The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  That’s the slots expanding, Ridley said.

  Felt like I was flyin an oilcan.

  One of the pleasures of flying at hypersonic speeds. Metal expands. Not much else we can do about it.

  I need to get this goddamn suit off.

  Ridley sat down on the bench next to him. Can you believe Jack Kennedy? he said.

  Hell, after that stunt he tried in April, think the man must have been dropped as a child, Harrison said.

  You hear the budget?

  No.

  One point seven billion. And that’s just the first year.

  Jesus.

  They’re gonna need a lot more than that to get to the moon. And they’ll get it.

  He really serious about this nineteen-seventy deadline?

  Yup.

  That’s nine years.

  Yup.

  And all they’ve done so far is lob Shepard through the sky like a stone. Suborbital. Hell, I just done pretty much exactly that. Hundred and sixty-seven thousand feet. There’s no air, no aerodynamic controls—that’s why we got the damn hydrogen peroxide thrusters!—I hit five g’s on the way up; Shepard did six. He was weightless for five minutes; I was off the seat for two.

  I know, Ridley said.

  Landed it myself, too—I didn’t need the whole goddamn navy to fish me out of the ocean. Christ. One point seven billion?

  Seems catching up is all that matters.

  The man’s obsessed, Harrison said.

  The world’s judging him—judging this country—on how we do in space.

  Talk about takin a longer stride.

  You thinking about it?

  Hell, no. Got everything I need right here.

  Attaboy, Ridley said.

  Two hundred a week and the Blue Suit, Harrison said. Everything a man could ask for.

  Amen, Ridley said. He looked at the lockers. How’s Florence?

  Doing good, Harrison said.

  Yeah?

  No sickness at all.

  That’s great.

  Yeah. And they’re giving her the maximum dose of X-rays too, Harrison said. Twenty-three hundred roentgens.

  I’ll be damned, Ridley said. She’s a tough little cookie. Gets that from her mother, mind you.

  She started crawling again pretty soon after they started. And she learned to walk again last weekend.

  That’s good news, Jim.

  Yeah.

  Her eyes still crooked?

  Nope. Straightened right out. The doctors are doing a great job down there. And she gets to come home on weekends.

  You been cookin?

  Nah. Pancho’s.

  I gotta get out of this suit, Harrison said, standing.

  Ridley pulled out a pack of Pall Malls and said, I’ll see you at the debrief.

  The swimming pool in Lancaster was long and thin and blue and Grace moved almost silently through the water, hands cutting the surface with precision, legs beating hard behind her. They used to come here every week before Florence got sick. Now that her treatment had finished and they were back at home, Grace brought her almost every day. In August even the high elevations of the Mojave were almost unbearably hot. It had been a hundred by ten every morning that week. As she swam, her mind rested. Milo was at home, indoors, out of the heat; Florence was by the kids’ pool with Jenny and her daughter, Megan. After the Yeagers had moved, when Chuck stepped away from flight test work to command a squadron of F-100s up at George, Grace had found herself without a confidante. Glennis had always been there, stuck out in the boonies too, but now she was fifty miles away, raising three kids on her own while Chuck worked long hours. Grace fantasized about their life: out of the test business, squadron commander, air force still making him shake hands with Important People, make speeches, stand on podiums. For a moment she thought about the risks of standing on a podium. They weren’t great: you could fall off, fall over, clam up, get hit, get booed. The only thing that was potentially life-threatening was getting hit.

  Florence didn’t know Jenny and Megan that well; the next length would be her last. Jenny lived north of Lancaster; her husband, like most of the people around who weren’t ranchers (and increasingly there were less of them), worked at the base, as an engineer. Megan was three. It was good to have company again. Milo wasn’t much of a talker. When Grace reached the end of the pool, she pushed the water from her face and removed her cap. She pulled herself out and walked, dripping, over to the kids’ pool. Jenny was perched on the little steps that led into the water with the children alongside her.

  How was your swim? Jenny said.

  Good, Grace said, sitting down with them. Everything okay?

  No problems, Jenny said.

  Florence wants to tell me something, Megan said, but she doesn’t make sense.

  Oh, thank you, Megan, Grace said. Florence, sweetheart, you okay?

  Florence nodded.

  Darn it, Jenny said. Look at the time. I need to get going. We’ve got the dentist this afternoon.

  Lucky you, Grace said. What’s that, Duck? Speak up, I can’t hear you. Don’t pull that face; come on, we need to get going too.

  Florence shrieked and put her hands over her ears.

  Florence! Be quiet! What do you think you’re doing? Grace said, then, to Jenny, Jesus, what’s gotten into her?

  Been there, Jenny said.

  Out, Grace said to Florence, or I’m going to pick you up and carry you out.

  Florence stood up and started to walk out, then fell over.

  Will you stop messing around, Grace said, yanking her up from beneath her arms. Florence stood and began to walk back to the changing rooms, but veered left on the way, heading toward the main pool.

  Florence! Grace said, going after her.

  No! Florence said, kicking her legs as Grace picked her up from behind and carried her to the changing room.

  What’s gotten into you today? Grace said as she rubbed her dry with a towel.

  Florence said something, but Grace couldn’t make it out.

  What? Grace said.

  Florence spoke again; a tumble of vowels and consonants. Grace froze.

  Oh, God, she said.

  Jim? Jim it’s me.

  Honey? What’s the matter? You all right?

  It’s Duck—she, she—

  What?

  She can’t talk.

  What?

  Her words, Jim; she can’t talk.

  I’ll be home in an hour, he said. Have you called Lapitus? Call him.

  It was a different room, but it looked the same.

  Okay, Lapitus said.

  Florence was asleep. She looked serene; her almond skin perfect in the retreating light. Grace stroked her forehead. She was so small.

  I’ll be back in an hour, Lapitus said. Take some time; have a talk.

  Harrison took a seat next to his wife. They sat in silence. After a while, he said, what do you think?

  She lay her head on the bed next to her daughter and started to weep.

  Hey, he said, sliding his arm across her shoulders. Hey.

  They stayed like that for a long time. Outside, it was dark. Grace was thirsty. He poured her a glass of water. There was only one glass so he waited until she’d finished then poured himself one.

  Lapitus said it was the measure of last resort, Grace said.

  I know, Harrison said.

  She looked at her shoes, then the ceiling.

  Is that where we are? she said.

  He nodded. She held her head in her hands. He drew her near. Over her shoulder, their daughter slept on.

  She’s always been strong, Grace said.

  He nodded. She pulled away and ran her fingers beneath her eyes.

  I’ll tell Lapitus, he said.

  Can you stay? she said. The program—

  I can stay, he said.

  Her smile was weak. They held each other tight. Harrison slipped out of the room and returned with Lapitus.

  We’ll do everything we can, L
apitus said. We’ll start tomorrow.

  Within two days they knew it wasn’t going to work. Florence was too young, her body too weak. We have to stop, Lapitus told them. She can’t take it. They sat in Lapitus’s office in silence. Harrison looked at the clock on his wall. It marked something, but he didn’t know what. He reached for the pack in his shirt pocket. There was only one cigarette left. He tapped at the pack, fumbled the cigarette and dropped it on the floor. He reached down and picked it up and said excuse me and left the room and walked to the men’s room and stood panting at the sink.

  Later, they met with Lapitus and his staff and agreed that the best place for Florence was at home. There were forms that needed signatures. A schedule was drawn up. The nurse booked monthly check-ins September through December and said they could book in more dates in the New Year. Grace picked up on the nurse’s assumption. She clamped her teeth together and tried not to cry.

  They drove Florence back to the Mojave late afternoon when the temperature had dropped. She slept, sprawled on the blue leather seat in the back. When they got home, Harrison reached down and scooped her up and carried her to bed. She murmured but didn’t wake. After they’d carried everything in from the car they stood in the kitchen and Grace made them hot milk on the stove that they drank standing up. It was nine-thirty. The house was still.

  Every day Florence had a visitor. Pancho usually arrived at breakfast. She brought meat, milk, sometimes tinned fruit, beans. Reverend Irving would stop by and have tea with Grace in the kitchen while Florence played on the floor. By mid-October she couldn’t walk but she could crawl and she laughed as if it were some great discovery. Jenny and Megan came over once to play, but it was awkward, and Grace didn’t ask them back. Every Tuesday, though, she’d dress Florence in a pretty dress and drive over to Grace Walker’s place near Lancaster. Florence would play in the garden, the novelty of new toys keeping her attention while the women sat and talked.

  Joe can’t see it, Grace Walker said of her husband on one of these occasions. She held her one-month-old daughter, Elizabeth, on her lap.

  The forehead, the smile, Grace said, looking over at them.

  I know.

  Look at that!

  A wide grin had transformed Elizabeth’s face.

  Her mother laughed.

  She’s so sweet, Grace said.

  It’s probably wind.

  Treasure it, Grace said.

  Can’t help but, she said, stroking Elizabeth’s cheek with her finger.

  Grace looked at where Florence was playing in the grass. Elizabeth grunted and started to cry.

  I’m going to put her down, her mother said, standing. Do you want to try Florence on some ice cream in a minute?

  Sounds good.

  Hang on.

  She took Elizabeth upstairs to sleep.

  Mommy, Florence said. Will you come play with me? I’m making a farm.

  Sure, Duck, Grace said.

  In the shade, the grass was cool. Grace felt a heavy sadness fall on her. It was so sudden and so powerful she gasped. It was as though her bare feet were touching the floor of existence. She felt black. She stood, took a breath. A voice from the house said, she went down like a dream; shall we try that ice cream now? Grace nodded and called out, sure, and tried not to cry.

  It was two weeks before Christmas. The sky was a slab of concrete. The lakebed cracks ran deep and the desert animals were restless for the winter rains. Clouds bore down. The ground grew closer to the sky.

  In the locker room, Harrison removed his pressure suit. He paused, rubbed his face, and sat down. Ridley entered, holding a bunch of paper.

  I’m headin home, Harrison said.

  Hell you are, Ridley said. It’s only four, and I got the data. Don’t you want to see it?

  I gotta go.

  Sixty-five miles, Ridley said. That’s space. Kármán line’s at sixty-two; air force and the FAI say so.

  I know where the damn Kármán line is, Harrison said.

  He pulled on his clothes and began to button his shirt.

  Hell of a day, Ridley said.

  Yeah, Harrison said. He stared at the watch in his hand, then at the floor. She’s been coughin a lot, he said. Up most of the night.

  Ridley looked at him.

  Sure sorry to hear that, he said.

  Gracie had to call a nurse out earlier, Harrison said.

  You spoken to her?

  The nurse?

  Gracie.

  Not yet.

  Ridley didn’t say anything.

  Not since the nurse came out, anyway, Harrison said. It’s happened before, them sending someone. They got some real good staff up there at the Antelope.

  Don’t doubt that. When you due next in LA?

  Not til after the holidays now.

  Make sure you tell that little girl what her daddy did today.

  Harrison grunted. Think it’ll rain?

  Can’t even remember what it looks like.

  Yeah.

  Give her a big hug from me.

  I will.

  See you tomorrow.

  See you, Jackie.

  Harrison clambered into the Model A just as it started. Heavy drops thumped on the roof.

  Shit, he said.

  The car had no wipers. It barely had gears. The car had passed down to him from Yeager, via Scott Crossfield, who passed it on to Joe Walker, who’d given it to him after his first run in the X-15. It was a wreck. Irony with wheels. Harrison liked a tradition, even a new one, as much as the next man. And the next man, as far as he was concerned, was Bob White. Bob White was reserved, quiet, a thinker; different, somehow, from the rest of them. An engineer as much as a pilot. Hell, Harrison could feel the guy clipping at his heels. Well, that wasn’t anything new. He remembered what some of the old heads had said when he first started flying rocket planes. But things change. Not a damn thing you can do about it. A man could spend a decent chunk of his life trying, but it would do no good. Things never stood still. Life was a fucking mess. The rain hammered hard on the roof. He backed out and drove home half-blind.

  Harrison arrived home. The nurse’s car was still outside. He frowned. Loose stone crunched beneath his heavy boots as he walked toward the front door. He pushed it open, it closed behind him.

  Hi, Grace said. She was standing by the staircase.

  Nurse still here? he said, surprised.

  Grace nodded.

  How’s Duck? Is she okay?

  She’s asleep.

  What’d the nurse say?

  It’s Joan; she’s coming down now.

  Joan stepped into the living room.

  Hello, Jim, she said.

  Joan, he said. What’s goin on?

  His words hung in the air.

  Florence has got pneumonia, she said.

  He looked at his wife; Grace held him up with her eyes.

  She’s very weak, Joan said, but in good spirits. That’s a good sign. She’s such a gay little thing.

  Harrison didn’t say anything.

  He looked around the room. Jesus, he said. What a mess.

  He began collecting glasses, picking up newspapers and books and dropping things into drawers.

  Jim, it’s okay, please, Joan said. That really isn’t necessary.

  Grace looked over to Joan. Harrison disappeared into the kitchen with mugs between his fingers and plates balanced on his hands. He came back.

  Jim, Grace said.

  It’s fine, he said.

  Jim, she said.

  Hang on, he said, and moved Milo’s basket back into the corner by the window.

  Jim.

  He looked up at his wife. He stopped. He sat down. Grace went to him.

  Lapitus said something like this might happen, she said.

  Harrison shut his eyes. The room went divergent. The outside of the envelope, he thought. Son of a bitch.

  I’ll need to run through a few things with you, Joan said.

  I want to see her, he said.


  Let her sleep, Grace said. She’s coughing pretty hard. She’ll be awake soon enough.

  Is she okay?

  Apart from the cough, Joan said, she’s breathing very fast, and wheezing, but there’s no sickness, at least not yet, and no fever.

  I’ll make some coffee, Grace said.

  They sat around the kitchen table and talked for an hour. The radio broadcast the news in the background. Outside the rain threw itself against the glass windows and thudded on the porch. When there was nothing left to say they just sat and let the radio talk for them.

  Saigon, Harrison said after a while. Shit.

  You think he knows what he’s doing? Grace said.

  Sure as hell hope so; he’s got plenty enough advisers.

  Four hundred combat troops sounds like an awful lot, Joan said.

  And thirty-three choppers, Harrison said.

  Thing I like about Kennedy, Joan said, he takes advice, but makes up his own mind.

  I guess this is it then, Harrison said.

  Haven’t we already given the Laotian government helicopters? Grace said. What’s the difference?

  Difference is, Harrison said, those were operated by the Civil Air Transport of Taiwan. These will be flown by Americans.

  Direct military support, Joan said.

  You mean war, Grace said.

  Yeah, Harrison said.

  The rain stopped. Joan said she’d be back in the morning. Grace and Harrison were alone.

  Florence woke, coughing, gasping, every twenty minutes or so. They took shifts, sleeping on the rug by her bed, sitting up to comfort her until she slept again.

  It was late, dark, some time around three.

  Daddy? Florence said.

  Huh?

  Daddy?

  I’m here, Duck, he said, sitting up.

  Her face was milky-white, pale like the moonlight that fell into the room. He stroked her face, brushing hair from her eyes. She looked confused.

  Hey, Duck, he said. It’s okay. I’m right here.

  She settled slightly, coughed, smiled. He smiled back.

  Hey, he said.

  Why you call me Duck, Daddy? she said.

  He looked at her. He stared at the rug. He bit down hard on his cheeks until they bled.

  Well, Duck, he said, when you were born uh, when you were a few days old; this tiny thing; I used to, used to hold you, against my chest, walk about, and sometimes you’d uh, push your face into me and make this strange sound, like a quack, like a duck, so I started callin you a little duck and uh, yeah.