by C. J. Stott
Experienced 747 pilots know better than to disconnect the Altitude Hold without first neutralizing the Auto Pilot trim. Don reached up and disengaged the Altitude Hold switch on the “A” autopilot. Out of the corner of his eye, Fred saw Don’s hand reach for the Altitude Hold switch, but before Fred could say anything, the deed was done.
The nose of the 747 abruptly pitched down. At 600 miles per hour, a rapid 1° change in pitch will result in swift and dynamic change in the gravitational force placed on the aircraft. Every passenger suddenly felt as though they were in an elevator that had without warning rocketed them toward the roof of a skyscraper as they were slammed into their seats.
Don swore under his breath as he disconnected the “A” autopilot. That triggered the 747’s aural warning, a wailer. He silenced the warning horn by pressing the autopilot disconnect button again. With a firm grasp on the controls, he increased the back pressure on the control column. He overshot slightly. Now, passengers who had felt very light. Each felt their seatbelt restrain them as they started to lift off their seat cushions.
Fred looked at Don, laughed and said, “Whooo-Whee-e-e, Daddy. That was fun. An “E” ticket at Disneyland. Can I go on the roller coaster again?”
Don could not help but smile at the analogy between the pitch over and a ride at the amusement park.
Fred picked up his mike, “Denver. 100 here. We’re out of 370, on our way to 330. We’ll call you level at 33.”
Twenty minutes earlier, the invisible turbulence had started. Now, just as suddenly, it stopped. The aircraft’s ride completely smoothed out. No more chop, pitching oscillations or abrupt changes.
Fred looked back at Stan, “What a guy. Most Captains wouldn’t have been able to handle a problem like this. He’s magic. I can see the headlines now, ‘Jet Pilot saves Giant 747 from killer air pockets.’“
Don let the 747 settle toward its selected altitude of 33,000 feet at a rate of 3,000 feet per minute. Twenty-five seconds later, Don lightly raised the nose to the horizon. The altimeter slowly unwound and the vertical speed indicator gradually changed from 3,000 feet per minute to less than 100 feet per minute change in altitude.
After Don leveled the 747 at 33,000 feet, he re-engaged the autopilot. Satisfied with the autopilot’s performance, he flipped on the Altitude Hold lever ON. A green light confirmed the autopilot knew it was to hold the aircraft at this chosen altitude. Fred remembered the center’s request and said, “Denver, 100. Well, we did it. We made it all the way to 330. The ride smoothed out at about 35.5.”
Don turned in his seat and said, “Stan, tell the gals they can get up and resume their cabin service.” As an afterthought, “And apologize for the ride back there. Tell them that sometimes we can’t accurately predict what the ride is going to be like.”
Stan took the public address system handset, pressed the “PA” button twice, heard the anticipated click and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is one of your pilots. We believe the unstable air is behind us and think we’ll have a smooth ride for the rest of our trip to New York. Our Flight Attendants can now resume their cabin service. Again, we’d like to apologize about the bumps back there. Sometimes, we just don’t know they’re coming our way. Flights ahead of us have reported smooth air.”
He paused, “As a matter of practice, keep your seat belts loosely fastened just in case we do encounter any more unexpected turbulence. Thank you for your cooperation.”
He hung up the handset and said, “The cabin’s been told it’s ok to resume their service. I also apologized for the unexpected chop.”
“Thanks, Stan.” Don said and then sat quietly for several minutes. Both Fred and Stan gain could feel the tension start to increase. It filled the cockpit like a morning mist.
Without warning, as though he had come to some resolution, Don turned in his seat and looked at Fred. In a calm and measured voice he said, “Fred, I don’t want to tell you again, clean up your act. I don’t like frivolity and lack of attention in the cockpit.”
Fred pulled himself up in his seat. He sat with his back erect against the lumbar support in the chair and stared straight ahead. Next, he looked out the side cockpit window.
From this vantage point, he could see over one hundred miles in a 270° arc. He thought he would love to be anywhere he could see, rather than here with this strange pilot. He didn’t know how to react. All he could do was solemnly say, “Right. You’re the Captain. Whatever you say.”
Chapter 36
11:15 Central Standard Time
East of Denver, Colorado
A roaring and choking sound awakened Bill. Though drugged, he eventually realized the sound was his own snoring. The two Valium he ingested had taken their toll.
Bill’s reaction to the Valium continued to be clinically abnormal. The Valium depressed him, but also made him feel paranoid about those around him. He was confused, but at the same time, ambivalent.
Though he was partially awake and knew he should be doing something, he could not clearly focus on what it was he supposed to do. He knew he was on the airplane. He knew he was supposed to hijack it. Yet, mentally, he was unable to decide what to do. He had no idea of how to go about it. His mind was filled with confusing images and thoughts.
Unintentionally, he slipped back into the safe and comfortable escape of sleep. He dreamed an attractive young woman was sitting next to him. She made it very clear that she was attracted to him. In his dream, she boldly took his hand and placed in her lap. Then, strangely, the Maricón moved her to another seat and he was alone.
Bill drifted in and out. Suddenly, he felt very heavy. He could not hold his chin off his chest. His arms were weighed down as they pressed against the blue and red vinyl armrests. In his sleep, he had crossed his feet, now the weight of one foot on the other immobilized him. Heavy pressures forced his shoes into the carpet, so much so that he was unable to move his feet. Waves of fear took control of him. The terror quickly transformed to anger. Once again, he tried to raise his right arm. It felt like he had a fifty-pound weight on the back of his hand. The cords in the back of his neck were stretched from his head being forced onto his chest. It felt like an enormous hand was pressing him downward into the seat.
To him, the heavy weight lasted for a long time. He was a prisoner to this pressure that held him down. An unusual side effect of the Valium was a complete lack of comprehension of time. He had no sense of what time it was, how long he had been in the airplane or even if it was day or night. He could not remember ever having been without this pressing weight.
As quickly as the weight had pressed down on his head, body arms and hands, it was gone. Now he rose above most of the passengers. His feet untangled. He gradually felt himself come up and out of his seat. The elevation lasted long enough for him to see the entire length of his zone in the aft cabin. He saw most of the passengers’ heads in front of him move in unison. They all tilted to the left and then immediately to the right, as the aircraft oscillated and rolled around its longitudinal axis.
A firm, loud and authoritarian voice spoke directly to him. He thought the voice had picked him out of the crowd. The pilot was talking only to him in a very powerful and deliberate voice.
He worried, “The voice knows about me and the plan. Maybe this was the end. They are going to discover me.”
The commanding voice said, “Fasten your seat belts… sorry for the bumpy ride… out of this soon.”
He was relieved, “The voice only wanted me to put on my seat belt.” The effect of the Valium made him wonder, “How did the pilot know I didn’t have my seat belt on?”
An incredibly powerful urge swept through him. If he could just close his eyes and never wake up again, that would be good. He wanted to be left alone. Just to go to sleep. Sleep and privacy. A safe place to be. No risk. No fear.
Contrary to his wish, however, he now was wide awake. The aircraft shuddered. There were metallic buzzing sounds he could hear when he put his head against the seat back.
He was afraid to move. He was afraid he would hurt himself or the airplane if he touched anything.
Several rapid jolts shook the 747 that weighed over seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds. The Boeing was being shaken like a toy in the mouth of a playful puppy. His armpits were wet and he could feel his sweat running down his sides. The belt loops on his pants were now wet. He had a very unpleasant taste in his mouth. His face felt warm and he was breathing in faltering breaths. His face was soaked and his skin felt a sticky between his shoulders. He was sweating all over.
Again, he became aware of the loud voice, “Flight Attendants… any available seat near… at the same time I want everyone in their seats… won’t last too...thank you.”
Carlton had been busy in the aft cabin, preparing for meals that were about to be delivered from the lower galley. While he waited, he prepared extra coffee, made a pot of hot tea and filled two other coffee pots with ice and water.
The chimes sounded from the lower galley.
He answered, “E zone.”
She spoke quickly, efficiently and directly. “Carlton, Honey, this is Roz. My friend, I am going to start sending food carts up your way in a couple of minutes. I’d appreciate you getting them out of the lift as soon as they come up, so I can get the rest of these up and out in the cabin.”
Carlton smiled and said, “Why yes, Roz. Just give me a little ring when you send them up and I’ll rush right to the lifts. I’m all alone back here, but I’ll do the best I can.”
“I’m sure you will, Sweetie.”
He smiled. She laughed, “You always do such a good job, Honey.”
The ride in the tail section of the aircraft was awful. Several people got airsick and the sour smell of vomit made others feel queasy. The turbulence and the sickening parmesan cheese smell made many passengers feel nauseous.
The floor dropped beneath Carlton and he grabbed the side of the stainless steel serving counter. Abruptly, the floor came up to meet him and he felt like he weighed 350 pounds, not his normal 170. He could hear galley equipment banging. One of the food carts started to tip over. The mushroom-lock in the floor held the cart upright, but the door opened and twenty meals dumped on the floor.
The fuselage conformation was such there was a terrible air noise in the aft galleys. Carlton could only hear bit and pieces of the public address announcement being broadcast throughout the cabin.
He noticed the Fasten Seat Belt sign flash and then stay on. He just started to move toward the cabin, when his chime again rang three times, “E zone, Carlton.”
“Carlton, this is Roz. It’s a bitch down here. I’m getting banged around pretty good.”
Carlton could not resist, “Roz, I love it when you talk about getting banged. Tell me, was it good for you?”
She ignored Carlton’s poor attempt at a sexual joke. “I’m going to come on up. The meals will have to wait.”
The meal service started in E zone. If Roz was going to delay sending his meals up, then the entire cabin would have to wait.
“You probably ought to tell Amelio about the delay in the service, Roz.”
“Listen, if Amelio wants to worry about the frickin’ meals, he can just hustle his buns down here in the pit and do the work himself. I don’t think it’s safe down here in all the bumpy air.”
Carlton hung up his handset and decided to check on passengers in his section. Secretly, he enjoyed checking seat belts. Once in a great while, he would be rewarded by finding a male passenger who welcomed the attention.
He carefully walked toward the front of his section, taking a firm hold on the two seat backs on either side of the aisle as he walked. He was two rows behind Bill when he heard the public address announcement, “… ask our Flight Attendants to take the nearest empty seat.”
Carlton could hardly contain himself. This was, indeed, directed by fate. He was only too happy to follow the Captain’s orders. He took two long strides and found himself adjacent to Bill’s seat. He moved quickly against the shuddering and pitching aircraft and dropped into the vacant seat next to Bill. He pulled the two halves of the seat belt across his lap, and firmly engaged the lock. Through his slacks he could feel the coldness of the metal buckle.
Fate had brought Carlton here to be with Bill in this time and place. Slowly, provocatively and protectively Carlton looked over at him. Bill was diaphoretic and an ashen gray-green color. His hair was wet through and through. There was an overpowering smell of damp fear mixed with his perspiration.
Carlton reached out and put his hand on Bill’s arm saying, “You’ll be okay in a few minutes. Some of these air pockets are a real bitch, but they never last that long.”
He gave Bill a little squeeze on the arm and continued, “I’ve seen it much worse than this.”
Bill knew someone was talking to him. The person’s voice sounded like it was coming to him on a bad telephone, like the phones when he was a child in Cuba.
The voice tried to comfort him and he became aware of a new pressure on his left arm. Bill had not consciously realized it, but his eyes were tightly shut. He forced himself to try to force them open, but they refused.
When Bill turned his head to the left, he felt the wet spot on the seat back where his head had been. With great effort, he was able to open his eyes and found that he was looking directly into Carlton’s dark and forlorn eyes.
The Maricón’s attention repulsed him. Not only did he sit next to him, he was touching him. He tried to remove his arm from under Carlton’s hand, but his arm felt like it was made of lead. He commanded his body to respond, but nothing happened. He didn’t know his lethargy was from the Valium, compounded from the g-loads associated with the turbulence through which they were flying.
Carlton continued, “You look much better. And as soon as the Captain says we can get up, I’ll get you a cool cloth. Do you think you need something for your stomach, maybe some Coke or ginger ale?” When Carlton said “Coke,” he snickered at what he hoped would be their private joke.
Confusion washed over Bill. He knew he had to get away from this fag. Then, dimly, he recalled thinking there might have a way to use Carlton to assist him with the plan.
Chapter 37
11:20 Pacific Standard Time
San Francisco International Airport
Robert Burns opened the private company phone directory and found the number for Kennedy (JFK) Flight Dispatch. He dialed the thirty-two digit number that included Fielding’s extension.
The phone rang three times when he heard a young woman’s voice, “Flight Dispatch. Meriwether.”
“Yes. I’m Robert Burns, Head of Airport Security here at the San Francisco station. Is Mr. Fielding in today?”
“Just a moment, sir. Let me check and see if he’s available.” He could hear her whispering, “It’s the head of Security in San Fran. I think he said his name was Burr. What shall I tell him? He said he wants to talk to you.”
There was a rustling as the phone changed hands, “Yes, Mr. Burr. What can I do to help you with?”
Burns instinctively corrected the mispronunciation of his last name, “It’s Burns, Robert Burns, Airport Security in San Francisco. We have a passenger on Flight 100 today who was boarded with a stolen ticket. We would like to have you contact the flight and advise them he is on board. The passenger’s name on the ticket is ‘B. Guerrero.’“
Lazlo’s mild German accent became more pronounced, “Do you know anything else about him?”
“Actually, we know little about him, other than we think he was on a ticket stolen from a travel agency in the Phoenix area. We don’t know if he stole the ticket, or if he bought it from a third party.”
Fielding picked up the pace of the conversation, “We certainly can get in touch with Flight 100 by radio.”
Burns heard Fielding cough then said, “That sounds awful. Do you have a cold?”
Fielding crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. He deluded both of them saying, “Yes, I’m just getting over o
ne.”
Burns said, “This stowaway probably belongs in John Batchelor’s shop. The flight is going to land at Kennedy and I’m going to call him when we finish here. I want this Guerrero character apprehended.”
Lazlo spoke quickly, his German accent thickening, “Do you know the zeet number? Do you haff any information on him? Description, height or weight?”
Bob recalled the scene at the ticket counter, “I saw him this morning and I’d say he was 5’11”, or maybe 6’0” and quite thin. Probably does not weigh more than one hundred thirty or forty pounds. He is a Mexican or Latino type, with the longer hair, poor complexion and bad skin color. He looked pale, sort of a pasty pallor. He was wearing a dark shirt, khaki pants and black shoes. He was carrying one of those small athletic training bags. As I recall, it said Adidas or Nike on the outside.” Thinking hard, he said, “Black, I think.”
Fielding interrupted him, saying, “Not so fast, I’m trying to copy zis down, so ve can gif it to da crew.”
Burns waited thirty or forty seconds before he continued, “He was alone. He seemed quite nervous. And he...”
Lazlo interrupted, “Do you think this Gaggero is dangerous?”
Instinctively, once again, Burns corrected Fielding, “That’s Guerrero, not Gaggero,” He considered telling the dispatcher about the hijacker profile, but then stopped. He did not want to cause a false alarm.
Burns considered his response and selected his words carefully, “Well, now that you ask, Guerrero did fit most of the parameters of our hijack profile.”
