by Daniel Wyatt
Now came the tricky part, avoiding the authorities. Was this really happening?
* * * *
GUAM
By mid-afternoon, the Super Stallion crew brought Robert Shilling, General Cameron, and Captain MacDonald back to Agana, Guam. When they stepped off the helicopter they could see for themselves that the winds had increased and the skies had grayed over.
“Matilda’s getting closer,” Cameron said, scanning the threatening skies.
* * * *
Les was already at home by the time his father and Cameron had arrived by a US Navy staff car. Gail, Les, and Edna met them on the front steps.
“Where’s Denise?” Cameron asked Gail about his wife.
She motioned towards the kitchen. “On the phone. A long-distance call came through from the States.”
Flustered, Denise appeared in an instant.
“Denise, what’s wrong?” Cameron asked her.
“It’s my sister, Mary. She just had a heart attack and is in hospital in San Francisco.”
“Will she pull through?”
“They think she will. But she may suffer some lasting effects. Phil, we have to see her on the way back.”
“Of course,” Cameron agreed. “But for now, we have to stay on Guam with the Shillings until this typhoon blows through. I can’t desert now. You know how it is.”
Les wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s too dangerous to stay, General Cameron. There are flights leaving the island every day. The best thing is to get on the next one out of here.”
“I can’t leave, Les. I wouldn’t feel right. You understand, dear,” Cameron said, appealing to his wife. “Bob and I have talked it over. We are going to ship you and Edna somewhere safe and we’ll come later. In fact, go on to San Francisco now.”
Denise smiled, hugging her husband. “I understand.”
“Sorry, Les,” Robert said, taking Cameron’s side, “we’re here to stay. You’ll need help. Somebody has to stick around. The whole island can’t be vacated.”
* * * *
MARY JANE
Captain Clayton waved his flight engineer to come over to the cockpit.
“Yes, sir, captain.”
“We’re over a hundred miles from the coast and should be out of enemy fighter range shortly. Of course you realize what you have to do, do you?”
Emerson nodded. He knew, but he didn’t like it. “I have to reverse the whole procedure and disarm the bomb completely.” He looked down at his hands to the loading checklist he had retrieved from Ainsworth’s pockets.
“Can you do it?”
“I don’t know for sure. I’m no explosives expert. That was Ainsworth’s field, not mine.”
“How about the two of us figure it out together, OK?”
“OK, captain. I’d appreciate that.”
In another twenty minutes, Clayton dropped the bomber down to 9,000 feet. Then he left the flying to Loran as he followed Emerson into the bomb bay.
Squatting at the front of the bomb, the two studied the checklist by the light of the flashlight. Emerson opened the toolbox.
“First off,” Clayton said, “we’ve got to pull those red plugs out.”
“Right.”
“Then we have to disconnect the firing lines and the explosive charge. Right?”
“Seems so, captain.”
“Let’s go.”
* * * *
JAPAN
Two hundred feet from the ground, Tiger watched helplessly as what appeared to be a brown army truck drove along a road several miles to his left. Fortunately, it was moving away from him. Had they not seen him? Below was a forest, which was good... and bad. The forest would hide him for a time — perhaps for a long time — from his pursuers. But it also contained sharp branches that could spear through him during the descent. Off to the right, more than a mile, was an open field. Beyond that some buildings, surrounded by colorful gardens.
The trees were coming up fast. Tiger braced himself. He aimed for a slight opening between two trees.
He closed his eyes. He heard and felt a thunk that jolted his body. He had stopped. He couldn’t feel the ground beneath him. He opened his eyes to find that he was hanging three feet from the ground, his parachute tangled to the top of a tree. What luck! All he had to do was loosen the parachute clip and jump to the ground. He looked up and pulled the parachute through the branches and left it lying there.
Taking a deep breath, he started running towards the open field.
* * * *
MARY JANE
Clayton and Emerson climbed from the hatch. They were both sweating, but they had done it. The bomb was disarmed.
“What should we do with Ainsworth?” Emerson asked, closing the hatch door.
“I don’t know. Drop him in the hatch and let him go out with the bomb. He’s dead anyway. Get someone to give you a hand.” Clayton returned to the cockpit pilot seat.
A short time later, Emerson tapped Clayton on the shoulder. “He’s in, captain.”
“All right, Paul, open it up!” he yelled to the bombardier.
“You bet, sir.”
For a second time that day, Lunsford hit the bomb bay toggle switch and again he heard the vibrations of the bomb bay doors opening.
In the tail, Gabriel Schwartz saw Ainsworth’s body fall clear, along with the bomb. Geez, Fat Baby was huge, he thought.
“COMMANDER TO TAIL GUNNER. WHAT DO YOU SEE?”
“THE BOMB AND AINSWORTH ARE BOTH OUT, SIR. YOU CAN CLOSE UP THE BOMB BAY.”
Schwartz continued to watch. He saw the bomb splash the water, followed by Ainsworth’s body. Schwartz pressed his intercom button. “TAIL TO COMMANDER. FAT BABY JUST HIT THE WATER AND MADE ONE GOOD SIZE SPLASH. I SEE AINSWORTH’S BODY FLOATING.”
Dwight Marshall quickly made a longitude and latitude notation in his log on where the bomb had been jettisoned.
Clayton wiped his face with the back of his hand and smiled at Loran. “THANKS, TAIL. COMMANDER OUT.”
* * * *
USS MIDWAY
Commodore Prentice readied himself to leave the bridge. Commander Cross met him near the console.
“Commodore,” he whispered so that no one else would hear. “I thought I should let you know that communications picked up some more intermittent signals, if you know what I mean.”
“What kind of signals?”
“A lone aircraft. Two hundred knots. Angels nine. Fifty miles southeast of our present position and heading one-seven-zero. It’s on our radar now. I didn’t want to say anything on the intercom. I thought I should contact you in person.”
“Good,” Prentice whispered back. “Are you saying it’s the Mary Jane?”
“Yes, sir, I am. What should we do?”
“Have you established radio contact?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Don’t! We’re heading back to port. We already lost a damn good navy pilot. Ignore it!”
“Aye, aye, sir. If we can.”
“Just do it.”
Chapter sixteen
JAPAN
Tiger was a free man inside Japanese territory. But for how long?
The warmth of the day was enough to make the pilot zip down the chest part of his flight suit. He stamped in and out of the trees until he spotted a house on a low rise. He removed his helmet and held it, wiping his brow. To the right was the small field he had spotted from the air. He approached the house cautiously, staying low. At a distance of eighty feet or so, he stopped cold. A white-haired man appeared by an open sliding door. He strolled slowly to the railing and looked about. Tiger lay flat out on the ground, his eyes on the house. A woman joined the man and bowed to him. Then the two went inside and closed the door.
Advancing on the house, Tiger heard aircraft. He squatted down behind a tree, twenty feet from the building. Three Zeros in a tight V-formation cruised overhead and vanished as quickly as they came on the scene. Patrol planes searching for him? The old man came out again, glanced skywar
d, then across his property.
Tiger tried to be as quiet as possible, but when he went to move his right leg, a branch beneath his boot snapped. The old man heard it and looked over. He called to someone inside. Two women appeared through the door. All three took a set of steps down to the ground and walked towards the noise the old man had heard.
Once they got closer, Tiger stood and moved out directly in front of them.
* * * *
MARY JANE
Captain Clayton informed the crew that the bomber was now outside enemy fighter range, and that they could relax.
Gabriel Schwartz began to fall asleep in the tail.
Mark Crosby lit up a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He had done his job, but too bad it had gone for naught. It bothered him that they had to abort. He daydreamed about his wife and being home with her. He missed her something fierce. The war would be over soon, and he’d finally see her face to face for the first time in over a year.
Nevin Brown returned to reading his pocket book, listening in his headphones.
Butch Emerson was still shaking after the disarming episode in the bomb bay. The whole ship — the whole mission — fell on his shoulders. Relieved it was over, he could go back to concentrating on his controls. Barring any mishap, they would make it to Tinian, with a few minutes of fuel to spare.
Paul Lunsford and Carl Loran were still feeling frustrated that the mission hadn’t materialized. They both wondered if someone had infiltrated the mission — someone other than Ainsworth — and had the atomic strike canceled. Clayton convinced the crew, however, that they had no choice but to obey orders and abort. The codename — Electron — was given and that was that!
Dwight Marshall busied himself plotting the course home. “NAVIGATOR TO COMMANDER. TURN THREE DEGREES LEFT FOR CORRECTION,” he said into the intercom. “ONE HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES TO IWO JIMA.” He then returned to his log notes.
Just then, the bomber lurched, as if it hit an air pocket. Brown heard a strong radio station that made him sit up. He listened for several seconds, then contacted Clayton. “RADIO TO COMMANDER.”
“COMMANDER HERE.”
“I JUST HEARD A RADIO REPORT. THERE’S A TYPHOON WARNING FOR THE MARIANAS.”
“WHAT RADIO STATION? OUT HERE?”
“SOUNDS WEIRD TO ME, TOO, SIR. BUT SHE’S COMING IN STRONG.” The bomber hit another air pocket. “WHOOPS, THERE IT GOES. I CAN’T GET IT ANYMORE. ISN’T THAT THE GOOFIEST.”
Clayton shook his head. What was with these air pockets all day? “I GUESS THE WORST ISN’T OVER YET. THANKS NEVIN.”
* * * *
GUAM
Cameron and Robert entered the busy grocery store to stock up for the arrival of Typhoon Matilda. They were staying, although Denise and Edna had already flown out. The other Agana shoppers had the same idea as the two war vets. Robert had a transistor radio with him and listened as they turned into the first aisle.
“Listen to this, Phil,” Robert said, turning the volume up.
According to the weather report, the eye of the storm was within 400 miles of Guam. An immediate typhoon watch was declared. The two men looked at each other, concerned. This did not necessarily mean that Guam was in any immediate danger, the announcer went on to say, but it was a possibility. The movements of typhoons were always unpredictable. The eye was centered on the island of Pulap, Caroline Islands, to the southeast, where winds were reaching 135 miles per hour ahead of the storm, 120 miles per hour around the center, and the waves were reaching forty feet in height. To add to it all, eight inches of rain had pelted the island in only a few hours. The islanders were advised to stay tuned for the next advisory and be prepared to act if the watch was updated to a warning.
The trouble with warnings was that they could come a precious few hours before the typhoon’s advance, making it too late to snap up any emergency items. Les had experienced a typhoon already and he knew that once a watch became a warning, no one would find a flashlight battery or candle anywhere on the island. That’s why he had told his guests to get moving now, even before the watch was officially announced.
Robert turned the radio off and placed it in the buggy. Cameron leaned over Robert’s shoulder and checked the list that Gail had written for them. It was plain to see the groceries had to meet three major requirements. First, they shouldn’t have to be refrigerated. Second, they shouldn’t need to be cooked at all or very little. Third, nothing that would make people thirsty. So salty items were out. Luncheon meats, tuna, salmon, unsalted crackers, canned fruits, chocolate bars were in. Also listed were batteries, paper cups and plates, plastic forks, spoons, and knives. At the bottom of the list was... FILL CAR UP WITH GAS! They had already done that.
“I’ll get the utensils, Bob. I saw them at the front of the store when we came in.”
“Thanks.”
Cameron walked to the front and looked out the long glass window. Outside, the palm trees were swaying. The winds were gusting. At last report, seventy miles per hour. The sky loomed dark over Agana. Some rain was falling. Cameron bent down to a lower shelf and grabbed a small box of assorted cutlery and a package of thick cardboard plates. Although paper towels weren’t on the list, he snatched two rolls on his way back to the cart.
“Quite the vacation we’re having,” he said to Robert.
“Yeah.”
“You know, come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I went grocery shopping.”
“Me neither,” Robert chuckled.
Half an hour later, they placed the groceries in the back of Gail’s station wagon, struggling against the strong winds. During the drive to Les’s house, Cameron, in the passenger seat, remembered a lecture he had given to high school kids a year ago. How ironic. He told the audience that the Hiroshima atomic blast was equal to 20,000 tons of TNT. But that was nothing compared to an average-sized hurricane or typhoon, which was the equivalent of 500,000 Hiroshima atomic bombs. The reason a tropical storm did not result in as much damage as a nuclear blast, he had said, was that a storm was spread out over a large area, perhaps three or four hundred miles and not concentrated on one “ground zero.” But, all the same, what power! And here he was in the middle of a typhoon.
Les and Gail were very organized. By the time Robert and Cameron had delivered the groceries into the kitchen, the young couple had deployed the emergency preparations. They had various containers filled with water and stationed at areas throughout the house. Even the bathtub was filled to the top. They weren’t taking any chances. In a matter of hours the city’s water supply could be contaminated by flooding — by either salt water or sewage — or be cut off entirely. On the kitchen counter were two flashlights, another battery-operated radio, a kerosene lamp, and a half-dozen tall candles. In the basement, where the group would weather the typhoon if it reached Guam, was a supply of toilet paper and two covered pails lined with plastic sheets — the emergency sanitary facilities.
Les helped with the first set of groceries bags, then said to his father and Cameron, “The latest weather advisory from the Typhoon Center has just updated the storm to a watch.”
“Here we go,” Robert replied.
* * * *
JAPAN
The nearest person to Tiger was a young girl about fourteen. The old man stepped in front of her and looked the pilot up and down, while another girl, who had to be about eighteen, stayed back some feet.
“You are American,” the old man said in English, with a heavy Japanese accent.
Tiger gripped his helmet. “Yes, I am. And you speak English.”
“Come quickly, they are searching the countryside.”
It was not the kind of reaction that Tiger expected. Neither was what happened next. He was led to the entrance, asked to remove his shoes, then was whisked through the front door and into a room, where the door was closed behind him. Tiger heard talking beyond the walls. He slid to the floor, leaned against the wall and rested his head on his knees. He was alone and ve
ry tired.
But, for some off reason, his mind was in high gear, working a mile a minute. The house and surroundings were no different than the few Japanese homes he had been in during his recent stationing in Japan. Recent in 1990, that is. Things had not changed much in forty-five years. In fact, some things had not changed much in centuries. The Japanese were extremely traditional people.
Despite the outdoor heat, it was surprisingly cool inside the house. Several paintings hung on the walls. They were the typical unshadowed scenes of hills, seas, rice fields, cherry and plum trees. The architecture was simple. The wooden house was built around an inner court. Sliding screens made of wood and paper separated rooms. The floors were covered with tightly woven straw mats. There was a low table in Tiger’s room, surrounded by several cushions. Bright and medium-toned country scenes were imprinted on the walls.
Tiger fell asleep for a few minutes until he heard a muffled, heavy knock at the front door. With nowhere to go, Tiger listened to the voices of Japanese men. He then heard the old man reply. A few minutes later, the room door slid open, and the two girls and the old man appeared. They all bowed. The old man smiled. The older girl set a tray of food on the table. All three wore the traditional kimono, a long robe with flowing sleeves that was tied at the waist. The girls had high cheekbones, dark eyes, light brown skin, and shiny black hair. The old man was probably in his sixties, what Tiger would probably call the typical Confucius type — very little hair, long stringy beard, with skin as pale as a cloud.
“You must be hungry. My daughters have prepared a tray for you,” he said, while he and the older girl smiled.