Please enjoy the opening chapter of my second novel: “Fire & Thunder”

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The Final Four

And the rocket’s red glare

The bombs bursting in air

Gave proof through the night

That our flag was still there

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free

And the home of the brave?

The crowd cheered as the ten-gallon-hat-wearing bearded pop country star finished his heavily stylized acapella rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner. Three F-22s from Luke Air Force Base nearly drowned him out as he neared the end of his song. The crowd settled into their seats as forty drivers settled into their cars.

Chad Helton swung his right leg over the door of his Ford Mustang Darkhorse. Well, it wasn’t exactly a door, but it was where the door would’ve been had it been an actual road car. Swinging his left leg over into the window opening, he slid into the driver’s seat. With some assistance from his crew chief, he buckled the six-point harness that would keep him glued to his seat for the next three to five hours.

“This is it,” the crew chief told him. “Just get out there and get at it.”

“That’s it then?” Chad chuckled. “Come on, Larry, you can do better than that.”

Chad was in the final race of his rookie year, and it was one for the books. The baby of five children born to an Oregon grass seed farmer, Chad wanted to distinguish himself from his siblings by choosing a completely different career path. After cutting his teeth racing go-karts as a young child, he got into racing local dirt tracks in the Pacific Northwest by the time he was a teenager. His big break came at sixteen when he was spotted by an ARCA team owner. From there, he rose up the ranks, winning race after race. This culminated in an ARCA West championship. Then it was on to the NASCAR Truck Series when he was eighteen, winning Rookie of the Year and the championship. By this time, he had secured an agent named Ace Valdez. He was eager and ready to move on. His second year in NASCAR was spent with a new team in the Grand National Division. They were a small struggling team, but Chad really brought them together. After an impressive regular season with six wins, he entered the playoffs and ran well. A small mishap on the last lap at Phoenix cost him the championship, but he vowed he would be back. The team owner had made the decision to bring his operation to the Cup Series, NASCAR’s top flight, and Chad came with. This was his third and final year with a yellow stripe on his rear bumper. Effortlessly, Chad kept the number 28 Ford Mustang up front. His career highlight came after winning Daytona twice, Talladega once, and Darlington twice all in the same year. With nine regular season wins, he was leaps and bounds ahead of anybody in playoff points, able to relax a little if that was in his wheelhouse. Relaxation when there was racing to be done was not in his wheelhouse.

The regular season of the Cup series consists of twenty-six races. Each race is divided into three stages, save for the Coca-Cola 600 at Charlotte, which is four stages due to its length. Playoff points are awarded at the end of each stage with race wins automatically entering drivers into the playoffs. At the end of twenty-six races, the top sixteen in points battle it out over four rounds throughout the last ten races, each round lasting three races, with the bottom three competitors eliminated. The season concludes in a final round at Phoenix Raceway, where the top four drivers have one final shot. Even though only four cars are eligible to win the championship, a full field of 36 to 40 will race for bragging rights, experience, and money.

So here Chad was, one of four drivers eligible to win the NASCAR Cup Series championship. The playoffs were tough, but he made it a habit to pull through and at least win the final race of each round. Nicknames varied that season from “Wunderkind”, “The Ghost”, and “The Invisible Man”, but the name that stuck during playoffs was “Mr. Eliminator”.

For the final time this year, Chad brushed back the bushy thick brown mop from his icy blue eyes, both of which he had inherited from his Sicilian mother. He scratched at the beard he had grown over the last ten weeks, itching to shave it tonight. He never liked it anyway. It never grew in right and came in patchy, leaving an unsightly bald spot on the right side of his lower jaw; all thanks to the eighth of Kalapuya blood he had inherited from his father. For the next three to five hours, his head would be encased in a helmet, completely closed off to the outside world, making the prospect of an itchy beard even more uninviting than it could already be.

“Drivers, start your engines,” came a command from a gray-haired, pudgy man from the infield.

Chad flipped his battery and fuel pump switches on and turned the ignition. The 5.8-liter V8 roared to life amid a chorus of 39 other V8 mills.

Larry Truman was a crew chief with some fifteen years’ experience. This was his first year in Cup as well after spending the previous fourteen in the Truck and Grand National Series. The old man shared a chemistry with Chad few driver-crew chief combinations had. He knew how to talk to Chad. He knew what it was like to rush from bottom to top quickly. He knew success and failure. He had worked for this day, and he was on his guard. Fifteen years of trying, and he was going to be a Cup Series championship-winning crew chief.

Larry closed the window net on the stock car, sealing Chad inside. The Mustang Chad drove was anything but. A tube chassis caged the driver in while a 5.8-liter Ford FR9 V8 sent power to a five-speed sequential transmission, powering the rear wheels. Over the chassis, a carbon fiber and sheet metal composite body was blanketed. The front clip and rear decklid matched a road Mustang, but beyond that, it was just like any other Mustang, Camaro, or Camry out on the track that day.

The forty stock cars lined up two-by-two behind a stock Toyota Supra with a strobe light on its roof. Forty V8s rumbled as the Supra led them out onto the track. The time to let loose was near. It was just a matter of a few parade laps as the cars zigzagged around, warming up their tires for much-needed grip.

“Sixteenth,” Chad thought to himself. “I’m better than this.”

It was true. He was consistent all year, but yesterday, he was off during qualifying. For some, sixteenth was a respectable place to start, but not for Chad.

“Okay, I know you’re in a bad spot,” came Larry’s voice over the radio. “Just hit your marks and fall into that inside lane as soon as possible. Remember, you have 312 miles to work your magic.”

Chad took a deep breath. Seven rows ahead of him, an official in the flag tower waved the green flag. Row by row, the stock cars gunned it. Chad tried for it, but the driver in front of him spun his tires.

“Come on!” Chad shouted.

“There’s an opening coming up behind you,” a second voice chattered through his radio. “Take it in three, two, one…”

Chad swooped down to the left, falling in line with the inside lane.

“Thanks, Hawk.”

Scott “Hawk” Hawkins had been an aspiring driver several years before. Barely making it to the Cup Series, he struggled to even qualify. He found a home up above the track in the spotter’s perch, owing to his keen eyesight.

Chad kept to the rear bumper of the number 99 Camaro. He knew he couldn’t stay there long. Phoenix Raceway is a strange track. Its asymmetrical tri-oval layout proves a challenge to every driver. The turns and backstretch are narrow, allowing for close action that tests a driver’s skills. The frontstretch is a tri-oval turn with a wide apron that extends the racing surface several lanes. There, drivers have the choice of staying high in the banking and keeping momentum going into turn 1 or cutting distance and going hard on the brakes. Chad chose the latter.

The Mustang charged ahead, passing five or six cars.

“Opening!” shouted Hawk. “Take it now!”

Chad moved to the right, cutting off the number 54 Camry.

“Idiot!” the driver yelled at his crew chief. “’Mr. Eliminator’, I’ll eliminate his butt.”

“He’s racing for a championship,” came the driver’s crew chief’s voice. “Just keep pushing.”

Chad was oblivious to the scene behind him. He kept the leaders in his sights. Scooting up close to the outside wall, he shot down the backstretch. Before he made it to turn three, yellow lights on the catch fence began blinking. The leaders in front of him slowed down.

“Tower’s called a caution,” Hawk’s voice came from the radio.

“What’s going on?” asked Chad.

“Fifty-one was running slow again,” Hawk answered. “Thirty laps in, and that kid’s already out.”

“How does he still have a ride?” marveled Chad.

“Nepotism,” was Hawk’s response.

The remaining thirty-nine cars lined up behind the Supra as they passed the wreck of what was the 51 Ford. Chad’s spine tingled as he observed the yellow stripe on the former rear bumper of the Mustang. How could this be the same rookie class?

“Hey, the leaders are pitting,” said Larry. “Come in. We can make up some of that position. Just fuel. I think our tires are good until the end of the stage.”

“Where am I, Hawk?” Chad said.

“You’ve made it up to seventh,” Hawk replied.

“You guys ready?” asked Chad.

“Did you have to ask?” chuckled Larry.

Chad followed the leaders onto pit road as the back markers stayed out. One by one, the cars broke off from the pack as they slid into their pit stalls. In the 28 Tom Morris Ford Dealers Mustang, the radio was abuzz with chatter as Larry got his men into place.

“Three, two, one.”

A single crew member jumped the wall, carrying an eleven-gallon fuel can. He plugged it into the fuel tank. Within five seconds, he had emptied its contents and retreated back over the wall.

“Go, go, go, go, go!” Larry shouted.

Chad tore out of his pit stall like a bat out of Hell. To his amazement, the other competitors were barely behind. Some had taken tires. Ahead of him, the number 20 Toyota was just making its exit. It would be close. He moved to the right to clear the yellow and black Camry as he crossed the pit road line.

“You beat him!” Hawk cheered into the radio. “Looks like you’ll start ninth, but those guys will have to pit before the stage ends.”

Chad caught up to the pack zig-zagging behind the pace car. He held his breath as he waited for the flag to drop. One by one, the other cars joined the pack, lining up behind him. After two more laps, the green flag was dropped. Chad gunned it, driving his nose mere inches from the car ahead of him.

The laps began to wind down for the first stage, and the leaders began to pit. Chad was busy battling the 91 Chevrolet for position, and they were catapulted into the lead. Chad ducked low as the two raced side by side coming to Lap 75. He wanted this stage win. Chad bombed back up into the low banking of Turn 1 right up on the door of the 91. They dueled around the turn and through the backstretch. Again, Chad cut it low against the apron in 3 and 4, staying there through the dog leg. He downshifted, giving himself a small burst of acceleration to carry his Ford across the line first. The green and white checkered flag waved. The first stage belonged to Chad Helton.

“Okay, let’s bring it in when pit road opens,” Larry instructed Chad. “That was a good run. Just remember to save it for the rest of the race.

The Supra darted out of its stall and onto the track, its strobe light a beacon to the thirty-nine remaining cars. They lined up behind it, parading around the track. As pit road opened, nearly everyone, with the exception of a few gamblers, ducked down into the pits. Chad slid his car into his pit stall, and a carefully choreographed dance of tire carriers, tire changers, and a fuel man began. As soon as the Mustang entered the pit stall, five men jumped over the wall. Mike Rogers and Quizz Jones were tire carriers. Another couple carried air impacts with one of them also carrying a jack. They were Josh Lopez and Kyle Franklin. The fifth who stayed on the driver’s side and fueled the car was Dan “Noodle” Lee. He was the character of the pit crew. What started out with everyone calling him “Dan” turned into the childish “Dan Dan” until someone made the connection with “dan dan noodles”, and everyone just started calling him “Noodle”. Like clockwork, the four crew members jacked the car up, removed the wheels, and attached the new ones within seconds. Their job on that side done, they rushed to the driver’s side where the tire carriers already had their load in possession. The car was jacked up again, the old wheels removed and the new ones placed. With a couple good hits with the air impacts, the single-lug wheels were secured to the car, and they let it down. The whole operation took less than thirteen seconds. As soon as the wheels hit pavement, Chad gunned it out of there.

The race off of pit road was just as intense as the race on the track. Thirty-five cars jockeyed for position at 45 mph. The pit exit bottlenecked at the end, so it was very tight. Unfortunately for Chad, the number 22 Ford barely edged him out.

“You’re back in sixth for the restart”, Hawk informed Chad.

“You got this,” Larry reassured him. “Just take it easy this stage. They know what you can do. Save the car for the third stage, and let us work everything out for now.”

Chad needed not say a thing. He gripped the wheel as he watched the lights on the pace car three rows ahead go out. The little Supra ducked back into the pits, and the number 1 Chevy led the field to the green.

Larry was right. Chad was no slacker, but he held back and saved precious tires and fuel throughout the stage. It was lucky for him too. The stage went caution free. The strategy was a wise gamble. Naturally, holding back would cost positions, but the savings made up for the position. Not even halfway through the stage, the leaders began to pit, allowing Chad to make up the position he lost. Chad passed much of the field as they sat in the pits. Their quick stops were no match for his triple-digit speeds. By the time much of the field had cycled through green flag pit stops, Chad was in the lead again by Lap 60, lapping much of the field.

“I think we have a good cushion for pitting,” said Larry. “Bring it in now. Two cans of fuel and four tires all around.”

Chad brought his Mustang in, and some of the others who hadn’t pitted followed him in. Again, his crew performed their dance around the car. 12.9 seconds was sufficient to service the car and get Chad back out sitting in the top ten. Chad now had the advantage on fresher tires. Fifty-four laps later, the green and white checker waved over Chad as he crossed the line in fifth. Not a bad effort for not giving it the beans.

“Bring it in for fuel,” Larry instructed. “Go for right side tires.”

The whole field came down pit road as they prepared for the final leg of the race. Clint slid into his stall as his crew jumped over, barely missing his front tire carrier. The crew jacked the right side of the car up as the wheels were once again switched out. His fuel man rapidly emptied the contents of his can. The crew cleared the way, and Chad gunned it out of his stall, only to be blocked by the number 33 Chevrolet, another rookie, this one making a limited start before declaring for next year. The Camaro had entered his stall at a bad angle, blocking Chad’s way out.

“Get him out of the way!” Chad shouted.

Too late, the car was lifted, and the crew was working on it. Precious seconds were wasted as they took their time changing the tires and refueling.

“You gonna change his oil too?” Chad taunted.

The Camaro was let down, and its driver took off, but not before Chad was able to gun it and cut him off.

“Okay, you’re a few spots back from where we wanted you,” said Larry. ‘Don’t worry about it. You have 122 laps to work through the field.”

Chad lined up in 23rd.

“Take it easy, Chad. You have plenty of time. Don’t let him blow it for you,” Larry reassured his driver.

Chad’s world slowed down as his own heartbeat became audible to him over the roar of thirty-nine engines. His reverie was ended as the green flag dropped. The cars took off like jets. Chad elected to hold back as he followed the bottom line around the track.

“Caution!” Hawk said sharply into the radio.

This wasn’t just an unskilled rookie spinning his car. Across the frontstretch, several cars jockeyed for position, going nearly six-wide through the dog leg. The bottleneck at Turn 1 turned out not to be the deal breaker as they fought their way to maintain position. The turn proved too much, and a pileup ensued. Ten drivers’ nights were ended as their mangled wrecks either limped or were towed back behind the wall.

“Looks like we’re under a red flag. Might wanna shut it off,” said Larry.

Chad shut his engine down as his Mustang sat crookedly on the dog leg of the frontstretch. The temperature inside a stock car is already nearly unbearable. An air hose is attached to the driver’s helmet to supply some fresh air and slightly cool the driver down, but with no air being generated by the car moving, it was useless. Chad began to choke on the hot, stale desert air as he waited for the cleaning crews to finish their work. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the lights on the catch fence changed from red to yellow, and the Supra emerged from the pit road. The remaining twenty-nine cars fired up their engines and lined up in position behind the pace car.

“Pit road is opening next time by,” said Larry. “Why don’t you stay out? You have a hundred to go. They’re bound to get desperate and wreck this close to the end.”

Chad watched as several cars ducked into the pit lane as he stayed out, gaining several spots and reeling in the Supra.

“Perfect,” Hawk commented, “we’re in fifth.”

Chad swung his car left and right, heating up his tires adding some much-needed grip. His eyes narrowed on his twelve, longing to see the green flag drop and make his way to the front. He didn’t know what the points situation looked like. He had no idea whether or not he was ahead of the other three championship hopefuls or behind. All he knew was he was going to win thar race, that way, it wouldn’t matter.

The green flag dropped, and Chad gunned it once again. Crossing the start/finish line, he swung down into the dogleg, making his way to the front row and cutting off the leaders. First was his. Lap after lap, Chad grew his lead, but soon he had another problem. His lead began to shrink as the competitors behind him with fresher tires pressed their advantage. Within seven laps, the second-place car was on his rear bumper, and he was one of the Championship 4.

“Come on!” Chad verbalized. “Someone, mess up!”

Chad’s wish was granted as the right rear tire of the number 23 Toyota blew, sending him careening into the wall. The yellow flew, and the number 20 Toyota that had been tailing him backed off as the Supra once more took to the track.

“Bring it in for a quick splash of fuel and left-side tires,” Larry instructed. “We’re gonna gamble this one to the end. Give it all you got as soon as you get out of here.”

Chad brought his car in. As he slid into his stall, the crew jumped over, wasting no time. They rushed like their lives depended on it. The car was let down, and Chad darted out of his stall.

“Kyle, did you make sure that rear wheel was tight?” Larry asked the rear tire changer.

“I’m pretty sure I got it,” Kyle responded.

“Okay, it looked pretty quick,” Larry responded. “Keep your fingers crossed and pray we got it.”

Chad re-entered the track behind a pack of gamblers. He knew he could make it to the end and win this thing. Again, everything went silent. This was it. It would be flat out from here to the final lap. This was his championship to win. History would be made tonight, and nobody would get in the way of that. If they wanted it, too bad. All other competitors would have to get out of the way or be mown down by his Mustang.

The green flag dropped, and the symphony of V8s resumed. Chad wasted no time making his way back to the front, utilizing the dogleg to make his passes. One by one, the laps ticked down until Chad finally made a pass for first. It wasn’t easy. The number 20 Toyota knew how to make his car three lanes wide. He wanted that Cup trophy, but Chad wanted it more. He found his opening and forced the Toyota to check up in Turn 1. Using Turn 2 to slingshot, he hugged the outside wall of the backstretch, using every bit of aerodynamic advantage he could find. The vacuum created by his car and the wall cut down the wind resistance, boosting him forward.

In quick succession, the laps wound down, but the Camry never left Chad’s rear bumper. The advantage would soon be lost with two to go as Chad noticed the rear of the car rattling.

“Guys, the car’s vibrating like crazy,” he snapped into his radio.

“Come on, Kyle!” Larry shouted, then he turned back to his radio mic. “Do you think you can make it last?”

All or nothing,” said Chad as he gritted his teeth.

Chad fought the car around the track, silently praying it would hold together. The Camry, on fresher tires, made his move around the outside, making the final lap a drag race. The crowd stood on their feet as the two drivers engaged in an all-out battle around the tri-oval track. Through Turns 1 and 2, the cars remained neck and neck. They gained speed through the backstretch, the Camry taking the advantage with fresher tires, but Chad bombed it down into Turn 3, regaining his position.

Out of Turn four, Chad cut it low again, but the tension was just too much. The weak old tires on the right of the car gave, and he blew the right rear. The rear of the Ford kicked out, slowing just enough to give the Camry the advantage to cross the line first.

The rear of the Mustang slammed into the wall as the car crossed the line. The force of the impact bumped the already-loose left rear wheel off, sending it bounding toward the infield; a path cleared for the loose projectile. Dead in the water, Chad shut his eyes, hoping his Mustang would be seen and avoided. With the coast clear, he let down his safety net. As quick as the remainder of the field returned to the pits, the driver of number 20 Toyota Camry performed his victory burnouts while a red Toyota Tundra emerged from the infield and hooked itself to Chad’s Mustang.

As Chad stepped out of his mangled Ford, he took stock of what had just happened. To his relief, an ambulance arrived to take him to the infield care center. He needed this. He was in no state of mind to talk to the press until he had had some time to cool off.

After fifteen minutes, he was declared free of concussion or other injuries and released from the care center. Outside, the press had gathered like a swarm of mosquitoes. Chad was still speechless.

“Why can’t they just interview the winner?” he thought.

“Can you tell us what happened?” asked one reporter.

“Tire blew,” came Chad’s curt reply.

“Can you tell us what happened leading up to it?” asked another reporter.

“Look, you have a guy in Victory Lane who was there for the whole thing,” said Chad. “He has a much more interesting story and can probably tell it better than me. Good night, folks.”

Chad fought his way through the mob to the hauler and took refuge inside until they figured out he wasn’t going to talk. The herd of reporters pressed around the MorrisSport hauler, ignoring the poor sap in Victory Lane who had just won his first championship. The interest in Mr. Eliminator was just too much, no matter what he did.