Night Fall (8 page)

I leaned my butt against the rail, facing away from the ocean. Captain Spruck remained standing, looking out to sea like a ship’s captain, I thought, standing watch, alert, but at the same time hypnotized by the dark sea and sky. He said, as if to himself, “The fuel was burning on the water now and the sky was lit by the fires… black and white smoke billowed… I thought about setting sail toward the crash, but… that’s a long haul for a Sunfish on the ocean… and if I got that far, I wouldn’t be able to control the Sunfish around all that burning fuel.” He looked at me and said, “I knew there would be no survivors.”

I stayed quiet awhile, then I asked him, “Could you guess what
kind
of missile this could have been? I mean, if it was a missile. You know, like heat-seeking? What’s the other kind?”

“Radar-guided or infrared-guided.” He asked me, “Do you want a quick lesson in surface-to-air missiles?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I can tell you what this missile was not. It was not a shoulder-fired heat-seeking missile.”

“How do you know?”

“For one thing, their range is too short to engage a target at thirteen thousand feet. Also, any heat-seeking missile would seek out the biggest heat source-the engine-and all four engines of the 747 were recovered with no significant damage. So that leaves either radar-guided or infrared. We can rule out radar-guided because a radar-guided missile sends out a strong radar signal that would be picked up by other radar-especially all that military radar out there that night-and there were no ground or air radar sightings of an object tracking toward the 747. There
was
one anomalous blip recorded from a single sweep of an air traffic control radar in Boston, but that was thought to be a glitch. It could, however, have been an actual sighting of an infrared missile whose radar signature would be nearly invisible given its small size and high speed. In other words, what we might be seeing is a third-generation infrared-guided surface-to-air missile, launched from a boat or aircraft-though a boat is more likely.”

I thought about all this, then asked, “Who has this kind of missile, and how do you get one?”

“Only the U.S., Russia, England, and France make such a sophisticated surface-to-air missile. Whereas there are probably hundreds of shoulder-fired heat-seeking missiles on the black market, these long-range infrared-guided missiles are strictly accounted for and never given or sold to another country. Russia’s accounting system, however, is not that good, so it’s possible that one of these infrareds got into the wrong hands for the right money.”

I digested my first course in missiles and asked him, “Did you mention this to any of the FBI people?”

“No. I didn’t know any of this at the time. My experience with surface-to-air missiles was limited to the old Soviet SA-2 and SA-6 types that the North Viets used to shoot at me.” He added, “They were only moderately accurate, which is why I’m here.”

“Right. So, you learned about infrared-guided missiles… when?”

“Afterward. They aren’t a secret. Jane’s has plenty of info on them.”

“Who’s Jane?”

“Jane’s.
A publishing company that puts out books on the world’s weapons. You know, like Jane’s Fighting Ships, Jane’s Air-Launched Weapons, and so forth. There’s a Jane’s book on missiles and rockets.”

“Right.
That
Jane.” I asked, “What is obviously wrong with that scenario? So wrong that it’s been dismissed?”

“You tell me, Mr. Corey.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you what you, and everyone who’s read about this, already knows. First, there was no explosive residue found on any of the salvaged wreckage. Second, there was no distinctive tearing of metal, seats, or… people… that would indicate a warhead explosion. Third, and most convincingly, there was not a single piece of a missile found by divers or by dredge ships that swept the ocean floor. If even one piece of a missile had been found, we wouldn’t be standing here now.”

“That’s true.”

“So maybe two hundred people, yourself included, Captain, did see a red streak of light-but there was no evidence of a missile found on the wreckage or in the debris fields. What’s that all about?”

He looked at me awhile, smiled, and said, “Your wife told me you needed to come to your own conclusions-that you were counter-suggestible, cynical, and skeptical of what anyone said, except what you yourself concluded.”

“She’s a sweetheart. So, you want me to come to a conclusion about the total lack of explosive residue and missile parts?”

“Yes. But you can’t conclude that there was no missile.”

“Okay…” I thought a minute and said, “Maybe the missile totally disintegrated in the explosion.”

He shook his head and informed me, “Hell, fabric survived the explosion. Ninety percent of the 747 was recovered and so were all but a few of the 230 bodies. Missiles don’t disintegrate. They blow up into hundreds of pieces, big and small, any one of which can be identified by an expert as part of a missile. Also, high explosives, as you just said, leave distinctive traces.”

“Right. Hey, maybe it was a laser beam. You know, like a death ray.”

“That’s not as impossible as you may think. But that’s not what it was. A laser beam or a plasma ray is almost instantaneous and leaves no smoke plume.”

He kept looking at me, and I realized I was still up at bat. I thought a minute, then said, “Well… maybe the missile didn’t explode. Maybe it went right through the aircraft and kept going, outside the debris fields that they were searching. The impact caused the fuel to explode. What do you think?”

“I think you’re on to something, Mr. Corey. What you’re describing is a kinetic missile. Like a bullet or an arrow passing through anything in its path with such force that it just keeps going. No explosive warhead. Just kinetic energy and the subsequent deceleration forces ripping through anything in front of it. That would take down an aircraft if it hit something critical to maintaining flight.”

“Isn’t everything in a plane critical to maintaining flight?”

“No. It helps when there are no holes in the plane, but sometimes it doesn’t hurt when there are.”

“No kidding? So, if a fuel tank was punctured by a kinetic missile-”

“The fuel would get loose, obviously, and wind up in places where it doesn’t belong. That, in and of itself, might not cause an explosion because jet fuel doesn’t ignite that easily. But the vapors in a tank can ignite, and everyone agrees that the empty center fuel tank blew first. So what may have happened to that 747 is that a kinetic missile passed through the air-conditioning units, which are directly behind the center fuel tank. The missile ruptured the air conditioners, then the center fuel tank, and there was a meeting of damaged electrical wires with the vapors, which set off what we call a fuel-air explosion. That in turn blew one of the full wing tanks. The missile continued on through the aircraft, eventually falling into the ocean miles from the debris field.”

“You think?”

“It explains why no one has found explosive residue or missile parts.”

I didn’t reply, which Captain Spruck interpreted as skepticism.

He said, with a touch of impatience, “Look, it’s very simple. More than two hundred people see a streak of light, and eventually a lot of people are saying missile. Then there is not one trace of a missile found, so the FBI rules out a missile. What they should have said is that there is no evidence of an
explosive
missile. This is not rocket science…” He chuckled. “… Well, I guess it is.” He informed me, “Kinetic projectiles are not exactly new technology. An arrow is a kinetic projectile. So is a musket ball or a bullet. It kills by passing through you.”

In fact, I had three bullets pass through me on a single occasion, though none of them hit my center fuel tank. I asked, “Why this kind of missile?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s all they had available. The military can pick its ordnance to match its target. Other groups can’t always do that.”

I wondered who he thought “they” were, but he didn’t know and I didn’t know and maybe there was no “they.” I asked, “Why does such a missile even exist? What’s wrong with a surefire explosive warhead?”

“Guidance systems today are so accurate you don’t need an explosive warhead to knock down an aircraft, or even another missile, and non-explosive warheads are cheaper and safer to handle, and they leave more room for propellants.” He added, “A kinetic missile would be your choice of weapon if you wanted to take out an aircraft without leaving any evidence. Special Ops kind of stuff.”

I thought about all this, and I wondered if Captain Spruck had, rightly or wrongly, come up with the only possible scenario that fit his and the other eyewitness accounts. I asked him, “Why didn’t the FBI at least raise this as a possibility?”

“I don’t know. Ask them.”

Yeah, right. I said to Captain Spruck, “So, you think there’s a missile out there somewhere?”

He replied, “I shot an arrow in the air, and where it fell, I know not where.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I think there are the remains of a moderately intact kinetic missile lying on the ocean floor. It was probably about twelve feet long, thin, and probably black in color. It is miles and miles from the debris fields where the Navy and FBI divers worked, and from where the naval dredges operated. And no one is looking for this missile because they don’t believe it exists, and also because even if they did, you’d be talking about trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“How big is the haystack?”

“If you guessed at the missile’s trajectory after it passed through the aircraft and fell into the ocean, you could be talking about a hundred square miles of ocean floor.” He added, “For all we know, it could have reached Fire Island and buried itself deep in the sand. The entry hole wouldn’t be noticed, and the sand has long since filled the hole.”

“Well… if that’s true, no one is going to mount a multimillion-dollar search to find this thing.”

Captain Spruck had obviously thought about this and replied, “I think they would, if the government was convinced that this missile existed.”

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I mean, it’s five years later, the case is closed, there’s a new guy in the White House, and money is tight. But I’ll talk to my congressman, when I find out who he is.”

Captain Spruck ignored my flippancy and asked me, “Do you believe this scenario?”

“Uh… yeah, but that’s not important. The case is closed, and even a great theory is not going to reopen it. Someone would need hard evidence to get those divers and dredges out there again.”

“I have no evidence except my own eyes.”

“Right.” Captain Spruck, retired, may have too much time on his hands, I thought. “You married?”

“I am.”

“What’s your wife think?”

“She thinks I’ve done all I can.” He asked me, “Do you know how frustrating this is?”

“No, tell me.”

“If you’d seen what I’d seen, you’d understand.”

“Probably. You know, I think most of the people who saw what you saw have gotten on with their lives.”

“I’d like nothing better. But I’m very bothered by this.”

“Captain, I think you’re taking this personally, and you’re pissed off because you’re pretty cocksure of yourself, and for one of the first times in your life, no one is taking you seriously.”

Captain Spruck did not reply.

I glanced at my watch and said, “Well, thank you for taking the time to speak to me, Captain. Can I call you if I have any further thoughts or questions?”

“Yes.”

“By the way, do you know this group called FIRO?”

“Of course.”

“You belong?”

“I do not.”

“Why not?”

“They haven’t asked.”

“Why not?”

“I told you-I’ve never gone public. If I had, they’d be all over me.”

“Who?”

“FIRO
and
the FBI.”

“You bet.”

“I’m not looking for publicity, Mr. Corey. I’m looking for the truth. For justice. I assume you are as well.”

“Yeah… well, truth and justice are good. But harder to find than a missile at the bottom of the ocean.”

He didn’t reply, and I asked him, pro forma, “Would you be willing to testify at some sort of official hearing?”

“I’ve been waiting five years.”

We shook hands, and I turned and walked toward the door of the watchtower. Halfway through the door, I turned back to Captain Spruck and reminded him, “This conversation never took place.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I found Kate in the Jeep talking on her cell phone. I heard her say, “Gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow.”

I got in the Jeep and asked, “Who was that?”

“Jennifer Lupo. From work.”

I started the Jeep and headed back toward the gate.

She asked me, “How did it go?”

“Interesting.”

We rode in silence awhile down the dark, narrow road leading away from the Coast Guard station. I asked, “Where to?”

“Calverton.”

I looked at my dashboard clock. It was close to 11P.M., and I inquired, “Is this the last, last stop?”

“It is.”

We headed toward Calverton, which is a small town toward the north shore of Long Island, which was the site of a former Grumman Aircraft and naval installation plant, where the pieces of the TWA Boeing 747 had been trucked for reconstruction in 1996. I wasn’t sure why I needed to see this, but I guess I needed to see this.