Highest Duty (17 page)

In the winter, of course, there are often weather conditions to be concerned about. And you have to be ready for flight delays as you wait your turn to get your plane deiced.

Still, despite all this, I enjoy flying out of LaGuardia. I like the challenge of it, and especially the view from the air—Central Park, the Empire State Building, the gorgeous homes and boats out on Long Island. I kind of enjoy the passengers out of LaGuardia, too. They often have a seasoned manner about them, and they’re not always as tough as they seem.

It’s true that a lot of passengers who board in New York can be very direct. They’ll push the limits. But veteran flight attendants know that the way to deal with them is to be self-assured and push back a little. If passengers are firmly told the boundaries, they’re generally OK with them.

When a passenger asks for two drinks at once, a flight atten
dant might smile and say, “Just a minute. I’ll get to you. It’s not all about you, you know! Didn’t your mother teach you that?” If the flight attendant has the right, humorous delivery, a lot of passengers smile back and accept it. Flight attendants have told me: “When you want someone to turn off his computer for landing, you can ask him nicely, or you can say, ‘OK now, that’s enough of you and that laptop!’”

On midweek US Airways flights from “LGA,” there are a lot of business travelers, and they can be savvy fliers. I often fly from LaGuardia to Charlotte, which has become a major banking center. So I might have a dozen or more bankers on each of those flights. There are always rows and rows of other frequent fliers, too, people who fly so often that they have a pretty good knowledge of the airline industry, the responsibilities of the crew, and the role passengers might have to play in an emergency.

In the case of Flight 1549, a Thursday-afternoon trip down to Charlotte, that would turn out to be fortuitous.

O
N
J
ANUARY
15, 2009, the day of Flight 1549, the snow around LaGuardia had stopped earlier in the morning. It was cold and clear, with scattered clouds. Winds were out of the north, so we prepared to take off toward the north.

We were flying an Airbus A320–214, built in France by Airbus Industrie. The particular plane assigned to us, delivered to US Airways in 1999, had logged 16,298 flights before our takeoff. It had been airborne for 25,241 hours. The left engine had seen 19,182 hours of service, and the right engine had served for
26,466 hours. The most recent maintenance “A check” (which is done every 550 flight hours) had been forty days earlier. The plane had its annual C check (a comprehensive inspection) nine months earlier. These are common statistics for planes flown by commercial airlines in the United States.

With First Officer Jeff Skiles at the controls, we lifted off on the northeast runway, runway 4, about four seconds before 3:26
P.M.
Along with the two of us in the cockpit, there were 150 passengers and our three flight attendants—Donna Dent, Doreen Welsh, and Sheila Dail.

As soon as we passed the end of the runway, the local controller at LaGuardia passed us off to the departure controller, Patrick Harten, who works at New York Terminal Radar Approach Control (TRACON) in Westbury, Long Island. Fourteen minutes earlier, he had been assigned to the LaGuardia departure radar position, which handles all departures from LaGuardia.

I radioed Patrick: “Cactus fifteen forty-nine, seven hundred, climbing five thousand.” That meant we were passing through seven hundred feet, on the way to five thousand feet. Complying with our departure instructions, we had turned left to a heading of 360 degrees. On the magnetic compass that’s due north.

Patrick responded: “Cactus fifteen forty-nine, New York departure radar contact. Climb and maintain one five thousand.” He was telling us to climb to 15,000 feet.

I responded: “Maintain one five thousand, Cactus fifteen forty-nine.”

As we climbed through 1,000 feet, Jeff commanded: “And flaps one, please.” I repeated, “Flaps one,” as I moved the flap
lever from the 2 to the 1 detent while Jeff lowered the nose, shallowing our climb as we accelerated.

Next, Jeff said, “Flaps up, please, after takeoff checklist.”

I responded, “Flaps up.” I retracted the flaps, verified that all the items on the after takeoff checklist were done, and announced, “After takeoff checklist complete.”

The takeoff portion of the flight was now complete, and we were transitioning to the climb portion of the flight by retracting the flaps. The flaps were needed for takeoff, but for our climb would only produce unnecessary drag. The airplane was in a clean configuration—with landing gear and flaps retracted—and we began our acceleration to 250 knots.

We continued climbing and accelerating. That incredible New York skyline was coming into view. Everything so far was completely routine.

W
E’D BEEN IN
the air for about ninety-five seconds, and had not yet risen to three thousand feet when I saw them.

“Birds!” I said to Jeff.

The birds were ahead of us, in what probably was a V formation. Jeff had noticed them a fraction of a second before I uttered the word, but there was no time for either of us to react. Our airplane was traveling at 3.83 statute miles a minute. That’s 316 feet per second. That means the birds were about a football field away when I first saw them. I barely blinked and they were upon us.

There were many large birds, a dozen or more, and I saw them in outline, with their wings extended straight out horizontally. We were flying so fast compared with the birds that it looked as if they weren’t even moving. I just saw, in an instant, the cylin
drical dark outlines of their bodies. I’d later learn they were Canada geese, weighing anywhere from eight to eighteen pounds, with six-foot wingspans, and as is their way, they were flying within sight of one another at perhaps fifty miles an hour.

The cockpit windows on the Airbus A320 are large, and as I looked out the front, I saw the birds were everywhere, filling the windscreen. It was not unlike Alfred Hitchcock’s
The Birds
. I thought later that I should have tried to duck in case the windshield cracked from the birds’ impact, but there was no time.

The cockpit voice recorder captured my interchange with Jeff and the sounds in the cockpit:

Sullenberger (3:27 and 10.4 seconds):
“Birds!”

Skiles (3:27:11):
“Whoa!”

(3:27.11.4):
Sound of thumps/thuds, followed by shuddering sound
.

Skiles (3:27:12):
“Oh, shit!”

Sullenberger (3:27:13):
“Oh, yeah.”

(3:27:13):
Sound similar to decrease in engine noise/frequency begins
.

Skiles (3:27:14):
“Uh-oh.”

As the birds hit the plane, it felt like we were being pelted by heavy rain or hail. It sounded like the worst thunderstorm I’d ever heard back in Texas. The birds struck many places on the aircraft below the level of the windshield, including the nose, wings, and engines. The thuds came in rapid succession, almost simultaneously but a fraction of a fraction of a second apart.

I would later learn that Sheila and Donna, still strapped into their seats for takeoff, also felt the thuds.

“What was that?” Sheila asked.

“Might be a bird strike,” Donna told her.

I had hit birds three or four times in my career and they had never even dented the plane. We’d make note of the strike in our maintenance logbook, make sure every piece of the airplane was unscathed, and that was it. I’ve long been aware of the risks, of course. About eighty-two thousand wildlife strikes—including deer, coyotes, alligators, and vultures—have been reported to the FAA since 1990. Researchers estimate that this is just a fifth of the actual number, since the great majority of strikes are never formally reported by pilots. Studies have shown that about 4 percent of strikes result in substantial damage to aircraft. In the past twenty years, wildlife strikes have resulted in 182 deaths and the destruction of 185 aircraft, according to the National Wildlife Research Center in Sandusky, Ohio.

At that moment on Flight 1549, a mere 2,900 feet above New York, I wasn’t contemplating these statistics, however. What I focused on, extremely quickly, was that this situation was dire. This wasn’t just a few small birds hitting the windshield or slapping hard against a wing and then falling to earth.

We were barely over 200 knots, that’s 230 miles an hour, and immediately after the bird strike, I felt, heard, and smelled evidence that birds had entered the engines—both engines—and severely damaged them.

I heard the noise of the engines chewing themselves up inside, as the rapidly spinning, finely balanced machinery was be
ing ruined, with broken blades coming loose. I felt abnormal, severe vibrations. The engines were protesting mightily. I’ll never forget those awful, unnatural noises and vibrations. They sounded and felt BAD! And then I smelled a distinct odor—burning birds. The telltale air was being drawn from the engines into the cabin.

Within a few seconds, Jeff and I felt a sudden, complete, and bilaterally symmetrical loss of thrust. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced in a cockpit before. It was shocking and startling. There’s no other way to describe it. Without the normal engine noises, it became eerily quiet. Donna and Sheila would later tell me that in the cabin, it was as quiet as a library. The only remaining engine noise was a kind of rhythmic rumbling and rattling, like a stick being held against moving bicycle spokes. It was a strange windmilling sound from broken engines.

If you’ve got more than 40,000 pounds of thrust pushing your 150,000-pound plane uphill at a steep angle and the thrust suddenly goes away—completely—well, it gets your attention. I could feel the momentum stopping, and the airplane slowing. I sensed that both engines were winding down. If only one engine had been destroyed, the plane would be yawing, turning slightly to one side, because of the thrust in the still-working engine. That didn’t happen. So I knew very quickly that this was an unparalleled crisis.

If we had lost one engine, we’d have maintained control of the airplane and followed the procedures for that situation. We’d have declared an emergency and told the controller about the loss
of an engine, and received permission to land immediately at the most appropriate nearby airport. Then we would have told the flight attendants and passengers what was going on. It would be an emergency, but we would have almost certainly landed safely, probably at the airport in Newark, where the runways are longer than at LaGuardia.

The failure of even one engine had never happened to me before. Engines are so reliable these days that it is possible for a professional airline pilot to go an entire career without losing even one. I was headed for that perfect record before Flight 1549.

Sullenberger (3:27:15):
“We got one roll—both of ’em rolling back.”

(3:27:18):
Rumbling sound begins.

Sullenberger (3:27:18.5):
“Ignition, start.”

Sullenberger (3:27:21.3):
“I’m starting the APU [auxiliary power unit].”

Within eight seconds of the bird strike, realizing that we were without engines, I knew that this was the worst aviation challenge I’d ever faced. It was the most sickening, pit-of-your-stomach, falling-through-the-floor feeling I had ever experienced.

I knew immediately and intuitively that I needed to be at the controls and Jeff needed to handle the emergency checklist.

“My aircraft,” I said to him at 3:27:23.2.

“Your aircraft,” he responded.

This important protocol ensured that we both knew who was flying.

In the more common emergencies we train for, such as the loss
of one engine, we would have time to go through our checklists and mull over solutions. In those cases, it is usually optimal for the first officer to fly so the captain can think about the situation, make decisions, and give direction.

Even in those early seconds, I knew this was an emergency that called for thinking beyond what’s usually considered appropriate. As a rush of information came into my head, I had no doubts that it made the most sense for me to take the controls.

The reasons were clear to me. For one, I had greater experience flying the A320. Jeff was much newer to this type of plane. Also, all the landmarks I needed to see in order to judge where we might go were on my side of the airplane.

I also knew that since Jeff had just trained on the A320, he had more recent experience practicing the emergency procedures. He could more quickly find the right checklist out of about 150 checklists in our Quick Reference Handbook (QRH). He was the right man for that job.

After I took control of the plane, two thoughts went through my mind, both rooted in disbelief:
This can’t be happening. This doesn’t happen to me
.

I was able to force myself to set those thoughts aside almost instantly. Given the gravity of this situation, I knew that I had seconds to decide on a plan and minutes to execute it.

I was aware of my body. I could feel an adrenaline rush. I’m sure that my blood pressure and pulse spiked. But I also knew I had to concentrate on the tasks at hand and not let the sensations in my body distract me.

Jeff seemed to be equally on task. He was businesslike, focused
on what he had to do. He would later say his brain felt swelled “like when you have a bad head cold,” but to me at the time, his voice and demeanor seemed unaffected. We both were very aware of how terrible this was. We just didn’t waste time verbalizing this awareness to each other.

I’ve always kept in mind something said by astronaut John Young just before launch on a space mission. Asked if he was worried about the risks, or about the potential for catastrophe, he replied: “Anyone who sits on top of the largest hydrogen-oxygen fueled system in the world, knowing they’re going to light the bottom, and doesn’t get a little worried, does not fully understand the situation.”

In our case, both Jeff and I clearly understood the gravity of our situation, and we were very concerned. Success would come if, at each juncture in the seconds ahead, we could solve the next problem thrown at us. Despite everything—the ruined plane, the sensations in my body, the speed with which we had to act—I had confidence that we could do it.

T
HERE ARE
three general rules about any aircraft emergency. We learn them in our earliest lessons as pilots. And for those of us who served in the military, these rules are codified.

Maintain aircraft control
.

Always make sure someone is flying the airplane, and is focused on maintaining the best flight path. No matter what else happens, you have to remember to fly the plane first, because if you don’t, bad things can happen quickly.

There will be impulses to do other things: getting your mind around the particulars of the emergency, troubleshooting, finding the right checklists, talking to air traffic control. All of these things need to be done, but not at the expense of flying the airplane.

Analyze the situation and take proper action.

Through our training, we know the actions we should consider depend upon what systems have failed and how much time and fuel we have to deal with the situation. There are specific procedural steps, and we need to know them and be ready to take them.

Land as soon as conditions permit.

This means we have to factor in weather and runway conditions, the wind, the length and width of the runway, the emergency and rescue equipment available at the particular airport where a landing might be attempted, and all sorts of other factors. It is important to land quickly but with due consideration. How well will emergency crews at the closest airport be able to help? Does it make more sense to fly to another airport with better weather or facilities?

T
HOSE ARE
the three basic rules. And there is a variation on these rules that pilots find easy to remember: “Aviate, navigate, communicate.”

Aviate:
Fly the plane.
Navigate
: Make sure your flight path is appropriate and that you’re not flying off course.
Communicate
: Let those on the ground help you, and let those on the plane know what might be necessary to save their lives.

On Flight 1549, Jeff and I were doing all of these things almost simultaneously. We had no choice. That also meant we had to
make sure that higher-priority tasks weren’t suffering as we worked to accomplish the lower-priority tasks.

The first thing I did was lower the plane’s nose to achieve the best glide speed. For all of us on board to survive, the plane had to become an efficient glider.

In the days that followed the Hudson landing, there was speculation in the media that all of my training as a glider pilot thirty-five years earlier had helped me on Flight 1549. I have to dispel that notion. The flight characteristics and speed and weight of an Airbus are completely different from the characteristics of the gliders I flew. It’s a night-and-day difference. So my glider training was of little help. Instead, I think what helped me was that I had spent years flying jet airplanes and had paid close attention to energy management. On thousands of flights, I had tried to fly the optimum flight path. I think that helped me more than anything else on Flight 1549. I was going to try to use the energy of the Airbus, without either engine, to get us safely to the ground…or somewhere.

On Flight 1549, as we descended and I watched the earth came toward us faster than usual, the passengers did not immediately know how dire this was. They weren’t flying the airplane, and they didn’t have the training. Most probably, they couldn’t put all these disparate cues into a worldview that would tell them the magnitude of our problem. The nature of the emergency and the extreme time compression forced Jeff and me to focus our attention on the highest-priority tasks, so there was no time to make any verbal contact with those in the cabin, even the flight attendants.

In the cockpit, Jeff and I never made eye contact, but from the few words he spoke and his overall demeanor and body language, I had the clear sense that he was not panicked. He was not distracted. He was working quickly and efficiently.

Sullenberger (3:27:28):
“Get the QRH…Loss of thrust on both engines.”

Jeff grabbed the Quick Reference Handbook to find the most appropriate procedure for our emergency. The QRH book is more than an inch thick, and in previous editions, it had helpful numbered tabs sticking out of the edge of it. That made it easier for us to find the exact page we needed. You could hold it in your left hand and use it like an address book, grazing over the numbered tabs with your right hand before turning to the tab for, say, Procedure number 27.