Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

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