By mid-January, the Brabham BT45 had moved from drawings to reality.
The chassis sat on stands in the workshop, tubular steel gleaming under work lights. Fabricators welded brackets while Gordon Murray made last-minute adjustments with chalk on the concrete floor. The Alfa Romeo flat-twelve sat nearby—wide, low, aggressive. Its horizontal cylinders sprawled outward like something predatory waiting to be unleashed."
Jack had been assigned to Jack North's suspension group, working on geometry calculations and weight distribution analysis. It was grunt work—running numbers, checking drawings, documenting changes—but it gave him a window into how the car was coming together.
And it was coming together badly.
The flat-twelve sat low, creating an excellent center of gravity. But it was wide—eight inches broader than the Cosworth V8—forcing the entire rear of the chassis to expand. And heavy. Thirty kilograms heavier than last year's engine.
Gordon Murray's brilliance was evident in his packaging of the problematic powerplant, yet compromises were everywhere. A wider chassis meant increased frontal area and more drag. The extra weight would translate to harder tire wear, later braking, and slower acceleration. The low center of gravity might help in corners, but only if the team could dial in the weight distribution. They couldn't.
Over the next three weeks, Jack's time was spent verifying structural calculations North handed him—old data, repetitive stress analysis, documentation work that required minimal thought. "Urgent," North would claim, dropping another folder onto his desk. It never was.
The new graduate understood the dynamic: this was the true test. It wasn't an evaluation of his Cambridge-proven knowledge; it was a test of character. Would the university boy complain? Would he think himself above the tedious work?
Keeping his head down, Jack performed the work without complaint. While his hands moved through equations and his eyes scanned drawings, his mind was cataloging something more valuable: how 1975 Formula 1 actually operated.
What struck him most wasn't the engineering. It was the scale.
The entire Brabham operation fit inside one building. Gordon Murray performed aero calculations by hand at a drafting table, sketching flow patterns from memory and intuition. Jack North handled structures and manufacturing from a cramped, paper-strewn office that smelled of cigarette smoke and old coffee. Ralph Bellamy sketched wing profiles between other jobs. Sarah Fielding analyzed race data with a mechanical calculator and graph paper, her timing sheets stacked in precarious towers.
There was no HR department. No marketing beyond Bernie making phone calls and charming sponsors over lunch. Their "simulator" was Gordon sitting in a mock-up chassis, miming corner entries while someone read out lap times from a stopwatch.
Budget meetings happened in Bernie's office with a single ledger book. No spreadsheets. No financial projections. Just Bernie's sharp mind calculating how many more races they could afford if the Alfa deal fell through.
The environment was intimate, personal. Every decision was visible.
And it was fragile.
One bad season could kill the team. One lost sponsor, and the lights would go out. In that context, Bernie's Alfa Romeo deal made perfect sense—saving ninety thousand pounds wasn't just smart business; it was survival.
Watching it all, Jack cataloged patterns for when he'd build his own team.
January 15, 1976
The wind tunnel was tucked behind the main workshop: a converted warehouse with a drafty test section and a temperamental fan that Gordon Murray barely trusted. To help Ralph Bellamy run baseline tests on a half-scale model of the BT45, Jack had been sent there.
Ralph was alone when Hartley arrived, hunched over a drafting table covered in sketches. The drawings were elegant—clean lines, smooth curves, the mark of someone who understood not just how cars worked, but why.
"Those are excellent," Jack remarked quietly.
Ralph looked up, startled. "What?"
"Your designs." Nodding toward the table, Jack continued: "That wing endplate—clever way of keeping the flow attached."
Ralph's mouth twitched. "Gordon didn't think so. Said it was too tricky to make."
"Is it?"
"No," Ralph said flatly. "A few tweaks and it'd work fine. But Gordon's already decided."
A small, understanding smile crossed Jack's face, recognizing the frustration of good ideas lost to hierarchy.
Jack studied one of the sketches, keeping his voice casual "At Cambridge," he said, keeping his voice casual, "the aerospace department was focused on ground-effect aircraft. Something about minimizing induced drag by shaping wings close to a surface."
Ralph frowned, interested despite himself. "Aircraft? That's for wings, not cars. Completely different fluid dynamics."
"I know, probably nonsense," Jack said, shrugging it off. "It just made me wonder—most of the air that generates drag goes under the car, doesn't it? I wondered if anyone ever looked at that space as a shaping opportunity."
Looking back at his drawings, Ralph paused. His initial dismissal gave way to professional curiosity. He pulled a clean sheet of paper and quickly sketched the car's cross-section, then drew a simple, exaggerated inverted wing shape beneath the chassis.
His pencil stopped.
The potential was immediate. But so was the scale of verification required—extensive research, countless tests, mountains of data to prove the concept.
Sighing, he pushed the paper aside. "We're wasting time. Let's get the BT45 tests done."
They ran the scheduled tests after that, logging standard data and adjusting angles in the usual rhythm. Ralph was silent throughout, but every so often, Jack noticed him glance toward his drafting table, toward the clean sheet of paper he'd intentionally left visible.
When they packed up, Ralph folded his notes with unusual care.
"Thanks for the help," he said. "And the insight from Cambridge."
"Forget the insight," Jack countered. "You just confirmed my university professors weren't entirely wrong. It means there's more happening under the car than just a flat floor."
Studying the sketch, Ralph said slowly: "Theoretically, if you could accelerate the flow under the car, maintain attachment to the surface..." He shook his head. "But the testing required to prove it would take months. Gordon would never approve the tunnel time."
A faint smile crossed Jack's face. "It doesn't matter what Gordon approves. Running tests in this wind tunnel is your job. Use the downtime to try a few concepts; no one will know. Test your idea. Right now, this wind tunnel is a rarity in the F1 paddock. Use the downtime when Gordon's not watching. Test it while you can."
Jack didn't wait for a response. He simply turned and walked back toward the main workshop.
The thought was already alive in Ralph's head, quiet but persistent—an idea that would grow entirely on its own.
The technical review meeting happened on a cold Tuesday afternoon in late January.
No formal conference room—Gordon preferred sketching on the actual car rather than talking over drawings in an office. Jack North, Ralph Bellamy, Gordon, and a handful of senior engineers gathered around the BT45 chassis while Gordon explained his latest iteration.
Jack stood at the back of the group, notebook in hand. Junior engineers didn't speak in technical reviews unless asked.
"Weight distribution's still wrong," Jack North said, tapping the technical drawing spread across a nearby workbench. "We're at 48-52 front-to-rear. Should be 46-54 for optimal traction out of slow corners. But if we move weight further back, we compromise high-speed stability."
Gordon Murray frowned, tapping his pencil against the chassis rail. The sound echoed in the quiet workshop. "Push the fuel cell back six inches. That'll shift the balance."
"Can't." North shook his head. "Crash structure's in the way. FIA regulations won't allow it."
Silence.
The engineers stared at the chassis, stumped. Jack could feel the frustration radiating from the group—they were stuck on a fundamental problem with no obvious solution.
Jack had the answer. Having seen this exact problem solved at Benetton in the mid-'90s, he recognized the solution was elegant: disaggregate the systems. Instead of moving large components around and fighting regulatory constraints, they could move smaller components that regulations didn't care about.
The dilemma was immediate: speaking up could mark him as overconfident—a fresh graduate who thought he knew better than experienced engineers with decades in the sport. Or he could stay silent and watch them waste weeks on a problem he could solve in minutes.
Pragmatism, Bernie had said. That's what separates good engineers from great ones.
"I have an idea," Jack interjected.
North was sighing, running a hand through his thinning hair when he heard Jack's voice. Glancing at Jack, he snapped: "Not now, Professor Hartley. Unless you've suddenly redesigned the bulkhead, let the men who built the thing think."
Maintaining a steady voice, Jack refused to let North shut him down. "It's the oil reservoir," he said quietly.
Every head turned.
Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Sorry?"
"Right now it's mounted here, alongside the engine. What if we relocate it behind the driver, integrated into the chassis structure? Saves weight centrally, adds it at the rear where we need it. Maybe four to five kilograms in exactly the right place."
Jack North leaned closer, studying the chassis. Trying to object, he conceded: "Packaging would be tight..."
"We have clearance along the left-side chassis rail," Ralph Bellamy said, tracing the path with his finger. "I'd need to reroute the oil lines, but there's space."
Gordon Murray was silent for a long moment, eyes moving methodically from engine to chassis to drawings. Then, he pulled out his sketchpad and started drawing—fast, precise lines mapping out the relocation, calculating clearances, marking mounting points.
"Yeah," Murray said slowly, almost to himself. "Yeah, that works. Custom tank, integrate it into the chassis backbone here..." He sketched quickly. "Oil lines run inside the left chassis rail, protected from debris. Returns go over the engine, down through this gap..."
Looking up at Jack, Murray smiled: "Nicely done, Hartley. Most engineers would've tried to rework the major assemblies. You went the sensible route—broke the system down into parts and solved it from the inside out."
Jack North didn't look up from his drawing. "It's not exactly reinventing the wheel, is it?" he muttered, loud enough for Jack to hear.
"Just a plumbing change. Anyone with a wrench could've spotted that. But fine. Hartley," he addressed Jack, "run the full calculations. Weight savings, center of gravity shift, structural loads on the new tank mounting. If the numbers work, we'll implement it."
"Yes, sir."
With the meeting dispersed, Jack returned to his desk, hands shaking slightly.
He'd just influenced the design.
The BT45 was still fundamentally compromised—nothing could fix the core problems with the Alfa engine—but he'd proven his ability to contribute meaningfully. More importantly, he'd been careful. The oil reservoir relocation was a real solution, one used by various teams throughout the 1980s and 90s. He hadn't introduced anything anachronistic; he had simply applied existing principles in a novel way."Walk the line," he thought. "Help where you can. Don't change too much."Ten minutes later, Charlie Whiting appeared beside his desk, grinning."Didn't expect that from the new lad," Charlie said, glancing toward the chassis. "Gordon actually listened to you. That doesn't happen often.""I just saw a problem and suggested a solution.""Most people see problems and keep quiet because they don't want to look stupid. You saw a problem and fixed it." Leaning against the desk, Charlie's voice dropped lower. "You're going to go far here, Jack. Just... be careful. Some of the older lads don't like it when the young guy makes them look bad."Glancing across the workshop, Jack saw a few senior fabricators talking in low voices, occasionally looking in his direction. Their body language was clear: the new Cambridge graduate had just shown them up."Noted," Jack replied. "Thanks."Charlie clapped him on the shoulder and walked away.That evening, Jack stood in the empty workshop, listening to fluorescent lights hum overhead.
Twenty people. One building. Gordon's genius, Bernie's pragmatism, and a bank balance that could empty overnight.
This was the world to master before he could build his own. Not the corporate F1 he remembered from his original timeline, but something rawer. More fragile. More human.
Thinking of Howard Hartley, his father now, who'd spent forty years dreaming of this chance,
Jack knew what came next. "I need to prove myself first," He thought as he pulled his jacket tight. "Then I can start building."
Packing his bag, he looked around the workshop. The BT45 chassis gleamed under work lights. Tomorrow, fabricators would start building the custom oil reservoir based on his suggestion.
One month down. He'd proven his ability to contribute.
Now he needed to prove he could win.
His eyes moved to Bernie's office, where the lights were still on. Through the glass, he could see Bernie on the phone, gesturing sharply.
Making deals. Finding edges.
That's what Jack needed to do. Not just solve problems Bernie handed him—find his own edge.
Build his own advantage.