“It’s taken care of ,” says the driver, in perfect English, as he speeds away, and down the ramp. What the fuck was that all about?
Weeks later, as we arrive in Penang, a remote Malaysian Island, “Jim” is seen on that airport’s ramp. On our arrival at the Shangri-La Hotel, we hear that he has gained unauthorized access to our now empty 747, removed some equipment under the noses of the maintenance and security staff, and has disappeared.
Under the wonderful, lobby-long hanging dragon lantern, an Oriental gentleman approaches, hands me a thick, folded envelope, saying, “…this is from Jim,” and disappears into the crowded street.
In my room, the open envelope tossed aside, I examine what appears to be a photo of the fully reconstructed remains of TWA 800. I also examine a photo of an unexploded center fuel tank, repositioned in the planes fuselage.
If what I am seeing in my room in Penang is genuine, the Government reports that an explosion of the center fuel tank of TWA-800 took it down is bullshit. The Zapruder films, showing JFK’s head apparently being struck from the front right, proved that the Warren Commission report was a cover-up, but I’ve got nothing but unsubstantiated, undocumented copies, which could themselves be a cruel hoax. Not a word to anybody, I bury the photos in my map case, inside my Jepps charts, safely unfindable.
Back in Jeddah, late in April, I got sick enough with the “ Hajji hack” to take myself off the flight rotation, which would have put me in Kota Kinabalu, an island dive resort on Borneo. It was from that hotel, on that island, that week that the kidnapping of all the western guests by the “Abu Sayeff” guerillas took place in April, 2000.
My paranoia tells whispers it was no coincidence that I could have been taken as one of those hostages. This is a radical arm of militant Muslims, not the freedom fighters of Mindanao, which has sought independence from the Philippines for years for it’s Muslim population.
Back in Saudi Arabia, my Employer, Tower Air, (a Chapter XI bankrupt company as of 29 February, 2000), owes hundreds of thousands of dollars in hotel bills, fuel, and landing fees. Now I am a hostage, but in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. The Saudis don’t fool around about money. They’ve got my passport, they’ve got me. I’m a prisoner of the Sofitel, confined to Jeddah, and the American Embassy is in Riyadh, hundreds of air miles away.
During the week of April 21 — 28th I’m piling up more debt, calling home, asking my wife and my brother-in-law (he’s in Washington D.C. with political connections), to get the State Department and the press involved in my release. The U.S. Consulate in Jeddah is fucking worthless, guarded on both sides of the street, believe it or not, by fucking Saudis in pick-up trucks, with mounted machine guns, I can’t even approach the inner wall to ask the U.S. Marines for asylum. Someone must have paid the ransom, because I am finally allowed out of the Kingdom on April 28th, having spent the last thirty hours in the Hajj Terminal, waiting, waiting.
Now that I’m back home, I’m advised that I’m out of a job…. Tower Air is Kaput.
Two months later, as a new hire with Polar Air Cargo, whose base is JFK, but Corporate HQ and basic indoctrination is in Long Beach, California, I’m working out at the L.A. Fitness Center every day, trying to get back into some kind of shape.
A gentleman has been riding the hotel van to the health club with me daily, working out at the same time as me, both at the L.A. Fitness Center, and in the hotel’s limited aerobics room, strikes up a conversation.
We talk about mundane matters for the first week or so. He’s originally from NYC also. Seems that in the military in the late 60’s and through the 70’s he was a “Disinformation Officer” on behalf of the Pentagon.
“Oh?”
“Yes!”
“What do you do now?”
“This and that, yourself?”
I tell him I fly 747’s for a living, “chained to the oars,” but am writing a book, and trying to get it published, “Cockpit…,”
“…Confessions of an Airline Pilot?” he finishes the title for me.
“Yes,” is all I can manage, now staring at this ruddy-faced, ageless, nondescript gentleman in the sweaty t-shirt.
“We have something you may want…it’s a disk more specifically, it’s
the disc from a digital camera.”
“Is it of pictures of the reconstructed TWA 800?”
“Yes it is, and we took them.”
We meet over the next few weeks, as I am made privy to more pieces of the puzzle. These two gentlemen, who we shall refer to from now on as Mr. Deep and Mr. Throat, decided that our government had no right to decide for all of us, what we could or should be told about the TWA 800 tragedy.
Mr. Deep and Mr. Throat were the last two individuals to be officially allowed into the guarded hangar in Calverton, N.Y., before the government discarded (yes, discarded) the reconstructed 747. After years of retrieving all those bits and pieces from the bottom of the ocean, reassembling same, the U.S. Government “discarded” the reconstruction.
During their time in the hangar, while Mr. Deep distracted the Federal watchdog who allowed them access, Mr. Throat took the series of digital pictures of the fully reconstructed airplane, including the unexploded center fuel tank.
I’ve since spoken to both Deep and Throat, and they are willing to submit (anonymously) to a battery of polygraphers of my choice to attest to the following:
Their capacity allowed them official access to the Calverton, N.Y. secret, guarded warehouse.
They took the pictures.
They were not allowed/authorized to do so.
One of them is a qualified Captain on B747’s (in addition to other official functions).
One of them is a qualified maintenance/mechanic on B747’s (in addition to other official functions).
The pictures provided to me have not been tampered with, altered or duplicated in any way.
The pictures were the last taken of the actual TWA 800 reconstruction
The pictures, and what they observed, show that no explosion to the CFT brought down TWA 800.
The seats and carpeting (all placed back in their original order and positions) show no burning, singeing or explosive damage, in the area over the Center Fuel Tank.
The only singeing observed was on one exterior portion of the fuselage. “Okay, well, what really happened,” I finally get a chance to ask?
It seems that on the night of July 17th, in “hot” zone W-105 (off the coast of Long Island, New York), our Navy was testing anti-missile missiles. An American missile/or missiles with proximity switches (they explode near, but do not penetrate the target), being test fired by the U.S. Navy,
accidentally killed TWA 800. Or, an American missile or missiles, obtained by and used by terrorists, brought down TWA 800.
As quickly as it happened, it was over. Flight 800 was gone, spread as a flaming swath across the ocean.
The guys say that… “All I can tell you is that by 2am on July 18th, White House staff members on conference calls, had indicated to key Federal Intelligence personnel that a friendly missile had shot down TWA 800, during a naval exercise. They had on their hands, they were told in that blamelessly antiseptic world of military corporatese, ‘a situation.’”
“But, why a cover-up? Why not tell the truth?”
I am told that now we are getting to “Billy Clinton’s Legacy in c-minor”, here’s why the lie: