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

Harrison finished his drink and Pancho refilled the glass.

Help stabilize the system, she said.

He knocked it back and made to leave.

Hey, Harrison, she called after him.

He looked down at a half-smoked pack of cigarettes on the bar.

You're a peach, he said.

Get the hell out.

The screen door clattered shut, rattling the dead men hanging inside.

Pancho spent the morning running errands. Muroc was three miles north across flat dirt trails; a barren cluster of buildings founded on the Sante Fe railroad. The dull steel track stretched toward the horizon in both directions. Alongside the wooden station-house were three black sheds for the men who worked the rails. The main street was a dust strip. It had Charlie Anderson's store, Ma Green's café, and a Union Oil gas station, as well as a small post office and a one-man bank.

It was quiet. A slight wind caught a tangled cluster of loose telephone wires that grappled and rapped against each other. At the bank, Pancho settled three bills that she'd disputed the previous winter.

Anything else I can do for you, Pancho?

Nope, that's it, thanks Fredo. Good to see you.

How's things out in the boonies?

Can't complain.

Billy Horner still working for you?

Was when I left.

Be seeing you, Pancho.

You know it.

Don't be a stranger now.

We'll see.

Outside, the sun hurt her eyes. She pulled down on her old cowboy hat, lit a cigar and dropped the match into the dirt. Damn weenies. She had no problem paying bills, so long as they were fair. The smoke lingered in her mouth. There'd be more money soon. She crossed the street to Charlie Anderson's.

Well, Charlie, you ol bastard, how are you?

That Pasadena's First Lady?

Depends who you ask.

How's Rankin?

Wouldn't know.

Still in New York?

Last I heard.

When you gonna do it?

When I gonna do what?

You know.

She chewed on the cigar still burning between her teeth.

Now why would I go do a stupid thing like that? she said.

Case you meet a handsome fella.

Out here? I got prettier hogs.

Must be some swine. Maybe he's met someone?

He's pastor of the Pasadena Episcopal Church, Charlie. He meets women who want to marry him every day. First whiff of a divorce and the Church would haul his ass out of there. I won't do that to him. We write each other. Suits us fine.

What's he doing in Brooklyn again?

Who knows.

She pulled hard on her cigar. Two women, an aisle over, peered through the shelves.

Morning, ladies, Pancho said, blowing smoke through the gap. They disappeared. Pancho smiled. It was a small town; people talked. When folks heard about her swimming pool, they couldn't believe the extravagance. The first time she filled up her blue Cadillac at Carl Bergman's Union Oil, he yapped on it for months. It had no backseat, Carl told the other ranchers. It was full of dogs!

*   *   *

Pancho got back to the ranch at eleven. Billy was serving two men at the bar.

Is it on? she said. Billy looked up.

Nope.

Quick.

The radio was wedged between the cash register and the rum. Close to the base, restricted exchanges could be picked up on the right frequency. Billy turned it on. The box popped and whistled.

Plenty fellas go up; you never listen, he said.

Shut up. Is it working?

Yeah.

This is different.

How you know?

This is not an airplane, Pancho said, least nothing a pudknocker like you'd understand one to be. It's a goddamn rocket with a tail; an orange bullet with razor wings and a needle-nose. They call it the X-1. And it's got one purpose: fly faster than sound.

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.