In his red one-piece pajamas, Wally flipped the switch for the back porch light. He peeked through the curtains and saw a gray-suited man, square-jawed, with Ray-Ban aviator glasses and neatly combed hair. Three other grim-faced suits lurked behind him on the steps.
Sunglasses at 1 A.M. What the heck was going on? He cracked open the door.
“Mr. Chubb? Sorry about the hour.” The man’s voice was deep, gravelly. His Ray-Bans reflected the bare lightbulb overhead. “We don’t want to create a disturbance. We want to be discreet. Just need a minute of your time.”
“What’s the problem?”
“You sure you want to talk out here?” the man asked. “Or could we go inside?” Only a few lights were still on in Wally’s field, the tents all quiet, the journalists asleep.
“What do you want?”
“We’re from Boeing,” the man explained, “and we’re here to help.”
“No kidding,” Wally said. “Come on in. Place is a bit messy, but make yourselves comfortable.”
He put Arf into the pantry with a Milk-Bone and returned to his kitchen table. The men stood in a semicircle. A lone black file folder lay on the counter.
“We’d like you to sign this waiver,” the man with the Ray-Bans said, producing a form in triplicate. “We don’t put warning labels on our jets. You know, ‘The surgeon general has determined that eating an airplane is hazardous to your health.’ Our legal department wants you to sign this document acknowledging Boeing is not liable for any damage—”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Wally interrupted. “I’m not suing anybody.”
“Then you won’t mind signing—”
“Sure, I’ll sign it, but what do I get in return?”
“Technical assistance,” the man said.
“How’s that?”
The man held up a cardboard tube. “My colleagues here are 747 engineers. They designed the plane you’re eating.”
A roll of blueprints slid out and a schematic of the 747 unfurled onto the table.
“We’re truly impressed with what you’ve accomplished,” a Boeing engineer said, meticulously weighting down the four corners of the diagram with coffee mugs from the sink. His eyes were sincere. He was in awe of Wally.
“But you’ve got a big problem,” the engineer said, tapping the blueprint with his forefinger. “Look here.” Wally leaned closer.
It was a spot just behind the rear cabin near the tail. He hadn’t eaten that far yet. But it was right around the corner.
“That’s your challenge,” the engineer said. Tap-tap went the finger. “It’s what we call a showstopper.”
A sinewy hand extended, offering a big expensive pen.
“Sign our waiver,” the man with the Ray-Bans said, “and we’ll help you. We know just the guy to call. Otherwise, you’re on your own and you’ll never finish the plane.”
Why had no one thought of this before?
J.J. felt nauseated. So much work and effort would come to nothing if the problem couldn’t be solved. He walked across Wally’s fields, past the television booths, hot dog stands, snow cone vendors, and fortune-tellers. The pasture buzzed with talk of Wally’s insurmountable challenge.
He stopped briefly at the MSNBC tent where an expert from Aviation Week & Space Technology held a scale model of the 747 in his hands. With great consternation, he pinpointed the showstopper.
“He’s conquered the avionics,” the Ph.D. intoned into a microphone. “He’s made a run right through the undercarriage and the cargo holds. Now he faces the impossible—”
J.J. winced and moved on to the Australian Broadcasting Corporation booth where an animated discussion was under way about putting a miniature camera inside Wally’s intestines for an in-depth exploration of his digestive tract.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and crossed over to the stark remains of the 747. He stared up at the tail section, the empennage as someone called it, waiting to be consumed. Somewhere inside that sleek aluminum skin was a problem with no obvious solution, an obstacle that could put an end to Wally’s world record attempt….
The black box.
Indestructible, built to withstand 3,400 Gs or sudden impact at 400 miles per hour. How could Wally eat it if his magic machine couldn’t grind it? J.J. knew this was a crisis the news media would milk for days. It would be the number-one question asked around the world.
And yet, for some mysterious reason, Wally remained confident and carefree, not worried a bit. Eating the black box, he seemed to think, would be a piece of cake.
ELEVEN
The Russian reeked of booze and cigarettes. His eyes were bloodshot, his words slurred. J.J. gamely tried to answer his unintelligible questions about the chorny yashchik, the black box. After all, the drunk worked for Tass, the Moscow press agency. A big new market for The Book.
They were holed up in J.J.’s makeshift office in the back room of the Git-A-Bite, when suddenly the late-afternoon wind seemed to blow open the front door. Willa burst into the café. Her face was flushed.
“You’ve got to help,” she said. “Blake is in big trouble. He says he’ll talk only to you.”
J.J. grabbed his coat, followed her out onto the street and into her truck.
“He wants to set a kite-flying record,” she said, tears in her eyes. “He’s been building the damn thing for a year. Hasn’t stopped talking about—”
“How do you know Blake?” J.J. asked.
“He’s my kid brother,” she said, running a stop sign.
And then it all made sense. The Guy Who Knows was Willa’s little brother. Writing to The Book to help his friend Wally and his big sister. And to set a kiteflying record for himself …
She pulled to a hard stop.
“There!” she said, pointing across the street. J.J. looked up at the water tower, 150 feet tall, blue against the gray sky. A crowd had gathered at its base. On the metal platform at the top of the structure, Blake crouched, holding on to a big red kite with a crude body harness.
J.J. got out of the truck. Shrimp approached. His uniform was stained with sweat, his voice raspy. “Blake’s a smart boy,” he said. “Too smart to go jumping off the tower.”
“You don’t understand!” Willa said. “He thinks the wind is perfect for a flight—”
“Ain’t no time for kite-flying,” Shrimp said, looking east. “Storm’s coming fast.”
“You got a fire truck?” J.J. asked.
“No ladder that high. Need to climb up there and get him.”
The chief motioned to one of his deputies. A policeman with a chest as thick as a beer keg began to climb the ladder attached to one of the massive legs of the tower.
Blake shouted from above: “Stop! Don’t send anyone up here or I’ll fly. I’m warning you! Don’t come up.” He stood up with the kite. The wind gusted. Blake struggled to put on the homemade harness attached to the kite.
“I’m going to jump,” he shouted.
Shrimp called to his deputy. “Come on back, Artie. Let’s wait a while.”
“No,” Willa said. “Get him down.”
J.J. knew there was no choice. Willa was watching. He couldn’t hesitate.
“Let me give it a try,” he said. He waited for the policeman to get down the ladder, and then he cupped his hands and called up.
“Blake, I’m coming up.”
Without asking again, without thinking, J.J. started to climb. His arms weren’t as strong as he would have liked, and the metal bars hurt his hands. With each step, the worried whispers on the ground grew more faint. He could feel the stare of the crowd below. He couldn’t let them down.
The wind whipped across his face, burning his eyes. Rung by rung, he climbed toward Blake. Twenty feet from the top, he paused to catch his breath, looked straight up, and saw the boy peering over the ledge. He knew the type—ten years old, gangly, a great gap in his front teeth, and absolutely, positively fearless.
“World record for the highest kite fl
ight ever was 31,955 feet,” J.J. shouted. “Germany, 1919.” A diversionary tactic. Stall for time. “Longest recorded flight, 180 hours 17 minutes in Long Beach, Washington.”
“Cool,” Blake said. “I’m gonna set a record by flying all the way to Kansas. It’s two miles. See? Jewell County is across the river down there.”
J.J. looked out at the little town, grain elevator, and winding river. The boy would never make it past the railroad tracks. He started climbing again, fast.
The tower groaned in the gale, and the ladder shook. J.J.’s legs began to cramp, his hands ached. He finally pulled himself to the top and rested on the little landing at the base of the huge water tank. The rusty container was easily 20 feet tall, with great red letters painted across it: SUPERIOR WILDCATS. A rickety railing ran around the platform. Not much protection against the driving wind.
He didn’t like heights. He didn’t like the thunderstorm starting to sweep across the fields. And he didn’t like seeing Blake—blond hair blowing wildly—
struggling on the ledge with the kite.
“I know you want a record,” J.J. said, moving carefully toward the boy. “But we don’t recognize ones that are dangerous.”
“I don’t get it,” Blake said, buckling the harness across his chest. “You let Wally eat a plane for my sister but you won’t let me fly my kite?”
The kid had a good point. As J.J. formed a comeback, a gust of wind ripped across the tower, lifting Blake and his kite into the air, pushing them over the ledge.
J.J. lunged and grabbed Blake by the arm. The boy dangled below him, legs thrashing the air. He weighed no more than eighty pounds, but felt like eight hundred as the wind pulled hard on the kite harnessed to his back.
“Don’t drop me!” Blake screamed, his eyes huge with terror, fearlessness suddenly gone.
“Hold on!” J.J. said. His grip was giving way. Blake was slipping, gravity and the wind dragging him off. The boy’s thin arm was sliding through his hand.
“I’m falling,” Blake shouted. “Please—please don’t let go!”
J.J. knew he could not hold back the wind. There was only one way to pull the boy to safety.
“Unhook the kite!” J.J yelled. His hand cramped from the strain. He tried to hook one leg under the railing, but the wind was dragging them both over the edge. “Now!”
Blake struggled to release the harness. “It’s stuck. It won’t unsnap!”
“Try again,” J.J. said. “You can do it.”
Blake pulled frantically on the first buckle, and finally it broke loose. Then he unfastened the second clasp and wriggled free of the shoulder straps. The kite whipped away, spiraling down. Then it caught a current and rose into the air.
“Your hand!” J.J. said. “Reach for me!”
Their fingers barely interlocking, J J. slowly pulled the boy back up and over the ledge. They huddled up to each other, the wind pelting the platform. J.J. wrapped his arm around Blake and pulled him tight.
The two watched the kite sail higher and higher until it became just a red fleck in the silver sky. Then Blake began to cry. Voices shouted from below, muffled by the gale.
“I’m scared,” he said.
“It’s okay. Don’t be afraid.”
Blake sobbed for a long time. Then he looked up. “You ever get scared?”
A bolt of lightning flashed over the town, then came the boom of thunder. J.J. could feel the rumbling in the air all the way to his bones. He knew each electrical charge exploded hydrogen atoms, creating a nuclear reaction with a temperature of 50,000 degrees Fahrenheit.
“Everyone’s afraid of something,” he said, looking at the angry sky. “Come on, we better go home.”
The motel room was silent, except for the beating rain on the window. J.J. soaked in the small bathtub trying to warm up. Despite the storm, it had taken another half hour to talk Blake into going back to his sister. J.J. had made promises there would be no punishment for this escapade, assurances he would help find a safer record to set.
Back on the ground, he had caught a brief glimpse of Willa. Along with the photo she took of the rescue, she shot him a wounding look. She drove off toward The Express before he had a chance to talk with her. He could hear her words from Jughead’s.
Don’t you dare go hurting this town.
Was it his fault? Maybe she was right, after all. Maybe he wasn’t the best thing to happen to Superior. Maybe Blake’s adventure was just a warning sign. He had saved the boy from the tower, but he had probably lost Willa….
He checked his watch. It was suppertime, but tonight there was no grinding sound from Wally’s farm. No forward motion on the world record attempt. The black box had indeed stopped the show. All was unhappily quiet.
Then an electronic ping broke the silence. He got out of the bath, dripping, and found his beeper in his trousers. He recognized the dreaded phone number and made the call.
Peasley’s voice was agitated, his words climbing over each other. “What’s the latest?” he asked.
“Wally’s machine hasn’t even made a dent in the black box,” J.J. said, “but he’s undaunted. Claims he’s got a secret plan—”
“Well, Smith, even if it doesn’t work out, it may be a blessing. You see, the directors are terrified about liability. If something happens to Walter Chubb, it could wipe out The Book. You Americans are so litigious. You’ll sue over anything.”
“But he’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen to him.”
“I’m in your court on this one,” Peasley said. “Problem is, we’ve got copycats. A woman in Ghana is eating an office building. A family in Morocco is eating a bridge. A man in Malaysia is eating an ocean liner. We don’t know where it will stop—”
“So what?” J.J. said. “The whole world is watching Wally. You can’t cut him off now.”
“Get a hold of yourself,” Peasley said. “I’ll talk to the directors again tomorrow. See what I can do.”
“Trust me. This record will be a rare and very beautiful thing.”
“Yes indeed,” Peasley said. “Just keep your eye on the 747, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
TWELVE
High above Route 14, a tight formation of news choppers followed the convoy heading north. On the ground, three patrol cars with flashing lights blazed the way for a red pickup truck. Sixty vehicles of all sizes and descriptions trailed behind, honking horns. Kids in flatbeds whooped.
Inside the red Dodge, Wally was at the wheel. His friend Nate sipped on a 7-Eleven Big Gulp.
“Pass me that, will ya?” Wally said.
Nate gave him the cup. He took a swallow and grimaced.
“This Coke tastes funny. Mind if I add some of the auxiliary power unit?”
“Be my guest,” Nate said.
Wally reached under the seat and pulled out a jar filled with metal grit. He dumped some in the drink, swirled it around, and guzzled it.
“What’ll you do if this doesn’t work?” Nate said.
“Don’t you worry. Boeing says Big Lou’s the man. He’ll take care of the problem. Just you wait.”
Nate turned on the radio. The announcer’s breathy voice filled the cab.
“If you’re just tuning into KFAB, Wally Chubb’s pickup is on Highway 14 just north of Clay Center. We don’t know where he’s going, but Nebraska and the nation wait anxiously.”
Wally and Nate laughed.
The radio reporter continued: “For an eyewitness account of Wally’s progress, we go live now to our Guy in the Sky, Sammy Dash in the KFAB news chopper.”
Another voice cut in, this one all but overwhelmed by the racket of rotor blades and the crackle of static. “Thanks, Hank. I’m directly above the red truck right now. In the last half hour, this convoy has been gaining force. It started out as a half dozen vehicles. Now it’s six times that number. I can see the black box tied down in the flatbed—”
“For starters,” Nate said, “the black box isn’t even black. The guy must be color blind.
” He switched off the knob with disgust.
“I guess ‘orange box’ doesn’t sound as good,” Wally said.
“Yeah. But can’t they see there are two boxes? The cockpit voice recorder and the flight data recorder?”
Wally signaled a right turn.
“What’re you doing?” Nate asked.
“Gotta pee.”
“On national television?”
“Guess you’re right. Better not. What if Willa’s watching?”
The red truck rolled along the country road. Wally loved these stretches and knew every inch and bump. Today, especially, he drank in each mile as farmers hailed him from combines and families waved from driveways.
When he reached Hastings, he began to feel a thrill himself. A glittering WELCOME WALLY! banner with silver letters spanned the main entrance into town. On the steps of the old post office, the high school band boomed “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and cheerleaders cartwheeled and wagged pom-poms in front of his truck.
With one meaty hand out the window, Wally flashed the victory sign at the crowds. For once in his life, he knew what it was like to quarterback the Huskers. Fans screaming your name. The biggest man in Nebraska. The most beloved.
A pimply teenage boy ran alongside the truck, then jumped on the running board.
“Hey, Wally,” he said. “I ate my roller skates! Take me with you.”
“Can’t, son. Maybe some other time.”
The boy wished him luck and hopped to the ground.
“Look at you,” Nate said, “a real hero.”
“If only Willa thought so,” Wally said. “If only …”
Luigi Cinquegrana—Big Lou—was normally the model of calm. Today he paced in small circles. Soon Wally would arrive accompanied by a small army of policemen—and Luigi did not like this intrusion. There were unanswered questions about where he got the metal he turned into scrap. Truth was that lots of times he didn’t know himself. Sometimes he just handed over the shop keys to nameless clients who flew in from the East Coast. They came after hours, ran the pulverizer all night, and he never asked questions. There was always talk the next day of foul odors emanating from the scrapper, the smell of rot. There were tax problems, too. But it was good money, easy money, paid in cash.