Time Expired

Technology had withdrawn human error from aviation. Eighteen on board computers tied to three video screens assured that the 797 kept rigidly to an invisible railroad track from the time of push back at Sydney to engine shutdown at Heathrow. The computers gleaned an extensive array of information; communicating with weather satellites, airport terminals, control towers, Customs divisions, engineering facilities and ground based navigation stations. These conjointly fed into a series of programmes written by the Company’s accountants and checked by Government Airworthiness Safety Officers. In essence, the video screens commanded the pilots as to the ‘approved’ course of action that the 797 must take during any and every stage of its flight.

The crew’s function in the year 2011 was exclusively to monitor.

The first officer held a great distaste for this particular Captain. Only God knew why the Company indulged him. If not retired, they should at least have relegated him to command of the lumbering Freighter Dirigibles which plied the world’s major centres of commerce. The old boy was a pain in the butt eccentric; even insisted in knocking out the automatics and landing aircraft manually; a procedure heavily frowned upon by aviation policy.

The flight deck door swung open and an AHM, Airborne Hospitality Manager, entered carrying a meal tray.

“Here you are. Dinner!”

The FO snarled, grabbing at the tray; “Damn it! you know procedures?This is asterile cockpit!You knock first and then wait till I or the Captain say ‘ENTER’. Then you address me as Sir! . . . now leave!”

Humbled by the blast the AHM ducked away, gingerly closing the door.

“Really Captain; the crew discipline is appalling,” the First Officer carped, “Company regulations state we are in total control of the twenty six AHM’s on this flight. You should put it in a report!” He picked at his food.

“Look at this meal! It is supposed to be First Class!”

“The LobsterThermidor is tough, the salad too runny and the utensils not aligned in the correct method of presentation. I insist this blatant breach be reported!”

“Captain. ” “Captain” . . . are you listening to me Captain! . . . Captain!” Faces.

Faces. That’s all they were now, faces dimly swaying between past and present.

They were Captains, wily old blokes who could second guess the vagaries of man, machine and weather. The Engineers, they knew their aircraft systems backwards and could berelied upon to make a potential disaster safe whilst you concentrated on the flying; a dying breed in 1989, they were caught between the cost of human endeavour and the Silicon chip. Then came the Load Masters who treated the floor loading with kid gloves and could run a trim sheet in two minutes flat; all ex-RAAF Warrant Officers, they knew the outer limits of every vice enjoyed by mankind, being endowed with the happy disposition of regarding the world as one large Sergeant’s mess.

As a junior Flight Officer he’d cut his teeth on the 707 Freighter, his first heavy jet. Even then she was ancient, sharing the skies with the younger brood of 73 and 767’s which, along with the A320, epitomised the dawning of “Instant Aviation”. Instant Performance, Instant Power and InstantTracking appeased a world increasingly tolerant of wasted time and demanding of precision in an imperfect environment.

The 707 was the definitive anachronism to ‘Instant’. Procedures called for three men to start her; a fourth was involved in hanging off the cowl with a special lever if the start valve had to be manually opened. She carried her own spares kit, including tyres. In the event of a breakdown, the Flight Engineer played Doctor whilst the rest of the crew fussed about passing ‘screw driver . . . spanner . . . wrench’. Everyone got their hands dirty, prima donnas weren’t tolerated.

Team work came to the fore; coaching each other down ILS’s and up SID’s at unfamiliar airports; deciphering the rapid fire accented English of equatorial controllers whose route clearances rarely matched the Flight Plan; checking and rechecking the fuel burn on engines designed when the price of a barrel of oil was cheap. What one man missed the others picked up, backing up always, helping your mates. They were an egalitarian group; Captain, FO, FE and Load Master taking it in turns to front the cramped galley squeezed between flight deck and forward cargo net to cook the meals and serve tea and coffee.

Emotion. The feeling only occurred once you stepped off the old girl after twelve hours of duty, when men and machine had gelled into one cohesive unit totidily wend their path through the shunting yard layout of the Jeppeson Chart Library, a hitherto unacquainted name on the map given physical form by your arrival. Breaking through the weariness you carried your gear down the stairs would come the all pervading uncomplicated sensations of gratification and simple satisfaction. Faces. Dimly lit; grainy faces.

Faces and satisfaction, slowly fading into the deep recesses of the past.

“Captain! Captain!” the First Officer demanded.

The computer hummed in merry automation, keeping the mass of technology and five hundred souls on track, speed and time.

“I repeat that this operation is not strictly according to the Manual, Captain!” The FO peered at the old man. Maybe it was the light; Huzzah!

That’s medical grounds for dismissal! The old fellow’s rheumy eyes watered slightly, probably still trying to adjust a decrepit body to night vision.

His Captain never answered him, seemingly content to gaze blindly at the stars canopying the horizon.

Well, it happened to all of the old school in the end. Inevitable really. Hightime they let the new blood through anyway. Part of airline admission was the mandatory distinction in Aviation Economics at University. He didn’t sweat his major on “Revenue Retrieval from Quasi Governmental Ticketing Instrumentalities” simply to sit beside a fossil who should do the right thing and go to his grave quietly. No Sir!

“I say again Captain; the Lobster Thermidor falls short of the high standards expected of this company and is certainly not served by the cabin crew with enough deference tomy position as second in command!”

No answer.

Daft. The old man had gone quite daft. Good.

That was another one knocked off the Company’s seniority list.

Stupid old codger sitting there like a stuffed exhibit in an Aviation Museum. The FO could hardly wait till the aircraft landed in London and he submitted his report to the Authorities.