The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [193]
It was disturbing to him that some of the very scientists who developed this extraordinary weapon were now hedging their bets by insisting it not actually be used on a target, but only as a demonstration, a show of force that could not be ignored. That’s pure bull, he thought. Every report says their people are more enthusiastic about fighting now than ever. We won’t be fighting just their army, we’ll be fighting every damn Jap citizen. Call it what you will, their Home Guard, or militia. It means that sooner or later every GI will stand face-to-face with some mama-san holding a musket, or a pitchfork, and they won’t just step aside. What will that do to our boys, faced with civilians who are as dangerous as the soldiers? How many more cities will General LeMay have to incinerate before he eliminates that threat? Hell, we’d do the same thing if the Japs landed a fleet of invasion ships on the California coast. American civilians would put up a hell of a fight if they were defending our homes in San Francisco or Los Angeles. Put anybody’s back to their own wall and they’ll turn up the volume. So, sure, if there’s a chance to end this sooner … there’s no argument that trumps that. We sure as hell don’t need pussyfooting about this, not after so much has gone into it, and by damn, every one of those scientists and every damn general knows this decision is mine, and mine alone, and that order left my office a month ago. Right now it doesn’t much matter which city it’ll be … if this son of a bitch works, we’ll hit those people hard enough to make even the emperor take a little pause.
Truman began to pace now, caught a glimpse of the guard in the shadows, moving with him. He stopped, hands clasped behind his back, turned to the shadows.
“Come out here. You’re giving me the jitters.”
The man emerged, two more to one side.
“Sir. Sorry, but you know our orders.”
“No problem there, boys. But you can knock off the cloak-and-dagger stuff.” He paused. “You know what I’ve done?”
The man seemed puzzled by the question, searched past Truman toward the railing.
“Not here, you … sorry. You know the kinds of decisions I’ve gotta deal with? Every damn day?”
“Yes, sir. Difficult decisions, sir.”
“You have no idea, son. But there’s one I’ve made that wasn’t difficult at all. It has to be done.”
“Yes … sir.”
Truman felt a dangerous need to talk about it, a simple conversation, letting off some of the pressure. But his brain held him back, and he looked back out toward the moon, the low swells, heard the hum of the engines beneath his feet. Those damn scientists will keep chewing on this, he thought. But the decision has been made, and it might be the only time in this job when I’m completely sure I’m right. Just tell me that the son of a bitch works.
BABELSBERG, NEAR POTSDAM,
SOUTHWEST OF BERLIN, GERMANY
JULY 16, 1945
No matter what other goals could be met by a face-to-face meeting with both Churchill and Stalin, for the Americans the primary goal was to secure Soviet cooperation in the redevelopment of Europe. It was hoped, of course, that Stalin would allow those countries he now occupied to accept Western influence along with Western aid. But there was one other critical matter that Truman intended to put before Stalin. The Soviets had yet to declare war on Japan, for complicated reasons of their own that made almost no practical sense to anyone in the West. Truman intended to change Stalin’s mind, and hoped, in the spirit of Allies, that the Soviets would understand that if the war was to drag on for another year or more, it was essential that the Soviets do their part. The carrot Truman offered was one he knew would matter significantly to the Soviets, one way to smooth over a major sore point for the Russians since their embarrassing defeat by the Japanese in the Russo-Japanese War, which ended in 1905. Russia had lost territory,