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.