Hijacking of Flight 100: Terror at 600 miles per hour

by C. J. Stott

  Very slowly and with excruciating deliberation, Stan raised the cover of his desk and put his hand on the cold red fire extinguisher he had previously hidden there.

  The hijacker momentarily glanced out Fred’s side window and Stan froze. If the hijacker looked to his right, back at Stan, he would be able to easily see Stan’s hand in the opened desk compartment. Stan thought, if he turns back around, facing forward, it may be the only opportunity I’ll have to turn the tables on this son of a bitch.

  As quickly as Bill had turned and looked out Fred’s side window, he shifted his gaze back to the front windshield and then quickly to the side window on Don’s left.

  With deliberate and measured intent, using his left hand, Stan lifted the extinguisher up and out. His angle was not ideal. He felt much like a baseball player throwing off the wrong foot. This was the only opportunity he might have. He raised the fire bottle over his head and swung it directly at the back of the hijacker’s head.

  Carlton saw the drama being played out directly above him. He whimpered and the hijacker looked down at him. In Bill’s field of vision, he saw the red arc of the fire extinguisher swinging toward him. He defensively raised his right arm to deflect the bottle. Though the blow was somewhat diverted, the contact of the fire bottle against the radius in his forearm was excruciating. The extinguisher continued on a wobbly arc until it banged hard against the back of Don’s seat back.

  Bill grabbed the handle of the fire extinguisher and twisted the bottle free from Stan’s grip.

  Now, the hijacker had the advantage. He swung the fire extinguisher in tight arc and backhanded Stan in the face. The impact hit Stan’s forehead. His glasses flew off, broken. Bill pulled hard and hit Stan again. The second blow hit him behind his left ear and produced a blinding explosion in Stan’s field of view. Slowly, Stan listed to his right and fell against his seat, restrained by his shoulder harness; unconscious.

  Chapter 62

  19:10 Eastern Standard Time

  Northwest of Atlanta, Georgia

  Don had been caught completely off guard. He had no idea what had happened. He only knew the fire extinguisher had glanced off his seat. Fred had been looking at a high altitude chart and didn’t see any of the short battle. He only heard Carlton mutter something and the sharp sound of the extinguisher hitting the aluminum frame on Don’s seat.

  Bill uttered a string of Spanish expletives – against Stan, Don and Carlton. His rage was uncontained. They all had tried to trick him. They all were playing him for the fool “el embaucar”. He knew this would happen. In his blind anger, he wanted to shoot the fool who attacked him with the fire extinguisher. Or, maybe, kill the useless Maricón crying on the floor.

  He could not trust any of them. Especially the pilot who called himself the captain.

  Carlton squirmed and tried to get out from under the hijacker’s heavy black shoe. He pleaded with him, “Please. You are hurting me.” Nothing changed. Carlton added, “Badly.”

  Bill was frustrated and panicked. Everything had gone wrong. There was to have been no violence. No one was supposed to get hurt. This Maricón drove him crazy. He didn’t trust the pilots. He especially distrusted the captain, the one who gave all the orders. He decided he needed to take over and make the pilots do what he wanted.

  He thought, “Fly to Habana. Let me do just this one thing without failing.” Now that he knew the pilots had been trying to trick him all along, he felt invincible. They had tried to trap him, but he was too smart for them. He would not fail again.

  Carlton pushed on the back of Bill’s knee. For a moment, the hijacker thought he was going to fall. He steadied himself against the back of Stan’s chair and looked down at Carlton and said, “You touch me one more time and I will kill you. ¿Comprende, Paloma?”

  Before Carlton could answer, Bill pointed the gun over Carlton’s head, toward the side of the airplane. He jerkily waved the gun from side to side. Unintentionally and inadvertently, he squeezed the trigger too hard. The firing mechanism did its job and the metal hammer hit the pin.

  Instantly, one round left the barrel at near the speed of sound to do it’s damage in the cockpit. When the pistol fired, the muzzle was aimed at a point just above the floor at the crew rest bunk directly behind the Captain.

  The 9mm slug grazed the bunk blanket. Little energy was lost. The glancing and brief contact with the blanket caused the bullet to tumble. The lead projectile penetrated the sidewall in the cockpit. Rather than make a smooth, small round hole, it ripped a fourteen-inch gash through the inner panel, sound and temperature insulation and then tore a twenty-six inch long ragged tear in the outside aluminum skin.

  Chapter 63

  19:20 Eastern Standard Time

  Northwest of Atlanta, Georgia

  Engineers at the Boeing Commercial Airplane Company may never have considered a live round being fired through the exterior skin of the airplane. However, their design philosophy of vertical stringers that wrapped around the fuselage like hoops on a whiskey barrel stopped the tear from elongating.

  At thirty-three thousand feet, the differential pressure between inside versus the aircraft’s actual altitude was 7.5 pound per square inch. Most of the pressurized air inside the plane tried to escape through the ragged tear in the aluminum skin.

  The sound was deafening.

  Bill had no idea what he had done, but knew it was bad. He realized this was another example of his amazing ability to fail at nearly everything he tried to do.

  When the gun fired, Fred, Carlton and Don were shocked. None, however, were as terrified as the hijacker.

  The result of the bullet hole in the side of the fuselage was that the cabin altitude climbed at more than fifteen thousand feet per minute. The immediate loss of pressure momentarily caused the cockpit to fog severely enough that neither Fred nor Don could see each other at less than three feet apart.

  Don roared above the screaming air leak in the cockpit sidewall, “Everyone on Oxygen. NOW.”

  He and Fred both donned their aviator’s oxygen full-face masks, capable of providing 100% oxygen under pressure directly to each pilot. Don switched to interphone and keyed the oxygen microphone, “Captain on oxygen.”

  Fred checked in, “Roger. First Officer on oxygen.”

  Stan Kurtz did not hear the captain’s command. Even if he had, he could not comprehend the significance of Don’s words.

  Bill had no idea what the pilot was yelling about.

  Carlton, like most of the passengers, knew something had happened to the pressure in the airplane as their ears popped painfully.

  Don looked at the Flight Engineer’s cabin pressurization panel. He paid close attention to the round cabin altimeter. Initially, the hands spun rapidly, a clear indication of a cabin decompression. As Don watched, the cabin altitude slowly stabilized and then sluggishly started to descend as the large, automatic outflow valves in the belly of the aircraft did their job.

  Don turned and faced forward, checked his flight instruments and saw the aircraft was still on altitude, airspeed and heading. Satisfied with what he saw, he returned his gaze to the cabin altimeter. Now, the cabin altimeter was holding steady at 6,800 feet above sea level – a normal indication. The very loud and shrill noise was, if anything, worse than before. Don and Fred could communicate only by yelling at each other.

  After Don was satisfied that the airplane was going to hold together, he turned and looked back at Stan, Carlton and then Bill. He did not like what he saw.

  Chapter 64

  19:00 Eastern Standard Time

  John F. Kennedy International Airport

  The phone receiver had buried itself deep into Lazlo Fielding’s hand, as he held it to his ear for more than five minutes; the amount of time he spent waiting for Clifton to come back on the line. Frustrated, he impatiently hung up the phone. He waited a few minutes then redialed and once again run afoul of Ed James.

  James was, as usual, rude. “Well, well. If it’s not Mr. Fiel
ding, our errant dispatcher. What do you expect the FAA to do for you today?”

  Fielding tried to find a way around James. “I was talking to Mr. Clifton and got cut off. It’s urgent. I need to talk to him about our flight that has been hijacked.”

  James spoke with his most patronizing bureaucratic voice. “You can tell me and I’ll relay any messages you have to Mr. Clifton. Besides, Mr. Clifton is in a meeting.” He paused, then snidely added, “Which I believe, is actually about your hijacked jet.”

  With a great foreboding, he suspected his message would never be forwarded. He said, “Tell him Mr. Fielding called about the progress of our Flight 100.”

  “What’s the magic word?”

  Fielding could not believe he was being subjected to a child’s simple game. “Please.”

  James’ voice took on a tightness. “You can be sure I’ll just stop everything I’m doing and run into a closed meeting to tell Mr. Clifton you were on the phone. Is there any specific information you want me to relay to Mr. Clifton?”

  “No, sir. Just tell him I called and ask him to call me back as soon as possible.”

  “Right. I’ll do that. Thank you for calling the FAA.” The line went dead for both James and Fielding at the same time.

  With a practiced and experienced eye, he reviewed the high altitude and upper atmosphere winds aloft prognosis as well as terminal weather reports. Finally, the tension got to him. He had to do something. Anything was better than doing nothing and waiting for phone calls that seemed to never happen. Once again he tried to reach John Batchelor at home. Unfortunately, he had no success. Batchelor was either not at home or was not answering his phone.

  He continued to feel frustrated. No one would return his calls. He was operating in a vacuum. His third attempt to contact Clifton was intercepted by a young-sounding secretary who assured him she would see that Mr. Clifton got the message right away. As soon as she hung up, she looked at her watch, and then at the General Electric wall clock with black hands and numerals and a red second hand. Both indicated it was after five o’clock; well past her quitting time. She was not Clifton’s secretary and had only answered the telephone when no one else would.

  She had no idea where Clifton was. She barely knew who he was, or what he actually did with the FAA. The last time she had seen him was when he walked out of his office to a large conference room across the hall.

  The office idiot, Ed James, walked with Clifton and whined about some airline dispatcher in New York. She heard him loudly complaining that the dispatcher had been rude and uncooperative. Dick Clifton had not been at all interested in Ed James’ overview, and much less interested in any FAA enforcement action.

  The young secretary looked around the office, straightened up her desk, turned off the lights and left for the day. In the darkened room, one light on the telephone desktop console slowly blinked; the line on which Fielding continued to hold.

  Chapter 65

  19:10 Eastern Standard Time

  John F. Kennedy International Airport

  John Batchelor received the call from the company operator. She seemed quite dedicated and concerned about her responsibility for the messages from Lazlo Fielding to Batchelor. She also was curious about the hijacking and asked several inappropriate, or at least inopportune, questions about Flight 100; questions for which he had no answers.

  John attempted to dismiss her as politely as possible, but was not successful. He hoped the operator was not one to hold a grudge. He paced in his living room, cordless phone under his chin, waiting for Fielding to answer.

  With no fanfare, the silence was broken by a deep, rumbling German-infused voice. “Hello.”

  “Lazlo? John Batchelor here again. I just heard on WINS radio in New York that not only was 100 hijacked, but one of the pilots has been shot. Do you know anything about that?”

  “No. No, I don’t. I talked to the FAA over an hour ago, but they said nothing about that. I have tried to reach the FAA in Oklahoma City several times, but they have not returned my calls.

  “ How about I call a contact I have with the FAA in OKC. I went to a couple of FBI training sessions with him. Let’s see what Dick Clifton can do for us.”

  “Your friend Clifton is the one I have been waiting for. But, I don’t think he knows I called him back. I’m certain he would have gotten back to me if he had known I was on the line.”

  Fielding lit another cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling as he waited for a response from John Batchelor.

  None came, so he said, “John, go ahead. See if you can get through to Clifton. If you can verify there was a shooting, or if any of the pilots were injured, let me know. We are running alternate flight plans. You know, various altitudes and routes to see which is the most efficient. Ze fuel situation iz, or could be, critical.”

  Batchelor walked to the hall closet, grabbed his coat and said, “I’ll get right on it.”

  Chapter 66

  18:25 Eastern Standard Time

  Miami International Airport

  Nervously, Juan Guerrero milled around the Miami airport. He could not understand why there was no news about the hijacking. The radio stations always had bulletins about flights that were hijacked, especially in Miami, and especially to Cuba. Even if it wasn’t like the old days when there were many flights to Cuba, a hijacking was still news for the radio stations. Twice Juan had walked to his old Plymouth in the employee parking lot and listened to the car radio. Neither English nor Spanish-language stations had any reports of a hijacking.

  Finally, about 6:10 in the evening, he overheard a conversation between two ticket agents. “Another hijacked flight.”

  “This one was to Havana.”

  “Why would anyone want to hijack a plane to Cuba?”

  “Especially in these times?”

  The news contained in the stuttered conversation elated Juan. He did not know if the hijacked airplane was the one Bill was on. But he was sure their plan was working. He felt like telling the two agents why someone would hijack an airplane; especially this one.

  Juan looked at his watch. It was half past six. He was confused because he thought the hijacking should have happened sooner. He still didn’t know when the airplane would land at Jose Marti airport. A vague and foggy sense of despair covered him with a threatening gloom. He tried, unsuccessfully, to dismiss these feelings. He tried to calculate how much time would pass before he would be off-loading the six extra suitcases. Without knowing the planned arrival time in Havana, he could not guess at the ETA in Miami.

  There was nothing for him to do. Wait and worry; that was all he could do. He walked to the International Arrivals Building, the IAB. He passed two bored United States Custom and Immigration agents. He went out the side door and looked across the vacant ramp. He carefully studied the tarmac with a practiced eye. He could almost see the enormous 747 taxiing slowly to an unknown gate. He thought about the loud and raucous cluster of reporters trying to gain access to the passengers.

  Juan took his time. He slowly walked back inside from the ramp area. He decided to go to his car and listen to the radio again for more information about the hijacking. Perhaps there would be an estimated arrival time in Havana. He crossed the main terminal and stopped at the airport snack bar. He ordered a hamburger, fries and Coke to go, asking for the airline employee discount.

  He paid for his bag of food and walked the length of the terminal. On his way out of the building, he narrowly avoided three ramp service people from Eastern Airlines, all whom he knew. They had finished their shifts and were going home.

  He believed he had a plan for everything. He believed he had it all perfectly planned out. Everything was going to be fantastic. He would transfer the six suitcases to his automobile. His contact would be waiting for his phone call. After they talked, he would know the specific location for the drop. He smiled. Once the delivery was finished, he would have his money and never have to show up for work again.

  Nervously,
he exited the main terminal building and walked down the palm-lined ramp toward the huge Eastern Airlines maintenance hangar. He turned the corner and came to the locked gate that opened on to the employee’s parking lot.

  He pressed the number code on the touch pad lock. The solenoid buzzed and he pushed the gate open. As he walked to his car, he laughed at the ironic nature of airline security. The employees’ parking lot was under guard, with electronic gate locks. Here he was, inside the compound, planning a hijacking that was going to make him and his two brothers rich.

  Chapter 67

  18:35 Eastern Standard Time

  Miami International Airport

  He found his ‘79 Plymouth and fished the car keys from his pocket. He got in and rolled down the windows. The temperature was stifling hot. He tossed the bag of food on the seat and then impatiently turned on the key and the radio.

  Slowly he pressed each of the buttons on the radio dial. “Alive and well in Michigan.” Another station, “The family said they were glad that the…”

  The local news affiliate announcer said, “the Cleveland Indians look like they may take their Division.” Another station, “The main ingredient for today is salt-cured pork…” “Unanswered questions about the stock market and why it took another nose dive today. The Dow Jones Average dropped more than 50…”

  “This just in. A Boeing 747, with 450 passengers from San Francisco to New York has been hijacked. The pilot indicated the hijacker wants to go to Cuba. We have unconfirmed reports that a stewardess has been taken hostage.” Brass trumpet music rose in the background, “When more information is available we will interrupt our regularly scheduled broad…”