Part 29 (1/2)

Parsons looked down, cursed again.

”Forgot it. What do I do?”

Tibbets searched the crowd, saw one of the MPs watching him, waved the man over. The face was familiar, and Tibbets said, ”Nick, I need your forty-five.”

Parsons pointed sheepishly to his empty belt, and the MP complied immediately.

”Here you go, sir. If you don't mind ... love to get it back. It'll be a h.e.l.l of a souvenir.”

Parsons hooked the holster onto his belt, said, ”Yeah, fine.”

Tibbets gave the MP a slap on the arm, said nothing, followed Parsons to the hatch, then both men were up and into the plane.

Parsons stood for a long second, seemed to get his breath, and Tibbets was close behind him, said, ”You okay?”

”Yeah. Jesus. What a circus. Didn't expect that.”

”Leave it to generals to make a d.a.m.n show. Farrell's a good guy, but he likes to get his name in the paper. Hasn't been much chance of that before now. Let's go to work.”

Parsons settled in at the special instrument console, his a.s.sistant there already. Tibbets had seen the gashes on Parsons's hands, fresh cuts from the practice at arming the bomb. He moved into the c.o.c.kpit, thought, Deak will be fine. We'll all be fine. Just ... do the job. Lewis was already in the co-pilot's seat, acknowledged Tibbets with a quick nod, no smile.

”Okay, Bob, let's go through the checklist. I'm ready to find some sky.”

NORTH FIELD, TINIAN, RUNWAY ABLE.

AUGUST 6, 1945, 2:45 A.M.

He ignored Lewis now, no banter between them, nothing at all. Tibbets kept his thoughts inside him, a stream of words, thoughts of the amazing weapon in the belly of his plane, the length of the runway, any detail on the checklist they might have missed. Eleven months, he thought. All that training ... for this. Well, don't screw it up.

”Dimples Eight Two to North Tinian Tower. Ready for takeoff on Runway Able.”

The response was immediate.

”Dimples Eight Two. Dimples Eight Two. Cleared for takeoff.”

Tibbets released the brakes, the plane easing forward, slowly, far more slowly than he was used to. Just another takeoff, he thought. Just one more time. Outside the row of runway lights was something new, more lights blinking red. It was a fleet of emergency vehicles, fire trucks mostly, spread out the entire length of the mile-and-a-half strip. Wishful thinking, he thought. This thing noses in, those boys won't have much to do. They're just as likely to go up with us.

The lights on each side of the runway were moving past more quickly now, the plane's speed increasing, and he stared straight ahead, knew exactly where the end of the runway would be, and how fast he had to go to bring the plane airborne. He felt the sluggishness beneath him, more thoughts rolling through his brain, knew they were carrying four hundred pounds less fuel than usual, any effort to make the plane lighter. That was a d.a.m.n good idea, he thought. Come on, just a little more speed. They were less than a thousand feet from the end now, and he felt the yoke in his hands move, knew it was Lewis, the man sensing a problem, pulling back, trying to lift the plane off the ground. No! Tibbets jammed the yoke forward, the clear signal to his co-pilot, just a little more! The end of the runway was a thick row of light in front of him, closer now, the plane hugging the ground, Lewis staring fixed, Tibbets as well, feeling the plane's gentle bounce, the nose starting to rise. He kept the wheels on the ground, the roar of the engines a part of him, filling his brain, the shouting in his ear, his own, a little more ... The lights were right in front of him now, and he eased the yoke back, the wheels rising, clearing the lights by a few feet. The plane was flying now, climbing, and he felt the knot inside of him release, realized he was breathing heavily, glanced at Lewis, saw wide-eyed terror on the man's face. Lewis sat back in his seat, didn't look at him, and Tibbets nodded to himself, satisfied, thought, just had to make sure, that's all. He studied the altimeter, knew there was no rush, no need to reach alt.i.tude yet. The skies were total darkness, the moon not yet rising, and he studied the instrument panel, the pressures, the levels, the plane's att.i.tude. He focused again on the altimeter, pa.s.sing through two thousand feet, a steady climb, the roar of the engines constant, no shudder, no skipping, nothing to cause any of the crew concern. No machine guns, he thought. Great d.a.m.n idea. Makes this a h.e.l.l of a lot smoother. The plane continued its climb, and he glanced at his watch, saw that a quick ten minutes had pa.s.sed, looked to the compa.s.s, the heading, three-three-eight degrees, knew that already Saipan would be beneath them. j.a.p soldiers still there, he thought, probably hear us going over. Some guy in a hilltop hole looking up, trying to see, maybe taking a potshot with his worn-out rifle. Not tonight, pal. By tomorrow, you might not have a war to fight.

He knew that Parsons was already down in the bomb bay, helped by the man chosen to a.s.sist him, Lieutenant Maurice Jeppson. I hope somebody put fresh batteries in his d.a.m.n flashlight. He thought of using the intercom, a progress report. Nope, let him be. It took him about a half hour to do it in practice. Don't pressure him any more than he's pressuring himself. If there's a problem, he'll tell me. Or ... we might never even know. One big d.a.m.n puff of smoke.

The voice came in his ear now, Parsons.

”Working on it, Colonel. Tight squeeze ... ow ... dammit.”

”I'll omit that last part.”

Tibbets keyed the radio mike now, the prearranged transmission to General Farrell, a radio linkup that had been made to the communications center on Tinian, where the group of scientists waited for any kind of information Parsons could give them. Tibbets knew that Parsons was working from a checklist that included eleven separate steps, and as Parsons completed each one, he kept Tibbets informed. In turn Tibbets radioed Farrell, using their agreed-upon code word for the completion of each step. Tibbets tried to imagine the scene in the communications center, a dozen scientists scribbling frantically to capture every word, some of them already thinking of the academic papers they would write, or maybe some interview to get their name in the paper. Not much chance of that for a while. Not sure I'd want that kind of publicity while there were j.a.p agents hanging around. Some idiot physicist goes back to his university and starts prancing around like a big wheel and some j.a.p sympathizer might take exception, maybe a pistol shot at close range. Not my problem, I guess. Not anymore.

”Ow ... dammit. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.”

”Easy, Deak. Take a breath. You got plenty of light?”

”Aye. Roger. Jesus, just hold her steady. This d.a.m.n thing rides like a hobby horse.”

”Ride 'em cowboy.”

The messages continued with each success on the checklist, a slow countdown. Then, in his ear, Tibbets heard a strange crackle from the radio receiver.

”Radio, what's going on?”

The response came from Private First Cla.s.s Richard Nelson, the lowest-ranking man in the plane.

”Sir, we've lost Tinian. We're flying too low to hold the signal.”

Tibbets knew it was one very minor annoyance, keeping the plane beneath five thousand feet, so that Parsons would not require an oxygen mask in the bomb bay.

”Roger that.”

Several minutes pa.s.sed, Tibbets nervously tapping his fingers on the yoke. Then Parsons spoke again.

”Almost done. I want disability pay. Cut two fingers and ripped my s.h.i.+rt.”

”I'll buy you the s.h.i.+rt. Just get the job done.”

Tibbets could hear the tension in Parsons's voice, didn't comment. Just let him do the job his own way. He'll tell me if he needs anything. At least it's a smooth flight, but d.a.m.n, I wouldn't want to take this trip riding bare-back on that son of a b.i.t.c.h.

After a long minute, there was commotion behind him, and Tibbets turned, was surprised to see Parsons, sweat on his face, a broad smile.

”We're armed.”

Parsons didn't wait for a compliment, moved back toward his own instrument panel. Tibbets glanced at his watch. Three twenty-five. The radio had been silent completely, and Tibbets knew that the other planes had taken off behind him, were all heading for the rendezvous point over Iwo Jima. The weather observers were far out in front, and nothing had come from them as well. Silence was a good sign, no problems, nothing mechanical. He scanned the gauges again, every one reading what he expected to see. He let out a breath, realized he was sweating, glanced over at Lewis. His co-pilot had said nothing at all, and Tibbets thought of the takeoff, the man's glimmer of panic. It's okay, Bob. You did it by the book. I used up every last foot because ... well, I thought it was the best thing to do. I'm not gonna ream you out for it. He was already tired of the various comments he had overheard, grumbles from Lewis's own crew, the men who had flown with him when Lewis commanded various training missions, those men now left back on Tinian. I'm not in the mood for that, he thought. He wants to talk about it, we can do it later. Right now ... we've got a lot of time to kill. A nap ought to be good. But I oughta check on those boys in the back, let 'em know I haven't forgotten about 'em.

”Take the yoke, Bob. I'm heading back.”

Lewis nodded, still no words, and Tibbets pulled himself up from the seat, moved out past the others, Parsons and Jeppson. He looked toward the low light in the nose of the plane, the navigator's desk, Van Kirk writing in his log, keeping details of time and location all throughout the flight. Beside him, Ferebee, the bombardier, was reclining in his seat, smoking a cigarette. Farther aft, the radioman, Nelson, seemed to jump when he saw Tibbets, and Tibbets saw a small book in the man's hand, some kind of novel. Nelson glanced at the novel, as though Tibbets had caught him in some kind of illegal activity, and Tibbets said, ”Easy, Private. We've got a lot of time right now. Relax as best you can.”

”Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Tibbets was at the tunnel now, and he ducked low, took a long breath. The pa.s.sageway to the rear of the plane was thirty feet long and less than two feet in diameter. No fat tail gunners, he thought. That's for sure. He was on his knees now, pulled himself with his elbows, making his way through the tight s.p.a.ce. He reached the far end, saw a faint glow of light, four men gathered, one of them the tail gunner, George Caron. There was no surprise there, no reason yet for the tail gunner to be in his position at the tip of the plane's tail. Tibbets pulled his legs out of the tunnel, sat, realized that the radio countermeasures officer, Jake Beser, was sound asleep, his body curled up right on the flight deck. Close beside him, Joe Stiborik, the radar man, said, ”Want me to wake him up?”

Tibbets shook his head, knew already that Beser could sleep anywhere and everywhere, and usually did. But Beser's job would come later, and Tibbets knew there would be no sleeping in the forward station where Beser would monitor any j.a.panese radar stations that tried to fix a lock on the plane's position. Tibbets pulled the pipe from his pocket, felt the plane veer slightly, a quiver magnified this far aft. He knew it was Lewis, engaging the automatic pilot. I suppose, Tibbets thought, he needs a nap too. Tibbets looked at the others, said, ”All right, so you boys have been told we're hauling a h.e.l.l of a weapon. You figure out the rest?”