Charlie Extra-Pickles is driving me nuts, trying to load the waypoints into the I.N.S.’s.
“Jesus, Charlie, you’re trying to help me, but you fuck up my flow. Now I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing…”
I sense Jerry Lovell starting to smile behind me, as I hear all the familiar clicking and buzzing of his engineer panel pre-flight check.
“Jerry, how many Captains you know fuck with the I.N.S.’s?”
“‘Extra-Pickles’ is the only one I know, wants to be one of the boys.” Jerry adds to the shit we’re heaping on Charlie Pickles.
We’re all grinning, this is a great crew; professional, but laid back, looking forward to each other’s company, as we anticipate our layover in Athens.
“Keshy,” (fake indignation now in Charlie’s high-pitched nasal voice), “…I’m not trying to help you, I’m trying to remember how to use these things.”
“Right, Charlie. Charlie, the registered pharmacist in three states, the military instructor pilot in 130’s, you’re trying to remember how to load the I.N.S.’s… give me a break.”
With the preflight done, the fuel on board and confirmed by Jerry’s computations and the gauges, we get the checklist out of the way and brief the Canarsie departure.
“Holy shit, no interruptions.” Charlie beams. It’s true, normally some galley slave, ramp guy or gate agent comes barging in during our challenge and responses, spewing bullshit, and we usually have to start all over again.
The amber cargo door lights tell us we still have time to kill. “How’re Geri, and my baby Kiley?”
“Holy shit, Charlie, you won’t believe this shit….your baby.”
I tell the guys about a party we had over the weekend, a houseful of our friends getting loose, with kids all over the place. Kiley is eleven, with budding young breasts, which she shyly hides behind towels, closed doors and bras.
Stuart and the other boys of the group are skim-boarders and surfer types, who love hanging at our house, so close to the ocean. The word “dude,” resurrected by the wannabe teens, is being used a lot, as “segue” and “closure” are by the wannabe Cronkites on TV.
While we adults are downstairs relaxed, buzzed and catching up after a two week rain-caused hiatus, Geri goes to see what the kids are up to. Geri’s back, beet red, holding back the laughter.
“I went into the bedroom, and they’re O.K., just playing a word game, but this cross we brought back from Jerusalem is on the floor, broken.”
So Geri asks, pointing at the crucifix, “What happened?” and Kiley says, “The Dude fell off.” The sand-stone Jesus is missing… Geri asks, stunned, “So…where’s the Dude?”
“We’re all rolling….”
“The Dude fell off! the Dude!” Geri concludes, saying “One of the kids accidentally stepped on Jesus, and he crumbled… so, I think they all stepped on Jesus, after he was already broken, to see if the house would fall down.”
Stoned and well overweight Yoko Pacetti, swollen ankles propped up on a hassock blurts, “Jesus was born in a pile of shit in a barn, I don’t think he’d mind being part of your carpet.”
“Charlie, I can’t believe it, I know that I’m emotionally bankrupt, but your ‘Baby Kiley’ is only eleven, and she’s saying shit like “the Dude fell off!”
Charlie and Jerry lose it.
Zoann, our purser, has been listening to this sordid story the whole time. “I’m going to church Sunday. Anybody want me to say a prayer for them?”
“I didn’t know you were religious, Zoann?” pipes Charlie, high-pitched, quizzical.
“I’m not. My mother wants me to go to church to meet men. I tell her, ‘Oh mom, so now Jesus is my personal pimp?’ “
That’s it, this is going to be a great trip.
“Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, clear to taxi Quebec, hold short of November, runway 3-1 left in use.”
“Roger, ground, Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, entering Quebec at Quebec Golf, clear Quebec hold short November.”
“Disregard, Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, transition to Bravo at November. Clear foxtrot, cross 4 left, clear to taxi to 3-1 left.”
We smile at the royal treatment. “Roger, Kennedy Ground, 800 clear Quebec; transition to Bravo at November, Foxtrot, cross 4 left and taxi to 3-1 left.
“Roger 800, change now to Tower frequency 119.1.”
“119.1 Tower, Rog, 800.”
“JFK Tower, 800 checking in, approaching 3-1 left…we’ll be ready at the end.”
“Roger, Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, position and hold 3-1 left.”
“Position and hold 3-1 left,” I respond. Charlie’s heard. He nods his acknowledgement to me.
“Taxi checks complete!” declares Jerry, “and I’ve sat them down,” moving his chair to face forward and up to the pedestal between Charlie and me.
“Before take off check,” declares Charlie as we taxi into position and hold. He throws on the lights as I turn on the radar, T-cas and transponder.
“Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, clear for take-off runway 3-1 left Canarsie climb departure.”
“Rog JFK tower, 800 clear to take-off 3-1 left, Canarsie climb, we’re on the roll.” I declare, as Charlie stands the thrust levers straight up.
“Engines stable,” calls Jerry.
Charlie pushes the thrust levers all the way to the target EPR, declaring “set take-off thrust.”
Jerry tweaks the throttles to even the power at take-off EPR. “Eighty knots,” I call.
“Check,” Charlie.
“V-1….Rotate…” my calls.
Charlie rotates to a deck angle of 13 degrees. The nose comes off the ground at 148 knots, as the main trucks, almost two-hundred feet behind us, don’t become airborne until another 1500 feet of runway disappear behind us.
“Positive rate,” my call out, as the Vertical Speed Indicator climbs to the positive side.
“Gear up,” says Charlie. Charlie’s flying, I’m on the radio as I reach over and bring the gear handle up.
At 400 feet, we turn left towards the Canarsie VOR as tower announces, “800, contact departure now on 135.9.”
“Rog, departure, good evening 800.”
“Good evening departure, Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, checking, direct Canarsie VOR, climbing to 5000 feet.”
We clean the flaps up on schedule, as our airspeed increases.
“Radar contact, 800, good evening, turn left now to heading 060, continue climb to twelve thousand feet, contact NY center on 123.5.”
“Roger, departure, 800 continue climb to twelve thousand feet, turning left to 060, NY center on 123.5.”
“Twelve thousand” I repeat to Charlie, my fingers flying to the altitude knob, twirling in 12,000 feet. Charlie acknowledges the 12,000 feet as I bug his heading to 060 and watch him turn.”
“New York center, good evening, Tango Oscar Whiskey 800 checking in, now heading 060, climbing to twelve thousand feet.”
“You’re in luck tonight, 800, now present position direct Banc’s, climb to and maintain flight level 3-3-0. Boston center on 132.5.”
“Chicken George’s, here we come,” I declare to the guys. “Roger Center, thanks, 800 now present position direct Banks, climb to 330, Boston center on 132.5….good night.”
“Boston Center, good evening, Tango Oscar Whiskey 800 is with you climbing now through 14,000 feet for flight level 330, direct Banks.”
“Roger, 800, good evening, climb now to flight level 310.”
“Hey Charlie, check out the fireworks!”
“800, Boston Center, do you read?”
“New York center, Boston center, do you see or read Tango Oscar Whiskey 800?”
“Negative Boston, he’s off my scope.”
“New York, Boston, he’s disappeared off my scope also…they’re gone, call somebody!”
“New York Center, this is USAir flight 217… there’s a fireball in the sky abeam us…..”
Figure 1 — The following are unauthorized, never before seen photos of the reconstruction of TWA Flight 800, whose parts were recovered from the Atlantic Ocean, and assembled at the Calverton, New York Hangar by the Feds.
Figure 2 — The right side of the final NTSB reconstruction of TWA flight 800.
Figure 3 — TWA-800 reconstruction at the Calverton, NY Hangar — right side. Notice the fuselage “scorching” over the right wing root, the only external area to show the effects of any burning.
Figure 4 — Taken in the Calverton, New York hangar, a photo (secretly taken) of the final reconstruction of TWA-800, as seen from the left side.
Figure 5 — TWA-800 — a view into the center fuel tank from the left side. Notice the “unexploded” forward interior wall panels of the center fuel tank, the claimed epicenter of the explosion. The Feds claim that sparking by the scavenge pump inside the center fuel tank was the source of the caused explosion. no Boeing 747 pilot I’ve ever talked to, nor any B747 maintenance man I know, believes that.
Figure 6 — The same view of the center fuel tank, this on a “sister” 747, one owned by Tower Air (while still solvent), and often flown by me. This shows what a normal center fuel tank looks like (as a comparison), showing the scavenge pump and wall panels in normal condition.
Figure 7 — The TWA-800 reconstructed center fuel tank, showing the missing wall panel where the scavenge pump normally resides. Notice no sign of “explosion” damage to adjacent wall panels.
Figure 8 — A close up of Figure 7. Notice the wall panels intact to the right and left of where the scavenge pump would sit, and that the missing panel has been “surgically” removed. No seeming sign of explosive damage there.
Fionre 9 — T P ft hand wino rnnt — TWA goo reennstnictinn
Figure 10 — The recovered TWA-800 cockpit — Inside this B747 cockpit is where I normally sit….. weird feelings generated…. I’ve got 6000 hours living in this cockpit alone, with three different companies over a fourteen-year span.