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."

Lenny, 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-five. Those are compass headings: seventy degrees and two hundred fifty 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."

"Memphis Belle?"

"Yeah, she's the receptionist, radio operator, tower chief, and nurse" I explained.

"Magic grew up in the family motor home, a Fairchild C-119 Flying Boxcar. She attended kindergarten though sixth grade in the squad room. After that it was one year in junior high and one year in high school. She spent two years at State Poly, after which they gave her dual degrees in automotive and aviation technology, both with honors, and told her to get on with her life. Then NASA called her but she likes working with her hands and they wouldn't promise her a shade tree. After that ..."

"OK, OK, you convinced me," Nolan admitted. "Rosie Ikemoto, eh? Let me guess: Tokyo Rose?"

"No, there's a bad connotation to that, and the real Tokyo Rose was most likely a woman named Iva Ikuko Toguri," I explained. "She prefers just Rosie, or sometimes Rosie the Riveter."

"So what about joining the Underground Airmen?" Nolan asked again.

"Well, if you can get The Bullet patched up for us, I'm sure Magic can get the Zero patched up for you," I proposed, glancing over at Magic. She nodded. "Then we'll gas it up and Olivia or I will lead you to a certain abandoned airstrip. Take a few strafing runs and see how long it takes 'em to scramble. Don't be surprised when you find a Corsair or a Hellcat or two on your tail. Bank, loop, and try to catch 'em before they dive or climb. When that gets old, buzz the control tower once or twice and then request permission to land. I don't think you'll have any problems."

"I'm not sure if I'm up to those aerobatics," Nolan worried.

"No problem. Magic can help you put in a trainer seat, then Olivia or I can help you out."

"Olivia? Olivia's a pilot, too?" Adam stammered.

At that point, I asked Crystal and Stitch to bring their bag. In it were enough Silver Bullet hats for everyone (except, of course, the factory people). Once everyone had their hats, I led them in a big high-five and a Bang! After that, Adam and Crystal led the same cheer three times more. Grudgingly, I had to admit they did it pretty well and even worse, that they looked good doing it together.

"You know, this track would also be good for dirt bikes," Adam remarked. "Have you thought of that?"

I just lifted one eyebrow and stared at him.

"Well, I mean, do you know anything about dirt bikes?" he asked.

Reb gagged. Magic giggled. Olivia swooned. I just kept on staring.

"Nooooo!" said Adam.

"Do you have any dirt bikes in stock?" Magic asked Bushman.

"Yes, at my other store," Bushman replied.

"Is it OK if Magic and I visit that store and look around?" Reb asked.

"Sure. You could even buy something if you want," Bushman replied.

"Do you sponsor any racers or racing events?" Reb asked.

"No, there's nothing like that in town," Bushman explained.

"Well then, I'm going to investigate forming a racing council," Reb announced. "That means contacting various dealers, clubs, and so forth. I'm not sneaking around behind your back. Racing increases dirt revenues for the entire area. It doesn't mean one store gains at another's loss."

"Keep me posted," Bushman suggested noncommittally.

"We'll look around town for racing teams," Dan and Nadia promised.

The factory teams quickly packed up and left, but they all liked the facility and promised to return the following week if we were ready. That was all I wanted or expected.

The rest of us, meanwhile, wandered around the property checking it out. Adam and I went on foot for a while, then we took turns driving the jeep over, under, around, and through various obstacles. Eventually we found a secluded spot in the back corner of the property and stopped. By some chance I'd packed a double air mattress and a couple of blankets in the jeep's utility box. Oh yeah, it was good.

We passed a few others on our way back. Nadia and Dan. Walt and Cynthia. Teah and the vampish Liliuo boy. Reb and Bushman and no, I didn't know what she was up to, not exactly. Ollie and Lucy Lastik. Magic and Fiona Fledermaus. Yeah, occasionally. Ben, Ginger, Ursula, Olivia, and the Liliuo girl.

Later in the day Adam came around with an unwelcome relic from the past. Stitch must've given it to him. The last I'd seen, it was only half done.

"I'm no expert but this embroidery is amazing," Adam remarked. "It's like a photograph, or maybe an oil painting."

I didn't want to look but I knew I had to. It was a denim jacket with artwork embroidered on the back. A group of people were having a clambake at the beach. It was sunset and the sky was a riot of color. Smoke from the fire rose in a gentle haze.

"This is the coast, isn't it?" Adam probed. "This girl with the long hair is you, isn't it? You were wearing clothes then. And this is Olivia, and Ursula, and Ginger, and Magic, and Reb. That's Nate helping out with the cooking, right? Nate from Finer Diner? And sitting next to you, playing the guitar, is that Ian Strommer?"

"Yeah, well, that was before the band went big-time," I explained.

"I see where he got the name. The way the light from the sunset glints off the wings of these condors, they do look crimson," Adam observed.

"Anything else?" I asked, knowing surely there was.

"These guys next to Ian are the rest of the Condors, right? Mad Mike Munson, Thunder Thompson, and Elijah Grissom? But who's this?"

"Boolean Jules. He was our computer guy."

"Look, here's Manny Richtoffen and Ted Rickenbacker. Here's the Sopwith and the Fokker parked in the field up there. And this beach house! It's incredible! It's huge but it blends into the landscape perfectly. Look how much shoreline you had! The view from those windows had to be fantastic! And here's The Silver Bullet, in the first garage stall. This is where you all built it, isn't it?"

"Yeah, we called the place Casa Velocidad. Now you know. So what?" I challenged.

"These are the Condor's instruments in the last garage stall, aren't they? This sure looks like Mike Munson's drum set. When they were a garage band, this was the garage, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, and those are dirt bikes in the middle stall. Anything else you wanna know?"

"Why would anybody leave all that?" Adam wondered aloud.

"Because it was all gone anyway, Adam. It was all gone. The Bullet was trashed and we had no way of fixing it. Trans-Cal saw to that. They got Reb put in jail, too. Some banks and lawyers and crooked politicians took Reb's shop and the beach house went with it. Ian had money by then but he was off playing concerts in Europe and Asia. Magic hid The Bullet and the rest of us chased the winds. I ended up here. So did a few others. Some disappeared. A few had accidents and they're really gone.

"You know, Adam, fame and glory are funny things. They look great when you're on the outside lookin' in. But once you have them, there are people who'll kill to take 'em away from you. Maybe you can ride that bubble for a while, but not forever."

"Who's willing to kill? Trans-Cal?"

"Yeah, mostly. They didn't like it that a bunch of kids working in their garage could build a dune buggy that whipped their two-ton butts year after year. I guess they thought it cut into sales, you know? Eventually they decided if they couldn't stop us on the track, they'd stop us off it."

"Are they still after you?"

"Probably. No, more than that. They made Lenny Lobach get an extreme makeover, change into a female sex machine, and claim he was Dee Muntz. That's pretty extreme but it shows how far Trans-Cal will go.

"Somehow they fouond out that Marjorie was really a fugitive named Julia McRae. I suppose they blackmailed her into taking me in a year ago and then keeping an eye on me. Once I'd turned up on television, they didn't need her any more and so they got rid of her. They paid her off and got her out of the country, or at least made it look like that. So yeah, they're still after me. Me and the others."

"Vivian, I don't know what to say," Adam apologized. "I feel like it's my fault they discovered you. It's my fault you're in danger."

"No, it's not your fault," I assured Adam. "If they had time to transform Lenny Lobach and time to dig up dirt on Marjorie and turn her, they must've known where I was for quite a while. They were probably following Reb, too. When Reb and I got back together, that lit the fuse."

"So what now?" Adam asked.

"I'm tired of running, Adam. Plus, I ran last time and obviously it didn't work. Reb is here. Magic is here. Stitch, Ursula, and Olivia are here, plus a few others you know and some you probably don't. Nadia and Ginger really are my cousins. With Bushie, Ozzie Bogswamp, your uncle Edgar, and your aunt Lucy on our side, we've got tie-ins to local politics. The mayor and the cops seem to like us. That's enough that I think we'll stand and fight."

"Well, you have me, too," Adam replied, and I could have kissed him. In fact, I did, and I took my sweet time about it.

That's when my PDA signaled an incoming message and I was fool enough to read it.

"Vivian. I know you have to follow your heart. If it ever leads back to me, just call. Ian."

Oh shit! The bastard! I felt like killing him! Attached was a receipt for $500,000 deposited to the account of VAN Enterprises. What was he up to? How had he known? How could I keep it? How could I send it back?

It got worse. While I was busy, Adam had plugged a memory module into his PDA. I suppose Stitch gave it to him, although it could have been Magic. It was a video of our third and final win at the Baja 1000. The finish line was jammed with thousands of people and dozens of booths so you could hardly see the racers approach. Then the crowd went nuts, absolutely nuts, and the announcer went nuts, too. He was screaming at the top of his lungs like a maniac. Adam was watching the video at normal speed, of course, but it seemed like slow motion to me. I knew the words by heart.

"It's coming! It's coming!" screamed the maniacal announcer. "It can't be. It can't be. But it is! This is it! This is it! Crossing the line! Bang! Oh yeah, baby! Bang! Give it a Bang! Lock, load and Bang! Oh Bang! Oh yeah, oh yeah baby. Bang!, Bang!, Bang! Impossible! Oooh, what a finish! Baaaaaang! Casa Velocidad and The Silver Bullet win the Baja 1000 for the third year in a row, only seconds ahead of the Trans-Cal Cannonball!"

Then The Cannonball smacked The Bullet and like a thousand times before, I wondered how I'd survived.

"This is real trouble, isn't it?" Adam asked quietly.

"Yeah, you might say that," I allowed.

Eventually, of course, it was time to head home. Adam and I were the last to leave and we locked the gate. Adam drove home in the Dunemaster. I, meanwhile, drove the jeep to Marjorie's apartment for the last time. As I expected, it was ransacked. Marjorie's stuff was all over the floor: her clothes, her towels, her sheets, everything. They even busted apart the furniture. All they really wanted, of course, was my box. The box with my mementos, my old IDs, a few school certificates, and a set of backup discs that contained all the plans and formulas and software for The Bullet. Of course there was no sign of it, not even in its usual hiding place. I'd given it to Flo Thursday evening after I finished cleaning the apartment.

Flo was happy to see me and still had the box. I tried to pay her for the trouble but of course she refused. I told her I was moving out and she said she already knew. Then we promised to stay in touch and I was gone.

Twenty minutes later I was standing on Jonson's porch ringing the doorbell. Cynthia answered and I asked, "Uh, Marjorie's left town and her apartment is a wreck. Could I use your guest room for a few days?"

"Oh Vivian, you can use the guest room for as long as you like," Cynthia assured me. Adam was standing a few feet behind her and smiling. "Come in, come in! Are those all your things? Just one box?" Cynthia asked.

"Yeah, they're not things I use every day but they're things I like to keep. Is there a safe place to put this?"

"The desk in your room has a security drawer you can lock. It's designed for important papers and computer discs. I'm sure it's big enough. Will that be OK for now?"

"Yes, thanks," I replied, then Cynthia went looking for the key. Adam and I took a shower together, then screwed our brains out, then took another shower, then headed to our separate rooms. We both knew that Monday would be a busy day, and that we both needed our sleep.

Cynthia had found the security drawer key and left it on the desk. With a sigh I stowed the box, locked the drawer, turned off the light, slid between the covers, and hid the key in my pillowcase.

"Is everything OK?" asked Cynthia, who'd come like a good mother to check on me. Our matching nipple rings had started to look normal.

"Yes, thanks for everything. Good night," I replied, then I drifted off to sleep. Mission accomplished. It was another good day.

* * * * *

Watch for the next exciting installment:

Adam & Vivian Naked In School - Week 3 - Relationships

by caultron