Part 38, page 204

Transcript

The scan is the source; the transcript is machine-generated from it.

ROM THE beginning, it had a kind of ee- rie, hypnotic charm. Despite all the best pre- cautions, the man on board the jet had a bomb. And there were 41 other persons sitting around him. For Northwesterners, the scene had a special kind of horror. Friends and family were on board Northwest Flight 305, now sitting ominously mute and isolated on Runway 16R with no visible signs of activity on board. The atmosphere at the Seattle- Tacoma International Airport was heavy with a suspended, time-in- slow-motion feeling, even as telev- ision cameras covered the "event" live from the distant pas- senger terminal. The runway lights, dimmed on demand to a faint glow, helped very little in defining the lines of the sleek 727, parked in the cold night in front of the airport's ad- ministration building. Even the squatty truck, disgorging the aro- matic jet fuel, was almost a sil- houette, its lights and rotating bea- con extinguished. Inside, the man in the dark rain- coat sitting in the last seat on the starboard side was served up an unusual offering. A white cloth sack and four squat parachutes. The sack held a six-inch-thick rec- tangular package weighing 271/2 pounds. It contained 10,000 $20 bills.

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A minute later, the front cabin door opened slowly and 36 passengers, many puzzled over the delay, were herded away from the plane in small groups, then into a bus which sped toward the terminal. It was November 24, 1971. The next day was Thanksgiving.

AIRLINE OFFICIALS referred to the flight later as a "puddle- jumper" — routinely racing the sun from the East Coast with its last two scheduled stops Portland and Seattle. Today, however, Flight 305 would make one addi- tional stop. Earlier that afternoon, a middle- aged, ordinary-looking man waited in line at the Portland ticket coun- ter, paid cash for a tourist cabin seat, and sat quietly for 50 minutes in the airport waiting room until boarding time. Later, no one re- membered seeing him.

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Just after 3 o'clock, Capt. Bill Scott of Minneapolis eased the plane out of a shallow, climbing right turn toward a northerly heading. The seat-belt signs were still on. . In the aft cabin, the swarthy man who had never removed his dark sunglasses beckoned to a stewardess, Tina Mucklow, and quietly handed her a note. It said he wanted $200,000 and four parachutes: two backpack type and two front packs. For added incentive, he opened his ordinary-looking attache case a few inches and showed her the contents: several red cylinders connected by wire. The long-haired, blond steward- ess nodded understandingly and began to make her way up the still sloping aisle toward the locked cockpit door. Mr. D. B. Cooper had announced his arrival. As the plane neared, then passed Seattle, passengers began to get

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nervous for the first time, but for the wrong rea- son. "People began to be concerned when it circled around Whidbey Island for an hour or so," Robert Gregory of Puyallup, who sat four seats away from the icy-nerved skyjacker, re- called. "They thought something was wrong with the plane," he said. About 5:45, Captain Scott touched the plane down and rolled it smoothly to a stop, but in front of the airport's administration building, a half mile from the pas- senger terminal. At the same mo- ment, the stewardesses stood up, squarely blocking the aisles and Scott spoke emphatically over the loudspeaker, ordering passengers to please remain in their seats and not to move until told to. They fidgeted in their seats, muttering. Gregory's seat on the port side was blocked by the stew- ardess, Tina Mucklow, standing very still. "What's the problem?" Gregory asked her. "Don't look back," she cau- tioned, keeping her eyes fixed on the other stewardess in the for- ward cabin. Both girls looked "a little green," Gregory recalled.

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No announcement was made that anything was wrong, but the plane's back door, for exiting pas- sengers, remained bolted and the passengers remained in their seats, fixed under the glare of the seat-belt sign. No one had seen any weapons.

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TWENTY MINUTES dragged by. The crew conferred frequently over the plane's intercom. Then, heads looked up as Ms. Mucklow walked slowly toward the rear of the plane carrying a large white cloth sack. Everyone knew it was a money bag and everyone knew what it meant. Then, at 6:50 p.m., the passen- gers and two remaining steward- esses were directed off. Gregory, who had noticed the man earlier on a trip to the restroom, turned as he left and got a good look at Cooper. "No, he didn't look calm," Gre- gory recalled. "He was very wary, watching everybody that moved very intently." It was suddenly very quiet on the airplane. Cooper had told Scott he "wanted fuel out here right now" and he was assured that the airline would cooperate com- pletely. The silver-haired pi- lot was playing it slowly and calmly. So was airline headquarters in Minneapolis. The company had requested the Federal Bureau of Investigation not to take any action in trying to board the plane or capture the sus- pect. J. Earl Milnes, then special agent in charge of the bureau's Seattle office, agreed to comply with the request in every way. The minutes oozed by. Finally, the plane was fueled but with only 2,300 pounds. Cooper extinguished the last of a series of Raleigh fil- ter-tip cigarets, then ventured cau- tiously over to the plane's inter- com. "He just told me he wanted to go to Mexico City," Scott remem- bered. "He didn't specify the route. He just wanted to go at 10,000 feet." The skyjacker also ordered that the 727 fly with flaps down 15 per- cent, and the landing gear low- ered. "He seemed very rational," Scott said. "Calm and self-as- sured."