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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NUMBER two Chevy Camaro had all the magnificence of its predecessor,
identical in appearance, yet beneath its bonnet lurked an untried power, a
sleeping monster awaiting the moment of wakefulness when it would unleash its
fury.
Slade sensed its potential in the same way that a particular horse attracts
the attention of a jockey.
Nothing that one could put one's finger on, he decided, just something you
feel. He stood back,
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watching, not listening to the last minute instructions which Wylie, Fogg and
John Clyde were giving to
Steve Kilby. Lee had an arm draped around her driver's shoulders. Slade
experienced a pang of jealousy, tried to fight it off, but could not. It was
her rightful place out there with Kilby. They kissed, a brief peck, but it
hurt Slade deeply. Damn it, I'm only the hired trouble-shooter, he tried to
convince himself, she means nothing to me. But he knew that he lied to
himself, and that made it worse. Slade was the one person whom Slade could not
deceive.
He forced his mind back to the test. Testing had always been an integral part
of racing involvement. If you were honest with yourself you knew whether you
stood a chance, whether it was worth going on.
The grids and finals were but a formality in which the human element decided.
Nerve came into its own then, and once again Slade was reminded that he had
lost his. His memory went back to Riverside in the days when he was still in
the pits, an up-and-coming twenty-four year-old, BRM and Honda running
compound tests there. The Tyre War' . . . Goodyear, Firestone, and Dunlop
spending fortunes evaluating tyres with their leading teams, and as a result
those teams had flourished. Drivers were paid to test their cars, a situation
that was entirely novel, and not even the might of the 1954-55 Mercedes team
was able to match the hundreds of miles that were being squeezed into
tyre-tests in the sixties. It was then that the importance of tyres as a
function of vehicle performance was first acknowledged, and that racing
drivers, seeking an added advantage, realised that they had to be more than
just fast drivers. They had to work in close conjunction with the tyre
companies in a quest for information and statistics. They had to know what
their cars were doing every inch of the way, and why they performed as they
did.
That was testing. It was no different now. Not all of the current Formula One
teams could afford to test on such a scale. Mostly it was done how Hammerton
were doing it now, on a private circuit, every one of those present knowing
that everything depended upon timing and performance.
Slade tried to divorce himself from the proceedings. This was none of his
concern. His business concerned the pistol in his pocket, a state of vigilance
at all times. What happened on the track was of no interest to him. In the end
he gave up and admitted to himself that it was. He cared as much as any of
them. It was just that he would not have taken Kilby's place. Just watching
was causing him to sweat. He felt everything that went on inside Steve Kilby.
The tension, the surge forward, the gathering of speed, deafening,
suffocating, rubber and oil fumes searing the lungs, everything a blur, eyes
glued on the track, going into a bend, coming out of it. Faster. Faster still.
Wary of bunching cars even though there were none, reliving the old fears. 165
m.p.h. It had to go faster. Slade could see that speedometer and rev-counter
as surely as though he had been in the driving seat, a long association with
fast speeds registering in his brain with far more accuracy than any
precision-made gauge could have done. Still faster. 170 m.p.h. The limit. It
would go no further. It was just a question of being able to hold it there,
and still stay on the circuit.
Round again. Still holding, easing only on the bends, but picking up more
quickly each time. Kilby had the feel of the Chevy now. Three laps. Four.
Slade did not know how many the driver had been instructed to complete.
Five. Back onto the straight, coming in towards the starting and finishing
point. Clyde was flagging. Kilby was slowing. It was all over.
Slade did not converge on the stationary Chevy with the rest of them. He did
not need to hear Kilby and
Clyde tell each other that success was theirs. Fogg's success. Most of all,
though, he did not want to witness that congratulatory kiss between Lee and
Kilby.
He walked on back to the house. He wondered absently if Seamark Cruises had
finished testing yet.
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'It can't be!' Stern's features were twisted with rage as he surveyed the
blackened 5.7 litre engine.
'Friction-free! The bearings are right down to the copper on less than three
laps!'
'Well, you can see for yourself.' The lanky, dark-haired driver, goggles
pushed up onto his forehead, tossed his helmet nonchalantly onto a nearby
bench, watched it roll and bounce to the floor, but made no effort to retrieve
it.
The stupid bastard who thought this one up ought to be crucified.'
'What went wrong?' Stern addressed the plump, tousle-haired Dyson. 'You worked
from the original blueprint.'
'Absolutely.' Dyson was more than puzzled. He was afraid and his fear went
further than the team manager. Seamark would have to be told, and the ruthless
owner of Seamark Cruises did not tolerate failure. And always there had to be
a scapegoat.
'Then the whole fucking thing was a white elephant!' Stern snarled. 'Something
Fogg dreamed up. Fine in theory, disastrous in practice.'
'If it'd been possible, it would've been done before.' Rickson, the South
African driver, removed his gloves, tossed them in the direction of his
protective headgear. 'I could've told you that you were wasting your time. The
sooner that engine's restored to normal specifications, the better. You won't
beat a hundred and sixty-five m.p.h., I can tell you that, and I've driven
Chevys as much as anybody.'
Stern checked his retort. Rickson was the best that money could buy. Better
even than Slade. Above all, the South African, less than a week out of
Johannesburg, had the streak of ruthlessness so vital to
Seamark Cruises in its quest for world supremacy. The new idea had failed. It
didn't really matter.
Money had lured the best driver into their team. It would also be instrumental
in securing first placing at
Daytona. Riverside was but a stepping stone. Money won IROCs. You got what you
paid for, and
Seamark paid plenty.
Stern decided that he was glad that the plastic substitute had proved a
failure. It would be likewise with
Hammer-ton. Fogg and Slade between them would not be able to contrive a
victory.
He told Seamark so, and also filled him in on the fate of Benny the Leg. Too
much time, effort, and money had been wasted on something which had turned out
to be worthless.
Seamark did not agree. His vendetta against Craig Hammerton's daughter was not
yet at an end. It would be continued on the other side of the Atlantic. He
ordered the man known as Mr Patterson to vacate the house in Colney Heath, and
to prepare for their journey to California.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
10TH JANUARY. Riverside, California, the most famous oval circuit in the
world.
Mark Slade left the airfield in a taxi, together with Lee Hammerton. The Chevy
still had to be unloaded from the DCS, and transported to the circuit. John
Clyde would supervise that. Slade felt hesitant about letting the car out of
his sight, but likewise he wanted to see Lee safely installed in her hotel.
His responsibilities were divided between his two charges. In England he had
been able to watch over both at the same time. Here in the States it was going
to be much more difficult. He thought about Seamark
Cruises again. They had flown in two or three days ago. Maybe Hammerton should
have arrived earlier.
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