Read Online The Last Pilot: A Novel by Benjamin Johncock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Benjamin Johncock
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He looked up at Grace, who was reading the Washington Post.
Says here that Johnson has opened a subcommittee of the Senate Armed Services to look at American defense and space programs in light of the Sputnik crisis , she said.
What crisis?
Listen to this, she said. The Roman Empire controlled the world because it could build roads. Later, when men moved to sea, the British Empire was dominant because it had ships. Now the Communists have established a foothold in outer space.
That Johnson? he said.
Yup.
Johnson is an asshole.
I’m just telling you what they’re saying, she said. The Soviets are masters of the universe, according to Bill Kreagor at the New York Times . Christ, Soapy Williams has written a poem about it.
Why’s he written a poem?
Oh little Sputnik flying high
With made-in-Moscow beep,
You tell the world it’s a Commie sky
And Uncle Sam’s asleep.
How the hell are we asleep? he said. We flew a rocket faster than Mach one ten years ago! The rocket program at Edwards is the most advanced in the world! Ike’s the only one talking sense.
He sounds old-fashioned.
He sounds measured.
He’s out of touch.
Because he’s not hysterical?
Because he doesn’t get that everyone’s terrified! Terrified that the Soviets can and probably will drop atom bombs on any American city they want, whenever they want, with no warning.
You really worried? he said.
I’m concerned; sure I am. When the New York Times says we’re in a race for survival and the Senate majority leader says the Reds will soon be dropping bombs on us from space like kids dropping rocks onto cars from freeway overpasses then, yeah, I get a little jittery.
This country’s gone nuts, he said.
Grace stopped reminiscing; she was nearly home. Milo’s tongue lolled from his mouth, head stuck out the open window. Armageddon felt far away. She had enough to worry about. When she got in, Harrison was upstairs, packing a bag.
Honey? he said.
Hey, she said, walking into the bedroom.
Where you been? he said.
Out, she said. Shopping.
Shopping?
Milo needed food. What’s going on?
I’ve got to go away for a few days.
Away?
I’m real sorry, hon.
What? Why?
Sealed orders. Top secret. I’ve got to report to Washington, D.C. for a classified briefing first thing tomorrow.
He stepped out of the taxi onto the corner of H Street and East Executive Avenue. The Washington air was so cold he thought the day might snap in two. He turned up his collar; drew himself together. He felt uncomfortable. The strict geometry of his suit made him feel like a patsy. It was the only one he owned. He pulled at the knot of his tie. He was standing in front of an unremarkable townhouse in downtown D.C. He checked his orders again. Dolley Madison House . He was in the right place. It didn’t make any sense. Why was the briefing here and not at the Pentagon? He’d been ordered to dress as a civilian too. The whole deal was odd.
The receptionist told him to wait in the auditorium, where he found thirty or so men, milling around, also wearing unfamiliar suits. They were, he could tell, all air force and navy pilots; the odd Marine flyer. He recognized Jim Lovell and Pete Conrad from the navy’s Test Pilot School at Pax River, their prime test center. Wally Schirra too. Harrison looked around for anyone else from Edwards. There was Howard Lane. And there was Deke Slayton. Deke was a prime pilot in Fighter Ops; a good guy, doing solid line-testing work.
Deke, Harrison said, approaching him.
Jim!
The men shook hands.
Fancy running into you here, Harrison said.
Fancy that, Deke said.
Any idea what this is all about?
Beats the hell outta me. Plenty Blue Suiters though.
Plenty navy too.
Uh-huh.
What’s his name? Harrison said.
Who?
Over there.
John Glenn. Flew the first supersonic coast-to-coast. Set a speed record.
That’s the one, Harrison said. Marine, isn’t he?
Yeah.
Jim Lovell approached them, smiling, and shook hands with
He looked up at Grace, who was reading the Washington Post.
Says here that Johnson has opened a subcommittee of the Senate Armed Services to look at American defense and space programs in light of the Sputnik crisis , she said.
What crisis?
Listen to this, she said. The Roman Empire controlled the world because it could build roads. Later, when men moved to sea, the British Empire was dominant because it had ships. Now the Communists have established a foothold in outer space.
That Johnson? he said.
Yup.
Johnson is an asshole.
I’m just telling you what they’re saying, she said. The Soviets are masters of the universe, according to Bill Kreagor at the New York Times . Christ, Soapy Williams has written a poem about it.
Why’s he written a poem?
Oh little Sputnik flying high
With made-in-Moscow beep,
You tell the world it’s a Commie sky
And Uncle Sam’s asleep.
How the hell are we asleep? he said. We flew a rocket faster than Mach one ten years ago! The rocket program at Edwards is the most advanced in the world! Ike’s the only one talking sense.
He sounds old-fashioned.
He sounds measured.
He’s out of touch.
Because he’s not hysterical?
Because he doesn’t get that everyone’s terrified! Terrified that the Soviets can and probably will drop atom bombs on any American city they want, whenever they want, with no warning.
You really worried? he said.
I’m concerned; sure I am. When the New York Times says we’re in a race for survival and the Senate majority leader says the Reds will soon be dropping bombs on us from space like kids dropping rocks onto cars from freeway overpasses then, yeah, I get a little jittery.
This country’s gone nuts, he said.
Grace stopped reminiscing; she was nearly home. Milo’s tongue lolled from his mouth, head stuck out the open window. Armageddon felt far away. She had enough to worry about. When she got in, Harrison was upstairs, packing a bag.
Honey? he said.
Hey, she said, walking into the bedroom.
Where you been? he said.
Out, she said. Shopping.
Shopping?
Milo needed food. What’s going on?
I’ve got to go away for a few days.
Away?
I’m real sorry, hon.
What? Why?
Sealed orders. Top secret. I’ve got to report to Washington, D.C. for a classified briefing first thing tomorrow.
He stepped out of the taxi onto the corner of H Street and East Executive Avenue. The Washington air was so cold he thought the day might snap in two. He turned up his collar; drew himself together. He felt uncomfortable. The strict geometry of his suit made him feel like a patsy. It was the only one he owned. He pulled at the knot of his tie. He was standing in front of an unremarkable townhouse in downtown D.C. He checked his orders again. Dolley Madison House . He was in the right place. It didn’t make any sense. Why was the briefing here and not at the Pentagon? He’d been ordered to dress as a civilian too. The whole deal was odd.
The receptionist told him to wait in the auditorium, where he found thirty or so men, milling around, also wearing unfamiliar suits. They were, he could tell, all air force and navy pilots; the odd Marine flyer. He recognized Jim Lovell and Pete Conrad from the navy’s Test Pilot School at Pax River, their prime test center. Wally Schirra too. Harrison looked around for anyone else from Edwards. There was Howard Lane. And there was Deke Slayton. Deke was a prime pilot in Fighter Ops; a good guy, doing solid line-testing work.
Deke, Harrison said, approaching him.
Jim!
The men shook hands.
Fancy running into you here, Harrison said.
Fancy that, Deke said.
Any idea what this is all about?
Beats the hell outta me. Plenty Blue Suiters though.
Plenty navy too.
Uh-huh.
What’s his name? Harrison said.
Who?
Over there.
John Glenn. Flew the first supersonic coast-to-coast. Set a speed record.
That’s the one, Harrison said. Marine, isn’t he?
Yeah.
Jim Lovell approached them, smiling, and shook hands with
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