Chapter 8: First Fire

On the last Monday of November, the first Anvil engine sat bolted into the Nine's test frame, and I was afraid to breathe near it.

Four weeks of nights had gone into that engine.

New crankcase webs, a new oil pump and a new intake.

All of it was built by twelve men who had stopped asking me when they'd be paid.

The annex smelled of fresh paint and coffee.

Clifford Rainey stood by the door in a heavy coat, with three board members in good shoes beside him.

Dwayne stood at the back with his arms folded and a watch he kept glancing at.

Cleo stood next to me, so close that her sleeve touched mine.

"Ready?" she asked.

"No."

"Good. Neither am I."

Marty held a fire extinguisher in each hand.

"Nick," he said. "If this thing blows, I want it on record that I said it was a beautiful engine."

"Noted."

"And that I'm too young to die."

"You're forty-one."

"Exactly."

I climbed onto the test stand and put my hand on the starter.

The room went silent.

I pushed the button.

The Anvil coughed once.

Then it caught, and the sound hit the walls of the annex.

It was a big, ragged, glorious bellow, and it rattled the loose panes in the roll-up door.

One of the board members stepped backward and put his hand over his ear.

The twins whooped, and the machinist stood with his mouth open and his eyes shining.

I let the revs climb to three thousand, then four, and the whole annex shook.

"That's it," Cleo whispered next to me. "That's it, that's it."

Clifford had his hand pressed flat against his chest, and he was grinning.

At forty-eight hundred revs, the coolant hose split.

It went with a flat crack.

A white jet of steam shot out and filled the annex in two seconds, and the screaming of the engine rose to a high whine.

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