Steve Dimauro had recognized him immediately and nodded a greeting, which was returned with a grin. In Steve’s opinion the scruffy-looking Phil might not have cut it with the willowy ones, but for that $300 million. “Sonofabitch can still sing, though,” he muttered as he took his seat on the aisle opposite the chief.
Way back in the aft section of the cabin was another pop singer, also British, the piano-playing rock star Shane Temple. He and Phil Charles wore nearly identical clothes, and they sang a lot of the same music. The difference was in the bank balance. Whereas Phil had never stopped being successful, deftly changing his style with the moment, but retaining his traditional sound, Shane had floundered in the eighties, and floundered more in the nineties, being reduced to working on the northern circuit of nightclubs, Skid Row to a pop icon.
His career had been begun again with a sensational rock-opera revival in the opening months of the new millennium. But times had been hard for a long time, and Shane was still a few hundred thousand pounds light of his next castle.
Concorde trip was a big event for him; a major recording session in New York might see him right back on top this year, and he had spent at least ten minutes cooperating with the airport press corps. Nonetheless, as they boarded the flight, his longtime manager, Ray Duffield, had groaned when he saw Phil Charles slumped in his seat reading the sports pages of the Daily Mail.
“Son,” he growled to Shane, “I’ve got bad news. If this fucking thing crashes, you’re not gonna get the ink.”
Concorde reached 50,000 feet at longitude 10 degrees west. This is the north — south meridian, which cuts through the westerly isles of Connaught, bisects the Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry and runs to the east of Mizen Head. Brian Lambert crossed it at1136.30 flying at MACH-2 at latitude 50.49N. First Officer Brody reported their way point to Shannon, and the air traffic control center made a note to expect Concorde to come in again 450 miles later, at the 20-degree west way point. Time: 1157.
The air routes were, as always, busy at that time of day, and to the north of Concorde’s flight path there were no fewer than six westbound air tracks in operation, with big passenger jets running through them 100 miles apart, but flying in eight layers of aircraft, “stacked” at different altitudes. Only Flight 001 made her journey in solitary splendor, moving nearly three times faster than any of the others.
Bob’s burgers arrived at approximately the same time as First Officer Joe Brody checked in to Shannon from way point 20 West, at 1157(GMT) precisely. Out of range now on VHF, he used the High Frequency radio, confirming that the next communication would be their last before handing over to oceanic control Gander, Newfoundland, when they were 1,350 miles out from Heathrow, approaching the middle point of the oceanic crossing.
Shannon “rogered that,” and signed off. Henry Pryor checked the fuel tanks of Speedbird Concorde 001, and the first officer confirmed the precise distance to way point 20 West…just a little more than 450 miles, since they were running slightly south, and the lines of longitude were edging fractionally farther apart.
171210JAN06. 49N, 30W. HMS Unseen at PD.
Speed 5.
Commander Adnam’s radar was searching the skies to the east, the operator paying particular attention for long-range air detections. “Just keep looking,” said the CO. “Anything at over 1,000 knots, that’s the target.” The first detection found Concorde 210 miles out at 1210.33.
“New target, sir. Moving very fast.”
“Must be an aircraft.”
“Fits Concorde’s route plan, sir.”
“SURFACE. BLOW ALL MAIN BALLAST. I want a good blow…maximum buoyancy right away. Officer of the Watch, keep her headed into the swell…avoid surface rolling as much as possible.”
The jet-black submarine came bursting out of the icy depths of the winter Atlantic, water cascading off her casing. Deep inside the hull, the Russian missile systems’ computer established the critical data for a surface-to-air missile attack.
“Speed 1,300 knots plus, sir.”
“Approximate course two-six-zero.”
“Range now 188 miles.”
“Okay team,” said Ben Adnam calmly. “Check the surface picture visual. No hurry, chaps…what do you have…? Fine. Just those three civil airliners 80 miles to the north. No problem. Let’s just relax and do it right.”
By 1213 all the known data, the radar range and bearing, had been fed into the computer. And now they had refined the target. The CO had an accurate course, speed, and closest point of approach. The range was now 153 miles. CPA: 4 miles. Every 5.2 seconds Unseen’s radar completed a sweep, and every sweep signified Flight 001 was 2 miles closer.
“Officer of the Watch, sir. Submarine at full buoyancy now.”
“I have an adequate firing solution within the parameters, sir.”
“We have set the pressure height: 54,000 feet. CPA remains 4 miles.”
“Computer estimates time of launch 1216.”
1214: “Target holding course and speed, sir. CPA same. Predicted time to enter the missile envelope 1218.12.”
At 1215: “Computer in final prefiring sequence, Captain! Countdown now sixty seconds.”
Commander Adnam betrayed nothing. He stood motionless in the control center, awaiting the information that would confirm he had not crossed the Iranian border from Iraq in vain.
At 1216 it came. “MISSILE LAUNCH!”
And up on the casing, in the huge box situated right behind the fin, there was a searing burst of fire and fury, as the Russian-built SAN-6 Grumble Rif guided missile blasted into the empty skies above the ocean, making a dead vertical course, straight up through the thick grey cloud, to 54,000 feet. The 10.5-mile journey took it a shade less than thirty seconds.
Right there, guided, like Concorde, by its pressure-height barometer, it leveled out, and its preprogrammed computer brain changed its course, sending the fiery weapon 4 miles across the no-man’s-land of the upper stratosphere, right onto the Closest Point of Approach of Flight 001 out of Heathrow. Again the Russian rocket swerved for its final course change, now aiming east-northeast.
The radar that lanced out of the head of the missile made a long, unseen, cone shape in the sky, and Concorde was heading straight into it. At that point, barring a spectacular malfunction, Ben Adnam’s killer Russian SAM could not miss.
Back in the cockpit, First Officer Brody, checked in to Shannon, again reporting his position on the primary band of the HF radio. They were now approaching the 30 West way point, and Joe Brody made his radio switch, changing to the secondary band to make contact with the air traffic controllers at Gander. “Good morning, Gander… Speedbird Concorde 001…flight level five-four-zero to New York…MACH-2…. 50 North, 30 West at1219 GMT…ETA 40 West 1241 GMT…. Over.”
On board HMS Unseen, tension in the radar room was beginning to mount.
“Missile on height through CPA, heading out to target…it’s looking good.” The words of the radar operator hung in the air as the SAN-6 streaked along course zero-eight-zero, down which Brian Lambert’s oncoming aircraft was 78 miles away. Concorde and the Grumble Rif were closing at a colossal speed of more than MACH-4, 3,000 mph, a mile every 1.2 seconds.
At 1217: “Holding missile and target firmly on radar, Captain. If the bird’s on the right height, it’s looking good.”
Commander Adnam moved into the radar room, gazing at the screen over his number two operator’s shoulder. His fist clenched the back of the chair, as Concorde entered the firing envelope at 1218:12.
At 1218:18, the operator called: “Target and missile returns merged, sir.”
At 1218:20, Brian Lambert saw it, bright glinting in the sunlight, fire rampaging in its wake. He opened his mouth to speak, uttered the sound “MISS—” as Benjamin Adnam’s radar-programmed warhead smashed into the underside of Concorde’s nose, blowing off the entire front end of the aircraft, leaving the fuselage to rip back from the structural frame like a peeling banana.
The
total disintegration of the aircraft was over in a split second, and death came instantly for the 100 passengers, as they blew into the silence of near space. The changes in the pressure caused the bodies to explode, suddenly lacking the 15 pounds per square inch of pressure that normally accompanies human life. The gigantic detonation of the fuel stored in the aircraft’s wings blew even the wreckage to smithereens. Bob Trueman died with a cheeseburger in his hand.
171219JAN06. HMS Unseen. The radar room.
“No contacts on radar bearing, Captain. Just three civil aircraft to the north.”
Commander Adnam turned away from the screen and walked back to the control center. And there he ordered the submarine dived. “Open main vents. Slow ahead. Ten degrees bow down, 17 meters.” And as Unseen disappeared again, he ordered, “When you’ve checked the trim, go to 100 meters. We’ll clear the datum to the southward at nine knots. Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you very much.”
The world’s first disaster involving a supersonic aircraft had taken place. But at that stage, as the burned-out pieces of wreckage tumbled eerily down over a wide area of the windswept North Atlantic, no one yet knew anything. And it would be a while before anyone did know anything.
It would not take as long as the great Naval brains had taken to work out that HMS Unseen had vanished the previous spring. But it would be another twenty minutes before an unnatural silence in one small corner of the great aircraft control room at Gander would alert the world to the shocking truth that the unthinkable had indeed happened.
By 0743 (EST) in the snowbound air traffic control center on the east coast of frigid Newfoundland, the operator in charge of Concorde was already worried. The British supersonic jet had come in a minute early at 30 West, and it was most unusual for the next call-in to be late. By now Bart Hamm knew that Flight 001 must have passed 40 West, and he had heard nothing.
At 0743.40 he went to SELCAL (selective calling), Concorde’s private code on High Frequency. No reply. Transmitting direct to Concorde’s cockpit, it activated two warning tones, like little bells, designed to alert the pilots. At the same time Bart transmitted a radio signal designed to light up two amber bulbs right in the line of Brian Lambert’s vision.
“Speedbird 001…this is Gander…how do you read?… Speedbird 001…this is Gander…how do you read?”
At 0746 Bart Hamm called in his supervisor. At 0747 (local) Gander Air Traffic Control sounded an international alarm, alerting British Airways that Concorde was missing, instigating a massive air-sea search and rescue, informing the United States and Canadian military that a major passenger airliner was down in the North Atlantic. “Last known position 50.30N, 30.00W….British Airways Concorde Flight 001.”
There were few ships in the area on that freezing January day, but two Japanese fishing trawlers began to head south out of the Labrador Basin to the position in which Concorde might have come down. It was a forlorn hope, because survival was unlikely. There was no question of slowing down to a reasonable landing speed on the water, given its cruising speed of 1,330 mph.
In the Canadian Naval Base in Nova Scotia, the Commander Maritime Forces Atlantic, Rear Admiral George Durrell, ordered two of his 4,800-ton guided-missile frigates, the Halifax-Class Ottawa and Charlottetown to make all speed to longitude 30 West on the fiftieth parallel. Both warships carried a Sea King helicopter. For good measure Admiral Durrell also sent in his massive 14,500-ton Heavy Gulf Icebreaker Louis S St. Laurent, turning it east-northeast from 500 miles off the coast of Newfoundland. With a crew of 59, plus 38 scientists, this ice-busting giant had been the first ship ever to reach the North Pole. Its three-shafted props could drive it through a big sea at 18 knots. The chances were the Louis S, carrying two helicopters, would arrive at 30 West before the frigates. But it would still take a day and a half to get there.
Admiral Durrell’s aircraft would be quicker. And by 0830, two Lockheed CP-140 Auroras were up and out of Greenwood, Nova Scotia, making 400 knots toward Concorde’s crash area. They were scheduled to arrive by 1230.
In London, news of the lost supersonic jet broke before the end of the 1:00 P.M. bulletin on BBC. And it was delivered in tones of pure disbelief by the newscaster. The broadcasting corporation then announced that the BBC 2 channel would follow the story day and night for the next twenty-four hours, all other programming being canceled. Not since the death of the Princess of Wales more than eight years previously had the BBC moved into such extensive coverage.
The trouble was, of course, there was almost nothing to report. The great airliner had simply vanished. It was there one moment, gone the next. And in the aftermath of its demise there was not one shred of wreckage, not one suggestion as to the whereabouts of the black-box flight recorder, not a word from anyone, save from Bart Hamm in Gander, who was quite prepared to confirm he had heard precisely nothing.
Television, radio, and newspaper reporters had about three facts — one, Concorde had reported its height, speed, and position at 30 West; two, it had failed to report in at its next way point at 40 West; three, they had the passenger list. And Ray Duffield had been right. His man Shane had almost drawn a blank. Phil got the ink.
The London tabloids unanimously led their front pages with variations on the same headline:
PHIL CHARLES DEAD IN CONCORDE
MYSTERY CRASH
or:
CONCORDE CRASH KILLS PHIL CHARLES.
British Airways announced late in the afternoon that Flight 001 had been commanded by Captain Brian Lambert, “one of the most senior and respected pilots on the North Atlantic route.” His copilot had been First Officer Joe Brody, “an ex — Royal Air Force fighter pilot who had been with BA for twelve years.” Flight Engineer Henry Pryor, was, according to the BA press release, “shortly to have been promoted to the most senior engineering position in the entire Concorde fleet.”
Jane Lambert, who heard of the catastrophe to her husband’s aircraft at halftime in Billy’s match against Elstree, was taken to the headmaster’s study, where she reacted with immense bravery. “I have been Brian’s wife for eighteen years,” she said. “I have always been prepared for something like this…every time he leaves the house.” They didn’t tell the little boy until the game was over.
In Washington, the loss of the government’s oil-negotiating team, including four congressmen, was a major story. The evening television newscasts, which had much more time to prepare than their British counterparts, were concentrating on a report from a Northwestern Airlines pilot whose plane had crossed 30 West around the same time as Concorde, some 80 miles to the north. “I thought I saw,” said Captain Mike Harvold, “a small fire-flash in the sky south of my aircraft. I’d say just about on my ten o’clock. I was heading two-six-zero at the time for the coast of Newfoundland.”
Questioned further, he confirmed he could not make out the shape of any aircraft so far away, “I guessed it might be Concorde, but I couldn’t be sure, and I just made my report of the possible explosion in an unknown aircraft. But there’s nothing else up that high. I guess it had to be Concorde. Looked to me like it just blew right out of the sky. I suppose you couldn’t discount the possibility of a bomb…but the security surrounding that thing is unbelievable. In the trade, a bomb in Concorde is regarded as just about impossible.”
By the late evening, the experts were in, extolling their opinions to a shocked U.S. audience. The possibility of a bomb was chewed over in much detail, but not in the same way as with other airline disasters. Concorde was too well managed, too small, with too few passengers, and the legendary security was as near to watertight as any security ever can be.
“Experts” who had never traveled on Flight 001 announced they thought it was possible to plant an explosive device on board. “Experts” who had actually traveled supersonic, thought the opposite. Some thought Concorde might have blown up because of a fuel leak. One source even mentioned the possibility of a missile strike, assuming at that stage it could have come from a surface ship.
But checks were made over the next forty-eight hours, and it became clear that 10 miles below Concorde’s flight path, in the vast wastes of the North Atlantic, in waters so lonely the nearest land is over 1,600 miles away in any direction, there was simply no platform for such an attack to be launched. No land. No warship. Not even a decent-sized merchant ship. No one could have loosed off an accurate radar-guided missile at the supersonic passenger jet, because no one had a place for the launcher. In any event, hitting an aircraft traveling that fast, that high, was way beyond the capacities of 90 percent of the world’s guided missiles, even if there had been a launching pad. The possibility seemed so utterly unlikely it was not discussed at the highest levels, even in the Pentagon.
Not even in the White House, by the zealously suspicious Admiral Arnold Morgan…although he was heard to mutter cynically to Kathy O’Brien that evening, “Goddamned Brits are getting a little careless, hmmm? First a three-hundred-million-dollar submarine which is never seen again…now a supersonic aircraft, also vanished…That’s not like them. Not like them at all.”
By midday on the morning of January 18, it was decided that since the accident had been to a British Airways aircraft, built in Great Britain and flown by British pilots, the entire thing had little to do with the United States, not in formal terms. Certainly the Federal Aviation Administration was more than interested in the world’s most famous aircraft hitting the Atlantic en route to New York. But the actual investigation into the causes of the destruction of Concorde would be undertaken by the Air Accident Investigation Branch of the Department of Transport in London. The crash had, in any event, occurred slightly nearer to the UK than to the shores of either America or Canada.
And now there were two Royal Navy warships on their way out to the seas which roll over 30 West around the fiftieth parallel, where at first light that morning the Canadian Navy surveillance planes had spotted wreckage in the water. The big icebreaker was still twelve hours away from the spot, and the frigates were even farther. So the searchers would just have to hope the lighter material would keep floating. There was no sign of any bodies.
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