“What now?”
“We continue pounding the hell out of ’em with our conventional stuff. And wait. Word is, more super-bombs are in the pipeline.”
“My men are ready now.”
“They’ll have to maintain readiness. Your job is to make sure they do.”
“The same thing could happen again.”
“Listen, if the Navy can’t get the job done, I’ll go back to the states and fly the bomb here myself, and there’s not a fucking Jap or Kraut alive that can knock me out of the sky.”
Before Tibbets can get off a salute, the general turns on his heel and heads off, leaving the colonel to ponder how a good day suddenly went so bad. Two ships’ crews dead or dying or fighting for their lives. No bomb. No bombing run. The war effort that seemed all but over has taken an about-face. And now he’ll have to deliver the news to his crew. But that’s my job, isn’t it? If anyone has doubts, they need only ask Old Ironpants.
Tibbets senses someone approaching. When he turns, he’s not surprised to see Colonel Oliver, his wingman. He glides to a halt in that irritating civilian-like way of his. He grins his easy grin. Underneath the casual façade, though, Oliver is driven. And right now, curiosity lights his eyes.
“A visit from the old man,” he says. “How’d you get so lucky, Paul?”
“I wish he were that quick to pass along good news,” Tibbets says. He needs to tell Oliver what’s happened, but he’d rather shit barbed wire. The delay will give the wingman more time to stew and sour over what he considers the general’s poor decision—giving Tibbets the lead role in this drama.
But there’s nothing to be gained by putting off the inevitable. Motioning for Oliver to fall in next to him, Tibbets resumes his trudge to the shack. “I’m afraid we’ve had a setback,” he says. As he explains, he keeps his eyes ahead, on the shimmering airstrip, and the metal buildings, and the ocean beyond.
EIGHTEEN
Friday, July 20
When I answer the phone, Cocoa is still sitting silent, Mom at her side.
“Bobby?”
“Yes?” I say, remembering not to say yeah.
“It’s Doctor Kersey. Mom or Dad home?”
“Just a moment, please.” Manners again. I hand Dad the phone. “Doctor Kersey.” I fear he’s calling with bad news about Cocoa: a test result, a diagnosis.
Dad says hello, nods. “I understand. Dottie may be gone, but the rest of us will be here.”
After listening, he hangs up and explains what’s going on. Doctor Kersey talked to his Los Alamos buddy. The buddy didn’t swallow the time travel aspect of Cocoa’s story, but everything else intrigued him. He spoke to his superiors. Now the events of the day have meshed with Cocoa’s tale, causing a giant stir, and the doctor has been requested to meet officials from Los Alamos at our house, this afternoon at four.
“Our invented story is in shreds,” Dad says. “But don’t worry about it, Cocoa. I’ll tell them it was my idea. What they’ll care about is what else you know.”
“Why is the doctor required to be here?” she asks.
“They want him in on the conversation,” Dad says. “Get his viewpoint on your health.”
“My mental health.”
“Everything,” Dad says.
“But they will be willing to listen to me.”
“More than willing.”
“I need a nap,” Cocoa says, and Mom ushers her out of the kitchen and down the hall.
I’m drying dishes when the phone rings again. I beat Dad to it. He doesn’t make much of an effort, and I suppose it’s because he figures it’s Pete this time.
It is. “The lieutenant just officially notified me that you can expect a visit from a delegation of bigwigs, Bobby. They’re coming from distances—Los Alamos is the closest—so they won’t be there until four o’clock or so.”
“We’ve heard,” I say, as I picture a bunch of big shots invading our small house. I relate for Pete the gist of Doctor’s Kersey’s call.
“Figures. Lieutenant Bush says the government guys have doubts about the letter.”
“Did you say anything about it?”
“Bullshitting a superior officer could get me court-martialed. I played dumb. Which means I’ve left you and the family, including the newest member, to go it alone. But being a civilian has its advantages. If you explain what’s behind the letter, I think they’ll be understanding. If they haven’t already, the Army brass and politicians are soon going to realize that Cocoa is a prized goose bearing golden eggs. They won’t want to do anything to upset her.”
“You’ll be here?” I say. Dad wanders toward the living room.
“Unofficially. But I can answer questions, vouch for your character. All of you. Even though it might hurt.”
The living room radio comes on. Bad news in both ears. “You’re talking about Dad?”
“Kidding, Bobby. Your dad has too much character. It’s what makes him a pain in the ass.”
NINETEEN
Mom and Dad clean house while I tend the animals, mow the lawn, pull weeds, and wash the DeSoto. It’s my chance to drive it a few feet, maneuvering back and forth until I’m on a perfect grassy spot where I won’t create red mud. If Dad weren’t so preoccupied he would’ve raced outside, lecturing me on the scarcity of gasoline and Mom’s need to get to work. But he is preoccupied, and nervous.
Doctor Kersey arrives at three thirty. I’m still outside. His little MG fishtails off the road and kicks up dust heading down our driveway.
“Mr. Hastings,” he says to me as he climbs out. “Am I first?”
“You’re early.”
“You don’t show up late when the king throws a party. Expecting a big crowd?”
“More like a pack of wolves.”
“Is Cocoa inside?”
“Napping. Trying to recharge. Afraid she won’t be able to help.”
“She tried. People—some people, anyway—didn’t listen. You were the exception.”
“There’s more coming, she says. More bad stuff.”
“I know. I hope she . . .” His words trail off. He’s staring over my shoulder.
When I turn, I spot a horse and rider in the distance floating toward us. In front of them, heat rises in shimmering waves, making the pair seem like ghosts, or temporary moving parts of a mirage. As they get closer I can make out a twisting white stripe, roughly the shape of the Missouri River, on the chestnut brown of the horse’s long face. It’s a mare named Big Muddy, one of the sentry horses from the base camp.
And then I recognize her rider. Pete.
“You know my uncle?”
Dr. Kersey nods. “Is that how Cocoa looked? All alone?”
“It was the same feeling, kind of; the same desert. Except it was daybreak, and I was riding my bike, and she was standing. And she was naked.”
“An indelible memory, I’m sure.”
Pete rides into the yard and pulls up a few feet away. Sweat glistens on Big Muddy’s hide. “Okay if I hitch her to something in the shade, Bobby? And give her some oats? Shortage of vehicles today.”
“You know where they are,” I say. “But if Cocoa’s awake, can I tell her we’ve got a visiting horse? I think she’d like to see Big Muddy.”
“Tell her,” he says. “We’ll wait in the barn.”
“Handsome horse,” I hear the doctor say as I hurry off.
When I get inside, Cocoa’s in the living room putting on her shoes. She looks tired and nervous. “Uncle Pete’s here,” I say. “He rode in on an Army horse. Want to see her?”
She springs to her feet with surprising energy. Her hair is brushed, her clothes—jeans and a white blouse—are clean and ironed. Suddenly she looks revitalized. Lolly tries to follow us, but I shut the screen door on him. He’s good with animals, but I don’t know how good Big Muddy would be with him.
Doctor Kersey tags along as we head to the barn, throwing glances Cocoa’s way. Maybe now that he knows she’s not crazy and making up shit, he wants to see her wi
thout all the preconceptions clouding his view.
We detour to the garden, where Cocoa and I pull up handfuls of carrots. When we get to the barn, Pete’s holding Big Muddy’s reins, feeding her oats. She stares calmly at us. She’s been in every kind of situation—sentry, transport, tomfoolery. She and Cocoa lock eyes, and then she spots the carrots in Cocoa’s hand and tosses her big head. An invitation.
“Can I touch her, Peter?” Cocoa says.
“She’d love it,” Pete says.
Cocoa doesn’t hesitate, even though the horse is tall and broad and muscular and Cocoa is barely the size of one of her legs. She moves one hand slowly over the velvety brown coat of Big Muddy’s neck, working her fingers into the slightly darker mane, and offers her a carrot. The horse chomps it down and looks for another.
“In my world there were no horses,” Cocoa says. “No cows. No pigs. Nothing bigger than a rat.”
I join in. We feed and pet and admire until we hear a car approaching. By the time Pete has Big Muddy hitched to a railing and the four of us are outside, a Buick sedan is pulling to a stop behind the DeSoto and MG, and Dad and Mom are on the front porch.
As the four doors open, another black sedan, a Chrysler, comes racing down the road and turns into our driveway, trailing red dust. It lurches to a halt behind the Buick. More doors open. I try to see who’s inside, but all I see is glare. Finally, as if they choreographed it, eight men get out of the two cars simultaneously. The drivers and the front seat passenger in the first car are in uniform, and even though Pete isn’t, he snaps to attention next to me. The five other men are wearing dark suits and ties. They blink into the sunlight, glance in Mom and Dad’s direction, and see us coming.
“Groves,” Pete says under his breath, and I realize he’s right. The Buick’s front-seat passenger, the stocky older guy with the brass and ribbons on his uniform and the stars on his garrison cap, is General Leslie Groves, who’s only one small step down from God. He even tells Doctor Bainbridge when and how high to jump.
And speaking of Doctor Bainbridge, he’s here, too, the front-seat passenger getting out of the Chrysler. The rest of the men I don’t recognize.
Mom and Dad come down to greet the arrivals. Mom looks okay; Dad looks uncomfortable in a fish-out-of-water kind of way. By the time introductions begin, I’m trying to remember my own name, but I manage to catch some of theirs.
Besides General Groves and Doctor Bainbridge, there are two scientists from Los Alamos, Doctor Robert Serber and Carl Addleman. General Groves describes Serber as Doctor Robert Oppenheimer’s right-hand man. Oppenheimer, who isn’t here, might take his orders from General Groves, but according to Pete he’s the brains behind whatever’s going on at Los Alamos and the base camp. I’ve seen him a few times. He’s one of the engineers whose minds always seem to be in the clouds. By now I’ve figured out he’s not an engineer. He’s a physicist, and mostly responsible for that giant cloud ripping and roaring through the sky four days ago.
The men are polite but their faces grim. And their eyes keep going back to Cocoa. Whatever Doctor Kersey said to his Los Alamos buddy, it’s gotten through.
As we go inside, Lolly goes out, carrying my hopes that he’ll avoid Big Muddy’s hooves. There are thirteen of us, an unlucky number. The visitors stand around the living room while Mom drapes her arm protectively over Cocoa’s shoulders and tries to get a conversation started and Dad, Pete, and I bring in more chairs from the kitchen. A pitcher of ice water and several glasses sit on the coffee table.
Except for the two drivers—both wearing captains’ bars on their collars—we sit. On the sofa, Mom is on one side of Cocoa, I’m on the other, Dad is next to me. Around us, in a ragged half-circle of chairs, are Pete, Doctor Kersey, Serber, Addleman, General Groves, Bainbridge, and the two fellows in suits. I sense urgency, but nobody seems to know how to kick off this get-together.
Mom’s curiosity surfaces. “What do you gentlemen do?” she asks the two nameless guys wearing suits and dour expressions. Their fedoras sit on their laps, covering their hands, but their fingers are restless. The hats shift and twitch. At Mom’s question, they turn to General Groves, who nods.
“We’re agents, ma’am,” the shorter, thicker one says. “Federal. He’s Browning, I’m Swan.”
“FBI?” Dad says.
“Yes,” Browning says. He’s Dad’s age, probably, but his unlined face makes him look younger. City life.
“Do we need them here?” Dad asks General Groves. His experiences with the FBI have soured him.
“They’re here to take notes and pass along a baseline of information to their superiors in case circumstances deteriorate,” the general says.
“They will deteriorate.” Cocoa’s will comes out vill, making me leery of reactions in the room. “If nothing is done, they will deteriorate.”
Doctor Addleman says something to her in what sounds like German, but she responds in English. “I grew up speaking German.”
“In Germany?” he says.
General Groves interrupts. “Is that how you came to have this knowledge? Someone in Germany passed the details of the plot on to you?”
“My home is New Dresden,” Cocoa says. “Formerly New Mexico. Germany is an uninhabitable wasteland, a cesspool. We all suffered for its sins, but in the end Germany suffered the most.”
All eyes go to Doctor Kersey. Is this girl crazy?
“Since the day of my initial meeting with her,” he says in response to the stares, “Cocoa’s story has remained consistent. She says she came here from a bleak time in the future, almost a hundred years from now. She believes her journey—or whatever you want to label it—was caused by a vast disturbance in the atmosphere and a disruption of what we accept as nature’s laws, caused by an atomic bomb detonation.”
“I’m going to speak candidly here, young woman,” the general says. “We don’t have time to be circumspect.” His attention flits back to the doctor. “Do you feel she is mentally ill, Doctor Kersey?”
“She’s been through a lot, obviously,” the doctor says.
“Yes.” General Groves glances Cocoa’s way. “But is she mentally ill? Or is it possible she’s competent and telling the truth?”
“Your two cruisers are sunk,” Mom says. She’s mostly held her tongue, but I’ve sensed her energy surging. “Cocoa told anyone who would listen that it was going to happen. She said that it would happen today, that an atomic bomb would go down with each ship. I don’t know that you lost your bombs, but since you’re here I’m assuming you did. So why are we discussing mental illness?” She stands, fire in her eyes. “I need to leave. But I trust you gentlemen will treat Cocoa with kindness and respect. She’s trying to save the world.”
Mom throws Dad and me a you-better-take-care-of-her look, grabs her purse, and leaves before anyone responds, before anyone stops her, although Addleman frowns in the general’s direction. Like he thinks she shouldn’t be allowed to go. The general is smart enough to ignore the scientist. I hear her start the DeSoto and maneuver back and forth to get around the other vehicles, and then the sounds fade away.
Doctor Bainbridge asks a question. “Why the letter, Mr. Hastings? I believe Sergeant Blakely gave it to Lieutenant Bush thinking it was authentic, and when I passed along its contents I certainly thought that.”
“My idea.” My words come out strangled. “We—my parents and I—didn’t think anyone would believe Cocoa’s story. And someone needed to believe it.”
“Bobby’s idea, Doctor Bainbridge,” Dad says. “But his mother and I enthusiastically participated in its execution. Unfortunately, the plan didn’t accomplish its main objective. Someone didn’t believe. But if the warning had come from a time-traveling girl, would it have even gotten past you? If we’d told Pete—Sergeant Blakely—the real story, he wouldn’t have even bothered his lieutenant with it. None of you would be here now.” Dad gives Pete a glance.
“It’s a ridiculous story,” Addleman says.
“Ye
s,” General Groves says. “But I’m going to tell you something that must stay within the confines of your minds; Cocoa’s story is essentially true.”
While the conversation halts, another layer of certainty forms over the unshakable belief in my head. Cocoa was right.
“How far did it get?” she says.
Everyone looks to the general. “Doctor Bainbridge provided the substance of the letter to my office and the office of the secretary of war,” he says. “Doctor Kersey’s message detailing this young lady’s history also reached my office. In each instance, the information was shortstopped by well-meaning but unimaginative staffers who are now tortured with guilt.”
“Where are you from, really, young woman?” Addleman asks.
“Hasn’t Doctor Kersey already covered everything you need to know about her?” I say.
“Do you have identification?” Addleman says to her, ignoring me, the kid.
She doesn’t look interested in answering him. There are higher-powered fellows in the room. I have a feeling she’s saving her energy for them.
“She came with nothing,” I say. An acorn.
“How long—” Addleman begins.
But Doctor Serber interrupts him, and I’m left guessing his question. How long have you been here? How long have you known? How long will you put up with an asshole interrogating you? “Enough, Carl,” Doctor Serber says. “This isn’t an inquisition. Cocoa here obviously knew something that could have saved two ships, hundreds of lives, and two precious weapons that in turn could have saved millions of other lives.”
“I no longer care where you’re from or how you got your information, Cocoa,” General Groves says. “You don’t look like a spy to me. You look like a frightened but brave girl. What I want to know is what more you can tell us. Beyond the sinkings of the Indianapolis and Augusta, what do our enemies have in mind?”
“So far, I have nothing useful,” Cocoa says. “Feelings. Apparitions. But that is the way the concrete memories have begun. So I am hopeful.” She taps her temple. “I am hopeful that the knowledge is in here but needs time and maybe some prodding to materialize.”
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