by C. J. Stott
The line was quiet, except for intermittent static. He continued, “At this stage of the game, all we have is a stowaway. A stowaway who generally fits a minimum-definition hijack profile. I don’t know if he has any plans for 100, but I do know that he is riding with us today, for free.”
“Do you want uz to contact da crew right now or do you want we should wait until they are closer to New York?”
“I don’t care. That’s your call. It doesn’t make a difference. I just want to see flight 100 met by our security people at Kennedy. I assume they will interrogate him and try to collect the fare for the transportation.”
Lazlo Fielding considered the facts. “You did say you were going to call John Batchelor? Why don’t I wait until I hear from him before I contact da crew?”
“That’s fine. I’ll call him right now and ask him to work out the details with you for crew notification.”
“Good.” Fielding’s tone was official and somewhat abrupt. With finality, he said, “Good day, sir.”
“Thanks for the help.” Before Burns could hang up, Fielding broke the connection.
During his eight months with the airline, Burns made an ongoing attempt to meet everyone who was remotely involved with security. One of the few people he had never met face to face was John Batchelor. Both times Burns had been in New York, Batchelor was out of town on business. Batchelor was just a voice on the telephone.
For the second time today, Burns used the company land lines. Thirty-two digits later, he heard a phone ring in New York. On the fifth ring a woman with a strong, nasally Bronx accent, “Security. John Batchelor’s office.”
Her name was Diane and she didn’t look at all like she sounded. Her hardened telephone voice indicated middle-aged matronly woman. In reality, she was twenty seven years old, married with two children. Both times he had met her in New York, Diane had tried her hardest to make him comfortable.
“Hello, Diane, this is Bob Burns. Is your boss in today?”
“Oh. Hello, Mr. Burns. It’s good to hear from you,” she twanged, “John’s right here. Just a second. I’ll get him for you.”
The wait was short, “Hi Bob. How’s the weather out in San Fran? Lots of sunshine?”
“It’s been pretty nice for the past two weeks. A little cold in the mornings, but by noon it’s delightful.”
“I’m sure you didn’t call to discuss the weather. What have you got?”
“Looks like we have a stowaway on Flight 100 from San Francisco. Used a stolen ticket. Since he is going to arrive at your station, you have the pleasure, jurisdiction, authority and responsibility to collar this character.”
Batchelor’s voice changed as he reached for a pencil and wrote “STOWAWAY-FLIGHT 100” on his desk pad, “Give me all the information and we’ll have a little reception for him when he lands here at Kennedy.”
“Name on the ticket is Guerrero, B. Mid-twenties. Latino. Tall, just under six feet. Rather thin, probably one hundred forty pounds or less.”
“Do you know what seat was assigned to him?”
“The agents here thought it was 55-8, but they weren’t certain. Our seat-map computer isn’t on-line yet. I have no way to check, other than to call central reservations.”
“Standby one. I’ll look at it right now.” He waited and heard John quickly enter information into the computer at his side.
“Here he is, Bob. Says seat 8, row 55. No other information for his record locater. His local contact in the bay area is unknown, no telephone contact, either. Says here he bought his ticket from a travel agency. Made his reservations last week.”
“John, there is something else, but I don’t want to alarm you.” Burns carefully chose his words, “Guerrero fits the hijack profile exactly. He meets all the parameters. I had him under loose surveillance this morning. In fact, I followed him out to the boarding area.”
“Interesting.”
“Unfortunately, I got involved with something else and never had the opportunity to interrogate him about his travel plans. I didn’t know until after the flight departed that he was on a stolen ticket.”
“Damn. That changes things considerably.”
“This is your show and if the scene were reversed and he was flying from New York out here, I’d apprehend him, interrogate him and if warranted, arrest him.”
“You’re right, Bob. I’m inclined to do the same thing. Arrest him, that is.”
“Good show. How about putting in a call to Flight Dispatch and alert them to your plans. I’ve already spoken with a fellow named Fielding and he’s waiting for your call.”
Batchelor paused, then said, “I know Fielding. I’ll have him contact the flight crew and advise them having a stowaway on board. I think, just to be safe, I’ll tell them he meets the profile. Then, I’ll call Callahan over at the Port Authority Police at Kennedy and bring them into the loop.”
“Thanks for the assist. If you turn anything on him, let me know. I’ll contact the travel agency and tell them that one of their stolen tickets has surfaced.” He laughed and said, “and that John Batchelor is in hot pursuit.”
From his tone of voice, John was obviously anxious to get off the phone and get on with the surveillance and apprehension of Guerrero. He concluded his conversation by saying, “I hope this passenger’s fitting the profile was just coincidence. If he’s a real hijacker we may never get a chance to talk to him and ding him for the air fare.”
“That’s a chilling thought. Thanks for the help and the information. One of these days, we are going to have to meet face to face. Thanks again, John. ‘Bye.”
“See you around. Next time you’re in New York, we’ll have lunch. I promise. In fact, I’ll buy.”
Before Burns could hang up, Batchelor had broken the connection and had dialed a discrete number for the John F. Kennedy Port Authority Police. While the phone rang, he was looking for a telephone number for Flight Operations Supervisor Fielding.
Chapter 38
15:15 Eastern Standard Time
East of Indianapolis, Indiana
Slowly and blankly, he came out of a restless sleep. He did not know how long he had been asleep. Nor did he know what time it was or how much longer before the flight was over. The safety belt pulled and held him in place. The more he resisted, the more uncomfortable he became.
He was disoriented and felt trapped. A butter-yellow diffused light beat through the closed window shade Carlton had pulled down for him after he had fallen asleep. Impulsively, in an attempt to orient himself, he raised the shade and looked outside. Far below he could only see small white clouds. He was able to see slowly passing green and brown patterns on the terrain. He recognized nothing on the ground.
Disorientation and confusion slowly left him as he became more awake. The seat belt restrained him. He angrily pulled and clawed at the cold metal buckle. When it released, he tossed the belt onto the vacant seat next to him. Once the belt was no longer tethered him to the airplane, he felt more at ease.
Everything appeared normal to the passengers. Some moved around the cabin after the inflight motion picture ended. During the entertainment, Carlton Marsh busied himself in the aft galley. He prepared trays of soft drinks and iced tea for passengers in his cabin. Carlton took two miniatures of rum and a crystal tumbler he had taken from the First Class beverage cart. He kept them on ice in cart, as he waited for Bill to wake up so he could offer him refreshments. During the movie, Carlton checked on him. Bill slept uneasily. To Carlton, it appeared Bill was tormented by dreams or nightmares. He thought Bill’s uneven sleep might be a result of the pill he had taken earlier.
Carlton came forward along left aisle in the cabin, pushing his narrow serving cart. He stopped by each passenger seated on the aisle. Passengers were always the same. They were in a hurry for the flight to end and to get to their individual destinations. Always the same questions, “When do we get to New York?” Or, “How much longer?” Years of flight attendant experience taught him how be respo
nsive in a non-committal way. Without looking at his watch, he knew there was always 1:30 to 1:40 after the movie ended until they landed in at their destination, in this case, New York.
Carlton reached the forward cabin divider in the last zone in coach, the “Main Cabin.” He carefully turned the service cart to cross the ship, and started aft, down the right-hand aisle. To the casual observer his path seemed random. However, to Carlton, his path would allow him to finish his service with Bill who was one of the last passengers in on the right-hand side of the cabin.
His pulse quickened. He exclusively focused on Bill. Time seemed to stop for him as he mustered his courage to press on. He stopped in the aisle next to Bill and attempted to be casual as he nervously reached across the empty seat and lowered the seat-back tray in front of Bill. He placed his arm on the back of Bill’s headrest, leaned close to him, nervously smiled and said, “I have a special treat for you.”
Bill looked up at Carlton’s soft, sad eyes. There was a mild faint odor of onions on Carlton’s breath as he spoke, “I’ve made you a friendship drink. I do hope you like rum and Coke.”
Bill’s voice croaked with dryness as he said, “I don’t care. Anything cold.”
Carlton was dismayed that Bill was not more responsive to his overtures and his carefully orchestrated plan. He reached into the liquor cart and produced a chilled crystal glass, half-filled with ice and dark amber colored rum. Bill took the glass from Carlton, who, with a great fanfare and flourish, added Coca Cola.
“Here’s your Cuba Libre.” To any who might have been watching, it simply appeared that Carlton was refilling a passenger’s glass with a soft drink. Bill felt shock. Fear roared through him when he heard, “Cuba.”
He ignored Carlton as he took a deep pull and let the cold liquid run through his mouth and into his throat. The biting cold felt good. He took another long pull and held his half-empty glass for Carlton to refill.
Carlton took the glass, smiled most enchantingly and said, “Do you want another?” Not waiting for an answer, “I have a second one in the cart.”
Bill was angered by Carlton’s blatant and obvious focus on him. He resented the strong overtures Carlton continued to display. Disgustedly, Bill slammed his head firmly against the headrest, looked out the window, and thought, “If I ignore the asshole, or am mean to him, maybe he’ll go away.”
Bill was a mess. Old and familiar paralyzing fears come over him like a quick moving shadow. He continued to be effected by the paradoxical impact the two Valium had on him. He vacillated between despair and euphoria, languor and nervous energy.
Dimly at first, then like a drumming, hollow echo, came a brilliant answer to his problem. The object of his distant and still-formulating idea came closer, and more clearly into focus.
Carlton.
A trembling sense of clarity slowly swept over Bill when he thought of how he do this. He would use Carlton to do his plan.
Bill smiled and thought, “Maybe, I can do it. Maybe my plan, The Plan, will work after all.”
Chapter 39
15:20 Eastern Standard Time
East of Indianapolis, Indiana
He looked directly at Carlton and half-thought and concurrently half-said, “That’s it. I’ll use you.”
“What did you say?” Carlton had heard exactly what Bill said, but wanted to confirm he had not mistaken about what he perceived to have been said.
“Nothing. I didn’t say nothin’ to you.”
Carlton flirted with Bill and said, “Yes. Oh yes you did. I heard you. I, I think it’s wonderful.”
Bill pressed his back into the seat and again closed his eyes. “That’s what I’ll do. It happened to me in prison, I was used. Now it’s my turn to use someone else.”
Bill opened his eyes again and saw that Carlton was not making any attempts to leave.
He smiled at himself and then at Carlton. He thought, “This is going to be a good day, after all.”
Thinking quickly, Bill said, “I don’t want another drink.” He turned and said, “Paloma, unless you get a drink and sit here with me?” Adding, “You know, we could like, have a drink together.”
Carlton felt himself shaking. He felt little tremors everywhere. These feelings were much like an electric shock to him.
Even as he made the suggestion to Carlton, Bill felt a wave of revulsion flood over him at the thought of Carlton coming on to him.
Carlton was light-headed at the prospect that Bill had actually invited him to share a drink and sit with him. He was hardly able to speak.
He thought, “This was indeed a good sign, a very good sign. Not one to be passed lightly.” Here was a rare opportunity for Carlton to turn another of his fantasies into some form of reality.
He flashed an enormous grin at Bill and said, “It will take me a few minutes to clean up my galley before landing. Wait right here. I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.” He waited, giggled and then added, “Silly me. Where would you go?”
Not wanting Bill to change his mind, with eager anticipation, Carlton said, “I’ll hurry.”
Instinctively, Carlton knew he would be in serious trouble if he sat with Bill and had a drink with him. Drinking while on duty, while in uniform was grounds for immediate dismissal. Fraternization with passengers for sexual advancement was specifically forbidden in the Flight Attendant’s Handbook and the company personnel manual.
Logically, he knew his raging attraction to Bill might result in him losing his job. But, he could not help himself. He had made a quick decision. He abruptly removed his arm from his headrest and took one last look at Bill. “I can’t drink alcohol while I’m on duty. But I’ll come back in a few minutes and sit with you.”
Bill hardly heard what Carlton said. He was deep in thought about his plan. How he could take control of the flight. The plan would work, after all.
He looked at Carlton who had started to move away toward the rear galley. “How much longer is it?” Impatiently and boldly, he added, “Where the hell are we, exactly?”
Carlton stopped and turned toward him, while he carefully considered his response, “I think we are probably (which he pronounced “prolly”) over Ohio or Pennsylvania, “I can call the Captain if you wish and ask him.”
Carlton looked at his jewel-encrusted watch and said, “We only have about an hour and a half to go.” Carlton took a deep breath, then timidly added, “As far as, ‘How much longer is it’ we have as much time as you want to spend.”
Again, Bill ignored the sexual double-talk and started to run what few ideas through his mind. He thought to himself in Spanish, “Si tenemos menos de dos horas, es mejor que me mi culo en movimiento” If we have two hours, I better get my ass moving.”
Carlton saw Bill’s lips moving, but could not hear him and asked, “What did you say, lover?” Adding, “Were you talking to me?” He smiled and added, “I hope so.”
Bill looked at him as he stood there balanced, poised and waiting for his response, “No. I wasn’t talking to you. I guess I was like just sort of talking to myself.”
Confusion overtook Carlton and he didn’t know what to say or do. He wasn’t certain whether to stay by Bill’s seat, or return to the galley area. He was sexually intrigued. He was on the hunt. He did not want to do or say anything that would terminate this fragile encounter and what he hoped to be a budding relationship.
Bill panicked as he looked at Carlton and then said, “Hurry back. I have something I want to show you.”
“Hurry back!” The words were like a siren’s song to him. His pulse pounded in his head. He tried to speak, but could only smile and make a tight whimpering sound in his throat.
Carlton thought he was surely on the path to yet another new and successful encounter; a trophy that was soon to be collected. His potential lover had given him a direct command. He had actually said, “Hurry Back!” Explicit words called for explicit action.
In a sweeping motion, he pushed the heavy beverage cart down the aisl
e and into the aft galley. He was oblivious to passengers who looked at him as he quickly pushed the cart into the galley.
Bill’s mind skipped and vividly raced as he began to put the plan into motion. His thoughts were constantly shattered by interfering and gnawing thoughts of failure. These thoughts were followed by a vibrant sense he would succeed. Emotionally, he felt like he was on a Merry-go-Round. Up then down, the back up again. Round and round. Up and down. Forcefully and dramatically, Bill decided the time had come.
No turning back.
He must act quickly.
He would use Carlton as his accomplice. Carlton would have no choice but to follow Bill’s directions and help him hijack this airplane.
Chapter 40
15:30 Eastern Standard Time
Miami International Airport
Juan Guerrero was nervous. There were a growing number of things that didn’t make sense to him. He did not understand much of what was happening. He understood even less about what was not happening.
Important things. Events that might, or might not, be important.
He couldn’t tell. He just didn’t know. He thought they had had a timetable to be followed, such as it was. He had made the planned telephone call from the lobby of the main terminal to learn if 100 had departed San Francisco on time.
The reservation agent had trouble finding the information because 100 did not go to Havana. It operated between San Francisco and New York. Another mistake. He forgot the flight was supposed to go to New York. Was that important? What difference did it make? He could not decide.
After the call, the agent in the Denver call center happened to mention it to her supervisor during a break, “We sure do get the weirdo’s.
“I just had a call from some dumb-ass Puerto Rican who wanted to know if 100 left San Francisco on time. Then he wanted to know what time it was going to land in Havana.”
