The Driver

by Alexander Roy

  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).

  CHAPTER 34

  The Storm Chasers

  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 ne
ws 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.

  “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 be
tween 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

  N39 02.188 W88 46.402

  0645HOURS 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.”