“You said he is doing better.”
“Yes. It seems yours was not the only soul God smiled upon that day but a replacement for me was needed in the tower as quickly as possible. I hurriedly gathered my belongings to leave for El Centro, the hospital. Senor Rodriguez, a new-hire, had been contacted and was running up the stairs as I departed. The Mexicana DC-10 from Los Angeles had landed on Runway 23-Left and taxied to the gate. It was hard to see because the fog was really rolling in. I began to worry because all aircraft with instrument landing capabilities were being directed to Runway 23-Left, the only runway with the beacon to guide the planes in.” I listened and began to fall under the spell of his story, grasping each word as it was spoken.
“That runway had been closed to traffic for three weeks, according to the Minister of Transportation,” I stated. “I understand the Minister of Transportation even signed an affidavit to that fact.” Victor shook his head.
“The runway was closed, then opened, then closed, depending on the availability and amount of traffic. There was construction going on then ‘poof,’ the workers stopped and all would be cleared on the tarmac. A plane would come down on the runway and be cleared to taxi to the terminal and ‘poof,’ once again the trucks and tractors would be back, all without a word or telephone call to us in the tower.” I was truly shocked by these revelations.
“What a shit, and the paying public did not have the slightest knowledge of it.” I felt a chill and thought back to that awful morning. I became nauseous recalling the stench of burning flesh. I turned to view a sinister Hispanic man enter the restaurant. He stood for a moment by the entrance looking about, finally taking a seat at the counter nearby. My paranoia persuaded me that it was Muerto himself making his presence known as Estrada continued.
“The tractors rushed up and down the paved surface till the early hours of the morning of the 31st. The runway at that time was closed, but the morning rush was beginning and there had not been enough time to brief Senor Rodriguez concerning the status of the runway or the fact that work had momentarily stopped. The workers, in their vehicles, were taking a short nap. Not realizing the state of 23 Left, Rodriguez turned the runway lights on about the time your aircraft was making its final approach. Down by the employee parking area I could see a large object coming out of the sky as the runway lights made the entire fog bank glow brightly and only the craft's silhouette was visible.” The mariachi music stopped in my mind and was replaced by the sound of jet engines slowly rising. “I saw the jetliner hit something on the runway as there was a large spark of fire for a second, then the wing seem to clip a tractor on the edge of the runway. Suddenly the large craft lifted up back into the sky. My eyes followed the jet in disbelief as it banked to the right and her tail began dragging, heading straight for the maintenance buildings. A great ball of fire rose upon impact. Her entire rudder and wing broke away, flying far into the neighboring homes. It was horrible.” I listened silently but intently.
“Did you tell any U.S. investigators what you have told me, Victor?”
“I was not allowed by my superiors to speak to any Norte Americanos. I was taking a chance conversing with you when you went to la oficina del ministerio.” Victor voice’s revealed his fragile emotions for he had been deeply affected by what he witnessed. The good and innocent man was also burdened by Muerto's heavy yoke of guilt, a victim of nightmares similar to those that plagued me.
“How did you know I would be at the minister's office?” I inquired quickly in an effort to lessen the encumbrance before it consumed my new friend.
“Senor Hugo,” Victor replied. My mind was working overtime as here was the opportunity I hoped would come, there was so much I wanted to know.
“Listen Victor, I need your help. I'm going back to Mexico to try and hook up with Diego Suarez de la Vega. I share your hideous dreams even though I was spared, given a new life, but I have found that it comes with an overdue check I cannot possibly pay.” Victor was taken aback by what he heard.
“Pero Eduardo, Senor Don Diego is not himself anymore. This tragedy has taken a heavy toll on him as well, plus have you forgotten about Primitivo Chavez?” That name immediately grabbed my attention.
“You know about that? How?
“Senor Hugo.” I began to consider the existence of a guardian angel for it seemed I would sorely need such assistance if I decided to return to Mexico City. Victor reached out and put his arm around my shoulder, his deep dark eyes were filled with compassion.
“I, too, must make amends my dear friend.” I gazed at the work-harden face of my new good friend and found the reason as to why he would take the chance to help me. He was a wiser man than I.
I again found myself streaming down the 405 freeway soon after I had thanked Senor Estrada for his graciousness. Redondo Beach and the home of Tommy Acoba was where I needed to go, for I did not have the strength to venture down to the Distrito Federal on my own. Good friends ignite an inner determination that is usually absent when alone. This was going to be an adventurous undertaking and if I happened to run into my old friend the Comandante, things could get difficult. Tommy's brilliant mind and ability to see things in real time would aid greatly, considering my recent disabilities. I knew exactly what I had to say to get him to go with me.
“Hey, Tommy, what was one of Trotsky's greatest accomplishments?” He was enjoying a rather large can of Foster's Lager. He sat in his music room below a painting created in a radiant Soviet propaganda style portrait, of Lenin. Acoba was no red comrade of bolshevik communism but its antagonist. In the elaborate chess games of his chosen profession as a mathematician, he pushed himself to know everything there was concerning his opponent, the military of the old Soviet Union. With his hair in a mess he pondered my question and then responded.
“Trotsky fought three different wars on three different fronts against three different enemies and won?” I saw my opportunity.
“Hey Tommy, wasn’t Trotsky assassinated in Mexico?”
“Yeah, got a big ice ax in the middle of his head.”
“Hey Tommy, wanna go to Mexico City?” My words instantly caught his attention. He paused once again then inquired,.
“You buying the beer?”
“You got it.” My backbone instantly stiffened as I imagined the impossible. What if I really got an opportunity to listen to the CVR?
“When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow night?” Acoba look at me in puzzlement for only a second then by a slight tilt of the head he agreed. I filled him in on the information Victor Estrada had provided, and we discussed our strategy as Frank Zappa serenaded us in the background.
“St. Alphonzo's’ pancake breakfast, where I stole the margarine….”[7] The one set back in my plan was that we would have take the all-nighter to MEX. Tony was extremely curious to experience that flight. On the plus side there would be fewer people at Terminal 5 at that hour, lessening the possibility of arousing company suspicion. When we approached the departure gate the following night I recognized the ticket agent, a sweet woman who was very surprised to see me.
“Please, I do not want anyone to know I was here.” I came right out and asked for her silence. By her word I knew my secret was safe. Once in the air my privacy was well respected by the F/As. Traveling with my dearest friend made my anxiety disappear. With several bottles of Bohemia consumed I hardly noticed the descent and final approach into Benito Juarez Airport.
Acoba and I waited till all the passengers had deplaned then were met with reactions of shock from the MEX gate agents.
“Eduardo! Bienvenidos!
“You are back! Who is your friend?” Their kindness reminded me of the gratitude I have for them, the Mexican people, the down-to-earth folk who truly cared for me those first few awful hours after the disaster. The agents graciously escorted us through customs and we were quickly out the terminal doors looking for a cab.
We situated ourselves at the Maria Isabel Sheraton, off the Paseo de La Refo
rma, and rested that day. In the late afternoon I made the call to the one man who I believed could provide us with solid answers. Hugo Garcia had alerted Diego of my plans, so Deputy Minister immediately arranged for Tony and I to be received at his office.
“So, para las Gracias de Dios, El Gato returns to us. Y que dices?” The Deputy Minister was very excited to see his old friend.
“Por favor Don Diego, con su permiso, yo puedo presenta mi compadre, Tomas Acoba.” My colleague stepped forward and offered his hand.
“A sus ordenes, Senor.” Diego was impressed and amused by our uncommon effort in showing proper Mexican deportment.
“Good to meet you my friend. But please, sit down. Something to drink, un refresco perhaps? And of course you must join me for dinner tonight. I know a place where the enchiladas verde are magnificent.” We sat dazzled by Diego's elegance but I remained tense.
“I’m looking for answers, Diego. I need answers.” Diego’s happy mood quickly changed. Tommy put his hand on my shoulder indicating he believed I was moving too quickly. My Mexican host took a cigarette from an engraved silver box on his desk and lit it. The finely dressed official drew a long drag, held it for some time then released the contents into the air all the while contemplating my bold inquiry.
“The whole damn thing was a real mess, my friend. Thank God it’s over.”
“Not for me Diego, it just continues on and on.” My words rang with truth and he knew it as the room became very silent.
“I’m ready for cocktails.” Tommy's wise declaration broke the tension and Senor Suarez de la Vega reacted.
“Certainly, I am forgetting my manners, anything for my Norte Americano compadres. Let us head out to La Zona Rosa.” We departed in Diego’s governmental vehicle, a large American model. “Made in the U.S.A!” The deputy joked as we sped off.
The well known functionary was a regular at Bonaparte's Restaurante in the center of the Zona Rosa. The valets hurried to assist Don Diego; the doors were opened with speed and efficiency. The jovial manager was ready to greet the diplomat and his accompaniment with great enthusiasm and veneration.
“Ah Julio, mi amigo.” Diego shone with the talents he had polished over the years.
“Don Diego joven, y sus padres?” The elderly man welcomed him with an abrazo and a hand-shake.
“Todos son bien Julio, por favor estos son mis amigos Norte Americanos,” gesturing toward us, “Dales lo que quieren.” Diego turned to us, “They will take care of you gentlemen, please excuse me while I use the lavatory.” Tommy and I, still dumbfounded by the elegant greeting, were directed to a table where two waiters stood awaiting to obey our every command.
“We’ve got to get him to tell us more.” I whispered to Tommy, obviously impatient.
“First things first. Tres Bohemias por favor.” Tommy was cool and calm, a contrast to my nervous behavior. In the moments we were alone Acoba tried to get me to settle down and realize that patience and a well-laid plan would garner the results I so desired. “Look, he wants to tell us more,” my chess master advised me. “I can feel it. Diligence is the key. I say we get him drunk.” My vexation subsided as I began to see the logic in Tommy's plan.
“What if he drinks us under the table?” I asked as my lack of assurance rose once more. Acoba looked straight into my eyes for my inquiry insulted his intelligence.
“Tres Centenarios tambien,” the mathematician informed the second attendant as the first was returning with the beer. Don Diego returned and the bartender spoke up to ask,
“Para usted, Don Diego?”
“Ah, Serafino, un vino blanco.”
Tony reacted quickly.
“No, no, please. Since we are in Mexico, I insist we have Centenario con una Bohemia.” Don Diego took a step back for a second, then found this idea to be whimsical and a pleasant surprise,.
“You know my friends, this could be quite a lethal combination but what the hell, it is not every day that I get to spend time with El Gato, the man with nine lives.” I glanced over at Tommy who displayed a sly smile. Our trio enjoyed the drinks the waiters had swiftly placed upon the table. Cerveza, tequila, sal y lima.
“Salud!” After a couple of shot glasses and bottles of beer I began to feel my anxiety dissipate.
“What really happened down here, Diego?” The official took his time to light another cigarette, keeping me on edge. He contemplated what to say. Tommy could see that Diego wanted to unload his conscience, and threw in his support.
“What happened Senor?” The diplomat exhaled heavily.
“Well, as you know, it was determined to be pilot error.”
Tommy interjected.
“Was it?”
Diego raised his hands.
“I don’t know, I don’t want to think about it anymore.”
“Diego, I must know.” I remained persistent. The torn diplomat didn’t know where to start.
“I can’t believe how crazy things got. There was the man who died twice, a young Mexican national.” Diego seemed deeply fixed upon this particular situation. He gazed toward the ceiling, traveling into some void. “He had been working on a farm in California, “un bracero,” and had been killed accidentally by farming equipment. Since he and his two brothers were in Los Estados Unidos illegally, this posed a problem not only for them but also for the farmer who had hired them unlawfully. Fearing problems with “la migra,” immigration, the brothers were compensated by the farmer, booked to travel on your flight, and were returning to Mexico with their deceased sibling in the hold of the aircraft.”
“It truly was El Dia de Los Muertos,” I blurted out. Diego locked eyes with me as he extinguished his partially-smoked cigarette.
“Indeed it truly was for those poor souls. His brothers died once and he was made to die twice.” Tommy kept his poker face as I glanced to meet his stare.
“Then there was the case of the two Sandinista gentlemen.” Acoba's eyes grew large, I felt my heart leap up into my throat. “One of those two deceased individuals had eight different passports on his body. This caused a lot of debate. That dog Chavez,” Diego hesitated as he saw the reaction on my face. “Well, Chavez was sure the crash was some clandestine act of your Central Intelligence Agency, to kill the two Nicaraguan agents. Who’s to say? But shortly after, officials from Los Estados Unidos arrived in town and took the bodies of two other gentlemen that were not even listed on the manifest of the flight. So, they were not counted among those that had perished.”
“You mean their bodies disappeared?” Tommy became intrigued.
“I was informed by the Minister himself that as far as we were concerned, those two bodies never even existed.
“C.I.A.” Tommy stated with a sly smile on his face.
“The black box, Diego, what is on the black box?” I urged my friend to continue.
“It was a strain trying to listen to it as the box was damaged and there is a continuous loop of gaps on the recording. Es muy terrible my friends. The pilots knew it was coming.” I began to shake. becoming impatient. Tommy leaned over to whisper in my ear.
“Take it easy cabron. keep cool.” A nervous Diego went on with his story.
“You know, there is this unusual sound at the end of the cockpit tape, no one can figure it out. For only a scant moment, it sounds like a multitude of voices crying out.” The perplexed deputy shook his head.
“The pilot's crying out?” I rationally assumed.
There was a pause as more tequila y cervezas were brought to the table. Tommy signaled for me to go with the flow. He had no doubt that our blue blooded friend would reveal all. Just be patient.
A penitent Don Diego resumed his dialogue.
“You know my friends, the Minister called a news conference three weeks after the accident. My superior resolved that all the bodies of the passengers had been accounted for. Yet, later on that very afternoon of the conference, the clean-up crews discovered another body.” Tommy sensed that the liquor was accomplishing its t
ask.
“To His Excellency, The Minister!” Tommy raised his glass in a salute. Diego was obliging.
“The big fart!” Evidently, Diego was still bitter for being lied to. Tony continued to push new drinks forward.
“Ay, otra vez? What the hell, I’m my own boss.” I kept pressing for more information.
“What else Diego?” The slightly intoxicated official took another shot of tequila to try and numb the pain that now revealed itself upon his face.
“For your own sake, forget about this mess.” I freaked thinking we had reached a dead end. I pressed,
“Where is the black box?” Diego thought for a second.
“Ah, put away in the Ministry offices.”
“Is there any possible way I could listen to it?” The question nearly made my host spit up his beer.
“No, no, no, I don’t think that would be a good idea. It would not be healthy for you, just forget about it.” Tommy kept his composure, controlling the flow of conversation and drinks. He rose to make another toast.
“To the Black Box!!”
“Salud!” The manager politely approached the table.
“Para comida, Don Diego?”
“Si Julio. Enough about Death, my friends, for he will come soon enough. Let us celebrate life. Tres platos de enchiladas verdes. Serafino, por favor, cántame algo especial, es una fiesta. Would you care to be serenaded, Senor Acoba?” A tall, lean figure of a bartender untied his apron and approached the table of the “caballeros.” From the other room a trio of mariachis appeared. “What is your pleasure, Senor Acoba?” Tommy did not have to think long.
“LIego Borracho, El Borracho.” The traditional song of twisted fate echoed through the night air of La Zona Rosa, The old ballad’s melody seemed to be mirroring the real narrative being played out in the ancient municipality of the Aztecs. Now inebriated, Diego rose from the table grabbing my hand as the two Mexicans danced and stumbled about. The plaintive ballad concluded just as the entrees arrived. The trio rose to cheer Serafino, a handsome man of great talent, then sat to enjoy the marvelous cuisine. But I soon grew restless and wanted more information.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 43