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Prologue
Summer, 1967
“He’s a menace. The officials should bar him from racing.”
Giacomo Bravetti turned from the hydroplane race where Rodrigo Valente’s boat had just forced its way inside of another craft to gain speed around the turn, their sponsons passing within inches of each other, and smiled at his younger brother. “You’re just upset you’re not out there with them.”
“I should be. If Valente hadn’t damaged my hull last week…” Nico’s glare could have ignited the motorboat fuel into a fireball, although minor crashes like the one he’d had with Valente were commonplace in the sport. At least one racer was sitting out for repairs at every meet, but Nico had no patience when he was the one with no ride. “Jeffrey’s right behind him. But he’s too conservative. He could catch him if he opened up the throttle a little more.”
Giacomo glanced at Jeffrey Middlemarch’s bright yellow motorboat. Its sponsons slapped the water as it rounded the buoy then rose out of the water in the straightaway. Unlike his boat-crazy brother, Giacomo’s interest in hydroplane design was academic, the subject just one of the many facets of racing he’d analyzed and mastered to understand his brother’s obsession.
He shook his head. “It’s riding rough. I don’t think he’s quite got the new design perfected.”
“That’s just because he’s behind the others, crossing their wakes.”
They watched in silence, the thundering roar of the aircraft engines powering the approaching boats making further discussion impossible, even drowning out the amplified voice of the announcer calling the race. Giacomo narrowed his gaze on Jeffrey’s boat as a dark green challenger sped alongside it. An American by the name of Michaelson, he had only joined the European circuit this year, but his different style of driving had already caused quite a stir. The yellow boat rocked, losing precious seconds, and the challenger flew past.
The four leaders circled the near turn in a tight pack, the two remaining boats in the heat charging down the straightaway well behind them with no hope of a win.
Valente’s bright red boat surged forward as he opened the throttle to full power. At over a hundred miles per hour, the craft was a red blur.
His wake pushed the white boat behind him to the right just as the green boat tried to pass. The American swerved to avoid him and caught the tip of his sponson in the chop. The green boat spun out of control, crashing into the rear of the white boat.
Both boats broke apart, their drivers thrown from the wreckage by the force of the collision. A collective gasp of horror rose from the crowd as thousands of spectators held their breaths, waiting to see if the drivers were all right. The announcer’s voice called out the details of the crash in hushed tones. Jeffrey cut his speed and circled wide around the accident.
The driver of the white boat surfaced, clinging to one of his sponsons, and waved at the crowd, signaling that he was not injured. A cheer went up, cut short by the announcer’s curt, “There’s a body in the water. Michaelson is floating among the wreckage of the Sweet Liberty and he’s not moving.”
Giacomo stiffened, adding his silent prayer to those he knew the crowd around him was saying. Minor crashes were common in the sport and spinouts or flips could easily destroy hundreds of thousands of dollars in equipment. As soon as they could get another boat in the water, the teams would be racing again. But very few men had the courage and skill required to drive a thunderboat, and any serious injury sent shock waves through the racing community.
The accident had taken mere seconds and Jeffrey’s boat was just now rounding the debris. Instead of resuming the race and trying to catch Valente, he dove into the water and swam to the unconscious driver, turning him over and holding his head above water. A bright red flare burst in the sky as the officials halted the race.
Giacomo could barely see the two men bobbing amid the waves and scattered debris. A chunk of debris briefly blocked his view and he hoped it hadn’t hit them. But Jeffrey managed to keep his hold on the other man until the rescue boats arrived and Michaelson could be loaded into an inflatable stretcher.
The rescue team fastened the stretcher down, their every move described by the announcer. Then one of the rescuers raised his arm, signaling the shore.
“Michaelson has opened his eyes,” the announcer reported, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
Giacomo let out his breath in relief and turned to smile at his brother. Nico was cheering and waving like the rest of the crowd.
Jeffrey declined the rescuers’ assistance and climbed back into his boat. As he turned his craft to shore, only his left hand was on the wheel. The announcer reported this development, speculating that his right arm might have been injured while he was in the water. If that were true, he wouldn’t be able to race in the rematch.
“I’ve got to get down there,” Nico cried, race fever burning in his eyes. “He’ll need a substitute driver.”
“There’s no hurry. It will take at least an hour to clear the course.”
Giacomo could have saved his breath. Telling Nico there was no reason to hurry was about as useful as telling a hurricane there was no reason to blow so hard. He lived for speed.
Shaking his head, Giacomo followed his brother more slowly through the crowd, pausing to speak to the business acquaintances who were his reason for attending the race. By the time he reached the Middlemarch
pit crew, Nico was already suited up and in Jeffrey’s boat.
The announcer reported that Michaelson had been examined at the hospital. X-rays showed he had two cracked ribs but otherwise he would be fine. A second hearty cheer rose from the crowd, drowning out his next words and rendering the five-minute horn barely audible.
Giacomo waved at his brother who returned the salute before starting the boat’s engine and motoring toward the starting line. Jeffrey stood beside him, silently watching his boat queuing up for the race.
“Your first heat looked rough,” Giacomo said. “Are you sure the new design was tested enough?”
Jeffrey startled, whirling to face him. “I didn’t see you there.”
The crack of the starter’s pistol silenced any further conversation as the four remaining boats opened their throttles and roared down the straightaway. Valente’s red boat surged into the lead with Jeffrey’s yellow boat at his side. Slowly Nico edged forward, running neck and neck with Valente then beginning to pass him.
They thundered up to the first turn buoy. Giacomo frowned. Valente was on the inside and would gain precious tenths of a second in the turn.
“He’s not throttling back enough,” Jeffrey muttered beside him.
As Valente slowed for the turn, Nico shot past him. He cut sharply, the yellow boat rocking violently as the sponsons bounced over the waves. The nose dipped, brushing the surface of the water and Giacomo’s heart clenched as he realized his brother was losing control of his boat.
The world slowed and sound became a meaningless roar as Giacomo watched helpless. The front of Nico’s boat submerged, caught in the water, and the heavy engine thrust the rear of the boat into the air, flipping it over to crash upside down. The sponsons separated and the deck splintered, the boat snapping in two between the cockpit and engine compartment. The heavier engine section quickly sank.
“Come on, Nico,” Giacomo whispered. “Get out of the cockpit.”
But his brother did not appear.
