Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

‘Mine and Jack Phelps’s.’

  At seven o’clock a big motorcycle roared up in front of the Calibre-Shensu headquarters. It was a unique machine, modified for higher performance and handling. Mickey Dunstal rode without a helmet, his long blond hair in a neatly plaited pony-tail. The infectious grin behind the curling beard indicated that he was as excited as the rest of the team.

  He spent a few minutes discussing some details with Bruce, then turned to Wyatt.

  ‘Ready?’

  Wyatt nodded.

  The sun was up now, casting a pale, warm light across the vegetation around the track. There was a freshness in the air, and the horizon was bright blue, with a few distant clouds.

  Wyatt followed Bruce and Mickey into the workshop bay in the pits. The Shensu Shadow was hidden under a white dust-cloth, standing in the middle of the big room, the rays of early morning sunlight falling down on her.

  Even covered up, she had the air of a predator. She was his weapon for the year, Wyatt thought; with her he’d fight it out with the other drivers and machines in a dangerous war of attrition and nerves.

  Wyatt changed into his racing gear, pulling on the layer of Nomex fire-proof clothing and balaclava helmet that would protect him from the immediate effects of burning if the car crashed or blew up.

  With one energetic tug Mickey pulled off the dust-cloth. Wyatt stared at the Shensu Shadow in rapt surprise. Her body was an ominous black, and she was flatter and wider than the Formula One car he’d driven over the past year. He could tell he’d easily fit into the cockpit, instead of being cramped. Formula One cars were generally designed for much smaller men than him.

  He stared at the steering-wheel and the selector switch that actuated the gears on the electronically controlled gearbox. He walked around her, and had to admit he was taken aback. Somehow Dunstal had managed to overcome the FISA dictates of shape and produce a car that was truly and originally forbidding. The front - the wide shark-like nose - was the best part of all. The anhedral wings were neatly sculpted in beneath the nose, and at the back the pods that would add to the downforce looked like giant extraction-pipes.

  ‘She’s beautiful - like a jaguar,’ Wyatt said quietly.

  Mickey was close to her now, examining the engine placement.

  ‘I’m pleased with her line, but it’s her performance that’ll really knock yer down.’

  He lifted the light cowelling to reveal the Shensu V12 engine, a mass of injection-pipes, coolers and electrical equipment. ‘Five valves per cylinder, each actuated by compressed air,’ Mickey continued reverently.

  Wyatt eased himself into the cockpit as the pit crew took the tyres from the warmers and the wheel-on men attached them onto the car with pneumatic spanners. The pneumatic starter was pushed into the air-hole at the back of the engine and it roared into life with a deafening wail. Wyatt felt the excitement coursing through his body as he dabbed the throttle, listening to the engine respond with a feline growl. One of the pit crew rolled up the garage doors that led onto the pit-lane.

  As Wyatt was slipping on his helmet, Mickey leant over the cockpit.

  ‘The lower profile will make her devastatingly quick round the corners. Be careful - she’s different to anything you’ll have driven before. It’s up to you now, Wyatt.’

  Wyatt was lying further back than usual, but he felt very comfortable. That was important. He was about the biggest driver in Formula One and it was hard to find any car that would accommodate him.

  This was perhaps the most important moment of his life. If the car wasn’t up to his standard he would spent a season of frustration and heartbreak on the circuits.

  His foot touched the accelerator pedal and the engine erupted with a deafening snarl - the tacho needle shot up to ten thousand. Impressive, on such a cold engine. The sound - strong and enveloping - was also extremely enervating.

  He engaged first, shot out from the pits and onto the track. Glancing at the digital gauges, he saw oil and water temperatures were exactly right. In response, he raised his hand to indicate to the pit crew that everything was functioning perfectly.

  He took her lazily down the main straight and into the esses. She responded well, bedding down nicely through the bends, feeling very positive.

  As Wyatt continued his first test lap he could feel the excitement building inside him. He had never driven a machine that felt as positive as this. She demanded to be driven hard and fast. His heart was beating fast as the temperature gauges indicated that the engine was now ready to be opened up.

  At first, he thought of taking it carefully, but then de Villiers’ words came back into his mind. He could hear them quite clearly, as if Bruce were next to him. ‘Don’t go easy on her. There are too many other good drivers. You must push her to the limit.’

  He pressed down hard on the accelerator, the revs shot past 13000 and the engine screamed out a high-pitched wail. Wyatt was forced hard back into his seat as he passed 160 mph in under eight seconds.

  Now he was living, the world passing him by in a vivid assembly of colours and images as he came to the end of the straight and pulled the car hard over to take the first corner in a perfect line. She was rock-solid - he couldn’t believe it.

  Into the next curve, laying down the power and pushing her to the absolute limit. Just as he felt her breaking away, he backed off the power and thundered into the next bend.

  She was a driver’s car, feeding him the information he needed through the fluctuations in the chassis. As he rounded the final corner back into the main straight, he realised he hadn’t explored the limits of the engine’s potential.

  He rocketed down the straight and saw Dunstal with another figure next to him. Obviously they were timing him. Sartori held the lap record for the circuit with a time of 2.566 minutes, achieved in the previous season.

  Wyatt pushed her hard through the corners, close to breaking-point, the engine screaming. He knew what he was up against - Sartori was one of the quickest drivers through the curves, and this circuit was all curves. But Wyatt knew the track better than Sartori ever would. This was the track his father had taught him to race on. Wyatt could almost drive around it with his eyes closed - he didn’t have to think, he just went on instinct.

  The main straight came up again quickly, and he shot down it at over 150 mph. He had never approached the last bend as fast before.

  He glanced up at the speedo and saw the needle lick over 200 mph as the bends came up again. He didn’t just like this car, he loved her. Though the thought of going eighty laps in her was faintly terrifying. She was so fast, so agile. She demanded to be driven hard.

  At the end of the next lap he steered her into the pits. De Villiers would want to examine the car closely, to pick up any faults.

  Mickey was up and shaking his hand. He pulled off his helmet and fire-protective balaclava. The air cooled the sweat off his face. He felt bruised and exhausted.

  ‘You did it, Wyatt!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You broke the lap record by two seconds!’

  He felt exhilarated. For the first time he was driving a Formula One car that was competitive.

  ‘You’re a genius, Mickey. She handles like a dream.’

  Mickey ran his eyes over the Shadow. ‘Yer goin’ to have to keep pushing her, lap after lap as if yer were racin’. We have to prove that she can handle the strain of a race, especially the engine and the automatic box. The lads from Shensu want to strip her after she’s done a genuine eighty laps. Now tell me, how’re those focking tyres?’

  Wyatt stared down at the tyres. He knew Mickey’s and

  Bruce’s concerns, but as far as he was concerned the Carvalhos were good - they’d proved pretty sticky.

  Dr Jorge da Silva, the head of Carvalho’s research and development team, stepped forward. A short, distinguished- looking man, he ignored Mickey.

  ‘We’ll change the tyres every ten laps. Each set has a slightly different compound - just tell us which gives you the best h
andling.’

  Mickey was about to say something to Dr da Silva but Bruce punched him gently on the shoulder. ‘Easy, Mickey, Wyatt’s not unhappy with the tyres.’

  The Irishman shrugged his shoulders and went over to Professor Katana to discuss some technical matters.

  Bruce pumped Wyatt’s hand. ‘Keep that up, and you’ll be at the front of the grid for the whole season. We’ll continue testing this afternoon.’

  At the end of the day Bruce de Villiers sat in his office alone. He was very, very pleased with Chase’s performance.

  He switched on the intercom.

  ‘Debbie, get me Ricardo Sartori.’

  ‘It’ll take a bit of time, Bruce, the exchange on the island is operated by a Casanova - he tries to chat me up every time I put a call through.’

  Bruce chuckled. He looked down at the development schedule for the Shadow. They would fly to Kyalami, in his native South Africa, for extensive tyre testing. The conditions there were ideal - hot, dry weather and excellent marshalling around the track. For tyre testing, the high altitude of Johannesburg was an added advantage, and the privacy of the circuit appealed to him - he’d be assured that other teams wouldn’t be watching. He didn’t want them to get a close look at the Shadow till the first official Grand Prix.

  Wyatt was fired up, and already earning his fee. However, Sartori wasn’t, and every hour he spent on Skiathos was sapping their chances of victory.

  The phone rang, startling him. He hadn’t expected the call to go through so quickly.

  ‘Ricardo?’

  ‘He not here,’ a female voice, dark and husky, replied in poor English.

  Bruce lost his rag. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck where he is. Get him here and get him now!’

  He heard the phone drop and then lots of shouting. He hung on, feeling his irritation grow.

  ‘’Alio?’ Sartori’s voice was clear and melodic.

  ‘Ricardo. It’s de Villiers. You’ve . . .’

  ‘You insulted my maid.’

  All right, thought Bruce, I’ve now had quite enough of this prima donna.

  ‘Stop buggering around. The car’s ready. Chase has just broken your lap record by two seconds.’

  There was a lengthy pause.

  ‘The car. She must be very good, eh, Bruce?’

  ‘Chase is a brilliant driver. Every day he’s getting better.’

  ‘I am better.’

  ‘Prove it to me instead of sitting on your bum in the sun!’

  There was another pause. Then: ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Bruce. Then I will a show you how fast your car really is.’

  Bruce put the phone down. Now Ricardo would start earning his fee - the twenty million they had had to pay to hold him.

  Bruce was quite certain that Sartori would break Wyatt’s record.

  He slammed the phone down and felt the sweat trickling down his face. He looked out through the window with the vines round its edge. The Norwegian woman was lying outside in the bright sunshine, her body brown and sensuous on the white beach-towel. He would have to leave her.

  The competition never went away. Perhaps he might have underestimated Chase. He had given him an advantage already, but not much of one.

  He made another quick call to the airport, asking them to have his plane ready, then he walked through into the master-bedroom and threw his essential clothes into a leather holdall. He always travelled light, buying new clothes wherever he went.

  She came in through the door and he noticed the droplets of suntan oil clinging to her pubic hair.

  ‘Vat are you doing, Ricardo?’

  She irritated him now. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘The phone call, it was bad?’

  He ignored her question and continued packing. At last he relented. ‘I have to go to England tomorrow to begin training for the new season. There’s also a driver I have to put in his place.’

  She put her hand over his buttocks. ‘I will come too?’

  He had plenty of women in England, he didn’t need another. Besides, she was part of Skiathos, and he liked to forget about it when the pressure was on.

  ‘No. I will go alone.’

  She started crying. It was so predictable. He didn’t need her.

  ‘Bastard,’ she said.

  ‘I promised you nothing. You understand? I live to drive. Motor-racing is my wife.’

  It was the standard excuse, and he got the standard reaction.

  ‘You can chust fuck off!’

  He zipped up the bag and put on his jacket, checking his passport.

  ‘I don’t need to hear your crying,’ he said. He went up to her, kissing her briefly on the mouth.

  ‘You . . . are a very beautiful woman.’

  He walked quickly out of the front door and jumped into the front seat of the jeep. As he started the engine, she ran out, pulling on a towelling robe.

  ‘I will come with you to the airport!’

  ‘As you will.’

  He drove fast, revelling in the fact that she was scared. The jeep slid through the corners of the narrow dirt road that led away from the villa. It launched into the air several times - then he hit the tar road and floored the accelerator. In the distance he saw the small airport, and on the runway his jet, its windows twinkling in the bright sunlight - his pride and joy.

  Minutes later, he pulled up next to it. He leaned over to kiss her, but she pushed him away and stared at him angrily.

  ‘I am coming to England. Even if you don’t want me.’

  ‘I don’t want you. I don’t love you.’

  He tensed up, his face becoming a map of fascinating wrinkles. His eyes stared off into the distance. He had to shut himself off from this, he did not need it in his life.

  He jumped out of the jeep and she drove off. He watched as she disappeared into the distance, feeling relief as the space between them increased. Then he turned to the jet and began his pre-flight inspection. The holiday was over. It was back to business, and he was determined to do what he had always been so good at. Winning.

  Suzie watched Wyatt come round the corner for the fortieth time and accelerate down the long straight, the engine erupting into a bloodcurdling scream.

  She imagined his eyes, the dark eyes that never seemed to rest. She had spent the whole day in the pit. She’d had never realised what a tightly-knit organisation a Formula One team was.

  You had to earn respect. You didn’t become a part of the team automatically. Bruce’s secretary, Debbie, was a great support. She’d introduced Suzie to everyone and offered to help her in any way she could.

  She kept thinking of Wyatt’s leanly muscled body - the hard, sculpted face and the tangled dark hair. There was a confidence in the way he moved . . . She had never seen a man so much in control of his actions.

  Now, mesmerised by the car flashing past, she imagined him making love to her. Perhaps she should have given in to him on the race track that morning. All she knew was that she wanted him.

  In business she had often admired men for the power they radiated, but this was different. There was something more here - because in this place a man could die. Here, cars and drivers competed against each other for victory. It was an activity that ate up nearly half a billion pounds a year, and for her it held a magnetic attraction.

  She took out a sketch-pad and made a few rough drawings. She worked quickly, in sharp, well-defined pencil strokes.

  ‘You draw so beautifully.’

  She turned round to Debbie. The men couldn’t keep their eyes off Debbie’s short, tight skirt that revealed a stunning pair of legs.

  ‘I saw your latest collection in Vogue,’ Debbie went on. ‘Wyatt said he’d give me one of your dresses.’

  Suzie smiled. She’d been right not to give in to him. There were plenty of other women in his life and she was determined not to join the procession. She wanted Wyatt to respect her, she knew that was the only way she’d hold him.

  The car shot past again, and they bot
h stared at the driver’s helmet.

  ‘He’s magnificent,’ said Suzie. ‘Have you met Ricardo?’

  ‘Yes. Very charming, but with the looks of the devil.’

  They walked over the track on the steel walkway and Suzie gazed off into the distance. She could see the Shadow snaking through the bends. Suddenly she was aware again of how dangerous it all was.

  ‘Have you ever seen an accident?’

  The faint smile that had been on Debbie’s face disappeared.

  ‘We don’t talk about them. It’s bad luck.’

  Mickey Dunstal came over to them, dressed in his regulation white shirt and jeans. ‘And what might you two beauties be looking so concerned about?’

  His Irish charm always caught Suzie slightly off balance. He defied categorisation, he looked like one of the prophets in the storybooks, his thick, long blond hair caught up in a ponytail.

  ‘Nothing,’ Suzie answered quickly.

  ‘’Tis a tragedy to spend your life thinking o’ nothin’.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I believe you’ll be decorating me car,’ he said.

  She nodded, and he pinched the back of her arm affectionately, and whispered in her ear: ‘As long as it doesn’t affect the aerodynamics, you can do what you like with her.’

  When Mickey returned to the pits, there was an electricity in the air. Everyone was frantic. De Villiers was glowering at the mechanics.

  ‘This isn’t a holiday camp. If you want to win, you’ve got to give the job one hundred per cent! Wyatt’s on his fiftieth lap, and when he comes in for fresh tyres I want them changed in under eight seconds. Got it?’

  A young mechanic turned to him. ‘This isn’t a bloody race.’

  ‘Get out, Ryan!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get out and don’t come back. I’m not carrying anyone, and if anyone else feels the same, they can join you.’

  Ryan was shaking with rage now. He walked up to de Villiers. He was nearly six inches taller than Bruce, and holding a spanner in his right hand.

  Mickey stepped forward. It looked as though it was going to get ugly. Then he felt Reg Tillson, the chief mechanic, restraining him. Reg whispered in his ear: ‘Bruce can look after himself.’