It was just about 2 p.m. when the man calling himself Dan Cooper walked along Concourse 1 to Gate 52 at Portland International.
He waited on the upper level, away from the other awaiting passengers. Flight 305, upon which he had purchased a ticket,
would be boarding from the lower level. Although few took
notice, he was quite different than the snowbound skiers
and casual holiday travelers.  His suit was older. Thin
lapels and tight cut marked the fashion of 1960-1965. He
was swarthy (olive skin) and chain-smoked Raleigh
cigarettes. Clutching his briefcase he merely looked
like a businessman between flights.

     At 2:40 p.m. boarding call was announced. Of the 37
passengers trickling aboard, he was the second to last to
board. He removed his ticket from his dark overcoat and
presented it to boarding clerk Hal Williams.

   He quietly walked the airliner’s aisle and sat in seat 18C.

   As the flight was lumbering down the runway,
he handed a note to the stewardess nearby.
Expecting it to be a proposition, Flo Schaffner
 put it in her purse.

   Now without his wraparound shades,
the swarthy man looked at her with
his piercing brown eyes and
politely said: “Miss, you’d better
look at that note. I have a bomb.”

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