Decisions

Decisions

(pre-collapse of the Russian empire)

I am a second pilot and what follows could, I suppose, be considered a confession. Immediately therefore we have something of a contradiction, for co-pilots by the very nature of their position in the hierarchy of aircrew are generally circumspect in the extreme about making statements that might be regarded in any way as detracting from their capacity as decision makers and therefore potential captains.

However, on the occasion of the incident in question, I was so frightened and felt so inadequate that I am driven to record my feelings in the hope that it might be of some slight assistance to anyone who aspires to command an aircraft and who is confronted by a similar crisis.

It’s not as if I’m a below-average flier. Right from induction, at Grading School and then throughout pilot training I received no assessment to indicate that any instructor contemplated questioning my ability to control an aircraft. This in itself was a source of considerable comfort because flying, in a sense peculiar to the art itself, is supposed to pinpoint any weakness in character or personality. And there were plenty of psych tests during our training, though we all know, don’t we, that from first solo onwards flying is more than merely guiding the aircraft through the three physical dimensions. There is always a fourth lurking presence—mentally ‘under the hood’, so to speak—where all the inputs come together and concentration, motivation and training always operate at blind-flying levels of performance.

So perhaps I’m that rarity, the thinking copilot.

I always wanted to be a fighter jock, for reasons familiar to all of us who have started out starry-eyed in this trade. My visions of a career were framed by the simple concepts of steely supersonic heroes, formation aerobatics and interceptors spitting deadly fire, all reinforced by a diet of old war movies and biographies of aces and their tactics.

I graduated without drama and the wings on my breast were still brightly proclaiming my innocence when I was informed that in the view of the Service I was unsuited to single-seat operations. Nothing wrong with your flying, they said, just think you’d be happier on multi-crew aircraft.

I was shattered. But the military allows no course of appeal so I was forced into a process of rationalisation that stood me in some sort of stead as I watched those (more bumptious? lucky?...better?) of my classmates who had been selected for fighter training depart boisterously for the wide blue yonder.

Now, months later, here I was in the right hand seat of an (admittedly big) jet, hauling trash hither and yon. Some captains let you do a bit of poling, a lot don’t.

I had become proficient at flight-planning, pretty good at reassuring nervous passengers and expert at enduring the idiosyncrasies of the various aircraft commanders with whom I flew. Most of all I fretted at the interminable hours wasted straight and level, working out fuel flows and battling with Air Traffic Control. At heart I was convinced the Service had done me wrong.



I was afraid of ‘Q’. That’s nothing unusual. It was a brave or thick-skinned copilot who didn’t at least hold him in considerable awe. ‘Q’ (that’s the nearest I can get to his nickname—CuNim, for obvious reasons) was beetle-browed and unpredictable. He was also given to cataloguing co-pilots’ shortcomings in his loud back-block Georgia accent, in front of anyone who happened to be around. He had little regard for any authority except his own; this in itself a most unusual Service characteristic. His constant demands required us to jump fast in the right direction and without demur. He never smiled and we hated him. Q’s only desire in life was to emulate his brother and fly the international routes as a civil airline captain. Unfortunately for the totality of our criticism Q was a meticulous pilot, handling the immense four-jet transport with a delicacy that was at odds with his surly personality.

It doesn’t detract from my story to say that I am the newest of the co-pilots, the Unit bog-rat. If anything, it amplifies the point. On the night in question I had been ordered to fly with Q. The trip, designated ‘urgent’, had been mounted at short notice, included very senior officers as passengers and multiple changes of flight plan. It was as if calculated to bring out the worst of abuse from the left hand seat.

The flight itself had been miserable. Q’s only conversation had been in the form of fairly constant criticism—of the Met. Office in particular and the Service in general, all interspersed with denigration of my personal abilities. It was a gala performance by the prima donna we all knew him to be.

By the time we had reached top of descent I was ready to quit. But he was correct about the weather. The terminal forecast we had been issued before departure was so inaccurate that a diversion to an alternative airfield was more than a reasonable proposition. Q’s forcibly expressed opinion, though, was simple: if the bastards down the back wanted the destination then that’s what they were going to bloody well get and he hoped they’d enjoy the approach. The cloud was frontal, the night was black and we were into weather as soon as we left our cruising level. I studied the radar with growing dismay; there appeared to be thunder cells all around. We managed to skirt a couple and it wasn’t until we had departed the initial approach fix and were established on the glide path that turbulence became significant. Q grunted with pleasure: the bastards in the back would be throwing up by now.

At four miles on final approach I was fairly tense and Q was working hard on the controls. My scan of the cockpit instruments was going pretty well and I knew enough to keep the airspeed under close scrutiny. Rain hissing on the canopy provided an ominous counterpoint to the full-speed swish of the wipers.

At three miles we broke out, still in turbulence, and the runway approach lights were beautiful to see. I think I must have been momentarily mesmerised by their welcoming clarity, for my call was drowned by a roar of ‘GO-ROUND POWER!’ as Q smashed all four throttles against the stops. Fear replaced relief as I stared, horrified, at the airspeed indicator. It was in a mad fluctuation 10-15 knots below approach speed. My captain hauled back on the stick, the airfield lights disappeared and I thought Oh Christ, what’s he doing? We need airspeed - get the nose down now or we’ll stall...WE’LL STALL!

I’ll never forget that split second of utter terror, Q’s shout of pure rage above the howl of the engines, the decaying airspeed and the nose coming up, up.

Then the stick-shaker fired and in a flash all my illusions disappeared. I knew exactly why I hadn’t been chosen to be a fighter pilot. For now was the moment I should act. Q had undoubtedly flipped. I must lean over, knock him off the controls and take command. The stick must go forward, we must get airspeed or we’d be dead.

But I did nothing. I couldn’t move. I just sat and watched as the IAS teetered on the edge of the stall and the altimeter told the story as we were swept below the glidepath: 500ft...400ft...300ft. Q was holding us on the judder and we were going down. Turbulence increased and intense vibrations shook the aircraft in what seemed its desperate effort, against all odds, to remain airborne.

I remember wondering stupidly which wing would drop first...

Then, at about 150 feet, the airspeed settled then with agonising indecision crept upwards. Turbulence ceased and as we stabilised the nose came down. Q called the lights as the runway reappeared and then we were over the threshold, still perfectly lined up. By now I was beyond surprise, and the gentle thump as we settled positively on the drenched strip was no more than I had learned to expect from this captain.

The whole episode couldn’t have taken much more than a minute. It seemed a lifetime. I still didn’t know what had happened, or why we weren’t a mass of blazing wreckage somewhere short of the runway. What will haunt me though is that I was found wanting when according to me I should have acted. Of course, if I had done what I was convinced was right we’d all be dead. But that’s not the point...is it?

As we taxied to the VIP parking bay, Q asked me how I had enjoyed the approach. I was sufficiently emboldened to say that I couldn’t understand why he’d pulled the nose up when he could see the IAS was on the way down. An immense grin lit up his face, transforming him into a human being. He rummaged in the flight bag beside his seat and flipped a magazine across to me.

‘V znanii sila, molodoi chelovek’ (this is where I get my information, young man).

I stared in amazement at the article marked. It was from a well-respected overseas flight safety publication, probably brought back by his brother. The title was ‘Stay alive in a Microburst’ and it set out techniques to overcome the extreme danger of the severe downdraughts that accompany thunderstorms. Q had followed the advice to the letter.

I gazed out of the side window. It was cold out there and the rain was driving hard but, believes me, the lights of Moscow Airport terminal had never looked so good.