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"Cabbie, go wake the kid up, he's accompanying me on patrol this morning." Blade told the old warplane. Cabbie nodded and rolled up to the hanger that had officially become Dusty's once he began volunteering at the park every other year.
"Hey, Dusty; wake up." He said, opening the hanger doors, revealing the bleary-eyed air racer.
"Hmmmm." Dusty groaned. "What d'ya need, Cabbie?"
"You have time for a quick 5-minute fuel-up before Blade wants to patrol with you. Up and at 'em." Cabbie said as Dusty yawned and shook himself. Then, he did something that completely threw the C-119 for a loop.
Dusty locked his rear wheel, dipped his tail down a bit, extended his foward landing gears as high as they would go, and tilted his nose up in a flawless display of a straight-winged military salute. He then relaxed and taxiied off for some fuel before the patrol.
'Where in Ford's name did he learn that? Does he know the meaning behind that? Or was it just something he did to those he respects?' Cabbie pondered. 'But then how come he doesn't do it with anyone else?' A loud noise came from the Smokejumpers' hanger and Cabbie sighed.
'Time to see what my kids are up to now.'
When Dusty and Blade got back, Cabbie intercepted him. Dusty looked even more tired than he did before the patrol.
"Not right now Cabbie, I had a rough night last night." The Air Tractor-Cessna hybrid mumbled tiredly.
"Just a few quick questions... then you can nap. You're lucky it's only early spring." Cabbie requested. "How did you know that salute?"
"Oh, that? My flight coach taught me it. He's a Corsair and an ex-military like you, only he was in the Navy, during World War II." Dusty explained. "His name's Skipper and he's the best flight coach I could ask for. You can call him for more details, I'm tired." Dusty proceeded to taxi into his hanger and Cabbie headed for his equipment to make a call.
Skipper was startled when an older voice hailed him on his radio. Sparky was at Honkers with Chug so he had the hanher to himself. In fact he had just handed Dusty's birthday gift, a Jolly Wrench flag to set up at his hanger in Piston Peak, to the mail plane. He taxied over and picked up.
"This is Skipper, who is this?" He asked, voice guarded.
"My name is Cabbie, the jump plane for Piston Peak." The plane on the other end said, and I relaxed. "Pleasure actually talking to you sir. And I commend you for teching him how to do the straight-winged salute flawlessly." Skipper chuckles.
"He did it to you out of habit didn't he? My Navy flight instructor habits die hard and I taught it to him. I drilled it into him to do it and hold it for 5 seconds before we take off for his training every morning." Skipper explained.
"Then I'm assuming that those tattoos on his nose are your squadron's insignia?" Cabbie said.
"Yep. The symbol of the Jolly Wrenches." The Corsair informs him and he gasps.
"Wow. How many missions did you fly?" He asked innocently and Skipper winces.
"One. I'm sure you've heard of the massacre that was Glendal Canal?" He answers and a strangled gasp of shock, sadness, and sympathy is heard over the radio from the C-119.
"I'm so sorry. I apologize for asking this but; was it really as bad as the stories say?" He asks carefully.
"Worse. I had trained every last one of them. What looked to be a single, lone enemy ship turned into the entire enemy fleet." Skipper answers, closing his eyes in grief as the memory surfaces once again. "After that, I didnt take off until Mexico when I had to if I was gonna save Dusty's life."
"Wait... What do you mean 'save his life'?" Cabbie asked, a feeling of dread sinking in his tanks. The plane on the other end takes a deep breath then spoke in a dead serious tone.
"What I'm about to tell you stays between us. Not even Sparky, Dottie and Chug know the full details. Do I have your word? As one warplane to another?" Skipper asked.
"Of course." Cabbie promised, his worry growing stronger.
"Well, the entire race, there was one racer, a green and black P-51 Racing Mustang named Ripslinger. He had won the WATG Rally 3 times before this and was looking towards becoming the first plane to win the Rally four times in consecutive years." Skipper began.
"Okay... but I don't see what this has to do with Dusty." Cabbie thought aloud.
"Everything." Skipper deadpanned. "He belived that vehicles should only do what they were built for. Which meant, in his eyes, Dusty was threat, both to his philosophy and the race. According to Dusty he was always insulting him and trying to coax him into giving up."
"Oh." Cabbie said. "That explains why Dipper's hanger colors changed from green and black to orange and white that year."
"Anyways, and Dusty has only told me these things so if you blab your mouth, you're becoming the 51st plane I've shot down. Yes, I did shoot down that many planes before I went down myself." Skipper threatened, his voice deadly serious.
"Sir, yes sir." Cabbie vowed. "Continue?"
"Apparently, he tricked another racer into giving him the advice of following railroad tracks through the Himalayas. She later told him she thought he would only turn around or go over the mountains when he reached the tunnel. Ripslinger was expecting him to crash in the tunnel. But his small size played into his favor." Skipper said.
"I've heard about that. Dipper couldn't shut up about it for three days straight." Cabbie commented chuckling.
"Anyways, Dusty kept first place up until the Pacific Ocean leg; when a plane, most likely Ned or Zed who were Ripslinger's henchplanes, sabatoged him by knocking off his GPS antennae." Skipper continued. "He ended up flying into Jolly Wrench territory. Landed pretty spectacularly on the Flysenhower from what Bravo and Echo told me. He stopped just short of the barricade."
"Not bad for a civillian plane." Cabbie said, recalling when he'd watch fighter planes land on aircraft carriers to refuel.
"Did better than me on my first time. If it wasn't for the barricade I would've taken a little swim." Skipper said chuckling.
"Bet Dusty had a good laugh when he heard that." Cabbie laughed. By the embarassed groan on the other end of the line his assumption was correct.
"Anyways, they got him fueled up and ready to go, but by that time a typhoon had popped up. So, they launch him off the boat using the catapult, which is an absolute blast by the way, and he's back on his way. However, a bolt of lightning came down. It didn't hit him physically, but it was close enough to disorient him and he crashed in the Pacific."
"Yikes. Poor kid's crashed twice already? He's only in his early twenties right now and won the WATG Rally when he was eighteen(I will be posting a headcannon book soon; keep an eye out.)." Cabbie asked retorhicly feeling his protective instincts swelling up.
"Yep. So he's rescued and airlifted to Mexico, where his Propwash friemds amd I had flown to to surprise him. Got the money by selling the Dusty merchandise Chug and Sparky came up with. He was pretty upset with me as well."
"Why?" The C-119 asked.
"Chug had heard stories about the Jolly Wrenches and due to miscommunication with my advice to him over the course of the race and the stories, he thought I had flown hundreds of missions. Until he saw the truth on the Jolly Wrench Hall of Fame; which displays every plane and every mission they were a part of." Skipper explained. "So I told him the horrific truth of my past. It was the first time I had told someone other than my superiors after I was picked up."
"Seems like we both have ghosts haunting us." Cabbie muttered and Skipper made a sound of confirmation.
"The next morning, the other racers began donating their spare parts and equipment to get him back in racing fit. Two of his friend's head pitties even helped Dottie with the task. Shortly before the last leg began, the rest of his Propwash friends got on their jet to New York." Skipper said.
"What about you?" Cabbie asked.
"I was gonna stay in Mexico for a while longer. I thought Dusty was still a little upset with me and I didn't want me being there spoiling his moment if he did win. I overheard him confront Rip, telling him that he was scared of getting beat by a cropduster. Then, after Dusty had left to meet up with his racing friends, I heard Ripslinger say something that chilled my core."
"What?" Cabbie asked tentatively, now slightly scared.
"He turned to Ned and Zed and said 'We are going to end this, once and for all'." Skipper said and Cabbie gasped sharply.
"You mean they were planning on murdering him?! Just so he could win?!" Cabbie snarled furiously in shock and horror; his protective nature flooding through him at full throttle.
"Yes. It was then I knew that if Dusty was going to have a chance of surviving, I was going to need to fly. So, after I saw him take off, I discreetly took off on a smaller runway of the airport and flew in the tailwinds until I reached the desert." Skipper said with a dangerous calm that hinted that he was still furious towards the other racer. "The other racers were far behind us. The desert was out of camera range, and when I got there, the two smaller planes were flying on his sides, preventing him from escaping and Ripslinger had his landing gear down on Dusty's canopy and plowing him through the cacti; straight for a rocky outcrop."
Cabbie gasped at the mental image. "What happened next?"
"I used the classic warplane tactic and dove down towards them out of the sun and startled the four of them. I took on and distracted Ripslinger's attention while he took care of the twins. He took my advice of 'use the rocks' quite literally, apparently. Got them stuck in a narrow gap between two cliffs is what he told me later on the flight home." Skipper finished up.
"Sweet Chrysler! And he still went one to race after that?! Please tell me he pressed charges?" Cabbie swore.
"Regretably no. Because that would mean that his win wouldn't have meant as much as to Dusty as he wanted it to; seeing as Ripslinger's racing license would've been revoked by the officials and he also didn't want to destroy the racer's career; even if Ripslinger traumatized him." Skipper said, clearly disappointed.
"How traumatized are we talking about?" Cabbie asked slowly, right as a young, fluid-curdling scream echoed across the base and was picked up on the radio. Instantly, Skipper's voice became anxious, almost as if he wished he could be there right now for his protegé.
"That badly. Go to him. For me; please. You are now the only one there who could comfort him; just, don't let the others hear the details of your words. You can only tell your superior what I just told you after he's calmed down. If Dusty's beginning to have them at the base he'll need the support of you two." Skipper begged. Cabbie instantly hung up as soon as he was done talking and trundled as fast as he could go, without reaching his take-off speed that is, towards the young racer's hanger as the young SEAT screamed again in his sleep.
Dusty's hanger doors were halfway open and apparently the poor plane didn't even make it to his sleeping mat he was that tired. However, the racer was now shaking and thrashing in his sleep, his face scrunched in fear and panic, and his control surfaces were moving quickly and sporadically(Don't ask me for the real definition, I have no clue. All I know is that its a word that's along the same lines as 'jerkily', 'franticaly', and 'crazily'.). As Cabbie approached him, he jolted awake with a third scream and began panting hard, faint wisps of steam from his overheating engine drifting to the ceiling. His eyes were wide with terror and not focusing on his present surroundings.
"Shhh... Breathe in and out Dusty; you're okay..." Cabbie said softly from the doorway and to his credit Dusty's breathing slowly changed and he began whimpering loudly as he suddenly pressed himself up against Cabbie.
"Its okay, kid. Come on; let's take this to my spot... alright?" Cabbie coaxed the trembling plane towards the netting. 'At least the Smokejumpers are helping the rangers clear some of the avalanche debris from this past winter at the moment and the rest of the aircraft of our team were off base. He certainly doesn't need an overbearing fan and a group of crazy skid-steers crowding him as I try to comfort him.' However, the two forklifts of the base swiftly approached them.
"Nightmare. Bad one." Cabbie said simply in a tone that said 'now leave us alone or else' as he felt Dusty press closer to his fuselage. Dusty was still badly shaken up, and now crying, so Maru and Patch left them alone to let Blade know what happened back at base, but that Cabbie was taking care of him.
Cabbie let his engines run idle, hoping that the vibrations would help soothe the distraught hybrid. It worked and soon the little firefighter was looking around with tangible relief in his gaze.
"C... Cabbie?" He asked in a voice that made him sound like a young propling, rather than the twenty-one-year-old plane he actually was.
"It's alright Dusty. It was just a nightmare." Cabbie's voice dropped to a whisper. "Skipper made me promise, and the only way to get me to break my promises is to kill me, that I wouldn't tell another soul; but he told me what happened with Rip."
"He did...?" Dusty squeaked out, sounding nervous.
"Yes." Cabbie nodded. "I'm sorry that happened to you. But know this: if that slagheap ever shows his propellers around here, he'll have to get through all 57,000 pounds of me first before he touches you."
"Promise?" Dusty whimpered. And Cabbie's core broke at the thought that this young plane has suffered trauma almost as bad as a war veteran's.
"I promise." He vowed. "Can I inform Blade of this? If nightmares keep you up some nights, then he'll need to know so he doesn't think you're making up excuses. Don't need ya crashing again because you were sleep-flying." Dusty merely nodded and adjusted himself so he was in a more comfortable position and location.
"Piston Peak's a family, Dusty. We look after each other and comfort each other when our fears come to the surface." Cabbie told him, but the little plane didn't hear him as he cuddled against the larger plane's side.
That evening, the rest of the team found Cabbie at his radio... and Dusty Crophopper sleeping peacefully and nightmare-free under Cabbie's left wing; a blissful smile on his face.