Later that night, reporters’ cameras flashed as the helicopter gently lowered a battered Dusty onto the tarmac in Mexico. Dusty’s worried friends rushed over and brought him inside the medical hangar.
“Broken wing ribs, twisted gear, bent prop,” Dottie said as she inspected Dusty’s injuries. She shook her head and sighed. “And your main spar is cracked…bad. It’s over.”
Dusty could see from his friends’ faces that they were completely devastated. But there was only one thing on his mind. He looked at Skipper and said, “One mission? So much for Volo Pro Veritas.”
The gang glanced at each other, confused by Dusty’s remark. Skipper cleared his throat and said, “Can we get a minute alone, please?” He looked down at his faithful tug. “You too, Sparky.”
Skipper took a deep breath and sighed wearily. “My first patrol as a Jolly Wrench was at Glendalcanal,” he said. His memory drifted back to World War II, when he was the leader of the young, brash Jolly Wrenches. “My squadron was all rookies, all razor-sharp. I should know. I trained every single one of ’em. It was supposed to be a routine patrol. A milk run.”
Skipper recalled that he and his squadron were scanning the skies for action over the Pacific. A hole in the clouds opened up, and they saw what they thought was a single enemy supply ship.
“Easy pickin’s,” said one of Skipper’s students. “Whaddaya say?”
“Negative,” Skipper told him. “Our orders are to recon and report back.”
“Come on, Skip. It’ll be a turkey shoot!” another rookie said.
Skipper gave in. “All right,” he told them. “Let’s go in for a closer look.”
But when the squadron broke through the clouds, instead of a single ship, Skipper and his young fliers were faced with an entire fleet. It was too late to pull back up. The enemy had seen them. Seconds later, Skipper’s squadron was engulfed in antiaircraft fire.
The Jolly Wrenches fought back, but they were outnumbered. Skipper bitterly remembered his newly trained rookies falling from the sky all around him.
Skipper was hit and went tumbling into the ocean. Later, a rescue ship came by and pulled him out of the water.
“My whole squadron…under my command,” Skipper said sorrowfully. He remembered the awful moment when the medic told him he was the only survivor. “After that, I just couldn’t bring myself to fly again.”
Dusty just stared at him, trying to take it all in.
“Let me ask you something,” Skipper continued. “If you knew the truth about my past, would you have asked me to train you?”
Dusty slumped. He didn’t know how to respond, so he just turned and rolled out of the hangar.
“I’m sorry, Dusty,” Skipper said softly.
The following day, everyone was getting ready for the final leg of the race to New York. But Dusty stayed in his hangar, sad and alone. Dottie took a deep breath and approached him. “Dusty?” she whispered.
“Can you believe it?” Dusty asked, barely looking at her. “He hasn’t been straight with me this whole time. At least you were honest. You said I wasn’t built for this. I guess I shoulda listened to you.”
Dottie rolled around to face him. “Dusty, if you had listened to me, I’d never, ever forgive myself. Look, the Skipper may have been wrong for what he did, but he was right about you. You’re a racer, and now the whole world knows it.”
Dusty was touched. “Thanks, that means a lot,” he said. “But I’ve gone as far as I can go. I’m busted up. Look at me.”
Just then, El Chupacabra appeared in the hangar doorway. “Dusty, I cannot bear the thought of competing without you.” Then he rolled in a cart with a pair of wings on it.
“Those are the wings of a T-33 Shooting Star,” Dusty said in amazement.
El Chu nodded. “When the great Mexican Air Force needed help, American T-33s came. They did not ask questions. They did not hesitate. They were there because that is what compadres do.”
Dusty looked at a metal box next to the wings. “And what’s that?” he asked.
“That is my lunch,” El Chu explained. “Don’t touch! But the wings are yours.”
“El Chu, I really appreciate—” Dusty began, trying to thank him. But the macho masked plane stopped him.
“¡Silencio!” El Chu ordered. “After all, you helped me with my pursuits of the heart. Now we are here to help you.”
“We?” Dusty asked, looking around.
“Oui,” Rochelle said as she and the rest of the racers gathered around with carts full of parts for Dusty. “Good luck tomorrow, Dusty. I’m so proud to compete with you.”
Bulldog nodded heartily. “You’re a good egg, Dusty. Here’s a sat-nav device, just in case…in case you ever find yourself lost without a friend to help you through it,” he said, choking back the tears.
More racers followed, offering what they had:
“Here’s a flow-control valve.”
“How about a starter generator?”
“Got a brand-new master cylinder here for you.”
They all were honored to be racing beside Dusty—once just a fellow racer, now a friend.
Dusty was overwhelmed. “Thanks, everyone,” he told them.
Dottie was beaming. “This is fantastic!” she said, checking out the new parts. “Looks like all we need now is—”
“A new propeller?” Ishani asked. “How about a Skyslycer Mark 5?” She pushed over her own propeller on a cart.
Dusty was confused. “But that’s your propeller. You could still win the race.”
Ishani smiled. “Oh, I intend to,” she said, “but with my old propeller. This one didn’t really suit me, but I think you will have a lot better luck with it.”
“Thanks, Ishani,” Dusty said, smiling. Then he turned to Dottie. “Can you fix me?” he asked.
Dottie grinned. “Does a PT6A have a multistage compressor?” she asked enthusiastically.
Everyone looked at each other blankly. They had no idea what she was talking about.
Dottie rolled her eyes. “Yes!” she told them. “Yes, it does!”
The racers cheered, and Dottie shouted to the other tugs, “All right, you guys, let’s get him ready to race!”
A little while later, Dottie and the other teams’ mechanics began repairing Dusty. As they worked into the night, Chug watched highlights from Rip’s previous races. Something caught Chug’s eye, and he went back and watched it again. A smile slowly spread across his face as he realized something that had gone unnoticed by everyone. He quickly told Dusty, who listened with astonishment.
The next morning, the racers rolled out for the final leg of the rally. Fitted with sleek, streamlined wings and all the latest gleaming technology, Dusty looked like a different plane. He looked like—a racer!
“We’ll see you in New York,” Dottie told him as he passed her, Chug, and Sparky on the way to the tarmac. Skipper wasn’t there. He had decided it would be best if he didn’t join the others.
Onlookers stared at Dusty in disbelief. “He’s back!” one of them shouted.
Ripslinger snorted. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Whoa!” Zed said when he laid eyes on Dusty. “Who’s that guy?”
“It’s the crop duster,” Ned told him.
“Another one?” Zed asked.
“It’s the same one, knucklehead!” Ned snapped.
Rip lost patience with them both. “Move aside, idiots,” he said. Ripslinger rolled into Dusty’s path and blocked his way. “Bolting on a few new parts doesn’t change who you are,” Rip said with a sneer. He revved his prop menacingly. “I can still smell the farm on you.”
Dusty thought for a moment, then grinned. “Oh, you know what?” he said. “I finally get it. You’re afraid of getting beat by a crop duster.”
Dusty pushed forward, revving his engine, until Rip had no choice but to back up. “Well, check six. ’Cause I’m coming.”
After Dusty rolled off, Ripslinger turned to Ned and Zed. “
We’re going to end this once and for all,” he told them. He had no idea that Skipper was listening from a hangar nearby.
The racers lined up for takeoff. “This one’s all about speed and the willingness to give it all,” Brent Mustangburger said. “First to cut the ribbon in New York takes home the trophy and the glory.”
The race pitty dropped his wing, and Rip roared off the starting line. “And we’re off as the first fliers take to the air!” Brent shouted.
One by one, the other racers departed. “The rest of the field is now off and running,” Brent continued. “Though Crophopper did not complete the previous leg, race officials ruled that his radio had been tampered with. So he’ll be allowed to compete—but with a severe time penalty.”
Dusty pulled up to the starting line alone, and the crowd counted down the clock to his takeoff time. “Cinco…cuatro…tres…dos…uno!”
When the clock hit zero, Dusty roared down the runway and blasted into the sky!
Dusty zoomed across the sky, passing racer after racer. As the pack approached the Sierra Madre Mountains, he stayed low and watched the shadows of the planes above him—then made his move and sailed right past them, moving up to sixth place.
“Good show, Dusty!” Bulldog called out as Dusty passed below him.
The racers flew over the Rio Grande—the narrow river between Mexico and the United States—and El Chu and Rochelle jockeyed for position. But below, Dusty passed them both. He was approaching Deadstick Desert at lightning speed.
Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed were still in the lead as they roared over the barren landscape. Zed glanced back nervously and said, “Um, boss?”
“What?” asked Rip.
“He’s here,” Zed said.
Rip looked behind and below, and there was Dusty, kicking up sand and coming up fast. “Ugghh!” Rip said in frustration. “Okay. We’re out of camera range. You know what to do.”
Rip, Ned, and Zed turned and dived toward Dusty.
“Hey, farmer!” cried Zed.
“Time to plow the fields!” Ned yelled.
Rip dropped his landing gear and closed in on Dusty from above. He forced Dusty lower until his wheels smashed into a cactus.
Rip laughed. “Looks like you’ve run outta airspace, Crophopper.”
Rip was right. Dusty was heading straight for a rocky outcropping. He couldn’t pull up because Rip was blocking him from above. There was no way out.
But just then, a flash of blue-gray came streaking toward them. It was Skipper! He dived at Rip and forced him away from Dusty.
Dusty pulled up hard to avoid the rocks while Ned and Zed took off in opposite directions.
“Skipper? Whoa! You’re flying!” Dusty said. He couldn’t believe it.
“You noticed,” replied Skipper. “Listen, I got Rip. You take care of the other two.”
Ned and Zed were back on Dusty’s tail.
“They’re on your six, kid!” Skipper warned. “You gotta lose them! Pull hard right! I’ll brake left and take out Rip. Use the rocks!”
Dusty knife-edged through a chasm, and when Ned and Zed tried to follow, they collided and got caught between the rocks.
“Yeah!” Dusty cried triumphantly.
Meanwhile, Skipper used the tip of his wing to flip Ripslinger over and send him tumbling across the sky. But Rip wasn’t about to lose the race because of an upstart crop duster and a beat-up Corsair. While Skipper checked up on Dusty, Rip tore into the old fighter’s tail with his prop.
“No!” Dusty yelled.
“That’s why they call ’em Skyslycers!” Rip called, laughing, as he headed for the horizon.
Dusty pulled up alongside Skipper. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Skipper turned to him with a big grin. “You kiddin’? I’m great!”
Dusty could see that Skipper had taken some real damage. “But what about your tail?” Dusty asked.
Skipper laughed. “I’ll live,” he said. “Go get him! Go!”
Dusty nodded, gritted his teeth, and gunned it.
Ripslinger was confidently zooming over the Mississippi. He didn’t know that a mile behind him, Dusty was flying with focus in his eyes, getting closer and closer with every second.
“We’re closing in on the final stretch, folks,” Colin Cowling announced.
“That’s right,” added Brent Mustangburger, “and ever since they emerged from Deadstick Desert, Ripslinger has maintained a lead.”
At JFK, pitties had their binoculars trained on the empty horizon.
“Any sign of ’em?” the race official asked.
“Nothing yet,” another pitty replied.
As the racers crossed the Appalachian Mountains, Dusty was right on Rip’s tail. For one fleeting moment, Dusty was even able to pull up alongside him! But then Rip revved his engine and left Dusty behind. “Arrgh!” Dusty yelled in frustration.
Dusty was starting to feel the shadow of defeat overtake him when he looked up. High above, the clouds that looked like streets were forming. “Tailwinds like nothin’ you’ve ever flown,” he remembered Skipper saying.
But he also remembered how sick he’d felt the day he tried to reach those clouds. He knew it was time to make a decision. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Roger that, Skip,” he said.He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his nose up, pouring on the power.
The ground quickly disappeared beneath Dusty as he roared into the sky. He kept his eyes shut while he climbed higher and higher. The clouds were getting closer. “Don’t look down,” he kept telling himself over and over. But he couldn’t resist cracking his eyes open for just a second. When he saw how high up he was, panic washed over him. This time, though, he forced himself to keep going.
Finally, he punched through the clouds and, to his complete surprise, was rocketed forward by a gale-force tailwind. “Whoa!” Dusty howled with delight. “Yeah! Whooo!”
He blazed across the entire state of Pennsylvania, riding the wave of wind. He would be approaching New York and the finish line in minutes. Rip was rapidly approaching the city, too, totally oblivious that Dusty was gaining on him from up above.
Dusty finally caught up to Rip and began to dive.…
Hundreds of planes, cars, and trucks were filled with anticipation as they waited at JFK to witness the end of the most exciting race in aviation history. Finally, they heard a faint roar in the distance. It got louder and louder, and soon the crowd was able to see the first racer on the horizon.
Ripslinger smiled confidently. His fourth Wings Around The Globe Rally win was seconds away! But Rip couldn’t see what the crowd was seeing. It was Dusty, with a look of fierce determination in his eyes.
“Wait a second,” Colin announced. “It’s Dusty Crophopper!”
The Propwash gang watched breathlessly from the tarmac. “Yes!” Dottie cried.
“Go!” Chug shouted.
“And here they come, down the stretch,” Brent Mustangburger said. “It’s going to be close. It’s anyone’s race.”
Rip, still thinking he’d left Dusty far behind, glanced to the right and saw the reporters and their cameras. He smiled his usual arrogant grin and tilted toward them. “Get my good side, fellas,” he told them.
This was the move Chug had seen in the highlight reel. Rip did it in every race. Dusty knew it was his chance. He swerved left, gave it all he had, and pulled past Rip in the final seconds. Dusty passed Ripslinger and cut the ribbon across the finish line.
“He’s done it! He’s done it!” screamed Brent Mustangburger.
“From last to first, from obscurity to immortality, the racing world will never forget this day!” Colin Cowling declared.
Around the world, from the Dwight D. Flysenhower aircraft carrier to Japanese sushi bars to pubs in Britain to Mexican cantinas, everyone cheered Dusty’s victory!
“For the first time,” Brent said, “a crop duster has won the Wings Around The Globe Rally!”
Dusty touched down, ecstatic, the finish-line r
ibbon still draped over him. El Chu and Rochelle landed neck and neck behind him. Bulldog and Ishani soon followed.
“Magnifique, Dusty!” Rochelle said.
“You really kicked his bottom, lad!” Bulldog said, smiling.
Reporters instantly surrounded Dusty, but Dottie and Chug managed to push their way through the crowd. “All right, yeah! Now, that’s how to pass!” Chug said to Dusty.
“You did it!” Dottie added.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said.
Dottie smiled and said, “Yeah, I know.”
Next Dusty looked at Chug. “Hey, buddy, great tip about Ripslinger leaning to the cameras. Thanks, Chug!”
“Anything for my pal,” Chug said, beaming.
Ishani roll up to congratulate Dusty. “Well done!” she said, smiling. “The world has a new champion—and so do I.”
“Thanks,” Dusty replied. “For everything.” He was happy they were friends again.
Then, to Dusty’s surprise, Franz appeared with a group of trucks, planes, tugs, and other working vehicles. “You are an inspiration to all of us who want to do more than just what we were built for,” he said.
Meanwhile, Ripslinger had lost control and crashed into a row of portable toilets! Dusty and his friends watched as his humiliated rival was hauled onto the back of a flatbed truck, dripping in oil slop.
A race official took one whiff and said, “Whew-wee! Ripstinker! Yeah, that’s your name. You need to go home and wash up. Twice!”
Suddenly, all eyes turned to the sky as Skipper soared majestically overhead. He gave Dusty a knowing smile and then came in for a landing. The new champion and his coach quickly met up with each other in the crowd.
“Thanks, Skip,” Dusty said.
“Don’t thank me,” replied Skipper. “I learned a lot more from you than you ever learned from me.”
It wasn’t long before an exuberant Chug invited everyone for free gas. “Fuel’s on me, everybody!” he said. Dusty chuckled and looked around warmly as his friends celebrated his victory.
Planes Junior Novel Page 6