and the grasp of Ada Quonsett. As he reached the aisle, Marcus Rathbone seized the case from Gwen and — with a polite bow — held it out. Like a wild animal, with madness in his eyes, Guerrero grabbed it.
Vernon Demerest flung himself forward, but too late. He tried to reach Guerrero, but the narrowness of the aisle and the intervening figures — Gwen, Rathbone, the oboe player — defeated him. D. O. Guerrero had ducked around the others and was heading for the aircraft’s rear. Other passengers, in seats, were scrambling to their feet. Demerest shouted desperately, “Stop that man! He has a bomb!”
The shout produced screams, and an exodus from seats which had the effect of blocking the aisle still further. Only Gwen Meighen, scrambling, pushing, clawing her way aft, managed to stay close to Guerrero.
At the end of the cabin — like an animal still, but this time cornered — Guerrero turned. All that remained between him and the aircraft’s tail were three rear toilets; light indicators showed that two were empty, one was occupied. His back to the toilets, Guerrero held the attache case forward in front of him, one hand on its carrying handle, the other on a loop of string now visible beneath the handle. In a strained voice, somewhere between a whisper and a snarl, he warned, “Stay where you are! Don’t come closer!”
Above the heads of the others, Vernon Demerest shouted again. “Guerrero, listen to me! Do you hear me? Listen!”
There was a second’s silence in which no one moved, the only sound the steady background whine of the plane’s jet engines. Guerrero blinked, continuing to face the others, his eyes roving and suspicious.
“We know who you are,” Demerest called out, “and we know what you intended. We know about the insurance and the bomb, and they know on the ground, too, so it means your insurance is no good. Do you understand? — your insurance is invalid, canceled, worthless. If you let off that bomb you’ll kill yourself for nothing. No one — least of all your family — will gain. In fact, your family will lose because they’ll be blamed and hounded. Listen to me! Think.”
A woman screamed. Still Guerrero hesitated.
Vernon Demerest urged, “Guerrero, let these people sit down. Then, if you like, we’ll talk. You can ask me questions. I promise that until you’re ready, no one will come close.” Demerest was calculating: If Guerrero’s attention could be held long enough, the aisle might be cleared. After that, Demerest would try to persuade Guerrero to hand over the case. If he refused, there was still a chance that Demerest could leap forward, throw himself bodily onto Guerrero and wrest the case free before the trigger could be used. It would be a tremendous risk, but there was nothing better.
People were easing nervously back into their seats.
“Now that I’ve told you what we know, Guerrero; now
D. O. Guerrero’s eyes mirrored fear. He moistened thin lips with his tongue. Gwen Meighen was closest to him.
Demerest said quietly, “Gwen, take it easy. Try to get in a seat.” If he had to leap, he wanted no one in the way.
Behind Guerrero the door of the occupied toilet opened. An owlish young man with thick glasses came out. He stopped, peering shortsightedly. Obviously he had heard nothing of what was going on.
Another passenger yelled, “Grab the guy with the case! He’s got a bomb!”
At the first “click” of the toilet door, Guerrero half turned. Now he lunged, thrusting the man with glasses aside, and entered the toilet which the newcomer had vacated.
As Guerrero moved, Gwen Meighen moved too, remaining close behind him. Vernon Demerest, several yards away, was struggling fiercely aft, down the still crowded aisle.
The toilet door was closing as Gwen reached it. She thrust a foot inside and shoved. Her foot stopped the door from closing, but the door refused to move. Despairing, as pain shot through her foot, she could feel Guerrero’s weight against the other side.
In D. O. Guerrero’s mind the last few minutes had been a jumbled blur. He had not fully comprehended everything that had occurred, nor had he heard all that Demerest said. But one thing penetrated. He realized that like so many of his other grand designs, this one, too, had failed. Somewhere — as always happened with whatever he attempted — he had bungled. All his life had been a failure. With bitterness, he knew his death would be a failure too.
His back was braced against the inside of the toilet door. He felt pressure on it, and knew that at any moment the pressure would increase so that he could no longer hold the door closed. Desperately he fumbled with the attache case, reaching for the string beneath the handle which would release the square of plastic, actuating the clothespin switch and detonating the dynamite inside. Even as he found the string and tugged, he wondered if the bomb he had made would be a failure also.
In his last split second of life and comprehension, D. O. Guerrero learned that it was not.
10
The explosion aboard Trans America Flight Two,
D. O. Guerrero died instantly, his body, near the core of the explosion, disintegrating utterly. One moment he existed; the next, there were only a few small, bloody pieces of him left.
The aircraft fuselage blew open.
Gwen Meighen, who, next to Guerrero, was nearest the explosion, received its force in her face and chest.
An instant after the dynamite charge ripped the aircraft skin, the cabin decompressed. With a second roar and tornado force, air inside the aircraft — until this moment maintained at normal pressure — swept through the ruptured fuselage to dissipate in the high altitude near-vacuum outside. Through the passenger cabins a dark engulfing cloud of dust surged toward the rear. With it, like litter in a maelstrom, went every loose object, light and heavy — papers, food trays, liquor bottles, coffeepots, hand luggage, clothing, passengers’ belongings — all whirling through the air as if impelled toward a cyclopean vacuum cleaner. Curtains tore away. Internal doors — flight deck, storage, and toilets — wrenched free from locks and hinges and were swept rearward with the rest.
Several passengers were struck. Others, not strapped in their seats, clung to any handhold as the wind and suction drew them inexorably toward the rear.
Throughout the aircraft, emergency compartments above each seat snapped open. Yellow oxygen masks came tumbling down, each mask connected by a short plastic tube to a central oxygen supply.
Abruptly the suction lessened. The aircraft’s interior was filled with mist and a savage, biting cold. Noise from engines and wind was overwhelming.
Vernon Demerest, still in the aisle of the tourist cabin where he had held himself by instinctively seizing a seat-back, roared, “Get on oxygen!” He grabbed a mask himself.
Through knowledge and training, Demerest realized what most others did not: The air inside the cabin was now as rarefied as that outside, and insufficient to support life. Only fifteen seconds of full consciousness remained to everyone, unless oxygen was used at once from the aircraft’s emergency system.
Even in five seconds, without the aid of oxygen, a degree of lessened judgment would occur.
In another five seconds a state of euphoria would make many decide not to bother with oxygen at all. They would lapse into unconsciousness, not caring.
Airlines had long been urged, by those who understood the hazards of decompression, to make pre-flight announcements about oxygen equipment more definite than they were. Passengers should be told, it was argued:
Pilots who took decompression tests were given a simple demonstration of the effect of oxygen lack at high
