by Jeff Pollard
When you launch, you need a safe place for the rocket to come down. That's why the Kennedy Space Center is where it is. Launching east, you aren't in danger of having rocket parts fall on populated areas. Over a hundred Space Shuttle launches had gone off in the past thirty years. That's two hundred some solid rocket boosters falling into that ocean (and recovered). That's over a hundred of those huge orange external tanks re-entering and burning up somewhere over the Indian Ocean. There's countless other rocket stages that have fallen into that sea. There's thirteen Saturn V first stages at the bottom of that ocean, not far from the Florida coast, including the first stage of Apollo 11. Imagine all the engineering work, the design, the problems solved, the care taken to create such a precise and powerful device. Just think of it. Harnessing fire to send people to another world. All that work, that engineering marvel does its job only to be discarded a few minutes into the mission to plummet into the sea. It's been down there since 1969, collecting marine life in the deep. What a horrible ending for an engineering marvel, Kingsley thinks.
“Dex, remind me to call James Cameron when we get back.”
“Why?” Dexter asks.
“Just remind me.”
Kingsley wasn't born yet the last time men set foot on the Moon. Twelve men walked on the Moon between 1969 and 1972. The last time people walked on the Moon, The Godfather was in theaters. Kingsley was a child of the 80's, the era when the Space Shuttle had just come along. We'd gone to the Moon, now we would go to space with great regularity. By the far-off sounding year of 2010, surely we'd be in flying cars, living on a Moon base, going to Mars. And yet, the Space Shuttle was still flying, or at least, twice a year it was, just as often as they could get the old thing going without it shaking to pieces. Nobody had ventured beyond low-Earth-orbit since Apollo 17 returned from the Moon in '72. Kingsley grew up idolizing those men, those pioneers, bravely going where nobody had gone before, and with 60's technology. They were heroes to be sure, but they would soon be replaced by hundreds of new pioneers, settlers of this new land. But that wasn't to be. Who would have thought that forty years later, those twelve would still be the only ones to walk on the Moon?
Several of them had died already, and the youngest of them was 79 years old. The only plans on the drawing board for a return to the Moon were on the canceled Constellation Program. Perhaps the Orion would ferry men to the Moon again, but not for at least ten years, if ever. Kingsley had absolutely no faith that the Orion/SLS would ever launch more than a handful of times, probably to be abandoned for being too costly, or relegated to only occasional safe missions, never attempting anything bold.
Kingsley wanted to change all of that.
“Are you a Formula 1 fan?” Kingsley asks Dexter as the two men take seats in a luxury box overlooking a small section of track near the start/finish line.
“I've never really watched it,” Dexter replies.
There are dozens of small TVs throughout the luxury box. Some TVs are dedicated to specific cars/drivers, while others are dedicated to certain portions of the track. From here, one could see with great clarity the whole picture of the race. Small headsets, nestled in the side of each leather seat, could be tuned to various channels. You could listen in to the broadcast from each network covering the race, covering over a dozen languages. However, this luxury box was filled with people who paid little attention to the race.
“I hate luxury boxes,” K says. “The real fans are out there, on metal bleachers, straining to see anything at all. Then in here, you have all these rich people who have the best seat in the world, they can take in a race in a way that was unthinkable only ten years ago, yet there they are, all talking about themselves and drawing attention to their hundred thousand dollar suits. You'd think you'd get bored of making your whole life revolve around the notion that you are rich, but there they are, every year, showing off and measuring up.”
“Yeah, I hate those guys too,” Dexter doesn't really know how to reply.
“No I'm serious,” K says. “I use my money to start a space program, design electric cars, go on trips. These people just use their money to buy things and then show off what they bought. How boring.”
“So anyway, I think the Sebastian guy is like three laps ahead,” Dexter says with a fake yawn.
“Don't yawn at that. This isn't NASCAR where they find excuses to jam all the cars right next to each other every twenty laps to manufacture drama. This is a real race. And yeah, having a real race might mean that one guy runs away with it. That's what racing is about.”
“I thought racing was about wrecks and explosions,” Dexter replies.
“This is about engineering. These cars cost millions of dollars and have hundreds of millions of dollars of research behind them. Red Bull/Renault is kicking so much ass because they designed the best car. It's not like ASSCAR where they each drive identical cars.”
“But then if they have identical cars, it makes the racing better, and it's about the drivers' skills,” Dexter says.
“But racing isn't about just the drivers, and it never has been. Horse racing is about biological engineering, you know, breeding. Car racing has always been about engineering, getting every last horsepower or mile-per-gallon out of the machine. It's like war, the combination of men and machines, with engineers in the backroom drawing up new machines to outwit their opponents. Give all the drivers the same cars and squeezing them together with a yellow flag every time somebody spins out and you've got nothing but a reality show. That's not racing, that's manufactured drama.”
“Say it however you want, but that German guy in that French car has a ten minute lead on second place. That's really exciting,” Dexter says sarcastically. “So where's the girl? Is she in here somewhere?”
“No,” K says. “She's busy.”
“Doing what? Princessing things?”
“She's a Duchess, and yeah. When that German guy wins, she hands him the trophy and gives him a kiss on the cheek.”
“Maybe instead of a trophy and a kiss from a Duchess, how about just a blowjob from a Duchess. Now that's a prize!”
“Shhh, the rich people might hear you.”
“So how are you going to get to her?” Dexter asks.
“I might have a plan,” K says suspiciously. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?” Dexter asks, getting no response from Kingsley as he exits the luxury box. “Great, guess I'll just stay here.” Dexter turns back to the bank of TVs, putting headphones on.
“With twelve laps to go, defending champion Sebastian Vettel has a commanding lead,” the British announcer says. “The Red Bull-Renault team really has this track figured out, well on their way to their third straight victory at the Grand Prix of Monaco.
“We haven't seen this kind of dominance since the late Ayrton Senna won six straight years.”
“Looks like Vettel is heading for the pits. I don't think this is a scheduled stop. What's the word down in the Renault stall? Is there a mechanical failure or is this a simple stop.”
“The lap times haven't fallen off, I don't see any sign of failure.”
“It looks like...” the announcer trails off, straining to understand what he is seeing. Sebastian Vettel gets out of the car. “A driver change? With eleven laps remaining?” Another driver jumps in the car, taking fifteen seconds to re-attach the electronic steering wheel, adjust the seat, and then he's off, spinning his wheels and accelerating into the pit lane.
“Perhaps Vettel has fallen sick, I can't imagine he would voluntarily get out of the car unless he absolutely could not continue.” On screen, Dexter watches Vettel walk away from the pit stall, tearing his helmet off and throwing it.
“He's clearly upset with himself for needing to be relieved.” Vettel gets into a shouting match with a Red Bull-Renault team official.
“Well he doesn't look ill, does he. Perhaps this is some kind of...punishment?”
“Truly bizarre, I don't remember seeing anything like this.”
“Any word on who the replacement driver is?”
“Oh shit,” Dexter says. He watches the video feed dedicated to Sebastian Vettel's Red Bull-Renault. The car skids around a corner, a bit clumsily.
“Whoever the replacement is, he seems to be having trouble with the Grand Hotel Hairpin, that's for sure.”
“I'll give you ten million dollars to let me finish the race for you,” Kingsley Pretorius says to the Red Bull-Renault Team President, Jacque Rousseau.
“I hope this is a joke,” Jacque replies, putting his headset back on and looking back to the telemetry in the team's semi-truck.
“I'm not joking. I have the money,” Kingsley says more insistently.
“This car cost that much to make, why would I risk it for that little amount of money? Are you crazy or just stupid?”
“How about this,” Kingsley says, “If I take over, hang on to that three lap lead, with only what ten to go, then I'll pay you ten million. If I don't win, then I'll pay you one hundred million dollars.”
“One hundred million if you screw up?” Rouseau asks, a twinge in his voice, he's thinking about it.
“Come on Jacque, you know me, you know I'm good for it, and you know I've been racing cars and flying planes for years.”
“I don't know,” Jacque says suspiciously, eying the in-car camera mounted just behind and above Sebastian Vettel's helmet as he races through the course carved out of the streets of Monaco, blazing past slower cars.
“Jacque, you've already locked up the championship anyway, right? What do you have to lose?”
“Ten million, and one hundred million if you screw up?” Jacque puts his hand out to shake on it.
“Done,” K replies, shaking.
“Euros,” Jacque unleashes his little trap.
“Hundred million Euros?” K asks. He shrugs. “A deal's a deal.”
“Tell Sebastian we're making a driver change,” Rousseau says to an underling. “And you need to get suited up.”
Sebastian, being a race car driver, predictably is resistant to the idea of a driver change, especially this close to victory. The argument lasts several laps, and Sebastian only relents when Rousseau, Team President, suggests that he might sit Vettel out entirely from the last remaining race of the season if he doesn't follow orders. The argument gives Kingsley time to locate a Red Bull-Renault fire-proof suit, and a spare helmet that fits well enough. He stands just behind the pit wall, waiting for the Red Bull RB6 F1 car to pull in, trying not to think about the hundred million Euros this ride would cost him if he screws up. What's to screw up? Just hold on to an enormous lead with a few laps to go. And of course, don't wreck. The car produces over 700 horsepower, yet it weighs less than 1,400 lbs. At that power-to-weight ratio, a new Corvette, weighing 3,200 lbs, would have 1700 horsepower instead of the measly 430 that comes standard.
The exact specs of the RB6 are not officially published anywhere. Formula 1 is a sport based in technological advancements just as much as it is in the drivers' performances. Each team is limited by certain knowns, but within those specs, the innovation is both ingenious and secret. The specs handed down by Formula 1 for this season are that the engine must be naturally aspirated, must be a V8 with a volume of 2400cc and it must be limited to 18000 RPM. In addition, there are weight and material requirements, as well as the number of igniters, valves, and other limitations.
“Here is your wheel,” a technician hands Kingsley the electronic steering wheel. Weighing less than three pounds, the wheel cost more than $50,000. The technician quickly explains what each of the fourteen buttons and six dials do. The screen in the center can tell the driver anything from lap times, to engine or tire temperatures, or even display a map of the track showing the position of each car. Of course it also can show speed. The dials and buttons are used to adjust variables such as the fuel/air mix, rev limiter, front/rear brake bias, steering sensitivity, and others. There's also a button to call on the radio, one to initiate “launch mode,” and a button labeled “drink,” which you can probably figure out yourself.
Kingsley holds the wheel, trying to quickly memorize the location of each button. It's difficult to hear anything as twenty F1 cars are flying around the tight 2-mile circuit, emitting their signature high-pitched whine that comes from an engine revving to 18000 RPM. Sebastian comes down pit lane, a button on the steering wheel limits the engine to pit speed, and he pulls into his stall, pressing a button which turns on the hydraulic jacks built into the car, raising it off its tires so they can be quickly changed. Sebastian removes the steering wheel and jumps out of the car as eight men quickly unbolt the tires, replace them, then bolt on the new tires with a single central nut. Kingsley jumps into the cramped cockpit, attaches the electronic wheel, then attempts to get comfortable in the seat. The tire changes are done before he even got in the car, taking only 3.3 seconds.
“Here we go,” K says, pressing the button that lowers the car back on its wheels. He pulls out of the stall and proceeds down the long pit lane. With the engine limited to pit speed, the revs top out at a fraction of the 18000 RPM it wants to go. The 18000 RPM figure is actually not a true limitation of the engine, it could go even higher. But for the now, during that long, slow drive out of pit lane, the engine vibrates, wanting so badly to go beyond this low limitation. Kingsley finally reaches the end of pit lane, hitting the button that turns off the Pit Limit, he accelerates quickly uphill along Avenue d'Ostende before the long sweeping left turn at Massenet. He drives past Casino square, snaking down Avenue des Beaux Arts for a short straight that leads to the tight Mirabeau corner, followed by a short downhill burst and into the Fairmont Hairpin, which is the tightest turn of any F1 circuit. The hairpin is so tight, two F1 cars cannot physically fit through the corner side-by-side.
“You need to speed up,” Jacque Rousseau says in Kingsley's headset.
K hits the radio button without looking down. “I'm just trying to get my bearings.”
“The tires and the brakes are too cold, you're going too damn slow!” The tires and brakes of F1 cars are so precisely engineered, that if you don't push the car right to the edge, they won't be heated up enough to function properly.
Kingsley heads out of the hairpin, downhill, accelerating hard toward two right turns called Portier. Once through these relatively slow turns, he heads into the tunnel, accelerating as quickly as he can, unleashing the full power of that engine. The tunnel is significantly darker in contrast to the bright sunlight. Kingsley struggles to see as his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. He knows from having raced around this track hundreds of times in his home simulator that the tunnel is taken at full speed, but exiting the tunnel he will come quickly into a sharp chicane requiring full braking power. His eyes must adjust quickly to the changing light condition or he'll fly through the chicane without touching the brakes. Through the tunnel, the downforce of the car is reduced because of the drastically different aerodynamic conditions. Kingsley feels the car rise up, not pushed down nearly as hard by the wings meant to produce the downforce needed for the wheels to do their jobs. The car seems to float.
Kingsley brakes as soon as he exits the tunnel, before realizing that he braked much too early. A car flies past him, zig-zagging through the chicane and racing ahead of him. Kingsley makes a mental note to brake later at that turn and accelerates out of the chicane, alongside the harbor. Kingsley accelerates through the short straight into a narrow left turn that should be taken at about 120 mph, but Kingsley hits it at only 100.
“Faster!” Rousseau says into the headset.
“Kingsley approaches 140 mph as he reaches Piscine, a left-right, followed quickly by a slower right-left. A short straight follows, then he hits the tight right-hand 180-degree turn called La Rascasse. A short straight follows then a tight right-hand turn brings him back to the start-finish straight. The straight sweeps to the right, then comes to a wide right-hand turn, where the inside line is marked in yellow, allowing cars to exit the pits.
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br /> This two mile journey takes the other drivers about a minute and seventeen seconds. Kingsley's first lap was coming out of the pit lane, and thus not up to full speed. On his second lap, he does it in a minute twenty eight, well off the pace. He is passed by three cars along the way. Even still, at his pace, the second place car, three laps behind, won't be able to make up more than a lap before the race is over. Kingsley starts to relax, settling in as the laps tick away, and his lap times improve incrementally.
With five to go, Kingsley exits the tunnel, heading into the sharp left-chicane and the harbor, he waits to brake, knowing that he has been braking too early. He slightly misjudges the turn, and brakes a split-second too late. When you're braking from over 150 mph, that split second could mean missing the turn by hundreds of feet. Kingsley flies straight through the chicane, hitting the red and white checkered bumps lining the track, he flies over the corner, getting a foot in the air, coming back down and continuing straight. The car is relatively unharmed, however missing the corner incurs a stiff penalty. Rousseau commands Kingsley to come down the pit lane. K hits the button to limit the car to pit speed, then finds his pit stall. He sits and must wait to serve his penalty. Meanwhile, the time he has spent slowing to pit, and now sitting still, and then the time it will take for him to get back up to speed, eats heavily into his three lap lead. After all, a lap only takes the other drivers a minute seventeen. A one minute penalty in the pits along with the other lost time means that when K is released by the F1 official, he's speeding back out on to the track on the same lap as the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th place drivers, albeit with a lead of about thirty seconds.
