by C. J. Stott
He continued aft to the underside of the huge horizontal stabilizer. He looked for hydraulic fluid leaks or damage to the leading edge of the primary flight control, but he found none. Everything appeared to be airworthy and acceptable. From a location forty or fifty feet aft of the aircraft, he checked the exhaust for the Auxiliary Power Unit housed below the rudder. He looked up the trailing edge of the both upper and lower rudder, again looking for “runback,” a black, gritty telltale evidence of an internal Skydrol fluid leak from the rudder power packages.
He repeated the same inspection along the left side of the fuselage, wings, pylon and nacelles for engine one and two. He completed his exterior pre-flight back at the bottom of the Jetway where his walk-around had all begun.
Kurtz climbed the external stairs and was stopped by the combination keypad on the Jetway door. The secret four-digit combination had been crudely scratched into the paint on the doorframe, “1041.” Stan shook his head. Once again, the purpose of the lock had been defeated. He punched the code on the keypad, opened the door and came face to face with a group of cabin cleaners, loaded down with vacuum cleaners, mops and other cleaning gear.
There was not enough room for all of them on the landing. Stan started in through the door as the cabin cleaners started to exit.
One fleet service employee was obviously in a hurry. “Hey man, let me on by.” With no further comment, he rudely brushed past Stan and banged him in the knee with his vacuum cleaner.
The aircraft had been powered down over night and the three air conditioning packs had not been operating. A stale and oppressive atmosphere flooded the interior of the plane..
He entered the aircraft through the L-2 door—left hand side, second door back from the nose of the aircraft and was immediately assaulted by strident music. Cleaners had left the audio system turned up to full volume. Pounding rock music pumped throughout the airplane. Stan often was amazed that generally undereducated cabin cleaners could control and operate a very sophisticated multiplex entertainment system, yet could not properly use a simple vacuum cleaner. He approached the multi-plex audio control panel and turned the system off with finality.
Stan moved forward toward the nose of the airplane. He wrestled with his suitcase and navigation bag as he climbed the carpeted circular staircase. He dropped his bags on the dark brown rubber flooring in the upper deck galley.
The upper deck lounge was unoccupied except for a black male cabin cleaner who was reclined in a seat. The employee took a final pull on his cigarette, as he sat with his legs and shoes on the back of the seat in front of him.
He looked up and saw Stan. “Hey Bro. What’s happenin'. You the mother who turned off the music?”
Stan said, “Get your feet off the seats and put out that cigarette.” The cleaner sullenly stared back at him, but made no attempt to move as Stan said, “You know the rules.”
The rangy black man got up out of his seat. Stan realized the employee was several inches taller than he was.
Stan said, “Clean your mess up in here.”
“Who the fuck are you? Motherfucker.”
Stan felt a mild sense of uneasiness when the cleaner said in a falsetto singsong voice, “Hey, Baby. You go screw yourself. I’m on my break.”
“Get back to work or get out.”
They stood toe to toe; both men smelled each other’s breath. “I’m tellin’ my shop steward ‘bout you, honkey asshole. He get you white-ass fired.”
Stan’s was calm. “The choice is yours. Do your job or get off my airplane.” The confrontation passed. Stan watched the ramp serviceman turn and slowly leave the upper deck, swearing all the way down to the First Class galley.
Aware of his rapid breathing, Stan picked up his bags and turned toward the cockpit. He used the cockpit key on his key chain and unlocked the door and entered his private domain.
Chapter 16
07:35 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
Bill Guerrero hung back and nervously watched the security check point. Each passenger placed their handbags, carry-on baggage, brief cases, purses and miscellaneous personal treasures on the moving conveyor belt. Smoothly, the bags disappeared into a large grey humming machine. A red illuminated sign on top of the machine randomly flashed, “X-RAY in USE.”
Next to the baggage X-ray equipment was a large poster in a metal frame. It was very clear and to the point.
“AIRCRAFT HIJACKING IS A FEDERAL CRIME PUNISHABLE BY DEATH.”
Further below, the sign continued,
“CARRYING CONCEALED WEAPONS ABOARD ANY AIRCRAFT IS PUNISHABLE BY PRISON SENTENCES & FINES”
The last words at the bottom of the sign stunned Bill.
“PASSENGERS AND BAGGAGE SUBJECT TO SEARCH, Federal Aviation Administration, U. S. Department of Transportation.”
The message seemed to have been written specifically for him. He read these warnings as though he were being warned personally and individually. Fitfully, he worried he would bring attention to himself if he did not proceed toward security.
He took a deep breath and walked hesitantly toward the security agent.
He gripped his Nike training bag in one hand and carried the boarding card pass in the other.
He was surprised when the young agent spoke to him in fluent Spanish. “Senor, por favor coloque su equipaje en la cinta en movimiento.” “Senor, please place your baggage on the moving belt.”
She continued, this time in English, “Do you have any metal objects in your pockets?”
He shook his head, shrugged and raised his shoulders. He said nothing.
“If you do, please place them in this plastic container. Gracias.”
Involuntarily, he replied with the common Spanish response, “De nada.”
She smiled professionally. “Ah, so you do speak Spanish” “Ah, por lo que habla español.”
He placed the black bag with its contraband on the conveyor belt. Nervously, he watched the bag disappear through the long black rubber fingers that hung down from the top of the machine, dragging against the moving belt.
Worried, he reviewed his unclear hijack plan. “No panic. Just get on board and then do my thing to hijack the plane.”
The security agent’s perfect Spanish jolted Bill back to where he was. She invited him to step into the chrome and plastic tunnel. “Senor, Póngase de pie allí. Manos a los lados del cuerpo. No te muevas.” Then in English, “Sir. Please. Stand here. Hands at your sides. Do not move.”
Now, more than any other time, he was convinced Juan had it all wrong. He was terrified. This machine would know or discover he had bullets in his pocket. It knew he wanted to hijack an airplane. The machine knew everything.
Again, he held back, He was fearful. He knew he was only steps away from being caught and sent back to prison.
This time with more authority she said, “Senor, por favor, avanzar en este sentido. Otros pasajeros están a la espera de usted.” “Senor, please move this way. Other passengers are waiting for you.”
“Si. Si. Uno momento, por favor.” Bill took a deep breath. He blinked very hard and started up the slight incline toward the magnetically sensitive area. The square green light immediately changed to flashing red. With the red warning light came an angry metallic warning buzzer.
Bile and panic with waves of fear overtook him. He could taste the bitter acid in his throat as his stomach churned.
He was trapped between the security agent and the machine. He was convinced that this machine knew he was planning to hijack an airplane. A rolling numbness and cold sweat came over him at the thought of being captured.
Bill considered whether he should turn and run. Caution caused him to remain stationary. He was afraid if he ran, he would be shot in the back. In his terror and anxiety, he failed to comprehend that someone was speaking to him.
“Sir, Sir. Oh, hello, Sir. Please place all your belongings in this bucket. Please. Sir. You are holding up the line.” Sh
e gently brushed his arm, “Sir, I’m talking to you.” “Señor, te estoy hablando a ti.”
He heard a distant voice. A woman’s warm voice. She was talking to someone. Then more clearly, he slowly realized the female voice was speaking to him.
“Yo, Chica.” He blinked, “What did you say?”
She was unfazed and unflattered with his attempt at familiarity, “Put your belongings in the pail. Empty your pockets. Do you have a calculator or a quartz watch?” She was patient, but pressed him, “Walk back through the archway. Now. Come back this way.” She was very thorough and focused.
Bill Guerrero lethargically complied with her request and put his meager collection of coins, St. Christopher medal, a few dollars and a very small pocket knife in the dark blue plastic bucket. The bucket moved away from him on the conveyor belt.
He was very careful to leave the 9 mm bullets in his pants pocket with his Valium tablets. His shirt dampened with each deep breath. He looked at the young agent. With fortitude he did not feel, he boldly walked up the ramp into the same magnetometer. This time, the green ready light shined its unblinking verdant color. No red light and no blaring alarm.
She smiled at him. She considered his fear to be travel jitters as she held the blue plastic bucket toward him. Bill collected his sparse personal belongings, including his small pocket knife. He walked away on legs he was sure would not support him to the end of security area. He looked back and offered a faint smile to her and her fellow security agents. They had already dismissed him and were speaking to other passengers behind him.
A black 45-year-old female contract security guard was assigned to watch the X-ray monitor. She was incredibly bored. The monotony of her job was unbearable. Initially, she thought looking into the private and personal belongings of passengers would be interesting. In the past year, the only break in her boredom had been when baggage from notables or people with celebrity passed through her X-ray machine. Her mind was hundreds of miles away as she thought about her scheduled break in less than 10 minutes.
Several large bags entered the machine sequentially and in rapid succession, the last of which was Bill’s Nike bag. The denser bags absorbed more of the focused X-ray energy.
The bored security guard looked at the four large bags passing before her on the monitor. She saw hair dryers, shaving kits, curling irons and other metallic items. The increase in opacity of the large bags lowered the energy received by the X-ray detector and a signal was sent to elevate the output of the X-ray transmitter.
After the last large bag passed through the X-ray tunnel, she saw a faint outline of Bill’s Nike bag. The increased X-ray energy, caused by the opacity of the previous bags, passed through Bill’s bag with incredible force and the fluoroscope receiver was overdriven. In less than three ten-thousandths of a second, Bill’s bag was electronically X-rayed as a primary means to thwart aerial piracy.
The composite graphite 9 mm handgun was not fully radio transparent. The irregular shape returned only a fuzzy image. The heightened level of X-Ray energy and radiation passed through the gun at the speed of light. The only parts shown on the monitor were two small springs and an oddly shaped metal firing pin. To the bored and mindless security agent, the opaque springs and firing pin only looked like a small assortment of metal parts. She may not have even noticed these parts. If she had, she never would have remotely perceived them as being threat to aircraft security.
Bill walked away from the security checkpoint certain he would suddenly feel a hand of his shoulder, or hear someone call his name. With each passing step his terror diminished, but only minimally. He never felt fully relieved about having passed through security. After he had walked sixty or seventy feet, his breathing slowly returned to a more normal rate. Only then did he gradually relax and quicken his step to escape the watchful eye of the security personnel.
Halfway between the security checkpoint and the end of the long corridor, Bill noticed an empty boarding area. He read the sign: FLIGHT 45 -- HONOLULU - CANCELLED. The boarding area was both dark and vacant. He felt a desperate need to hide for a few moments and settle down.
Bill realized he had taken an enormous chance. He looked back over his shoulder at the security kiosk and then quickly made an abrupt turn into the vacant, but cluttered, lounge area. After a few moments, he felt safe enough to take a chance and cautiously looked back to see if he had been followed.
After several minutes, Bill incorrectly assumed there was nothing to worry about. In fact, he was here. He was in the airport. He had passed through security. He had the gun in his bag.
He felt relieved and started to whistle a mindless tune. He looked at himself in the mirrored glass window in the boarding lounge. Though he couldn’t see it, he looked tired, the dark blue-green half-circles under his eyes had worsened.
He turned from the windows and walked back into the commotion and noise of the main passenger boarding areas. He looked around the concourse, found the information board and allowed himself to smile. The monitor showed Flight 100 still scheduled at 8:30. In less than 30 minutes, he would leave San Francisco for Havana.
With a new false sense of promise and purpose, Bill Guerrero intentionally walked toward Gate 67. Though his mind was in turmoil, he considered all the risks associated with his plan. He momentarily felt relieved. Now, strangely, he felt a head-rush of enthusiasm about The Plan.
To himself, he thought, “No need to look back now. I’m on my way.” In Spanish, “No hay necesidad de mirar hacia atrás ahora. Estoy en mi camino.”
Bill’s self-confidence was unfounded. If he had looked back toward the security area again, he would have seen a distinguished-looking red-haired businessman. His newly found piece of mind would have been shattered had he seen this older individual bypass all the security measures simply by showing his gold and chrome badge and an identification card to the pretty young agent who had spoken to him in Spanish.
With a gracious smile, she ushered Robert Burns past security. His hunt was for the unknown Latino in the boarding area for Flight 100 to New York.
The game of cat and mouse had begun.
Bill Guerrero didn’t know it. He was the mouse. A mouse being chased in a long tunnel. There was only one way out; back the way he had just come.
Chapter 17
10:00 Cuba Daylight Time
Jose Marti International Airport
Havana, Cuba
It was very humid and today was going to be very hot. The temperature had climbed 2° Celsius in the last hour. The last time he saw a thermometer, it was 32° and it was not even 10:00 in the morning.
Radio Havana Cuba had forecast another hot day, just like the past ten or twelve days. He felt certain by noon it would be over 39°. Joaquin Guerrero sought a brief respite from the heat by stepping into the dark coolness of the airport bar. The stench from the lack of sanitation overrode any possible benefit to be derived from the cooler temperature. It seemed to him as though the stained tiles on the walls and floor had absorbed the smells.
He walked past the empty bar and bored bartender and sat at an unevenly tiled table in a dark corner at the rear of the room. From his seat, he could see most of the room and more importantly, all who entered.
A fat waitress in a stained and torn blouse came over to his table and asked in Spanish, “You wanna drink?” ¿Quieres un trago?
“No. Not for me. I’m just resting, trying to stay out of the heat.”
“You dumb burro, you can’t stay here if you don’t spend no money. This is a bar for passengers, for paying customers. It’s not good for the bar if the passengers see you sitting here without a drink at your table.”
Her argument and logic were flawed. The next Cubana Airlines estimated arrival from Madrid was more than three hours away and there were no departures until after 15:00 this afternoon.
“Bring me a Mexicola, con limon.” The overweight waitress lumbered away from his table. With no enthusiasm, she placed his order with the bartender.
>
He had not entered the airport bar because he was thirsty, or even to escape the heat and humidity. He had walked into the bar for the sole purpose to escape the watchful eye of his supervisor. This was not the day to be visible, or visibly nervous. Today was the day he was going to help his two younger half-brothers with their crazy plan.
Joaquin had worked near, or at, Havana’s Jose Marti International Airport for many employers since La Revolución in 1956. He had worked under the Bautista machine as an airport painter. He touched up the constant grime and stains in the airport lavatories, hallways and kitchens. Before and after the revolution, Joaquin studied aeronautical engineering at the University de Cuba de Habana, later renamed University de Liberdad, del Popular.
Joaquin loved airplanes and had planned to finish his aeronautical studies in America. He hoped to find employment with Boeing or Douglas, or maybe even one of the airlines.
Unfortunately for him, when Fidel Castro “liberated” the masses, his plan to work in America was abruptly crushed. His only option would have been to continue his studies in the USSR. Then, as an ex-patriot Cuban, he would have only been able to practice his learned trade for the Russians.
