On the evening of July 16th, 1996 TWA Flight 800 was most likely shot down with a U.S. missile made available to terrorists because of a policy/non-policy set by President Clinton and his Administration. The official version, that the center fuel tank exploded, causing the tragedy is, in a word, bullshit.
During this past year I was made aware of a gigantic hoax, and a cover-up by the United States Government, concerning the destruction of TWA Flight 800, July 16, 1996, with the loss of 230 innocent lives.
Fifteen years of research have gone into my book, “Cockpit, Confessions of an Airline Pilot,” a collection of the lives and times I’ve experienced in aviation. During these years I’ve been flying 747’s ("the big jets") all over the world… Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Syria, Turkey, Afghanistan, Croatia, Algeria, Saudi Arabia, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, most of Africa, the Orient and South America. My passports look like a kaleidoscope of colorful visa and stamps of different shapes and sizes. During those years I have been asked to bring in a “load” from Kabul, Afghanistan (I didn’t), to report on the “doings” of Suharto, his puppet, Habibe, the blind cleric Abdurahman Wahid, and the most recent President, Megawati Sukarno-Putri. (I haven’t).
I’ve followed with painful amusement the “Presidential Christmas Amnesties” granted by Philippine President Joseph Estrada to the cannibal murderer of a Catholic priest ( he and his pals ate the priest’s brain ). It’s okay though, not to worry… the pardoned cannibal told the press that, “…although he was considering opening a restaurant in downtown Manila, he was now a vegetarian.”
This past year, from the end of January through the end of April, I flew the “Malaysian Hajj,” bringing Malaysian Muslims from Penang, Kuching, Borneo, Kota Kinabalu and Kuala Lumpur’s Sultan Abdul Aziz Shah- Subang to Saudi Arabia for the annual Pilgrimage, the Hajj. In February of 2000, in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia , I was called in my room in the Hilton Hotel to come down to the lobby to meet a man who introduced himself to me as, let’s call him “Jim Simmons.”
Jim, was a forty-ish, rangy fellow, tight-end material. He produced Federal ID for a government agency regulating communications, and had airport security clearances for the Kuala Lumpur secure ramp area, Subang, Malaysia. Ostensibly, he works in an area of sophisticated electronics.
He tells me that we have to go out to my airplane, that he needs to install some “high tech” equipment at the behest of my Company, Tower Air, and that he must demonstrate how it all works. Off we go. Ninety minutes later, now in the cockpit of our empty 747, it is apparent that the high-frequency radios and ACARs that have been installed are not sophisticated, nor do they require any real instruction.
I’m kinda perturbed, having made this unnecessary trip to the airport, but uncharacteristically, I’m keeping my pissyness to myself. Jim separates myself and him from the other pilots and support staff, arranging for the two of us to be alone in the cab heading back to my hotel. During the ride back, Jim starts telling me a story:
He was in Istanbul, working on the radios of the State Airplane of the President of Kazakhstan, a breakaway Muslim thorn in Russia’s side. Noticing a wiring problem with the First Officer’s radio altimeter that he felt could lead to serious problems in flight, he warned the pilots and maintenance people, but was ignored. They wanted to get home.
Hours later, asleep in his hotel room, he gets a phone call direct from the President of Kazakhstan’s staff….. “Big problems…we need you here, now… almost a fire on board on the flight home, you were right.” A knock on his door, and tickets, $6,000 dollars in U.S cash, and a letter of authorization (personally signed by the President of Kazakhstan) arrive while he’s still taking this phone call. Dress immediately, a car’s waiting to take you to the airport.
Neither his company, nor his family are now aware of his movements, such was the haste of this unexpected side trip. He’ll call everybody upon his arrival, fuck it, the money’s right. The Turkish Air flight must transit Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow, (bear with me reader, it gets better and better).
As Jim checks in at the Kazakhstan Air counter in the Moscow transit area, he is instantly surrounded by several “hard” suits who flash Russian I.D., separate Jim from his hand luggage, cash, the transit letter signed by the Kazakhstan President, and his American passport. They then lead him to a stark room off the main corridor.
He is made to strip completely, and with his arms fully extended, he is chained to pipes along the wall. The slack in the chains just allow him to sit naked, fully exposed on an ancient wooden bench, against the wall.
He is left there, naked, chained, for hours as men and women come and go through the room, paying him as much mind as a potted plant (his words).
Finally, a man in a suit, someone who seems to have some authority, begins questioning him. “Where are you from? What is the purpose of your trip to Kazakhstan? How did you get this letter from the President of Kazakhstan? This six thousand dollars cash? Where is the disc?
Jim would answer every question with only one request of his own. “I want to call the American Embassy!”
“Why?”
“I’m an American Citizen being held against my will.”
“How do I know you’re an American Citizen?”
“You took my American passport, you have it.”
“What American passport!”
Fear finally took real hold of Jim. He got the message. His hosts were playing hardball. They were denying his existence, and although they didn’t know this, Jim knew that not one soul, not his Company, not his family knew where he was or where he was going, such was his rush in leaving Istanbul.
Jim started to cooperate fully, answering every question as thoroughly as he could. He could not answer any question regarding a mysterious “disc.”
Six hours later, his clothes, passport, letter and cash are brought into the room. He had not been allowed water, he was not allowed bathroom privileges.
Unchained, and now redressed, he is given back his passport, letter and cash. He is then handcuffed, shackled, and chained hand and foot to a waist-chain, frog marched through the airport terminal, down the stairs, and out onto the tarmac.
There, waiting for him God knows how long, sits a Turkish Airliner, bound for Athens. Air-stairs have been brought up against the side of the fuselage. Two men, one on each arm, helped him hobble up the stairs and enter the plane full of passengers.
A business class seat had been kept ready for him. Under the gaze of all aboard, Jim, chains clanking, was placed in that seat. The main interrogator was suddenly in front of him. He fastened Jim’s seat belt. Only then did he remove the handcuffs, shackles and chains.
Without another word, his captors left the plane, the door was shut, and they were airborne for Athens within fifteen minutes.
All eyes remained on Jim for the duration of the flight. Who is this guy? What had he done?
I’ve been listening to this story for twenty minutes, barely breathing. What has this to do with me? Before I can ask any questions, as the cab stops at a red light miles from my Hilton K.L. destination, Jim says, “I hear you collect airline stories… I don’t think you’ll ever get anybody to top this one.” Then he steps out and walks away. The cab immediately bolts through the light, drives up to my Hilton, and stops. “What do I owe you?”
“It’s taken care of ,” says the driver, in perfect English, as he speeds away, and down the ramp. What the fuck was that all about?
Weeks later, as we arrive in Penang, a remote Malaysian Island, “Jim” is seen on that airport’s ramp. On our arrival at the Shangri-La Hotel, we hear that he has gained unauthorized access to our now empty 747, removed some equipment under the noses of the maintenance and security staff, and has disappeared.
Under the wonderful, lobby-long hanging dragon lantern, an Oriental gentleman approaches, hands me a thick, folded envelope, saying, “…this is from Jim,” and disappears into the crowded street.
In my room, the open envelope tossed aside, I examine what appears to be a photo of the fully reconstructed remains of TWA 800. I also examine a photo of an unexploded center fuel tank, repositioned in the planes fuselage.
If what I am seeing in my room in Penang is genuine, the Government reports that an explosion of the center fuel tank of TWA-800 took it down is bullshit. The Zapruder films, showing JFK’s head apparently being struck from the front right, proved that the Warren Commission report was a cover-up, but I’ve got nothing but unsubstantiated, undocumented copies, which could themselves be a cruel hoax. Not a word to anybody, I bury the photos in my map case, inside my Jepps charts, safely unfindable.
Back in Jeddah, late in April, I got sick enough with the “ Hajji hack” to take myself off the flight rotation, which would have put me in Kota Kinabalu, an island dive resort on Borneo. It was from that hotel, on that island, that week that the kidnapping of all the western guests by the “Abu Sayeff” guerillas took place in April, 2000.
My paranoia tells whispers it was no coincidence that I could have been taken as one of those hostages. This is a radical arm of militant Muslims, not the freedom fighters of Mindanao, which has sought independence from the Philippines for years for it’s Muslim population.
Back in Saudi Arabia, my Employer, Tower Air, (a Chapter XI bankrupt company as of 29 February, 2000), owes hundreds of thousands of dollars in hotel bills, fuel, and landing fees. Now I am a hostage, but in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. The Saudis don’t fool around about money. They’ve got my passport, they’ve got me. I’m a prisoner of the Sofitel, confined to Jeddah, and the American Embassy is in Riyadh, hundreds of air miles away.
During the week of April 21 — 28th I’m piling up more debt, calling home, asking my wife and my brother-in-law (he’s in Washington D.C. with political connections), to get the State Department and the press involved in my release. The U.S. Consulate in Jeddah is fucking worthless, guarded on both sides of the street, believe it or not, by fucking Saudis in pick-up trucks, with mounted machine guns, I can’t even approach the inner wall to ask the U.S. Marines for asylum. Someone must have paid the ransom, because I am finally allowed out of the Kingdom on April 28th, having spent the last thirty hours in the Hajj Terminal, waiting, waiting.
Now that I’m back home, I’m advised that I’m out of a job…. Tower Air is Kaput.
Two months later, as a new hire with Polar Air Cargo, whose base is JFK, but Corporate HQ and basic indoctrination is in Long Beach, California, I’m working out at the L.A. Fitness Center every day, trying to get back into some kind of shape.
A gentleman has been riding the hotel van to the health club with me daily, working out at the same time as me, both at the L.A. Fitness Center, and in the hotel’s limited aerobics room, strikes up a conversation.
We talk about mundane matters for the first week or so. He’s originally from NYC also. Seems that in the military in the late 60’s and through the 70’s he was a “Disinformation Officer” on behalf of the Pentagon.
“Oh?”
“Yes!”
“What do you do now?”
“This and that, yourself?”
I tell him I fly 747’s for a living, “chained to the oars,” but am writing a book, and trying to get it published, “Cockpit…,”
“…Confessions of an Airline Pilot?” he finishes the title for me.
“Yes,” is all I can manage, now staring at this ruddy-faced, ageless, nondescript gentleman in the sweaty t-shirt.
“We have something you may want…it’s a disk more specifically, it’s
the disc from a digital camera.”
“Is it of pictures of the reconstructed TWA 800?”
“Yes it is, and we took them.”
We meet over the next few weeks, as I am made privy to more pieces of the puzzle. These two gentlemen, who we shall refer to from now on as Mr. Deep and Mr. Throat, decided that our government had no right to decide for all of us, what we could or should be told about the TWA 800 tragedy.
Mr. Deep and Mr. Throat were the last two individuals to be officially allowed into the guarded hangar in Calverton, N.Y., before the government discarded (yes, discarded) the reconstructed 747. After years of retrieving all those bits and pieces from the bottom of the ocean, reassembling same, the U.S. Government “discarded” the reconstruction.
During their time in the hangar, while Mr. Deep distracted the Federal watchdog who allowed them access, Mr. Throat took the series of digital pictures of the fully reconstructed airplane, including the unexploded center fuel tank.
I’ve since spoken to both Deep and Throat, and they are willing to submit (anonymously) to a battery of polygraphers of my choice to attest to the following:
Their capacity allowed them official access to the Calverton, N.Y. secret, guarded warehouse.
They took the pictures.
They were not allowed/authorized to do so.
One of them is a qualified Captain on B747’s (in addition to other official functions).
One of them is a qualified maintenance/mechanic on B747’s (in addition to other official functions).
The pictures provided to me have not been tampered with, altered or duplicated in any way.
The pictures were the last taken of the actual TWA 800 reconstruction
The pictures, and what they observed, show that no explosion to the CFT brought down TWA 800.
The seats and carpeting (all placed back in their original order and positions) show no burning, singeing or explosive damage, in the area over the Center Fuel Tank.
The only singeing observed was on one exterior portion of the fuselage. “Okay, well, what really happened,” I finally get a chance to ask?
It seems that on the night of July 17th, in “hot” zone W-105 (off the coast of Long Island, New York), our Navy was testing anti-missile missiles. An American missile/or missiles with proximity switches (they explode near, but do not penetrate the target), being test fired by the U.S. Navy,
accidentally killed TWA 800. Or, an American missile or missiles, obtained by and used by terrorists, brought down TWA 800.
As quickly as it happened, it was over. Flight 800 was gone, spread as a flaming swath across the ocean.
The guys say that… “All I can tell you is that by 2am on July 18th, White House staff members on conference calls, had indicated to key Federal Intelligence personnel that a friendly missile had shot down TWA 800, during a naval exercise. They had on their hands, they were told in that blamelessly antiseptic world of military corporatese, ‘a situation.’”
“But, why a cover-up? Why not tell the truth?”
I am told that now we are getting to “Billy Clinton’s Legacy in c-minor”, here’s why the lie:
“Remember, you’re talking July/August 1996, three months before the presidential elections. Clinton’s running for a second term.
U.S. Stinger missiles that we made available to the Muslim Mujahadin for use against the Soviet Union in the Afghan war? It seems Clinton refused to buy them back.
Attempts to buy back 100 or more remaining missiles failed when the Clinton administration decided not to make the purchase. Some press reports claim an attempt was made to give the missiles back, an offer that was also, for some reason, refused by the Clinton administration.
It seems that when the U.S. failed to recover the remaining missiles, they were sold at international arms bazaars to the highest bidders. The buyers included surrogates for rogue states like Iran, according to “reliable military sources” and press reports.
“The United States, up until Flight 800, had never lost an airliner to a hostile missile. What the American public is not aware of — but the White House was very much aware of before July 1996, is that 26 Civilian Airliners have been shot down world-wide since the ‘80’s, when these (our unrecovered American-made) missiles became available on the open market.
The need for the Aegis class USS Normandy Anti-missile cruiser’s tests that night were to defend against the use of our own missiles against us.
“Clinton and his people did not want the American voters, only four months before the elections, to know that his administration was responsible for terrorist’s possession of American made missiles. That TWA 800 was brought down as a tragic by-product of Clinton non-policy at it’s worst.”
So, the whole cover-up was politically motivated? “What do you think?”
“So do you expect more acts of terrorism, a Jihad, by fundamental Muslims, as I do?”
“What do you think?”
“What I think is that after our planes, it’ll be our drinking water.”
“Ever hear of Anthrax?”
“What do you think?”