Night Fall (12 page)

“How about the flight recorder?”

“It went dead at the moment of the initial explosion when the cockpit was blown off the aircraft.” She continued, “We really have three sets of facts, and they don’t completely dovetail. The CIA animation says that what the witnesses saw-the streak of light-was the burning fuselage ascending after the explosion. But forensic and satellite evidence suggests that the aircraft didn’t begin burning until it began to fall. As for the stream of burning jet fuel that the CIA said was also mistaken for a rising streak of light, that seems to be overkill. I mean, what did the eyewitnesses see and mistake for a rising streak of light? The ascending, burning aircraft, or the descending stream of jet fuel?” She looked at me. “Or neither?”

“Sometimes,” I said, “you can have too many witnesses. A few dozen people saw Rabbi Meir Kahane shot in public, and after the defense attorneys got through with them, no two people saw the same thing, and the confused jury let the shooter beat the murder rap.” I added, “And then you have the JFK assassination.”

She thought awhile, then reminded me, “You like forensic evidence. Sidney gave you the forensic evidence. Do you like it?”

I replied, “Forensic evidence is the best, but it has to correlate with other facts.”

We began walking back toward the rear of the aircraft, through the left-hand aisle, and I descended the wooden stairs, wanting to get out of the aircraft, which was not only creepy, but incredibly sad.

Kate followed, and we left the hangar and walked into the cool night air where I felt immediately better. I got in the Jeep, and Kate got in beside me. I started the engine, turned on the headlights, and headed back toward the gate.

As I drove, I asked, “What did the CIA have to do with this case?”

“At first, when the bomb or missile theory was hot, they were all over, looking for foreign terrorists.”

I pointed out, “Foreign terrorists, if they’re in the U.S., come under the jurisdiction of the FBI.”

“That’s right. But there are, as you know, CIA people in our organization. You remember Ted Nash.”

“I remember Ted. I also remember you went to dinner with him a few times.”

“Once.”

“Whatever. Why was he interviewing Captain Spruck?”

“I don’t know. That was a little unusual.”

“What did Ted tell you about it over dinner?”

“John, don’t obsess over my one date with Ted Nash. We were never romantic.”

“I don’t care if you were. He’s dead.”

She got back to the subject and said, “After the FBI and NTSB concluded that the crash was an accident, the CIA should have disappeared. But they never really did, and it was the CIA who made that video animation that was shown on TV.” She added, “The unofficial word was that the FBI didn’t want to be associated with that animation.”

“Why not?”

“I suppose because it was too speculative. It raised more questions than it answered, and it infuriated many of the eyewitnesses who said that the animation was nothing like what they saw. It stirred up the whole thing again.”

We passed through the gates, and Kate directed me toward the Long Island Expressway. I said, “Now that I’ve spoken to Spruck, I need to see that animation again.”

“I have a copy of it.”

“Good.” I thought a moment and said to her, “What we’re really looking for is that couple on the beach. And we hope to God they videotaped themselves doing something naughty, and that their tape, if it existed, still exists, and that somewhere behind this couple’s naked butts we see what happened to Flight 800.”

“That’s about all we have left that might cut through all the conflicting evidence and reopen this case.” She added, “Or it would also be reopened if some organization made a credible claim that they took down that plane.”

“Didn’t a few Mideast terrorist groups take credit for the crash?”

She replied, “Just the usual suspects. But none of them had any inside information that would lend any credibility to their claims. They didn’t even get the public information right. Basically, no one believable took credit for an attack. And that lends some credence to the mechanical failure conclusion.” She continued, “On the other hand, there are new terrorist groups who don’t take credit for an attack. They’re just into death and destruction. Like this bin Laden guy and his Al Qaeda group.”

“That’s true.” I thought back to the couple on the beach and asked Kate, “Why couldn’t you find Romeo and Juliet?”

“I wasn’t asked to find them.”

“You said you knew the name of the hotel where they may have stayed.”

“I do.” She stayed silent a moment, then said, “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t directly involved in that part of the investigation. I just happened to see that report from the local cop, and I did some phone follow-up on my own initiative. Then, I got shut down very quickly.”

“I see… so, you don’t know how this lead panned out?”

“No.”

I don’t believe in conspiracy theories, especially among government employees or the military, who are not capable of agreeing on anything, let alone capable of keeping secrets, or doing anything that would jeopardize their jobs or their pensions.

The one exception to this was the CIA, who lived and breathed deception, conspiracies, and borderline illegal activities. That’s what they got paid for.

For all my problems with the FBI, I had to admit that they were straight shooters, good citizens, and letter-of-the-law people-like my loving wife, who was about to have a minor breakdown because she took a step over the line.

Kate said, as if to herself, “If we pursue this, we don’t have a lot of time before they get on to us.”

I didn’t respond to that. “Home?”

“Home.”

I got on the westbound ramp of the Long Island Expressway and headed back to Manhattan. Traffic was light and moving well at this late hour. I moved into the outside lane and accelerated past the speed limit.

I’m the one who used to follow people, but my world had changed, so I looked in my rearview and side-view mirrors, then suddenly cut hard right across two lanes and got off at the next exit.

No one followed.

I ran along the service road for a while, then got back on the Expressway.

Kate did not comment directly about my evasive maneuvers, but said, “Maybe we should drop this.”

I didn’t reply.

She asked me, “What do you think?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Nothing but trouble.”

“That’s a very persuasive argument.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We drove in silence awhile, then Kate said to me, “Regarding Sidney Siben, I thought you should hear the official version from the horse’s mouth.”

“I appreciate your sense of fair play. What do you want me to do now?”

“Sleep on it.”

“Now?”

“No. You drive. I’ll sleep.” She tilted the seat back, kicked off her shoes, and closed her eyes. Women can fall asleep in less than ten seconds, and she did.

A few minutes later, I passed the exit for Brookhaven National Laboratory and said loudly, “Hey, what are the seven theories?”

“Huh…?”

“Wake up. Keep me company. What are the seven theories?”

She yawned and said, “First theory… friendly fire… military sea and air training exercises that night… There was supposedly a target drone launched… missile missed the drone and accidentally locked on the 747… or the drone itself hit the plane… not likely. Too many witnesses on board the ships.”

“Okay. Theory Two.”

“Theory Two. Electromagnetic pulse scenario… military exercises create powerful electromagnetic fields, which can theoretically envelop an aircraft… doesn’t explain the streak of light.”

“Three.”

“Three. Foreign submarine theory, sea-to-air missile launched from underwater.”

“What’s wrong with that theory?”

“Go back to Theory One. The military exercises in the area, including anti-sub training… so, a foreign sub couldn’t have escaped detection.”

“How about one of
our
subs?”

“That’s part of Theory One. Theory Four. The meteorite or space junk theory. Possible, but not probable. What are we up to?”

“Five.”

“Five. That’s the methane gas bubble. Naturally occurring and invisible gas from the ocean floor rose up and was ignited by the 747’s engines. Far out. Not consistent with the evidence. And then there’s Theory Six, which is the plasma death ray. Brookhaven National Laboratory. So silly that there could be something to it. But Brookhaven says no.”

“Seven.”

“Seven. The cargo door of the 747… some evidence indicates that it blew
before
the explosion and could have caused a rapid decompression, which started the chain of events that led to the explosion. But most likely the explosion came first. Good night.”

“Hold on. How about the terrorist missile?”

“That’s in a category by itself.”

“Okay. But I keep thinking about what your friend Sidney said. Why shoot down an aircraft so far from the airport? And why would the government
want
to cover up a terrorist attack? A terrorist attack from the high seas lets everyone off the hook, saves millions in insurance claims, not to mention millions in retro-engineering of the center fuel tank. Hell, if there was a government conspiracy, it should have to do with
manufacturing
a terrorist attack, not making believe it was a mechanical failure. Unless, of course, the government didn’t want to cause panic, and admit to a massive intelligence failure, which is where the CIA comes in, and…” I glanced at Kate.
“Hello?”

She snored.

And so, I was left alone with my thoughts, which were starting to go into overdrive.

I pushed Brain Pause, then Rewind, and went back to the memorial service, and to my colleague, Liam Griffith. I would not put it past Kate to set me up with Griffith, who pissed me off enough to get me interested in the case. On the other hand, maybe it was what it was: an FBI guy telling me not to get nosy, and meaning it.

I glanced at Kate, who looked very angelic sleeping. My sweetheart wouldn’t manipulate her loving husband. Would she?

Scene Two. Cupsogue Beach County Park, dusk. A couple on the beach.

Did they actually see and videotape that streak of light and the explosion? I wondered, too, why they had never been located.

Or maybe they had.

Scene Three. Center Moriches Coast Guard Station. Captain Tom Spruck, reliable and cocksure witness.

This was the thing I couldn’t get out of my mind. This guy was one of about two hundred men, women, and children who had all, individually, or in groups, from different locations, seen the same thing.
This way is up.Right?

And finally, Scene Four. Calverton, aircraft hangar. Mr. Sidney R. Siben, safety engineer for the National Transportation Safety Board. The honest and immovable expert witness. Or was he? Mr. Sidney Siben, during his stage exit, had expressed some doubts.
Optical illusion.That’s it.No, that’s not it. Damn it.

What was that all about?

An unbidden image of the reconstructed Boeing 747 took shape in my mind. I mentally moved inside the broken fuselage, and walked again down the aisles, over the patchwork carpet, and between the empty seats. As the medical examiners like to say, “The dead speak to us.”

Indeed they do, and in a way, they can even give evidence at a hearing or a trial.

The 747 had given up most of its secrets. The recovered bodies had done the same. The eyewitnesses had given statements. The experts had spoken. The problem was, not everyone was saying the same thing.

I recalled that a few careers and reputations had been ruined, damaged, or compromised by this case, and I didn’t want to add my or Kate’s career to that list.

I looked at Kate. We’d been married a year, and this case had never come up before, though I recalled now that she’d gone to the memorial service last July without me. I wondered why she’d waited until this anniversary to let me in on this. Maybe I’d been on probation, or maybe something new had come up. In any event, I’d been given a peek into some sort of group that wasn’t giving up on this case.

This case had always been dangerous to anyone who came near it. It was a plasma death ray, an explosive gas bubble, a phantom missile, friendly fire, electromagnetic pulse, a volatile mixture of fuel and air, and an optical illusion.

All my instincts told me that for my own good, and for Kate’s as well, I needed to forget everything I had seen and heard tonight. But it wasn’t about Kate or me, or anyone else, in or out of the government.

It was about
them
. Two hundred and thirty of them. And their families and loved ones, the people who had placed roses on the seats of the aircraft, and who had lit the candles and waded into the ocean, and thrown the flowers into the sea. And the people who hadn’t been at the service, who sat at home tonight and cried.