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

MOJAVE DESERT
MUROC, CALIFORNIA
OCTOBER 1947

The house was part of an old ranch stuck out in the desert scrubland near Muroc, in the high desert of the Mojave, fifty miles west of Victorville. It had a narrow veranda, dustbowl front yard and picket fence. It was called Oro Verde; Green Gold, after the alfalfa that once grew there. The ranch sat on the edge of Muroc Dry Lake, the largest slab of uninterrupted flatness on Earth. Forty-four square miles. Every December, it rained, the first and only of the year. Four inches would collect on the lake's dry surface in a slick pool. The wind pulled and dragged the water, licking the wet sand smooth. In spring, it evaporated and the orange sun fired the ground hard like clay, creating a vast natural runway. The sky was a dome, endless blue; vast and clear and bright. The high elevations of the Mojave were the perfect place to fly. In the thirties it had been home to some godforsaken detachment of the Air Corps, nicknamed the Foreign Legion by the locals: seventeen poor bastards who lived out on the desert hardpan in a dozen canvas tents, with no electricity or plumbing. The Air Corps used the dry lake for training, but the Muroc Field encampment was so remote and wretched that it had no commanding officer. When conscripts arrived to train for combat in the South Pacific, tar paper barracks were quickly constructed to accommodate them, and when men burned in the skies above Europe in the autumn of forty-two, the army installed a top secret flight test program to develop the turbo-powered jet. The flight test center turned permanent after the war, with a small detachment of test pilots, engineers, technicians and ground crew. The men were slowly eaten alive by the sun slung high in the day and, at night, they froze, the hard desert wind howling loud around them, stripping paint from the planes and the trucks.

Muroc Field's two Quonset hangars gleamed on the horizon as Harrison climbed the front steps of the house. He was slender, short, dressed in brown slacks and a shirt, open at the collar. It was Saturday; just eight. He'd been up at five, in the air at six. He pushed open the screen door and dropped his bag to the floor.

What are you doing home? Grace said, from behind the cellar door. Wasn't expecting you til later.

Thought I'd surprise you, he said, make sure you're not in bed with the mailman.

You seen the mailman?

I have.

You were right to come home.

I know.

Grace opened the door and stepped into the living room. She was tall, five-eleven, slight, with boney shoulders and fair hair, tied back. She wore a pair of crimson vaquero boots and a shirt tucked into dirty jeans.

What you doing back there? he said.

Fixing the door; damn thing's been driving me crazy, she said. How was it?

Fine.

That bad, huh.

She walked over, put her arms around his waist.

He yawned.

You tired? she said.

I'm beat.

Want to sleep?

Yeah, but I came home to see you.

You came home to make sure I wasn't in bed with the mailman, she said.

I came to make sure you weren't in bed with any man, he said.

You think I'm a floozy?

I think we got a lot of good-lookin municipal workers round here.

I hadn't noticed, she said, tipping back on the heels of her boots.

Yes you had.

You want to get into that?

Not really.

Let's get into something else, she said, tugging at his waist.

This is unexpected, he said.

Her lips touched his. They stood together in the sunlight.

You're not kissing me, she said.

Mmm?

You're not kissing me.

My mouth is dry; from the flight. Glass of water be good.

I'm sure it would. Help yourself, I'm going out.

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.