The red lights came on, and the formation lap started round the 3.2 mile circuit.
From pole, Sabatino led the field slowly away. As pole sitter, she should have a major advantage. So long as she was in the lead, she would have clear air in front of her. All the others behind would have the misery of trying to see and drive through everyone else’s spray. And two, three rows back — in the dark, to boot — it would be almost impossible to see more than fifty feet ahead. These conditions would dilute the commitment of some drivers. To capitalize on this significant advantage, all Sabatino needed to do — really — was keep ahead of Paddy Aston into Turn One. If she came through that unscathed, she would have the unique advantage of clear vision for the rest of the circuit. Her anxiety rested on the speed with which the car would reach all its operating windows and the ability of the tyres to grip through the surface water.
Round they went on the parade lap, all feeling for just how far they could push their cars — and themselves — in these conditions. Even with the usual short sprints and swerves to raise the temperatures, the cars were frequently losing control, prompting the drivers to back right off.
Forming up again, the race was soon ready to start. Still the rain fell. Every wet surface was given a diamond-like sheen and sparkled in the intensity of the arc- and floodlights.
The first red light came on.
Then the second.
Fifteen thousand horsepower screamed into the night, as the sound of the engines bounced off Singapore’s high-rise buildings.
Three lights. Four.
All five lights were now lit.
Then … they all went out.
GO!
Sabatino released the car and started accelerating, feeling every nanosecond for any loss of traction through the rear wheels. She shot forward. Changing up, she applied more power. God bless the Ptarmigan. It was accepting the monstrous power without complaint. On she accelerated.
In the mirror, she snatched a glance behind. Her spray ballooned up into the air. Let’s hope Aston’s getting a visor-full, she thought to herself as she refocused on the corner ahead. The car was up to eighty miles an hour. Water was still lying on the surface of the track.
She claimed the racing line into Turn One.
After the first corner, Sabatino grabbed another rearward glance. She saw exactly what she had hoped for. The rich purple livery of the Lambourn was very clearly confined to her wake.
She’d done it!
Gingerly, Sabatino opened up out of Turn Three — feeling for both the grip behind and the responsiveness of the steering in front. So far, she was comfortable. Marginally up on qualifying speed from yesterday, she was a long way down on the lap record.
Even with the significant advantage of clear air, she still had the disadvantage of a sodden track.
On the fourth lap came the very faintest hint of a drying racing line — just about visible on the surface of the road. By lap eight, it was becoming more pronounced. By lap twelve, the dry line was pretty much permanent, despite the continuing fall of rain.
While good news from a grip point of view, this triggered a new dilemma. Sabatino’s intermediate tyres, on the dry line, were starting to degrade fast — they were getting far too hot and blistering badly. She took the precaution of moving off the dry line while on the straights, to drive through wetter parts of the track to keep her tyres cool.
‘When do we switch to drys?’ Straker heard her ask Treadwell over the radio.
‘It’ll cost us in strategy — if we stop so soon.’
‘Sure. But these tyres are dying. What if we fuel for a longer middle stint?’
‘We’ll run the numbers.’
Over the air Straker heard the team talking to each other. Those in the headquarters truck were immediately talking through the trade-offs between being faster on dry tyres, heavier with extra fuel on board, as well as estimating the position Sabatino would feed back into after a stop to change the tyres.
Suddenly everything changed.
There was commotion and lots of radio traffic.
Aston had dived into the pits — throwing down the gauntlet.
He was clearly making an early dash for drys and taking a chance on the racing line staying dry.
‘Remy? Paddy’s in — Paddy’s in — we’ll bring you in next lap. We need to try and estimate his fuel level.’
All the Ptarmigan team members in the headquarters truck and on the prat perch followed Aston’s purple car into the pit box. Stop watches were triggered the moment the Lambourn came to a halt. Aston’s mechanics removed the intermediates, replaced them with drys. In the artificial light, the crew seemed to move as a blur.
‘Drys — definitely drys,’ shouted Treadwell over the radio. ‘How long?’
The Lambourn rigger was still pumping fuel into the car. He heaved the ring around the nozzle up and lifted the hose away. The lollipop man swivelled the paddle. And then lifted it clear. Aston powered out of his box, slewing the back end as he made for the exit of the pit lane.
‘Nine seconds. He’s going for a long middle session — long — around thirty laps.’
‘Right,’ called Sabatino. ‘I’m coming in next lap. Drys, and let’s fuel for thirty-five.’
Treadwell acknowledged her shortly afterwards.
‘Okay. Where would that put me back in?’
Treadwell paused as he studied the electronic plot of the cars around the circuit, and used the touch screen commands to run some “what ifs” through the computer. ‘It would put you in behind Aston. He’s already lapping at one forty nine, three seconds faster.’
‘Okay, let’s do it now, and let’s do it quickly.’
Less than a minute later Sabatino was into the pits. Her crew executed a perfect stop. She was out in a matter of seconds on drys, fuelled for thirty-five laps. She regained the race in tenth position, three places behind Aston on the circuit.
Within half a lap, as the new tyres bedded in, she was significantly faster than the intermediate runners around her. On the next lap she overtook three cars, without breaking a sweat. The difference between the two tyres in these conditions was huge.
But Paddy Aston, of course, was benefiting equally up ahead of her — slicing through what were the soon-to-be backmarkers.
In response to the leaders’ clearly successful switch to drys, the other cars started peeling away, each one coming into the pits to do the same. Within three laps, the race order had shaken down — all the front runners having switched to the faster tyre. The order ran: Aston, Sabatino, Luciano, Mercedes, Ferrari, Cunzer and Barrantes.
The race continued. Aston should have been able to make ground on Sabatino by virtue of being five laps’ lighter in fuel. Sabatino was able to keep in touch, though — still holding on to P2.
Twenty laps later, everything changed.
Again — dramatically.
Treadwell had been asking — just about every minute of the race — for updates from the weather guys in the headquarters truck. They were now ready to make a significant call. ‘Remy, we’re forecasting heavy rain — imminently.’
‘How heavy?’
‘Heavy.’
Straker was able to switch one of his screens over to the same one as Treadwell.
‘Let’s go intermediates, now,’ she ordered. ‘I’m beginning to lose out to Paddy anyway. Let’s take a punt on the rain. I’m coming in.’
A lap later Sabatino had pitted, switching back to intermediates, and fuelled to the end of the race.
Within three-quarters of a lap on the new cold tyres, she pushed the car back up to race pace.