The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [222]
“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 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