The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [224]
“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. Leveling 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.