Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  Suddenly, underneath the jetway I recognized a large familiar figure lumbering out of the shadows. It was Montoya, the Mexican federal agent, the block of a man. Filled with fear, I slowly retreated from Hugo's embrace as my Mexican cohorts became aware that we were not alone on the tarmac.

  “Caught, como un raton,” a delighted Comandante Chavez appeared and began to laugh but the utterance turned into a terrible hacking as he was starting to choke from his own silliness. Regaining his composure, the prideful man rapidly approached me. I continued to back away but the determined officer reached out and grabbed me by the arm. To my shock he simply wanted to pinch my cheek sternly. Muerto's agent began to laugh once more with pure delight.

  “Alto Comandante Chavez!” Don Diego quickly stepped between myself and my antagonist. Primitivo was surprised by Diego's bold interference. We were now surrounded by more federal officers.

  “Ah, the hidden accomplices. Can you comprehend what a blow this all would be to your shining career, Don Diego?” The sadistic comandante bowed in an animated fashion as he mocked Diego.

  “What do you mean Senor?” Diego countered. Primitivo began coughing, then after regaining control became serious.

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, Senor Saurez, your kind think they’re so smart just because you have a silver spoon in your mouth. I’ve had to work hard for all I have.”

  “Yes Primitivo, We all have seen the result of your work. What do you intend to do?” Chavez was relishing his position in this particular matter and paused to enjoy the moment.

  “Ah, what are we to do about this little problem, Don Eduardo?” Primitivo approached me once again, taking an interest in the contents of the cardboard box I was clutching.

  “Stop stalling, what are your intentions...what will you do?” Diego interjected to regain the advantage. The comandante grinned widely, revealing a reflection of his dental work. Perhaps he assumed that the contents were nothing more than my personal belongings. Primitivo Chavez de Leon reached out once more and put his hand upon my shoulder. If I didn't know better, I would have thought that the executioner actually had developed a sense of affection for his prey. Primitivo turned toward the young Mexican deputy, still hacking every few seconds.

  “Nada, Don Diego, nada. As you so often have reminded me, Senor Valenciana is a guest of the people of Mexico and a citizen of the mighty Estados Unidos.” Nearly everyone present was about to faint from shock. Had I heard his words correctly? Don Diego’s mouth remained wide open as the professional orator found himself at a loss for words. Primitivo Chavez began to laugh and cough uncontrollably.

  “Eduardo, go with Hugo, the plane is holding for you.” I gave my benefactor a quick abrazo before Hugo and I ran up the jetway stairs, leaving Diego to deal with the semi-crazed comandante who suddenly had seemed to lose his mind.

  “Ah, Madre de Dios,” was all the guffawing Primitivo could say, over and over.

  “Quick, Eduardo, here is your boarding pass. You must board the plane. Senior Acoba is already on board.” The agent stood ready to close the door at 2L

  “Gracias, Hugo, mi compadre.”

  “And the next time you take a vacation my friend, go to Hawaii.” I entered the cabin of the craft, the door was shut and locked. I hesitated for a moment still clutching the cardboard box thinking that once again, men of quality had come to my aid. They were not just friends but mentors, persons of such character to be remembered during difficult times ahead. I turned and proceeded to first class as the large jumbo jet backed away from the gate.

  “I was getting ready to get off this plane and start looking for your ass,” an irritated Acoba grumbled.

  “Here,” I tossed the box of documents on his lap, “Something for you to read on the flight home.” My learned friend look surprised as he spotted the reel marked “2605.”

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  “You look through the box. I'm exhausted, I just want to sleep.” I flopped onto my assigned seat and pulled my seat belt tightly. And with that I closed my tired eyes wishing to think pleasant thoughts. I slept well at 30,000' above the world, gliding once again over the Sea of Cortez where I would be aroused occasionally by Acoba's reaction to the documents he scanned.

  “Crap, you won't believe what's in this shit.” His words should have been a forewarning. Perhaps I could finally find the peace I so desperately sought now that I had the CVR recording. I was so naive.

  “Good morning Mexico Tower, Flight 2605 is inbound for 23.”

  “2605 report over Mike Echo final approach navigation point, wind calm.”

  “Roger, 2605. Over Mike Echo.”

  “Will I ever be good enough?” I awoke abruptly, disoriented and in a panic. I reached out for something, for someone, then recognized my own room in my own house. I was up late at night since arriving back home from Mexico, listening to the CVR tape. Instantly Diego's words of warning became very apparent. The black box had sustained damage as a result of the massive forces that tore open DC-10NW903. There were indeed lapses in the conversation every few seconds and it would take painstaking attention to decipher every word. Another vital factor became evident immediately. I was a certified flight attendant, not an aviator, and I had not the knowledge nor the skills to accurately interpret the words of the pilots. If I was to learn the truth surrounding the death of my ship I needed to educate myself, and this fact also posed a dilemma.

  Since no one knew I had the recording I could not trust anyone from the company or the government to assist me in this task. Diego Suarez did counsel me on the payment the tape would eventually extract from me in revealing her secrets, but I was deaf to his wise words. The last twenty-three seconds of the tape were horrendous and had the ability of sucking a bit of life from the soul of anyone who listened to its terror. It became obvious the first time the tape was played to its conclusion that I would have to listen to it numerous times before it would relinquish any secrets. Only someone with a deep desire to be driven mad would continue on such a path.

  Like a lethal drug which becomes addictive after the first ingestion, the CVR recording enticed me to return again and again. Its dilapidated condition forced me to relinquish every bit of my full attention in an effort to encode each word, each sound. A good friend worked at the McDonnell Douglas plant in Long Beach and he graciously presented me with the operation manuals of the DC-10. In return he requested he be allowed to listen to the recording. I desperately needed those handbooks so I relented. The good fellow would listen to it only once and later state that he wished he never had. I, on the other hand would listened to it over and over and each time it took a piece of my sanity.

  “2605 advise runway in sight. Do you have the lights?” The Mexican Tower in the form of a Senior Rodriguez, according to Victor Estrada, seems strained in trying to advise the cockpit crew. He also clearly states that the runway lights of Runway 23-Left may be on, a system the Mexican Government adamantly insisted had been nonfunctional and undergoing repairs for the three weeks prior to October 31. The loop silence which surfaced every few seconds demanded that I strain to listen then carefully rewind the tape to assure that I had truly heard what was being said. The Mexican Tower advised once more. “2605 you are left of the track.” Instantly I recognized the voice of Captain Herbert responding..

  “Just a bit.” The tower shot right back.

  “Advise runway in sight, there is a layer of fog over the field.”

  “Roger.”

  “2605, do you have approach lights on left in sight?” The tower nervously asked.

  “Negative,” responded Captain Herbert.

  “Okay sir, approach lights are on Runway 23-Left but that runway is closed to traffic.” I did not have to be a seasoned aviator to understand that a runway which supposedly had been closed for weeks, a runway that neither had the mandatory “X” at each end of the runway nor its light system in disarray as claimed, was sucking one of the airline's most seasoned aviators into a d
eath trap. I became very nauseous and the convulsions paralyzed me once more as I fell to the floor.

  Though the tape had many more secrets to reveal I was deeply puzzled. If a regular flight attendant could see the irregularities in the official conclusion of “pilot error” revealed by the CVR recording, why hadn't the company, the aviation experts of my airline, spoken up about such abnormalities?

  “Don't be stupid, Eddy.” It was Tommy who brought me back to reality. “It's the world of politics and big corporate entities.”

  “So the victims, my fellow crew members, they are the sacrificial lambs that are paying for the silence the power brokers demand?

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Why must we surrender life to the brutes and fools?”

  The truths of the genuine world were too much to bear. I rejected the obvious facts the CVR recording had shoved down my throat. I wanted a better world, a much more tranquil world and I knew just where to find it. I called Scheduling and canceled my flight availability, packed my bag and headed for the airport. Arriving at LAX with plenty of time to spare, I focused all my energy in trying to forget the confidential facts I had learned from the tape: the information this airline apparently wanted to keep secret. I checked my mailbox. One envelope stood out, indicating it was from the Chief Executive Officer of the airline and I was bewildered as to why Mario Reddick would be sending me a note. The brief typed text simply requested that I contact his office at my convenience. This caused me great anxiety. I approached the F/A supervisor office of Mary Ellen, holding up the letter.

  “Can I use your phone?”

  “Sure, Eddy.” She gathered her things and left the office to afford me some privacy.

  “Mr Reddick, please.” I became nervous and stuttered my words.

  “Hello, good afternoon, ah, this is Eduardo Valenciana.”

  “Yes, Ed,” the assistant stated. “Mr. Reddick is anxious to speak with you, just one moment.” Being placed on hold I wondered if I was tense for no reason perhaps the head executive wanted me to perform some minor public relations duty?

  “Ah, Eduardo,” His voice brought me back to attention.

  “Yes, Mr. Reddick, how are you this fine day, sir?” I tried to display the cordial manner Edmundo would offer.

  “Yes, Eduardo, I understand you recently returned from a profitable journey to Mexico City.” I froze as he spoke the words. How the hell did he know what I had done? I tried to downplay the experience.

  “Ah yes, sir, a friend and I decided to go see the sights, you know the pyramids and all.” I was failing miserably at my attempt.

  “Seems like you got a lot of people down there upset. You know, Ed, ah, we can do all we can to see to your well-being up here but we have no control over what some of those people down there may do.” There was a long pause as neither party knew where to go. “I think it best you stay away from Mexico City, at least for the near future. Do you understand?”

  “Clearly sir.”

  “Good, that is all I wanted to tell you, you have a pleasant day.”

  “You also, sir.” The Chief Executive Officer hung up the phone and the anger deep inside me rose. I boarded the DC-10 bound for Honolulu still fuming yet realizing that it might be a good idea to get out of town.

  “We're cleared on the right, we're cleared on the right. No, this is the approach to the god-damn left.” I awoke deeply shaken by the recurring dream. I gazed up into the dimly lit spectral sky over Kauai and smelled the morning dew. I lay nestled in the warmth of the sleeping bag at the base of the majestic falls. I had been induced into a deep slumber by the combined effort of the hike up to the Hanakapiai Falls and my obsession with the disciplinary report of the two pilots. One significant point in the document that had never really surfaced in any conversation before was the fact that the session with the Supervisory Pilot occurred just hours prior the departure of the ill-fated jumbo jet. Who in their right mind holds a hearing regarding the personal conflicts of two proud stubborn-headed, military-minded pilots, then you give the green light for these choleric hearts to go out and guide an all night Mexico City bound DC-10 locked in a small cockpit together?

  “Okay boys, have a nice flight.” It puzzled me even more that no one suspected that such animosity between the two aviators would have been a contributing factor in the accident. As I set myself upon a large rock by a large oval pond, I recalled the voices of the CVR tape.

  “We're cleared on the right, we're cleared on the right.” The cognitive content of Carl's words was not a statement but a question and there were two distinct immediate responses.

  “The right one.”

  “The other runway.” Were the replies from F/O Reimann and S/O Wells, themselves a question, or an indication that they processed the correct information regarding which runway the craft was supposed to land on? Was this a fact Captain Herbert seemed uncertain of at a vital time in the landing procedure? Were Carl's string of words a question.

  Crap. The frustration just grew. Diego was right. In my zealous desire to hear the recording I ignored the warnings of my dear friend.

  “Be careful what you ask for.” There was no peace to be found only more confusion. Even if I was to discover anything significant what credible aviation rep organization was going to be swayed by a flight attendant?

  I decided to vent my disappointments with the ritualistic role play I had adapted when on Kauai. Here, high in the vegetated valley of the Na Pali, I could live out my wild fantasies. Though they be irrational to most, I found solace in such behavior. My bizarre conduct included rising at all hours of the night to relieve my pain with a Tarzan war cry that echoed down the valley to the tranquil beach. The paint upon my body, along with savage grunts and screams were all part of an effusion of a very wounded soul.

  I would run down the valley and leap onto large stones across the river. I rushed up one elevated side of the wall, Then I ran back midway to the river. I would leap across from rock to rock to the other side of the river, then the whole process started over again. The grunts and shrieks intensified as I gathered momentum. At one point I lost my footing on the soft mountain trail and went tumbling, out of control, down the wet hillside. A fresh mud puddle softened the landing as I sat in a daze for a split second. With my adrenaline rushing I refocused just in time to see a wild piglet in the distance staring at me. The little porker snorted her approval of the jungle man’s tumble then turned and scurried off into the dense bush. I jumped to my feet and carefully moved through the branches in silence, in stealth mode, vainly searching for my little antagonist. I waited, intending to have the last laugh on the piglet, keenly aware of the danger if a vicious mother was nearby. Suddenly the crackling of leaves on the trail announced the little squealer's arrival. Encased in a coat of drying mud the jungle man leapt forward letting loose a great shrill, pouncing upon the trail in a vicious cry. In an instant, the valley resounded with blood-curdling screams. Before my astonished eyes stood three pale-faced hikers. They clung to the cliff wall filled with as much terror and fear as now controlled the semi-naked demented flight attendant.

  “It’s the jungle wild man,” one of the fair-hair young men uttered.

  “I read about you,” clamored the other. Their female companion was still too startled to let loose from the nearby tree she clung to.

  “Excuse me, I’m sorry, I mean.” Embarrassed, I fumbled my speech trying to explain what at that moment seemed pretty stupid. “I’m just a guy having some fun.” I stuttered on, “I’m on vacation like you guys.” The hikers glanced at each other then gazed upon my tanned, mud-covered body. They set upon a long pause as the three regained their composure, although the young lady would never completely let her guard down. Slowly, the opposition built a dialogue. I dispensed with the wild jungle man persona and proceeded to become the tour guide flight attendant, willing to help and provide information in an instant. “Welcome aboard and if there is anything we can do for you on this majestic vol
canic trail, please don’t hesitate to call upon us.” Panic drove me to speak with sincerity as the hikers began to wonder about their encounter with the island’s screamer. But they were not about to go home empty handed.

  “Hey, could we have a picture?” One of the guys asked with excitement. I jumped at the opportunity to put these visitors at ease.

  “Sure,” A friendly atmosphere now encompassed us.

  “Stand over by the trail,” stated the lad with a camera who was bent on directing the best angle for such a prized photo. His hand worked the lens for the proper focus. “Look vicious,” he commanded. If these tourist were to bring back proof of the existence of such a wounded animal, they were not willing to settle for a meek madman. The colors pleased him. The bright green backdrop provided a perfect setting. The red dirt caked upon the jungle man highlighted the wilted leaves that covered his nakedness. In an instant, that moment was recorded forever.

  “Do you think you guys could send me a copy?” I requested. We exchanged mailing information and they were off once more.

  The chance meeting instilled a sense of paranoia in me. What if the tourists started telling people of the demented individual they had confronted? I was deflated by my circumstances. My mind returned to the CVR recording. The answers I sought only created more questions and unloaded a new set of troubles upon my shoulders. The airline was aware of my covert activities, attorneys were still on the hunt for me and certain individuals in Mexico were pissed at me. I desired nothing more than to remain secluded in the valleys of the Na Pali and not have to return to the chaos on the outside.

  I needed to consult someone who was far wiser than I. Gathering my belongings I began my exit along the majestic coastline. Later, showered and clothed, I boarded the propped twin otter of Princeville Airways and I departed the Garden Island. I truly hoped Doctor Ramljak could help me make sense of the multitude of dilemmas that burdened my soul, my life.

  “This is the approach to the god-damn left!” The haunting voices echoed then died in the second floor office in Westwood. The damaged tape demanded the full attention from its audience, reluctant to give up its precious information. I could see the strain on the good doctor's face as he tilted his head at a distinct angle, grasping what he could from the panicked voices of the doomed airliner. The learned physician kept his eyes on his nervous patient, taking in my reaction to each vital sound.