Chapter 18: Sunday at Shallow Chasm

Sunday morning everyone at Jonson's feasted on the leftovers from Nate's Swedish Breakfast and actually made a dent in them. Then, at eight, everyone assembled in the front yard for the drive to Shallow Chasm.

In addition to Adam and me, this included Nadia, Ben, Dan, Olivia, Ginger, Cynthia, Lucy Lastik, Edgar Robinsong, Guido Rabottini from Guido's Quick Fill, Bushman's office clerk Fiona Fledermaus, and Lola Liliuo, the soccer mom with the fake Mohawk. In fact, the whole Liliuo family was there. This included a daughter in soccer socks and shin guards, a vamp son in a torn black training bra, and a husband dressed like a 70's hair band musician without the pants.

Adam drove the jeep with me in the passenger seat. Olivia and Ben rode in back. Everyone else followed us in the cars they'd arrived in.

When we arrived at Shallow Chasm Bushman and Ollie had already arrived in Bushman's motor home. Magic pulled up a few minutes later in her all-terrain motor home pulling two trailers. One was her pit trailer and the other held The Bullet. Reb arrived in the Dunemaster and immediately handed it over to Adam. Magic assured us it was all checked out and ready to go.

Teah arrived with Dan in his SUV. Ursula, Olivia, and Ginger all arrived with Stitch in his pickup and trailer. Crystal stumbled out of her car walking carefully and fully covered in autographs. Walt arrived with a man he introduced only as Frank Nolan.

Although uninvited, Dee Muntz appeared on her Trans-Cal motorcycle. "You know," I greeted her, "something about you has been bothering me all week. You just seem too familiar."

"Well, we did attend the same school a year ago. It was first semester of our junior year. Maybe that explains it," Dee suggested.

"No, I don't believe that's it," I said. "I think I remember you as Lenny Lobach, a guy who worked for Trans-Cal."

Louie, or Dee, or whoever it was went into shock as two county policemen burst out of Bushman's motor home and arrested him or her or it on charges of using a false identity, breaking and entering, criminal damage to property, and attempted murder.

"We have video of you breaking into Bushie's Off-Road last night and sabotaging Adam's Dunemaster," I told Lobach. "Magic left a special surveillance camera running in her pit trailer. It shows everything. The Muntz's are preparing to file charges as well. I hope they send you to the men's prison. So long! Or is it presto chango?"

With Dee out of the way I spread a map of the canyon property on the hood of the jeep for everyone to see. Colored lines indicated three dune buggy circuits: beginner, intermediate, and racing. Shaded areas indicated parking lots, bleachers, concessions, a pro shop, gasoline alley, a parts store, a performing stage, shopping strip, a flea market, and other attractions. The entrance roads, exit roads, and electrical right-of-way were marked, too.

Adam and most of the others were dumbfounded. "How is all this possible?" he asked.

"This land previously belonged to the county, but the terrain was so rough that no one had ever figured a use for it," I explained. "At certain times it's been a dump but that's been cleaned up. The property isn't a nature preserve or otherwise protected. Under the provisions of an old law, the partnership of VAN Enterprises, Reb, and Bushie's Off-Road is purchasing the property as surplus for $500,000. To lock out anyone else, we've already signed a purchase agreement and paid the earnest money."

"So what's next?" Walt asked.

"The goal is to have at least an exhibition race by next Sunday. Hopefully, a lot of the people who showed up yesterday will show up again. The Crimson Condors won't be here, of course, nor any other big draw like that. We're hoping to get some local bands, though, and maybe a few planes. But mainly it's about the racing and the outdoor atmosphere."

"That explains the runway," Walt observed.

"What runway?" Bushman asked.

"Right here, see?" Walt indicated. "It looks like four thousand feet of flat road going nowhere. Of course, I like to think of it as a highway going anywhere. One end is marked seven and the other twenty-nine. Those are compass headings: seventy degrees and two hundred ninety degrees."

"I see," remarked Bushman, throwing me an odd glance. "This tower you've got marked here: is it a water tower or a control tower?"

"It's got possibilities," Olivia told him.

"I'm hoping you can all stay on board," I told everyone. "Tentatively the assignments are the same as yesterday. If that's not going to work, now or later, please let me know. Oh, here are the manufacturers."

As I'd been speaking, the factory reps and pit crews from Dunemaster, Ultimate Dirt, and Sandworms Inc. pulled up and began unloading their customized racing vehicles. For those who hadn't seen it before, it was pretty impressive. Each team included drivers, mechanics, salespeople, publicity agents, photographers, makeup people, a manager, the works. Furthermore, each team arrived in a caravan of busses, motor homes, car carriers, and semi trailers.

"So where's this fancy dune buggy people have been whispering about?" asked Bushman.

"Over here," explained Adam, who'd already recognized The Bullet's trailer. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked me.

"You're the captain," I deferred.

When Adam pulled off the tarp and revealed The Silver Bullet, every single person from the factory teams rushed over to look. At that point, so did everyone else, including Frank Nolan who seemed particularly confused.

With everyone watching, Adam asked me to repeat my little demonstration from the day before. When I did, the factory reps were awed more than ever. They immediately grasped the tremendous maneuverability, control, balance, power, and low weight The Bullet's design provided. Of course they wanted the technical details and of course we refused. The non-factory people weren't so impressed by The Bullet itself as by the factory people's reaction to it. To Magic, Olivia, Ursula, Ginger and Stitch, of course, it was all old stuff. I was sorry that Boolean Jules and the others couldn't be there as well.

"So, are you racing this today?" one of the factory drivers asked.

"No, The Bullet is down for maintenance," Adam replied smoothly. "We're using that Dunemaster over there."

The factory people briefly glanced at the stock Dunemaster, shrugged, and returned to their chores. Oh well, I thought; maybe we could surprise them later.

Reb had been inspecting the track and gave it a clean bill of health. After that I gave both the track and the Dunemaster their maiden runs with Adam as a passenger. Adam drove the second lap, then I repeated the pattern for Walt, Nolan, and Ollie. Magic, Ursula, Olivia, and Ginger went solo. Everyone loved the track.

Once we were done the factory reps let their drivers take a few laps. It was clear that the stock Dunemaster was no match for their customized racing machines. At least for the moment.

Magic and I talked over the test runs and Magic analyzed the Dunemaster's log files. Then, suddenly, Magic was all over the Dunemaster. Ollie did whatever he could to help. Wrenches flew. Parts went in and out. Non-essential accessories disappeared. Ollie bounced on the fenders and Magic adjusted the springs and shocks. Magic hooked up her sensors, plugged in her ignition programmer, and started typing furiously. I think her ears told her more than those sensors did, though.

Ben was awestruck at what Magic was doing to the onboard computers. "I didn't think that was possible, or legal," he remarked.

"A lot of people think that," Magic replied.

Magic continued working on the Dunemaster. Ollie weighed and loaded ballast wherever Magic told him. When the pace slowed, Reb proposed some racing.

Adam took the starter's flag. Ben, Dan, Teah, and Walt prepared to use their PDAs as stopwatches from positions at the start/finish line. The drivers from Dunemaster, Ultimate Dirt, and Sandworms Inc. lined up their machines, with me in the rear. It took about two minutes to drive a lap so Reb told Adam to release one dune buggy every fifteen seconds.

The racing was impressive, and the factory drivers were obviously pros. Nevertheless, and despite driving the stock buggy, I won. No one really noticed the lap I was driving because I didn't take all the air and kick up all the dirt that the factory drivers did.

They tried again, five laps the second time, and I beat them worse. In fact, I passed two of them. Despite getting beat, the factory reps promised to return for a public demonstration the next Sunday. Of course, they also promised their machines would be in better tune.

With that minor victory in hand, I asked if everyone else was game for next week. Of course, they were. Dan, Nadia, and Teah promised to get started on promotion right away.

"I suppose you're wondering why Frank is here," said Walt a little later, indicating the man he'd arrived with.

"If you say he's OK, he's OK," I replied.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself," said the stranger. "My name is Frank Nolan, and I work for Sardinia Airlines. I'm the superintendent of aircraft maintenance at Mammoth Field. That includes the welding shop. In fact, I'm a master precision welder. Walt asked me to take a look at this welding job of yours."

"Well, let's go look," I suggested, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. Then we all returned to The Bullet's trailer. Here's goes, I thought, then I pulled off the tarp, showed Nolan the damage, and explained the grade of titanium The Bullet used.

"Yes, I see," Nolan said carefully. "Well, with the right arrangements, I'm sure I could repair that."

"Name your price," I suggested.

"Not a penny," replied Nolan, "but I want to join the Underground Airmen."

"I can't promise you that," I bargained. "It's simply not my decision. I guess you know I recommended Walt, and he's in. But that doesn't mean I can get two favors in a row. Memberships are very limited."

"What do you know about the Mitsubishi A6M2?" Nolan asked.

"Zero," I replied.

"That's amazing!" Nolan gasped. "Only a handful of people in the whole state would know that."

Magic knew too, and was equally awed: not at me, but at Nolan. She almost said something but I beat her to the punch.

"The most famous Japanese fighter plane of World War II," I intoned. "It's full name was the Type Zero Carrier Fighter Model 11. Zero indicated the year of introduction, which was 1940 on the Western calendar and 2600 on the Japanese. The Americans also called them Zekes."

By then, Adam and Ollie were looking at me rather strangely. I missed a beat and that gave Magic her opening.

"One Nakajima NK1C Sakae 12 engine. 14 cylinder two row radial, 925 horsepower," she recited. "Two 20 mm cannons, two 7.7 mm machine guns, wing racks for two 30 kg bombs. Speed: 316 mph. Range: 1,930 miles. Ceiling: 10,300 meters, roughly thirty four thousand feet. Wingspan: 39 feet 4 inches. Length: 29 feet 9 inches. Low-powered but light, very maneuverable. 10,815 were built. Vast numbers expended in kamikaze attacks. None left intact. At least, none known..."

"What's all that mean?" Ollie asked.

"Frank here found himself a Japanese Zero," I surmised, still hardly believing.

"Actually, I found the fuselage in a scrap yard in Guam about twenty years ago," Nolan explained. "Since then, I've been adding whatever parts I can find or build and repairing any systems I can figure out."

"We're talking about a partnership," Walt added excitedly.

"Is it airworthy?" Magic asked breathlessly.

"Not quite," Nolan replied. "The engine is hard to start and sometimes it stalls during stress tests. Also, there's a hydraulic leak somewhere and a variety of other small problems. Parts, of course, are almost impossible to find."

"Gotta know where to look," Magic proclaimed. "I should have it humming for you in a week, two at the most."

"What makes you think you can work on a vintage plane like that?" Nolan questioned her. "You're quite right about the engine: 14 cylinders configured in two radials of seven each. There's not a mechanic alive who knows that engine."

"It's got pistons, don't it?" Magic replied with a wink.

Nolan seemed unconvinced.

"Magic grew up around old planes," I explained. "I'm sure you saw that fleet of Sopwith Camels and Fokker Triplanes yesterday, plus the C-130s and a few more. Magic's mom Rosie is the chief mechanic who keeps them all flying. If you've got even half the drawings for a plane, or even a good set of photos, Rosie can scan them in, convert them to CAD drawings, run simulations, interpolate hidden or missing parts, and set up the robotic milling machines to crank them out."

"Well, that's Rosie, not Madge," Nolan pointed out.

"Mr. Nolan, I'm telling you straight and true that Magic here was born in the bomb bay of a B-17. Rosie was fixing an ammo loader when she went into labor. Memphis Belle was the midwife. She grabbed a stretcher from the first aid locker, notched the handles in a couple of bomb racks, and that was that."