Glamorama (85 page)

I’m sitting on a couch by a bank of windows while the crew’s doctor wraps my fingers with bandages, applies alcohol to disinfect various wounds, and I’m whispering “Everyone’s dead” to myself and a video monitor has been wheeled over to where I’m sitting and the director takes a seat next to me.

“Everyone’s dead,” I say again, in a monotone. “I think Jamie Fields is dead.”

“Don’t rush to conclusions.” The director brushes me off, peering at another console.

“She was wrapped in plastic and dying,”

I murmur. “But her death wasn’t in vain,” the director says.

“Oh?” I’m asking.

“She tipped you off,” the director explains. “She saved lives. She saved an airliner.”

As if to remind me, the director hands me the printout I took from the computer in the house in the 8th or the 16th.

WINGS. NOV 15. BAND ON THE RUN. 1985. 511
.

“Victor,” the director says. “Watch this. It’s rough and certain elements have to be edited out, but just watch.”

He pulls the console closer and black-and-white video images, hastily shot with handheld cameras, flash across the monitor, but I’m zoning out on the month I grew a goatee after reading an article about them in
Young Guy
magazine, the afternoon I debated for hours the best angle a new designer beret should be tilted on my head, the various bodies I rejected because the girl didn’t have any tits,
she wasn’t “toned” enough, she wasn’t “hard” enough, was “too old” or not “famous” enough, how I waved hi to a model who kept calling my name from across First Avenue and all the CDs you bought because movie stars in VIP rooms late at night told you that the bands were cool. “You were never taught what shame means, Victor,” said a girl I didn’t think was hot enough to lay but who I otherwise thought was pretty nice. “Like I care,” I told her before I walked into a Gap. I’m vaguely aware that my entire body has fallen asleep.

On the video monitor, soldiers storm a plane.

“Who are … they?” I ask, vaguely gesturing.

“French commandos along with the occasional CIA agent,” the director says blithely.

“Oh,” I say in a soft voice.

Delta and Crater find what they think is a bomb in the first-class cabin and begin to dismantle it.

but it’s not really a bomb, it’s a decoy, the agents are on the wrong plane, there’s a bomb on a plane but not this one, what they found isn’t really a bomb because this is the movie and those are actors and the real bomb is on a different plane

The extras playing passengers are streaming out of the plane and they’re congratulating the commandos and shaking hands with Delta and Crater, and paparazzi have arrived at the gate, snapping photos of these men who saved the plane. And when I notice Bertrand Ripleis playing one of the commandos in the background of a shot I start breathing harder.

“No,” I’m saying, realizing something. “No, no, this is wrong.”

“What?” the director asks, distracted. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

Bertrand Ripleis is smiling, looking straight into the camera, almost as if he knows I’m watching this. He’s anticipating my surprise and the moans that start emanating from within me.

I know who you are and I know what you’re doing

“The bomb isn’t on that plane,” I’m saying.

I glance down at the
WINGS
printout, crumpled in my hands.

BAND ON THE RUN

1985

511

“It’s a song … ,” I’m saying.

“What do you mean?” the director asks.

“It’s a song,” I’m saying. “It’s not a flight.”

“What’s a song?”

“The song,” I’m saying. “It’s a song called ‘1985.’”

“It’s a song?” the director asks. He doesn’t understand.

“It’s on a Wings album,” I’m saying. “It’s on the
Band on the Run
album.”

“And?” the director asks, confused.

“It’s not a flight number,” I’m saying.

“What isn’t?”

“Five-one-one,” I say.

“Five-one-one isn’t the flight number?” the director asks. “But this is it.” The director gestures toward the video screen. “That’s flight five-one-one.”

“No,” I’m saying. “It’s how long the song is.” I take in a deep breath, exhaling shakily. “That song is five minutes and eleven seconds long. It’s not a flight number.”

And in another sky, another plane is reaching cruising altitude.

0

Night over France, and a giant shadow, a monstrous backdrop, is forming itself in the sky as the 747 approaches 17,000 feet, climbing to cruising altitude. The camera moves in on an airmail parcel bearing a Georgetown address, in which a Toshiba cassette player has been packed. The device will be activated as the opening piano notes to the song “1985” by Paul McCartney and Wings
(Band on the Run;
Apple Records; 1973) start playing. The bomb will detonate on the final crashing cymbal of the song—five minutes and eleven seconds after it began. A relatively simple microchip timer and strips of Remform equaling twenty ounces are in the Toshiba cassette player, and the parcel has been placed near the skin of the plane, where it will break through the fuselage, weakening the frame, causing the plane to break
apart with greater ease. The plane is traveling at 350 miles an hour and is now at an altitude of 14,500 feet.

A giant crunching sound interrupts the pilot’s conversation over the cockpit recording.

A violent noise, a distinct crashing sound, is followed by massive creaking, which rapidly starts repeating itself.

Smoke immediately starts pouring into the main cabin.

The front end of the 747—including the cockpit and part of the first-class cabin—breaks away, plunging toward earth as the rest of the plane hurtles forward, propelled by the still intact engines. A complete row near the explosion—the people strapped in those seats screaming—is sucked out of the aircraft.

This goes on for thirty seconds, until the plane starts breaking apart, a huge section of ceiling ripping away to reveal a wide vista of black sky.

And with its engines still running, the plane keeps flying but then drops three thousand feet.

The noise the air makes is like a siren.

Bottles of liquor, utensils, food from the kitchen—all fly backward into the business-class and coach cabins.

And the dying comes in waves.

People are rammed backward, bent in half, pulled up out of their seats, teeth are knocked out of heads, people are blinded, their bodies thrown through the air into the ceiling and then hurled into the back of the plane, smashing into other screaming passengers, as shards of aluminum keep breaking off the fuselage, spinning into the packed plane and shearing off limbs, and blood’s whirling everywhere, people getting soaked with it, spitting it out of their mouths, trying to blink it out of their eyes, and then a huge chunk of metal flies into the cabin and scalps an entire row of passengers, shearing off the tops of their skulls, as another shard flies into the face of a young woman, halving her head but not killing her yet.

The problem is that so many people are not ready to die, and they start vomiting with panic and fear as the plane drops another thousand feet.

Something else within the plane breaks.

In the next moment, another roar as the plane starts breaking up more rapidly and the dying comes in waves.

Someone is spun around frantically before being sucked out of the hull of the craft, twirling into the air, his body hitting the frame and tearing in two, but he’s still able to reach out his hands for help as he’s sucked screaming from the plane. Another young man keeps shouting “Mom Mom Mom” until part of the fuselage flies backward, pinning him to his seat and ripping him in half, but he just goes into shock and doesn’t die until the plane smashes haphazardly into the forest below and the dying comes in waves.

In the business section everyone is soaked with blood, someone’s head is completely encased with intestines that flew out of what’s left of the woman sitting two rows in front of him and people are screaming and crying uncontrollably, wailing with grief.

The dying are lashed with jet fuel as it starts spraying into the cabin.

One row is sprayed with the blood and viscera of the passengers in the row before them, who have been sliced in two.

Another row is decapitated by a huge sheet of flying aluminum, and blood keeps whirling throughout the cabin everywhere, mixing in with the jet fuel.

The fuel unleashes something, forces the passengers to comprehend a simple fact: that they have to let people go—mothers and sons, parents and children, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives—and that dying is inevitable in what could be a matter of seconds. They realize there is no hope. But understanding this horrible death just stretches the seconds out longer as they try to prepare for it—people still alive being flung around the aircraft falling to earth, screaming and vomiting and crying involuntarily, bodies contorted while they brace themselves, heads bowed down.

“Why me?” someone wonders uselessly.

A leg is caught in a tangle of metal and wires and it waves wildly in the air as the plane continues to drop.

Of the three Camden graduates aboard the 747—Amanda Taylor (’86), Stephanie Meyers (’87) and Susan Goldman (’86)—Amanda is killed first when she’s struck by a beam that crashes through the ceiling of the plane, her son reaching out to her as he’s lifted out of his seat into the air, his arms outstretched as his head mercifully smashes against an overhead bin in the craft, killing him instantly.

Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she
braces herself but changes her mind as she’s sprayed with burning jet fuel.

The plane ignites and a huge wave of people die by inhaling flames, their mouths and throats and lungs charred black.

For some, a minute of falling while still conscious.

Onto a forest situated just seventy miles outside Paris.

The soft sounds of bodies imploding, torn apart on impact.

A massive section of the fuselage lands and because of an emergency backup system, all the lights in the plane continue flickering as a hail of glowing ash rains down.

A long pause.

The bodies lie clustered in clumps. Some—but very few—of the passengers have no marks on them, even though all their bones have been broken. Some passengers have been crushed to half or a third or even a quarter of their normal size. One man has been so compressed he resembles some kind of human bag, a shape with a vague head attached to it, the face pushed in and stark white. Other passengers have been mutilated by shrapnel, some so mangled that men and women become indistinguishable, all of them naked, their clothes blown off on the downward fall, some of them flash-burned.

And the smell of rot is everywhere—coming off dismembered feet and arms and legs and torsos propped upright, off piles of intestines and crushed skulls, and the heads that are intact have screams etched across their faces. And the trees that don’t burn will have to be felled to extract airplane pieces and to recover the body parts that ornament them, yellow strings of fatty tissue draped over branches, a macabre tinsel. Stephanie Meyers is still strapped in her seat, which hangs from one of those trees, her eyeballs burned out of their sockets. And since a cargo of party confetti and gold glitter—two tons of it—were being transported to America, millions of tiny dots of purple and green and pink and orange paper cascade over the carnage.

This is what makes up the forest now: thousands of steel rivets, the unbroken door of the plane, a row of cabin windows, huge sheets of insulation, life jackets, giant clumps of wiring, rows of empty seat cushions—belts still fastened—shredded and covered with blood and matted with viscera, and some of the seat backs have passengers’ impressions burned into them. Dogs and cats lie crushed in their kennels.

For some reason the majority of passengers on this flight were under thirty, and the debris reflects this: cell phones and laptops and Ray-Ban sunglasses and baseball caps and pairs of Rollerblades tied together and camcorders and mangled guitars and hundreds of CDs and fashion magazines (including the
YouthQuake
with Victor Ward on the cover) and entire wardrobes of Calvin Klein and Armani and Ralph Lauren hang from burning trees and there’s a teddy bear soaked with blood and a Bible and various Nintendo games along with rolls of toilet paper and shoulder bags and engagement rings and pens and belts whipped off waists and Prada purses still clasped and boxes of Calvin Klein boxer-briefs and so many clothes from the Gap contaminated with blood and other body fluids and everything reeks of aviation fuel.