What Really Happened To Malaysia's Missing Plane
Five years ago, the flight vanished into the Indian Ocean.
The Disappearance
at 12:42 a.m. on the quiet, moonlit night of March 8, 2014, a Boeing 777-200ER operated by Malaysia Airlines took off from Kuala Lumpur and turned toward Beijing, climbing to its assigned cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. The designator for Malaysia Airlines is MH. The flight number was 370. Fariq Hamid, the first officer, was flying the airplane. He was 27 years old. This was a training flight for him, the last one; he would soon be fully certified. His trainer was the pilot in command, a man named Zaharie Ahmad Shah, who at 53 was one of the most senior captains at Malaysia Airlines. In Malaysian style, he was known by his first name, Zaharie. He was married and had three adult children. He lived in a gated development. He owned two houses. In his first house he had installed an elaborate Microsoft flight simulator. He flew it frequently, and often posted to online forums about his hobby. In the cockpit, Fariq would have been deferential to him, but Zaharie was not known for being overbearing.
In the cabin were 10 flight attendants, all of them Malaysian. They had 227 passengers to care for, including five children. Most of the passengers were Chinese; of the rest, 38 were Malaysian, and in descending order the others came from Indonesia, Australia, India, France, the United States, Iran, Ukraine, Canada, New Zealand, the Netherlands, Russia, and Taiwan. Up in the cockpit that night, while First Officer Fariq flew the airplane, Captain Zaharie handled the radios. The arrangement was standard. Zaharie’s transmissions were a bit unusual. At 1:01 a.m. he radioed that they had leveled off at 35,000 feet—a superfluous report in radar-surveilled airspace where the norm is to report leaving an altitude, not arriving at one. At 1:08 the flight crossed the Malaysian coastline and set out across the South China Sea in the direction of Vietnam. Zaharie again reported the plane’s level at 35,000 feet.
Eleven minutes later, as the airplane closed in on a waypoint near the start of Vietnamese air-traffic jurisdiction, the controller at Kuala Lumpur Center radioed, “Malaysian three-seven-zero, contact Ho Chi Minh one-two-zero-decimal-nine. Good night.” Zaharie answered, “Good night. Malaysian three-seven-zero.” He did not read back the frequency, as he should have, but otherwise the transmission sounded normal. It was the last the world heard from MH370. The pilots never checked in with Ho Chi Minh or answered any of the subsequent attempts to raise them.
Primary radar relies on simple, raw pings off objects in the sky. Air-traffic-control systems use what is known as secondary radar. It depends on a transponder signal that is transmitted by each airplane and contains richer information—for instance, the airplane’s identity and altitude—than primary radar does. Five seconds after MH370 crossed into Vietnamese airspace, the symbol representing its transponder dropped from the screens of Malaysian air traffic control, and 37 seconds later the entire airplane disappeared from secondary radar. The time was 1:21 a.m., 39 minutes after takeoff. The controller in Kuala Lumpur was dealing with other traffic elsewhere on his screen and simply didn’t notice. When he finally did, he assumed that the airplane was in the hands of Ho Chi Minh, somewhere out beyond his range.
The Vietnamese controllers, meanwhile, saw MH370 cross into their airspace and then disappear from radar. They apparently misunderstood a formal agreement by which Ho Chi Minh was supposed to inform Kuala Lumpur immediately if an airplane that had been handed off was more than five minutes late checking in. They tried repeatedly to contact the aircraft, to no avail. By the time they picked up the phone to inform Kuala Lumpur, 18 minutes had passed since MH370’s disappearance from their radar screens. What ensued was an exercise in confusion and incompetence. Kuala Lumpur’s Aeronautical Rescue Coordination Centre should have been notified within an hour of the disappearance. By 2:30 a.m., it still had not been. Four more hours elapsed before an emergency response was finally begun, at 6:32 a.m.
At that moment, the airplane should have been landing in Beijing. The search for it was initially concentrated in the South China Sea, between Malaysia and Vietnam. It was an international effort by 34 ships and 28 aircraft from seven different countries. But MH370 was nowhere near there. Within a matter of days, primary-radar records salvaged from air-traffic-control computers, and partially corroborated by secret Malaysian air-force data, revealed that as soon as MH370 disappeared from secondary radar, it turned sharply to the southwest, flew back across the Malay Peninsula, and banked around the island of Penang. From there it flew northwest up the Strait of Malacca and out across the Andaman Sea, where it faded beyond radar range into obscurity. That part of the flight took more than an hour to accomplish and suggested that this was not a standard case of a hijacking. Nor was it like an accident or pilot-suicide scenario that anyone had encountered before. From the start, MH370 was leading investigators in unexplored directions.
What Went Wrong on Malaysia Airlines Flight 370?
Two years later, its disappearance is still unsolved. A new book reconstructs the last minutes in the cockpit.
No one knows for sure what happened aboard Malaysia Airlines Flight 370, which disappeared in March 2014. The scenario I am about to describe is based on a framework of events put forward by Malaysian and Australian investigators and other sources who participated in gathering or analyzing the known data. To this I have applied Occam’s razor, the principle that suggests that if there are many possible explanations for something, the simplest is the most likely.
Shortly after midnight on March 8, 2014, and seemingly without warning, what had been an entirely normal flight devolved into an illogical series of events. Such an unraveling has been seen before: when pilots are afflicted with altitude sickness, known as hypoxia.
An inability to get enough oxygen into the lungs to sustain cogent thought happens when airplanes lose pressurization, and that can happen for a variety of reasons. It can be triggered by an electrical problem or some mechanical difficulty. Pilots sometimes fail to turn the pressurization on at the beginning of the flight, but even when the pressurization is working as it should, there’s no way to keep a plane pressurized if there is a hole in the fuselage or if leaks at the seals of doorways, windows, or drains from the galley and bathrooms allow the denser air to escape.
At the time of the MH370 disaster, people were boarding airplanes around the world at a rate of eight million a day. Few air travelers then (or now) gave a thought to the fact that outside those aluminum walls the air is too thin to support clear thinking for more than a few seconds. What keeps us air travelers alive and, for the most part, in our right minds is a relatively simple process that pumps air into the airplane as it ascends, like air filling a bicycle tire. The air comes off the engines and is distributed via ducts. In most airliners, the cabin pressure is set to mimic the density of 8,000 feet.
On most flights the automated system works as designed. Still, at least 40 to 50 times a year, an airliner somewhere in the world will encounter a rapid decompression, according to a study for the Aviation Medical Society of Australia and New Zealand. James Stabile Jr., whose company, Aeronautical Data Systems, provides oxygen-related technology, said that when slow depressurizations are figured in, the rate increases even more. And because not all events require that regulators be notified, the problem, said Stabile, is “grossly underreported.”
When airplanes fail to pressurize after takeoff or lose cabin altitude in flight, it is potentially life-threatening. The reason we don’t see tragedies more often is that pilots are taught what to do. First, they put on their emergency oxygen masks. Then they verify that the system is on. There are many cases of pilots discovering that they failed to set cabin altitude upon takeoff.
If pressurization was set correctly and is still not working, pilots immediately begin a rapid descent to an altitude where supplemental oxygen is not necessary. When pilots do not follow these steps, the situation spins out of control quickly.
On an American Trans Air flight in 1996, a mind-boggling sequence of events brought a Boeing 727 a hairbreadth from catastrophe. ATA Flight 406 departed Chicago’s Midway Airport bound for St. Petersburg, Florida. At 33,000 feet, a warning horn sounded because the altitude in the cabin was registering 14,000 feet. First Officer Kerry Green was flying. He immediately put on his emergency oxygen mask. Captain Millard Doyle did not, opting to try to diagnose the problem. He instructed the flight engineer, Timothy Feiring, who was sitting behind and to his right, to silence the alarm. Doubtless already feeling the effects of steadily increasing altitude, Feiring could not find the control button. The captain turned his attention to the flight attendant in the cockpit, asking her if the passenger oxygen masks had dropped.
They had, she replied, and promptly collapsed in the doorway. Captain Doyle reached for his own mask, but it was too late. Disoriented and uncoordinated, he could not place it over his head, and he passed out too.
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