Figure 8 — A close up of Figure 7. Notice the wall panels intact to the right and left of where the scavenge pump would sit, and that the missing panel has been “surgically” removed. No seeming sign of explosive damage there.
Fionre 9 — T P ft hand wino rnnt — TWA goo reennstnictinn
Figure 10 — The recovered TWA-800 cockpit — Inside this B747 cockpit is where I normally sit….. weird feelings generated…. I’ve got 6000 hours living in this cockpit alone, with three different companies over a fourteen-year span.
How I Got the Story and the Pix
On the evening of July 16th, 1996 TWA Flight 800 was most likely shot down with a U.S. missile made available to terrorists because of a policy/non-policy set by President Clinton and his Administration. The official version, that the center fuel tank exploded, causing the tragedy is, in a word, bullshit.
During this past year I was made aware of a gigantic hoax, and a cover-up by the United States Government, concerning the destruction of TWA Flight 800, July 16, 1996, with the loss of 230 innocent lives.
Fifteen years of research have gone into my book, “Cockpit, Confessions of an Airline Pilot,” a collection of the lives and times I’ve experienced in aviation. During these years I’ve been flying 747’s ("the big jets") all over the world… Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Syria, Turkey, Afghanistan, Croatia, Algeria, Saudi Arabia, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, most of Africa, the Orient and South America. My passports look like a kaleidoscope of colorful visa and stamps of different shapes and sizes. During those years I have been asked to bring in a “load” from Kabul, Afghanistan (I didn’t), to report on the “doings” of Suharto, his puppet, Habibe, the blind cleric Abdurahman Wahid, and the most recent President, Megawati Sukarno-Putri. (I haven’t).
I’ve followed with painful amusement the “Presidential Christmas Amnesties” granted by Philippine President Joseph Estrada to the cannibal murderer of a Catholic priest ( he and his pals ate the priest’s brain ). It’s okay though, not to worry… the pardoned cannibal told the press that, “…although he was considering opening a restaurant in downtown Manila, he was now a vegetarian.”
This past year, from the end of January through the end of April, I flew the “Malaysian Hajj,” bringing Malaysian Muslims from Penang, Kuching, Borneo, Kota Kinabalu and Kuala Lumpur’s Sultan Abdul Aziz Shah- Subang to Saudi Arabia for the annual Pilgrimage, the Hajj. In February of 2000, in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia , I was called in my room in the Hilton Hotel to come down to the lobby to meet a man who introduced himself to me as, let’s call him “Jim Simmons.”
Jim, was a forty-ish, rangy fellow, tight-end material. He produced Federal ID for a government agency regulating communications, and had airport security clearances for the Kuala Lumpur secure ramp area, Subang, Malaysia. Ostensibly, he works in an area of sophisticated electronics.
He tells me that we have to go out to my airplane, that he needs to install some “high tech” equipment at the behest of my Company, Tower Air, and that he must demonstrate how it all works. Off we go. Ninety minutes later, now in the cockpit of our empty 747, it is apparent that the high-frequency radios and ACARs that have been installed are not sophisticated, nor do they require any real instruction.
I’m kinda perturbed, having made this unnecessary trip to the airport, but uncharacteristically, I’m keeping my pissyness to myself. Jim separates myself and him from the other pilots and support staff, arranging for the two of us to be alone in the cab heading back to my hotel. During the ride back, Jim starts telling me a story:
He was in Istanbul, working on the radios of the State Airplane of the President of Kazakhstan, a breakaway Muslim thorn in Russia’s side. Noticing a wiring problem with the First Officer’s radio altimeter that he felt could lead to serious problems in flight, he warned the pilots and maintenance people, but was ignored. They wanted to get home.
Hours later, asleep in his hotel room, he gets a phone call direct from the President of Kazakhstan’s staff….. “Big problems…we need you here, now… almost a fire on board on the flight home, you were right.” A knock on his door, and tickets, $6,000 dollars in U.S cash, and a letter of authorization (personally signed by the President of Kazakhstan) arrive while he’s still taking this phone call. Dress immediately, a car’s waiting to take you to the airport.
Neither his company, nor his family are now aware of his movements, such was the haste of this unexpected side trip. He’ll call everybody upon his arrival, fuck it, the money’s right. The Turkish Air flight must transit Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow, (bear with me reader, it gets better and better).
As Jim checks in at the Kazakhstan Air counter in the Moscow transit area, he is instantly surrounded by several “hard” suits who flash Russian I.D., separate Jim from his hand luggage, cash, the transit letter signed by the Kazakhstan President, and his American passport. They then lead him to a stark room off the main corridor.
He is made to strip completely, and with his arms fully extended, he is chained to pipes along the wall. The slack in the chains just allow him to sit naked, fully exposed on an ancient wooden bench, against the wall.
He is left there, naked, chained, for hours as men and women come and go through the room, paying him as much mind as a potted plant (his words).
Finally, a man in a suit, someone who seems to have some authority, begins questioning him. “Where are you from? What is the purpose of your trip to Kazakhstan? How did you get this letter from the President of Kazakhstan? This six thousand dollars cash? Where is the disc?
Jim would answer every question with only one request of his own. “I want to call the American Embassy!”
“Why?”
“I’m an American Citizen being held against my will.”
“How do I know you’re an American Citizen?”
“You took my American passport, you have it.”
“What American passport!”
Fear finally took real hold of Jim. He got the message. His hosts were playing hardball. They were denying his existence, and although they didn’t know this, Jim knew that not one soul, not his Company, not his family knew where he was or where he was going, such was his rush in leaving Istanbul.
Jim started to cooperate fully, answering every question as thoroughly as he could. He could not answer any question regarding a mysterious “disc.”
Six hours later, his clothes, passport, letter and cash are brought into the room. He had not been allowed water, he was not allowed bathroom privileges.
Unchained, and now redressed, he is given back his passport, letter and cash. He is then handcuffed, shackled, and chained hand and foot to a waist-chain, frog marched through the airport terminal, down the stairs, and out onto the tarmac.
There, waiting for him God knows how long, sits a Turkish Airliner, bound for Athens. Air-stairs have been brought up against the side of the fuselage. Two men, one on each arm, helped him hobble up the stairs and enter the plane full of passengers.
A business class seat had been kept ready for him. Under the gaze of all aboard, Jim, chains clanking, was placed in that seat. The main interrogator was suddenly in front of him. He fastened Jim’s seat belt. Only then did he remove the handcuffs, shackles and chains.
Without another word, his captors left the plane, the door was shut, and they were airborne for Athens within fifteen minutes.
All eyes remained on Jim for the duration of the flight. Who is this guy? What had he done?
I’ve been listening to this story for twenty minutes, barely breathing. What has this to do with me? Before I can ask any questions, as the cab stops at a red light miles from my Hilton K.L. destination, Jim says, “I hear you collect airline stories… I don’t think you’ll ever get anybody to top this one.” Then he steps out and walks away. The cab immediately bolts through the light, drives up to my Hilton, and stops. “What do I owe you?”