by C. J. Stott
One of the passengers in his section, the businessman, leaned over to an elderly gentleman and said in a thick southern accent, “I guess they just can’t leave each other alone. I figured they had completed their bidness back there in the head.”
Passengers watched the curtain that divided the two sections continue to sway after Carlton and Bill had rushed through it. The businessman continued, “I’ll God damned guarantee you, I think this whole thing is disgusting.” The white-haired elderly gentleman looked over at his wife and nodded his agreement.
Carlton passed three or four Flight Attendants on his way toward the front of the airplane. Each were busily engaged in specific tasks for their section. Flight Attendants later would say they saw Carlton when he strode purposefully through their zone. One of the Flight Attendants, Linda, thought Carlton looked odd, but dismissed her concern because Carlton was such a strange person most of the time.
Bill walked only a couple of steps behind Carlton, carrying his black Nike gym bag at his side. At one point, he momentarily lost sight of him when they were separated by the dividing curtain between Business and First Class.
Bill approached the curtain and rudely pushed it aside. Just on the other side of the divider, he was confronted by a young Flight Attendant. She looked directly at him and asked, “Sir, where are you seated? Are you sitting in this section?”
Bill attempted to ignore her and continue after Carlton. The young woman said in a loud and conspicuous voice, “Sir, you will have to return to your cabin. You can’t go up there. This area is reserved for First Class passengers.” She waited a beat, “Only.”
Bill turned and faced her. If she challenged him she would ruin everything. If she called attention to him, many passengers would look directly at him. He put his hand on the front of her apron and forced her out of his way. No talk. Just brute strength. She started to protest again, but was stifled when he slapped her sharply across the cheek and mouth, leaving a red handprint on her face.
Carlton looked behind him. Bill was detained by that “newbie” Flight Attendant. Quickly and frantically, Carlton looked around First Class and desperately tried to gain someone’s, anyone’s attention. Patti Mallory walked toward him, on her way to help with the cabin service in Business Class.
He looked back, just in time to see Bill slap the new flight attendant across her face.
Chapter 43
16:25 Eastern Standard Time
Overhead Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Carlton grabbed Patti’s arm and swung her around. He was out of breath. Not from exertion, but fear. His voice suggested he was near his limit. Hysteria was imminent. His sentences and thoughts came out in a jumble, “Patti, he’s after me. Oh my God. It’s awful.”
Carlton shook as he looked behind and saw Bill coming directly toward him. Carlton’s soft brown eyes revealed his abject fear. He looked at Patti and then back to Bill.
In a whispered, pleading voice, “He’s crazy and wants to hijack the airplane.”
Patti had not heard the first of his remarks and had simply dismissed it as part of his perpetual homosexual hysteria.
She also did not fully understand the importance embedded in the rest of his remarks. The high ambient noise level in the airplane drowned out most of his shallow whispered words.
Suddenly, all three of them were standing in very close proximity. Bill grabbed Carlton by the arm and roughly jerked him around so that they were face to face.
Patti looked on with distaste and then shock. At first, she thought that perhaps Bill was just another link in Carlton’s never ending chain of sexual adventures. Yet, something in the way Bill roughly grabbed him, led her to sense this was indeed more than a lover’s quarrel.
Bill virtually seethed when he said, “You fuckin’ fag. You tried to tell her, didn’t you?”
Carlton shook his head sideways. He was unable to even whisper his denial.
Bill paused to gather his breath, “I told you not to tell anyone. I told you I’d shoot your balls off if you told anyone. Now I’m going to do it.”
Carlton started to sob. He defensively covered his crotch. This time, no sound came out. Just tears running down his cheeks and onto his vest and shirt.
Even though Patti did not understand Bill was intent on hijacking the aircraft, she seemed to instinctively know that this was an explosive situation.
She tried to break Bill’s grip on Carlton’s arm.
“What are you doing to him? You can’t treat any of us like that.”
Bill ignored her and tightened his grip on Carlton.
Patti’s pulse raced as she said, “If you don’t return to your seat immediately, I’ll tell the Captain that you are trying to intimidate one of our cabin crew.” As an afterthought, she added, “And, that’s a federal offense.” She searched for something else to diffuse the situation, adding, “You could go to jail.”
Bill looked at her with disgust, “You do that. Go ahead and tell the Captain.” He dug his fingers deeply into Carlton’s arm.
Intuitively, she understood. Carlton was a prisoner in plain sight. Right here. Right now. In front of me. He was in open view. Her perception now was very clear.
She knew the policy and company recommendations in the security program. She stood there and could almost repeat the entire litany of “Things to do when you are threatened.”
“Intervene between a terrorist and a hostage.”
“Delay.”
“Passively create hurdles or speed bumps.”
“Keep him off guard.”
“Confuse the hijacker.”
“Delay the hijacker.”
“Delay the hijacker.”
“Delay the hijacker.”
“Delay. Delay. Delay.”
Patti drew herself up and said, “Sir, I must warn you that assaulting a crew member is against company policy and also against the FAA rules.” She paused then repeated herself, “You could go to jail for this kind of thing.”
Patti looked for some sign of comprehension on Bill’s part. None was forthcoming. “I want you to return to your seat immediately and stay there.”
Patti, Bill and Carlton appeared to be locked in a live tableau. No one moved.
Bill used Carlton as a shield and propelled him forward into the galley in First Class. Patti was caught up in the momentum. All of them were tightly crowded in the narrow passageway.
Bill looked at her and said, “Listen to me, puta. He’s my hostage. I’m gonna hijack this fuckin’ airplane to Havana. You understand me, bitch? I want to see the Captain. Now.”
The fear she felt caused her to hesitate.
“Open the fuckin’ cockpit door.”
Patti tried to assess the situation. Carlton was not going to be any help. The hijacker was agitated and she didn’t know how serious he was. She fought to keep her own panic under control. She knew she was to delay the hijacker as long as possible. Keep him slowed down and keep him away from the cockpit.
She spoke with a voice that betrayed her outward confidence as she tried to delay the hijacker, “Sir, I’ll tell the Captain you want to go to Cuba. But he is very busy right now. I don’t think that he will be able to stop and talk to you.”
Bill tightened his grip, then twisted Carlton’s arm behind his back. Carlton squealed and winced at the pain.
The hijacker nervously demanded, “Take me to the Captain. I want this over with. No excuses, puta.”
Bill dragged Carlton toward the front of First Class. A passenger coat closet was located at the extreme forward part of the cabin. Bill approached the closet and attempted to open the door, but could find no latches, nor did he see anything that looked like a doorknob. Several passengers became alarmed seeing a flight attendant being hauled through the First Class cabin by a disheveled looking Latino.
He forcefully slammed Carlton against the coat compartment, “How do you open this fuckin’ cockpit door?” Bill had never been on a 747 and had no idea where the cockpit was l
ocated.
Carlton felt like he was going to faint. His eyes rolled up and he started to slump against Bill.
He taunted him and snarled, “Come on. Help me out here.” Bill again threatened physical harm to Carlton as he raged, “Or, I’ll make a mess of you. How do I get in the cockpit?”
Patti saw an advantage in suddenly being alone in the First Class Galley while the hijacker and Carlton were only eighteen feet away. Patti bolted from the galley and ran up the circular staircase to the upper deck. Away from the hijacker, Patti called the cockpit on the upper deck interphone.
She used the appropriate signal for the cockpit, but did not wait for anyone to answer, she just started to talk, “Captain, this is Patti, I’m on the upper deck. We have a passenger in First Class who says he wants to go to Havana and he has taken one of the cabin crew hostage.”
All three pilots had been engaged in the tedium of a transcontinental flight. Don had been looking at the approach charts for JFK.
“We have a passenger in First Class who says he wants to go to Havana and he has one of us hostage.”
Don and Fred both grabbed for the interphone handset aft of the center console. Don lifted the handset out of the cradle and spoke, “This is the Captain. Who is this?”
She was out of breath. She couldn’t remember the Captain’s name, “Oh, Captain.” She thought she was going to cry, “This is Patti. A passenger downstairs wants to go to Cuba.” She sucked in great quantities of air, “He has taken Carlton hostage, too.”
Patti heard Don’s calm voice tighten, “Is he armed? Does he have a gun, or knife. Did he say anything about having explosives with him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything. But, yes, he has a gun. And he has small bag with him and he has Carlton Marsh with him in the forward part of First Class. As soon as they left the galley, when it was clear, I ran up here.”
“Patti you did the right thing. You know the procedures. Keep him out of here if you can, for as long as you can. How serious do you think this guy is about going to Havana?”
“I don’t know. I’m so scared. I didn’t know what to do. All I know is he seemed nervous, very upset. Agitated. Carlton said he was crazy.”
Downstairs, Bill banged Carlton against the closet door for the second time. Carlton was so frightened he could not speak. The best he could manage was to cough and whimper in the back of his throat.
A large black passenger, who, several years ago, had been a professional football player, sat in the first row of First Class and looked at Bill as he bounced Carlton off the coat closet door. The athlete started to get out of his seat and said in a deep resonant voice, “Hey man. Leave the little dude alone. He don’t need to be treated that way.”
Bill turned toward the voice behind him. He pointed his pistol at the voice. He came face to face with the torso of an immense passenger, who was still not quite out of his seat. Without thinking, Bill moved the aiming point of the gun up toward the passenger’s face.
The football player saw the gun as Bill turned toward him. He quickly sat down. Now the gun barrel was at eye level. Bill flicked the gun left and right at the athlete’s face and enjoyed the sudden and immense power he felt. The size of the passenger made no difference. The gun was the equalizer.
The passenger had been in many situations like this in Detroit when he was growing up. He did the only smart thing he could think of. He said, “I don’t know what your problem is, my man. But you have a gun and whatever you say is cool with me.”
Several other passengers had seen the gun and a woman screamed. Bill looked through the cabin and waved the gun in the general direction of the passengers.
He then loudly yelled, “I am hijacking this fuckin’ jet to Cuba.” A community grasp of shock rumbled through First Class, “and I don’t want no fuckin’ trouble with any of you.”
He returned the aim of the gun to the passenger at his left, “Especially from you.”
The passenger said, “I’m cool with that.”
Carlton locked his knees so he would not fall or slide to the floor. He was sweating. Tears mixed with sweat ran down his face. He could not think. It seemed as though this was all a bad dream.
Bill reached behind and grabbed Carlton by the arm. He swung Carlton around in front of him and said in a loud whisper, “How do I get into the God damned cockpit? Tell me, you little fag, or I’ll shoot you right here, right now.”
Bill tightened his grip and then pressed the gun against Carlton’s lower back then said, “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to start shooting holes in your skinny little ass.”
Tearfully, in great sobs, Carlton said half crying, “The cockpit is upstairs, I’ll take you. But dear sweet Jesus, please don’t hurt me any more.”
Chapter 44
16:30 Eastern Standard Time
John F. Kennedy International Airport
The Chief of Security at John F. Kennedy International Airport, John Milford Batchelor, wrote down the facts as Robert Burns pumped them to him during their telephone conversation. Next, he tried to contact Flight Dispatch and talk to Dispatcher Fielding. They had missed each other twice during the past two hours. Batchelor was getting ready to leave for the day. He remembered he still needed to get a message to Dispatch and ask them to relay it to Flight 100.
He dialed the number for Flight Operations and then the extension for Dispatch. Becky answered the telephone, “Dispatch, Meriwether.”
“Hi, this is John Batchelor. I work in security here at Kennedy and I’m still trying to reach Mr. Fielding.”
“Just a moment, Sir. I see him coming around the corner. May I tell him what this is about please?”
“Looks like we have a stowaway on 100 from San Francisco.”
“Yes, Sir. We had a report of that earlier today. Mr. Fielding is aware of the situation.”
She held her breath while Fielding came to his desk and sat down heavily, “Just a minute. Here he is.”
Batchelor could hear a muffled, brief conversation and then the dispatcher’s distinctive German-accented rumbling voice, “This is Dispatcher Fielding. What is it that we do to help you?” He pronounced “what” as “vut” and “we” as “vee”.
“Well, it appears we have a stowaway on 100 this morning out of San Francisco. I think you may have talked with Robert Burns about this. The flight’s due to land at Kennedy about 17:30 local time.” He waited for Fielding to say something, but all he heard what his rattling breaths.
“So, I’d like you to notify the crew.”
“Yes.”
“Alert the cockpit that the New York Port Authority Police will meet the flight on arrival. It’s my intention to apprehend the stowaway and press charges. I have asked the Port Authority PD to detain the stowaway for interrogation.”
“What do you want the flight crew to do with this passenger?” Again, “vut.”
“Nothing. We just wanted them alerted to the fact that they are going to be met by the Port Authority police will be waiting in the Jetway when 100 arrives.”
“I vil haf Becky send und message to da crew. Vut iss the passenger’s name?”
“The only name we have is Guerrero.” He checked the spelling and said, “B. Guerrero, “Traveling on a ticket stolen from a travel agency.”
He waited a second, then added, “Also, according to security in San Fran, this character meets the hijacker profile. However, that could just be coincidence.”
When Batchelor mentioned ‘hijacker profile,’ Fielding felt a shock run up his back and neck. The chill lasted only a second or two, but it frightened Fielding. There was a fleeting sense of irritation. Fielding wondered why the head of Kennedy Security seemed to take this passenger so casually.
“Mr. Batchelor. As always, ve vil do our best. Are you sure there is nothing about this passenger regarding a hijacking profile?” He waited for an answer, but got none.
He added, “Don’t you think you should be doing something about him?”
“Dat is true.”
“All I know at this time, is he was observed by our head of security in San Francisco. There was some concern. That led to an investigation about the validity of his ticket. Burns found that his ticket had been stolen a couple of weeks ago.”
“Interesting.”
“For now, I want to believe there is nothing more to this than random coincidence that he fits the profile.”
“It’s your call.”
“I appreciate your concern. I’ll let you know what we find out when 100 lands.”
Fielding felt only slightly relieved by Batchelor’s remarks. He mused to himself, “These security folks did know much more about hijackings than I do.”
All Fielding knew was from his experience from the operational-side of a hijacking. Fuel remaining and fuel consumption, winds aloft, en route and terminal weather and destination airport conditions. The coordination with law enforcement logistics and regard to legal and international concerns were something he knew little about.
Fielding thought about these things, when he absent-mindedly said, “Well, we do what we can here to help you. Thank you for your explanation.”
He hung up the telephone and Becky came to his desk, stopped and then looked at him in a quizzical manner, “Hijacking?”
“Probably just a coincidence. The passenger on 100 apparently fit the profile, or a part of the profile.”
“What was that all about?” She realized perhaps she was being too outspoken and should have waited for Fielding to tell her when he thought it was the right time.
But then, she knew her fears were groundless when he said, “Kennedy Security was advised by San Fran Security and Flight Operations that a passenger on Flight 100 had boarded with a stolen ticket.”