by C. J. Stott
He recently had seen a Middle East leader on television with a checkered scarf on his head and remembered the old man needed a shave. He thought growing a beard might be a further example of his maleness and strong character. He convinced himself that he was going to be a hero.
“Yes. Today. Today, I will become a rich and powerful hero.” He knew the newspapers, radio and the television stations in San Francisco and in Cuba would picture him as a successful man.
He retraced his steps to his nephew’s bedroom. A cheap plastic Crucifix stared at him from the wall above the mirror on the dresser.
He had never before noticed the cross.
Pleadingly, he said, “Maybe Mary, Madre de Jesus, will look after me today.” Old religious instructions from his childhood surfaced as he involuntarily and mechanically made the sign of the cross.
Chapter 07
07:00 Pacific Standard Time
San Jose, California
Seated on the edge of the bed, he felt only slightly better. The nausea and dizziness had diminished. If he didn’t move too quickly, he could tolerate it.
He got up slowly and opened the dresser drawer. There were only a few clothes to choose from. He pulled out two pair of under shorts, a red T-shirt, his long sleeve shiny black polyester shirt and a thin pair of black nylon socks. Then he opened the dirty clothes bag and pulled out his faded tan cotton chino pants. From under the bed he retrieved his new black work shoes that smelled of grease from the Marriott kitchens.
He looked briefly at his reflection in the dresser mirror and another wave of fear and sadness came over him again. He sadly realized, “This is the last time I’ll be in California. I hope to hell everything works out OK.”
He finished dressing and checked himself in the mirror for the last time.
One of the few things he needed to take was the old black Nike gym bag on the shelf in the back of the closet. He pulled the bag down and tossed it on the bed. Clouds of dust rose up. With no real consideration given to his needs, he quickly stuffed his belongings into the bag. To this meager pile, he added the pistol, two Valium tablets wrapped in a plastic baggie, six 9mm bullets, and less than twenty dollars.
He was very apprehensive about using a gun that looked like it was made from a dull grainy plastic. Again he was surprised at how little the gun weighed. At first he thought it might be a toy. The first time he pulled the trigger, he broke out in a sweat when the brittle metallic sound of the firing pin struck a spent shell casing. The hard click loudly reinforced that this was all very real.
He remembered the judge at his trial saying his sentence was lighter than usual because Bill had not used a gun in the attempted robbery. Bill’s parole officer also made it clear that should he ever be caught with a gun, that fact alone would violate his parole. Bill knew a violation of his parole would result in a return bus ride back to prison.
In an attempt to settle his concerns, Juan carefully explained how to sneak the gun and ammunition past any security checkpoint at the airport. According to Juan, the gun would not be detected by the notoriously inaccurate airport X-Ray machines. As a test, Juan had sent the ammunition through airport security in Miami where he worked for Eastern Airlines. On a different day, he sent the graphite 9 mm pistol through a security checkpoint at American Airlines. Both attempts were successful.
Braced with this success, Juan wrapped the composite plastic handgun in several rags, put the bundle in an old purse and sent the package down the security conveyor belt. The antiquated X-Ray equipment detected nothing. No alarm or other type of a warning.
The seedy Lebanese who had sold Juan the graphite pistol had been correct. The plastic pistol was not particularly accurate. It was lightweight, cheap, and most important, promised to be invisible to X-ray. Juan paid $200 for the pistol and $25 more for a handful of 9 mm ammunition.
After the test, Juan sent the pistol and ammunition to Bill. He had convinced his brother if the Post Office did not discover the gun, the airport security people wouldn’t either. Bill had not been impressed. He was still terrified about being caught at the airport and going back to jail.
The postal service never suspected anything and the package containing the gun and ammunition had been delivered without a problem.
Bill carefully followed Juan’s instructions after he made sure the gun was unloaded.
He remembered the advice, “Put the shells in your pocket. They won’t set off the metal detector. Put the gun in your suitcase. Wrap it in a jacket or pants. No problem.”
Following these suggestions, he opened his cousin’s drawer, took a green wool shirt and two pair of socks in which he wrapped the graphite handgun. He next bundled the socks in a pair of underwear, and then enclosed the cloth clump in the coarse wool shirt. Not seeing the gun made him feel better as he stuffed the package of clothes in the bag and zipped it closed.
Almost casually, Bill put the 9mm shells in his pants pocket, then scooped up the plastic-wrapped yellow Valium tablets and meager cash that he quickly stuffed in the other pocket.
Briefly, Bill looked at his nine year old cousin Roberto, who was still sleeping. Though he never liked the kid, seeing him for this last time made Bill feel sad. Without a word, he strode quickly out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room to the front porch.
Chapter 08
07:05 Pacific Standard Time
San Jose, California
Once outside he felt better as he walked across the rocky dirt surface that had once been a lawn. Bill crossed the stained sidewalk and then slumped onto the passenger’s seat of his cousin’s old dull green and primer-colored Chevrolet.
Frank had offered Bill a ride to the airport. For once, Maria had not complained, knowing that the ride to the airport meant Bill would be gone from their home and lives.
Bill sat quietly and waited. The interior of the car was like the rest of his cousin’s belongings. Torn, dirty, run-down, dusty and used up. Bill had ample time to mull over the events which he, Juan and Joaquin were going to set into motion.
He wanted to get moving. He felt tense and impatient as he waited for the car to take him away.
A wave of strange feelings rolled over him. His first reaction was tremors. He was cold and clammy while a feeling of despair and anxiety consumed him. Bill could not pinpoint exactly what was wrong. He was shaken by an incredible fear. A fear of failure. A fear of being apprehended. And most important, a fear of being returned to prison.
On the one hand, Bill desperately wanted to be on his way. Yet, at the same time, he felt saddened about leaving this place that offered security. Most of all, he wanted today’s events to be over with. He wanted the hijacking behind him.
Chapter 09
09:00 Eastern Standard Time
John F. Kennedy International Airport
Frankfurt Lazlo Fielding slowly and painfully struggled to drag his two hundred seventy pound body to the second floor landing on his way to his office on the third floor of the hangar. With increased frequency, he had to stop to catch his breath. Each time he stopped, he vowed he would quit smoking. First in German and then English. “Gott helfe mir, sie aufzugeben. Ein für allemal” “God help me, to give them up. Once and for all.”
He heard footsteps coming up the stairwell behind him and he consciously but ineffectively attempted to stifle his pained and labored breathing.
It was his assistant, Becky Meriwether. She had recently graduated and had also received her FAA Dispatcher license. She was his clerk and professional protégé. “Good morning, Sir. How are you, today?”
He did not want to appear frail or incapacitated. But when he started to answer her he felt an unbridled and uncontrollable cough starting deep in his chest. The more he tried to stifle the urge, the more pronounced it became. His autonomic nervous system produced a monumental, rattling, hacking, uncontrolled thoracic explosion. Fielding, for the second time today, felt he would not survive many more of these coughing onslaughts.
His face was c
ontorted. An ugly, dull red color filled his cheeks and forehead. Becky was embarrassed for him. She saw he was having so much difficulty breathing he was unable to answer her. She felt she should offer assistance, but did not want to offend him.
Lightly, she touched his arm, “Are you all right, Mr. Fielding? Do you want to sit on the stairs and rest for a moment? Is there anything I can do for you?”
He was able to respond only with a rasping, “Fine.”
Intentionally and quite slowly, he drew in five or six deep breaths and said, “I’ll be fine. As soon as I catch my breath.” Though it sounded clear to him, his statement came out as a muffled and unintelligible string of wheezing consonants.
He coughed again and made that horrible sound in his throat. Without thinking, he instinctively placed his hand on his chest. Becky saw he was still a crimson color, sweating, and appeared to be in a great deal of discomfort.
He smiled and with only slightly less effort said, “I’m much better now. I just needed to rest for a minute.”
“Mr. Fielding, are you sure you’re OK?”
He nodded. “Fine. Thank you for your concern.” He added, “Damn cigarettes.”
Only partially satisfied with his explanation and rationalization, she said with a feigned smile, “All right then. If you’re sure you will be OK, I’ll go on upstairs and get started on the maps.”
As almost an afterthought, she added, “Then I’ll see about making you some tea.”
“Thank you, Becky. That will be fine.”
Lazlo pressed himself against the banister to let her by. He watched until she had disappeared up the stairs, and only then very slowly started up behind her. His young and lithe assistant had bounded up two flights of stairs without a missed beat.
As well she should, being almost forty years my junior, he thought.
Once he had reached the last stair, he rested for a full minute. “Oh, what I would give to be able once again to catch my breath.”
He looked down the long, dimly lit hallway at his office on the other side of the World War Two era aircraft hangar. Each week, the walk seemed longer and used more of his dwindling energy.
Every day, it seemed to him that it took longer for his breathing to return to normal. The last time he counted, his respiration rate was more than twenty-five breaths per minute. To him, it felt he could never get enough air. Recently, he felt he had trouble getting the bad air out of his lungs.
Eventually, and with continued discomfort, he reached the end of the hall, leaned against the wall and pressed the call button.
On the other side of the double doors, one of the dispatch clerks heard the buzzer and looked through a small glassed window. He recognized Lazlo, reached under his desk and pressed the switch to unlock the doors. Lazlo Fielding weakly pressed against the doors that easily yielded to his weight.
Chapter 10
09:15 Eastern Standard Time
John F. Kennedy International Airport
Two steps and he was inside the airline’s dispatch office. This was the nerve center for the airline’s entire domestic and international operation. An easy comparison could be made to the National Air Space Administration facilities in Houston.
There were not many employees. For those who worked here, their tasks were similar. The room was almost soundless. Muted conversations quietly droned across the large room and surrounded Lazlo while he slowly and intentionally headed toward his office. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Becky walk in with several facsimile weather maps from the US Weather Bureau printers.
He turned the overhead lights on and heard the Bearcat radio-scanner come to life. To him, a symphony was being played by old and familiar voices and phrases carried on fifteen Very High Frequency radio channels assigned to John F. Kennedy International Airport.
Becky stood next to his desk and waited for him to sit at his computer terminal. He rounded the end of the desk and sank into his chair. He tried to pull the chair under his desk, but could not gain any traction on the anti-static mat. The minor exertion caused his choppy and rapid breaths to return.
She turned, reached and helped him push his chair closer to the desk. Once seated properly, he leaned forward and signed in at the keyboard. He noted the time, green numerals on a black seventeen-inch monitor: 09:16. It had taken him over fifteen minutes to travel from the front of the building, by the security guard’s desk, to his third floor office; a distance of less than fifty yards.
He lit a cigarette. His fifth this morning. He kidded himself that it was the first of the day at work.
Becky brought him back to reality when she returned with a steaming mug in her hand. She lightly approached him. “Here you go, Sir. A nice cup of tea.” She paused, waiting for him to acknowledge her.
No acknowledgment came, so she timidly added, “and here are the NOAA maps from early this morning.”
She delicately placed the damp maps on Lazlo’s desk. Her face showed concern as she continued, “Careful with the 300 millibar chart, it’s still a very damp.”
She stood directly behind him and studied over his shoulder. Though fully licensed by the Federal Aviation Administration, she was new to the airline. She wanted to learn from her boss, an old timer. What did he first look at when reviewing the overnight weather maps? To her dismay, the first thing he looked for was his ashtray, which she had carelessly covered with the maps. She retrieved the glass ashtray and put it on top of the maps, next to his tea.
He continued to ignore her as he looked at the weather charts. He flipped through the large sheets of paper, one at a time, until he came to the damp 300 millibar chart.
With a slight German accent, Lazlo asked, “Why is it that the chart I want to see is the one that that is always wet? I can’t write on this until it dries. This is dumb.”
Becky thought perhaps she should apologize, but before she could he sighed with resignation and began to study the free formed brown lines on the damp oatmeal colored paper. Lines of equal barometric pressure, temperature and wind direction; isobars, isotherms and isotachs. This chart showed NOAA meteorologist interpretations and assessments of the constantly moving jet stream at approximately 30,000 feet altitude.
Quietly, Becky stood in the background and waited. She was still on her new-hire probation period. She did not want to do anything to put her employment in jeopardy. Nor did she want to appear pushy. She had graduated with a bachelor’s degree in meteorology—now called weather science. Her goal had always been to work for an airline as a dispatcher. At one time, she had considered a career as a pilot, but her uncorrected vision kept her on the ground. She rationalized that she was better suited to provide weather and flight planning information to the flight crews than to be a pilot herself.
She twisted her fingers together behind her back and pulled a #2 pencil from the bun on the back of her head. She mindlessly wondered if pencils were made in any grades other than #2. She correctly guessed his silence was just his way of studying the daily maps needed to forecast the airline’s operations.
Becky thought it was strange the way he sat absolutely motionless and said nothing as he peered at the high altitude chart before him.
When Lazlo finally spoke, it startled her. “Here. Look at this.”
She sucked in her breath, “Look at what, Sir?”
“This occluded front.” He intently studied the brown crescent that extended from northwest of Cleveland to a position just south of Louisville. Slowly, the line became thinner, until it dissipated over the Gulf of Mexico.
It was this tan scimitar covering half the map that held his attention. Lines of pressure, temperature and wind would tell a predictable tale of weather occurrences for the next twelve to eighteen hours. Small brown half moons, nearly the diameter of a thumb nail, alternated with brown triangles on the same side of the “line” that represented the classic pictorial definition of an occluded front. The weather data on the chart indicated this afternoon’s weather would deteriorate in the easter
n third of the country. The worst would be in a triangle from Pittsburgh to Boston to Washington, D. C.
Preoccupied, he did not take time to explain this potentially disturbing and extensive weather pattern, but simply said to her, “Go take a look at all the arrivals in the Eastern Sector, from Cleveland to Boston to Washington.”
Lazlo was not concerned that his orders might cost the airline several hundred thousand dollars in additional fuel bills. “I think the planned arrival fuels should be increased to allow each flight at least one hour additional holding fuel, plus enough fuel to their alternate.”
She was surprised by his orders. This was the first time she had been allowed to program the computer flight plans. His orders were sweeping. She did not want to make a mistake. “Every arrival?” He looked at her, but said nothing.
Becky walked to her desk and took a moment to review how she would begin the arduous task to complete Fielding’s orders. For the next twenty minutes, she “busted” every preplanned fuel load and in its place constructed new flight plan release fuel loads, to which she added increased holding fuel.
Lazlo Fielding lit his sixth or seventh cigarette and then pulled up the DAP screen, the Dispatch Activity Projection on the computer. Forty-one flights would arrive in his eastern sector before his shift ended at 17:30 this evening.
Ten minutes later, Becky came back into Lazlo’s office with nearly 60 sheets of computer paper in her hands. She stood next to Fielding with her arms crossed and waited for an appropriate opportunity. She marshaled her courage and brought the discrepancies to his attention. “Mr. Fielding, I’ve reviewed all the new releases,” she paused, “most of them seem to be correct.” She took a breath, “But a couple have excessive increases.” She paused and then said, “The worst are Flight 100 from San Francisco to Kennedy and Flight 78 from Los Angeles to Philadelphia.”
