As the metal bird lifted into the skies I felt fortunate that no one was seated next to me allowing me a valued degree of privacy. Once the vessel had leveled off I immersed myself in the pilot report Jack McKay had given to me. I was intimately introduced to the cockpit crew of Flight 2605.
Carl Herbert Sr., 52, was a U.S. citizen. He had a total flying time of 31,500 hours, 2,248.38 of which were on the DC-10. He held FCC restricted radio operator license No. 11E2770; pilot certification No. ATP 403815 with aircraft multi-engine landing rating: B-707/720 L-88, DC-3, DC-6, DC-7 and DC-10; and had a flight engineer certificate dated February 27, 1971. He had accumulated 28 landings as pilot-in-command into Mexico City; 11 of which were during the month of September and four in October 1979.
The numbers were impressive, but they gave no human view of the man or the family he left behind. I closed my eyes remembering the night of October 30th.
The priority of an all-night flight for an F/A is to be sure that the coffee is continually brewing. Whether one is a java drinker or not, it is part of the necessary equipment. I recalled standing by the jumbo jet's open door, 2L. Suddenly, a tall figure dressed in a military-style dark blue uniform appeared at the entrance. By the four stripes I recognized him as the captain of our flight. I also noticed that he looked tired but then again, who didn’t that night.
“Care for a cup, Captain?” Carl Herbert nodded his head. He remained in the service area but for a second, sipping his black coffee seemingly without anything specific on his mind. I recalled thinking that he fit the image of a commander whose knowledge and bearing went with the reputation of a seasoned aviator.
The captain had come a long way in the industry and all his achievements were self-made. He had established the reputation of a captain who went strictly by the book. Even if there seemed to be an easier way, Carl would stick with his conception of how things should be done. Then again, Carl had to struggle for all he had earned. There had never been a silver spoon in his mouth, no large trust fund or bank account provided the means for his flight training.
Carl was only fourteen when he got the notion to join the National Guard. A boy raised in Southern California certainly would have been impressed with the silver screen idols in military parades of the mid-thirties and especially in the forties after the advent of Pearl Harbor. Young Carl lied about his age and quit school. Tall for his years he enlisted, easily fooling his superiors, drilling impressively with the 160th division. The uniform added to the respect he desired and commanded but Carl’s mother was not at all delighted. She wanted her son where she felt he belonged, in school. Carl knew that his mother’s concerns were sparked more by the fact that his division was about to be activated by the start of the Second World War.
A determined young Carl did not give up. Discontentment at home led to another departure from school to enlist in the Marine Corps at the age of fifteen and a half. The difference this time was that his mother also lied about his age to gain his admittance. Herbert was assigned as part of a Marine detachment on the U.S.S. North Carolina yet the young marine felt frustrated as his first love was a desire to fly. He vowed to pursue his dream at the first available opportunity.
After the war, there was a glut of out-of-work pilots, yet Carl would fulfill his dreams with the same dogged determination he had shown throughout his young life. With the aid of the G.I. Bill, he started on the path that would get him up in the air. He would wash planes after-hours in exchange for cockpit time. Once certified, he took flying jobs in which the only payment would be the opportunity to log more flight hours.
After a small stint with Trans World Airlines, he came to our west coast based airline. Long years and hard work had raised him not only to the position of Captain but also a well-respected safety-inspector pilot. As Captain Herbert thanked me for the cup of coffee that October night he made his way forward to the cockpit. One got the feeling our flight was in the best of hands.
Placing the intriguing document down for a moment I gazed out the window at the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. I began to study the interior of the massive jet and flashed back to the burnt carcass that was Carl Herbert's last command. It was truly amazing how fragile this masterfully-designed great bird of mankind was, when it all goes so wrong.
I returned to the report and was now introduced to Flight 2605's First Officer. German born Dieter Reimann, 43, had received his initial flight training in the U.S. Air Force Undergraduate Pilot Training under an agreement by which the United States Air Force trained pilots for the Federal German Air Force. Though based in Los Angeles, Dieter lived in Seattle, Washington. It was his custom to sleep during the afternoon when he was scheduled for an all-night flight. The report went on to state that a Los Angeles Chief Pilot called Dieter the morning of October 30th, the day prior the fateful crash. The superior had issues over a discrepancy report filed by Captain Herbert concerning Dieter's on-duty appearance that month. The words jumped out at me as I felt a menacing chill. I put down the report and went back into my mind to what I had witnessed. I recalled Second Officer Sam Wells seemed reluctant to open the cockpit door for me when I had presented the proper sequence of coded chimes.
“That’s it. That’s it damn it!” I again saw Carl’s anger directed at the First Officer. I would later discover that it was a well-know fact among the company’s LAX-based pilots that Dieter was in the middle of a rather nasty divorce. During that period Captain Herbert had "written” him up, reporting that First Officer Reimann had lost some twenty pounds. He had sent his company uniforms to be altered which, earlier that month, resulted in reporting for duty attired in the bare minimum of required company apparel. Unfortunately the old marine, Captain Herbert, simply was not satisfied by whatever excuse Dieter had presented concerning his improper dress. The first piece of a large puzzle was falling into place for me. At a vital moment when the company hierarchy should have stepped in and separated the two egos, they simply looked the other way and whitewashed the whole affair, banking that nothing significant would result from their petty feud.
My first reaction was to take the report and share it with the families of the flight crew but common sense made me rethink my options. How did the feud directly contribute to the cause of the incident, if it did at all? I needed more proof and that information lay in the hands of the Mexican officials. Then there was the CVR Recorder, which they were not about to present to me as a gift.
The information on Second Officer Sam Wells, thirty-nine, did not reveal anything more than a career as a highly respected aviator. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was putting in his hours which were required by his quest for the coveted left seat. Sitting in first class streaking high above the Pacific, I realized that the information McKay had supplied produced more questions than answers. This only magnified my desire to uncover the truth.
Upon deplaning in HNL I hurried over to the small outdoor counter of Princeville Airways. The information I had obtained in the flight lounge was indeed true. With my seat belt tightly fastened, the small Twin Otter rose through a steep climb as it lifted up over HNL. If I had felt anxiety with each tremor of the DC-10, the fear was even greater in this prop aircraft. The peace that eluded me since the moment of impact aboard 2605 now returned. I soon gazed out the window and beheld the majestic terrain of my island destination. It was familiar. In some way, I was coming home. It was tremendously comforting.
I obtain a rental car and contemplated my trek while driving past Princeville. I was not capable of doing this hike alone, and I was in no condition to attempt survival in the wild. I needed help.
Passing a shopping center I spotted two unique figures at the corner, hitchhiking. My first reaction was that it was 1967 once again, “the summer of love,” as the slim man and lady had that look. I screeched to a halt.
“Hey brother.” The smiling lady said.
“Hop in guys. Where you off to?” The slim fellow seemed a bit older than I. I was amazed by his
lean firm structure with minimum fat. The symmetry of his muscles were very distinct and taut. Vegetarians? By the look of the worn backpacks they loaded into the trunk of the vehicle I determined they were experienced naturalists.
“Can you take us to the end of the road at Ke'e Beach?” The woman asked?
“Certainly.” I was pleased. “I'm headed for the same destination.” With olive skin she retained a natural appearance, crowned by dark rich hair spreading like limbs of a tree. She had an appealing, savage beauty. Their clothing was minimal and essential. These two individuals might just be the best source of information regarding the tough terrain I intended to confront. They introduced themselves as Erich and Katherine.
“I'm originally from the west coast,” Erich stated. “Attended USC. The outside world got too crazy for me so I came to Kauai.” In the quaint town of Hanalei, we sat upon a wooden picnic table, shaded by a blossoming plumeria tree. Across the lawn I spotted a cheerful small boy enjoying a rainbow color shaved ice.
“I'm from the east coast,” Katherine stated. She rose to pick a fresh flower from the tree and placed it behind her ear, the perfect accent for a jungle girl. The tan, fit woman had a similar belief in the pitfalls of a life away from what nature had to offer. Both were very intelligent, though their appearance might have created suspicion in some.
“I just survived a major airline crash and I'm running away trying to find some semblance of normalcy.” The words just flowed from my mouth. I felt embarrassed but saw no reaction from my new friends.
“I'm sure you experienced some terrible things.” Erich was sympathetic. Somehow I knew I could trust them. I began to weep. Katherine reached out across the wooden table and grasped my hand. “You're wounded and need to begin to heal.”
“The Garden Island is a special place. Allow her to nurture you.” Erich and Katherine resided in the Na Pali and I was grateful that they were moved to help me get started on my remedial path.
I reached out to them; I was indeed fortunate to be in their company. I discovered they were extremely knowledgeable on all aspects of this magnificent island. Perhaps it was the aura I perceived from them. I could trust them. They reflected a peace, something I dearly wanted. I was once again gifted with two wonderful new friends the day I ran away. Now a new journey awaited, a hugely physical hike along the trail and I was very unsure if I was capable of it.
“I think we need to get you some proper equipment,” Katherine said while examining the items I had packed for the trip. My initial selections for this trek were of course very wrong. Driving along the beaming coastline towards Haena, Erich guided me to a plantation style wooden house, a friend's homes where I was able to leave my belongings and borrow a sleeping bag along with other essential items. The sunset at Ke'e Beach is a feast for my eyes. I sat on the sand discovering animal shapes in the billowy clouds. Later that night while sleeping in the open I was treated to a spectacular ceiling of celestial delights. Our trio departed up the trail early the next morning.
“We need to cover as much of the trail as possible prior to the sun coming out over the mountains,” Erich said. The angles of the trail, strait up in the beginning, combined with the humidity, gave new meaning to the words “work out.” From the start my greatest efforts paled to the abilities of my guides. With the strength of mountain goats and the stamina of distant runners they made waste of the red dirt pathway. Much of their time was spent stopping at one point then another to wait for me. By the time we had hiked two miles to Hanakapiai Beach it was clear to all of us that I did not have the ability to keep up. Resting on the beach, Erich suggested that I go up valley along the river to a plateau, where stood a radiant waterfall.
“Its waters cascade down upon a clear, cool pond. The steeps volcanic cliffs provide added shelter against the elements,” my learned friend informed me. They intended on escorting me up to the falls. The jungle couple would set up a campsite for me before continuing on their way. There were still wonderful selfless people on this planet; knowing this revealed a sliver of hope in my being. I was secured near the base of the majestic falls with the help of new-found friends. The random beauty of this setting was so stunning I was ready to admit that it was probably the artistic result of divine expression.
On the island I could rest. I could heal and be motivated to believe again. Katherine provided the basics: dried ahi, smoked marlin, dried fruits and a multitude of seeds. Water was available in abundance. On the island the sinister voices were silenced. I could read the report and not be tormented by negative energy ripping at me, scolding viciously. There was serene peace at Hanakapiai Falls and I felt totally protected, wrapped in a blissful, tropical cocoon. If the days were an eye's paradise the nights offered their own production, with a cast of billions of celestial wonders. That evening, sitting in a cool breeze of tranquility I added another phrase to my growing vocabulary, “pakalolo.”
When I finally descended the mountainside it was because this inexperienced outdoors-man ran out of supplies. I deeply wished to remain there longer. I had meditated on the issues that were before me, to determine a positive path in dealing with them. I headed down the hillside once the camp was dismantled and the site properly respected. I departed Haena and stopped at the home of Keoni, Erich's and Katherine's friend, to return his gear.
“If you ever return you are welcome here,” the local man said.
“Mahalo, my friend.”
I glided on the trade-winds in the belly of the small Twin Otter heading back to HNL. The paranoia that initially forced me to run away had subsided greatly. I felt confident. I was still concerned about the break into my home. Was it Comandante Chavez? An investigator? More likely, a random break in. Upon arriving in HNL I vowed to keep seeking information from those inside the company. I had to admit that, as much as I hated him, “Edmundo” still had the best chance of extracting information from those in the know.
“I want to listen to the CVR recording,” I said to myself. Wish as I may, it was obvious that was not going to happen. In this case it was the Mexican Government who controlled all the strings. They were conducting the “official” investigation, all I could do was hope fate would provide an opportunity.
Boarding the DC-10 I carried a greater affirmation in seeking the answers to those nagging questions. The gate agent sealed the door at 2L and the crafted pull back from the gate. The anxiety returned. The jumbo jet lifted up and turned into the skies over the vast ocean. I began to panic. Luckily, I found confidence in the faces of the familiar faces of the HNL based cabin crew once the airplane leveled off.
“Hi Eddy. You look so tan! Let me know if you need anything at all,” Camille, the senior F/A said. Later, as the contented passengers enjoyed the cinematic feature I lingered with my fellow associates in the mid-galley, “talking story.” Camille approached me.
“The cockpit would like you to call them,” she said while reaching to adjusted my tie. Then she headed back to first class.
“Okay, thanks.” I was stunned. “What did I do wrong now?” I stated as the crew-members began to laugh. I grabbed the phone at 2L and punched the secret coded chime that connected me with the cockpit.
“Aloha. I mean yeah, ah this is Eduardo.” I stumbled badly with my words.
“Yes. Eduardo, this is Captain Weathers. I was glad to hear you were on board, traveling with us today.” I struggled frantically to put a face with the name but came up blank. I froze as the captain hesitated, expecting a response from me. “Ah, Eduardo?”
“Ah, yes captain I'm here. I'm just a bit surprised by the call.”
“Yeah, well, I was one of the investigating pilots in Mexico. Listen, could we get together and talk for a bit once we get on the ground at LAX?”
“Certainly captain, no problem. I'll wait for you in the flight lounge, sir.” I hung up the intercom phone bewildered by the exchange. I became hesitant and anxious. I wandered over to door 2R. Standing alone I listened to the echo of the whistling air outsi
de as the craft streaked through the heavens. I felt bewildered. What did this aviator want?
Captain Weathers was a highly esteemed check pilot based at LAX. He was tall, strong in structure and projected that positive military image. As one of the investigating pilots in Mexico City shortly after the incident, it had been his intention to look me up in the foreseeable future. Fate once more had intervened and he had decided to take advantage of the situation.
Upon arrival, I waited in the flight lounge. Soon I received a jovial greeting by the seasoned aviator who then directed me back to a private meeting room at the far end of the terminal building. The cordial atmosphere quickly turned serious.
“I understand you were in the cockpit during the Mexico City flight?” He cut to the point. I sized up the respected pilot and decided to push back on the issue.
“Yes, there was an argument in the cockpit that night.” The words jumped out of my mouth without hesitation. Initially, I had thought to retain that secret, bury it deep inside, but my desire for facts demanded the statement be released. Captain Weathers looked shocked. In an instant, I realized my words had hit a sensitive nerve in the investigation process. I had gained the upper hand and Captain Weathers seemed unaware that I was in possession of the disciplinary report. The Captain continued,
“What makes you so sure there was an argument that night?” The cunning supervisor tested my recollection.
“Oh my God, the charade must continue,” I whispered to myself. I wondered if the captain was going to try swaying me from the truth. I was desperate for answers which was motivation enough to play along. I'm sure he would have preferred dealing with the compliant Edmundo. Of course the preferable alternative was that we speak openly and honestly, man to man. Suddenly the door to the room opened to reveal a colleague of Captain Weathers, a younger handsome man who was assisting him in the investigation of the tragedy, First Officer Spencer Edwards. I continued on, “I constantly keep hearing the term ‘pilot error,’ was it?”
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 34