Hijacking of Flight 100: Terror at 600 miles per hour

by C. J. Stott

  The next morning she presented him with the tape saying, “When we are apart, lover, listen to this tape. Listen to how good you were, how good we are and then think of us being together.” Her lilting Norwegian accent seemed much stronger as she dominated the conversation.

  During the past three weeks, Don had listened to the tape many times. He listened to it in his car, on his Walkman when he walked in the morning, and on his stereo at home when Ruth was gone. The effect of hearing them making love was profound. He was consumed, seeking various ways to get the airline to schedule him on a flight to New York.

  Reflectively, Don thought that he had not seen Kathryn for over a month. On his last trip to New York, she had been on a Pan Am flight to Rio. When he found she was on that flight, his mood vacillated between anger, frustration and deep disappointment. Kathryn had him under her influence. She appeared to be ambivalent about the obvious fact he was married.

  Suddenly, a blinding, vivid recollection forced itself on him as he pulled into the airport parking lot. The vision was of the hijacker in this morning’s dream. His involuntary response came from the subconscious. Loudly and spontaneously he said with anger, “No. No. Not today. You son of a bitch.”

  His own voice startled him, “You’ll never get away with this on my flight.” He remained surprised he had spoken aloud.

  As quickly as these thoughts had erupted, they eroded and were put aside. Replaced with the sense that nothing else mattered except seeing her.

  Chapter 03

  06:15 Pacific Standard Time

  San Jose, California

  Guillermo Villas Guerrero had been awake most of the night. It was nearly morning. He lay on his side in a fetal position. His attempts at sleep had been largely unsuccessful. He was angry at being forced to sleep in this too small, hand-me-down bed. Throughout the night he had accomplished nothing other than constant tossing and turning. Now, he felt cold in the early hours of the morning.

  At least twice during the night he thought he was going to be sick. His stomach continued its rebellion against the overindulgence in his cousin’s wife’s Cuban cena, the evening meal of black beans, rice and sausage swimming in thick grease and spices. He had washed the meal down with three or four cans of a cheap Mexican beer.

  After dinner, he had gone out in their barren back yard and smoked the last of his good Acapulco Gold.

  Now, in the early morning light, he lay in the narrow twin bed while his mind raced with thoughts of the things that probably would, or could, go wrong today.

  One moment, he felt the hijacking was going to be a snap, a piece of cake. The next moment he was terrified with recurring and rampant visions of failure.

  The result of his dreamed failure was always the same. He would fail. He would be caught. He would go back to prison for a very long time, prisión durante muy largo tiempo.

  Over the past days, his chronic thoughts of apprehension always ended with him being captured. Sometimes in these vignettes, he would be shot. Other times, he died. The ultimate however, was when he was captured and then sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

  Reluctantly, for reasons he did not understand, there was no turning back. His brothers were depending on him. If he quit now, he would be seen as a coward, a sustantivo.

  “Today was the day,” he thought, “Hoy era el día.” Recently, he had caught himself saying those words and that phrase many times over.

  He knew that in his past, he never had succeeded at anything. He failed every time. As much as he wanted to convince himself otherwise, deep inside, he knew that today would probably be just another example of his exceptional ability to fail.

  He tried to take comfort and convince himself that their plan, “The Plan” or “El Plan” would work flawlessly. But nagging fears of failure continued to trickle into his consciousness and erode his already low sense of confidence.

  Failure was perhaps the one thing Guillermo Guerrero y Villas did best. From long experience in hard learned lessons from life, he believed that those who were failures were also losers.

  Failures equaled losers and losers were fools. In his mind, being seen as a fool was unacceptable. Most people he knew, with the exception of his brothers, were fools or weaklings.

  In prison, he thought most of the inmates were losers. This was especially how he felt about the effeminate ones - the Maricóns, the fags.

  Several times while in prison, he had been the target of rough physical sexual raids during exercise periods in the yard. He had not been able to defend himself because so many inmates ganged up on him. In those moments, he could only go along with his captor’s wishes. He hated himself for being so weak. He was still fearful and very angry about those frightening, and sometimes, sickening advances.

  When he left prison he carried only one remembrance, his rampant and undeniable feelings of hatred and contempt toward males who demonstrated any sexual attraction toward him.

  Before going to California State Prison, he liked his name, Guillermo. But the inmates made fun of him and his Latin name. Immediately after his release, a lingering aftereffect from his prison experience was that he decided to change his name and thus his identity.

  He tried William. That was the closest to Guillermo. But each time he heard the name William, it reminded him of Guillermo. That always reminded him of prison. Which reminded him of terror and abuse. The name Billy was no good. To him, it was the name for a sissy.

  Finally, he chose the Americanized name of Bill. He liked the connotation the name Bill brought to mind. He thought it was very strong, masculine and, most important, powerful. He could think of no losers or weaklings named Bill.

  Chapter 04

  06:30 Pacific Standard Time

  San Jose, California

  After serving only ten months of his twenty-four month sentence, the Superior Court of Santa Clara County mandated the Department of Corrections to place him in one of many halfway houses in and near San Jose. Guillermo believed he was being “processed” out because of his perceived innocence. In fact, he and most others were released to halfway houses solely because of overcrowding in this prison, which the California courts had deemed as being excessive punishment.

  His parole officer had been successful in finding him a job as a food handler’s helper with Marriott Airline Catering at the San Jose airport. After two weeks, he was laid off but was eligible for a transfer to Marriott’s catering facility at San Francisco International Airport. Parole carried many conditions, any one of which, if violated, would result in his immediate return to a California Department of Corrections medium security facility.

  Consistent with his history, he had recently been evicted from his boarding house. Though he could not accept blame for his eviction, it was clearly his fault. In less than two months, he had fallen behind in his rent.

  His cousin Frank Medina offered him a place to stay, telling his wife and family, “Bill is welcome as long as need be.”

  Maria, his cousin’s wife, did not share her husband’s me casa, su casa attitude of traditional Latin hospitality. She genuinely did not like Guillermo. His being there ruined their already strained household food budget. This, combined with the close quarters in their overcrowded three bedroom, one bath bungalow, only made the situation worse.

  He paid no rent. On one or two occasions, he did give money for groceries.

  Bill wished he had more privacy. He wanted to be able to bring local young Mexican women back to his “place” for the evening. This was impossible because he was forced to share the smallest bedroom with his nine-year-old cousin. The tension between Bill and Maria grew daily.

  Finally, in an attempt to placate Maria, he offered to babysit for them while they went out. Unfortunately, when they returned from a Spanish language movie, they found Bill unconscious on the floor, probably from an overdose of drugs, or alcohol, or both.

  During the last two months, Maria Medina made it clear to her husband that Bill Guer
rero was not welcome in their house. Traditionally, the husband made those decisions. But, in this case, Maria was very good at “encouraging” her husband to do as she wished.

  Bill overheard their arguments and offered his opinion. “This place is no palace either, you know. All these damn little kids running everywhere. I can’t, like, even leave my things out, because they disappear.”

  These statements did little to relieve tension in the Medina household. Maria held her ground and then gradually stepped up her campaign to evict Bill.

  Chapter 05

  06:45 Pacific Standard Time

  San Jose, California

  Frank Medina later told Federal Bureau of Investigation that during this time when Maria was openly campaigning to evict his younger cousin, Bill had called his brother Juan Guerrero in Miami.

  Though Frank could only hear one side of the conversation, his recollection was clear and positive, “Yo, Juan. This is Guill.

  “In ‘Frisco...Yeah. Well no. I had a job at Marriott in San Jose, but I got transferred to San Francisco.”

  He waited, then said, “Then, like, I don’t know what, man. I get fired again. Yeah, well they, like, had a sweep of the employees’ lockers. Right on, Bro...They found my stash of Acapulco Gold in my locker.”

  His voice became more agitated, “Wait. Then, get this. My puta landlady threw me out, couldn’t pay my rent.” Another pause, “No, No...No way man, I don’t want no money.”

  He paused, then said, “I just want to come back to Miami, and look for a job. Or something.

  “This Frisco sucks. It’s too cold and damp.” He was becoming angry, “Maria’s giving me a hard time about moving out. She really wants me out of here.”

  After a few seconds, “How about coming back to Miami?” His face lit up.

  “Yeah. Right, that sounds OK, man.”

  Frank sensed Juan had been trying to talk Bill into something, “Well, Frank, here, he scored some airline tickets.

  “Yeah. Well, of course, they’re blank.”

  “He says I can fill them in for like wherever I want to go.”

  He looked questioningly at Frank, “Right?” Frank nodded in agreement.

  Guillermo continued, “So, can I, like, come back to Miami?”

  A long pause followed. “Look, Juan, I don’t want no trouble. I already got a little conviction record out here. You know I’m out on parole.”

  There was a long pause while he listened, then said, “You know that. I don’t want to get, like, busted or nothin’ stupid like that.”

  Frank said Bill again listened for a long time but said nothing while Juan talked.

  Finally Bill said, “Hey, Senorito, that would be great. Where the hell would I get the airplane to hijack and where would I hijack it to?” He waited. Then he said, “That’s brilliant, you dumb burro.”

  In disgust Bill tossed the telephone onto the couch. In a resigned act of finality, he picked it up. “Well just ‘cause he went to a few night classes about being an airplane mechanic, don’t mean I know anythin’ about hijacking no fuckin’ airplane.”

  Another pause, then Bill covered the phone and said to Frank, “He must be crazy. He wants me to hijack a plane to Cuba. Franco, my brother has lost it.”

  Bill’s tone was angry as he spoke to Juan, “Wait a minute.

  “Hold on, man… Let me get this straight, you want me to just think about hijacking a plane to Havana.”

  He paused, and then said, “Well, I’ve thought about it. And you are fucking loco man.”

  Bill snorted and said, “Hey, Juan, d’you know what those crazy Cuban Guardia Civilia guards would do to me? A Cuban who left not exactly legally?

  “Just think about it, if I like, came back to Cuba in a hijacked jet. Think about what they would do to me.

  “Well that’s great for you to say, Juan. You sit there in Miami and watch me to go to Havana. You don’t got no risk. All you do is sit back and collect the bread. I take all the risk and I go to jail.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea at all. I think the whole thing is basura, it’s garbage. It stinks.”

  Bill paused while Juan said something and then went on, “Right man, when you get the details worked out, like how I can get the hijacking done and not go to jail, you call me.”

  Finally, Bill shook his head sadly and ended the conversation with, “Yeah, man. You do that. You let me know.”

  After his phone conversation, Bill confided to his cousin that he thought Juan was loco en la cabeza, crazy in the head.

  However, the seed of a plan had been set and started to germinate. Juan Guerrero thought of ways to accomplish what he needed. He knew his brother was perfect for this job. If enough money were offered, Little Guillermo was always there to pick up his share.

  Juan also knew there were two parts to the plan. First, keep Bill interested. Keep him on the hook. Then second, figure a way to make the plan so attractive that Bill would beg for a chance to join in.

  More than three weeks had elapsed since the first call from Juan to his brother Bill. There had been many conversations that contained offers and counter offers between Juan and Bill, all in an attempt to build their plan. Juan saved the last bit of motivation until last Saturday.

  “Guillermo, I have some great news. Joaquin is going to help us hijack a plane.” Bill was stunned, but doubtful.

  “Right on. I talked to him last night.”

  “When? Where?”

  A short pause, Juan said, “In Havana. He is with us.”

  The brothers had been close when they lived as a family in Cuba. Joaquin was the oldest. Then came half-brothers Juan and finally, little Guillermo. All three had grown up in Zaragoza, in the hills southeast of Havana. Early after the revolution, their father, Ernesto Villas, found a way to escape to Miami, leaving his wife and their sisters in Zaragoza.

  It was their homeland that Bill missed. He missed his older sisters and his mother. He would never admit to anyone that he missed his brothers. However, when Juan said Joaquin was going to help, Bill found it hard to refuse. Slowly but reluctantly, Bill agreed to consider joining them in their plan, “The Plan.”

  Chapter 06

  06:45 Pacific Standard Time

  San Jose, California

  Slowly, Bill half-climbed and half-rolled out of his narrow bed. The stale stench that came from him and his bed overwhelmed him. He was naked except for his stained boxer shorts.

  He staggered as he tried to steer himself into the pink tiled bathroom. He bent over the cracked porcelain tub. The cascading motion and roaring sound of the shower resulted in waves of nausea. Robotically, he stepped into the lukewarm shower. He still suffered from an overpowering hangover.

  As he had done many times before, he vowed once again he would stop the abuse. “No more man. I’m like completely messed up my head.”

  That raw thought again crossed his mind and a chill went through him. “Today’s the big day. Hoy es el gran día.”

  “I have to be cool today. I can’t be puking, feeling like shit.”

  The nausea returned.

  “If Juan and me can make this plan work, I might only be in jail in Cuba for a few days.” He had never accurately considered how the brutal Policía Federal Cubano notoriously treated captured criminals who had taken an airplane hostage to Cuba. He didn’t understand that most, if not all, hijackers simply were absorbed into the Cuban criminal justice system. Nor did he understand there are over one-hundred-thousand prisoners in many jails in Cuba—prisoners who are essentially without identity, name or representation; effectively serving a life sentence for a variety of misdemeanor or felony offenses.

  Delusionally, he stopped and considered, “Two weeks at the most. After that there would be plenty of time for drugs, women and booze when I get back to Miami.”

  He finished soaping his chest and legs and then slowly rubbed himself with his soapy hand. He did not finish the task. He felt anyone who had to resort to playing with himsel
f was not a man, but a little boy, un enclenque.

  Bill rinsed with barely warm water, while the moldy shower curtain continued to cling to him.

  He resented the abrupt coldness of the floor that chilled him when he stepped onto the tiles. Water dripped on the floor and left footprints from the tub to the toilet then toward the sink.

  He took the only towel in the bathroom and rubbed his back and buttocks. He felt the dampness from the last user. He wiped his face with the towel and could smell the sour and damp odor of mildew.

  He dried off and unsuccessfully attempted to wrap the towel around himself. The towel would not stay in place. In a tug of anger, he threw the towel back in the corner between the toilet and wall.

  Bill stared at himself in the condensation-covered mirror and saw an undistinguished Latino in his twenties. This morning, he thought he looked like he was in his forties. His thin, acne-scared face was framed by long wet black hair. The saddest and most predominant elements of his face were his dark and deeply sunken eyes that rested in fleshy pads of discolored and swollen skin. His stare lingered on the mirror for a moment, “Jesus de Cristo, I look like shit.”

  He plunged his hands into the hot water. Maybe it was the hangover, or more probably, from minimal damage to his synapses from his chronic drug abuse. He felt no heat, nor the sharp pain from the hot water. When he finally reacted and jerked his hands from the hot water, he scraped the skin on the back of both hands on the tap. That injury also did not immediately register.

  Bill could not think clearly; he could only react to external stimulus and events. The scalded skin, the contusions and the panic he felt about today’s events somehow caused him to decide shaving was not important.