The Final Storm: A Novel of the War in the Pacific

  “Just smile! Show me some teeth!”

  Parsons seemed terrified, slid away from the man with a curse, and Tibbets saw that his belt was missing the forty-five. Tibbets waited for him, said in a low voice, “You need a sidearm.”

  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 hell 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 damn 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 assistant there already. Tibbets had seen the gashes on Parsons’s hands, fresh cuts from the practice at arming the bomb. He moved into the cockpit, 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 damn 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 altitude yet. The skies were total darkness, the moon not yet rising, and he studied the instrument panel, the pressures, the levels, the plane’s attitude. He focused again on the altimeter, passing 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 damn idea. Makes this a hell of a lot smoother. The plane continued its climb, and he glanced at his watch, saw that a quick ten minutes had passed, looked to the compass, the heading, three-three-eight degrees, knew that already Saipan would be beneath them. Jap 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 assist him, Lieutenant Maurice Jeppson. I hope somebody put fresh batteries in his damn 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 damn 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 Jap agents hanging around. Some idiot physicist goes back to his university and starts prancing around like a big wheel and some Jap sympathizer might take exception, maybe a pistol shot at close range. Not my problem, I guess. Not anymore.

  “Ow … dammit. Bloody hell.”

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

  “Aye. Roger. Jesus, just hold her steady. This damn 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 Class 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 passed, Tibbets nervously tapping his fingers on the yoke. Then Parsons spoke again.

  “Almost done. I want disability pay. Cut two fingers and ripped my shirt.”

  “I’ll buy you the shirt. 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 damn, I wouldn’t want to take this trip riding bare-back on that son of a bitch.

  After a long minute, there was commotion behind him, and Tib
bets 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 passageway 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 space. 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 Japanese 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 hell of a weapon. You figure out the rest?”

  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 space 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 damned, 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 Saturday 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 passengers. 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 assumed, 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 button, and keep pushing 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 damn 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 passed 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 cockpit, 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 damn cockpit. 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 altitude, 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. Leveli
ng 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 altitudes. 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 cockpit, settled into his seat. He cleared his throat, keyed the intercom, said, “Boys, it’s Hiroshima.”

  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. Damn good work. That’s Shikoku. And right past … the Iyo Sea. Son of a bitch, 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 Japanese 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-shield, the strip of water passing 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 Hiroshima.

  “Co-pilot, bombardier, navigator. I want confirmation. Do you all agree that the city in front of us is Hiroshima?”

  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.”