balloons. At night, he vomits. He is so weak he breaks bones turning over in his sleep.
Jo drives him to West Florida Regional Medical Center. The dialysis is too much for him. Without the treatments, he will die.
“Is this a body you would want to live in?” Duane tells his doctor. “I can’t even hold my own cigarette.”
November 24, 1971
Aboard Northwest Orient Flight 305
In the back row of the jet, he fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“You smoke?”
Quit, Tina says. The word is out. Smoking kills. This past summer, Congress banned smoking ads from television and radio.
She offers to light the cig for him. The matchbook he has is blue. The words
Sky Chef
are on the cover. He leans in close as she flicks the cardboard stick against the strike pad and watches the sulfur fizzle into flame.
“Want one?”
He holds out the pack.
Why not? Tina takes a butt and sticks it in her mouth. She lights it.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
She grew up in Trevose, a small city outside of Philadelphia. She now lives with roommates in an apartment near the Minneapolis–St. Paul airport. The stew zoo.
“Minneapolis is very nice country,” says the hijacker.
Tina takes a drag of her smoke. She knows where they are going: Cuba, where all the other hijackers want to go. She jokes with him.
“You know Northwest Orient has strict policies against traveling to Cuba. Can’t bring home rum or cigars. Customs confiscate them in the airport.”
The hijacker laughs.
“No, we’re not going to Cuba. But you’ll like where we’re going.”
In the seat across from them, Bill Mitchell, the college sophomore, waits for his chance. What is the young stew doing talking to such an older guy? Mitchell notices that as the man talks to the stew, he spills his drink. What is that stewardess thinking wasting her time on him? When will she get up so he can make his move?
The jet banks into a turn around Seattle, circling the city twenty miles to the south. The hijacker wants to know the time. His deadline is 5:00 p.m. He peers out the window.
“We’re over Tacoma now.”
In Portland. Special Agent Ralph Himmelsbach sprints into the terminal. In the doorway, a lady is lugging hat boxes. Himmelsbach nearly knocks her over. He heads for the management office of Northwest Orient. His boss, Julius Mattson, special agent in charge of the Bureau’s field office in Portland, is listening to a panel of radios cued in to the cockpit of the hijacked plane.
“There you are, Ralph,” Mattson says. “Where you been? We got a hot one going here.”
“Got here quick as I could. Damn traffic on Sandy was fierce. Dispatch said the guy has a bomb. What else do we know?”
“Not a lot more,” says Mattson. “He wants money and a parachute. So far that’s about all that we’ve been able to put together.”
“How much cash?”
“Two hundred thousand,” says Frank Faist, a Northwest official.
“Whew. That’s a hell of a hit, Frank. Are you going to make it?”
“I imagine so. He’s holding all the high cards.”
“Any idents on the guy with the bomb?”
“We’ve asked the crew to pass on anything they can, but so far no info.”
“Have your people found out anything more?”
“We got the ticket lifts and the flight manifest. We know there are twenty-nine men aboard that aircraft. He could be nine or ninety for all I know now.”
Over the radio, there is a crackle of sound. It is the Northwest pilots on the frequency. Himmelsbach and Mattson strain their ears.
“Our future destination not yet advised … Name of man unknown … About six feet one inch, black hair, age about fifty, weight a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Boarded at Portland.”
Portland! He was here, Himmelsbach thinks. But who was he? How did he get here? Taxi? Car? Did he stay overnight? Walk from a hotel? Take the bus?
Agents fan out across the terminal, searching for witnesses. The day before Thanksgiving is one of the
Jo drives him to West Florida Regional Medical Center. The dialysis is too much for him. Without the treatments, he will die.
“Is this a body you would want to live in?” Duane tells his doctor. “I can’t even hold my own cigarette.”
November 24, 1971
Aboard Northwest Orient Flight 305
In the back row of the jet, he fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“You smoke?”
Quit, Tina says. The word is out. Smoking kills. This past summer, Congress banned smoking ads from television and radio.
She offers to light the cig for him. The matchbook he has is blue. The words
Sky Chef
are on the cover. He leans in close as she flicks the cardboard stick against the strike pad and watches the sulfur fizzle into flame.
“Want one?”
He holds out the pack.
Why not? Tina takes a butt and sticks it in her mouth. She lights it.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
She grew up in Trevose, a small city outside of Philadelphia. She now lives with roommates in an apartment near the Minneapolis–St. Paul airport. The stew zoo.
“Minneapolis is very nice country,” says the hijacker.
Tina takes a drag of her smoke. She knows where they are going: Cuba, where all the other hijackers want to go. She jokes with him.
“You know Northwest Orient has strict policies against traveling to Cuba. Can’t bring home rum or cigars. Customs confiscate them in the airport.”
The hijacker laughs.
“No, we’re not going to Cuba. But you’ll like where we’re going.”
In the seat across from them, Bill Mitchell, the college sophomore, waits for his chance. What is the young stew doing talking to such an older guy? Mitchell notices that as the man talks to the stew, he spills his drink. What is that stewardess thinking wasting her time on him? When will she get up so he can make his move?
The jet banks into a turn around Seattle, circling the city twenty miles to the south. The hijacker wants to know the time. His deadline is 5:00 p.m. He peers out the window.
“We’re over Tacoma now.”
In Portland. Special Agent Ralph Himmelsbach sprints into the terminal. In the doorway, a lady is lugging hat boxes. Himmelsbach nearly knocks her over. He heads for the management office of Northwest Orient. His boss, Julius Mattson, special agent in charge of the Bureau’s field office in Portland, is listening to a panel of radios cued in to the cockpit of the hijacked plane.
“There you are, Ralph,” Mattson says. “Where you been? We got a hot one going here.”
“Got here quick as I could. Damn traffic on Sandy was fierce. Dispatch said the guy has a bomb. What else do we know?”
“Not a lot more,” says Mattson. “He wants money and a parachute. So far that’s about all that we’ve been able to put together.”
“How much cash?”
“Two hundred thousand,” says Frank Faist, a Northwest official.
“Whew. That’s a hell of a hit, Frank. Are you going to make it?”
“I imagine so. He’s holding all the high cards.”
“Any idents on the guy with the bomb?”
“We’ve asked the crew to pass on anything they can, but so far no info.”
“Have your people found out anything more?”
“We got the ticket lifts and the flight manifest. We know there are twenty-nine men aboard that aircraft. He could be nine or ninety for all I know now.”
Over the radio, there is a crackle of sound. It is the Northwest pilots on the frequency. Himmelsbach and Mattson strain their ears.
“Our future destination not yet advised … Name of man unknown … About six feet one inch, black hair, age about fifty, weight a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Boarded at Portland.”
Portland! He was here, Himmelsbach thinks. But who was he? How did he get here? Taxi? Car? Did he stay overnight? Walk from a hotel? Take the bus?
Agents fan out across the terminal, searching for witnesses. The day before Thanksgiving is one of the
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