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.
U nderstandably – 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.
T he 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 irritationover 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.
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.
U nderstandably – 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.
T he 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 irritationover 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.
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