Day of the Bomb by Steve Stroble Page A

from what he
prayed would the funeral pyre for his long isolation on Monkey
Island. “It’s not as big as that other cloud of smoke over Bikini
Atoll way, Kong. But at least maybe it’s big enough that someone;
our guys, the Japs, Russians, or some native will see it. I sure
hope it’s our boys who show up. Lately I’ve been dreaming a lot
about K-rations every single night. You’ll love them, Kong. But I
bet you’ll love Mom’s home cooking even better. I can’t wait till
we get back home.”
    ***
    The next day a C-47 flying from Johnston Island
spotted smoke rising above Monkey Island. The embers left from
yesterday’s fire had allowed Jason to easily rebuild it with new
palm fronds dragged from every corner of the island. A passenger
who always hogged a window seat on every flight saw the smoke
first. He ran to the cockpit and yelled his discovery to the
crew.
    “Hey, there’s smoke off to the right, you guys. You
think maybe one of our planes went down?”
    The pilot banked the transport’s wings until he and
the copilot could see what their passenger was so excited about
thousands of feet below them.
    “I thought they cleared out all of the islands over
that way for the atom bomb test yesterday,” the copilot said.
“Should I radio base?”
    “From what I heard they only cleared off the islands
over in Bikini Atoll,” the passenger said. “If you flyboys don’t
radio it in right now, I’m going to report it once we land.”
    “Keep your pants on,” the pilot said. “Please go back
to your seat.”
    The mumbling passenger obeyed. As he shuffled down
the aisle he pointed out the smoke to every other passenger. The
cockpit’s crew groaned at his antics.
    “Don’t you just love the ground pounders who earn
their wings by flying shotgun?” The pilot pointed at the one who
had upset what had been a routine flight.
    “Captain, it can’t hurt if I radio it in. You never
know what it might be down there.”
    “All right, all right. Go ahead.
It’s been a long haul. I’m too tired for all this monkey business.”
Originating at Hawaii before stopping off at the short landing
strip at Johnston Island, this flight was becoming a pain for him.
All that the pilot wanted was at least eight straight hours of
shuteye, his for the taking once they landed. Only the drone of the
twin 1,200 horsepower Pratt and Whitney engines soothed his frayed
nerves. Some passengers should come
equipped with parachutes.
    “Base, this is Charlie one four niner out of
Johnston.” The copilot radioed the tower that was their link to a
safe landing.
    “Roger.”
    “We’ve spotted smoke from an island where there’s
never been any before all the other times we’ve flown this milk
run.”
    “What’s your heading and ETA?”
    The pilot had delegated all
navigational duties to his subordinate. At
least he’s getting to strut his stuff. He
smiled as his lieutenant made his calculations. A moment later the
copilot transmitted the requested data and the only one staffing
the tower answered.
    “Acknowledged. We’ll map the location based on your
present heading and ETA. See you when you land in about 95
minutes.”
    ***
    The seaplane’s landing 200 yards from shore created
the most pandemonium Monkey Island had known since PFC Jason
Dalrumple had washed up on it almost a year earlier. The sight of
the two men who paddled the four-man raft toward shore pushed the
troop of monkeys into frenzy as they showered their wrath on
Kong.
    This time Kong was speechless. He sought refuge at
the top of the breadfruit tree that supported the lean-to. Its
leaves and fruit concealed him but allowed a clear view to watch as
the raft bobbed up and down over the waves. Why was Jason not
hiding from the men? Didn’t he like Monkey Island anymore? When the
big bird had buzzed the island, Jason had jumped, waved, and yelled
until it dipped its wings and turned to land. Why did the huge bird
make him so crazy? As Jason pulled the raft to shore