Highest Duty

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 cylindrical 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 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, 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.