You all set, Chuck?
Hell, yeah, I’m tired of waitin; let’s drop this crate.
Countdown numbers tumbled from the radio. Pancho turned up the volume. The X-1 was dropped. They stared into their drinks and listened. Yeager lit the four rocket chambers and climbed, steep, up. His voice on the radio was faint, that West Virginian drawl.
Had a mild buffet […] jus the usual instability.
The X-1 reached point nine-six Mach.
Say Ridley, make a note here […] elevator effectiveness regained.
The Mach needle moved to point nine-eight, fluctuated, then went off the scale. Pancho heard a sudden, hard crack; sharp and loud enough to ripple the beer in the bottles and rattle the frames on the wall.
Say Ridley, make another note, will ya? There’s something wrong with this ol Machometer … it’s gone kinda screwy on me.
If it is, Chuck, we’ll fix it. Personally, I think you’re seeing things.
Well, guess I am, Jack, an I’m about to punch a hole in the sky.
They heard Yeager chuckle to himself. Glennis smiled. Pancho slammed her hands down on the bar.
Yeager! she said. That miserable sonofabitch! Just the usual instability? Man doesn’t have a nerve in his goddamn body!
Glennis laughed, Grace squeezed her hand and Pancho made martinis to celebrate.
The desert cooled, night fell. Yeager claimed his free steak dinner at Pancho’s.
Got you a present, Harrison said, handing him a brown paper package tied with string.
Thanks, he said, pulling at the string. Inside was a raw carrot, a pair of glasses and an old length of rope.
All cowboys use rope, Harrison said. You can use that to tie yourself to the horse.
Tricky seein things in the dark, Ridley said. Jackrabbit holes, corral gates …
Why, thanks a whole lot, Yeager said. One thing about you guys, you’re real sincere.
He stuck the carrot in his mouth, put on the glasses and swung the rope around his head.
The men laughed. Pancho came over.
How’s the Lone Ranger? she said.
All right, all right, Glennis said. Time to give the fastest man in the world some peace.
There was cheering.
Don’t feel right, Pancho said, not celebrating properly.
Orders are orders, Ridley said.
This is the most historic flight since the goddamn Wright Brothers and the air force wants to keep a lid on it.
Just the way they figured it, Harrison said.
Well it’s a crock of shit, Pancho said.
Matters that we busted that ol sound barrier; doesn’t matter who knows.
You can’t keep a thing like that secret, she said. Word’ll get out and every hot pilot in the country will know this is the place to aim for. This here’s the new frontier. Everything’s gonna change. So tell Boyd I’ll keep his little secret—hell, I’m keeping enough of his dirty ones anyways—but tonight, we’re celebratin.
Pancho threw out anyone not involved with the X-1 program and declared the bar gratis. She always had her booze flown up from Mexico, telling everyone it tasted better tax-free. Grace handed out cold cuartito bottles of Pacífico from a crate on the floor. Harrison and Ridley grabbed Yeager and wrestled him onto the bar. He stood and swayed and they toasted him three times.
It was nearly two. Yeager and Ridley were head-to-head across a table in a shot contest, slowly downing then inverting their glasses in turn. Pancho refereed, calling odds, collecting money. More glasses were empty than full. Harrison cheered and wondered where his wife was. He knocked back his scotch, put down his glass and searched her out.
He found her outside, sat on the steps of the veranda, drinking a warm beer.
There you are, Harrison said.
She looked up at him. Today is a good day, she said.
It is, he said.
It hurts, she said.
I know, he said.
Here. She tapped at her chest.
He sat down. She took a drink of her beer.
Plenty more good days comin, he said.
She offered him the bottle, he took a swig.
Why don’t you give Mac a call, see if he’s still got that pup? he said.
She looked at him. She nodded. She looked down at the dirt.
When I was a girl, she said, Daddy would take me out riding. Growing up on a ranch, horses were just how we lived; but it was different when he took me out. We’d be gone for the whole morning sometimes; other times longer. We’d ride out together, same horse; a beautiful brown mare he called Lightning—not for her speed, though she was no slouch; she’d been born in a storm. He’d give me the reins from time to time and sometimes we’d stop and fish or catch a jackrabbit to take home with us, but mostly we’d just ride, for the sake of riding. Can’t ride a horse without thinking about him. Warm breeze in your face, dirt kicking up behind. It felt good, just to ride.
He offered back the bottle; she shook her head. They sat together in silence, smoke curling away in the wind.
MOJAVE DESERT
MUROC, CALIFORNIA