The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  Glenn slid into low orbit. The g-forces fell away. Glenn floated.

  Oh! That view is tremendous.

  Harrison stepped outside. He pulled on the end of his beer. Above him, the sky went on forever. Somewhere up there, Glenn soared.

  Harrison dropped the cigarette onto the porch and went back inside and shut the door.

  I’m just thankful I live in the same world as John Glenn, a voice said from the television. On the sofa, Harrison reached for another cigarette. The voice continued, In him we have a fearless protector. Harrison stopped. He looked up. He stared at the reporter.

  This is an NBC special news report brought to you by the Gulf Oil Corporation.…

  Harrison felt something, but didn’t know what. The pack of Lucky Strikes in his hand was empty. There was a fresh pack by his bed. He got up and wondered where Grace was. He went upstairs and stopped dead. Grace sat against the shut door of the empty bedroom, eyes fat with tears. She looked up at him and he felt the air leave his lungs and his heart lurch. He stumbled into the bathroom and shut the door. His face was wet. It tasted like the sea. He wiped his forehead, his temples, his chin; his heart was trying to bust out of his rib cage like an inmate during a prison riot. He gripped the sink and knew fear. Grace was on the other side of the door. Then she was on the stairs. Then she was in the kitchen. Something dropped away, and his hammering heart settled. He sat down on the floor. He was dizzy. His pulse slowed. His breathing grew shallow. He was exhausted. He sat in the bathroom for a long time. Then he washed his hands and went downstairs and saw John Glenn waving from the deck of the Noa.

  Christ, Harrison said, walking into the office one morning in late April. Glenn is everywhere.

  Yup, Ridley said, not looking up from the report he was typing.

  It’s been two months!

  He’s a Man Destined To Do Great Things.

  He’s probably got his own room at the White House now, Harrison said. Who’s next?

  Uh, Carpenter, Ridley said, swigging his coffee.

  The diving guy?

  The very same.

  Where the hell did they get these pilots? Harrison said. Pull names out of a hat?

  Ridley looked up. Beats me, he said. Is Deke comin back?

  Heard he’s gonna run the Astronaut Office.

  What happened?

  Some heart thing.

  Jesus, Ridley said. One minute you’re fine, the next—

  Only two ways you can walk out a doctor’s office, Harrison said. Fine or grounded.

  He sat down and flicked through the mail.

  Joe around?

  Ridley nodded.

  Harrison got up and left the room. Between Ridley’s office and the staircase that led down to the hangar and locker room was a small lounge area that led to two other offices. The walls were covered with safety posters and maps of the surrounding desert. Old magazines sat in piles on hard blue sofas. The latest issue of Aviation Week caught his eye and he stooped to pick it up. He walked to the window and flipped through the pages. At the end of the news section was a small piece headlined NASA WILL ADD NEW ASTRONAUTS. He read the copy. Between five to ten additional astronauts for NASA’s manned space flight program will be selected this fall. Project Mercury would end soon and NASA had already begun work on Project Gemini. The new two-man spacecraft had been contracted to McDonnell. They were scheduled to deliver the first ship in sixty-three. Harrison skimmed until he got to the selection requirements: The applicant must be an experienced test pilot ideally engaged in flying high performance aircraft. He must have attained experimental flight status through military service, the aircraft industry or NASA. He must have a college degree in the physical or biological sciences or engineering. He must be a US citizen. He must be under thirty-five years of age at the time of selection. He must be six feet (or less) in height. The report noted the deadline, the first day of June. He tore out the page and put it in his pocket.

  Harrison found Joe in the hangar with Neil. He talked to the two men. Neither of them mentioned the announcement. Had they seen it? It was nearly noon. He stepped outside for a smoke. Shallow clouds roamed slowly through the tin-colored sky. The air felt heavy. A memory of his mother came to him. She was collecting eggs from their chicken coop as rain fell on its corrugated tin roof. He thought about it for a minute then drove home, the folded magazine page pressing against his leg.

  He cut the engine outside the house and stepped out of the car and walked to the back door. He stopped and stared at the door for a long time. Then he sat down on the stoop and put his hands over his face. The wind was warm around him. He walked quickly back to the car and drove back to work.

  At the end of the day Harrison said to Neil, Pancho’s? and the men drove over. They sat in the corner with a beer each and talked about hypersonic lift-to-drag ratios and trans-atmospheric cross-ranges and controlled lifting reentry. Pancho came over and called them a pair of miserable bastards and Neil smiled and sketched out Boeing’s mock-up of the delta-winged X-20 Dyna-Soar space-plane on a napkin and Harrison ordered a scotch and felt good.

  When he got home, Grace was upstairs in the empty bedroom. Harrison stood outside and watched. There were piles of folded clothes on the little bed. Grace picked up a pile at a time and placed them in large black bags.

  What are you doing? he said.

  You know what I’m doing.

  He went downstairs. He found a mug in the kitchen and poured an inch of rye. He sat down at the table. Grace came down the stairs and the back door banged. He picked up his mug and went to see what she was doing. Grace stood on the stoop. There were several black bags outside the back door.

  I didn’t want them in the house anymore, she said, walking past him. I’m going to bed.

  It’s still early, he said.

  Turn the lights out when you come up.

  He watched her disappear upstairs. He looked at the back door. He went back to the kitchen and topped off his drink. Then he went out to the stoop and knelt down by the bags.

  What the hell? he said, looking inside the first one.

  Grace! he said. He yelled again. Grace!

  He pulled out handfuls of dresses, vests, cardigans and skirts. Some he discarded. Others he collected next to him. What the…? Grace!

  What’s the matter with you? she said, appearing behind him.

  What the hell are you doing? he said.

  What?

  What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!

  You know—

  I thought you were clearing out a few old things; stuff we didn’t want anymore—this, this is everything! Look.

  He held up a yellow dress with white lace skirting the hem.

  You know what this is? he said.

  Her eyes swelled with tears.

  Of course I know what it is, she said.

  Then why the hell is it out here? Here with the trash? The goddamn trash?

  It’s not the trash, she said.

  What?

  It’s—I’m giving it to Jane Boham—she’s just had a little—

  The hell you are!

  Jim I’m sorry I—

  Harrison was frantically searching though the last bag.

  Oh you’re sorry are you? You’re sorry.

  Please Jim, don’t do this—

  Just go away, would you? Leave me the hell alone.

  He started stuffing clothes back into one of the empty bags. She stood behind him and cried.

  Just—leave me alone, he said.

  He heard the door bang behind him. He fell back and wept into the yellow dress.

  What the hell are you doing here?

  Quit being such a hard-ass.

  Pancho, I’m serious, it’s not like the old days. You need clearance. You need—

  I need a drink, is what I need.

  Jesus. What do you want?

  You know she goes every day. To Rosamond Park Cemetery?

  Look, Pancho, I’m flyin in forty minutes.

&nb
sp; Did you know that?

  No, I did not know that.

  You wanna know how I know it? I drive her there every goddamn day. I been spending more time at your place than you have.

  Don’t come over here, start playing that card, Pancho; that I’m working too hard, that I don’t know my own wife.

  You don’t know your own wife.

  Get out.

  Shut up.

  What’s this?

  An envelope.

  Is she leaving me?

  It’s from me you dope. It’s a thousand dollars.

  What?

  Take her away someplace, Jim; someplace nice. Just the two of you.

  I’m runnin a program here, Pancho, I can’t just—

  Screw the program.

  F’chrissakes.

  Speak to the old man, get some time off. Hell, everyone knows you need it.

  So now everyone knows what’s good for me.

  No, just me.

  Right.

  You were back on the flight line three days after her funeral!

  I couldn’t protect her, Pancho.

  It wasn’t your job to, sweetie.

  Something ached inside him.

  Yes it was, he said.

  He sat in the middle of Muroc Dry Lake with the canopy up and waited for the ground crew. His pressure suit was tight and uncomfortable. Boy, that was a ride, he thought. The Big Engine had failed to ignite when he was dropped. Hell, he’d fallen fast. There was only time for one relight in the X-15. It lit. Waiting for the truck with the sun on his face he thought about what he’d seen up there, across the top, above the dome. Black space, blue Earth; the globe curling away beneath him. He’d looked down on everything he’d known, for a brief window, a few minutes. He’d flown weightless, on reaction control, hand on the stick squirting hydrogen peroxide from the thrusters. He felt free. Then he dropped back into the atmosphere and the Earth pulled him down.

  When the crew arrived they helped him from the cockpit and quizzed him on the malfunction. High speed flights always made him hungry so they’d started bringing him a sandwich to munch on in the truck. Baloney and mustard. He rode back to base.

  Phone call, Jim, Ridley yelled when they pulled into the hangar.

  Who is it? Harrison called up.

  Didn’t say.

  Harrison climbed the stairs in his pressure suit. In the office, he picked up the receiver.

  Hello? he said.

  I’m looking for Jim Harrison, a voice said.

  This is he, Harrison said.

  Jim, it’s Deke Slayton.

  Harrison looked up. Ridley had gone down to the hangar. He sat down.

  Jim, you there?

  Yeah, uh, Deke; I’m here.

  You still want to come fly for us? Deke said.

  Sure, Harrison said.

  Good. Great to have you. We need you to come down to Houston for the press announcement, day after tomorrow, but, look, we want to keep things secret til then, so I want you to catch a flight down here tomorrow and get a cab to the Rice Hotel. Have you got that?

  Harrison fumbled for a pencil on Ridley’s desk and wrote RICE HOTEL on the back of an envelope.

  Uh, yeah, Deke, I got that, he said.

  When you get there, say you have a reservation in the name of Max Peck.

  Right, Harrison said. Ask for Max Peck.

  No, Deke said. Tell them you’re Max Peck.

  Oh, right, he said. Deke?

  Yeah?

  Who’s Max Peck?

  You’ll find out.

  The line went dead. He replaced the receiver and looked at the phone. A small smile crept across his face. He picked it up again and dialed two digits, then stopped, put it back, and sat and thought until Ridley came in and said, was that Deke Slayton from NASA? And he said, yeah. Wanted to ask about Walker.

  What’d you say? Ridley said.

  Told him to speak to Walker, Harrison said.

  Walker’s thirty-six, Ridley said. He’s too old.

  Yeah.

  He’d be good, though, ol Joe. Yeah. He’d show them a thing or two.

  Yeah, Harrison said.

  He headed home late afternoon. Milo leapt up when he got in. The dog was slowing down, getting old, enjoying the warmth of the sun through the window more than chasing jackrabbits between the Joshua trees.

  Milo, he said, kneeling on the floor, rubbing the dog’s head and playing with his ears. Milo yelped with excitement and Grace stepped into the room from the kitchen.

  Hi, she said. You’re early.

  He stood up and kissed her.

  Thought I’d slip away while no one was lookin, he said.

  How did it go this morning?

  It was okay. Listen, hon, I need to be in Seattle again tomorrow—

  Again? she said. You spent an entire week there just last month—and another before that.

  Honey, I’m sorry, you know how important this is. The Dyna-Soar is the next step up from the X-15 and I’m part of the pilot-consultant group. It’s not my fault Boeing’s shop is in Seattle. Hell, I wish it was round the corner.

  Can’t Neil go instead?

  Neil’s going with me.

  Grace looked at him. Just so you know, she said, Dyna-Soar is a stupid name.

  It’s just slang, he said. It’ll be designated the X-20. Look, hon, I know things have been tough recently. And the program’s stepped up and gotten real busy and I haven’t been around as much as you’d like. I’m sorry. Things’ll be better when I get back, I promise.

  Grace sighed. I’m sorry too, she said. Just feel like I’m on my own sometimes, that’s all.

  You’re not, he said, putting his arms around her. Come on, let’s head over to Pancho’s. It’s been an age since we were there together.

  You’re leaving early tomorrow?

  He thought about what time Deke wanted him in Houston.

  I’ll be fine, he said.

  Guess I’d better make the most of you while I can.

  That’s my girl. C’mon, let’s grab a bite there too.

  Milo ran around the room then disappeared into the kitchen.

  Let me just get changed, she said.

  Houston was humid. He wanted a cold shower as soon as he arrived. He dropped his bag in front of the reception desk at the Rice Hotel and looked around. Nice place. Can I help you? a girl said.

  Sure, he said. I’m Max Peck. I’ve got a room booked for two nights.

  I’m sorry? she said.

  I’m—uh—Max Peck, he said. I have a reservation?

  I don’t think you are, she said.

  He didn’t know what to do. What should he do? A man appeared behind the desk. His nametag said GEORGE SWARTZ. Ah, George Swartz said, yes; I’ll take care of this, Paula, thank you. Mr. Peck?

  Paula looked as confused as Harrison.

  Uh, yes, Harrison said.

  Welcome to the Rice Hotel, George Swartz said. We’re very glad you could make it. He reached beneath the counter for a brown envelope. Here’s your key. Please let us know if anything isn’t to your satisfaction.

  Thank you, Harrison said, looking around.

  The elevators are right through there, George Swartz said, pointing toward a set of glazed double doors. You’re on the fifth floor.

  Thanks, Harrison said. He picked up his bag and, envelope in hand, went to find his room. In the elevator he loosened his collar and hit five. There was a sign above the panel that said, WELCOME TO YOUR HOST IN HOUSTON! WE HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR STAY! MAX PECK, MANAGER.

  What the hell? Harrison said.

  His room was dark and cool. He sat down on the bed. Was all this really necessary? The phone rang.

  Hello? he said. The line was silent. Hello?

  Who’s this? a voice said.

  You phoned me! Harrison said. Who is this?

  I’m Max Peck.

  Are you the manager of this hotel? Harrison said.

  I’m a guest and I think you have my room.

&nbs
p; Look, son, Harrison said. I don’t know who you are but I can assure you this is my room and my name is Max Peck and if you’ve got a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with the manager. I believe his name is Max Peck!

  He slammed the receiver back in its cradle.

  I need a drink, he said to the empty room. He showered, changed, and headed down to the bar. As soon as he saw Pete Conrad with a tumbler in his hand he knew who he’d been speaking to on the telephone.

  Pete Conrad, Harrison said. The Lovelace washout.

  Mr. Peck, I presume? Conrad said, turning and smiling. The men shook hands.

  I thought I recognized the voice, Harrison said.

  Conrad laughed. How the hell are you?

  Good.

  What’ll it be?

  Scotch, thanks. So are we all Max Peck today?

  Yup, Conrad said.

  Well, I can’t wait to meet the others, Harrison said. How many are we, anyway?

  Nine, Conrad said. And here comes another one now.

  John Young, a navy pilot and Pax River alumni, walked over, drink in one hand, fat cigar in the other.

  Mr. Peck, Conrad said. We’ve been waiting for you.

  Shit, Young said. You too? What the hell’s Deke playing at?

  John, Conrad said, this here’s Jim Harrison.

  Young stuck his cigar between his teeth and shook Harrison’s hand.

  Real pleasure, Young said.

  Likewise, Harrison said. Hell, am I the only air force?

  Nope, Conrad said. The same loophole you snuck through let in a couple more.

  Well that’s a damn shame, Harrison said, smiling.

  The bartender approached them.

  What’ll it be, gentlemen?

  Same again for me, Conrad said. Plus a scotch and—John?

  Make that two.

  Coming up, the bartender said.

  And here comes Shaky! Conrad said, spotting Lovell wander into the bar, looking apprehensive.

  Damn, Lovell said, seeing the men. It’s like the fleet has landed.

  Drink? Conrad said.

  Well, if you insist, Pete, Lovell said, then, turning to the others, Jim, John; pleasure to see you gentlemen here.

  Likewise.

  When the bartender returned with their drinks, Harrison said, say, let’s take these through to the lobby; see if we can’t spot a few more Max Pecks coming in.