Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  Some of the debris was turquoise. Wouldn’t that be Cunzer in the other Ptarmigan?

  Sabatino flinched to find a way round these now-stationary cars and the lumps of wreckage lying slap-bang in the middle of the track. To avoid it all, she had to dive out to the left – wide to the outside. Holding her breath, she had no choice but to drop a wheel over the edge onto the grass. She prayed she didn’t lose the back end. Exhaling deeply a second later, she fully regained the tarmac – keeping herself in the race.

  She rounded Turn Three and pushed on down Reta Oposta. The long straight gave her time to think. Poor Helli going out – and the Lotus. But then she had a Darwinian thought – verging on Schadenfreude. Hadn’t she just gained another two places? That smash, then – to her – was actually good news.

  She cleared through the apex of Turn Five. She looked at the field down the track in front of her. There were two Red Bulls and a Mercedes. Weren’t these guys – after the stalled Sauber and the collision of her teammate and the Lotus – now P7, P8 and P9?

  Didn’t that make her tenth?

  She accelerated hard and chanced a look in her mirrors. There was a stretch of clear track behind – indicating no immediate threat of being overtaken herself.

  She settled down to catching the cars ahead. The front runners were speeding down to Turn Six. Finally letting the Ptarmigan go, she realized the set-up and conditions were married up perfectly. Now she had to use them.

  Immediately ahead of her was a Mercedes, currently in P9.

  Radioing in, she asked: ‘Is Helli okay?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Have they cleaned up the Senna S?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any sign of the safety car?’

  ‘Highly likely. There’s crap all over the road.’

  Even better, she thought. The front runners may have built up the beginnings of a few seconds lead between them already. But the safety car would see them all bunched up again tightly – keeping her well and truly in touch with the leaders – at least for a little while longer.

  Within ten seconds the letters SC appeared in the LED display on her steering wheel. Sabatino yelped in delight. A few moments later the field had been concertinaed up again – the first nine cars in front of her forced to crocodile round nose to tail – behind the safety car. Aston, still retaining P3, hadn’t been able to get that far away from her. Not yet.

  It took three laps for the marshals to clear the debris from the Senna S.

  As the pack rose up the hill from Turn Thirteen the next time round, the lights suddenly went off on the roof of the safety car. Fifteen seconds later, it was ducking into the pits.

  They would be racing again soon.

  The Ferrari at the front accelerated hard into the long pit straight, aiming to get himself away from the bunched-up pack behind him and to re-establish his lead.

  Being bunched up might make it easier to mount a challenge to the car in front, but exactly the same opportunity was created for the guy behind. There was some protection from this – being prohibited from overtaking, at least until they crossed the line. Once over it, though, all cars were free to mount a challenge – or be challenged. Sabatino was pleased it was more the former. She took great delight in the Benbecular engine’s furious purr immediately behind her, giving her all the power she wanted as she pelted up the long start/finish straight.

  Crossing the line, her few extra horsepower were working to her advantage. The Mercedes, in front of her, was fast, but the Ptarmigan felt quicker. Using her speed, Sabatino closed in and right up to the Mercedes’s gearbox. She started taking a tow.

  The two cars crested the rise – when suddenly Sabatino reckoned she had a shot. Timing her moment to the last minute, she remained tucked right up – a matter of inches – behind the Mercedes. Three hundred yards from the braking zone, she swung left, out of the Mercedes’s slipstream, setting her jaw at a move down the inside of him into Turn One.

  Slowly but surely, she gained on the car in front.

  She only had a few hundred yards to run before the corner.

  Would it be enough?

  Could she stake her claim?

  Come on! she yelled into her helmet.

  She powered on. With nothing less than full commitment.

  ‘Lift, you bastard, lift!’ she screamed at the Mercedes.

  She held her nerve. But so did the Mercedes. They were side by side. Did she have the line? Would he concede? Would she have to lift off, after all?

  She held out … And out.

  She wasn’t going to bottle first.

  Then it happened.

  He lifted.

  The Mercedes lifted off!

  It felt like she suddenly shot forwards, as the Mercedes – visible through her peripheral vision to the right – quickly dropped back under braking. But she was still going into the corner hard and fast. Could she control the car into, through, and round Turn One? Would the Mercedes just need to be patient, watch her run deep and wide – and simply cut back after the corner?

  Watching all this on the monitors, the Ptarmigan team were holding their breath. Straker, on the edge of his seat, willed her car round the corner. From an overhead camera, the shot showed the turquoise car’s sharper angle into the turn. A small puff of blue smoke came off Sabatino’s front-left. Then was gone.

  Would she get by on the first turn of this complex only to have the Mercedes come back at her through Turns Two and Three?

  She felt the car go a little here and there.

  Sabatino wrestled with the wheel, the brakes, and the yaw of the car.

  She held her nerve.

  She was getting round … round? … round!

  She’d done it. She’d taken her man, fair and square.

  With all the risks, she was now up to P9.

  She was closing in!

  Recovering down the hill on the far side of the corner, the Ptarmigan headed down the long straight, the Reta Oposta, flying back up to top speed. Ahead of her now Sabatino could see a Red Bull in P8. He was, maybe, one second further down the track. Along the straights, that length of time at this speed looked like a mile. But as they swung through Turn Six, and were soon in the succession of curves, sweeps, rises and compressions all the way from there to Turn Twelve, the gaps closed right up. But the design of the Interlagos circuit offered few genuine overtaking places through this section. A driver might make a mistake, and create an opportunity to pass, but at this late stage in the season, with the cars so well used to the Formula – and in the dry – it was going to be unlikely. By the end of this segment, as she rounded Subida Dos Boxes, Sabatino had nevertheless closed the gap and was all over the Red Bull’s back end. After that turn, Fourteen, the Red Bull and she had the three-quarters-of-a-mile drag up the hill on the long left sweep until they reached Turn One again, where she’d just jumped the Mercedes.

  Up the hill they raced, the Ptarmigan giving Sabatino all it had. But it wasn’t quite enough. She didn’t quite get the tow.

  And so it remained for the next ten laps.

  Sabatino was frustrated, but not despondent. A couple of times she radioed the pits, wanting to know where Aston was – how fast he was lapping – whether it looked like he was making any headway on P2, or whether, God willing, he might even be overtaken. But no. Everything, for Aston, was running normally – all going his way to secure the World Championship.

  Lap twenty and they saw the first of the pit stops.

  To Sabatino’s delight the Red Bull in front of her pitted earlier than expected. She hadn’t been aware of his dirty air, but the moment he was out of the way, she found an extra couple of tenths per lap. So much so that when she pitted herself, five laps later, she was nearly up with the other Red Bull in P7.

  Sabatino remained on the same compound tyre and was fuelled to lap fifty-eight.

  Out she went again.

  Re-emerging, though, she was met with a surprise. She found herself in front of a Lotus. Wh
at did that mean? Where was the Red Bull who’d been in P7?

  She radioed Backhouse in the pits.

  ‘He’s about a second behind you.’

  ‘Behind me? You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, he’s just entering the pit straight.’

  She looked back in her mirror. ‘I’ll be … Where does that put us, best guess?’

  ‘Could be good for P6.’

  ‘P6!’

  ‘And where’s Aston?’

  ‘Still P3.’

  Sabatino juggled the numbers – and yelled. ‘That’s good enough! We’re only three points apart. We’re equal – that would make us equal. With my number of wins, I’d be World Champion.’

  ‘Just bring it home, Remy,’ snapped Backhouse fiercely. ‘There’ll be time for all that later.’

  Round they went. Sabatino continued to push hard. She was now bearing down on a Ferrari.

  Lap fifty-one and the second round of pit stops began.

  Aston came in and was out again in a phenomenally fast stop.

  Two laps later Sabatino was in. Her boys had to get this one as right as right. They did – everyone beginning to sense the prize was within their grasp. They achieved their fastest change and refuelling stop all year. That and her next few lap times made a difference. By the time the Ferrari in front of her pitted, he re-emerged on the track behind her.

  Didn’t that give her P5?

  But then the penny seemed to drop for Lambourn.

  Aston suddenly dug deeper and found another level himself. Had he been coasting up till now, believing his margin to be big enough from the start?

  In the next lap Aston’s Lambourn shaved four tenths off her time.

  The one after that another six tenths.

  And then half a second in the next.

  ‘He’s closing in on the Massarella in P2,’ reported Backhouse. ‘He could be in a position to take him soon.’

  Sabatino kept driving, but waited with bated breath to hear news about her Championship rival.

  It wasn’t long in coming.

  And it wasn’t good.

  ‘He’s taken Simi Luciano,’ Backhouse announced. ‘Aston’s up into P2.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ bellowed Sabatino. ‘Eight points to my three – would give him a five-point advantage – and the title.’

  Sabatino pushed hard in response.

  There was some distance between her and the next car down the track from her. With fourteen laps to go, she was going to have to dig in.

  But this was the scenario that Straker had not even dared to imagine.

  Sabatino had showed brilliant resolve to fight her way up the field, taking advantage of opportunities as they arose – gutsy overtaking – slick strategy – and well-timed stops which had gained her track position.

  But now, she was entering the proximity zone that he had dreaded.

  She was coming up on not one – but two Massarellas.

  If the email Straker had recovered from Michael Lyons’s laptop showing Van Der Vaal’s readiness to pay for collisions was serious, then they were all coming up on the moment of danger.

  Proximity.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Straker called up Tahm Nazar on the pit wall. ‘Do you want to warn her – now – about the possible threat from the Massarellas?’ he asked.

  ‘Hold on.’

  There was a moment’s pause.

  ‘Matt? I’ve just told Andy. He’s got the relationship and the responsibility. I’ll let him decide.’

  On the other net, Straker heard Backhouse immediately radio Sabatino.

  ‘Go ahead, Andy.’

  ‘Watch yourself with the Massarellas, Rems. We think they could be out to bump you.’

  ‘That’s all we fucking need.’

  For two laps Sabatino mounted a substantial charge, clocking up two fastest laps consecutively.

  Aston responded in kind.

  He, too, clocked up a fastest lap. This was now a psychological battle – played out on different parts of the circuit – each trying to undermine the confidence of the other, each trying to put the other under pressure.

  ‘Aston’s catching the race leader,’ reported Backhouse. ‘He’s only point-four seconds behind.’

  Sabatino, hurtling down the start/finish straight, saw the key data on her pit board, and breathed deeply. ‘Shit. P1 to my P5. The Championship would definitely be his – if he gets past.’

  Growling into her helmet, Sabatino pushed again, and flew round the exhilarating Interlagos circuit. Her sights were now set on Adi Barrantes, her saboteur from Spa, in the Massarella – in P4. ‘How far am I behind him?’ she asked.

  ‘Three seconds. You can do it.’

  Sabatino belted on round the track. She soon saw her quarry.

  She was so nearly in reach. ‘Can I turn up the mixture?’

  Backhouse hummed. ‘Not really – you’ll be cutting it fine to finish.’

  ‘Andy, a miss is a miss. Unless I take this guy, Aston’s going to win anyway. Who’ll care by how much?’

  Backhouse paused. Straker wondered whether he was running the numbers again or weighing it up. ‘Okay, okay. Turn it up a notch.’

  Sabatino screamed to herself. ‘Right, let’s see what this brings.’

  She felt the difference immediately. The car produced an extra point-five a lap.

  In two more laps, she was ready to make her challenge.

  Straker, on the edge of his seat in the motor home, stared at his surveillance screens until his eyes hurt – continuing to study every inch of the Massarella, looking for any sign that Barrantes was positioning himself to do her harm. He could hardly bear it. Radioing Tahm Nazar, again, he felt he had to say or do something.

  The tension was too much.

  ‘Tahm, are you up for putting on the show in front of the Massarella garage?’

  ‘You think now’s the time?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Nothing’s happened yet. But for the sake of a moment’s theatrics, might the deterrent be worth a shot?’

  Nazar acknowledged the call.

  Straker switched one of the two CCTV screens to show the pit lane. He saw the turquoise-clad Ptarmigan team boss quickly climb down from the prat perch on the pit wall and walk in the direction of the Massarella garage, two slots down. There, Straker could see Nazar stand and make a show of studying what the Massarella team were doing.

  There were only ten more laps to go.

  Sabatino had to get right up the Massarella’s back end. Half a lap later she was there – starting to badger Barrantes for real – through the corners between Six and Twelve.

  Out of Turn Fourteen, Subida Dos Boxes, she got a superb exit – immediately feeling she had the better start up the hill.

  They screamed up and round the long left-hand sweep, and into the pit straight. She felt she had enough. The momentum was with her. The two of them, one behind the other, roared up the long straight – and across the line.

  Five hundred yards to go to the corner – Turn One.

  Sabatino looked for a tow.

  She drew up to Barrantes’s gearbox.

  On they ran.

  Now! She ducked to the left, ready to make a charge down the inside – just as she had against the Mercedes earlier.

  The yards flashed by.

  She drew level with the Massarella’s rear wheels.

  She willed the car on.

  Did she have any more?

  She was pulling forward by a matter of inches at a time.

  Straker sat forward in his chair. Switching all of his screens to cover Adi Barrantes’s CCTV feeds, he peered at the live shot of the Massarella driver’s cockpit. Straker was looking for any untoward behaviour. The most obvious, though, would be for Barrantes simply to “close the door” on Sabatino too soon – driving across her path into the corner to claim the racing line. He could easily bump her – and take her out. He would surely claim he was unsighted – claim he thought he had the advantage, getting the coll
ision dismissed merely as yet another racing incident.

  Straker stared at the screen – studying both of Barrantes’s hands on the wheel.

  The two cars were going to have to brake. Who was going to blink first?

  Sabatino held her position.

  She was still hurtling into the corner. She was completely committed. It was now up to the Massarella. She was at the point of no return. If he didn’t brake, now, she would end up losing her front end, sliding across in front of him, possibly taking him off with her. Straker suddenly realized that that would be an even cleverer way to take her out – to make it look like it was her fault.

  ‘Arrgh!’ she screamed as she willed her car on, willing him to brake, and waiting for the outcome.

  Come on! Come on! Come on!

  Yes? Yes? Yes! He blinked. Yes!

  He blinked first!

  Barrantes lifted off. She shot past him. She’d done it. She’d taken him down the inside.

  Would she now be able to hold it together?

  She fought on.

  She was holding it together.

  She was through!

  But Barrantes was already retaliating. Slewing and wrestling his car as well, he flung the Massarella round the corner and pointed it down the hill of the Senna S, straight after her.

  She stole a glance in her mirrors. She could see the black menacing shape of the Massarella behind her. It closed right up. It appeared in her right-hand mirror.

  Then disappeared.

  As she continued to accelerate hard, she suddenly caught a fleeting glimpse of the black shape in her other mirror. He was crawling all over her gearbox.

  Sabatino reached her top speed, flying at full tilt down the Reta Oposta. Barrantes wasn’t able to get any closer than that, though. She’d managed to hold the Massarella off against a counter-attack. She had taken P4. Not only that, she’d managed to make it stick. And P4 was good – it was good enough. Her P4 to Aston’s P2 was back to a three-point deficit, and while that would put them equal in the Championships, her number of race wins would still see her ahead.