It’s Thanksgiving eve and Portland International
Airport is almost empty, most of the pre-holiday passengers having already made it to their
destinations. I walk up to the Northwest Orient Airlines counter, take a $20 bill out of my
pocket, place it on the counter, and ask for a one-way ticket to Seattle. “Your name,
sir?” the woman behind the counter asks. “Dan Cooper” I tell her, but after a mix
up in the newspapers I’ll come to be known by a much more famous name. I am... D.B. Cooper. The woman at the counter hands me my ticket.
I look down at it. Its November 24th 1971, my flight number is 305 on a Boeing 727 and
is due to depart Portland at 2:50 PM. I make my way through the sparsely populated airport
towards the gate where my plane will be departing and make my way onto the plane. I find my seat, 18C, at the back of the aircraft.
I light a cigarette and order a Bourbon and soda from an air hostess. I feel calm, but
the drink should help just in case nerves start to take over. I survey the aircraft
and take note that the flight is not full. I am wearing my dark suit, pressed shirt and
black tie with a mother of pearl pin. Classy but not flashy, I could be a businessman making
his way home for the holiday after a last minute meeting, or an engineer on his way
to a conference, or any number of everyday professionals going about their daily life.
Most importantly, I blend in. The pilot make his announcements and the plane
takes off on time at approximately 2:50PM. Everything is on schedule. Everything is going
according to plan. I look around for the closet flight attendant
to me and I see an air hostess sitting at the back in a jump seat attached to the aft
stair door. The seat belt sign is still on but I unbuckle and get up from my seat. I
walk to the back of the plane towards the hostess and she seems to pay me no notice.
I read the name on her badge, Florence Schaffner, as I take a folded note out of my pocket and
hand it to her. She takes the note, looks at me and without
a second thought, drops it, unopened, into her purse. No no no, this isn’t right. I
need her to read the note. I lean forward and whisper; “Miss, you’d better look at that note...
I have a bomb” Now I’ve got her attention. She quickly
takes the note out of her purse and reads it. I’m not sure what the look on her face
is. Is she scared? Annoyed at what she suspects is a stupid prank? Regardless, she follows
me to my seat and sits beside me. She asks to see the bomb, so I open my briefcase just
enough to expose the red cylinders, wires, insulation and cylindrical battery. She looks
like she believes me now as I calmly state my demands; $200,000 which is equivalent to
around $1.2 million today, four parachutes - 2 primary and 2 reserve, and a fuel truck
standing by at the airport in Seattle to refuel upon arrival. I watch as she makes her way to the front
of the aircraft with the note and enters the cockpit. Whilst I am waiting for her return,
I put on my sunglasses. After some time, Schaffner arrives back beside
me and confirms that she has relayed my demands to the pilot, William Scott. I knew Scott would contact air traffic control,
but what I did not know was that air traffic control in Seattle-Tacoma, where we were due
to land, immediately contacted both local and federal authorities. Donald Nyrop, the president of Northwest Orient
airline, not wanting to have a bomb go off on one of his planes, had ordered everyone
to fully cooperate with my demands, which meant that they were willing to pay my ransom. The FBI were informed of the situation and
the decision of Nyrop. They organised the collection of the ransom money and ensured
that the bills all contained a serial number starting with “L” and were issued from
the 1963A or 1969 series. This would allow the FBI to easily trace the bills if I ever
spent them. The serial number would show that the bills originated from the Federal Reserve
Bank of San Francisco. The FBI quickly collected 10,000 unmarked 20 dollar bills and photographed
each of them to pay my $200,000 ransom and put the money in a bag. When Schaffner returned from the cockpit,
she confirmed that Scott was informed of my demands and that he contacted air traffic
control at Seattle-Tacoma Airport. It turns out though that the parachutes I
requested would be military-issue parachutes. I calmly relayed to Shaffner that this would
not be acceptable and that I would only be satisfied with civilian parachutes that have
manually operated ripcords. Little did I know that the FBI were having trouble locating
parachutes to suit my demands. I waited while they contacted a local skydiving school and
bought some parachutes from them. I ask for the note back. No sense in leaving
anymore evidence than I have to. We are en route and nearly to Seattle. I order
another Bourbon and soda. Schaffner has been good to me, so I offer her my change when
I pay my drinks bill, but she refuses. I offered to request meals for the crew when
we landed in Seattle, but this offer was rejected by the crew. I look out the window and recognize the terrain.
I look at Schaffner, then back out the window. “Looks like Tacoma out there.” The pilot, Scott, makes an announcement over
the intercom to the passengers. He explains that we will be circling before landing because
of a mechanical problem. I knew that this was not true and that we were, in fact, waiting
for confirmation that my ransom was ready and waiting. It’s 5:39PM and the aircraft has finally
landed. The sun has gone down. I am standing by the cockpit instructing Scott to taxi the
plane to a more isolated area. I request that all the window shades are closed. I have no
idea how brave the police will be, but I don’t want to risk any sniper attempts. We are followed by the FBI, local authorities
and a fuel truck to our isolated location and the aft staircase is lowered. I instruct
Tina Mucklow, another flight attendant, to stand by the stairs and await the delivery
of my ransom. Sure enough, a gentleman dressed in civilian clothing approaches the plane
carrying a bag. Scott has informed me that the Northwest Orients Seattle Operations Manager,
Al Lee, will be making the drop. I wait inside as he hands Mucklow what looks
like a backpack and some parachutes. I wait for the gentleman to back away and for Mucklow
to reenter the aircraft before I check that my ransom has been met. So far, everything has gone to plan. I have
my $200,000 ransom and four parachutes. I have everything that I asked for so I instruct
every civilian to exit the plane. I also ask the flight attendant Schaffner and senior
flight attendant Alice Hancock to leave the plane. I don’t want any more people than
I absolutely need on this aircraft. I am talking to the crew about the next stage
of this flight, when we receive a request from a Federation Aviation Administration
Official. They want a face-to-face meeting with me on board the plane, but I’m not
stupid enough to take them up on their offer. I know they want to do more than talk and
there’s little chance that they’d leave the plane without me in cuffs or worse, in
a body bag, so I refuse. No, no more talking. We must leave as soon as possible. I organize the flight path with pilot, the
copilot Rataczak, flight engineer H.E Henderson and flight attendant Mucklow. I tell them
that we need to set a southwest course for Mexico City and I provide them with the exact
flight details. We need to fly at approximately 100 knots (185 kph) and at a maximum altitude
of 10,000 feet. The cabin would remain depressurized as you can breathe at this altitude and the
aft staircase would need to remain open. We have a problem though. Rataczak raises
a valid point that the plane would not be able to maintain that flight path without
refueling again en route. I hadn’t planned on this, but it’s okay, I can adjust. We
decide that the plane will stop in Nevada to refuel. I am aware that time is ticking and we are
not ready to take off yet. The longer we stay, the more dangerous the situation becomes for
me. I am informed that the tanker sent to refuel the plane has a vapor lock in the pumping
mechanism. The only way to get enough fuel for the journey is for another tanker to be
sent. I’m nervous, is this a trick by the police? I have no choice though, and I reluctantly
agree, watching the clock. The staircase is open and extended, and we
are ready to take off, but a message from Northwest Home Office comes into the cockpit.
They are objecting to us taking off with the staircase down, stating that it would be unsafe.
I decide that it is better to get in the air, rather than argue. I order the crew to pull
up the staircase and we head to the runway. It’s 7:40PM. I know that a fighter plane
has been sent up in the air with us. I can’t see it but I’m positive it’s out there.
It doesn’t matter though. I’m not going to Mexico like I told the crew. No, I have
a better plan. What I don’t know at this stage is that
there is a total of five fighter planes trailing the Boeing 727, keeping an eye on us from
above, below and behind. I order all the crew to enter the cockpit
and lock the door. As I tie the bag of money to my waist I see Mucklow look at me one last
time before she closes the cockpit door, I know she’s trying to burn my image into
her mind. I ready myself. The time is close. I have
to make sure that I time this perfectly. It’s 8 PM. I make my way to the back of
the aircraft and I open the aft staircase. Through the intercom I hear the crew ask if
I need assistance. I curtly refuse, “NO!”. It started to rain as we were in flight and
now the storm is in full swing. I look out into the darkness, terrified of
the idea of leaping out into this void, but this was always the plan, I have to. The wind
is howling and rips around me to the point that it’s almost deafening. It’s now or
never. I must jump… For over 45 years the FBI have continued an
active investigation into the identity of D. B. Cooper and his whereabouts. It is uncertain
whether Cooper even survived his jump into the darkness that night, but many have theorized
about who he really is, why he did what he did, and what actually happened. In the 1970’s, air travel security was quite
different and you did not have to provide an ID to buy a ticket to travel by plane between
states. This is why Cooper was able to give a false name and obtain a flight ticket without
anyone questioning him. The exact location of Cooper’’s extraordinary
jump out of the aircraft is still unknown. Despite the trailing fighter planes, with
the entire flight crew locked in the cockpit there were no witnesses to the exact time
and location of the jump, just the upward tail motion of the aircraft. This meant that
the FBI had to use the limited information they had to determine a search area, which
some have since suggested was actually the wrong location. The only bills that have been recovered from
the ransom were found by an eight year old boy in 1980 when he was vacationing with his
family on the Columbia River, about 9 miles south of Vancouver, Washington. He found a
decaying package that contained $5,800 in total. The serial numbers matched those from
Cooper’s ransom and all the bills were twenty dollar bills. There have been over 800 suspects considered
for this case, but a lack of hard evidence meant none of them could be charged or prosecuted. There are still many different theories about
who D. B. Cooper really was and how he got away from the crime scene, with several people
even claiming to be the mysterious hijacker, but nothing has ever been definitely proven.
In July 2016, the case was officially suspended by the FBI.
