Allen Steele - V-S Day

JUNE 1, 1943

In the first light of morning, the B-29A Superfortress Hollywood Babe hovered above the Pacific a hundred miles west of the Washington coast. The sun had just risen; its golden light tinted the bomber’s silver skin and reflected off the panes of its bullet-shaped cockpit. No clouds in the dark sky above the plane; the stars were still visible but were beginning to fade with the approaching day.

A little more than a half hour ago, Hollywood Babe had lifted off from McChord Field near Tacoma and flown due west, gradually ascending to its present altitude of thirty-one thousand feet, the bomber’s maximum ceiling. Since then, the plane had flown in circles, its contrails forming an overlapping series of figure eights which would have puzzled any fishing boats that might have spotted it from below. In this way, the B-29A held its position above the ocean, allowing its crew to perform its mission: watch the skies and report anything unusual.

Inside the pressurized fuselage, a young airman first class moved forward to the cockpit, a Thermos bottle and two tin cups in his gloved hands. Passing the radio compartment and the crewman half-asleep at its panel, the corporal ducked his head to step through the forward hatch. He ignored the civilian huddled in a rear seat as he approached the two men seated in the bomber’s transparent nose.

“Here y’go, sir.” The corporal handed the cups to the pilot and copilot, then opened the bottle and poured black coffee into them. “Sorry it’s a little lukewarm. Hard to keep it hot at this altitude.”

“That’s okay,” Captain Bennett replied, his voice barely audible over the drone of the B-29’s four engines. “This time of morning, even cold coffee will keep me awake.”

The airman grinned, then turned to head aft. Again, he deliberately ignored the passenger seated behind the captain and first officer. Although the civilian wore a fleece-lined leather flight jacket lent to him by a supply sergeant at McChord, the absence of a uniform made him conspicuous. He gazed at the airman, silently requesting coffee as well, but the crewman pretended not to notice him as he left the cockpit.

Bennett sipped his coffee, grimaced. Cold. He cradled the cup between his legs as he grasped the yoke and twisted it to the left, making the port turn that would begin another elongated figure eight. On the other side of the glass nose, the rising sun slowly traveled from right to left before disappearing behind the plane, replaced by a black sky gradually becoming dark blue.

Boring stuff, flying in circles. McChord Field was a training base for B-29 crews, and there wasn’t a man aboard Hollywood Babe who wouldn’t rather be bombing the hell out of the Japanese… except perhaps their passenger, a civilian scientist who looked like he should be playing with test tubes. Lloyd Kapman wasn’t much older than any of the Babe ’s crew, but for some reason the brass regarded him as a vital intelligence asset. For that reason, Hollywood Babe was given the assignment of providing support to him and his classified mission… a mission that, in the captain’s opinion, was totally nuts.

Bennett completed the turn, then leaned back as far as his cramped seat would allow. “Ever read the funny pages, Bill?”

“Nope.” The copilot, Bill Carlton, shook his head. “Can’t say as I do, Cap.”

“Well, I do. Favorite part of the paper, next to the sports pages. Alley Oop, Blondie, Dick Tracy, Terry and the Pirates… I love all those guys. But you know which one’s my favorite?”

“I couldn’t guess, sir.”

“Buck Rogers… Buck Rogers in the 25th Century.”

Kapman looked up. Bennett wasn’t speaking to him, but it was clear that his words were meant for him. An annoyed expression crossed his face, but he remained quiet.

“I mean,” the captain said, “here’s a guy who can climb aboard a rocket ship and, boom, off he goes. The Moon, Mars, Venus…”

“Jupiter.”

“Uh-huh, Jupiter, and it’s just as easy as flying this plane. Doesn’t have to worry about wasting fuel flying in circles.”

Kapman slowly let out his breath. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard jokes about Buck Rogers. If Bennett or Carlton heard him, though, they didn’t show it. “Of course, it’s the future,” Bennett went on, “so anything can happen. But rocket ships?” He shrugged. “Maybe one day we’ll go to the Moon, but not in my lifetime. No, sir, not in my life…”

“You got a point, Captain?” Kapman asked.

Hearing him, Bennett feigned surprise. “Not at all, Mr. Kapman,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at him. “Just talking about the funnies, that’s all.”

Carlton hid his amusement by turning his gaze toward the windows on the starboard side. The last stars had vanished, but the western sky was still dark. Still, it seemed as if he could make out something high above the ocean. Bright and unblinking, leaving behind a pencil-thin vapor trail, it looked a little like a shooting star except that it was moving upward from the horizon, not downward as a meteor would.

“Then maybe you should discuss Nancy and Sluggo,” Kapman said, “because I assure you…”

“Skipper?” Carlton stared at the thin white streak racing across the cloudless sky. “Bogey at one o’clock high.” He pointed to the window. “See it? Right there.”

Bennett arched his neck to stare up through the top of the nose and suddenly forgot what he was saying. Eyes wide with astonishment, he glanced back at his passenger. “Is that…?”

Kapman had already risen from his seat. Leaning forward, he peered in the direction the copilot indicated. “It’s not Buck Rogers,” he muttered. Then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. Turning away from the canopy, he stuck his head through the hatch.

“Call Alamogordo now!” he yelled, causing the radio operator to bolt upright in his seat. “It’s coming!”

The morning sun had just touched the peaks of the Sacramento Mountains as Klaxons howled across the southern New Mexico desert. Inside a fenced-off compound near Alamogordo Army Air Field—a top secret base within a base, unknown to anyone except a very few—soldiers and technicians were running from pine barracks, some still stuffing shirttails into trousers pulled on just seconds ago. Only the soldiers who’d been on overnight sentry duty were wide-awake; they began blowing whistles, waking up anyone in the base who’d managed to sleep through the noise.