Hijacking of Flight 100: Terror at 600 miles per hour

by C. J. Stott

  Fielding picked up the telephone, but then put it down. He waited, and then picked it up again, but paused. With a sigh of resignation, he replaced the phone in the cradle. He looked around his desk for his cigarettes, but could find none. He patted his shirt pocket. Empty.

  Again he picked up the telephone, paused several seconds. He knew the chain of command. He also knew what the consequences would most likely would happen if he went over the head of the duty officer.

  Slowly, he came to the realization there was no real choice to be made. He was going to willfully disregard his immediate supervisor’s instructions. For that, he certainly could be castigated, probably reprimanded, or perhaps, even terminated. To him, none of that mattered. There was a flight in trouble, and he had information which might be helpful to the pilots and passengers on 100. With Germanic stubbornness he said to his computer screen, “To hell mit da office politics around here. We’re going to help 100 any way possible.”

  Chapter 59

  18:50 Eastern Standard Time

  John F. Kennedy International Airport

  He held the phone under his chin and turned the desktop Rolodex to the number he wanted. He took a deep breath and dialed. There was no answer. He called again and let the phone rang over twenty times. Still, there was no answer.

  Lazlo flipped through the index with his nicotine-stained finger until he found another number and quickly dialed. The phone rang three times and an authoritative female voice said, “Federal Aviation Administration, Anti-Terrorist Unit.”

  Frankfurt Lazlo Fielding looked into the duty officer’s cubicle across the room and could only see the back of his manager’s head. The voice on the other end of the phone repeated the greeting, “This is the FAA Anti-Terrorist Unit. May I help you?”

  Lazlo took a deep breath, coughed and said, “This is Lazlo Fielding, Senior Dispatcher with...” His voice was stopped by a heaving cough. Slowly, he continued, “One of our aircraft, Flight 100 has been hijacked. We think probably to Cuba. We were in contact with the flight before the hijack started. Apparently, there has been a demand to go to Havana. We believe the hijacker is armed and that he has taken at least one cabin attendant hostage. We also. .

  The long distance, southern-accented, female voice said, “Whoa. Whoa there, Sir. Wait just a minute. Let me get this down and then I’ll transfer you to the duty officer. Now, who are you and where is the aircraft?”

  Lazlo’s irritation made him speak very slowly, but with intensity. He felt as though he were surrounded by assassins. His German accent thickened as he said, “I am the senior dispatcher at Kennedy. I dispatched 100 from San Francisco to New York this morning.” He paused, then added, “Boeing 747-200.”

  “About 30 or 35 minutes ago, we believe our flight was hijacked. Our best calculated guess is the aircraft is overhead Pittsburgh. We don’t know the exact location for certain.”

  “What was, or is, the aircraft type?”

  “As I said before, a Boeing 747-200.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Country of Origin or Registration?”

  Fielding ran out of patience. He responded with a thick German accent, “Da United States of America.”

  “Souls on Board?” In every emergency, the FAA invariably wanted to know the number of passengers and crew on board. Pilots through the years had sparked the FAA’s ire by refusing to answer the question. The refusal was not because of the content of the question, but because of its untimeliness.

  Lazlo exploded, “I do not know. I can find out. Is it critical that you know that information right this second?”

  The unidentified southern accent said, “Yes Sir. I’ll wait.”

  Lazlo swore under his breath. He held the phone under his chin and swiveled his chair to the computer. He pressed a series of cryptically coded stokes and the screen filled with rows of numbers.

  Fielding spoke, “Vell, zis aircraft configuration iz four hundred und fifty six und they left San Francisco mit four hundred und seventeen. Plus da crew of fourteen. Dat iss eleven in da cabin and the cockpit crew iss mit three pilots.”

  “I believe I’ve got that, sir. Just a moment while I put you through.”

  While he waited, he could hear static and echo on the line. He watched the second hand on the wall clock across the room make four full rotations around the dial face.

  “Mr. Fielding. Ed James here. How can the FAA help you today?”

  “As I explained, one of our flights has been hijacked.”

  “You probably aren’t going to like this, sir. But I’m going to have to ask you some questions. You know, before we can get to the meat of the problem.”

  He could not believe his ears. Here a flight with nearly four hundred and fifty people has been hijacked and he wants to ask questions. Mein Gott im Himmel!

  “First, what is your name and your FAA Dispatcher’s license number. And sir, is your FAA Medical certificate up to date.”

  He exploded and his accent became so thick even he had trouble understanding himself, “My name is Fielding. Lazlo Fielding. I’m the Senior Dispatcher here at Kennedy. I have been doing this job for the past thirty-four years.”

  He added, “Even before there was an FAA.”

  He took several deep raspy breaths, “One of our flights has been hijacked. I am not going to waste time mit your questions.”

  “Sir.”

  “There will be plenty of time when this is concluded to answer your stupid questions.” In his fury, he pronounced the last two words with an even thicker German accent, “Schtoopid qvestions.”

  James was taken back by Lazlo’s reaction and immediately felt that the dispatcher’s anger was directed at him. James was correct. Fielding was not in the mood to wander through an unfathomable and bureaucratic mine field in the middle of a crisis.

  Lazlo found an opened pack of cigarettes in his bottom desk drawer, took one, lit it. He became more settled. “I need your assistance and I need it now. There will be plenty of time to answer all the questions after this hijack has ended.”

  “Mr. Fielding, we must have these statistics for our records. We need to know how many souls are on board. We will also need to obtain pertinent information regarding the flight crew. I can wait until later for the information regarding your dispatcher certificate and FAA medical status.”

  Fielding rolled his eyes and again said, “Mein Gott im Himmel” to himself.

  “If you insist on being uncooperative, you could be placing your dispatcher’s license in jeopardy.”

  He tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle the anger he felt toward this federal idiot, “I don’t give a damn about my license. Right now, my only concern is helping our flight that has been hijacked.” He was yelling into the phone. “I am not going to waste valuable time with your Gestapo tactics. You don’t seem to be able to help me. I want to speak to your supervisor.”

  James thought, “These airline types are all the same. If they don’t get what they want they start threatening.”

  He had dealt with this before and would not be intimidated by this foreigner, “Very well, Mr. Fielding, I will transfer you to my supervisor. But you have not heard the last of this section and branch of the FAA. We expect you to cooperate with us and if you don’t there will be severe consequences.”

  Lazlo became angrier with each word he heard from this “schwachsinnige” half-witted federal employee, “Do what you must, but let me talk to your supervisor immediately. Vat iz hiz name?”

  “Very well. His name is Special Agent Clifton. Mr. Richard Clifton. I’ll see if he’s available.” The line went dead after two or three ominous clicks.

  Lazlo was on hold for what seemed like a long time. Again, he watched the second hand on the Greenwich Mean Time wall clock complete many revolutions around the dial.

  No one returned, or came back on the line to ask if he was being helped. No one seemed to care about the hijacking, the passengers, the crew, or Fielding.

  The reason Fielding
had to wait so long was that Special Agent Clifton had been talking to John Batchelor.

  Chapter 60

  18:55 Eastern Standard Time

  John F. Kennedy International Airport

  Fielding’s mood had gone from frustration, to anger, to fury, to resignation and then finally back to irritation. He turned on his speakerphone and replaced the handset in the cradle.

  When he heard a man’s voice on the speaker he was startled, “Dick Clifton here. How can I help you?”

  “I am a dispatcher with...”

  “Yes sir. I just got off the phone with John Batchelor. He called to tell me about the hijacking. Is there any information you want to add that might assist us?”

  Lazlo was taken back by the friendly and helpful attitude of Clifton, “I have all the specifics of the flight. I spoke with the Captain about 35 or 40 minutes ago. Where do you want to start?”

  “First and foremost. Is the flight in any immediate peril? Do you know what the status is on board?”

  Lazlo realized that he was all alone. He was out on the point. He had thrust himself directly in the middle of this situation and expected that his boss was not going to be pleased. He didn’t care. Right now, all that mattered to him was the safe conclusion to Flight 100’s hijacking.

  “I don’t know about the specific situation at this moment. When I last spoke with the crew, they told me the hijacker had taken a Flight Attendant hostage and gained access to the cockpit. They had a stuck microphone and I could hear some of the actual take over.”

  “What do you know about their fuel situation? How much time, in terms of fuel, do they have left?”

  Lazlo relaxed and his anger subsided. His German accent diminished as he said, “That was one of the reasons I called. We don’t know their exact location.

  “You don’t know?”

  Feeling a little threatened, Fielding added, “They were overhead Pittsburgh. Ve haf not talked mit the crew in the past half hour.”

  “I see.”

  “I am concerned about der fuel remaining too. And, there is a weather front in the area mit strong winds along the western side of the front. Und I know they ver about fifty minutes out from Kennedy when ve last spoke mit them.

  “We don’t know when they started their turn south to Cuba.”

  “I can get their exact position from our ATC team.”

  Clifton repeated his earlier question, “What is your best guess about their fuel situation?”

  “We ran several computer models and I came up with is less than thirty minutes of fuel when they land at Havana. Der problem, of course is, I don’t know how much distance they have to go to Cuba.”

  He paused to think and then said, “And I don’t know what kind of ground speed they have because we don’t know their precise location.” He thought, “Once we know their location, we can figure in winds aloft which will give us their ground speed.”

  Clifton thought quickly, “Hold the line, and let me see what I can find out for you.” Clifton put him on hold and looked at a small map placed under glass on his desktop. He saw Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Chicago, Indianapolis Air Route Traffic Control Centers.

  He pressed the flashing hold button for Lazlo. “Did you say the flight was near Pittsburgh when you called them?”

  Fielding had just lit another cigarette and coughed as he answered, “I think they were actually east of Pittsburgh. But again, I don’t have any specifics.”

  “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

  Clifton looked at a typed display of unlisted telephone numbers. He scanned the left side of the typed list until he found Cleveland Center. He called the telephone number listed for the Cleveland Air Route Traffic Control Center.

  The phone rang several times. A woman answered. In the background, he could hear the beep. This was a recorded line. “Cleveland Center, Watch Supervisor Simpson speaking.”

  “This is Richard Clifton, Supervisor of Security with the Agency in OKC.”

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “We have two unconfirmed reports that a Boeing 747 in your sector has been hijacked to Cuba.”

  “Give me your telephone number in OKC, sir. I’ll have the Center Chief get right back to you.”

  Dick Clifton knew this was to verify he was who he said he was. However, time was being wasted. He wanted a rapid confirmation and did not want to be involved in these silly bureaucratic games. Resignedly, he gave her his number and then added that the dispatcher from the airline was holding on another line and the airline’s head of security was also waiting for information. He slowly pressed the line on which he was holding and disconnecting himself from the Cleveland Center.

  “I’ve spoken to the Cleveland Center and their Section Chief is going to call me back with all the particulars.

  “While we are waiting, is there anything else that you can think of?”

  Fielding had become impatient and was astounded at the slow pace with which the FAA worked in the midst of a crisis. “I have no further information until I can determine the exact location of our aircraft and their fuel situation.”

  Clifton’s phone buzzed. He excused himself and answered the intercom. “Ed, what is it?”

  “Cleveland Center’s on the phone, they have some information about a hijacking. Also, I want to talk to you about the airline dispatcher I spoke with. He was uncooperative and argumentative.”

  “This is not the time, Ed. We’ll discuss your problems after we deal with the hijacking.”

  Clifton pressed the second blinking light, “Clifton here.”

  “Well, Mr. Clifton, you were right. Flight 100 was hijacked about an hour ago. They were just west of Elwood City VOR. At 20:51 GMT, or 16:51 local time, our controllers gave them a direct heading to Havana and offered the standard assistance regarding altitude and course deviations. We also set up a standby discrete VHF frequency for their use.”

  “From your calculations, when do you think they will make Havana?”

  “That depends on the wind and their true airspeed. Normally, they cruise between four-hundred ninety to five-hundred fifteen knots. However, if fuel is a consideration, they might go to Long Range Cruise, or even Maximum Range Cruise to conserve fuel. If they did that, their true airspeed would be reduced.” He paused to look at something, then continued, “The boys at Flight Service think there probably is a pretty good wind from the south. That would make their ground speed somewhere between three-hundred seventy five and four-hundred twenty five knots, depending on their true airspeed.”

  Dick Clifton generally understood the conditions given by the Chief and was anxious to relay this information to Fielding, so that he could develop a better handle on the situation.

  Clifton rushed his question. “Can you give me the specifics regarding the aircraft’s location at this time and do you know how much fuel he has on board?”

  The unknown supervisor’s voice in Cleveland said, “Standby one. I’ll have that for you in a flash.”

  Clifton could hear keys being pressed on a keyboard. In the background, he could hear muted buzz of air traffic controllers directing nearly two hundred aircraft that passed through their controlled airspace.

  “Well, he must either have one hell of a head wind, or he’s throttled back to save fuel. His ground speed is only three-hundred forty five knots. My guess is that he’s got a fuel problem. Our computers have an ETA for him in Havana at 01:50 GMT.

  “Thank you for the information,” and then added, “If I need to get hold of you quickly, is there a secure number I can use and not have to go through this monkey-motion of you calling me back to verify who I am?”

  The Center Chief laughed and gave Clifton his dedicated number. He also asked that Clifton only give the number to the airline dispatcher. They wanted and needed to keep his line open for minute-to-minute communications.

  Dick Clifton thanked the supervisor again and pressed the button on his phone so he could relay the information to Fielding.
When he attempted to take Fielding off hold, the line was dead. The dispatcher was not there. He had either been disconnected, or had hung up.

  Chapter 61

  18:55 Eastern Standard Time

  Southwest of Atlanta, Georgia

  Don, Fred, Stan, the hijacker and Carlton settled into a routine of warily watching each other. Fred was flying, while Don studied the Jeppesen high altitude chart and maintained a listening watch on the radios. Stan appeared busy as he very meticulously monitored engine thrust, fuel consumption and fuel remaining in more than half-dozen tanks in the wings and fuselage. Even at Long Range Cruise, the Pratt Whitney JT-9D engines were consuming JP-4 jet fuel at a prodigious rate of one gallon every second.

  In one of Don’s earlier communications with dispatch, he had asked the company to construct several flight plans from their present position to Jose Marti airport at Havana. None of these fuel burn figures provided Stan any comfort.

  Carlton remained shocked by his predicament, worsened by the violent instability of the hijacker.

  Other than an occasional cryptic and staccato communication from the radios, the cockpit was relatively quiet. Minutes passed in which nothing was said. The outside air scrubbed the windshields at hundreds of miles per hour. A steady and constant aeronautical symphony was being played for the five cockpit occupants.

  Bill slowly leaned forward and looked through Don’s windshield. His back was directly in front of Stan. He could not comprehend the earth was moving beneath them at over five miles per minute. He could not tell if the 747 was flying over the earth, or if the airplane was stationary and the earth was turning beneath it.

  From his experience in the military, Stan knew sometimes there were moments of opportunity in which an attack could be successfully attempted. Timing was key. For the first time since the hijacker had broken into the cockpit with Carlton, he had carelessly placed himself in a position where he could be attacked. Stan sensed this was a fleeting opportunity in which Bill’s lack of situational awareness might provide Stan an opportunity to swiftly become the aggressor.