Read Online The Last Pilot: A Novel by Benjamin Johncock - Free Book Online
Authors: Benjamin Johncock
Ads: Link
you grow up?
Midwest. On a ranch. My father didn’t hold much with church. Figured that, with his mother outliving his wife, there wasn’t much of anyone watching over him.
I’ve met Jim before, he said, few times, over at Pancho Barnes’s place. He still the fastest man alive?
She smiled.
Mel Apt beat him to Mach three in fifty-six, she said, but … Mel bought it with that one. It had a seat, and Mel tried to eject, but …
I’m sorry.
Jim always says there’s no point trying to punch out of a rocket plane; it’s like committing suicide to keep yourself from getting killed.
The Lord will give you strength, Grace. He will hold you up. Would you like me to pray for you?
She nodded. Irving said a prayer. Then he said, you should come along on Sunday.
I can’t, I’m sorry, Reverend. He can’t know I’m here, no one can.
You feel that prayer would undermine his confidence in the air?
It’s more than that—these … things , they’re not talked—
I understand.
Thank you, she said.
Psalm one thirty-nine says, Whither shall I go from thy spirit? Or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. It’s funny, in a way; I’m already directing my prayers into the atmosphere, after the Sputnik.
Jim said it was nothing to worry about, it was so small.
Don’t let size deceive you. Look at the H-bomb. This country has always been protected by the vast oceans that surround it. Imagine if that could be breached, at any time, in minutes, by a Sputnik carrying an atomic bomb? What if it could shower us with radiation like a crop-duster as it passes overhead? This time last year, Rickover told the Senate he didn’t think the American people understood that we were at war. They need to hear shells! What we’ll be hearing before the year is out will be louder than shells, I assure you.
You really think so?
Only last week the Soviets launched another Sputnik—Mechta, whatever that means—that flew to the moon , then into orbit around the sun. The sun! How are they doing this? How are they doing these things before us? McCormack’s right, you know, we’re facing national extinction if we don’t catch up, and catch up soon. We simply must capture the high ground of space. Our survival—the free world, the church—depends on it.
He paused.
The Communists aren’t supposed to be good at technology. He sighed. I’m basing my next sermon on it.
On how the Communists are supposed to be technologically backward?
On us getting soft, he said. We’re standing still. The American man is drinking beer on his sofa in front of his new television set, while the Soviets are toiling, sweating and bleeding, becoming masters of the universe. Maybe Average Joe should concern himself less with the depth of the pile in his new broadloom rug, or the height of the tail fin on his new car. Maybe then we’d prevail. May I read you something?
She nodded. He opened his Bible and began to read from a newspaper cutting pressed between the pages of Leviticus.
Control of space means control of the world. From space, the Reds would have the power to control the Earth’s weather, to cause drought and flood, to change the tides and raise the levels of the sea, to direct the Gulf Stream and change temperate climates to frigid.
It’s a battle, Grace, he said. It’s a battle for the heavens. It’s good versus evil and we’re on the front line. You know, I might use that. These things are so difficult to write.
He made a note.
I pray for this country, Grace. I pray for the president, I pray for Vice President Nixon, and I pray for Premier Khrushchev. And I will pray for you and Jim.
I should go, she said. Thank you, Reverend.
God bless you, Grace.
In the car, driving home, she thought
Midwest. On a ranch. My father didn’t hold much with church. Figured that, with his mother outliving his wife, there wasn’t much of anyone watching over him.
I’ve met Jim before, he said, few times, over at Pancho Barnes’s place. He still the fastest man alive?
She smiled.
Mel Apt beat him to Mach three in fifty-six, she said, but … Mel bought it with that one. It had a seat, and Mel tried to eject, but …
I’m sorry.
Jim always says there’s no point trying to punch out of a rocket plane; it’s like committing suicide to keep yourself from getting killed.
The Lord will give you strength, Grace. He will hold you up. Would you like me to pray for you?
She nodded. Irving said a prayer. Then he said, you should come along on Sunday.
I can’t, I’m sorry, Reverend. He can’t know I’m here, no one can.
You feel that prayer would undermine his confidence in the air?
It’s more than that—these … things , they’re not talked—
I understand.
Thank you, she said.
Psalm one thirty-nine says, Whither shall I go from thy spirit? Or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. It’s funny, in a way; I’m already directing my prayers into the atmosphere, after the Sputnik.
Jim said it was nothing to worry about, it was so small.
Don’t let size deceive you. Look at the H-bomb. This country has always been protected by the vast oceans that surround it. Imagine if that could be breached, at any time, in minutes, by a Sputnik carrying an atomic bomb? What if it could shower us with radiation like a crop-duster as it passes overhead? This time last year, Rickover told the Senate he didn’t think the American people understood that we were at war. They need to hear shells! What we’ll be hearing before the year is out will be louder than shells, I assure you.
You really think so?
Only last week the Soviets launched another Sputnik—Mechta, whatever that means—that flew to the moon , then into orbit around the sun. The sun! How are they doing this? How are they doing these things before us? McCormack’s right, you know, we’re facing national extinction if we don’t catch up, and catch up soon. We simply must capture the high ground of space. Our survival—the free world, the church—depends on it.
He paused.
The Communists aren’t supposed to be good at technology. He sighed. I’m basing my next sermon on it.
On how the Communists are supposed to be technologically backward?
On us getting soft, he said. We’re standing still. The American man is drinking beer on his sofa in front of his new television set, while the Soviets are toiling, sweating and bleeding, becoming masters of the universe. Maybe Average Joe should concern himself less with the depth of the pile in his new broadloom rug, or the height of the tail fin on his new car. Maybe then we’d prevail. May I read you something?
She nodded. He opened his Bible and began to read from a newspaper cutting pressed between the pages of Leviticus.
Control of space means control of the world. From space, the Reds would have the power to control the Earth’s weather, to cause drought and flood, to change the tides and raise the levels of the sea, to direct the Gulf Stream and change temperate climates to frigid.
It’s a battle, Grace, he said. It’s a battle for the heavens. It’s good versus evil and we’re on the front line. You know, I might use that. These things are so difficult to write.
He made a note.
I pray for this country, Grace. I pray for the president, I pray for Vice President Nixon, and I pray for Premier Khrushchev. And I will pray for you and Jim.
I should go, she said. Thank you, Reverend.
God bless you, Grace.
In the car, driving home, she thought
Similar Books
