MH370 received push-back and taxi clearance. It thereupon proceeded out to the runway before being cleared for take-off. The time was forty minutes after midnight or 16:40 Zulu, a term used in the aviation industry for Coordinated Universal Time, local time being +8hrs. The flight was expected in Beijing at 06:30 Local time. It failed to make it.
The Boeing 777-200 accelerated into the evening sky on a heading of 328 degrees until it reached three thousand feet. The flightplan then called for a change of direction to ascend to eighteen thousand feet on a heading of zero two-five degrees.
The area controller ordered a climb to twenty-five thousand feet, and intercept IGARI, an imaginary position used for en-route navigation, where he would receive further instruction. The voice of the Air Traffic Controller came over the speakers in his headset at 00:50 Local time or 16:50 Z advising they were cleared to ascend to thirty-five thousand feet, requested in the flight-plan for this trip, and to increase speed to Mach 0.83. Twenty minutes later, once the aircraft reached the Top Of Climb at its assigned altitude and one hundred and sixty-five nautical miles from the waypoint, Captain Zaharie said to his co-pilot, “Fariq, would you please step back and check the baggage compartment. I am uncomfortable carrying all those Lithium Batteries. I want to verify their integrity regularly until we land at Beijing''?
“I'll let you know if any heat is coming off them”, Fariq replied as he removed his headset and awkwardly stepped away from his seat and ducked out of the cockpit into the main fuselage.
Zaharie flicked the switch which locked the cabin door. He acknowledged the telltale light change to red.
MH 370 crossed the IGARI position indicated on the flight computer at 01:17 Local or 17:17 Zulu time.
Air Traffic Control called them up at 17:19 Z, “Malaysia three seven zero contact Ho Chi Minh City on one two zero decimal niner”.
Zaharie replied “Malaysia three seven zero, all right good night”. This would be the last transmission he would make. A minute later he reached up and pulled a circuit breaker turning off the transponder, and ACARS, (Aircraft Communications and Reporting System) radio signals which made each aircraft identifiable to ground radar.
Chapter 11
The Vietnamese controller was waiting for the request from MH370. Although not a particularly busy night, he had not been disturbed by the fact that MH370 had not called in. He had a number of other aircraft transiting his block of airspace which required his attention.
Five minutes transpired before Vietnam ATC attempted to contact the Malaysian Airliner. Receiving no response, he requested a Tokyo bound flight in the same vicinity to help in establishing communication.
This aircraft also reported his inability to reach MH370, but asserted he heard static and a mumbled reply.
The Vietnamese controller became worried. He called the traffic controller in Kuala Lumpur, but the individual there stated he was unaware that MH370 had not made contact with Vietnamese control after their handover. They declared an alert.
Malaysian Flight 370 was no longer visible to civilian radar. It had disappeared. However, the Malaysian Military Radar at 2:15 Local time, tracked the aeroplane flying over the heavily populated island of Penang.
“Hey” shouted the junior subaltern peering at his radar plot, “Captain, look at this”.His supervisor moved to the screen. The young serviceman showed him the odd path of an aircraft. “It may be a civilian airliner off course. I see no transponder signal” he pointed out to his superior.
“OK track it and keep me updated if it is heading our way”.
The junior radar operator traced the mysterious aircraft for a further twenty-five minutes. He lost connection with the errant ‘plane, two hundred miles to the Northwest, just south of the island of Phuket.
“Contact lost,” he stated, his voice matter of fact in tone.
It was coming to the end of their shift. Tired and ready to close the unit down, they neglected to alert those higher up the chain of command of the discovery.
At 06:30 AM, MH 370 failed to meet its scheduled landing in Beijing. The advisory board indicated the flight as delayed. As friends and relatives became concerned. Airline officials were showing fear that the worst may have happened.
Chapter 12
Having been intent on avoiding contact with the outside world, Zaharie pulled the circuit breakers for the radios and satellite communication systems.
He was now hand flying the aircraft. Only an extremely competent pilot could achieve this in a large wide-bodied aeroplane. He pushed the throttles to maximum and raised the nose in an assent to forty thousand feet.
Below the passenger compartment in the baggage hold, First Officer Fariq heard the engines spool up and accelerate.
The front of the aircraft tilted up, “something is wrong,” he immediately reasoned. Fariq stepped nimbly up the ladder into the main cabin, and dropped the hatch into place with a thud. The passengers eyed at him in alarm. They, too, had noticed the change in behaviour of the aeroplane and sensed that the condition was wrong. Azim bin Shukri stopped his dictation into his iPhone and peered up. He had been given an upgrade to business class because he was a frequent flyer with the airline, the seat allocated to him was K4, nearest the window, not that he could see much, only a few pinpricks of lights far below.
His ears popped as the craft gained altitude. Looking about he could see a few other passengers were also aware of the changes in the aircraft's position.
The First Officer passed his seat and appeared agitated. Fariq walked briskly up the aisle. He smiled to the commuters and gave a look of confidence he did not feel. He nodded reassuringly to them as well as the crew, who were now showing confusion at the changes in the attitude of the aeroplane.
He approached the cockpit door and rapped nonchalantly with a knuckle. “Captain it’s me,” he said in a casual voice. He was feeling very uneasy about why the aircraft was gaining height and speed. He tried the handle but did not hear or detect the audible click that accompanied the door unlocking. He attempted again, using the keypad installed as a safety measure after the tragedy of 9/11. It had been disenabled.
He knocked a little more loudly this time. Still no answer. Now he became greatly concerned. Without the Captain opening the door there existed no way he could enter the cockpit. A disastrous design flaw by the manufacturers in an effort to make aircraft safer from hijacking.
He made several more attempts with the same result. The craft continued to climb.
The First Officer experienced panic rising in his gut. He sprinted down the aisle to the crew station unaware of the looks on the passengers faces. The passenger in seat K4 dropped his iPhone into his holdall forgetting to shut it off.
Fariq picked up the cabin handset and pushed the call button for the cockpit. He heard the buzzing in the receiver but no one responded.
The uneasiness he had before had now blown out to full scale panic. His ears popped as he sensed the atmospheric pressure within the aircraft dropping. The Captain had dumped the pressurization. The yellow oxygen masks rained down from their hidden recesses overhead. Several passengers screamed. The cabin crew looked to him for information on what was happening. He had none. His heart was pounding as he raced up to the cockpit door, and attempted to kick it in, all whilst extracting his mobile from his top pocket. He clutched a yellow mask to his face and endeavoured to dial the emergency number. His phone showed no bars. Desperate now, he pushed the green send button. He was feeling the influence of hypoxia. Numerous passengers and crew had fallen asleep owing to a lack of air, and Fariq was aware that the oxygen would last only fifteen minutes at best at this altitude. The aeroplane had to descend urgently or all on board were doomed. The telephone in his hand made a connection. He mumbled a few words before the link was lost and Fariq Abdul Hamid fell into unconsciousness.
Chapter 13
Captain Zaharie wearing his facemask, reached back behind his seat and, feeling with his fingers, pulled out the aeronautical ch
art on which he had drawn his flightpath in a red marker pen. Flying the aeroplane manually, he skirted the military airbase at Butterworth and proceeded to Penang. He pivoted the aircraft to give him a better view of his home town which he knew he would never see again and pointed Northwest toward Phuket on the southern tip of Thailand. He was aware that by manoeuvring his craft in and out of different countries' airspace it would confuse and disguise his flight path. The aircraft proved more difficult to fly in this configuration then it had been in his simulator, but he gradually seized control of it, and with warning lights flashing, he coaxed it to forty thousand feet. With his oxygen mask in place, he slowly dumped the cabin pressure until he was sure there would be insufficient air for the others to breath. Their deaths would be gentle and painless. At least that is how he justified the murder of two hundred and thirty-nine beings including two infants.
Reaching the waypoint marked on his chart he made a left turn, and manoeuvred on a south-west heading. He pulled back on the throttles and began a slow descent toward the inky blackness of the Indian Ocean. He was confident that his track had kept him from the eyes of radar operators and his disappearance would come as a complete surprise. He was totally wrong.
Chapter 14
The E-2C Hawkeye soared its lazy loops around the Carl Vinson and her escorts, marking all the air and surface vessels in a radius of two hundred nautical miles.
This amazing aeroplane of the US Navy could detect and track up to two thousand aircraft, ships and missiles.
Its three-dimensional radar was capable of zooming into a specified area and direct multiple aircraft from its mother ship, to intercept any threat to the safety of the fleet.
It was flight officer William Christensen, who first sounded the alert in the rear of the E-2C.
His workmates named him Radar after the MASH character, because of his uncanny ability to see untoward happenings before any of his cohorts.
The sophisticated algorithm on the computer had flagged the unusual activity of a civilian airliner Northeast of their position.
This E-2C monitored the radio frequencies of military and commercial traffic. “Radar” re-played the flightpath taken by the target and noted its strange behaviour. “Anybody heard any report of a hijacked aircraft or an aeroplane in trouble?” he asked. The flight crew and the others sitting beside him responded in the negative.
Christensen moved the mouse pointer over the suspect objective and flagged it. This instantly set off a chain response.
The US Navy was not only outstanding in its technology, it also had the world’s best prepared personnel. Constant training made for a cohesive force where a succession of actions took place.
By marking the suspect target, signals were sent to the operations room on the mother ship Carl Vinson as well as to the earth based stations at Diego Garcia, and a military installation at Pine Gap near Alice Springs in central Australia.
This in turn, contacted the JORN (joint over the horizon radar) facility in the far north of Western Australia. Ultimately, the transmission ended in The Pentagon in Washington DC in the United States.
Seated beside Radar Christensen was Manuel Aquas, an American of Hispanic origins whose speciality in the crew of the E-2C was tactical. It was he who would direct any interception to the target. He received an instruction from the “Carl Vinson”.
Chapter 15
Carl Meredith was an airman. He had learned to fly before gaining a drivers permit, on his sixteenth birthday. He had been operating a Piper Cub around his father’s ranch in Texas for a few years prior to obtaining his aircraft licence. His grandfather, who had flown fighters in WWII, and his daddy, also a pilot, had taken the boy on flights across the country on business trips, and had influenced Carls’ adoration of being up in the air. He had embarked on a commercial venture in conjunction with an Estate agent transporting clients to view potential land for sale. It proved quite lucrative until he had a terrible accident. One Sunday morning in the course of surveying a property with the likely buyers he had an urgent need to pass wind, the result of the Texas Chilli he had the evening before. He was pulling a tightly banked turn at the time, which produced a short but powerful discharge bubbled from his bowel. The smell was overpowering. He abruptly returned to the airport, and apologizing profusely, hurried to the toilet therein. He never heard from the Estate Agent again, which induced him to join the Navy.
It did not take him long to graduate as a fighter pilot. It was not because of a love of the sea that made him join the Navy but for the challenge of landing a jet plane on the deck of a moving, short runway. He subsequently became part of the crew of U.S.S. “Carl Vinson.” The thrill of his first carrier touchdown never left him, something all flattop based jocks attested to.
Carl was a likeable fighter commander without the pretentiousness exhibited by many of his peers. He was tall for a combat pilot, at six feet, which can be a disadvantage when pulling extreme manoeuvres. Because the blood settles in the lower limbs, he had to learn to compensate for this and his pressurized flight suit helped keep him from blackouts. His Plane Captain, Petty Officer Koa Ka Hale, a Japanese-Hawiian American, was sometimes a cheeky but affable companion and it was inevitable that they became close buddies. Koa considered it HIS aeroplane which he permitted Carl to borrow for a few hours. Koa believed that the rangy Texan had once saved his life. He had been playing poker for cash with a few crew mates, when one of them accused him of cheating, as he was winning big time in the game. It was illegal to play for money on one of Uncle Sam's` vessels so Koa suggested he take it up with the Captain. His appellant was a giant African-American gentleman who threatened to throw the diminutive Hawaiian overboard. True to his word the next day he found Koa having a cigarette on a platform below the flight deck. Two other, slight, but no less dangerous companions accompanied him. A fight ensued with the agile Hawaiian eluding the huge paws of the black serviceman for a time, until the aggressor managed to seize a hold on his arm. He threw Koa across the deck narrowly avoiding going through the rails and into the sea because his sturdy mechanics hands gripped the grey stanchion at the last minute. It was by pure chance Carl came out of the hanger looking for his service man and saw what was happening. The large ruffian rushed in a crouch at Meredith. The lanky Texan skipped around him and grabbed the business end of a fire-hose coiled on its roller, and swung the heavy brass spout into the bull front end charging at him. All two hundred and eighty pounds of his assailant fell onto the deck. He faced the others whilst wheeling the leaden nozzle above his head. They made a hurried exit from the scanty platform. Carl promptly checked the fellow wasn't dead, and he and Koa slipped back into the crowded and busy hanger deck. The little Hawaiian never had any more trouble after that, and Carl's Fighter Jet was the best kept aircraft in the squadron.
Flying CAP (Combat Air Patrol) over the fleet was at no time boring. Despite the endless ovals, the constant attention demanded of a modern military machine required discipline and fast reflexes which tested every pilot`s skill.
He reached into the side pocket of his flying suit and withdraw a dual USB port and, after removing the standard camera recording USB, replaced it with his own. It would duplicate two images, one for the officers to evaluate and another for himself to brag to his squad about. Although strictly an offence, he and others of his fellow pilots would take movies of their flights “for review” when off duty. He had only been up for a brief time when his aeronautics director computer panel alerted him to change his course. His headphones crackled into life, “Wild Bull repeat Wild Bull '' he heard his call sign, “proceed right turn on vector zero three five”. Such was his training, the aircraft had commenced its detour before the controller had finished his sentence. “Intercept bogey at all speed.” Carl pushed the throttles to military power and the jet shot forward at Mach 2 to its target.
Chapter 16
Deep beneath the atoll on Diego Garcia, an officer dressed in military camouflage got up from his chair and hurri
ed through the electronically locked room. He walked down the passageway, past the elevators with their attendant marine guards, turned left, walked twenty more paces and knocked on a greenish hued door.
The recessed subdued lighting revealed a darker shade of green outlining the skirting boards, and rubber backed carpet, which deadened the sound of army boots tramping through the corridors. The whole labyrinth of passages down here were painted in the same neutral colours.
The rectangular white on black nameplate read, Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Matheson. He rapped once.
“Enter” was the muffled reply.
“Sir” said the Major with a perfunctory salute.
He delivered the Colonel the missive in his hand which he read hastily.
“Is it a hijacking or has it gone rogue”? He asked.
“Not enough info as yet, Sir. Carl Vinson is sending someone out to look the circumstances over, we should get an update within twenty minutes”.
“Keep me informed. That is all”.
“Will do” replied the Major, backing out of the door, and closing it behind him.
The Colonel took his seat again and picked up the telephone.
Firstly he rang an internal number and relayed the intelligence to the person on the other end. “I'll have more information in twenty minutes,” he said, and replaced the handset.
A furrow appeared on his brow as he picked up the phone again and pushed several buttons giving him a secure line to the United States. A telephone rang in a nondescript office in the Pentagon. It was 2:56 PM Local Time in Washington DC.
In The National Interest Page 3
