Bombs Away (20 page)

“Let me make you breakfast,” Ruth said. “Maybe you'll be happier after you eat.” She fixed bacon and eggs for both of them, frying the eggs in the bacon grease. She'd kept kosher till she married him. He'd never bothered—his father prided himself on being a freethinker. Ruth hadn't minded quitting. With toast with butter and jam, a breakfast like that gave you enough ballast to last till lunch.

They listened to the radio while they ate. From what the excited newscaster said, someone had shot down a B-29 that had no business being anywhere near Spokane when it didn't respond on the radio. Or maybe it was a Russian bomber pretending to be a B-29. The newsman didn't seem sure, which made it a good bet the authorities weren't, either.

After breakfast, Aaron showered and put on his work clothes: gabardine trousers and a white shirt with
Aaron
embroidered in red script on his right breast and BLUE FRONT in blue capitals on the pocket. His shoes looked ordinary but had steel toecaps under the leather to keep his feet from getting mashed. He'd also used them to advantage in a bar fight or two.

When he came out of the bedroom, Ruth said, “Are you sure you should go to work today? If the bomb does come—”

He cut her off. “I can't call in for something like that. If the bomb doesn't fall, Weissman'll can me so fast, it'd make your head swim. Maybe even if it does. He's like that.”

She looked unhappy, but she nodded. They'd both gone through the Depression. If you had a job then, you clung to it the way an abalone clung to a rock. Somebody was always trying to pull you away from it.

Just before he was going to head out the door, the radio newsman said, “Flash! And I'm afraid I mean that literally. A flash of light was seen above San Francisco moments ago, and communication with the city appears to have been lost. Further details as they become available.”

“Jesus!” Jewish or not, Aaron swore like any other American.

“Don't go,” Ruth urged him again.

“Honey, I have to,” he said. “They won't hit the Blue Front warehouse. They'll bomb downtown, and we've got the hills to shield us.”

“They're not high enough,” she said. He shrugged. They probably weren't. But they weren't high enough to protect the house, either.

When he got to the warehouse just before sunup, Herschel Weissman was standing out front. “Good to see you. I wasn't sure I would,” the boss said. He spoke in Yiddish, in a
Nobody here but us chickens
way.

“I'm here—for as long as I'm here,” Aaron answered in the same language.

They went inside. Not everybody had shown up, or would. Weissman grumbled, but not too hard. Aaron realized he wouldn't have got fired for staying home after all. Well, he'd feel like a jerk for leaving now.

And it was too late anyway. Sirens started going off. A minute later, he heard jet engines screaming overhead. Jet engines meant warplanes, nothing else. If there was a bomber, maybe they'd shoot it down before it could unload. Or maybe it was a drill, or a false alarm, or even a bad dream.

But it wasn't. The sunflash made Aaron and Mr. Weissman and everyone else in the place shout and scream. Seconds later, blast rattled the building. It didn't fall on the people inside—the bomb must have gone off a little too far away. All the lights inside went out.

Aaron was already running for the open door. “See you later,” he called over his shoulder. Washing machines weren't the biggest thing on his mind right now. He jumped into his Nash and started home. He hadn't even looked at the mushroom cloud rising above downtown Los Angeles. He had more urgent things on his mind.

He was only a couple of blocks from his house when a parachute-wearing airman landed in the street in front of him. He swore under his breath—all the goddamn traffic lights were out, and now this? What else would slow him down? Then he saw the red stars on the man's flight suit.

He jumped out of the car and ran toward the Russian, who was struggling to free himself from his harness. Aaron grabbed a pocket knife, the only weapon he had except for his shoes. “You're my prisoner!” he yelled. The man spread his gloved hands and gave forth with palatal gibberish. On a what-the-hell hunch, Aaron repeated himself in Yiddish.

“
Ach,
prisoner,” the Russian replied in what had to be German—close enough to Yiddish to be comprehensible. “Yes, I am prisoner. I surrender.” He raised his hands.

“Come on back to the car with me. I'll take you…somewhere.” Aaron wondered where. He'd never captured a prisoner in the merchant marine. Then inspiration struck. He put the car in gear and headed for the Glendale police station. It wasn't far. They could stick the Russian in a cell so nobody lynched him till after he was questioned.

Afterwards? How many people had the bastard just killed? What would the Japs have done to the crew that bombed Hiroshima? That was what Aaron wanted to do to this guy. He kept driving. He was more civilized than he'd thought.

It was daylight over the North Pacific. Boris Gribkov felt as if he'd been flying forever. The little white pills kept his eyes wide open anyhow. He wouldn't start paying for them till after he got down. If he got down.

All he could see was water. All he'd been able to see for a long time was water. The USSR was the biggest country in the world. You could drop it into the Pacific and it would go splash and disappear. He hadn't imagined an ocean could be so vast. Till now, he'd done his flying over land. This was a different business—about as different as it got.

“How are we doing, Leonid Abramovich?” he called back to the navigator.

“Comrade Pilot, change course three degrees to the north. I say again, three degrees to the north,” Tsederbaum answered. He and Gribkov were trying to bring the Tu-4 to a precise dot of latitude and longitude, a dot marked only by waves.

“I am changing course three degrees to the north,” Gribkov said as he applied the correction. “We're what—fifteen minutes away?”

“More like twenty or twenty-five. We've been fighting some nasty headwinds on the way west,” Tsederbaum said. Gribkov must have made an unhappy noise, because the navigator asked him, “How are we fixed for fuel, sir?”

“We're low.” Boris didn't need to look at the gauge to answer that. Flying from Provideniya to Seattle took more than half the Tu-4's range. All the land between Seattle and Provideniya belonged to the USA or Canada. If only the Tsars hadn't sold Alaska to the Americans! A long lifetime too late to regret that now.

And so Red Fleet vessels were supposed to be waiting at that designated dot of latitude and longitude. If the Tu-4 got there, if it ditched as it was supposed to, if the sailors were on their toes…If all those things went right, the bomber crew might possibly survive. It gave them something to hope for, anyhow.

A lot of the Tu-4s taking off from the bases in the Soviet Far East would use all their fuel, or almost all, reaching their targets. Their crews couldn't even hope for waiting ships. They would have to drop their bombs and either make an emergency landing at whatever airfields they could find or bail out and hope the Yankees who caught them didn't string them up or burn them alive.

He'd done what he was ordered to do. The bomb lit up the night when it blew. Two separate shock waves buffeted the Tu-4. He'd expected only one. Maybe the second came from a ground reflection. He didn't know. It hadn't knocked the plane from the sky. Nothing else mattered.

Time crawled by. After twenty-five minutes—and after the fuel for the first engine fell into the red zone—Gribkov said, “Well, Leonid Abramovich?”

“Another…two minutes on this heading, Comrade Pilot,” the navigator replied. “Then start flying the search spiral. We'll find them—or we won't.” Better than most, Tsederbaum understood their chance wasn't a good one. A dot—an invisible dot—on an unimaginably enormous ocean? A dot where his navigation had to match that of the pickup ships?

After two minutes, Gribkov did begin the spiral. He also began flying lower. Two engines were in the red zone for fuel now. He needed power for ditching. They could bob in their rafts for a while if they went in smoothly. Maybe the Red Fleet would find them. Maybe the Americans would, and take them captive. Maybe no one would, and they'd all wish they'd crashed and got it over with in a hurry.

He peered through the Plexiglas, hoping to see ships below. In the right-hand seat, Vladimir Zorin was doing the same thing. Alexander Lavrov, the bombardier, had the best view of anyone in the crew.

“Fuck your mother!” Lavrov shouted suddenly. “Fuck
my
mother! There they are—about two o'clock, not even far away!”

“Bozhemoi!”
Boris whispered. Now that the bombardier had spotted them, he could see them, too. He put the intercom on the all-hands circuit. “We have spotted the rescue vessels. We are preparing to land on the sea. Get ready to use the water-landing procedures we have learned.”

One of the interned B-29s had a manual that covered the drill for ditching the big plane. Translators had carefully turned it into Russian. No one in the Red Air Force had actually practiced the drill, not so far as Boris Gribkov knew. He knew damn well he'd never practiced it himself, though he'd read the translated manual. Well, there was a first time for everything.

They shrugged out of their parachute harnesses. Lavrov left the bombardier's station and took his place by the flight engineer. You wanted to come in as slowly as you could—ideally, under sixty meters per second—and land on top of a swell with the nose slightly up. Gribkov lowered the flaps to cut his speed as much as he could. At first, even the Americans hadn't been sure that was a good idea. They finally decided it was, though, and he wasn't about to argue with them.

“Brace yourselves!” he called one last time as the green-gray water rushed up to meet the plane. “We're going in!”

There were two slaps, as there'd been two blast waves. The first, when the tail touched the water, was light. The other, when the fuselage and wings went in, almost threw Gribkov against the yoke in spite of his safety harness. He hoped everyone was well strapped in.

“Come on, Volodya,” he called to Zorin. “We'll get the rafts out.” The Tu-4 rode higher than he'd expected. That was one advantage of dry fuel tanks, anyhow. He grabbed the raft near the pilot's seat. The copilot was doing the same thing on the other side. They inflated the rubber rafts with CO
₂
cartridges.

Boris opened his escape hatch. He pushed the raft out ahead of him, and didn't inflate his own life jacket till he'd got outside—the hatch was tight. A light line connected the raft to the plane. It would break if the bomber quickly sank, so as not to pull the raft down, too.

Other men were coming out of the hatches farther back along the fuselage. Damned if Vitya Trubetskoi wasn't splashing forward from the left tailplane toward the left wing. Rear gunner was the loneliest spot on the plane. You were all by yourself for the whole flight—unless the enemy gave you company, of course. And Boris had put the plane down tail first. He'd feared he'd drowned poor Vitya. But there the corporal was. He was made of stern stuff. He waved as he paddled forward, held up by the life vest. Boris had no idea whether he could swim without it.

He scrambled into his own raft. The first man he pulled up was Leonid Tsederbaum. The navigator kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Comrade Pilot.”

“Thank
you,
Comrade Navigator. You guided us to where we were supposed to be.”

Everybody got out. His raft held six men; Zorin's, five. He wouldn't have bet on that when he ditched. The Tu-4 was no seaplane, made to land on water. All you could do was put it down and hope, the more so with an unpracticed crew. But they'd made it work. He cut the umbilical line.

Here came the boats from the rescue vessels. One ship in the flotilla was a destroyer, the
Stalin.
The others were smaller: patrol ships and a couple that looked like fishing boats. The sailors waved and cheered.

“You did it!” shouted the bosun in the lead boat. “You stuck a big one right up the Americans' cunts!”

“We serve the Soviet Union!” Gribkov answered. It wasn't as if he never used
mat,
but it didn't seem right for an officer who'd managed to survive a mission where survival wasn't really expected.

“Pull these heroes in!” the bosun told his sailors. They did. Behind the abandoned raft, the Tu-4 settled lower and lower in the water. Before they'd got back to the patrol ship that had sent out the boat, the bomber sank forever. Gribkov saluted it. Like him, it had done everything asked of it and more.

“I thought you were going into Kiev today,” Ihor Shevchenko told his wife. “It's Sunday, after all.”

Instead of answering, Anya sneezed. It was one of those horrible, wet sneezes that show somebody has a genuinely awful cold. She blew her nose—a mournful honk—into a handkerchief. Ihor got a glimpse of her snot. It was yellow, almost green, the kind you would expect to see dribbling from a three-year-old's snoot.

“Never mind,” Ihor said. “I see why you're staying here.”

Anya made a feeble, get-away-from-me pushing gesture. “Go to the common room. Go outside. Go somewhere,” she said. “If you stay around me, you'll catch this. Believe me, you don't want it.” As if for emphasis, she sneezed again.

“Bless you,” he said, and then, “I'm going, I'm going.” Sometimes arguing with your wife was a losing proposition. That had to be doubly true when she wasn't fit company any which way.

Ihor did go outside. If he didn't want Anya's company, he didn't want anybody's. Besides, if he went to the common room, he'd start drinking. The
kolkhozniks
were celebrating the news of the blows the Red Air Force had struck against the West Coast of the United States—and against Newfoundland and a city called Bangor, Maine. Yuri Levitan bragged about the devastation the Soviet bombers had left behind.