“Nine, we’ve averaged mid-eighties in the hundred miles since the first breakdown. Tell me the credit’s run out and I’ll call it, but I’m still not stopping until we’re in a major city. If we stop, we need to hide this car immediately, after what we’ve done.”
“Cowbell Ground, Cowbell Ground, approaching Oklahoma City airspace, will be peeling off for refuel, please maintain location updates every 10 minutes for reintercept west of the city. Cowbell Ground, do you copy?”
“Copy that,” Nine responded, but his tone expressed what I had come to understand since the second breakdown. No one, including The Weis and the Captain, was going to give up until I made the decision. We were 15 miles from Interstate 40, the second-to-last turn before Los Angeles.
“Cowbell Ground, you are clear of bears for about two miles, all the way to the I-44/I-35 interchange. We are peeling off for refuel. Good luck through the city, see you on the I-40. Cowbell Air out.”
We could go it alone, but I suddenly realized how lonely we would be. Only a handful of people in the world knew there were three people in a blue sedan on a mission, not interested in bothering anyone, just trying to cross the country in one day and two nights. The plane disappeared. I couldn’t wait to see them again. In person.
“Nice work, Aliray, I can’t believe we’ve picked up the pace.”
“I just hope we can maintain this through the city.”
Team Polizei’s heretofore-indomitable E39 BMW M5, universally considered one of the finest cars ever made, respected veteran of three Gumballs and 3446, its glass and metal eyes witness to nearly 15,000 high-speed miles across thirteen countries, having performed flawlessly under conditions unseen outside of the Paris-Dakar and the 24 Hours of Le Mans, died in the center of Oklahoma City, on the right shoulder 500 feet north of the I-44/I-40 interchange, 1,451 miles from New York, 1,342 miles from the Santa Monica Pier.
Cory burst into tears.
“The car,” Nine said quietly, “it’s impossible.”
“Jon,” I said firmly, lowering all four windows for our first fresh air in three hours. I shuddered against the cool wind flowing up my sleeves, then down my neck, then pooling around my ankles. I leaned forward to pull up my socks. My clothes were completely drenched. My pants had slipped six inches below my waist.
“A twenty-dollar part…” he muttered. “Has to be…has to be.”
“Jon, we’re going again. I don’t care how many times it takes.”
“I dunno, man…I dunno.”
“We’ll make it next time.”
“Aliray, man—”
“Don’t explain. I understand. I have my reasons. You have yours. Cory?” I looked over my shoulder. Cory stared out her window, west, past the last, low buildings on the city’s outskirts, her eyes repeatedly following I-44’s gray path leading off to the horizon.
“Cory?”
“Hells, yeah,” she whispered. She’d go alone if she had to.
Then I remembered. Alex Roy always makes it. Maggie. Time clock. Already in the air. Too late to stop her. I started typing. “Jon, you tell the boys overhead. I’ll call for a flatbed. We have to move before the police show up. Cory, can you—”
“—reserve a hotel with a garage hidden from the street?”
I caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. Even in disaster, we could smile—
“Oh…my…God,” said Nine. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, no!”
My eyes shot past Cory’s reflection to a dark narrow shape approaching.
Motorcycle. Oklahoma City police. I hit the ECM master power kill.
The officer rolled up to Nine’s open window, lowered his bike onto its kickstand, and leaned inside—his helmet and mirrored glasses slowly turning to scan each of our faces.
“Wow!” he exclaimed, revealing a delighted grin as wide as any Gumball fan’s. “Now, this is the most amazing car I have ever seen! When I saw all those antennas on the back, I just knew… I just knew! Hey, what agency you guys with?”
“Well, Officer,” I said, “that’s a long story.”
“Whoa!” His head turned to the dashboard, then to the fixed camera over my shoulder, then the handheld in Cory’s lap. “Oh! I get it! You’re making a movie! Cool! But I guess you’ve got some car trouble, huh? I better get you a tow right away so you can get back out there. But where to? BMW’s not going to be open on Sunday. You know, I’ve got a friend…”
If the Missouri State Police were hunting for a blue BMW with antennas, then every minute spent in the state of Oklahoma was one fraught with danger. Especially if the officer knew where the car was being towed.
But we couldn’t leave the city until the car was hidden, stripped of camera gear, and secured for immediate shipping home.
Our new friend was eager to stay and chat after arranging a tow to a nearby garage—conveniently owned by an ex-cop he was sure would give us a discount—but a sudden and fortuitous radio dispatch sent him off with enthusiastic waves all around. He was still in sight when I called another tow truck to take us to the nearby Waterford Marriott and its concealed parking lot, to which we rode in silence. The aircrew was already on its way to meet us before flying back to New York. I informed my mother; Cory, the other witnesses. Maggie would find out when she landed in L.A. I booked a ticket to meet her the next day. Nine booked one to Miami. Cory booked one to Hawaii, then began removing the camera equipment. I leaned back and closed my eyes for the first time in 33 hours.
I already knew when the next departure window opened.
I would need PolizeiAir to deploy one more time.
I couldn’t ask Nine to go again. Gumball 2005, 34:46, 14:51 to Oklahoma. Nearly 7,500 miles in the face of incarceration and death. With me. I’d wait him out until final preparations for the next run, just in case he changed his mind.
Replacing him would be a formidable task.
But the countdown wasn’t over.
Now that I’d paid the price for my hubris, I knew exactly what improvements would be necessary for next time. I’d already e-mailed AI asking for the third-through-tenth diagnoses overlooked three days earlier. The most likely—a fuel-pump filter—was one I’d naively omitted from my preventative maintenance list. Failure is the great teacher, if one allows it to be. I’d failed, but even in failure everything was going according to plan.
And then came the phone call from Oklahoma City BMW—the police were there. I thought my life was over.
“Bad news first,” I said to Seth from a secluded bench in LAX’s arrival terminal.
“Before I tell you, is there anything you want to tell me first?”
“You know what I did.”
“I can’t represent you unless I know the truth. Are there any weapons or contraband in that car? Anything besides the usual gizmos?”
“Seth, you know me. C’mon. How bad is it?”
“They want to get inside that car, but they don’t have probable cause. Not yet.”
“But nothing happened other than the breakdown, I swear. No tickets, no accidents, no calls, nothing.”
“Well, smart-ass, apparently you made a phone call while standing in line at the Oklahoma City airport. Someone nearby overheard snippets of your conversation. You were describing…shall we say…some very interesting activities. That person works for the governor of Oklahoma. It didn’t take long for the state police to open an investigation into the identity of the owner of one particular and very special BMW.”
“But I only called my mother, and my girlfriend, and—” AI, to whom I’d given a brief but potentially very incriminating summary, if any bystander could possibly have pieced together the totally unbelievable facts of our story.
“Seth, what exactly did they overhear?”
“They overheard BMW, breakdown, night vision, escape, cops, spotter plane, Pennsylvania, and 150 miles an hour.”
“So…what constitutes probable cause? What can they charge me with?”
“Right now they have no idea what you w
ere doing, in Oklahoma or anywhere else, but the BMW guys had your Team Polizei Web page up when the investigator arrived. I’m sure that was an amusing scene. Absolutely hilarious. You weren’t wearing police outfits this time, were you? Using the lights and sirens?”
“Please, Seth, never in the United States.”
“Good, but the investigator is now well aware of your reputation from Gumball, and he is most curious as to what you were doing in that car in his city, fully equipped with everything you talk about on your website. They know Gumball isn’t in America this year, and that there aren’t any other events going on right now, and that your car isn’t wearing any stickers anyway. So they’re quite curious about that phone call from the airport.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them the truth…that you were driving cross-country, that you’re an animated speaker, and that you were probably trying to impress some girl with your amazing driving adventures.”
“That is a plausible explanation, and ninety-nine percent true. How did they take it?”
“They want to know what happened in Pennsylvania. He’s sending an investigatory request to the Pennsylvania State Police, asking whether a blue BMW was reported involved in any accidents or crimes in the last three days. If they don’t check your credit cards and the toll records, we can always suggest that no car could possibly have traveled from Pennsylvania to Oklahoma in such a short span of time. Don’t even tell me how long it took you. I might have to fire you as a client. Just tell me…did you have any runins in Pennsylvania?”
“Yes. A scanner report. Someone called in a blue BMW at a high rate of speed, heading west…without taillights.”
“And that was you.”
“Yes, it was.”
“That might be enough to get a warrant to open the car. Alex, think. Is there anything inside that would suggest what you were doing?”
“I…I…yes.”
“Precisely what?”
Lacking any luggage and assuming we were free and clear, I’d left behind…everything. The Steiners and Kenyon gyrostabilizer would appear odd, but innocent. The Raytheon Thermal Imaging System was an unknown. The rest read like KITT’s technical specs from Knight Rider, crossed with Jackie Chan’s Subaru from the original Cannonball Run, only far worse. Both scanners—set to the Oklahoma State Police frequency bank—and the instructions given me by the radio expert I’d hired to program them, including his name and number. Both Garmins, one displaying our route, the other our elapsed time and distance. If connected to a PC running Garmin’s (conveniently expensive) MapSource application, our precise tracks—including time, speed, bearing, latitude and longitude—could be downloaded and viewed. The Blinder laser jammers. Driveplan 1 Alpha (Assault Final), and a card from Maggie wishing us luck.
Seth, audibly scribbling notes, took a deep, long breath. “Alex, does the driveplan actually say ‘Assault Final’ on it?”
“No.”
“It’s still bad, but not as bad. What does Maggie’s card say?”
“I can’t remember verbatim, but something to the effect of ‘Don’t kill anyone,’ ‘Break the record!,’ ‘See you in L.A.!,’ and ‘Love, Maggie.’”
“That, too, is going to be a problem.”
“What if I fly back to Oklahoma City right now, walk in there, and remove all that stuff? Or steal my own car and hide it somewhere else?”
“Alex, do not, under any circumstances, set foot in the state of Oklahoma.”
“The BMW guys love Gumball. Can I just ask them to pull those items and ship them to me?”
“That might have worked before the police showed up, but now they’ve put a hold on your car. No one can touch it, not even open it. If you’re charged, it would be considered tampering with evidence.”
“So there’s nothing I can do?”
“Alex, you’re a schmuck for putting either of us in this situation, but here’s the good news. What do they have on you? You have a spotless record. You’re a successful young businessman. You pay your taxes on time. You’re involved in your local community. You volunteer for charitable works. Maggie loves you. Besides having a fetish for dressing like a cop once a year while on vacation, you’re a model citizen. So here’s the deal. They’re going to hold your car for three days. If nothing comes back from Pennsylvania within that time, BMW will ship your car back to New York.”
“That’s it? I’m free?”
“That’s it. Wherever you are, just stay there. And do us both a favor. Don’t drive. Anywhere. Until further notice. Take a cab. Since I’m a nice guy, give me the receipts and I’ll take it off your bill.”
“And if they open that car, what can they charge me with?”
“That’s a tough one. Maybe nothing. Maybe speeding, reckless endangerment, road racing…there’s no precedent for what they could do. You did say you’re the first, or at least you think you’re the first, to try this in what? Twenty-five years?”
“Something like that. Seth, I should have asked you this before I left, but I was afraid you’d ask why, and then you’d have refused…and maybe even turned me in.”
“I’m sure I would have. What is it?”
“I want a complete list of all the applicable criminal statutes in every state I passed through, on this and the recon run. Statues of limitations, tolling laws, everything.”
“We’ve already started. Just in case. It’ll be ready by the time you get back. But, Alex, I want you to think about something. I never knew your father, but it seems from everything I’ve heard that he was quite a man. Once this is over, I want you to ask yourself…is this what he would have wanted?”
Seth couldn’t have known the terrifying depth of his question, nor could I have answered it just then, or for the three days I intended to hide—speechless, shell-shocked, and terrified—with Maggie in my hotel room in L.A. I had always been ready to pay the price for my actions. To do so victorious was noble, but to do so in defeat made the risks taken and sacrifices made appear those of a madman, or an idiot.
I was going again. But my clock couldn’t start until this one stopped. In motion or at rest, plaguing me at all turns, was time.
Time was the Devil.
But on Thursday, April 6, the Devil’s clock ran out.
I reset mine.
The M5 returned to AI yet again for refitting and upgrades—among them a second Vertex radio, and two more Garmins and roof-mounted antennas.
The target date was Saturday, October 7, 2006. Columbus Day weekend. Twenty-six weeks and two days away.
CHAPTER 32
The Patron Saint of Nonviolent and Unprofitable Crimes
I became blind to everything beyond what was necessary to reach the summit. Nothing and no one was spared. Although she would say the opposite, Maggie left me, and understandably so. She had suffered for my arrogance, and continued to suffer as I committed every waking hour—often nightly, until 3 A.M.—to research that made the prior drives look childish. She asked whether I was capable of balancing my task with a life that included her or anyone else. She deserved to be happy. I deserved to be alone, and had to be until someone—aware of the potential, terrible cost to both of us—could understand and forgive me for what I intended to do. I was incapable of lying about who I’d become, and who I yearned to be by the second week of October. She gave me an ultimatum. A wiser, more grateful man would have tossed everything else aside and said yes.
I said no.
Ross had called. He needed a copilot for Gumball. If Nine didn’t change his mind soon, that October so would I. Briefing, orientation, and practice would take his replacement months. Ross was first on the list.
The 2006 Gumball would have three legs—London to Belgrade, Phuket to Bangkok, and Salt Lake City to Los Angeles—the latter the perfect method of auditioning the world’s most veteran Gumballer for the task at hand. I sent Ross, with whom I hadn’t spoken in ten months, an NDA, which he signed and returned without question. Our relationship existe
d in a peculiar netherworld in which there was only one reason to send such a document. On Sunday, April 30, precisely four weeks after the Oklahoma breakdown, Ross—hereby designated Team Polizei’s new Master Pilot—and I left London in his temporary contribution to Team Polizei’s 2006 garage, a jet-black Commonwealth of the Bahamas Nassau Tax Evasion Intercept liveried Bentley GT.
“Now, Mr. Roy, tell me more about this little drive you have planned.”
Ross and I—with a combined eight Gumballs, three Bullruns, and one and a half cross-country runs between us—ripped across France and Belgium so rapidly that fans watching the ALK.com tracks thought we’d placed our CoPilot transponder on a train, or possibly a plane. The fearsome Morley—“I’ll get you!” he’d threatened the night before the start. “You’ll see!”—somehow caught up despite crossing the Channel one train behind us, Ross having wisely purchased a VIP Eurotunnel ticket without which even we’d have had no chance against him. Luckily, the police stopped both of us in tandem two miles shy of the first checkpoint at Belgium’s Château Beloeil, and we—an overstuffed manila envelope of euros at the ready—had the exact change to pay our fine and were released while Morley’s SLR was seized for improper documentation—a shockingly inconvenient oversight for a veteran of his stature.
This, and our commanding lead over the third-and lower-placed cars—blindly cruising into an ambush whose manpower grew by the minute—gave us sufficient time to visit the château’s stunning orchid gardens before heading toward Vienna. Five hundred and seventy-four dark, silent miles later, punctuated only by the occasional flash of halogen bulbs overhead—each triggered by sensors embedded in the Autobahn asphalt, and irrelevant thanks to our Euro-spec anticamera plate covers—we arrived to a heroes’ welcome at the Austrian border control. We signed autographs and met the local police chief before another first-place finish in Vienna, where we sipped tea in Kursalon Park while awaiting Muss and Seamus for the final leg to Budapest. They, having remembered our prior year’s magnanimity, led us all the way into the city before pulling aside to gift us first place. Ant and Pete might have beaten us, had they not broken down one block short of the flag.
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