Highest Duty_ My Search for What Really Matters - Chesley B. Sullenberger [77]
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 being 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,