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the crust of frost flicking off in a brief sparkling funnel of light. With two movements of his finger, Marshall fired the first engine. Igniting the rocket slung the rocket plane forward like an arrow out of a bow, leaving the B-29 and the chase plane behind instantly.
    At Mach .86, Marshall applied a touch of back pressure to rocket the MS-447 into its climb. It was a delightful airplane to fly, unstable at low speeds, but rock-solid now as he leveled out at thirty-six thousand feet and fired the second engine. Once again there was a jolt and the Mach built rapidly to .90, .92. He was blasting toward the sound barrier, toward certain fame—or certain destruction, if the doomsayers were right, if speed built the air into a brick wall to shatter the aircraft and sent it tumbling out of control.
    "Do what's right, son."
    He'd heard the words a thousand times in his youth, and they came to him now. McNaughton was the boss, he was paying him—his dad would have said he was "laboring in McNaughton's vineyard." With a sigh, Marshall reached up and flipped off both engines as the Mach meter touched .94. He was still accelerating, only seconds away from being the first man to break the sound barrier—seconds away from the record books—as the deceleration thrust him forward in his harness.
    A wild surge of regret flooded Marshall. The war had ended before he could be an ace; this had been his one last opportunity and he'd tossed it away. His daddy would be proud of him, but that wasn't enough. He'd blown his chance!
    The chase plane came up beside him; Marshall could see the pilot shrug and put his hands up as if to ask, "What the hell is going on?"
    Descending at four hundred miles an hour, Marshall rolled the elegant MS-447 around the P-80. As he turned, keeping the Lockheed riveted firmly in the center of his canopy, he told himself, "Never again." Never again would he lose an opportunity like this, no matter what his daddy would have said, no matter what Saundra said. He'd had the world in his hands, and he'd thrown it away.
    On the salt flats below, a technician looked up and said, "He hit just about Mach .95 on engine cutoff, sir."
    McNaughton whirled on his heels and walked toward the waiting car. Bandfield raced ahead of him and asked, "What the hell am I going to tell Marshall? What am I going to tell the Air Force?"
    McNaughton stared at him. "That's easy. You tell Marshall he's fired, and you tell the Air Force that we'll make another attempt in two weeks. Tell them to send us a pilot as good as Yeager—tell them to send us Stan Coleman."
    Bandfield watched the door slam behind McNaughton, thinking how consistent the man was, always a bastard, no matter what the circumstances. He dreaded the coming session with Marshall.
    *
    Little Rock, Arkansas/November 8, 1947
    The view from his offices on the top floor of the Arkansas Commercial Bank, the tallest building in the city, was remarkable. The Arkansas River crooked lazily toward the southeast, and beyond the line of hills was still faintly green. His wife's father, Judge McCallum, had once owned almost all the land spread out before him. When Alma had died the year before, title for the estate had passed to him. He drew immense pleasure from the knowledge, for he knew how important land was. His parents had been sharecroppers, poor white trash farming a section for the McCallums. From where he stood, he could see the old farm now above the bend in the river, a bluish haze from burning grass hanging over it. Milo Ruddick had worked many hours on that ground and knew that land was sacred, just like the blood of the people who owned it.
    Most of the land was in jeopardy now, of course, but he'd make that right. There had been some necessarily extravagant spending. The organization he was developing was expensive, and some of his investments had gone bad. Against his will, he'd had to mortgage much of the property. And he'd had to do the same with the land in Texas, the