Part 29 (2/2)

Caron laughed, said, ”You testing us, Colonel? We learned pretty quick that we get in trouble with security for thinking anything. I'm not gonna even guess.”

”We're on our way, Sergeant. You can guess anything you want.”

”Is it a chemist's nightmare? I read about some Brits working on a superweapon, some kind of chemical thing.”

Tibbets was surprised by the question, thought, chemical weapons. Well, that makes sense, if you don't know anything else.

”No, but you're warm.”

Caron seemed satisfied to leave it at that and Tibbets tamped the tobacco down in the pipe, pulled out his lighter. He paused, thought, no, wait until you get back up front. Tight s.p.a.ce back here, and not everybody likes pipes. He stretched, looked back toward the tunnel, and he felt a hand tugging his pant leg. It was Caron.

”Are we splitting atoms today, Colonel?”

In all the briefings, in all the details revealed to the crews, neither Tibbets nor anyone else had used the word atom. I'll be d.a.m.ned, Tibbets thought.

”That's about it, Sergeant. I knew you were a sharp bird, but I wouldn't have thought anybody would have made that guess.”

Caron shrugged, a hint of a smile on his face.

”As long as I'm guessing, sir. Oh ...” He reached into the pocket of his flight suit, brought out a small camera. ”That reporter, the one from New York ...”

”Bill Laurence?”

”Yes, sir. He was pretty ticked off he couldn't make the flight, so he gave me his camera. Told me to take as many pictures as I could.”

Laurence was one of the very select few allowed on Tinian, had a serious reputation as a writer of scientific articles. He had caught the attention of the Manhattan Project planners for a story he had done for the Sat.u.r.day Evening Post before the war, a study of the experiments being done in Europe dealing with atomic fission. Tibbets knew that Laurence had cajoled everyone possible for a seat on the plane, but Tibbets would have no idle pa.s.sengers. Instead he had agreed that his co-pilot, Lewis, would keep a log for Laurence, jotting down observations on a pad that the reporter could later use to write his own story of the mission. That a.s.sumed, of course, that the mission was going to be a success.

”Doesn't look too fancy. I figured a guy like Laurence would have some complicated super-camera. You know how to work that thing?”

”He just told me to push this b.u.t.ton, and keep pus.h.i.+ng it. Guess he figures that with me in the tail, I'll have a good view.”

”Not sure how good a view you'll have with those goggles on. You got that, Sergeant? Don't forget the d.a.m.n goggles. All of you. I've heard talk this thing might blind us all, goggles or not. No chances, right?”

They all nodded, Caron slipping the camera in his pocket.

”Yes, sir.”

Tibbets moved away, made his way forward through the tunnel. The rest of the crew had very little to do, the skies still full dark, broken only by a hint of moonlight, low on the horizon. He pa.s.sed by Parsons, sitting at his strange instrument panel, saw a row of lights, all green. He didn't ask, thought, unless he tells me otherwise, I've got to figure green is good.

He moved back into the c.o.c.kpit, Lewis not looking at him, squeezed himself into his seat again. He saw a flicker of movement, Lewis writing on the pad Laurence had given him, and Tibbets thought, just tell the story. Tibbets turned slightly in the seat, thought of the naps that he often took back by the tunnel. Not tonight. Get some sleep, but figure out how to do it up front. You need to stay in the d.a.m.n c.o.c.kpit. This is a little ... special.

OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN.

AUGUST 6, 1945, 8:00 A.M.

There had been very little sleep, the glimmer of sunlight to the east sweeping away any notion of a nap. He looked at Lewis, saw the co-pilot writing on the reporter's pad, felt a hint of curiosity, but the skies were full blue now, and Tibbets knew there was far more to do.

The flight thus far had been made at low alt.i.tude, but Tibbets knew that no matter the target, the bomb run would be made at 30,700 feet. He ignored Lewis, gunned the throttles slightly, eased back on the yoke just enough to feel the plane begin its climb. Lewis stopped writing, glanced at his watch, said nothing. The climb took several minutes, and Tibbets felt the impatience, wanted to goose the throttles more, held himself back, no need to waste fuel. He stared at the altimeter, desperate impatience, saw the needle rotating like a second hand of a broken clock, moving around the dial far too slowly.

”Three zero thousand.”

It was the first word from Lewis in hours, and Tibbets responded, ”I see it. Leveling out at three zero and seven hundred.”

”Pilot, Radio. Coded message received from Straight Flush.”

”Hold on. I'm on my way.”

Tibbets crawled up from his seat, saw anxiousness on Lewis's face, yep, I know. Now we learn something. He moved down toward the radio desk, Nelson reading a pad of his own writing. Tibbets leaned over his shoulder, saw Y-3, Q-3, B-2, C-1.

”Sir?”

”Easy as pie, Private. Cloud cover is less than three-tenths coverage at all alt.i.tudes. He's giving us advice too. Bomb the primary target. Guess I already knew that.”

Tibbets straightened, felt a nervous rush, moved back to the c.o.c.kpit, settled into his seat. He cleared his throat, keyed the intercom, said, ”Boys, it's Hiros.h.i.+ma.”

He saw Lewis point silently, straight ahead, and Tibbets saw it now, the first land they had seen. He knew the maps by heart, thought of Dutch Van Kirk, his navigator. d.a.m.n good work. That's s.h.i.+koku. And right past ... the Iyo Sea. Son of a b.i.t.c.h, we're right on target.

He felt his hands gripping the yoke, couldn't help the sweat that gathered inside his flight suit. He keyed the intercom again, said, ”Deak, those lights still green?”

”Armed and ready.”

The clouds were scattered beneath them, no response from any j.a.panese gunners on the island below. Nope, we're just small fish up here. Pay us no mind. He glanced at his watch, 8:05, stared out through the wind-s.h.i.+eld, the strip of water pa.s.sing below, and now, through the wisps of clouds he saw a glimmer of sunlight coming from the ground, a scattering of reflections from the morning sun. They were buildings. It was a city. It was Hiros.h.i.+ma.

”Co-pilot, bombardier, navigator. I want confirmation. Do you all agree that the city in front of us is Hiros.h.i.+ma?”

The confirmation was immediate and unanimous, and Tibbets felt his hands gripping harder to the yoke. In his ear came the voice of Van Kirk, the navigator.

”IP dead ahead. Time to AP, ten minutes.”

”Roger.”

Tibbets knew the Initial Point from the many maps and photos they had studied, a point of geography obvious even from their alt.i.tude. The Aiming Point was drilled into him as well-the T-shaped bridge. He waited for Van Kirk's voice, ticking off loud seconds in his brain, and it came now.

”IP.”

Tibbets turned the yoke, engaged the ailerons and rudder, turning the Enola Gay in a sharp left-hand turn, watched the compa.s.s, leveled out, heard Van Kirk, verifying what his own compa.s.s said.

”Course two seven two degrees. Speed two zero zero.”

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