“Have you ever spoken to an eyewitness?”
“No.”
“You should.”
He ignored my suggestion and said to me, “I’ll tell you something else that is inconsistent with a missile attack. As long as we’re theorizing, why would a terrorist shoot down an aircraft so far from the airport? A simple-to-use and easy-to-obtain, shoulder-fired heat-seeking missile—what the military calls a fire-and-forget missile—could have brought down this aircraft anywhere within five miles of the airport. To shoot down this aircraft at thirteen thousand feet, eight miles off the coast, would take a very sophisticated, complicated-to-use, and almost impossible-to-obtain infrared or radar-guided surface-to-air or air-to-air missile. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“So there you have it.”
“I got it.”
Kate said to me, “I have a copy of the official Final Report on the case, which you can read.”
Mr. Siben said to me, “And stay away from the conspiracy theory idiots and their books, their videotapes, and their Internet lunacy.”
Time to cool down Mr. Siben. I said, “Well, I’ve never read or seen the conspiracy stuff, and I have no plans to. I’m also not likely to read your report, which I’m sure is well reasoned and convincing. In fact, I only expressed a mild—and as it turns out, uninformed—opinion to Ms. Mayfield, my wife and superior, which caused her some professional and personal concern, and thus my presence here tonight. And your presence as well. So, I thank you, Mr. Siben, for taking the time to brief me, which I’m sure must be tedious for you by now. It’s my opinion that you and everyone who worked on this case have done an outstanding job and reached the correct conclusion.”
He eyed me for a moment, wondering, I’m sure, if I was pulling his chain. He glanced at Kate, who nodded reassuringly to him.
I extended my hand to Mr. Siben, who took it and gave me a firm shake. He shook hands with Kate, who thanked him, then he turned, and walked into the darkness.
He then did a Jimmy Durante, turned, and walked back into the light. I thought he was going to say, “Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.” But instead he called out to me, “Mr. Corey. Can you explain that streak of light?”
I replied, “No, I can’t. Can you?”
“Optical illusion.”
“That’s it.”
He turned and disappeared again into the shadows. As he reached the door, his voice carried over the quiet hangar, and he said, “No, that’s not it. Damn it.”
CHAPTER TEN
Kate and I stood in the quiet hangar with Mr. Siben’s parting words still echoing in my mind. I mean, the guy had me half convinced, then he has a brain fart on his way out, and I’m back where I started.
Kate moved toward the aircraft and said, “Let’s see the interior.”
The reconstructed 747 sat on a wooden trestle and at several points along the trestle were steps, which led to the open doors of the fuselage. I followed her up a set of steps into the rear passenger cabin.
Kate said, “This interior cabin was reassembled in the fuselage as an investigative tool to match fuselage damage with cabin damage.”
I looked down the length of the cabin toward where the forward section and cockpit should have been, but the cockpit sat separately in another part of the hangar, leaving a huge opening through which I could see the far wall of the hangar.
I realized that at the moment of separation, the passengers saw the cockpit falling away, and the sky appearing in front of them, followed by a howling wind that must have ripped the cabin apart.
And in the falling cockpit the captain, co-pilot, and flight engineer were at the controls of an aircraft that was no longer attached to their cockpit. What did they think? What did they do? I felt my heart racing.
The main cabin of the huge 747 was a nightmarish semblance of the interior of an airliner—cracked ceilings and lights, hanging luggage bins, open portholes, pieced-together bulkheads, mangled lavatories and galleys, shredded and burned divider curtains, rows of tilted and ripped seats, and carpet patched together on the floor. Everything was held in place by a framework of wooden beams and wire netting. There was still the faint odor of something unpleasant in the air.
Kate said, in a quiet voice, “As the pieces emerged from the ocean, people from Boeing and the NTSB directed the reconstruction. The people who volunteered to do the actual work included pilots, flight attendants, and machinists—airline people who had intimate knowledge of the interior of a Boeing 747.” She continued, “Every piece of the aircraft has a factory number, so, difficult as this was, it wasn’t impossible.”
I commented, “This took a lot of patience.”
“A lot of dedication, and a lot of love. About forty of the passengers were TWA employees.”
I nodded.
She continued, “From the TWA seating chart, we had a good idea where each passenger sat. Using that, the pathologists created a computer database and digitalized photographs, and matched the injuries sustained by each passenger to damage on their seats, trying to determine if those injuries and the seat damage was consistent with a bomb or missile.”
“Amazing.”
“It is. No one can fault any of the work done by any group on this project. It went beyond state-of-the-art. It broke new ground and wrote the book on aircraft accident investigations. That was the only good thing to come out of this tragedy.” She added, “No one found a smoking gun, but they did prove a lot of negatives, the most important of which was that there were no explosive residues on board.”
“I thought they found some chemical evidence of an explosive substance. I remember that caused a big stir.”
Kate replied, “They got some false positives, such as the glue used in the seat and carpet fabrics, which was chemically close to a plastique-type explosive. Also, they got a few real hits inside this cabin, but as it turned out, this plane had been used a month before the crash in St. Louis to train bomb-sniffing dogs.”
“Are we sure about that?”
“Yes. The dog handler was interviewed by the FBI, and he stated that some SEMTEX residue may have been left behind.”
We walked up the right-hand aisle, between the scorched and ripped seats, and there were stains on some of the seats, which I didn’t ask about. There were also carnations and roses on some of the seats, and Kate said to me, “Some of the people who you saw at the memorial service came this morning to visit, and to be close to the last place where their loved ones sat . . . I came one year . . . and people knelt by the seats and spoke to . . .”
I put my hand on her shoulder, and we stood silently awhile, then continued down the aisle.
We stopped in the center of the cabin, the area right over the center fuel tank, between where the wings would have been. The fuselage around this center section below the fuel tank explosion was extensively damaged, but all the seats had been recovered and so had most of the carpeting.
Kate said, “If a missile, with or without an explosive warhead, passed through here, there should be some sign of it, but there isn’t. Not here in the cabin, not on the fuselage skin, not in the center fuel tank, and not in the air-conditioning units below the fuel tank.”
I looked at the floor, then at the seats, the ceiling, and at the hanging luggage bins. I said, “Still, there are lots of missing pieces.”
“There are . . . but you’d think that Captain Spruck’s missile would leave some trace of its entry and exit as it passed through all that mass.” She looked quietly around at the mangled remains of the cabin’s interior, then said, “But it could have passed through, and all evidence of its passing was destroyed in the explosion and the subsequent crash from thirteen thousand feet.” She looked at me.
I thought a moment, then said, “That’s why we’re here.”
We walked toward the front of the cabin and passed into the First Class section where the seats were wider. The aircraft had separated here, halfway through this forward section, and t
hrough the reconstructed dome section overhead. A twisted spiral staircase rose up into the dome, surrounded by the shattered plastic bulkheads.
Kate was quiet for some time, then said, “TWA Flight 800, bound for Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, ten minutes out of Kennedy Airport, climbing at eleven thousand feet, about eight miles off the southern coast of Long Island, speed about four hundred miles per hour.”
She took a deep breath and continued, “We know from passengers who were still strapped to their seats that at least twelve of them switched seats—the usual scramble on a night flight to find empty center rows where they could stretch out.”
I turned and looked back at the rows of seats in the Coach cabin. On the night of July 17, 1996, this aircraft was only about half filled with passengers—a small blessing—so there would be plenty of empty rows with three seats across. Tonight, they were all empty.
Kate continued, “The pilot, Captain Ralph Kevorkian, had released the flight attendants from their seats, right before the explosion occurred. We can assume they were all out of their seats and preparing the beverage service.” She glanced at a nearby galley and said, “The divers found the coffeemaker in this section turned to the On position.”
I didn’t reply.
She continued, “At eight-twenty-eight, the cockpit voice recorder picks up Captain Kevorkian saying, ‘Look at that crazy fuel-flow indicator there on number four,’ meaning, the number four engine. Then he says again, ‘See that crazy fuel-flow indicator?’ Neither the co-pilot nor the flight engineer responded. Then, at eight-thirty, Boston air traffic control gave Flight 800 instructions to climb to fifteen thousand feet, and the co-pilot, Captain Steven Snyder, acknowledged. Captain Kevorkian then said, ‘Climb thrust. Climb to one five thousand.’ The flight engineer, Oliver Krick, said, ‘Power’s set,’ and those were the last recorded words. At eight-thirty-one and twelve seconds, this aircraft reached 13,760 feet . . . then it exploded.”
I stayed silent awhile, then asked, “What’s with the crazy fuel-flow indicator?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. Most pilots say it was a temporary aberration of the cockpit instrument. But it may indicate some serious mechanical malfunction.”
I nodded.
She continued, “The pilot of a small commuter plane at about sixteen thousand feet spotted TWA 800 flying toward him, about twenty-five miles away. He said he thought that the 747 still had its take-off lights on, though they should have been turned off at ten thousand feet. He also said that the light seemed brighter than it should have been, then he realized that the bright light he saw was not a take-off light—the light was near the 747’s number two engine, and he thought the engine could be on fire. He blinked his own lights to alert the 747 and at that moment the 747 erupted in a fireball.”
I thought a moment and said, “That sounds like it could have been a mechanical malfunction.”
Kate nodded, then continued, “At the same time, a passenger on a US Air jet had been looking out his window and saw what looked like a flare rising into the air. About ten seconds later, this passenger saw a small explosion in the area where he had last seen the flare, then a second later, there was a massive explosion.”
I remarked, “That sounds like a missile.”
She nodded again. “This passenger was a U.S. Navy electronic warfare technician.”
I recalled Captain Spruck’s mention of an electronic warfare technician.
Kate said, “One more aerial sighting—two Air National Guard helicopter pilots on a routine training mission. They were out over the ocean, heading due north, back toward their base on Long Island. These guys seem to have been closest to the explosion, about seven miles distance and a few thousand feet below the 747, flying directly toward it. The pilot claims he saw a flare-like streak of red-orange light ascending from west to east, the same direction that the 747 was moving. His co-pilot confirms the same sighting, and in fact, the co-pilot called over his intercom to his flight engineer and said, ‘Hey, what is that pyro?’ A second later, the pilot and co-pilot observed a small yellowish white explosion, followed by a second, almost pure white explosion . . . then, they described a third, massive fireball . . . so now we have three, instead of the two explosions that most people saw. But as I say, they were the closest, and they were experienced military pilots who should know what they were seeing.”
I asked, “Did this helicopter go to the scene of the crash?”
“Yes. They were the first to arrive. They circled, but saw no signs of survivors.” She added, “These two pilots later recanted their first report about the streak of light. Then, the senior pilot, after he retired from the Air National Guard, went back to his original story.”
I nodded. It would appear that someone put pressure on those Air National Guard pilots to change their original report.
Kate looked around at the jigsaw puzzle that was once a Boeing 747. She said, “So, at eight-thirty-one and twelve seconds, almost twelve minutes after take-off, something set off an explosion of the fuel vapors in the center tank. The tank blew, and the force of the explosion severed the cockpit and half of the First Class compartment from the fuselage—right here—and the cockpit began falling toward the ocean.”
I stared at the gaping opening where the cockpit should have been, and a cold chill ran down my spine.
Kate said, “When the weight of the cockpit was gone, the center of gravity shifted, and the tail tilted down. The engines were still running, and the decapitated aircraft climbed about four thousand feet . . . then it began to roll and drop, and the wing tanks ruptured and the fuel ignited, which created the huge fireball that over six hundred people saw.” She paused, then continued, “This sequence of events is based mostly on forensic evidence, and some satellite and radar sightings. However, this is not entirely consistent with what eyewitnesses saw, and this doesn’t totally match the CIA animation.”
“How about the flight recorder?”
“It went dead at the moment of the initial explosion when the cockpit was blown off the aircraft.” She continued, “We really have three sets of facts, and they don’t completely dovetail. The CIA animation says that what the witnesses saw—the streak of light—was the burning fuselage ascending after the explosion. But forensic and satellite evidence suggests that the aircraft didn’t begin burning until it began to fall. As for the stream of burning jet fuel that the CIA said was also mistaken for a rising streak of light, that seems to be overkill. I mean, what did the eyewitnesses see and mistake for a rising streak of light? The ascending, burning aircraft, or the descending stream of jet fuel?” She looked at me. “Or neither?”
“Sometimes,” I said, “you can have too many witnesses. A few dozen people saw Rabbi Meir Kahane shot in public, and after the defense attorneys got through with them, no two people saw the same thing, and the confused jury let the shooter beat the murder rap.” I added, “And then you have the JFK assassination.”
She thought awhile, then reminded me, “You like forensic evidence. Sidney gave you the forensic evidence. Do you like it?”
I replied, “Forensic evidence is the best, but it has to correlate with other facts.”
We began walking back toward the rear of the aircraft, through the left-hand aisle, and I descended the wooden stairs, wanting to get out of the aircraft, which was not only creepy, but incredibly sad.
Kate followed, and we left the hangar and walked into the cool night air where I felt immediately better. I got in the Jeep, and Kate got in beside me. I started the engine, turned on the headlights, and headed back toward the gate.
As I drove, I asked, “What did the CIA have to do with this case?”
“At first, when the bomb or missile theory was hot, they were all over, looking for foreign terrorists.”
I pointed out, “Foreign terrorists, if they’re in the U.S., come under the jurisdiction of the FBI.”
“That’s right. But there are, as you know, CIA people in our organization. You rememb
er Ted Nash.”
“I remember Ted. I also remember you went to dinner with him a few times.”
“Once.”
“Whatever. Why was he interviewing Captain Spruck?”
“I don’t know. That was a little unusual.”
“What did Ted tell you about it over dinner?”
“John, don’t obsess over my one date with Ted Nash. We were never romantic.”
“I don’t care if you were. He’s dead.”
She got back to the subject and said, “After the FBI and NTSB concluded that the crash was an accident, the CIA should have disappeared. But they never really did, and it was the CIA who made that video animation that was shown on TV.” She added, “The unofficial word was that the FBI didn’t want to be associated with that animation.”
“Why not?”
“I suppose because it was too speculative. It raised more questions than it answered, and it infuriated many of the eyewitnesses who said that the animation was nothing like what they saw. It stirred up the whole thing again.”
We passed through the gates, and Kate directed me toward the Long Island Expressway. I said, “Now that I’ve spoken to Spruck, I need to see that animation again.”
“I have a copy of it.”
“Good.” I thought a moment and said to her, “What we’re really looking for is that couple on the beach. And we hope to God they videotaped themselves doing something naughty, and that their tape, if it existed, still exists, and that somewhere behind this couple’s naked butts we see what happened to Flight 800.”
“That’s about all we have left that might cut through all the conflicting evidence and reopen this case.” She added, “Or it would also be reopened if some organization made a credible claim that they took down that plane.”
“Didn’t a few Mideast terrorist groups take credit for the crash?”
She replied, “Just the usual suspects. But none of them had any inside information that would lend any credibility to their claims. They didn’t even get the public information right. Basically, no one believable took credit for an attack. And that lends some credence to the mechanical failure conclusion.” She continued, “On the other hand, there are new terrorist groups who don’t take credit for an attack. They’re just into death and destruction. Like this bin Laden guy and his Al Qaeda group.”