by C. J. Stott
She nodded, but said nothing.
“They want us to SELCAL the flight and let the crew know they are going to be met by the Port Authority Police on arrival.”
“So, where does the hijacking come into play?”
“As I said, Batchelor told me the passenger met some or most of the hijack profiles.”
She said, “Right.” She fidgeted with her hair, “One way ticket, purchased in cash?”
“Yes. But Batchelor didn’t seem too concerned about that aspect of the situation.”
Fielding lit another cigarette and tossed the paper match toward the ashtray on his desk. The match bounced off the heaping pile of crumpled cigarettes and skidded to a stop by his phone. As an afterthought he said, “Becky, pull up the latest in flight information from ACARS and the FAA Enroute Traffic Control Center on 100 and see how they are doing.”
As he said this, Becky had already started to write on a pad, saying, “On it.”
He smiled and said, “Ve have da out/off reports. Und zee if there is a revised ETA for Kennedy.” Unrealized to Fielding, but not to Becky, as the tension in the room mounted his accent became thicker.
Becky spun the Lazy-Susan carousel so the computer faced her. She quickly entered commands. But had made several entry errors. She slowed down and re-entered the multiple requests on Fielding’s keyboard.
“She muttered to her self about the typing errors. Clearly, my fault because I was in a hurry. Adrenalin coursed through her, giving her the shakes.
She didn’t look up as he said to her, “I vil SELCAL dem und let dem know about der stowaway.” He thrust his hand onto the pile of papers on his desk, found the still warm match and dropped it in the center of the ashtray. With a stronger German accent and inflection he said, “Mr. B. Guerrero. Vut vas you up to?”
As an afterthought Lazlo wondered to himself, “If Guerrero were going to hijack 100, why would he use a stolen ticket that could so easily be discovered and traced?” Mindlessly, Fielding looked out the window at the thickening clouds and asked himself, “Where vould our Mr. Guerrero want to hijack the flight to?” He could see the vestige formation of altocumulus clouds racing ahead of a southwest wind, “Certainly not to New York mit his stolen ticket.”
Chapter 45
16:53 Eastern Standard Time
Overhead Pittsburgh
Don Webber sat motionless. There were many things to consider. His first concern was to determine the strengths and weaknesses of the hijacker and then find out how serious he was about going to Havana.
He turned to his Stan, “Make damn sure that cockpit door stays locked at all times. I know we told the Flight Attendants during the pre-flight briefing about the proper code to gain access. I want you to make goddamn sure you look through the peephole before you open the door.”
Stan thought, “This guy must think I’m an idiot.”
Fred reviewed the company policy and procedure, “I guess passive resistance is the order of the day.”
Don looked at Fred, “Damn it. This is no time for guessing. We have to be very deliberate in our actions.”
With that, he picked up the interphone handset and pressed the appropriate button to call First Class. No one answered, so he pressed the code again. Again, he waited. And again, there was no answer.
“We’re always the last to know what is going on.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Fred knew it was a mistake. Don verified Fred’s assessment with the look of disgust.
Don busied himself with the ritual refolding of high altitude Jeppesen chart as he said, “We have a potentially dangerous passenger on board who apparently has expressed a desire to go to Cuba. This is no time for humor or levity.” An ominous and tension-filled pall hung the cockpit like a cloud of smoke from a summer campfire.
Patti looked at the passengers in the upper deck cabin and lounge. From outward appearances, they seemed concerned, but did not express the terror she felt. She started toward the circular staircase, but looked down just in time to see Carlton coming up, with the hijacker directly behind him. She changed her mind.
Carlton looked up at Patti and visually pleaded for her to do something, anything that might save him from this situation. He started to speak, but all that came out was a dry croak.
The hijacker interrupted Carlton’s silent protestations and looked at Patti. “Did you tell the Captain?”
Patti backed away from both of them as they ascended into the confined upper deck galley. The two forward-most passengers watched the unfolding scene with unbelieving eyes.
In an attempt to stall the hijacker, Patti said, “I can’t talk to the Captain right now, he is too busy flying the airplane.”
The hijacker was not put off by her delay, “If you can’t talk to him, then I want to see the man myself.”
Patti thought, “Dear God. I’m the only thing between him and the cockpit.” She vividly remembered the single most important point in airline security training: KEEP THE HIJACKER OUT OF THE COCKPIT.
Mentally, she sought to find any excuse to keep him out of the cockpit and away from the pilots. “I’m afraid that is not possible. The cockpit door is locked. No one is allowed in there but the pilots.”
Carlton started to feel that he might just get out of this without being seriously injured or worse. He added, “Yes. That’s right. The door is locked. No one has a key.”
The hijacker ignored him. Carlton took being ignored as a sign that Bill might believe he had just said.
Carlton was momentarily bolstered by this good luck and said, “She’s right. There are rules about being in the cockpit and no one is allowed in there but the pilots.” Proud of his improvisation, he added with a flourish, “Besides, Bill, the door is locked from the inside.”
When Bill heard his name, he was seized with a trembling wave of panic. He reacted and thought, “Because of this fag, they all knew his name and who he was.” He concluded, there was no turning back now.
No doubt about it, he was into it now. The pale and skinny Paloma had tried to trap him. He would teach him a lesson. The hijacker turned and slapped Carlton across the face with the back of his hand, “You little cocksucker. You tried to trick me.”
Fear and terror overrode logic as he said, “Just because you know my name, don’t mean I’m going to get caught.” For added emphasis and false bravado, he menaced Carlton and then sucker punched him again.
Carlton froze. He trembled as he said, “Honest, I wouldn’t try to trick you.” His words were pounded back into his throat as Bill viscously hit him with his fist.
Patti picked up on his name, “Bill, tell me what it is you want. Maybe we can help you.”
“I want to see the fucking pilot. Now. I, uh, I want to see him now.”
He paused, “Does he know I’m uh, that we’re, out here?”
Carlton felt his lip swell, but said, “Really. You can’t just go in there. He’s so busy. Flying a big plane like this is really really hard.” Carlton took a breath. His mouth and tongue felt like they were filled with cotton, “It takes three pilots just to fly this plane.”
Bill panicked. He had no idea there was more than one pilot. Somehow, the odds had shifted. Now, he needed to do something; anything that would give him an advantage. His panic transformed to a combination of fear, frustration and anger. He knew had to gain control of the situation.
He had no use for Carlton. He had served his purpose. Bill raised the graphite pistol and struck him on the on the side of his head, just above his ear. Bill could hear and feel something like dry spaghetti being broken when the pistol penetrated Carlton’s skin.
Chapter 46
17:00 Eastern Standard Time
East of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Without any thoughts of resistance, Carlton’s had completely exhausted his shaken resolve, and dropped to the floor. He screamed, “Jesus. Don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want.” Then pleadingly, “Anything.”
Passengers on the upper de
ck were now inescapably engaged in a living terrorist drama. They had no options. All were now equally and inexorably linked to each other. All of their collective fates were now in the hands of the hijacker and the pilots. The only barrier between their lives and disaster was an attractive flight attendant next to a flimsy cockpit door.
Patti was filled with revulsion at the sight of Carlton lying on the floor. There was no reason for Carlton to have been viscously pistol-whipped. Bill kicked Carlton and she winced. This time, she felt like she was going to be sick.
Delay. Delay. Delay, “Please Bill. Don’t hit him any more. He can’t help you. Let me see what I, or we, can do.”
She looked past Carlton into the lounge and saw a dozen passengers leaning into the aisle bonded to each other by events that tied them together. Each passenger appeared to be lost in their thoughts as they intently stared at the unfolding scenario.
Each saw themselves as actors in a drama with no good outcomes. Men and women alike tried to fathom how their lives were going to be impacted by this hijacker and the female flight attendant. To a person, it was clear that the hijacker had regained control.
The hijacker looked at the cockpit door that was marked, “Flight Deck--No Admittance.”
He saw the cockpit doorknob and saw a key slot on the face of the knob. He turned to Patti, “Where’s the key, puta?”
He waited less than a second, then raged, “How do you unlock the fuckin’ door?”
Patti hesitated for just a moment as she looked at the hijacker.
He returned her gaze, glared at her and said, “If you don’t tell me how to open the door or find me a damn key, I’ll shoot the fucking lock off the god damned door.”
“Please don’t do that. The pilots are right on the other side of the door. If you hurt them, no one will be able to fly the airplane and we could all die.”
He stared at her. She stared back, “Is that what you want, Bill? To die? To kill all of us?”
Patti thought maybe the hijacker might be satisfied with her answer. She attempted to support her position as she said, “I don’t know where the key is.”
She had terrifying thoughts of what might happen if he got into the cockpit, “I normally work downstairs and I don’t have any idea if there’s even a key up here, or where its located.”
Bill’s gaze wandered passed Patti and he suddenly saw a handset that looked like a wall telephone. Angrily, he yanked the handset from the cradle, turned the handset over and saw a series of numbered push buttons like a touch pad on a telephone. Next to each number, was a small placard that listed various locations throughout the airplane.
Patty watched him look at the phone with dread. She realized that each passing second brought him closer to cockpit entry.
Bill stared at the list, “L1, R1, R4, R5, UPGLY, LWGLY, CONTCAB.” None of the abbreviations made any sense to him. He dropped the handset and let it hang by the cord, “How the fuck do you call the pilot on this thing?”
Patti looked at Carlton who was still crumbled on the floor, partially leaning against the lavatory door. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek then dripped onto his shirt collar. His normally perfect hair was matted with perspiration and blood. He looked back at her, but likely did not comprehend what was going on around him. He alternated between looking like a whipped puppy and someone who was either going to remain cornered or would need to fight for his life. As she looked at him, clearly the whipped puppy had taken over Carlton’s thoughts and reactions.
Bill felt the cold familiar fear that he was going to fail again. Angrily he thought, “This time it would be different.” He knew if he failed, he would either be killed or sent to jail. Going back to jail was not really a choice for him.
He surveyed the upper galley and companionway toward the cockpit. He was puzzled at the number of small doors and storage compartments that lined the walkway toward the cockpit. Bill was no longer thinking, he was only reacting to, and being driven by, his fear.
Bill yelled, “Goddamn it. Will somebody help me?” He looked directly at Patti then rasped, “Go downstairs and find the key, or find someone who knows where the fuckin’ key is.”
He pointed the gun at Carlton, “Do it now. Or, I’ll shoot this fucker.” To Patti, it was clear that the hijacker had lost his connection with reality and was not processing much of what he was saying and doing.
After he yelled at Patti, he grabbed Carlton by the shirt front and forcefully pulled him back on his feet. He grabbed Carlton’s shoulder and spun him around so that he was facing aft.
Bill stood behind Carlton and slammed the gun into his back just above his right kidney. He put his left forearm under his Carlton’s chin and exerted just enough pressure to restrict Carlton’s ability to breathe. Carlton rose up on his toes, trying to lessen Bill’s ability to shut off air to his lungs.
Bill looked over Carlton’s shoulder at the passengers and saw various stages of terror, fear, borderline panic and, in some, resignation. He didn’t feel threatened by the passengers. Not like he did by the black football player downstairs.
Slowly, Bill backed up the incline until his back was against the cockpit door. Patti watched every move he made. Her hand was on the stainless banister of the circular staircase. She could not make herself leave the upper deck. She was transfixed by the drama that continued to unfold before her.
Chapter 47
17:05 Eastern Standard Time
East of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
The level of tension in the cockpit was oppressive. It bordered on being offensive. All three pilots had reviewed and understood the security and anti-hijacking procedures to be followed. They also were deeply aware of the consequences that would befall them if those procedures failed.
Don considered notifying the FAA Terrorist Coordinator about this hijack situation. He delayed because other than one call from a Flight Attendant, he had no corroborating evidence. He decided that as soon as any additional supporting information became evident, he would put the FAA terrorist/hijack procedures into action.
Stan Kurtz had been busy. He knew exactly how much fuel remained. But as a double check, he calculated total fuel consumed which he subtracted from their original fuel load. Both figures agreed, if they remained at Flight Level 330 they had 2:40 minutes of fuel remaining, with an average ground speed of 500 knots, they could travel no more than 1,350 nautical miles. That calculated distance, however, was very optimistic. It would be reduced substantially because not all the fuel in the tanks was usable. He said out loud to him self, “A 1,000 nautical miles is a safer and more conservative estimate of distance, solely based on fuel remaining.”
Don turned to Fred, but said to no one in particular, “I’m not looking for trouble. But, I’d sure would like to know if this character is serious, or if it’s just a hoax.” Neither Fred nor Stan could accept the captain’s inability to make a decision. Both knew it was fundamental that every threat was to be considered viable until proven otherwise. The captain’s lack of leadership was, at best, foolhardy.
Their individual concerns were jarred by the multi-tone trilling SELCAL chime. Don selected the number two VHF radio, keyed the mike and said, “100 answering SELCAL.”
A metallic click was the overture, “This is Kennedy Dispatcher Fielding. We have a message from San Francisco and JFK Security that you have a stowaway on board. He’s traveling on a stolen ticket. Our company security has alerted the New York Port Authority Police to meet your flight on arrival.” There was a static-filled pause before Fielding continued, “What is your latest estimate for Kennedy?”
Fred pulled the aluminum clipboard from between the center console and the edge of his seat. He quickly glanced at the figures on the right side of the sheet, “We have been running three minutes behind the computer all along. If you add another ten minutes for an over water arrival, I’d guess we’ll be there at 21:40 Greenwich.”
Don spoke in to the microphone, “We’re estimating our arrival at or
before 22:00 Z.” Then went on, “Is the weather holding up at Kennedy?”
“Good, Sir. 22:00 Zulu ETA. And, yes, the forecast for your arrival should be fine. However, the wind could shift to the northwest at about that time.”
All three pilots could easily detect Fielding’s German accent, “You vil land on 31 Right. Und, you vil be parked at gate Alpha 19, via Taxi vay November.”
There was a short pause, “The passenger’s name on da ticket iz Guerrero, Mr. B. Guerrero.”
Fielding wondered if he should say anything about the profile of this passenger.
“Thanks for the info.” Don momentarily considered whether he should say anything about the report of the passenger in the cabin. Instinctively, he said, “Dispatch hold on a minute, I want to check something.” Don turned to Fred, “Call First Class and ask what’s going on.”
“I think Patti said she was calling from the Upper Deck.”
Don exploded, “God damn it. I don’t give a shit where she called from. Just find out what the hell is going on.”
Fred picked up the handset, but could not get a dial tone on the system. He pressed the Priority Pass button, but still got no response. He couldn’t hear anyone talking, “One of Cabin Attendants must have left a hand set off the hook. I can’t get a dial tone.”
Stan offered, “Do you want me to go back and see what’s going on?”
Don swore under his breath, “No. No. God Damn it, Stan. No. I don’t want you to leave. If there is anything going on back there, I want you up here.”
As an aside, Don looked back at Stan, “Is that door locked? Are you positive that it’s locked? I want you to throw the dead bolt, not just turn the lock.”
Stan reached back from his seat and checked the dead bolt, “Yes sir. The door’s secured and the dead bolt’s in position.”