The next night, the racers headed off on the second leg of the race, which would take them from Iceland to Germany. Dusty was finally in his comfort zone. He flew low, and just like he had practiced weaving between silos in the cornfields back home, Dusty easily dodged the pylons and caught up to Bulldog.
Bulldog could see Dusty coming up from behind. He was increasing his speed and altitude to get away from the annoying crop duster when his cowling—the metal cover over his engine—suddenly burst. Oil squirted out over his canopy, completely blinding him. “Ahhh!” Bulldog yelled as he flipped over and started falling from the sky. “Mayday, mayday, mayday!” he radioed. “I’m blinded!”
A special graphic flashed across TV screens around the world. “We’re receiving breaking news of an incident in the skies over Germany involving one of the racers,” announced Brent Mustangburger. “Let’s check in with Sky Cam One for more information.”
Sky Cam One reported back quickly. “Bulldog, the legendary flier from the U.K., is in tremendous danger. It looks like he’s flying blind, losing speed, losing altitude.”
As Bulldog arced down, he radioed again. “Mayday, mayday, mayday! I need assistance. Is anyone there?”
Suddenly, Dusty started diving toward Bulldog.
The Sky Cam One reporter exclaimed, “Wait! It’s Racer Number Seven, Crophopper, pulling up beside him.”
Back in Propwash Junction, the gang was on the edge of their seats. “What’s he doing?” Dottie asked.
“Apply your left aileron,” Dusty instructed Bulldog. The rest of the pack flew past them, but Dusty didn’t care. All he knew was that a fellow racer was about to crash and burn if he didn’t help!
“Okay,” Bulldog replied, and immediately righted himself. But he was still losing altitude fast.
“Stop roll,” Dusty said. “Now quick, pull up.”
“Got it,” Bulldog said as he and Dusty got closer and closer to the ground.
“Harder…harder,” Dusty said.
The planes zoomed under a bridge. “Slight roll right,” Dusty instructed. Then he looked up to see a castle straight ahead. “Whoa! Castle. Big castle. Pull up, hard roll right.”
Dusty held his breath as Bulldog weaved his way around the castle spires. “Stop roll,” Dusty said.
“Are you still there?” Bulldog asked.
“I’m right here. I’ll fly right alongside you,” Dusty responded. The fans at home watched nervously as Dusty guided Bulldog along a river to the airport.
The rest of the racers had already landed, with Rip still in first place. A voice over the loudspeaker shouted, “Achtung! We have a mayday! Clear the runway!” Emergency vehicles immediately scrambled onto the tarmac.
Up in the air, Dusty and Bulldog were nearing the runway. Dusty knew the landing was going to be tricky. “Add power. Easy, now,” he instructed Bulldog. “Good. Flaps down. Lock ’em.”
“Careful,” El Chupacabra whispered as he watched anxiously from the ground.
“Landing gear down,” Dusty said as they approached the runway.
“And locked,” Bulldog replied.
“Begin your flare,” instructed Dusty, knowing they were seconds from either touching down or crashing. “Power back a little.” Then he heard the familiar CHIRP-CHIRP as their tires touched the runway in a perfect landing. Everyone on the ground cheered.
“Touchdown! Nicely done,” he said to Bulldog.
The emergency crews rushed forward and began to clean the oil off Bulldog’s canopy.
“Thanks for your help, matey,” Bulldog said, exhausted. “I couldn’t have done it without…” When the oil was washed away, Bulldog could see again. “You?” he asked when he saw that Dusty was the one who had guided him in. “You saved me? What did I tell you, boy? Every plane for himself, right?”
Dusty shrugged. “Where I come from, if you see someone falling from the sky—”
“Yes, but this is a competition,” interrupted Bulldog. “Now you’re dead last. And I owe you my life.” The tough old racer’s eyes welled with tears.
“Are you crying?” Dusty asked.
“I don’t cry. I’m British,” Bulldog explained, still sniffling. “Thanks, matey.”
“Sure thing, Bulldog,” Dusty replied as a swarm of reporters rushed over to the barricade near the runway.
“Bulldog! Bulldog! Can we get a few words?” they shouted.
As Bulldog rolled up to the reporters, Rip approached Dusty. “I gotta say, crop duster, you are a nice guy,” he said.
“Hey, thanks, Rip,” Dusty replied. He still didn’t realize that the racer never said anything nice—and meant it.
“And we all know where nice guys finish,” Rip added before he rolled off with Ned and Zed. Dusty glanced up at the leaderboard and sighed. He was indeed last.
Later that night, the racers gathered to unwind with drinks at a German oil hall. A waitress set down a mug in front of Dusty. He was feeling pretty low about his current standing in the race. “Dead last,” he said to his buddy, El Chupacabra.
“At least you are not last in the race for love,” El Chupacabra replied, nearly in tears.
“Rochelle?” asked Dusty.
El Chupacabra nodded solemnly. “Her passion is, sadly, not for me.”
“Tough break, El Chu,” Dusty said as a little car approached them.
Dusty looked at the stranger curiously. The car smiled bashfully and said, “My name is Franz, and I am a huge fan.”
Dusty was shocked.
“I have fans?” he asked.
Franz blinked and said, “Oh, no, no, no. Just me. And I would like to say danke for representing all us little planes!
“But you’re a car,” Dusty said.
“Ja, ja, ja,” the little car replied, “but I am what you call a Flugzeugauto. One of only six flying cars ever built!” He rolled over to a set of folded wings and clicked them onto himself. The wings swung outward and Franz transformed into a plane.
“Whoa!” exclaimed Dusty. He had never seen such a thing! The little plane said, “Guten Tag, Herr Dusty. I am Von Fliegenhosen!”
Dusty looked at him, confused. “Didn’t you just say your name was Franz?”
The plane said, “Nein, nein, nein. Franz is the guy with no spine who is in charge when we putter about the cobblestones. In the air, I am in charge!”
El Chupacabra and Dusty exchanged a look. “This guy needs to get his head gasket checked,” El Chu told Dusty. “Serious identity issues.”
“This from the one wearing a mask?” Von Fliegenhosen asked.
“Touché!” El Chupacabra replied with a laugh.
Then Von Fliegenhosen changed back into Franz the car. “We are both pulling for you, Herr Dusty,” he said.
“Well, thanks for the support,” said Dusty. “I need all the help I can get.”
Franz looked Dusty over thoughtfully. “I have a humble suggestion. Would you not be much faster without the pipes and tank and whatnot weighing you down?”
“My sprayer again?” Dusty asked.
“Ja,” Franz said, smiling. “Why carry around the extra weight?”
“The little crazy car is right,” El Chu agreed. “Perhaps you need to start thinking like a racer.”
The next day, Dusty underwent a transformation. “This is reversible, right? You’re being careful down there, right?” he asked the mechanics as his crop-dusting parts were removed. “Whoa! Oh, that’s cold!”
A little while later, he rolled down the runway looking sleek and feeling like a new plane. He even had some new racing stripes. “So, what do you think?” Dusty asked Franz and El Chu.
“Zippy stripes!” Franz said excitedly.
“¡Fantástico!” El Chu agreed. “It is freeing, yes?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” replied Dusty. Then he, Franz, and El Chu took off and circled the airfield. Dusty was thrilled. He was flying faster than he ever had before!
Soon Dusty and the other racers took to
the sky for the third leg of the rally, which would take them from Germany to India. Dusty finally had the edge he needed, and quickly rose in the standings.
Colin Cowling reported Dusty’s surprising turnaround to racing fans around the world. “The real story here is Dusty Crophopper,” he said. “He is passing one flier after another.”
Brent Mustangburger shared Colin’s excitement, adding, “That’s right. This guy was built to dust crops, but he’s dusting the competition!”
As the racers flew over Dubai toward India, fans all over the world were rooting for Dusty—their favorite underdog!
The racers were soon flying over India, and the gang from Propwash Junction was gathered around the television, watching every minute. Things were looking up for Dusty, and they didn’t want to miss a thing!
“This could be Crophopper’s leg all the way,” Colin said. “The racers will have to fly under a hard ceiling of one thousand feet. Stay under the clouds and in the hills.”
Flying low was what Dusty did best. He weaved through the hills, passing racer after racer.
By the time they landed at the air base in Agra, Dusty had moved all the way up to eighth place!
The reporters ignored Ripslinger and crowded around Dusty. “Why are they wasting their time with him?” Rip asked Ned and Zed angrily. “He’s a tractor with wings.”
Zed shrugged. “Actually, it’s really a compelling underdog story. It’s like Rocky!”
“It’s more like David and Goliath!” said Ned.
“Or Old Yeller,” Zed added.
“That’s not an underdog story!” Ned protested.
“There’s a dog in it,” Zed told him smugly.
“Enough!” Rip snapped, ending their debate. “Soon we’ll be overrun by every banner tower, skywriter, and air freighter who thinks they can be one of us! That farm boy forgot who he is and where he came from. He’s not about to stop me from making history.”
Rip suddenly got a serious look on his face—like he was deep in thought. Ned and Zed knew that when Rip got that look, there was going to be trouble.
In the meantime, the reporters still couldn’t get enough of Dusty. “Where did you learn to race?” one of them asked.
“From my coach, Skipper,” Dusty replied. “He’s the reason I’m even here. He’s an amazing instructor. And a great friend. He flew dozens of missions all over the world. And I’m sure if he could, he’d be with us right now.”
Back in Propwash Junction, Skipper was watching Dusty’s interview on the television. His student’s words got him thinking. Maybe it was time to try something he hadn’t done in a long time.
Later that night, Skipper peeked outside his hangar door to make sure the coast was clear, then gave Sparky a nod. The little tug pushed him onto the moonlit runway, then rolled off to the side.
Skipper took a deep breath. While Sparky watched hopefully, the old fighter started his engine and inched forward. But within seconds, he gave up and shut down again.
Sparky rushed over to him. “Whoa, your engine sounds kinda rough. Must be a mag misfire.” He was trying to give Skipper an excuse for not being able to fly—and Skipper knew it. The old war hero said nothing as Sparky towed him back to the hangar.
The next morning, it was business as usual in Propwash Junction as Chug busily sold his Dusty Crophopper souvenirs. A customer rolled up to the table and asked, “Hey, you got anything new?”
“Glad you asked,” Chug replied . “I’m now selling these one-of-a-kind Dusty commemorative mugs.” Chug demonstrated the cup’s working propeller. He could see the delight in the fan’s eyes and knew he’d made another sale.
Just then, the radio in the corner squawked, “This is Dusty Crophopper calling Propwash Junction, over.”
“I’ll be back in ten,” Chug said. Soon he, Dottie, Skipper, and Sparky were all gathered around the radio. “Dusty! Eighth place. You finally removed your M 5000!” Dottie said.
Chug looked confused. “His what?”
“His Microair 5000 DL Aerial Applicator,” Dottie explained.
But Chug was only more confused. “Use your words,” he said.
“His sprayer!” Dottie cried exasperatedly.
Skipper spoke into the radio. “Got a big leg tomorrow,” he said. “How you feelin’?”
“I can’t believe it! The mighty Himalayas!” chimed in Chug.
Dottie seemed concerned. “Dusty, that vertical wind shear is going to be wicked over those mountains.”
Chug nodded. “Good thing about being that high up, there’s not a lot of oxygen. So if you crash, no explosion!”
“Great,” Dusty replied without enthusiasm.
Chug grinned. “Of course, you could die of hypothermia. Or an avalanche could get ya. Then of course there’s pneumonia, or even frostbite.”
“Chug, Chug, I got it,” Dusty said, sighing. Telling him all the ways he could meet with disaster was not helping! “Skip, what if a guy wanted to fly through the mountains instead of over them?”
“Bad idea,” Skipper warned Dusty. His tone was serious. “The Wrenches flew through terrain like that in the Assault of Kunming. And Dottie’s right, wind comin’ over the peaks can stir up rotors that’ll drag you right down. You can fly a whole lot higher than you think.”
Dusty sighed. He was afraid Skipper was going to say that.
“Roger that,” Dusty replied, still wondering how he could take the mountains at a low altitude.
Dusty clicked off the radio and saw Rochelle roll by, followed by El Chu. “¡Hola, corazón!” El Chu called to her. “Are you tired? Because you have been flying through my mind nonstop.”
Rochelle turned to him. “Why would I be tired flying through such a teeny, tiny space?”
As she rolled off, El Chupacabra called to her, “Ah! You can only pretend for so long.” Then he looked at Dusty with a pained expression. “I am Icarus and she is the sun. I fly too close, and I melt,” he said sadly.
“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” Dusty suggested, as if he was an expert at romance. “Look, all you gotta do is go over, open your mouth, and say—”
“Hello,” said Ishani. The Indian racer seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
Dusty jumped. His cool vanished. El Chu could see Dusty had a crush on Ishani and wanted to give them some time alone. He pretended he had to leave.
Ishani smiled and said, “I want to compliment you on your success, Dusty. You’re doing very well for your first race.”
“That means a lot coming from you,” Dusty answered. “I mean, c’mon, you were named Most Aerodynamic Racer! And let me just say, you are so aerodynamic!”
They shared a smile as a mooing tractor rolled by. “What’s with all the tractors around here?” Dusty asked.
“They’re sacred,” Ishani replied. “Many believe that we will be recycled as tractors.”
“Oh? Well, I believe in recycling,” Dusty said eagerly.
Ishani smiled. “Have you ever been to the Taj Mahal?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t,” Dusty replied. Before he knew it, Ishani was whisking him off to see one of India’s most famous landmarks.
“Must be nice to be back home,” Dusty said as they flew together.
“It’s complicated,” she told Dusty. “I have a billion fans. They’re all expecting me to win.”
“Maybe this time you will,” Dusty replied.
They arrived at the Taj Mahal just as the sun was beginning to set. Dusty was dazzled by its incredible beauty. The white marble walls and towers reflected the golden sunlight, making it sparkle like a jewel. “Wow,” Dusty said. “This place is amazing!”
“It really is,” agreed Ishani. “And tomorrow you’ll fly over the magnificent Himalayas.”
Dusty tried not to show his apprehension. “Those little hills? Yeah, no big deal.”
Ishani nodded. “You like to fly low, don’t you?” she asked.
Dusty fidgeted a bit. “Oh, that? That’s uh—strategic. A
ir density and combustion.”
Ishani chuckled. “You know, you could follow the Iron Compass instead.”
“Iron Compass?” Dusty asked.
Ishani nodded. “Railroad tracks through a valley in the mountains. So you can still fly low.”
Dusty was thrilled. Now he could fly through the mountains instead of over them, just as he had hoped. “Really? Thanks, Ishani,” he said. He smiled happily as they watched the sun set together.
The next day, it was time for the racers to tackle the fourth leg of the rally.
“Every racer’s nightmare is scaling the Himalayas,” Brent Mustangburger announced. “It’s a short leg ahead, but extremely treacherous.”
Dusty looked at the enormous snow-covered peaks that stood between him and his destination in Nepal and was grateful all over again for Ishani’s advice. He broke off from the rest of the racers and quickly found the railroad tracks she had told him about. He followed them as they curved through the mountains—but eventually the path got narrower and narrower, and the peaks on either side got taller and taller. He peered through the falling snow and saw something straight ahead. It was a tunnel!
Dusty panicked and pulled up, up, up toward the mountaintops, but the altitude quickly made him feel dizzy and sick. He realized he had only two choices: Go over the mountain or go through it. Over was not an option, so Dusty clenched his teeth, dived down, and headed right for the mouth of the dark tunnel. He was going through it!
Once inside, Dusty’s wingtips scraped against the rock walls, creating a shower of sparks in his wake. But the worst was yet to come. Dusty saw a pinpoint of light up ahead and heard an ominous TOOOOOOOT! It was an oncoming train! He gunned it, hoping to beat the train before it barreled into the tunnel on the other side. With his wingtips scraping up even more sparks, Dusty gave it everything he had.
A little while later, as if in a dream, Dusty floated through some puffy white clouds before touching down on a dirt runway. Several old mini-truck monks greeted him. “Uh…hello?” Dusty said, bewildered. “Is this where I’m supposed to be?”
“That is one of life’s great questions,” a monk replied.
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