Crash '85

By George Ross

A chartered DC-8 bound from Cairo to a U S base in Kentucky, crashes and burns during takeoff in Gander Newfoundland. Ice on the wings is the official explanation.However,one soldier,an eye-witness to the crash, knows it was an explosion on board before plane went down. He and those working with him, who know there was a cover up, begin a dangerous quest to find the reason why more than two hundred soldiers died that day. Certain people in the highest levels of government and the Military are willing to stop at nothing to keep this long buried deadly secret from becoming public,including elimination of those who would try to expose them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Ross
• Release date: Feb 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988138322

George Ross

I live in a small village in New Brunswick with my partner and best friend. We spend a lot of time enjoying our home, travelling and reading. I am retired after spending most of my career working as an engineer involved in many projects from retrofitting gas processing facilities to inspecting the refurbishment of a nuclear generating station. I began writing 8 years ago as a hobby and enjoy taking historical accounts and building a story around them. I am as factual as possible without risking legal action. I have been rejected by numerous publishers, however, thanks to Smashwords, I am getting my stories out. My desire is to entertain. So enjoy. George Ross

Book preview

Crash '85

A Novel by George M Ross

Copyright 2012 George Ross

With the much appreciated assistance of my partner, Susie.

Smashwords Edition

A chartered D C-8 bound from Cairo to a U S military base in Kentucky, crashes and burns during takeoff from Gander Newfoundland after a refuelling stop. Ice on the wings is the official explanation for the plane's demise. One soldier, an eye-witness to the crash knows there was an explosion on board prior to the plane going down. Now he and a few who believe the investigation was a cover-up, begin their own probe into the true events leading to the death of so many soldiers. It is a quest which will lead to the discovery of long buried, deadly secrets. Hidden events which certain people in the highest levels of the Military and government will kill in order to prevent the public from knowing the truth. Fighting the bureaucracy and the trained killers working for it, the team dedicates itself to bring those responsible for this mass murder, to justice.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use alone, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

-------------------------------

ISBN 978-0-9881383-2-2

______________________________________________________________________________

Prologue

July 13 1994

The sunlight bounced and reflected off the millions of tiny dust motes dancing in the disturbed air, as it pierced through the cracks in the discoloured window blinds which attempted to stop its entrance into the litter-strewn, mildew-permeated room. He moved again, slower this time due to the stabbing pain that penetrated his skull and shot through what he figured must be the remnants of his once active brain. He reached out to grab the edge of the wooden crate which served as his table and storage vault for the few things he did possess. Inch by inch, he finally called upon what little reserve energy he could summon, and made the supreme attempt to stand and lifted himself from the sweat and urine stained sleeping bag which was his bed. He stood upright for a split second, before teetering and crashing against the wall of the cubicle he called his home. He rested for thirty seconds and tried to stand erect again. This time he succeeded and once the pain subsided for a few seconds he opened his eyes and bleakly surveyed his surroundings, which did not take long. He took inventory of the few possessions, if they could be called that, lying around the room in various piles and unrecognizable shapes on the floor and crate table.

It hadn’t always been like this. Jason Mercer had one been a hard working, proud man. He and his wife had raised a good family of seven siblings. They made sure the each had an equal chance to make it in the world once they left the nest. When the kids had left home, Mercer continued to work at his job as a self-employed contractor with a backhoe and truck to do small construction jobs like installing septic systems and road culverts. He enjoyed the work and the extra income came in handy to help finance the odd vacation away from his native Newfoundland to some exotic place like Atlantic City or Miami.

Everything was going well until three years ago, about seven months after he won a fairly large contract to clear a two square kilometre section of old soil and overgrowth near the Gander Air Base.

Together with two other independents, with whom he had shared projects before, the contractors were to remove almost four thousand cubic metres of overburden and level the site for construction of a secondary holding area. After getting the scoop on the project, Mercer, with the other two contractors sat down at a table in the local pub, and went over the details of the job while sipping on a couple of beers, as was the custom.

Looks like a pretty straight forward piece of work, said Fred MacDonald, as he took a slug of his brew. Usually these government contracts have more twists in 'em then a bag of cork screws.

Yeah, must be somthin’ they never tole us, added Gary Worth, the third man at the table.

Don’t make no matter to me, replied Mercer, long as the cheques come every two weeks like they specify.

Yeah, right, agreed Worth, Looks like easy work, and I fer one ain’t about to screw it up with a dumb question.

Hear, hear! said MacDonald as he raised his bottle and clinked against the other two raised bottles.

Once the third round had been ordered, Worth spoke up, Now I remember! That area we were hired to clear. That’s where that plane load of soldiers crashed in, let me see, eighty-som'thin', eighty-four, five or around there.

Yeah, I remember that, couple of hundred soldiers killed in that. What a mess, answered Mercer.

Christ I hope they found all the bodies. Don’t wanna be disturbin’ no friggin ghosts of dead soldiers, said Worth as he looked into his beer bottle. Jesus, what the hell did I have to bring that up fer? Now that’s all I’m gonna thinking about as I scrape the ground up. Shit man!

Will you two cut it out! said MacDonald Ain’t no bodies or friggin' ghosts. Christ, it’s been twenty years. Get a grip you guys.

A couple of hours later the trio left the pub, a little less steady on their feet then when they entered.

Hey, there’s Bill Simpson with his cab, let’s grab him. Don’t need an impaired before we start, said Worth as he spied the dented ’98 Caprice sitting in the parking lot of the bar.

Two days later the trio began their work at the site on a sunny warm June morning, just as the haze from the night fog began to dissipate.

Both Worth and Macdonald had smaller D-6 Caterpillar tractors and would scrape up the earth, while Mercer would scoop it up into the waiting trucks for deposit elsewhere. It was a slow process, but the company hired for the initial contract was not under any time constraints. If the job lasted a year or more, it was not a big problem. It was one more make work project and since the federal government was paying the bill, the contractor followed their rules.

The first few weeks went well, nothing but push up mounds of earth and then wait for Mercer to move them. A couple of times they would hit a piece of debris, and each time Worth would stop and have Mercer move it so he wouldn’t have to look at it in case there were human remains mixed in.

It was about the fifth month of the job when Worth came to the site complaining of internal pains and loss of appetite. When he began to relate his symptoms, Mercer spoke up, Yeah, I’ve got somethin'' like that, too. Feel like I wanna barf every time I eat.

Jesus, you guys, now you’re scarin’ me, said MacDonald, My godamned hair is comin' out in friggin chunks. I thought it was just me. What the hell did we get into?

It’s them ghosts from the plane crash. You guys thought it was funny. Now look what’s happenin'!

Jesus H Christ, Gary! Fer Christ’s sake, get serious for a damn minute, this is serious shit! shot back MacDonald.

I am goddamned serious! Look, we all got somethin' happenin' to us. What the hell would you call it? replied Worth.

Okay, okay, replied Mercer with his hands up like stop signs. This ain’t helpin' anybody. Let’s sit down and discuss this in a rational manner. Never mind ghosts and shit like that. There has to be a reason we are all feeling weird or whatever.

Yeah, if we talk it out, maybe we’ll come up with a common element.

You’re right, Jason, let’s talk about it, replied Worth.

After an hour and a half of talking and finding no common occurrence, except the job they were on, the trio decided medical tests were the only way to find out what could cause the three to come down with the symptoms at the same time.

Not wanting to draw attention to the fact they may be having problems completing their work, the men decided to stagger the visits to their medical practitioners. They agreed to share the results and from there hopefully find a source of their discomforts.

After over a month of visits and various tests none of the men were any closer to finding a reason for their ailments. They continued the work; although it was evident each was suffering a little more as time went on.

Worth was the first to finally have to stop work and seek hospital care as he was unable to keep anything down and was about half his weight from a the year previous.

Mercer fared a little better. Although weak, he was able to maintain some semblance of being able to work. He continued to go to the site, and under the guise of carrying out their assignment, instead he scoured the area for clues which would help him discover why he and his friends were dying.

He kept this up for a few months, until he could not find the energy to come to the site any longer.

Within a few months of being constantly in the house, and requiring almost the same care as a new born baby, Mercer’s wife could take the strain no more. Cleaning and caring for her husband and watching him slowly disintegrate before her eyes, she became more despondent. Finally she sat in the family truck one morning with the engine running in the garage until the carbon monoxide took her pain away.

Chapter I

December 2 1, 1985

As he checked the co-ordinates once more, Special Forces Sergeant Tony Granger motioned for the driver to slow and finally stop the light armoured vehicle they were in, crossing the hot dusty Iranian desert near Shiraz. The heat was oppressive and the gritty sand was everywhere in and on his body, as he stared through his night vision goggles looking for some landmark to give him some idea how close he was to his objective. He had trouble holding the instrument as the sweat ran down his face and into his eyes. The sand itched his skin and gritted in his teeth. Shit! he said aloud as he struggled to focus in the gloom of the midnight darkness, This goddamned heat is killing me, can’t get a fix on shit out here and all I can taste is friggin' sand.

Just a sec, Sarge, replied David Cooper, his backup, as he came around the side of the vehicle, Here’s an ice pack. It’ll cool yer face and help ya stop the sweat from runnin' in yer eyes. Then you can get a bead.

Thanks Dave, I’ll try it, as he pressed the gel pack to his face and around his eyes. Feels better already. Good idea, thanks.

He returned the goggles to his eyes and continued to stare into the desert, slowly scanning the lifeless surroundings.

Jesus, people actually live in this goddamned sand box? he mumbled as he peered into the nothingness.

There we go, he said, That’s gotta be it. About twenty kliks, around two o’clock.

See any movement, Sarge? asked a man seated in the back of the vehicle, nervousness obvious in his voice.

No, too far to tell, sir. Once we get closer, we should be able to see a little better, replied Granger, as he stepped back into the stripped-down lightly armoured personnel carrier they were using to traverse the desert. It was a smaller version of the amphibious troop carrier the marines used, except for some adaptations made for this mission. The engine had been replaced with a lighter, more powerful version, and the tires used were balloon ATV type, to maintain traction and keep the vehicle from sinking in the soft sandy soil of the desert. Much of the thicker armour plate had been removed to bring the weight down by almost eighteen hundred pounds. Its body had been painted a mottled black and grey for night use. It still carried the ten men and all their equipment required on this special assignment, at a good speed and was surprisingly quiet for its size.

Sgt. Brian Doyle, the driver and pilot navigated, using GPS tracking and night vision goggles. The dash was illuminated with tiny lights, enough to read the essential instruments.

Granger didn’t like the man they were forced to take with them on this mission. He wasn’t Special Forces, so was probably an imbedded CIA spook, and Christ knew what he was up to. Christ and Granger’s superior, Captain John Dennison, on board the Independence.

Twenty minutes later Granger called for another halt and once again scanned the darkness. Got one tango on the ground, two in a tower on south corner, and that looks like all, he announced.

Even though they were about a kilometre from their target, the men, gathered around the vehicle stretching their legs and arms, could see the huge formation in the distance. It was a rounded spherical structure with two tall conical towers flanking the main shape.

Granger made a quick call to the USS Independence, anchored just off the coast in the Persian Gulf, informing the ship of their status, using coded signals.

To his surprise, Granger received an urgent Stand down and retreat! order from his commander on board the Independence. Asking for confirmation, Granger was again told to stand down and return to pick up point. It was just then he was made aware the Iranians were tracking them, and would be at their location in twelve minutes.

The spook in the back got out, went a few metres from the vehicle and made a call, returning to the LAV a couple of minutes later. Let’s roll, he said to Granger.

Granger quickly informed his team and they scrambled aboard, and began following the track which would take them back to the waiting Black Hawk helicopter, sitting about forty-five kilometres from their location.

They had just begun the trip south when the radioman announced incoming chopper, unfriendly, approaching from the West, spotted by the Independence.

We got a bogey coming in at one four zero, heading two-two-nine. ETA eleven minutes at present speed, said the radioman after listening to the transmission from the ship.

Roger that, said Granger. Lock and load, guys. Willie, let me know when he’s in range, Granger said, speaking to Corporal William Freeman, his rocket-man.

You got it Sarge, replied Freeman as he cradled the compact surface to air Hellfire missile launcher, which had a range of about four kilometres

The vehicle slipped almost silently across the sand with its muffled exhaust system.

Okay, listen up! began Granger. We’re not supposed to be here, so no prisoners or witnesses. If we get in a firefight, we gotta take 'em all! We got nobody comin' for us either, so we gotta make it to the pickup spot. If we get immobilized, we trek across the sand. But with a little luck, we won’t have to walk.

Any questions?

When there were none, he continued, Okay, when you have a target, take it out. No prisoners, no warnings. Once the chopper is down, they will know something is up and scramble the jets. We got about fifteen minutes to get our asses back to the transport.

Closing in, about two minutes from us, said the radioman.

Roger that, replied Granger. Okay Clancy, slow down and drop us off, then do the circuit as planned. We’ll wait for the bird.

Roger that, Sarge, replied the driver as he slowed and the men disembarked in pairs, rolling onto the still warm sands of the night desert.

Once regrouped, the men took their positions and waited. It didn’t take long until they could hear the whop-whop sound of the approaching gun ship.

Their infrared sensors will pick up the buggy first. As soon as he banks and tries to line up a shot, nail his ass, Willie!

You got it Sarge, replied Freeman as he readied his missile launcher and aimed for the incoming sound.

He didn’t have to wait long as the dark shape of the Russian built Hind loomed into view. The two turbine engines screaming and huge main rotor blades, whapping. Freeman could feel the sand begin to hit his face like tiny pin pricks.

Freeman yelled' On three, two, one, now! and pulled the trigger without really aiming. His eyes were closed like the rest of the platoon's so they wouldn’t be blinded by the bright flare of the missile as it left the launch tube.

The crew kept their eyes tightly closed from the time Freeman yelled until they heard the whoosh and dull thud as the approaching helicopter exploded into a ball of flame. The soldiers felt the heat and turbulence from the expanding gases of the explosion. Slowly opening their eyes they could see by the light from the fire that the copter had crashed into the sand about three hundred metres from them as it continued to burn in a huge oily black and orange ball of flames.

Okay, let’s move! said Granger as the team reassembled and waited for the return of the LAV. It could be heard coming up quickly and soon came into view, silhouetted by the light from the burning wreckage. As soon as it stopped, the team piled in and headed out again to rendezvous with their waiting Black Hawk.

Twelve and a half minutes later, with no reports of any hostiles on their tail, the team reached the Black Hawk, with its engines up to temperature and the rotors turning at idle.

Take everything from the LAV, leave nothing, and get on board. Move it! shouted Granger above the noise from the rotors. The team removed everything and had it piled by the loading door of the chopper.

What about these? asked Freeman as he piled two obviously heavy backpacks near the back of the bird.

Leave them! replied Granger, as he went to give Freeman a hand with the packs.

No! Load them on board. They can’t be left here! the man shot back.

What the hell is in these? Christ they must weigh one fifty each or more, asked the soldier, looking at the small packages. Must be gold to be that heavy!

More valuable then that, soldier, replied the man as they stowed the equipment and prepared for departure.

We’re ready Sergeant, yelled the pilot as he wound up the rotors.

Let’s go then, replied Granger as the big bird lifted off and began to bank towards the East.

I got one last thing to do first, said the spook as he reached into his Kevlar vest pocket and removed a small remote control unit, pushed the button and watched from the rear hatch as the LAV exploded into a ball of flame and smoke.

The rest of Granger’s team looked in disbelief as their vehicle exploded. Granger shot a quick glance at the stranger who was still watching the burning wreckage from his window.

One hour and thirty-four minutes later the Black Hawk landed at a site ten kilometres outside Cairo Egypt. The ten soldiers disembarked and loaded themselves and the equipment into a waiting troop carrier. They headed off to an airfield just on the outskirts of the city where a U S Army chartered DC-8 was already loading another battalion of soldiers for the Trans-Atlantic flight to New York. The troop carrier rolled up to the plane where their equipment was quickly loaded in the cargo bay aboard the airliner, with no security check or luggage manifest. It was followed by the soldiers a few minutes later, who took their place among the few seats left on the plane bound for the New York. Twenty minutes later the DC- 8 headed down the runway on its way across the Atlantic.

Four hours and forty-eight minutes later the plane made a scheduled stop in Gander Newfoundland to refuel and to pick up a few more service men who had taken a connecting flight from Spain and were also headed to Fort Campbell.

After about forty-five minutes the call was made to re-board the plane, but with the twelve new passengers, they were four seats short. The flight crew asked for volunteers to await a later flight. Since he was not due back for at least a week, Granger was the first to offer his seat. He was soon followed by Freeman and two men from another division. Thanking the ones who had elected to give up their seats, the Captain had his crew prepare the aircraft for its flight to New York.

Looks like shitty weather for flying, anyway, said Freeman as he looked out the terminal window at the snow blowing around in the minus three degree Celsius temperature.

Yeah, a little cooler than where we just came from, replied Granger as he watched the big jet taxi out to the runway.

What the hell we gonna do in Gander Newfoundland for a day and a half? asked one of the other soldiers, who looked about eighteen years old.

Gotta be a bar around here somewhere, answered Freeman with a big grin.

Yeah, I could use a drink, replied Granger, idly watching the jet pick up speed and head towards the grey snowy overcast sky.

He watched the aircraft become airborne and was just turning away when he caught sight of the white and blue flash from the plane’s fuselage. Granger stared in disbelief. As if in slow motion, the large jet liner nosed down and dove into the snow-packed area a kilometre from the end of the runway.

Jesus Christ! was all he managed as he continued to stare. The other three standing with their backs to him turned around in time to see a huge ball of flame erupt from the downed plane.

What the hell is that? asked one of the servicemen as he stared out the window at the inferno, which lit up the darkening sky.

The goddamned plane just crashed! Looked like an explosion, then she went down, said Granger, fixed on the spectacle without totally believing what he was looking at. For several minutes he just glared, transfixed at the sight, until finally his concentration was broken as he noticed the yellow emergency trucks beginning to race down the runway towards the flaming mass, their lights flashing.

Finally mobilized, Granger managed to yell, Let’s go! and raced for the exit to the maintenance area, followed by the three other soldiers.

Among the running bodies and equipment coming from all directions, Granger and Freeman managed to grab a ride on one of the rescue vehicles as it loaded up with personnel to head to the crash site.

Once there, they blended in with the dozens of emergency response people working feverishly to extinguish the fires and look for survivors. It took almost an hour to get the flames low enough to be able to approach the wreckage and look for anyone who may have escaped the catastrophe. After scouring the twisted burned hulk of the former airliner, it was evident no one would be found alive.

Granger walked almost trance-like, finding nothing but dismembered burned remains of what were previously his comrades and fellow team members. He walked cautiously through the mangled mess, looking for some reason why this had happened. His reverie was interrupted by Freeman, who put his big hand on the man’s shoulder and said, Come on Tony! We can’t do anything for these poor souls.

Granger wasn’t listening to his friend, but was staring at a glowing orb about the size of a grapefruit, lying on a patch of bare dirt. The snow had melted, forming a hole about fifteen centimetres deep and twenty centimetres in diameter.

What the hell is that, Willie? asked Granger, pointing to the glowing object.

Jeeze, I don’t know, Tony, a piece of magnesium from the wheel, maybe?

That’s no goddamned magnesium, Willie, and you know it.

Shit man, I don’t know what the hell it is! said Freeman.

Their conversation was ended when they were interrupted by a young RCMP officer, who looked like this was his first crash. Sorry gentlemen, we have to clear this area. The Feds will be sending an investigation team to look around, and they don’t want too much disturbed.

Just a second, Officer, said Granger

MacMillan, Gary MacMillan, replied the Mountie, handing Granger his card.

Come here for a second, Officer MacMillan, I want you to see this, said Granger as he led the officer to the glowing object in the melted snow.

What’s that? asked the officer, as he stared at the glowing ball.

Don’t know. But it doesn’t look like a normal piece of debris from a crash, answered Granger.

I’ll bring it to the attention of the investigators, replied MacMillan, Maybe they have seen something like that before.

Thanks, Officer. I want to know why this bird went down with my team in it. If you don’t mind, I want to keep in touch with you as the investigation goes on, said Granger.

I know how you feel, Sergeant, but I don’t know how much I’ll be able to release to you. I promise, though, I’ll do what I can.

Thanks, replied Granger, offering his hand, which was taken by the police officer. I appreciate anything you can tell us, just to put this to rest.

I understand, said MacMillan. If it were my guys, I’d want to know also. But I’m sorry, we have to go now. I will keep you posted on what I can release to you.

Amid the collection of emergency vehicles and flashing lights, MacMillan found his vehicle and gave the two men a ride back to the terminal. Once there, he got a contact address for Granger and again promised to do what he could to assist them.

Chapter II

June 14, 1996

MacMillan sat at his desk in the ‘K’ Division headquarters in Edmonton, Alberta where he had been transferred from St. Johns, Newfoundland. He had been promoted to Corporal just after he had finished his work with the Canadian Transportation Safety Committee investigating the crash of the chartered DC-8, which had claimed two hundred and fourteen lives. The CTSC along with their American counterparts, the National Transportation Safety Board, had completed their lengthy investigation into the cause of the disaster. Officially the crash had been