The frightening events aboard a recent Flydubai flight in the Middle East brought back memories of an experience I had more than half a century ago — one that began as an ordinary airline flight and ended with a hijacker dead on the tarmac in Saigon.
On July 2, 1972, I was returning to Vietnam for my second combat tour. I was a Marine captain traveling on orders to fly as an aerial observer in support of friendly ground forces fighting five reinforced North Vietnamese divisions. I eventually flew 190 combat missions in 184 days, primarily with the Vietnamese Air Force during the North Vietnamese Easter Offensive.
But before I could get back into the war, I first had to survive the trip there.
By happenstance, I was aboard Pan Am Flight 841, a Boeing 747 bound for Saigon. Among the passengers was Nguyen Thai Binh, a 24-year-old South Vietnamese student who had recently graduated from the University of Washington.
Over the South China Sea, Binh revealed his intentions: He wanted the aircraft diverted to Hanoi.
He passed a note through a flight attendant to pilot Eugene Vaughn, threatening to destroy the aircraft if his demand was not met. When Vaughn refused, Binh sent another message written partly in his own blood to demonstrate his seriousness.
Then he produced what appeared to be a bomb — a large ball wrapped in aluminum foil.
Binh also took a woman and her young daughter hostage. A courageous flight attendant volunteered to exchange places with them.
I was seated in the same section and could see that something was badly wrong. Wearing my Marine summer service uniform and speaking Vietnamese, I offered to help communicate with the hijacker. After consulting Vaughn, a crew member told me not to intervene.
Vaughn had his own plan.
As we entered South Vietnamese airspace, he descended the 747 to about 4,000 feet and began jinking the aircraft, ostensibly to avoid North Vietnamese surface-to-air missiles. In reality, he was disorienting Binh while positioning the aircraft for a surprise landing at Tan Son Nhat Airport.
Suddenly, we were on the ground. But the crisis wasn’t over. Binh continued threatening to detonate his supposed bomb unless the aircraft immediately departed for Hanoi.
Unknown to most passengers, a retired San Francisco police officer aboard the aircraft had checked a .357 Magnum revolver with the captain before departure. Vaughn had earlier told him to be prepared to act.
Vaughn approached Binh, grabbed him, and wrestled him into the aisle. After Binh cut Vaughn with a knife, the retired police officer fired five times.
When I saw the struggle, I immediately moved down the aisle to assist and arrived just as the shots were fired.
Then, the foil-wrapped object, the supposed bomb, came into play. I grabbed it and pivoted around to throw it toward another passenger near an emergency exit. He caught it and hurled it out of the aircraft.
Only later did we discover what was inside: lemons.
There was no bomb. The entire hijacking had been conducted with a bluff.
We evacuated using the emergency slides. As I descended mine, the jet wash blew my Marine cover off my head. I found myself chasing it across the runway before recovering it in the grass — a strangely mundane ending to an extraordinary event.
After investigators briefly questioned me, I found Vaughn and shook his hand.
“I wasn’t particularly thrilled about a trip to Hanoi anyway,” I told him, “especially since I was in Marine summer service uniform.”
We both laughed.
Within hours, I was flying north to join the fighting.
Fifty-four years later, reports of another violent crisis aboard a commercial aircraft in the Middle East demonstrate how much aviation security has changed — and how certain fundamentals have not.
Modern aircraft have reinforced cockpit doors. Passenger screening is vastly more sophisticated. Intelligence sharing has improved. Crews train for situations that received far less attention when I boarded that Pan Am 747 in 1972.
Yet technology cannot eliminate the human element. A determined individual can still transform an ordinary flight into a life-or-death emergency within seconds.
That does not mean passengers should live in fear. Commercial aviation today is remarkably safe. But Flight 841 taught me something that applies well beyond aviation: In a crisis, procedures and technology matter — but so do courage, initiative, and the willingness of ordinary people to act.
The passengers and crew of United Airlines Flight 93 demonstrated that truth nearly three decades later on Sept. 11, 2001. Their decision to act changed history.
Vaughn acted. The retired police officer acted. A flight attendant volunteered to replace two terrified hostages.
And when what we believed was a bomb suddenly came flying through the cabin, passengers acted.
None of us boarded Flight 841 expecting to confront a hijacker. We simply responded to the circumstances placed before us.
Aircraft change. Security systems change. Threats change. Human nature does not.
I VOTED IN THE FORGOTTEN 9/11 PRIMARY. HERE IS THE LESSON MY FALLEN FRIENDS LEFT US
When a crisis erupts at 30,000 feet, there may be no time for committees, lengthy deliberation, or perfect information.
Sometimes survival comes down to split-second action, sound judgment — and the courage to act.
Retired Marine Lt. Col Thomas “Tom” W. Williams served 28 years on active duty, including two tours in Vietnam, the 1976 evacuation of Americans from Beirut, and the 1990-91 liberation of Kuwait. He later spent 11 years training and mentoring in Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan and is the author of the Heart of a Marine book series.