by C. J. Stott
Harold slowly and intentionally turned toward an unmarked and closed door, knocked and heard the one-word invitation. “Come.”
He entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him. Several seconds later, he emerged with a snap ring which contained forty or fifty keys. He carefully selected the proper key. With a flourish he unlocked the metal bar that locked all the agents’ cash drawers. Harold retrieved his cash drawer from the morning shift and then carefully snapped the self-locking metal bar.
He walked away from the safe. He stepped toward his supervisor’s office door, knocked and again heard the monosyllabic invitation. “Come.”
Harold disappeared into the supervisor’s office to quickly return the keys. After only a second or two, he returned to the agent’s lounge as the supervisor’s door silently shut behind him.
Burns sat at sturdy square table in the center of the room. He cleared enough clutter into the trash to make room for Harold to put down his own agent’s strongbox. Harold looked at Burns and saw kindly blue eyes with a twinkle of humor. People who knew of his reputation said Burns had been a tough and thorough cop. Now, Harold suspected that even though he was retired, he was still tough.
Burns’ demeanor tended to put people at ease by his grandfatherly, quiet retired attitude. He looked as though he might have retired from a Midwest manufacturing plant, or perhaps from a job as a shoe salesman at Nordstrom’s.
While Harold visually evaluated Burns he continued to gaze around the room. When he was satisfied that no one was looking, he cupped his left hand and quickly turned the combination dial on the strong box.
The lock opened and Harold lifted the lid to the large grey steel box. Inside Bob saw several loose ball point pens. He also recognized large manila envelope, with a red and black dashed border, that read, REVENUE ACCOUNTING - DO NOT DELAY.
The front of the envelope was a grid of squares, on which Harold had written pertinent information regarding the tickets enclosed therein, Date, Ticket Count, Total Revenue and finally, Harold’s last name, first initial and payroll number.
The envelope was sealed. Again, Harold quickly glanced around the room. The other 3 agents were not paying the least attention to either Harold or Burns.
Harold took the glued flap, pulled it from the back of the envelope, up-ended it and unceremoniously dumped the contents on the tabletop. Burns saw the used flight coupons, separated by individual flight numbers, wrapped with several rubber bands. He also saw a smaller sealed envelope that he presumed contained the cash and credit card vouchers for today’s sales. Stapled to the cash envelope was an accounting form that recorded Harold’s transactions for the morning shift. Burns also noticed several tickets which had heavy parallel diagonal lines drawn on the face of each used flight coupon.
For the first time since he and Burns had been together, Harold spoke without being spoken to, “Who are you looking for? “What was his name? “Uhm. Let’s see. Oh yes, Shapiro.”
A brief smile crossed Bob’s face when he considered that he was not the only one who was mislead by Shapiro.
“Actually no. Shapiro was denied boarding. He took his business to American Airlines. I’m looking for Guerrero. He’s the one I’m interested in. Remember, you paged him for me?
In a withering and sarcastic tone Harold said, “Sure. Oh sure, I do.” Harold looked at Burns through his thick glasses. “I only processed about eight hundred passengers this morning.
He shook his head at the incredible amount of work he accomplished every day. He gratuitously continued to educate Burns, “The only passenger I remember was that idiot Shapiro.” After a second or two, Harold reconsidered, “Now that I think about it, I guess I sort of remember paging someone for you, but that’s all.”
From his experience with witnesses, Burns wanted to help Harold remember much more about Guerrero. But for time being, he just wanted to take a look at Guerrero’s ticket.
“Can you get me his ticket?”
Harold picked up the stack of banded flight coupons, his hands the same red color as the backs of most of the tickets. With a practiced hand, Harold fanned through the stock of several hundred tickets. With a half-hearted flourish, Harold stopped the fan and reached in the jumble, from which he produced one flight coupon, “Here you are. B. Guerrero, to New York. One way.”
Slowly and carefully, Burns examined the ticket. Hand written in black ink, one way to New York. The other three remaining flight leg boxes were blank.
He handed the ticket back to Harold and said, “If you were to write this ticket, would it look like this?”
Harold casually glanced at the ticket. A slight frown creased his brow. He looked quizzical, then concerned and finally, quite alarmed.
“There are several things wrong with this ticket. It was validated by TWA at the airport in Phoenix. But the passenger traveled from San Francisco to New York. That’s not too unusual, except it is American Airlines Travel Agent Ticket stock and should have only been validated by the travel agent, or American Airlines.” He paused a couple of seconds, “But, never by TWA. By all rights, TWA probably has never seen this ticket.”
Burns looked at Harold with newly found admiration, “How can you tell?”
“Well, if American had written this ticket at an Airport or City Ticket Office, it would have American’s ticket stock numbers along the bottom.”
“However, as I said before, this was written on American Agent travel agent stock. Those are the blank tickets American issues to its travel agents.”
Burns was following the conversation as it went, but still did not fully understand the significance of what Harold was saying.
Harold continued, “And one more thing, no agent would ever write a one way ticket on 4 leg stock and leave the last 3 legs blank.”
“Why not?
“The passenger could write any destination in the last 3 coupons and the agency would be liable for the uncollected fare.”
Thinking as he spoke, he said, “Harold, I need a photocopy of this ticket. Make that two, please. And next, I need to talk to American about this ticket. I think it might be stolen. What do you think?”
Harold was slow to answer. He was fearful that if he agreed that the ticket was stolen, that somehow he would be involved, implicated or worse, blamed, “I don’t know, Sir. There are a lot of things wrong with the ticket. But I don’t know if I could say it was stolen.”
Burns carefully considered what Harold said, stood up and smiled at Harold, “You have been a great help and I’m going to commend you to your supervisor. Why don’t we go in and talk to him?”
Harold felt a genuine gripping uneasiness about the sudden turn in how this conversation was going. He hated to have attention drawn to himself and did not want a commendation. He just wanted to get through this day, the next day, next year and then retire with the $267,450.69 he had slowly, carefully and painstakingly removed from the airline during his 23 years as an agent.
“Tell you what, Mr. Burns, he’s busy right now. Why don’t you forget the praise. He knows who is doing a good job and who isn’t.”
“Suit yourself. Your modesty is commendable, but I don’t mind waiting a few minutes to see your boss.
“However, if you’d rather I not do that, I’ll respect your wishes.” Actually, Burns did not want to wait for Harold’s supervisor, he wanted to get moving. He had a passenger who fit the security profile of a hijacker. He now had compelling evidence that he probably had used a stolen ticket. At a minimum, the man was a stowaway.
Harold considered how neatly he diverted Burns from his supervisor and quickly stood up, “Thanks for the offer. But if you don’t mind, I’ll just make your copies and let you be on your way.”
Both men shook hands, as Burns said, “Thank you for your assistance and cooperation. I’ll have my secretary drop your supervisor a note commending you for your help.”
“Not necessary. But, thank you anyway.” Harold thought a note would be perfect, never hur
t to have a letter of commendation.
Bob looked at his watch, which indicated 9:54 and mused, “Not too bad of a day. I’ve been at work just over two hours.” Smiling, he added, “So far, I have denied boarding to a harmless, but obnoxious passenger. Only to turn around and let a stowaway, who fits the hijacker profile slip past.”
Chapter 34
10:40 Mountain Standard Time
Northeast of Denver, Colorado
In the spring of each year the predominant direction of the jet stream in the northern hemisphere generally is from west to east. This meandering stream of high-speed wind is controlled by high-pressure bubbles and low-pressure troughs in the upper atmosphere. Today, the jet stream entered the United States well north of Seattle, then proceeded almost directly over Denver, northeast to Chicago. From Lake Michigan the jet curved south over Pittsburgh to Washington, D.C. and then turned out to sea.
Being three dimensional, the wandering wind also changed altitude and was generally defined by the upper limit or height of the troposphere.
Flight 100 leveled off and cruised at an altitude of thirty-seven thousand feet. In the parlance of pilots and air traffic controllers, they were “Level at 370.” Her environmental envelope was affected by today’s tropopause, a thin transitional layer between the stratosphere and the troposphere at thirty-six thousand feet.
Predictably, the air in the tropopause was not temperature stable. Warmer air being less dense than cool air directly affected the lift generated by the 747’s wings. The result, as felt by crew and passengers alike, was a rough, punctuated and choppy ride.
The chop was significant and all three pilots could hear the airframe go through minor flexing caused by these strong and sudden changes in compressional loads on the wings. Stan sensed and felt one particularly strong jolt. He heard the muffled “humph” caused as the wing spar unloading the stress imposed by changing air density. Several moments passed. All on board the 747 were uncomfortable by these rapidly sequenced vertical shifts in wind and temperature.
Ponderously, the 747 flew through an unstable mass of air that resulted in a short staccato series of choppy air strong enough to bounce Stan’s steel rimmed glasses down to the tip of his nose. He impatiently pressed them back in place, only to have them pushed down by the next encounter. Stan knew if the Captain reduced the aircraft’s speed by twenty or thirty knots - to the Boeing-determined Turbulence Penetration Speed, the ride would improve. At lower airspeeds the 747’s semi-flexible wings could more slowly unload the stresses placed on them.
After another series of sharp jabs, Stan could stand it no longer, “What do you think, Don. You want to skin ‘em back to turbulence penetration speed?”
“I don’t know, I keep thinking that we are going to run out of this chop any minute.” He no sooner said that, then the 747 juddered again.
“Fred, call the center and ask them for any ride reports in the area.”
Stan said to no one in particular, “You know, if this chop is from being at the edge of the ‘trop,’ we could be in this stuff for the next fifty or a hundred miles.”
Don said, “Yeah, I know. But, I still think it might be associated with a mountain wave.”
“I don’t think so, Don. I’ve been watching the temperature and the last fifteen minutes, the Outside Air Temperature has warmed up about 4°. That sounds like we’ve flying in the bottom of the ‘trop.’“
Fred felt as though he was caught in the middle, he wanted to comply with Don’s wishes and certainly didn’t want to second guess him. The nose of the 747 wallowed several degrees to the left and then the whole length of the fuselage was angrily shaken.
Fred waited no longer, “Hey, Denver. 100 here at 370.” No immediate response came from the air traffic controller at Denver Air Route Traffic Control Center, located in Aurora, Colorado.
He continued, “We need some Federal Aid. Do you have any ride reports in your sector? We are getting banged around pretty good.”
“Roger, 100. Understand. What are your flight conditions?”
Without thinking, Fred said, “Well, we have little white caps on the coffee. We’re in the clear. No clouds. Just a lot of bumpy air.”
As Fred said, “air” the aircraft entered another micro-pocket of unstable air.
Everyone on board Flight 100 had an uncomfortable sensation of feeling their heads, hands, arms and legs suddenly feel heavy. An increase in ‘G’ loads, or apparent gravitational pull, caused by the aircraft’s nose pitching up.
All heard and felt the second Whumph.
Stan said, “Come on Don, what do you say? Let’s slow this turkey down to turbulence penetration speed and give the folks in the back a better ride.” Without saying anything, Stan dialed in 65° on the cabin temperature selector. He knew that passengers are less susceptible to air sickness if the cabin air temperature is kept cool.
Don ignored Stan’s suggestion.
Seven or eight sharp jolts were felt throughout the aircraft. Pitching movements were felt most strongly in the tail and in the cockpit. Aerodynamic physics were similar to being on a teeter-totter. The ride near the fulcrum was much less abrupt than at either end of the board.
Another thud, “Whump.”
Fred felt the restraint of his seat belt against his legs and stomach. His seatbelt harnesses pulled at his chest and shoulders.
He was uncomfortable. He waited until he could stand it no longer, “Aw, horseshit. Don! Let’s slow this son of a bitch down. There’s no goddamned reason to be running at Mach .85 banging our brains out in this kind of unstable air.”
Fred had no regrets about his speaking out to the Captain. After all, hadn’t Don made the ritual speech about “being new on the airplane and needing all the help he could get....”
Don looked at Fred, then back at Stan, but made no attempt to reduce the airspeed.
The three pilots sat in the choppy air for another two or three minutes. Not a word was said. The ride had not improved at all. Don reached for the public address system and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain. I apologize for the bumpy ride. We are in contact with the controllers on the ground and are looking for a smoother altitude.”
The aircraft flew through another series of short, choppy and energetic masses of unstable air. Throughout the cabin, the passengers’ reactions were all the same, an involuntary gasp and a tightened grip on whatever was close at hand.
Don continued with his announcement, “I would like to ask our Flight Attendants to take the nearest empty seat. I don’t think this is going to last too much longer. For the time being, folks, I want everybody in the cabin to remain seated, with their seat belts firmly fastened.”
The Denver Center called. “100, a United flight at 370 is about a 125 miles ahead. They have the same chop as you are experiencing since they left Denver. Based on that information, it doesn’t look too good for you.”
At 490 knots, just over 600 miles per hour, it would take Don’s aircraft over twenty minutes to reach the same position of the United aircraft. Even with that information, there still was no promise the ride would improve.
To all three pilots, there were only two answers. Look for a smoother altitude and/or slow to turbulence penetration speed.
Neither Stan nor Fred could remember flying with a Captain who refused to reduce airspeed when they encountered moderate turbulence. It almost seemed as though Don was maintaining this speed just because Fred and Stan had suggested he pull the power back to the recommended turbulence speed.
“Fred, ask ‘em if they have any ride reports at 330.” Don looked back at Stan. “We’re too heavy for 410, right?”
“That extra fuel did us in. We won’t be light enough to climb to 410 for over two hours.” Stan voice bounced as the 747 continued to slog eastward in the unstable air.
Fred grabbed his microphone and said, “Denver, this is 100 again. We hope you have some good news for us. We would like to find out about the ride reports at 330. If the r
ide’s okay, we would like to descend to 330.”
“100, Denver Center. Do you want to go to 330 now?”
Don felt like he was going to explode at his First Officer. He could not just do anything he was told. He just had to make a joke of everything.
Don angrily picked up his microphone, glared at Fred, “No Denver. Right now, we just want to know what the ride reports are at 330. If others are getting a better ride, then we’d like to request 330.”
“Roger roger, 100. Got it. Stand by.”
Fred said, “That’s one of the best things I do best is to stand by.”
A thickening and oppressive curtain of tension again descended over the cockpit. Stan busied himself with recording various aircraft parameters and readings on his work sheets as the turbulence continued.
“Flight 100, a TWA L-1011 is about thirty miles ahead of you at 330, reports their ride is fine. He was also at 370 and descended about fifteen minutes ago. What do you want? You want to go to 330?”
Fred and Don both reached for their microphones at the same time. Both said in unison, “Fine, yes that will be fine. We’d like 330.” Electronically, both pilots cancelled each other out. Fred looked at Don and smiled.
Don looked at what he perceived to be a real hazard to aviation, his copilot, and said, “I’ve got it.”
The ATC facility at Denver called, “Flight 100, you were blocked. Say again.”
Don said in a clipped tone, “Denver, this is Flight 100. We’d like to descend to 330.” Another angry jolt hit the airframe, “Now.”
“No problem 100. Descend to Flight Level 330 and report reaching.”
Chapter 35
11:00 Mountain Standard Time
East of Denver, Colorado
The autopilot had done a moderately good job of maintaining altitude during the turbulence - within one hundred feet of the selected altitude. When sustained turbulence is encountered, 747 autopilots often will fly an aircraft into an ‘out of trim’ condition. When the autopilot is disconnected, or the Altitude Hold is disengaged, the instantaneous lack of input from the autopilot computer will cause the aircraft to pitch or buck. During the twenty minutes 100 had flown through unstable air the autopilot had significantly loaded up, to the point it was seriously out of trim.
