Jack's flat in Chessington was cold. The single-bar electric heater barely cut through the December chill, and drafts snaked in around the window's warped frames. He sat at the small kitchen table, staring at the telephone as if it might bite him.
Christmas was three days away. He knew he should call home.
He'd been putting it off for weeks—first because of the carbon brake testing, then the redesign work, then Silverstone preparations. Valid excuses, each one, yet Jack recognized procrastination when he practiced it.
Black and accusing, the telephone sat there.
He picked up the receiver and dialed the Hartley family number from memory, Jack Hartley's memory preserved perfectly alongside his own. The line connected with a series of clicks and hums.
Three rings. Four.
"Hartley residence." Howard's voice was warm, familiar, and wrong in ways Jack couldn't articulate.
"Dad, it's Jack."
"Jack! Good to hear from you, son. Your mother's been asking when you'd call." A pause. "You're not coming home for Christmas, are you?"
Jack's throat tightened. Howard had known immediately, reading it in the preamble or the timing or whatever paternal instinct let fathers decode their sons.
"I can't. We've got critical testing scheduled—"
"Say no more." Howard's understanding voice somehow made it worse. "Important work comes first. How's it going at Brabham?"
Jack leaned back in the chair, calculating what he could share. "We're developing some new technology. Carbon composite brakes. Revolutionary stuff, but it's been challenging."
"Challenges are good. They mean you're doing something worthwhile." Howard's tone shifted slightly. "But you sound tired, Jack. Are you taking care of yourself?"
"Yeah. Just long hours."
"Long hours are one thing. But if you're calling to say you can't make Christmas, and you sound like you haven't slept properly in weeks..." Howard trailed off meaningfully. "Whatever's troubling you and I know something is, remember it's not failure if you're learning. Your mother and I didn't send you to Cambridge to have an easy time of it."
Jack closed his eyes. Howard was being supportive, encouraging, exactly what a father should be. And Jack was lying to him—not about the work, but about everything that mattered.
"Thanks, Dad."
"Keep calling when you can. Your mother misses you. So do I, for that matter."
"I will."
"And Jack? Whatever pressure you're under—it's just engineering. Important engineering, I'm sure, but not worth making yourself sick over. Take care of yourself."
"I will. Give Mum my love."
"I will. Merry Christmas, son."
The line went dead with a soft click.
Jack sat there, receiver still pressed to his ear, listening to the dial tone. The conversation replayed in his mind—Howard's immediate understanding that something was wrong, his gentle probing, his unconditional support.
Support for a son who wasn't there anymore.
The thought crystallized with uncomfortable clarity: this was how he'd treated Sarah in his previous life. Putting off visits, making excuses about work, promising to call more often and then not following through. Letting important relationships decay through benign neglect while he focused on career advancement.
She'd understood, just like Howard did now, making it too easy for him to prioritize work over connection. He'd taken that understanding for granted until it was too late.
The guilt sat in his chest like cold iron.
He was doing it again: different circumstances and people, but the same pattern of avoidance masquerading as professional dedication.
Jack put the phone down, staring at the electric heater's orange glow.
Christmas alone in a cold flat. Penance or cowardice? He wasn't sure which.
Three days later, Jack spent Christmas morning reviewing brake specifications at the kitchen table. The flat was silent except for the heater's hum and distant church bells from somewhere in Chessington.
He'd bought a small chicken from the grocer, cooked it with roast potatoes and frozen peas. It was adequate, competent, and profoundly depressing.
By evening, he'd completed his prep work for the post-Christmas briefing with Pace. Tomorrow, the testing would resume. Work would fill the empty spaces again.
It always did.
---
December 27th arrived cold and grey. Jack stood in the Brabham workshop, carbon brake assemblies laid out on a workbench like surgical instruments. Carlos Pace was due in ten minutes.
Gordon Murray walked past, paused. "Ready for this?"
"As ready as I can be."
"Pace is thorough. He'll ask hard questions."
"I know."
Gordon studied him for a moment. "You look like hell, Hartley. When's the last time you slept properly?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked." Gordon's tone was matter-of-fact, not concerned—stating observable fact. "Get some rest after Silverstone. You're no good to anyone if you burn out."
He walked away before Jack could respond.
Pace arrived exactly on schedule, professional and focused.
"Bernie says we're trying experimental brakes," Pace said without preamble. "I want to understand exactly what I'm dealing with."
"Let me show you." Jack led him to the BT45 race car, where the matte black carbon discs were now mounted behind the front wheels, stark against the bright Martini livery.
Pace crouched immediately, studying the installation with focused attention. His hands moved over the assembly, checking mounting points and examining the cooling ducts with practiced precision.
"These aren't normal brake discs," he said, not looking up.
"No. They're carbon composite. They're much lighter than steel, with superior heat performance—once they reach operating temperature."
"Once they reach temperature." Pace stood, eyes sharp. "That's the catch, isn't it?"
Jack decided against his prepared notes; Pace deserved directness.
"Yes. The material needs a minimum of 425 degrees Celsius to work safely. Below that, it becomes brittle and can crack under peak force."
"So they don't work cold."
"Correct. For the first lap, maybe the first two, you'll have only sixty to seventy percent braking force. You'll need to brake earlier, use more pedal pressure, and build heat gradually."
"And once they're hot?"
"Once they're above 425, you'll have the best brakes on the grid. You'll be able to brake five to ten meters later than anyone else. Shorter braking distances at every heavy braking zone."
"That's the sales pitch." Pace lit a cigarette, exhaled slowly. "Now tell me what actually happens when something goes wrong."
"If you have to brake hard before the discs reach temperature—an emergency situation—the disc can develop a crack at the mounting point."
"And then?"
"The compliance bushings slow the crack down. You'll feel it in the pedal—slight vibration, reduced pressure. That's your warning to back off, reduce brake pressure, and pit at the end of the lap."
"How much warning?"
"Four to five seconds from when the crack starts to a serious structural concern. Long enough to recognize the problem and react."
"And if I don't recognize it? If I'm mid-corner fighting for position and I don't notice the pedal change?"
Jack pointed to the backup friction system. "This secondary pad engages automatically if the disc starts warping too much. It won't give full braking force—maybe thirty percent—but it's enough to scrub speed safely."
Pace looked at Jack directly. "How many tests have you run?"
"Forty-seven separate tests. We've mapped the complete failure envelope."
"How many failed?"
"Nineteen."
"Forty percent failure rate." Pace's voice was flat.
"In testing," Jack corrected. "Under conditions deliberately more extreme than you'll see in racing. We destroyed them on purpose to find the limits. Every test under race-realistic conditions has been successful."
"Racing is chaos," Pace countered. "Variables your testing can't predict."
"I know. That's why I've designed redundancy into every system. Multiple ways things can go wrong, multiple ways to manage those failures safely."
Pace smoked in silence. "I've seen drivers die in the last three years. All of them because something broke that engineers promised wouldn't break. When you tell me these brakes are safe, you need to understand what you're actually promising."
"I understand," Jack said quietly. "And I'm not promising they won't fail. I'm promising they'll fail safely. There's a difference. You won't suddenly lose all braking with no warning."
"You're being honest about the limitations."
"I have to be. If I pretended they were perfect, I'd be lying. And lying to you gets people killed."
Pace crushed his cigarette. "This is my home race, Interlagos. I want to finish well."
He faced Jack directly. "Can I trust these brakes enough to race them at Interlagos?"
Jack thought about the failures and the successes. "Yes. You can trust them. They require adaptation, awareness, management. But they're safe. You have my word."
Pace held his gaze for five long seconds.
"All right," he said finally. "I'll trust you once. If these brakes give me any problems in testing—if the pedal feels wrong, if anything doesn't match what you've promised—I'm switching back to conventional brakes. No argument, no second chance. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Good." Pace's smile returned, professional and cautious. "Bernie wants me testing them at Silverstone next week. Four days on track, full race simulation. I'll be pushing them hard."
Silverstone at dawn was vast and silent. The grandstands rose empty against the grey sky. Wind whipped across the tarmac, carrying the sharp smell of rubber and diesel from the transporter being unloaded in the paddock.
Jack stood at the pit wall, watching mechanics wheel the BT45 out of the garage. The car looked purposeful under work lights—aggressive, low, the Martini stripes vivid against white paint. He could already see the compromises, though: wide bodywork and extra weight visible in how the suspension sat under static load.
"First time at a test?" Charlie appeared beside him, two paper cups of tea in hand.
"Yeah."
"You'll love it. Or hate it." Charlie handed him a cup. "My money's on hate."
The tea was strong, bitter, and perfect. Jack sipped it and watched Gordon Murray walk around the car with Jack North, both men discussing something in technical shorthand.
By eight o'clock, Carlos Pace arrived in team overalls. He walked straight to the car, examined the carbon brake discs one more time, then climbed in without ceremony.
The Alfa flat-twelve fired with a sound like thunder—deep, aggressive, violent. Pace burbled out of the pit lane and disappeared into Copse.
Jack clicked his stopwatch as Pace crossed the line.
The car sounded fast, the flat-twelve howling through Maggotts and Becketts. Jack tracked the sound, trying to visualize Pace's line through corners he couldn't see.
Stopwatch clicked again: 1:24.6.
"Slow," Charlie muttered.
Pace came around for four more laps, times hovering around 1:24-1:25, then pulled in.
"It's nervous," Pace said, pulling off his helmet. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead despite the cold. "The rear steps out mid-corner, no warning. And the brakes—they don't work until lap three. The first two laps, I have nothing."
Gordon made notes, conferring with North. "Front wing angle?"
"Try adding a degree," North suggested.
They adjusted the front wing, softened the rear anti-roll bar, and sent Pace back out.
Jack clicked his stopwatch. This stint lasted fifteen laps, times gradually improving: 1:23.8... 1:23.5... 1:23.2... Still slow.
Pace came in again, frustration written in his body language. "Better, but still not right. The front pushes in slow corners, the rear snaps in fast ones. Like driving two different cars."
"Aero balance or mechanical?" Gordon asked, voice tight.
"I don't know! You're the engineer."
More adjustments followed: Stiffer front springs, softer rear. Pace went back out.
Jack stood at the pit wall, recording lap times mechanically, but his mind was elsewhere. He watched the engineers huddle over timing sheets, comparing sectors by hand, trying to extract meaning from raw numbers and Pace's feedback.
They were guessing. Educated guessing, but guessing nonetheless.
The afternoon became a grinding cycle.
Pace pulled in. "Front's washing out at Copse entry."
Gordon and North conferred. "Increase the front spring rate by two hundred pounds."
Mechanics swarmed the car, jacking it up, swapping springs. Fifteen minutes. Pace went back out.
Three laps later: 1:23.5. No improvement.
Pace returned. "Now it's too stiff. Can't get the nose loaded."
"Roll back the spring change, try softer front dampers instead."
Another fifteen minutes. Another three laps. 1:23.7. Worse.
Jack watched the pattern repeat. Each adjustment bought hope, but each stint delivered marginal changes that didn't add up to solutions.
"Tire pressures?" someone suggested.
"Running them at specification," a mechanic called back.
"But are they actually at spec when they're hot?"
"Won't know until we check. We don't have infrared—just touch and feel."
Jack stood at the edge of the group, watching brilliant people making educated guesses based on incomplete information. Pace says "the rear feels loose." But what did that translate to? They had made a dozen changes today, some helping, some making it worse, but they lacked the necessary measurements to know which was which.
Day Two arrived wet. Rain swept across Silverstone in grey sheets, turning the track into a lottery. Pace went out cautiously, feeling for grip that wasn't there.
Jack watched the temperature readouts with concern. Wet track meant less brake usage, which meant lower temperatures. The discs were hovering around 380 degrees—below the safe threshold.
"We need more heat," Gordon said.
Jack ran the calculations mentally. "Tell him to brake earlier but harder for the next five laps. Build thermal mass."
Gordon radioed Pace. The next lap, temperatures climbed: 400... 425... 450.
"That's it," Jack confirmed. "He's in the safe zone."
But the car handling was another story.
Pace came in after ten laps, visibly frustrated. "The car's all over the place. Understeer on entry, oversteer on exit. I can't build confidence."
"Wing angle?" North suggested.
"Already at maximum for wet conditions."
"Tire pressures?"
"Two PSI lower than dry spec."
"Try three PSI lower. Give him more contact patches."
The changes continued. Pace completed twenty laps in the rain, times scattered across a two-second window. The brakes worked—temperatures held, no structural issues—but the car setup remained elusive.
By mid-afternoon, Gordon's jaw was tight. "The brakes are fine. The car's the problem. We're chasing our tails."
Day Three started clear but cold.
Pace ran race simulation—fifty consecutive laps at race pace, managing tire degradation and fuel load. Jack monitored brake temperatures obsessively, watching for thermal fatigue or material degradation.
The lap times were more consistent now: 1:22.8... 1:22.6... 1:22.7...
Around lap thirty-five, Gordon called Jack over. "Look at this."
The thermocouple readings were fluctuating—small, noticeable variations. The front-left disc was running ten degrees cooler than the others.
"Airflow issue," Jack said immediately. "The spring in the cooling duct has compressed. We need to recalibrate."
They brought Pace in, jacked up the car. Jack crawled underneath with a wrench, adjusted the spring tension in the left-front cooling duct. The adjustment took eight minutes.
Pace went back out. Five laps later, all four discs were running within five degrees of each other. The thermal balance was restored.
When Pace came in at the end of the stint, he looked satisfied. "Whatever you did, it worked. The car feels balanced again."
"Spring tension in the cooling duct," Jack explained. "Was restricting airflow to the left-front disc. Simple fix."
"Simple fix that you caught before it became a problem." Pace clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the kind of attention to detail that matters."
Meanwhile, Gordon and North were still fighting the car setup. Damper changes. Wing adjustments. Tire pressure experiments. Each modification chasing Pace's feedback, trying to translate "the rear feels vague" into mechanical solutions.
Day Four was the final test.
Full race distance simulation: sixty-eight laps, managing fuel consumption and tire degradation against the relentless cold wind.
Jack stood at the pit wall, stopwatch in hand, watching lap times scroll by: 1:22.3... 1:22.5... 1:22.4...
Consistent. Reliable. Not fast, but predictable.
The brake temperatures held steady, the thermal management system performing exactly as Jack had designed it to do. Four days of testing had proven the carbon discs worked.
Final lap crossed the line: 1:22.1 average.
Pace climbed out, helmet off, cautiously optimistic. "The brakes work. They actually work. Once they're warm, I can brake later than anyone else on the grid."
Gordon Murray appeared, stopwatch in hand. "Consistent performance. That's what matters. The brakes are ready."
Bernie Ecclestone materialized from somewhere, expression unreadable. "So we're racing them at Interlagos?"
"Yes," Pace said immediately. "These brakes are better than anything else we have. I want them."
Bernie looked at Jack. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure. We've tested every condition we could simulate. They're ready."
"Good." Bernie's smile was sharp. "Because if you're wrong, it's your reputation on the line, not mine."
He walked away, leaving Jack standing there with the weight of that statement settling in.
---
The transporter ride back to Chessington was quiet. Jack sat by the window, notebook open, reviewing everything he'd learned.
Four days of testing had proven the brakes worked. More importantly, it had proven something else entirely.
He'd watched Gordon Murray and Jack North—two of Formula 1's brightest engineers—struggle to tune a racing car based on incomplete information. They were fundamentally reacting, guessing, hoping.
Suspension travel, weight transfer, tire slip angles, aero balance—all invisible. They changed settings, waited for feedback filtered through human perception, and then made another educated guess. It was engineering by trial and error.
Jack stared at his notes, the realization crystallizing with absolute clarity: Data logging was what separated guesswork from true engineering.
This wasn't about selling a system to the F3 grid; it was about building his own competitive edge. Lower formulas—F3, Formula Ford—ran on tiny budgets, often using identical cars.
The difference between winning and losing wasn't the car, it was setup and driver coaching.
If his team had real, objective data about what the car was doing, they would possess an advantage nobody else had. They could develop drivers faster, optimize setups faster, and consistently win in those entry-level series.
Winning brought attention, and attention brought sponsors—the lifeblood necessary to eventually fund an F1 effort.
Build the system. Test it. Dominate the lower formulas. Fund the future.
Jack's mind raced. By the time ground effects arrived, he would have years of data logging experience. He would understand how to measure downforce and optimize the setup before anyone else even knew what questions to ask. That was the edge he needed to bypass the traditional F1 path and launch his own team.
He pulled out a fresh page and started writing. The goal was to build a proprietary Data Acquisition System.
The target was clear: F3 and Formula Ford, where maximizing performance from standardized cars was critical. He needed specific sensors: four points for suspension travel, along with measurements for throttle position, brake pressure, steering angle, and lateral/longitudinal acceleration.
Crucially, the entire system had to be light, weighing less than five kilograms total. And to control the project completely, he needed start-up capital.
He paused, confronting the next problem: Money. His Brabham salary couldn't launch a business.
He needed funding—either investment or an academic partnership. Professor Matthews at Cambridge, his supervisor, specialized in sensor systems.
Using racing as a test bed for sensor technology could secure the initial research funding and equipment he needed.
I'll contact Prof. Matthews, he wrote. Propose collaborative research on data acquisition for motorsport applications.
A final thought: Patent search. Check if anyone's already developing this.
The notebook was soon filled with ideas, connections, and possibilities. He closed the notebook, staring out at the darkening motorway.
Four days at Silverstone had proven the brakes worked, but they'd shown him a deeper truth: The future belonged to data. To measurement, analysis, and optimization.
And Jack was going to use that data to build his own F1 destiny.