see how the moon had escaped the clouds and filled the range with an opalescent haze.
“Can we get away?” Groves asked Joe.
“I noticed on the way in that they like to bomb the stretch of road behind us. If we blink headlights at them, they’ll try to drop a fifty-pounder on the hood. Run without headlights and we’ll turn over in a ditch. We may as well stay here.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Fuchs’ face was smudgedand his hair stood up straight. “This entire project should not be put in jeopardy because of a stupid Indian.”
“Shut up, Klaus,” Oppy said softly.
Joe said, “B-29s.”
Approaching, the bombers were bigger than anything he’d ever seen in the air. Superforts, twenty tons of steel, twice as big as Flying Fortresses, each of their four engines the size of a fighter. Chutes spilled from the bays, floated and sputtered into flares.
“Good Lord,” Oppy said, “this is beautiful.”
Why flares? Joe wondered.
The lead bomber lifted reluctantly and the next in line took its place, settling lower with closer attention to the ground. Why so low? The belly turret turned, its .50-caliber barrels swinging back and forth. He could make out the green light within the Plexiglas nose. A green bombardier pointed straight down, and as if there were a magical connection with his finger, a phosphorus bomb as bright as snow crystals lit the valley floor. From the bomb came running shapes: horses, brilliant with lather and the glare of the bomb, racing under the wing. Mustangs out of the mountains for the night grazing and the mares the ranchers had left behind. Joe couldn’t make out individual horses, only the motion of their rocking and straining, urged by the dazzle of tracers, and the way they wheeled from rays of burning phosphorus. At a distance of a mile, he thought he could hear not only their hooves but their breath, although he knew they were drowned out by the sounds of pistons and hydraulics and .50-caliber rounds. Then the mustangsand bombers moved on together like a single storm, distance muting the sound, and nothing could be seen except a flash that resembled an occasional, faraway stroke of lightning.
What Joe remembered best was what Oppy said when they were alone in Alamogordo, after the half-track and jeeps had finally appeared and led them to the base.
“It was awful, but it was still beautiful.”
JUNE 1945
6
In Santiago, calves were cut and branded in the hour before dawn so that the men could catch the morning bus to Los Alamos, where they worked as custodians and furnace stokers.
Joe was alone in the second corral, where steers were brought in for sale. With meat rationing, there was a market for Indian cows, and it was Joe’s job to go over the cattle with a Geiger counter. The counter consisted of a metal wand, wire and a case with twenty pounds of batteries. The case had a microammeter that was useless in the middle of a herd in the dark, but there were also the audible clicks of gamma rays from at least one cow. Joe slipped a rope over its head and led it out of the corral and around a hay rick, where a path led to a copse of cottonwoods and willows. A rare rain had fallen the day before and mud sucked on his shoes. In the middle of the copse were cans, mattress springs, shoes and bones cemented in a great mound of sodden ashes. He yanked the steer up to its knees in the pile, put his .45 where the vertebrae of the neck joined thedome of the skull and fired. At the last second, the steer, curious, looked up, and the bullet tore through the artery of its neck. Blood shot in a solid black stream over Joe’s chest and arm. He held the steer tight and fired again. The animal dropped like a weight. He poured a can of kerosene over the dead animal, lit it and staggered back from the blaze. In the yellow flames, he could see that the steer was mottled, the hide half bleached. Every canyon around Los Alamos had cows, and every canyon had sites where poisonous isotopes
“Can we get away?” Groves asked Joe.
“I noticed on the way in that they like to bomb the stretch of road behind us. If we blink headlights at them, they’ll try to drop a fifty-pounder on the hood. Run without headlights and we’ll turn over in a ditch. We may as well stay here.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Fuchs’ face was smudgedand his hair stood up straight. “This entire project should not be put in jeopardy because of a stupid Indian.”
“Shut up, Klaus,” Oppy said softly.
Joe said, “B-29s.”
Approaching, the bombers were bigger than anything he’d ever seen in the air. Superforts, twenty tons of steel, twice as big as Flying Fortresses, each of their four engines the size of a fighter. Chutes spilled from the bays, floated and sputtered into flares.
“Good Lord,” Oppy said, “this is beautiful.”
Why flares? Joe wondered.
The lead bomber lifted reluctantly and the next in line took its place, settling lower with closer attention to the ground. Why so low? The belly turret turned, its .50-caliber barrels swinging back and forth. He could make out the green light within the Plexiglas nose. A green bombardier pointed straight down, and as if there were a magical connection with his finger, a phosphorus bomb as bright as snow crystals lit the valley floor. From the bomb came running shapes: horses, brilliant with lather and the glare of the bomb, racing under the wing. Mustangs out of the mountains for the night grazing and the mares the ranchers had left behind. Joe couldn’t make out individual horses, only the motion of their rocking and straining, urged by the dazzle of tracers, and the way they wheeled from rays of burning phosphorus. At a distance of a mile, he thought he could hear not only their hooves but their breath, although he knew they were drowned out by the sounds of pistons and hydraulics and .50-caliber rounds. Then the mustangsand bombers moved on together like a single storm, distance muting the sound, and nothing could be seen except a flash that resembled an occasional, faraway stroke of lightning.
What Joe remembered best was what Oppy said when they were alone in Alamogordo, after the half-track and jeeps had finally appeared and led them to the base.
“It was awful, but it was still beautiful.”
JUNE 1945
6
In Santiago, calves were cut and branded in the hour before dawn so that the men could catch the morning bus to Los Alamos, where they worked as custodians and furnace stokers.
Joe was alone in the second corral, where steers were brought in for sale. With meat rationing, there was a market for Indian cows, and it was Joe’s job to go over the cattle with a Geiger counter. The counter consisted of a metal wand, wire and a case with twenty pounds of batteries. The case had a microammeter that was useless in the middle of a herd in the dark, but there were also the audible clicks of gamma rays from at least one cow. Joe slipped a rope over its head and led it out of the corral and around a hay rick, where a path led to a copse of cottonwoods and willows. A rare rain had fallen the day before and mud sucked on his shoes. In the middle of the copse were cans, mattress springs, shoes and bones cemented in a great mound of sodden ashes. He yanked the steer up to its knees in the pile, put his .45 where the vertebrae of the neck joined thedome of the skull and fired. At the last second, the steer, curious, looked up, and the bullet tore through the artery of its neck. Blood shot in a solid black stream over Joe’s chest and arm. He held the steer tight and fired again. The animal dropped like a weight. He poured a can of kerosene over the dead animal, lit it and staggered back from the blaze. In the yellow flames, he could see that the steer was mottled, the hide half bleached. Every canyon around Los Alamos had cows, and every canyon had sites where poisonous isotopes
Similar Books
