Copyright © 2013 Disney Enterprises, Inc.
Mustang is a trademark of Ford Motor Company. All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.
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ISBN 978-1-4231-8826-1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Photos from the Film
Up in a cold blue sky, two gleaming silver fighter jets thundered through the clouds. They leveled off and anxiously scanned the skies ahead. “What’s taking this guy so long?” one of the jets asked, eager to face his competition. “Is he really as good as they say he is?”
“No,” the other jet replied, and then smirked. “Better.”
Like a bolt of lightning, a plane darted out of the clouds. There was no mistaking its sleek lines and smooth moves. They were legendary in the world of air racing. It was Dusty Crophopper!
“You ready to lose?” Dusty said to the two jets.
“Last one to the water tower buys a round of fuel,” one of them replied.
Dusty chuckled. He was feeling generous. “Tell you what. I’ll give you guys a head start. You’re going to need it.”
“Later, loser,” one of the jets said, and gunned it. The second jet was right behind him.
A confident Dusty watched them as he patiently counted off the seconds. “One one-thousand, two one-thousand…” Then he smiled and said, “That’s enough.” He instantly caught up to the jets and, in a sudden burst of speed, zipped by them both. “See ya, suckers!” he called back to the stunned pair. “Eat my dust!”
“DUSTY!”
Dusty blinked and looked around. An old biplane named Leadbottom was calling to him. “Pay attention! You’re daydreamin’ again!”
“Me? No,” said Dusty, a single-prop agricultural plane. He was momentarily confused. Then it all came rushing back. He was crop dusting an endless sea of corn in the middle of a field in Propwash Junction, Minnesota. There were no fighter jets in sight—only Leadbottom, his boss, flying below him. Dusty cringed when he saw that he had accidentally sprayed Leadbottom instead of the field!
He looked down at the rusty biplane and sighed. “Okay, yes. But c’mon. How hard is this? Fly straight, turn around, fly straight, turn around.”
Leadbottom frowned. “Are you disrespecting the sweet science of aerial application?” he asked. Leadbottom had been crop dusting for decades, and he was proud of the trade that made the corn in Minnesota grow so high.
Dusty sighed. “Look, I am more than just a crop duster.”
But Leadbottom was losing patience. “Don’t go flap-jawin’ about that Flings Around The Planet air-racin’ nonsense again!” he grumbled.
“It’s called the Wings Around The Globe Rally!” Dusty replied. “And it’s not nonsense.”
Dusty was convinced that he had what it took to compete with the best of them. “I’ve got a tight turn radius, a high power-to-weight ratio…,” he told Leadbottom.
“Oh, yeah, and ya know what else ya got?” his boss asked.
“What?” Dusty replied, hoping a compliment was coming his way.
“A screw loose!” Leadbottom declared. “I mean, why would ya want to give up crop dustin’? Blue skies, no air traffic, and that tangy scent of Vita-minamulch!” Old Leadbottom burped up a spray of the stuff. Dusty knew that no matter how long he dusted crops, he would never get used to that awful smell!
“Mmmm,” Leadbottom said, savoring the pungent aftertaste. “Just like Momma used to spray.”
“Ugh! Well, they say the sense of smell is the first thing to go,” Dusty replied. Just then, he heard the sound of a train whistle in the distance. “Oh! Quittin’ time!” he said as he zoomed off.
Leadbottom grumbled to himself. “Crop duster wantin’ ta be a racer,” he said. “Ya ask me, more racers should wanna be crop dusters.”
But Dusty didn’t hear a word. He was headed for town. As he reached Propwash’s sleepy airport, he could see planes, tugs, and ground vehicles going about their business.
He flew toward the local gas station, the Fill ’n’ Fly, where an old fuel truck named Chug was loading jerry cans onto a cart for a small tug named Sparky. Chug filled the cans and shook his head at the sorry state of the fuel business. “Nowadays they got soybean fuel, switchgrass fuel, algae fuel? Come on!”
“Ugh,” Sparky said, shaking his head in disgust. “Healthy! No tank you.”
“Tell me about it,” Chug replied. “What’s next? Pistachio propane? For my money, there’s nothin’ like good ol’-fashioned corn fuel. I even made up a slogan: ‘Corn: It gives ya gas!’”
“Catchy! I like that!” Sparky replied with a grin.
Chug gave Sparky the last of the cans, and the tug headed off. “Catch you later!” he told Chug.
“Sure thing!” Chug replied. Just then, he saw Dusty zooming overhead. Chug’s radio crackled to life. “This is Dusty Crophopper to Chug. Over.”
Chug frowned. “Chug isn’t here. Use the new call sign.”
Dusty couldn’t help grinning. “Oh, right,” he said. “This is Strut Jetstream calling Turbo Coach Truckzilla. Ready for practice?”
“You betcha, Strut!” Chug exclaimed, and zipped off in high gear. He lived for the practice sessions with his best buddy. Chug knew Dusty had the heart of a champion, and he was proud to help the plane train for the Wings Around The Globe Rally.
As Chug headed for the cornfields, Dusty zoomed over a hangar and rattled its metal walls. An old World War II fighter plane named Skipper peeked out the hangar window.
He watched the young hotshot in the sky and muttered, “Punk.”
Chug skidded to a stop at the edge of an airfield that overlooked miles of cornfields dotted with tall grain silos. He watched as Dusty flew out and circled back. “All right, buddy,” Chug radioed, “I got ya in sight. Now let’s start with some corn-row sprints! Drop and give me twenty!”
Dusty revved up the power and began his run as Chug consulted his trusty training manual.
“Nice turn!” said Chug when he looked up at Dusty. “Now let’s try some tree-line moguls! All the way up and down. Don’t be doggin’ it!”
Dusty did a great job as he made his way up and over the treetops.
“Lookin’ good,” Chug said enthusiastically. Then he turned to another page in his manual. “Okay, uh, adjust your angle of bank with your alien-irons.”
Dusty laughed at his friend’s pronunciation of the word for the rudderlike control surfaces on his wings. “You mean ailerons?”
“Yeah, right,” replied Chug.
Dusty was enjoying his run when suddenly his engine made a loud noise. He looked at his control panel and saw tha
t the needle on his oil gauge was dropping. “Aw, great!” Dusty said to himself, knowing he must be leaking oil. He quickly radioed Chug, banked off, and headed over to see Dottie, the best plane mechanic in the county.
Soon Dusty was up on a scissor lift with Dottie peering under his hood. “Hmm, oil lines and oil cooler check out, AN8 fittings look fine,” she said as she adjusted her headlamp for a better look. “Wait a minute.” She narrowed her eyes accusingly. “You’ve worn out your main bearing seal.”
“Really?” Dusty asked innocently.
Dottie frowned. “That kind of damage comes from extremely high speeds, pushing the engine to the red line for prolonged periods of time. But that’s not you; you’re a crop duster, and all you do is dust crops at very low speeds.”
“Yep, low and slow,” agreed Dusty.
Dottie looked at him suspiciously. “Unless you’ve been racing again!”
Just then, Chug came barreling into the garage. “Oh, man, Duster!” he said excitedly. “You were in the zone! Where a Saturn rocket couldn’t catch ya! Ballistic! We’re talking light speed! You’re gonna tear it up at the qualifier this weekend.” He saw Dottie’s face and realized he had gotten Dusty into trouble.
Dottie stared at them both in disbelief. “Dusty, you’re not built to race. You’re built to dust crops. Do you know what will happen if you push it too far?”
Dusty and Chug felt a little guilty. Dottie had warned them that racing was dangerous for Dusty, and they hadn’t listened. But that wasn’t enough for Dottie. She began waving her arms. “Wing flutter, metal fatigue, turbine failure!” she cried. “‘Oh no! I’m going down! Why didn’t I listen to Dottie? She’s the smartest mechanic in the world! Oh my gosh! The orphanage! Kids, fly out of the way!’”
Chug gasped in horror and cried, “Not the orphanage!”
Then Dottie made long, drawn-out explosion noises as she collapsed on her side.
Dusty was momentarily speechless. “Wow,” he said finally, “that was vivid…and specific…and exactly why I need you to come with us to the qualifier!”
“You’re unbelievable,” Dottie replied.
Dusty grinned. “Ya hear that?” he said to Chug proudly. “I’m unbelievable!”
Chug looked over at Dusty with tears in his eyes. He was still upset over the imaginary orphans!
That night, Chug and Dusty hung out watching RSN, the Racing Sports Network. They heard the announcer, Brent Mustangburger, say, “Be sure to tune in four weeks from now for the start of the Wings Around The Globe Rally!”
Dusty took a sip from the can of motor oil he was drinking and said, “Ya know, I think we’ve got a really good shot at this, buddy.”
Chug held up his training manual and nodded. “Oh yeah, especially if I finish the book by then.”
Brent continued, “And now, Racing Sports Network counts down The Ten Best Air Crashes of All Time!”
“Oh, I love this show!” Chug said excitedly.
He and Dusty winced as they watched planes skidding off runways and flying through billboards.
Chug looked nervously at his manual. “Ya know, uh, this might not cover everything you could run into out there.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Dusty.
“I’m just wonderin’ if maybe we need some help,” Chug said.
Dusty seemed confused. “Help? From who?”
“Well, like…the Skipper?” Chug replied.
“That old Corsair down at the end of the runway?” Dusty asked.
Chug nodded. “Sure. He’s a war hero!”
“He’s an old crankshaft,” Dusty replied grumpily.
But Chug knew that Skipper also had a lot of expert advice to offer. “My buddy Sparky says the Skipper was a legendary flight instructor in the navy. He knows stuff!”
Dusty wasn’t enthusiastic. “He’s been grounded for decades. Why would I wanna be coached by a plane who doesn’t even fly?”
“At least he’s a plane!” Chug exclaimed, reminding Dusty that he, Chug, was a fuel truck.
They turned their attention back to the television as Brent announced, “And the number-one crash of all time…”
Dusty and Chug cringed as a huge collision lit up the screen. Luckily, no one was hurt. Still, the friends exchanged a worried look. Then Dusty glanced at Chug’s training manual. For the first time, Dusty had the uneasy feeling that it wasn’t going to be enough to keep him from becoming a highlight on The Ten Best Air Crashes of All Time! He turned to Chug and agreed that talking to Skipper wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Later that night, Chug and Dusty quietly rolled up to Skipper’s old hangar. Everyone at the airfield knew that Skipper was one tough guy who didn’t care much for visitors. A black piston-and-cross-wrenches flag flew ominously over the hangar door.
“They say he shot down fifty planes,” Chug whispered. “I heard stories about his squadron, the Jolly Wrenches. They were the roughest, toughest, meanest fliers in the navy. Ruthless killers who showed no mercy. They’d shoot ya as soon as look at ya.”
Dusty was getting nervous. “I hope you’re right about this,” he said as he pushed his wing against the doorbell. But Chug didn’t reply. Dusty looked over and saw—no one! “Chug?” he called.
Chug peeked out from behind a barrel. “I’ll wait here,” he whispered as the hangar door slowly rolled opened. Soon Dusty was staring into Skipper’s scowling face alone.
“Ahhh…hey there, Skipper,” Dusty said, trying to act calmer than he felt. “Say, uh, I’m trying out for the Wings Around The Globe Rally, and I know you can’t fly anymore…”
Skipper shot him a menacing glare. Dusty realized he might have hit a nerve, and tried to recover. “…but, you know, they say ‘Those who can’t do, teach’…so, um…okay, what I mean to say is, you’re not a truck, so I was wonderin’ if you would…train me?”
The hangar door slammed shut. Dusty looked back at Chug, who was now even farther away. “Go on!” Chug called out from behind a building. “He’s warming up to ya!”
Dusty nodded and rang the doorbell again. When the door rolled open, Skipper looked even angrier than before. Dusty thought he’d try a little flattery this time. “So, uh, I heard you shot down fifty planes,” he said with a sheepish grin.
“You lookin’ to be number fifty-one?” Skipper snapped back.
“No,” Dusty replied quickly. “I figured with my guts and your glory—”
“Your guts would be a grease spot on a runway somewhere,” Skipper said, cutting Dusty off. “Go home. You’re in over your head, kid.”
“Look, you flew all—” Dusty began, but Skipper slammed the hangar door shut again.
Dusty sighed. He couldn’t help feeling disappointed and a little rejected. Chug wanted Dusty to try again, but Dusty knew that nothing he could say would change Skipper’s mind. He headed back home.
Dusty continued to practice without the help of a real trainer. Chug helped Dusty all he could, and Dottie stopped trying to talk him out of his plan, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. Soon they were all on their way to Lincoln, Nebraska, for a qualifying race for the Wings Around The Globe Rally. Dusty was ready to give it his all!
As they approached the airstrip, they could see that the stands were packed with fans. The air was full of excitement as the racers and their service vehicles scurried through pit row, getting ready.
Dusty, Chug, and Dottie rolled down the tarmac. “I don’t know how you talked me into coming to this,” Dottie said to Dusty.
“Oh, come on, Dottie,” Dusty said with a grin. He couldn’t believe that anyone would be less than thrilled to be there. This was one of the most exciting racing events of the year! He and Chug couldn’t stop looking at all the sleek racing aircraft around them.
“Check it out!” Chug gasped as a biplane did stunts overhead.
Two smaller racers named Ned and Zed took the microphone. “May we have your attention, please!” said Ned.
“Kindly direct your wi
ndscreens to the heavens above and give a warm welcome to our special guest,” Zed instructed.
Just then, the sound of a powerful racer roared overhead.
“The Prince of Propellers!” Ned announced. “When he’s speedin’, he’s leadin’!”
The plane he was talking about tipped toward the press and flashed a big smile. “Get my good side, fellas!” he told them.
“When he’s grinnin’, he’s winnin’!” Ned added proudly. “The one and only…”
“Rip-SLING-a!” Ripslinger shouted as he tore through clouds of smoke. “You’re caught in the RIP-tide!”
Dottie coughed as the smoke cleared. “With all that self-promotion, at least he’s modest.”
“Dottie!” Dusty exclaimed, shocked by her sarcastic remark. “That’s Ripslinger!”
“He’s captain of Team RPX!” added Chug.
“They call him the Green Tornado!” Chug and Dusty said together.
“He’s so good,” Dusty went on breathlessly, “he’s prequalified. Oh, and those other two, Ned and Zed, the Twin Turbos, they’re world-class racers!”
Dottie still wasn’t impressed. “You know, I hear they used to be one plane and were separated at birth.”
“Wow,” Chug said, “I wish I was separated at birth.”
Dottie just shook her head. She couldn’t believe some of the things Chug said sometimes!
The crowd cheered as the racers lined up. Dusty listened intently as the race official pitty explained the day’s big event.
“Okay, people, this is the last of the four time trials being held worldwide,” he said. “Today’s qualifying round is one lap around the pylons. The top five finishers will qualify for the Wings Around The Globe Rally.”
A racer named Fonzarelli rolled onto the runway. He would be the first to take the course. “He’s through the start gate!” cried the official. “The racers must pass through the blue pylons on the horizontal and around the red pylons on the knife edge.” Everyone watched as Fonzarelli navigated the course with ease. “Amazing pitch control—smooth, fast, clean. He’s going into the final turn. Attacking the climb.” The crowd stared in awe as the racer masterfully completed the loop and streaked to the finish.
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