by C. J. Stott
Impatiently, Burns waited. He felt there was something going on with this passenger. But what was it?
Harold looked up and smiled. “Here he is. B. Guerrero.” He was a one-way to JFK. Bought his ticket with cash. He doesn’t seem to have any local contact information.” Harold started to speak in a clandestine conversational tone. “You’re right, Sir. He was real nervous. A strange strange fellow.”
Burns did not hear the rest of Harold’s comments. What he had heard were four items that precisely fit a potential hijacker profile. One way ticket. Paid cash. Anti-social behavior, nervous, unsure of himself. No verifiable contact information or identification.
Burns looked at the pile of tickets on the counter. “What was his name again?”
“Guerrero. B. Guerrero.”
“Thanks, Harold. I’m going to take a walk out to the gates. Do me a favor. Page him to Gate 67 and I’ll check him out.”
Burns looked at his watch and added, “We’re getting close to departure. And I don’t want to cause a delay on the flight. But I’d sure feel better if I could have a talk with our Mr. Guerrero before he boards.”
Burns strode purposefully away from the counter area and disappeared around the corner, where he headed directly toward the left side of the security kiosk.
A very attractive Guatemalan security agent smiled at him as he briskly strode up to her. “Hot on the trail of another criminal?”
He only smiled and then impulsively asked, “Do you remember anything about a Chicano who went through here a few minutes ago? Mid twenties, about 5”-10’. Anything at all?”
“Not really, but we look at hundreds of passengers every hour, especially these last few mornings. Why, what’s the deal with him?”
“Nothing. Just a feeling. I want to check him out, just to be safe.” He showed her his airline security badge and identification card. She nodded and he headed for the magnetometer. The mass of ferrous metal in his police service revolver always set off the alarm. Today was no exception. An elderly woman had just exited the chrome and plastic tunnel when the alarm sounded. She looked startled by the strident klaxon. A security agent smiled at her, “Don’t worry, the alarm was caused by someone else.”
Burns looked at her, smiled and said, “That was my fault. I’m sorry about that.”
The grandmother with strongly tinted blue-hair smiled back saying, “Thank goodness, I wouldn’t want you to think I was a criminal.” She chuckled nervously. “If it is all right, may I proceed?”
He only heard the first part of the exchange between the agent and the elderly woman. His mind was racing. It felt good to be active and involved as he hurried down the long tiled tunnel toward the gate area. His police instincts kicked in. Once again, he was on the hunt.
The public address system intruded into his consciousness, “Will New York passenger B. Guerrero please proceed to Gate 67 and pick up a white courtesy telephone for a message.” The echo in the terminal died as the announcement was repeated, “New York Passenger B. Guerrero to Gate 67. Please pick up a white courtesy phone.”
Chapter 22
08:05 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
He felt somewhat better, but was still incredibly nervous. Tremors rippled and coursed through his body. His stomach convulsed. Maybe, if he got away from the crowds, he might be able to settle down. Bill ignored the milling crowds as he hurried past Gate 67’s holding area for Flight 100’s waiting passengers. He didn’t notice the enormous Boeing 747 with its proud nose pointed directly toward the terminal windows. All he felt was a compelling need to find privacy. Seclusion might provide a remedy to hide the fear that consumed him. He did not want to fail. He did not want to get caught and end up back to jail.
A sign marked the entrance to the men’s restrooms. He pressed the doors open and entered this impromptu sanctuary. As the bathroom door closed behind him, he thought he heard his name. He froze. How could it be that he heard his name being called? He rejected the possibility, entered a stall, dropped his pants and turned around, “This is crazy, man. Who would be calling me? No one knows I’m here.”
He sat in the cold stall with his pants around his ankles and talked to himself, “Just get on the airplane. Don’t get caught, Fool. Be cool. Wait for the right time. They don’t expect nothing. When the time’s right, hijack the fucking jet. Do it. Go to Cuba. Old Juan will pay the mordida to the Cubans.”
He laughed to himself without conviction. “I’ll be out of prison in a week.” These thoughts terrified him and caused his colon to cramp spasmodically. Deep rippling pains over took him when he thought about Cuban prisons. He wondered if the prisoners in Havana jails would pick him as a new love-slave, like they had in California.
After several painful seconds, the distress passed and he forced himself to leave the stall. He tucked his shirt in his pants and walked over to the sinks. He wet his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. The mirror told it all. He did everything he could in an effort to take his mind off the task ahead of him. He attempted not to think about the hijacking, but his mind kept coming back to the plan.
His sense of despair and shocking fear was amplified when he heard his name called on the public address system, “Passenger Guerrero please come to a white courtesy phone at Gate 67.”
He felt crazy when he spoke out loud to himself, “What if Juan or Joaquin have been caught? What if the police got tortured confessions from them? What if the police were looking for me now? What if the Police and the FBI know who I am? What the hell am I going to do?”
Bill bravely tried to assure himself. “Maybe it was for some other passenger with a name like me.” As that thought crossed his mind, he knew it was no good.
Someone was looking for him. Again the fear ripped at him as he stood motionless in front of the water-spattered mirror. He tried to find an optimistic answer to the puzzle, “Maybe it was a message from Joaquin or Juan to tell me the deal was off.” Panic had fully taken control of him as he breathed very rapid, shallow breaths.
He could not control his breathing and started to feel light-headed. He spoke in tight short panting breaths to the pathetic and frightened face in the mirror, “I’ve got to get out of here. That’s it, I’ll just walk out of here, out of the airport, out of San Francisco.”
Sweat formed on his upper lip, “But, if I quit now, Juan and Joaquin would be in deep shit.”
He knew exactly what he needed to do. Cousin Frank had given him two Valium pills. Good old Frank, the family street-pharmacist. The Valium would help him.
Frantically, he searched his pockets but found nothing. He dropped his black bag to the floor and again patted both front shirt pockets, with the same results. Nothing.
He was not thinking, he could only respond to growing fears.
He was panicked and was reacting to primal instincts. The Valiums were in the bottom of his Nike bag. He ripped open the zipper and plunged his hands past the clothes and into the rubble at the bottom of the bag. The weight and shape of the gun felt odd wrapped in the shirt, socks and underwear. His stomach muscles contracted and a chill coursed down his spine. The sweat on his upper lip coalesced into large blistered bubble of spit while he leaned against the edge of the cold sink porcelain.
He closed his eyes and squeezed his lids so tightly that he felt pain in his temples. His jaws clenched together and he breathed through his teeth.
Finally, he was able to control his breathing rate that slowly tapered off. Bit by bit, the panic and abject fear started to subside. He waited, then shook his head and opened his eyes. He was not prepared for what he saw in the mirror. The reflection showed a person consumed by terror.
With pounding nervous energy, Bill plunged his hand in the bag and again, his hand passed under the lumpy cloth-covered gun. It terrified him. He found what he wanted. He felt the sharp plastic edge of the Valium packets. Quickly he withdrew them, opened his clenched hand, to see each individual yellow 5 mg pill
wrapped in its own clear plastic case. They would soon be his chemical salvation.
He split the container into two pieces and put one of the tablet packets in his shirt pocket. His mind raced, but he was not thinking. On came the water and he ripped open the plastic cover on the single tablet. He formed a cup with his right hand and filled it with water. Bill slammed the tablet into his mouth with his left hand and pressed his water-laden hand to his mouth.
Most of the water ran down his sleeve and splashed on his shirt. The Valium lodged in his throat. Residual dampness, as well as the small amount of water he had managed to swallow, penetrated the micro coating on the tablet. The yellow tablet began to swell. He felt a swelling stickiness and then a sour burning sensation from the disintegrating tablet. The diazepam tasted like bitter almonds as it was absorbed in the soft tissue in his throat. The tablet became a sour immovable chunk stuck above his larynx. Frenzied, he cupped both hands under the water and scooped up as much water as he could.
Carefully and slowly, he raised both hands to his mouth, but still, half the water ran down his arms and into his upturned sleeves. He swallowed what water remained in his cupped hands. The act of swallowing pushed the partially dissolved tablet farther down his throat. Eventually, by repeated swallowing, he was able to breathe. The sour burning sensation and bitter taste would remind him of the events of today. Bill swallowed two final handfuls of water, then ran his wet hands through his black hair. A final look at himself in the mirror proved that he was a mess. The front of his shirt was soaked and water dripped from his sleeves.
Slowly, almost casually, he strolled out of the rest room and turned back toward Gate 67. He knew he had to act natural. He had to appear composed and stable.
To several passengers who saw him, he appeared to be slovenly, anxious and nervous about himself and his surroundings.
The large digital clock behind the boarding gate read 08:18.
A glut of passengers were at the boarding gate, manned by a young oriental agent and his older female supervisor who were methodically checking in passengers as each produced their individual boarding pass.
Half a dozen passengers were ahead of him when he joined the line.
A single male passenger at the head of the line surrendered his boarding card, which identified him as Melvin Shapiro.
Shapiro continued his diatribe with these agents. “I was supposed to have an aisle seat, but your people at the ticket counter screwed up and put me in the middle row. Do you have any aisle seats available?”
“So sorry, Sir. Today, we are very full.” He looked at the computer screen. “Frankly, Mr. Shapiro, there probably will only be a few empty seats on the entire airplane.” He paused and looked at his screen, “But, at this point, I don’t know which section these seats are in. Why don’t you go ahead and take your assigned seat and then see if you can trade with someone once you are on board?”
The young oriental agent consulted his computer screen again, then added, “Really that is the best answer to your problem. After you board, perhaps one of the flight attendants will be able to find a passenger who would be willing to trade seats with you.”
“You dumb Chink, I want my goddamned aisle seat. If I don’t get what I want, I’ll make a scene you’ll never forget.”
Shapiro jumped as was surprised by the voice at his side. “Robert Burns at your service, Mr. Shapiro. I see we meet again. I thought we told you at the counter there were no more seats in the section you wanted. We also told you that you had a choice. Accept what is available, or wait for the next flight.”
Shapiro looked directly at Burns as he forcefully added, “What we didn’t tell you is that we are not going to put up with your rude behavior and insulting attitudes.”
Gently Burns took Shapiro by the arm and led him fifty or sixty feet away from the clot of passengers at boarding gate 67 to a circular seating area, “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
Burns sternly continued his one-sided conversation. “For the last time, what is your decision going to be?”
Shapiro knew things were not going well for him. He listened to Burns, but all he heard was his pulse pounding in his head. He gave Burns no answer.
“This airline will not tolerate your belligerent attitude toward our employees. There’s no reason for you to talk to our people like that. They are only trying to do their job. We have absolutely no tolerance for abusive profanity.”
The unexpected response from Shapiro was swift, short and to the point. “Go screw yourself, you dumb flatfoot. You aren’t even a real cop, you’re just a badge-happy has-been. All you old farts care about is collecting your pension. In fact, they probably won’t even give you a gun, because this airline is afraid you’ll shoot yourself or someone else.”
Burns took a firm grip of Shapiro’s arm. He then quickly, quietly and pointedly led the unruly passenger farther away from the boarding area.
“Keep your clammy mitts off me, you son of a bitch. I’ll have you fired for this.” Burns was not deterred as he led Shapiro back down the corridor, away from the boarding area.
The young oriental agent had been momentarily distracted as he watched the dialogue between Burns and that most unpleasant passenger.
The high level of noise in the rotunda at the end of the tunnel kept him from hearing the end of the conversation, but it looked like Shapiro was not going to New York on 100. The agent directed his attention to the next several passengers in his line.
When flights are overbooked, a simple system is implemented. One boarding agent looks at each passenger’s boarding card and reads the seat number aloud, while his partner draws an “X” through the corresponding box on a seat map. The program took somewhat longer than the computer-automated boarding system. However, it did preclude passengers boarding who did not have a specific seat assignment. This system also kept the number of boarding passengers equal to the number of seats remaining. When all the boxes were filled with individual “X’s”, every seat had been assigned.
Neither agent looked at Bill Guerrero when he filed through with the rest of the passengers. “Seat 55-8. Thank you. Next please.”
He was on his way! It had been so incredibly easy! Euphoria washed over him. He was invincible! He had made it through the security system. His relief overtook his fears. He was actually on his way to board the aircraft.
Slowly and yet strangely, he felt unbeatable. The old longings for power and the need to be in control from his childhood returned. He thought, “Yes. I am so fucking cool and I’m in charge!” He was going to make it. He was going to have it all. All the things that had been denied him were now going to be his. On the Virgin’s grave, he was going to be someone.
Assigned to seat 55-8, he had no perception that because of the escalating drama about seat assignments, Shapiro had become an inadvertent accomplice to the planned hijacking of Flight 100. He also did not understand that part of his euphoria was a result of the five milligrams of Valium he had ingested minutes earlier.
Chapter 23
08:00 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
Stan Kurtz had been in the cockpit for the past fifteen minutes by himself. During that isolated time he started and completed preflight checks and necessary inspections before engine start procedure.
Stan mumbled and talked to himself as he started the Auxiliary Power Unit, “APU DC fuel valves open. APU inlet door’s open. 400+ amps cranking, a good light off, here comes the 600° centigrade degree cut-off on the temperature. Watch it, she’s starting to get hot.”
He opened the APU bleed air valve, checked for proper duct pressure and started the three powerful air conditioning systems. After he established a source of aircraft power and air conditioning, he moved into the left hand seat in the cockpit.
He took a few seconds to savor how that felt to be in the Captain’s seat. This truly was an indelible symbol of a Captain’s power and authority. Stan felt respect and responsibility f
or the position of Captain every time he sat in the left seat.
While seated, he ran a series of system checks. He looked at the primary flight instruments for fail flags. He checked the communication console centered between the Captain and First Officer’s seats. He scanned the Captain’s panel, he looked for lights that should be on, but were not. Conversely, he checked for warning lights that should not be on, but were. He checked the integrity of the safety wire on the Alternate Pneumatic Emergency Brake handle. His inspection included the emergency brake pressure gauge and warning light. No light meant there was adequate pressure. The warning light was not illuminated.
Once again, he savored the feeling he always had when he was in the Captain’s seat. It carried a sense of pride, responsibility and accomplishment. Unfortunately, his access to the Captain’s seat was always temporary; only a few minutes before every flight.
Based on seniority relative to every other pilot with the airline, he started eighteen years ago at the lowest pilot position. He was initially a Flight Engineer on the smallest equipment, the old Boeing 727. He was offered a Flight Engineer promotion to the old rattle-trap DC-8, but would have been based in Chicago; a choice he did not even consider. In seniority order, that vacancy was then offered to the next pilot on the seniority list.
Stan eventually transferred to the obsolete 707 as a Flight Engineer, flying from the pilot domicile in San Francisco. Several years later, he was awarded a San Francisco First Officer, or co-pilot bid on the Boeing 727. That promotion had not lasted too long. One year later he once again found himself back in the Flight Engineer’s seat. He often told people that by the end of his career at age sixty, he probably would have sat in every seat (Captain, First Officer and Second Officer) on every type aircraft the airline operated.
Stan remained in the Captain’s seat and finished the rest of preflight checks, up through the initialization and alignment of the three Delco Electronic Inertial Navigation System platforms. It was crucial that the exact position of the aircraft on the tarmac be loaded in the 3 INS platforms. He took the well-worn Lat/Long sheet from his clipboard, found the coordinates of Gate 67 at San Francisco International Airport and read aloud, “North 37.36.8, West 122.23.1.”
