by C. J. Stott
He had chosen to remain in Cuba, partly because he felt he should stay near his family, including his two older sisters. With his formal education terminated by Castro’s Government Popular, his part-time painting job had become a full-time occupation. He eventually was able to find some work on the tarmac as an unlicensed mechanic for Cubana Airlines.
The rotund cocktail waitress interrupted his thoughts as she set a dirty and spotted drinking glass on the table in front of him. She made a poor attempt to keep the Mexicola in the tumbler she poured. Cola splashed on the tabletop and Joaquin’s hand. She made no attempt to clean up the mess or apologize.
“Diez Pesos.”
He thought, “Ten pesos for a coke, a third is on my table and running on the floor.” He pulled a post-revolution ten peso note, a National Peso or CUP, from his pocket and carefully laid it on a dry spot on the table.
The waitress picked it up, held it to the light coming in the door and examined it very carefully. She turned the bill over several times to verify its authenticity. Recurrent rumors persisted that America’s Central Intelligence Agency continued to flood Havana with counterfeit Cuban National paper money.
After she was satisfied the bill was genuine, she returned her attention to Joaquin and offered him a crooked smile in a failed attempt to elicit a tip from her only patron. She waited several long seconds, then gave up and lumbered back to the bar carrying the empty Mexicola bottle.
He continued to drift mentally and recalled the glory days at Jose Marti International Airport. Its rich history was filled with tales of various airlines that had flown into and out of Havana. Almost all of them either failed and or otherwise stopped flights to Cuba. One of the few airlines left was Cubana; the national airline of Cuba. Mexicana and Iberia still flew a few flights in to and out of Havana, but that was about it. Many other airlines had left because of the rampant corruption, graft and, of course, Cuba’s dead economy. The on time performance at Jose Marti airport was the worst in the Caribbean. Only two in ten departures left anywhere near on time.
Each of these airline failures had a direct impact on his finances. He was not one to easily give up, so he hung around the edges of the aviation business. He liked airports and airplanes. To a lesser degree, maybe it was because both his half-brothers worked for airlines or aviation support companies in America. Juan was employed by Eastern Airlines in Miami as a baggage handler. Little Guillermilito used to work for Marriott Food Services in San Jose or San Francisco in California.
Joaquin remembered that less than a month, but more than three weeks ago, he thought, Juan had called from Miami to tell him that Guillermo had lost his job at Marriott.
Juan was excited as he told him about the plan he and Guillermo had devised to make them all wealthy.
Chapter 18
10:20 Cuba Daylight Time
Jose Marti International Airport
Havana, Cuba
To Joaquin, the plan seemed incredibly risky. Even impossible. Certainly, this looked like another senseless idea “idea sin sentido.” He cautioned Juan to stop and consider the risks and if he still wanted to proceed to do so with extreme caution.
Juan kidded his older brother and called him a “Pollo Grande.” Reluctantly, Joaquin eventually went along with the idea. He thought, “What the hell, if the plan goes bad, nobody will know I’m involved. I can always stay here in Havana. Everything to gain and nothing to lose. Todo para ganar y nada que perder.”
After the first telephone call Joaquin received two letters from Juan, each with more specific ideas and plots.
Although both letters about their plan had been in English, the envelopes had been addressed in Spanish. This was part of an effort to mask the real nature of the plan. Juan used many slang terms. In his letters and conversations with Joaquin, Juan acted the part of a medical supplier who regularly shipped medical supplies through Miami to other destinations. He was looking for a large medical shipment that was lost. His letters were intentionally vague about the contents of the shipment and the exact shipping date, except to say that it would be in the next three weeks.
Now nearly four weeks later, the lost shipment to Cuba through Miami was destined to arrive today. Still, the exact arrival time for the shipment was unknown.
No Cuban who might have listened or read the censored mail from Miami, could possibly have known the “large shipment” was actually a hijacked Boeing 747 from California.
Joaquin Guerrero felt very unsure of his personal security. His imagination caused him to believe a number of people were watching him. With growing concern about Castro’s stratocracy, he fulfilled and completed his obligations as outlined by Juan in his instructions from Miami.
Juan sent Joaquin enough American dollars to be used to enlist the support of six of the Marielitos, dissidents who wanted to flee from Cuba.
His arrangement with them was simple. Each would be paid one hundred American dollars for about forty-five minutes of work. They were not told the nature of the work, except they would assist in unloading of an aircraft. They were not told the contents of what they were to unload. Nor were they told they would also be reloading an airplane. The final deception was the six were not told they would be adding several extra suitcases on the hijacked 747.
Recently recruited, these unemployed drifters knew the less they knew about this job, the better.
The Marielitos did not ask, nor were they told, the identity of their short-term employer. All they knew was they were to be paid the equivalent of ten days’ pay for work that should be completed in less than an hour.
Joaquin Guerrero arranged with these locals to meet him at the side entrance of the sand-colored main terminal building at a certain time, based on the unclear and uncertain arrival of the misguided 747.
Chapter 19
10:30 Cuba Daylight Time
Jose Marti International Airport
Havana, Cuba
He left his drink untouched and walked out of the Cantina de la Aeropuerto. He looked at the clock as he started to walk back toward the main part of the dirty terminal. Two Guardia Civilias patrolled the airport baggage area.
From a distance, they looked professional. He knew they were nothing more than young teen-aged kids. Their shirts which were much too large and their oversized tan pants were held up with wide ammunition belts, drawn very tight to keep their pants from falling down. Both guards wore the inevitable professional touch, the incredibly shined black knee high boots, polished like ebony mirrors.
Under Castro, there was no problem getting military supplies from Russia. Correct sizing, however, was another matter. This situation, as was the case with everything else supplied by Russia, had given rise to a Cuban saying, “Quantity Si. Correct Size, No.”
Joaquin continued his casual walk toward the two unknown soldiers. “Hola, como esta? Muy muy caliente y humido.” The two responded about the temperature and the humidity, “Yes, that is true. It is very humid. Too hot to work.” The three Cubanos looked at each other and laughed an understanding laugh.
Purposefully, Joaquin walked away from the two young militia guards. Once he was away from them, he sensed he had been successful in not causing any concern or alarm. He ambled to the rear of the main terminal building. He needed to verify that all the physical bits and pieces of today’s event were securely in place.
He found four of the five compadres he had hired. The quartet sat on their haunches and waited for instructions from him.
No one said anything to him or even acknowledged his presence. He nodded to the group only find a stoic, silent response.
Joaquin felt that Juan’s plan was flawed. It was Joaquin who suggested that offloading the bags presented a perfect opportunity to reload several extra bags when the passenger’s baggage was reloaded aboard the hijacked aircraft.
After Joaquin agreed to help, Juan sent him money, US Dollars and traveler’s checks plus some Cuban National currency, to purchase one hundred kilos of processed, cut a
nd cleaned cocaine. Over several weeks, the cocaine was acquired and stored in lockers at the airport. Joaquin had done his work well. He divided the white drug into wrapped parcels and put them in six unmarked dissimilar suitcases.
The half-dozen pieces of luggage were hidden in the main terminal baggage room, awaiting the arrival of the hijacked Boeing 747.
As usual, the big airport terminal clock showed the wrong time. There were at least six more hours until the “large package” arrived from the United States.
He knew from past experience when Cuban radio announced a hijacking, the small towns around the airport erupted in a frenzy of excitement. The Cubans looked at a hijacking in much the same manner as the locals viewed a town hanging in days gone by.
During his adult life in Cuba, Joaquin had seen more than twenty hijacked aircraft arrive at Jose Marti airport.
One fact was a constant: confusion ran rampant throughout the airport and surrounding communities when a hijacked aircraft arrived. The excitement in the towns unleashed a sudden increase in people around the airport. He thought this was good. It would provide a strong diversion. However, with the increase in crowds, the airport guards always looked more closely for Cuban nationals who wanted to desert to America as stowaways.
He would have to be very careful if their plan was going to be successful.
Chapter 20
07:45 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
The hectic morning pace at the ticket counter seldom relented. As departure time drew closer, the rush intensified. People seemed to arrive at the counters in growing waves. Passengers often were chronically late and therefore generally seemed to be chronically ill-tempered.
One such passenger had just been given his boarding pass on Flight 100. As he turned away from the counter, he noticed he had been assigned a middle seat, tightly crunched between the aisle and window seats.
Quickly he turned back to the agent. “Listen, “Look here.” No immediate response made the passenger angrier. “I asked for an aisle seat. Some idiot has given me a seat in between two of those ‘holier than thou’ types.”
The frazzled and harried agent reluctantly took the passenger’s boarding card.
The passenger said, “Listen to me. I demand the seat I requested and if you can’t accommodate me in coach, then give me a seat in First Class, or at least Business Class.”
The small agent spoke with contrived patience, “I am sorry, Mr. Shapiro. You were rather late arriving for flight check-in. I’m afraid I can’t upgrade you to Business or First simply because you wanted an aisle seat.”
What the agent suspected was that Mr. Shapiro wanted a freebie; an upgrade from coach without paying an additional fare.
Shapiro continued his tirade, “I know my rights. I demand,” he stopped to catch his breath, and then continued, “you provide me the seat you promised.”
The agent responded quietly, “Actually the specific rule is, ‘If a passenger makes a specific request, all reasonable attempts must be made to accommodate that request.’” The agent’s intonation said it all. He had memorized the speech through simple repetition. “If that seat is not available, other measures may be made to placate the passenger.”
Mel Shapiro was not hearing anything the agent said. They both continued to speak at the same time. “I don’t give a damn what your rules say. I want a seat on the aisle, First Class, Business Class, but not your Cattle Class.”
The little agent paused to catch his breath and then continued, “You should have gone directly to the gate. You had your ticket, there really was no reason to stand in line. The sign over your head clearly says, ‘Passengers Purchase Tickets.’ Since you already have your ticket, you took up my time and wasted your time.”
Melvin Shapiro glared disgustedly at the diminutive agent.
Harold continued, “I am sorry, Sir.” Actually, he secretly enjoyed holding his power and authority over people like this impossible passenger.
“Really, there are no more aisle seats left on 100 today. In any cabin, Coach, Business or First Class.” Harold emphasized this last remark and then started to busy himself with stacking and sorting random piles of tickets and travel paperwork.
Shapiro stared with unblinking eyes at Harold and held him in deep contempt. He had dealt with this type of employee before and knew they almost always relented and would buckle under pressure. Today’s airlines could not stand to have passengers make a scene or cause a commotion.
Shapiro looked at Harold’s badly fitted toupee and his thick glasses, then let the tirade begin. “Listen to me, you blind, bareheaded little bastard.”
“Are you speaking to me, sir?”
Harold was not in the least intimidated. He raised his red-tinged hands in an attempt to placate this most unreasonable passenger. “Sir, let’s try to be reasonable. Your flight was overbooked by thirty seats. We probably are going to leave with only a handful of empty seats. I’m sure there will be no spare aisle seats, because all those seats have already been assigned. There is no way I can help you. However, you might be able to trade with another passenger.”
“I don’t want to trade and I don’t want to sit in a middle goddamned seat.”
“Well then, all I can offer you is a seat on our later flight to JFK at 1:30 this afternoon.” Harold waited several seconds for an answer from Shapiro, and then said, “Which will it be, sir? Do you want to take what’s available on 100, or wait until later this afternoon?”
“You bald-headed little shit. I want my aisle seat and I want it now. Do you hear me?” Shapiro was in a fit of fury, the spot of white spittle clung to his lower lip. He raised his voice, “and if you can’t, can’t...accommodate me, then get somebody out here who can.”
The cords in Shapiro’s neck were throbbing and he appeared to be on the verge of losing control. He rasped. His voice seethed, “Let me talk to your supervisor.” The echo of his voice rumbled through the glass and marble terminal area.
One of those who heard Shapiro was Director of Security Robert F. Burns. When he heard the racket and commotion Shapiro was causing, he intentionally walked toward the source of the noise.
Burns approached Shapiro, who now stood alone.
He first looked at Shapiro and then at Harold, then said to both of them, “What seems to be the difficulty here?”
Shapiro looked at Burns and in an abrasive tone asked, “Who the hell are you, Pop? Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“I’m Director of Security here at the airport. Your tone of voice is neither necessary, acceptable nor effective.”
Shapiro quickly determined he had won. Finally. He was in control of the situation. The airline had sent someone to placate him. They were about to give in. From past experience, Shapiro knew he must not let up on the pressure He had to hold the line until the airline met his demands.
Burns’ next comments were totally unexpected. “If you do not calm down sir, I will have to ask you to take your travel business elsewhere.” He was firm, just as he had been in San Diego, where he had been a detective for over 21 years.
Harold chuckled to himself and was glad to see the chief of security. He quickly said, “Mr. Burns, I have advised Mr. Shapiro we have no more seats on the aisle. He doesn’t seem willing, or is unable, to believe me.”
Burns said in an even voice, “Mr. Shapiro, we can’t decide what is best for you. Only you can do that. If you accept the seat we assigned you, you are free to board. If, on the other hand, you can’t comply, then you will need to make other travel arrangements.”
Robert Burns stared evenly at Shapiro before he continued. “The choice is yours.” Then he looked at Harold and asked, “What flight is Mr. Shapiro on?”
“100 to Kennedy.”
Harold looked at Mr. Shapiro and then at his watch.
“Sir, if you are going to make your flight, you had better start for the gate now. It takes several minutes to walk to the end of the termi
nal where our gates are located, and you still have to go through security.”
Shapiro pulled his tickets and boarding card from Harold’s outstretched hand, spun and left the counter area. His tan raincoat caught on the chrome stanchion and dragged it toward the floor.
Burns grabbed at it to keep it from spinning like a top. He smiled at the Harold and said, “This is a dangerous area. It’s the second time today someone has knocked this thing over.”
Chapter 21
08:00 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
Something in Burns’ police-trained mind connected, but he could not immediately fit all the pieces together. Yet, there was something in this morning’s happenings that had set off an internal alarm.
Then, with certain clarity, Burns knew the source of his concern. He started to say something, but his mind raced faster than he was able to speak. “What was the story on that other passenger who made such a racket when he hit these passenger restraint ropes? You know, the first passenger, the one who hit the chain.”
Harold looked at the pile of tickets on the counter.
“The Mexican? Oh, I remember now. He sure did seem like an odd duck. He was very nervous and unsure of himself.”
Harold stopped talking and his mind wandered over the events in the morning crush of passengers. “I don’t know, sometimes you just get a feeling about a person. Know what I mean?”
Burns looked directly at Harold. “I know exactly what you mean. Do you remember where was he going?”
“No, I don’t remember. Let me look.” Harold tapped his computer keyboard with the eraser-end of a pencil. Quickly, he was able to scroll through aircraft seat maps and reservation screens.
