“NAVIGATOR TO COMMANDER. TURN FIVE DEGREES LEFT. TWO MINUTES TO LAKE BIWA.”
“ROGER. TURNING FIVE LEFT.”
On the navigator’s orders, Clayton banked slightly to the left. Five degrees. It was quickly becoming cold in the cockpit. He hadn’t worn an oxygen mask and flight jacket in more than a year, since his days with the Eighth Air Force in Britain. The rubber against his skin felt too tight. But only a few minutes more. Where the hell was Emerson?
“NAVIGATOR TO COMMANDER. TURN TWO-TWO-SIX.”
Clayton felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Emerson giving the OK sign with his thumb, under the silk navigator glove. Fat Baby was armed for good.
Clayton smiled under his oxygen mask. “COMMANDER TO NAVIGATOR, TURNING TWO-TWO-SIX.”
USS MIDWAY
“ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, THIS IS SCOUT ONE. DO YOU READ?” Commodore Prentice said, hoping to catch up with Les Shilling. Where were they? “ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, THIS IS SCOUT ONE. DO YOU READ?”
The answer finally came. “ROGER, SCOUT ONE. ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE READING YOU. OVER.”
“THANK GOD YOU’RE BACK WITH US. WHAT’S YOUR PRESENT POSITION?”
“JUST PASSED NORTHERN EDGE OF LAKE BIWA. LINING UP FOR IP RUN. WE WENT OFF COURSE AND LOST SOME MINUTES. ANY NEWS FROM KYOTO?”
“NEGATIVE. HOW WAS THE TRIP?”
“SIX BOGIES TO ONE OF OURS. OVER.”
“YOU MEAN TIGER BOUGHT IT?”
“NEGATIVE. LOST IN TIME, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.”
“AFFIRMATIVE. I GET THE PICTURE. WE’LL KEEP IN TOUCH. SCOUT ONE OUT.”
Prentice spun around to face the others in the room. Tiger lost? They looked as astonished as Prentice.
JAPAN
Tiger searched the skies for several minutes over Lake Biwa.
No Mary Jane.
No Hulk.
No high vapor trails.
This was it. He was stuck in 1945.
He checked his fuel. Down to one-third of his take-off load. The drop tanks were gone. Maybe 500 to 600 miles left, if he was lucky and conserved his fuel. One option was to fly to the Soviet Union. They were supposed to be allies during the war. What would they do with him? Probably keep his oddball fighter and, if he was fortunate, he might be sent back to the States after months of internment. From the stories he had heard, he knew it was more likely that starvation or execution faced him in a Soviet jail. Some ally.
No, Tiger was going down a hero. And have some fun.
MARY JANE
She was nearing the far end of Lake Biwa, twenty-five miles — eight minutes — from the IP. The cabin temperature was back to a normal seventy degrees inside the forward compartment. Oxygen masks, electrically-heated suits, flight jackets, gloves were all discarded.
Clayton glanced over at Loran. They nodded at each other.
They flew on, the engines droning.
“IP COMING UP IN TWO MINUTES, COMMANDER. ALTER COURSE TWO-SIX-FIVE ON MY SIGNAL.”
“ROGER.”
Clayton saw scattered cloud to the west of the lake, the direction of the target. He needed at most three-tenths cloud to bomb the target.
One more minute…
The strange fighter still stuck close by, Clayton picking out the needle nose through the port side of the Plexiglas. He checked his watch. The mission was fifteen minutes overdue. Damn that Four Eyes. Clayton looked down. He saw boats on the lake, six miles below. Ahead, off port, the peninsula — the IP — jutted into the water.
In the tail, Gabriel Schwartz kept his eyes open for enemy aircraft. None. But he did think it strange that some contrails were above them. They had to be 40,000 feet. Could Zeros fly that high? In the radar room, Mark Crosby didn’t see anything out of the ordinary on his equipment, except for Lake Biwa below. There was no mistake about that. Nevin Brown was catching some crazy songs on his radio set. At the flight engineer’s position, Emerson studied his panel. There seemed to be enough fuel left to make Tinian.
Dwight Marshall glanced out his navigator’s window. He recognized the Lake Biwa peninsula, which was the spot where a number of shrines stood. “NAVIGATOR TO COMMANDER, IN TEN SECONDS OUR NEW COMPASS HEADING SHOULD BE TWO-SIX-FIVE.”
Lunsford peered into the Norden bomb sight. Dead ahead — Otsu City, the community that bordered Lake Biwa. He then recalled the aerial photos he had studied on the ground prior to the mission. Otsu City was spread out and had more buildings than he had remembered from the snapshots. Had it grown that much? But it had to be Kyoto ahead because beyond Otsu he saw the hills that separated the port city from Kyoto. Everything checked out.
In the cockpit, Loran closed his eyes for a moment and said a quick, silent prayer to his maker that all would go well.
“THIS IS IT, COMMANDER. TURN TWO-SIX-FIVE.”
“ROGER. TURNING TWO-SIX-FIVE,” Clayton answered his navigator. He banked ever so slightly to starboard. They were now on their initial point. Six miles, two minutes to go. “COMMANDER TO CREW. PUT ON YOUR SAFETY GLASSES.”
The crew obeyed, most of them adjusting the glasses so that they were blacked out completely. Loran, Clayton, and Lunsford left their glasses on their foreheads because they couldn’t perform their work otherwise.
“COMMANDER TO BOMBARDIER. OPEN BOMB BAY.”
“ROGER.” Lunsford slid his left hand down to a panel on his left and hit the toggle switch. He heard and felt the vibrations when the mighty bomb bay doors creaked open.
This is where I get lost, Les thought. He wasn’t going to stick around for the lethal explosion. He gave port rudder and stick, soaring away from the Mary Jane.
Unless the bomber was stopped, his brother would die in the blast. Tears came to Les’s eyes. If he wanted, he could have blown the Mary Jane out of the sky at a safe distance of thirty miles. All on radar. No visual. But that would mean shooting the B-29 down without authorization. Despite the predicament, Les’s loyalty was to his country and the US Navy.
And that’s what hurt.
USS MIDWAY
Lieutenant Commander Cross, the communications officer, buzzed the bridge.
“COMMODORE?”
“COMMODORE PRENTICE HERE.”
“SIR, IT’S CROSS. THE CODENAME JUST CAME THROUGH FROM YOKOSUKA.”
“WELL, WHAT IS IT?”
“ELECTRON.”
“THANKS, COMMANDER. GOOD WORK. OUT.”
Prentice glared at Cameron. “You’re on, general.”
MARY JANE
In the viewfinder, Lunsford could see the eastern suburbs of Kyoto through a large gap in the clouds. He was astonished how clear it was. Cars, roads, rooftops, greenery. It was Kyoto, all right. The joining of the Kamo and the Takano rivers was unmistakable. A mile southwest stood the historical Imperial Gardens. The apex of the rivers was drifting into the bombsight’s cross hairs.
“COMMANDER TO CREW. ARE WE IN AGREEMENT THIS IS KYOTO?”
Lunsford answered first. “IT’S KYOTO, COMMANDER.”
The other crew members followed in the same identification.
The cross hairs were slowly lining up on the joint of the rivers. Lunsford made his final adjustments on the bomb sight. Seconds away now. He was just about to hit the tone signal that would give off a constant hum for the final seconds of the bomb run… when the commander hit the intercom.
“HOLD ON, PAUL.”