The Final Storm

by Jeff Shaara

  He knew that Parsons was already down in the bomb bay, helped by the man chosen to assist him, Lieutenant Maurice Jeppson. I hope somebody put fresh batteries in his damn flashlight. He thought of using the intercom, a progress report. Nope, let him be. It took him about a half hour to do it in practice. Don’t pressure him any more than he’s pressuring himself. If there’s a problem, he’ll tell me. Or … we might never even know. One big damn puff of smoke.

  The voice came in his ear now, Parsons.

  “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 in his log, keeping details of time and location all throughout the flight. Beside him, Ferebee, the bombardier, was reclining in his seat, smoking a cigarette. Farther aft, the radioman, Nelson, seemed to jump when he saw Tibbets, and Tibbets saw a small book in the man’s hand, some kind of novel. Nelson glanced at the novel, as though Tibbets had caught him in some kind of illegal activity, and Tibbets said, “Easy, Private. We’ve got a lot of time right now. Relax as best you can.”

  “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 assumed, of course, that the mission was going to be a success.

  “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.

  “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.