Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  “I'm Ron Banner. I headed up the investigation on 2605 for ALPA. (Air Line Pilots Association).” I stood silent, perplexed because I thought I was aware of of all of the primary players in this probe. “I'd like to speak to you if you have the time. I have some material concerning the crash I would like to share with you.”

  “If I have the time? Are you kidding me?” I became transfixed.

  “Let's say we get together in the bar in about 30 minutes?” I could not get to my room fast enough as I stumbled about to change and freshen up. I quickly returned downstairs to the facility's lounge and the promise of answers from the most reputable source I had yet encountered. As we enjoyed a couple of cold beers the chief pilot disclosed that he was still trying to sort out all the details of what had happened.

  “Have you read the Mexican final report?” Captain Banner inquired.

  “I wasn't aware it was out.” The aviator put down his drink, opened a briefcase he had brought with him, reached in and grabbed a document and laid it upon the table.

  “That's for you.” I nearly peed in my pants. “Its conclusion was “pilot error” of course.”

  “Was Carl sucked into the wrong runway?” My frank question produced a frown on Captain Banner's face. It struck deep for he had been a close friend to Carl and the family, still in close contact with Carl's widow, Heidi.

  “It sure looks that way, Ed, but because of the restrictions put upon those of us trying to get answers at the scene it would be hard to prove at this point. ALPA simply could not sit idle. The union simply refuses to accept the Mexican document.” Those words lightened my load somewhat for finally I was speaking to a man of quality who represented an organization which now seemed to be saying enough is enough. “I've recently completed work on an independent report on the accident.” My eyes grew wide. In essence, Captain Banner had been given the thankless job of cleaning up the mess. “I have an extra copy. This is for you, Ed, and I hope you are able to find a sense of peace in its contents.” Captain Banner presented the blue folder to me as I sat in a stupor. The hair on the back of my neck rose as I grabbed the icy glass of beer and finished it in several hurried gulps. I felt relief. Here was an expert that seemed to be saying, “No you are not crazy, you seem to have perceived the entire ugly affair in a rational and acute manner.”

  “I'm not a bonehead flight attendant,” I whispered. “We flight attendants are not airheads.”

  The mindless chatter with myself continued.

  “What was that?” The captain asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Listen captain, how could something like this have happened in the first place?”

  “I don’t know, Ed, I just hope it never happens again.” My new mentor shook my hand and departed to retire for the evening.

  I hurried to my room and first examined the Mexican report. I found it to be a befuddled document of ten pages. I became dismayed to see the report state that Skip Mitchell had died in the tragedy and Reina Torres had survived. I recalled how in the international agreement governing airline accidents on foreign territory, the airline and host nation of the company have the right to question any irregularities in a final report. There were plenty in the Mexican account yet both entities remained silent and blind to the obvious. I became frustrated and tossed the report aside. I grabbed the ALPA report.

  I held the document and realized that I was shaking uncontrollably. Sitting on the bed I opened Captain Banner's evaluation and was struck by the very first sentence.

  “After an extensive investigation, the Air Line Pilots Association is unable to determine a precise cause of this accident.”[8]

  “So what's new,” I thought but then continued on.

  “But because investigators were withheld from making a complete and thorough examination of the aircraft wreckage, crash site and airport facilities, it will never be accurately determined to what extent the aircraft or the approach facilities contributed to this disaster.” If my beloved airline or the U.S. Government needed a reason to confront the findings of La Navegación en El Espacio Aéreo Mexicano, there it was. I wasn't stupid, I had long ago realized that politics and big money were going to determine what caused the crash of flight 2605.

  The deeper I dove into Captain Banner’s assessment the greater my anger swelled. The senior pilot had done a good job and sacrificed nothing of the truth. It led to where the good captain had his suspicions, although he was far more diplomatic about pointing the finger than I certainly would have been. The flight was cleared to descend to 13,000’ and proceed directly to the Tepexpan radio beacon, the blue folder revealed. It further implied that the cockpit crew of 2605 was to expect an INS approach to Runway 23-Left. Even an amateur aviator could see the ramifications from such instructions. The Captain and the F/O agreed at that time that they would make a Tepexpan approach, which is actually the transition that leads to the INS approach for Runway 23-Left.

  It was there in clear print for my eyes to see. Bits of the puzzle that were confusing before now became crystal clear.

  “Carl was suckered in!” I stopped reading for a time to concentrate and recall that fateful morning. Like mice in a fatal trap, my friends, my co-workers were all dead as a result of stupidity. The Mexican Government knew it, the airline knew it and so did did the politicians in Washington.

  But why such an elaborate cover-up? The words spoken by the minister made it perfectly clear how the Mexicans wanted this tale to end up.

  “Your own airline, Senor Valenciana, is a working partner with our government in creating economic success…..all our partners are in agreement, working in harmony and not making waves.”

  I wondered because there had been widespread rumors that the Mexicans had tampered with the CVR Recording once it was retrieved from the scorched wreckage. Maybe that’s what Captain Banner was referring to when he said that he wished he knew the entire truth? I found no proof of tampering in the tape Diego had given me but I certainly was no expert in such matters. I laid the report gently down on the table treating it as a precious gem not to be manhandled or ruffled. Feeling depleted I stood and walked over to the mirror focusing on the lines and shapes of my face. So the destruction of my jumbo jet had all been a very sad mistake with apologies to be offered by all involved. All that was left was to ante up the proceeds, the monetary windfall, the thirty pieces of silver that created a sweet sound once buried deep in the pockets of the money-changers. With that, my mind became transformed by hate and the reflection now in front of me was that of someone I did not recognize. The image I saw had my face but stood with a much more committed demeanor.

  “Who is watching out for your interest, Ed?” My jaw dropped as I could swear the figure in the mirror had just asked me a question. “Those who were to blame for this tragedy stand to lose much if the truth was revealed. Do you think that buffoon, Edmundo, is going to help you? I will take care of you, the world be damned.” The sight of Senora Torres kneeling at her daughter’s grave-site filled my mind. The memory haunted me as I turned away from the mirror and hesitantly faced the door that led to the hallway. I slowly unlocked and opened it. I walked outside and turned to peer down the corridor. There at the end of the hall stood the young Mexican child, Javier, his arms reaching for me.

  “Will I ever be good enough?” I clenched my hands into a fist and gritted my teeth then howled in pain. The hotel operator’s board must have lid up with numerous calls reporting a chilling cry like a wolf. I assumed the security staff would check out the guests' concerns but they would find nothing unusual.

  Like a trapped rat I sought freedom from my physical and mental restraints. I gathered some belongings and hurried out into the rain soaked streets and ran till pure exhaustion caused me to stop.

  “Dear God, why do you abandon me?” I bent over to catch my breath and gain some composure. I was confused as I did not pay attention to where I had wandered off to. I looked up and realized I was standing at the entrance to the New York City underground. The de
scent into the maze of the underworld enticed me. It was a dark refuge, a place to hide. Instead of finding peace, I had fallen into a jaded world and the sinister thoughts of my infliction returned with a vengeance.

  “Welcome aboard Flight 2605.” The announcement rang loud and clear, through the catacombs of the NY subway…..I fell deeper and deeper into the vast pit I now found myself trapped in.

  “We’ll be traveling at 37,000 feet and will arrive in Mexico City at approximately 5:45am. We invite you sit back and enjoy your flight. If there is anything we can do to make your flight more enjoyable,” the voice became ugly and gross, “please don't hesitate to call upon one of your friendly flight attendants.” I ran through the shadowy corridors in an effort to catch the next available train with no regard to destination. I could hear the screeching as the rail car came to a halt and the doors slid open. I leapt inside in hopes of escaping the loathsome articulations. I fell upon a seat and remained motionless as the doors slammed shut and the car jerked forward. My minor feeling of relief was premature.

  “Welcome aboard sir.” It was Reina's voice. Her serene words echoed in my head on this deranged journey through the underworld. Turbulence in my life was what I now desired to satisfy my wounds. Suddenly, the strong image of myself I had view in the mirror appeared, seated right across from me. He leaned forward and looked at me with determined eyes.

  “Can't you see, Ed? Peace equates to death.” A new and more deadly idea developed from the malignancy. My somber reflection continued. “Reina found peace in her faith, Tamlyna in her recent marriage, Gary in his plans to transfer to Denver and Cary in the rekindled relationship with her husband. Now, they are dead. Only I can protect you.”

  “No!” I screamed. The image was gone. I looked about the subway car as I was the focus of uncertain stares. I became ashamed. I thought about Sofia and Cris.

  “Now there is even more to lose,” I muttered. I sat locked in a semi-fetal position. The few passengers nearby stared at me with great concern. I murmured unintelligible words and sentences. “Cleared to land 23-Left. The other runway. Why? Good enough?” Finding peace is an unrealistic dream. “Look what happened to my friends?” All at once I became aware of my fellow passengers' discomfort. Their uneasiness fueled my paranoia. Suddenly, from the corner, of my eye I spotted a Mexican campesino sitting in the corner of the subway car. Across from him appeared two young passengers from 2605, Ronald Daily and his young Mexican friend. The three men smiled and glanced in my direction.

  “Hey dude, got any more Bohemia?” I swallowed hard and tried to ignore the request. The sounds of the rushing train increased in volume I could hardly think. I glanced to the other end of the car. There sitting passively were the Mexican sisters I had given cocktails to, on 2605. One of the kind women sat busily knitting a child’s sweater. Not one of the images revealed any sense of pain or crisis with the exception of myself. Their mannerisms exhibited an atmosphere of great pleasure. Suddenly the bizarre amusement ride jerked violently as again it sped up.

  “Ah, this is your captain speaking.” The voice echoed through the car as the side lights blinked off and on. “We’ve been advised to expect some moderate turbulence as we descend, please make sure that your seat belt is tightly fastened, thank you.” I gazed out the window just in time to see the rushing train enter a tunnel. We proceeded under the East River heading for Manhattan. I held on for dear life as the rushing train jerked and swayed in an effort to dislodge me from its belly. Finally it slowed and rolled to a screeching stop.

  “TIME SQUARE!!” A voice yelled out. I remained still as others hurried out. I rose and decided to follow them. They guided my trek through the corridors of the catacombs. Then the crowd I had embraced emerged above ground to a unique terrain and diverse culture, one that stirred rapidly, enticing yet fearful and tremendously inviting. Peril seemed to loom everywhere and this delighted me. I remained standing stoically as everyone and everything rushed by me. I glanced skyward to the heavens, viewing pinnacles of concrete towers, attesting to the efforts of man challenging the forces of nature. Their tilted slopes reminded me of the volcanic rises of the north shore of my island. What shot skyward here was every bit as exciting, but this was not a peaceful jungle. Instead, it offered the twisted opportunity I somehow had been seeking.

  “Vengeance, that's what you want.” The voices egged me. Oh, I so desired it. Elated by the prospects, I became very observant. An elderly woman across the street in a worn gray coat struggled to escape the harassment of three youths who toyed with their prey. A tall balding man stood defiantly in the cool night air in the middle of the street engaged in an argument with a short taxi driver who looked to be of Middle Eastern descent. The late night suddenly erupted with the blaring of car horns of those trapped by the dispute. Like a child in a candy store I marveled at the possibilities and walked slowly on to 42nd St., taking in the radiant, colorful lights that made the night seem like day.

  “You buy some coke?” A dark figure in a long blue coat whispered his solicitations as he approached me. I took no notice and just continued on. Others flashed jewelry precisely set upon their arms as I smiled and enjoyed the madness. I was not there seeking bargains or illegal chemicals; in fact a great part of my being seemed to be laying down defined ground rules for a very guileful and deadly game. The more I walked, the more this persona took delight in the fantasy my vile thoughts were constructing.

  Next, I wandered towards Hell's Kitchen, to the bus depot that delivered the unsuspecting to the gate of the city. My urban voyage sought the worthless in the city’s diseased sections. All that I perceived as foul concerning my ordeal, I specifically related to the filth I now saw before me.

  “Hey, want a date?” I barely heard the invitation as I was all but consumed by my mental phantasm. “You want a date or not?” The figure in a short black skirt stood in high heels that made her a good three inches higher. I gazed in wonder at the adolescent girl that stared me in the face. .

  “How old are you?”

  “You got fifty bucks?” The distorted child playing dress up was persistent. “I'm old enough.”

  I became disgusted which fueled my anger and eliminated my ability to feel pity. My anger grew. The growing persona I view in my hotel room mirror then again in the subway car began to take over. He was void of fear or hesitation. He wished to target those who twisted the innocence of this girl for their own selfish gain. The frustration overwhelmed me. “First this society lets children burn then they allow them to peddle their wares to eke out a pitiful existence for survival.”

  For whatever reason, the young lady continued to badger me, soliciting her commodities. This flight attendant on layover was ill prepared to deal with what was facing him. I became uneasy and looked for somewhere to escape the haggle of this abused juvenile. I slipped into an adjacent pizza shop and remained there till the spacey streetwalker ventured off. I ordered a beer and took a seat by the front window settling down and taking in the entire street scene as the throngs continued to scurry about. Here everyone was deemed expendable.

  “They are all vermin.” I said the words easily and with no regret. At that moment I spotted the young woman across the street. “No rest for the working girl.” I tried sarcasm to mask the sadness of the situation. She seemed so wasted. Some of her associates, not much older than she and dressed in lavish bright colors, tried to assist her in walking straight. Suddenly a brazen young man in a white shirt and dark dress pants approached the group and forcefully grabbed the black haired teenager by the arm. He was obviously very upset by her condition.

  “Possibly a brother?” I knew better. I recalled television reports about the young street people of this area, mostly runaways and the leeches that were waiting for them as they stepped off the bus. Needing a friend in the big city they let their guard down and make a pact with Death's henchmen. They are hooked on drugs and are forced to sell themselves to the bloodsuckers, virtually enslaved by a sadist procurer. But it wa
sn’t my problem, not my responsibility even though I had the greatest desire to walk across the street and break his face. I watched the pimp strong-arm the girl, yelling obscenities and slapping her about as she struggled to protect herself. No one bothered to help the drugged young girl, including myself. Hell, it seemed as though no one ever took notice, accepting such behavior as a nightly occurrence in this part of the city. Most residents of this burdened neighborhood struggled to keep from drowning in their own personal miseries. Perhaps I was one such person.

  In an instant I became very frightened of what I might do and the pleasure I would receive from doing it.

  “Go ahead, Ed, kill the bastard.” I quickly rose and hastily made my way back to the subway station, still plagued with my own malady. Suddenly my anxiety was tempered by the thought of Cris. I had responsibilities; I had my flight duties to attend to on the return trip home. I could not get involved in the miseries that were ongoing in these streets. I returned to the underground and went back to the hotel.

  “Would you care for a cool drink?” I politely asked an elderly woman on the flight home. I worked the cabins of the DC-10 like a diplomat administering hospitality and good will. There was little indication to the passengers who relaxed comfortably during the six hour flight to the west coast that there lingered a tormented soul on edge amongst them. Edmundo made sure the smile did not fade away.

  “So what conclusions have you drawn by your experiences in New York?” Doctor Ramljak's face was filled with concern.

  “We'll Doc, when Eddy died in the plane crash Edmundo was born. Personally, I can't stand the bastard. Someone has now come along to see to my interest.”

  “Oh yeah? Who is that?” I swallowed hard and tried to be make logic out of the absurd.

  “It is said we all have a dark side. Carl Jung called it 'our shadow self.' Light and dark, good and evil: yin and yang: matter and antimatter. The airline's boy, the good Edmundo has a dark side emerging from his subconscious.” I sat revealing a worried smile. Doctor Ramljak thought for a moment then scribbled some notes on his yellow pad.