The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [217]
He turned toward the Quonset huts, saw the guards, knew there would be more, MPs mostly, and others, some of them civilians. Not all the security for the project had been military, guards watching guards. There were more civilians there as well. Scientists had been arriving for the past couple of days, sent by Dr. Oppenheimer to see the bomb’s final journey for themselves. More than one of those men came with a cloak of arrogance that he would actually take the ride, see the bomb’s delivery for himself. But Tibbets knew better. Even on Tinian there were any number of men who had the authority to order themselves aboard any bomber at any time. But not this time. The crew was his, and the passengers were limited to just two, Parsons and his one assistant, the men who had one very specific job to do.
He walked away, but not far, was drawn back to the plane, examined her once more. He’d noticed the fine work of the artist, the name painted near the snout with simple black letters. On the tail of the plane was painted a large R inside a black circle. That was Tibbets’s decision as well, to blend the Enola Gay in with the hundreds of other B-29s that spread out on the fields across Tinian. There would be nothing to single her out, no special insignia to attract a Japanese saboteur, or, should the plane go down in Japan, nothing to tell the enemy that the plane was anything but one more unfortunate bomber who would not return home. He felt satisfied with that, but looked again toward the bomb bay, pictured the feverish work Parsons was trying to accomplish. Tibbets had always admired passion, and knew this navy captain had more than his share. Tibbets shook his head, thought, nothing else for me to do out here. It’ll be time for the briefing soon, and I’d rather not go in there smelling like I just ran a couple hundred laps around this field. He started away from the plane, and the question came to him, nagging him yet again, one of those decisions over which Tibbets had no say. The answer would be found at Los Alamos most likely, and Tibbets knew it was a question he would have to ask Dr. Oppenheimer, or even General Groves. Surely someone would have the answer. He walked toward the shade, toward his quarters, thought, largest bomb ever dropped on an enemy. Why in hell would they call this thing Little Boy?
From Los Alamos to Washington, from Guam to Tinian, the briefings were many and often, intense information sessions, conveying news or engaging debate. For months the meetings had occupied the time and the thoughts of every man who had any association with the Manhattan Project. At each briefing some of the men already knew the details of what they were to discuss, others arriving at a briefing only to learn something they had not even imagined before. It had been the same with the men of the 509th, the pilots and their crews finally learning the date and time of their mission, and what each crew would be expected to do. With the final go-ahead for the mission, Tibbets had scheduled one last briefing, this one for the flight crews of the various B-29s who would take part. Three of those would take off an hour ahead of the Enola Gay, serving as weather observers, to confirm the conditions over each of the target cities, Hiroshima, Kokura, and Nagasaki. A fourth would fly only as