Inside the bomber cockpit, the commander and the pilot stared in astonishment at the F-18’s needle nose and twin tails, silvered by the half-moonlight. For a long moment they couldn’t speak.
“IS THIS CLOSE ENOUGH FOR YOU, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX?”
“WHAT THE BLAZES IS THAT?” the navigator yelled over the intercom.
“WHAT YOU GOT THERE, LITTLE FRIEND? WHAT KIND OF MACHINE IS THAT?”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? SHE’S A US NAVY F-18 HORNET.”
“WHERE’D YUH GET IT?”
“WHAT! WHERE YUH BEEN, BIG FRIEND?”
“The Navy must be holding out on us,” the pilot said to the commander, his eyes on the strange fighter off port.
“I SAY AGAIN, TURN BACK, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX,” the fighter pilot’s voice demanded.
“WHAT IF I SAY NO, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE?”
Les blew up. “DON’T GIVE ME THAT CRAP. GET THIS CRATE DOWN AT THE NEAREST ISLAND OR I’LL BLAST YOU TO KINGDOM COME WITH A HEAT SEEKER.”
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR ORDERS ARE, LITTLE FRIEND. I’M LOSING PATIENCE WITH YOU. MY ORDERS ARE NO ABORT UNLESS I GET CONFIRMATION. AND YOU BETTER NOT DO ANYTHING WITH YOUR — WHATEVER YOU CALL IT — BECAUSE THERE WON’T BE ANYTHING LEFT OF YOU OR ME, PAL, BELIEVE ME.”
GUAM
Gail got up Saturday morning before the kids and the guests did. She put the coffee on and turned the radio to the local station giving the stateside major league baseball scores. She tied her housecoat a little tighter around her slim waist, then sat at the table to enjoy the quiet of the kitchen. Soon she was joined by Cameron’s wife, Denise, a tall, graceful woman in her mid-sixties.
“The coffee smells good. The men will be sawing logs for a while,” Denise said in her French accent. “I thought they had their fill at the reunion.”
“Apparently not,” Gail replied.
“I’ll take a shower, Gail, if you don’t mind.”
“Go right ahead.”
While Denise ran the water, the kitchen phone rang. Gail reached for it.
“Mrs. Shilling?”
“Yes.”
“Captain MacDonald calling. Is General Cameron available? I need to speak to him.”
“He’s… still sleeping, I think.”
“Would you wake him, please? It’s important.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Gail set the receiver on the counter and made her way down the hallway to the guest room. She tapped lightly on the half-opened door that blocked her view of the bed. “General Cameron?” She knocked again. “General Cameron?”
She heard a groan and some bed sheets ruffling in the darkened room. “Yes?”
“Captain MacDonald from the naval base is on the phone. He said it’s important. You can take the phonecall in there, if you like.”
“Ah, yeah, thanks, Gail. I will.”
Gail gently closed the door, went to the kitchen, and when she heard Cameron greet Les’s CO, hung the kitchen receiver up.
Inside the guest room, Cameron sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes nearly closed, the phone held loosely against his ear. His head was slightly dizzy from rising too quickly. “Hello.”
“OK, General Cameron. I’ll get to the point. I made some phone calls to the air force archives in the States. I did a little checking about the Mary Jane. Apparently, she didn’t disappear on the August 14 raid to Hikari, like you said. In fact, the Mary Jane didn’t fly that mission. None of the 509th bombers went that day or any other day. They never flew any conventional bombing missions at all during the war. Another thing, do the callsigns Hawkeye Three-Six and Baker Two mean anything to you?”
Cameron’s eyes suddenly opened. “Where did you get those callsigns?”
“How about ‘Fat Baby wired for sound?’ Does that ring a bell?”
“It might,” Cameron admitted.
“It should. I’ve got another. ‘Hawkeye Three Six to Baker Two. Number Eight complete.’”
“All right, captain, I get the picture.”
“I wouldn’t mind the whole truth this time, General Cameron. From A to Z. We need to meet somewhere. Breakfast is on me. There’s a place on Marine Drive called the Round Top. I can reserve a private booth where we can talk.”
The general sighed heavily into the receiver. “You may not want to hear what I know.”
“Try me… sir.”
The heat and humidity had already taken root in the early morning as Robert Shilling drove Les’s station wagon down Marine Drive, he and Cameron deep in conversation.
“What do you think, Bob? Would you arrive at the same conclusion?” Cameron asked, his arm resting on the edge of the door. The front windows were down in the car, the two enjoying the breeze.
Robert grunted. “It’s too hard to believe, but you have to admit that it explains a lot. The callsigns. The codes. But damn it, Phil, this isn’t a science fiction movie. These things just don’t happen. I still think someone is playing a trick on the 509th.”
“I don’t. This is real.”
“What if MacDonald doesn’t believe you?”
“What do you mean, me?”
“You outrank me, remember, and you were the commanding officer of the 509th. He might believe this if it comes from you. I’ll put my two cents in when it’s needed. Just state it in such a way that MacDonald will have to arrive at only one logical conclusion.”
“Easier said than done, Bob.”
The Round Top was crowded, with many of the customers in navy uniforms. Cameron gave his name at the counter, and he and Robert were quickly taken to a private booth — partially enclosed by a wall on three sides — where MacDonald, Les, and Jack Runsted were seated. As soon as they sat down, a chubby blonde waitress arrived.
“We’ll all take the breakfast special,” MacDonald said. “Could we have the coffee right away?”
“Yes, sir.”
Once the waitress disappeared, MacDonald turned to Cameron and Robert. “All right you two. We’re in this together. So let’s have it. The true story about the Mary Jane. What happened to her? And what’s with all those strange callsigns and radio talk that Hulk picked up this morning near Iwo Jima?”
Cameron removed his windbreaker and laid it on the chair behind him as the coffee came. The waitress poured and left. Cameron left his black and he stirred it… waiting… stalling. He looked over at his vet friend. “The truth. OK, here goes.” He leaned forward. “Following the Hiroshima and Nagasaki missions, the United States still weren’t certain whether the Japanese would surrender. We had no word from them. Therefore, in anticipation of them not surrendering, a third atomic mission was scheduled. The order came from the top. President Truman. The target would be the city of Kyoto, with a plutonium bomb that was more powerful than the first two atomic bombs put together. An estimated destructive force that could kill 200,000 people and injure another 300,000. History never knew about that mission. Mary Jane was the designated bomber deployed to carry out that third atomic mission on the morning of August 11, 1945. The crew was briefed the night before. They took off from Tinian at oh-one-hundred and,” Cameron paused, “they were never seen again.”
“Go on,” MacDonald said.
“Did you notice that I said the crew was never seen again?”
“I did.”
“Here’s the dope. Even you, Bob, don’t know this. The bomber was found on Guam the following morning.”
“It was?” Robert answered, caught by surprise.