Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (6 page)

‘Miss Merlene’ rose into the dark sky with as much grace as its overweight frame would permit, throttles pressed hard against the stops to extract maximum power.

In the blackness below, the sight of headlights and torches flitting around the shape of a B-29 stood out, the more so because of the importance of what had happened precisely six minutes beforehand.

Special mission 17, now known as Centerboard One, had not started well.

‘Enola Gay’ was fourth off, and had been taxiing to the runway when her outside port engine did what the Wright R-3350s did now and again.

Normally such failures were based around an issue with the valves, the ground crew called it ‘eating them’, where the valves were somehow drawn into the engine.

The alloy crankcase meant that any combustion was abetted by the magnesium, making such failures frequently fatal to the engine and mission, and if airborne, highly dangerous for the crews.

The fire had been brought under control speedily, as the strip had twice the normal allocation of emergency response considered standard for a ‘Very Heavy’ bomb group.

But Tibbets and his aircraft were spent, which meant that the burden of the attack now fell upon ‘Miss Merlene’ and her crew instead.

The training cut in, so Crail moved up to the take-off position and waited whilst the Weaponeer and his assistant were speedily transferred from the lame duck to his craft.

No sooner were the two Navy men aboard than permission to take-off was in hand, and ‘Miss Merlene’ rolled down the North runway to a date with history.

The sun rose over Japan at 0428 hrs precisely, bathing cockpits and crew positions in a penetrating light that seemed to almost single out each man in a beam of focussed attention, as a spotlight plays upon an actor on a stage.

Most of the crew saw the patterns of the ‘Rising Sun’ flag within the beams of light that radiated outwards from the fiery ball, and each felt the sight was an omen… one way, or the other.

And then, when the beauty and awe of the sight fell away, each man felt uncomfortable at the attention the sun gave him, as if the rays singled him out, and him alone, making him a target, vulnerable and exposed to what was to come.

‘The Great Artiste’, ‘Necessary Evil’, and ‘Miss Merlene’ came together over Iwo Jima and set course for the primary target, Hiroshima.

Ahead of them, the three meteorological birds plied their craft, and fed back mission-changing data.

Crail listened as Jones, the radio operator, passed on the information from ‘Straight Flush’ over Hiroshima.

‘Solid cloud… Ten-tenths… No chance of bombing visually.’

“Damn.”

The mission protocol was quite clear, but the decision was not his to make.

That responsibility lay with William Parsons, mission commander and weaponeer, a US Navy Captain presently working in the bomb bay, finishing up arming the ‘Little Boy’ bomb.

Three minutes later, Parsons arrived in the cockpit and announced the successful arming of L-9.

Crail briefed him in a minimum number of words.

“Shit. We could consider radar delivery?”

“No, Sir. The orders are quite specific on that. Visual delivery only.”

“Shit.”

Army Air Force and Navy agreed on the situation, and Hiroshima gained a reprieve.

“Alternate one?”

“Patchy cloud cover, but probably will be fine by our time over target.”

“Alternate two?”

“Perfect so far, predicted best conditions for time on target.”

“Mission implications, Major?”

“Eight minutes difference in flight time. Alternate mission profile allows for increased enemy defensive measures, but nothing that would skip past our escort guys.”

“Your recommendation?”

“Get another check… we don’t need to commit for another…err… six minutes. A lot could change in that time, Sir.”

Parsons nodded.

“Make that call, Major. I need a drink.”

The Naval officer disappeared to seek out one of the thermos flasks whilst Crail confirmed the latest from the Met planes.

Five minutes passed in the blink of an eye, and Parsons, accompanied by Naval 2nd Lieutenant Jeppson, appeared back in the cockpit.

Crail got in first.

“No change on primary. Alternate One has increasing cloud cover. Alternate Two is clear, Sir.”

Parsons exchanged looks with Jeppson, who simply nodded.

“Alternate Two is the target. Send it, Major.”

The radio operator, Staff Sergeant P.S. Jones the Third, fired out the one word transmission three times.

‘Burnside… Burnside… Burnside…’

In Hiroshima, the primary target, and Nagasaki, Alternate One, no one felt relieved, no one celebrated, and no one thanked their God for sending a modicum of cloud to spare them from the horrors of Atomic warfare.

Both cities, plus a number of others, had been spared from heavy attack until this day, a conscious cold-blooded decision made so that the bomb could be used on a relatively intact target, to permit proper understanding of its destructive force.

The people in Kokura thanked their ancestors, or their God, for the continued sparing of lives, although they had no understanding of why the Yankees did not darken the skies above them, as they did most other places in the Empire.

In Kokura, life went on as normal.

The workers in the Arsenal, one of the last major production facilities available to the Empire of Japan, went about their business, blissfully unaware that a decision, made high up in the sky many miles away, was bringing death on a biblical scale to their front doors that very day.

Centerboard One was coming.

Jeppson was in the bomb bay, removing the final safeties from L-9, turning an inanimate object into an all-powerful weapon of war.

The rest of the crew were quiet, the normal banter that broke up mission boredom absent, probably as the enormity of their task started to gnaw away at them.

Hanebury surveyed the sky, seeking signs of enemy aircraft approaching, and saw nothing but the lightening sky.

Once, he had caught sight of some of the escort, at distance, behind and slightly above them, intent on shepherding the trio of B-29s to the target and back to Okinawa intact.

He unscrewed his thermos flask and took a belt of the sweet black coffee.

As he tipped his head back he caught the minutest flash of light, a microsecond that revealed the presence of something sharing the sky with them.

His reputation for having the eyes of a hawk was well deserved.

“Tail gunner, unidentified aircraft above and behind, distant, probably six thousand.”

The message galvanised the entire crew, with the exception of Jeppson, who remained working in the bomb bay, blissfully unaware that there was a possible threat close at hand.

The three B-29s were flying in a relaxed V, but, with the imminent threat, drew in tighter.

The radio waves burst into life, imploring the escort to deal with whatever it was that was closing fast.

Hanebury had got it wrong.

There were two of them, flying tight together, making the spotting error extremely easy.

To give them their proper designations, the pair of killers were Nakajima Ki-87 fighter-interceptors, designed specifically to counter the B-29 threat.

The creaking Japanese manufacturing base had managed to produce five before Nakajima’s Mushashino facility received a visit from the very aircraft they were designed to shoot down, and production was ended permanently.

Such important beasts were entrusted only to experienced pilots, and the two Japanese fliers were as experienced as they came.

The three B-29s were led by ‘Miss Merlene’, the nose position being considered the least vulnerable.

“Zuiho-Two, take the right. On my order… attack!”

The two Ki-87s moved apart, each pilot focussing on one of the rear bombers.

Interception group commander, Lieutenant Commander Kurisu Ashara, bore down on ‘The Great Artiste’, ready to let fly with the array of 20mm and 30mm cannons.

His wingman, Chief Petty Officer Kenzo Nobunaga, shouted a warning and made his own rapid manoeuvre, as tracers swept past the left side of his aircraft, passing through the space he had only just vacated.

Both pilots moved their Mitsubishi engines into emergency power, the turbochargers adding even more impetus as they dived away, pursued by Mustangs from the escort.

Ashara had the reflexes of a cat, but still a few bullets struck his machine as he flicked left and rolled away underneath the bomber formation, turning to starboard after his Number Two..

No fire came from the three B-29s, for fear of hitting one of their saviours, although many eyes followed the two killers as they were hounded by friendlies.

Pushing the boundaries of their upper 430mph limit, the two Nakajimas of Zuiho flight continued on a starboard turn, trying to come back round and up behind the B-29s, intent on making a successful run against the lumbering heavies.

The escorting USAAF fighters knew their business, and the curving attack approach suddenly became very dangerous, forcing both Nakajimas to flick away to port.

Six escorts suddenly became twelve, as the rest of the Mustang squadron entered the arena in pursuit of three Nakajimas Ki-84 Hayates.

Unlike the aircraft of Zuiho flight, the three Hayates were not in their prime, were equipped with worn out engines, and using sub-standard fuel.

Hanebury was able to call out the destruction of two in as many seconds, before the last survivor, and the gaggle of pursuers, disappeared from his view.

By the time he looked back at the two Ki-87s, he winced as a smoking Mustang rolled over and the pilot pushed himself out into the morning air.

The tail plane hammered into the man’s form hard enough for those who watched to be able to imagine the sound reaching their ears above the drone of aero-engines. The body, for he must surely have died on impact, dropped away towards the sea below, and there was no sign of a deploying parachute to offer the hope of a heart still beating.

His killer, Ashara, exploited the pause and flicked onto an attack path, again selecting ‘The Great Artiste’ for attention.

The Ho-105 cannon had an effective range of under 1000 metres, just about half that of the defensive armament on the B-29, so Ashara was already taking fire from the tail gunner’s .50cal.

However, the 30mm Ho-105 packed a lot more punch when it arrived on target, and so it proved, as first the rear gun position and then the tail plane suffered appalling damage.

Ashara manoeuvred slightly left and introduced the 20mm Ho-5s into the attack.

‘The Great Artiste’ staggered under the brief attack, the port outboard engine coming apart, the combination of its own energy and the damaging impact of explosive shells proving too much.

The entire engine dropped away, leaving a hollow mounting that trailed flame until the fuel was cut, and there was nothing left to feed the fire.

Ashara pulled up and to port, pursued by a pair of vengeful Mustangs.

Nobunaga failed yet again, his attempted attack run interrupted by the melee of escort fighters.

Two bullets clipped the tip of his wing but otherwise, he was unscathed.

Conscious of his lowered fuel state, he knew he could make one last effort before breaking off the attack.

He seized a moment, created by the Mustang’s anticipating that he would turn again for a rear shot, and rolled into a sharp port turn.

The Ki-87 slipped through the air, responding to his commands like a thoroughbred, prescribing a tightening arc around the nose of the lead aircraft before, lining up a swift burst on the port front quarter, Nobunaga pumped some 30mm shells into the lead bomber, before dragging the nose to starboard and sending a few more 30mm into the already damaged ‘The Great Artiste’.

A shudder and sudden lack of response signalled some damage, as the tail gunner of the lead aircraft, ‘Miss Merlene’, put a few .50cal on target.

Nobunaga dove hard, believing that he could out dive the Mustangs.

“Zuiho-Two breaking off, diving to sea level, over.”

“Zuiho-One breaking off, will join you, course 003, out.”

The two sleek Japanese fighters dropped away unpursued, the USAAF escort commander calling off his eager pilots, keen to conserve fuel for the full operation and content with driving off the enemy at the cost of three of their dwindling fighter assets.

As Ashara and Nobunaga made their escape, the drama continued above them.

Parsons was in deep discussion with Crail.

“I’d say they can’t go on, but that ain’t my call, Captain.”

The two men had taken turns to view the smoking B-29 on their port rear quarter.

‘The Great Artiste’s’ pilot made the call, and reluctantly informed the mission commander that the B-29 had to return.

After the normal acknowledgements and best wishes, the damaged B-29 turned gently and headed for Okinawa, escorted by a pair of Mustangs.

“Mission abort?”

It was not a question, more the opening of a short discussion.

Parsons, as mission commander, had that call, whereas Crail, as aircraft commander, made decisions on his B-29 and its capabilities.

“Captain, she was the numbers bird. We can’t do the measuring the high-ups want but, unless I’m missing something, her loss doesn’t take us below mission success parameters.”

“And us? What damage have we got and are you waving the mission off?”

Crail shook his head dramatically.

“No way, no how, Captain. My numbers all look good, and the aircraft feels good, so unless my boys find something,” the crew had been detailed to do a damage inspection, “We are good to go.”

The shells had struck in the bomb bay and central area, slightly injuring both Jeppson and Burnett, the flight engineer.

Jeppson was already inspecting L-9 for any sign of damage, and the rest of Crail’s boys were looking for anything that might inhibit the huge airplane in her mission.

Parsons looked at his watch, mentally allocating a decision point.

Before it was reached, Crail was able to confirm that ‘Miss Merlene’ was fit for purpose.

Jeppson’s report was less encouraging, and Parsons virtually leapt from the cockpit to go and see the damage to the atomic bomb’s tail assembly himself.

Crail busied himself with re-checking every part of his aircraft’s performance and, once satisfied, checked it all over again.

A voice in his ear, one that sounded heavy with the stress of command, requested the bomb-aimer to come to the bomb bay.

The B-29 was a pressurised vessel, with the crew spaces airtight and regulated.

The bomb bay was open to outside air and unpressurised, something that had meant modification to enable the bombs to be armed and de-safetied in the air.

This modification did not permit three men to work on the bombs at the same time, neither did it enable a single man to work on the damaged tail assembly.

It only just permitted a modicum of sight on the tail, but there had been enough for Jeppson to see damaged metal present.

Richard Loveless, the bomb-aimer, squinted through the observation port and took in as much as he could.

His eyes assessed the damage and he gave a running commentary as he thought through the issue.

“The good news is it’s only the internal structure, not the external faces.”

The tail assembly of the L-9 was a square box stabiliser, mounted on four angled fins. It was clear that one of these fins had been damaged, and the metal twisted.

“Definitely gonna affect the trajectory and move it off line some. What are you asking me, Captain?”

“Is it safe to drop from your point of view? I need to know that it’s not going to go a-wanderin’. I want to know that you’re confident you can still put the thing on target enough to do the job.”

Loveless moved back into the same compartment as the two naval officers.

“Captain, it’ll move off course some, bound to, but if I can’t put the goddamned thing on top of a city… well… then you can throw me out after it.”

Parsons smiled, nodded, and thumbed his mike.

“Mission commander speaking. We are go, repeat, we are go.”

Centerboard One moved closer to the Empire of Japan.

Another psychological hurdle had come and gone, with the thought that the mission might be scrubbed because of the loss of ‘Artiste’ or the damaged fin, followed by the confirmation that it was still on, and the bomb would be dropped, come hell or high water.

Jones, radioed back a sitrep along with Parson’s decision to carry on.

Pretty much everyone on the crew expected some sort of guidance or interference from base, but there was none; just a curt acknowledgement.

Whilst the automatic routines of flying combat missions were performed without thought, the concept of the attack, the nature of their weapon, and the likely human and moral cost, became the focus of their active minds.

Only Loveless, on his own in the nose, and Hanebury, happy with his own company in the tail, could not discuss the matter with one of their friends.

At the control, Crail sat pondering the enormity of what he was about to do.

All of them had received psyche evaluations and training, preparing them for the mission, the expected results, and the impact on their moral soul, as one of the padres had put it.

They had taken it in their stride, as young men do, but now, in the reality of the minutes before visiting hell upon thousands of people, it was different.

Very different.

So different as to make all their previous thoughts and preparation meaningless.

‘Damn.’

“Major?”

Crail had given voice to his thought.

“Sorry?”

“You said something, JP.”

“I did?”

“Yep. Worrying isn’t it?”

Crail flicked his eyes across the gauges, giving himself time to reply.

“They haven’t prepared us for it, not right, I mean.”

His co-pilot hummed in agreement.

“All that mumbo-jumbo, all that bullshit about righteous act, saving lives, ending the war, blah blah blah… it doesn’t mean shit when you’re up here about to do the deed… leastways that’s how I feel. What about you, George?”

“I agree, JP. I thought I was ok with it… but I’m not so sure now… I mean… we all gotta live with it after the thing is done.”

The two dropped into the sort of heavy silence generated by minds deep in thought.

Crail started, his mind suddenly overcoming a hurdle. He thumbed his mike.

“Dick, come up to the deck will you.”

Loveless appeared a moment later, his face inquisitive.

Junior Pershing Crail got straight to the point.

“You got any problems with dropping the bomb, Dick?”