Suddenly, everything Skipper had taught Dusty came together. He closed in on the shadow and beat it to the tower!
Chug and Sparky whooped with joy, but Skipper just grinned. “He’s ready,” he said.
Later that day, as the sun set over the cornfields, Sparky spray-painted the Jolly Wrenches’ logo on Dusty.
“Whoa,” Dusty said to Skipper. “Your squadron insignia!”
Skipper smiled and said, “You’ve earned it. Now listen. When the race starts and all those planes take off, it’ll stir up a bunch of swirling air, just like the Wrenches ran into in the Battle of Airway.”
“Roger that,” Dusty said. “Sure wish you were comin’ with me, Skip.”
“Just radio back when you get to the checkpoints. I’ll be your wingman from here,” Skipper told him.
“Volo Pro Veritas—right?” Dusty said.
“Volo Pro Veritas,” replied Skipper.
Dusty beamed with happiness. His dream of flying in the Wings Around The Globe Rally was about to come true!
The next day, Dusty took off for New York, where the first leg of the rally would begin. By evening, he was approaching John F. Kennedy International Airport. Dusty gasped when he saw the lights of the city twinkling below him. He had never seen anything so dazzling!
Just then, an air-traffic controller from the airport radioed him. “Break, break, Air Racer Number Seven, Air Racer Number Seven, do you read Kennedy approach, over?”
“Uh,” Dusty mumbled, “I’m Dusty Crophopper! Lookin’ for JFK Airport.”
“Crophopper Seven, you are supposed to be on the Canarsie visual. Turn further left, heading one-nine-five. Maintain one thousand feet, intercept the twenty-two right localizer. You are cleared for the ILS twenty-two right approach. Heavy sectored in behind you,” the air-traffic controller said.
“Roger. Um, run that by me one more time,” replied Dusty. All the technical language was confusing him. Then he saw the bright runway lights. “Never mind! I got it!”
The air-traffic controller tugs looked up from their radar screens to watch Dusty land. “Do you see him?” one asked, expecting to see Dusty land where he had been given clearance.
“Radar does, but I don’t see diddly,” the other controller replied. Then he noticed the little plane on a huge runway.
“Check out this pavement,” Dusty said, impressed. “It’s so smooth!”
Dusty’s radio blared, “Crophopper Seven, you’ve passed Foxtrot. Turn left onto Charlie, hold short at twenty-two—”
“Huh?” Dusty replied. “Wait, I thought Fox… Isn’t that—”
“GET OFF THE RUNWAY!” the controller yelled. A giant jet thundered over Dusty, just missing him.
Dusty zipped onto the congested tarmac and dodged passenger jets and tugs. Horns honked all around him. “Sorry!” Dusty apologized.
“Go back to Jersey, ya bum!” somebody yelled at him.
Rattled and confused, Dusty approached another service vehicle that was loaded with luggage. “Excuse me, where can I—”
“Hey,” the service tug said, cutting Dusty off, “you mind? I’m workin’ here.”
“Sorry,” Dusty said again. Flight attendant pitties rolled by, pulling their suitcase-like trailers behind them. “Excuse me,” Dusty said to one of them. But she didn’t pay any attention to him.
Dusty heard her say, “Yeah, nice-enough guy, but way too much baggage, if you know what I mean.” Her fellow flight attendants nodded sympathetically as they continued past.
Dusty, still lost and confused, nearly ran into a tug towing a huge 747. “Hey there,” Dusty called out. “I’m looking for pit row.”
The little towing tug strained as he answered, “Straight ahead and to your left.”
“Thanks,” Dusty said, finally feeling like he could find his way through the huge maze of the airport.
Soon he saw a banner near a row of tents and hangars. It read WELCOME, RACERS. Dusty was so relieved. He was finally in the right place! Many of the racers were already gathered on pit row along with their mechanic tugs. He couldn’t wait to meet them all.
“Well, lookie who’s here!” the race official said to Dusty as he rolled into the racers’ area. It was the same official who had gone out to Propwash Junction to tell Dusty he’d be racing. “Miss your hometown?” he asked, and laughed. “I don’t. Just about blocked that memory out of my mind, but you’re bringing it right back with that nasty Vita-mina-stink-a-bunch.” He sniffed the air around Dusty. “Your tent’s the last one on the left. Go.”
As Dusty rolled away, the official called after him, “Power wash is on the right. Just sayin’.” But Dusty didn’t take offense. This was the big time, and he was just happy to be part of it all!
Dusty rolled down pit row, completely awestruck. It was even more colorful and exciting than the county fair in Propwash Junction. All the great racers from around the world were there!
He was thrilled when he spotted the British racer Bulldog. Dusty was a huge fan. He rolled up to the racing legend. “Wow, Bulldog! The Big Dog! Hey, I saw you do this unbelievable high-G vertical turn. How did you do that?”
“Well, let me tell you,” Bulldog said, leaning in as if he was going to whisper something. “In fact, why don’t I tell you all my racing secrets?”
“Really?” Dusty replied. He couldn’t believe it—a superstar like Bulldog was going to give him flying tips!
“No!” Bulldog snapped. “Look, I don’t know how things work in the backwater from which you hail, matey, but this is a competition. Every plane for himself. Goodbye.”
Dusty was shocked and a little insulted by Bulldog’s unfriendliness. He turned to go and nearly ran into a beautiful, exotic-looking racer. He became so flustered that he knocked over a pyramid of motor oil cans. Dusty quickly tried to recover from his blunder. “Well, I am sorry you had to see that,” he said nervously.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” Dusty replied. “And you are Pan-Asian Champion and Mumbai Cup record-holder Ishani.”
She smiled. “Most people call me just Ishani.”
Dusty took one look at her smile and melted inside. “I’m Dusty,” he said. “I mean, my name is Dusty. I’m not actually dusty. I’m…quite clean.”
“It is very nice to meet you, quite-clean Dusty,” Ishani told him.
Dusty watched her roll away. “Nice to meet you, too!” he called after her.
Dusty noticed Ripslinger’s expensive setup. It was equipped with a DJ and an extravagantly lit stage. Rip’s crew was scurrying around while Rip enjoyed a relaxing massage.
He looked over as Dusty approached him. “Hey, look who made it—it’s the crop duster!” Rip said with a laugh. “You know, having you here is a nice vehicle-interest story. ‘Small-town farmer makes it to the big time.’”
“Yes, sir,” Dusty exclaimed, liking the sound of it. He could imagine photos of him and Rip together at the starting line while millions of fans cheered them on.
Then Rip added, “‘But tragically, he crashes on takeoff.’”
“What?” Dusty said, confused.
Rip gave him a big grin, enjoying his fantasy. “‘Wings Around The Globe winner, Ripslinger, eulogizes the unknown hayseed and scatters his debris over a cornfield.’” Rip’s smile seemed even more serene. “Ratings will be through the roof!”
Dusty was completely stunned. “Okay…?” he said uncertainly as he turned to go.
“Good luck…farm boy,” Rip said, laughing. Dusty realized that Rip didn’t see him as much of a contender in the race. In fact, he barely saw him making it off the starting line.
But Dusty didn’t think much more about it. His attention was drawn away by someone announcing, “¡Atención, señoritas y señores! The hero of the people has arrived!” Dusty turned to see a teardrop-shaped Gee Bee in a cape and a mask roar up. It was El Chupacabra. The masked plane waited for his applause, but no one cheered.
“Have y
ou never heard of the great El Chupacabra?” El Chu asked the crowd.
One of the racers asked another, “Isn’t that the monster that siphons fuel from small vehicles?”
“No, no, no,” the masked plane said. “It is just a stage name designed to strike fear into the hearts of my opponents.”
“Yeah,” Dusty said excitedly. “He’s the indoor racing champion of all Mexico!”
“Indoor racing?” Bulldog asked, a bit confused.
“And número uno recording artist, telenovela star, and romance novelist,” El Chu added.
Everyone but Dusty looked at the masked plane skeptically. Finally, Bulldog said, “Did you say El Chupacabra or El Cuckoocabra?”
The other racers chuckled as El Chu fumed. He stormed up to Bulldog. “You make joke?” he asked. “Very well. You leave me no choice! I swish my cape at you! You have been shamed.”
“I hope I can get over it,” Bulldog said. He waited a second and sarcastically added, “Oh, I just did.”
El Chupacabra turned and haughtily rolled down pit row. Only Dusty followed him. “I saw you on Telemoto last year. Course, it was in Spanish, so I didn’t understand everything.”
“I am very flattered, avión pequeño! You have done many of these long-distance rallies, yes?”
“Nope,” Dusty said. “This is my first one.”
El Chupacabra nodded. “It is my first time as well. We will have many adventures, you and I! We will laugh, we will cry, we will dance! Probably not with each other.” Then, with a flourish of his cape, he said, “I will see you in the skies, amigo!”
As Dusty watched him go, he was happy to have finally made a friend!
The following morning, the gang in Propwash Junction gathered around the TV set they’d set up in the main hangar. They watched with excitement as the Racing Sports Network graphic appeared on the screen. The announcer said, “Race fans, it’s that time of year again! Welcome to the Wings Around The Globe! Hello, I’m Brent Mustangburger, and this is the flagship event of the world’s fastest sport, where only the best of the best compete.”
The graphics returned to the screen, showing the race’s route around the world. “Each leg brings a new challenge, testing agility, navigation, and endurance. But when it’s all said and done, speed is the name of the game,” Brent said.
The camera jumped to a live shot of JFK Airport with Colin Cowling, the Racing Sports Network blimp, flying above it.
“Brent,” Colin said, “the scene below me is absolutely electric. As you know, we have racers from all over the world here, but the real story should be who’s coming in second to three-time defending champ, Ripslinger, who is seeking to become the first four-time winner in the Wings Around The Globe.”
Now the cameras panned to where the racers were approaching the runway. Dusty’s friends back home went wild. “It’s Dusty!” cried Dottie and Sparky.
“Get your Dusty bobbleheads, your oven mitts, hats, bumper stickers…” Chug said as he unveiled all his Dusty Crophopper merchandise.
“Coolio,” Sparky said.
“I also ordered a thousand commemorative whistles,” Chug told him. “Hey, ya think you could help me set up a website?”
“Does a giga bite?” asked Sparky.
“Well, not if you pet him nicely!” said Chug.
Back at the airport, cameras flashed as the racers made their way through the entrance tunnel.
“One hundred and thirty-six nations compete,” Brent Mustangburger said. “Twenty-one planes selected. A step onto this field is a step into history.”
The crowd roared, and confetti rained down from the sky. “Holy smokes,” Dusty said. It was all a bit overwhelming.
Then Brent said, “And for the first time ever, folks, we have a crop duster in the race.”
The news was heard around the world. In a pub in England, a pitty looked shocked. “A crop duster?” he asked incredulously.
“Well, he’s gonna die,” another commented with certainty.
Meanwhile, out at JFK, three jets flying in formation roared over the heads of the crowd.
“Wow,” Dusty said in awe.
Then Ripslinger taxied out and the crowd went wild, shouting, “Ripslinger! Ripslinger!”
“Yeah!” Rip said. “Caught in the RIP-tide!”
El Chupacabra came out next. “¡Muchas gracias!” he shouted to the spectators.
Dusty rolled up to him. “Look at this crowd!” he said excitedly.
“Stay focused, amigo. Don’t let anything distract you—¡Ay, ay!” El Chupacabra said as his eyes strayed to one of the lady planes in the race. “Who is that vision?”
“That’s Rochelle,” Dusty told him, “the Canadian rally champ.”
El Chupacabra was completely smitten. “She is like an angel sent from heaven. Like a sunrise after a lifetime of darkness!”
Dusty nodded. “Like fresh fertilizer on a field of dying grass.”
El Chupacabra rolled his eyes at Dusty’s unromantic comparison. “This is not your thing, my friend.”
“Racers!” shouted the judge. “Start your engines!”
The gang in Propwash Junction held their breath. Their eyes were glued to the television as Dusty revved his engine and prepared to take off.
“Seven legs over thirty-one thousand kilometers,” Brent Mustangburger told his viewers. “The world’s highest mountains and the deepest oceans all stand before them, just waiting to be conquered by the right competitor.”
“Here we go! Oh, boy,” Chug said, staring wide-eyed at the screen.
“All the predictions, all the pageantry, all the preparation…it all comes down to this moment,” Brent continued. “One of these planes is about to fly off into the pages of sports history and become a champion.”
While the racers idled at the starting line, they furtively looked from side to side, sizing each other up. Dusty let out a nervous breath as an official dropped a flag and the judge shouted, “Go!”
The planes began their takeoff and Dusty felt his wheels leave the ground.
“Whoa! Swirlies! Whoa! Whoa!” he cried as he bounced around in the turbulence made by the planes ahead of him. This was exactly what Skipper had warned him about! He dropped down and flew close to the water to avoid the choppy air.
The other racers soon spread out and soared over the waters of the Long Island Sound. Dusty stayed low and followed the coast, trailing behind them.
“Our first stage is a whopper,” Brent said. “A dead sprint across the North Atlantic.” The racers were flying all the way to Reykjavík, Iceland!
“That’s right, Brent,” Colin said. “This is how it works, folks. The winner of the leg today is the first to take off tomorrow.”
When they reached Newfoundland, Dusty knew he had to give up clinging to the coast and fly across the vast Atlantic. By now all the other racers had climbed above the clouds—but Dusty was so low, he could see the whitecaps on the water!
It wasn’t long before his teeth were chattering in the freezing cold. Hail began to pummel his wings and body, and snow swirled around him. He could barely see. A huge shape rose out of the mist to greet him. An iceberg! Dusty dodged it at the very last second.
As the rest of the racers warmed themselves by roaring fire pits at the airport in Reykjavík, Dusty rolled in, shivering. He was the last plane to arrive.
“Hey, look who’s finally here!” said Zed. “It’s the low-flying farm boy!”
“You do know this is a race, right?” Rip asked.
Dusty faked a grin and kept going. He passed El Chupacabra but didn’t stop to chat. El Chu was obviously busy trying to get Rochelle’s attention.
“Excuse me,” he said to Rochelle. “How much does a snowplow weigh?”
“I do not know,” she replied.
“Enough to break the ice,” he said smoothly. “I am El Chupacabra.”
Rochelle smiled and nodded. “So you are the snowplow?”
El Chupacabra lit up. The beautiful
jet had finally noticed him. “You could say that, yes.”
“And I am the ice?” she asked him.
El Chu smiled. “Yes?”
“Cold, frozen, and lifeless?” she asked.
“No. It sounds better in Spanish,” he said, stumbling.
“Why don’t you go plow yourself, El Chu-Toy!” she said as she rolled away.
El Chupacabra melted nonetheless. “She is like an angel!” he cried, undaunted by her rejection.
Cold, miserable, and exhausted, Dusty slumped into a corner. Just then, the nearby radio came to life and a friendly voice said, “Propwash Junction to Dusty Crophopper.” Chug, Skipper, Dottie, and Sparky were calling!
“I read you, Chug,” replied Dusty.
“So what’s it like racing with the big dogs, Duster?” Chug asked.
“My wings froze solid, I had icicles hangin’ off my sprayer, and I nearly smashed into a ten-story iceberg,” said a frustrated Dusty. He still couldn’t believe how much harder the race was than he had imagined.
But it was all lost on Chug. “Awwwesome!” he replied, eager to hear more. He thought it all sounded kind of exciting.
“Awesome is not quite the word that I would use to describe a gruesome near-death experience,” Dusty shot back.
“You hang in there, buddy,” Chug said cheerily. “There’s nothin’ better than dying while doin’ what you love most.”
“That’s gonna make him feel a lot better!” Dottie scolded.
Then Skipper got on the radio. “Dusty,” he said. “Just like when the Jolly Wrenches were up in the Aleutians, the air down close to the sea has more moisture, which is why you took on ice. You gotta try to fly higher.”
Dusty exhaled. He knew Skipper was right, but he was completely unnerved by the prospect.
“The good news,” Skipper continued, “is tomorrow’s leg goes through the Bavarian obstacle course. It’s all about agility, so it’s your chance to move up. And remember: It’s not speed that wins races; it’s skill.”
Dusty nodded and signed off. But he couldn’t help worrying.
Planes Junior Novel Page 3
