Excerpt from The Last Pilot by Benjamin Johncock, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

She stepped away, her shirt creased from where it had pressed against him.

Where you goin? he said.

Rosamond.

Rosamond?

Post office has a package for us, she said, picking up her keys from the counter.

You're going to see the mailman? he said.

Your jealousy is oddly compelling.

You're oddly compelling.

You're tired, she said.

And thirsty.

Glass of water, she said, then take a nap.

I'm up again at eleven, he said. You know that's—

I know, she said. First powered flight.

Yeah. Be the fastest anyone's gone.

I know.

She stepped toward him.

Be careful, she said.

Always am, hon, he said.

He walked into the kitchen, found a glass and turned on the cold tap. Grace watched him drink slowly, then refill the glass.

I had a phone call, she said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. They can see me on Monday.

Monday?

At ten.

He paused, looking at the water in the glass.

I didn't think it would be that quick, he said.

The lady said it's been quiet; she said—doesn't matter.

Want me to come?

No, maybe; I don't know.

I can speak to Boyd? The old man owes me some slack.

I'll be fine.

Ten?

She nodded.

Okay then.

Okay then.

The kitchen was small. It had a round table pushed into a nook at one end and a window that looked out over the open desert at the other. The planes took off over the roof, making the crockery rattle. But there were days when the blue of the sky was cut with a hard line of black smoke from the ground, the stiff air vibrating with the sirens of distant fire trucks. Those were bad days. There had been one a week since the end of August; seven in August itself. These grim streaks happened.

I'd better get going, she said, pushing herself off the doorframe with her shoulder.

Sure, he said, and paused. Rick Bong augered in yesterday.

I heard, she said. Janice told me. I'm going over to see Marjory on Wednesday. So's Jackie.

He was testing the P-80A, he said. Main fuel pump sheared on takeoff. Flamed out at fifty feet. No seat, so he pops the canopy, then his chute, but the airstream wraps him round the tail and they corkscrew in together.

He looked up at her.

He didn't turn on his auxiliary fuel pump before takeoff, he said.

Jim—

How could anyone be so stupid not to turn on their auxiliary fuel pump before takeoff?

Sounds like it was just a mistake, Grace said.

There are no mistakes, Harrison said, just bad pilots.

She sighed. She stood beside him and pulled his head to her breast, holding it gently with both hands.

I'll see you later, she said.

Fancy coming over to Pancho's after? he said. Gonna be celebrating.

Maybe.

I'll be the fastest man alive, he said. Don't you forget that.

Doubt I'll be allowed to.

Well, it won't last long. Yeager'll go faster on Tuesday, assuming he don't drill a hole in the Sierras.

You should probably enjoy it while you can, she said.

You know, I think I will.

She kissed the top of his head.

Bye, she said.

Pick me up some Beemans, would you? he called after her. He rubbed his forehead and drank the rest of his water.

Pancho's place sat squat in six acres of bone-dry desert taut with Joshua trees. It had a wooden veranda, flyscreen door and looked like hell. She served scotch and beer and highballs and called it the Happy Bottom Riding Club. In summer, the temperature hit a hundred and ten and the bar would creak and groan. At night, it was close to freezing. The bar was part of a ranch that she'd bought from a farmer called Hannam ten years before, when the Depression sunk the price of alfalfa from thirty dollars a ton to ten.

Excerpted from The Last Pilot by Benjamin Johncock. Copyright © 2015 by Benjamin Johncock. Excerpted by permission of Picador. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.