Bomb (9780547537641) (10 page)

"That's pure nonsense," Tara said. "But I admit that my people don't visit Rongerik very often. And never at night."

"Is that when the dead witch flies around?" Lokileni asked.

"Believe it if you want," Tara said, laughing.

"If it's all nonsense, why doesn't anyone live there?" Sorry asked.

"I don't know," Tara admitted.

Abram said, "Simply because it's a worthless atoll. I heard that years ago. Why people won't live there has nothing to do with Libokra, whatever Yolo thinks."

Grandmother Yolo was more than half-crazy, Sorry often thought. She had been that way before Sorry was born. But he still loved her.

He'd done something terrible to her when he was six or seven and still regretted it. She never wanted to look at herself, afraid she'd see a spirit. So he borrowed a piece of mirror from Manoj Ijjirik's house and waited until she was sound asleep in the afternoon, then held it about two feet above her face and woke her up. She saw herself and screamed. His father chased him far up the beach.

There was a big barrier beach rock that Yolo usually sat on. There she would be, stiff backed with her eyes closed, hands on her knees. Once Sorry asked her what she was listening to. Her eyes moved around under the lids and her toothless chin worked. That was when she would still talk. She told him she was listening to voices from the ocean, all the people who had died off of the barrier beach for a hundred years. For a while, he really thought she heard them.

Had she talked to his father? She wouldn't say.

 

What began as a few Pentagon orders in early January 1946, had become a paper flood that would eventually involve more than 250 ships; over 150 aircraft; 42,000 personnel; 25,000 Geiger radiation counters; hundreds of still and motion picture cameras. Approximately 160 journalists from around the world would soon be headed for Bikini.

With the early sun again climbing to erase the night's dew and the usual fluffy clouds adrift over the far horizon, Sorry and Abram sailed the Eniwetok canoe out to the USS
Sumner.

After asking permission, they tied up alongside the wooden landing pontoon. Sorry didn't know the reason for the visit, and Abram hadn't volunteered any information.

There were times when Sorry's uncle was as open as the sea and sky; other times he closed himself off like a clam. This morning he was a clam.

Abram spoke to the petty officer in charge of the gangway watch. He asked to see the chief boatswain. The bo'sun always bossed the deck crew and was responsible for deck maintenance.

"For what reason?" asked the sailor.

"We're going to tear down several buildings, and I need some red paint to mark the supports we'll take to Rongerik."

Abram later told Sorry what had been said at the gangway.

Lieutenant Hastings had decided it would be best if both the church and the council-school buildings were dismantled and transported to the new island. Both were part of community life and might help ward off homesickness. The lieutenant had promised Juda that the navy would cooperate in every way.

The sailor shrugged and said into the loudspeaker system, "Chief bo'sun to the quarterdeck! Chief bo'sun to the quarterdeck." The bo'sun was always in charge of the paint locker.

Sorry looked along the length of the gray, riveted hull, wishing he could board it; see, up close, all the things on the white man's ship. He could smell food being prepared and wondered what the sailors would eat this day. The smells were completely different from those that came from the beach fire pits.

Soon a stocky man appeared, yellow hair poking from under his hat and from the V of his short-sleeved khaki shirt, tattoos on his arms. With a frown, he asked, "Who wants me?"

The gangway-watch sailor indicated Abram, standing barefooted and bare chested on the pontoon in his rolled-up dungarees, displaying a warm smile.

Puzzled, the chief bo'sun looked from Abram to Sorry in the canoe. He muttered, "Yeah?"

Abram repeated what he'd told the gangway sailor: The paint was needed for marking.

"How much?"

"Ten gallons and two brushes, please."

"Give you five." Then the chunky yellow-haired man paused and scratched his head. "Oh, what the hell, I'll give you ten. This old tub's gonna go out of duty once we hit Norfolk. Then to a scrap yard. Why should I care?"

He started to turn away, and Abram, ever polite, called up, "Sir, these are for you."

Behind his back, he'd been holding two dyedecorated pandanus mats, the work of Sorry's mother.

"Hey, thank you," said the chief bo'sun as Abram passed them up.

Abram said, "If you come ashore, I'll treat you to some palm wine."

***

A seaman appeared carrying two five-gallon cans of red lead, a primer used on all navy ships, eased down the steep gangway, and handed them to Abram, along with two brushes.

"What are you going to paint?" Sorry asked. To put a mark on supports didn't require ten gallons. It required a brushful.

"You'll find out in time."

A moment later, the outrigger was heading back for the beach. "I think we're in business with the U.S. Navy," Abram said.

"What does that mean?" Sorry asked.

"That means we may find out more about the bomb. That lieutenant isn't going to tell us. No officer is. But the enlisted men may talk. They're great, like the crewmen were on my ships."

The canoe slid on toward the island.

"But why do we need that much red paint?"

"I said I'll tell you later."

Annoyed, Sorry finally said, "Uncle Abram, I really thought you were going to make the navy find a new lagoon so we could stay here. I thought that's why we were going to the ship this morning."

"We need newspapermen. None have arrived. The radio said that many
will
arrive. Be patient. You can be sure that some will visit us on Rongerik. Then we can tell our story and come back here after they help us stop the tests."

Was that possible? Could Abram do that? He seemed to be serious. Sorry knew he'd read newspapers in the ports his ships had visited. He understood the white men's ways. Could he make them choose another atoll?

"Will there be time?" Sorry asked.

"I think so. The radio said the first test will be in late May or early June. It's only February. We have time."

Abram's words were barely out of his mouth when there was an explosion behind them. They looked toward the center of the lagoon at the misty remains of a huge spout of falling water. Another big coral cropping had been blown to clear the nine-square-mile anchorage.

Sorry said, "They're not waiting, are they?"

"No, they're not," Abram replied, staring at the drifting mist.

One of the island's outriggers was already moving toward the explosion to pick up dead fish.

Abram suddenly grimaced and grabbed at his chest, gritting his teeth. His face was contorted with pain and gray in color.

Alarmed, Sorry said, "Are you all right?"

Abram reached into his pocket for the pill case and took out two.

Sorry repeated, "Are you all right, Uncle Abram?"

Abram nodded, breathing heavily.

Eyes closed, fists clenched, he sat motionless waiting for the pain spasms to stop.

Sorry had seen this same illness once before, he remembered. Jorkan Rinamu, of the family next door, was hauling in a big fish when it happened. Jorkan, an older man, later died of heart seizure.

Abram began taking some deep breaths as the pain subsided. Finally he seemed all right again, and his skin color began to return to normal.

Sorry said, "Does that happen often?"

"More lately. But it goes away after I take the pills."

Abram studied Sorry for a moment or two, then said, "So you want to know how paint will bring newspapermen?"

Sorry nodded.

"I plan to paint this canoe and its sail red, then take it into Bikini lagoon just before the bomb is ready to drop. I hope they'll see me and decide not to drop it. Then I hope the newspaper and radio people will make something big of it. 'One Man Stops the Bomb.' I hope they'll tell the world..."

Sorry wondered if he was dreaming. Had he heard what he thought he'd heard?
His uncle was going to sail against the atom bomb?
Maybe Abram
was
crazy.

Abram continued, "I'll find out from the radio when the bomber will come over, the day and time. I won't get too near the main target, a battleship, but I'll be close enough for the flight crew to see me."

Sorry's head was swimming. Scary, crazy words. Was he serious? One man in a canoe against the atom bomb?

"It's the only way for us to try and stop it," Abram said. "
The only way.
"

"But, Uncle Abram—"

Abram waved a hand; he'd talk no more of it. "I'll tell everyone when we get to Rongerik and paint the canoe. Meanwhile, the navy must not find out."

***

As the canoe, carrying the ten gallons of red paint and two brushes, slid up on the beach, Abram Makaoliej stepped out and collapsed without a word.

Sorry yelled for help, turning his uncle faceup.

He was dead.

***

Abram was buried the next morning in the village cemetery, with Grandfather Jonjen conducting the service. It was another pretty morning on the atoll, breeze rustling the palms, sun shining, sky blue.

In the tradition, village men had made the coffin overnight, and Abram was dressed in his best white shirt and pants. The village women wailed at graveside, and Sorry wept openly. A death in the small community was always a terrible loss, and everyone grieved.

Tara Malolo talked of her admiration for Abram, and Jonjen talked of his intelligence and courage. Abram had died where he wanted to die—at home.

The villagers sang, "Bound to the promised land..."

As Jonjen talked, Sorry made a decision. He would take Abram's place in the canoe and return to Bikini on the day of the atom bomb. If no one else would volunteer, he'd go alone.

Handfuls of sand were thrown into the grave by the villagers, and Sorry joined in. Then the coffin was nailed shut as the women's wailing reached a crescendo. After the coffin was lowered, flowers were tossed upon it, and Jonjen said the final prayer.

***

In the afternoon, Sorry and the other men went about stripping the pandanus trees of all mature leaves. They worked quietly. Normally they would have been chattering. Sorry's mind was occupied with the death of his uncle and what Abram had told him about stopping the bomb.

Lokileni, Tara, Yolo, and Mother Rinamu joined the women to help make the thatch panels. They sat in the council building on their mats. Usually there was much talk and laughter as fingers danced over the leaves. But like the men, the women were subdued this day.

A deeper pall of doubt and anxiety had settled over the village. Abram would be missed.

 

Five hundred scientists of all types were preparing to participate in Operation Crossroads. Never before had people known so little about the destructive forces they were about to unleash, or about the long-range consequences. Observers would include biophysicists and nuclear physicists, biologists, zoologists, geologists, seismologists, meteorologists, hematologists for blood study, roentgenologists—experts in radiation—and dozens more. Bikini Atoll, before and after the bombs, would be the most scientifically studied 245.32 square miles on earth, and the center of it all would be the blue-green lagoon.

After breakfast the next day, Sorry sought out Tara and said, "Come walk with me. I couldn't sleep last night."

"Neither could I," said Tara.

The usual snores in Chief Juda's house had chased her out. She was staying with his family this week. She said she'd slept most of the night in the grove.

That happened now and then to everyone. You took your mat and went two hundred feet away, hoping the palm rats wouldn't nose around. Sorry had slept in the groves sometimes because of Yolo's and Jonjen's snores.

Tara and Sorry walked north along the beach, just above the tideline, then he stopped and looked into her dark eyes. "Abram was going to paint the Eniwetok canoe red and sail it back to Bikini, hope they'd see him and not drop the bomb."

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. From what Abram had told everyone, the atom bomb was the most destructive thing on earth. You'd want to be a thousand miles away from it. Finally, she said, "Had he lost his mind?"

"He'd been thinking about how to stop the navy ever since the military governor came here. Remember he told us about white men protesting. How and what they do. Strikes and marches that make newspaper front pages. Later he told me men have even stopped roads from being built. I had no idea he'd been thinking about painting the canoe and—" Sorry choked up.

"Why did he tell you and not me?" Tara said, frowning.

"I don't know. I don't think he planned to tell anyone until we got to Rongerik. He told me after he had the first attack in the canoe, on our way back from getting the paint from the
Sumner.
"

Tara shook her head. "Why didn't he tell me?" she asked again.

"After you, I was his best friend," Sorry said.

Some villagers, of course, like Leje, didn't approve of Abram at all. They were jealous, Sorry believed.

"You know we were in love, don't you?"

"I thought so."

"Many nights, after everyone was asleep, we took long walks and talked."

"You didn't know he had heart trouble?"

"He never told me that either. That's why it was such a shock..."

Sorry said, "I thought about the red paint and the bomb all last night. Since he isn't here to try and stop it, I will."

"What did you say?"

"After we get to Rongerik, I'm going to paint the canoe red and sail it back here and do exactly what Abram had planned to do."

"Oh, no! No, no, no! We won't let you."

"Who is 'we'?"

"All of us, Sorry. Abram is dead and that's enough death."

"I'm going to do it, Tara," said Sorry quietly but firmly. "I am."