The car rocked back and forth, as the last of its energy slowly dissipated.
All that could be heard was Cunzer’s very sick engine — just about turning over, but in the process of grinding itself to pieces. Soon, it, too, spluttered to silence. Vapour or smoke started billowing out from somewhere within the car. Finally, there was stillness.
Cunzer did not move. His body and head were simply hanging vertically — upside-down against his harness — from the upside-down car.
Marshals started running in immediately. Astutely, one of them ran back up the track towards the Fairmont Tunnel frantically waving double yellow flags as a warning to any cars still out on the circuit that might be racing down the hill towards the Chicane.
Marshals ran to Cunzer’s stricken Ptarmigan.
There was still no sign of life from the driver.
Just as one of the marshals took charge and started directing the others, there was a massive explosion. Cunzer’s fuel tank erupted, sending out a deafening shock wave and a huge ball of orange flame, engulfing the car and driver.
Cunzer was completely hidden by fire. Viewers were hit with instant déjà vu — of Jos Verstappen at Hockenheim.
Stoically, the lead marshal recovered from the shock of the explosion and retook command. Charging forward with a fire extinguisher, he blasted white foam in front of him as he waded into the fireball towards the cockpit. Other marshals, taking their lead from this astonishing selflessness, followed on — first, though, blasting their jets of white foam over their colleague, and then over the car and the stricken driver.
The flames were put out remarkably quickly.
Moments later blaring sirens could be heard. Two ambulances and a fire engine were belting down the Avenue Président J. F. Kennedy, while another emergency vehicle approached from the other direction, from under the Fairmont tunnel. Screeching to a halt, paramedics jumped out of the first ambulance and sprinted towards the crash.
With the fire out, one of the marshals had ducked under the upside-down car, cautiously peering up into the cockpit at the driver, dreading what he was going to find. Squatting beneath the car, he tried — still awkwardly — to look up underneath to assess the driver in the cockpit. A paramedic crouched down beside him. Attention was drawn to the blood pouring from the cockpit rim. Concerns of any danger from moving a suspected spinal injury, though, were surrendered to the greater fear of further explosions and fire — and the bleeding.
There was clearly no way to carry or support the driver’s weight up under the car — given the cramped space available.
The two men seemed to agree on a plan. The paramedic lowered himself on all fours directly underneath the car.
The marshal pushed his head up into the cockpit and prepared to release the harness, awaiting the order from the paramedic.
Click.
Under gravity, the inverted driver slid down out of the cockpit and landed on the paramedic’s back. Their plan seemed to have worked. Cunzer’s fall had been broken. Several other medics clustered round, helping the laden paramedic reverse out awkwardly from under the car with Cunzer’s limp body draped across his back. He crawled his way clear. A stretcher was brought up and put on the ground alongside. Foam blocks were placed around the driver’s head and neck to immobilize him. Cunzer’s vital signs were checked. Automatically, a mask, providing oxygen, was placed over his nose and mouth. Another medic, seeing the copious blood pouring from Cunzer’s leg, quickly pulled a tourniquet from his pocket and, slipping the rubber strap under the driver’s leg, connected the buckle assembly and pulled it flesh-distortingly tight around the top of his thigh.
Overhead came the high-pitched whine of a jet turbine. An emergency services helicopter swooped in over the harbour. It was able to put down on the area of road by the Chicane at a safe enough distance from the wreckage.
Seconds later, four medics lifted the stretcher and shuffle-walked the driver as fast as they could, subconsciously ducking under the rotors. Cunzer’s stretcher was manhandled aboard. No more than a moment later, the pitch on the rotors steepened and, with a blast of air out from under the disc, the helicopter lifted off the ground, swung round to face the sea, dipped its nose, pulled more pitch, and climbed rapidly up into the air, out over the harbour.
By the time he arrived at the Princesse Grace hospital, Cunzer hadn’t regained consciousness.
Understandably — and fittingly — Qualifying was suspended. It wasn’t until three hours later, in front of a mass of media congregating around the main entrance of the hospital, that a spokesman finally emerged to make a statement.
Within a matter of minutes of his arriving at the hospital, the doctor explained, Cunzer had been rushed into theatre. After two hours on the operating table he had been moved into intensive care. Still unconscious, none of the medical specialists yet knew of his mental condition — whether he had suffered any brain damage in the trauma of the crash.
But at least he was alive.
Just.
The mood around the circuit and pits was extraordinarily subdued. Nowhere more so than within Ptarmigan. Not only had they seen their colleague and friend go through such a horrific ordeal — but all minds were concerned about the cause. What did this mean for the reliability of the Ptarmigan cars? Would the same fate befall Sabatino, driving an identical machine?
The effect of all this was worse on those who knew about the sabotage. Was there a connection? Was this hideous accident just an accident? Or was Cunzer’s crash the intended result of malicious intervention?
Straker’s phone went. It was Backhouse: ‘What the fuck does Helli’s smash indicate?’ he asked. ‘What if there is a connection between that and the radio sabotage?’
Straker realized he needed to strike the right balance here. He was anxious they maintained a high level of vigilance, but that they were not alarmist — not least given Sabatino’s scepticism and irritation over the sabotage issue. ‘We don’t yet know the cause of his crash,’ he said. ‘Presumably we will carry out a full investigation on the wreckage?’
‘So you do suspect a connection?’
‘I do — if only for the sake of motivating us to take the right precautions. I would far rather we did something and were wrong than we did nothing and were proved complacent.’
‘Should we not talk this through with Remy, then? To make her take the threat seriously?’
Straker couldn’t deny that this accorded with his professional view. ‘I’ll leave that to you, Andy. You know her, and have the advantage of not being an interloper whom she seems to distrust.’
Straker wasn’t told whether Backhouse did say anything about the possible causes of the crash. Sabatino had shut herself away in the back of the pit lane garage.
She sat with her head down, trying to shut the drama surrounding her teammate out of her mind.
She couldn’t let it affect her.
If she did, she might never get back in a cockpit again.
TEN
After Helli Cunzer’s horrific crash, there was much discussion between the powers that be. Eventually, the decision was taken to restart Qualifying — spun aggressively to the press, media and watching world as the sport paying tribute to the bravery and spirit of one of its most promising young drivers.
Qualifying Three finally got under way.
But Straker soon realized that Cunzer’s crash hadn’t affected everybody. It hadn’t affected Ptarmigan’s curse.
Midway through Q3, Straker got his first real scent of the saboteur.