Eye of the Cobra (9 page)

‘I had them double-checked by three other engineers before I came to you, sir. I would not take up your time unless I thought it was of vital importance.’

He studied the figures more closely now - and felt his pulse racing. This was without doubt the finest racing engine ever to come out of Japan.

He stretched out his hand to Professor Katana. ‘Well done. How is Dr Dunstal’s project proceeding?’

‘That is what I came to tell you about. He is already ahead of schedule.’

‘Very good. It is time to begin testing in England.’

Professor Katana felt his spirits soar. Two years before, he had reduced his responsibilities at the university with some reluctance, in order to take on the Shensu project. At the time he had thought he might be making a big mistake: Mr Shensu’s reputation for pushing people to the limit was legendary even in Japan, where most people lived to work.

Now all this was forgotten. The engine he had just developed would also be detuned and used in a road-going machine - a Japanese high-performance car that would usurp the great marques like Porsche and Ferrari.

He had enjoyed working with the mad Irishman, Dr Dunstal, whom Aito Shensu had brought out from Europe the year before under a veil of secrecy. Dr Dunstal had developed a chassis to match the engine and gearbox Katana had been perfecting.

Now he looked directly at Aito Shensu. ‘Sir. Does Mr de Villiers know we have built the car as well as the engine and gearbox?’

‘Not yet. It will be a pleasant surprise for him. I shall leave the revelation to Dr Dunstal - they are close friends.’

Bruce de Villiers was in a dark mood, seething with anxiety. It was less than two months to the start of the season. He could see himself missing the first couple of races while the car was still in the development stages.

At last Mickey Dunstal was free from his work in Japan and was here to see him. Mickey was the best there was - but two months was hardly enough time for him to develop a competitive car. The intercom on his desk sounded again, and he pushed the answer-button.

‘Yes, Debbie?’

‘Are you ready for Dr Dunstal?’

‘Tell him to come through.’

Dr Mickey Dunstal came in through the door, a sinewy man with long blond hair which he wore in a pony-tail. He was wearing a Hawaian shirt in vivid colours, and tight-fitting jeans. He had a full beard, and his green eyes glittering with intensity.

Bruce had known Mickey for years. He remembered the face before the beard had been grown - it was wide-jawed and strong. He’d worked with Mickey often: a bit of a wild man, and a difficult person to control, but a genius.

‘Top of the mornin’ to you. It’s been too long, Bruce.’

He took the outstretched hand and the grip was hard. Mickey Dunstal was certainly tough. He had to be, thought Bruce, to stand the punishment he meted out to his body. This was a man who could work for forty-eight hours without a break, then go out on a drinking spree that would destroy most people. Bruce had often thought Mickey had a death-wish - but he was still one of the most gifted and innovative designers of Formula One cars in the world.

The previous year he had just disappeared - gone out of circulation. There was talk that he might have returned to Lockheed.

Bruce watched the designer as he sank down into one of the leather couches and contemplated his boots.

‘I was approached by Shensu,’ Mickey Dunstal said at last. ‘Long before he signed up with you and Phelps. I’d hate you to think I was imposin’, but they contracted me to do the design before you came along. Aito wanted me to tell you.’

‘You’ve made my day!’ Bruce’s face broke into a broad smile. This was better than he’d dreamed, a minor miracle.

Dunstal sat up, beads of perspiration on his forehead. ‘Thank God, you’re pleased! I thought you might be upset. I know you like to be in on the development.’

Bruce leaned back, a weight off his mind. He would have competitive machines for the first race of the season. The Irishman was the best. And he needed the best.

‘OK, Mickey. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

Mickey wiped the perspiration off his forehead. ‘I want to tell you my thinkin’. The Shensu 3500 is a superb V12 engine.’ ‘But I’d heard it was a V8?’

‘Yes. That was the smokescreen Shensu deliberately put out. I’ve been in Japan for the last year, working with Professor Katana - he’s Shensu’s newly appointed head of engine design and research. He’s a clever little man, take it from me. Together we evolved the final design.’

Bruce sat hunched forward. He was listening now. Aito Shensu was smart; he must have known he and Mickey were friends. That must be why Phelps had
approached him rather than anyone else - to smooth the way for an equable working relationship.

Mickey continued: ‘The engine produces far more power than previous designs, but the balance of the engine is awkward. In fact Katana told me they’ve found that strivin’ to produce balance alone actually detracts from the power output of the unit.’

He unfolded his first plan on Bruce’s desk, and Bruce sucked in his breath. It was beautifully drawn.

‘This is what a conventional designer would have done. This was what I started off with. There are many flaws in this design once you realise two things: the new engine’ll push the car very fast, and it’ll have to corner quicker, handle well at higher speeds. In short, it’ll need better aerodynamics and suspension.’

He now pointed to the section of the plan that showed the engine mounting points.

‘Here’s the weak point. The stress on the body is immense. It was me biggest problem.’ He rolled up the plan and took out another.

Bruce had to respect this mad Irishman. At twenty-one Mickey Dunstal had left the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with a doctorate in aeronautical engineering, the youngest person ever to be awarded such a degree. It was presumed he’d join the Lockheed Aircraft Corporation, since it was they who had given him the grant to come out from Ireland and study at MIT.

Instead Mickey had returned to England and started his own sports car company. His first design had won numerous prizes and excellent reviews from the motoring press, and the car had sold well, making Dunstal an overnight millionaire. Then he was bought out, and Mickey had moved into the world of Formula One, producing brilliant designs, hopping from team to team. Then, a year ago, he’d gone out of circulation.

‘Bruce, you know the ground rules as well as I do.’

Bruce nodded and leaned over the plan, watching as Mickey pointed out the different areas of concern.

‘FISA sets them - the car’s width, before and behind the front wheels, the front and rear overhangs, wing height, total height and fuel tank capacity. Then we have to have crushable side-pods, the front end must survive a twenty-two mph crash test without any displacement of the pedals. And to top it all, the fuel tank must be rupture-resistant rubber and mounted more than forty centimetres from the car’s centre.’

Bruce grimaced. ‘It’s depressing.’

‘Relax, let me get to the point. The rules say we mustn’t weigh more than 1113.3 pounds before any fluids are put into the machine.’

He looked down at his notes again, his eyes glittering as he continued.

‘Oh, and I nearly forgot - the driver’s feet must fall behind the front axle line. And that’s where me problems began. You see, the Shensu 3500 is twenty per cent longer than the average Grand Prix engine, but it gives the driver a lot o’ fight in the corners.’

Now he unfurled a very basic design of car, but with not enough detail for Bruce to get the total picture.

‘This is one of me first designs - just to show you the problems. Under the old rules I could just move the driver forward to accommodate the engine, but under the new rules I can’t do that. So I’ve got seven and a half extra inches of car. And I can’t gain weight.’

Bruce whistled softly.

‘An’ that’s not the bloody least of it. The Shensu 3500’s fitted with massive oil coolers as well as a bigger radiator. So I’ve got to fit enormous cooling-ducts to the car - the new engine is good for at least 780 bhp.’

Bruce looked sceptical.

‘I had me doubts too,’ the Irishman said, ‘till I saw it on the test-bed. Which leads us to me next problem - the car has to be driveable. That power’ll really hammer the driver. You see, it’s not enough for me car to perform well flat out, she must also sail round the corners. Give the driver a bit o’ fight.

‘So I came to thinking, well, you’ve got a very different engine, so it sort of deserves a very different kind of chassis. But to lose weight I had to spend a lot o’ Mr Shensu’s money.
But he’s a generous fellah, to be sure. Watch carefully, Bruce.’

Mickey unrolled a huge photograph. Bruce looked down, spellbound. Nothing was as he had expected it to be. Sleek and streamlined, the car set his pulse racing. She sat very, very low on the ground, and was squatter than an ordinary machine, with enormous cooling-ducts on either side. She had the look of a predator, an almost organic air of menace. The suspension system, even at a glance, was highly innov
ative - constructed from carbon-fibre. At the front were anhedral wings, mounted either side of the nose cone to generate downforce to improve the machine’s grip on the corners. Carbon-fibre disc brakes provided the stopping-power.

The whole machine was black, giving her a shadow-like appearance.

Mickey Dunstal went up several points in Bruce’s estimation. ‘Will she comply?’ he asked.

‘’Course she will. I get a bloody headache from studyin’ the regulations. Shensu have got their own wind tunnel, so she’s as aerodynamic as a Formula One machine can possibly be. There’s also pods on her back end, to generate even more downforce.’

‘I don’t want problems with the regulations, Mickey. Why does she look so different?’

‘You’re a smart boy. You see, the chassis and the cockpit are not constructed from kevlar or carbon fibre as you might expect. It’s something else entirely.’

‘What material?’

‘XXT. It comes from Stealth technology - used to build the US’s latest range of fighters and bombers. I’ve got this mate and he works in the development section of the L
ockheed Aircraft Corporation. A bright lad. This compound features largely in the F-117A Stealth fighters. It gives me opportunities other Formula One designers haven’t been able to explore.’

‘She’s got a completely different profile from a normal Formula One machine.’

‘This is the most advanced design I’ve ever produced.’

‘Mickey, I’m worried about the regulations. Where is this prototype?’

‘I think I’d better call in Mr Shensu.’

‘But he’s in Japan.’

‘No, to be sure, I saw him sitting outside.’

Mickey got up and walked to the door, opening it and leaning out.

‘Mr Shensu.’

Bruce held onto the sides of his chair as Aito Shensu walked in. Mickey moved to one side.

‘What’s going on?’ Bruce’s curiosity was aroused.

‘Mr de Villiers. I am a man with little time. I have been planning all this for a long time. The design Mr Dunstal has shown you - the car has been completed.

‘I used all my resources to build the Shadow. There are four Shadows waiting outside in a transporter for you. Please, Mr de Villiers, I realise that this may come as a surprise, but . . .’

Bruce rocked backwards and forwards on his chair, a glazed expression on his face. At last he found the words he wanted.

‘Mickey, we’re going to massacre McCabe.’

Bruce de Villiers stood looking down at the tarmac of the test circuit and wondered if anything could ever be perfect. It was just that one tried and tried to get things one-hundred-percent right, and then there was always something that got in the way. What was getting in the way now was the man who owned forty per cent of the newly formed Calibre-Shensu team. The man who’d given him his job.

He looked up and saw Jack Phelps’s helicopter coming down to land behind the main building.

Then Phelps was there, all six and a half feet of him, wearing a tiny yellow bow-tie, striding determinedly towards him. Impeccably dressed, his dark hair smoothed back from the high forehead, Bruce thought Phelps looked like the corporate axe-man. Yes, he was a well-oiled operator if ever there was one.

So far, the American had been far from co-operative, and had wanted far more control in the running of the team than he’d first indicated. Of course, he should have expected it, de
Villiers thought. Jack Phelps was a businessman and he enjoyed power. It was written in his cold blue eyes.

Now, in this continuing instalment of the argument, Bruce decided he was going to get in with the first salvo.

‘Listen, Jack, I’m a perfectionist, and that’s what kept McCabe in the number-one spot for the last three years. You only get out what you put in. I’m telling you that what goes into my cars is what makes them perform to their full capacity. And I choose what goes in.’

Phelps put his hands behind his head and looked out across the circuit.

‘I know what it takes to succeed. I wrote the book. But I’m in this for exposure - it’s marketing, pure and simple. You wouldn’t be in this business if it weren’t for the sponsors. I want to see Calibre branding . . . and of course Shensu branding . . . everywhere I look.’