The changing decisions, engine failure, and a fatal concrete wall — Inside South Korea’s worst air disaster in decades.
When Jeju Air Flight 2216 took off from Bangkok in the early hours of December 29, 2024, there was nothing to suggest it would become the site of South Korea’s deadliest plane crash in years. But within hours, the Boeing 737-800 would lie in ruins beyond the runway at Muan International Airport, engulfed in flames, with 179 people dead and just two survivors.
A partial transcript of cockpit communication, obtained by The New York Times and confirmed by multiple Korean media outlets, has begun to unravel the terrifying last four minutes of Flight 2216 — minutes marked by confusion, desperation, and tragic miscalculations.
At around 8:57 a.m., as the plane was descending toward Muan Airport in South Jeolla Province, air traffic controllers warned of bird activity in the area. Moments later, the pilots confirmed what many aviation experts feared — a bird strike.
“Mayday! Mayday!” came the urgent transmission from the cockpit. The pilots reported striking birds and announced their intention to abort the landing and circle back.
The engines of the aircraft had ingested multiple Baikal teals — a species of migratory duck common in Korea’s wetlands. Later investigations confirmed blood and feathers in both engines, especially in the right engine, where onlookers had captured footage of a loud bang and flashes, suggesting a compressor stall.
Then, at around 8:58 a.m., both the flight data recorder and cockpit voice recorder — the so-called black boxes — stopped recording.
This technical failure has added a layer of complexity to the investigation. Investigators still don’t know whether the black boxes were damaged by the bird strike, a sudden loss of power, or another mechanical failure.
But what happened next is chillingly clear from the communication transcript.
Standard protocol after a failed landing is straightforward: climb to a safe altitude, stabilize the aircraft, and reassess. Controllers advised the pilots to climb to 5,000 feet and maintain runway heading.
The pilots initially agreed. But seconds later, they abruptly changed their minds.
Instead of climbing to 5,000 feet, they told the tower they intended to turn left and attempt an immediate landing on Runway 1 — approaching from the south.
This was unusual but not unheard of in emergency situations. Aviation expert Hyoseok Chang told Korean media that the decision suggested the pilots feared their damaged engines would not hold up long enough to reach a holding pattern or attempt a standard approach.
Yet only ten seconds later, they changed course again — requesting a right turn to approach Runway 1 from the other side.
Controllers granted permission.
But for reasons still unclear, this maneuver also failed. Finally, air traffic control suggested landing from the north on Runway 19 — essentially the opposite direction. The pilots agreed.
This dizzying sequence of changing plans — left turn, right turn, switch runways — all within less than three minutes, shows a cockpit under enormous pressure and likely dealing with worsening engine performance or critical system failures.
At 9:02 a.m., the aircraft approached the runway — but fatally, its landing gear was not deployed.
Whether this was due to mechanical failure, pilot oversight in the chaos, or electrical issues is still under investigation. Without the black boxes, the reason remains speculative.
When the plane hit the runway, sparks flew as metal scraped against tarmac. The 737 skidded uncontrollably, overran the end of the runway, and slammed into a concrete structure — the localizer antenna housing of the instrument landing system (ILS).
The force of the impact ruptured the fuel tanks, igniting an inferno.
Only two crew members at the very rear of the plane survived — a miracle attributed to their distance from the initial impact and fire.
Investigators and aviation experts are increasingly focusing on the concrete building that played a devastating role in the crash.
Under international aviation standards, ILS structures near runways are typically designed to collapse on impact to minimize damage during runway overruns.
But at Muan International Airport, the ILS localizer antenna was housed in a rigid concrete building — a structure that should not have existed so close to the runway’s end without being frangible (breakaway) in design.
“It’s verging on criminal negligence,” one aviation expert told The New York Times. “Concrete does not belong in the path of a crashing aircraft.”
South Korea’s Transport Ministry has since launched a separate investigation into airport infrastructure at Muan.
Jeju Air, founded in 2005 and once praised for its operational safety, is now facing renewed scrutiny.
Between 2020 and 2022, it recorded the highest number of fines and suspensions for aviation law violations among Korean carriers, according to local media.
However, in the two years leading up to the crash, Jeju Air had no recorded violations — a fact the company had used to promote its safety culture.
That narrative has now unraveled.
Korean police, the Aviation and Railway Accident Investigation Board (ARAIB), as well as U.S. and French aviation experts (given Boeing’s role and the engine’s French-American heritage) are investigating not only technical causes but also potential human error and regulatory lapses.
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At a meeting with victims’ families on April 6, 2025, Korean officials read out portions of the pilot-controller transcript — carefully edited, they claimed, to respect the privacy of those involved.
But for many grieving families, this was cold comfort.
“There are too many unanswered questions,” one family member told The Korea Herald. “Why did the black boxes fail? Why was there a concrete wall? Why couldn’t the plane land safely?”
The Jeju Air Flight 2216 disaster is more than just a tragic accident. It exposes several systemic weaknesses in aviation safety:
- The threat of bird strikes at airports surrounded by wetlands and farmland.
- The need for better pilot training for dual engine damage scenarios.
- The importance of frangible runway-end infrastructure.
- The risks of technical failures disabling flight recorders at critical moments.
As the investigation proceeds, global aviation regulators will be watching closely.
For now, at Muan International Airport, a charred scar remains beyond the end of the runway — a grim reminder of a morning where every decision, every failure, and every second counted.
