Deadly Departure

Christine Negroni

• Publisher: Harper Perennial
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9780062322975
• Topic: Technik & Maschinenbau
• Subtopic: Luftfahrt

The in-flight explosion of TWA Flight 800 on July 17, 1996, was one of the deadliest disasters in American history, spurring the most expensive airline investigation ever undertaken by the U.S. government. To this day the crash remains clouded in doubt and shadowed by suspicion of a government conspiracy.

If there was any conspiracy to hide the truth about what really happened to Flight 800, it began long before the crash. Past crashes tell the story: What happened on Flight 800 has happened before and will again, unless drastic changes are made. Now veteran journalist Christine Negroni reveals what the commercial aviation industry has known for more than thirty-five years that during flight confined vapors in the fuel tanks can create a bomb like environment. It takes only a small energy source to ignite it.

TWA Flight 800 was the fourteenth fuel tank explosion on a commercial airliner in thirty-five years. Yet each and every time, the airline industry persuaded regulators to deal with the symptoms of the problem and ignore the cause. When investigators could not immediately determine what happened, they were finally forced to look at the bigger picture. And, for the first time, this book exposes the hubris of aircraft manufacturers who knew all along, but dismissed as acceptable, the risk of fuel tank explosions.

Deadly Departure shines a spotlight on the chaos behind the most massive crash investigation ever conducted, how the White House had to intervene between feuding investigators, and the surprising stories behind the missile theory conspiracies. It also tells the stories of the passengers and their families, the people of TWA and Boeing, the rescue and crisis workers, and the investigators and scientists involved illustrating the devastating effects on human lives. An impeccably researched, eye-opening examination of one of the great disasters of our time, Deadly Departure is a stunning exposé of how industry pressure continues to undermine regulatory policy, placing air travelers' lives at risk.

1

In a matter of seconds, the men in the cockpit realized they were going to die. In the minute that passed before the plane hit the water, fifty-seven-year-old pilot Steven Snyder was probably astonished that the Boeing 747, a plane he knew intimately and trusted completely, was failing him. Oliver Krick, the twenty-five-year-old flight engineer on the verge of becoming a commercial airline pilot, was likely feeling a different and unfamiliar emotion. For the first time in a life filled only with accomplishments, Oliver Krick felt helpless.

Thirteen minutes into the flight, the plane was still climbing out of New York airspace. There had been an explosion closely followed by a disorienting tempest of unrecognizable sounds. The force behind the noise shook the flight deck. When a quick fog of condensation filled the cockpit, the men grabbed for their oxygen masks and set the control knobs to the emergency position to begin a flow of pressurized oxygen.

Pilot training always includes time in a flight simulator practicing for in-flight emergencies, but there’s no practice for the situation that was facing the pilots of TWA Flight 800. They did not know it, but the plane had split apart.

Desperate, Captain Snyder ordered flight engineer Krick to check essential power, looking for some reason why the battery in the electronics bay beneath the cockpit wasn’t supplying an emergency source of energy for the flight control instruments. Krick was confused, unable to comprehend the sudden shift from normal to unimaginable. It might have crossed his mind that he’d done something wrong, and he was frantically reconstructing his actions.

Struggling against the cockpit’s wild pitching, training flight engineer Richard Campbell eyed the panel by Krick, noting that the emergency battery switch was already in the “on” position. It should be providing electricity to the cockpit instruments. Yet dozens of amber flags had popped up in the flight control dials, indicating they were powerless. So was the crew.

On July 17, 1996, the Boeing 747-100 that was TWA’s Flight 800 to Paris was one day younger than Oliver Krick. It had come off the assembly line in Everett, Washington, on July 15, 1971, the 153rd 747 made, and given the tail number N93119. Twenty-five is young for a man, but it’s old for an airplane. Though this 747 still looked modern from the outside, its technology was essentially the same as that of the first 747 flown in 1969. The Boeing 747 and twin-engine 737 are the oldest commercial Boeing designs still in production.

N93119 had been scrupulously inspected by TWA under an FAA program to prevent age-related structural weaknesses, but the plane’s systems were as old as the plane, including hundreds of miles of wiring that hadn’t been examined since the day it was installed. The cockpit was a quaint array of yesterday’s technology, dials and knobs, toggle switches, and analog gauges. There were no color graphical displays, no whiz-bang computers capable of improving on the calculations of the human flight engineers in a fraction of the time. This model 747, referred to as a “747 Classic,” is one of the few remaining commercial jetliners still requiring a third crew member, like flight engineer Krick, to monitor the amount of fuel in the tanks and the operation of the engines.

In its twenty-five years, the jumbo jet had made 16,000 flights. It had flown 100,000 miles in just the last two weeks, making twenty-four transatlantic flights. It checked out fine as pilots Snyder and Ralph Kevorkian, and Campbell and Krick prepared it for the scheduled 7 P.M. departure to Paris. Reports filed by the pilots who’d brought the plane to New York from Athens showed nothing unusual during their nine-hour-and-forty-five-minute flight.

The ground crew at Kennedy noted that the Athens to New York leg had drained the fuel tank located between the wings down to the last fifty gallons, but since that tank would not be needed for the shorter trip to France, it was not refilled. Thirty thousand gallons of Jet A kerosene would be pumped into the plane’s six wing tanks only. The wing tanks held enough fuel to get the plane to Paris: Filling the center tank would have increased the plane’s weight, making the flight more expensive to operate.

TWA would have been pleased with more passengers. In the height of the summer vacation travel season, the 433-seat wide-body was carrying only 176 fare-paying passengers. The fifty-four others on the flight were TWA employees and their families working the flight or enjoying free travel, the benefit of working for an airline.

Snyder, Kevorkian, Campbell, and Krick were not planning to fly Flight 800 to Paris. Their scheduled trip to Rome on TWA Flight 848 was canceled, so both passengers and crew were switched onto the Paris flight, which would continue to Rome after stopping in France.

Rather than go as passengers, a practice known as deadheading, as TWA schedulers had arranged, Krick and Captain Kevorkian were flying because Captain Snyder convinced New York’s chief pilot, Captain Hugh Schoelzel, to let them get the experience. Kevorkian would be completing his last supervised flight.

These fellas are on check rides, Hugh, Captain Snyder pleaded. Why not give us this trip and let 800’s original crew deadhead into Paris?

And so it was that Oliver Krick, lucky from the day he was born, found himself in one of the best seats in the sky, two miles above the rustic shoreline of southern Long Island and climbing.

2

Phillip Yothers made the three-hour trip from central Pennsylvania to JFK Airport hundreds of times in his fifteen years driving for Susquehanna Trailways bus line. It wasn’t his favorite assignment: New York traffic was always heavy, and sitting on a slow-moving highway, his right foot ping-ponging between the brake and the accelerator, his left leg riding the clutch, could make his muscles sore for a day or two.

The passengers on his bus on July 17, 1996, were high school French students headed for a week in Paris. He was drawn into their good humor and was soon participating in the banter of the kids sitting up front near his seat at the wheel of the big motorcoach.

Yothers, sixty-six, had never been to Paris, never traveled farther than he could drive. Even if he had the opportunity, he wasn’t sure he would make such a trip. Yothers was the kind of man who liked to be home at night.

Earlier in the day, with the bus idling in the parking lot of Montoursville High School, he heaved luggage into the bins beneath the bus. Over the low rumble of the engine, and the high-energy chatter of teens starting an adventure, he’d overheard the French teacher tell a friend she really didn’t want to go. Deborah Dickey and her husband, Douglas, were leaving two young daughters behind with their grandparents. Yothers, a father and a grandfather, understood her hesitation.

By the time the bus finally pulled up to the curb at the airport, Yothers noticed Deborah Dickey had caught the excitement. Students and their five chaperones burst out of the bus, snatching worn duffel bags and bulging backpacks from the luggage bins so fast that Yothers hardly had the chance to help. When he lowered the doors and turned to wave good-bye, every single one of them had already disappeared into the airport terminal.

If she hadn’t been so eager to get back to Rome, Monica Omiccioli would have been excited by an unexpected trip to Paris. After all, Paris was fashion and fashion was Monica’s other love. When she and her new husband, Mirco Buttaroni, arrived at Kennedy International Airport from Santo Domingo to learn their flight to Rome was canceled, it was just a frustrating delay for the honeymooning couple on their way home.

Monica was as colorful and dramatic as the clothing she designed in art school; she’d sketched a classic pinstripe suit rendered in scarlet, and fringed cowboy palazzo pants slit to the thigh. The twenty-five-year-old from Lucrezia, Italy, was always mixing things up in her work, in her life.

On June 23, 1996, she married Mirco Buttaroni, a banker she’d known since both were sixteen years old. Four days later they left for their three-week honeymoon. It was their first trip abroad, their first trip on an airplane. Devoted to the Catholic Church and to their large extended families, they planned to raise their own kids in the small village where they grew up.

Monica worked with her uncle at his design house, J Cab, in Fano, in northeastern Italy, producing men’s fashions for an international market. Having graduated with honors in accounting from Luiss University in Rome, Mirco worked at a bank in the same town.

On their wedding day, guests took photographs of the beaming couple. Less than a month later, the snapshots were heart-breaking evidence of how quickly joy can turn to grief.

Boarding Flight 800, even novice flyers like Monica and Mirco had to give some thought to their vulnerability to terrorists. Security at Kennedy International Airport was heightened in the summer of 1996 because of the Federal trial of Ramzi Ahmed Yousef in a courtroom in Manhattan. Yousef was on trial for conspiring with notorious Saudi millionaire terrorist Osama bin Laden, to put bombs on U.S. air carriers flying into Asia. Passenger security checks and questioning by ticket agents is intended, in part, to help passengers recognize their role in keeping air travel safe.

But on July 17, no one was questioning the plane itself. The 747, an icon of the jet age, inspired confidence and awe.

As they prepared for the trip in the pilots’ meeting room at Hangar 12, the airline’s run-down operations building, TWA’s economic troubles were very much on the minds of the pilots. Snyder was keen on figuring out how various operating procedures could reduce fuel consumption and help the airline get the most out of every gallon. His plan for saving fuel by making hourly adjustments to the plane’s trim, its position in the sky, was referred to by some pilots as “Snyderizing” the plane. Since TWA’s annual fuel budget comes close to $1 billion, a small savings adds up when multiplied by 300,000 flights a year.

At TWA, Snyder was considered the “godfather of the 747,” an expert in the plane’s fuel consumption. Some pilots wondered about his obsession with the subject, noting that he kept voluminous records detailing the fuel burn on each airplane he flew.

Seated on the flight deck, Snyder waited to depart, delayed because a computer could not match a checked suitcase to a passenger boarding card. Security precautions resulting from the 1988 Christmastime bombing of Pan Am 103 over Scotland forbade unaccompanied baggage on international flights. When the bag’s owner was found on the plane and the suitcase reloaded in the cargo hold, the luggage loader broke down, blocking the 747 at the gate. More time passed before a tow truck could move the machine.

Restless passengers shifted around the cabin, finding better seats, looking for empty rows where they could bed down for the overnight flight. Some had been served drinks and were already using the bathrooms. Others were taking down their carry-on luggage, rummaging for an aspirin or a new CD. Getting things restowed and passengers belted back into their seats would not be quick or easy.

The flight was an hour behind schedule when the door to the cockpit opened.

“Hello darlin’,” Krick drawled to the flight attendant who was giving him a thumbs-up.

“Everybody seated?” he asked, confirming her gesture. “Thanks.”

“Amazing,” Captain Kevorkian mumbled, relieved to be ready for takeoff.

Kevorkian, fifty-eight, was worried about how to explain the delay to passengers. There wasn’t any good reason. The owner of the unidentified luggage had been on the plane all along.

“We won’t bother telling them that,” he said to the others on the flight deck. “You don’t mind, huh?” he asked them, smiling.

Krick was working only his sixth flight with TWA, but he piped up, “We’d have a mutiny back there.”

Had it been necessary to calm frustrated passengers, though, Krick would have been up to the job. Handling people was one of the things he did best. Flying planes and playing sports were the other two. He’d been competing in athletics since grade school. Water and snow skiing, soccer, hockey, golf, football, volleyball, basketball, even darts. In a boyish display, he’d wedged the plaques and trophies he won over the years into every inch of available space on the bookshelves in his bedroom. The only other decoration was an equally impressive collection of books, tapes, posters, and computer programs about flying.

Before joining TWA, Krick had been a flight instructor and corporate pilot and had recently been accepted in the Air National Guard for flight training on the F-15. He continued to live at home with his parents and younger brother in suburban St. Louis, but owned property on a lake in rural Missouri where he planned to build a house in the future. That future included Tiffany Gates, a woman he’d met in college and had dated steadily for five years. Ollie Krick was attractive, talented, and much loved. It occurred to him often how much he’d been blessed.

Charles Henry Gray III, the chief operating officer of the Midland Financial Group, missed his flight from Hartford to Washington’s Dulles Airport, where he was scheduled to fly out to Paris, because his driver got lost on the way to the airport. He was rescheduled onto TWA Flight 800 along with his travel companions.

Later, as he waited in the airline’s first-class lounge, his anger still in low idle, Gray called Elena Barham, the company’s chief financial officer. Damn, Ebie, he said, complaining about the screw-up in Hartford. Barham, who was also Gray’s best friend, cheered him up, as she often did.

Gray had a thick shock of sandy brown hair, clear blue eyes, and a lopsided smile. He was tall and kept himself fit with daily five-mile runs. Raised in Arkansas, he developed a taste for good wine and well-made clothes once he left home. At forty-seven, he’d made and lost three fortunes and four marriages. There was something about his recklessness that, rather than alienating others, made him more endearing. He was a less-than-attentive parent. He didn’t often see his two sons by his first and second wives when they were young. When Hank IV and Chad entered their teens and joined their dad in his perpetual adolescence, the relationship got going.

Gray had a custom twin-turbo Corvette that he would take to an uninterrupted five-mile stretch of Tennessee back road. With the boys in the car, he would run it up to 190 miles an hour and scream over the roar of the engine and the buffeting wind, “This is how I’m gonna go, boys, I’ll die before I’m fifty and I’m gonna be goin’ fast when I go.” And though young Hank and Chad heard him say this many times, they never detected a hint of regret in their father’s voice.

At six foot three, Gray had to duck his head slightly to board the plane. He settled in seat 2A in the first-class section. His mood had improved, courtesy of the champagne he’d been served in the TWA Constellation Club and the knowledge that this trip to Paris could make him very wealthy.

Gray was sitting in front of Kurt Rhein, with whom he was traveling to Europe to find financing for a merger of their two companies. A year earlier, Gray and Rhein had met on an airplane. The two hit it off right away. They developed a plan to merge Gray’s specialized auto insurance company with Rhein’s Danielson Holding Corporation.

Along with two other men on the flight, they were looking for the investors to make the idea a reality. Godi Notes, twenty-seven, an Israeli-born American who was an up-and-coming executive of the investment banking firm assisting in the merger, Donaldson, Lufkin and Jenrette, sat across the aisle from Rhein. Forty-one-year-old William Story, president of a Danielson subsidiary in California, was in one of the eight first-class seats directly behind the cockpit on the upper deck, the domed section that gives the 747 its distinctive appearance.

In front of Story sat Jed Johnson, forty-seven, who ran a New York-based interior decorating business with his partner and companion, Alan Wanzenberg. The two had established a golden reputation for designs that were tasteful yet experimental and a world away from Johnson’s Minnesota roots. The designer’s boy-next-door good looks were straight out of the sixties and suited the nineties infatuation with retro chic. Johnson was very much in demand as a decorator with a roster of celebrity clients. His work was often featured in glossy shelter magazines and books.

Johnson was alone on this trip, shopping for a new textiles business he was starting. Wanzenberg, whom he’d known for fifteen years, stayed in New York taking care of the businesses in Manhattan and Southampton.

Jed Johnson had a twin brother, Jay. He was one of four people on the plane who had a twin. The others were Arlene Johnsen, a TWA flight attendant who had lived with her sister, Marlene, all her life, and Myriam Bellazoug, a New York architect whose twin was Jasmine. Passenger Katrina Rose had a twin brother, John. None ...