‘Malaysian one seven, maintain flight level three three zero for a while, three four zero is not available for now.’
It was no great setback for the pilots of the MH17; they could deal with a loss of five minutes and they might be able to win back the lost time at a later stage. The MH17 crew now settled into the flight as they prepared to be handed over from Ukraine to Russian airspace. There was a war on the ground but, when it came to commercial aviation, the two countries fully cooperated with each other. The Ukrainian controller directed them to proceed to Romeo November Delta (RND, the flight centre at Rostov-on-Don in southern Russia). The last call from MH17 to Dnipro control centre was clocked at 13.19.56 hours. ‘Romeo November Delta, one seven.’
Hrabove (also known as Grabove or Grabovo) is a small village in the Donetsk region of eastern Ukraine. Its population is estimated at about 740, although no one would have known that if strolling its streets. The sleepy village appeared quite deserted as the only ‘busy’ time of the day approached, when the village school would empty its pupils onto Hrabove’s streets.
Two-thirds of the population were known to speak mainly Ukrainian and identified with Ukraine. Located on the Mius River, some ten kilometres from Tirez, Hrabove in July 2014 was also located in the very heart of the conflict zone. The area was under the control of pro-Russian separatist groups although, so far, the actual fighting had bypassed the small village. Villagers could frequently hear rumbles just thirty-five kilometres away, coming from the Ukrainian military and the separatists who were fighting a bitter battle over who would take control of the border area between Russia and Ukraine.
But 17 July 2014 was the day the people of Hrabove realised the war had finally come to their village. Hearing loud crashing and booming sounds at a very close range, villagers assumed they were being bombed with rockets and artillery. The population, mostly farmers and miners, scrambled from the fields, calling for their wives and children to rush to their basements and take cover. As things quietened, some of them dared to cautiously emerge from their hiding places.
From a nearby field ashen black smoke arose, smudging the sky where it slowly spiralled upward. The smell of burnt aviation fuel, burning grass and death hung heavy in the air. The fields where farmers grew wheat and sunflowers had gone eerily silent. Even the birds appeared to have been silenced by what had just happened. As if the heavens themselves could not contain their emotions, it started to rain.
The residents’ first thoughts were that yet another Ukraine military transport plane had been downed by separatists. But, even from a distance, they could see there was so much debris that they doubted if it had been just one plane that had crashed. The only sound coming from the field was the crackling of fire and an occasional hiss as the rain managed to extinguish small flames. The surviving sunflowers appeared to turn their heads in shame.
One man wondered out loud where the pilot was, but the destruction of the plane left no doubt that nobody could have escaped from this. The aircraft parts had fallen so close to their houses that it was a miracle no villagers had been injured.
The thick black smoke and fire rising from the field made it hard for the villagers to assess what exactly had happened. Nothing prepared them for the horror they were about to encounter as they approached to take a closer look. Edging nearer, they at first saw nothing but black and smouldering earth where just earlier that day wheat and sunflowers had swayed in the gentle breeze. Parts of the aircraft—the motor, the fuel tanks, landing gear and a large section of the hull—had landed just thirty metres from a couple of houses.
Standing at the edge of the disaster area, bringing the scene into focus, people now began to notice items that would never have been on board a military aircraft. Stuffed animal toys, travel guides and family photos emerged from the blackened wreckage, and then bodies and body parts also became visible.
Curious children were hastily pulled away from the scene, ushered back to the village by their horrified parents. The town’s mayor began piecing together the letters on the different parts of the plane’s hull. As the words ‘Malaysia Airlines’ emerged, it suddenly brought home to him the reality that this had been no military plane. The shock and horror of what he and his villagers had stumbled onto became clear.
This wasn’t an Antonov; this plane had carried civilians. People and families going on a holiday, going home to their relatives or on business trips. These men, women and children were playing no part in the war in Ukraine. The people in Hrabove were shocked and appalled. How could this have happened?
Four seconds after the air controller received confirmation from the MH17 captain that the plane would proceed to Rostov in Russia, he contacted MH17 again with extra information on how to proceed on that flight path.
‘Malaysian one seven, after Romeo November Delta, expect direct to TIKNA.’ (The TIKNA waypoint is located east of Rostov in Russia.)
But now no answer came back and, as he checked his radar, the controller noticed the plane had suddenly disappeared from his screen. A green dotted line, what controllers called a synthetic track, had appeared where the plane had disappeared. The synthetic track displayed on the air controller radar is also known as ‘coasting’. After an interruption on the radar screen, the position and altitude are predicted and displayed by the green dotted line; the dotted line’s course is based on the previously received radar data and flight plan information. It is a kind of ‘ghost’ track.
It was 13.20.10 UTC, about 4.20pm in Ukraine. Wondering why the plane had suddenly vanished from his radar, the controller, with growing concern, tried to make contact.
‘Malaysian one seven, how do you read me?’
Nothing.
‘Malaysian one seven, Dnipro Radar.’
After he had repeated his call three times, the controller was at a loss as to what could have happened. There had been no distress call. Nothing. Just a blip where the plane had gone off the radar, leaving only the ghost line.
Two minutes after the plane had vanished, the Ukrainian controller decided to call his Russian colleague in Rostov.
‘Rostov, do you observe the Malaysian seventeen by the transponder?’
The answer from Rostov wasn’t what the controller wanted to hear: ‘No. It seems that its mark has started to break.’
The Dnipro radar told the same story: just the synthetic line where the plane should have been, and nothing to indicate where it had gone. Both controllers checked their devices, but the MH17 did not appear on any of them and appeared to have just vanished.
Dnipro control, running out of options, decided to contact the nearest aircraft flying close to the spot where MH17 had disappeared. It was the Singapore Airlines 350 flight. The controller asked the captain if he had detected something or could see the aircraft from his position.
But Singapore Airlines could only give Dnipro a negative. The captain said they could see no plane in the vicinity, not on the radar and not from the windows.
For minutes after that the Dnipro controller frantically tried again to make contact with MH17; he was still at a loss as to what could have happened, but he was slowly beginning to fear the worst. Rostov control contacted his Ukrainian counterpart to let Dnipro know that he had reported the incident.
To check the possibility that there was perhaps something wrong with MH17’s instruments, Dnipro suggested that his Rostov colleague search for another Malaysia Airlines plane flying in the neighbourhood. It might help if Malaysia called the plane using its own radio. But there was no other Malaysia Airlines plane flying in the area.