The Great Escape

Why haven't these problems been resolved? One reason may be the funds required to implement the solutions—money which, as the airlines struggle to stay in business, they can ill afford to spend. Bureaucratic inertia is also to blame: The NTSB recommends safety improvements following an accident investigation, and the FAA is charged with enacting them through regulation—a laborious and often politicized process. But Chris Witkowski, safety director of the Association of Flight Attendants, in Washington, D.C., says that carriers don't forcefully address safety because they believe it will increase fear of flying. "They don't want to talk about it because it's bad public relations," he says. The Air Transport Association, the U.S. airline trade group, did not respond to requests for comment.

I am sitting in a darkened aircraft cabin that is filling with smoke. An alarm has just sounded, and shouts of "Release seat belts!" and "Get out!" come from every direction. Since this is a drill and the smoke is generated by a special machine, I am in no danger, but the effects are frighteningly realistic: I can't see more than a few inches in front of my face. Suddenly I am seized with fear, but the clock is ticking: I have 90 seconds to feel my way out of here.

This test, given at the FAA's research center in Oklahoma City, is for those who train flight attendants. The theory behind it is that even though most flight attendants learn the ropes in a sterile classroom environment, the exercise will give the trainers a better feel for the real thing.

As a prelude to the drill, I've just sat through a video that graphically explains the reasons behind our 90-second deadline. In short, within 53 seconds of a cabin fire, the interior is an inferno, with temperatures ranging from 90 degrees at floor level to more than 2,200 degrees at the ceiling. After about 100 seconds, the entire cabin suddenly explodes in flames in a phenomenon known as flashover. At that point, the chances of getting out alive are nil. For this reason, all aircraft must be capable of being evacuated in 90 seconds with half of all the exits blocked.

The scare tactic works. I can't see a thing. My pulse is racing, and all I can hear are shouts of "Get out! Get out!" I stumble, grabbing the person ahead of me for support, and grope my way along, following the glow-in-the-dark safety strips on the floor that lead to the exit. Suddenly, I'm at the door, staring at a slide. "Jump! Jump!" the trainers shout at me, but I balk. This is no playground slide: It's far steeper than I was expecting. Instead of leaping out the door, as I'm supposed to do, I take a tentative step and land awkwardly on the side of the slide. Next thing I know, I'm flying over the edge. Fortunately, my fall is broken by a safety net—one that would not have been there had this been an actual evacuation. I suffer only a few rope burns and the humiliation of flunking the test before a crowd of gawkers. (I'm told that a TV producer attempting the same trick broke his ankle.)