Seminole Bend

by Tom Hansen

  B ob Cummings was a handsome man in his mid-forties. His hair was dark brown, but it was beginning to show slight signs of gray around the sideburns. He was a fighter pilot and a crash survivor during the early stages of the Vietnam War. Today, when he’s asked if he was shot down during a midair dogfight or trying to dodge Viet Cong ground missiles, Bob shrugs his shoulders and his face turns a bit red. You see, with no enemy in sight, Bob accidentally crashed his multimillion dollar F-102 Supersonic Interceptor into the Bay of Burma trying to fly low upon a night return to his base. He was able to discharge his life raft into the water and climb onboard moments before the jet sunk to the bottom of the bay. Bob received the Purple Heart, awarded to servicemen who are wounded by an instrument of war in the hands of the enemy, for what happened next.

  Bob was struck by a Viet Cong guerrilla’s stray bullet meant for a high flying seagull. The North Vietnamese sharpshooter was bored and decided to amuse himself by taking potshots at birds for target practice. One stray bullet that missed its target wandered back down to earth at missile speed and embedded in the bone, flesh and muscle of Bob’s left shoulder. A few moments later, his life raft ripped apart on a coral reef and he was forced to swim the final seventy yards to shore with just his right arm. Bob was sent back to the States and received an Honorable Discharge from the Air Force in 1970.

  The day after he was discharged, Bob filed a complaint with the Department of Defense claiming that the F-102 was unsafe for flying because it had a built-in altimeter error of up to 500 feet and was also underpowered for combat. He had compiled data charts and aeronautical engineering design flaws associated with the F-102. And to help summarize his report, he blamed his own accident on those flaws. To keep his report from reaching the press, which would have resulted in another blow to Richard Nixon’s handling of the war effort, the DOD thanked Bob and recommended his appointment to the National Transportation Safety Board, a government organization still in its infancy. The NTSB was formed three years earlier to investigate all types of aeronautical accidents. Ten years later, Bob headed up the Miami Region of the NTSB, but spent way too much time and taxpayer money trying to overcome the challenges from aircraft manufacturers’ lawyers in civil court cases. Those lawyers always did their homework and they knew Bob never flew commercial planes, which meant he could hardly be used as an expert witness against them. Meanwhile, the ambulance-chasing class action attorneys were bribing him with personal yachts and Lear Jets if he testified on their behalf. But Bob demonstrated stalwart integrity during testimony and he never cracked while presenting his accident reports in court.

  Two weeks to the day following the midair collision of Trans South 256 and PanMexico 441, Mustaf Dasani was summoned to the Miami regional office of the NTSB. Bob Cummings had gathered a dozen investigators as part of his “Go Team” and assigned his number one man, Jake Tassett, as the Investigator-in-Charge. Two Bayou Airline Pilots, two HoftanJet engineers and Mustaf were asked to provide consultative information to the Go Team. For the past thirteen days and nights, the investigators researched the history of events leading up to the accident and every crewmembers’ duties for a month prior to the crash. They examined the remains of the engines and attempted to calculate the impact angles to help determine both planes’ pre-impact course and altitude.

  The HoftanJet engineers provided a functional status report for all components of both planes’ hydraulic and electrical systems, together with instruments and elements of the flight control system. Mustaf was asked to reconstruct the historical air traffic data communicated verbally to both planes, including acquisition of ATC radar data and transcripts of controller-pilot radio transmissions. He was a wee bit worried, considering that his voice conversations with Harry Hutter were recorded for all to hear and examine.

  “I knew the odds were pretty damn good that we’d be investigating another one of Harry’s accidents,” Bob Cummings professed while shaking his head. “The SOB wouldn’t listen to no one and now he’s responsible for 322 lives.”

  “There’s absolutely nothing in our investigative research that would indicate that anything mechanical went wrong in either aircraft,” Jake Tassett inserted. “Mustaf advised Harry to wait out the storm, and Harry being Harry thought he was invincible and ignored him. I got to say, though, Mustaf, you were lacking a great deal of professionalism in your ground to aircraft communications. In fact, it bordered on several violations of FAA code.”

  “Yes sir, and I apologize and I am fully willing to accept the consequences for my actions. Nothing, however, will replace the loss of my close friend. Say what you want, but Harry was a very good pilot.”

  “A good pilot’s skills go beyond knowing how to handle the controls; he must know how to use good judgment. I’m sorry about your friend, Mustaf, but Harry’s sagacity is questionable. Now, tell us about the pattern of radar blackouts at Miami International and your theory.”

  “We’ve had seven radar outages in the past two months. The outages at Miami have coincided with outages at Fort Lauderdale, West Palm and Sarasota. Upon tracing the blip history of aircraft flying within our radar lock shortly before each outage occurred, we found one gigantic commonality: there was an unknown small aircraft flying precisely at 3000 feet bearing a five-degree northwesterly course from Homestead. Most unknown aircraft blips can be traced back to registered flight plans, but not one of these seven blips had filed any flight plans.”

  Jake Tassett glanced over at Bob Cummings, but Bob had his head down and he was rubbing the back of his neck. There was no doubt he was deep in thought. Jake looked back at Mustaf as the two questions on every committee members’ mind rolled off his lips, “Is it your belief that the same unknown aircraft was responsible for each outage? If so, how was it done?”

  “It’s only a theory, Mr. Tassett, but I do believe the same aircraft was responsible for jamming our radar equipment. Are you familiar with light-emitting diodes, or LED?”

  “I think so, Mustaf. Isn’t that what is better known as laser technology?”

  “Yes, sir. Well, I believe the unknown aircraft scatter-fired invisible infrared pulses that confused our radar instrumentation device by providing false signals, thus causing the computer system to temporarily crash.”

  “Oh, come on, Mustaf. You’ve been watching too many Star Trek reruns!” A few chuckles could be heard from the normally serious committee. Mustaf wasn’t laughing. He didn’t like Jake Tassett’s comments about his friend Harry’s intelligence, he didn’t like being reprimanded in front of the entire Go Team and he didn’t appreciate the sarcastic remarks related to his theory. Mustaf sat straight up in his chair and glared directly at Jake. Jake tried to maintain eye contact, but it was difficult.

  “SignalNav has checked, rechecked and checked again both our ATC instrumentation devices and those on both planes, at least what they could put together from the wreckage,” stated Mustaf matter-of-factly. “All their tests were monitored by the FAA and all came back clear. There was no detected internal electrical problem, which means something interrupted the tracking transmissions between the Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Sarasota and West Palm towers and all of the aircraft that were in flight at the time. The failures occurred seven times in the past two months. Lastly, one constant remains the same; the projected flight path of the suspected unknown aircraft leads directly over Lake Okeechobee. Coincidence? . . . I doubt it. You have a problem, folks. You obviously have no more need for my services. Have a nice day.” Mustaf abruptly stood up, nodded at the stunned committee members, and swiftly exited the conference room.

  Bob Cummings’ nervous expression turned to confusion. “Jake, your report indicates that there was no engine malfunction in either aircraft other than the sputtering PanMexico jet that was running out of fuel. Although the weather was terrible, wind shear or turbulence did not cause the crash. We can’t label it pilot error when ground and cockpit instruments were not functioning correctly. Is it . . . could it be possible that somethin
g might have jammed the radar transmissions?”

  “Well, Bob, we can label the cause of the crash either a malfunction of radar equipment, or laser warfare originating from Unidentified Flying Objects, as Mustaf would have us believe. I guess that means either SignalNav faces a gigantic lawsuit . . . or you and I live out the rest of our lives in the funny farm. What’s your preference?”

  “Jake, I’ve been flying for over twenty years and have seen some incredibly strange sights in the night skies,” interjected Cal Cooper, a captain for Bayou. “I don’t believe in UFO’s, but a laser jamming device isn’t beyond my level of comprehension.”

  Bill Turloney, a HoftanJet engineer, added, “None of our findings indicated a problem with SignalNav’s equipment. How can we hang the blame on them?”

  “We spent too damn much money on this investigation to label the cause of the crash ‘unknown’,” Jake stormed back. “The newspapers would hang us! I say let SignalNav fight it out in court, they probably would win so they would only be out legal costs. A couple hundred thousand dollars is a drop in the bucket to them. Us trying to fight for a UFO theory would make headlines in the National Enquirer every week for the next two years!”

  “One thing you may be forgetting,” Cal exclaimed, “is if someone did intentionally jam the radar devices, then it becomes a criminal investigation for the FBI. It’s the NTSB’s responsibility to invite them in if we deem the cause intentional.”

  Bob Cummings was now pacing while scratching the back of his head. “I think we all know that, Cal. Let’s not jump the gun. We need to think logically.”

  “For the sake of argument, let’s assume Mustaf’s theory is correct,” chimed Bill Turloney. “NASA sent a man to the moon in less than ten years, so it’s conceivable to John Q. Public that laser jamming technology is a possibility.”

  “But futuristic weaponry in the hands of civilians? You’ll cause a major panic from coast to coast!” Jake was starting to believe he was about to get into the debate of the century.

  “If the public believed that bad folks were doing something to crash jets and kill people, they’d demand solutions immediately,” Bob added. “Jake’s right, a panic could not be averted.”

  “Well, dang it, Bob. If the laser story could possibly be true, we damn well better do something about it . . . and now!” said Cal. “I say we call the FBI.”

  “Slow down, Cal. You’re the one panicking.” Bob paced towards the window, paused a few seconds, and then turned to the committee. “The bottom line is this: we don’t have enough evidence to say for certain that a laser jamming device caused the accident and we don’t want our agency to look stupid by labeling the cause as ‘unknown’. I’m going to officially designate the cause of the accident as ‘unavoidable pilot error’ on both captains. I personally believe that to be correct. We will then send the entire report to President Layman’s staff, and if they wish, they can ask the FAA and FBI to reopen the case. At that point, we will work with NASA engineers and try to investigate Mustaf’s theory in depth.”

  Cal was exasperated, but realized that changing Bob’s mind was futile. “Okay, Bob, I’m with you, but you know as well as me that the president isn’t going to reopen the case. He’s already busy trying to convince the American people that the Soviet Union won’t nuke our country with mid-range missiles. I shudder to think what type of panic he would create if he announced that we may have UFO’s bringing down passenger jets! Can you imagine his approval rating if the citizens that he promised to protect were too afraid to take to the skies for travel? Well, anyway, thank goodness I don’t work for Trans South or PanMexico or their insurance companies. I better get going so I don’t drown in lawyer saliva before I get home!”

  CHAPTER 27

  Monday, March 8, 1982

  10:00 a.m.

  “L ew Berry, please.” Seminole Bend County Coroner Cliff Sutton wasn’t looking forward to making this call.

  “This is Lew. What’s up?”

  “Lew, Cliff Sutton down in Florida. Sorry this has taken so long, but we had to be certain before contacting you. For the record, I need to officially verify you as the next of kin. Please confirm that you are Sheryl Berry’s closest living relative.”

  “Damn it, Dr. Sutton, I confirmed that to you already. Sheryl’s parents and brother were killed in a head-on crash two years ago and we have acted on her behalf since that time. Now, get to the point. You told me you would call in within forty-eight hours, Dr. Sutton. It’s been over two weeks. I’ve made and cancelled plans three times to transport what remains of Sheryl’s body to Pennsylvania. Just what the hell is going on down there?” Lew Berry still hoped that there was a possibility that the burned victim of that horrible crash after the basketball game might not be his daughter-in-law. He and his wife assumed that could be a possibility based upon Dr. Sutton’s explanation of the bone length theory from the body found in the pickup truck. A week ago, the coroner released Brett Berry’s body for transport, and the Berry’s held a funeral for their son instead of waiting to bury both of them at the same time.

  “Sorry, Lew. We ended up bringing in medical experts from John Hopkins up in Maryland, who in turn called in the FBI. They wouldn’t let me give you any information.” Cliff knew the conversation was long from over.

  “FBI? Why is the FBI involved?” Lew’s voice sounded puzzled, but he was almost certain the question was rhetorical.

  “Lew, the body in the truck was not Sheryl’s. It belonged to someone approximately six feet tall. Based on the bone width and composition, it is most likely a male. The FBI was called in because we suspected a possible kidnapping occurred, and the medical experts thought they had evidence that Sheryl may have been transported out of state.”

  “Kidnapping? So you’re saying someone removed Sheryl from the accident scene and placed someone else inside the truck before it burned?” This time, Lew was perplexed.

  “No Lew, there wouldn’t have been enough time. Sheryl may or may not have even gotten into the truck. It’s probable that the kidnapping coincided with the theft of the pickup. Whoever drove it was in a hurry to get away and lost control on the slippery road.”

  “So do you know where Sheryl is? Is she alive? Why couldn’t you have told us sooner?! If this is true, my son did not have to die!” Lew was doing his best to keep control, but his anger began seeping through the cracks of his raised voice.

  “I was under strict orders from the FBI not to divulge any information until today. I’m sorry, Lew, I really am. My only hope now is that your daughter-in-law is alright. The FBI would like for you and your wife to meet them at their Miami office as soon as possible. There is a US Air flight leaving Pittsburgh in four hours. They’re flying you first class and will pick you up at your doorstep in an hour.” Cliff was told by the FBI to say no more, so he apologized a second time and reluctantly hung up. He knew he hadn’t provided any consolation for the Berry’s who were agonizing more than ever over the tragic loss of their children.

  Five seconds after Cliff Sutton had hung up with Lew Berry, his phone rang. Cliff really didn’t want any incoming calls for a few moments following his poignant conversation with Lew. A phone call to a coroner is usually not happy news.

  “Cliff, this is Sheriff Bonty. Hey, when are you planning on releasing Sheryl Berry’s body? I’m sure Coach Berry’s parents are wanting to know. They already had the coach’s funeral, so it’s just not right that her burial can’t be done quickly. You know what I mean?”

  Cliff Sutton was not one to interfere with the law, but he damn sure was not going to let the law interfere with him. And Cliff wasn’t all that sure Sheriff Bonty was on the right side of the law anyway. For someone who was supposed to be a cooperative partner with the medical examiner, Al Bonty had a bad habit of questioning all of Cliff’s findings recently. Cliff found it very strange that Bonty called him about virtually every death that occurred in the county. Granted, Cliff had jurisdiction over all Seminole Bend deaths that were
supposedly suspicious, unusual or from unnatural circumstances, but the sheriff’s inquiries seemed inexplicable. There’s no doubt that an officer of the law needs to investigate homicides, but what baffled Cliff was why Sheriff Bonty was so overzealous with accident victims. Bonty had listed the cause of death on the original traffic report as a “possible accident due to speed deemed too fast for existing weather and road conditions.”

  “Al, I can’t give you any information on the victim’s release date.” Cliff struggled trying not to tell Bonty more than what was absolutely necessary.

  “Why are you being so cold, Cliff? We all knew and liked Sheryl, so you can at least call her by name instead of calling her ‘victim’.” Sheriff Bonty paused momentarily for a reply, but Cliff said nothing. “So, is it that you ‘can’t’ give me any information, or that you ‘won’t’ give me any information? Keep in mind that I am the duly appointed officer whose job it is to uphold the law and protect our citizens. You have no legal right to hide information from me if I’m investigating the possibility that a crime has been committed.”

  “So what makes you think a crime was committed, Sheriff? I thought you said it was an accident, pure and simple.”

  “I said ‘possibility’, dang it! And I don’t have to tell you nothing cuz you ain’t no law enforcement officer. Now tell me what you know, Cliff, or I just might arrest you for withholding evidence.” Sheriff Bonty was losing what little composure he had.

  “Aw, go to hell, Bonty. You’d have quite a lot of explaining to do if you threw the ‘duly’ elected coroner in jail. All I’m going to tell you is the body can’t be released until the FBI gives the okay. That’s my orders.”

  Cliff was about to hang up the phone, or more specifically, slam it or ram it, when he heard Bonty shout into the receiver, “Why is the FBI involved? Who asked them to investigate anything? If you or them think some sort of interstate crime has been committed, then dang it, I can figure it out just as well as them suits from DC!”