Casefile True Crime - Case 106: Peter Nielsen (Part 1)

Episode Date: February 2, 2019

[Part 1 of 2] As midnight approached on July 1 2002, the German village of Owingen was disturbed by a deep rumbling from above. Residents assumed an unforecast storm was brewing, but seconds later a thunderous explosion roared as a large ball of fire illuminated the night sky. ---  Episode narrated by the Anonymous Host Episode researched and written by Milly Raso For all credits and sources please visit casefilepodcast.com/case-106-peter-nielsen-part-1

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To you, the difference. Or on our website. An industrial harbour city that operates as a central point for the outlying semi-rural communities. Six kilometres north of Ubelingen is an inland village called Alvingen, home to a population of around 3,000 people. Acres of farmland, grassy meadows and fruit orchards surround the small township, framed by rolling hills covered in dense fir and oak tree forests. As night fell on July 1, 2002, the quiet streets of Alvingen were disrupted by a deep rumbling from above,

prompting locals to assume an unforecast storm was fast approaching. Seconds later, a deafening explosion unlike any typical roll of thunder or crack of lightning roared across the landscape. Houses trembled as startled residents raced the windows, balconies and the streets to determine the source of the frightening noise. Above the distant forest, a large ball of fire illuminated the night sky. Alvingen resident Stella Wegmüller described the site, quote, The sky was orange-red, flaming, and we saw detonations again and again,

and we realised it couldn't have been a normal thunderstorm. It was something we had never heard or seen before. Townsfolk watched in awe at what they initially believed was an elaborate fireworks display. It wasn't until burning fragments started to rain down when the chilling realisation dawned. They were witnessing a catastrophe. Ulla Dinkalaka had just finished entertaining guests out in her patio garden when she was startled by the loud bangs from above. Within seconds, glowing pieces of metal crashed down onto her terrace,

smashing through an awning and melting her outdoor furniture. Shrapnel splintered the exterior walls of her home and shattered its windows. Ulla, her partner and their young daughter rushed out onto the street where panicked voices shouted around them. The plane fell. Within minutes, Alvingen's picturesque countryside was on fire. Huge columns of black smoke rose upwards into the night sky, searing the throats and lungs of locals who ran into the fields to douse the spreading flames.

They immediately recognised several pieces of the debris, an aircraft tail, chassis and turbines, landing gear and a cockpit with a cracked, bloody windshield. Laying amongst the wreckage were dozens of small bodies. As day broke the following morning of July 2, 2002, the sheer extent of the tragedy that had befallen the German countryside the night prior was fully realised. The once lush and vibrant rural landscape now resembled a battlefield.

Forests and agricultural fields were charred and littered with twisted, fractured pieces of metal. The air reeked of burning fuel and heavy grey smoke lingered under the overcast skyline. Representatives of the German Federal Bureau of Aircraft Accidents Investigation arrived to the scene following reports of an incident that seemed too unbelievable to be true. According to witnesses, two planes had collided in mid-air over Lake Constance. These reports were confirmed when the remains of two commercial aircraft were found throughout an area of approximately 350 square kilometres. Key wreckage had fallen over seven major sites in a narrow corridor 20 kilometres long and 2 kilometres wide. The area was cordoned off to keep onlookers and media at bay

as thousands of firefighters, police officers and rescue workers surveyed the debris, trying to comprehend the devastation around them. As they searched desperately for survivors, helicopters equipped with infrared cameras sawed above while the depths of nearby Lake Constance were scanned by boats using sonar equipment. Officials considered it a miracle that no one on the ground was killed or injured by the falling debris and that damage to surrounding towns was relatively minor. The first plane was identified as a passenger jet. Luggage was strewn throughout the site and contained clothing, travel necessities and children's belongings.

Statements from witnesses coupled with the distribution of the debris indicated that this plane had broken up mid-flight, its pieces falling across the land below. The right wing was located in a cornfield and the left was found 2 kilometres out, resting in the garden of a golf course. The plane's fuselage, informally referred to as its body, was split in two, with the pieces landing 300 metres apart. The forward section, including the cockpit, had crashed into an apple plantation. The rear section, including the engines, had narrowly missed an Alvingen boarding school for disabled children, averting what could have been an even greater tragedy. The aircraft's tail was found sprawled across a rural road between two crop fields.

Visible on its sides was the yellow, white and blue logo of Bashkirian Airlines, a Russian airline company. The remains of the second aircraft, identified as a cargo jet, were discovered in a forest 5 kilometres east of Alvingen in the vicinity of the village of Tysersdorf. Its nose was embedded 2 metres deep into the forest floor. Strapped to the pilot's seats inside the cockpit were the bodies of the two men crew. Scattered in close proximity were parcels bearing the red and white branding of international courier company DHL. Most of the cargo jet's wreckage was centralised around the forest, indicating that unlike the passenger aircraft, it did not break up in mid-air. Instead, it remained structurally intact during descent before crashing into the ground.

Notably, the plane's vertical tail structure, used to provide direction stability, was missing. Only a stump consisting of torn-up metal remained. By now, there was little doubt as to the identity of each plane. Two flights had since disappeared from radar, their crews falling radio silent, and both failing to reach their final destinations. In the week ending June 2002, the final bell of the academic year rang out across schools in Russia, signalling the start of the summer holidays. For 45 students from the city of Ulfa in the country's west, the sound of the bell heralded a sense of nervous excitement. For recognition of their excellence in arts, athletics or academics, the students had been rewarded with a two-week holiday to Spain

to attend a festival organised by UNESCO, the United Nations Education, Science and Cultural Body. The accolades of those who had earned a spot on the exclusive trip varied. 14-year-old Karil Degtyaryev was a prodigy artist. His watercolour and oil paintings were featured in two public exhibitions. Skilled tennis player, 16-year-old Karina Uraslina was accepted into the School of the Olympic Reserve, her trainers foreseeing a gold medal in her future. Passionate environmentalist, 14-year-old Soya Fedatova lectured on the subject of heavy medals as polluters at the Small Academy of Sciences and designed an ecological clothing line made from garbage bags. The father of 11-year-old Artur Kamatov promised his son could attend the student trip to Spain if he earned high academic grades. Artur excelled at school and even won first place at an international mathematics competition.

When his father returned home from work one evening, Artur rushed to him with his report card in hand and said, Dad, look, I kept my word. His father proudly responded, Good, I promise you can go. Several of the students were the offspring of affluent, high-ranking Russian officials with wealth derived from their royal rich homeland. For others, coming up with the money to fund their overseas travel wasn't as simple. 15-year-old Arson Masogutov opted to forgo the trip, proposing the money he spent on his father's important dissertation work instead. Arson's father politely declined the offer, urging his son to go and enjoy his well-deserved holiday to Spain. In the weeks leading up to the trip, the students eagerly practiced speaking Spanish and saved up their spending money. Their itinerary included a visit to Port Aventura World, a theme park featuring state-of-the-art roller coasters and waterslides.

Along with a visit to Costa de Rada, a strip of Mediterranean coastline known for its calm, shallow waters. By late June, the students were counting down the remaining days until their overseas adventure. Awaiting their arrival was the warm weather of southern Europe, a welcome change from the cool to frigid temperatures experienced in Ufa. 15-year-old dancer Sofia Fedotova hoped the Spanish sun and sea would ease the severe back pain that had recently forced her to miss many classes at school. For some of the children, this would be their first time travelling abroad. 14-year-old Dina Shkagimukimetov was looking forward to the flights, as he hoped to one day study aviation and become an astronaut. In his spare time, Dina constructed model airplanes out of plastic bottles and toothpaste tubes, using the batteries of old toys as makeshift engines. Prior to leaving for Spain, Dina wrote to friends expressing how thrilled he was to finally be taking to the skies.

The group of students, accompanied by four adult chaperones, departed Ufa Airport on Saturday, June 29, 2002. 90 minutes later, they landed in Russia's capital city of Moscow, where they boarded a shuttle bus to Domodadevo International Airport for their connecting flight to Spain. After arriving to Domodadevo Airport, the group soon realised the travel agency responsible for organising their trip had accidentally sent them to the wrong airport. Their flight was actually scheduled to depart from Cherimetevo International Airport, the two-hour drive to the opposite side of the city. Unable to make it there in time, the group missed the flight. Ufa-based Bashkirian Airlines was quick to come to the rescue of the stranded students, arranging an urgent charter flight. They elected one of their Tupolev 154 Ram series airliners for the flight, a medium-range, narrow-bodied passenger aircraft. Designated flight code BTC 2937, the charter was set to depart from Domodadevo Airport on the evening of Monday, July 1, arriving to Barcelona's El Prat International Airport on Spain's east coast less than five hours later.

As Bashkirian Airlines rushed to organise a crew for the impromptu flight, the students made the most of the delay. They spent Sunday, June 30 sightseeing in Moscow, visiting the colourful landmarks and monuments that defined the historical city and amassing a collection of photographs to show family and friends upon their return home in two weeks' time. 52-year-old Alexander Gross was at home preparing to lay a stone path through his garden when he received an urgent call from Bashkirian Airlines. They requested his presence at Domodadevo Airport to captain the unscheduled charter flight BTC 2937 to Spain. The seasoned captain had flown for many international airlines during his 30-year career, winning numerous awards for his aviation achievements and earning more than 12,000 credited flight hours across Asia, Africa and many parts of Europe. Yet Alexander didn't have much experience with the flight route to Spain or the Tupolev aircraft, therefore the charter presented him with the opportunity to further develop his skills. Alexander accepted the job and hastily prepared to leave for Moscow. His wife noticed he was unusually nervous that day, even struggling to do up his tire. Bashkirian Airlines classified Barcelona's El Prat Airport as an aerodrome in mountainous terrain. As such, pilots making their initial flights to this hazardous destination were required to do so under the supervision of an instructor.

For Alexander Gross, BTC 2937 would be his second time piloting a flight to Barcelona, meaning he was required to be accompanied by a qualified instructor to oversee and evaluate his performance. The task was handed to 40-year-old Oleg Grigoryev, the chief pilot of Bashkirian Airlines and to the deputy commander of the Tupolev aircraft squadrons. Oleg had years of experience piloting for international airlines all over the world, including Spain, and had recently been crowned Best Air Transport Employee. Due to his superiority, Oleg was effectively in charge of the cockpit, assuming the official role of piloting command, while Captain Alexander Gross was assigned piloting control. Oleg took the seat alongside the captain to conduct his assessments. Typically, this seat was reserved for Captain Gross's first officer, or co-pilot, 41-year-old Murat Ipkulov. But with Oleg Grigoryev in his chair, Murat was considered off-duty and had no official function during the flight. He would spend its duration seated directly behind his superiors, observing procedures.

It was a worthwhile experience for Murat, who was set to be promoted to captain in due time. Regarded as a level-headed professional pilot, Murat had recently received a thank-you letter from the commander of the Bashkirian Airlines Flight Department, acknowledging his flawless actions during complicated flight conditions. The three pilots were supported in the cockpit by a flight navigator and flight engineer. It was their job to ensure the plane remained on its designated flight path, whilst monitoring the aircraft's systems and rectifying any faults that may arise. Back in the aircraft's cabin, a team of six flight attendants oversaw the passengers. Due to the sudden and unscheduled nature of the flight, most of the aircraft's 166 seats would remain empty. Only seven other tickets were sold last minute to other travelers willing or needing to depart for Spain immediately, bringing the number of passengers on board the aircraft to 56. The Russian student group accounted for 49 of them.

With luggage secured in the cargo hold and personal belongings stowed in overhead compartments, passengers took their seats. Pre-flight preparations were completed, and air traffic control gave the aircraft clearance to initiate takeoff. The jet engines rumbled to life, and the plane was slowly taxied into position. By 8.48pm, the Tupolev began accelerating down the runway. Upon reaching the right airspeed, Captain Alexander Gross pulled back the control column, causing the nose of the plane to tilt upwards and onwards into the endless night sky. Bashkirian Airlines Flight BTC 2937 was officially underway. Earlier that afternoon, a cargo-stocked American Boeing 757 jet airliner was completing a standard intercontinental freight assignment. At the controls were pilots Paul Phillips and Brent Campioni.

The pair flew as a team for Deutsche Post Courier Company, DHL Worldwide Express. Flying was a major part of 47-year-old Paul Phillips' life. The British national joined DHL in 1989, clocking upwards of 11,900 in flight hours and earning the rank of captain. As one of the company's most senior pilots, Paul ran a professional cockpit, doing everything by the book. A colleague of Paul stated, As a pilot, if you picked up the plane from Paul and he said it was okay, you knew it was okay. He was meticulous, but he also made you enjoy your job. If you looked at the roster and saw you were flying with Paul, you knew you would have a good time.

Paul's co-pilot was 34-year-old Canadian, Brent Campioni, who joined DHL Squadron in 1999. Taking any opportunity to jump into the cockpit, Brent had a massed over 6,500 hours of piloting experience, including 18 months as an instructor. Passion and dedication for his chosen career was acknowledged in a letter of commendation from his employer, honouring Brent's outstanding piloting work. At 11.50am, Paul Phillips and Brent Campioni checked in at Bahrain Airport for a routine freight assignment to DHL's international base in Brussels, Belgium. A flight route the pair had taken many times before. At 1.30pm, they entered the cockpit of their Boeing aircraft, designated flight code DHX611. After departing from the Persian Gulf nation, the pair flew westerly for 5 hours and 40 minutes before landing for a scheduled stopover in the northern Italian town of Bergamo, where their aircraft was refuelled and its cargo unloaded and restocked. Having already completed at the longest leg of their trip, the remaining journey northward to Brussels would only take a further 90 minutes.

At 9.06pm, DHL flight DHX611 took to the skies once more, flown by first officer Brent Campioni. Shortly before 10pm, Bashkirian Airlines flight BTC2937 entered DHL cargo flight DHX611 collided over southern Germany, becoming the worst civilian aircraft disaster the country had ever seen. The catastrophic incident had claimed the lives of all 69 persons on board the Jubilev, including the 45 school students from Ufa and their four adult chaperones. The two pilots aboard the Boeing had also lost their lives. There were no survivors. The event would later come to be named after the closest major city to where the incident occurred, the 2002 Uberling and mid-air collision. DHL paid tribute to their two lost pilots, Paul Phillips and Brent Campioni. In a written statement penned by the company, Paul Phillips was remembered as a true gentleman without a vindictive bone in his body. His career led him to Bahrain International Airport, where he had a chance encounter with a woman selling raffle tickets named Amy.

Paul didn't win the raffle grand prize of a car, but did win the heart of Amy, who later became his wife and mother of their three children. When he wasn't in the air, Paul lived a leisurely life on the ground, tending to his vegetable garden or fishing in his boat. DHL's statement also commemorated the life of happy-go-lucky Brent Campioni, a sports fanatic passionate about tennis in particular. Devoted to life in the same way he was devoted to flying, Brent found amusement in the smallest of joys, from a good meal to little treasures he'd find on the beach. Next to his home was the dilapidated tennis court where Brent would verse players of higher skill level than his own, enthusiastically welcoming the challenge. His positive energy drew in others, including his wife, Deneen. A friend remarked, ever the optimist, the glass was always half full with Brent. Three days of official mourning were declared in Ulva, with flags flying at half-mast across the Russian city. At the Domestic Airport, a message of sympathy from Bashkirian Airlines was displayed alongside pictures of their deceased flight crew.

At the same time, tributes were pouring in for the 45 schoolchildren regarded as Ulva's best and brightest. Flowers covered their school desks as grieving teachers collected pictures, classwork and report cards lamenting the students' short but impactful lives. A photograph showed several of the female students dancing in pink satin dresses to mark World War II victory day. One deceased student's report card displayed rows of fires. Perfect results. Parents and families were united in grief as they came to terms with the tragic news. Many of them had presumed the children had arrived safely in Spain, only to learn of the disaster over the radio. They wept bitter tears over the ill-fated circumstances that led to their children onto the doomed airliner, culminating from their missed flight days prior. The mother of 11-year-old Bulat Biglov lamented to Russian media, if only they had flown on time. Nothing would have happened.

Just days before her trip to Spain, 12-year-old Alina Cananova purchased all her textbooks in anticipation of starting the seventh grade later that year. The books remained wrapped and unread on her shelf. Her mother told reporters, I don't feel like a mother anymore. I feel like I've lost my heart. The sister of 14-year-old Ilda Rasila Gulshin would never receive the souvenir teddy bear he had promised to bring her back from Spain. The music box given to 14-year-old Veronica Savchuk for her birthday held a few of her sentimental belongings, a cross, an old coin, and a small silver necklace. These items now cherished by her suffering family. Lalia Uraslina lost her two children in the disaster. Daughter Karina aged 16 and son Ruslan aged 15. The grieving mother asked, What do I have to live for now?

Alexander Savchuk also lost his two children, 13-year-old daughter Veronica and 12-year-old son Vladislav. In an even crueler twist, his wife, Irina, was one of the four adult chaperones who had volunteered to accompany the students to Spain. The disaster had claimed Alexander's entire family. Emergency visas were issued to the families of victims to allow prompt travel to Germany. They were asked to bring anything with them that would help identify their children's remains, including dental and medical records. Bashkirian Airlines ferried the relatives abroad in one of their Tupolev aircrafts, circumstances that bore chilling similarities to the doomed flight nights prior. Upon arriving to Germany, the relatives were transported to Alvingen, with many still holding onto the impossible hope that their children may have somehow survived. The father of 11-year-old Arta Kamatov stated, We still hoped that these children would run in, appear from somewhere, and probably every parent believed in some miracle.

Hope faded when the group reached the expansive and confronting crash site. Although the bodies of the victims had since been recovered and taken away, the wreckage still remained, painting a grim picture of what the passengers endured in their final moments. Dimitri caused several mourners to faint. Makeshift shrines made up of floral wreaths and candles were built around the debris, and flowers brought from gardens in Russia were planted throughout the German countryside. Some grieving relatives dug up handfuls of the earth and picked up stalks of corn from the surrounding crop fields as a somber keepsake of their children's temporary resting place. After a prayer service, an hour of silence commenced as mourners wandered through the devastation, burdened with the unanswered questions, how and why. One parent told the media, We have very many questions, and I think it's the duty of every parent to find out how it happened. Inquiries into the cause of the fatal crash were fronted by the German Federal Bureau of Aircraft Accidents Investigation.

They were assisted by representatives from both Russia and the United States, as the incident involved planes built in their respective countries. Initial considerations as to how such a rare catastrophe could occur centered around the presumption that one of the pilots must have somehow lost control mid-flight and directed their plane into the other. Post-mortem examinations of the Tupolev and Boeing crew members ruled each person's cause of death as a direct result of the collision. There were no indications that any suffered from pre-existing afflictions, physiological impairments, or psychological illnesses that may have contributed to the crash. Tests were conducted for the presence of alcohol, medication, or other drugs, but produced negative results in all cases. The possibility that exhaustion played a part was ruled out, as crew members had sufficient time to rest and relax prior to the flights. The German Meteorological Service reported the weather on the evening of July 1 was unremarkable, characterised by scattered cloud coverage with slight to moderate rain. Five other aircrafts flew above southern Germany that evening. Their crews reported seeing stars clearly, indicating visibility was good.

However, they recalled a lack of moonlight around the time of the collision. This detail was confirmed by German military geophysicists, whose astronomical data revealed that although night had fallen, the moon was in the waning phase below the horizon and had not yet risen. This meant the night sky was particularly dark, limiting visibility from the cockpit to less than 10km ahead. As enquiries continued in Germany, investigations were also underway in Russia, Italy and Switzerland, countries that doomed flights had traversed during July 1. At the time of the collision, both planes were under the observation of Swiss-based air navigation service provider called Skyguide, which was tasked with supervising airspace over Lake Constance. The multi-million dollar company operated from an area control centre located inside a tall, windowed tower on the grounds of Zurich International Airport in the country's northeast. Investigators spoke with the Skyguide staff on duty the night of July 1, who reported an unusual occurrence at around 9.30pm. An air traffic controller was observing a navigation radar screen featuring a basic grid-like display of Swiss airspace and its surrounds.

Small blips indicated aircraft positions in the sky, along with their flight number designation, altitude and approximate travelling speed. The controller noticed the blips of flights BTC 2937 and DHX 611 were rapidly approaching the same location over Lake Constance, both soaring at 36,000 feet. The controller presumed the situation was one of loss of separation, wherein aircrafts incidentally fly too close to one another. These aviation near misses are more common than most realise, but very rarely and in disaster. To remedy the loss of separation between flights BTC 2937 and DHX 611, the controller followed established procedures and radioed through to the Tupolev's cockpit, ordering Captain Alexander Gross to descend his aircraft by 1,000 feet. No radio communications were initiated by air traffic control to the Boeing aircraft. The only requirement to secure a safe passage of both flights was simply for one plane to move out of the way of the other. Strangely, there was no response from the Tupolev crew.

The controller repeated his demand, this time with more emphasis. Captain Alexander Gross's voice finally came through the radio, clarifying the order to descend, which the controller confirmed. The controller was under the impression the Tupolev crew had followed through with the descent and the crisis had been averted. It wasn't until the blips of flights BTC 2937 and DHX 611 suddenly disappeared from navigation radar screens that Skyguide staff realised something wasn't right. Attempts to re-establish radio communications with the Tupolev cockpit crew were met with silence. Skyguide officials could offer no explanation as to why the two planes had collided. According to the company, the Tupolev was ordered to descend about two minutes before the crash, giving the airliner ample time to safely move out of the Boeing's flight path. A representative from Skyguide informed the media, quote,

The problem was that the Russian plane did not immediately respond for reasons that aren't entirely clear. These comments led to speculation as to whether the Tupolev crew's initial inaction was to blame for the tragedy and whether it was intentional or not. Bashkirian Airlines were quick to come to the defence of their crew, insisting all staff on board were highly qualified and experienced. In the Russian Federation, flight crews are awarded performance classes based on their qualifications and flight skill. There are four in total, class one being the highest. All the Tupolev crew members were class one. Furthermore, Captain Alexander Gross was experienced in navigating difficult flight conditions that required last minute manoeuvres. During one particularly problematic flight to Budapest, unpredictable weather had him descending onto an airstrip that had been flooded by an overflowing river. He successfully brought the plane down safely, receiving applause from his relieved and grateful passengers.

The seasoned captain was known to abide by a single rule when flying. He refused to relax, as there were 150 people behind his back depending on him. Nevertheless, Alexander's immediate inaction prior to the uberling and mid-air collision raised many questions. The theory that the Russian crew was at fault gained momentum, with rumours spreading that they may not have fully understood the English commands given by Skyguides air traffic controller, despite it being the de facto international language of civil aviation. Wanting to dispel the accusations directed towards her husband, Alexander's widow came forward to present a certificate he had been issued years prior, acknowledging his extensive knowledge and understanding of English flight language. Blame and criticism were further spotlighted on Russia, when aviation officials labelled Tupolev aircrafts as careless. Boeing airliners had made its name as one of the most reliable aircrafts, with a generally good safety record. However, Russia's ageing domestic workhorse the Tupolev had a checkered history.

Although a popular aircraft, it had been involved in about 30 air disasters since its inception. Months prior to the uberling and mid-air collision, a Tupolev exploded in mid-air and crashed into the Black Sea, killing 78 passengers and crew. Months before that, a Tupolev crashed in Siberia, killing 143 people on board. Additional crashes in China, Namibia and the United Arab Emirates claimed the lives of a further 300 people. Experts blamed poor maintenance, safety violations and cost cutting for the high accident rate. Yet, record showed the Tupolev involved in the uberling and mid-air collision had received a technical inspection on June 28, 2002, just two days before the fatal crash. The plane was determined to be in fine working order with no technical defects and received authorization to fly. Similar inspections were carried out on the Boeing, the last occurring just over two months prior to the crash.

It too was given the all-clear. The head of Bashkirian Airlines stressed the Tupolev met all requirements set by the International Civil Aviation Organization and dissipated accusations mounting against the Russian crew. He insisted to reporters. There were no reasons to say that the pilots didn't handle the plane properly. Switzerland's President, Kaspar Villiger, was scheduled to attend a public memorial service held in Ulfa to honor the victims of the crash. However, he was forced to cancel plans when Russian authorities were unable to guarantee his safety. Emotions were running high in proud and nationalistic Russia. Local anger was directed towards the Swiss, who had failed to send condolences immediately following the crash. In another perceived transgression, Swiss officials and media had defied ethical standards by immediately placing the blame on the Russian pilots and aircraft, despite the ongoing investigation having drawn no such conclusions.

Hundreds of Russian citizens greeted the coffins carrying the remains of the 45 schoolchildren upon their arrival to Ulfa Airport. They were taken to Gostini Dvor Square for a public memorial, the usually vibrant plaza serving as a gathering spot for the heartbroken community to come together and grieve. The German Deputy Foreign Minister attended the service and told the crowd, We will never forget our compatriots, German people crying together with Russians at the side of a charred wheat field. He promised to erect a memorial at the crash site to serve as an eternal remembrance. After the service, the coffins were placed on the buses and taken to a cemetery in southern Ulfa. Portraits of each student were displayed in the windows as mourners framed the procession route, tossing flowers onto the road as the vehicles approached. The students were buried together, their headstones placed in rows resembling their seating pattern on flight BTC 2937.

The local government organized a special fund of 28 million rubles for the families of the victims, but it came with the understanding that no amount of money could compensate for the immense loss. Condolences were offered on behalf of Russia's President Vladimir Putin, who said, And they left us as angels for heaven. Ongoing searches of the extensive crash site resulted in the discovery of two distinct red-coloured devices, the flight recorders of both aircraft, informally known as the black boxes. Engineered to withstand conditions arising from aircraft destruction, they facilitate the investigation of aviation accidents. They consist of a single unit made up of two individual devices. One is the flight data recorder, which preserves the recent history of the flight's internal electronic systems, including control inputs and engine information. The other is the cockpit voice recorder, which records the audio environment within, including conversations between crew members.

As experts began the intricate process of retrieving the data stored on the flight reporters, key pieces of the Tupolev and Boeing were transported to a specialized storage hangar for further examination. Efforts to determine how the collision transpired by reconstructing the aircrafts were hampered by the sheer state of their destruction, with many vital parts having been completely destroyed and never recovered. Nevertheless, the wreckage coupled with the flight recorder data would provide an invaluable resource in understanding how the rare catastrophe transpired. On the fifth day of the investigation, examiners collated the information gathered from the wreckage with the data from the flight recorders and presented their findings, revealing the sequence of events that led to the Uberlingen mid-air collision on July 1, 2002. Following their intermediate landing in Italy, DHL cargo flight DHX 611 was travelling north towards Belgium. At 9.21pm, the plane was flying over the snow-capped Alpine region of southern Switzerland when Captain Paul Phillips initiated radio communications with air traffic control, requesting clearance to climb to a higher altitude, as the thinner air above provided less resistance and preserved fuel. He specifically requested to rise to 36,000 feet. By this point, the Boeing was in Skyguide's jurisdiction, and Captain Phillips' radio message reached the company's Zurich-based air control centre, where his request was granted.

15 minutes later, First Officer Brandt Campione left his seat to attend the lavatory installed in a cubicle at the rear of the cockpit, leaving Paul Phillips alone at the controls. 14 seconds later, an alarm began emanating from the control panel. It was accompanied by a monotone, automated voice repeating the words, traffic, traffic. The automated voice arose from the aircraft's inbuilt traffic collision avoidance system. Informally referred to as TCAS, the relatively new technology listened in on the constant stream of radio signals radiating from commercial aircrafts and calculated whether any were on a collision course. If they were, the system would issue a warning, and if necessary, inform pilots of what action to take to avoid one another. When the TCAS issued this course of action, known as a resolution advisory, the pilot had been trained to respond immediately, and manoeuvre is indicated, unless they knew doing so would jeopardise the safe operation of the flight. Both the Tupolev and the Boeing had TCAS installed. Experts understood that had the system worked as it was designed to, the Uberling and mid-air collision should never had occurred. This raised the possibility that it might have malfunctioned, or issued an error.

14 seconds after, Captain Paul Phillips was alerted by TCAS of nearby traffic. The system issued a resolution advisory. The automated voice directed the pilot to descend, descend. Remaining calm, Captain Phillips pushed the control column forwards, tilting the plane downwards as per instruction. The TCAS then advised, increase descent, increase descent. At this point, Brent Campioni had returned from the lavatory and resumed his position at the controls. Upon hearing the TCAS alert, Brent told the captain to increase, and the Boeing's rate of descent was escalated. The pair were unable to make visual contact of any nearby aircraft due to the sheer darkness beyond the windshield. Captain Phillips attempted to establish radio communications with Swiss air traffic control to determine who or what was in their proximity, but his messages weren't unanswered. Several kilometres away, Bashkirian Airlines flight BTC 2937 was soaring towards the Germany-Switzerland border at a cruising altitude of 36,000 feet. As the Tupolev approached airspace over Lake Constance, its TCAS issued an alert warning that another aircraft was within close proximity.

Seven seconds later, the crew received radio communications from Zurich based air traffic control, ordering them to descend due to crossing traffic. The message prompted discussions between the crew members as they observed the night sky for the other aircraft. Although no one verbally responded to the controller, lingering accusations that Captain Alexander Gross did not understand to the commands given to him in English were dispelled, as instrument data indicated he followed through with the descent. Suddenly, TCAS generated a resolution advisory, commanding the pilot to instead... Climb. Climb. Off-duty First Officer Murat Idkulov acknowledged the TCAS, telling the others it says climb. His unease was brushed aside by Oleg Grigoryev, the most senior member of the crew and to the pilot in command.

Oleg indicated they should follow instructions provided by the air traffic controller, saying, he is guiding us down. Murat disagreed, certain they should adhere to TCAS and descend. Debate erupted in the cockpit between crew members as they disputed what course of action to take. The confusion prompted Captain Gross to halt the descent. But then, air traffic control radioed through a second message, repeating their order to expedite the descent. Captain Gross tentatively recited the order back to the controller, who quickly replied, Yes, we have traffic at your two o'clock. With this confirmation, Captain Gross committed to the descent.

The Tupolev crew nervously observed the night sky in the two o'clock direction, waiting to spot the approaching aircraft. Oleg Grigoryev asked frantically, Where is it? The panicked voice of Murat Kulov responded, Here, on the left side. The inbound aircraft was not in the two o'clock position as advised by air traffic control, but on the opposite side of the Tupolev, in the ten o'clock position. The Tupolev's flight navigator explained, It's going to pass beneath us, as TCAS issued another resolution advisory, Instructing the pilot to, Increase climb, Increase climb. It was too late.

The Tupolev was in steep descent above the Boeing, where pilots Brant Campioni and Captain Paul Phillips were obeying the orders of their TCAS. Suddenly, the pair caught sight of the Tupolev right above them, causing Brant to remark in shock, Traffic, right there. He desperately ordered Captain Phillips to, Descend hard. There was insufficient time for either aircraft to maneuver out of the other's way, And at 9.35pm, they collided in the airspace over southern Germany. The Boeing flew underneath the Tupolev, its rear vertical tail clipped the left wing of the passenger airliner, Before slicing through its fuselage and severing it in half.

An explosive decompression expelled all oxygen within the cabin, rendering all those on board unconscious within seconds. The airliner continued to break up in midair, raining pieces of fractured metal onto the town of Wolvingen below. The impact sheared 80% of the Boeing's vertical tail, leaving nothing more than a stump and causing the aircraft to become aerodynamically unstable. Rolling about its longitudinal axis, the Boeing then lost use of the engines due to the higher lateral forces. Unable to control their aircraft, Paul Phillips and Brant Campioni endured an agonizing 3 minute descent as their plane plummeted to Earth. The findings clarified that neither the aircraft crews nor a faulty traffic collision avoidance system were responsible for the collision. The T-Cass had worked just as it was designed to. Upon calculating the flight's DHX-611 and BTC-2937 were on a collision course, the system issued prompt resolutions to rectify the problem,

Ordering the Boeing to descend and the Tupolev to climb. Had the crews followed these instructions, the collision would have been avoided. However, Skyguide air traffic control issued the Tupolev crew with conflicting orders, instructing them to descend instead and subsequently bringing the passenger plane down on top of the Boeing. Skyguide staff had initially informed investigators that orders were given to the Tupolev two minutes before the collision. This statement was deemed false when transcripts of radio communications between the Tupolev and Skyguide revealed the first radioed order was given a mere 43 seconds before impact, An insufficient time frame for them to adjust their altitude for safe passage. Still, this didn't answer the pressing question as to why the air traffic controller provided the Tupolev crew with misguided or miscalculated instructions. Investigations narrowed in on the air traffic controller who gave the fatal directions.

The controller's 10-year career history was scrupulously studied, only to reveal a worker considered by workmates and supervisors as competent and knowledgeable, with a professional and cooperative attitude. Nothing in his records indicated deficiencies in his skill or experience. However, in May of 2001, a year before the Uberlingen mid-air collision, the controller was involved in a similar loss of separation incident. No one was harmed in that instance, but a subsequent investigation attributed the incident in part to the controller's error in judgement in evaluating the space required to safely conduct an altitude crossing manoeuvre. Following this, Skyguide conducted a 30-minute debrief with the controller, but the contents of this session were not documented and didn't lead the company to form any serious concerns about the controller's ability. It was considered an isolated incident in an otherwise unblemished career. On the morning following the Uberlingen mid-air collision, investigators collected blood and urine samples from the Skyguide staff who were on duty the night prior, including the controller in question. Subsequent testing of these samples for drugs, alcohol and medication produced negative results, confirming the controller was not under the influence of any substance that may have impacted their capability on the night of July 1.

The actions of the air traffic controller were released to the media, who labelled him a mass murderer. For his own safety, his name and identity were never released to the public. Hate Mail flooded Skyguide's corporate offices as the company refused to offer an explanation or apology for the crash. Swiss authorities opened an investigation to determine whether the controller was indeed responsible and whether there was enough evidence to charge him with 71 cases of negligent manslaughter. During an interview with German press shortly after the disaster, the controller admitted to his role in the catastrophe, explaining, quote, On the night of the accident, I was part of a network of people, computers, monitoring into transmission devices and regulations. All these parts must work together seamlessly and without error, and they must be synchronised. As an air traffic controller, it is my task and duty to prevent such accidents.

So many children lost their lives, and so many hopes for the future were erased. When these comments went to print, the air traffic controller was referred to simply as Peter Renn. Although the job of a pilot is to get airline cargo or passengers to their destination, it is the work conducted by air traffic controllers that ensures the planes arrive safely. Their role is to monitor airspace from control towers on the ground, observing radar screens whilst providing direction and assistance to pilots via radio for the safe, efficient and orderly flow of air traffic. As such, air traffic control is regarded as one of the most mentally challenging and stressful professions, involving real-time decision-making based on changing flight plans, unexpected weather conditions, unscheduled traffic and emergency situations. For the most part, it is the often unrecognised work performed by air traffic controllers that makes flying such a low-risk endeavour and one of the safest modes of transportation. Each controller is carefully selected, highly trained and rigorously tested before being granted with a licence to conduct air traffic navigation. In March 1994, Peter Nielsen successfully completed his training to become an air traffic controller and was granted his licence by the Norwegian Civil Aviation Administration.

Peter worked within his home country of Denmark until 1995, before moving to Switzerland with his wife, Metta. They settled in the leafy suburb of Kloten about 10km north of Zurich, where they raised three children. Metta's 13-year-old teenage son and the couple's younger children aged 4 and 2. The Nielsen's home suburb overlooked Zurich International Airport, where Peter began working for Skyguide in their area control centre. By mid-2002, 36-year-old Peter Nielsen was highly competent in aviation management, with nearly 10 years of experience under his belt. It was a challenging and stressful career, but Peter channelled the pressure he faced at work into recreational fitness. He loved to run and swim, but his favourite sport was ice hockey. Every Wednesday, Peter would meet with a group of his work colleagues who had formed their own ice hockey team, and together they'd blow off steam by skating around the rink. In the early hours of July 1, 2002, Peter Nielsen arrived to work and settled in for a quiet night.

By day, the centralised airspace over Switzerland was one of the busiest crossroads in Europe. Yet the late hours saw a dramatic reduction in the number of inbound and outbound flights, with only a few aircrafts moving through the sky at any given time. This reduction was due in part to an imposed curfew that forced the Zurich airport to close their runways to wind coming or outgoing flights overnight. Later that evening, when news reached Skyguides Area Control Centre that two commercial airliners had collided in mid-air within their jurisdiction, staff were left shocked. They were even more surprised to learn the accident occurred whilst the flights were being monitored by seasoned and well-regarded air traffic controller Peter Nielsen. When Peter learned he was under a criminal investigation in relation to the crash, he suffered a mental breakdown that required hospitalisation and psychiatric treatment. He claimed that due to the immense trauma he had suffered over the incident, he couldn't remember anything about the moments leading up to the catastrophe. Investigations into his conduct continued for months, as authorities carefully pieced together what evidence they could to determine the extent of Peter Nielsen's culpability.

A year after the Uberling and mid-air collision, investigations were still underway to determine Peter Nielsen's role in the crash. His mental state had since improved, and after taking months off for treatment, he finally returned to work. He had since retired from his air traffic controller position and had taken up an office job at Skyguides Corporate Office, where he was involved in the development of air traffic projects. A vase containing a single white rose was on display at his former workstation in the area control centre, as a show of support from his old colleagues. Tuesday, February 24, 2004 marked one year and eight months since the Uberling and collision. It was approaching 5.45pm in the Swiss town of Clotun and getting dark outside, as the remnants of recently fallen snow slowly melted away. Peter was at home in his street level two-story pink washed suburban flat with his wife Metta and their young children. Peter and Metta were lying on the sofa together watching television.

Needing to do some lining, Metta prepared to stand, but Peter urged her to stay put and enjoy the coziness. Eventually, Metta dragged herself away to do housework. At 5.51pm, Peter looked outside and noticed an unfamiliar man sitting alone on a garden seat on their front terrace. The stranger was unshaven, appeared to be aged in his 40s or 50s with a burly physique and dark hair with grey streaks. He was dressed in black with a long coat, holding a brown envelope. Peter told Metta of the man outside before making his way to the patio to greet him. As he headed out, Peter's youngest daughter ran towards him, but he shut the door behind him, causing the two-year-old to burst into tears. Metta led her daughter further into the house to comfort her.

The voices of her husband and the man were barely audible from inside the house, but Metta could hear the stranger speaking in broken German with an Eastern European accent. A minute later, she heard him shout, I am Russia. A scream then erupted from Peter. Metta heard her husband yell, Don't kill me. Telling her children to stay put, Metta raced outside and found Peter lying on the terrace, covered in blood. He looked up at her and pleaded, call an ambulance. The dishevelled older man stood over him, a long knife in his hand, to be continued next week. To be continued...