"KEN!" Arthur screamed, his voice cutting through the roar of flames and the sudden silence where the engine's thunder had been just moments before. He was already running toward the wreck before anyone could stop him, his engineering mind temporarily overwhelmed by pure human instinct.
The heat was incredible, even from fifty yards away. The magnesium components in the Zephyr's V12 engine were burning with an intense white flame that made it impossible to look directly at the wreckage. The smoke billowed thick and acrid, carrying the distinctive smells of burning rubber, fuel, and the sharp metallic odor of melting fiberglass and aluminium.
William found himself running alongside Arthur, his mind automatically cycling through the safety protocols they had meticulously established for exactly this scenario. The fire truck and ambulance, strategically positioned around the test track, were already speeding toward the crash site, their sirens wailing across the industrial complex. Their placement had been deliberate—not only to ensure rapid response, but also to keep the testing secure and private. The emergency crews knew a high-speed trial was scheduled, but they had no knowledge of what was being tested.
"Stay back!" Fire Chief Murphy shouted as his crew began deploying their specialized foam equipment. Murphy had seen his share of industrial accidents, but magnesium fires were a different beast entirely. "The magnesium is still burning water will only make it worse! We need to smother it with foam!"
The crash had happened so suddenly. One moment Ken Morrison was radioing back that he'd hit 210 mph on the back straight, his laced with excitement. The next, something had failed catastrophically—they couldn't tell from the grandstand—and the car had snapped sideways launching into a series of violent rolls before slamming into the concrete barrier and erupting in flames.
For twenty agonizing minutes, they fought the fire. Chief Murphy's crew worked with practiced efficiency, deploying the specialized foam in careful patterns to gradually smother the magnesium flames, while a sub crew was taking care of the oil fire dousing it with CO2. Meanwhile, the intense heat had melted much of the car's aluminium structure and turned the fiberglass body into a twisted, unrecognizable mass. When the smoke finally cleared, what remained bore no resemblance to the car that had been setting speed records just moments before.
The rescue crew worked with desperate efficiency to cut through the mangled roll cage When they finally reached Ken Morrison, he was unconscious but breathing steadily. His pulse was strong, and incredibly, there were no obvious signs of major trauma. The roll cage, harness and safety suit had done their job.
Ken Morrison was alive, and while he looked battered and would certainly be sore for weeks, he appeared to have escaped serious injury. It was nothing short of a miracle, and William felt a profound gratitude for his insistence on safety measures that others might have called excessive.
As the ambulance raced toward the hospital with Ken inside, William stood in the sudden silence that followed, looking at the smoking remains of their dream machine. The irony wasn't lost on him—the test had been a complete success right up until the catastrophic failure. They had proven that the car could break 200 mph, that their engineering was sound, that their vision was achievable. William knew inside that it was possible, but his team definitely had their doubts. No one had done it. So how could a small rag tag team do it? Today's test would show them that it was achievable, but it would be marred by the accident and bring more concerns and questions especially regarding safety from the team mates.
William noticed Mrs. Patterson approaching with the emergency crews.
"Get this moved to the factory immediately," William instructed her, gesturing toward the wreckage. " Keep a close eye on Ken's situation at the hospital. Let his family know we're covering all medical expenses—everything, including any rehabilitation he might need. And most importantly—" he paused, knowing how crucial this next part was, "don't let anything leak to the press. I don't want this on the news, in any newspapers, or anywhere else."
Mrs. Patterson nodded grimly, already making notes in her ever-present note pad.
The small crowd of Zephyr team, who had witnessed the crash stood in stunned silence, the magnitude of what they'd just seen slowly sinking in. These were men and women, who had worked on this car from scratch. But seeing their years of work reduced to twisted metal in a matter of seconds was sobering for everyone involved.
William turned toward his core engineering team and walked directly to Sam and Arthur, who were both staring at the wreckage with expressions with shock.
"Forty-eight hours," William said firmly, his voice carrying both authority and urgency. "Find me the root cause of this failure in forty-eight hours. I want to know what went wrong."
Sam wiped soot from his face with the back of his hand, leaving streaks across his cheek. "We'll go through the wreck and see what we can figure out."
William looked at Su.
"Can you rebuild it?" William asked, though he already knew the answer.
Su nodded without hesitation. "We have a spare engine block in the workshop and most of the drivetrain components. The body will take time to remake, but we have the molds and the specifications."
"Two months," William declared, "We have two months to rebuild and return to testing. Let's get to work."
The team nodded with grim determination. They had their questions and doubts. But their trust in William was enough to suppress it. At least for now. And beyond this, if anything, this setback had only strengthened their resolve. They had seen what was possible and they would not be denied. They had achieved the record, now the goal was to re do and sustain it.
As the crowd began to disperse and the cleanup crews took over, William felt a familiar weight settling on his shoulders. Accidents were an inevitable part of prototype testing—he knew this from his previous life where he had spent years in automobile industry. Every major manufacturer had experienced similar setbacks during the development of groundbreaking vehicles. The difference was that in his original timeline, computer simulation had become advanced enough by the 1990s to predict and prevent many catastrophic failures before they occurred in reality.
But this was 1961, and they were working with slide rules, wind tunnel testing, and educated guesswork. The kind of computational fluid dynamics and finite element analysis that would be commonplace in thirty years simply didn't exist yet. Every high-performance vehicle was, to some extent, an experiment. When you pushed the boundaries of what was possible with 1961 technology, failures were not just possible—they were inevitable. There was a reason why he had so many safety equipment installed.
Still, knowing this intellectually didn't make the emotional impact any easier to bear. William felt the familiar spiral of self-doubt beginning to take hold. The Zephyr was his design, built to his specifications and his requirements. Theoretically everything should work. While the logical part of his mind knew that pushing boundaries always involved risk, the part of him that cared deeply about the people working for him struggled with the knowledge that Ken Morrison could have died today.
He was lost in these troubled thoughts when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Liz standing beside him. She was dressed in a charcoal women's business suit that managed to be both professional and elegant, her hair perfectly styled. Even with minimal makeup, she looked stunning, but it was the concern in her green eyes that caught his attention.
"You don't need to blame yourself for this, William," she said softly, her voice carrying the kind of certainty that came from knowing someone well enough to read their thoughts. "This was not your fault, and you should actually be grateful that the accident happened here, under controlled conditions, rather than later when customers might have been driving these cars."
"I'm not blaming myself," he protested weakly, even as he recognized the futility of trying to deceive someone who knew him as well as Liz did. "I'm just... thinking through what went wrong."
"Yes, and I'm Miss Universe," she replied with an eye roll that somehow managed to be both exasperated and affectionate. "I know exactly what that expression means, William. You're diving headfirst into that familiar pit of self-blame and guilt. But this time, it genuinely is not your fault."
"And how can you be so certain it's not my fault?" he asked, attempting to inject some levity into the conversation despite his dark mood.
But Liz looked at him with complete seriousness. "Because everyone here knows how much you care about this project and how much time and effort you've invested in getting every detail right. Because I've watched you agonize over every safety specification and insist on redundant systems that others called unnecessary. Because Ken Morrison is alive right now specifically because of the safety measures you demanded." She paused, then her expression softened. "So shut up and follow me."
Without waiting for a response, she began walking toward his car, parked near the track's administrative building.
"Wait, where are we going?" he called after her, though he was already following. When Liz spoke with that particular tone of voice, following her instructions wasn't really optional.
"We are going somewhere," she corrected without breaking stride. "Now give me the keys and get in the passenger seat. You're in no condition to drive right now."
Minutes later, the silver car was cruising along the highway that connected the factory to downtown New Haven. William found himself relaxing despite everything, lulled by the smooth ride and Liz's competent handling of the vehicle.
They entered the city and headed toward the waterfront, where Atlantic Ocean stretched out toward the horizon. Liz parked the car along the sideway, near one of the small beachfront parks that dotted the shoreline.
"You wait right here," she said, pointing a finger at him with mock sternness before stepping out of the car.
A few minutes later, she returned carrying two large ice cream cones from a nearby vendor. She handed him a double scoop of chocolate and vanilla—his favourite—and settled back into the driver's seat with her own strawberry cone.
"Feeling better?" she asked after they'd eaten in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
"Actually, yes," he admitted, surprised to find that it was true. "Quite a bit better."
"Good. Now tell me what's really been bothering you. And don't say 'nothing,' because I can read your moods like a weather report."
William looked at her reflection in the passenger window, seeing his own face staring back. There was something almost comical about his expression—she wasn't wrong about the "pug-like" quality when he was upset.
"It's not just today's accident," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Everything just seems to be crashing down at once. We barely have any sales to speak of, there's not much money left in the company accounts, we're still dealing with those pension obligations from the previous management, and it feels like half the industry is just waiting to watch me fail spectacularly."
Liz said nothing, but she reached over and took his hand in hers, her fingers warm and reassuring.
"I keep wondering if I'm trying to do too much, too fast," he continued. "Maybe I should have started smaller, focused on one thing rather than juggling multiple…I just don't know…"
"Let's go for a walk," Liz said after a moment, tugging gently on his hand.
"Liz, I really don't have time for this. I need to get back to the factory and—"
"The factory will still be there in an hour," she interrupted with a mischievous grin. "Now come on, let's have a walk or I'll tell everyone in the office about the canteen incident."
William groaned, remembering the embarrassing moment when he'd gotten so absorbed in discussing something that he'd walked directly into the janitor lady, almost kissing her. "That's blackmail."
"True," she said with mock seriousness, already pulling him toward the beach.
They spent the next few hours walking along the shoreline, talking about everything except business. Liz had an uncanny ability to distract him from his worries without making it seem forced or artificial. By the time they returned to the car, William felt genuinely refreshed for the first time in weeks.
He wouldn't return to the office until early evening, and when he did, there was a slight smile on his face that hadn't been there in months.
The next morning, William called the newly combined Design and Development Team and team leaders working for newly instated projects to the main conference room. There were people from marketing, from production, from programs and more. He has also gone ahead and pulled in people from engineering. The meeting had originally been scheduled for the previous day, but the accident and his impromptu afternoon with Liz had necessitated a postponement. As the men filed in—and they were all men, which was another aspect of 1961 that William found frustrating—he could see the mixture of concern and curiosity on their faces.
"Gentlemen," he greeted them with a renewed energy that surprised even himself, "thank you all for your patience with the schedule change."
The conference room was now minimalistic. Previously it had beautiful tables, cushy chairs, thick carpets and heavy drapes. He had everything changed into something more minimalistic, colour neutral and appropriate. It helped him think more clearly and also helped the people present docus.
"Yesterday's accident was unexpected and concerning, but we cannot allow it to derail our progress," he began. "The Zephyr team is already working around the clock to rebuild the test vehicle, while Sam and Arthur investigate the root cause of the failure."
He had considered keeping the news internal, but bad news had a way of spreading regardless of official policies. It was better to address it directly and control the narrative.
"Most importantly, Ken Morrison is safe and recovering well. The doctors expect him to make a full recovery with no lasting effects beyond some spectacular bruises." The room erupted in spontaneous applause, and William felt a genuine warmth at their reaction. "I want to emphasize that this incident demonstrates exactly why we invest so heavily in safety systems. Every one of our safety protocols performed as designed."
"This brings us to today's primary agenda," William continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Over the past two months, we've implemented numerous improvements across all our divisions. We've seen remarkable results in quality control, customer satisfaction, and employee morale. But all of these changes will be meaningless if we don't start selling cars in significant numbers."
Every head in the room nodded in agreement. They had all witnessed the transformation of the company culture, the dramatic improvements in manufacturing processes, and the boost in worker productivity. But at the end of the day, automotive companies succeeded or failed based on one simple metric: how many cars they sold.
"Last month, I assigned specific design and development tasks to each division," William said, looking around the table at the men who would determine the company's future. "Let's review our progress."
His gaze settled first on Pete Morrison, Jeep's design head. Pete was a rugged, practical man in his early fifties who had spent over twenty years working on military and civilian vehicle designs. He had the kind of hands-on experience that couldn't be taught in engineering school, combined with an intuitive understanding of what American consumers wanted from their vehicles.
"Pete, let's start with the Wagoneer project."
Pete stood up and moved to the large easel at the front of the room, where he had prepared several detailed drawings and specifications. "We were already developing the Wagoneer as a successor to the Station Wagon, but based on our discussions last month, we've made significant improvements." He pulled back the covering sheet to reveal a detailed side-view drawing of what was unmistakably a more refined and modern-looking vehicle.
"We've upgraded the engine to a V8 configuration for better performance and reliability. The electrical system has been completely redesigned around a 12-volt architecture, which will be more compatible with accessories and options that customers are starting to expect. The rear seat is now both foldable and completely removable, as you requested, which dramatically increases cargo capacity for recreational use."
Pete moved to another drawing showing the interior layout. "We've also added significantly more storage space throughout the cabin, improved the seat comfort and adjustability, and we're working closely with engineering to develop better brakes and refine the four-wheel-drive system."
"What about the overall design as discussed last time. Is it still the military style?" William asked, though he already knew from Pete's enthusiasm that they were on the right track.
Pete spread out the largest chart, revealing a vehicle that looked remarkably similar to what would become the 1968 Jeep Wagoneer—though William's suggestions had refined certain details that wouldn't appear in the original timeline until several years later. Gone was the utilitarian, military-derived appearance of earlier Jeep vehicles. In its place was a design that managed to look both rugged and sophisticated, with a full chrome grille.
"We're working with Christopher from the Zephyr design team to develop the interior appointments," Pete continued with evident pride. "Wood panelling, quality fabrics, and genuine leather options. This is going to be a vehicle that's equally at home on a hunting trip or dropping the kids off at school."
"Excellent," William said, genuinely impressed with the progress. "Remember, I want Jeep to represent three core values: durability, reliability, and capability. This vehicle should be able to handle a collision with a moose at highway speeds, carry a Christmas tree on its roof like it's just another Sunday chore, and have enough interior space for a family picnic while possessing the mechanical capability to climb through the Appalachian Mountains or navigate Amazon jungle paths."
Pete grinned widely. "Don't worry, William. This is going to be my masterpiece." That was exactly why Pete had come to respect his young boss so much. Initially, he had assumed William was just another wealthy dilettante playing at running a car company. But the man was not only wealthy—he genuinely understood automobiles. He didn't focus primarily on maximizing short-term profits but on building the best possible vehicles. Compromises were sometimes necessary, but the overall philosophy was refreshingly different from his previous experiences in the industry.
"I want the Wagoneer ready for production by the middle of next year," William declared, the timeline based on his knowledge of what was achievable with focused effort. "I have significant plans for marketing this vehicle."
With the Jeep division addressed, William turned his attention to Frank Davidson, the new Team Lead of the Harrow Motors design team. Frank was younger than Pete, in his late thirties, and had previously worked for one of the smaller independent manufacturers that had been struggling to compete with the Big Three Detroit automakers.
"Frank, what's the status of the muscle car project?"
Frank looked slightly uncomfortable, which immediately caught William's attention. "Well, we're working on it. A coupe with a sporty appearance and muscle car performance characteristics. But I'm honestly not entirely sure what specific direction you want us to take."
William had been expecting this conversation, and he chose his words carefully. He had been brief last time, hoping to see what they could develop on their own. His goal was to develop what would essentially become the Ford Mustang specifically something close to 1966 models, but maybe a year or two earlier. The Mustang's success in his original timeline had been largely due to perfect timing—it had launched just as the first wave of baby boomers were reaching car-buying age. But he will need to match the launch time accurately. It couldn't be too early so that misses the moment, nor could it be late so that Ford get's the first mover advantage.
"I'm not targeting older, established buyers," William explained. "World War II ended in 1945. The children of those returning veterans are going to be graduating from high school, heading to college, and entering the workforce in large numbers around 1964 and 1965. I want to capture that demographic with a distinctly American car that embodies youthful energy and optimism."
The concept was revolutionary for 1961. Most automotive marketing still focused on older, more conservative buyers who valued practicality and status symbols. The idea of designing a car specifically for young people—who traditionally had limited spending power—was almost radical.
"Think young when you're designing this," William continued. "Bold styling, exciting performance, but affordable enough for a recent college graduate or a young worker in their first real job. This car should make them feel like they're driving into the future."
Frank nodded, though William could see he was still struggling to visualize the concept. That was understandable—the youth market as a distinct automotive segment didn't really exist yet in most manufacturers' thinking.
"What about the standard passenger car lineup?" William asked.
"We have preliminary designs for the hatchback, sedan, and van configurations you requested," Frank replied. "I'll have detailed presentations ready soon."
William frowned slightly. Two months should have been sufficient time for more substantial progress. "I need to see significant advancement by the end of this year, Frank. Is there something preventing faster progress?"
Frank shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It's been challenging adjusting to the new team structure, the expanded staff, and different development processes than I'm used to."
"Understood, but we can't afford delays," William said firmly. "If you need additional resources or personnel, speak with Mrs. Patterson this week."
The discussion continued as each design was reviewed in detail, with questions raised, trade-offs debated, and improvements suggested across the board.
Finally, William looked at his watch and turned to the research and development team, William addressed his next priority. "I have mentioned this earlier. But I want focused effort on engine development—specifically, more fuel-efficient designs that are reliable, easy to maintain, and produce lower emissions. I'm hearing rumours that government regulation of automotive emissions might be coming in the next few years. We want to be ahead of that curve, not scrambling to catch up."
William hadn't actually heard any such rumours—his knowledge came from knowing that the Clean Air Act and subsequent emissions regulations were still several years in the future. But positioning the company to be proactive rather than reactive would provide significant competitive advantages.
"Finally," William said, addressing the entire group, "I want everyone to understand our strategic timeline. I don't expect to sell large numbers of Harrow passenger cars in 1962 or 1963. Instead, I want to use these two years to completely rebuild our public image and market position."
This was perhaps the most crucial part of his strategy, and William knew it went against conventional business wisdom. Most companies focused on immediate sales and short-term profits. His approach was based on understanding how the automotive market would develop over the next decade.
"The Zephyr project will demonstrate our engineering capabilities and technological innovation. It will be the most advanced and fastest car in the world. The Wagoneer will establish Jeep as a leader in a completely new market segment. Our British operations—Aston Martin and Lagonda—will compete in the luxury and sports car markets and open the European market for us."
He looked at Frank, " That is why I want the sedans and hatchbacks soon. The European market has been slowly moving towards smaller and more efficient cars. We can get a piece of that pie with right marketing."
William paused to let this sink in. "Use these two years to make a lasting impression on the American and European public. Win races, break records, be bold and innovative. With everything."
The room was silent for a moment as the men absorbed the scope of what William was proposing. It was ambitious to the point of being audacious, but there was something compelling about his confidence and vision.
"Just to give you an idea on what I mean to be bold and innovative. Not just in cars but everywhere. Let's take Jeep Marketing," William continued, turning to the marketing guys, " I said earlier that I had big plans. Imagine Jeeps on a world tour. All of which is being televised. And with Telstar launching this July, we can probably have transatlantic TV. Imagine that!"
The marketing director's eyes widened. "That would be incredibly expensive, Mr. William."
"Who said we'd be paying for it entirely ourselves?" William smiled. "We can develop a sponsorship program. Partner with a fuel company for gasoline, Coca-Cola or Pepsi for beverages, a tire manufacturer, food companies—make them invest in our adventure. Imagine the publicity: Jeep vehicles traversing the Appalachian Trail, navigating Amazon rainforests, crossing African savannas, conquering Sahara Desert dunes. 'Jeep: Conquer the Untamed.'" he finished with a grand gesture.
The concept was decades ahead of its time. Adventure marketing and extreme environment testing wouldn't become common automotive strategies until much later, but William knew the power of aspirational marketing combined with actual capability demonstration.
"For Harrow Motors," he said, turning back to Frank, "You can compete in the 24 Hours of Le Mans. Our cars competing in the Baja, cross country, touring. Every major racing venue should see Harrow vehicles demonstrating their quality, reliability, and performance. Imagine that! That will speak louder than anything we can ever say!"
The room buzzed with excited conversation.
"But for all this engineering also needs to step up!" He looked back at the design and development guys. " Work with them! You can't have a jeep stuck in amazon because it's suspensions suck. Or our car failing halfway on Baja dunes because the engine sucked."
"Sorry I am going off tangent, but I hope you get the idea."
"Bring me ideas. Bring me something different. Try things...don't worry about money. That is my job! Yours is to bring me new stuff to add to my cars."
He looked at the design members sitting there again. There face was lit with excitement. "You know what...let's make this whole thing official. Pitch your own ideas. Work with each other, design it and show me. You want to design a grand tourer? Do it. A small pickup? Show me. A fucking new engine? No issues. You have idea for a new steering wheel. Fine. Do it! In fact tell this to all your team. Every half a year...the winning designer, the winning team...will get $5000."
"Now I should end this meeting. But a final comment."
William concluded, " Work closely with our engineering teams to identify components and systems we can manufacture in-house. It might not initially be the most cost-effective approach, but we need to build our own capabilities. You can leave."
As the meeting concluded and the men filed out, each carrying new tasks and also a different sort of vigour.
William couldn't help but sink back into his chair with a weary groan. The meeting had gone well, although it had gone off tangent in between. The adrenaline that had carried him through the meeting was fading, leaving behind the familiar weight of endless obligations.
He glanced at his leather appointment book, mentally calculating the logistics nightmare ahead of him. First, he needed to rush to New York within the next few days. His money was primed to earn money from the crash. But like every time, he wanted to be with his team and see it firsthand.
Post it, he had scheduled meetings with his British operations team. The Aston Martin and Lagonda facilities required his personal oversight, especially as they prepared to launch their own ambitious development programs. The transatlantic coordination was proving more complex than he'd anticipated, and certain decisions simply couldn't be made via telegram or telephone.
Just thinking about all the upcoming travel made him sigh with genuine despair. Commercial aviation in 1961 was certainly luxurious by the standards of the day—spacious seats, elegant service, and an almost cruise-ship-like atmosphere aboard the large propeller aircraft that dominated long-distance routes. But luxury couldn't disguise the harsh reality that aviation safety was still primitive compared to what he knew was possible.
Every flight felt like a calculated gamble. The Boeing 707 jets were revolutionary, but they were still new technology with systems that hadn't been thoroughly tested by decades of service. Weather radar was basic, navigation relied heavily on ground-based beacons, and emergency procedures were far less sophisticated than they would become. William had lived through an era when flying was statistically safer than driving; in 1961, that simply wasn't true.
He was lost in these uncomfortable thoughts when a sharp knock on the conference room door interrupted his brooding.
"Come in," he called, straightening in his chair and attempting to shake off his fatigue.
Mrs. Patterson entered, but William immediately noticed something different about her demeanour. The calm, unflappable composure that made her such an invaluable assistant was now tinged with unmistakable nervousness. In the year since he'd known her, he'd never seen Patterson look genuinely rattled.
"We have a significant problem, Mr. William," she said, her voice steady but carrying an undertone of concern that sent alarm bells ringing in his head.
William looked at her with growing confusion and apprehension. "What's happened now?"
Instead of answering directly, she wordlessly handed him a newspaper. It was a fresh copy of The New York Times, still crisp from the newsstand, and William's stomach dropped as he read the bold headline that dominated the front page:
"IS HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF?"
Harrow Motor Car Bursts into Flames in Undisclosed Trial—Sources Link Incident to Company's Past Quality Failures
"Fuck!"