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

Thanks, Mac.

How's that fine-lookin husband of yours?

Oh, fine, she said. His usual self.

Flyin today?

Just a few times.

Man's gotta work.

Think I saw more of him when he was flying over occupied France during the war, Grace said. Sure worried about him less. But I guess he knows what he's doing. At least in the air. It's down on the ground that's the problem.

Mac chuckled.

I heard they workin on some new type of airplane or somethin? he said.

They're trying to break the sound barrier, Grace said.

Why in the hell would anyone want to do that?

Jim says someone's gonna do it eventually. Better that it's us. Old allies aren't lookin so friendly anymore.

The Russians?

Grace shrugged. She drained her Coke, saw a deck of cards on a shelf near the table.

You wanna deal a hand? she said, nodding toward them.

Seems like you're in a good mood, he said, smiling and fetching the cards. Sure be a shame to spoil it.

Pipe down, old man, Grace said. You got anything proper to drink?

Shuffle, he said, handing her the deck. He walked through a side door and returned carrying a plain glass bottle, three-quarters full, and two glasses. He sat down.

Here, Grace said, passing Mac the cards. Now deal up, you ol cowboy.

It was just six and Pancho's was busy. A sloppy Cole Porter melody warbled, lost, into the desert night. There were already men on the veranda, surrounded by Virginia creepers, moonlight and girls, drinking scotch and laughing. Inside, the place looked like a cathouse, the piano smelled like a beer.

Pancho stood behind the bar, holding a framed six-by-four of Rick Bong in her hand.

Bing Bong, she said as she hammered it to the wall above the radio. You stupid bastard.

She turned and faced the crowd.

You know the problem with you sons-of-bitches? she shouted. You're all going crazy being horny and sober. We can fix one of them for you, but the other, hell, you're on your own.

There was laughter and cheering. Harrison dug out a cigarette and lit it; the match flared in his face. He walked through the crowd and sat down at a table in the far corner, where a man sat chewing gum.

Pancho wanted you to have this, Yeager said, pushing a glass toward him.

Scotch?

Rum.

Rum?

Best she's got, so she say.

Harrison tried it.

Ain't bad, he said.

Heard they dropped you in a nose-up stall, Yeager said.

You heard right, Harrison said. Thought they'd have to name an ass-shaped crater after me.

Yeager chuckled. He was short, with wiry hair and thin, blue eyes. He had a slow, West Virginian drawl and looked like he'd been left out in the desert for too long.

So how'd it go? he said.

Pretty much what we figured, Harrison said. Heavy trim pressure, Dutch rolls, massive shock wave buffeting, loss of elevator, pitch—

You lost pitch?

Point nine-four Mach, forty thousand feet. I pulled back on the control wheel and, nothing. Felt like the cables had snapped on me. I kept going, same altitude, same direction …

Christ.

I turned off the engine, jettisoned the fuel and landed, fast as I could.

Hell, Yeager said, no way I can get past point nine-four without a damn elevator.

You should've seen Ridley's face, Harrison said. He looked sick as a hog. We checked the data, turns out a shock wave caught the hinge-point on the tail.

What the old man say?

Shook his head, thought the program had reached the end of the line.

Ridley?

Thought on it for a minute, said maybe we could get by using just the horizontal stabilizer.

That's only meant for extra authority.

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.