Scarlet Thunder

by Sigmund Brouwer

  All of us began to run. We ignored the strange looks from people walking the paths between the motor homes.

  “What if he dumps the video and camera somewhere?” Uncle Mike asked, half yelling.

  “He’ll be too afraid someone might find it,” she said. “He’ll keep it with him until he’s far from here.”

  I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. To the right, I saw someone sprawled on the ground. I also heard angry shouts.

  “That way!” I pointed. I saw Tim’s back as he ducked behind another motor home. “He’s over there.”

  Uncle Mike and Sandy stopped.

  “But the parking lot is to our left,” she said.

  “I know,” I said. “But that’s not the only place to get a car.”

  “Pit road!” Uncle Mike and Sandy said at the same time.

  We ran toward the track.

  “I don’t get it,” Uncle Mike said. “He’s going to run in circles?”

  “If he can get to the far end,” Sandy said, “he can cut down through the infield and out that way.”

  She wasn’t even breathing hard. It showed me how drivers had to be in good shape to compete.

  “And if he can get away from the track,” she said over her shoulder as we worked hard to keep up, “and dump the video some place we can’t find, it will be worth whatever he gets fined for taking a stock car on the streets. We’ve got to stop him!”

  We got there just as Tim reached an empty idling car pitted in the middle row. Because all the crew recognized him, they weren’t concerned when he wandered up to the car. Without warning, he dove into the front seat and scrambled to get behind the steering wheel. The crew was too far away to do anything as Tim roared away with squealing tires.

  “What now?” I shouted.

  Sandy didn’t answer. She was already halfway to another crew.

  “Give me your car,” she yelled to them as she approached. “I’ve got to stop him!”

  People jumped out of her way.

  Seconds later, she was in hot pursuit.

  I saw it later on a television news show. A fan in the stands had been filming the cars as drivers did some test runs. There had been only one car on the track.

  When the second car—with Tim Becker driving—burst onto the track, it became interesting. And the fan filmed both cars.

  Sandy Peterson’s car really made it confusing.

  The first driver, thinking he had the whole track to himself, almost hit Tim as he roared out of pit road.

  Sandy, a better driver and able to get through her gears faster, almost hit them both as she came out on Tim’s tail.

  The first driver spun out and trailed smoke and dust all the way to the bottom of the track.

  Sandy stayed on Tim’s bumper.

  They screamed through the first turn.

  Through the second turn. Tim still had the lead.

  One more turn and Tim would be able to hit the track low and escape through the infield.

  Unless Sandy found a way to stop him.

  She started the third turn high, with Tim taking the middle.

  She swept down and cut beneath him.

  Instead of passing, she stayed right at his side, taking away the bottom of the track.

  Then she pressed her car against his.

  Metal shrieked against metal.

  He swung his wheel. But she was expecting it and turned her car harder into his. Sparks flew like fireworks from the bodies of both cars.

  The screaming of metal against metal grew louder and louder as the cars slowed.

  She pushed him higher up on the track. Higher. Higher. Until the other side of his car began to grind against the concrete wall.

  By this time, they had slowed to under thirty miles an hour.

  She ground him into the wall until both cars had stopped. She wedged her car against his and jumped out.

  Angrily, she walked up to his window.

  And she punched him in the nose.

  The crowd went crazy.

  But even with Tim Becker trapped, Uncle Mike still faced the worst part of all.

  Without any footage and with the deadline coming up, he was still about to lose his company. And a script that might be worth an Oscar.

  chapter twenty-three

  That afternoon, when everything had settled down, I found a pay phone near a concession stand. I dialed a number. I didn’t use Uncle Mike’s calling card. This wasn’t business. I called collect.

  “Mom?” I said after she agreed to pay for the call and the operator had hung up. “It’s Trent.”

  Not Trenton. Suddenly that seemed too much, like I was trying to make myself sound too important.

  “Trent!” Her voice was as surprised as it was happy.

  I could picture her wide smile and short ash-blond hair. It broke my heart that she sounded so happy and surprised. I should have been calling a lot, so that this call wasn’t a surprise.

  “Trent!” she said again. But now her voice sounded worried. “Are you all right?”

  That broke my heart too, that she thought the only reason I would call was if something was wrong.

  “I’m all right,” I said. “I just miss you guys.”

  That was true. I’d had some time to think about what Tim Becker had said. I’d been wrong to think only about my dreams. There was much more to life than work.

  “We miss you,” she said. “Your dad and I pray for you every day when you’re so far away.”

  “He’s doing good?” I asked.

  “Yes, he’s doing well.”

  We both laughed. Mom’s an English teacher.

  “How’s the weather?” she asked.

  “Good,” I said. Maybe some people would have found it boring to listen to us. Right at that moment, though, I realized it wasn’t what we were saying that was important. It was how we were saying it, and why. We were family, and the words were just an excuse for us to let the other know it was important to be connected.

  “Is Jody’s beach volleyball team winning?” I asked. My sister was a great player. I decided I would take time to go to her games when I got back.

  “They have a shot at the championship,” Mom said. “How’s the shoot going with Uncle Mike?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when we get back,” I said. I didn’t want to worry her. “I think we’ll be home soon.”

  “Great,” she said.

  We talked a while longer. She didn’t ask why I had called out of the blue. She didn’t make me feel bad for taking so long to call.

  And at the end of the call, she said something that I’d heard a lot of other times. But today it meant more to me than it had in the past.

  “Take care,” she said. “We love you.”

  I smiled at the blank wall of the phone booth.

  “I love you guys too.”

  An hour later, I met Sandy and Uncle Mike in his motor home.

  “We’ve talked to some lawyers,” Uncle Mike said. “Things don’t look good.”

  Sandy shook her head, her lips tight and grim. “Not good at all. They’re saying it will be next to impossible to prove anything, not if Brian Nelson and Tim Becker both decide to keep lying about things. We might not even be able to prove Tim put the elderberries in the fruit salad; the video shot isn’t clear enough. As it is now, all they can do is charge Tim with reckless driving or auto theft. Which is nothing compared to proving the rest of it.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear that. I guess we won’t be able to get an extension on the documentary. I know you were hoping it would help you w ith you r sponsor.”

  “Hang on,” Uncle Mike said quickly. “Don’t think we’re giving up. Both Sandy and I would really like to find a way to punish the studios for what they’ve done.”

  They exchanged smiles. Obviously they had talked about this already.

  “Yeah,” Sandy said. “It will probably hurt Lone Coyote if they have to pay your Uncle Mike the million-dollar bonus they a
greed to in the contract.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

  “Well,” Uncle Mike answered, “I doubt they ever planned on having to pay that much money. All along, they thought Tim Becker would find a way to stop us. If they suddenly have to cough up a million dollars...”

  “Tim Becker did stop us,” I said. “He slowed production to a standstill. He made Sandy and her crew look bad. And he ruined all the film we shot. You don’t have anything to make the documentary with—and there’s not time to get more film pulled together before the deadline.”

  Uncle Mike grinned. “He didn’t ruin all the film.”

  “I was there,” I said. “I saw it. Brian Nelson wrecked it all.”

  “I repeat,” Uncle Mike said, “not all of it.”

  Sandy broke in. “Your Uncle Mike says if I can finish well tomorrow, that’s all the footage he’ll need to make the documentary one of the most exciting one-hour spots anyone has seen for our sport. He says he can go into post-production next week with everything he has and be finished by the deadline. All he needs is my approval, and Lone Coyote will have to pay one million dollars. And trust me, the documentary will get my approval.”

  “I still don’t get it,” I said. I really didn’t. And I couldn’t figure out why Uncle Mike stood there grinning at me like I had just won a cutest baby contest.

  “Trent,” he said, “Brian Nelson didn’t break into our motor home.”

  “Huh? I mean, pardon me?”

  “Let me tell you,” Uncle Mike said. “You have a great eye and a lot of natural talent. I’ve been going over your footage a lot more slowly. You’ve captured some great stuff, and from some great angles.”

  “Are you saying...?” I could hardly believe him.

  “Yes,” he said. “We can easily pull an hour’s worth of stuff from the footage you’ve shot. It will have a music video feel to it that is really hip. I’m telling you, you are good. And if we can cap it with a strong finish, we’ll have an award-winning documentary. With your name all over it.”

  “Wow,” I said, hardly able to breathe. “Wow.”

  I looked over at Sandy.

  “Please,” I said. “Please run hard tomorrow.”

  chapter twenty-four

  Before the race began, I wanted to ask George Lot about the strategy he intended to use.

  “Would you mind if I asked you a question and filmed your answer?” I asked him. Before I would have just done it, thinking that the most important thing in the world was me and my job. Now I knew better.

  “Fire away,” he said. He was a lot friendlier now, knowing that Tim Becker had been behind all the trouble.

  “How’s she going to win this one?” I asked. “What’s the plan?”

  It seemed that the pit road beyond us was getting more and more crowded as cars zoomed in and out during their final adjustments. I leaned in closer to hear him above the noise.

  “This is a four-hundred-lap race, and we’re going to try to make it with as few pit stops as possible. This track is tricky. It’s short and there’s little room for mistakes. And that shows up in the number of yellow flags this track averages. Over the last five years, each race has seen at least five yellow flags. We’re going to stretch our stops as far apart as possible.”

  “That sounds like regular public relations stuff to me,” I said. I adjusted my focus to catch every twitch on his face. “We need the inside scoop.”

  His smile looked good on a face that was usually set in stone.

  “Here’s what we’d never let any of the other teams know before a race,” he said. “Her slow qualifying run hurt. She’s starting so far back that we’re going to have to keep her out there until she’s running on vapors. If she can get in even two more laps on everyone else before she comes in to the pits, yellow flags will really help us.”

  “That sounds risky,” I said. “What if she runs out of fuel?”

  “Don’t ask,” George Lot said. “Don’t even ask.”

  I stayed in the pit area behind the wall as all the cars went through their pace lap. As always, I filmed everything I could.

  It felt great, knowing that Uncle Mike believed in me. I could hardly wait to tell Mom and Dad about this weekend.

  There was a radio scanner nearby, and it let me hear the pre-race instructions to the pace car driver: “Give us sixty-five all around the track.”

  Sixty-five miles per hour. The pace car would keep everybody at that speed as all the cars settled into their positions. Sandy would be starting at thirty-first.

  I heard the instructions to all the pit crew chiefs: “Crew chiefs, remind your drivers not to pass anyone until they reach the start/finish line.”

  George Lot, standing down the wall from me, spoke into his radio, relaying the message to Sandy.

  Seconds later, the pace car entered pit road. And seconds after that, the race began with all engines howling.

  It was the first turn that drivers had to worry about. There, as they fought for position, the pack would be bunched so tight that there could easily be a wreck or two.

  I had my camera on my shoulder, ready to move and film anything that happened in the pit. But I took a moment to look up at the monitor first. Sandy stayed well back as the pack moved into the turn. If there was going to be a wreck, she wouldn’t be part of it. And if it knocked five or seven cars out of the race, it would move her up all those positions.

  No wreck. She kept her position. And all of the cars shot into the straightaway.

  I settled back into trying to shoot what I could in the pit.

  I got some close-ups of the pit crew in their fire suits, staring at the track.

  I took an upward angle of George Lot. He frowned at me. Which was good. It made him look even more serious and concerned.

  I got some still shots of the organized tires, tools and fuel, ready for the pit stops.

  And around me, I heard the chatter.

  “She’s moved up four spots.”

  “Eight laps to pit.”

  “Tire temperature holding.”

  Four laps later, there was a yellow flag. One of the middle cars blew an engine, and it took two laps of yellow before the track was cleared.

  That gave Sandy time to come in for her first pit.

  I watched through my camera as I filmed her up close.

  “You’re doing good,” George told her. “Lots of cars pitted earlier during green. Keep your concentration going.”

  Sweat poured off her face. In my camera, the drops of moisture were shiny beads.

  Excellent, I told myself, great footage.

  Twenty seconds later, she was gone.

  Another twenty seconds later, three more cars were gone. Not from pit road like Sandy. But gone from the race.

  The second-place car had bumped the leader as it passed, and both of them slid sideways together. The body metal of both cars shrieked at the high-speed stress.

  A third car hit them both, and in a spinning whirl that threw debris in all directions, the pile slid down the track toward the infield.

  Immediate yellow.

  Fire trucks raced toward them and covered the cars in a sea of white foam.

  On the track, Sandy called to George on the radio.

  “I’m coming back in. Those cars bled some oil and I think the track’s going to be slick. Let’s adjust the wedge while we can.”

  I swung my camera to George.

  “Get ready,” he barked to the crew.

  Sandy roared into the pit.

  I ran down the wall to get a better view with my camera. I knew what she meant by wedge. We could add a voice-over on the segment I was about to film so viewers would understand the term too.

  The voice-over would explain that since the racecar drivers go only one direction around the track, it helps if the car is tilted back slightly. Like a table with shorter legs on the front right and left rear corners. If you wad a piece of paper and stick it under the front right leg, the
table will tilt back onto the shorter left rear corner. And vice versa.

  The wedge on the car did the same thing, only on the front right and left rear tires. By tilting the car back just slightly, it could hang through the corners better or worse, depending on the adjustment.

  Again, it took less than thirty seconds for her to get in and out.

  I heard the scanner: Debris had been cleared from the track. The drivers were back to a green flag.

  Over the next two hours, Sandy moved up steadily until, in the final five laps, she was in second place.

  Second place!

  People in the pit were on their feet, cheering and shouting. Except for George.

  I snuck up behind him. I wanted to contrast their excitement against his calmness. His shoulders and head and neck filled my viewfinder. Just beyond him, out of focus, were crew members in their red coveralls.

  I knew my job was just to stay out of the way. Especially in the heat of the race. But it looked like I could slip in for a second.

  “George,” I said. “Is she going to win?”

  George turned and faced the camera squarely.

  “She’s got three laps to go and maybe only two and half laps of fuel. But if we had pitted her at any time, she would have lost a lap to the leader. If she can find a way to save fuel, she’s got a chance. But if she throttles back to save fuel, she won’t hold her position. Now leave me alone.”

  It got so exciting that I nearly set my camera down to watch the last few laps. And in the last minutes of a race that had taken three hours, I understood why victory was so precious. Defeat and heartbreak were always a heartbeat away, no matter how close a driver was to victory.

  In the second to last turn, the leader blew a tire. Later, I would find out that he and his pit chief had gambled too, trying to stretch out tires and fuel between stops.

  The blown tire sent him into the wall and out of the race.

  Leaving Sandy in first place.

  Until she ran out of fuel.

  George had called it exactly.

  She ran out in the final turn.

  It was agony to watch her coast toward the finish, but losing speed. With two other cars catching up fast.