The sky above Falconcrest Industries' private airfield in 2020 was a tapestry of fire, the horizon ablaze with hues of crimson and gold as the sun bled into dusk. A deafening roar shattered the stillness, the sleek, obsidian form of a prototype stealth fighter jet tearing through the heavens like a comet. James Hunt, test pilot and heir to the Falconcrest legacy, gripped the controls, his pulse hammering in sync with the jet's thunderous engines. This wasn't just a test flight—it was a communion, a moment where man and machine became one, defying gravity, time, and doubt. The jet, built for the U.S. military, was a marvel, but it bucked against his commands, a wild stallion demanding to be tamed.
Below, Jacobs Hunt stood on the tarmac, his weathered face etched with pride and dread. His hands clenched at his sides, eyes tracking the jet's every move—a darting shadow weaving through clouds. His son was up there, his heart, his blood, dancing with death in a machine of his own making. Each loop, each dive, sent a shiver through Jacobs' spine, his breath catching as he whispered a silent prayer: Come back to me, James.
The jet descended, its landing gear kissing the runway with a precision that masked the chaos of its flight. James emerged from the cockpit, his flight suit damp with sweat, his face alight with a fire that burned brighter than the fading sun. He strode toward his father, his steps purposeful, his eyes blazing with the thrill of survival. The air between them hummed with unspoken love, a bond forged in years of shared dreams and quiet fears.
"How's she handle, son?" Jacobs' voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed him, searching James' face for reassurance that he was whole, unharmed. He needed to know his boy had conquered the beast.
James tugged off his helmet, revealing a grin that was equal parts triumph and defiance. "She's a rocket, Dad. Faster than anything we've built. But the maneuvers…" He shook his head, his voice tinged with frustration. "She fights me on every turn. It's like trying to steer a storm. We've got work to do before she's ready for combat."
Jacobs nodded, his jaw tight, his heart still racing from watching his son defy the odds. "Cost? The generals will want numbers."
"Forty-five million per jet," James said, his tone brisk, already shifting focus. "I'll get the specs to Finn. He's the builder; I'm the one who finds the flaws—and fixes them." His words carried a quiet confidence, the kind born from countless hours in the cockpit, wrestling machines that could kill in a heartbeat.
Jacobs' lips curved into a faint smile, pride swelling in his chest. His boys—James and Finn—were his world, two halves of a legacy he'd built from nothing. "You've got something else on your mind, don't you?" he asked, reading the flicker of hesitation in James' eyes.
James met his father's gaze, his grin fading into something deeper, more resolute. "Yeah, Dad. Let's talk in your office."
The office was a fortress of steel and glass, perched atop Falconcrest Industries' sprawling complex. Blueprints of revolutionary jets lined the walls, each a testament to Jacobs' vision. He sank into his leather chair, its familiar creak a grounding force in the storm of emotions brewing within him. James settled onto the sofa, his posture relaxed but his eyes intense, like a pilot scanning the horizon for danger.
"Out with it, son," Jacobs said, his voice low, almost reverent. He braced himself, sensing the weight of James' words before they were spoken.
James leaned forward, his hands clasped, his gaze unwavering. "Dad, you love formula jet racing, don't you?" His voice was soft, but it carried a current of longing, a plea wrapped in a question.
Jacobs' brow furrowed, caught off guard. "It's one of my passions, yeah. Why now, James?" His tone was cautious, a father's instinct sensing a turning point. He'd shared that love with his son, teaching him to race cars as a boy, but this felt different—dangerous.
James took a deep breath, his words spilling out like a confession held too long. "What if I entered formula jet racing, Dad?"
The room seemed to contract, the air heavy with the weight of those words. Jacobs' face hardened, his smile vanishing as fear clawed at his heart. The thought of his son in a formula jet—a machine where a single mistake meant obliteration—sent a chill through him. "James, this isn't a joke. Don't play with me."
"I'm not playing, Dad." James' voice trembled with passion, his eyes glistening with a fire that refused to be dimmed. "You taught me to chase what sets my soul on fire. Flying jets, racing them—it's in my blood. I don't just want to test jets. I want to race them. To feel them, to live through them." He leaned closer, his voice breaking with raw emotion. "I'm not just your son, Dad. I'm a pilot. And I need to prove it—not to you, but to the world. To myself."
Jacobs leaned back, his chair groaning under the weight of his thoughts. He saw himself in James—the same relentless drive, the same hunger to carve a name in history. But he also saw the cost, the fragility of life in a sport where death was a constant shadow. "You're already flying, son. You're pushing limits every day up there." He gestured toward the window, where the runway stretched into the twilight, a stage for triumphs and terrors.
"It's not enough," James said, his voice a mix of defiance and desperation. "Testing is control, precision. Racing is… it's freedom. It's me and the jet, one heartbeat, one soul. You showed me what it means to race, Dad. You put me behind the wheel when I was ten, taught me to feel the road, the speed. Now I want the sky."
Jacobs' eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a near-growl. "And you're making me regret every second of it. Formula jet racing isn't like cars, James. Formula One, IndyCar—they've got safety nets, roll cages, a chance to walk away. Formula jets? One wrong move, and you're gone. Zero percent survival rate." His hands gripped the armrests, knuckles white. "I won't sit in front of a TV, watching my son risk everything, wondering if he'll come back to me."
James' eyes shone with unshed tears, his voice trembling but resolute. "Dad, I know the risks. I know I have everything—money, fame, the business, a family who loves me. But this…" He pressed a hand to his chest, his voice cracking. "This is what makes me alive. I'm not just the rich kid from Falconcrest. I'm James Hunt, and I need to prove it. Not to be Verstappen or Senna or Lewis or Maverick. To be me." He paused, his gaze locking with his father's. "You taught me to fly, to race, to dream. Now let me live it. Please."
The silence that followed was a chasm, filled with the weight of a father's fear and a son's dream. Jacobs' heart ached, torn between pride and terror, love and dread. He stood, his movements slow, deliberate, and crossed to the sofa, sitting beside his son. The distance between them vanished, replaced by a bond that words could barely capture.
He reached for the chain around his neck, a silver locket he'd worn since James was born. His fingers trembled as he unclasped it and pressed it into James' hand. "Open it," he whispered.
James obeyed, revealing a heart-shaped jewel encasing a photo—himself, Finn, their mother Olivia, and Jacobs, laughing under a summer sky. It was a relic of their love, a talisman against the dangers ahead.
"No words can stop you, can they?" Jacobs' voice was thick with emotion, barely above a whisper. "You're my son, James. My heart. I built these jets, but you… you give them life. Promise me—promise me you'll put your safety above winning, above everything."
James' grip tightened on the locket, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I promise, Dad. I swear I'll come back to you. Every time." His voice was a vow, a sacred bond between father and son.
Jacobs nodded, his throat too tight for words. "Talk to Finn and your mother. Get their blessing. I'll… make the arrangements for you to race."
James' face lit up, a grin breaking through his tears like sunlight through storm clouds. "Dad, really? I love you!" He paused, his voice softening. "Can I build my own race jet? Something that's mine?"
Jacobs chuckled, a sound laced with pride and pain. "Go on, kid. Build your legacy."
James bolted from the room, his footsteps echoing with uncontained joy. Jacobs turned to the window, watching his son sprint across the tarmac, a figure of boundless energy against the fading light. His heart twisted, a father's love warring with a father's fear.Please, James, don't make me regret this.
January 23, 2021. Switzerland. The Hunt Family Estate.
The living room was a cocoon of warmth, the television casting flickering shadows across the walls. James' jet, Falco, soared across the screen, a sleek predator slicing through the Swiss Alps in a practice session for the formula jet championship. Jacobs sat on the edge of the couch, his eyes glued to the screen, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles ached. The commentator's voice was a distant buzz, drowned out by the roar of his own heartbeat.
"James Hunt, the rookie from Falconcrest Racing, is setting the Alps on fire with lap times that defy belief. But can this heir to an empire prove he's more than a silver spoon in a cockpit?"
Jacobs' jaw clenched, his blood boiling at the words. They saw his son as a spoiled rich kid, but he knew the truth: James was a force, a pilot who flew with his soul, not his wallet. Every turn, every dive, was a testament to his skill, his heart.
Olivia entered, her presence a quiet storm of maternal worry. She settled beside Jacobs, her eyes flicking to the screen. "How long are you going to stare at that screen, Jacob?" Her voice was sharp, but it trembled, betraying her fear. She was a mother watching her son flirt with death, her heart a battlefield of love and dread.
Finn leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, his face a mirror of his parents' unease. "We all gave him our blessing, Mom," he said softly. "He's doing what he loves. I just pray he comes home safe, not just victorious."
The room fell silent, the weight of their shared fear a palpable force. Three days until qualifying. Three days of holding their breath, of praying their boy would defy the odds.
The Paddock. Falconcrest Racing.
The Swiss paddock was a symphony of chaos, the air thick with the scent of jet fuel and scorched metal. James stood before Falco, his race jet, its sleek lines gleaming under the floodlights like a panther ready to pounce. He ran his hand along its fuselage, his fingers tracing the crimson letters of its name: FALCO. This wasn't just a jet—it was his partner, his confidant, the vessel of his dreams. He leaned closer, his voice a low, fervent whisper, as if sharing a secret with a friend.
"They think I'm nothing, Falco," he murmured, his eyes burning with defiance. "Just a rich kid playing with Daddy's toys. They throw names at me—Verstappen, Senna, Maverick—like I'm chasing their shadows. But I'm not them. I'm James Hunt." His hand tightened into a fist, his voice rising with a fierce resolve. "I'll show them. I'll burn my name into the sky, not with money, but with every turn, every dive, every heartbeat we share. You're my wings, Falco. I trust you. Let's make them eat their words."
He stepped back, his silhouette stark against the glowing jet, and strode to his quarters. The door clicked shut, sealing him in with his thoughts. He closed his eyes, the hum of the paddock fading, replaced by the roar of engines in his mind. Tomorrow, he'd face the world—not as Jacobs Hunt's son, but as a racer forging his own destiny.
Chapter Ends.