“Error de piloto huh? Where is the cooperation and partnership? It appears as though there is more than just one loose cannon. You’re god-damn press is driving me half crazy.” Diego, who was dying a painful death motioned for me to cool it. I stopped and took a deep breath slowly reflecting a smile once more, trying to let my best side show. “My apologies, Senores, the stress and grief of this entire ordeal, it is overwhelming. Please find it in your hearts to forgive my unpleasantness.” The Minister paused but then seemed understanding and accepted my apologies. He hesitated for a moment and then turned to look me in the eyes.
“Can we count on your cooperation, Senor Valenciana?” He asked sincerely and with a deep interest as to how I would respond. This was not a question regarding the facts of the incident, what I may have seen or heard during the crash. It was not an inquiry for the truth or whether my recollections would be or could be of benefit in solving the mystery of the demise of the DC-10. It became evident to me at the moment, that the conclusion as to why my jumbo jet and all those in her had endured a terrible death had already been decided.
“You can count on me explicitly,” I stated grinding my teeth. His Excellency seemed satisfied and approached me. I struggled to stand as he extended his hand and we shook, the true bond in a Hispanic agreement.
“Just one last thing, mi amigo,” the government chief lowered his head close to my ear. “This unfortunate incident with Comandante Chavez,” he paused as I turned to gaze upon his face. “It would be best for all if that incident was not mentioned further.” I did not wait for him to ponder my response.
“It is already forgotten,” I quickly responded. Satisfied, the chief representative of the Mexican Government regarding the investigation of the crash embraced me in an abrazo, causing much discomfort to my blistered back.
As I lumbered my way out of the minister's office I thought about all I had witnessed. My mind faded back as I recalled sitting on my jumpseat at 4L, the hard touch down, the explosion at the number two engine, the body parts that were jettisoned in the carnage and of course, the massive fire. Diego remained speaking with His Excellency as Hugo gently touched my right arm trying to see if I was okay. I nodded slightly to let my dear friend know that I was fine but deep down I was fuming, It was very clear that I was being told to keep my mouth shut. The visions that were beginning to haunt my injured mind would have to remain there, a severed head here, a torso there, excavating out of the rubble: all of it would have to remain locked in my mind, a constant torment. This is what I was being asked to do, and if I didn't? That too was made clear without saying a word. Primitivo Chavez could easily be counted on to ensure I remained in agreement.
“Eduardo, is there anything we can do for you before we arrange for your departure?” The Minister was once again diplomatic as he politely asked from the doorway of his private office.
“I just want to go home” I stated. The official began to chuckle seemingly relieved that I had not asked for a million pesos.
“Certainly mi amigo, the very next flight if you wish.” At that instant, something nagged at me and I changed my request.
“No, wait! I want to visit the crash site but keep the damn media away from me.”
“Of course you may and Diego here will be your escort, your protector if you will. See to it, Diego.” Satisfied that he had achieved his goal, the Minister of Transportation of Mexico excused himself. Suddenly Raquel appeared and approached me. I nearly lost control of my crutches as she leaned forward to gently kiss me on the check and tenderly rub my shoulder. Hugo nearly fell over and Diego cracked a smile. I blushed nervously as we exited. I slowly made my way to the location where a car would to be brought around to take me to the crash site, the very place I had escaped with my life on Halloween morning. As Hugo and I waited, he removed a handkerchief from his coat and began to wipe my cheek clean of Raquel’s bright red lipstick.
“Viva Eduardo!” Hugo joked as he laughed. Eduardo Valenciana from East L.A. no longer existed. El Gato, the man with nine lives, the man who saved women and children with his bare hands, the man who swayed women off their feet, Eduardo the saint, now took his place. I felt a deep sorrow in my heart and a sense of great fear because it was clear that I would never be able to measure up to such a fabricated image.
“Will I ever be good enough?” An inner voice persisted.
My mind was in a flutter as I entered the black sedan. With Felipe at the wheel and Diego in the front seat, Hugo and I in the rear, we headed onto the tarmac traveling alongside airport service vehicles. I took little notice of our venture. “How had everything gotten so screwed up?” I wondered to myself.
Finally the black sedan slowed and came to a complete stop. I slowly exited to the sound of mariachi music blaring loudly from two large speakers across the road and adjacent to the Mexican airport and Runway 23-Right. A huge, black gap lay across what once had been a peaceful, impoverished neighborhood. The force of Flight 2605’s demise created a picture of destruction as the afternoon sun shone brightly on the broken contents. Diego, Hugo Garcia, the young Felipe and I stood in bewilderment as we gazed at the span of the total wreckage. There was a makeshift security point about twenty yards from the start of the actual crash site where Diego and Hugo exchanged with personnel to produce the proper authorization. Feeling the strain on my battered body I took the opportunity to lean against the hood of the black vehicle as the spasms returned. I seemed to be in more pain now as my body stiffened once again. As I turned my head I spotted two Americans dressed in very official looking business suits earnestly involved in an argument with an on-duty policeman on the edge of the crash site. The Mexican policeman was very animated. One of the Americans waived his hands to no avail as the officer just shook his head in a negative manner. I grabbed my crutches and hobbled over a ways to listen in and discover what the fuss was all about. I immediately recognized the badges displayed on the Americans' upper left side suit pockets, with the distinct letters F.A.A.
“What’s up guys?” I casually inquired. Caught by surprise, they seemed relieved to stand face to face with someone who spoke English. The older of the two, a balding man, was flustered as he gasped for air trying to relate his frustration.
“I have never dealt with such stupidity.” The words flowed with an accent of great emotion. Never in their illustrious careers as highly regarded aviation experts had the two Norte Americanos had to deal with such disappointment.
“The security force won’t let “us” onto the crash site but everyone else and their mother is in there.” The younger blond haired fellow raised his arm toward the vast area of the crash directing my line of sight. He did have a point. Although there was an official investigation supposedly going on, half of the population of Mexico City seemed to be mingling about, moving burned fuselage parts picking up odds and ends, having a scenic tour of the burnt wreckage. “They’ve even neglected to have the crash site roped off.” The exasperated senior F.A.A. was seemingly at his wit's end. I began to laugh, which seemed to offend the American federal agents. Perhaps I was losing my mind. The entire scene truly did resemble the activities of a macabre traveling carnival that had just pulled into town on the morning of Halloween. I tried to compose myself as I apologized and made an effort to be more helpful.
“Remember guys, you’re in Mexico City now.” I advised.
“What’s that supposed to mean? We have the proper authority.” I cut short the older official’s bullshit.
“You’d do better just going out to the street where the mariachi music is coming from and jumping over the wall to get in, just like everyone else is doing.” The two men became silent and looked at each other for the longest moment. Then they turned and gazed in the direction I had mentioned. Realizing the logic of my statement they looked closer. The three of us could see that it seemed as though everyone in town was climbing that same partition, men leaping over first then assisting the women and children to get free entrance into the metropolis'
big circus. The hordes of curious, the press, even neighborhood kids were running through the rubble for the sheer excitement of it and I was just pointing out the obvious to the officials of Los Estados Unidos. So what initially seemed to them like an ignorant suggestion was now concluded to be the best advice they had received all day.
“You would be well advised to get rid of those badges though,” I suggested. Both men glanced at each other like two monkeys at the zoo and removed their plastic ID's. As they ran off hurriedly to the side road I began to laugh all the louder.
“Badges? You don't need no stinking badges!” I could not help myself as I imagined how their pride was being given a fat dose of reality. In any such incidents in the United States I was sure that these two individuals were always treated with great respect and courtesy by all in attendance. Here, they were reduced to having to climb a battered wall in their nicely pressed suits. For the first time since the crash, I had found my humor but in retrospect it may have been revealing the first signs of a demented state.
Don Raphael Diego Suarez de la Vega had the authority to pull the proper strings. Recognized and well respected by all Mexican security forces around the wrecked site, we had no problem entering into the zone that had been off-limits to the Norte Americanos. In the vehicle once more, Felipe directed us to one side. I examined the large cranes that were just now being moved into place to begin the removal of the mangled metal. Everywhere I glanced, common Mexican citizens were walking about. Some stared curiously and others were actually rummaging through the debris. I lowered the window so I could listen to the sounds and was rewarded with the stench of the now familiar jet fuel that filled the air. Felipe stopped the car and Hugo assisted me in exiting. I stood in the middle of what seemed like a hurricane of activity.
It registered as a sight from another dimension, this burnt wreckage of DC-10NW903 with its blackened remains, highlighted by the red and white tarnished colors of the airline. It dumbfounded me as I visualized it in the same frame with colorful balloons which were being solicited. They, in all their frailty, did what my jumbo jet could no longer do-fly. To the dismay of the four of us, there was yet another vendor selling yellow rubber duckies in a little makeshift pool he had filled with water. A young man in a striped blue and white shirt with the emblem of his favorite soccer club carted a cardboard square containing cotton candy secured in neat rows. Certainly all of the visitors could heighten their plane crash experience by obtaining a tasty treat to satisfy their sweet tooth. On a point farther along the crash site was a woman selling shoes.
“Nieve fria.” Cold ice cream for sale.
“Quieres globos? Balloons, red, blue or yellow.” The vendors proclaimed.
“It’s a stinking three ring circus!” I shook my head and began to laugh for I had become a member of the audience in a sad and sick drama. These events, these sights were going to have life-long ramifications for me. No one stepped forward to offer me an alternative road map that would lessen the pain, yet as I did a double-take of the vendors I realized that they were all of the social bloodline that is at the bottom of the economic pole of Mexico City's millions of residents. Such a person's waking hours were spent finding work, food, and doing whatever was necessary to care for his family. These real people also made up the class of society that was offering me the most genuine expressions of joy for my good fortune.
“Si, Senor, El Gato. Praise God for your survival and now I must go find something for my children to eat.” I clearly understood because I knew I would be doing the same if I were in their position. How could I fault them for their actions. The press was a whole different story. The cameramen were out in droves. Some security personnel were guiding the press as they moved along the trail of destruction where my DC-10 lay. Like a child who has just broken his favorite toy, I bowed my head and was filled with sorrow as I studied the destroyed remains. I determined that there were five different mounts entangled where the twisted metal, portions of the fuselage came to rest. The tarmac was littered with the items that had been encased in the belly of the spaceship. I spotted the company placards describing emergency procedures and what exit to use in case the unthinkable happened, useless now and being tossed along the ground by the breeze. These were mixed with soiled, torn, pieces of clothing joined by ice cream and candy wrappers tossed aside by the growing crowds. Yellow oxygen masks hung randomly in relation to the way the metal fuselage had been torn, twisted and crushed. Everywhere the smell of death lingered.
The citizens of the city studied the parts that they believed used to be a human being. They discussed the angle in which they were gazing and then began to debate whether it really was a leg or an arm or maybe a shoulder. I eyed the body of a woman tangled in with the contorted metal, she seemed to be sleeping with her hands gently resting upon her lap. It was evident that the steel from the maintenance building that encased her would have to be cut before her remains could be retrieved. The woman seemed to be one of the major attractions for the crowd and the press as if admiring an exhibit at a wax museum. Her face was serene as she seemed to be enjoying her eternal rest.
As we moved along my reality became numb. In one section, behind the burnt carcass of what I determined to be mid cabin, were scavengers whose total interest was to find and then shuffle through the suitcases ejected from the underbelly of 2605.
“It’s an amusement park with looters being the side show,” I stated matter of fact. Diego tried to put it into perspective.
“Remember my Norte Americano friend, the crash occurred in one of the poorest sections of the city. These people live a meager existence.” I recognized the truth. I had seen similar scenes in my travels, once being witness to hungry children eating dirt in North Africa.
“You’re right,” I said. “I would be doing the same to feed my loved ones.” Maybe for the first time in my life, I understood the individual peon's temptation to take any opportunity based on essential need, daily survival taking precedence over the misfortune of others.
Throughout the massive crowd I could not locate one American face. The curious wandered, the poor rummaged and the press gawked, but all Norte Americano investigators were restricted to the sidelines. Suddenly I spotted a burnt out section of what I believed to be the aft section.
“Let me see if I can arrange for us to get through here.” Diego offered. It was already etched into my subconscious; the ship was ripped apart and all contents ejected. My jumpseat was destroyed but the safety harness did its job and secured my body as all hell around me broke loose. I nearly stumbled as I tried to bypass all the chunks of concrete and sharp debris that filled the space.
“Where is this path going?” I wondered yet somehow knew that these complexities were far greater than my current understanding could fathom. Walking slowly I spotted Felipe off to the side maneuvering the black sedan around the rubble so to be available at the other end of the site. All at once my eyes were drawn to activity occurring in the immediate distance. No one had to explain to me what the one remaining hangar on the side of Runway 23 Right was about or what the neatly stacked figures to one side were. Diego quickly returned with a concerned look on his face.
“Well amigo, we are cleared to wander wherever you wish, but I must advise you that things look pretty bad. There are no refrigeration facilities available, the bodies must be piled and covered with lime for preservation, at least until family members can claim them.” I made no reaction for it was all too unreal. I just nodded indicating that I wished to continue the grand tour.
At that moment I noticed Hugo Garcia greeting Jack McKay who was accompanied by an investigating pilot from the company. They were walking toward me through the carnage. By the initial expression on the old V.P.'s face, he seemed concerned about some important matter.
“Eduardo, my boy,” the executive spoke, his breathing a bit heavy due to his journey from the operations center. The Vice President placed an arm upon my shoulder and motioned me aside for a discussion. “So
mething apparently is going on in the hangar, the one being used as the morgue and I need a translator.” He gazed into my eyes studying my reaction.
“What about Diego?” I asked. “I am sure his Spanish is quite superior to mine.” McKay did not mince words.
“I need someone I can really trust.” It was clear that whatever required his attention in the morgue hangar it was to be kept among company personnel only.
“Certainly, Mr. McKay.” In fact my confidence was boosted by the opportunity to contribute, be a functioning member of our team in this united effort to deal with the tragedy. The exhausted company point man had taken a real liking to me and I felt honored that he had faith in my abilities. His decision to ask for my assistance did not come without some consideration.
“It’s an ugly scene in there lad, it might cause you more pain.” I hobbled up close to the man and looked straight into the V.P.’s eyes.
“Haven’t I earned the right to decide for myself if I am up to the task?” McKay nodded his approval.
“Then let’s be moving.” He seemed satisfied.
The scene that awaited us in the hangar had only grown worse since Senora Torres and her daughter had come and gone. We moved alongside of the multitude of body parts, covered in a white and green paste-like substance, the lime used for preservation. I did not mention this but I was somehow getting used to the grim scene and smell of death in a distorted sort of way. The supervising pilot who accompanied us walked up by my side to express his concern. He leaned over and asked me if I was okay considering the surroundings. I just shrugged my shoulders,
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 25