The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [223]
“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