The bomb

THE BOMB
©Hal Stoen
25 January, 2000

It was the Seventy's. Patty Hurst, and the SLA terrorists. Vietnam. Random bombings were occurring across America and overseas. It was a time of turmoil in some parts of American society. Me? I was just a corporate pilot, driving the company airplane, a Cessna 421B, N1557G, around the United States for a living.

How was I to know that I would ever be remotely linked to this madness?

Level at FL 230 I tuned in the Detroit City Airport ATIS. "Detroit City, information Charley. Detroit City weather, clear, visibility greater than ten miles. Wind calm. Altimeter 30.12. Landing and departing runway 15. Advise on initial contact that you have information Charley." I write this information down on my dispatch form.

Back in the main cabin, two of the company's crack salesmen were plotting their plan of attack on the prospect that they would be meeting that morning. Up front, in the office, I was enjoying a view that only airplane drivers get to see for a prolonged period. A cold front had gone through the Midwest the day before, making the atmosphere clear as a bell from our Minneapolis departure point to Detroit, and beyond. I could see forever. A cup of hot coffee was in the cup holder at the bottom of the dashboard. If science ever discovered that coffee was good for your health I was destined to live to a very old age indeed.

Center wakes me from my reverie. "Cessna 57 Golf, descend to and maintain one five thousand. Grand Rapids altimeter 30.14." "Out of two three oh for one five thousand, three zero one four, five seven Golf." I dial in the new target altitude and altimeter setting in the altitude alert system. It chimes and a "down arrow" illuminates to assure me that 15,000 feet is indeed below us. I roll the wheel on the autopilot out of its' center altitude hold detent forward to start our descent. I reach over to the center pedestal and adjust the pressurization controller so that the cabin will start its' own slow descent to Detroit's elevation.

Passing through 18,000 feet I reach up and reset the altimeter to the 30.14 setting. (I never adjusted the altimeter on the co-pilotís panel. I had set it to 29.92 long ago, and there it remained. Some primordial fear that the knob would fall off if I messed with it I supposed.) Center hands us off, and steps us down several times until "Cessna 57 Golf, contact Detroit Approach on 124.05. Good day Sir." "Good morning Approach, Cessna 1557 Golf is with you, level at one zero thousand, landing Detroit City with information Charley." I found it a good habit to put that "...landing at........" in my initial contact with Approaches that worked multiple airports- more than one crew has been vectored to the wrong field.

"Good morning 57 Golf. Turn left heading one zero zero, descend to and maintain seven thousand, vectors for a visual, runway one five at City airport. Information Charley is current." We are vectored around and descended until "Cessna 57 Golf, intercept the localizer on your current heading, descend to and maintain three thousand five hundred. Track the localizer inbound, contact the City tower, one two one point three, at the Marker inbound. Good day!" "Good day Sir." I set the Outer Marker in the area navigation display for orientation and distance purposes. As the "dah, dah, dah" of the Marker passage fills my earpiece I switch to the Detroit City tower frequency.

"Good morning tower. Cessna 57 Golf is with you at the Marker inbound for the one five visual." "Good morning 57 Golf, cleared to land runway one five." I make my usual "less than graceful" landing with the stiff-oleoed 421B and make the first available turnoff with moderate braking. "Cessna 57 Golf, contact Ground, point nine, clearing the runway. Good day Sir." Once on the taxiway I contact City Ground on 121.9. "Good morning Ground, 57 Golf is clear, going to the old terminal building." "Good morning Sir, you're cleared all the way to the old terminal building. Have a good day!"

Gee, such nice people.

How were they to know that I was arriving with the first bomb threat that the airport would ever have?

An alert lineman that had probably been listening to traffic on Ground Control inside of the Fixed Base Operator, comes out to meet us as we turn onto the terminal parking ramp. Once stopped, I shut down the engines and he chocks the nosewheel. I open the storm window on my side to thank him, and hand him my fuel request form.

Over the years, I had developed several proprietary forms for the company aviation department, whose sole employee was me, to use. One of these was a "Services Requestedî form". On it was an overhead drawing of the aircraft with arrows pointing to each of the six possible fueling ports, and a space to enter the amount of fuel desired for each port. Our company name, address, phone number was printed on the form, along with space to enter additional information. The form clearly stated in large red print the type of fuel (if any) that was to be placed in the various tanks. To this day, fueling errors are made by adding incorrect quantities or, worse, the wrong type of fuel. While this form didnít eliminate the possibility of these errors, it did help to cut down the probability of such occurrence. At least so I thought. In addition, I had a paint shop paint the fuel type in red paint around each of the six ports. When it came to flying airplanes, I always felt that you should leave nothing to chance.

After shutting down the aircrafts systems I entered the passenger cabin and lowered the airstair door for my passengers.

As an aside, this door was always a thorny problem. It was a two-piece affair, Roughly one third was the upper half, and two thirds the lower half- a clamshell affair if you will. The upper part formed a weather shelter for the passengers as they boarded, while the lower part had steps that hinged open as the door lowered. The upper part was controlled by gas-charged pistons. The lower part, however, was attached to the airframe by upholstered aircraft steel cables. These cables hooked onto the bottom half of the door and at about the midway point of the door opening. The problem was that if a well-meaning person opened the door and held onto the "wrong" half of the cables (the lower half) the door would drop unabated to the stops with a severe jolt. In addition, the handle that opened this contraption stuck out towards the ground when the door was open. Once again, sometimes a well-meaning person would stow this handle to its' closed position. There was a seal around the door opening in the fuselage that was inflated during the pressurization process. If the handle was stowed while the door was being closed, the pins that engaged the hull of the aircraft would strike this seal, possibly damaging it. A company came out with a product several years later that eliminated this problem by replacing the cables with a single large chromed gas-charged piston. I think that I was the first one to beat a path to their door and order one.

I digress, dear reader, my apologies. After my passengers had exited, I went around to the nose of the aircraft and opened the baggage compartment. The sales kits and sample products were lifted out and set on the ground. We left this stuff on the ramp next to the aircraft while the salesmen went into the terminal to get their rental car. The plan was to drive the car up to the aircraft and load from there directly into the car, a procedure we had done in the past at this location. Well, the times caught up with us. The person at the car rental counter explained that due to increased airport security we were no longer permitted to bring cars on the ramp. Being the resourceful types, we decided that the easiest way to do this would be to hand the items up and over the chain link fence. This is what we did, and my passengers left to return sometime later in the afternoon.

The terminal building at the Detroit City airport was left over from more glorious days when there was airline service to the facility. That service was now confined to Metro Wayne County airport. However City airport remained quite active for corporate aviation purposes, including the old terminal. It was mostly used for offices, but the restaurant was still a viable operation. That is where I headed after my passengers departed.

It was time to refill the system with more caffeine.

As was my habit I had brought along the current novel that I was reading to pass the time. Corporate pilots get to read a lot. I don't recall the title of the work, but it must have been pretty good because I failed to notice all of the police squad cars that were driving across the ramp. And, I missed the arrival of the Detroit Bomb Squad as well. What I didn't miss was the shiny pair of black shoes that appeared in my field of vision as I read.

"Mister, do you own that airplane parked out there? The red and white one?" I looked up to see one of Detroit Finest standing over me. Big badge, nightstick and all.

"Well, actually I donít own it," I said. "I'm just the pilot."

"Would you mind stepping outside to the aircraft Sir?"

As we walked through the building to get outside I noticed more policemen that seemed to be herding people away from the aircraft parking area. I didn't have a clue as to what was going on. When we got outside, to the area that I had left 57 Golf parked at, I couldn't see the airplane. Well, yes I could see a part of it- the tail. It was sticking up from a phalanx of men and vehicles that had my aircraft surrounded.

One very prominent vehicle looked a little strange, and had big letters painted on the side: "Detroit Bomb Squad".

A large man stepped up and asked if I owned the aircraft- I went through the "just the driver routine" again. I asked what was happening. He replied "Not now." "Would you step over to the aircraft please?" "Sure" I said, and he guided me towards the front of 57 Golf. The crowd of policemen around the aircraft parted to reveal a smaller inner circle of men. These people were not dressed in policeman's blue, but instead were wearing heavy padded coats and face shields. The large man asked about the time we had landed, and if we had left anything on the ramp. I told him about the rental car and the "over the fence baggage routine". He replied that an observer in the control tower had spotted a "suspicious object" next to my parked aircraft and called airport security. They had in turn called the Bomb Squad.

So there we were. All of these police guys, N1557 Golf, and me. Personally, I never felt safer in my life. The big man asked if I would please try to identify the "suspicious object". The inner circle of padded men opened to reveal a "lump" that was next to the aircraft. Well, not really a "lump", it appeared to be more like a mattress. The big man asked again if I would look at the "object". "Sure, no problem." I replied. A large pole materialized and slowly lifted off the mattress to reveal a black attache case. The crowd visibly pulled back a little. "Can I walk up and take a look?" I asked. "Yeah, if you want to." he replied. I walked up to the case. There was a name tag on it. "Gerald R. Joseph".

I reached down and picked up the case. I could hear dozens of pair of feet moving around me- away from me. I flipped the latches and opened the case to reveal..... sales brochures. Sales brochures from my company. "Gerald R. Joseph" was the head of our sales department. I became aware of laughter from all of the folks that had surrounded this "device" whose contents were made only to destroy the resistance of a customer.

The big man walked up. "Iím really sorry about this." he said. No, I told him, I was sorry that I had created this stir. "Perhaps I should explain," he said. "Last week we had just formed the Detroit Bomb Squad. We contacted the police department in New York City for technical advice. They sent out one of their advisors to give us some technical and hands-on training. One of the training sessions involved hiding a case with dummy explosives that we had to locate and dispose of."

"The case that he used was an attache model."

"Black."

"Just like that one right there."

Later, as I was indulging in more coffee at the restaurant, with the case at my side, I heard a telephone call page over the building speakers. It was Gerald R. Joseph, wondering if he had left his bag on the ramp, and if he had, was it OK?

I told him that it had never been safer.

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