. Ben had once brought up the possibility of being involved in a rescue effort for a downed airliner, and his father just shook his head and said, “Bring a lot of body bags.”
The message showed a Coast Guard MH-60T “Jayhawk” helicopter was launching in response from the forward base in Nassau, and an HC-130H “Hercules” Long-Range Maritime Patrol Airplane was underway from Air Station Clearwater. Neither would be of much help in recovering one hundred twenty-six people, but they would hopefully eliminate the need for Kauai to search for the survivors. That the rescue system was picking up an Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon, or EPIRB, suggested they got at least one raft launched.
Ben looked at the electronic navigation page—even at their best speed, it would be almost four hours before Kauai could reach the crash site. Ben checked the astronomical display on the adjoining screen—sunset at 19:23, right about when they got on the scene. With luck, we can get them on board before we lose all the light. He stepped over to where Sam was on the intercom to Main Control.
“Captain, I’m pulling every trick I know that won’t melt down the rotors. I think I can get you thirty-two knots, at least for a while,” Drake’s baritone voice intoned from the speaker.
“Do what you can, COB,” Sam responded. “Every minute counts.”
“On it, sir.”
Sam turned to Ben and Bondurant. “Guys, the upside of our ETA is we have some time to prepare. Best case, everyone is in rafts, and we can come alongside for a direct pickup. Even then, though, a fair number of them won’t be in any shape to climb a Jacob’s ladder. We need some way to hoist them up to the main deck. Thoughts?”
“We can rig a davit with a block and tackle, sir,” Bondurant said. “We’ll have to jury rig some sort of Bosun’s chair.”
“I like the davit, sir,” Ben piped up, “But I’m not a fan of any jury-rigged chair. Maybe we can get the helo to leave their rescue basket for us.
Sam nodded and said, “That would be great. I’ll certainly ask, but I wouldn’t count on it. XO, let’s get Chief Hopkins up here to take over OOD so you guys can get to work. Besides finding them and getting them on board, we have to find a way to get them all inside the hull.”
Ben was flabbergasted. “You’re kidding, Captain! A hundred twenty-six people? No one could even sit down.”
“You’re probably right, but consider that storm brought down a commercial airliner. Between the wind and the lightning, we can’t leave anyone on the weather decks while we get clear. Get with COB and Chef and come up with a plan to maximize interior floor space and get the people inside fast. We won’t have time to stand there scratching our heads.”
Ben nodded. “Understood, Captain.”
