The pilots brought the 727 in to land and taxied, as per the hijacker’s instructions, to a remote section of runway. It was now dark and the rain persisted, accompanied by occasional flashes of lightning. The area had been illuminated with banks of floodlights.
The plane came to a halt. “Go get the money,” Cooper told Schaffner.
Schaffner walked down the aisle to the exit door and descended the stairs, walking in wobbly high heels to the waiting vehicle. An FBI agent took the money from the trunk and handed it to her. Schaffner walked back to the plane, mounted the stairs, and carried the sack back to Cooper. He opened it, looked inside, grabbed a few bricks and took them out.
“For you,” he said.
Schaffner was surprised. “Sorry, sir. No tips. Northwest Orient policy.”
He seemed to smile faintly. “All right. Go get the parachutes.”
Schaffner once again descended the stairs and, making two more trips, brought Cooper the four parachutes.
He leaned toward her. “Now, this is the important part, Flo. Listen carefully. It’s time for the captain to tell everyone on board that the plane has been hijacked. The hijacker has a bomb. He is to order everyone off the plane. They’re to go straight out — not open the overhead compartments, not take their carry-on luggage or anything else they brought on board. If these instructions are not followed to the letter, or if a hero tries to come back and interfere with me, I’ll detonate the bomb. Please relay that to the captain. Only the pilot, copilot, and you are to remain on board.”
“Yes, sir.” Schaffner got up, went to the cockpit, and relayed the demand. A moment later the captain got on the intercom.
“Listen carefully, and please remain calm,” Scotty’s neutral voice came over the speakers. “There is a hijacker on this plane with a bomb.”
There was a scattering of expostulations, gasps, a scream or two.
“Do not panic. All passengers are to deplane immediately. Do not open the overhead bins. Do not take any carry-on luggage with you. You are to deplane empty-handed.”
More gasps, murmurs.
“Commence deplaning now. Walk, don’t run.”
The passengers rose up en masse, in a babble of confusion and raised voices, and surged toward the forward stairs. Several passengers reached for the overhead compartments, and one managed to get his open.
Seeing this, Cooper rose from his seat and held up his attaché case, brandishing it like a weapon. “You!” he screamed, suddenly enraged, gesturing at the offending passenger. “Get back! I’ve got a bomb! I’m going to set it off if you don’t follow instructions!”
The passenger, an older man, backed up, face full of terror, amid the yells and rebukes of the passengers around him. Someone gave him a shove forward; he abandoned the open bin and was pushed along with everyone else as they stumbled off the plane. In a few minutes, the cabin was empty, with the exception of Schaffner and Tina.
“You get off, too,” Cooper said to Tina. “And tell the flight engineer to board.” Then he grabbed the cabin phone. “How much longer for refueling?” he yelled into it.
“Almost done,” the copilot told him.
The Northwest flight engineer who had been brought in came up the stairs and stood in the galley, awaiting orders.
Cooper turned to Schaffner. “Close all the shades. Both sides.”
Schaffner was really frightened now. The calm, polite version of Cooper had vanished, replaced by a high-strung, angry man. “Yes, sir.”
As Schaffner went around closing the shades, Cooper spoke to the flight engineer. “You. Listen carefully. As soon as refueling is done, I want you to set a course for Mexico City. Keep your altitude below ten thousand feet — no higher. Trim the flaps down to fifteen, keep the gear down, and don’t pressurize the cabin. Fly at the slowest possible speed that configuration allows, which should be no more than one hundred knots.” He paused, then said: “I intend to put the aft stairs down and take off in that configuration. Is that feasible?”
“Everything you’ve said is feasible,” the flight engineer said, “except it would be dangerous to attempt takeoff with the aft stairs deployed. And with the configuration you’re specifying, we’ll need to refuel at least once.”
After a brief back-and-forth, Cooper agreed to having the aft stairs closed and making a stop in Reno for refueling.
“Now join the crew in the cockpit and shut the door,” Cooper told the engineer. “And get the show on the road.”
After the flight engineer had disappeared into the cockpit, the fuel truck withdrew and the jet engines began to rev up, the plane turning to taxi down the runway.
The hijacker turned to Schaffner. “Show me how to operate the aft stairs.”
She showed him, then gave him a card with instructions.
“Go into the cockpit,” he said. “On your way, close the first-class curtains. Make sure nobody comes out.”
“Yes, sir.”
She was relieved not to have to sit next to him again, but still frightened at his abrupt change of demeanor — especially now, when all his demands had been met. She went forward and turned to shut the curtain, catching a glimpse of the hijacker as she did so. He was tying the sack of money around his waist. The plane had reached the end of the taxiway and now turned onto the runway, accelerating for takeoff. The time was 7:45 PM.
3
The man who called himself Dan Cooper finished tying the bundle of money around his midriff. He then went to one of the overhead bins, the one above seat 12C — the one that had been opened by the old man. He pulled out some hand luggage, strewing it about the cabin, until he reached a battered brown briefcase. He removed it with care and placed it on his own seat. Then he opened more bins and pulled out luggage at random — bags, purses, coats, umbrellas — and tossed it around the interior. The storm had gotten worse and their course was taking them through some turbulence, the plane thumping up and down from time to time, causing additional luggage to topple out of the open bins.
Stepping over the luggage, Cooper donned a back parachute with swift and efficient movements, then put on the forward, reserve chute. He went to the aft stairs and, referring to the card of instructions Schaffner had given him, unsealed the hatch to a great roar of wind and opened the stairs into the darkness.
The sudden change in pressure alarmed the pilots in the cockpit. Copilot Rataczak got on the intercom. “Can you hear me?” he called. “Is everything okay back there?”
“Everything is okay.”
The hijacker reached around and grasped his own attaché case — the one containing the fake bomb — and threw it out the hatch into the thunderous darkness. Next, he selected several pieces of luggage at random and tossed them out as well. Finally, using shroud lines cut from a parachute he wasn’t planning to use, he took the brown briefcase he had removed from the overhead bin and securely tied it to his midriff opposite the money bag. He now bore a faint resemblance to the Michelin Man: parachutes on the front and back, the money tied on one side and the briefcase on the other. It may have looked comical, but it was secure.
This accomplished, he stepped carefully onto the stairs and then, a moment later, jumped into the night. In the cockpit, everyone noted the sudden lift caused by the release of weight, and the captain recorded the time: 8:13 PM. But they weren’t sure what it meant. They had no way of knowing if the hijacker was still in the plane, and so they flew onward to Reno.
Cooper hurtled out into the blasting wind. He waited a moment to clear the two engines, which on the Boeing 727–100 were mounted aft; stabilized his free fall; counted a full sixty seconds — and then released the drogue. This action pulled out a ten-foot bridle, which in turn yanked the parachute out of the deployment bag. Cooper noted all these stages by feel, with satisfaction. As soon as the chute was fully open, he oriented himself, making out the faint lights of the town of Packwood, his fixed point of reference — dimmed by the storm but still visible.