The Driver

by Alexander Roy

  “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 ou
r 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—

  “Alex,” said Maher, fatigue now in his voice, “how far from Oklahoma City to the pier?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because we’re gonna hit Oklahoma City in a bit.”

  “About 1,400 miles.”

  “What about these tolls coming up? Are these the tolls where you broke down?”

  “Cowbell Ground, this is The Weis, you guys consider just making a run for it?”

  “Alex?” said Maher. “Alex? I need you.”

  “Cowbell Ground, this is Nueve, you really should consider rolling through.”

  I pulled out my wallet. Maher slowed and veered toward an empty lane. I handed him $3.50 and held my breath. If there was even one undercover waiting, if the M5 failed—

  My eyes fell upon the lower Garmin, the 2650, the copilot’s primary. Our overall average was 93.7 mph. It had to be wrong. I checked the upper Garmin, the 2730, my backup. Our running projection was now 30:30.

  We were almost halfway. Approximately 1,500 miles remained. Despite Maher’s extraordinarily provocative driving, we hadn’t been stopped. His second stage was almost over, after which he had one. I had two. We had an enormous time credit—a precious treasure soon to be mine to expend as necessary. I’d have 900 miles on which to exercise my judgment, the final 300 known to me virtually by heart. Then Maher would see.

  Maher pulled out of the toll. “Looks like the car’s going to make it.”

  So could we, if only for the storm.

  “Cowbell Ground, Code Orange, Cop in the median. Take it easy for next mile.”

  “Alex, what’s wrong? You’re quiet.”

  “Sorry, Dave. Just thinking about that storm.”

  “We see you slow, Cowbell Ground, no need to copy.”

  “What storm?”

  “J.F. says there’s a storm in New Mexico.”

  “Wait…how bad is it?”

  “It’s still 450 miles away. Too soon to tell.”

  “Dude, it’s over. We’re not going to break it.”

  I couldn’t believe his logic. We’d already made history. Nine and I had achieved—from New York to the first breakdown at the Will Rogers Toll Plaza—an overall average of 89.4 mph, or 31:56. Impressive, but insufficient for a legitimate claim on the record, even had we finished. Maher and I had averaged 93.7 mph over the same distance.

  “You guys are all clear, Cowbell Ground, put the hammer down!”

  “Dave. I think you’re wrong. I’ll call J.F. for closer tracking of it.”

  He glanced at his Garmin, then mine. “Do you really trust these things?”

  “Totally.”

  “Alex, if we’re in the high 93, then…”

  “Yes, the midthirties. We can still make it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I couldn’t imagine Maher slowing down under any circumstances. Except in the face of futility. He had to keep believing it.

  “Yes, Maher, just don’t push here. Too dangerous. Let’s not blow it.”

  “Alex, the only danger is in not pushing it.”

  “We’re going to make it. We’re doing well.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Doing well.”

  The pier was 1,500 miles away. Texas was only 312. I raised the Steiners.

  CHAPTER 35

  The Omigod of Wrong

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 8, 2006

  INTERSTATE 44 (WESTBOUND)

  APPROACHING BRISTOW, OKLAHOMA

  MIDDAY

  “The irony, Mr. Maher, would be if we get stopped right after I took over, and I got charged for all the crap you pulled.”

  “Won’t be long now.”

  “Cowbell Ground, I’m going 125 knots and you are outrunning me.”

  “Alex, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be ready to turn over the reins when this tank is empty.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” said a voice on the CB, “these boys are trying to break the sound barrier!”

  “Not the sound barrier!” Maher laughed.

  “Cowbell Ground, you’ve got heavy traffic coming up, stand by.”

  Maher saw one last opportunity to accelerate and advance within the thickening rows of trucks slowing just ahead, and took it. I cringed.

  “Nice move, Cowbell Ground. Keep it up.”

  I shook my head. “So that’s how you make friends?”

  “Paul liked it.”

  “Of course The Weis liked it. He wishes he was in the car. By the way, we just passed where the cop stopped to help the last time.”

  “Now, that is ironic.”

  “Almost as ironic as how few gaps in the concrete median there are for them to turn around, and how fast the first cop we’d seen in 20 miles turned around and found us. FYI, we’re coming up on the second and last toll in the state, pretty soon.”

  I spotted the booths rapidly approaching in the distance. I pulled out $3.50 and held it right by the shift knob for easy access.

  “Cowbell Ground, you are all clear after the tolls.”

  “Alex! What’s that?” The car shuddered, Maher’s foot visibly on the brake pedal as we slowed into the clearest of the toll lanes.

  “What is it?” I yelled as we stopped beside the toll collector. “How does the car feel?”

  “I repeat, all clear after the tolls.”

  I turned down the volume so as not to attract the collector’s attention. Maher handed over the money and slowly pulled out.

  “Brakes,” he said nervously, “but only under slight braking.”

  “We’re about halfway, you’re the car guy.” My heart pounded. “Will something break loose and kill us?”

  “I say no. Maybe warped discs? We can make it.”

  “We have brand-new discs, rotors, and pads. You have braking power?”

  He braked again. The car shuddered. Again. “I think we’ll make it,” he said.

  “I concur. Now hand me the toll receipt for the evidence bag.”

  “
Here. I don’t know how much more irony I can take,” said Maher, accelerating through 100, “breaking down at the second toll would have been…man, whew.”

  “How about this one? Looks like we’re refueling just west of Oklahoma City, right past my final breakdown in April.”

  “Oh, great—”

  “Hey, westbounders!” said the CB. “You got a bear coming up in the hammer lane!”

  “Bear?” said Maher. “Where? Not behind us. How come the plane didn’t tell us?”

  I raised the Steiners and frantically scanned the horizon. “I dunno.”

  “Here he comes,” said another trucker, “westbound at the 179.”

  “Alex! Didn’t we just pass the 179?!”

  I put down the Steiners. “Yeah. They’re talking about us.”

  “Damn, don’t know if I’ve ever seen a BMW with that many antennas on it!”

  Maher frowned. “Is that a good thing?”

  “Was there some other car you would have preferred we take? Your Porsche?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Cowbell Ground, Cowbell Air, you’re looking real fast from up here. Let’s keep this up as far as we can, will warn on Oklahoma City approach.”

  Our most entertaining conversation since New York came to a dead stop.

  Both my Garmins concurred. We were just over 50 miles from Governor Henry’s office. Then we were 40. Then 30.

  “Maher, I don’t care if you have to coast this car past the city. Just do it.”

  Fifteen miles.

  The I-44/I-35 interchange—northeast corner of the city’s ring road and de facto border—was in sight. Although my speed-trap research indicated a northern route around the city (via the John Kilpatrick Turnpike) would have been safer, fuel economy and time dictated we take I-44—shorter and vastly more dangerous

  Directly through the city’s heart.

  “Cowbell Ground, we are peeling off, will reintercept on far side, good luck.”

  “Cowbell Ground, Nueve calling. In case you go to the big house, recommend teriyaki fast-chew strategy…very stinky…ward off new friends on the inside.”

  I was too focused to think of a comeback. The Steiners hadn’t left my eyes for 10 minutes. My shoulders were on fire. “Maher—”

  “What?!” he snapped. I was strangely glad to see him so tense. It meant I wasn’t alone. It meant he was aware his 10 hours of Herculean driving would be for naught if we were stopped beyond the approaching interchange.