My Take: Business Processes and Airline Operations

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By Kiran Garimella

Every company devoutly expounds on the importance of customer-centric business processes. I'm sure many companies achieve true customer-centricity. In particular, the airline industry has done a fabulous job with safety, achieving a remarkable 6.5 sigma capability. But sometimes, I can't help wondering how their business processes actually work, because the experience of flying is often baffling. Below is an episodic example. I have no knowledge of airport operations, so I have simply reverse-engineered it from the outside, as a customer.

On a cold December evening, I board a plane at the San Francisco airport. The gate closes, we taxi for a few minutes, and then we come to a halt in a holding pen. There we sit for about four hours. There's a raging thunderstorm, and I'm sure it's not safe for flying, so I do appreciate that we didn't take off. But, I ask you, why put us in a pen for four hours? We could have waited inside the terminal, right? But no, they had to make us wait in the middle of nowhere, squirming in our seats, running out of coffee, snacks, and toilet paper. Oh, well, at least it was character-building! Maybe we should be thankful for the opportunity to practice our patience.

Finally, we do take off and head for Chicago. After about three hours of flying time (the less said about that the better), the lights of Chicago finally show up, the suburbs silently floating by. The plane banks sharply to the left and makes a wide semicircle to the left. Then it banks sharply to the right. These meandering turns happen a few times. What's going on? If we could only listen in on the conversation in the cockpit! Fortunately, my reverse-engineering device has reconstructed the scene in the cockpit:

"Where is the dang airport?" says the co-pilot.

"I think it's over there," says the captain, pointing to a blur of lights in the distance. "Those look like runway lights to me."

"Aw, no," says the co-pilot, after peering at them for some time. "I think it's I-294."

"You sure?" says the flight engineer, sitting behind them, leaning forward, breathing down the co-pilot's neck. "I thought we approached from the west. That ought to be I-80."

"Didn't we get diverted south for a north-bound approach?"

"You know, you're right," says the FE, looking at his charts. "I got my charts upside down. Sorry about that." Grins sheepishly.

"Never mind," says the captain. He gives a decisive command. "Forty degrees to starboard."

"Forty degrees to starboard," echoes the co-pilot.

The plane banks smoothly to the right.

Back in the fuselage, I'm looking at the huge, sprawling O'Hare airport lights slowly vanish in the distance, to be replaced by the tall spires of downtown Chicago. Lake Michigan is an inky blackness beyond that. I'm wondering if I should hit the call button to summon the flight attendant, and let them know they just missed the airport. I believe in being helpful. But I'm naturally shy, so I decide to wait and give them a few more minutes. They're bound to realize their error eventually.

Back in the cockpit, there's an interesting discussion going on between the captain and the Chicago air traffic control.

"Where the heck do you think you are going?" demands the controller, after the initial exchange of identification codes.

"Whaddya mean, where the heck do I think I'm going?" counters the captain. "I'm heading to O'Hare, aren't I?"

"If you want us to move O'Hare into Michigan, just say so," responds the controller, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Are you sure your radar is functioning correctly? I gave an order to turn left 40 degrees. We must have banked in towards O'Hare."

"Er, Cap'n," says the co-pilot, sotto-voce.

"Hold on a sec," says the captain to the controller. "What is it, son?"

The plane is now over the featureless void that is Lake Michigan.

"Sir, you said turn 40 degrees starboard. That's right."

"That's right, I did. So, what's the problem?"

"No, sir, that's right."

"What are you blathering about?" says the captain.

"I mean, Cap'n, we turned right. Starboard is right."

The Captain smacks his forehead. "For crying out loud! So it is. I've been in this business for 30 years, and I always mix up 'starboard' and 'port.' Why they just couldn't call them 'right' and 'left' is beyond me."  [Actually they do, but the pilot is also an amateur sailor, and frequently gets his terms mixed up. – Ed.]

He switches over to the ATC, who had been on hold.

"Sorry, looks like a glitch in our navigational system. We are doing an about turn right now."

"Alright," says the controller. "Just make sure you don't hit the control tower."

"Awright, awright, I said I was sorry, didn't I? Anyway, it was a navigational snafu."

The captain turns to his team. "Head back, boys. Smart about-turn!"

Meanwhile, a fierce debate rages in the Chicago control tower:

"All I says is that we gotta put this Frisco flight into the C-concourse," goes Schleppert.

"I ain't arguing on that," counters Hodgkinbod. "In fact, I agree with you. I'd like to assign gate 45 in C to this sucker."

"Too close to terminal," puts in Anderson. "It's gotta be further away. Now, let's see what gates are available."

They pore over the concourse map. Yellow stickies are used to mark occupied gates. Right now, due to the late hour, the map is bereft of stickies.

"Lots of open gates," says Schleppert. "How do we pick?"

"Eenie, Meenie, Miny, Mo?" suggests Anderson.

"Heck no!" responds Hodgkinbod, "We gotta be more scientific. Eenie, Meenie, Miny Mo, huh!" Giving Anderson a contemptuous glance, he moves his pudgy, tobacco-stained finger, shaped and colored like an overdone sausage. It lands like a crashing dirigible on a gate at random. It's gate C-167, stuck out in the boondocks at the end of the terminal arm.

"How about B-2? Pretty close and convenient for the passengers, don't you guys think?" pipes up a tinny voice. It belongs to Blenkinsop.

Schleppert turns to him wearily. "How long you been in ATC, son?"

"Three years," says Blenkinsop meekly.

"Figures! You gots lots to learn, sonny boy. Keep yore yap shut, watch us, and learn, will ya?"

"OK, OK," says Blenkinsop, peaceably backing away.

Four hours after takeoff, we land at the Chicago airport. It's now 11:30 p.m. All I want now is to get home, gulp down a drink to wash away the taste of airline food, and snuggle down under warm, cozy sheets.

There are very few planes landing at this time of the night. Our plane lands at the farthest runway possible, on the other side of the arrival concourse. The plane taxis for about 20 minutes to get to the gate. OK, ATC is concerned with our safety; landing is a tricky affair and runway selection depends a great deal on which way the wind is blowing (literally). So, we'll forgive them. Better late than never.

Our plane arrives at the gate, and I scramble to beat the guy from across the aisle so I can get at my carry-ons first. And there we are, standing around gripping our bags, looking foolish, waiting to get off the plane. After 15 minutes of increasingly impatient twitching, during which time we feel we're going barking mad waiting to debark, the captain announces, "Sorry for the wait, folks. Looks like they weren't expecting us at the gate. We're waiting for the jetway operator to come by. I've put in a call to the tower. It will only be a few more minutes."

Now, hang on a sec! ATC had this plane in their sights for at least a half-hour, if not more. They guided the plane to touch down and taxi to the gate. They weren't expecting us? Who's they? Don't they communicate with them that operate the gates? Don't they have the arrival schedules posted up throughout the terminal? How can the plane's arrival be a total surprise?

Through my trusty reverse-engineering device, I can just hear the conversation inside the terminal. The phone rings in the lower level maintenance office. "Hi, this is air traffic control. Are you guys aware that the flight from San Francisco has been cooling its heels at gate C-167 for the past 15 minutes? The pilot just called. Says no one's manning the jetway."

"Geez!" says the foreman. "A flight from SFO? How about that! I'd never have guessed! Let me see who I have available. It's kinda late, so I can't promise anything. Tell the cap'n to hold on." Right, like the captain is going to get mad and take off.

The foreman walks up to the duty roster and thumbs through it to see who's around. He spots Joe loitering about. Good ol' Joe. Very dependable, is old Joe.

"Hey, Joe! Mosey down to C-167 will ya?"

"What for?" says Joe. "My shift's up in 10 minutes."

The foreman's voice drops. He speaks calmly. "There's a planeload of people from 'Frisco, waiting to get off. Someone's gotta man the gate. I think you be the man."

"They must be out of their minds, coming in at this hour. Will I get overtime?" asks Joe, an honest, card-carrying union member.

"I hafta talk to the supe about that. Just get over there, will ya?"

Joe hitches up his pants belt and heads for the restroom. "In a few minutes," he says over his shoulder.

Doesn't all this seem like a more reasonable explanation of what really goes on in airline operations?

Dedicated to Art Buchwald.

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