“Would it be possible to obtain the recorded data from the system during the night in question”? Curt countered.
The Skipper considered the request briefly before answering. “We transfer all our historical information to Navy Headquarters in San Francisco by the end of the week, and so we cannot show you that data here. I'm afraid you will have to seek that content from authorities further up the chain of command. There will be issues regarding national security with which you will have to contend. I can only wish you the best of luck dealing with them”, he stated, closing down the conversation.
Tenacious in his quest for the truth of what happened to the missing airliner he asked, “Is it possible for me to interview the aircrew or the controllers who were operating that night?”
The Skipper replied after a few moments of hesitation, “I believe the crew of the AWAC are in the States, upgrading to the new X-3 system, while the radar operators are also being trained on new equipment back there. Once again, you can probably find them through Navy Headquarters”.
Curt eyed the Captain suspiciously. He was not progressing any further with his quest for information here.
He decided to take a different approach. “Thank you, Skipper for your helpful insights. I will follow up with Navy HQ. Oh, by the way, I read in Stars and Stripes that there was an accident with two of your aircraft just before the fleet entered the straights of Hormuz, is there anything we at NTSB can do to assist the inquiry?” he asked. The Commander looked agitated and glowered angrily at the inquisition.
“Of course not,” he responded, “That is strictly a Navy affair, a court of inquiry is to be convened at San Francesco but it was nothing more than a tragic accident”.
“Very well,” he replied, “I guess I have found what I was looking for, I thank you Captain for your assistance”.
“Please stay on board for lunch with us”, offered Thomas in a beligerent tone, “I will see to some transport for you back to Aden”, he added, while steering Curt out of the operations room.
The mess deck catered for meals at all hours due to the nature of crew rosters and to Curt it was familiar territory. He took his place in the line-up and choose a chicken salad.
He sat down at table with other crew members and engaged in some light-hearted banter and reminiscences of a hurricane in a carrier off Vietnam. The crewmen warmed to him as he appeared to be one of them. A slimly built man of slightly Asian semblance showed a special interest in the gentleman from the NTSB.
Curt attempted to move the conversation toward the crash of the fighter jets, but he sensed a reticence to discuss the event, either through admiration for the pilots or some other reason. Joyner didn't press the point.
The luncheon finished, he endeavoured to return to pay his respects to Captain Thomas. However, the crewmember assigned to chaperone him informed him the Skipper was excessively busy at this time but wished him well in his investigations. He was escorted through to the flight deck for his departure.
The temperature outside was fiery as he crossed the runway to a grey marine helicopter whose rotors turned in readiness for take-off. A crew member helped buckle him into the seat and life vest, pulling the harness tightly.
Curt did not detect the fingers slipping the USB stick into the left pocket of his blue NTSB parka.
On his ride back to Aden International Air Terminal, the sight of the fleet in formation impressed on him the power of the American Military.
The twenty--minute hop gave him a chance to mull over the information and write notes concerning his reception. He watched the aquamarine waters of the Red Sea slip by beneath the chopper deep in meditation.
They deposited him not far from the terminus and after assistance in removing his harness, walked the few yards into the cool air inside the building.
He studied the departure board which showed his flight to Paris on Emirate Airlines departed in less than an hour.
The uncrowded terminal, consisting mostly of men in business suits with their coats draped over an arm, and other men wearing traditional thoobs and futa skirts. One person caught his attention. He was a tall muscular black man dressed in the Rastafarian style replete with dreadlocks. The red, black and green beanie coupled with a similarly themed waistcoat made him stand out in the otherwise subdued colours of his fellow passengers. The few women wore the maghmouq or veil. Those with children hid themselves behind their male chaperones. He decided to check-in and go through security without waiting for the boarding call.
Being a seasoned traveller Curt duly placed his belt, keys, watch and change into the tray before removing his shoes and progressing further via the metal detector guarded by an armed forces' bodyguard holding an AK-47 across his chest. In this part of the world such was the norm.
Instantly, on exiting the machine, there was a loud warning buzzer followed by the sound of the weapon being cocked. “Sir, stand where you are”, commanded the military guard. He obeyed immediately.
Another security agent approached with a hand held metal detecting wand. He waved the implement over Curt’s body and stopped at the left side pocket of his jacket. “What is in here?” he commanded. Curt inserted his hand into the opening and withdrew a USB stick. “Sorry, I forgot this,” he responded with a quizzical look on his face. The security agent continued his search before clearing the NTSB man to proceed.
Curt picked up his belongings from the tray while studying the unknown device hiding in his jacket pocket.
He brought a cup of coffee from the concession, and sat in one of the blue plastic seats aligned in rows in the departure lounge. He opened his laptop and scanned his emails. Dismissing the plethora of inevitable junk he unlocked an e-mail from Kim.
The French were playing their usual autocratic games with delaying tactics, she wrote. They wished to do the forensics on the articles themselves, before handing on the objects to the investigating team.
Curt was sure it would probably require some political arm twisting to obtain access to the pieces of the aircraft found on the islands. He sent an urgent request to his boss to use his influence and gain his teams approval to examine the items.
Sadly, scanning the news reports on the continuing search, there was no new information regarding either the undersea exploration, or any further flotsam washed up on the islands of the Indian Ocean.
Supposed experts on aviation disasters were giving their opinions on every media program and the internet. It was all speculation as no facts were available.
No-one had any evidence he did not have, and many of the conspiracy theories were planely ludicrous.
The call to board his flight broke through his reverie, and he lined up with the rest of the passengers. The Rastafarian man was a few people in front and joining the trip to Paris.
When Curt entered the cabin a hostess checked his embarkation pass and directed him to an aisle seat in the business class section. Must be all the frequent flyer miles I'm accumulating, he reckoned.
He found his seat and saw himself positioned beside the Rastafarian. They nodded a greeting as Joyner sat down.
The aircraft climbed out through the humid air, made a left turn and gave a stunning view of the desert meeting the blue sea below. Somewhere beneath them the U.S. Navy was on patrol looking for pirates and terrorists.
The Captain reassured them that despite a late departure, upper level winds were favourable to arrive in Paris on schedule and to set their watches to the new time zone “Please enjoy your flight’” he concluded.
Curt unclipped the seat back tray and placed his laptop on it. The Rastafarian man put his earphones on and reclined his seat Curt noticed he was still wearing his red framed mirrored sunglasses.
A steward appeared beside Curt and offered to take beverage orders. Joyner requested a Jack Daniels. The colourful beanie twisted and ordered an orange juice. When the drinks arrived both passengers settled themselves for the long flight ahead. Curt reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the
mysterious USB stick, pondered over how it got there and pushed it into his computer.
Chapter 45
Kim Doh’s frustration by the delays the French authorities were implementing took their toll. Every day she would phone the Bureau of Enquiry and Analysis for Civil Aviation and Safety, simply to be told the DGSI and the DGSE, the Intelligence Services would have to clear her to examine the artefacts. Before granting permission to survey the remains of the aeroplane which had washed up on the island beaches, they required a request from the Malaysian Government.
Kim vented her frustration in an email to Curt.
They decided that she would fly to London and interview the man from Inmarsat. It was they who first revealed where the location of the missing ‘plane might be using the engine data uploaded to their satellite. She arranged the meeting for the following day.
She decided to use the Eurostar train connection as it would take her directly into the heart of London.
The next morning at 05:30 she walked into Paris Nord Railway Station and after filling out the customs and immigration card, boarded the sleek high-speed train. The two hundred and seventy-mile trip would see her in London in around two and a half hours. If all worked out well with the interview, she would be back in Paris the same evening.
The Eurostar train with it's aerodynamic nose looked sleek, decked out in white and yellow livery. Entering the cabin Kim noted the similarity to an airliner. Overhead bins ran each side of the compartment and the seating was the same as one would expect in a trans Atlantic aircraft.
She took her place facing the rear of the carriage, and thoughts of the Australian term “Mug-Womp” which referred to someone knowing where they have been but not knowing where they are going came to mind. The circumstances of her trip made this term appropriate and bought a wry smile to her face. She looked down the aisle and checked out her fellow passengers. The train was well served with many using the fast commute to do their work in the British capital before reversing in the evening. The fact that the service took them into the Central Business District made it a realistic option.
Her eyes were attracted to a formally attired woman reading a book which, from the cover, was written in French. What intrigued her was the fact she never turned the page. Occasionally the passenger would glance up before returning to the text.
Kim had noted the dining car adjacent and decided a cup of coffee was in order at this early hour and walked to the adjoining car. As she opened the carriage door, reflected in the glass she observed the woman briefly turn her head to around. . patently she was following her.
The dining car consisted of a bar down the left and miscellaneous round, waist high tables. They served coffee and tea as well as an assortment of alcoholic drinks displayed along a back wall. One could also order a continental breakfast of croissants with mixed fillings, as several of the early morning commuters were availing themselves. Dressed in her black business suit with above the knee skirt, and long sleeved white shirt, the tall exotic Asian lady had no trouble finding space with a group of businessmen at one of the tables. Fluent in both French and English Kim was able to engage in the conversations while keeping an eye out for the woman shadowing her. The tail did not re-appear.
The express sped at 300kph through the French countryside, the nearby foliage dashing past the windows in a blur. The train traversed the tunnel under the North Sea in a flash before it emerged into the quaint English scenery of villages and fields. Two hours and thirty minutes had elapsed preceding it’s entering St. Pancras station.
Kim scanned the platform looking for the mysterious woman, and not seeing her telephoned the man from Inmarsat. He was not yet at the office so he suggested they meet at the Lord Abercornway restaurant in Liverpool Street. He explained that it was a short walk from Moorgate Underground. They agreed to make it brunch.
Kim eyed her illustrated map, found her destination, and proceeded to the tube station. She loved the simplicity of the London metro map, an aspect adopted by many other places around the world, and travelled along the purple line to the correct platform. The train was not long in arriving and after scanning her surroundings, boarded, which took her to Moorgate Station.
Consulting her iPhone she found the restaurant and complied with the directions. The easy walk gave her time to sort through the questions she needed to ask. All the while checking for anyone following whilst admiring the historical buildings associated with this part of London.
A maître d met her at the glass entrance and enquired, “are you meeting someone or do you require a single table?”
“I am expecting to meet with a colleague,” she replied. He asked her name, before leading her up an ornate stairway to an upstairs balcony. The area constituted cubicles with padded red leather lounges with counters, and several free-standing tables and chairs finished in the red and black theme.
Tom Hanson stood as she approached his booth and introduced himself.
They sat and perused the menu whilst engaging in pleasantries. They gave their orders to the hovering waitress.
Kim opened the purpose of the meeting by seeking an explanation of how the Inmarsat network worked and how it provided the data for the search area.
“In the absence of radar or visual sighting of the aircraft, we conceived we may have a way to track the aeroplane when it entered the Indian Ocean,” he stated.
“Our system of satellite communication collects transmitted engine data to reveal any malfunction before it becomes a problem. The pilot is informed and safety procedures initiated”, he explained excitedly.
“However It doesn't provide navigation data, but my collogues and I found that by using the satellite’s location and expiating the signal received, we could give a reasonable estimate of latitude and longitude for the missing ‘plane”, he beamed.
“It's not accurate for speed and direction”, he added, “but it will show an approximate position based on the return signal to our orbiting satellite”.
He opened a folio beside him and spread a map on the red settee.
Kim moved her chair around to see it better.
The chart depicted an area of the Indian Ocean from the Straight of Malacca down to the Southern Ocean, west to the coast of Africa and east to the coast of Western Australia. Hanson had drawn in blue wax pencil, a series of arcs on the map.
“These crescents depict the pings, or handshakes we received from our satellite. They each represent an hour’s duration of the flight, ending somewhere along this line west of the Australian coastline, terminating just above the Southern Ocean”, he pointed out.
Their meals arrived and Kim studied the chart while they ate.
Whilst the waiter cleared away the dishes Kim asked of the Inmarsat technation, “Why is there a gap along this arc? Was there no transmission in this hour?”
Hanson frowned and contemplated before answering.
“This is an old satellite, and occasionally fails to send the data for a period of time. We will be replacing it shortly but at the moment it is all we have to go on, I'm sorry”, was his reply. Kim pondered the gap in information, then seized upon an idea which she put to the technician.
“Could an outside source communicate the ping on the same radio frequency, giving a false reading to the satellite?” she asked.
Hanson looked sceptical but answered, “Why would anyone do that? I suppose it could be technically possible if they determined the correct wavelength to transmit on. But that would imply a sophisticated ability to broadcast the data.”
He went on, “What you are suggesting is, that somebody, that is, an unknown state, and it would have to be a nation to have the technical know-how and assets to achieve it, deliberately changed the search area away from the actual crash site.”
“I'm afraid I won't be a part of some conspiracy theory,” he passionately replied.
The man from Inmarsat looked perplexed, even angry at what Kim had suggested.
He mumbled something about a
mateurs and their suppositions, and began to pack away his chart and forms. “If you want to find the resting place for your missing aircraft, try contacting the CTBTO and good luck with that”, he added sarcastically as he turned toward the stairway.
Kim realised the interview was over. She stood and thanked Hanson for his time, and they departed. She accompanied him swiftly down the stairs and watched him hurry through the restaurant doors. He had not offered to pay for his meal and so Kim settled the bill before returning to the station, checking the shop windows as she went looking for any party following her. She noticed no one.
The journey to Paris was uneventful, and she made a plan to surprise Curt on his arrival at Charles-de Gaulle Airport.
Chapter 46
In his Pentagon office Richard Battley read the composition in front of him. It was not to his liking. The Australian woman had attended a meeting with the technician Hanson from Inmarsat. His operative at the British company reported that the conversation between them had not gone well.
The spy said he had returned to the office in a furious mood, cursing amateur sleuths and conspiracy theorists.
He said she questioned his datum and it's reliability to pinpoint a dependable exploration area.
She further suggested some state had intercepted the transmission data and caused a misleading message, sending the search parties on a wild goose chase.
Battley decided to muddy the waters a touch more. He would use the media to spread partial truths and misinformation, and question the competency of the investigators.
With his knowledge of politicians he was sure they would respond to public opinion rather than scientific facts and expert conclusion.
In The National Interest Page 10