Taking wary glances through my cracked door, I was witness to various company reps coming and going. The airline's emergency plan was in full swing and the majority of personnel would survive on two hours of sleep per day for the next week or so. The wear and tear was evident on their faces. I felt guilty because I was allowed to stay in my room and rest.
Like a student who has come to school late, I became afraid to stroll into the hallway for fear of being recognized. The phone rang now and then as the mother hen checked in on her chick. On one such occasion Daisy informed me that a meeting was going to be conducted in about half an hour in her room and I was invited to attend. Although not indicating that my presence was mandatory her tone made it clear that it was preferable.
To kill some time I turned on the TV. I was shocked to learn for the first time that our jumbo jet had collided with an object while landing. The reporter described how a dump truck on runway 23 Left had been hit and virtually destroyed by our spaceship. I thought back to the massive impact I had mistakenly interpreted as a hard touch down. The report went on to inform that a construction worker had been in the cab of the truck sleeping, the first casualty of this horrible incident. It was much to take in and I changed the channel.
On the screen was a very distraught Mexican woman who lived in the neighborhood adjacent to the airport.
“Nos despertamos por un ruido estrenuso.” They were awakened by a thunderous sound. “The whole house was on fire and I thought I was going to die,” the distraught woman stated. Apparently one of the wings of the DC-10 had been hurled through the air for half a mile, landing in her neighborhood. The fuel in the severed wing ignited and created a furious fire. Fortunately, the woman explained, she and her family were able to escape the deadly flames but others were not so lucky.
“Gracias a Dios usted y su familia están a salvo,” the reported said comforting the nervous woman.
“Pero el fuego se llevó mi perro Sultán y mi gato Migroso.” She broke down and began to weep helplessly. I'll felt empathy for her. Losing her dog and cat caused real pain.
“Did Sultan and Migroso have to go to Purgatory?” I was trying to mask my burden with sarcasm. Trying not to dwell on the magnitude of the event, I hobbled over to the closet to examine the brand new set of clothing Hugo had delivered. Fresh underwear, the right size, not the brand I regularly used but I was not complaining. A pair of beige dress slacks, again the right size. There were dark socks, a new black leather belt with the gold logo of a renowned brand of men's wear. I noticed the same logo on the long sleeve dress shirt I struggled to put on.
Suddenly there was another knock at the door. Expecting to see Daisy's face I was surprised when it was Reva, my union rep.
“I suppose there was a lot going on before, maybe we can get a fresh start?” I was actually happy she arrived for there was no way I was going to be able to get the new pair of socks on my feet without help. She graciously reintroduced herself. Reva Grayson was a fellow flight attendant based in San Francisco, who seemed very supportive as I stood in front of her sporting my new underwear and unbuttoned shirt.
“I need help with my socks.” I stated in a helpless manner. Reva smiled and chuckled assuring me that she was there in the Mexican capital to do exactly that, help me with whatever I might need. I gained a new friend that day.
Her approach was much more down to earth as she again advised me that I did not have to speak with management if I did not wish. For one of the few times in this mess I leveled with Reva. I explained that I realized I was now trapped on a runaway roller coaster that was initiated when our DC-10 fell from the sky. Like it or not it was a tricky tightrope I was being asked to walk, and stonewalling management would only create another obstacle in this already complicated situation. Reva immediately understood. I gained a deep respect for the union representative as she reminded me that when it became too much to bare, she would be available to run offense for me. As she left the room I did not have the heart to confess that I had never filled out my union application while in training. Was I was really a member of the Association of Flight Attendants? Oh well, I figured I would deal with that matter down the road. I proceeded to finish dressing.
Hobbling over to the closet I noticed a new dark blue sport coat and tie hanging, both branded with the now familiar menswear logo. Of course! My gentle Mexican gate agent had thought of everything. Looking deeper, there, resting on the back wall of the closet, was a pair of new crutches to assist my movement. As I removed the new coat, I gained sight of the scorched rags, the remains of my destroyed uniform arranged nicely upon a hanger. My first reaction was to grab and toss them out, somewhere far away from me. But as I studied my blue flight attendant service apron I could see how its fabric resisted the fire much more efficiently than the shirt or pants did. It had indeed protected me. Then I focused upon my flight wings still pinned to my apron. Sure they were tarnished and battered, just like me. I knew no matter how long my new life lasted I could never part with them. At that instance I decided to retain the tattered rags also. I supposed that in my journey, whenever I got too smart for my own good, I could gaze upon them and get a quick reality check.
Now fully dressed, I felt the full weight of the responsibility that would be expected of me as I hesitantly prepared to join the body of company personnel. Nervous and unsteady, I placed a bottle of Bohemia in a side pocket of my new dress coat. Liquid courage. I made my way over to Daisy's room on crutches, feeling distraught but tossing aside any fear of being cited for drinking on duty.
They greeted me with the forced cheerfulness often used with a terminally ill relative. Like a child asking permission, I did approach the mother hen to see if it was indeed okay with the group if I continued to quench my thirst with the cold brew. Daisy graciously obliged me. It seemed a bit unusual as I sat there guzzling cold suds in the morning as the others sped about, earnestly attending to serious issues. I just stared like a curious bystander. There was a knock on her door as the first wave of pilots investigating the incident for the company had arrived. One tall individual graciously approached, requesting to sit beside me and ask a few questions. Unsure, and with the experience of the comandante still fresh I hesitated but then I noticed that everyone was staring, so I agreed. I overheard conversations that the investigators had been up half the night as their hosts were not providing them access to the crash site, or any information at all. I decided to firmly convince them that I, too, was “part of their team.” If there was any opinion in this room that the damaged flight attendant from 2605 could possibly be a liability to the airline, this was the time to dash those negative speculations.
Captain Louie was a recognizable face, a senior captain with whom I had shared many flights. His was never the god-like attitude one sometimes finds with their commanding officer. This respected aviator showed me something he would continue to display in the future, compassion for my plight. The honesty reflected in his eyes made me want to help him. The stress and worrisome look on his face was the first indication I had received that the conduct of the Mexican Government's investigation was not to the liking of the American Air Lines Pilot's Association's (ALPA). Everyone was frustrated, especially Captain Louie. He began telling me about the obstacles they had encountered. A Mexican official was in charge of each area of the investigation and each of these overseers made it clear to the Norte Americanos that they were allowed to see only what that individual wanted them to see.
The captain placed a tape recorder on the table in front of me and began his questioning. Because of my recent encounters with the press and with Primitivo, my mind shot into survival mode. I intended to keep my answers short and sweet.
“What do you remember, Ed?” I hesitated.
“The fire, the screaming.” Captain Louie's face expressed sympathy.
“Did the approach seem regular?”
“Perhaps, but the landing was anything but.”
“What do you recall of that moment?”
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br /> “We slammed down, went up again and after some time the engines roared again. The aft floor started to split open, there was an explosion and all hell broke loose.” The friendly aviator nodded and I became frightened. At no time did I even consider mentioning any conversation I had with Reina, her premonitions, or my presence in the cockpit during the flight. My upbringing had instilled in me the understanding that trust had to be earned and the company was no exception. Yes, I was an associate of the airline, surrounded by the authorities of said company. But who were they really? I had been taught in airline training that in case of an accident, they would ride to the rescue and protect me from harm, a belief that had been proven so false and I was not about to let down my guard now. Revealing such data especially with regards to Reina would have been the poison that would have dubbed me and my information as useless and demented.
In one census tabulation, East Los Angeles was said to be the most “Hispanic” community in the United States. I was fourth generation of that community. When outsiders, those being of a different ethnic origin, are seen about the neighborhood suspicion abounds. In this particular group here at the Holiday Inn, there were too many non-Hispanics for my liking. I wasn’t about to reel off the facts and statements Reina had repeated to me prior and in flight before our plane died. I certainly was not going to say I witnessed Captain Herbert verbally reprimand First Officer Reimann. No indeed. I determined that I should bide my time. For the first time it became evident that I could use the mask of the company's “little hero” in a clandestine manner to see how much information these airline representatives would trust me with and if they indeed would stand true to their pledge to protect me.
After an hour or so and the consumption of an additional bottle of Bohemia the questioning was over. The investigating pilots retreated for some much needed rest. Daisy and her staff discussed the day’s schedule including who would babysit me in my wounded state. The beer went straight to my head and I resented the idea that they believed I was not able to fend for myself.
“Where the hell had they all been when I was in the hands of that madman Chavez?” I blurted out. The room went silent as Daisy turned and gave me a shocked look. My emotions had risen to the surface and I realized that they had no idea who Comandante Primitivo Chavez was. Considering I was still in Mexico and these associates were my best bet at finally getting home, I decided not rock the boat. Daisy would escort me next door to my room and see that her prize “chick” would lie down to rest.
Once alone in my room, a disturbing realization occurred to me; to get back home to my family in Los Angeles, I would have to board a DC-10 again, enduring another take off and landing at LAX. I thought about the figure of Muerto and whether he also would book another ticket for that flight. Would he grab the soul that slipped away? I tried to settle my concerns with basic logic.
“People don't survive plane crashes to die in another plane crash.” I recalled my conversation with Reina informing her how I did not feel as though I was going to die that Halloween morning.
“Then you won't,” her sweet voice rang clear as I relaxed and fell into a deep sleep which my broken body truly needed..
A knock at my door awaken me and brought fear.
What if the reporters have discovered who was in the room? I approached the door and leaned upon it.
“Who is there?”
“It is the Assistant to His Excellency, the Minister of Transportation of Mexico.”
“Diego!” I opened the door, grabbed his coat and dragged him into the room. The smartly dressed official was taken by surprise. My face suddenly went solemn as I reached for the lapels on my Mexican friend’s coat. “How about getting me the hell out of here on the next flight home?” Diego understood my anxiety.
“I have been working hard on your behalf, my friend.” I knew he was speaking the truth as Senor Suarez de la Vega calmly walked over to the large refrigerator to help himself to a cold one. As the blue blooded official opened the door, he was impressed by the dent I had made in the original supply of Bohemia. Diego took a seat, popped open the bottle, got to the business of my departure.
“Eduardo, you have a meeting with the Minister of Transportation at noon. You must give your declaration before you leave this country.” The word “declaration” brought back bad memories of Lupe Ortiz, but after a few seconds of reflection I fathomed that my Mexican friend was looking out for me.
“I understand the investigation is a mess?” I fished for answers.
“Two of your company’s investigators got a little too nosy about what they suspected was being hidden from them.” I was a bit shocked that Diego was so forthcoming. He took another swig from the beer bottle.
“My government’s reaction to the investigators was swift and firm, expulsion from the country.” The Mexican official seemed disturbed by the action. “Those pilots have been given eight hours to leave the city but don’t worry my friend, you are “el gato,” the man with nine lives and no more harm can come to you.
“What?” I asked in a confused state.
“That is what the Mexican press has dubbed you.”
“Well, that asshole Chavez took a few of those lives.” I supposed I would need the cunning of a cat to get through this mess and find a way back home.
“I will return at half past eleven to pick you up.” Just as quickly as he came, my rescuer was gone.
I began to ponder the Mexican Government's patience, or the lack of it, concerning those American investigators. It was quite evident that my company had lost control of this incident. My curiosity rose so I turned on the TV and tuned in to the English language cable channel. An American affiliate from San Antonio displayed the devastation in full color. Amidst the rubble and the cleanup crews, the reporter announced that Mexico was releasing a portion of the Cockpit Voice Recorder, the all-important CVR for the first time. I sat on the bed hypnotized with anticipation.
“You are left of the runway,” the airport tower controller spoke to Captain Herbert.
“Just a bit,” was the only response from the now deceased Captain of Flight 2605. Clearly, the Mexican investigators were implying pilot error. The truth was going to be snuffed out before it could even breathe a moment of life. I pondered about my upcoming meeting with the minister. Certainly it would be a better experience than the one with the sadistic comandante? I had slipped through Muerto's fingers and I just wanted to get on with this new life in a peaceful manner. Yet somehow I already knew that nothing would be farther from the truth.
Chapter IX
I readied myself for Diego's arrival. I grasped the crutches and was grateful for such instruments as I recognized that outside this room I was useless without them. The escort that accompanied me to the meeting consisted of Don Diego and his young Mexican assistant Felipe and, at my request, Hugo Garcia. Deep inside I felt embarrassed as though I was merely an exhibit, claimed jointly by two influential interests. Diego announced that our entourage would first be going to the company’s operations center. I was initially relieved to see that there outside the hotel there were no reporters about. We hurried to enter a black vehicle and drove a distance of no more than one hundred yards across the street to Benito Juarez International airport. As we pulled alongside the curb I spotted Daisy returning from the crash site, strained by the pain of having to endure “morgue duty.” Hers was the face of despair. She briefly stepped forward alongside the sedan to acknowledge us, then left. The reporters who remained in the terminal area did not have a difficult time figuring out that the young man fumbling with the silver crutches probably had something to do with the main attraction several yards down the runway. All at once our group was besieged.
“Senor Valenciana, por favor.” The inquiries were relentless. Diego did not wait around for them to pose a serious impediment so my associates protected me as we crept on. I proceeded mostly with my head down, eyes to the floor. When I did look up with some sense of curiosity I could see amazement in
the faces of the people standing and glaring at what they perceived to be a living miracle. A brown clad Mexican airline agent entered our circle and offered his assistance.
“Are you Valenciana?” A man shouted. “Señor Valenciana, por favor, hable con nosotros.” I stuck to the charade of not comprehending Spanish displaying a look of confusion whenever the requests were in native tongue. My anxiety grew as the crowds increased. I had hoped that the company officials would make them go away. Fat chance! Their game plan was old but effective: when in trouble, shut up and move fast, but the moving was something I was having difficulty with. Numerous spasms continued to plague my body.
Once inside the airport, the screaming, flames and tragic figures reappeared. This was the third and final day of El Dia de Los Muertos, All Souls Day. This was the only day the faithful of Holy Mother Church may pray to commute a deceased loved one out of the scorching fires of Purgatory, allowing them entrance into the everlasting peace of Heaven. There were true believers that day at Benito Juarez, innocent and pained, who did not hesitate to take advantage of the power of penance. A saved vital character of this cataclysm had reappeared to the delight of the devoted. They recited the proper prayers and requested intercession from the proper saints. They hoped to leave this modern calamity with the contentment that their loved one, deceased only forty-eight hours, had escaped the ages of suffering, slipping through the pearly gates into Paradise. These were their families.
Other fanatics triggered Don Diego to action. Felipe practically carried me the rest of the way to the operations center. Once in the secured room, I witnessed the hustle of many people efficiently moving from one place to another. One portion of the room was filled with a couple of company pilots, investigators and representatives of the United States’ Federal Aviation Administration. I had no idea why we had come to this room prior to my intended meeting with the Mexican Minister of Transportation. Diego seemed to read my mind and gave me a reassuring look as if to say all was okay. Jack McKay appeared. The Senior Vice President of the airline greeted me and grabbed my scorched hand. I tried to hold back a grimace.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 23