The Last Pilot: A Novel (3 page)

He’s pastor of the Pasadena Episcopal Church, Charlie. He meets women who want to marry him every day. First whiff of a divorce and the Church would haul his ass out of there. I won’t do that to him. We write each other. Suits us fine.

What’s he doing in Brooklyn again?

Who knows.

She pulled hard on her cigar. Two women, an aisle over, peered through the shelves.

Morning, ladies, Pancho said, blowing smoke through the gap. They disappeared. Pancho smiled. It was a small town; people talked. When folks heard about her swimming pool, they couldn’t believe the extravagance. The first time she filled up her blue Cadillac at Carl Bergman’s Union Oil, he yapped on it for months.
It had no backseat
, Carl told the other ranchers.
It was full of dogs!

Pancho got back to the ranch at eleven. Billy was serving two men at the bar.

Is it on? she said. Billy looked up.

Nope.

Quick.

The radio was wedged between the cash register and the rum. Close to the base, restricted exchanges could be picked up on the right frequency. Billy turned it on. The box popped and whistled.

Plenty fellas go up; you never listen, he said.

Shut up. Is it working?

Yeah.

This is different.

How you know?

This is not an airplane, Pancho said, least nothing a pudknocker like you’d understand one to be. It’s a goddamn rocket with a tail; an orange bullet with razor wings and a needle-nose. They call it the X-1. And it’s got one purpose: fly faster than sound.

That even possible? Fly faster than a man’s own voice?

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, Pancho said. That’s what they been figuring out, and I promised a free steak dinner to any them weenies who does it first. Today’s a big deal: first powered flight, pushing it up to point eight-two Mach. When Harrison hits that switch, the whole damn thing could go kaboom, or drop out the sky like a brick, or malfunction in a thousand other ways. There’s no seat to punch out either; those razor wings would slice him in half. It’s got to work, and he’s got to land it, and he can’t land it with any fuel left on board or the whole goddamn thing
will
go kaboom soon as it hits the lakebed. So, yeah, it’s different, and everyone’s got their jitters up.

Billy wiped the counter with an old cloth.

So how come you ain’t down there? he said.

I seen plenty drop launches before, Pancho said, turning away to stack glasses.

At Muroc Field, a B-29 bomber took off from the south runway and climbed hard. Harrison sat on an upturned apple box behind the pilot with Jack Ridley, the flight engineer. The X-1 was strapped to the underside of the bomber. The B-29 reached altitude. Harrison climbed down the bomb bay ladder and into the X-1, the sound of the bomber’s giant propellers roaring in his ears. In the tiny cockpit, he clipped on his lines and hoses; the oxygen system, radio-microphone and earphones, then pulled his leather flying helmet over his head. Stored behind him, at minus two hundred and ninety-six degrees was six hundred gallons of lox, liquid nitrogen and oxygen. Ridley climbed down after him, lowered the cockpit door in place, then returned to the bomber. Two chase planes, one flying high, one low, took off from the base to observe the X-1 in flight. Harrison’s lips split, his breath condensing in the dark. In the gloom, he waited for the drop.

Pancho pulled a stool behind the bar and sat by the radio.

Listen, here we go.

Roger, take it easy son.

Ridley, Pancho said, to Billy. They heard Bob Cardenas, the B-29 pilot, announce twenty-six thousand feet, then begin his shallow dive.

Starting countdown …

Pancho leaned in.

Drop!

There was a sharp crack as the shackles released the X-1 like a bomb.

[…] looking at the sky.

Roger that, Jim.

Nose-up stall.

I see you, Jim—you’re dropping like a brick.

Copy that.

[…]

Dive speed […] too slow.

Walt, you got a visual from the ground?

Negative.

Twenty-five thousand feet.

Roger.

Twenty-four.

Say again, Jim? Didn’t copy.

[…]

[…]

[…] Hey […] fuel.

You’re about three thousand pounds heavier than the glide flights.

Twenty-three.

Roger, Jim.

I feel it.

Copy that.

I’m gonna push the nose down […] pick up speed.

Roger.

Leveling out.

[…]

You’re at twenty-two, Jim.

Copy.

[…]

I’m level.

Good work, Jim.

I have a visual.

Copy that, Walt.

Lighting the first chamber.

Standing by.

Lighting one.

Roger.

Point four Mach.

Copy that.

Hey, Jim, you just passed me going upstairs like a bat […]

Point five.

[…] shockwaves […] from the exhaust.

You got eyeballs on that, Kit?

Confirm.

Lighting two.

Roger.

Point seven.

Hold steady.

Forty-five thousand feet. Lighting three […] seven-five.

Jim […]

Watch your nose.

Firing chamber four.

[…]

[…]

[…]

Pancho glanced at Billy. Billy shrugged his shoulders.

Point eight-three.

Copy that, Jim.

Say, Ridley, sure is dark up here.

Beautiful, Jim.

Jettison remaining lox, glide down.

Copy.

[…]

Jim?

Christ he’s doing a roll!

Jim, that’s not in the flight plan.

Zero-g […]

Copy that, Jim.

Holy hell.

Engine cutout.

[…]

Ridley?

Fuel can’t feed the engine […] zero-g […] down.

Level her out.

Leveling out.

Roger.

[…]

[…]

Walt?

[…]

Dick, what’s his position?

Negative, can’t see […]

Walt?

Nothing.

I see him.

Confirm.

How’s the fuel?

Terrific.

Them NACA boys sure gonna chew you out!

Copy that, Jack; couldn’t resist. Lox spent, gliding home.

Roger that, son.

Well, shit, Harrison! Pancho said. She looked up at Billy.

You want me in tonight?

You bet your sweet ass I do.

Harrison flew more powered flights that afternoon, easing the X-1 up to point nine-six Mach, encountering different problems each time. Lakebed landings were also tough, with no markings and too much open space. Depth perception was an issue; it was easy to bend an airplane porpoising in, or flaring high and cracking off the landing gear. On the last landing, Harrison let the airplane settle in by itself, feeling for the changes in the ground effect as he lowered down, greasing in at a hundred and ninety miles an hour. With no brakes, it took three minutes to roll to a stop. The fire truck drove out and he hitched a lift back to the hangar.

The men debriefed in Ridley’s office, a small room on the second floor of the main hangar. The windows were covered with dust, the walls papered with enlarged photographs of instrument panels, maps of the desert and hanging clipboards, fat with flight reports.

That low frequency rolling motion was most likely fuel sloshing, Ridley said, looking at the clock on the wall. Nothing to worry about.

Well, that’s sure good to hear, Harrison said. We done?

That’s it, Ridley said. Let’s go to Pancho’s.

Grace took a left outside Rosamond, heading home, the package collected from the post office beside her. It was from her father. He sent occasional collections of miscellany; had done for years. There was usually a book, food (tinned or tightly wrapped in waxed paper), a small bottle of spirits, distilled himself, the odd trinket unearthed from the house that would inspire bursts of nostalgia. This haul included a pocket watch, Steinbeck’s
Of Mice and Men
, an old photograph of her looking stern on a horse and a bundle of Beemans gum labeled
FOR JIM,
which saved her going back to the store; she’d forgotten to pick some up. Jim chewed it constantly. He said sucking on pure oxygen when he flew dried out his mouth, and that chewing helped equalize his ear pressure at altitude. Grace also suspected that the pepsin it contained proved handy in the cockpit.

It was almost noon. The hot sun hurt her face. A dust cloud churned up around the car as she drove; the monotony of the Mojave roads almost hypnotic. Her thoughts drifted from her father to her mother to her appointment on Monday. Her body stiffened. Her back began to ache. She leaned forward, against the wheel, stretching it out. She grimaced, then sighed. A sign on the roadside caught her eye. It was tied to a post marking a rough track that led up to Mac’s ranch. She pulled up, let the engine idle, read the sign. She sat in silence for a minute. Then she drove up the track.

The ranch was quiet. Grace stood on the porch of the house, rapped on the door, took a step back. The air felt like sandpaper. She ran a finger across her forehead.

Hey, Mac, you home? she called out. She put her hands on her hips and looked down at the boards. Then she heard a grunt and iron pulling against wood.

Well, Grace! Mac said, standing in the doorway.

Hey, Mac, she said.

Come on in here, he said, standing back. How the hell are you?

Fine, she said. You?

Tired, he said.

The house smelled of hay. It was gloomy after the bright glare of the desert.

Can I get you something?

Something cold be good.

Have a seat.

It was a small room. A square wooden table sat at one end, the kitchen at the other. A black stovepipe ran up the wall from an iron stove. On the wall next to the pipe hung a framed family portrait, a large clock and an old .22. Grace sat down at the table. A small oil-filled lamp swayed above her head.

You broke in that grullo yet? she said.

Hell no, Mac said from the kitchen. That’s one crazy goddamn horse. Should’ve never bought her. I’m gettin too old for this kinda thing.

The hell you are, Grace said as Mac walked back with two bottles pulled from the icebox. He set them down on the table and popped off the caps with an old knife. He had white hair and walked with a slight stoop. His face was brown and smooth, like every desert rancher. He handed Grace one of the bottles and sat down.

Ain’t nothin better than a cold Coke on a hot day, he said.

Amen to that, Grace said, toasting him and taking a long swig.

Damn, she said, bringing the bottle down to the table. That’s better. She belched.

Sorry, she said.

A skinned jackrabbit hung by a hook above the kitchen sink, pink flesh glistening in the low light. A pile of muddy potatoes sat piled on the side, waiting to be washed and peeled.

Nice of you to drop by, Mac said. I always told Rose this place was centrally located.

Middle of nowhere, Grace said, smiling and raising the bottle to her mouth.

I’ve said that one before, haven’t I?

I think it’s a common refrain.

Hell, I like it out here, Mac said. Rose, well, she weren’t no rancher; she was too good for that.

To the wives, Grace said, holding up her drink again.

The wives.

They clanked bottles together.

So, Mac said. What can I do for you?

You still got those pups for sale? I saw the sign out front.

Only got the one left, he said. Half-thinkin on keepin him for myself.

Where’d you bury ol Sophie anyway?

Out back, under her favorite tree. Hell, I’m just a sentimental ol fool.

No you’re not, Grace said. Least, no more than I would be.

Fourteen years, Mac said. Like havin another kid.

You see much of Johnny?

Not as much as I’d like. He’s a cattle rancher down in Riverside County now. Got himself near-on thirty thousand acres in the Temecula Valley. Good grazin land. Leases most of it out. Smart kid. He got that from his mother.

So you gonna keep the pup?

Hell, probably not. He’s a handful. You can have him if you want.