The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  A ball lit, the buzzer sounded. Another woman stood and disappeared through a door.

  How much longer we gotta sit here for? Grace said.

  Harrison got up and walked around the room. He peered at posters of dissected hearts and warnings about liver disease. Ten minutes later, Margaret Anderson rose and, twenty minutes after that, so did they.

  Mrs. Harrison, please, take a seat.

  The doctor gestured toward a chair in front of his cherrywood desk.

  I don’t believe we’ve met? he said, holding out a hand to Harrison. He shook it.

  Jim Harrison.

  Bob Roberts, pleasure.

  Your name is Robert Roberts? Harrison said.

  Yes it is, he said, removing his reading glasses from his front pocket and sitting down behind his desk. Care to take a stab at my middle name?

  Harrison glanced at his wife.

  I’m just kidding; it’s David. Please, sit down.

  Harrison sat down.

  So, Doctor Roberts said, tucking the stems of his glasses behind his ears and flipping open a gray file. We have some results. I’m sorry to tell you that our suspicions were correct.

  He removed his glasses.

  You have Stein-Leventhal Syndrome, Grace, he said. Anovulation; that is, absent ovulation, excessive androgens and, from the X-rays—he pulled the glasses back to his face—ovarian cysts; a pretty thick covering, looking at these.

  What can you do? Harrison said.

  Not much, he said, lowering his glasses.

  Can you fix it?

  No.

  Why not?

  There’s no cure; it was diagnosed only ten years ago.

  So what have you been doing for the last ten years? Harrison said.

  Jim, Grace said. Do you know what causes it?

  We don’t, Doctor Roberts said. We think it’s an anatomic abnormality; a disorder, if you will. The ovaries produce excess androgens—male hormones—and develop thick cysts that cover the surface, preventing ovulation. And, as you are no doubt aware, with no egg, there can be no—

  I get it, Harrison said. Honey?

  I’m okay, Grace said.

  It’s not something we know much about, unfortunately, Doctor Roberts said.

  Wonders of modern medicine, Harrison said.

  It has its limits, it always has. Stein-Leventhal affects maybe four, five percent of women; maybe less. Out of those, some certainly go on to have children, but they are ovulating, if sporadically.

  Is there anything we can do? Grace said. Anything at all?

  Not much. Eat well, stay active. You know, I see women from time to time, struggling to conceive a child, and they sit in that chair and they tell me it’s their right to have children; they want a baby and it’s their right. I tell them it isn’t a right; it’s a privilege. Some women can’t have children. That’s a sad fact, and it isn’t fair, but that’s how it is. I’m telling you this, Grace, because I think you understand. Live your life. Don’t waste it lamenting what you think is required to complete it. That disrespects the miracle of your own birth, and that of your husband’s. Now, go, both of you, and get on with it. I’ll see you again in six months for a checkup. You can make the appointment with Mrs. Webber on the way out.

  Thank you, Doctor Roberts, Grace said.

  You’re very welcome. If you have any questions, anything at all, you can call me and we’ll talk. That goes for you, too, Captain.

  Outside, she leaned against the car and held her head. The car was hot from the sun.

  Hey, he said.

  She pulled herself into him.

  I know, but just let me, let me—

  It’s okay.

  She drove him back to the base. The car was an old Model A coupe that Harrison had been given. The engine idled. Outside the window, mountains rose in the distance.

  You got any? she said.

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. She sighed.

  You okay? he said.

  She shrugged, tucked one behind her ear and put the other between her lips. She looked at the sky.

  Here, he said, striking a match from the box on the dash.

  Go on, she said. I got things to do.

  He got out and she drove away.

  Ridley was in his office, boots resting on his desk, reading and smoking. The sound of mechanics and technicians working in the hangar leaked up through the floor.

  Mornin, Ridley said.

  Everything okay? Harrison said.

  Everything dandy.

  Harrison sat down.

  Jim.

  Harrison turned to see Yeager in the doorway, young boy at his side.

  Chuck, he said, and why if it isn’t Don too!

  Hi, Uncle Jim.

  Don was three, dressed in blue, tatty cap on his head.

  How’s it goin, Don? Harrison said.

  Good, Don said.

  Here to see your daddy fly, ain’t you? Ridley said.

  Don nodded.

  My Daddy never takes long, he said.

  Ridley chuckled. All set? he said to Yeager.

  Jus need to get changed.

  The intercom on Ridley’s desk buzzed, calling Yeager down.

  Harrison stood.

  You can watch me from here, Don, Yeager told his son. I’m goin that way. He pointed west, out the window.

  You can stand on the radiator, Don, get a better view, Ridley said.

  Let’s get this over with, Yeager said. Jack? Be right back, Don.

  Okay Daddy.

  The two men left. Don tried to climb onto the radiator. It was too high. Harrison watched him look around; he watched him walk across to Ridley’s desk, pick up an old flight helmet and carry it back to the radiator to use as a step. He stared at the boy, on the radiator, hands flat against the window, steam expanding and contracting from where his face pressed against the glass.

  That night, at Pancho’s, Harrison sat with Yeager, Ridley, Cardenas, Kit Murray and Bob Hoover and went over the flight plan for the morning. The men drank beer and felt good. When they were finished, Ridley stood up and said to Yeager, don’t push her past point nine-eight-eight unless you’re sure you can handle it. And we’re on an unrestricted frequency, remember, so if the Machometer reads one or more, tell me the thing’s playin up or something; I’ll know what you mean.

  Sure thing, Jack, Yeager said. Jim an me stayin for another; Glennis be here in a bit.

  Don’t you kids go stayin out too late, now, Hoover said, rising. Murray and Cardenas laughed as they stood.

  After they’d left, Yeager said, jeez, I’m beat.

  Yeah, Harrison said.

  Old man took me aside yesterday an said, Chuck, lot of scientists, engineers still of the opinion that, at the speed of sound, g-forces become infinite.

  What’d you say?

  What we said. That the buffeting may decrease and things get easier as you approach Mach one.

  What he say to that?

  He opened the door to his office, where a bunch of fellas were waitin on him, and yelled, no rudder, no elevator, buffeting severe at one speed, mild the next, nose-up at point eight-seven, nose-down at point nine-zero: that airplane is liable to go in any direction, or all of them at once, but Yeager, Harrison and Ridley anticipate no difficulty, no difficulty at all, in attaining Mach one on Tuesday.

  He sounds pissed.

  Couldn’t tell what he was; he was smilin half the time.

  I noticed that about him. Says take it easy one minute; next he’s champing at the bit.

  Hell, Boyd’s a pilot through an through. If it was up to him, we’d have done it a week ago.

  The men sat for a moment in silence.

  Harrison saw the door open; it was Glennis. Over here, he said. Yeager looked around.

  His wife approached the table. Hi, hon, Yeager said.

  Where’s Pancho? she said.

  Out back, in one of her rages, Harrison said. Some cop pulled her for having misaligned he
adlights.

  Yeager chuckled.

  Says she’s gonna take him to court.

  There’s a woman you want on your side, Glennis said, sitting down.

  Not sure bout that, Yeager said.

  Pass me some of that, would you? she said to him.

  He pushed his bottle to her. She took a swig and looked at Harrison.

  What happened? What the doctor say about Gracie? she said.

  He leaned back in his chair.

  Jim?

  There’s a problem, Harrison said. It’s rare.

  Goddamn. How rare?

  Four, maybe five percent.

  Five percent?

  Maybe less.

  Can they do anything?

  Nope.

  Why the hell not?

  Doctors don’t know much about it. Only gave it a name a decade ago.

  How’s Gracie?

  She’s okay.

  I’ll bet she’s not.

  Look, we knew it’d be something like this, Glen.

  Might not be a surprise, Glennis said, but that don’t mean it hurts any less bad.

  Just one them things, Harrison said.

  I’m gonna come over tomorrow, see her, she said.

  You’re gonna have plenty enough on your plate tomorrow, he said.

  Might need the company myself.

  Thanks for the vote of confidence, hon, Yeager said.

  If I didn’t think you could do it, hotshot, I wouldn’t be letting you fly, she said.

  You’re my good luck charm, Glen; I’m gonna paint your name on the nose.

  You can’t do that, she said.

  Hell I can’t, it’s my ass on the line. Jim, let’s get in early; I’ll bring some paint.

  Sounds good, Harrison said.

  Glamorous Glennis, Yeager said.

  Glennis cracked a smile. Pancho appeared behind the bar and called them all miserable pudknockers.

  You havin a goddamn séance or are you gonna drink something? she said.

  Scotch, Harrison said.

  That’s more like it.

  Pancho brought four drinks and they sat around the table and toasted the Glamorous Glennis.

  Best be gettin home, Harrison said.

  Be good to that wife of yours, Glennis said.

  He nodded. Five-thirty? he said to Yeager.

  Bright and early.

  Gonna be a hell of a day, Pancho said.

  Say, hon, Yeager said to Glennis, what say we saddle up a coupla Pancho’s best mares an have ourselves a little ride? Damn pretty night, tonight.

  Sure, she said, assuming you can catch me.

  Yeager watched her stand and leave. He smiled, then followed.

  Harrison, Pancho said, come here, would you?

  She led him over to the serving hatch and picked up a brown paper package.

  Saw Gracie earlier, she said.

  She told you?

  Pancho nodded.

  Couple steaks, she said, handing him the package. Give her a big kiss from me.

  Thanks, Pancho.

  Get out of here, would you? You’re making this place look like a goddamn soup kitchen.

  He got home at midnight. The bedroom was dark. Grace breathed into the silence, sleeping on her side. He sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoned his shirt, unlaced his shoes. He pulled open the curtains. The desert was white. The milky light fell into the room. He felt heavy. He pulled a pack of Luckies from his shirt pocket, tapped it on his leg, put one in his mouth. He reached over to the box of matches on his bedside table. Grace stirred. The flame flared orange on her bare shoulder. He sat and smoked and thought of nothing.

  First light was a diesel spill across the sky. The ground was gray. The hard silence of the desert sung. In the main hangar, men worked in old fatigues and brown coveralls. They worked in yellow light. When they got tired, they drank dark coffee from the pot at the back. When they got cold, they smoked cigarettes in the janitor’s office. Black leads laid thick across the concrete floor. The X-1 sat quiet in the commotion. Harrison ate a sweet roll, drank hot coffee and watched the men work.

  Anyone get that Drene? he said.

  We got it, one of the mechanics called out.

  Hey, Harrison, got a minute?

  It was Yeager.

  Sure.

  They stepped out of the hangar to talk. It was cold.

  Got me a little ol problem, Yeager said. Horse threw me at Pancho’s last night. Sorta dinged my goddamn ribs.

  What do you mean, sorta dinged?

  Well, guess you might say I damn near like to broke a coupla sonsabitches.

  You seen a doctor?

  Hell, no. I made Glen call out the vet. Taped me up pretty tight. Told me to take it easy an get myself to a doctor. Old man ground me if he found out.

  No doubt about that, Harrison said. How’s it feelin?

  Feels kinda okay now but last night damn near killed me.

  Uh-huh.

  If this was the first flight, Yeager said, I wouldn’t even think about tryin it, but, hell, I know every move I gotta make.

  Okay, Harrison said, if you think you can do it, but how in the hell are you gonna lock the cockpit door? That takes some liftin and shovin.

  Hadn’t thought of that, Yeager said.

  Hang on a second, Harrison said. I got an idea.

  He walked over to the janitor’s office.

  Hey, Sam, he said.

  Captain Harrison. You look like a man who needs something.

  You could say that. You got a broom?

  Sure do.

  Mind if I borrow it a second? We got a little situation here.

  Be my guest, Sam said, nodding to where the broom leaned against the wall. Harrison picked it up and laid it on the table.

  Here, he said to Sam. Hold this.

  Sam held the end of the handle. Harrison found a saw and cut a foot off the end.

  That ought to do it, he said.

  Yes, sir, Sam said.

  Thanks, Sam. Sorry about the broom.

  What you got? Yeager said, as Harrison walked back.

  Latest breakthrough in supersonic flight engineering, he said, handing Yeager the broom handle. That’ll fit right into the door handle. You can use your left hand to raise it up and shove it locked.

  Let’s give it a try, Yeager said.

  They walked back into the hangar, climbed up to the cockpit and tested the technique. No one saw.

  Looks good, Harrison said. How you gonna get down the ladder though?

  One rung at a time. Either that or Ridley can piggyback me.

  You bring the paint?

  Sure did.

  Let’s get on with it, case any brass show up.

  The sun moved west a foot an hour. The sky was empty and long. Pancho stood outside, cigar burning between her teeth. The flight was scheduled for ten. Inside, Glennis sat up at the bar. Pancho took one last pull then put the cigar out on the rail and went back inside.

  Get you anything, sweetie? she said.

  No, Glennis said. Thanks, Pancho.

  You okay?

  Glennis looked up.

  Never know how many places to set for supper, she said.

  They sat and waited.

  How’s his side this morning? Pancho said.

  Says it aches, but the vet fixed him up pretty good, least for today.

  The radio was on. It was almost ten. Technicians were preparing the flight.

  Gracie, Pancho said.

  Glennis turned around.

  Hey, Glennis said. I was coming to see you later.

  She slid from the stool and the women embraced.

  Thought I might as well be here, Grace said. Hi, Pancho.

  You want a drink? Pancho said.

  I’ll have a beer.

  Grace, honey, I’m so sorry, Glennis said, sitting back down. Jim told me last night.

  It’s fine, Grace said, really.

  Let me come over later.

  Sure, that’d be nice.r />
  Pancho put a bottle down in front of her.

  I just want this over with, Glennis said.

  Almost ten, Pancho said. Sure you don’t want nothin?

  Beer’d be good I guess, she said.

  On me. Both of them, Pancho said, reaching beneath the bar and passing her a bottle.

  Glennis stared at the bottle of suds, turning it clockwise with her fingertips.

  There’s this thing, she said, happens time to time. Sure wish it didn’t. Don’t know how I see it, but I do; I always do. I’m on the airplane with him. He’s strapped in, door locked, waiting for the drop. And I see, over his shoulder, the pressure fall on the fuel gauge. Needle drops fast, to zero. Only he doesn’t see it, so I tell him, Chuck, your fuel pressure’s dropped, you need to call for an abort, but he can’t hear me, so I shout at him to check his dials—which, course, he does anyway—and I feel so relieved. He turns everything off and calls for an abort over the loop. Tower hears him, Jim and Kit flying chase hear him, boys in the NACA truck hear him—I hear him—but the B-29 pilot up there—and I never know who it is—doesn’t hear him. He’s accidentally got his finger punched down on the microphone transmission key. I know because, my God, I can see it; I’m there in the B-29 cockpit too. So I start shouting, Don’t drop him! but he can’t hear me and he starts the countdown, ten through one, which everyone on the loop hears, including Chuck, who starts yelling, Don’t drop me! Don’t drop me! and Jim and Kit and the others are yelling Don’t drop him! and I start screaming Don’t drop him! until I’m hoarse and crying and the countdown finishes and he reaches over to the handle and releases the plane, and … that’s when I wake up screaming.

  Christ, Pancho said.

  What you tell Chuck? Grace said.

  That I had a bad dream.

  You tell him about it?

  I can’t. It don’t feel right. Like I’d be damaging his confidence. And if I do that, it might affect the flight. Just thinking it feels wrong; like letting the thought in is enough to … I tell him, one of the kids had a fall, or got hit by a car; something like that.

  She drank her bottle down.

  That’s why I didn’t want my name on that damn airplane, she said, wiping her lips. Ain’t nothing glamorous about it.

  Grace nodded. On the radio, Ridley said, let’s go.

  They listened as the B-29, with the X-1 mated beneath it, rolled down the runway, took off and began to climb.