Chapter 164: Turret
At the end of Lap 11, Rosberg peeled off into the pit lane.
Wu Shi stayed out.
The decision surprised almost everyone—those soft tyres were visibly beyond their optimal window, the tread blocks worn and overheated. Yet car number 59 remained on track, refusing to pit.
Jonathan didn't agree outright.
Jonathan (team radio):
"Follow the pit window instructions."
The message was measured—but firm.
Just moments earlier, both Wu Shi and Rosberg had dropped into the 1:34 range. By comparison, Hamilton's Lap 10 had been a 1:32.911, while Massa—running fourth—had posted a 1:33.879.
Rosberg had no choice but to pit.
If he stayed out any longer, he risked being swallowed by both Williams cars.
Wu Shi understood Jonathan's meaning perfectly.
His first and second sector times were deteriorating. On paper, staying out made no sense. Another lap—or two—would cost more time than it gained.
He could feel it himself.
The texture of all four tyres was changing. The rubber had aged past its prime, the surface grains stretching and tearing as overheated material migrated outward.
From the team's data perspective, this was the limit.
Push further, and the probability of a puncture or structural failure would rise sharply.
But the team was looking at numbers.
Wu Shi was looking at sensation.
Two more laps, he calculated.
At the cost of control margin.
'I can hold it.'
On the pit straight, he blinked twice, forcing sweat away from the corner of his eye before it could burn. For the next minute or so, he wouldn't dare blink again.
Approaching Turn 1, the Williams finally returned to a conventional racing line.
Wu Shi feathered the brake with surgical precision—left foot controlling pressure to extract just enough deceleration without locking the fronts.
Screeeeech—
The tyres protested violently.
The car twitched—but survived the corner.
The broadcast cut to the Mercedes pit lane.
No one had expected the earlier duel to force Mercedes, the team with the gentlest tyre degradation on the grid, to pit as early as Lap 11—even after three laps behind the Safety Car.
Whirr—
Car number 6 stopped perfectly on the marks.
Front and rear jacks snapped into place.
Click-click-click!
Impact guns barked in perfect synchronization as the soft tyres came off.
Four fresh medium tyres were slapped on.
Clunk!
The guns tightened.
The car dropped.
Roar!
Rosberg launched.
3.11 seconds.
A clean stop.
Jonathan's eyes stayed locked on the timing screen.
Pit entry to pit exit: 22.177 seconds.
As Rosberg accelerated out, Sauber's Ericsson appeared at the pit exit line.
The Mercedes pit wall clenched.
Too close.
Barely, Rosberg tucked in behind Ericsson. He tried to carry momentum into Turn 1, taking the inside line.
Whoosh—
The mediums were stone cold.
The rear stepped out.
Rosberg snapped into counter-steer and lifted instinctively. The car wagged its tail before settling.
He avoided a spin—but lost time.
Meanwhile, Wu Shi crossed Sector 1.
0.3 seconds quicker than his previous lap.
That meant something dangerous.
He was pushing.
Jonathan exhaled slowly.
Had Wu Shi been telling the truth earlier?
For once, perhaps the driver wasn't bluffing.
Attention immediately shifted to Rosberg's out-lap.
The medium tyres' performance would determine everything.
Today's cooler conditions extended soft tyre life—but made warming the mediums difficult.
Rosberg only cleared Ericsson after Sector 1.
Jonathan glanced back at Massa's data. His soft tyres still had usable life until around Lap 20.
A one-stop was clearly viable.
Which raised the real question.
"How long can the mediums go?" Jonathan muttered.
"Two-stop?" he asked Barrera quietly.
"If we want to fight for second, yes," Barrera replied. "Two-stop is unavoidable."
Jonathan nodded.
They needed more data.
Only Verstappen, Pérez, and Ericsson had started on mediums.
Ericsson had already switched to softs under the Safety Car.
Verstappen and Pérez were poor references due to traffic.
Wu Shi felt it too.
Without dirty air ahead, tyre pressures dropped slightly.
Grip returned—briefly.
He pushed harder through the next sequence.
The rear slipped again.
Cold sweat broke out beneath his helmet.
Still controllable.
Lap 12: 1:33.112.
Hamilton, however, was flying.
Nearly into the 1:31s.
The race leader had already built a five-to-six second gap. At this pace, Hamilton would comfortably open a pit window by Lap 23 or 24.
Rosberg's out-lap appeared:
1:34.111.
Jonathan (team radio):
"The tyres look very degraded."
Wu Shi:
"Yes—but I can hold this pace for at least two more laps. Your call."
A pause.
Jonathan:
"Stand by."
Wu Shi already had his answer.
As long as the lap time held, he would stay out.
Lap 13.
Rosberg sliced past Hülkenberg and moved into P10.
Ahead: Toro Rosso—Verstappen.
The Mercedes closed rapidly.
After the straight, Rosberg attacked into Turn 9, diving for the inside. The Toro Rosso showed no defense.
Then—
At the braking zone—
Verstappen suddenly turned right.
A sharp line change.
In the braking zone.
Rosberg nearly collided.
"F***! What is he doing?! That's dangerous driving! Is he trying to kill me?!"
His voice exploded over the radio.
Smoke burst from the front tyres as Rosberg avoided disaster.
In the Mercedes pit box, Toto Wolff's face darkened as he reached for his headset.
In the Williams garage, Jonathan pressed his lips together.
He wanted to smile.
He didn't.
The incident cost Rosberg three tenths.
But Mercedes power reeled Verstappen back in through the long left-hander.
This time, Rosberg didn't dive inside.
He attempted a side-by-side pass.
Then came Turns 11 and 12.
Verstappen drifted toward him.
Aggressively.
Deliberately.
Rosberg's instincts screamed danger.
If he stayed there, they would crash.
Is this guy insane?
Rosberg backed out.
Again.
After Turn 12 came the DRS zone.
Being behind wasn't fatal.
Then—
The Toro Rosso braked early.
Rosberg blasted past cleanly.
Up the road, Wu Shi was still there.
Still pushing.
Still refusing to yield.
Like a fixed gun emplacement—
A turret, bolted to the circuit, daring the race to break him.