11. Sakhir, Bahrain

11

Sakhir, Bahrain

A year of aerodynamic and mechanical design, months of planning, thousands of hours of work by hundreds of workers, and it all came down to testing in Bahrain, one week before the Bahrain Grand Prix. The top-secret planning and development would be secret no longer.

There would be no official winners after these three days on the track. The goal was to test the cars, make sure they were sound, and to generate data for the development teams back at the factories, so they could see if the cars they’d designed on computers and in wind tunnels were performing as predicted. But unofficially, a lot of prognosticating would happen in testing, and it would quickly become clear which teams had shown up with the cars and drivers to win this season, and which would face an uphill battle.

Adding to the pressure, the first race of the season was just over a week later. If there were any problems with the car, after testing there would only be six days to get it fixed before they had to be back on the track for qualifying.

Her father, the person in charge of the whole thing, was understandably on edge, but you’d never know it from looking at him. The sun was blinding as Mira hurried toward the garage at his side. He seemed so calm in the midst of the chaos.

“Mira, can you check in with David and make sure they’re getting the data at the factory?”

“Already done. Video feed is good and all departments have confirmed they’re receiving the telemetry.”

“And can you make sure Ravinder’s on headset? I want him listening in.”

“He’s on headset in the office, taking notes. I’ll upload them to the server after the session.”

“And did David send over those updated numbers—”

“Already programmed into the onboard computer.”

He looked briefly at her without breaking his stride. “Well done, Mira.”

She wanted to wallow in his praise, but there wasn’t time. When they reached the garage, Matteo was already in his car so it was almost time to go. Omar handed Matteo his steering wheel and watched as Matteo clipped it into place and tested its functions. When Matteo’s race engineer gave the go-ahead, Omar gave a thumbs-up and he fired the engine. The roar was immense. Mira could feel it in the ground under her feet, several meters away. Despite the nerves that came with testing, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill, like this was the night before Christmas. It was almost here.

Then the mechanics around the car pulled back and Matteo headed out onto the track. Her father took up his spot in front of a bank of monitors, headphones on, feet braced apart, one hand curled under his mouth and the other arm crossed over his chest. His external calm was deceiving. His entire compact frame radiated coiled energy and intensity, and that steely gaze of his didn’t miss a single detail.

He’d seemed so all-powerful when she was little, hardly the sort of warm, affectionate father to plop a little girl on his lap and read her bedtime stories. That wasn’t Paul Wentworth’s style. When she was older and started spending summers with him on the road, they’d finally established a genuine and affectionate bond, one that centered on the sport she’d grown to love as much as he did. Then she’d blown that to bits, and they’d been distant ever since. Now that she was on the circuit with him again, it was improving, but doing well in this job would go a long way.

Matteo’s first lap was an installation lap as the engineers trackside and back at the factory poured through reams of real-time telemetry looking for anything the least bit awry. He circled back to the pits and shut it down for a systems check, and only after the team was completely satisfied that everything was screwed together properly did the mechanics fuel the car for a twenty-lap stint and refire the engine.

“Let’s push into this turn,” Paul said into his headset as Matteo neared the first complex of curves.

“He’s never aggressive enough in the turns,” Mira muttered under her breath.

Her father covered the microphone from his headset and murmured, “Exactly.”

He looked over his shoulder and gave her a wink, and she had to smother her laugh with her hand.

No one was breathing as Matteo whipped into the turn, the car barely clinging to the blacktop. By the time he was powering out of the turn complex and into the straight, Mira felt nearly lightheaded.

Stats poured out on the monitors and she exhaled in relief and happiness. The numbers so far were great. For all the design and engineering done on paper and on computers, for all the hundreds of hours manufacturing and testing the parts, for the thousands of hours in the wind tunnel and the simulator, you never really knew what you had until you put it all together and got it out on the track. Matteo would have to do a lot more laps, and generate a lot more data before they had a handle on every aspect of the car, but right now, it looked really promising.

She touched her father’s shoulder and held out a water bottle.

He slid his headphones off and cracked what had to be his first smile all day as he took it. “Natalia will thank you, Mira. She always worries that I forget to stay hydrated.”

“That’s because you do. Dad, this is phenomenal.”

Paul glanced back at the bank of monitors, shots of Matteo out on the track and screens full of data. “Looks like we may have a winning car this year.”

“I’m sure you do. Look at those sector times.”

His smile grew wider as he scanned the telemetry. “I’m happy with that. Now let’s see what Will can do in it.”

Mira eyed the first stats of Matteo’s performance. “He’ll do better. He’s a better driver.”

Her father cocked one eyebrow. “Is he?”

“Dad, look at his simulator sessions.”

“He’s quick, I’ll give you that.”

“And you’ve built the strongest car in Lennox’s history. Will’s going to win the world championship.”

“You think so?”

“I do. You think so, too. That’s why you hired him.”

Despite the tension of the day, he laughed. “You’re right, Mira. Seems like I might have a winning team all around.”

As he slid his headphones back into place and turned back to the monitors, she caught sight of Will standing behind him, and rolled her eyes. “I suppose you heard all of that?”

She’d been trying to stay so professional around him, but it was hard to maintain when that moment over dinner in London kept replaying in her mind … his face so close to hers as he made sure she knew he was still thinking about kissing her.

“That you think I’m the best driver on the grid? I wish I recorded it so I can play it back later when you try to deny it.”

“You know that’s what I think. Now you need to get out there and prove it to everybody else.”

He grinned. “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

WILL WAS ZIPPING UP his race suit, still smiling to himself remembering the way Mira had talked him up when she didn’t know he was there, when Harry joined him. “Watch the braking into the turns until we can sort the reattachment issue,” he said, without a word of greeting. “That way if it goes sideways at least you can bail on the corner. We’ve also switched you to the carbon-carbon brake pads you like, but you’ll have no stopping power at all till they heat up, so mind the brake temps on your out lap.”

Harry chattered on, listing every tiny facet of vehicle performance he was expected to provide feedback on. Will half-listened as he tugged his flame-resistant Nomex balaclava into place, over his head and up over his chin, until only his eyes were visible. Harry was just talking to vent the nervousness he’d never admit to. All the sage pieces of advice weren’t going to matter much anyway when he was screaming into the first turn at three hundred kilometers an hour. Then he’d have nothing but his own instincts to get him through it.

The mechanics were still buzzing around, checking fittings and making microscopic adjustments. Paul clapped him on the shoulder.

“Take it easy out there. Let’s just see what we have today.”

“Will do, boss.”

“Have a good ride.” Typical understated Paul. That “have a good ride” somehow managed to mean “good luck,” “don’t fuck this up,” and “you’d better make all my dreams come true” in four tiny words.

With that, Will headed to the car. Beata, the assistant who managed the drivers’ kits, gave a last check to his suit, making sure all the closures were secure. It was lined with the same flame-resistant material as his gloves and balaclava, and could protect him from fire for eleven precious seconds, which could be the difference between life and death in a crash.

“HANS okay?” she asked.

“It’s good. Thanks.” The HANS would protect his neck in the case of major impact.

When she finished and gave him the thumbs-up, he took a second to breathe deeply and scan the track one more time.

Today wasn’t about winning. As Paul had said, all he needed to do was go out and drive solidly, to provide plenty of data for the engineers.

But Will wanted more. The car wasn’t even perfected yet, yet he still wanted to show the world that the car was the fastest on that track and that he was the fastest driver.

He hopped into the cockpit and slid down into position, the custom-fitted seat hugging him like a glove. Two mechanics went to work strapping him in so tightly he could barely move.

Omar handed in his steering wheel. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks, man.”

He clipped the steering wheel into its column and waited for the thumbs-up from Omar.

“Time to go!” Omar shouted.

Will pressed the button to fire the engine and felt it roar to life, the power pulsing through his body like it was pumping his heart. God, there was no better feeling on earth. Well, maybe it felt better when he was going three hundred kilometers an hour.

The pit crew surrounding him high-fived, as pumped up to see the car’s performance as he was. Now it was just him and the car. Time to see what they could do together. He pressed the throttle and the car shot forward.

Five moderate laps passed in a blur. He navigated back onto the track after fueling, listening to Paul and Tae chattering into his headset. As he neared the start/finish and everything still looked good, Tae gave him the go-ahead to open it up.

His adrenaline spiked as he shifted gears and let it go. The car screamed down the start/finish straight, gaining speed at an unfathomable pace. Will felt strapped to a rocket. As it neared the first turn, it felt as if everyone held their breath along with him. This was it. Clearly the new car had phenomenal speed in the straight, but could he manage that speed in the braking zones? He would, and he’d do it faster than Matteo had, dammit.

Smoke wisped up from the front wheel as the inside tire unloaded after braking into the turn. He released the brakes enough to let the wheel start to spin again. It felt as if he had far too much speed on entry, but he trusted his instincts.

Just when it seemed inevitable that he wouldn’t make the apex, somehow the car arced inward, tires nicking the paint at the edge of the asphalt. As he rotated out of the slow speed corner, he rolled the throttle open and the car powered out of the turn like it was on fire.

Yes.

Now that he knew he had it, things really got fun. Dancing between throttle and brake, he continued to shed tenths of a second as the fuel burned off. The last awkward set of turns was a punishing 6G deceleration that threw him forward against the straps. His neck and arms ached as he fought the gravitational force.

Turn after turn, lap after lap, Will kept it in check, just barely, pushing the car and himself to the limit. He’d never worked harder to keep control of a car, but it was worth it. He felt unstoppable.

Will Hawley hadn’t just come to polish his tarnished reputation. After three hard-fought years to get himself back to this place, he wasn’t just here to keep a seat warm. He was here to win it all, and he wasn’t settling for less.

And now the entire sport of Formula One knew it.