Mac Cole felt the forty-foot Gillig Phantom buck underneath his boots like a wounded bull.
The steering wheel fought his right arm with savage hydraulic torque. The outer right rear tire was shredded, flapping against the wheel-well housing.
“Hold on back there!” Mac shouted, his throat raw from diesel fumes. “I’m bringing the tail around!”
His left arm—a brass ticket punch bolted directly to his elbow socket—stayed clamped to the red Bendix air-brake lever. Rule 9 was carved into his bones. A night driver never releases his primary controls while the coach is in motion.
Behind him, Julian Vance braced against the front stanchion pole.
“What’s the air pressure reading, Mac?” Julian yelled over the roaring engine.
Mac glanced at the dual-needle Bendix air gauge on the dash panel.
“Governor is pumping at eighty-five pounds!” Mac answered. “Inner tire is holding at ninety-five. Outer tire is dead flat. We’ve got four inches of clearance before the rim grinds the cobblestones!”
