The Driver (36 page)

“Maher, can you handle two legs back-to-back?”

“What's that…1,300 miles nonstop?”

“One fuel stop. The way you're driving, it'll be 1,100, maybe.”

“Are you serious?”

“I drove two in a row last time. It's tough. It'll screw up the driveplan. I can't drive in Oklahoma, obviously, so it'll mean one
more
additional stop.”

“I'll do it, but are you sure we can afford the extra stop?”

“If you draft every truck, run a racing line—”

“—and never downshift?” He chuckled.

“Yeah, smart guy, you'll squeeze a little more fuel economy out. Maher, it is
absolutely
essential that this car not stop anywhere in Oklahoma. Even for gas. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

I didn't tell him about J.F.'s last message. There was a storm system forming in New Mexico. Once Maher found out, he'd do exactly as I did in April, but he'd be accelerating into thickening daytime traffic. I began texting J.F. our position for forwarding to The Weis.

“Alex, stop that. I need you spotting.”

“Take it to one-ten and do double duty. They need to know.”

“I need to drive fast. You need to spot.”

“Dave, do you really want to miss that plane?”

“I don't want to miss that record.”

Besides the absolute necessity of the aerial footage for validation, I knew that plane would cut an hour off our time. If only I could get Maher to believe it.

I didn't need J.F.'s calculations to figure it out. We were between 30 and 45 minutes ahead of projections. Not only was our overall average climbing, so was the rate of its ascent. Although The Weis's twin-engine Baron was twice as fast as the prior run's Cessna rental, its fuel consumption at the speeds required to catch up, circle, and find us would be proportionally higher.

If PolizeiAir was late, we'd miss them.

I couldn't slow Maher down even if I wanted to, and, strangely, I wasn't sure I wanted to. Although everything I'd learned remained true, none of it had made a difference in getting us this far, this fast. I was but a passenger, albeit a moderately useful one, unless and until he made a mistake.

I had to alert The Weis. I had to keep spotting.

INTERSTATE
70
WEST
N
39 02.188
W
88 46.402
0645
HOURS EST (APPROX)

“Are you sure?” yelled The Weis. “Aliray, those coordinates…you passed Effingham? So you're…85 miles from St. Louis? We need to get to the airport
now
! Nine! Robin! They're less than an hour out!
Move! Move
—”

“Damn, Maher, I lost him again. I told you I can't spot
or
use the phone at these speeds. You know anything about cell-phone towers?”

“Not really.”

“I'm not asking you to go 60, and this is totally coming out of my ass, but I think 135 is about the speed at which we move faster than rural towers can hand off the signal to the next one. Our phones were never this bad before.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“The Weis had some good news…the weather's clear all the way through Texas.”

“What's the bad news?”

“None so far,” I lied. “Now, can you take it down to 120 so I can make sure the Bulgarian knows when and where to meet us? I want to hit up J.F. as well.”

“One-twenty feels like a crawl. It's still dark enough for bigger speeds. I'll try to hold it down.”

Maher remained silent as I texted J.F. His analysis came back 60 seconds later.

“What does J.F. say?”

“Still worried about our time? I thought you didn't want to know.”

“Okay, I'm
not
worried.”

“Maher, if I tell you it's good, will you get, I don't know, maybe…a little complacent?”

“Sorry, my bad.”

“Mr. Maher, the projection is 30:49.”

The engine's growl rose. Again.

“Don't say it, Alex. We can do better. A lot better.”

I was starting to believe him.

INTERSTATE
55
WEST
CENTRAL ST. LOUIS
EARLY MORNING

“Where are you guys?” the Bulgarian yelled into his phone, the wind whipping through his open car window somewhere within three miles of us. “I just pulled out! Can you give me a road sign or marker?”

“We passed the arches!” I yelled. “Crossed the river, now turning, Interstate 44!”

“What? You're west of the river? What's that horrible high-pitched noise?”

“The gyrostabilizers! For the binoculars! And yes, we're west! Of the river!”

“Know something? My wife was right! You are crazy!”

“What?”

“You missed me! Or I missed you! How fast are you going?”

“Um…looks like 101! Now 105, 106!”

“You're going 106? On I-44? In the city? Where are you now?”

“Lafayette? Tower Grove?”

He closed his window. “My God, Alex, that's the center of town. Guys, good luck. I can't help you if you get caught, not for that. You guys are crazy. Be safe. I'm sorry…I just, I still can't believe how fast you got to St. Louis. Where were you when you called before? Effingham?”

“Cowbell Ground, Cowbell Ground, this is Cowbell Air, enroute to new intercept. Please increase frequency of updates, do you copy?”

“Sorry, the Bulgarian, gotta go!”

“We copy,”
I said into our untested Vertex headset.
“Cowbell Air, next update in one minute. Stand by.”

“Where's the Bulgarian?” said Maher, eyes straight ahead. “Running these speeds through a major city in the daytime, man, we're gonna need his help big-time if we're caught—”

“Better slow down, tough guy, because we missed him.”

“How the hell did that happen? That would have been amazing footage.”

“Well, Dave, maybe because I can only handle seven things at once, and we're so far ahead of the driveplan I can't project—”

“Dude, just throw that thing away. What if the cops see it?”

“I'll eat it, and they won't if you dial it back one percent. You said so yourself…we're in a major city.”

“Alex, keep the driveplan. I want to see you eat that thing. Actually, I didn't mean that. What flavors of Vitamin Water do we have left?”

“Just Revive.”

“Keep that as a chaser. Any Red Bull?”

“Nice and warm, just for you. One sip, and one sip only. No bathroom stops.”

INTERSTATE
44
WEST
VICINITY OF ROLLA, MISSOURI

My phone rang. It was Nine.

“Aliray! Can you hear me? Aliray? Are you getting our radio signals?”

“Loud and clear! Why? Where are you?”

“Approaching Rolla, Missouri? Where are you?”

“Also approaching Rolla, Missouri!”

“We'll find you but we can't hear your radio! We're only getting clicking when you key the—”

DEEDEET!

K-Band. Police radar.

My foot instinctively went for the brake pedal—absent on the passenger side. My eyes darted to the V1's concealed display, just below the speedometer. A bright red arrow flashed, pointing straight ahead. Maher was accelerating.

“Nine! Hang on! Maher!
Why
are you accelerating
toward
the signal?”

“I think it's a false alarm. We're only doing 95. Don't know the speed limit…but we're only 10 to 15 above the flow of traffic.”

“Are you nuts? We have a huge time advantage you're gonna blow if we get caught!”

“Alex, how do you think we got it? You've got to exploit every chance you've got.”

“Aliray! We need your location, can you hear me?”

“Nine!” I yelled into the phone. “Negative on the radio! We'll pull over for an antenna swap! Stand by!”

“Antenna swap?” said Maher. “You surprise me, Mr. Roy.”

“Thanks, now get off here. You can drive 140 all day once Nine has his eyes on the road from up top.”

“This swap better work, dude. We're trading back some hard-earned time credit.”

“Maher, if we get to L.A.
without
plane communications
and
with no tickets, I'll never question you again.”

“If we get there under 31:07, I'll never question
you
again. Hang on…looks like we're low on gas.”

“Which means…we're gonna have to stop in Oklahoma.”

 

Up until that moment I had been searching for reasons as to why
my
strategy might ultimately prevail, why Maher needed to only do his best within the framework of
my
driveplan, and why we would both regret his naked aggression, however masterful.

But Maher, who had met and exceeded all expectations, had earned the arrogance to which he felt entitled. Ignoring my complaints had led to a per-stage time-credit buildup even higher than mine, itself higher than any of the historical run data I'd seen. Barring weather, we would shatter the record
and
exceed our margin of legitimacy. No matter how much I complained, he knew I would keep spotting, and we both knew success grew more likely every minute we remained in our respective seats. My defensive strategy—whether in range or accuracy—was now irrelevant.

Maher's strategy made perfect sense. Unless I or PolizeiAir specifically said
“Cop,”
he would drive flat out.

Until he couldn't.

I understood him completely. The faster he drove, the smoother his command of the car, the greater our credit, the lower our overall time, the shorter my stages, and the less they, slightly slower than his, would bring down the overall average he'd fought so hard to earn.

But, suddenly, the impending debacle in Oklahoma highlighted the potential disaster inherent in the plan he'd unilaterally foisted upon us. Victims of his incredible success, we were now faced with the consequences of his high-speed stages' fuel economy. I hadn't factored for this. He assumed I had. If either of us had perceived the slightest possibility of having to stop in Oklahoma, he would have insisted I drive the prior stage through Missouri, even if at the speed limit. But we didn't, and driving a third consecutive stage, for a total of 15 hours at or above 95 mph, would be physically impossible. Even for Maher.

INTERSTATE
40
WEST
60
MILES TO THE OKLAHOMA BORDER
1005
HOURS EST (APPROX)

“Alex, what does the driveplan say?”

“I ate it. Seriously, anything I tell you becomes an excuse to speed up.”

“It'll make me feel better to know how well we did, just in case this whole thing ends in the next hour.”

“Cowbell Ground,”
said the Captain,
“confirming ramp ahead is clear, we're scouting ahead.” PolizeiAir descended to 1,000 feet, crisscrossed the road in front of us, then disappeared.

“Maher, just get us as far across Oklahoma as you can.”

“If I could drive three in a row, I would, man. Am I eight hours in? Nine?”

“I don't know. How do you feel?”

“Tired, but committed.”

“Me, too.”

“Is it clear to pass this truck on the right?”

I leaned right. “It's clear…with aggression.”

 

It made perfect sense that Oklahoma should be the cauldron of all our efforts. It was precisely halfway across the country. Diem/Turner had broken down there in 1983, at the very same tollbooth haunting my dreams for the past six months. Interstate 40—the lone east–west artery suitable for 100 mph cruising speeds—offered the least cover from police cars and aircraft of any leg in the Driveplan. Although I had changed license plates since April—useful only in escaping a cursory glance, assuming our antennas didn't give us away—my name was almost certainly logged with the state highway patrol and one or more staffers in Governor Brad Henry's office.

“Cowbell Ground, this is Nueve Actual, you are across the border. All clear until further notice. Hammer down.”

My brain, once a highly efficient machine, once capable of weighing the interrelated risk/reward ratios that made every minute of a high-speed solo cross-country run so intellectually fascinating, began to melt.

There were only two choices. Only one retained a piton in the Wall or beyond.

“Cowbell Ground, this is The Weis, all clear until the tollbooths.”

I couldn't ask Maher to slow down.
If
we made it through Oklahoma safely,
if
we were to succeed
this
time, we needed that time credit to trade against the storm in New Mexico.

If anything went wrong in Oklahoma, the run was doomed.

Maher was already at ten-tenths.

He didn't need to know. Yet.

It didn't seem right that my efforts should end in the ignominious abandonment of all I'd learned. Nine and I had crushed Yates and Gurney's 35:54 by what I considered the only possible method, and now Maher was smashing the prism through which I'd seen, planned, and accomplished…everything, for three years.

“Cowbell Ground, the tollbooths are clear, hammer in, hammer out.”

I wanted to get there, but not this way. I could no longer unravel the overlapping webs in which my life, this drive, and my purpose were suspended. The answer had to be on the pier. My father would know. His ghost would be there, behind Turner's and Yarborough's. Beside Sascha. Diem would be waiting. And Yates. Heinz. Maybe even Kenworthy and Rawlings. They were waiting for us, and they didn't care about times. There were no trophies. One only had to get there. No one else could understand. I had to make it…just this once. How much time I had spent…my life, Skyler, Maggie, sacrificed…so I could be here, now, in a car at 131 mph, for nothing other than an idea I could no longer explain. To anyone. I'd lost control, of events, even of my own car—