“Now, that’s some speed! A one-twenty-four-point-one-six,” the official declared. “A very good time for the other racers to try and beat!”
Dusty was thrilled as he watched the next racer blast through the course. “He’s got a great pace going here,” the official said.
But just then, the crowd heard an engine sputter. They gasped as they watched the plane suddenly go down.
“Oh, engine failure!” the official cried. “Outta the race. Bye-bye!”
Another plane took off and tackled the course.
“Oh, no, he did not! That’s a major penalty,” the official said when the racer clipped a pylon. “Sorry, dude.”
After several planes had completed their runs, a timer tug approached Dusty. “Okay, bud. You’re up,” he said.
It was finally Dusty’s turn!
Dottie adjusted Dusty’s wing as Chug filled his tank. “Fueled and ready, man,” Chug said.
“Good ’n’ tight,” Dottie assured Dusty with a flourish of her wrench. Dusty took a deep breath and began taxiing toward the grandstands.
“Phew,” he said to himself as he tried to gather his courage. “This is it.”
As Dusty rolled down the runway, the race official was saying, “Well, it’s been a wonderful day here in Lincoln, and we are down to our last competitor. Wow. From Propwash Junction: Strut Jetstream.”
“Strut Jetstream?” Dottie asked Chug.
“Yeah. Awesomest call sign ever. It was my idea,” he said proudly.
“We are looking for Strut Jetstream!” the official called again.
Dusty pulled up to the announcing stand.
“Hey, ag plane,” the official said. “Get off the runway. We’re racin’ here!”
“I’m Strut Jetstream!” Dusty told him.
The official stared at Dusty and then started to laugh. “What’s going on here? You’re built for seed, not speed!”
Dusty rolled past Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed. Rip took one look at him and said loudly, “You gotta be kidding me. That farmer’s gonna race?”
“Seriously? With a prop that small?” Zed added with a laugh.
Ned joined in. “Maybe he races that leaky ol’ fuel truck next to him!” he teased.
Chug turned and shot back, “Who you callin’ leaky? I’ll leak on you if ya don’t shut your intake!”
“Chug,” Dottie said, “don’t lower yourself to their level.” Then she turned to Dusty. “Go on,” she added encouragingly.
Dusty made his way to the starting line as the fans in the stands looked at him and began to laugh. He took a big gulp of air. He was trying not to let their sneering rattle him. But he couldn’t help hearing them yell, “Who’s that guy? Go back to the country! Cornfield’s over thattaway!”
Dusty took his place at the end of the runway. It took all his self-control, but he blocked out the voices and focused on the task ahead. This was his one big chance—and he had to do his best.
“It’s his first appearance at a time trial,” said the official. “It’s going to be a tall order for him to knock Fonzarelli out of fifth place.”
Dusty roared through the starting gate. “And he’s off!” the official exclaimed as Dusty zoomed toward his first pylon. He was only ten feet off the ground!
“Wait! What?” the official shouted. “He is practically mowin’ the lawn!” Dusty was flying low, but he was quickly picking up speed. The crowd watched in awe as he blasted through the course.
“Now he’s only half a second behind Fonzarelli, and he is closing in rapidly,” the official cried as Dusty headed into the loop. “He’s back on that stick, up he goes…up and away! Now only two-tenths of a second behind.”
“He’s gonna do it! He’s gonna do it!” Chug shouted as Dusty shot across the finish line.
“Oh, yes, what a finish!” the official said breathlessly. “Now, that’s what you call flying!”
Dottie and Chug rushed over to Dusty, amazed. “Way to go, Dustmeister! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Chug cheered.
Finally, the official called the time. “Jetstream. Official time is one minute, twenty-four point two six seconds. Sixth place, but what a close one! Well, folks, that wraps up the tryouts for the Wings Around The Globe Rally. It’s been one heck of a day.”
Dusty sighed as he looked at the leaderboard. He had missed qualifying by only one-tenth of a second!
Just then, Fonzarelli rolled up with a few kind words. “Hey, pal,” he said. “Sixth place ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. That was a heck of a run.”
Dusty smiled weakly and thanked him. But as the racer disappeared, so did Dusty’s smile. He wondered if Skipper was right after all. Maybe he didn’t have what it took to be a world-class racer.
Dusty returned to Propwash Junction and went back to his old routine—except it no longer included flying runs with Chug. He had packed up his dream of racing and tried to be content crop dusting the fields alongside Leadbottom. That was exactly what he was doing when a truck came barreling down the road, hitting every pothole roughly.
The truck skidded to a stop at Chug’s filling station and backed up. A voice inside shouted, “Why don’t you go back? I think you actually missed a pothole. You’ve got to be the worst, I mean the worst delivery truck that has ever delivered a delivery!” Then the door at the back rolled up, and a rattled-looking race official rolled out.
“Please tell me this is Propwash Junction,” he said to Chug.
“Sure is,” Chug answered.
“I’m lookin’ for Strut Jetstream,” the official said.
“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell,” Chug replied.
“I have documentation that says Strut Jetstream lives in Propwash Junction,” the official insisted.
“Oh, wait a minute,” Chug said. The name did sound familiar.
Just then, Dusty rolled up. “I’m Strut Jetstream,” he said. “But you’re mispronouncing it slightly.” He looked a little embarrassed. “It’s actually pronounced Dusty Crophopper.”
“Dusty Crophopper?” repeated the official.
Dusty scrambled for an explanation. “It’s Scandinavian,” he said finally.
The race official looked at the filthy—and stinky—crop duster in front of him. He made a face as he sniffed Dusty. “What is that ?” he asked.
“It’s Vita-minamulch,” Dusty replied.
“Vita-minamuna-what?” asked the official.
Leadbottom couldn’t resist chiming in. “The finest-smelling compost this side of the Mississippi!” he said proudly. “Original, creamy, and chunky style.” He began to sing as he happily rolled away. “I got some minamulch, yeah, I got some minamulch, yeah, some Vita-minamulch, early in the mornin’.”
The racing official shook his head. “That ol’ airplane needs some help. Y’all know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Dusty and Chug said in unison, nodding. They knew Leadbottom’s enthusiasm for his job could seem a little weird to strangers.
Finally, the official turned to the business at hand. “Are you familiar with the racing fuel additive Nitro-Methane?” he asked them.
“Oh, yeah! Zip juice!” Chug said excitedly. “Go-go punch! That stuff’ll blur your vision and slur your speech!”
“It’s illegal,” the official said, and then looked at Chug suspiciously.
Chug nodded quickly and began backpedaling as fast as he could. “Totally illegal,” he said. “Wouldn’t know what it looks like.”
“That substance was found in the tank of the fifth-place qualifier,” the official continued. “Illegal fuel intake is an automatic disqualification.”
Dusty looked shocked. “Wait, so you’re saying—”
“He’s out. You’re in,” the official said flatly. “Congratulations.”
Dusty couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, but Chug’s huge grin convinced him. “You’re in!” Chug shouted. Then the fuel truck turned to everyone else nearby and yelled, “You’re never gonna believe this! He’s in! D
usty’s in the race!”
“What? Are you serious?” Dottie asked as everyone gathered around Dusty.
“Our Dusty, flyin’ around the world!” someone shouted.
“I’d never try something as crazy as that,” said someone else.
Chug was beside himself with pride. “Man, it’s gonna be cool! You’re gonna cross oceans thousands o’ miles wide, freezin’ your rudder off one day—”
“And burnin’ it off the next!” Sparky exclaimed.
“Hurricanes, cyclones, typhoons, monsoons, tornadoes, sandstorms, gale-force winds…” Sparky and Chug said, imagining the weather Dusty might come up against.
But as Dusty listened, his smile began to falter a little. This was going to be a bigger undertaking than he had thought.
After all the congratulations had ended, Dusty went back into his hut. He stared at the world map tacked to his wall and began to doubt himself.
“Bad idea,” came a voice from behind him. Dusty turned to see Skipper in his doorway. The old plane had just heard the news that Dusty was going to be in the race. He looked at the crop-dusting plane and frowned. “You’ll end up a smokin’ hole on the side of a mountain with your parts spread over five countries.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Dusty.
“You’re going up against the best racers in the world,” Skipper told him, “and some of them don’t even finish. You’re sloppy on your rolls, wide on your turns, and slow on your straightaways.”
Dusty turned to Skipper with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You’ve been watching me?” he asked, surprised.
“Watchin’ ya make a fool out of yourself,” Skipper replied. “You need to be tighter gettin’ in and outta your knife edge.”
Dusty nodded eagerly. He knew Skipper was talking about when Dusty went from flying straight to tilting over and flying completely on his side.
“Any extra control input costs you speed and seconds,” Skipper said.
“You think I’m overcorrecting?” Dusty asked.
Skipper nodded. “Absolutely. Rookie mistake.”
“Are you giving me pointers?” replied Dusty.
Skipper was surprised. He’d thought all the mistakes he was pointing out would discourage the rookie. Now he could see that Dusty wasn’t taking it that way at all. Skipper decided it was time to give it to him straight. “I’m tellin’ ya to forget all this racin’ malarkey!” he said angrily. “You just ain’t built for it. You’re a crop duster.”
“You don’t think I know that?” Dusty said angrily. “I’m the one who’s been flyin’ back and forth across the same fields day after day, month after month, for years. I’ve flown thousands of miles, and I’ve never been anywhere. Not like you. You were built to fight—and look what you did! You’re a hero! I’m just tryin’ to prove that maybe I can do more than what I was built for.” He looked Skipper square in the eye. “You know what? Just forget it. You’ll never understand.”
Skipper sighed. He knew the kid wasn’t going to give up. If Dusty insisted on racing, Skipper decided he had better help him. “Oh-five-hundred tomorrow. Don’t be late!” he barked.
“Oh-five-hundred?” Dusty asked Sparky.
“Yeah,” answered Sparky with a chuckle. “Five a.m.”
Dusty beamed. His training started first thing in the morning!
The following morning as the sun rose over Propwash Junction, Chug, Sparky, and Skipper watched Dusty zoom over the cornfields. “Sparky, binoculars,” Skipper said.
Chug admired the glasses as Sparky handed them to Skipper. “Those are some mighty clean optics there,” Chug said. “What do you use, some kind of chamois?”
“No, it’s a special microfiber cloth. Lint-free, scratch-free. I’ll get ya some,” Sparky replied.
“Really?” Chug said excitedly.
Sparky nodded. “I got an ex-navy buddy, sells ’em to me wholesale. I helped him set up his website.”
“Knock it off!” Skipper finally barked at them. “We got a lotta work to do!”
Chug and Sparky piped down. Then Sparky whispered, “I’ll hook ya up!”
“Thanks!” Chug whispered back.
“All right,” Skipper radioed to Dusty. “Remember this: It ain’t how fast ya fly, it’s how ya fly fast. Show me what ya got!”
“Watch this!” said Dusty. He did some tree-line moguls.
“Great,” said Skipper. “You can go up and down. What else? Show me your turns.”
Dusty did some turns, but Skipper was not impressed. “You think that was good?” he asked. “That stunk. Knife-edge those elm trees! Keep your nose up!”
“Hey, Skip—” Dusty began, but his coach interrupted him.
“You want speed, right? Serious, bolt-rattlin’ speed?”
“Oh, yeah!” Dusty shouted.
“Then look up,” Skipper told him.
Dusty saw long parallel lines of stippled clouds that looked like streets above him.
“The Highway in the Sky,” Skipper continued. “Tailwinds like nothin’ you’ve ever flown!”
Dusty stopped smiling.
“What are you waiting for?” Skipper shouted as Dusty maintained the same low altitude.
Dusty shut his eyes and pulled up, climbing higher and higher into the sky.
“C’mon, power up. Firewall thrust. Max torque! Looking good. Max rate now. Get your nose down. You’re gonna stall. Ease off the pitch. Nose down,” Skipper said, watching through his binoculars.
Dusty opened his eyes and looked down. Below him, the ground seemed to spin. Shaking, he peeled off and descended out of the clouds.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Skipper yelled.
Moments later, Dusty landed. He struggled to calm down and catch his breath as Skipper, Chug, and Sparky rolled up. “What just happened up there?” Skipper asked.
“I’m, ah, low on fuel,” Dusty replied.
“Do I look like I was built yesterday?” Skipper asked angrily, knowing Dusty was holding something back. “The Jolly Wrenches have a motto: Volo Pro Veritas. It means ‘I fly for truth.’ Clearly you don’t! Sparky, push me back to the hangar.”
Dusty didn’t want to lose Skipper as his coach. He took a deep breath and blurted out his secret. “I’m afraid of heights,” he admitted.
“But you’re a plane!” said Chug.
“I’m a crop duster. I’ve never flown over a thousand feet,” an embarrassed Dusty replied.
“Scared of heights and you want to race around the world?” asked Skipper. He couldn’t imagine what Dusty was thinking.
Sparky jumped in and tried to smooth things over. “Ah, Skip,” he said, “during the attack of Tujunga Harbor, why, even P-38s had trouble at high altitudes.”
“Well, they didn’t have to fly over the Himalayas, did they?” replied Skipper, reminding Dusty of what he’d have to tackle in the race.
“I’ll still be low to the ground. Just high up,” Dusty argued.
Sparky nodded enthusiastically, hoping to win Skipper over. “After the war, those 38s went on to win races!”
“Really, is that true?” asked Chug.
“Oh, yeah!” replied Sparky. “Like in the Cleveland race of ’forty-six.”
Sparky and Chug went back and forth trying to convince Skipper that Dusty’s fear of heights didn’t matter, until Skipper couldn’t take it anymore. “All right! All right!” he said. “So you’re a flat hatter. We’ll work on that, but for now let’s see if we can turn low and sloppy into low and fast.”
“Roger that!” Dusty answered, grateful for a second chance. The two had an understanding. Dusty would tell Skipper the truth about everything from now on.
At the next training session, Skipper had Dusty fly a slalom course through some silos. “The flag marks the start line,” Skipper said. “Across the cornfields three silos are waiting for you. Slalom those with a radial G pass.”
“A radial what pass?” Dusty asked.
But Skipper just kept talking. “Once
you get to the trees, go to your optimal rate of climb, to about five hundred feet. Roll inverted and extend, trading altitude for airspeed, and dive toward the finish line.”
“Okay,” Dusty replied uncertainly.
“You string all that together, and you might have a chance to beat him,” declared Skipper.
“Who am I racing?” asked Dusty. High above, a passenger plane was approaching.
“Here he comes,” Skipper radioed to Dusty. “He’s a twin commuter pushing about fifteen hundred horsepower.”
Dusty looked up nervously. “He’s pretty high up,” he radioed back.
“You’re not racing him. You’re racing his shadow,” Skipper said. “Beat it to the water tower.”
Dusty looked down and saw the plane’s shadow as it passed over the ground. It was moving fast.
“Let’s do this. Thread the silos. Tighter! Lean into your turns more!” Skipper urged. “Let’s go, Dusty. Faster! You’re falling behind!”
But the shadow passed the tower first, well ahead of Dusty. Skipper frowned. There was no doubt in his mind that if Dusty was going to have any hope of winning, he needed to improve his airspeed.
“So we can increase power or we can decrease drag,” said Dottie. She showed Dusty a picture of himself—then ripped off the section with his sprayer.
Dusty looked uncomfortable. “Definitely increase power!” he quickly answered.
Dottie hooked him up to some machines to help him do just that, and then Skipper took over and taught him how to use the power. “Remember, now,” Skipper said. “Altitude for airspeed. Gravity is your ally. The laws of physics govern speed.”
Dusty practiced what he’d learned over and over again. One day, he managed to weave perfectly through the silos while still keeping an eye on the plane’s shadow just ahead of him.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” said Skipper excitedly. “Firewall the throttle. Go! Go! Go!”
Dusty picked up speed and climbed higher.
“Catch him in the dive!” cried Skipper. “Dive now!”
Planes Junior Novel Page 2