To Americans, including the scientists at Los Alamos, it was still the war cry: "Remember Pearl Harbor/" Heinrich had expected to see Armageddon, a junkyard of scuttled relics. Arizona and Utah remained, but there were few other telltales of that day nearly four years ago. Now, the place buzzed with activity — ships, aircraft, and soldiers everywhere. Pearl was back in business, a through point for the tools of America's war machine. And Heinrich knew there was no bigger tool in the box than the sledgehammer that lay in two containers on the ship in front of him — 20,000 kilotons. That was the new estimate for Little Boy.
Heinrich had stayed in New Mexico for two days after the Trinity test. Information was analyzed, calculations made. The next atomic blast would be the one that counted, the one the world would see, and the results of Trinity had to be incorporated to maximize every effect. He carried with him the final guidance for the team that would assemble the bomb on Tinian. The precise altitude for fusing — 580 meters. Options for delivery geometry, with respect to terrain and time of day. Fine tuning, Heinrich thought of it, as one would a radio station that suffered heavy static — only with far more barbaric results. These new figures were in the suitcase chained to his wrist. The same suitcase that held a massive compilation of secrets regarding the entire program.
The vision of the Trinity test was still fixed in his mind. Heinrich had watched the incredible success from one of the observation bunkers. After his initial shock, a strange corollary had come to mind. He remembered, perhaps a year ago, seeing a newsreel about Germany's V-1 rocket. The film had showed the rocket blasting skyward, then broke away to show Hitler as he reveled in the spectacle. The Fuhrer had clasped his hands together in joy, delighted at the new strength his scientists had given him. If only he could have witnessed, Heinrich imagined, the power that I will give the Fatherland.
The skiff pulled alongside Indianapolis, coming to rest at a boarding platform. Dull gray armor seemed to rise straight to the sky. Yet while the ship had appeared sleek and modern from a distance, up close Indianapolis showed her scars. Fittings above the waterline spewed brown water, staining the gray steel. Rust was evident along joints and creases, and the hull itself carried any number of dents and lesions. She had been to the battles.
Heinrich spotted a familiar face from Los Alamos on the boarding platform. Major Lynn, U. S. Army, had been placed in charge of security for the voyage.
"Hello, Dr. Heinrich," he called.
Heinrich waved. "Hello, Major."
Lynn took Heinrich's second bag, containing his personal effects, as the scientist clambered awkwardly over a gangplank, the heavier case clutched to his chest.
"Welcome aboard. How was your trip?"
"Oh, fine," Heinrich said. "And yours? The crossing has been uneventful?"
"A little weather, but nothing severe." Lynn guided him to a passageway. "Let's get you bivouacked."
Lynn led through a maze of passageways under the ship's stern quarter. Heinrich had never been on such a large vessel, and he marveled at the complexity of it all. Over the narrow corridor, dim lights were encased in protective frames of steel wire, providing light in muted economy. Ventilation ducts and bundles of wires snaked across the ceiling. Every so often he was forced to step up and through an oval steel doorway. He guessed that these were the watertight doors he had always heard about, used to separate the compartments if sections of the ship began to flood. The thought was discomforting, and for the first time Heinrich felt a pang of fear not related to his being a spy — he was about to enter a war zone.
"Are our quarters higher up?" he asked.
Lynn spoke over his shoulder, "Yep. We're up in captain's country. That's what they call it around here. But first I want to show you something."
Lynn's feet clomped across the hard steel floor as he navigated stark, utilitarian passageways. He paused at an intersection, looked left and right, and then scratched his head.
"What is it?" Heinrich asked.
"Damn Navy," he said in a low voice. "They don't put up signs to tell you which way is which. I've never been on this deck before."
An enlisted man came by. "Can I help you, sir?"
Lynn said, "No, no thanks." After the navy man was gone he turned to Heinrich and said, "I'll figure it out."
Heinrich made a note of this. The ship was huge, complex. The moment might come when he would need to know his way around. He'd have to find some kind of diagram. Or, if necessary, he would explore and make his own — the physicist had solved far more complex problems in his time.
Lynn climbed a staircase and eased through another watertight door. Heinrich followed awkwardly, the heavy case clattering from side to side as he went up. At the top he found Lynn in a wider passageway.
"Indy is the flagship of the Fifth Fleet," the American explained. "This is the Flag Staff Quarters, although they're not in residence. We're on our own for this cruise." He led to a door labeled: flag lieutenant. Two large men in uniform — Heinrich thought they might be Marines — were standing watch. They came to attention as Major Lynn approached.
"At ease, boys. This is Dr. Heinrich. He's one of the scientists who helped build this thing. I'd like to let him in for a minute."
One of the guards became spokesman, "All right, sir. But you'll have to escort him. Those are our orders. Nobody goes in without you."
"Sure." Lynn led the way through the door.
Heinrich followed. He smiled and nodded at the guards, but said nothing as he passed. He had learned long ago to keep quiet in the presence of such men. His accent was severe, and while his peers at Los Alamos accepted his nationality freely, not all Americans were so accepting.
The room inside was small, but looked larger because everything had been stripped out. It was simply a rectangular space, a few fasteners hanging from the walls to suggest where a bunk or desk might have been mounted. There was, in fact, only one thing in the entire room — a lead bucket, roughly two feet high, and slightly less in circumference. It was strapped securely to anchor points in the floor. Lynn parked at the door.
Heinrich went closer to the bucket. He knew what was inside. It was the stack — nine uranium rings, each 6.25 inches in diameter, with a 4-inch hole in the center, all held in a 7-inch high canister.
The heavy lid was free, no locks to secure it in place. He looked over his shoulder at Major Lynn. "May I?"
"You helped make it. But are you sure it's okay — I mean with the radiation and all?"
"Uranium 235 has a long half-life, Major, which means the rate of decay is extremely slow. Brief exposures are quite acceptable."
The officer shrugged, clearly not understanding, but accepting the word of a scientist. Heinrich put his suitcase on the floor and lifted the thick lid slowly, as if expecting a demon to jump out. Inside he saw it — so simple and small, a stack of well-machined metal rings. Nothing to suggest the fireball of hell he had seen at the Trinity test. The ridiculous notion came to his head that he should take it, stuff it in his suitcase. For ten seconds he could feel like the most powerful man in the world. Heinrich replaced the buckets lead top. Noy he thought with satisfaction, I am already that.
Lynn led Heinrich to his quarters.
When they arrived, Heinrich thanked him. "It was kind of you to allow that."
"No problem, but it was a one-time deal. Your two colleagues have been all over it, but I thought you should at least get one look, Dr. Heinrich. I know how hard you worked."
"You don't know the half of it."
"The other crate, the big one, is up in a hangar on deck. Of course, that one's not much to look at — just a bunch of hardware and wires."