Culture . 02/23/2008 03:06 AM . Dr. Mark Mitchell

Recently, I managed to thwart a terrorist incident. Sort of. I qualify my boast because, well, I’m just not sure. It had all the earmarks of a terrorist incident: crowded airliner, foreign accents, suspicious activity, and clueless bystanders. What it doesn’t include is a mess at the end. No explosion, no bodies, no…terror. I suppose that last fact indicates my success. At least that’s what I like to think.

It all began at Dulles International Airport, where my cross-country flight originated. Soon after arriving at the gate, I heard my name over the loudspeaker. With a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, I approached the counter. The woman at the desk was perfunctory but polite. “Your seat has been changed.” A slight smile. “But you’ll like it.”

As I returned to my chair, I noticed two young men standing near the gate quietly talking. Of course, such a sight is not unusual at airports or most other places, but what caught my attention was, well, the way they looked. They were, I quickly surmised, of Middle-Eastern descent. They were young, mid-twenties or so. I thought to myself, only casually, but quite explicitly, “I hope they’re not on this flight.”

Following the all-too-familiar instructions, we lined up and filed slowly onto the airplane. My new seat: first-class, window. My seatmate: one of the two suspicious looking men. As I climbed over him and into my seat, we exchanged pleasantries, his strong Arab accent indicating he was not born in Wichita. As I settled myself, enjoying the prospect of a comfortable flight with (for once) adequate legroom, my seatmate turned and looked back into coach. Out of the corner of my eye (I am, if nothing else, discrete) I watched him nod to (I assume) his partner.

We ate breakfast in silence. In silence, the flight attendant swept through the cabin collecting our debris. Immediately thereafter my seatmate got up, strode to the front of the plane and entered the first-class lavatory (it is first-class in the sense of being designated for first-class passengers not because it is commodious or lovely in any way). The suspicion that had been percolating over breakfast bubbled to the surface: “If he’s going to do anything, now will be the time.” I resisted this line of thought. I was, after all, in first-class and should make the most of it. I settled back to read.

But I could not concentrate. After five minutes, I put down my book. I gazed out the window and wished he would come out and return to his seat. After ten minutes, I was getting agitated. Images of this man desperately trying to ignite his shoe or calmly assembling a bomb flashed through my mind. An elderly woman from coach (against explicit instructions given during the pre-flight talk) tottered through first-class and stood patiently, if a bit unsteadily, before the lavatory door. “He’s been in there for fifteen minutes!” I said to myself now fairly crawling with anxious energy. After several long minutes, the little lady gave up her vigil and tottered back to coach. “This would be a lousy way to die. Maybe I should do something.” But what? Force the door? Call a flight attendant? Organize a mob? Pray?

Twenty minutes. This was too much. Heart beating and braced for the explosion that would rip a gash in the fuselage and send me (I was unbuckling my seatbelt) hurtling into the cold thin atmosphere, I stood and walked forward past the lavatory and into the galley where the two flight attendants were tiding up. “Excuse me,” I addressed myself in a lowered voice to the one on the right. “Um, the guy seated next to me has, well, been in the bathroom (I did not say ‘lavatory’) for a long time. Twenty minutes, to be exact.” I paused to let that sink in. “Something’s going on. And,” I added, “I don’t want to sound, um, racist or anything, but he’s, well, an Arab.” Her eyes widened slightly. “Twenty minutes?” she asked. She turned to her partner: “It’s the guy I told you about. He’s been in the bathroom for twenty minutes.” And then turning back to me: “Did you notice anything odd about him?” She paused and as I began to consider just what constituted odd, she continued: “He looked at me funny, kind of weird eyes.” Well, I had to admit, the image of him in the lavatory bent over his shoe wildly striking matches did include a sort of weirdness in the eyes. “He’s been in there for twenty minutes,” I repeated, trying to emphasize the point and move from discussion to action. “Something needs to be done.”

By this time both flight attendants and I were huddled in the galley, heads together. They looked up at me. One of them asked: “What should we do?” The question hung there for a moment. “Ma am,” I asked with what I think was incredulity and a dash of exasperation, “don’t you have, well, procedures?” They looked at me and then at each other. “We could try knocking on the door” one of them offered. “That sometimes gets them to come out.” I stood there, mouth no doubt gaping somewhat, hoping this was only the first of several options and wondering in what specific cases this method was effective. Do terrorists, as a general rule, cease their activities when a polite knock sounds on the lavatory door? Having precious little direct experience with terrorists, I can’t answer that question with anything resembling certainty, but I do have my suspicions. Nevertheless, no other options were forthcoming. One of the flight attendants, acting decisively, strode the three steps to the lavatory door and, knocking briskly, inquired in that pleasant flight attendant tone, “Is everything all right in there?” A muffled response emitted from behind the door. She returned to the galley (three steps) to report. “He said ‘just a minute.’ Let’s see if he comes out.” Wishing for methods a bit more aggressive, I walked back to my seat, buckled myself (tightly) and made things right with the Creator.

In two or three minutes, he emerged, calmly walked to his seat, covered himself with a thin blanket and shut his eyes as if to sleep. Immediately I stood and made for the lavatory. Locking myself inside, the greenish light illuminating adequately but not brilliantly, I conducted a systematic search. There were nooks and drawers and such that I had never noticed on other planes. I searched thoroughly, looking for the tell-tale blinking red light or the cigarette pack with a red and blue wire attached to a makeshift terminal (Does one cut the blue wire or the red wire? Why hadn’t I paid better attention to Macgyver?). My hand went deep into the trashcan (face pressed against the sink in order to reach the bottom, I felt a sense of gratitude that this was an early morning flight and consequently things were more or less clean). Nothing. My gaze shifted to the only other possibility. But, of course, the toilet had a little trapdoor in it that precluded (thankfully) any manual inquiry. “If he put it in the toilet, he’s got us,” I thought as I scrubbed my hands.

I returned to my seat. He was “sleeping” and only moved slightly as I stepped over him. My mind raced. “There are two possibilities: the bomb is on a timer or he has a detonator.” Neither sounded good, for both involved a bomb, but if he had a detonator, there was still a fighting chance. His hands were (as luck or shrewdness would have it) hidden beneath the thin navy blanket. What to do? “If he starts to fiddle under that blanket,” I mentally rehearsed the only plan that suggested itself, “my pen (in my left hand) will go into his throat in one vicious (though entirely justified) backhand, and then I’ll tackle him, pinning his arms and thwarting disaster.”

I then found myself in a curious, perhaps even ironic, situation: I was reading Jayber Crow, a novel by the farmer, poet, and pacifist, Wendell Berry while preparing my mind and positioning my pen to act in a most unpacifistic manner. Nevertheless, I read (or tried to read) and out of the corner of my eye watched for any suspicious movements under the blanket. We approached our destination. A perfect place for a disaster. Densely populated area. Maximum casualties. The pen was ready (though a bit sweaty by now). Nothing. We touched down. He roused from his sleep. We taxied to the gate and deplaned. I watched him meet his partner from coach. They spoke quietly and together walked away.

And I am left with a question, perhaps never to be answered. But I can’t help but wonder: was I simply a paranoid traveler with an over-active imagination playing a role better suited to Inspector Clouseau? Or were these actually malevolent men who were—as we have learned is sometimes the case—conducting a dry run to test their methods or perhaps even worse? I don’t like either option.

When not thwarting terrorists, the author teaches political theory at Patrick Henry College in Purcellville, VA. He is the author of Michael Polanyi: The Art of Knowing (ISI Books).