warhead smashed into the underside of Concorde’s nose, blowing off the entire front end of the aircraft, leaving the fuselage to rip back from the structural frame like a peeling banana.
The total disintegration of the aircraft was over in a split second, and death came instantly for the 100 passengers, as they blew into the silence of near space. The changes in the pressure caused the bodies to explode, suddenly lacking the 15 pounds per square inch of pressure that normally accompanies human life. The gigantic detonation of the fuel stored in the aircraft’s wings blew even the wreckage to smithereens. Bob Trueman died with a cheeseburger in his hand.
Commander Adnam turned away from the screen and walked back to the control center. And there he ordered the submarine dived. “Open main vents. Slow ahead. Ten degrees bow down, 17 meters.” And as
The world’s first disaster involving a supersonic aircraft had taken place. But at that stage, as the burned-out pieces of wreckage tumbled eerily down over a wide area of the windswept North Atlantic, no one yet knew anything. And it would be a while before anyone did know anything.
It would not take as long as the great Naval brains had taken to work out that HMS
By 0743 (EST) in the snowbound air traffic control center on the east coast of frigid Newfoundland, the operator in charge of Concorde was already worried. The British supersonic jet had come in a minute early at 30 West, and it was most unusual for the next call-in to be late. By now Bart Hamm knew that Flight 001 must have passed 40 West, and he had heard nothing.
At 0743.40 he went to SELCAL (selective calling), Concorde’s private code on High Frequency. No reply. Transmitting direct to Concorde’s cockpit, it activated two warning tones, like little bells, designed to alert the pilots. At the same time Bart transmitted a radio signal designed to light up two amber bulbs right in the line of Brian Lambert’s vision.
At 0746 Bart Hamm called in his supervisor. At 0747 (local) Gander Air Traffic Control sounded an international alarm, alerting British Airways that Concorde was missing, instigating a massive air-sea search and rescue, informing the United States and Canadian military that a major passenger airliner was down in the North Atlantic.
There were few ships in the area on that freezing January day, but two Japanese fishing trawlers began to head south out of the Labrador Basin to the position in which Concorde might have come down. It was a forlorn hope, because survival was unlikely. There was no question of slowing down to a reasonable landing speed on the water, given its cruising speed of 1,330 mph.
In the Canadian Naval Base in Nova Scotia, the Commander Maritime Forces Atlantic, Rear Admiral George Durrell, ordered two of his 4,800-ton guided-missile frigates, the Halifax-Class
Admiral Durrell’s aircraft would be quicker. And by 0830, two Lockheed CP-140 Auroras were up and out of Greenwood, Nova Scotia, making 400 knots toward Concorde’s crash area. They were scheduled to arrive by 1230.
In London, news of the lost supersonic jet broke before the end of the 1:00 P.M. bulletin on BBC. And it was delivered in tones of pure disbelief by the newscaster. The broadcasting corporation then announced that the BBC 2 channel would follow the story day and night for the next twenty-four hours, all other programming being canceled. Not since the death of the Princess of Wales more than eight years previously had the BBC moved into such extensive coverage.
The trouble was, of course, there was almost nothing to report. The great airliner had simply vanished. It was there one moment, gone the next. And in the aftermath of its demise there was not one shred of wreckage, not one suggestion as to the whereabouts of the black-box flight recorder, not a word from anyone, save from Bart Hamm in Gander, who was quite prepared to confirm he had heard precisely nothing.
Television, radio, and newspaper reporters had about three facts — one, Concorde had reported its height, speed, and position at 30 West; two, it had failed to report in at its next way point at 40 West; three, they had the passenger list. And Ray Duffield had been right. His man Shane had almost drawn a blank. Phil got the ink.
The London tabloids unanimously led their front pages with variations on the same headline:
PHIL CHARLES DEAD IN CONCORDE
MYSTERY CRASH
or:
CONCORDE CRASH KILLS PHIL CHARLES.
British Airways announced late in the afternoon that Flight 001 had been commanded by Captain Brian Lambert, “one of the most senior and respected pilots on the North Atlantic route.” His copilot had been First Officer Joe Brody, “an ex — Royal Air Force fighter pilot who had been with BA for twelve years.” Flight Engineer Henry Pryor, was, according to the BA press release, “shortly to have been promoted to the most senior engineering position in the entire Concorde fleet.”
Jane Lambert, who heard of the catastrophe to her husband’s aircraft at halftime in Billy’s match against Elstree, was taken to the headmaster’s study, where she reacted with immense bravery. “I have been Brian’s wife for eighteen years,” she said. “I have always been prepared for something like this…every time he leaves the house.” They didn’t tell the little boy until the game was over.
In Washington, the loss of the government’s oil-negotiating team, including four congressmen, was a major story. The evening television newscasts, which had much more time to prepare than their British counterparts, were concentrating on a report from a Northwestern Airlines pilot whose plane had crossed 30 West around the same time as Concorde, some 80 miles to the north. “I thought I saw,” said Captain Mike Harvold, “a small fire- flash in the sky south of my aircraft. I’d say just about on my ten o’clock. I was heading two-six-zero at the time for the coast of Newfoundland.”
Questioned further, he confirmed he could not make out the shape of any aircraft so far away, “I guessed it might be Concorde, but I couldn’t be sure, and I just made my report of the possible explosion in an unknown aircraft. But there’s nothing else up that high. I guess it had to be Concorde. Looked to me like it just blew right out of the sky. I suppose you couldn’t discount the possibility of a bomb…but the security surrounding that thing is unbelievable. In the trade, a bomb in Concorde is regarded as just about impossible.”
By the late evening, the experts were in, extolling their opinions to a shocked U.S. audience. The possibility of a bomb was chewed over in much detail, but not in the same way as with other airline disasters. Concorde was too well managed, too small, with too few passengers, and the legendary security was as near to watertight as any
