The Driver (35 page)

“I think…I think we ignore them and—”

“Stay on plan. Now go back there and act normal.”

I smiled through the rest of dinner, then wished Rawlings, Jackson, the Collinses, and Frankl the best of luck on a safe Bullrun. They headed across the street to the Gansevoort Hotel for Bullrun's official prestart party. I went home and began building a new driveplan from scratch.

Driveplan .5C (Merciless Assault Reprisal-79).

Seventy-nine days; 1,890 hours. It might not be enough time. Unless I had help. Even if I had help.

But once again the Patron Saint of Nonviolent and Unprofitable Crimes shone his disco ball upon me, because he called me back within 10 minutes.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER
9, 2006
HOLLAND TUNNEL WESTBOUND
NEW JERSEY SPEED-TRAP MAPPING
VERIFICATION DRIVE NO
.5
2141
HOURS (EST)
27
DAYS
, 23
HOURS
, 55
MINUTES TO DEPARTURE

“I can't believe you're asking me this,” said twenty-one-year-old engineering student Jean-Francis (aka J.F.) Musial, who in the three months since I'd NDA'd him had proven himself a better friend than people I'd known as long as he'd been alive. A Gumball fan who'd taken my picture at the New York Auto Show in 2005, J.F. had subsequently offered to update the Gumball144.com blog during Gumball 2006, but I quickly recognized how much more he had to offer. I taught him everything I knew about Gumball, 3446, and the Oklahoma incident, and he took over nearly half the necessary research for the upcoming October 7 run, dissected and corrected the old driveplans, and became an indispensable weapon in our impending and final assault.

We were now on our fifth New York–to–Pennsylvania border recon and ambush-point verification drive, a leg for which J.F. had mapped out every potential speed trap, which I had then programmed into the Garmins—now numbering four, each with its own dedicated roof-mounted antennas—precisely as instructed. If I had a J.F. in every state, 29 hours might be possible.

He would drive his black Polizei ECM–modified Audi A4—the first of three
UnderkoverPolizeiRekonVideoKinoEskort
chase cars for the run—out of the CCC 15 minutes ahead of us, cameraman beside him, and send back data on traffic and police locations until we caught up and passed. He would then log all communications, track our progress on the master map, send us real-time NOAA weather and traffic reports, coordinate with PolizeiAir, and inform all parents, spouses, boyfriends, girlfriends, and next of kin of our status.

“With the time you've put in,” I said from the M5's passenger seat, “you deserve a say. Cory and I respect your opinion.”

“But…I'm just a fan who's helping out, I can't help you pick a copilot.”

“Don't underestimate what you've learned. Before my father died, I asked him how I was going to go on. He said someday I'd wake up and wouldn't be able to remember what life was like when he was alive.”

“But you remember him, right? You always talk about him.”

“I remember everything that happened before, and everything about him, but I can't remember…what it felt like to know I could call him. Now all I know is that I can't. It's the same with what I'm doing now. I can't remember who I was before this started. Before Gumball 2003. Before Rome. Before Rawlings made me the bet, then after Oklahoma. Someday you'll wake up and nothing will be the same. I think everyone feels it, but not everybody follows it to the end. I used to be the laziest person in the world. My dad even told me. Look at me now.”

We drove in silence for the next few minutes.

“J.F., you know I'd take you…if I could.”

“Me? Are you insane? I don't have enough experience.”

“Not yet. But you have enough to drive the first chase car out of New York. I guarantee you half of The Drivers from Gumball would say no if I asked, which I can't. No one knows anyone until they've seen what they do against the Wall.”

J.F. was silent.

“So, let's go down the list of potentials. Start obvious, then go crazy.”

“Jon Goodrich.”

“No. Worried charges will screw his business. He travels a lot. The good news is he's flying in the spotter plane.”

“All right…what about Michael Ross?”

“Amazing guy, my number one pick, but he's concerned over work/travel issues if we're caught. Homeland Security watch list. Also, he was arrested in California on the '03 Gumball. Red flag if we're caught on the last leg. If we go down because of it, he'll never forgive himself. Can't say how well he'll spot American undercovers. On the flip side, he loves adventure. If I ask, he'll go.”

“Remy? Or Kalbas?”

“J.F., those guys are so good and so cool, they'd either laugh at the suggestion, or they've already done it and didn't feel the need to tell anyone.”

“Nicholas Frankl?”

“One of the best. Perfect, and he's hilarious. But very close with a lot of people I don't want finding out. We may have to keep it secret for months, maybe years. Next.”

“Jodie Kidd? She drives for the Maserati factory team.”

“I like her, but I don't think she'll spend 30 hours in a car with a guy like me.”

“Dennis Collins?”

“In my top three, but too close to Rawlings.”

“Rawlings?” J.F. chuckled.

“Don't laugh. I actually thought about asking him.”

“Alex, man, you two together…the earth would explode, you'd break 29 hours, man…it'd be—”

“Nuts, but there's no way we could keep a Roy/Rawlings team-up quiet. And if we're caught or something bad happens, we'll blame each other until we're dead. They'd have to put us in separate cells.”

“Joe Macari?”

“Respect him, but don't know him well enough.”

“Alison Cornea?”

“Same.”

“Peter Malmstrom.”

“Love that guy, but he doesn't know the undercover cars.”

“Spencer?”

“Don't know him that well, and he's English. Heard he was a good guy.”

“Ant or Pete?”

“Huge respect for those guys, but we're not close, and they're English.”

“Charles Morgan?”

“It would make history, but he has kids, and the same issues as other foreigners.”

“Oliver Morley?”

“We'd shatter it, but he'd smack my face the first time I said ‘ramp check.'”

“The Dust to Glory Baja 1000 winner?”

“Kevin Ward. We'd also shatter it, but no way to bring him and keep it quiet. Married with kids, and he and Bret Haller are organizing the Unlimited Class for the Carrera Panamericana.”

“You doing that one?”

“Fight battles you can win, tough guy. People get killed on that. I'm not ready.”

“We're running out of people.”

“We already did. No one thinks it can be broken except Rawlings and Collins, and they don't know what we know.”

“Alex, man, are you
sure
it can be?”

“If I didn't think so, I wouldn't go. All that matters is that we try.”

“You really won't try again if you don't make it?”

“After Oklahoma I said I'd go as many times as it took, but that's not very realistic. Look at what it took to do
that
one, and I still blew it.”

“I know, man, this is like a full military operation. It really is crazy.”

“Like going to Mars, only privately funded. It'll be nearly impossible to set this up, this way…the plane, the people…ever again. At least for me.”

“But don't you
want
to break it?”

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “It's the journey. Maybe that's the lesson in all this.”

“C'mon, how will you live with yourself if you give up?”

“J.F., I lied to you. Of course I want to break it, but I have to prepare myself for failure, or I'll literally lose it if we get a flat. The journey excuse is the only way. It's the mature way. Now you know why the copilot choice is so important. It's the biggest unknown in the largest gamble I'll ever take. It'll determine whether I live with regret for the rest my life.”

“Did you ever consider Cory?”

“Ahhhh, well…if balls were skill, she could drive the whole thing alone. But she needs more high-speed training, and she wants to shoot a movie more than she wants to drive—that is, until the movie's done. She'll do her own run one of these days. It's inevitable.”

“Torquenstein?”

“Technically he's as good as us, but I don't know him well enough…hang on, the CoPilot Garmin Primary says…approaching first speed trap…Ambush Waypoint, two miles, log says three potentials. Exit-ramp median right, right shoulder on overpass, left shoulder negative.”

“Alex, I'm telling you from experience, tag this one yellow. I live around here.”

“Only forty or fifty more to go. If the Jersey yellow count ends up forty and red is only ten, we'll cross the whole state in—”

“Under an hour, in traffic, on a Saturday night.
That'll
be something to see.”

“Which you will, if you can keep that Audi A4 moving without hitting us. Next Ambush Waypoint in four miles…Exit 33, three potentials, first is center median, no barrier, before overpass, second is center median, after overpass, behind support pillar, third is right merge after overpass, behind trees.”

“Correct…but, Alex, there is one person you never talk about.”

“Don't say it. I've been thinking about him the whole time, but it's complicated.”

“Sorry. I'll drop it.”

“Let's have some fun, college boy. Instead of reading these off the Garmin, how about I test
your
memory for the next few miles?”

It was a shame he wasn't coming, because he remembered every single one.

 

Ross had been right.

I needed to. Everyone else merely wanted to.

Except one.

We hadn't exchanged more than a few words in three years. We were very different people, in different circles, but if my perception of him was correct, he'd commit without hesitation. He was the perfect choice in every way but one—he wouldn't follow orders if he thought he knew better. I was the same way.

He was a better driver. I was better at everything else.

For six years I'd put down my cards one by one, my bets and wins ever-increasing, but now total commitment was required. If I won, what I considered his weakness might become a strength that—interlocked with mine—drove us to the summit.

I would entrust him with far more than my life—
if
he could answer the most difficult question in the world.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER
11, 2006
POLIZEI
3207
(MERCILESS ASSAULT REPRISAL) HQ
26
DAYS
, 7
HOURS
, 14
MINUTES TO DEPARTURE

I finished watching the raw 3446 footage. In real time. Again.

I had to accept who I was. I was a full-time Endurance-Rally Driver—one of the best in a small, peculiar, somewhat invisible subset of motor sport—but that didn't make me a world-class race-car driver. In my sphere, I could beat better drivers through discipline, minor art, and heavy science. In theirs I ranked dead center.

But mine was an Outside Context Mission, straddling both worlds.

My heart pled to have Nine beside me, but now I needed him in the plane.

“Alex Roy,” he said with faux nonchalance, “calling me at work, after all these years. Must be important.”

“Don't take it personally. This is the call you want. We need to talk. What are you doing the next five weekends?”

“Wrong time of year for Gumball. La Carrera?”

“No.”

“What should I pack?”

“Nothing. No room.”

“Why five?”

“Rain dates.”

He didn't answer. He'd seen the
32:07
trailer. He knew me.

“I have one question,” I said, having been through this with him once before, “but I need the answer in person.”

“What's the question?”

“Why?”

“Okay, Alex…but you go first this time.”

SATURDAY, OCTOBER
7, 2006
CLASSIC CAR CLUB—NEW YORK
2124
HOURS (EST)

My phone vibrated. “Message from The Weis,” I said, “on behalf of the Captain, Nine and Robin.”

Ur going to smash it we love aliray.

I held the screen up for him to see, and in his eyes caught my first-ever glimpse of youth—possibly even fear—then it was gone, and the fearsome driver in which all had so much faith squinted and said, “Let's do this.”

Fear of a bad weather report would have been a good thing—an absurd but comforting reminder of why I'd picked him—but fear over our task wasn't in the driveplan. I already bore enough of it for all in the car.

The gate began to rise.

“You ready?”

“Alex,” he said with a dark grin, “I am
so
ready.”

Lelaine approached with the time clock.

“Then,” I said, my confidence strangely boosted by the briefest exposure to his heart, “hand me the card.”

I looked forward to demonstrating how much I had learned since the last time he'd sat beside me. The first and last legs were mine.

I punched the time clock. It was Saturday, October 7, 2006, 9:26
P.M
. (EST).

Cory, Nine, The Weis, and I had long debated the moral and legal implications of our plans, especially the differences between our runs and the original Cannonball and U.S. Express. I suggested that the 77-mile discrepancy between our driveplan's 2794 and Diem/Turner's 2871 posed a legitimacy problem. Cory suggested we make our target 31:07, since the mileage differential could be covered at 90 mph—the average required to break the record—in 51 minutes.

Nine suggested our lack of competition made it easier. The Weis thought it made us slower. Cory agreed. I suggested it made it harder. We weren't merely alone out on the road—a recurring and terrifying thought whenever I saw our plane overhead, and imagined how we appeared to them—we were alone in our psychological makeup. If just one other like-minded person would run against us, our absolute times would be irrelevant and we could take solace in knowing we weren't—literally—crazy. But, once having decided to go alone, we were left only with a time to beat, and time had no mercy.

The individual motivation required made us even lonelier. The danger was high. There was no prize money. The more we learned, especially after one and a half runs, and especially given my (and Nine's) experience from Gumball and Bullrun, the longer our communal list of reasons
not
to go.

After Oklahoma, we stopped laughing them away.

Cory and I never fully explained our motives to each other. We couldn't. We tried, but the conversations took too long, so we gave up.

I needed to go, and Nine wanted to help. But Nine wanted to help
me
more than
he
needed to go. After Oklahoma, Nine understood what I'd left unsaid. Another breakdown wasn't the issue. We had been at the limit of our capabilities. We had taken enormous risks, yet even greater risks would be necessary. What would be required was greater than his motivation. I thanked God his loyalty remained even higher, because his presence on PolizeiAir—waiting to take off just a few hours and several hundred miles away—calmed my anxiety over the struggle on the ground.

INTERSTATE
70
WEST
APPROACHING ZANESVILLE, OHIO

“Drive faster,” said Maher.

“I'm doing 110,
and
we're in Ohio. Ramp check.”

“Ramp's clear. Dude, there's
no one
out here.”

“Zanesville, Maher, bad karma. Diem/Turner went down here.”

“But Roy/Goodrich didn't, twice. Stay in the triple digits.”

“Relax, Maher. You just said our overall average is 91 and change. Last time we came through here…I think it was just over 90.”

“But you hadn't lost time for the first fuel stop yet, and you didn't know as much as you do now. Your overall should be 92. The projections are too conservative. We need to build credit wherever we can.”

“Then give me a thermal check.”

“Thermal's clear. You gonna pass this truck on the right?”

The Polizei
never
passed trucks on the right. “Maher, what do you see ahead of him?”

“I see 125 mph.”

 

What could be known of our task, I knew, and I knew what couldn't be known—new speed traps, police aviation and unmarked-car patrol routes and schedules, road closures due to accidents, emergency construction and traffic—and I erected a virtual fortress against capture and/or delay.

I saw success in the protocols I'd honed over 25,000 miles of high-speed driving. Maher saw failure in what I might have overlooked. Where there was doubt, I chose caution. Maher did not. He was of the Kenworthy school. I'd cofounded the Polizei/Rawlings academy. The former's students dominated Europe, the latter's the United States.

But Maher and I shared something unique, for we shared a common
why
. His answer was so concise, so elegant, so subtle, so
obvious,
I was embarrassed to answer in kind. His answer was mine, distilled down to six words.

I want something money can't buy.

I'd had a guess, but only then could I clearly picture him on the end of the line, in a suit and tie, seated at one desk among many, his and other phones ringing incessantly, countless men's voices overlapping in a large room in a tall building owned by the Bank of America.

Something money can't buy.

Within one minute of my asking, when he—having not yet seen a single planning document—turned to me and said yes, I knew I'd been right in my choice. Whatever his goal, he needed to go across. Without me, he couldn't go. Without him, I couldn't succeed. I never imagined I could be so right about one of whom I knew so little, or so wrong about the consequences.

 

I sensed we were ahead of schedule, and sought confidence in knowing by precisely how much, but Maher wasn't interested in checking our progress against
Driveplan 2 (Assault Reprisal),
or in communicating with Polizei HQ.

“If you think too much about your credit,” he said, “you'll get lazy. Hammer down. Every chance you can get.
You
talk about assault, then do it. Attack. Show me.”

He didn't want to try again, and neither did I. If only I drove a
little
faster—ironic given that I'd probably just set the unofficial land-speed record between New York and Zanesville, Ohio—and if only
he
followed our oft-tested protocols, we'd be the perfect team. The first overnight was the fastest and easiest stage. We wouldn't be tested, as drivers or teammates, until St. Louis, by which time we'd each occupy the seats best suited to our strengths.

I was suddenly very, very motivated. I couldn't get to the first refuel fast enough.

INTERSTATE
70
WEST
SOMEWHERE IN CENTRAL OHIO

I pulled into the first refuel and driver swap—my first legacy a historic overall prestop average of 91.7 mph. Cory and Maher sprinted inside. I stood alone between the car and the pump, gripping the nozzle in my left hand while unzipping my fly with my right. I surveyed the houses nearby, their occupants unaware of the criminal mischief taking a break in their midst for what I hoped was no more than 6 minutes and 15 seconds. I listened to the twenty-sixth gallon of premium flow. The pump clicked. The hose thumped. Steam rose from the asphalt before me. All
was
going according to plan. I zipped up. J.F.'s disembodied voice bleated in the headset I'd forgotten I was wearing.

“Can you hear me, Alex? Alex? You're flying! On or slightly ahead of projections…I project low thirty-ones, and dropping consistently. Just get out of that gas station within the next 60 seconds.”

“Okay,” I said, checking the Casio, “we'll make it.”

“And don't forget to send latitude and longitude every 15 minutes. Maher didn't send me any.”

“I'm copilot next. I guarantee you'll get them.” I looked up at the stars. “You know…when I saw the city glowing in the mirror way back…it was like I'd never see it again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It's okay. If I don't see it, I mean. I chose. This is what I want to be doing, no matter what happens.”

“Just take a deep breath, Alex, keep this up, and you'll break it—”

My Casio beeped again, then I heard two more beeps distant, one behind me and the other by the gas-mart entrance. Cory's hair whipped like a weather vane in a high wind as she sprinted toward me. Maher closed the driver's door.

I couldn't wait to share the news of our projection.

“Alex, don't forget the air intercept has to move up if you get much faster. The St. Louis chase-car intercept, too. I'll notify them, but you've
got
to keep those updates coming.”

“Will do—”

Engine. Movement. Peripheral vision. Black. White. Cory saw it, too, her imminent return delayed by a less conspicuous, slow, yet still awkwardly stilted gait, during which she repeatedly turned her head to determine our new visitor's intent.

“J.F.!” I whispered. “Police car!”

“What? They're after you already?”

“Strange…we've been really stealthy.” I turned to the M5. Maher impatiently pointed at the pump. I nodded in agreement. The pump bell rang. I jammed the nozzle into its bracket, slid into the passenger seat, and fought the urge to turn and peer through the gap between the pumps, lost, and stared at the officer inaudibly talking into his handset. Cory closed her door just as the local town's sparsely equipped Ford Crown Victoria patrol car's door opened. I recognized the entry-level Gall's private-label lighting and siren array on the dash. Team Polizei was a good customer.

“Let's go!” said Cory. “Alex! Fuel receipt?”

“Goddammit…I forgot it when the cop pulled up! Wait!”

The officer's left boot touched the ground.

“Can we go now?” blurted Maher.

“Order copies from Amex!” Cory yelled. “Dave, just go!” Maher rolled out of the station with unexpected control.

“Scanners up,” I said, “CB up, ECM green, thermals green, GPS, power, all green.”

“Mr. Roy,” said Maher, suddenly accelerating harder than I liked up the merge ramp, “everything works on my side, but I've gotta tell you, man—”

“Watch the rpms, Dave. You're in third. Fuel economy, and that cop might be watching. Do you
know
what this car sounds like from outside under acceleration?”

“Relax, here,
there's
fifth. Alex, I'm really worried about our time.”

“Are you insane? J.F.'s projecting 31 hours and change, and we're only halfway into the first night. My Garmin says my driving average was…just above 92.”

“Too slow, Alex. Trust me.”

“Dave, I know how good you are. Just don't get a ticket trying to prove it.”

“I'm telling you…triple digits the whole way or we're not going to make it.” He merged onto the barren interstate at 120.

“Then, Mr. Maher, I invite you to open it up. Do your best, please.” He immediately surged to 130.

“I was kidding, Dave.”

“I wasn't.”

SUNDAY, OCTOBER
8, 2006
INTERSTATE
70
WEST SOMEWHERE IN WESTERN INDIANA
0530
HOURS EST (APPROX)

“Maher, you've got to slow down for a minute. I can't call The Weis,
and
J.F.
and
spot at 135 mph.”

“Are you actually asking me to slow down? I mean, really slow down?”

“Would you rather we miss the intercept with the spotter plane
and
the St. Louis chase car?”

“Fine. One-fifteen. You call, I'll do double duty.”

“Holy shit!” said The Weis over the crackling cell connection. “No wonder I can barely hear you! Wait…you guys are something like…30 or 40 minutes ahead of projections?! And
you
drove the first leg?”

Maher, spotting a semi in the left at 80, drifted right.

“That's right,” I said nervously. “Yeah, The Weis, that was me.”

“Good boy. Proud of you. My God…and Maher's picked it up even more? I've got to wake the Bulgarian—” Maher accelerated to 120. The M5 shuddered as we passed the truck at a 40 mph differential. “Jesus, what was that?”

I shook my head. “A bad pass.” Maher snickered.

“Relax,” said The Weis, “if we're still talking, he knows what he's doing. Call me when you're 100 miles out. Good luck! Don't get caught…this is incredible—”

The connection cut out.

“I'm back-spotting, Dave, and that was
not
a good move.”

“There's no one for him to call out here. Burns more gas to slow and speed up again.”

“Ramp check…and it's clear. I hope you're right. Pass on the left, Dave. You want to pass a truck? One hundred max. Twice across and I've never had a trucker call me in.”

“Okay, sorry. Who's the Bulgarian?”

“George Kruntschev, but we just call him the Bulgarian. Paul met him at Columbia Business School. Very connected in St. Louis, in case we're caught. I think he's friends with the mayor. Ramp check…ramp clear.”

“Thanks. What's he driving?”

“Audi S4.”

“I hope he's as good as J.F.”

“I hope his wife doesn't stop him at the last second.”

“Alex, can I pick it up now?”

“Ramp clear. Thermals clear.”

“One twenty-five it is.”

The CB crackled. I adjusted the squelch.
“—little blue car damn near blew my doors off!”

“Nice one, Dave. That must be our friend in the truck back there. What's your plan now? Go faster?”

“Of course. What do you think?”

“They're behind us, it's all clear ahead. Let's get some distance.”

“I like it when you talk like that. One-thirty it is.”

“Thermals clear. Flat out.”

“I can't believe you said that. It's like not even the real Alex.”

“Dave…everything has its time and place, like this turn coming up in the thermal, I'd take it slow, just in case there's a cop on the right…just beyond
that
tree there.”

The engine's growl rose in pitch.

“And,” said Maher, “
I'm
saying it's Sunday before dawn.”

J.F. sent a new projection: 30:49, and dropping.

Despite everything I'd learned in three years, Maher was still 5 percent faster. As long as his aggression was confined to the flat, open, night stages, I had no objection. The near invulnerability granted by the thermal camera made high-speed night driving far safer than daytime. Over the 1,405 miles composing his portion of the driveplan, a 5 percent increase in driving speed meant a 20-to 30-minute time gain. Ego-driven tradition—largely based on car ownership, and whether any women awaited us at the next checkpoint—would have made my next suggestion inconceivable at any other time or place.