Thunderous applause courses through the bench I’m balanced on and I dig my feet in to hold steady.
‘I’m so proud of every single one of you,’ I round off. ‘We’ve all come so far in the last few weeks, and we’re only getting stronger. Let’s get it done, boys!¡Vámonos!’
I punch the air and jump down to the entire garage practically shaking. DFK and Alpha Prime are going to be wondering what the hell’s happening next door. They’d better get used to wondering since they’re going to be doing a lot more of it.
My speech is demonstrated when it’s time to pit, and the crew put in a miracle 2.8s. Suck on that, Martinelli.
Jules and Tom went on another date last night. Isa didn’t hear anything about it on the Jules’ Jewels grapevine, and like hell am I going to ask her outright. I bet he wasn’t a jealous bonehead at dinner.
We haven’t put the addendum into practice yet, and she’s had a whole morning to rescind it. Maybe the date didn’t gothatwell.
I exit the pit lane behind a Maxim and Tenzing battling hard. I tow along in fifteenth – not too shabby considering these guys still need to pit. I wasn’t planning an overtake, but the Tenzing suddenly pushes the Maxim to the very edge of track limits around a left-hander, leaving a yawning space on their right side.
It’d be rude not to.
I cruise into thirteenth with less effort than it takes to get out of the car, and disbelieving laughter fills my helmet.
‘Nice pass,’ notes my race engineer. ‘Now manage the gap to the car behind. Let’s keep this steady.’
My grin even holds firm as a Volare laps me. ‘You got it, boss.’
I can feel this team getting better. We’re syncing more every weekend. Who knows how far we can get by the final race in Abu Dhabi. If we keep improving at this rate, we could finish eighth, or evenseventh. Alpha Prime are running about the same as last year, and Tenzing only have one decent driver. It’s all to play for.
Maybe next year we can shoot for the covetable fifth spot. Finishing fifth in the Championship is major. You’re the best of the mid-pack. You’re not a participant anymore, you’re a dangerous wild card. Investment increases by millions, world-class partners want to work with you, and the press actually vie for your attention in the media pen. Some races, you could even battle the likes of Pagari, Martinelli, and Ackland. My pulse quickens at the thought.
I’m getting ahead of myself. I won’t even be here by then, but I’d still like to see Leone do?—
Something just popped in the back of the car.
Maybe it was something small and meaningless. Like there isn’t one tiny meaningless nut in this whole?—
An amber temperature symbol flashes up on my display. That’s not good.
‘Temperatures are spiking, mate,’ my race engineer concurs over the radio. ‘Box box.’
No nono.
Please not now. We’re doing so well!
I look in my mirror and there lurks the Maxim set to take his place back.
The engine note changes. I’m losing a fraction of response on throttle.
Oh shit, this is bad. Very, very bad.
I recently passed the pit entry; it’ll take almost a full lap to get back there. I don’t know what kind of time I have but I’ll give it a shot. I scan my instruments. The temperature needle’s jumping. Oil pressure’s going ballistic. The pedal?—
Hold up.
I can smell smoke.
The telemetry numbers are barking at me. Red temperature lights are flashing like sirens. The smoke’s getting stronger. It has a chemical quality like burning oil. I glance in my mirrors and see thick grey plumes streaming from the back.
But what scares me most is a little pressurised hiss cutting through everything that sounds kinda, sorta,too muchlike a ruptured line.
What happens when a ruptured pressurised line sprays hot oil onto a screaming-hot exhaust? Instant ignition. In other words…
She’s going to blow.
