Late January 1976, a week before the Brazilian Grand Prix , the Brabham workshop was an organized chaos. Spare parts, tools, diagnostic gear—everything required to support a Formula 1 operation halfway around the globe—was being secured in the transporters.
Jack stood near the fabrication shop, watching mechanics secure the BT45 into its cradle. The carbon brake assemblies were visible beneath protective covers—matte black exotic technology ready for its race debut.
"Walk with me."
Bernie Ecclestone's voice cut through the ambient noise. It wasn't a request.
They stepped outside into the cold January evening. Bernie lit a cigarette, took a drag, and studied Jack with that compressed intensity that made people instinctively straighten their posture.
"You did good work on the weight distribution," Bernie said. "Solved Gordon's packaging problem. Clever thinking."
"Thank you, sir."
Bernie took another drag. "The carbon brakes—that could have been a disaster. Experimental technology, tight timeline, high-stakes testing. But you didn't just make them work—you made them safe. Convinced Pace to trust them. Gordon says you've got a decent head on your shoulders."
Jack waited. Bernie didn't offer compliments without purpose.
"But I don't give a damn about decent heads," Bernie continued. "I care about hunger. You hungry, Hartley?"
Jack met his gaze. "Yes."
"For what?"
The question hung in the cold air. Jack could feel Bernie evaluating him, calculating whether he was worth the continued investment of salary and attention.
"I want to design Formula 1 cars," Jack said carefully. "Become a reputable engineer like Gordon, develop technologies that—"
"Bullshit." Bernie's voice was flat, cutting. "You're giving me the answer you think I want to hear. I asked what you're hungry for. Try again."
Jack held his gaze, recalibrated. Bernie didn't want diplomatic answers.
"I want to build something," Jack said, voice harder now. "My own team. My own car. Not work for someone else's dream—build my own."
Bernie's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or approval.
"That's an expensive dream. You're twenty-two, making what—three thousand a year?" Bernie took another drag. "You'll be forty before you save enough to start even a Formula Ford team, let alone Formula 1."
The words hit like a punch. Forty years old. The same age Jack had been when Connor Walsh crashed, when Martin Cross said you're not a killer, when everything ended with a severance package and the realization he'd spent thirty-four years surviving instead of winning.
"I'll find a way," Jack said, voice harder than he'd intended.
Bernie smiled—thin, predatory, satisfied. "That's the right answer. Not 'I don't know' or 'I hope' or 'maybe someday.' You'll find a way." He started walking back toward the workshop, then paused.
"One more thing. When you do start your team—and you will, I can see it—don't try to be Ferrari or McLaren. They're already Ferrari and McLaren. Be something new. That's how you win in this sport. Not by copying what works, but by seeing what nobody else sees."
Bernie disappeared into the workshop, already focused on the next problem.
Jack stood in the cold. Bernie's words echoed.
You'll be forty before you save enough.
Unless you take risks.
That night, Jack sat at his makeshift desk—a plank balanced on filing cabinets—surrounded by evidence of four months' calculated gambling. Betting slips covered the surface, organized by date. Financial newspapers formed neat stacks against the wall.
Five thousand, three hundred and forty-seven pounds. Counted three times.
The money represented fragments of childhood memory turned into capital. Manchester United beating Leeds 2-1—his father shouting at the radio. Liverpool's 3-1 Merseyside Derby victory—memorized as a lesson in tactics. Arsenal's 5-0 demolition of Tottenham—even James Sr. had grudgingly called it brilliant.
Time travel had sharpened those memories impossibly clear. Small, sporadic bets across different bookmakers. Careful never to draw attention. Never returning to the same shop twice.
Five thousand pounds.
Not enough for an F1 team. Not even enough for a proper F3 operation. But a start.
Except now he needed more. The data acquisition system had changed everything. What began as a simple plan—build an F3 team, dominate the lower formulas, fund F1 ambitions—had evolved into something more complex. The system would be the real competitive edge, but development costs would consume capital he'd planned for racing.
Jack pulled out a fresh betting slip and stared at the blank spaces.
The 1976 Formula 1 World Championship. James Hunt, McLaren. Current odds: 14 to 1.
Five thousand pounds at those odds would return seventy thousand when Hunt won the championship by a single point over Niki Lauda.
Jack knew exactly how it would unfold. Lauda's crash at the Nürburgring in August. The fire. The burns. The impossible recovery—six weeks from near-death to racing at Monza with blood-soaked bandages visible beneath his helmet.
He could still see it. Nine years old, watching grainy footage on television while his father explained what courage really meant. Lauda drove through pain that should have been impossible to endure, finishing fourth despite doctors saying he'd never race again.
That moment had ignited something in young James. Not just interest—inspiration. His father and uncle had funded karting dreams afterward. Six years chasing speed before reality set in: solid fundamentals, decent racecraft, but lacking the raw speed that separated champions from also-rans. The racing experience proved invaluable later as an engineer, but it all traced back to Lauda at Monza.
The man who gave him the dream.
And now Jack contemplated profiting from that man's suffering.
The betting slip lay on the desk, a silent challenge. Seventy thousand pounds. Enough to fund both the F3 operation and the data acquisition development. Enough to accelerate the timeline by years. Enough to matter.
All he had to do was bet against his childhood hero.
Jack stared at the slip for a long moment. Then, very deliberately, he tore it in half.
Some lines couldn't be crossed. Not even for seventy thousand pounds.
He'd find another way.
The betting parlor was tucked between a newsagent and a pub on a side street in Surbiton. Jack pushed through the door, one thousand pounds in cash folded in his jacket pocket.
The interior smelled of cigarette smoke and quiet desperation. Behind the counter, a clerk with thinning hair watched a small television showing horse racing.
Jack approached, eyes finding the odds board mounted on the wall.
Formula 1 World Championship - Drivers Niki Lauda (Ferrari): 5/2 James Hunt (McLaren): 14/1 Clay Regazzoni (Ferrari): 8/1 Jody Scheckter (Tyrrell): 10/1
His gaze moved past Hunt's name to the section below.
Brazilian Grand Prix - Race Winner Niki Lauda (Ferrari): 7/2 James Hunt (McLaren): 9/2 Clay Regazzoni (Ferrari): 5/1
"Help you?" The clerk's voice was bored.
Jack pulled out the cash. "I want to bet on the Brazilian Grand Prix. First race of the season."
The clerk slid a form across the counter. "Who are you backing?"
"Niki Lauda to win," Jack said. "One thousand pounds."
The clerk's eyebrows rose slightly—the largest bet he'd probably seen all week—but processed it without comment. He handed Jack the receipt.
Jack walked out into the cold evening air.
One thousand pounds at 7/2 odds. If Lauda won—and Jack was reasonably certain he would—it would return four thousand five hundred pounds. Decent return, manageable risk, and more importantly, betting for Lauda instead of profiting from his suffering.
He had four thousand pounds remaining. Not enough for what he needed, but enough to start looking for the real solution.
Jack turned toward the pub across the street, suddenly needing a drink and an entirely new plan.
The Red Lion was typical of London pubs—dark wood, brass fixtures, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke. Jack ordered a pint, found a corner table, and tried to calculate revised timelines for capital accumulation.
Four thousand pounds in savings. Maybe another ten to fifteen thousand over the season through careful race betting. Twenty thousand total if everything went perfectly.
Still not enough. Not nearly enough.
"—absolutely mental if you think gold's topping out at this level—Mark my words, it's hitting two hundred by summer! Inflation's a runaway train, Nixon decoupled us from gold—the dollar's just paper now. Everyone's scrambling for hard assets. Gold's not a play, it's the only play."
Jack sat very still, his pint forgotten.
Gold. One sixty-six dollars per ounce.
The memory hit with perfect clarity. Uncle Robert's party—Jack had been nine years old, young enough that adult conversations floated over his head but old enough to remember his uncle's triumphant grin.
"Made my money when gold hit one-oh-two in August," Uncle Robert had said, raising a glass. "Bought at one fifty-five, sold at one eighty-eight, bought back at one-oh-two. Doubled my position."
James Sr. had clapped his brother on the back, proud and envious. Uncle Robert had funded Jack's karting dreams afterward—guilt money, probably, for success Howard couldn't quite match.
His hands were shaking.
He stood up, crossed to the brokers' table. They looked up, conversation pausing.
"I couldn't help overhearing," Jack said. "You work in commodities?"
The confident one, Richard Pemberton, studied him. "Who's asking?"
"Jack Hartley. I'm an engineer at Brabham—Formula 1. But I've got some capital I'm looking to invest, and I'm trying to understand the gold market."
The magic words: Formula 1. The brokers' expressions shifted—interest replacing suspicion.
"Pull up a chair," Pemberton said. "These are my colleagues, David and Thomas. What do you want to know about gold?"
Jack sat down, mind racing. "You said one sixty-six per ounce currently. What's driving the price?"
Pemberton launched into explanation mode. "Panic, mostly. The whole structure—Bretton Woods—crashed in '71. Currencies are floating, governments are printing money like confetti. Gold's your only anchor. When paper money loses value, you buy metal. Simple as that."
"And you think it'll hit two hundred by summer?"
"Easily," Pemberton scoffed. "Could go higher. The metrics are screaming bull run."
Jack leaned in. "What about corrections? The market doesn't just go straight up."
Pemberton waved his cigarette dismissively. "There'll be profit-taking, sure. A little pullback around one-eighty, maybe one-ninety to shake out the weak hands. But the long-term trend is bullish. If you're not in, you're losing money every week."
Jack took a careful sip. "How does someone actually trade gold? Futures contracts?"
"The only way to play. We deal in paper, not bullion. Leverage, liquidity. You work through a licensed broker—like us—and we execute the contracts. You want efficiency, you use futures."
"And if someone wanted to short gold? Bet on the price going down?"
All three brokers looked at him like he'd suggested setting money on fire.
"Why would you short gold right now?" David asked. "Everything's pointing to continued appreciation."
"Just trying to understand all the angles," Jack said carefully.
Pemberton leaned forward. "Shorting gold in this climate is madness, Hartley. You'd be betting against inflation and every major central bank. You'd have to nail the top and the floor perfectly. That's not a trade—that's speculation."
"What if someone knew there'd be a major correction?" Jack asked. "Say, gold dropping from one-ninety to around one-oh-five?"
Thomas laughed. "If someone had that kind of certainty, they wouldn't be sitting in a pub. They'd own the City. That's a forty percent collapse. You'd need an economic earthquake for that."
But it would happen. Jack knew it. Gold would hit one-ninety in March, then sink to nearly a hundred by late summer.
He shrugged lightly, keeping his tone casual. "I don't know. Some of the guys tied to our Brabham sponsors—the ones in the City—have been talking. Lots of nervous chatter lately about central bank tightening, some big players overextended. Could just be noise, but…" He let the thought trail off, a deliberate opening.
Pemberton's expression shifted—interest replacing skepticism. "Hypothetically, if someone wanted to position for that kind of correction, what would it look like?"
"Hypothetically?" Pemberton said, settling back into professional mode. "You'd ride the rally up—go long while the sentiment's strong—then flip short right at the peak. Cover near the floor. Timing's everything."
One sixty-six to one ninety—that's eighteen percent up. Then one ninety down to one-oh-two—forty-five percent down.
If he rode it up with fifteen thousand pounds, he'd have twenty-one at the top. Short that from one-ninety to one-oh-two with leverage, and twenty-one could turn into forty-five, maybe fifty. Enough to fund the F3 team. Enough to fast-track everything.
It was clean. Precise. Almost elegant—Uncle Robert's windfall, recreated through logic, not luck.
"You're thinking too loud, Hartley," Pemberton said with a grin. "Got a line on something the market doesn't know?"
"Maybe," Jack said evenly. "Let's just say motorsport attracts some very talkative sponsors. If I wanted to explore this—what would I need to start?"
Pemberton's grin faded, replaced by calculation. "You'd need capital, naturally. To get decent leverage on futures, we require a serious margin. You'd be looking at a minimum of fifteen thousand pounds just to open a proper trading account."
Pemberton pulled out a business card, slid it across the table. "Come to my office next week. We'll assess your risk tolerance, discuss margin requirements. But fair warning—futures trading is a cash game. You need at least fifteen thousand pounds just to open a proper account and get decent leverage."
The words hit like cold water.
Fifteen thousand pounds minimum. Jack had four thousand.
Maybe eight thousand if Lauda won in Brazil. Still seven thousand short of the entry requirement.
"I understand," Jack said, pocketing the card.
"Thank you for your time." He finished his pint and walked out into the night. The betting slip for Lauda was in one pocket. Pemberton's card was in the other.
He'd found the path. Now he just needed the capital to walk it.
Pemberton's minimum requirement echoed in his mind: fifteen thousand pounds.
Jack walked through cold January streets, mind churning through the problem.
Fifteen thousand pounds minimum. Nine thousand after Brazil if Lauda won. Still six thousand short.
He could wait. Bet carefully on races through the season. Accumulate slowly. By summer he'd have enough. But by summer, gold would already be near its peak. He'd miss the appreciation leg entirely—fifteen to twenty percent returns gone. He'd only catch the short side, and even then, he'd be late. Bernie's words echoed: You'll be forty before you save enough.
The solution sat in his mind, ugly and unavoidable. He'd been avoiding it for months—the guilt of taking over their son's body making the thought almost unbearable. But the calculation was brutally simple.
He could call home. Explain he had an investment opportunity. Ask Howard and Margaret Hartley for a loan—six thousand pounds to complete the capital requirement.
They'd say yes. Of course they'd say yes.
Their son was working at Brabham, building a career in Formula 1, asking for help to secure his future.
What parent wouldn't help? Jack stopped walking, stood under a streetlight on an empty residential street.
The question formed in his mind, sharp and unavoidable: Which was morally worse—betting against his childhood hero's suffering, or asking money from parents who weren't really his parents?
He'd refused to profit from Lauda's crash. Held to that principle even though it cost him seventy thousand pounds. Torn up the betting slip because some lines couldn't be crossed.
But asking Howard and Margaret Hartley for six thousand pounds? That was crossing a different line entirely. Not betting on suffering—actively exploiting love.
They'd give him the money because they loved their son. A son who wasn't there anymore. Jack resumed walking, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
Principles were expensive, he'd discovered. But poverty was more expensive.
The data acquisition system could change motorsport. Could give smaller teams an edge against better-funded operations. Could build the foundation for everything he wanted to create.
But only if he had the capital. Only if he was willing to make the call.
After Brazil, Jack decided. After Lauda delivered that first win and proved his memory was reliable. After the four thousand five hundred pounds landed in his account. Then he'd call home. Explain the opportunity. Ask for the loan.
A son who wasn't really their son anymore. But they didn't know that. And Jack needed that money.
Bernie was right. The ones who found ways were the ones who mattered.
Jack had found his way. Now he just had to pay the price. And the price, he was learning, wasn't just money.
It was pieces of himself he'd thought he'd protect. Principles he'd thought he'd maintain. Lines he'd thought he'd never cross.
But forty years was a long time to wait. And Jack had already wasted one lifetime. He wouldn't waste this one.
Even if that meant becoming someone he didn't quite recognize.