I joined Old Jim and Foggy Bottom John-with at Willow’s Amen Corner last night. I had been futzing with taxes, though my heart was not in it, and I needed to talk to people about the increasing feeling of weirdness I am getting. Chanteuse Mary got off work in The Chamber early and was ready for a glass of wine.
I know I was. Maybe it is the solitude during the day, I don’t know. Jon-without and TLB and the Lovely Jamie rolled in sequentially with Jerry the Barrister.
Jerry was hungry and was eyeing the Herb Sausage Crusted Mini Rack of Pork with Buttery Savoy Cabbage, Julienne of Apples & Endive with Shallot & Apple Jus. I envied him the gusto with which he attacked the platter. I just wasn’t hungry.
Jamie is dealing with the multiple crises by fleeing the city: if Russia invades Ukraine and we get another five inches of snow, she will deal with it looking at the sand and light blue water. She booked a trip for a few days in the Dominican Republic, one of my favorite Caribbean destinations, though it is only accessible by boat or commercial airliner, a mode of transportation of which I am increasingly skeptical these days.
The bar filled up rapidly- Fish and Wildlife was out in force, and the high-top tables were all full with couples and professional women catching up. “So,” said Old Jim. “What hallucinations are you into this evening? The Malyasian jetliner has now been missing for more than a week. The Malaysians in charge of the investigation had a press conference in Kuala Lumpur. Did you see it?” Jon-without fumbled for his smart phone and punched up a tiny map composed of concentric circles arcing northwest and southwest:
“Yeah. They confirmed a lot of what has been dribbling out over the last week. The transponders on the jet were deliberately disabled and its last signal came about 7 1/2 hours after takeoff.”
“Seven and a half? That is almost twice what they were saying earlier when they claimed that the ACARS transmissions were detected four hours later.”
“Yep, means they could have ended up as far as Kazakhstan or deep in the southern Indian Ocean,” said John-with with prim efficiency. He deals with matters of state on a daily basis, though this one is an entirely new wrinkle. “They had some cool graphs to show. It looked to me like they got an ellipse – they are translating it to the press as ‘two search boxes along a line oriented northwest to southeast- about 1500 miles out southwest of KL.”
“I used to live KL. Great town. Beautiful women,” said John-with thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” I said. “They are. And the jet had a lot more gas then they first said – which isn’t all that rare – the only requirement in filing is to state that at takeoff you have enough gas for the flight, plus 45 minutes of max consumption as a margin – that gives you a range of 2500nm, more or less. But a 777 has long legs – the version with the shortest legs has a 5,000nm range – and this one I believe had about a 6,000 mile range.”
“It sure as shit went a lot further than the Andaman Islands if it flew that long.”
“Yes. And what about the jump in altitude from cruise to 45,000 feet. That is very interesting.”
“Was that ACARS reporting or that Malaysian military radar contact in the Strait of Malacca?”
“Couldn’t tell what they were talking about. You know the problems with non-cooperative targets and radar, if that is what it was.”
“If it went that high, what was the point? Deliberate decompression? The rated ceiling for the triple-7 jet is below Flight Level 45. The aircraft would be hanging on the blades up there, ready to stall.”
“Well, what happened to everybody inside? Did they pass out or die?”
“Another great question. It almost suggests that whoever was flying the jet wasn’t actually on it. I tried to find if the cabin pressure could keep up with the pressure- and I still don’t know. We exceeded all sorts of things in Navy jets, but they were built strong.”
“Yeah, it’s a mystery. It seems weird now but will be perfectly clear once we understand what happened,” said Jon-without. He is an engineer by training, and takes a commonsense approach to these things.
John-with darkly mentioned the idea of someone wanting to “repurpose” the aircraft, if it in fact landed some place. It had been the topic of discussion in his meetings that morning. The implication being that maybe if the aircraft was indeed on the ground someplace it might be later used as a missile.
“Crap,” I said. “I was looking at imagery of the former Royal Navy Airfield at Gan, in the Maldives, in case it was a place they might have landed. It is a commercial place now, though. Off the beaten track but still with people working there.” I looked at Boomer the Bartender perched on a step-stool in clear violation of OSHA regulations, moving some bottles of liquor up next to the televisions that are rarely turned on. This isn’t a sports bar, after all.
“Maybe the answer that makes sense is that this was a trial run for a multi-aircraft operation similar to 9/11. It possible that something really bad has happened- or is beginning- and we don’t know what it is.”
I mentioned a pal’s theory of hacking into the flight controls and gaining command of the aircraft that way, and that if something like this was true, it could be a test for a simultaneous mass attack. “Maybe the erratic altitude- up to FL 45- was perhaps a demonstration of gaining proficiency for off board controllers. The Malaysians searched the pilot’s house and found a sophisticated flight simulator with several display screens.”
“What do you expect? The guy is a pilot, for Christ sake.”
“That is science fiction, right?” growled Jim, reaching for his Bud. “Maybe they were going to fly the airplane into a building in Mumbai and they screwed it up.”
“I dunno. Maybe it is just a way to deliver an electromagnetic pulse weapon to some other place. You know, those dumb nuke things are supposed to fry all the computers within line of sight and imagine what would happen with that.”
John-with was not happy with our scenario. “An EMP attack against the US? Wouldn’t that have to be at high altitude over Kansas?”
I said, “Try it high over Manhattan or Philly and see what you get. Maybe that is plenty. If they refuel the thing they are only 6,000 miles away.”
“Crap,” said John-with. “Too much to deal with for a weekend.”
“I dunno,” I said. “Maybe they will hit Dublin. It is Saint Patrick’s Day on Monday after all.”
Old Jim waved for another Budweiser. “The important thing is to avoid crowds and public transportation.”
“I have been doing that for a long time,” I said. “Why isn’t anyone uptight about the Russians advancing their Defense Condition?”
“That is so Cold War, Vic,” said Jon-without. “We have all sorts of new stuff to worry about. A Russian invasion of East Europe seems downright quaint. I am going to worry more about the snow. I might not be able to walk to Willow on St. Patrick’s Day.”
Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303