Smoke and the smell of cordite filled the air. The cockpit began to cool off quickly.
“We’re losing cabin pressure!” Clayton cried out. “Paul!” He pointed upwards with one hand, hanging onto the wheel with the other. “Plug up the holes!”
Lunsford grabbed some clean rags he had kept at his station and jumped into the cockpit.
“COMMANDER TO NAVIGATOR. I NEED A COURSE TO LAKE BIWA.”
“GIVE ME A SECOND, SIR.”
Lunsford saw two holes a few inches apart above the commander’s head. He ripped one of the rags into two pieces and rolled up one section. In thirty seconds, he had both holes plugged firmly. “There,” he said.
“I can still feel cold air,” Clayton said. “And it’s getting harder to breath.”
Loran agreed. He got down on his knees and checked each side of the fuselage. “There — to the right of my seat. Two holes.” He could see that the bullets had just missed the intercom jack box by inches.
Ripping another piece of rag in half, Lunsford handed one piece to Loran, who shoved it in place. The temperature began to rise and breathing became easier.
“That’s more like it,” Clayton said. “Thanks, guys.” He saw Emerson searching through Ainsworth’s pockets. “Butch, what are you doing?”
“Trying to find the red plugs, sir. Here they are,” he said, holding them in his hand. “All three of them.” He showed them to his skipper. “I guess I’ll be the one to put the little buggers in.”
“Get ready,” Clayton encouraged him. “But wait, the bomb bay is unheated and unpressurized. You’ll have to release the pressure in our compartment so that you can open the hatch. We have no choice but to insert the red plugs at high altitude because we can’t afford to drop down 20,000 feet. The Japs will swarm all over us.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Hurry, damn it!”
“I’m going.”
“NAVIGATOR TO COMMANDER. I GOT THE FIRST TURNING POINT FOR YOU.”
Through light cloud, Tiger saw Les and the Mary Jane at three o’clock, three or four miles off. They had changed direction and were back on the bomb run. He pushed forward on the throttles to catch up, banking slightly a few degrees to starboard.
“ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, THIS IS ZULU TWO-FOUR-FOUR. TARGETS DESTROYED.
“ROGER, ZULU TWO-FOUR-FOUR. I HAVE A VISUAL OF YOU.”
Tiger was only three hundred yards off now. Then… the bomber and Hulk both disappeared.
KYOTO
Toshika stood beside the wheelchair and shook the sleeping Mason by the shoulders. “Colonel.”
Mason opened his eyes, looking up at her. “Toshika, is that you?”
“Yes, it is, colonel.” She found a chair, smiled, and sat awkwardly. “Did you enjoy your breakfast?”
“No, it was terrible.”
Toshika grinned. “Come now, it couldn’t have been that bad.”
“It was so!”
Toshika knew it was no use arguing with him. “Colonel, is it true you were an officer in the United States Air Force during World War II?”
“Yes… it is true. I was in S-2.”
“S-2?” Toshika whispered to David in his direction.
“Intelligence section, ma’am,” Walker said.
“Intelligence, is that right, colonel?”
The colonel nodded at Toshika’s next question. She reached out and held his hand. “Colonel, was there really a third atomic mission called on our country? I want the truth.”
It took Mason a long time before he responded. Finally, he said, “It’s top secret. I promised President Truman that I would never tell anybody who didn’t need to know.”
“But you told David and me yesterday.”
Surprised, he answered, “Did I?”
“Yes, you did. David’s father knew the crew of the Mary Jane, the bomber that you said had left its base to bomb Kyoto with a plutonium bomb.”
Mason stared off, glassy-eyed. “Something went wrong.”
“What went wrong?”
“I can’t tell you. I promised President Truman.”
“Truman’s been dead for years. You don’t owe him anything. What was the codename, colonel?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Yes, I do. With that codename I had power. The entire Army Air Force was at my beck and call. A mere mention of the name could cancel the mission, even make the Mary Jane turn around in mid-flight.”
“Please tell us the codename, colonel,” Toshika pleaded. “The US Navy needs it. Nothing will happen to you, honest.”
David stepped forward, red-faced. “OK, that’s it. Colonel, let’s finish this thing right here. I’m sure the US Navy doesn’t want to waste anyone’s time. This isn’t a game. The navy pulled me out of bed at five this morning to get the codename from you. Now tell us the damn codename. Now!”
“David, please,” Toshika said. “Colonel, listen to me. We’re not leaving until we get the codename. So tell us. Truman won’t roll over in his grave. He’d understand. We want it!”
The colonel folded his hands in his lap. Tears began to form in his eyes. He looked around the room. Then his lips quivered. Finally… he uttered… a breathy, “Electron.”
MARY JANE
“COMMANDER TO CREW IN THE FORWARD COMPARTMENT. WE ARE ON A NEW COURSE TO LAKE BIWA. GRAB YOUR FLYING SUITS AND AN OXYGEN PACK. IT’S GOING TO GET COLD IN HERE IN A FEW MINUTES. GO!”
Emerson fitted his hands into a pair of thin, silk navigator gloves he had borrowed from Dwight Marshall. He shrugged on his flight jacket and strapped on his portable oxygen cylinder. He checked the pressure gauge, which read a healthy 450 pounds per square inch. The cylinder contained six to twelve minutes of oxygen, depending on the amount of activity. Then he bent under his flight engineer’s seat where the cabin pressure relief valve was located. He turned the valve slowly. This procedure was necessary to prevent the inside pressure rupturing the fuselage skin, as well as preventing loose material being sucked towards the bomb bay hatch.
Clayton reached for his thick leather jacket and oxygen mask. “COMMANDER TO FORWARD CREW. GIVE ME A CALL-IN WHEN YOU’RE READY. NOSE TO TAIL. LET’S GO.”
Lunsford waved from the nose, jacket and mask already in place. “BOMBARDIER HERE. I’M READY.”
Loran nodded, thumbs up.
“NAVIGATOR OK.”
“RADIO A-OK.”
Clayton turned to Emerson, flashlight in hand, who looked all set as he too gave the thumbs up. Emerson opened the hatch and climbed in the bomb bay. Immediately, he could feel the bitter cold air hit the exposed skin on his face. Shit, it was freezing. At this altitude of 31,000 feet, the temperature had to be in the fifty-below range. Carefully and methodically, he turned each of the three green plugs counterclockwise until they popped off. Then, one at a time, he injected the first two red plugs. With cold hands, he reached into his jacket for the third and final plug.
“There you are,” he muttered to the third plug. But before he could screw it into place, he dropped it. Shit! Frantic, he ran the flashlight along the bottom of the bomb bay. “Clayton will kill me if I don’t find it,” he said to himself.
He searched and searched… then found it… under the nose of the bomb. “Thank God,” he whispered, picking the plug up. “Come to papa.” He checked his oxygen pack. Only three minutes left.
In the cockpit, Clayton was getting nervous. What was taking Emerson so long? He saw a large, long lake through the glass. Out the side, one of the crazy fighters was still with him. Where was the other?