The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [225]
“Co-pilot, bombardier, navigator. I want confirmation. Do you all agree that the city in front of us is Hiroshima?”
The confirmation was immediate and unanimous, and Tibbets felt his hands gripping harder to the yoke. In his ear came the voice of Van Kirk, the navigator.
“IP dead ahead. Time to AP, ten minutes.”
“Roger.”
Tibbets knew the Initial Point from the many maps and photos they had studied, a point of geography obvious even from their altitude. The Aiming Point was drilled into him as well—the T-shaped bridge. He waited for Van Kirk’s voice, ticking off loud seconds in his brain, and it came now.
“IP.”
Tibbets turned the yoke, engaged the ailerons and rudder, turning the Enola Gay in a sharp left-hand turn, watched the compass, leveled out, heard Van Kirk, verifying what his own compass said.
“Course two seven two degrees. Speed two zero zero.”
“Roger. Two seven two. Speed two zero zero.”
“AP in ten minutes.”
“Roger. Ten minutes.”
“Winds south at ten.”
Tibbets felt a stab of alarm. The prevailing winds over this part of Japan came from the west, and he cursed silently, realized Parsons was standing just behind him, nothing left for the man to do. Tibbets said, “Dammit, Navigator, give me a course correction.”
“Working on it, sir.”
The voice was Ferebee’s, the bombardier fully aware how to correct for any variation in wind speed. Tibbets waited, agonizing seconds, heard Van Kirk’s voice now.
“Correct to two six four.”
Tibbets eased the plane slightly to the left, stared at the slow turn of the compass, said, “Roger, two six four.”
Ferebee’s voice came now, the man agitated, high-pitched, Tibbets not concerned, knew that even the most professional bombardier would feel this strain.
“Okay, I’ve got the bridge.”
Van Kirk said, “No question about it.”
Tibbets strained to see, knew both men had a far clearer view from the Plexiglas nose cone of the plane. He saw it now, the distinct T-shaped bridge, heard Van Kirk again, “Ninety seconds.”
Tibbets said, “Bombardier, it’s all yours.”
He lifted his hands slowly from the controls, felt the plane quiver slightly, Ferebee taking control. Behind him, Parsons leaned low, said, “Forty-seven seconds. Remember that. From the time the bomb leaves, you’ve got forty-seven seconds to get the hell out of here.”
“You get out of here! Get back to your damn lights. I know what to do!”
There was no time for an apology, Parsons backing away, and Tibbets wouldn’t think of that now, knew no one would be pissed off by a short temper, not now. Tibbets sat back, gazed out across the vast sweep of the city, scanned skyward, no sign at all of enemy planes, no anti-aircraft fire. He had a burst of thought, keyed the intercom again, said, “Goggles. All of you. Put ’em on!”
Tibbets had his own resting up on his forehead, would wait until the final second. He knew Ferebee was working intensely with the bomb sight, the man wonderfully good at his job. Come on, Tom. One more job. That’s all.
The tone came now, a high-pitched sound generated by one of the electrical connections to the bomb itself. Tibbets was startled, scolded himself nervously, knew to expect it. It was one small part of Parsons’s instrument panel, triggered by a connection that had been strung to the bomb sight, controlled by Ferebee. When the bomb dropped, the wires would pull free, and the tone would quit. But Tibbets knew that when the tone began, there was one meaning. One minute to go.
Tibbets stared ahead, nothing else to do, felt a hand on his shoulder, Parsons, the hand letting go. All this time. All this work. Everything … and then he heard the violent rush of air, the bomb bay doors opening, and in an instant, the radio tone was silent. The plane suddenly lurched upward, the voice of Ferebee in his ear.
“Bomb away.”
Tibbets took the controls again, paused for a glance at his watch, nine-fifteen and seventeen seconds. He pulled hard on the yoke now, the plane in a sudden steep bank to the right, the compass spinning, Tibbets struggling to hold tight to the yoke. The plane bounced, the tail settling