“There's no difference between today and your last run. On your out lap, I want you to feel for that vibration. If you feel anything, bring it back in. We'd rather swap out the gearbox and get you out this afternoon." Chance worked to hide the awkward tone in his voice. He was used to speaking on the radio from inside the car, not on top of the war wagon.
What started out as a large toolbox the size of a compact car, the war wagon unfolded and expanded like an RV. Both long sides folded down, three stools locked into place on each side. The whole thing was electrified, had wi-fi, and carried compressed air for the pit crew. A large Swiss Army knife on wheels, the war wagon had everything a team would need in pit lane.
In front of him sat an array of laptops and flat screens. Some techies were pouring over the endless stream of data from the race car.
He looked over and saw Billy nod from the cockpit. Then over the radio, the driver responded, "I just want to get the 200 mile an hour test done. Chance, this is humiliating.”
“No, it's not. You've gotta walk before you run, at least according to the officials. It’s their game, so we play ball.” Billy’s pent-up energy worried Chance, so he tried to dose the kid with a little humility. “You ever been on a boat, Billy?"
“Fishing, once or twice."
“A few summers ago, I got the chance to race hydroplanes. 150 mile an hour death boats. Open tops, triple motors. I mean these things were insane. Second day of the weekend, and the wind is a little higher, and by higher, I mean like five miles an hour. In boat racing, that might as well be a hurricane.
“Anyway, I caught a bad wave, and over I went. There’s no seat belts in these boats, so you just fall down into the water. You ever belly flop at one hundred miles an hour?”
“No.” Billy laughed, his head bobbing inside the cockpit.
Chance stifled his own laughter. “Well, I have, and it hurts. That water might as well be concrete when you’re at speed. Now, I tell you all of this to impart a lesson. May you be smarter than me.”
“I’m not following, Chance. I mean, if you don’t want me to take up boat racing, you’ve got me convinced.”
Looking over the pit wall, Chance saw one of the mechanics bringing the external starter toward the rear of the race car. It was almost time to begin the last round of rookie laps.
“I tell you all of this because if water feels like concrete at one hundred miles an hour, imagine what concrete feels like at two hundred plus. Ease into it. Feel for that vibration and watch out for Katayama. He’s been all over the track. If you have to pass him, do it on the back stretch, and give him plenty of room.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chance looked around. DJ hadn’t made it to the pit lane, yet. Lowering his voice, Chance said, “You’re the best rookie out there, but you’ve still got your learner’s permit. Keep a level head on your shoulders. DJ isn’t looking for a win. He’s looking to keep the team afloat. Fisher’s would be sorely disappointed if their logo didn’t finish the race.”
The lead engineer circled his fingers at the front of the car, and the mechanic fired up the starter.
“Alright, Billy. Time to go to work.”
The engine caught, and down the pitlane, the other rookies’ cars fired up. After a few warm-up laps, race control would let the new entrants up their speed gradually until they cleared the two hundred mile an hour barrier. Once cleared, the rookies were free to practice and qualify for the Indy 500.
One of the engineers came over the radio, almost shouting over the engine, blaring even at idle. “Gearbox looking solid. No warnings on anything so far.”
An IndyCar official waved Billy forward, and his crew chief said, “Green, green, green. Go get ‘em, kid.”
Hearing that tore at Chance. He wanted to be in that seat more than anything else. Maybe if he had been a little more professional, or maybe if he’d made better connections, Chance would be making his laps. Life was a roll of the dice, and his life had been coming up snake eyes lately.
He cued up his headset. “Like I said, ease it up and keep an eye on the tranny. The numbers are looking good, but your hands and your ass are the best sensors we’ve got.”
More than once, Chance had felt a problem developing long before it showed up on the computer screens. Vibration in the seat? Something wrong in the rear. Vibration in the steering wheel? Something wrong up front.
“Get some heat into the tires, kid.” Chance had minimized all of the screens on the laptop except for a few, and tire pressure and temperature took up most of the screen. Billy was chewing through new tires like they were free, and he’d never stay on the lead lap without some help.
Ten laps progressed, and the officials allowed the drivers to cross into the two hundred mile speeds. Lap times were dipping below forty-five seconds, screaming down the front straight in a blur of motion. The Fisher’s Home Improvement car was a streak of black and yellow, an angry hornet darting down the asphalt.
“Damn good, kid. Anything feel off?” Chance leaned over to see if anything on the engine telemetry was spiking into the red. He didn’t spot anything.
Billy came back over the radio, his voice about an octave higher. “Hell, no. Annabelle is running like a dream. Tell Kiwi I owe him a beer.”
Chance laughed. “You think he’ll be satisfied with one?”
The time had come to talk Billy through his tire issues. The kid had a tendency to flick the wheel to the left instead of easing into it. The G forces were enough to put undue strain on the tires. The same hard steering input four times a lap would mean Billy’s tires would last two laps less than everyone else.
He was about to remind Billy about staying mindful of his cornering force, but an engineer broke over the radio. “We’re getting a warning from the gearbox. Did you have any issues upshifting?”
As Billy shot down the front straight, he replied. “None.”
Chance leaned over to try and decipher the warning. Most of the numbers and abbreviations were over his head.
The engineer tapped at the screen. “I’m not liking your fluid temps. Ease it down a bit, Bill.”
There was no response on the radio, so after a few seconds, Chance queued his mic up. “Better listen to him, Billy. This isn’t a qualifying run, no need to push it.”
“I need ten laps over two hundred.”
“And you’ll have plenty of time to get them this afternoon.” Chance tried to keep his voice calm.
“There’s no vibration, just let me get my laps in.”
A few of the engineers looked to Chance. The engines were so finely tuned that a small warning could ruin every moving part in a matter of seconds. They couldn’t afford to risk it.
Chance put more force behind his words. “Billy, this isn’t a request. Bring the car in. Pit this lap.”
The radio was silent. The car rocketed down the front straight, and Chance craned his neck to follow the car as it dove into turn one. The engine didn’t sound right. Billy wasn’t letting off the gas at all, but there was a low grumble mixed in with the high-revving engine notes that didn’t blend.
Again, he ordered Billy to come in. “Shut the engine off and coast in, Billy. Don’t give DJ cause to fire you.”
Chance knew that if Billy did get the axe, he’d be in a prime spot to take over the car, and that was a knife in his heart. Billy was a good kid just working toward a solid racing career. He was young, fast, and had years ahead of him. Chance, on the other hand, was looking for one last shot. He knew that no one would let him drive the next year. The two had been teammates, and Chance was doing his best to keep Billy in the seat, even if it meant he was stuck on the pit wall because of that.
The hornet-colored car streaked past, again. That unsettling note was still echoing off the concrete walls of the racetrack. Chance saw a few more boxes turn yellow on the engineer’s screen.
Yanking off his headset, he threw his feet over the pit wall and darted across the two lanes. Only one other car was on track, idling on a cool down lap. After it passed, Chance began to wave his arms to the infield of the track, indicating to come in. Billy’s car came off of the final turn and passed Chance in a blur. It sounded wounded.
Shaking his head, Chance listened as the car entered turn one, through the short shoot that led to turn two. The undertone was still evident as the car made its way down the back stretch. A grating noise grew for just a second, then there was silence.
Chance stared in the direction of turn three, though he couldn’t see beyond the grandstands. His eyes moved to turn four. Visible from the pit, he’d be able to see Billy coasting around the final corner to the pit lane. Nothing. The engineers and mechanics in Billy’s pit were scrambling, then Chance saw the lights flashing yellow.
Silence was never a good thing. If the engine gave up the ghost, he would have coasted back. Darting back to the war wagon, Chance feared the worst.
“What happened?”
Kiwi was standing on the two foot concrete wall that separated the pit box where the car came to a stop and where the mechanics and engineers were located. “Something broke, he went in backwards. No word form him on the radio, yet.”
If anything near the back end of the car failed, it was almost sure to turn backwards and slam hard into the outside wall.
As long as the driver was conscious, they always radioed to the team, even if hurt. Worry and doubt were growing fast in Chance’s mind. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. His heart sped. He threw his headset on.
“Billy, come back. Let us know you’re alright. Put up your visor for the rescue crews.”
Nothing.
“Billy. Come on, kid. Give us something.”
Still, nothing.
Seconds passed that felt interminable, then static. “Billy Moore. My name is Billy Moore.” The voice that came through the headphones was groggy and disconnected. Still, it was better than nothing.
“Thank Christ.” Chance’s heart was squeezing past his ribs on its way out of his chest. “Hang in there, Billy. The rescue crew is gonna be there in seconds.”
“We’re fucked.” The fueler, a tank of a man with a deep olive tan threw his gloves down. “We ain’t gonna have enough spare parts to glue that piece of shit back together.”
Chance shot the large man a look that deflated him. “Shut the hell up, Frank. Billy took a hell of a hit. He’s shaken up bad, and you’re worried about your job?”
Dropping the headphones, Chance hopped into a golf cart and tore off towards the garage area. As he rounded the corner, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed DJ.
“Watch where you’re headed!” A female voice shouted at him as he passed close to her, but Chance barely registered what the yellow shirt had said. He had far bigger problems than a close call with the security team. Darting through the crowds of people, Chance heard the sharp whistle of more guards, but he ignored it. Billy was concussed and most likely hurt. His plan was to pick up DJ and head straight for the infield medical center.
“Where are you?” The boss sounded anything but pleasant.
Chance honked the horn. “On my way to the trailer. He did communicate over the radio, but something’s scrambled.”
“Was it him or the car?”
“I don’t know. Something was lighting up, but Billy refused to wind it down.”
“God damnit.” DJ hung up the phone.
As Chance rounded the corner, he saw his rotund boss huffing away from the hauler and hospitality tent.
Before the cart even came to a stop, DJ was in the passenger seat. The two didn’t speak. Only once on the way DJ muttered, “Fuck.”