The Brabham garage at Interlagos had transformed from frantic activity to methodical, deflated silence.
Mechanics moved with the practiced efficiency of men who'd seen this story before: promise turned to disappointment by mechanical failure. Tools were being packed into cases, equipment was wheeled toward the transporters, and the detritus of the race weekend was swept into bins.
Near the back of the garage, Jack Hartley stood, helping Charlie coil cables and secure equipment. The silence between them had stretched for nearly ten minutes until Charlie finally spoke.
"We gave him the board three times. Lap twenty-eight, thirty-two, and thirty-six. 'SLOW' in letters big enough to read from orbit."
Jack looked up. "What?"
Wrapping cables with unnecessary precision, Charlie's hands moved mechanically. "Carlos. We told him to back off, conserve the engine. He acknowledged lap twenty-eight, gave us the hand signal. Then promptly ignored it and kept pushing. If he'd actually listened, maybe the engine would have survived. Maybe we score points instead of watching it grenade on lap forty."
Setting down the equipment case, Jack spoke. "He was defending fourth place at his home race with two hundred thousand Brazilians screaming for him. You expected him to just back off?"
"I expected him to follow team orders."
"That's an order he couldn't follow," Jack replied.
"Depailler was all over him. If Carlos backs off even half a second per lap, he's getting passed anyway: first by Depailler, then by Pryce, then by Stuck. He finishes eighth or ninth, still scoring zero points.""Better than a DNF.""Is it?" Jack asked, starting to pack brake calipers. "DNF while fighting proves the car had pace. DNF after backing off just looks weak. Either way, zero points. But one way he's a hero, the other way he's the guy who gave up at home.""So team orders don't work when the driver decides they don't?" Charlie sighed."Team orders work when following them doesn't undermine why the driver's racing in the first place." He closed the case. "The problem wasn't Carlos ignoring orders; the problem was the Alfa Romeo grenade we strapped to his back.""Fair point," Charlie admitted. They returned to packing in companionable silence.
As Jack loaded the final equipment, Carlos Pace appeared, the top half of his unzipped race suit tied around his waist.
"Jack! Before you disappear back to England, I need you for five minutes."
"Carlos, I'm in the middle of this," Jack began, gesturing to the equipment.
"It can wait. Trust me." Pace's expression was serious. "Come."
Jack followed Pace across the paddock to where three well-dressed Brazilian men stood near expensive cars: Mercedes and BMWs that cost more than Jack's annual salary. They wore suits despite the heat; their watches caught the afternoon sunlight.
"Gentlemen," Pace said, switching to Portuguese briefly before returning to English. "This is Jack Hartley, the brake engineer I mentioned. Jack, these are my personal sponsors: Luiz Pereira, Roberto Campos, and Marcelo Santos. They've been asking how I was braking so late into corners. I thought they should hear it from the man who designed the system."
Warm introductions and business cards were exchanged. Jack then found himself explaining carbon brake technology in layman's terms: heat dissipation, fade resistance, and the performance benefits that allowed Pace to defend lap after lap.
"Revolutionary," Luiz Pereira said, his English heavily accented. "This changes racing, no?"
"Eventually," Jack replied carefully. "Right now it's one advantage on a compromised car."
"But it works," Roberto Campos interjected. "We watched you defend against Depailler, braking impossibly late, holding position. That was technology giving you a weapon."
After more discussion, the three men excused themselves. Pace gestured for Jack to walk back with him.
"Those men financed my entire racing career," Pace said quietly. "Karting when I was twelve. Formula Vee at sixteen. Formula 3, Formula 2, everything to Formula One. Without them, I'd be selling cars instead of driving them."
"That's a significant investment," Jack noted.
"They didn't invest in the results. They invested in potential." Pace stopped walking. "You know the hardest part of this sport? It's not driving. It's not even politics. It's finding people who believe in what you're doing before there's evidence it will work. People who see potential where others see risk."
Jack felt the weight of the statement.
"I've been watching you this weekend," Pace continued. "How you study the paddock, ask questions that aren't just about engineering. You're learning how teams function, who makes decisions. That's not someone content to be a systems engineer forever."
Jack didn't confirm or deny.
"Building something of your own is possible, but exponentially harder than you imagine. Engineering is easy—you have that mind. The difficulty is finding the right people who share your vision, who'll support you through failures before success arrives. Those three men? They funded seven years where I won nothing, finished nowhere, crashed expensive equipment. But they kept believing."
He handed Jack his own card. "Start building that network now, while you're young. Because when you need those people, it's too late to start looking. When you're ready—truly ready, with real plan and commitment—call them. Tell them Pace vouches for you. They'll listen."
Pace walked toward waiting fans, leaving Jack with four business cards in his pocket and the distinct impression he'd just been given both permission and a roadmap.Jack returned to the garage, but his attention drifted to the scene visible through the open doors. Through the open doors, he saw the Ferrari celebration: mechanics in scarlet embracing, champagne flowing. In the center, surrounded by microphones, stood Niki Lauda.
Clinical precision. No theatrical celebration. Just analysis of a perfectly executed race in that distinctive accent: tire management, fuel consumption, and decision points. Nine championship points. Statement of intent.
This was Niki Lauda in 1976, not the legend from history books. Twenty-six years old and at peak power, he dominated with methodical brilliance.
Jack knew what was coming in four months: the Nürburgring, the crash, the fire, the near-death injuries, the burns. Then the impossible comeback: racing six weeks later at Monza, bandages seeping blood through his helmet, fighting for a championship he'd lose by a single point.
That loss would cement his legend more than any victory. The Japanese Grand Prix decision, choosing survival over the title in monsoon conditions, would define his career.
And Jack knew all of it.
Lauda's eyes swept the paddock, and for half a second, his gaze landed on Jack. Just a flicker—acknowledgment someone was watching, maybe slight narrowing as if registering the attention—then back to the journalist.
Jack forced himself to look away. No introduction today. He was a junior engineer at a midfield team. Lauda was the reigning World Champion. The gulf wasn't just professional—it was categorical.
But someday, Jack thought. Someday that would change.
Two days after returning from Brazil, the Brabham factory debrief was brief. Gordon Murray stood grim-faced at the conference table.
"Let's be clear. The chassis performed well. Carlos proved he could defend against faster cars, but the Alfa Romeo engine is a bloody disaster."
Bernie Ecclestone spoke without preamble. "Reutemann's failure was a bottom-end seizure: a connecting rod through the block. Pace's was head gasket failure from overheating. Both engines were fine until they weren't. No warning. Just catastrophic failure."
"We're contracted to Alfa for the season," Gordon continued. "That's not changing. The question now is how we work with them to make these engines actually finish races."
Bernie leaned forward. "That is why the technical team will be going to Italy, to Alfa's facility in Milan. You'll embed with their engine team for three weeks to understand what they're doing, why failures keep happening, and what can be fixed before South Africa."
He looked at everyone in the room. "You'll all leave on Friday. Alfa's expecting you Monday morning."
Jack felt his stomach drop. Three weeks in Italy. Three weeks trying to fix problems that might be unfixable.
"We need solutions, not excuses," Gordon added. "Better cooling, revised oil flow, anything that gives these engines a fighting chance. South Africa is six weeks away."
As the meeting broke up, Gordon caught Jack's attention. "Take three days off before you prepare for Italy: see your family, clear your head. You'll need to be sharp when dealing with Alfa's engineers. They're proud, don't like outsiders telling them their engines are rubbish, and definitely don't like young British engineers half their age pointing out design flaws."
Jack nodded. "Understood."
"This is an opportunity, Hartley. Alfa's facility is one of the best engine operations in Europe. Learn everything you can. Not just about fixing their twelve-cylinder, but how proper engine programs work. That knowledge will serve you well long after this season."
Jack left the factory, stepping into the grey English winter. Three weeks in Milan. Then South Africa. Then the rest of the season.
But first, home.
He stood at the bus stop, business cards from Pace's sponsors in his pocket, Gordon's words echoing in his head. Learn everything you can. That knowledge will serve you well.
The opportunities were stacking up faster than he'd anticipated: Access to Alfa Romeo's engine facility, relationships with Brazilian investors, proven technology with the carbon brakes, a growing reputation in the paddock.
But all of it required capital to leverage. And capital meant having difficult conversations.
When the bus arrived, Jack climbed aboard and took a seat by the window as London's suburbs blurred past. He pulled out the business cards, studying them. Luiz Pereira. Roberto Campos. Marcelo Santos. Men who'd financed an entire racing career on belief alone.
And Carlos Pace's card with a handwritten note on the back: "Call when you're ready. Not before."
Ready for what? Building a team, taking the leap from engineer to owner, or asking people to invest in a vision that existed only in his head?
Jack pocketed the cards and stared out the window.
He'd been in this timeline for four months. Four months of building credibility at Brabham, learning the sport's brutal realities, understanding what separated success from failure. Four months of avoiding the one conversation he knew he'd eventually have to face.
The bus rolled past a newsagent, the evening papers visible through the window. One headline screamed, 'LAUDA DOMINATES BRAZIL OPENER.' Another declared, 'HUNT'S TITLE CHALLENGE ENDS IN SMOKE.'
Jack thought about Niki Lauda, four months from his near-death, and James Hunt, destined to win a championship by a single point in one of the sport's most dramatic seasons. About all the things he knew were coming but couldn't change.
And he thought about what he could change. What he could build. What opportunities existed in this era before the sport became sanitized, commercialized, before the money got so big that small operations couldn't compete.
1976 was the pivot point. The last era of gentleman racers and garage-built specials before corporate F1 took over. If he was going to build something, it had to be now; in five years, the opportunity would be gone.
But building something meant capital. And capital meant going home, sitting across from Howard and Margaret Hartley, and asking them to gamble their life savings on his ambition.
The thought made him feel sick.
But Pace's words kept echoing: "Finding people who believe in what you're building before there's evidence it will work."
Maybe that's where it had to start: not with Brazilian investors or Italian engine facilities or carbon brake technology, but with family. With the two people who'd sacrificed to give him an education, a stable start, a foundation to build from.
With the hardest conversation he'd ever have to have.
Jack pulled the cord for his stop. Derby station meant a local train to Long Eaton, then a fifteen-minute walk to Number 47 Church Street, the house where Howard and Margaret—his parents—lived.
He stepped off the bus into the cold January evening, collar pulled tight, and started walking toward the station.
He needed to go home and find out if the foundation he'd been building was strong enough to support what came next.
Or if asking for that support would destroy it entirely.
The train platform was nearly empty, just a few commuters waiting in the cold. Jack bought his ticket and stood by the tracks, watching his breath mist in the air.
Tomorrow, he'll face his parents. Tomorrow, he'd find out if ambition was enough, or if family would choose safety over dreams.
Tomorrow, everything might change.
The train's headlight appeared in the distance, growing brighter as it approached.
Jack squared his shoulders and waited.