“Any crew make it out?” Reddick turned his back on Mckay for a few seconds as if his worried mind could not calculate all his thoughts fast enough then he turned to face his friend.
“Only one flight attendant that we know of for the moment, ah, an Edmundo Valencia. The Mexicans verified he is alive, but now it seems that they have lost him, can't find him anywhere. See what you can do about tracking him down Jack.”
“I’m already packed, I’ll call when I arrive.” Mckay exited, leaving a worried Reddick to pace the spacious executive office, slamming a fist into the palm of his hand.
Shana James, the slim redheaded Flight Attendant Supervisor had also been summoned to Reddick’s office in the early morning. Upon entering the executive office she could see the strain on the face of the man she so admired.
“Oh, Mr. Reddick, it’s terrible,” Shana wanted to be sympathetic as her chief's mind was burdened with a thousand and one thoughts. He was caught off guard by her arrival.
“Now Shana, I called you because I need your assistance in a little matter,” Reddick stated firmly. Shana eagerly stepped forward. She was proud to have been included in on Reddick’s team.
“I understand flight Attendant Edmundo Valencia is under your supervision?” He began.
“Edmundo?” Shanna concentrated.
“Nevertheless, I want you to pull his file out....permanently. Find out whatever you can on this young man. I want to know him better that his own parents do.”
“Yes sir, Mr Reddick.” As Shana started to exit.
“One more thing Shana, make sure we keep his family away from the media. Pick Edmundo up at the airport when he is returned to us, board the plane and sneak him out before the newsmen know what’s happening. Tell the young man we’ll take him to his family.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Reddick.” She was gone. Reddick froze for a moment and thought.
“Those families. Those poor families.” The reality was registering. He had to keep his composure. He felt the weight of the multitude of issues arising from this awful incident. First on his agenda was to ascertain what the hell went wrong? He knew Carl Herbert and there was no better pilot in his airline. He wished to believe there must have been some shenanigans on the part of the Mexican air traffic control. If so, that would only make the job of cleaning up this mess that much more complicated.
As the aged ambulance pulled up to El Central de la Ciudad Hospital there was a pack of nurses waiting to converge upon me. The vehicle jolted to a stop and the attendants rushed to the rear to assist me. The carnival ride through the heart of Mexico City was over but that only allowed entrance into the next set of dilemmas from a long line that seemed never-ending.
“Look! I’m okay.” Panic stricken I pleaded from the start. “No hablo espanol!” My charade had to hit everyone firmly.
I thought, “No one is going to come and help me, I must help myself. I am and must be my own best friend. I repeated this in my head over and over. I took solace in the fact that I could rely on Tommy and trusted him to take care of all matters concerning informing my family.
The nurses, demanding I lie on a gurney, wheeled me through chaotic hallways where many people ran about frantically. A man who seemed overwhelmed with emotion ran passed us. I assumed he was a family member of one of 2605's victims. I was finally wheeled into a small room which was dimly lit, and immediately ushered onto an examining table. A blinding light from a lamp above came on which hurt my eyes as dark silhouetted figures rushed into view; the sound of the rapid pace of the Spanish language filled the room. Wailing sounds of tortured souls now joined the chorus. It became evident from the first few minutes in the building that this was the location where the most seriously injured survivors of the crash had been taken.
A drape on the other side of the room was pulled aside revealing a large glass window exposing the reception area. People quickly pushed up against the pane’s face. Like a Victorian freak show, whose patrons had deposited a few pence, they excitedly glared at the oddity lying on the table.
“Remove your shirt,” commanded a voice in English. Although containing a heavy Hispanic accent, the physician who spoke expressed a sign of caring. Handsome in his dark features, he carried himself in a professional manner yet his eyes expressed a desire to help me, to evaluate the situation and select the proper course of medical aid. With great care and in pain I sat up and tried to unbutton what was left of my uniform shirt. Slowly I began to escape the encasement of my clothing. The fire had made parts of my uniform and apron become one with my skin at various points on my torso. A patient nurse cutaway small portions of the garment leaving tiny cloth patterns encrusted on my arms and upper back where I had sustained most of my burns. As the last segment was removed I turned and faced the group that gathered as they stood in astonishment. Their eyes widen and I became embarrassed.
“He has no body hair,” declared a man in Spanish. I later discovered he was a newspaper reporter who stood looking through the window. The stubs of hair upon my body weren't visible to the spectators.
“The inferno was so hot it burned the hair right off his torso,” whispered a lady in Spanish. The newspaperman quickly dashed away, perhaps believing he had an angle on the incident that his editor might find interesting and unique. The pleasant doctor dismissed the nonsensical behavior of the others and began a hands on examination. The Mexican physician's probing reflected the beating I had endured as my muscles were bruised and sore just about everywhere on my body. After some time he asked me if I was involved in athletics. His simple approach in the questioning brought a smile to my face.
“So what will you do with your new life?” His question puzzled me as I was not ready for such a thought and for an instant wondered if I would ever be. I just shrugged my shoulders in a manner that reflected how dumbfounded I truly was.
“You will be fine mi amigo,” the doctor stated as he concluded his examination. “All you will need is a tetanus shot.”
“No! No!” The hysteria rose up in me as I frantically protested. “Yo fue a China para vacaciones.” The fluency of the native language I planned so carefully to hide was revealed and I lied, anything to avoid getting an injection. “No shot, I got one.” The doctor was startled.
“How long ago?” The physician quickly asked.
“Tres meses, Three month ago,” I explained in a panic even holding up the same number of fingers in a belief that such an action would be the deciding factor. The doctor dismissed the nurse who had returned with the dreadful syringe. I had survived the accident, was injured to a certain extent yet had avoided the shot as I became conscious of a recent daydream.
“Is this for real?” I instantly blanked and was filled with confusion. I had enough of this circus ride and wished to just go home, lie down and close my eyes hoping that when I awoke I would be back in my old life. What is God's involvement? Is there even a God listening? Why me and not Reina? I was asking questions that seemed unanswerable. If I persisted in demanding such answers it would only contribute to the pain that grew deep inside me and eventually would lead to madness. The hospital staff began to leave the small room, they were desperately needed elsewhere. One Mexican woman dressed in hospital white remained. She seemed transfixed on me. She handed me a clean cotton t-shirt and assisted me as I gingerly put it and my tattered uniform shirt on.
“You are very lucky, blessed if I may say.” She politely stepped forward and caressed my hands gently as her beautiful face shared a comforting smile. I froze physically but my mind freaked and a fleck of insanity registered. I wanted to scream and crawl into a fetal position. Had my soul vanished? Perhaps it was imbedded into the core of the crushed aircraft.
Saint or a madman? The multitude that gathered to gaze through the window at me would refuse to accept any other possibility.
“I'm still here,” I shouted, the words echoing through the busy halls of the hospital emergency rooms but no one came to snatch me away, deity or mortal. “I'm still h
ere!” I screamed with greater finesse, wanting my scenario desperately to change, hoping such an intercession would reunite me with my crew once again, for that is where I desired to be. No one came to confront me concerning my outburst. Everyone just accepted that any bizarre behavior was a normal reaction to an abnormal event. The winds of change were just beginning to stir about.
Comandante Primitivo Luis Chavez de Leon was a stickler for details. The proud policeman's pressed black suit ensemble dictated a man who expected respect. He and his accompanying cohorts briskly entered the hospital, heading for the emergency rooms. The friendly physician who was seeing to my needs brought a wheelchair to my small room. Perhaps the company called and would soon be there to take charge, for this is what all crew-members are led to believe when involved in an incident of this magnitude. But that thought only led to being blind to the reality of my situation, a complicated scene I wanted no more part of. The Comandante quickly approached the kind doctor and displayed the appropriate papers and identification, expecting the hospital staff to relinquish his prize catch instantly. The medical staff gazed in confusion as this stern, menacing man and his entourage took command, simply sweeping the shocked doctors and nurses aside.
“Por favor Senor, venga con nosotros.” The elegant official displayed a deviant charm and determination. I could see that his face was tanned and filled with pockmarks. With eyes set deep into the distinct face, he had the appearance of an Aztec prince or warrior.
“I’m sorry sir, I don’t speak Spanish, I mean I’m Mexican, Mexican-American from Los Angeles.” I heightened the stakes with a naive expression. The elegant policeman began to chuckle as he glanced back toward the hallway to his subordinates, three treacherous stooges ready to do the arrogant superior's bidding. In an instant, one officer stepped forward and firmly placed his right hand on my shoulder reflecting the commandant's insistence.
“Okay, Mr.-Chicano-I-don’t-speak-Spanish, come with us.”
“Get your hands off of me,” I demanded but my battered body was no match for this means of persuasion. The friendly physician suddenly stepped forward in a moment of courage and confronted the intimidating figure and questioned his authority in this matter.
“What is going on here? This man is my patient.” Chavez was on him like a cat.
“Callate, chueco,” the officer got right in the doctor's face. “This man was one of the crew-members in the crash and he is coming with us whether you like it or not.” The subordinate yanked me from the examining table as Chavez directed his cohorts who immediately physically assisted me out of the room. Off we went, being nearly carried down the long hallway gazed upon by stunned hospital staff hugging the wall so as not to be drawn into the proceedings. By their insistence I was then persuaded to lie down on the floor board in the back seat of a dark colored vehicle. These men were Los Federales, the federal police, and I intended to be as cooperative as I could be considering my current condition. The car sped off and I imagined I was now in a different part of an eternal maze that indicated no end in sight, revealing a paradox uniquely its own. In Los Federales one can find the very best of Mexican Culture and total despair of its worst.
A blue wool blanket, the kind found at any local hotel, covered me as the Mexican officials began to joke and laugh. Primitivo Chavez tolerated the lax moment but soon it became very silent. The Comandante spoke firmly and the tone represented an air of dominance. Smoke quickly filled the compartment, the stench of the cheap cigarettes even overwhelmed the smell of the jet fuel that had dried and caked on my pants, my shoes and my body.
“Where are we going?” I tried to sound demanding but failed miserably.
“Do not worry my Chicano friend, we are going to take you to the airport…to home, to Los Angeles,” the Comandante teased in delight.
“There’s no flight leaving now.” I should have kept my mouth shut. The result was a swift bump to my battered right leg by a cohort. “Okay.” I relented. The pain I felt made their message very clear. As quickly as it had begun, the vehicle jerked to a stop, as one henchman in the back grabbed the blue blanket and threw it over my head. He grabbed my arm firmly and by force made it clear that I could walk along with him utilizing his support. I graciously went along.
“I didn't do anything,” I stated through the blanket. Why was I even speaking?
My escort was not interested in listening to anything and I decided that under no circumstances was I to object to their behavior by reminding them that I was an American citizen.
“Ah, I can't keep up. I'm hurting.” I tried to speak to the group's compassion reminding them of what I had recently experienced, a plane crash. They were not sympathetic. The more I resisted, the more force was applied to my bruised arm. Finally, I heard a door open and I could tell we had entered a small room. The door was slammed shut. The blanket was pulled off and I blinked and rubbed my eyes trying to adjust to the light. One cohort, who had the facial features of a Mayan ancestry, motioned for me to sit upon an old black wooden milk box positioned in the middle of the floor.
“Do you know where you are?” the Comadante’s voice spoke softly as he paced slowly in no particular pattern. I placed my hands over my eyes. The single bulb was very powerful and blinded me. I caught sight of a small table and chair in one corner of the room but the rest of the floor area seemed to be empty. I recognized a photo of President Jose Lopez Portillo hanging up on the lime green wall. The President was wearing the green, white and red sash that is the symbol of his office.
“Yes, sir,” I finally responded to the question.
“Where,” the raspy voice demanded. My mind was in a whirl, only one answer fill my conscientiousness
“In deep shit.” I softly murmured
“Speak up mi amigo.”
“I am in Mexico.” God, I felt like that was such a lame answer. The comandante slowly stepped forward to reveal his face at a close range for the second time. The thickness of his black hair was distinct to the region. His eyes were piercing, like the sudden shine of the sun upon gleaming water revealing a sinister spirit, a predator focused on its prey.
“Si amigo, you are in Mexico.” The federal policeman sensed an opportunity to try and get on my good side. “We do things a little different here and I simply want to ask you a few questions.” I knew that any form of resistance was futile, I had to find a different plan. “I want to know what happened to make the plane crash.”
“So do I.” My smart mouth was not part of the plan. The Mexican officer leaped brazenly.
“What happened?” He demanded.
“I’m cut, bruised and still bleeding.” I painfully waved my arms in all directions trying to get my new friend to acknowledge the obvious.
“No, en el accidente,” he shouted. I remained stone face, hiding the fact that this strain was greatly fatiguing and clouding my memory.
“What? Oh, the accident, the crash. Well the plane hit hard, then it turned to the right sort of like this.” I used my battered hand as a tool trying to indicate a certain angle or motion of the craft. “It just kept banking. I’m sorry, that’s all I know.” The quick thinking federal policeman felt he could probe a weakness as he retreated momentarily and shortly returned a more agreeable person.
“Only one thing stands in the way of you being released, on your way back to Los Estados Unidos and as soon as we can take care of that, you are gone.” I slowly raised my head. It wasn't going to be that easy, was it? There had been nothing easy all day concerning this terrible tragedy so I listened with caution. Shining gold caps on two of the Comandante’s molars caught my eye. A crystal bead of sweat raced down the Aztec’s leathery skin on the side of his face, revealing his courtesy as a lie. “We need to take your sworn declaration,” he announced. It had become all too apparent to me that I was now in the middle of a complicated predicament that once again had turned dangerous and was not going to be simple or quickly resolved.
“My God, what am I doing here?” I whispere
d a lamentation.
“Was the flight normal?” Chavez turned to diplomacy in requesting a logical answer which only became fodder for my sarcasm.
“Have you seen what's left of the jumbo jet and buildings? Does it look normal to you?” I laughed loudly in irony. My impudence confused the interrogator for a moment and he strained to calm his anger.
Still sympathetic the officer crouched down to meet his captive’s eyes. “Yes, I have seen it and that is why I need your help, Eduardo.” It was the first time he spoke my proper name, which indicated that he knew way more about me than I knew about him. It scared me. “Help us find out what went wrong in this terrible incident.”
“Yeah, I'll help you, that damn thing crashed, don't you get it?” At that moment, discretion became another victim of 2605’s demise.
“What happened?” The comandante’s posture became rigid, impatient.
“I told you, we clipped then we bounced up and there was an explosion, a fireball and then they were all gone.” I rambled on yet felt shame. I needed to keep my mouth shut as such meanderings found me no favor.
“Clipped? Clipped? What did you clip?” Chavez demanded more and demanded swift answers. I tried to be compliant.
“I don’t know. I was inside the airplane. I don’t know. Look, I can’t say any more until I speak with someone from my company.” The cunning officer slowly broke a broad smile as his elegance returned.
“Ah, you do know something after all.” He relished my indignity as he favorably patted the top of my head. I had been reduced to being a broken pet with whom he could toy. Chavez then placed a piece of paper on my soot stained filthy lap, tossed a pen in my direction which I was unable to catch. It bounced off the floor to be retrieved by the Mayan-looking cohort who thus placed it in my sore hand. “Sign this and you can be on your way back to your precious company.” I looked at the typed written letter.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 16
