Colin Gee - Initiative

Jeppson took the opportunity to re-examine L-9 before he made the required report, and saw nothing untoward, other than the wounded tail plane.

“Pilot, Bomb Bay, doors fully open… weapon is ready.”

“Roger, Bomb bay.”

Crail looked Parsons, his eyes seeking a required response.

“Major, the mission is a go, Release is authorised.”

He nodded at the naval officer, the final hurdle overcome in a few words.

“Pilot, Bomb-aimer, release authorised.”

The process was left until the last moments to ensure that every opportunity for a safe and accurate launch was available.

Crail had rehearsed this moment.

“Pilot, crew, stand by for release… we are about to drop our bomb, and show the world that war has no place in our future. Good luck to us all. Pilot out.”

The thought settled in the collective minds as the final seconds ticked away, and then individual brains made their own minds up concerning what was about to pass.

Crail… just hold steady, Marlene baby, nice and steady …

Hanebury… get it done, Lovey, and get it done right …

Parsons… Please God, let this be righteous …

Burnett… They have it coming …

Nelleson… Sweet lord, what am I part of here …

Fletcher… Don’t fuck with America! …

Jones… Kill to stop the killing… are we right… really right? …

Loveless………………………………. that’s it!

“Bomb away!”

Everyone on ‘Miss Merlene’ understood that as the B-29, suddenly nine thousand seven hundred pounds lighter, rose instantly.

The procedure now called for a hi-speed turn, placing the rear towards the epicentre of the burst.

Hanebury, the man who would now have a direct view of L-9’s act of immolation, already had the goggles on, an item that he had strict orders to wear to protect his eyes.

A timer, initiated the instant L-9 fell away, came to life fifteen seconds later.

The timer did its job, and the altimeters were made ready to activate the device, once the barometer had told them it was at its designated height.

The barometer was simple but considered insufficiently accurate to initiate the device by itself.

At six thousand, seven hundred and seventy-two feet, the barometer membrane curved sufficiently to complete the circuit, fully arming the altimeters.

They registered the rapidly decreasing height.

At one thousand, nine hundred and two feet, they permitted an electrical impulse to ignite the three Mk15M1 Naval gun primers.

Fifty-eight seconds from the moment the bomb left ‘Miss Merlene’, those primers ignited the cordite charges, which in turn propelled a modest sized uranium projectile into another, smaller piece of uranium.

A total of one hundred and forty-one pounds of enriched uranium collided at nearly one thousand feet per second.

Catastrophically so.

The reaction took place in a micro-second.

Its effects would be felt for a thousand years.

At first, there was light.

A pure light, all-powerful, and a clear pre-cursor to something truly horrible.

Then there was fire.

A huge ball rolling upwards and outwards.

The pressure wave was tangible, and those on the observation bird watched in awe as it rammed through the air, seemingly carrying all before it.

Thousands of people died in an instant, blast and fire claiming lives without effort.

The wave bumped ‘Miss Merlene’, and Crail and Nelleson gripped their controls with firmer hands until it passed.

“Pilot, tail. Check in.”

There was silence.

“Pilot, tail, check in, you okay, Art?”

The voice that came back quite clearly belonged to Art Hanebury, and it equally clearly carried the true horror he had just witnessed.

His procedures had required him to report successful ignition and, although the sound and shockwave had done the job for him, Crail was a stickler.

Normally Hanebury would have been on the ball, but this was not normal, and his eyes had been assailed by a vision of hell that had never been seen before.

“Tail, Pilot, ignition confirmed… sorry JP… I mean, Major… I mean… my God…”

Crail thumbed his mike.

“Yeah I know, Art, we all know… horrible thing… worse than we could have imagined… but it had to be done.”

Hanebury pursed his lips unobserved and lashed out at the metal surrounding him, splitting his hand in a bloody thwack.

He bit back the pain.

“Roger that, JP. I know… but that’s…,” again unseen, he nodded towards the huge mushroom cloud that rose above the destroyed city of Kokura, “… that’s just so awful.”

Loveless seized on the slight pause.

“Then we must all pray that it’s the last time atomics are dropped on any one.”

More than one brain continued the thought.

‘…and maybe they are right… if it’s that horrible then we might just’ve ended war as we know it!’

The thought sat comfortably and eased many minds.

Crail consulted with Parsons, who issued the order.

“Pilot, radio operator. Send Dante, repeat, send Dante. Confirm.”

“Radio, pilot, send Dante. Over.”

“Roger. Out.”

As Staff Sergeant Jones sent the mission success code word, ‘Miss Merlene’ flew on, leaving behind death on a biblical scale.

Reactions differed.

Some men screamed.

Some men wept silently.

Some took oaths of vengeance.

A single Aichi aircraft had been airborne nearby, and the two shocked crewmen had born witness to the moment when L-9 had destroyed Kokura.

News would have been patchy and slowly distributed, had the aircrew not witnessed the attack, and reported it within minutes.

The Japanese communications were badly damaged and not every station received word or orders, but Kanoya was an important base, and efforts to restore her links were constant.

And so it was that word of the attack reached the pilots of the Kogekitai, the Tokkôtai Special Attack Squadrons, and the men of the 301st Fighter Squadron, part of the 343rd Naval Air Group, all based at Kanoya, Kyūshū.

With clarity of thought, Chief Petty Officer Kenzo Nobunaga worked out that he and Ashara had failed to stop the aircraft responsible, the Yankee silver machines that had evaded their attacks had to be the ones who had destroyed Kokura.

He was sure of it.

Ashara was in the hospital, such as it was after many air attacks, being fussed over as befitted a naval air ace of his standing.

He had sustained a minor wound in the air battle, but his attempts to pass it off had fallen on stony ground, and unequivocal orders were given.

Nobunaga’s aircraft was receiving attention, the defensive fire having damaged his ailerons.

He suddenly filled with a resolve to act, one he concealed with an outward calm as he surveyed the Intelligence Officer’s maps, whilst the IO himself wailed inconsolably in the next room, believing his family slain in the awful attack.

Nobunaga studied the return routes of Yankee aircraft, seeking some pattern that would allow him to act.

He found none.

The tracks were drawn, reflecting previous missions and interceptions on the bomber’s return.

He closed his eyes and beseeched his ancestors to intercede, to give him sign, some clue, a way of understanding the plethora of lines that confused the map in front of him.

“Mount Tara, Kenzo.”

He opened his eyes and stiffened immediately.

Captain Sunyo stood before him.

“Sir?”