by Mara, Wil
As if to punish the device for disturbing his work, he turned it off.
Ricki Lake would be on first, then Sally Jessie. And then, best of all…Jerry.
BethAnn Mosley thought Jerry Springer was a god. He wasn’t exactly a celebrity in her mind. He wasn’t cute enough, like Tom Cruise or that hunk of all hunks, Brad Pitt. (She in fact had several pictures of Pitt stark naked, and in suggestive poses, on her computer. She’d downloaded them from the Web and wasn’t even sure it was really him—they might have been faked, with his head imposed on someone else’s body. Nevertheless they sufficiently served her purposes.) No, Jerry Springer was a god because his show had the best content, the best conflicts, the best…hate. Even though she would never admit it to anyone, she loved hate. It was as addictive as the Doritos, Coca-Cola, and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream that formed her staple diet. This was to say nothing of marijuana and, when she could afford it, a bit of ecstasy.
Sometimes she would tape Springer, and if it turned out to be a particularly violent episode, she’d watch the explosive moments over and over. She loved the enraged look on people’s faces when their resolve finally gave way and they tried to kill each other. God, how she loved that. Why didn’t that happen more often in real life? She supposed it did, but not in her life. She liked pushing people’s buttons, liked trying to get them to those heights of irritation, but even in her best moments she couldn’t seem to inspire the kind of rage Jerry provided. She’d heard somewhere that a lot of his shows were scripted, so maybe that was why they seemed so perfect. She didn’t care. The pleasure she harvested far outweighed any concerns over artistic integrity.
The Ricki Lake Show paused for a commercial break, so she raised the remote and began flipping. To her right was an open bag of Fritos. To her left, a pint of Chunky Monkey with a spoon sticking out of it. A can of Coke was trapped between her flabby legs. The rest of the six pack was in an ice chest on the floor, awaiting its fate. All the curtains in the trailer were drawn, all the windows shut tight, both doors locked. A giant metal cocoon.
Ricki ended ten minutes later and BethAnn sighed. It would be exactly four minutes and thirty seconds until Sally started her monologue. She glanced down at the cordless phone and felt a familiar sense of dread. She’d put this off as long as possible. There were no spare minutes left.
Brian picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Beach Haven Acme, this is Brian Donahue, how can I help you?”
“Brian…it’s me.”
She sounded feeble, elderly. An old woman on her deathbed imparting her final thoughts.
“BethAnn? You sound terrible.”
The sincerity was still there, she thought, and that was good. She’d held onto this job for almost fourteen months now—a personal record. Most of her other employers caught on pretty quick. But not this guy. He seemed utterly clueless.
“I feel terrible. I’ve been throwing up, and I’ve had diarrhea, and—”
“Well, just stay home then. We’ll hold down the fort.”
Hold down the fort. What a Brian phrase that was. So gung-ho, so all-American.
What a schmuck.
“Thanks, I really appreciate it. And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. We don’t have control over these things.”
“I just feel bad because it’s inventory day. There’s so much work to be done.”
“Don’t feel bad. Just feel better.”
Another Brianism; her stomach knotted. She wanted to choke people like this.
“Thanks. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Righto.”
She turned the phone off and tossed it aside. It landed at the other end of the couch, buttons up. If it rang she’d ignore it; she wasn’t expecting any other calls today.
She smiled. It was a horrible, demonic smile. She knew who Brian would call to take her place—Jennifer King. Jennifer was the only other person in the store who knew how to use the inventory computer. That damn thing was ancient. Monocolor screen (black with glowing amber characters) and so slow to respond to commands that half the time you wondered if you had entered them correctly. But Jennifer went to the trouble of learning how to use it. Didn’t complain that it was out-of-date or that it was slow. Just sat in the lunchroom in the back, on her own time, and read the manual over and over until she’d mastered it. Another gung-ho schmuck. Her and her nonstop talk about her beloved boyfriend, the hotshot writer and photographer for the SandPaper. She was another one who should be choked to death.
She tried to envision the sinking look on Jennifer’s face when Brian broke the bad news. She knew Jennifer was supposed to meet Mark for lunch today at Forsythe. She knew that because everyone knew it. Jennifer was always giving updates; the Mark and Jennifer newsletter. This would shatter those plans. Jennifer would be sad, but she wouldn’t complain. Nope, not her. All-American girls like her never did. She’d just carry on like a trooper and keep the disappointment to herself. But it would be there, and knowing that was good enough for BethAnn Mosley.
Sally finally came on. Then the Fritos ran out. BethAnn cursed and got up with a groan. She kept her stash in a chest-level cabinet so she wouldn’t have to bend or stretch. It was jammed—potato chips, pretzels, popcorn (all three varieties—plain, cheese, and caramel). This was one of the practical advantages of working in a grocery story. She chose Munchos this time.
Jerry was next, so it was a good thing she got the new bag when she did.
{ THREE }
Zaeef kept his eyes closed and his hands folded the entire trip. He thought about many things, but mostly about the paradise that awaited him. What fools these people were. If they only knew. They cherished and clung to their mortality as if it possessed true value, never suspecting there was a better world waiting on the other side. This was the hell and the purgatory. Obliterating the nonbelievers was Allah’s work, Allah’s will. The Americans were the greatest heretics. They not only clung to their lives, they clung to their money and their material goods with equal fervor—sometimes more. They were soulless and godless. Zaeef believed this with every ounce of his soul and felt no remorse for what he was about to do. In fact he felt excited about it. Excited and eager. This was the high point of existence. It would earn him passage into the great kingdom. It would exalt him in the eyes of the Almighty. Once the videotape he left behind—the one where he explained what he was doing and why—was found and played on news channels across the world, he would also be a hero of his people. Not that heroism interested him. Well, that wasn’t completely true—it interested him inasmuch as it would encourage others to choose a similar course. That was something to be thankful for. But he could not dwell on it for long.
The plan was so simple and yet so powerful. Smuggle a radioactive device onto a plane bound for Washington DC and detonate it upon landing, rendering the city uninhabitable for a few decades. They believed their biggest challenge would be getting the device on board, but it turned out to be ridiculously easy—they simply bribed an airport employee to do it for them. They’d searched for months for just the right candidate and finally found him when the Schiphol Airport laid off nearly a hundred people in a cost-cutting move. Employees were given a month’s pay and three weeks to find work elsewhere. With so many embittered workers, the stage was set. An offer of ten thousand dollars and a story that the box contained a hundred pounds of cocaine was all it took. They even gave the guy some as a “bonus.” Airport security in America had tightened like a vise, but that didn’t mean it had tightened everywhere else. The Americans could increase their control over planes that left their soil, but they couldn’t do much about the flights coming in. Great Britain and a number of other high-profile U.S. allies had increased their security, but the Netherlands was chosen for this operation because it was relatively easy to overlook. No one would suspect a flight from Amsterdam posed much of a threat. Once again the devil would be caught with his guard down. Zaeef smiled at this and allowed himself the very mortal sensation of personal
gratification. He had watched tapes of terrified Americans reacting to al Qaeda’s victory of September 11, 2001. Thinking it would happen again, and that he would be the cause of it, was very gratifying indeed.
He opened his eyes and checked his watch—just after eight. The pilot had announced a few moments earlier that they were expected to land about ten minutes ahead of schedule. That suited him just fine. The sooner the be—
The plane rocked violently and Zaeef was almost thrown from his seat. Others tumbled into the aisles. A woman screamed, compartment lights flickered, and then a second and more violent jolt came. Overhead compartments flew open, vomiting their contents.
Zaeef had purposely left his carry-on bag unzipped. The plan once they’d landed in Washington was to simply get up from his seat as soon as they stopped moving, reach inside, and press the button on the detonator that had been disguised as a can of shaving cream. The bag now rolled out and fell onto his head, then to the floor, spilling items everywhere.
He cursed in Arabic and lunged for the can. Some of the other passengers forgot about the turbulence and trained their eyes on him. For a flicker of an instant the personal charm was gone and the terrorist stood before them.
No one moved. Time dragged and warped, became meaningless. Zaeef knew his cover was blown, knew it was time to improvise. But he waited anyway, just in case. If there was a move to be made, he wanted one of them to make it first.
Someone did—one of the fashion-model flight attendants. She’d been at the far end of the aisle helping an older woman to her feet. She rose slowly and, keeping her eyes locked on the Syrian, knocked on the cockpit door. She had a brief exchange with someone on the other side, then the door opened and the captain appeared. The only one who looked like he had a brain in his head, Zaeef thought bitterly. The man studied him for only a moment, but in that moment Zaeef could see the intelligence working, the years of training being accessed. He also noted that one of the copilots was on the radio, no doubt sending a distress call to the ground.
The captain approached cautiously. He didn’t appear to have a weapon, but Zaeef sensed danger nevertheless. There were people all around him, many of them Americans who would be more than happy to take part in a heroic effort. He had no intention of letting that happen.
The revolver he pulled from the bag was a modified Glock, the notorious “plastic gun” that had had anti-firearms activists in a state of perpetual frenzy for years. Made from high-tech polymers, and easily assembled and disassembled, this type of gun was often used by government agents working undercover. Although typically some of the internal parts were metal, plastic parts could be substituted where a weapon would only be fired a few times. This was the case with Zaeef’s gun, which could pass undetected through virtually any airport security system.
There was a collective gasp and more screaming. Everyone near Zaeef backed away. The captain, whose nametag identified him simply as “Casey,” froze as if he’d been hit with some kind of stun ray. Zaeef’s eyes were wild, insane. He aimed the gun at the nearest window.
“Everyone back,” he shouted twice in passable English, “or I’ll shoot it out!”
He had the shaving cream can in his other hand, held against his chest with his thumb on the button. The fear in the captain’s eyes reassured him, made him feel in command of the situation. If he could control this guy, his instincts told him, he could still carry out this mission. Inspired by this, a new plan fell together in his mind.
“This is a detonator!” he said, holding the can up. “I push this, the plane goes!”
“I don’t see anything here large enough to be a bomb,” Casey said calmly. “I think you’re bluffing.”
“With the luggage, in the plane’s belly, you stupid fool.” Zaeef permitted himself a tiny smile. “Getting it on was so easy.”
A few passengers were crying, convinced the end was at hand. One elderly man in a plaid jacket went down on his knees and began praying. At the very back, a boy of five watched with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. His mother, an attractive brunette in her thirties, held him close, drawing as much comfort as she was giving.
Casey was watching and waiting. Zaeef could tell what was going through his mind—Just give me one chance. One chance and I’ll take care of this little bastard. A John Wayne type. A real American hero.
“Turn around,” Zaeef snapped, motioning with the gun. When Casey refused to comply, he took aim at the window again. His was the perfect poker face because there was no bluff—Casey had no doubt this lunatic would be more than happy to get sucked out the window if it meant taking everyone else with him.
He turned around.
“Back to the cockpit. Anyone moves, I kill them.”
They began moving forward, roughly ten feet apart. The copilots, who had been watching through the narrow rectangular perspective of the open doorway, looked up into their captain’s face as he reached it.
As he approached them the captain said under his breath, “Tony, empty the cargo bay.”
A brief pause.
“Captain?”
“If he has a bomb let’s drop it here.”
Tony nodded.
Zaeef appeared at the threshold just as Tony initiated the opening of the cargo doors. Within seconds there would be hundreds of suitcases falling from the sky. Zaeef peered inside and motioned angrily with the gun. “I want to see all of you. Stand up!”
The men obeyed, standing alongside each other as if posing for a group photo. Except there were no smiles. Just thinly contained anger and obvious hatred. No fear, though, and that irritated Zaeef. Arrogant American bastards.
“Take off your jackets and turn around slowly.”
Again they obeyed. The sight of the three grown, uniformed men revolving like ballerinas would have seemed oddly comical under different circumstances.
None were armed, Zaeef observed, and a feeling of relief flowed through him. “Get back to the controls and keep flying.”
The pilots exchanged silent glances that transmitted the same message: He doesn’t know how to fly the plane. Reading their faces Zaeef realized his blunder, and felt an overwhelming desire to detonate the bomb. To kill all of them then and there.
“The controls!” he screeched.
The captain looked him straight in the eyes and said, quietly yet firmly, “No.”
“I will shoot you dead and your passengers will all die!”
Zaeef’s small audience offered no response, which served only to enrage him further. The captain put his hands in his pockets, a smug expression on his face.
It was their easy willingness to die for their principles that pushed Zaeef to the breaking point. He took aim at Tony and fired. A splash of blood leaped from his chest, and he slammed into the controls.
Amid the screams of the other passengers, Zaeef said, “You will be next! Fly the plane! Fly the—”
An arm slithered around his neck like a tentacle. It was thick and hairy, and very powerful. The owner, whoever it was, tried to pull him backward. But Zaeef was experienced in close-quarters combat and managed to stay on his feet. He brought the gun up and shot blindly over his shoulder. More screams, and the arm lost its strength and fell away. Zaeef didn’t bother looking back and would never know who the attacker was.
During this brief scuffle, the captain took his chance. One of the last cognizant thoughts the Syrian had was that Casey moved with remarkable speed and agility for a man of his age. He came through the door and brought his hands up in one fluid motion, as if he’d practiced it a hundred times. Maybe he had. Regardless, he wasn’t quite fast enough. Zaeef swung the pistol back around and fired again, aiming for Casey’s head. It was a foolish move, as the torso was a much bigger target, but he was possessed by hatred now and wanted to see the man’s face disintegrate. Instead the bullet strayed left, missing its target entirely and blowing out one of the cockpit windows.
The sudden depressurization forced the plane into a dive, the terrified sc
reams of the passengers blending with the sound of violent air displacement to create a deafening symphony of horror. Tony’s body went out first, then Casey’s. The third pilot—a man named Adam Rodas who was making his first international flight—went along with Zaeef. Both hit the frame at the same time and looked for a second like two kids emerging from the sunroof of a limousine. They were already unconscious and would die in minutes. Their bodies left blood stains and strips of flesh around the frame where they had dragged against the jagged edges.
The cockpit door slammed shut with near-sonic force, and for a moment it appeared as though this segment of the nightmare was over. Then the door began to bend like a deck of cards and finally snapped off its hinges, zoomed through the window, and spun into oblivion. Since the plane had been flying at twenty-six thousand feet, unconsciousness occurred in less than a minute. If they’d been cruising a bit lower—say, fifteen-thousand—some people, with the aid of the oxygen masks that now dangled over their seats like snakes from a tree, might have been able to do something.
More bodies went out. One by one, those who hadn’t remained in their seats with their belts on sailed down the aisle along with empty soda cans, magazines, napkins, and paper plates. Aleida, the woman who had befriended Zaeef at the airport, went out at one point. Her head struck the cockpit doorway with such force that the skull cap was sheared clean off. It took nearly three full minutes for the depressurization to complete. Of the original one hundred and twenty-nine people who boarded the plane, ninety-one remained.
Continuing its kamikaze run, the 747 broke through cloud cover at three thousand feet. Minutes later, against the paradoxically beautiful spring sky, it drove into the Atlantic Ocean and exploded into bits. The bodies inside evaporated as if made of papier-mache, while those that had been sucked out of the plane before impact were spread far and wide, and eventually consumed by sea life. When the NTSB personnel combed the crash site weeks later, they would find no trace of the aircraft or any of its passengers.