In The National Interest

by J. Harvey Barker

  Curt and Kim thought this to be an odd sequence of events, but being French, they could do nothing except request a chance to look at the vital pieces, through official channels.

  Curt did, however, glean the name of the person who found the flotsam. They directed them to where they might locate the said James Churchill.

  They engaged a taxi which took them to a pleasant semi open aired bistro simply called “The Hut”. There, propping up a corner of the bar sat their quarry. He was dressed, as always, in a loose fitting Hawaiian shirt with a banana print on a blue background. He wore khaki cargo shorts, flip-flops and a straw hat. A fruity rum concoction sweated in front of him and it was obvious to them that this was not his first for the day.

  “Hi there, would you happen to be James Churchill”? Kim enquired in her sweetest voice.

  “Depends on who’s asking” he slurred, with a licentious grin.

  “I'm Kim Doh and this is Curt Joyner” she introduced themselves.

  “ And what would you want with me?” he said as he eyed them suspiciously.

  Facing the situation head on she replied, “I am from the Australian Aircraft Safety Board and my friend Curt is from the National Transport Safety Bureau of America, and we are investigating the disappearance of the Malaysian Flight Three Seventy. We understand you found the wreckage on the beach recently. May we ask you a few questions?” she added.

  His face contorted as if she had just struck him.

  “Get away from me” he screamed as he staggered off the bar stool, knocking over his drink. “Just stay the hell away from me. I don't know anything. Take the phone. I don't care, please leave me alone.” he slurred as he waddled off toward the exit, adding “they killed him, they killed him”.

  “Killed who?” Kim shouted after him.

  “The consul, you idiots,” he retorted as he left them.

  Curt and Kim looked quizzically at each other with not a clue what he was talking about.

  They turned to the barman seeking an answer.

  He drew a newspaper from behind the counter and placed it on the bar.

  “I think this will explain it”.

  The bold headline read, Malaysian Consul Shot Dead. Their heads together they studied the article. “The Honorary Consul of Malaysia was shot dead in broad daylight today in downtown Antananarivo.” The report went on to say he was killed in a random shooting outside the central post office. Witnesses descriptions varied and the police were investigating. No motive had been established nor any arrests imminent. A spokesperson for the Consulate stated the man was waiting for the arrival of his car to take him to the airport. He was to board a flight to Malaysia.

  Curt and Kim were dumbfounded. What could this tragedy have to do with their enquiry, yet they both had an inkling that somehow it did. They were about to leave when the barman called to them, “hold on a minute, Jimmy said you could have this.” He bought out a mobile phone from under the counter and handed it to them.

  “James found this at the crash site, I've charged it up, but it's locked, maybe it will be of some use to you.”

  Curt tentatively took the object from the outstretched hand. The screen was barely visible through the accumulated crud. The wallpaper was a picture of a woman and two children which peered back at him.

  He contemplated for a moment, if these people would ever see their loved one again.

  Curt had only two hours to make his flight to Aden to meet with the Captain of the Carl Vinson, and he suggested to Kim, “I have to get to the airport soon, so I'll grab a Taxi back to the hotel and you take our cab and speak with James Churchill at his residence. Something has him running scared, and we need to establish what it is”.

  “OK” she answered piquantly.

  “I'll see you in Paris then”, she replied in her best Bacall impersonation.

  They both laughed at the association.

  Curt hurried off in search of a Taxi, while Kim turned to the barman who had given them the mysterious mobile.

  “Would you have Mister Churchill’s address?” she asked pleasantly.

  She received the destination and instructions on how to find the house, and returned to the waiting cab.

  They had not travelled more than two streets when a Gendarme, dressed in the white uniform and Kepi of the local constabulary stepped into the roadway halting their progress.

  “What is the problem?” asked the driver in the local patois.

  “There has been a traffic accident,” returned the French-speaking constable, “A gentleman was run over and killed.”

  Kim felt a cold shiver travel down her spine despite the heat outside.

  She leapt out of the car instructing the driver to wait and made her way past the scene, noting the body, now covered with a blanket. She could see a part of the shirt. It was similar to that worn by James Churchill.

  She looked away and proceeded toward the address given by the barman. Gendarmes blocked the entrance to the dwelling.

  Kim showed her credentials to the policeman who appeared to be in charge.

  “I'm sorry madam”, stated the constable, “but this is a crime scene. Nobody is permitted past this point. You will have to speak to the commanding officer back at headquarters”.

  Undeterred, Kim worked her way behind the gathering throng until she stood at the side of the house.

  It was a low set bungalow with the windows at a height she could manage to see through by standing on tip toes.

  The furniture was in disarray and to any observer the house had been ransacked by someone looking for something.

  The feeling of foreboding came over her again, furthermore she had the sensation of being watched.

  She spun around rapidly and scanned the crowd. She couldn’t see anyone in the throng, but her female intuition was telling her that she was unquestionably being observed.

  She retraced her steps, all the while looking for someone following her, until she found her ride. Climbing inside she instructed the driver to take her to the hotel.

  Once locked behind her door she relaxed, and fixed herself a stiff gin and tonic from the mini-bar.

  She pulled the iPhone from her pocket and found an old toothbrush in her toiletries bag which she used to clean off the crud encrusted by months of exposure to the sea.

  Having satisfied herself that she had cleared as much of the offending material from the device that she could, she plugged it into her laptop.

  The computer soon gave a chime announcing it had connected to the mobile and the surface of the iPhone lit up to indicate it was now being charged.

  Kim stared at the wallpaper, seeing the tragic faces of the owners' family.

  She then invoked a specialized piece of software she had on her machine. Made by an Israeli company it could unlock the security codes of devices without losing the data contained within.

  The computer came to life and recognised the `phone plugged into the USB port With a few deft clicks she set the program to unravel the passcode for the iPhone.

  She needed time to think. Crossing the room Kim gathered up the chair facing the occasional table and wedged it against the door.

  She lay on the bed and closed her eyes, letting her brain tabulate all the information regarding the aircraft disappearance.

  Forty minutes later the computer announced the system had unlocked the iPhone.

  The device was the same as her own so she had no problem in navigating her way around the programs on it. The wallpaper on the screen was of a happy young Asian couple holding a baby. Kim quickly looked through the applications, checking the memo app and seeing nothing there to tell her what happened to MH370, she opened the voice recorder. The playback revealed numerous notes the owner was taking during his flight, regarding an upcoming toy expo.

  She was about to shut it off when she heard raised noises in the background. There were cries which became hysterical screaming, people were afraid. She could make out the sound of one crewmember shouting for the Cap
tain to open the door. It took a further fifteen minutes before silence descended over the mayhem. She rewound the recording and carefully listened to the audio of the motors. The engines had spooled up giving more thrust, indicating the aircraft was climbing.

  She studied the silence in the cabin, in the course of time she noticed the sound of the jets diminish as they were throttled back. It became apparent to her this was crucial evidence which needed expert analysis. She saved a copy of the recording onto her computer then placed the phone into a zippered compartment in her bag for safe keeping.

  Chapter 43

  Richard Battley disconnected the call before three minutes had elapsed.

  He was vividly aware of the capabilities of the NSA computer algorithms to eavesdrop on conversations originating from outside the USA.

  The chat was brief, and they used sentences which would not attract undue attention. His operatives exploited coded language, that, if analysed, would not reveal any messages exchanged between them.

  The phone itself was a “burner”, to be destroyed after a short time.

  The conversation informed him that the mobile they were seeking was not with the subject, nor in his abode. They had searched the place thoroughly. The contact suggested it may be with the woman who had shown up. Battley commanded that she be kept an eye on and if the opportunity presented itself, the item be recovered.

  He had no knowledge if any incriminating evidence was recorded, however he was absolute in his determination that no surprises should be forthcoming.

  This ploy of his was becoming more difficult, and he sensed the beginning of a headache coming on. He dialled a number for a certain young lady who he knew could release the stress. He left at 20:15, Eastern Time, deciding he could be late into the office the following morning.

  Chapter 44

  Curt Joyner let his seat back a little and closed his eyes as the jet flew across the Indian Ocean toward Aden the interim capital of Yemen, where he would rendezvous with transport to the aircraft carrier “Carl Vinson”. He read somewhere that the city was as old as mankind with Cain and Able buried some place within it’s ancient walls.

  The flight flew across the Gulf of Aden and entered the Red Sea well away from the land before beginning it's letdown for the approach.

  The airport was both civilian and military, and as such often targeted by the rebels entrenched in the surrounding hills of this unhappy city.

  The capital had been engulfed in war for centuries, on and off. At this time varied groups backed by the competing interests of Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Sudan and others contended for dominance of the Red Sea.

  Piracy was rife in this area, one the world's busiest shipping lanes, mainly from warlord controlled gangs in Djibouti, Yemen and Sudan. An International Military Force had assembled to counter the anarchy. Attacks by Islamist Fundamentals had been made against U.S. Navy vessels “Cole” and “The Sullivan” previously, and became a dangerous zone for U.S. citizens.

  The Aden Airport had no aero bridges thus Curt Joyner stepped from the aircraft into the oppressive heat of the Arab peninsular. An armed U.S. Marine awaited him at the foot of the staircase.

  “Mr. Joyner” he said, as if they were old friends. “Do you have any baggage to collect?” he added.

  “No”, replied Curt, “only these”, he said, holding up his ample flight bag and a military style traveling bag

  “This way then”, responded the soldier, leading him toward a grey helicopter of the U.S. Marine Corps which stood to his right, it's rotors turning and eager for take-off.

  The serviceman and a crew member helped him on with a flotation vest and strapped him into his seat. In little time he was airborne and flying over the Red Sea.

  The first sighting of the eight ship task force filled Curt with pride. Memories of his experience aboard the aircraft carrier off the Gulf of Tonkin flooded back. Carl Vinson and her attendant escorts sliced their way through the blue waters of the Red Sea. Even at this distance he could see the fighters landing and taking off from her deck, interspersed with other less identifiable aircraft.

  The helicopter joined the pattern awaiting arrival clearance from the ships` air traffic control. A few minutes passed before the helo banked steeply and manoeuvred onto the flight deck.

  Crew members bedecked in an assortment of coloured jackets swarmed around the chopper as soon as her wheels touched the deck. One, in a yellow vest and wearing a helmet indicated for him to follow closely behind him. Speaking into the attached microphone he signaled by extending his arm for Curt to stop. A potent fighter jet roared down the limited runway, the steam powered catapult throwing the aircraft into the air with a substantial blast from its jet engines at full afterburner thrust. Once it lifted off, the crewman indicated for Curt to follow him to the “Island”, that building on the side of the carrier, where a guard stood at attention beside a doorway at deck level in the massive structure.

  The marine closed the door behind them shutting off the clamour of the working deck outside. There were metal stairways leading up and down, to which the guard indicated they should ascend the upward facing stairs. This was not new information for Curt as the grey painted environment was still familiar to him despite the many years which had elapsed since he last stepped foot on an aircraft carrier.

  They climbed up several stairways to the command centre. Curt noting how out of condition he was. His breath was labouring as he entered the bridge of the mighty vessel. Heavily tinted glass illuminated the area surrounding them with its’ uninterrupted views down to the deck runway and the blue waters of the Red Sea.

  Dressed in military fatigues Captain Thomas sat in what appeared to be a very comfortable chair slightly elevated above the deck. He raised himself and extended his hand as Curt approached toward him. Joyner gave a salute before shaking the proffered paw. “Old habits die hard”, he said.

  The Captain introduced himself and suggested they adjourn to his day cabin. The Skipper led the way through to a modest but functional compartment. Well lit, it contained a sea berth, a long desk with a computer terminal, two chairs and bar refrigerator.

  “Take a seat”, he gestured . “Drink?” he offered the civilian.

  “Thank you” Curt replied as the Captain opened his bar fridge.

  The Old Man proffered a variety of beverages before Joyner requested a Millers Medium strength. Beer in hand they saluted the ship and Country and got down to business.

  Curt opened his battered briefcase and removed the file he had been working on and chose his words carefully.

  “Thank you for seeing me Captain, I am the investigator for the NTSB in regarding the disappearance of Malaysian Flight 370. I will be as brief as possible. The airliner vanished on the evening of March eighth.

  In the course of my work I noticed that your carrier group was entering the Indian Ocean about the time of the aircraft’s disappearance. From my previous service in our Navy, I remember the capabilities of the radar coverage around the fleet. I considered if potentiality you may have received an alert from one of your eyes in the sky. If you have a recording of such an event, it may reveal speed and direction of the missing plane?”

  The Captain pulled a distracted face and said, “We only take fixes on civilian aircraft if it looks probable they are likely to invade our airspace. I did not receive any notification of untoward infringements on or around that time”.

  Curt extracted a large map from the file and spread it on the desk beside him, folding it so it displayed the pertinent area. He had marked in red marker the confirmed radar sightings and the possible tracks the missing aircraft could have taken.

  “We have an Inmarsat handshake from the engines along this line”, he pointed out, “it simply doesn't give any accurate data as to speed, height and direction, as it's only purpose is to transfer feedback regarding engine performance and any problems which may be developing. A warning would be sent to the pilot in that instance”.

  He continued. “I
f you follow this path from the top of Penang down in a southerly direction you can see that the flightpath would cross your navigation passageway into the Indian Ocean. Now surely an AWAC searching beyond the horizon would have noticed this.”

  Joyner studied the Captain for a reaction. He looked uncomfortable.

  “I am sure the crew of the Hawkeye would have reported this if they saw any threat to the fleet ”. He retorted, ill at ease at the insinuation that his aircrew had missed a potential menace.

  Curt was not one to obfuscate easily. Again he referred to the map on which he had drawn possible routes the aircraft might have flown.

  “You can see from this known flightpath that the missing ‘plane would have been visible on radar either from the AWAC or one of your escorts. I cannot see how it could have escaped somebody’s attention”.

  Captain Thomas stared at Joyner, and gave him a look which would have put fear into the hearts of any of his crew. It was obvious from his facial expression he became perplexed at what the NTSB Investigator had presented in front of him.

  He raised his lanky frame and told Joyner to follow him. He led the way back to an elevator, used a card reader to operate the unit, and they descended several floors and exited into a hallway. He led him to a doorway guarded by a marine, returning his salute as he opened a heavy door and gestured for Curt to enter.

  The lighting was dim and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust.

  A dozen or more figures wearing headsets sat in front of illuminated monitors. They spoke in hushed, unhurried voices to a variety of assets in and around the fleet.

  An officer approached the captain and saluted. A quiet conversation ensued between the two men before they led Curt to one station where a radar display twirled showing hundreds of highlighted dots with identification tags and numbers.

  “You can see from this video display Mister Joyner that we track all communication both air and land in here. We do not observe civilian aircraft specifically unless they present a problem for our air traffic controllers or represent a threat. I believe this array will give you a better idea of what our people contend with. I hope you can understand with this volume of traffic being displayed on our screen your theory that we would observe a rogue aircraft and fail to notice if it represented a threat to us, is highly unlikely”.