The Driver (32 page)

“Nine, prepare for the world's fastest fuel stop. I'll pump. You clean the thermal cam and laser jammers. Break out the Casios.” Cory handed each of us one of the twenty-dollar Casio G-Shocks bought specifically for its large display and piercing alarm.

Each was set for a five-minute countdown.

“Remember,” I said as we pulled into a gas station just past Zanesville, “when the alarm goes off, you have 30 seconds to get back in the car. Countdown begins when the car stops rolling.”

“Just don't kill the car power,” said Cory, “we need it to keep the cams up.”

“Good point. Nine, you think we should leave the car running?”

“I think it's against the law.”

The driveplan called for five full and one half-refuel stops—the former no more than 5 minutes, 30 seconds each—for a total of 30 minutes stopped time.

“Nine, Cory, the countdown begins…now.”

 

We were approaching the Indiana border. We'd passed seven Ohio State Police cars—more than New Jersey and Pennsylvania combined—not one of which noticed our passage.

“Nine, I'm not spotting for a sec. I want to check our progress.”

“I'll take it down to a hundred.”

I lit the driveplan with my red-bulbed headset. “The bad news is our fuel economy is way below projections. We're getting 15.5 MPG, so we're looking at six stops instead of five.”

“Hey, guys,” Cory called out, “why don't you just shut up and drive? You're going to miss a cop if you're not careful.”

“Aliray, what's the good news?”

“We're about to hit Indiana.”

“Aw yeah.” Nine giggled. “Flat, straight, good. I'll pick up the pace.”

“Not yet, I've got two speed traps waypointed up ahead, I'll let you know when to open it up. Stand by…for one on the right before border exit into Richmond, and another at the on-ramp right after the interchange.”

WESTERN INDIANA

“That looks bad,” said Nine.

The sun had begun to rise. A thick gray line appeared on the western horizon.

“That is bad,” I said. “Just drive all out until the last possible second.”

The thermal camera, our greatest ally, would soon be useless. I unpacked our daytime equivalent, a set of Steiner 7 X 50 (military) binoculars for which I should have begun weight training before selecting them for this critical task. Designed for tank commanders for use in spotting enemy vehicles up to several miles away, each lens had individual focus/distance controls. I set them to one mile and raised the hard green rubber eyecups to my face.

“Aliray, I can't say I'm looking forward to holding those things to my face for five hours.”

“Cory,” I said, “can I get some of that Dramamine?”

APPROACHING THE ILLINOIS BORDER

“We're ahead of schedule!” I yelled into my headset. “The Weis? The Weis?”

“Can…speak up…or…slow down…buy a new phone?”

“I think we're gonna hit St. Louis a little early!”

“Earl…how…uch early…about…weather?”

“We're in it now! But Nine's accelerating!”

“Is…at rain…noise…hear? On…th…car?”

“Yes! Rain and wind! Nine's got us pegged at 110, in the rain!”

“Oh…God…will ca…u back—”

I texted him our averages and ETA. He responded 30 seconds later.
storm intensifying make best possible spd good job be careful call 100 miles out

The copilot's Garmin said 93.4, which seemed high. I swiveled the driver's Garmin toward me, which read the same, 93. 4 mph. That was impossible.

“Cory,” I said, “look at the screen.” She leaned forward, saw the number, then looked at me. “Cory, the time-projection sheet says that's 30:36.” We wondered if they were right.

“We have a big problem,” said Nine. “The gas gauge, it's near zero.”

“Strange…we've only gone about 300 miles since the refuel. The fuel cell is supposed to dump into the main tank.”

“Well, clearly it isn't, or it is and the gauge is broken. I don't know which is worse. You want to take a chance?”

“Just pull over when our range hits 30 miles. Worst-case scenario, the cell's not dumping, which means we're at eight stops instead of five and change. At these speeds, we can still make it.”

I turned around to give Cory an encouraging smile, but then I saw the rear window, the view totally obscured by the two enormous rooster tails we were trailing. I hoped police weren't trained to calculate speeds based on their height.

“The good news is,” said Nine, “this car couldn't run any better if it tried.”

 

We switched seats at the gas station. No one needed to say it. Both of us preferred that I take the necessary risks in the rain, but even I held back as the clouds blocked out the rising sun, making the thermals useful once again, albeit for safety rather than police evasion. Between the fuel stop and thickening traffic, our average had fallen to 92.1, still an incredible figure, but with both The Weis and the XM NavTraffic reporting worsening conditions, one guaranteed to fall.

“It's getting really dark,” said Nine, “where are we?”

“You tell me. That was the sign for Effingham. Where's that?”

“About…a hundred miles from St. Louis.”

“I have to slow down, but it terrifies me to see the needle go below 95.”

If the storm kept growing, PolizeiAir wouldn't take off. Once PolizeiGround passed St. Louis, every mile we drove west while they remained on the ground reduced the likelihood of
any
intercept. It was simple math, but math no one had suggested anyone ever calculate, let alone add to the driveplan just in case. If they hadn't taken off by the time we hit clear weather, the Polizei Aerial Recon plan was finished, and with it any chance of breaking 32:07. We had a thousand miles to cover in broad daylight, from St. Louis to somewhere in New Mexico, and the plane was our insurance policy.

The weather grew worse. We missed them.

INTERSTATE
44
WEST
APPROACHING SPRINGFIELD, MISSOURI
210
MILES SOUTHWEST OF ST. LOUIS
MILEAGE
1160

“Naked daytime running,” I said, “this is exactly what I was afraid of. We're at 105 mph in the open with civilians around. I don't like it.”

“At least no one's called us in. We would have heard it on the scanner.”

“It's amazing what you can get away with if you're polite. I always signal, never tailgate, and look, our mileage has improved since I've been drafting, and—”

“Thanks, Mr. Nader. I'll keep trying to reach them.”

“It's probably a waste. I need you spotting. If I can keep us above a hundred in this traffic without the SWAT teams showing up.”

“Cowbell Air, Cowbell Air,” Nine said into the Vertex handheld, “this is Cowbell Ground, over.”

“Nine, there's no way they can hear us. Forget catching up.”

“At least the weather got nice. And everyone in Missouri thinks we're a police car, even without the stickers.”

“That's
not
a good thing.”

Nine played with the radio settings. It hissed and howled.

“Nine, just stay on those bear checks. The truckers have already saved us about twenty times. Forget the plane. If they can catch up, they'll let us know. And keep those Steiners up!”

“Cory,” said Nine, “do you have any more of that Dramamine?”

 

“Cowbell Ground, Cowbell Ground, this is Cowbell Air…what is your position?”

The voice of the Captain. “There is a God,” I said.

“Cowbell Ground, Cowbell Ground, this is Cowbell Air…currently approaching Springfield…what is your position?”

“We're almost in Springfield!” Nine yelled. “They've gotta be right behind us!”

“Then radio them back and look out the window!”

“Cowbell Ground, we can hear you keying the radio, but your signal is garbled, please text your position.”

“You know what?” Nine said as he typed. “If we ever do this again, we have to find a better way of meeting the plane.”

“We had considered putting an aircraft transponder in the car, but there was no room, and The Weis said it wouldn't work from the ground. That's why we decided to put white stripes on the roof. Nine!”

Our average had fallen to 92—a running projection of 31:03—but was sure to enter free fall for the next 10 hours, or 11, or 13, or as long as it took to cover the day stage before realizing we'd never make 32:07, in which case—

“Cowbell Ground, Cowbell Ground, this is Cowbell Air, received your message, checking the maps.”

The voice of The Weis. My heart began racing.

“Cowbell Ground, this is Cowbell Air, you guys must have been really booting, we have passed Lebanon, approaching Springfield at maximum speed, please send updates, including your speed.”

“Nine, we just passed Lebanon! Tell them! Text them! Oh…my…God, do you think—”

Cory flipped rearward and held her camcorder to the window.

“Cowbell Ground, we are descending for a closer look, stand by, passing on your right.”

“Aliray, if these guys actually find us, I mean, if this actually works, forget the criminal part, this is absolutely the—”

“I see them!” Cory screamed. “On the right! Ahead on the right!”

Nine and I leaned forward. Of all the impossible events of the prior 13 hours, the sight of our lone, white, single-engined Cessna aerial recon unit made everything I'd ever seen or done in a car seem humorously insignificant.

“Cowbell Ground, we have you in sight, do you copy?”

Nine lifted the Vertex to his mouth with a wide grin. “Cowbell Air, this is Juan Nueve, aka Jon Nine, do you copy?”

“Cowbell Ground, we're gonna switch up the code names in case anyone's listening, you are hereby designated Ozzel Ground, we are Ozzel Air.”

“Copy that, Ozzel Air, are you referring to Admiral Ozzel, the guy Darth Vader kills?”

“Ten-four, Nueve Actual, you guys are kicking ass. Keep it up, Aliray.”

“Ozzel Air, how far can you see out?”

“If you knew math we'd tell you, Ozzel Ground. We'll only report if we see something. Right now…no cops, median clear up to this overpass, ramps clear, all clear all the way to second overpass.”

“Nine, Steiners up for plain brown wrappers.” Except for unmarked police cars, we were safe.

 

Missouri law enforcement—long considered by Cannonball and Express veterans the second most fearsome after Ohio—was clearly not equipped to stop integrated air/ground operations by a citizen intent on crossing this great nation in 32 hours and 7 minutes or less. Still, it was with great relief that we crossed into Oklahoma, with its light traffic and flat terrain perfect for long-distance spotting from a low-flying plane.

Our overall average hit an inconceivable—and I was sure this would give Yates a seizure—95.7 mph, for a running projection of 29:45,
if
the Garmins were accurate,
if
we maintained our speed,
if
the fuel cell stopped hiccuping,
if
the weather remained clear. But no one in the car was capable of talking, or laughing, or gloating—we were now upended, inverted versions of the trio that, at this very point some four months earlier, had started to lose any sense of reality, our situational awareness that of a blind soldier stumbling down a muddy trench. Now, as we approached the halfway point of our journey, 31 was in our grasp.

Thirty—the Lost Chord of Cannonball—was possible.

And 29:30—the inconceivable—was just over the horizon.

We approached the Will Rogers Turnpike Mainline Plaza—the first of only two tollbooths remaining before L.A., still approximately 1,500 miles and half the country away—westbound on Interstate 44, in the vicinity of Vinita, Oklahoma. I handed the attendant $3.50, she confirmed that the road ahead was clear of police on Sundays at lunchtime, and I put the car into first gear for a gentle, fuel-preserving, slow-acceleration run back up to a conservative 95 mph cruising speed. Our lane discipline and overwhelmingly good road manners hadn't incited a single 911 call. That was quite a surprise, but not as surprising as when the car started to violently buck back and forth—Nine poised to ask how and why I'd missed the clutch—and the engine died.

“PolizeiGround, PolizeiGround, we see you stopped after the tollbooth, please advise sitrep. Orbiting toll plaza, Polizei Ground, do you copy?”

We'd made it the 50-odd feet to the right shoulder.

“PolizeiGround, PolizeiGround, do you copy?”
I turned down the Vertex volume.

“Listen to me very clearly. We have a 2-hour-and-10-minute lead over the record. Every second we're stopped will be spent diagnosing and fixing this problem. I intend to get this car moving, and keep rolling west until that 2-hour-and-10-minute credit runs out. The countdown begins
now
. Do you understand?”

“I'm in,” said Nine.

I already knew Cory's answer.

Breakdown. The Omigod of Outside Context Problems.

I restarted the car. We broke down three miles later. No one spoke. I restarted it again, exited I-44, and broke down four more times in the half mile to the Shell station in Big Cabin, Oklahoma. We refueled and called AI—who agreed it was likely an electronic problem. I disconnected the battery and reset the engine computer. I theorized the car would keep running if only I kept it above 3,500 rpms, below which the problems began. In sixth gear, this was 95 mph—the perfect cruising speed, ironically, if only we didn't hit traffic or have to slow for a cop. We restarted and made it another 60 miles before hitting Tulsa city traffic, and stalling once again.

We restarted for the seventh time. I set the cruise control at 95 mph.

Nine optimistically lifted the Steiners to his face.

“Ozzel Air to Ozzel Ground, keep it up, Aliray, we're gonna scout ahead.”

We were approaching Bristow, nearly 80 miles since the initial breakdown.

“Cory,” I said, “we're not stopping until
if
and when the overall average falls below 90.”

“Ozzel Ground! Full-grown eastbound! Eyes open!”

“Nine! You see any marked police cars?”

“Not yet! You sure you want to maintain this speed?”

Speed meant capture. Slowing meant breakdown. Traffic was flowing at 80 to 85 mph. I moved to the right lane to increase the parallax angle to the oncoming trooper—decreasing his radar gun's accuracy—and held at 91 mph. We were rapidly approaching a truck, forcing a choice between passing in full view of the trooper or slowing to below 80. The left lane was suddenly blocked. I braked to avoid hitting the truck, downshifted to fifth to maintain the rpms, then, in the instant I depressed the clutch once again to enter fourth, the rpms fell below 3,000 before I could reengage—

“I see him!” Nine yelled.

—and the engine died.

I pulled over on the right shoulder. Nine held the Steiners on the trooper until he passed in the other direction, 84 miles since the first breakdown, 1,372 miles from New York.

“Nine, did he see us slow down and stop?”

“I'd pay a million dollars to know for sure. My heart's about to explode.”

OKHP Mobile 154.9050:
“
…
vehicle stopped at the 198 westbound—”

“There's our answer.” I grabbed the Steiners from Nine's lap. The exit ramp for Bristow, Oklahoma, was in sight. “I don't care if this car catches fire while we push it up the ramp. We cannot let him get a look inside this car.”

“Code red! PolizeiGround, full-grown making a U-turn on your six! Good cover at the exit ramp ahead! Get that car moving, PolizeiGround, you can make it.”

I restarted the car, but it died instantly. Ready to give the order to push, I turned to Nine, then in my rearview mirror spotted the Oklahoma State Police car approaching on the shoulder. I hit the hazards. I couldn't remember whether our rear license plate—
INPOL
144—still wore its anticamera/ antilaser cover.

“He's not getting out,” said Nine.

“Do you want me to pick the excuse, or do you want to vote?”

I silently ran through all those I could remember.

“Man,” said Nine, “what if we just tell the truth?”

“The truth?”

“Sorry, Aliray, I just hate lying.”

“Cowbell Ground, Aliray, now would be the time to get out and act innocent. Cowbell Ground, do you copy?”

Nine keyed the Vertex. “Copy that, Cowbell Air.”

“Nine, I
will
tell him the truth, just give me the teriyaki bag. I'll look more innocent carrying it.”

“I ate it all after the first breakdown.”

“Then give me the empty bag and a piece of anything stinky,” I said, opening my door. “Now everyone stay calm. Cory, don't raise that camera. He might think it's a gun. Nine, leave the scanners up so you know what's happening. Kill and hide them if he cuffs me, or follows me back.”

“Alex,” said Cory, “
you
relax. Just do your thing.”

“Trust me. I impersonate German cops for a living.”

I got out of the car and waved to the trooper. With an expression of sincere but good-natured exasperation—to which I added a mouthful of jerky and a conspicuously empty bag—I walked over to his open window. The officer, sitting uncomfortably upright in his thick bulletproof vest, was already writing up a report.

“Hey, Officer!” I exhaled deeply into his passenger compartment. “Boy, are we glad to see you!”

“New York—” he said, his pencil momentarily stopping as he learned the flavor of what Nine had handed me, “you've come a long way.”

“Just a little drive cross-country.”

He closed his logbook and looked up. “What's the problem?”

“A little engine situation, but I think we're good.”

“No need for a tow, then?”

“Nah, I think we just need some coolant, and some more jerky.”

“You want me to wait?”

“I think we got it. There's got to be a gas station at the next exit, right?”

“Bristow,” he said with finality. “You'll find everything you need. Good luck.” He opened his logbook once again, then waited until I returned to the M5 before moving off the shoulder. He didn't wave back.

The car died again 17 miles later, at I-44's Turner Turnpike toll plaza.

“Nine, we've averaged mid-eighties in the hundred miles since the first breakdown. Tell me the credit's run out and I'll call it, but I'm still not stopping until we're in a major city. If we stop, we need to hide this car immediately, after what we've done.”

“Cowbell Ground, Cowbell Ground, approaching Oklahoma City airspace, will be peeling off for refuel, please maintain location updates every 10 minutes for reintercept west of the city. Cowbell Ground, do you copy?”

“Copy that,” Nine responded, but his tone expressed what I had come to understand since the second breakdown. No one, including The Weis and the Captain, was going to give up until I made
the
decision. We were 15 miles from Interstate 40, the second-to-last turn before Los Angeles.

“Cowbell Ground, you are clear of bears for about two miles, all the way to the I-44/I-35 interchange. We are peeling off for refuel. Good luck through the city, see you on the I-40. Cowbell Air out.”

We could go it alone, but I suddenly realized how lonely we would be. Only a handful of people in the world knew there were three people in a blue sedan on a mission, not interested in bothering anyone, just trying to cross the country in one day and two nights. The plane disappeared. I couldn't wait to see them again. In person.

“Nice work, Aliray, I can't believe we've picked up the pace.”

“I just hope we can maintain this through the city.”

Team Polizei's heretofore-indomitable E39 BMW M5, universally considered one of the finest cars ever made, respected veteran of three Gumballs and 3446, its glass and metal eyes witness to nearly 15,000 high-speed miles across thirteen countries, having performed flawlessly under conditions unseen outside of the Paris-Dakar and the 24 Hours of Le Mans, died in the center of Oklahoma City, on the right shoulder 500 feet north of the I-44/I-40 interchange, 1,451 miles from New York, 1,342 miles from the Santa Monica Pier.

Cory burst into tears.

“The car,” Nine said quietly, “it's impossible.”

“Jon,” I said firmly, lowering all four windows for our first fresh air in three hours. I shuddered against the cool wind flowing up my sleeves, then down my neck, then pooling around my ankles. I leaned forward to pull up my socks. My clothes were completely drenched. My pants had slipped six inches below my waist.

“A twenty-dollar part…” he muttered. “Has to be…has to be.”

“Jon, we're going again. I don't care how many times it takes.”

“I dunno, man…I dunno.”

“We'll make it next time.”

“Aliray, man—”

“Don't explain. I understand. I have my reasons. You have yours. Cory?” I looked over my shoulder. Cory stared out her window, west, past the last, low buildings on the city's outskirts, her eyes repeatedly following I-44's gray path leading off to the horizon.

“Cory?”

“Hells, yeah,” she whispered. She'd go alone if she had to.

Then I remembered.
Alex Roy always makes it.
Maggie. Time clock. Already in the air. Too late to stop her. I started typing. “Jon, you tell the boys overhead. I'll call for a flatbed. We have to move before the police show up. Cory, can you—”

“—reserve a hotel with a garage hidden from the street?”

I caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. Even in disaster, we could smile—

“Oh…my…God,” said Nine. “Don't stop, don't stop, no!”

My eyes shot past Cory's reflection to a dark narrow shape approaching.

Motorcycle. Oklahoma City police. I hit the ECM master power kill.

The officer rolled up to Nine's open window, lowered his bike onto its kickstand, and leaned inside—his helmet and mirrored glasses slowly turning to scan each of our faces.

“Wow!” he exclaimed, revealing a delighted grin as wide as any Gumball fan's. “Now,
this
is the most amazing car I have
ever
seen! When I saw all those antennas on the back, I just
knew…
I
just
knew! Hey, what agency you guys with?”

“Well, Officer,” I said, “that's a long story.”

“Whoa!” His head turned to the dashboard, then to the fixed camera over my shoulder, then the handheld in Cory's lap. “Oh!
I
get it! You're making a movie! Cool! But I guess you've got some car trouble, huh? I better get you a tow right away so you can get back out there. But where to? BMW's not going to be open on Sunday. You know, I've got a friend…”

If the Missouri State Police were hunting for a blue BMW with antennas, then
every
minute spent in the state of Oklahoma was one fraught with danger. Especially if the officer knew where the car was being towed.

But we couldn't leave the city until the car was hidden, stripped of camera gear, and secured for immediate shipping home.

Our new friend was eager to stay and chat after arranging a tow to a nearby garage—conveniently owned by an ex-cop he was sure would give us a discount—but a sudden and fortuitous radio dispatch sent him off with enthusiastic waves all around. He was still in sight when I called
another
tow truck to take us to the nearby Waterford Marriott and its concealed parking lot, to which we rode in silence. The aircrew was already on its way to meet us before flying back to New York. I informed my mother; Cory, the other witnesses. Maggie would find out when she landed in L.A. I booked a ticket to meet her the next day. Nine booked one to Miami. Cory booked one to Hawaii, then began removing the camera equipment. I leaned back and closed my eyes for the first time in 33 hours.

I already knew when the next departure window opened.

I would need PolizeiAir to deploy one more time.

I couldn't ask Nine to go again. Gumball 2005, 34:46, 14:51 to Oklahoma. Nearly 7,500 miles in the face of incarceration and death. With me. I'd wait him out until final preparations for the next run, just in case he changed his mind.

Replacing him would be a formidable task.

But the countdown wasn't over.

 

Now that I'd paid the price for my hubris, I knew exactly what improvements would be necessary for next time. I'd already e-mailed AI asking for the third-through-tenth diagnoses overlooked three days earlier. The most likely—a fuel-pump filter—was one I'd naively omitted from my preventative maintenance list. Failure is the great teacher, if one allows it to be. I'd failed, but even in failure everything was going according to plan.

And then came the phone call from Oklahoma City BMW—the police were there. I thought my life was over.

 

“Bad news first,” I said to Seth from a secluded bench in LAX's arrival terminal.

“Before I tell you, is there anything you want to tell me first?”

“You know what I did.”

“I can't represent you unless I know the truth. Are there any weapons or contraband in that car? Anything besides the usual gizmos?”

“Seth, you
know
me. C'mon. How bad is it?”

“They want to get inside that car, but they don't have probable cause. Not yet.”

“But
nothing
happened other than the breakdown, I swear. No tickets, no accidents, no calls, nothing.”

“Well, smart-ass, apparently you made a phone call while standing in line at the Oklahoma City airport. Someone nearby overheard snippets of your conversation. You were describing…shall we say…some very interesting activities. That person works for the governor of Oklahoma. It didn't take long for the state police to open an investigation into the identity of the owner of one particular and very special BMW.”

“But I only called my mother, and my girlfriend, and—” AI, to whom I'd given a brief but potentially
very
incriminating summary, if any bystander could possibly have pieced together the totally unbelievable facts of our story.

“Seth, what exactly did they overhear?”

“They overheard
BMW, breakdown, night vision
,
escape
,
cops, spotter plane, Pennsylvania,
and
150 miles an hour
.”

“So…what constitutes probable cause? What can they charge me with?”

“Right now they have no idea what you were doing, in Oklahoma or anywhere else, but the BMW guys had your Team Polizei Web page up when the investigator arrived. I'm sure
that
was an amusing scene. Absolutely hilarious. You weren't wearing police outfits this time, were you? Using the lights and sirens?”