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 3 5 0 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.