Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  “Yeah I'm fine, it was a lot worse when they were burning and screaming.” The pilot’s eyes grew big as he could only guess at what other demons lay in my mind. Did I not answer factually?

  “Ah bienvenidos, Senor Vise Presidente.” The morbid caretaker paid his respects to the company men. Designated as the translator I discovered that the problem surfaced in the person of a certain Doctor Sixto De Jesus. The slight curator led us to the rear of the makeshift mortuary where the physician was located. I was surprised to find Dr. De Jesus standing behind a wooden table covered with a blood soaked tarp on which two lumpy, gray tortilla-like objects lay alongside a bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila. By the amount of liquor remaining in the bottle, I guessed that De Jesus was plastered. He stood, slightly swaying from side to side, eyes glazed, hair messed, a slob of a human being. His shirt, sleeves rolled up, was sweaty and blood-stained. He wore a pair of suspenders tightly which pulled his beige pants way up above his waist line. Despite the responsibilities of his assigned duties, no one dared challenge this doctor who was obviously in an intoxicated state. Slurring his words, the physician began to speak.

  “Por favor Jefe, yo quiero boletos de primera clase, para mi familia a Hawaii.” By no means was my knowledge of Spanish considered good but the words seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Had I heard right? I was perplexed.

  “Digame otra vez, senor. Please sir, tell me once again.” The doctor of medicine repeated his request.

  “What's the issue Eduardo?” McKay sensed an urgency to take care of business quickly, as he was needed in so many other places, other people to see.

  “Sir, Dr. De Jesus is asking you to present him and his family with first class tickets to Hawaii,” I stated in a meek manner believing that I had misinterpreted the request. McKay looked puzzled, then a slight smile appeared.

  “Listen lad, tell the good doctor that I am sure the company can supply him with a small token for his efforts in this tragedy, but I have no authority to be giving first class tickets to Hawaii no less to everyone that asks." I turned and began to logically explain the situation to Dr. De Jesus when the indignant man rudely interrupted.

  “No, No joven yo no quiero hablar con usted.” He became angry as sweat raced down his swollen face. “El señor, el jefe, Señor McKay de la aerolínea.” In the heat of the exchange the words became very real indeed. The bibulous fool stared at Mr. McKay as the curly black locks on his head swayed with each measure of his voice and his head jerked about tossing beads of sweat all about. The relentless man continued in Spanish. “If I do not have the tickets by tomorrow morning.” The doctor stopped in mid-sentence and began stuffing the first lumpy dough-like object from the bottom like a pinata with old newspapers he had stored down below the blood soaked table. The dark skinned sweating doctor locked eyes with Jack Mckay and never broke away or once focused on his task. After a few seconds or so he resumed to conclude his sentence. In clear Spanish he stated “I will declare that there is much alcohol in this man's blood.” The morbid coroner turned the newspaper-filled object, adjusting it slowly. All the company's men looked closely in confusion only to be jolted as one’s mind followed the detailed clues. In one terrible moment the obscene pinata was revealed to be the head of one of the pilots.

  “I wish to leave now,” I made a polite request. Hugo immediately stepped forward and took charge of me. The good gate agent quickly escorted me out as I tried to remain calm.

  “De Jesus,” of course means “of Jesus. Yeah, fat chance.” Somehow, such an exhibition of the art of blackmail did not surprise me for I had become jaded.

  “Everyone is running their own con for whatever they can get out of it,” I stated to Hugo. The displeasure nagged him deep down. We exited the morgue and met Don Diego and Felipe waiting with the sedan. We did not speak a word as the mariachi music filled the air serenading the carnival in the background. I leaned up against the car as Hugo clued in Don Diego on what had just occurred.

  “Senor De Jesus?” Diego was familiar with the culprit. I gazed out into the horizon, right over the dried lake bed, the same one that Cortez had first seen filled with life-giving water centuries earlier. Now dried and dusty, the grounds held the shanty town, erected by the ragged and poor. Those hastily raised cardboard houses stood pretty much empty at the moment for the multitude of the inhabitants were taking part in the given opportunity. In the contents of a travel bag from Norte America were articles of great value. Hungry people do not ask, they take. Yet there were other games in a larger scale being played by so called reputable individuals, acts that were far less honorable than the need to disrespect yourself in an effort to fill your children's stomachs. These power players' behavior was far more deceitful and downright sinful.

  McKay emerged from the house of horrors and walked my way. This honorable man wanted to pay his respects.

  “This is one big shit, Eduardo.” He shook his head, and I sensed that there was more on his mind.

  “What is it?” I casually asked the troubled man.

  “Did you happen to see...” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Did you notice..” He stumbled once more.

  “Just ask me,” I said softly. McKay ran his left hand through his scalp, as his fingers raking the few white strands of hair that were left on his sunburned fair skin.

  “Your aircraft struck the dump truck up there at the top of runway 24-left,” he pointed off into the distance. I turned and followed his line of direction.

  “That's the runway the Mexican's claim was closed.” I stated as I once again turned back to face the man. He shook his head in a positive manner.

  “Yeah, so they say.” McKay's grandfatherly face cringed as he gathered his thoughts. “Well boy, that is where the right landing gear of the DC-10 lies burrowed into the ground and twisted with what is left of that dump truck. But the other landing gear, the left one….” Once again McKay stopped in mid sentence. I became impatient.

  “Just say it Jack, get to the point.” I snapped.

  “Damn it, we can't find the left gear,” he blurted out. I was confused.

  “You mean an entire landing gear of a jumbo jet has gone missing?” I was dumbfounded. “Who in the hell would steal a landing gear from the site of a horrible disaster?” I wondered in amazement as my thoughts and sight turned back to the great circus just a small distance from us where you can get un globo rojo as you wrangled and haggled to get the best deals on the belongings of the deceased.

  “The whole landing gear?” I asked once more to be certain.

  “The whole thing, we believe,” He responded.

  “And they got away with it?” I inquired in disbelief.

  “You didn't happen to notice any removal of wreckage soon after the crash did you boy?” I gazed at McKay seriously.

  “Believe me, Jack, I had my hands filled that morning with my own problems.” The vice president became sheepish.

  “Yes, you did. Certainly you did, boy.” The gentleman shook my hand and shared a reassuring smile of his continued support getting through this mess. I admired the man and did not envy his lot as he and the supervisor pilot made their way back to the terminal building. How many more free tickets was it was going to cost the company to solve the next problem?

  Diego was very surprised to find me extremely placid as he approached me once McKay and his group had departed. I was so dismayed that my facial features seemed numb and paralyzed. Everything was spiraling out of control, I had to simplify the confusion.

  I began to wonder, “Tell me Diego, why would the airline's best pilot bring down his craft onto a closed runway?” My friend was an educated and logical man. Diego simply shrugged his shoulders as he shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, Carl Herbert had landed here hundreds of times.” I was puzzled and added, “I'm sure he was guided by the landing lights.” He looked surprised and eagerly spoke up.

  “No amigo, the runway lights on 23 Left have been off line while construction was being performed on th
at runway. In a meeting last night with the Minister, the subject was a focal point and the issue was made very clear.” Diego’s statement left me speechless. I began to wonder if I had missed something.

  “Impossible! I saw the runway lights on myself. They pierced through gaps in the fog as we descended. I also saw them illuminated while scrambling about looking for survivors.”

  “Well there is one way to find out, amigo.” My statements had piqued Diego’s curiosity. “The control boxes for both 23-Left and 23-Right are about a half kilometer from here. Let us go, I have the keys.” I struggled to hurry back into the black sedan along with the others. Racing down alongside Runway 23-Right, the one functioning runway at Benito Juarez International Airport, Felipe tried to avoid any debris that lay scattered throughout the airport grounds. I shook my head as it was apparent that even though landings had been restricted, some flights were still arriving and yet there was debris: a safety hazard to a speeding aircraft. We arrived at the control boxes for the runway lights located in-between Runway 23 Left and Runway 23 Right, attached to three large poles. Diego was already opening his door and exiting before Felipe could come to a complete stop. I remained in the sedan seated next to Hugo, keeping focused on Don Diego. Senor Suarez de la Vega wrestled with the partially rusted locks and hurried to open the metal cover. His complexion immediately turned white, and he looked as if he had uncovered someone’s grave. I took a mental photo of his body language.

  “Something is not right, Hugo,” I quietly stated as I began to exit the car. I needed to know. “What is it? Don Diego?” I had to scream as a descending jet roared beside us. The Aeromexico DC-9 aircraft's wheels touched the pavement on 23 Right, multiple yards down from our position. I strained my muscles as I hurried to get to Diego “What are you staring at?” There was no response as I assumed he did not hear me or just did not know how to answer. Senor Garcia quickly came. The three of us stared in amazement. A large orange tag was tied around the four thick cables instilled in the metal casing along with three reddish brown cloth rags. The tag read “under repair” in Spanish. The shock came in the form of the condition of the cables themselves which seemed to have been cut almost in half, the victims of an ax or other sharp implement and yanked from their installed positions in a moment of panic.

  “Enough, let’s go!” I was completely disgusted.

  “They told me they were under repair. I was lied to.” Don Diego’s initial disappointment seemed as devastating as mine but for a different reason, he was dealt a crushing blow. His superiors had purposely misled him.

  “Who would be behind such a thing, Diego?” We stared at each other and recalled what the minister had meant about partners working together in securing the lucrative economic situation.

  “Listen, Diego. We’ve got to keep our cool. Trust no one.” Diego could only nod his head as he was still in shock over the fact that he was left out of the inner circle. It still irked me that no one seemed to know or want to know what caused Carl Herbert to guide his craft to her doom. I thought my given path was going to be tough. “The captain is going to be made the sacrificial lamb.” I stated to Diego as we rode back to “ground zero” on the tarmac. Herbert's whole aviation career, years of stellar safety records, the reputation and respect built up were now all toast. I prayed to this silent God for his family and did not envy the obstacles they were yet to encounter. I tried to trust that possibly upstanding and reputable investigators would be able to gather enough information and facts to exonerate the actions of the now deceased aviator. Then I scolded myself for wanting to believe that this world, the airline industry and politicians are all people of noble character. I decided I had better keep my mouth shut for I wished to survive to fight another day, or at least live another day.

  As we reached the outskirts of the main wreckage, the vehicle slowed down as Felipe spotted three youths who were running about. As I peered out the window I noticed a boy in beige shorts wearing white long tube sports socks and a San Francisco Giants baseball cap. He seemed to be dodging some type of object thrown in his direction by a mate. The boy studied the object on the ground, retrieved it quickly and tossed it to a third boy in tattered blue jeans. They all laughed and displayed a feeling of anxiety when the object landed once again beside them upon the ground. Suddenly it was snatched up by the third youth who tossed it high in the air. This time the receiver caught it successfully and once the object was securely in his possession quickly dropped it to the delight of the other two boys who laughed uncontrollably. Then, in an instant, I was made aware of what the “toy” was they had been throwing about. I stared at the image recognizing that up to that moment in life I had been very naive. The rambunctious youths had been playing catch with a severed human hand and we in the vehicle fell silent.

  “I am sorry you had to see that my friend. I’ll put a stop to it if you wish,” Diego offered.

  “No. Let it be,” I replied. “It just confirms the madness I now discover myself in.” I silently hoped this insanity would offer me a point of exit somewhere in the near future. The black sedan left the airport grounds and traveled the several hundred yards across the street to the Holiday Inn once more. I thanked Felipe for his assistance as his eyes reflected his compassion toward me. He, like millions of others in the capital city, wished only the best for me in my new life. The car pulled away as I stood with crutches at the main entrance by the roadway. I paused for a moment as a woman of simple means approached. The young mother carried a small infant under her wrap as she diverted her journey in my direction.

  “Por favor señor, un besito para mi nino?” I was puzzled and turned to Diego.

  “She wants me to kiss the baby?” Diego began to chuckle.

  “You are a national hero, my friend. Senor El Gato, the man with nine lives. Kiss the child. She is showing you deep respect.” Diego became excited as he directed Hugo Gomez to remain with me. “I am going to go make the arrangements for your return home,” he stated. “I will return soon.” I slowly bent over to kiss the child on the forehead to the delight of the young girl. I was truly mystified by the adoration she bestowed upon me.

  “Hugo, why did she ask me to do that?” While I asked my friend, another man, a common person in humble clothing, now approached us. He reflected a look of sincere joy at me standing before him in one piece.

  “Whether you realize it or not, Eduardo, there is a great amount of responsibility that goes with cheating la mano de Muerto, the hand of Death.” Slowly, others wandered by, the curious mostly, to gaze upon the one who emerged from the fiery grave. Others would pass just touching my shoulder as they walked by.

  “How does one live up to such a responsibility, Hugo?” Hugo thought for a while.

  “Well, mi amigo, that’s the trick of it all isn’t it? Since you are the one who cheated Death you are the only one who can answer that question.”

  “He's the one.” I tried to imagine their existence. In a life that was very difficult on a daily basis, they determined that I was one person who beat the odds. Somehow a greater force whether called faith or fate had intervened, in their way of thinking. Perhaps the magic they believed was instilled in me “could” or “would” be transferable to them. Yet, when they got very close and I looked into their eyes, their good souls revealed that they were just happy that I was alive and their joyous smiles attested to that fact. My shared good fortune seemed to reinstall hope in them which I determined was a reason for me to continue on. I realized I could learn much from them that would benefit me in this new life.

  Hugo saw that things were getting out of hand as the crowd grew and started to press in on me. I started to lose balance on my crutches. He rushed in to assist me and provide protection as we hurried into the lobby of the Holiday Inn and proceeded to my hiding place once more.

  Chapter X

  Early morning arrivals to the airport are a way of life for flight crews. Kyle Tillman had reported to Operations the morning of October 31, only to find
chaos rapidly developing. The teletype at the Denver hub expressed the grim news, a “10,” our 10 had gone down. Pilots in Denver, as in every city the airline served, scrambled to gather every bit of information they could. It seemed unbelievable to a great many associates when it was first revealed that it was Carl Herbert's flight, and Mexico’s initial decision to cut communications hindered the efforts to learn otherwise. Kyle, like all the associates of the company, nervously waited and wondered. His desire to hang around the lounge to see the names on the crew list of the ill-fated flight had to be put aside. Kyle boarded a Salt Lake City flight with the partial relief that nearly all his personal friends were based in Denver with him, only Eddy from Training Class, 2 remained based in Los Angeles and Kyle wanted to firmly believe that his Hispanic friend could not have been on the doomed craft.

  Kyle would check in routinely with the boys in the cockpit during the flight he was working for any hint of news, but nothing was coming in from the Mexican capital. Upon landing in SFO, he couldn’t get to Operations fast enough. There he found mass confusion. A chief pilot, frustrated by the lack of information, was awaiting the next flight to Los Angeles for a connection to Mexico City. The aviator cringed with the inability to do anything; Carl Herbert had been a close friend and there was no possible scenario that he could imagine that would lead Carl into a situation where the outcome would be what he was being told. As in Denver, Kurt learned little.

  The next leg of his work day, a flight to Seattle, demanded his attention. He climbed the terminal staircase telling himself his concerns were unwarranted but uncertainty nagged at him. Entering the crowded halls of the terminal building, Kyle Tillman noticed a large group of F/As and gate agents gathered in a corner so he casually wandered over to see what the commotion was. The Midwestern athlete soon found out that someone had the official crew list from 2605. The faces of the flight attendants spoke not a word as they individually and methodically ran down the list of names. Sighs of relief were sporadically heard by crew members as the names of the majority of junior flight attendants that were unknown to most. Kyle also felt at ease as each name conjured up no memories. But then there it was, the last name on the sheet. It read loud and clear; there could be no mistake.