Further Adventures of the Borderland Biker -Chapter 12

 

 

For Chapter 11 Click Here

 

 

“We’ll probably never know why,” answered Larry, “the dome was made to lure lost riders then make them into cyborgs or why the City made plastic replicas of people.”  

 

Hilts was, as we were talking, putting the parabolic disks inside the F-105. The plane’s engine was conspicuously missing. In its space was a series of strongly reinforced aluminum frames lined up and shaped to hold the disks; the largest towards the front the smallest at the rear.

 

“My problem,” said Hilts as he securely fastened the last disk into place, “is I really don’t have a throttle.”

 

“What do you mean,” said Larry, “you don’t have a throttle?”

 

“As I said before, I basically have only an on and off switch. If I were to activate these disks while sitting on the ground the sudden acceleration would snap my neck as well as the plane’s frame. Activation of the disks below 300 mph and I’ll blackout. However activation of the disks at 150 mph, the F-105’s takeoff speed, won’t break my neck or damage the frame. I need to be moving at least that fast, faster would be better, before I turn them on. The good news is I think I’ve found a way to get up to the required 150 mph and not crash while I’m unconscious and accelerating past 300 mph.”

 

The fact that Hilts had removed the F-105’s engine made me ask the obvious, “How are you going to get your plane up to its required 150 mph takeoff speed without an engine?”

 

Hilts had a big smile when he answered, “You and Larry will be the engine; rather you’ll both be driving fire engines side by side with the F-105 cradled between them.”

 

“Fire engines are rugged vehicles capable of high speeds,” said Larry, “but nothing approaching 150 mph.”

 

“Unless,” and Hilts’ smile had become even bigger at the same time he put his hand on what looked like an eight foot long pipe three feet in diameter for its first half, then squeezed into the funnel shape of a venturi tube with a three inch opening that expanded out to a foot in diameter for the last four feet, “they have some help from our little friend here.”

 

“What,” I asked, “is it?”

 

“It’s a ramjet,” answered Hilts.

 

“The German V-1 rocket was powered by a ramjet,” interjected Larry, “too many of them exploded on launch. And let me guess, your plan is to have us drive these fire engines up to a high enough speed to start this one then in neutral keep the trucks on the runway until we’re up to the 150 mph required for the F-105 to become airborne. You’ll then, once you’re airborne, start the parabolic disks…and you’re crazy.”

 

“It’ll work,” said Hilts.

 

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t work; I just said you’re crazy.”

 

“So you’ve taken off,” it was my turn, “and are immediately rendered unconscious; who’s going to fly your plane?”

 

“I’ve programmed the coordinates into,” Hilts’ smile was even larger, “the F-105’s autopilot to get me headed towards Ma n’ Pa. I’ll have awakened from my blackout long before I’m anywhere near their altitude.” 

 

Hilts had answered so confidently I actually believed it would work. When he pointed to where two fire engines were parked side by side at the far end of the hanger and joined by three steel beams shaped as a cradle I had no doubt he was going through with his plan. The space between the trucks was about six feet. Behind the fire engines was a large crane with a heavy duty sling hanging from its arm.

 

Hilts saw where I was looking, “I’ve already tested the crane by lifting the F-105 onto and off the cradle between the fire engines. I was just waiting for you two.”

 

“Have you,” interjected Larry, “tested the ramjet? How do you know it’ll get the fire engines up to 150 mph?”

 

“I don’t, but my calculations say it will,” answered Hilts. “We’ll find out at sunrise. That’ll give you two the full day to get out of the Old Places. We just need to finish attaching the ramjet to the bottom of the cradle between the fire engines and then lift the F-105 onto the top of the cradle. After that we can get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a sink or swim launch for me and a ‘get out of Dodge’ before sundown ride for you two.”

 

The eight foot ramjet fit easily into its supports under the cradle. Our next job was to use the crane to lift the F-105 up and unto the top of the cradle. Hilts had rehearsed both tasks, and after the crane’s harness was in place he effortlessly picked up then lowered the F-105 into position minus its landing gear. Hilts had removed the plane’s landing gear to reduce its weight; this was definitely going to be a one way flight. When our work was complete we lost no time heading for some sleeping cots on the far side of the hanger.

 

“Get some sleep; it’s rise and shine at sunrise,” said Hilts as he climbed into the nearest cot. “We’ve a long day ahead of us, especially you two. I’ve a feeling you’ll need all the daylight you can get to ride out of this Borderland before sundown.”

 

Memories beginning from meeting Charon under the old bridge, facing Marnie’s nightmares, going to OD’s Café, being rescued by Clark at the Gilroy Motorcycle Center, to our ride on the Yamaha Raiders down the ramp to the dome, meeting the Wheelers, getting in and out of the City Augie Fresnel had resurrected, to getting here were all jumbled. Before I could sort them out I’d fallen asleep.

 

Hilts’ plan was straightforward. Get the F-105 up to its 150 mph take off speed by hitching a ride on top of two fire engines aided by a ramjet Larry said might explode upon ignition. Hilts would then turn on Fresnel’s parabolic disks immediately after the plane was airborne then ride that plane for the first few thousand feet into the sky while unconscious. Oh, and I almost forgot; he’d have to fly it to a high enough altitude to get to the top of Ma n’ Pa’s cloud to download the essence of Elvis. What could go wrong?

 

When Larry asked Hilts how he was going to maneuver the F-105 at altitudes so high the airfoils wouldn’t work in the thin air, Hilts answered he’d installed compressed air jets into the plane’s nose that would make the needed adjustments.

 

Both Larry and I made a point of not bringing up the fact that without landing gear Hilts was going on a one way flight. Hilts didn’t bring it up either. 

 

“Get up you sleepy heads,” Hilts called out. “Sunrise is about fifteen minutes away. Coffee’s made; you can drink it on the run. We need to get going.”

 

Larry and I were dressed and in our fire engines in minutes. Thankfully they were pointed out the hanger doors which thankfully lined directly up with the runway. The less steering corrections we had to make the better. The last we saw of Hilts he was climbing to the top of our cabs and on up into the cockpit of the F-105. When he passed in front of our windshields he lifted his cup of coffee in salute.

 

“Can you hear me?”

 

Hilts’ voice came a few minutes later from a speaker behind my head telling us to get ready to start our engines. Larry and I responded by gulping down our already cold coffee and asking Hilts if he could hear us. In seconds we confirmed we all could hear and speak to one another. We were ready to go.  

 

“Let’s do this,” Hilts said.

 

Hilts had assured us the ramjet was rigged to start itself at 90 mph and then turn itself off after it reached 150 mph and that our only concern would be to keep the fire engines in the center of the runway. Just before the ramjet started we were to shift into neutral and maintain course. 

 

The runway was over seven thousand feet in length, which according to Hilts’ calculation was more than enough for us to reach the required speed to get the F-105 airborne and for us, once that was done, to come to a safe stop afterwards.

 

Larry and I would then drive back to the hanger and ride the Raider into the Old Places to look for Elisa’s Road Warrior. I’d given Hilts the magnetic chip that had recorded the essence of Elvis from my hearing aid size radio. Hilts had in turn inserted it into a football shaped capsule just outside his canopy. His plan was to release the capsule when he was inside the top of Ma n’ Pa’s cloud.

 

“I’ve synchronized the two fire engines to run at the same rpm; you need only push your gas pedals to the floor and steer. Gentlemen start your engines.”

 

Hilts must’ve lightened the fire engines because our acceleration was steady from the hanger out onto the runway. Except for some minor corrections it was easy for me and Larry to keep on course. We were at 75 mph before we’d driven a quarter of the way down the runway…so far so good. At just over 95 mph a light flashed on the dash telling us to shift into neutral. Two seconds after we shifted into neutral there was a muffled bang just behind and between our cabs followed by a huge kick in the pants.

 

“Did we just blow up?”

 

“No,” laughed Larry, “we’re one of the V-1 rockets that didn’t explode on launch. Remember to make small corrections and say a prayer our wheels are balanced.”

 

“I balanced the wheels,” said Hilts through the speaker, “there shouldn’t be any problems.”

 

The fire engine’s speedometer went to 110 mph and we’d already passed it.

 

I’d developed a wobble in my right front wheel, “Hey guys I’ve developed a wobble in my right front wheel.”

 

“I’ve got one in my left front wheel,” said Larry.

 

“Hang in there you two; we’ve just a little more to go. We’re almost at take off speed.”

 

My right front wobble had graduated to a shuddering so strong I had trouble holding onto the steering wheel.

 

“My wheel’s about to come off,” Larry countered.

 

Suddenly, and at the same time the ramjet abruptly shut off, there was no F-105 above our heads. The silence was deafening. Larry and I immediately began slowing down.

 

“I’m just above you and to your right.”

 

Looking out the side window I could see the F-105 where Hilts said it would it be, a hundred feet above us and to our right. Hilts had pulled the nose of the F-105 up 45 degrees. If the parabolic disks failed to give him the thrust needed to remain airborne he’d stall then crash. But Hilts didn’t stall; he instead suddenly began accelerating upwards riding atop a thirty foot column of blue light. 

 

[page break] 

 

 

“He’s on his way,” I said.

 

“You mean he’s unconscious and on his way,” said Larry.

 

Hilts would remain unconscious until he reached 300 mph and his blood found its way back into his brain…which…should…be…right…about…

 

“Can you,” Hilts’ voice was breaking up, “hear me? I’ve just passed 400 mph and you need to get back to the hanger and hit the road. There’s nothing more you can do here.”

 

The blue light that was pushing Hilts higher into the morning sky changed to an indigo the same time the F-105 passed the speed of sound and at the same time Larry and I managed to turn our fire engines around and get them pointed back towards the hanger. Seconds later the sonic boom caused by the F-105 breaking the sound barrier punctuated the fact that Hilts was now out of radio range and we needed to find Elisa’s Road Warrior as soon as possible if we had any hope of getting out of the Old Places before nightfall.

 

Hilts had always flown into the airfield by flying through a series of steep canyons that had no roads. When we asked him where this Borderland ended he showed us a map that had been painted in the hanger with a road leading east to another Borderland. It would be a long ride but we’d be out of here before sundown if the map was accurate, if we didn’t hit any obstacles and if we ran our bikes most of the time near the triple digits. That added up to a lot of ‘ifs’.

 

With the nearby City and its dome now just transparent outlines of their former selves the elevated highway between them had likewise become a transparent outline of its former self. The intersecting roads that rose up from the Old Places and that had once joined the elevated highway had collapsed without support and now looked like the broken ribs minus the spine of some giant beast. One of those broken ribs had at its base an old truck used to build the Hoover Dam with a Yamaha Road Warrior parked next to it. We needed to find it as soon as possible; which meant parking our fire engines then riding the Raider out to begin our search.

 

“The Raider,” I said as we rode through the airport gates to search for Elisa’s bike, “could probably do the job carrying both of us but two bikes would be better. We just need to keep our eyes open for a Yamaha Road Warrior with two tennis balls behind the seat.”

 

Larry had directed me to ride to the intersecting road just ahead of the road where Elisa said we’d find her bike. It was blocked with vehicles of every kind and from every era.

After I stopped and told him this wasn’t the road Elisa had mentioned, Larry said, “We’re not looking for a Road Warrior we’re looking for a Suzuki M90, which I might add I’ve never heard of or seen. And as you’ve pointed out, we’re not at the road she said her bike was parked.” 

 

“I thought you said she’d given you the key to her Yamaha Road Warrior?”

 

“Did I say that?” said Larry, “What I meant to say was she’d actually given me a Suzuki M90 key and whispered to me to add one number to the intersecting road she’d given.”

 

I remembered when Suzuki had introduced the M109, the 109 standing for its 109 cubic inch engine. The bike was the furthest thing from the traditional metric Harley wannabe you could get. With a near 60 degree overhead cam V-twin engine, shaft drive and an almost plastic body, the M109 would never be featured in any upcoming biker movie. The M90 which was introduced a few years later was similar. Except for being shorter and lighter and having a taller, narrower rear tire and subsequently much better lean angles and handling, it too had a near 60 degree overhead cam V-twin engine, shaft drive and an almost plastic body. All of these details I conveyed to Larry as he’d not heard of either an M90 or an M109.

 

“Elisa,” said Larry, “named the wrong bike and the wrong place to find it to throw off any Wheelers that were listening. If the Wheelers knew they would have destroyed it.” 

 

I described the M90 as best I could then both of us began searching for it up one side of the road than down the other.

 

Fifteen minutes later I shouted, “I found it.” 

 

 

I’d found Elisa’s Suzuki M90 and it still had the neon green tennis balls attached to the back of its seat. 

 

“See if her key fits the ignition,” said Larry as he threw me the key. “If it fits then we need to siphon gas from these surrounding vehicles and top off both bikes. We need to get on the road that leads eastward and out of here as soon as possible.”

 

The M90 was almost empty but started after a jumpstart from the Raider. Using a plastic hose and a half hour of time both the Raider and the M90 were soon filled to the brim. I chose to ride the M90 as I’d once borrowed an M109 a few years ago and felt I’d be more familiar with it. Larry with his superior eyesight took the lead riding the Raider. 

 

Our speed heading eastward for the first couple of miles beyond the airfield was held down by debris in the road. The further away from the City the less debris there was and we correspondingly increased our speed. By mid afternoon we were pushing the triple digits.

 

Since there were no mountains or landmarks of any kind in the direction we were riding we had assumed the road we’d looked at on the map on the hanger’s wall was accurate and leading us eastward and out of this Borderland. Surrounding us on either side were abandoned buildings and houses. It was if a collage made from different towns and cities had been sewn together to make a patchwork quilt of structures stretching out to and beyond the horizon. After riding most of the day and into dusk we realized there was no visible end to it and that we were going to have to find a place to spend the night.

 

“Follow me,” said Larry through our hearing aid size radio and at the same time he turned off the road we’d been riding on and followed a smaller road leading to what looked like a park with a bandstand in the center.

 

“We need to gather as much wood as we can before sundown and surround the bandstand with it if we’re going to have a fire throughout the night. We need to hurry; we’ve only a little more than a hour before sundown.”