by C. J. Stott
Fred had never heard of this captain, neither good nor bad, which probably meant that he was either new to the domicile, or to the airplane, or both. Fred glanced at the Flight Engineer, who intently poured over the contents of a four-inch thick performance manual for the Boeing 747.
“Howdy, I’m Fred. Fred O’Day, First Officer,” he smiled and extended his hand to the studious engineer.
Stan peeked at Fred over the top of his steel framed glasses and raised his eyebrows, much to say, I hope this is no indication of how the rest of this trip is going to go. Stan took Fred’s hand, “Stan Kurtz. Glad to meet you.”
After Fred returned all the documents to the envelope, he turned and formally introduced himself to the Captain. “Hello, I’m Fred O’Day. I’m sorry about that business over there.”
Fred expected the Captain to make some attempt to smooth out the atmosphere in the room, but none came forth. Instead, the Captain only acknowledged his introduction and apology with a sour grunt.
Fred thought maybe he should say something else to let the Captain know that he what knew what he was doing. “I don’t know what those gnomes in New York were thinking about regarding the fuel for this flight. I know the weather at Kennedy’s not the greatest, but almost 190,000 pounds of fuel is crazy.”
Fred emphasized the word, “crazy.” Don showed he barely cared that Fred was standing next to him. In exasperation, Fred concluded his review of the fueling on Flight 100 with, “It’s just one of those things, I guess.”
A long silence covered the room like a thick wet military tarp, until broken by Fred’s final attempt at making peace. “As the saying goes, the only time you can have too much fuel on board is if you’re on fire.”
Don’s response to his humorous comment was swift and cutting. “Do you take this job seriously? We are paid a lot of money to fly the company’s aircraft safely. Carrying extra fuel is wasteful and I’m of the mind to have this excess fuel removed before our flight departure.”
Fred thought, “This clown is starting to remind me of Major Frank Burns on MASH.”
Don Webber’s mannerisms were edged with open hostility toward Fred, “What do you think of that?”
“Think of what?”
“Defueling the aircraft down to a reasonable fuel load.”
Both Fred and Stan could only look at this Captain and wonder where the company had found him. He certainly didn’t seem like most of the pilots they both routinely flew with.
Fred responded quietly, “You’re the boss. Whatever you want is fine with me. How much time do you think it’ll take to defuel?”
Stan felt the same way, but hid it better than Fred. He paused and looked directly at Don. “How much do you want to suck out from the main tanks?” He waited a couple of seconds for an answer, but received none. “So, what will our final fuel load be for takeoff?”
Fred counted a few beats. “If you want to defuel, I’ll call dispatch in New York and alert that a change is in the works.” Fred continued to stare at Don. “As you know, we have to have their concurrence to reduce a fuel load.”
Don knew Fred was correct. Defueling would take the better part of an hour and he would have to obtain agreement from JFK Dispatch to reduce the fuel load. But it made Don angry that his copilot had such a cavalier and capricious attitude. This irritation was overridden by the notion that an hour delay here, would result in an hour delay for their arrival at JFK, and that would add an hour before he would be with Kathryn. Warm, random thoughts of her waiting for him in New York drummed in his mind.
He rationalized the situation, saying, “Well, that probably would result in a lengthy delay… Our passengers are entitled to an on-time departure here and arrival in New York.” With as flourish, he signed his name to the flight dispatch release forms.
In an attempt to reinforce his decision, Don spoke to both Stan and Fred in a grandiose voice, “Forget the fuel reduction. We’ll go with the flight plan release.”
Stan excused himself, “I’m going out to the plane and start the Inertial platforms.” He picked up his hat and raincoat and turned toward the door. “See you on board. I’ll see if I can get one of the flight attendants to start some coffee.”
Four or five minutes later, Fred picked up his hat and quickly grabbed his old worn and battered flight kit. His navigation bag was festooned with several stickers promoting the Boeing 767 and that said, “When I get home, I’m going to Disneyland.”
Then, like a good copilot, he followed Don out into the hallway.
Together they retraced Don’s earlier steps, down the mustard colored hallway, past the vacant security guard’s vestibule and eventually, out on to the ramp.
During the fifteen minutes they had spent in the office, the sun had risen well above the horizon. The ramp smelled of wet asphalt and concrete. In the distance, across the airport, both watched a United Airlines 747 lift off in the first three thousand feet of runway.
Fred remarked, “Man, they must really be light. Either no passengers or fuel to get off the ground that quickly.” Don had no response.
On their stroll out to their 747, Don glanced at the dusty electric wall clock outside the mechanic’s ready-room. It showed 8:05. Less than a half hour ‘til departure. That would mean 4 hours and 50 minutes after takeoff, and he’d be in New York. And then, only 45 minutes more to get to Kathryn’s apartment.
All things remaining constant he should be with her by 6:30 Eastern Standard Time. He quickened his pace across the ramp to the aircraft, thinking of nothing other than his evening with her. Silently, Don recalled their last time together. Tonight was going to be on his terms. No more games to be played with him. Either she backed off with her “on again, off again” attitude, or he was going to terminate their relationship.
Chapter 13
07:20 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
Early morning traffic along the James Lick Freeway—US 101 northbound toward San Francisco—was horrible, as usual. Four hundred thousand commuters from San Mateo County were determined to use the same five lanes of freeway; all at the same time. Bill’s ride to the airport, his cousin’s old green and gray Chevy Nova, inched along. Both driver and passenger were deep in their own private thoughts.
A strong and energetic sun attempted to stream through the windshield, but the accumulated smoke residue and grime made the windshield translucent. The glare caused Bill to close his eyes. He also tried to shut out the growing fear of approaching doom. Frank looked at Bill and wrongly assumed that his pensive and unhappy cousin was asleep.
The traffic thinned and the old car gained just enough speed to cause the front tires to start an unbalanced wobble along the entry road to the airport. The vibration rattled Bill’s sun visor so that it fell down and blocked the sun. In the relative darkness he opened his eyes.
Frank glanced at Bill. “How was your siesta?”
Bill sleepily looked at his cousin, “Uh.” The seriousness of the day’s events wore on him. “Looks like we’re here.”
Bill and his brother Juan had not told Frank anything about their hijacking plan. All Frank knew was that he had given Bill a stolen American Airlines ticket which was filled out one-way from San Francisco to New York. Frank Medina knew Bill and Juan were up to no good. Somehow, the stolen ticket he had given Bill apparently played a significant part in their scheme
The old Chevrolet Nova wheezed toward the green and white sign that proclaimed, “DEPARTURES in This Lane ONLY.” The car pulled into the lane and then slowly climbed the ramp to the front of the passenger drop-off area.
Frank looked for a place to drop Bill off. He found none, but tried to get as close to the curb as he could. He turned off the ignition and removed the key to unlock the trunk. Both men walked around to the back of the car where Frank unlocked the truck. Bill reached in and pulled out his black nylon bag, then slammed the deck lid closed.
Frank reached out and gave Bill the “embrazo”,
the hug, “Take care, man. Whatever you’re doin’, don’t do nothin’ stupid.” Both paused and thought this might be the last time they would see each other. Frank thought Bill seemed unsettled and nervous.
“Just go to the ticket counter and give ‘em your ticket. Get your boarding pass and go to the plane.”
He waited for Bill to respond, but all his cousin could manage was to stare at Frank with unseeing eyes.
He finished the one-way conversation with, “You wait in there for them to call your flight.”
Bill Guerrero said nothing, but only slightly nodded.
With a touch of sadness, Frank added, “And be careful.”
Finally, with no emotion, Bill spoke to his cousin, “Yeah, man, thanks for the ticket and the ride. I’ll see you soon.”
Bill knew his last words were a lie.
Bill looked at his cousin and wished that he were staying in San Jose. Actually, he wished that he were anywhere else. Anywhere, but the airport.
A skycap materialized from out of nowhere and greeted Bill. “Good morning. Sir. I’ll need to see your ticket.”
Bill froze with fear. He couldn’t unzip the Nike bag. He could not force himself to even reach inside. Panic poured over him. He looked at the dark-skinned skycap, who waited patiently.
“Sir. Your ticket, please.” After a few seconds, the skycap said, “¿Hablas Inglés?”
Hearing those familiar words in his native Spanish, Bill realized he needed to say something to the skycap. “Just a minute. I am nervous.”
“That’s OK, my man. Take your time.”
He opened the gym bag and reached inside. The ticket was gone! He looked at the skycap for help. The skycap looked back at him with a smile and waited patiently for Bill to produce his ticket.
Then he remembered where the ticket was and felt for it inside his shirt. He undid his shirt buttons with a shaking hand, pulled out the damp and wrinkled ticket. He kept a careful and firm grip on the Nike bag.
The skycap took the ticket from him, rolled it flat and checked it. The longer Bill stood on the sidewalk, the more naked he felt and more nervous he became. He thought, “What if he knows the ticket is stolen? What if he calls the cops? What if he keeps me here until the police arrest me?”
Arrest was out of the question. Suddenly, escape was foremost in his mind. If the skycap said anything about the ticket he was going to run.
Another sickening wave of fear flushed through him. He turned only to see the old Nova disappear down the ramp, followed by a plume of blue smoke. His only chance for escape just went down the circular driveway toward the airport exit and out of his life forever.
The skycap did not notice anything unusual about the ticket. Even if he had noticed that it had been paid for in cash and was only issued one-way, he showed no awareness of that significance. If asked, he would have only said he was far more concerned that this poor Mexican would not give him a tip.
The skycap handed the ticket back to Bill and said, “Everything is in order. Sir. You are ready to go.” He waited the requisite few awkward seconds, then added, “Have a nice flight.”
Bill glanced downward to the outstretched hand and reached in his pocket. Without looking, he retrieved a bill. He didn’t know the size of the bill as he pressed the wadded and damp green paper into open palm of the skycap.
The baggage handler looked at the $5 bill, smiled and said, “Thank you. Sir. Have a good trip.” Adding, “a very very good trip.” The skycap turned away, looking for the next traveler.
Alone, Bill walked through the double revolving doors into the terminal.
Chapter 14
07:20 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
The immense marble airline terminal seemed to minimize the importance of any and all who passed through. Thousands of passengers moved, collided, got lost and otherwise milled through the concourse toward individual airline ticket counters. This morning, not untypical, all the counters were jammed with passengers.
The magnitude of the terminal and the frantic activity had a negative impact on him. He entered the terminal feeling insecure. The lack of familiar sounds and sights caused his unstable feelings to run free. Once again, Bill felt panic rise up. Panic then started to control his emotions.
Neither he nor his brother Juan had established any real or significant plan. The may have had a strategy, but logistics for their plan were non-existent. The only common point of interest was their agreement that Bill would get through the terminal and onto the aircraft without getting caught or arrested.
Bill walked the length of the main terminal building. He passed Delta Air Lines, United, Mexicana, TWA and Qantas. All the ticket counters looked very similar except for the uniforms of the agents. He eventually came to the end of the main terminal building. He faced a glass wall that looked out over the ramp area.
He was confused. He looked back toward the entrance he had walked through, turned and retraced his steps. Just beyond the central newsstand and airport bar, he found what he needed. A bank of television monitors with flight information listed by departure time:
Bill was relieved. He found his flight without calling attention to himself. He did it without anyone’s help. He found his airline counter and joined a line of passengers who waited patiently to purchase their tickets. Bill tried to take advantage of the motionless line to rest, but he could not relax. He concentrated on the dark blue hat worn by the older woman in front of him. All the while, he constantly looked for anyone who might recognize him.
Eventually, he came to the head of the line. The counter was chest high. High enough that he could not comfortably lean on it. He tried to do so, but that put his elbows at the same height as his shoulders.
Bill looked at the man across the counter from him for some sign of recognition. The agent stared at Bill and then at his outstretched hand. He wore very thick glasses and his uniform had white crystalline accumulations of evaporated salts near and under his armpits. Nervously, Bill subconsciously rolled the ticket envelope into a tight tube.
The agent unrolled and opened the damp packet, “You already have your ticket.” He stared squarely at Bill, “This line is only for passengers who wish to purchase tickets for today’s flight.”
Bill thought, “This is it. He’s going to find out about me. ¡Mierda! I’m done.”
For reasons Bill could not understand, the agent became irritated. “Can’t you read? That large sign clearly says, ‘Purchase Tickets Here’.’“ He pointed to the sign using a pen in his left hand, “If you already have your ticket you need to get your boarding pass in that line. Then you go to the boarding gate, Mr. Guerrero.”
He panicked. “God. Now they know my name.” “¡Dios. Ahora ya saben mi nombre!” No sound came out of his mouth. He wanted to speak, but was unable. He was terrified, afraid the agent would identify his ticket as stolen and turn him over to the police.
The agent continued to look at him. “I’ll give you your boarding card this one time. But in the future, don’t take up my very valuable time by getting in the wrong line. I have other passengers to attend to. Aisle or window?”
Bill was unable to answer even this simple question. To those around him it looked as if he had not heard the question.
Fear paralyzed him. He tried to mentally review his unclear plan for the hijacking. Everything he considered was jumbled and unclear. All he knew was there was not supposed to get on the airplane and there was not to be any trouble.
“Mr. Guerrero, do you speak English? Aisle or window seat?” With growing irritation, the agent growled, “I’m speaking to you. Where do you want to sit?”
Bill coughed, “Yes. Sure. Ok.”
“Which will it be? Window?”
“Smoking.”
“Smoking?”
The self-important agent busied himself at his computer and then handed Bill his boarding card with a flourish.
“Here is your boarding pass, I have assig
ned you seat 55-8, on today’s Flight 100. Since you only have a one way ticket I could not give you a return seat assignment.”
The rude little agent leaned over the top of the tall counter and again pointed to his left with a pencil, then said in an exasperated tone, “Mr. Guerrero. Go to the end of the hall. Turn left and go through security.”
“Security!”
The very sound of that word terrified Bill. He thought, “I can’t do this.”
Quickly the agent looked over the top of his thick glasses at his miniature television monitor. “After you pass through security, use the tunnel to Gate 67.”
There was that word again. Security. That was all Bill heard as the bitter acid taste of panic rose in his throat. He started to sweat as his stomach pitched and rolled. He felt lightheaded as he numbly nodded to the agent.
He turned the wrong way and was immediately face to face with a line of passengers. At the conclusion of his full right turn, his bag caught on a chrome stanchion, which wobbled on its base, making sounds like a quarter being rolled on a desktop.
The metallic rolling caused passengers and employees within several feet to stop their conversations and look at the source of the noise. Most of them saw Bill Guerrero attempt to steady the noisy base then make an unsure and lurching retreat from the ticketing area.
Chapter 15
07:25 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
Stan Kurtz walked across the ramp toward the airplane. He stood at the base of the Jetway, where he left his bags at the bottom of the stairs. The day-shift cabin cleaners would still be on board. They’d be in his way, so he decided to inspect the exterior of the aircraft first.
Outside the two-hundred and thirty-one foot aluminum hull, he started a very deliberate and intentional inspection.. He started with the twenty-four ply nose gear tires and looked for cuts and worn spots. He paid particular attention to the sidewalls. He knew a moderate cut in the sidewall was far more likely to fail than a deep penetrating cut in the tread. He examined the nose gear steering assembly, looking for Skydrol leaks. He walked aft along the side of the fuselage and looked at various panels, static ports and pitot heads. He strolled to the leading edge of the right wing and continued his inspection. of the number three and four engines, where he examined various coolers, ducts, ports and carbon-coated tailpipe sections. He paid particular attention to the nacelle-mounted fire bottles. The four engine pylons each contained two fire extinguisher bottles filled with Halon 1310. He checked the pressure gauges and also the red blowout disc. Satisfied, he walked to the right wing tip and looked along the length of the leading edge of the wing toward the fuselage for bird strike or hail damage.
