The Switzerland Grand Prix (01/24 Races ) Practice Session No 1 .
The sky roared, a primal scream tearing through the heavens as James Hunt, a prodigy at seventeen, piloted his Falconcrest Racing Jet No. 7, its black-and-gold livery slicing through the clouds like a blade through silk. The Switzerland Grand Prix Air Track was a beast of a course, a labyrinth of jagged Alpine peaks, shimmering valleys, and a treacherous stretch over the glassy expanse of Lake Geneva. The jet's engines howled, their thunder reverberating off the snow-draped mountains, sending avalanches tumbling in their wake. The air was sharp, cold, and electric with anticipation, as if the very atmosphere knew it was witnessing history.
Inside the cockpit, James was a portrait of focus, his emerald eyes locked on the racing line ahead. His helmet gleamed under the cockpit's dim glow, beads of sweat tracing paths down his temple. The jet vibrated beneath him, alive, a beast he had tamed but never fully trusted. The Switzerland Grand Prix Air Track was no ordinary circuit. It demanded precision, daring, and a touch of madness. The course wove through the razor-edged peaks of the Matterhorn, dipped into the shadowed canyons of Zermatt, and then exploded outward over the open sea of Lake Geneva, where pilots skimmed so close to the water that their jets left ripples in their wake. One wrong move, and the mountains would claim you—or the lake would swallow you whole.
"Sector One, 48.58 seconds!" crackled the voice of Elliot Voss, Falconcrest Racing's lead strategist, through James's headset. His tone was a mix of awe and urgency, the kind of voice that carried the weight of a team's dreams. "Fastest of the session, James. Fastest ever. How's the jet feeling?"
James's gloved hands tightened on the controls, his heart pounding in sync with the jet's pulse. The machine was a marvel, its sleek frame cutting through the air at 400 kilometers per hour, but he felt every imperfection. "Feels fast," he said, his voice steady but laced with a restless edge. "But the wings… they're sluggish on the turns. We need them sharper, Elliot. Tighter. I'm losing milliseconds in the canyons."
"Noted," Elliot replied, his voice a lifeline in the chaos. "We'll tweak the aero package. Focus on Sector Two now. Your record's 1:09.58, purple sector. Keep it pinned, mate."
The jet screamed as James banked hard, threading the needle through the Canalas of Zermatt, a series of jagged mountain passes so narrow the wingtips seemed to graze the granite walls. Sparks flew as the jet's undercarriage kissed the rock, a fleeting flirtation with disaster. The crowd below, a sea of faces dotting the slopes, gasped as one, their cheers drowned by the sonic boom that shattered the air as James broke the sound barrier. The mountains trembled, loose shale cascading in a deadly rain, but James didn't flinch. His focus was absolute, his world reduced to the HUD's glowing lines and the rhythm of his own breath.
The jet emerged from the canyons, bursting into the open sky above Lake Geneva. The water below was a mirror, reflecting the jet's black-and-gold streak like a comet's tail. James pushed the throttle, dropping the jet so low that waves danced beneath its belly, the spray catching the sunlight in a prismatic burst. The speed was intoxicating, a rush that burned through his veins, but James's mind was cold, calculating. He saw the racing line in his mind's eye, a golden thread guiding him through the chaos. The jet carved a hard right, the G-forces pressing him into his seat, his vision tunneling as the world blurred into streaks of blue and green.
"Sector Two cleared!" Elliot's voice broke through, trembling with excitement. "1:08.92, James! You're shredding it! Head for the U-turn, then it's the final stretch. Push it!"
The U-turn loomed ahead, a brutal hairpin over the lake that separated the fearless from the forgotten. James gritted his teeth, his jaw tight as he yanked the controls. The jet groaned, its frame straining under the impossible angle, wings slicing through the air like a falcon's talons. The crowd on the shore erupted, their roars a distant echo as the jet skimmed the water, so close that James could see his own reflection in the lake's surface—a fleeting ghost of a boy chasing greatness.
He crossed the finish line, the jet's scream fading into a triumphant hum. The grandstands exploded, flags waving, horns blaring, as the crowd chanted his name: "Hunt! Hunt! Hunt!" James's breath hitched, but his face remained a mask of calm, his emotions locked behind a wall of discipline.
"What's the lap time, Elliot?" he asked, his voice low, almost detached, as if the answer was just another data point.
Elliot's response was electric, charged with disbelief. "1:39.49, James. Track record. Pole position. You're P1, mate. P1!"
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, but James's lips barely twitched. "Hmm. Good work, team," he said, his tone cool, almost clinical. "But I'm not happy."
Elliot's voice faltered, caught off guard. "Not happy? James, you just obliterated the record. What's eating you?"
"It's practice," James said, the words sharp, cutting through the static. "Not a race win. We haven't won anything yet. I'm landing now."
"Alright, bring her in," Elliot said, his tone softening, tinged with concern. "You did good, kid. Real good."
James guided the jet toward the grid lane, the engines shifting to a low, guttural hum as he activated the vertical landing system. The jet's rotation thrusters roared, kicking up clouds of dust and gravel as it descended with surgical precision. The landing was flawless, the jet settling onto the tarmac like a predator at rest. The Falconcrest Racing tower rolled forward, its crew a swarm of orange-clad figures hooking the jet to tow it back to the paddock.
The cockpit canopy hissed open, and James stepped out, peeling off his helmet to reveal a face flushed with exertion. Sweat glistened on his brow, his dark hair matted, but his eyes burned with an intensity that silenced the crew. They gathered around, clapping, their faces alight with pride, but James's smile was fleeting, almost reluctant. He took the towel offered by a mechanic, wiping his face as he scanned the team. "Don't get too happy," he said, his voice low but firm, carrying the weight of a leader far beyond his years. "It's just practice. We win the race, then we celebrate. I'm taking a break. Prep the jet for another run. We're beating that time."
The crew exchanged glances, their excitement tempered by his words. James turned, striding toward the resting room, his boots echoing on the tarmac. The air was thick with the scent of jet fuel and anticipation, the mountains looming like silent judges over the paddock.
In the commentary booth, David , the voice of the Grand Prix, leaned into his microphone, his voice a crescendo of awe. "Ladies and gentlemen, what we've just witnessed is nothing short of historic! James Hunt, the seventeen-year-old rookie, the youngest pilot ever to grace the Switzerland Grand Prix Air Track, has shattered the lap record with a blistering 1:39.49!" His co-commentator, Glory , chimed in, her voice trembling with excitement. "This is a statement, David. A declaration. Is this the rise of a new legend? Falconcrest Racing has found a diamond in James Hunt."
Across the paddock, in the Rolls-Royce AeroVanta garage, Maverick Steele, their veteran pilot, stared at the leaderboard, his weathered face breaking into a rare, predatory smile. The numbers glowed: 1:39.49. He turned to his crew chief, his voice low, almost a growl. "What was that kid doing before he got here? Who is he?"
Chapter ends here