lavatory door and pulled inward on it. It seemed
to be stuck. He tried again, pulling with all his strength, but the fiberglass door would not budge, though he could see the
latch disengage. He braced both feet against the jamb and with both hands on the latch pulled with every ounce of strength
he could summon. Still it would not move even a fraction of an inch. He was frightened and puzzled. He repeatedly pressed
the assistance call button and waited for help.
As the internal air escaped from the Straton’s tourist cabin, then its first-class cabin and upstairs lounge, the flow of
cabin pressure still being pumped into the aircraft was literally piling up in those areas where it could not so readily escape—the
five lavatories with inward-opening doors. The pressurized air poured into these lavatories through the normal air vents,
and though some of the pressurized air leaked out from around the edges of the lavatory doors, the net trend was positive.
Those five inward-opening fiberglass doors were sealed shut with a differential air pressure of two pounds per square inch,
which added up to four thousand pounds pressing them shut.
The seven outward-opening lavatory doors blew open into the vacuum, hurling their occupants into the cabin and toward the
two gaping holes that awaited them.
In the lounge on the upper deck, drink glasses and liquor bottles were sucked toward the spiral staircase that led down to
the first-class cabin. Books, magazines, and newspapers were ripped from passengers’ hands and sent into the vortex of rushing
air. Every loose object in the lounge spun around the stairwell like a tornado.
The passengers who had chosen to stay in the lounge when the seat belt signs came on watched in horrified fascination as every
movable thing in the room was sucked toward the growing vortex of debris around the stairwell.
Eddie Hogan, the piano player, had been playing “Autumn Leaves” when the sudden burst of airflow pulled him backward off the
rigidly mounted bench. The bench had been equipped with a special seat belt, but Hogan had declined to use it. He was pulled,
head-first, down the staircase, across the main cabin, and then swiftly out through the gaping starboard hole.
A blind man, seated near the piano, screamed repeatedly for someone to tell him what was happening. His body strained against
his seat belt and he pulled against the leash of his Seeing Eye dog. The golden retriever seemed to be pulling away from him
with an unnatural strength. He yelled at the dog. “Shannon! Shannon! Stop that!” The dog whimpered as she dug her claws into
the soft pile. The leash broke and the dog was taken into the vortex and carried down into the first-class cabin, where its
limp body wedged under an empty seat.
As the dozen lounge passengers watched from their secured seats, the piano and bench danced in their mounts but continued
to hold against the maelstrom. Everyone in the upper deck became hysterical almost simultaneously.
In the first-class cabin below, objects from the lounge ripped through the accelerating air, cutting and smashing against
heads and arms held up in protective gestures. The cloud of debris raced through the curtain into the tourist cabin and joined
the other, incredibly numerous objects in their headlong rush out into the vacuum as though this void could be filled, satiated,
if only enough objects and people were sacrificed to it.
In the tourist cabin, a big man strapped to his seat in the aft section was bellowing at the top of his lungs. He was raging
against the wind, against the hurtling objects, and against the fates that had conspired to put him on this aircraft for his
first flight. He had seen his half-dressed wife pulled out of one of the seven outward-opening lavatories and watched her
as she seemed to run, tumble, and fly toward the hole, screaming his name as she went by and looking at him with puzzled eyes.
Suddenly,
to be stuck. He tried again, pulling with all his strength, but the fiberglass door would not budge, though he could see the
latch disengage. He braced both feet against the jamb and with both hands on the latch pulled with every ounce of strength
he could summon. Still it would not move even a fraction of an inch. He was frightened and puzzled. He repeatedly pressed
the assistance call button and waited for help.
As the internal air escaped from the Straton’s tourist cabin, then its first-class cabin and upstairs lounge, the flow of
cabin pressure still being pumped into the aircraft was literally piling up in those areas where it could not so readily escape—the
five lavatories with inward-opening doors. The pressurized air poured into these lavatories through the normal air vents,
and though some of the pressurized air leaked out from around the edges of the lavatory doors, the net trend was positive.
Those five inward-opening fiberglass doors were sealed shut with a differential air pressure of two pounds per square inch,
which added up to four thousand pounds pressing them shut.
The seven outward-opening lavatory doors blew open into the vacuum, hurling their occupants into the cabin and toward the
two gaping holes that awaited them.
In the lounge on the upper deck, drink glasses and liquor bottles were sucked toward the spiral staircase that led down to
the first-class cabin. Books, magazines, and newspapers were ripped from passengers’ hands and sent into the vortex of rushing
air. Every loose object in the lounge spun around the stairwell like a tornado.
The passengers who had chosen to stay in the lounge when the seat belt signs came on watched in horrified fascination as every
movable thing in the room was sucked toward the growing vortex of debris around the stairwell.
Eddie Hogan, the piano player, had been playing “Autumn Leaves” when the sudden burst of airflow pulled him backward off the
rigidly mounted bench. The bench had been equipped with a special seat belt, but Hogan had declined to use it. He was pulled,
head-first, down the staircase, across the main cabin, and then swiftly out through the gaping starboard hole.
A blind man, seated near the piano, screamed repeatedly for someone to tell him what was happening. His body strained against
his seat belt and he pulled against the leash of his Seeing Eye dog. The golden retriever seemed to be pulling away from him
with an unnatural strength. He yelled at the dog. “Shannon! Shannon! Stop that!” The dog whimpered as she dug her claws into
the soft pile. The leash broke and the dog was taken into the vortex and carried down into the first-class cabin, where its
limp body wedged under an empty seat.
As the dozen lounge passengers watched from their secured seats, the piano and bench danced in their mounts but continued
to hold against the maelstrom. Everyone in the upper deck became hysterical almost simultaneously.
In the first-class cabin below, objects from the lounge ripped through the accelerating air, cutting and smashing against
heads and arms held up in protective gestures. The cloud of debris raced through the curtain into the tourist cabin and joined
the other, incredibly numerous objects in their headlong rush out into the vacuum as though this void could be filled, satiated,
if only enough objects and people were sacrificed to it.
In the tourist cabin, a big man strapped to his seat in the aft section was bellowing at the top of his lungs. He was raging
against the wind, against the hurtling objects, and against the fates that had conspired to put him on this aircraft for his
first flight. He had seen his half-dressed wife pulled out of one of the seven outward-opening lavatories and watched her
as she seemed to run, tumble, and fly toward the hole, screaming his name as she went by and looking at him with puzzled eyes.
Suddenly,
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