Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  Jack’s words fanned the fire that burned within him. He was not a loser, and he hated being treated like that. He could see Jack was trying to belittle him in Suzie’s eyes, and he pulled away from Phelps and turned to face him squarely.

  ‘I decide whether or not I drive tomorrow. No one else. I am not afraid. I am going to win.’

  ‘Suit yourself, buster. Just remember who’s the boss.’

  Ricardo kissed Suzie on the lips, ignoring Phelps. His attractiveness to women had always given him the opportunity to rile other men, and as he had expected, he saw sparks of anger in Phelps’s eyes.

  ‘Just make sure you don’t kill yourself, Ricardo.’ There was a distinct snarl in Phelps’s voice. ‘I’ve heard that this isn’t your favourite circuit.’

  Several of the mechanics looked round, including Reg Tillson. It was unheard of to threaten a driver. De Villiers had also come into the pits, and Ricardo guessed that he must have heard the earlier part of their conversation: Bruce was obviously bristling.

  ‘Ricardo,’ Bruce said, ‘why don’t you go and talk to Mickey about the new Shadow? He’s made plenty of modifications to her, based on what we’ve learnt already.’ Brushing beads of perspiration off his forehead, he turned to Phelps.

  ‘Jack, let’s go over to the motorvan.’

  ‘I’ve gotta leave,’ Phelps said.

  ‘No,’ Bruce insisted. ‘Come.’

  Phelps followed him to the Calibre-Shensu motorvan, an air-conditioned motor-home that the team used as a conference-centre at the track. Bruce closed the sliding door behind them as Phelps settled into one of the body-hugging chairs that were set into the floor.

  ‘Bruce,’ Jack Phelps said easily, ‘just relax.’

  Bruce felt as if he was being treated like an over-strung adolescent, but he kept his rage under control.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘we made an agreement. You supply the money, I do the racing. Your wires are getting crossed.’

  Phelps stretched out and put his hands behind his head. He did not seem in the least put out. ‘That doesn’t preclude me making casual conversation with Wyatt or Ricardo.’

  ‘Oh ja it fucking well does, man. Especially when you threaten them!’

  ‘You don’t need to shout, friend. I’m paying for results, not hot-headed behaviour.’

  ‘Every goddam race counts. Every chance has to be taken. Of course I want two front-runners - just as much as you do. Even a fucking idiot would know that’d push your fag sales through the roof.’

  ‘I’ve got the money. I don’t need losers. Chase is doing wonders for Calibre Lights in America, and if Ricardo can’t deliver, I’ll order you to cut him.’

  ‘And what about Shensu? Does he agree with your shotgun management?’

  It was as if a cloud had passed over Phelps’s face and taken the sunshine from it. He appeared agitated. Sensing his advantage, Bruce pressed on. ‘Shall I tell Shensu what you said just now?’

  He had Phelps now. He couldn’t quite work out what sort of hold Shensu held over Phelps, but it didn’t really matter. At least he had a way of controlling the American.

  ‘Let’s get on with the job. Are you unhappy with the Shensu relationship?’ Phelps replied guardedly, changing the subject.

  ‘I’ve got twelve Shensu mechanics working night and day on the engines. Cut the crap, Jack. What’s your game?’ Bruce deliberately played his hand hard. He was glad to have found something with which he could rile the usually imperturbable Phelps.

  ‘I spoke out of turn, Bruce.’ Phelps seemed to change gear as he was speaking; de Villiers could imagine the devious cogs in Phelps’s brain turning over another well-oiled plan.

  ‘Well, Jack, I’ll be interested to hear Shensu’s views on your attitude to racing.’

  ‘What we discuss here is between ourselves.’

  Bruce laughed. He wanted to smash Phelps in the face, wanted to pulverise him into the ground.

  ‘No it’s not. This isn’t power politics. Anything that affects my chances of producing a winner is Mr Shensu’s business.’

  ‘You tell him a word of this, and you’re gone.’

  Bruce gauged the situation carefully. If Phelps succeeded in railroading him now, he would be under his whip for the rest of the season. It was all or nothing. Better to get it over with now.

  ‘OK, Jack, I’ll tell Shensu I’m out.’

  Bruce got up. He felt like screaming. He knew this would probably destroy his career, but he wasn’t going to be kicked around like a second-rate player.

  As he was about to open the door, Phelps held his arm. To his surprise, Bruce saw a look of almost desperate concern on the American’s face. He couldn’t believe it. He had obviously touched some vulnerable spot in the man; made him feel threatened.

  ‘Cool it, Bruce. Let’s just . . . talk this out?’ Phelps’s tone was unmistakably conciliatory.

  Bruce settled back into the chair facing Jack. He felt a surge of relief but didn’t let it show on his face.

  ‘I’m a businessman,’ Phelps said. ‘I tend to be abrupt; I’m just used to getting my own way. You were right, Bruce, and I was wrong.’

  ‘OK. Then you agree to work with me, not against me?’

  Phelps nodded his head reluctantly.

  ‘All right,’ Bruce said briskly. ‘Then the first thing you do is phone Ricardo. I want you to apologise to him.’

  He could see that Phelps was desperately trying to control himself - but he didn’t care. Phelps had done the damage, now he must rectify it. He could see the blood suffusing Phelp’s face, the immaculate edifice looked as if it was about to explode.

  ‘I’ll phone him tonight,’ Phelps said.

  ‘You do that.’

  Phelps stormed out of the motorvan in a blind rage. He had totally underestimated de Villiers. He could not remove him, and even worse, he could not manipulate him.

  The chauffeur held open the door to the air-conditioned car, and he stepped inside quickly. Immediately he was in the cooler climate of the car he began to feel better and to think more logically. A plan began to form in his mind that could give him exactly what he wanted: the power to control and manipulate de Villiers. Of course, if it didn’t work out there were other options, for there were plenty of other people in the team who could be effectively used to get at de Villiers.

  And, Jack thought, he had one big advantage over Bruce de Villiers - because, in the end, he wasn’t in Formula One for the racing.

  Bruce de Villiers watched the jet-black executive jet coming in to land on what he estimated to be one of the worst runways in the world. An accomplished flyer himself, he admired the precision with which the pilot put the plane down. And as it taxied towards him across the runway, he thought about his two drivers.

  Ricardo was still the better driver of the two, through sheer experience, but Wyatt was the young lion, anxious to make a kill. And what really set Wyatt apart from Ricardo was his attitude. Although Wyatt was ruthless in his determination to win, he knew that he relied on the team to get him first across the finish-line. And Bruce could see that the mechanics, and Mickey Dunstal, sensed Wyatt’s respect for them. They wanted to help him - and there was no doubt that more care was lavished on Wyatt’s car than on Ricardo’s.

  The tiny door in the fuselage of the plane swung open, and a team of ground-staff quickly pushed the mobile stairs closer to the door.

  Bruce was feeling pretty good. He had figured out a few things about Phelps, and now he felt more in control of the team. He was pleased that Phelps had not come. There were one or two things he wanted to discuss in private with the Japanese entrepreneur.

  Aito Shensu came quickly down the steps of the plane. Bruce was struck by the similarity between him and Wyatt in the way they moved - purposefully, with economy of movement.

  ‘Bruce, it is good to see you. You did not have to come to the airport, you know.’

  ‘Welcome to Rio, Aito.’

  They walked together across the ta
rmac and through the customs area. A Shensu car was waiting for them outside the airport foyer, and the chauffeur drove them smoothly off.

  ‘Is Jack here?’ Aito asked, as if mirroring Bruce’s thoughts. ‘Yes. He was at the practice this morning.’

  ‘Is he pleased?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Aito looked quickly across at him.

  ‘There’s something wrong?’

  ‘Ricardo spun his car and damaged it,’ Bruce said. ‘He’ll have to use an untried car.’

  Aito weighed his words before he spoke.

  ‘Ricardo is a superb driver,’ he said. ‘Why should he have an accident in a qualifying event?’

  ‘A superb driver, yes, but he’s also human. Wyatt achieved the fastest qualifying time - Ricardo was simply trying to better it.’

  ‘Surely an easy task for the former world champion?’

  ‘I feel Ricardo is less at home with the Shadow than Wyatt. But that’s just a teething problem.’

  ‘Ah! I understand.’ He paused. ‘And what about you? You are happy?’

  It was odd, the way Aito asked the question. It sounded like something a psychiatrist might ask.

  ‘I’ll be happy once the race is over and we have two front positions.’

  ‘And the engine?’

  ‘Faultless. But then it’s only in the race that it will really prove its reliability.’

  ‘You find the back-up you are getting from my people OK?’

  Aito looked at him intensely, and Bruce could not help smiling.

  ‘Relax, Aito. I’ve never had better back-up from an engine manufacturer. Everything from your side has been done in the best possible fashion. At this stage we just have to keep our fingers crossed and hope that nothing’s been left out or forgotten.’

  ‘I am sure you have done a fine job.’

  The car pulled up outside the hotel, and the chauffeur leapt out and opened the side door.

  ‘You will join Jack and myself for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I have to be at the circuit. The last- minute preparation is critical. But I’ll see you at the start tomorrow - and I look forward to bringing you victory.’

  Bruce watched Aito disappear into the hotel, and then the chauffeur pulled off and headed towards the circuit. It was time to get down to the real business of racing.

  Wyatt sat in the pits, enjoying the coolness now that the sun had gone down. He could feel himself tensing up. He tried not to think about the race, but it was impossible.

  Memories came flooding back. He had been here in 1978, for the Grand Prix at the then brand-new circuit. It had been hot then; his father had been at the front of the grid, and was tipped to win the race by a wide margin. The day itself had been sweltering, and the Brazilians wild with excitement. James had led the field for twenty devastatingly fast laps. Then, without warning, his car had careered off the circuit and into a barrier of tyres. When they dragged him out, he was a wreck. The incredible heat had caused him to black out. He was lucky to be alive.

  Wyatt could understand his father a lot better now, understand the constant tension he’d been under in those days.

  He looked across at Reg. He could see the excitement in his eyes, and could feel it mirrored in his own. Here, competing in the intense world of Formula One, this was living. Reg met his stare.

  ‘Relax, Wyatt, you’re at the front of the grid.’

  ‘I want to be first over the finish-line - it’s sixty-one laps, it’s hot, and it’s hard on the car. Relaxed is the last thing I am.’

  ‘I was there when your father went off as well - forget about it. The Shadow isn’t as cramped as his machine was, you won’t get as hot.’

  Bruce walked in and looked around. His eyes lighted on Wyatt.

  ‘You should be resting.’

  He was right.

  ‘All right. I’m turning in.’

  ‘You’re confident?’

  ‘I feel in my gut I can do it.’

  ‘You can.’

  Wyatt walked out into the darkness. What happened tomorrow would determine his future.

  It was four in the morning. Bruce sat next to the two cars and looked across at his mechanics. Everything was in place.

  ‘Let’s call it a day, gentlemen.’

  Everyone filed out, dog-tired, leaving the garage empty except for Bruce and Mickey.

  ‘Now it’s up to Ricardo and Wyatt,’ Mickey said. ‘I know who I’ll be putting my money on.’

  Bruce sat down on a tool-box next to the machine. ‘You’re letting your heart influence your mind, Mickey. You know as well as I do how much experience counts for in this business.’

  Bruce didn’t want to admit that he also rated Wyatt higher than Ricardo. He remembered Ricardo years before - Ricardo had been better then, less cocky and a lot more professional. Still, a couple of poor finishes and the Italian would be back fighting. And of course, if Wyatt was out in front, Ricardo wouldn’t be far behind.

  ‘Do you know Ricardo’s got the better car?’

  Bruce swung round to face Mickey. Yes, he knew that the latest Shadow was the more refined car, the one in which they’d been able to incorporate every single thing they’d learned from Wyatt’s testing work.

  Theoretically better,’ Bruce said. ‘She hasn’t been put through her paces yet.’

  There was a noise from the entrance to the garage, and they both looked up. It was Reg.

  ‘Worried about something, Reg?’

  ‘No. I didn’t realise it was you two in here, I thought it might be someone snooping. It’s pitch-black out there. The McCabe lads are looking tatty - they’re still hard at work.’

  Bruce was surprised. McCabe were obviously having problems. ‘They must be worried about the new engine,’ he said, voicing the thoughts of all of them.

  ‘Well, they’re certainly sweating. It’s as hot as Hades.’ Bruce thought fast. They were experiencing a heat-wave. Perhaps McCabe weren’t so disorganised after all; perhaps they were making some useful modifications to their engine. If it was this hot at four in the morning, when the race was run in the early afternoon tomorrow, the track would be a furnace.

  He cast his mind back to the time when they were still testing at Kyalami. Wyatt’s car had blown up from overheating. At the time he thought they’d solved the problem more than adequately.

  He turned to Mickey.

  ‘I’m worried. Reg has made a good point. Maybe McCabe are improving their cooling-system.’ Mickey had got up and was examining the ventilation ducts that directed air into the cooling-system of the car.

  ‘I know what yer thinking,’ he said slowly. ‘But I think we should leave things as they are.’

  Reg glanced apprehensively at Bruce. They were both mechanics by training, and they both knew the dangers of changing things at the last minute. Generally such changes weren’t properly thought through, and caused other faults during the race.

  It was Reg who broke the agonised silence.

  ‘What about modifying just one of the cars? Ricardo and Wyatt are both bloody good drivers. It’d be a fifty-fifty gamble. Then if one grinds to a halt, at least the other’s in with a chance.’

  Bruce knew he would have to decide whose car they would make the modification to.

  ‘Give me a minute. I’m going to take a walk.'

  He got up and went out into the blackness. It was even hotter than he’d realised. Hell, he must have raced here every year for the past nine years, but it had never been this hot before. Both cars could be out of the race because of severe overheating.

  Reg was right, you couldn’t see a thing out here. He walked into a parked car and cursed silently.

  Should he pray? He was, in a quiet way, a religious man. What was fair, that was the question? In the end it was a gamble. Mickey’s modification would have been fine two days before the race - then they could have checked it out, refined it.

  Wyatt deserved a good car for his first race, but he was the num
ber two driver. An initial win for Ricardo would put the champion in great form for the rest of the season. And Wyatt drove hard, whereas Ricardo was smoother; Ricardo wouldn’t hammer his car as hard.

  After a few more minutes he walked back into the pits. Both Reg and Mickey were staring at him intently as he returned.

  ‘So, what’s it ter be?’ asked Mickey, keen to get to work.

  ‘It’s in the hands of Lady Luck.’

  Bruce pulled a coin out of his pocket, spun it in the air and caught it on the back of his wrist. Then he stared at Reg.

  ‘Heads or tails?’

  ‘Tails.’

  ‘OK, we do it. It’ll be Wyatt’s car we modify. Gentlemen, let’s get to work.’

  They finished at seven in the morning. To an outside observer Wyatt’s Shadow looked just as it had the previous day; only a careful examination would have revealed the enlarged air-cooling ducts. Bruce had called Professor Katana from the hotel - Shensu’s head of engine development was here in Brazil for the Grand Prix. Katana had worked with them on the computer to calculate the exact dimensions of the enlargement, then he’d reprogrammed the chip that controlled the engine’s electronic management system.

  Bruce staggered over to the motorvan with Katana, Mickey and Reg. They were all on edge, and Bruce could see the sweat dripping from Reg’s forehead.

  ‘Wyatt and Ricardo have their final warm-up soon.’

  Reg looked up, exhausted. ‘Who’s going to tell Wyatt?’

  ‘And why are we talkin’ so quietly?’ Mickey interjected. Bruce stared at the Irishman: Mickey was always fast off the mark. Reg had thought they’d just come into the van to relax.

  ‘I don’t want to say anything to Wyatt about this,’ Bruce replied, his face betraying none of the tension he was feeling.

  ‘You’re the penultimate bastard,’ Reg uttered softly, knowing that he would go along with Bruce, knowing that he himself wouldn’t have had the courage to be so ruthless.

  ‘It is dishonourable,’ Professor Katana said quietly.

  ‘Bruce, you’re not being fair,’ Mickey chimed in. ‘Wyatt knows more about that car than any of us. Telling him that he’s got better cooling would push him to drive a bit harder.’