In flight the lights of the cities below blend seamlessly with the stars above to create a certain sensation of continuity. Mexico from high above reveals a diverse terrain. There are tropical forests to the south, a contrast to the barren northern deserts. The gray mountains surrounding Mexico City form a solid background as most flights glide over the dried lake bed. I took my place positioned in the middle of the asphalt of Runway 24-Left at Benito Juarez Airport. Gazing skyward I noticed a distant glow. Slowly the light in the darkness grew into a visible DC-10. The craft's image danced about in the rising heat. The roar of the engines grew louder as her landing lights appeared and focused right on me for the large metal craft was on final approach. My excitement grew when I recognized her numbers, NW903. The jumbo jet touched down at the head of the runway and in an instant was airborne once again, rising gracefully. I decided her captain must have called for a missed approach.
“Wait, wait for me!” I cried as I watched it rise into the heavens. Falling to my knees on the paved runway, the disappointment shot through my body. I turned to find Javier standing in tattered rags a few feet away. I was extremely confused for I believed that we both should have been on that 10 that was now high above the clouds, abandoning us, leaving us behind.
“Will I ever be good enough?” The small Mexican child asked me once again. “Will I?”
I awoke drenched in sweat from what was now becoming a nightly venture into what seemed unholy. It was ironic that after regaining some composure I was thankful for the consolation that this nightmare had no screaming, burning bodies. Stunned and frightened I suddenly remembered it was the morning of November 4th. and I had a meeting with CEO Reddick. I purposely avoided turning on the television with its sights and sounds emerging from Mexico. I wanted to retain my focus for this meeting. Mario Reddick was an imposing figure and I was not certain I could withstand any probing questions that I was sure would be forthcoming. For my own protection I had considered him a potential adversary. What did I know about corporate dealings and decisions? My encounter with the Mexican minister made that clear. If they could lay the blame on an aviator like Carl Herbert, who the hell was I if someone determined I might be a liability in seeing these matters settled? I grabbed the last bottle of Diamonte, the white wine from Spain my brother Mike had cherished, as a peace offering to the CEO. Exiting, I noticed a large business envelope at my door, material from some attorney anxious to speak with me. Now people knew exactly where I lived? If I was a bit paranoid about my visit with the airline chief, the envelope heightened the feeling times ten.
I stopped at a nearby thrift shop on my way to LAX and traded my clumsy crutches for a fine green cane made of solid wood. With a brisk limp and with the sound of wood striking the marble floor, Eduardo Valenciana made his entrance at the executive offices.
I was escorted into the elegant office to find that Vice President Jack Mckay had returned from Mexico City to update his boss on his progress. I noticed artifacts similar to those I had seen in the Mexican minister's office. There were also photographs of important people and models of all the company's aircraft. A large window revealed the hustling traffic of Century Blvd., and below it was a model of the DC-10.
I hobbled forward to shake the CEO's hand and offered him the bottle of wine. Mario Reddick seemed pleased, closely examining the bottle's label.
I turned to greet Jack.
“How you feeling, boy?” the jovial executive sincerely asked.
“I'm doing just fine, Mr. McKay. You know, yesterday Jerry Buntly took me to be examined by the finest physician so I am very grateful to the company for seeing to my needs.” Mr. Reddick smiled.
“Well, you know Edmundo we are all proud of your behavior in Mexico and we want to be sure that you receive the assistance you need in your healing.” All the events that occurred concerning the demise of 2605, Reina's visions, the scene in the cockpit, the explosions, the fire and my time with the sadistic federal officer had to be shoved deep down at this moment. I had to walk a delicate tightrope. The little hero, the fellow described in the newspapers, Edmundo the Magnificent is what they wanted: the flight attendant who ripped a fuselage with his bare hands. I was sure the company would spare no effort to protect “that” guy, so that is who I decided to give them.
The three of us sat in our fine suits, creating small talk as the chief executive inquired how my family was dealing with the tragedy.
“A hell of a lot better than Reina's family.” I bit my tongue not saying what my heart wanted to. “Certainly they are extremely relieved and very happy at my good fortune.” All at once my train of thought was lost as I noticed the black embroidered cursive initials on the cuffs of the chief's crisp white shirt. Gazing down I recognized the same monogram on his high priced dress socks.
“Well, we are pleased to have you back, Edmundo, and I am sure when you are ready you will be happy to continue your career as a respected flight attendant of our fine airline.” I supposed the chief was trying to feel me out. Had my involvement in the accident given me any other ideas concerning my future? If so, did any of those ideas conflict with the interest of the company?
“If anything, Mr. Reddick, I assure you I will always be proud to wear the uniform of our great airline.” I turned just in time to see Jack McKay smile. I believed wily vice-president knew I was tossing the bull. I had expressed to him how I felt about the whole affair. He was the one who termed the phrase “one big shit” regarding the accident. I hoped I had found favor in Jack's eyes.
The time rushed by and the chief seemed satisfied with our initial meeting. He now had more pressing issues to attend to.
“Nothing is too good for our star team player,” Reddick stated as he gazed down at his watch. I rose to thank Mario Reddick, my benefactor.
“One thing more. I realize you have been asked so many questions, Edmundo, but if I may, one report continues to puzzle me. Why were you in the cockpit during the flight, son? And did you see or hear anything that might be considered unusual while there?” The large room fell silent, the atmosphere became very serious. Feeling the pressure I gazed back and forth from Reddick to McKay then smiled.
“Well sir, I went up to offer the pilots coffee, you know, the all-nighter is quite a grueling flight.”
“What about the activities in the cockpit son? Were there any problems?” Reddick put the squeeze on me.
“Gee sir, I am not knowledgeable enough to recognize what may constitute a problem or anything unusual in the flight procedures of the DC-10.” Mario Reddick seemed pleased with the wounded lad that stood before him, a harmless, naive flight attendant who was not going to be a problem. Now, the head of the airline could turn his attention to more vital participants in this messy situation, namely the Mexican Government.
“Don’t worry, Edmundo, you are among friends now.” These were the last words from the chief executive's mouth as Jack and I reached the exit door.
“I never doubted that for a second.” I murmured, limping my way into the hallway. I was about to thank Jack and make my departure when he suddenly removed an envelope from his inside coat pocket along with a pack of cigarettes, handing me the envelope as he searched for his lighter. With the smoke lit he took a long hard puff. I was relieved to find that aroma was far better than what I had been forced to endure with the foul comandante. McKay then set a far more relaxed atmosphere as we talked
“You know boy, Public Relations will be giving you a call. The damn media wants to meet you.” He chuckled then became serious. “Listen, Eduardo, man to man, anything you need?” I was grateful that there was someone in this maze of insanity I felt I could trust.
“No sir, but, this verdict of 'pilot error' from the media and Mexico is disturbing.”
“The whole thing was one big shit. You’d be better off just forgetting about it boy and try to get on with your life.” These were words I did not want to hear, not because it wasn't the right thing to do but because the store of memories in my
sub-conscience would never allow it until I got answers. I knew he was advising me with my best interest in mind. I was later to discover that Diego and Hugo Garcia had filled McKay in concerning my time in the hands of Comandante Chavez. McKay was no doubt serious about me not stirring the pot.
“The reality is, laddie, this airline has no choice. A dead man can’t put up much of a defense. Plus, Washington is putting on the pressure to settle this thing. God-damn strong arm tactics.”
I quickly jumped at the statement.
“Washington? What the hell is their interest? Don’t they have the responsibility to seek the truth?” The kind vice-president gave this naive boy a serious glance.
“Come on lad, I know you are far more intelligent than that. The U.S. and Mexico have been struggling for years over a huge natural gas deal that was finally settled. You think Washington wants to raise hell with Portillo because of one airline's loss? Politics' only responsibility is to cover its own ass. But I've still got a few tricks up this old sleeve of mine.” I was impressed with McKay’s straightforwardness. He did not have to share such information with me, I was indeed very grateful.
“What about the black box, the CVR recording?”
“Still in the hands of Mexico. They’ve only shared portions of it for us to listen to, hell, two of our investigating pilots were expelled from Mexico. Damn officials thought they were getting too nosy. Listen lad, I can’t tell you what to do, but as you discovered first hand, they play hard ball down there.” McKay attempted to try and talk some sense into my thick head.
“I want to listen to that tape. I’ll be honest Mr. McKay, I did witness something in the cockpit.” Jack nearly choked when he heard my words.
“Crap! I don’t want to hear this. I’m gonna get going, lad.” Jack patted me on the shoulder and started to walk away. “If there is anything I can ever do, I will. What’s next on your agenda?”
“There are ten funerals scheduled that I'd like to try to attend. I suppose I’ll see you at one or two?” The crusty old fellow just shook his head no.
“Reddick has already assigned Ackley to that duty,” he responded “I guess a man must do what a man must do, Eduardo. God bless you son.” I stood gazing at my stout friend as he walked down the marble hallway of the executive offices when suddenly a thought entered my mind.
“Did they ever find the lost landing gear?” McKay never even broke his stride.
“Nope, probably stripped for spare parts by now.” He turned and quickly disappeared into his office. I took delight in believing I was correct in my assumption concerning the fate of the missing aircraft limb. Suddenly, I realized I was still holding the long white envelope McKay had put in my hand. With a high degree of paranoia, I gazed about and slowly leaned on the hallway wall. Unfolding its contents my eyes jumped quickly to the bold letters on the first page, C. Herbert-E. Reimann.
“Oh shit,” I became frightened. Was I being set up? I turned to hurry away but my body began to spasm as I tensed up. I tumbled onto the hard marble floor but got myself back onto my feet quickly. I hobbled down the stairs as I hid the envelope inside my coat pocket. I took the route adjacent to the employee entrance, avoiding the many offices of the executive building. In possession of the white envelope, my mind fell into deep thought as I rode the employee bus to terminal five. Filled with confusion I worked my way to the flight crew lounge. I carefully moved through the aisles of stacked crew mailboxes. I spotted a group of four female F/As in a tight circle. One blonde was speaking of the latest rumor out of Mexico City.
“I heard that those idiots gave the wrong body to one of the families of a crewmember.” Suddenly, one girl in the group, a tall brunette spotted me approaching and her facial expressions set off an alarm.
“Don’t worry ladies, I am not surprised by that news,” I stated casually passing by. The flight attendants needlessly felt a sense of guilt assuming their words were causing me undo-harm. Little did they know the extent of the madness that lay in my mind. Notices listing the various memorial services for the deceased crew had been placed on the Flight Attendant Bulletin Board along with individual photos of the crew. A small group of both cabin crew and aviators gathered to study the memo, looking carefully at each name, each face, remembering happy friends erased in the prime of life. I hesitantly wandered over and looked over the shoulders of one senior F/A. The one bold print name on the board I was looking for jumped out and grabbed my attention.
“Reina Patricia Torres, funeral service Saint John’s Catholic Church, Hacienda Heights, CA.” I lowered my head and promptly left the airport.
Upon returning home I reopened the white envelope. I read with shock a copy of what was a company document, the disciplinary report involving Capt. Herbert and First Officer Reimann which was dated October 30th, the day our flight left LAX. As I glanced at the report I got up to turn on the television, to catch up on the latest regarding the crash. To my surprise the wreck of DC-10 NW903 was nowhere to be seen: not on any channel. On November 4, 1979, all television reporting on the crash of flight 2605 ceased to exist. A new circus had come to town and grabbed the attention of the entire world.
Radical Iranian students had surged into the US embassy in Teheran and had taken 52 diplomats hostage. Their actions were part of the Iranian Revolution which had overthrown the Shah, an American ally who had ruled the country with an iron fist for over 25 years. Recently, the deposed monarch and his family had been granted asylum mostly on the basis that he was suffering from a cancer that was diagnosed as terminal. The radical students now occupying the embassy demanded the return of the Shah while President Carter referred to the hostages as “victims of terror and anarchy.”
I became aware that any reporter or investigator with a speck of interest in discovering why my DC-10 crashed in Mexico City was now either gone or quickly preparing to leave the Mexican capital. Muerto had abruptly changed the rules of the game. Just like that, a grand carnival with a much more interesting freak show now commanded center ring. The Iranian hostage ordeal had begun and would be in the spotlight for some time to come. All the vested parties involved in the death of Flight 2605 were given a precious gift that awful day, a distracted media. Only the process of cleaning up the mess remained. I knew that the final verdict would now indeed be “Error de Piloto.” There would be no one left to argue the point.
My thoughts changed to a vision of my crew-mates, filled with the greatest zeal and performing their task to the highest standard. They were all fodder for the political and corporate theaters. These entities could easily sweep this all under the carpet. Every prying eye was probably now on a plane leaving Mexico City as quickly as possible. A bigger fish demanded their expertise, and the United States might soon be at war.
“My God, Reina, how did you know?” I sat mesmerized. I was so determined to avoid her at any cost, but now I wanted to know as much as I could about the dark haired beauty.
Chapter XII
The following morning my drive to Saint John's Catholic Church in Hacienda Heights forced me to deal with the rapidly growing feelings of guilt that festered inside me. Upon arriving, I limped with my green wooden cane to the front of the gray stone church. I noticed friends and family members gathering, greeting one another, expressing words of consolation. This picture was all so familiar as the majority were Hispanic like Reina and me. I imagined one distinguished gentleman who caught my attention to be an uncle, the elegant lady with him an aunt and various younger faces I imagined to be cousins. Standing unrecognized I joined the crowd that awaited the arrival of the black mortuary vehicles.
Everything in my being suddenly seemed to take a back seat to what was happening at that church. The limos pulled up and I quickly picked out the immediate family members. Senora Torres dressed in black, appeared as any mother would who had just lost her child, devastated. She was assisted by Reina’s sister Theresa and her eight grief stricken brothers. The look on the faces of the brothers revealed that the Torres fam
ily had been sucked dry of life, a complete submission to utter pain. The procession into the church was solemn, and I took a seat in the rear. The interior of St. John's had quickly filled for so many had come to say goodbye to such a lovely flower. Scanning the altar I was drawn to the white glistening casket. It was surrounded by tall white candles that illuminated Reina's immediate space. I found the flickering flames to be soothing. How ironic.
My time with Reina had been limited to so few hours. Her absence was reflected on each face, yet also a display of deep affection for the person she had been. The priest appeared on the marble steps of the altar, a stately stained glass window behind him. Bright blue rays filtered through, crossed the altar and came to rest on the casket. The clergyman stood straight and firm yet he appeared anguished. His was a heavy heart for Reina had been very active in this church. I began to wonder how the priest was going to try to convince those in attendance not to question the actions of this supposedly giving God? His eyes betrayed him. His mind was just as bewildered as the broken faithful who sat dumbfounded.
The organist interpreted the grief that fell upon this majestic house of worship as the “Ave Maria” echoed throughout. Suddenly, two young ladies carrying candles, slowly strolled down the central aisle toward the casket. There was something very familiar about them. They seemed to have morphed into familiar faces.
“Cary Diller! Tamlyn Baily!” I wanted to scream but in the very next moment remembered they had perished. I cursed this mad roller coaster of emotions, and the tricks my mind was playing on me. Was this just an awful dream from which I would soon awaken? I became very frightened and doubted my decision to attend the service.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 30