“If we decide to wallow in the sea of doubt, do not be surprised if we remain in the turbulent waters that we are in today.” – The Taoiseach, in a speech that earned a standing ovation from 300 guests at a Dublin Chamber of Commerce dinner.
CAPT Chesley B Cowenberger considered his options. They were few and unattractive. His plane had lost thrust in both engines and was reduced to gliding. It was going down fast. He made an effort to compose himself, before pressing the cabin intercom button. Speaking as softly as he could, he said: “Prepare for emergency landing.”
A pungent organic odour filled the cockpit. He guessed it was from the flock of birds that had been incinerated when knocking out the engines. Canada geese, probably. They had to have been big to do that much damage.
A female head peered around the door. It belonged to Ms Coughlan, head of cabin crew, her normally winsome features wreathed with worry. “What’s that awful smell?” she asked. He told her it was the smell of goose being cooked, adding grimly: “I hope it’s not ours.”
From his radio came the voice of air traffic control, offering various landing options, none of them near enough. “We’re unable,” Capt Cowenberger replied, tersely but still trying to sound calm. “We may end up in the Hudson.” He reminded himself that Tiger Airlines had never had a crash in its 20 years of operation.
His former colleague, Capt Bertie “Biggles” Ahern, under whom he had served as co-pilot for so many years, used to boast he could make a soft landing in any conditions. That was before he fell downstairs and broke his leg: ironic, or what? Capt Cowenberger resolved that he would prevent the crash happening on his watch, if it was the last thing he did.
Just then, Ms Coughlan peered around the door again. “Should I stop serving alcohol to the passengers, sir?” she asked. “On the contrary,” he told her. “Fill their glasses – and give me one too while you’re at it.” He checked the altimeter: 3,000 feet and dropping rapidly. The silence from the engines was eerie. Suddenly the radio crackled again. This time it was a different voice. “Hello Captain,” it said. “This is Peter McLoone, from the trade union Impact. Interesting word, ‘impact’, in the circumstances — don’t you think?”
“Get on with it, McLoone – we don’t have much time,” snapped Capt Cowenberger, at last losing his cool. The altimeter read 2,500 feet now.
“Roger that,” came the reply. “Which is why we in Impact are prepared to open talks about talks on a framework for a possible emergency landing on runway four.”
Captain Cowenberger checked his instruments again: 2,000 feet now. The time for talking was over. “Unable,” he muttered, his voice tightening. He added: “We’ll be in the Hudson.” Leaning into the intercom again, he advised: “Crash positions, everyone”.
A moment later, Ms Coughlan’s head peered in again. “I just want to say we’re all counting on you, Captain,” she said, smiling bravely.
Captain Cowenberger smiled back. Looking at her kind, trusting face, he felt a wave of emotion well up inside him. But he checked it quickly, with the same efficiency as if he were checking the fuel gauge. He had a plane to land, he told himself. Emotion could wait.
In the fraught moments that followed, it was as if he, and not the aircraft, were on auto-pilot. All his years of training and experience had prepared him for this challenge, which he now knew would define his career. Inside he felt turmoil. Outside he was as icy as the river into which the stricken plane was about to plunge.
Even after he had set the aircraft down safely, Captain Cowenberger did not allow himself relax. He helped the last passengers into the emergency chute. Then he walked up and down the aisle twice to check for stragglers, sloshing through the chill water that was already flooding in, and stopping instinctively to stow away a table-top someone had forgotten. He would mention that oversight to Ms Coughlan afterwards, he thought, allowing himself a smile.
Finally he clambered onto one of the wings, where the passengers and crew had gathered. It was slippery under foot and they all stuggled to keep their feet as the plane bounced on the waves. But precarious as their position was here, it was better than being in the freezing river.
Capt Cowenberger scanned the horizon for the rescue boats that he had assumed would be rushing to the scene by now. None was immediately apparent. They were taking their time, he thought ruefully. It would be a bitter irony if, having landed safely, his passengers were now to succumb to drowning or hypothermia.
He devised another desperate plan. Perhaps they could row the plane to shore, like a gondola, using improvised oars collected from flotsam on the river. He outlined the idea to the passengers. Addressing them in an unscripted and at times impassioned speech, he explained that they would all need to “pull together” now if they were to survive.
The plane lurched slightly, seeming to settle further into the water. Capt Cowenberger tried to ignore a terrible feeling that he was again losing altitude, as he continued: “If we decide to wallow in the sea of doubt, do not be surprised if we remain in the turbulent waters that we are in today”.
When he finished speaking, he received a standing ovation from those present – though he was the first to realise that, in the circumstances, sitting down was not really an option.
fmcnally@irishtimes.com