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“Hello；　Jack；”　she　said；　then　switched　immediately　to　Russian。
“What　have　you　confirmed　about　the　Bronx　shipments？”
“Speak　more　slowly；”　said　the　man　in　hesitant　Russian。
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Vanessa　repeated　her　question。
“The　Bronx　shipments　arrived　at　Hunters　Point　between；”　he　paused；　translating　English　to
Russian　numerals；　“18　and　2400　on　the…　15th。”
Neither　Vanessa’s　voice　nor　her　expression　showed　her　triumph；　now　she　held　the　lever　with
which　she　hoped　to　move　a　world。　“When　will　the　uranium　leave　Los　Alamos？”
“Manhattan　has　some　secrets　left；”　he　said；　his　voice　brittle；　the　voice　of　a　man　under　pressure。
“The　route　is　one　of　them。”
“We　must　have　the　Bronx　shipment！”
“Look；　it　can’t　be　done　from　here！　I’m　not　a　bloody　miracle　worker！”　shouted　the　man　in
English。　Then　he　switched　back　to　halting　Russian。　“I’ve　confirmed　from　two　other　sources　that
the　shipment　weighs　about　ten　kilos。　There　are　two　pieces。　White　metal。　They　aren’t…”　he
searched　for　the　correct　Russian　word；　“…　explosive　by　themselves。”
“How　is　the　uranium　handled　in　the　labs？”
“Like　ten　kilos　of　lead。　It’s　not…　explosive　without　the　bomb…”　he　swore　and　switched　to
English；　“…　casing；　you　understand？　And　that’s　being　shipped　separately。”
“How　is　it　guarded？　What　are　the　passwords？”
“Few　guards；”　he　said　in　Russian。　“No　excitement。　Very；　very　secret；　you　understand？　No
passwords　yet。　At　Hunters　Point；　a　Lawrence　Radiation　lab　team　will　check　it。”　He　switched　to
English。　“Do　we　have　anyone　there？”
Vanessa’s　answer　was　in　Russian。　“That’s　not　your　concern。　Is　there　anything　else？”
“Good　luck。”
“If　you’ve　done　your　job；　I　won’t　need　luck。”
Los　Alamos；　New　Mexico
100　Hours　Before　Trinity
Finn　dozed　in　a　hallway　on　a　steel　chair　as　he　waited　for　General　Groves　to　see　him　and　explain
why　he　had　called　Finn　out　of　Juarez。　Neither　asleep　nor　awake；　sweating；　his　mind　in　a　jungle
half　a　world　away；　Finn　shifted　uneasily　in　the　chair。　He　was　caught　again　in　the　nightmare　that
had　budded　in　Burma　and　bloomed　in　Okinawa；　and　each　petal　was　a　separate　horror。
There　was　no　mistaking　the　sodden　heat；　the　feral　odor　of　decay；　the　world　that　was　every　shade
of　green；　sunlight　strained　through　a　billion　leaves　until　everything　was　tints　and　tones　of　green；
even　the　smell　of　death。　Burma；　green　on　green。
He　was　on　his　first　patrol；　leading　nine　men　along　a　narrow　jungle　trail　to　a　forward　observation
post。　When　he　arrived　at　the　post　he　was　alone。　He　had　heard　no　sound；　not　one；　nothing　to
mark　the　killing　of　nine　men　one　by　one；　his　men　gone　as　though　they　have　never　lived。　But　he
lived；　ambusher　and　ambushed　by　turns；　learning　each　time　until　he　was　a　part　of　the　jungle；
silent　and　quick；　a　deadly　green　shadow。
There　were　other　times　when　he　was　the　only　man　to　survive。　That　was　his　special　gift；　survival。
Yet　each　time　he　felt　guilt　as　well　as　triumph。　Most　of　all　he　felt　confusion　–　why　had　God　or
Satan　or　fate　left　him　alive　and　other　men　dead？　But　such　questions　were　luxuries　in　a　place
where　necessity　conducted　a　reign　of　terror。　Questions　slowed　reflexes；　and　reflexes　were　all　that
separated　him　from　his　dead　friends　and　enemies；　green　on　green。
The　idea　of　fighting　against　women；　of　killing　them；　had　sickened　him。　Then　he　had　learned　that
bullets　and　bayonets　had　no　sex。　Men　died　just　as　finally　when　they　were　killed　by　a　woman；　or
even　a　child。　The　jungle　made　only　one　distinction；　that　between　life　and　death。
In　Burma　he　learned　that　death；　like　the　jungle；　had　neither　sex　nor　age；　only　a　color。　He　learned
that　whatever　the　question；　survival　was　the　only　answer　that　mattered。　People　lived　and　people
died。　There　was　little　to　gain　and　too　much　to　lose　in　agonizing　over　one　death　or　one　life；　evil
or　good。　He　was　no　more　cruel　than　he　had　to　be　to　survive；　and　he　did　survive。
Yet　it　was　Okinawa；　not　Burma；　where　he　learned　the　deepest　meaning　of　horror。　Okinawa；
where　waves　broke　green　and　white　against　cliffs；　drowning　the　screams　of　children　hurtling
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down。　Okinawa；　where　babies　were　thrown　to　the　sea。
Finn　woke；　cold　and　sweating；　the　way　he　always　woke　when　Okinawa　bloomed　silently　in　his
dreams。　Yet　the　images　did　not　stop　when　he　woke　up。　They　never　did。
Every　aspect　of　Okinawa　was　unfaded；　indelible；　from　General　Groves’　curt　instructions　before
Finn　left；　to　the　children　wheeling　and　turning　like　awkward　birds　down　the　face　of　the　cliff。
He　had　been　an　observer　in　Okinawa；　not　a　soldier。　General　Groves’　surrogate。　Groves　did　not
trust　the　other　generals　to　give　Truman　accurate　reports　of　the　cost　of　the　first　American
invasion　of　a　Pacific　island　that　was　home　to　large　numbers　of　Japanese　civilians。　Groves　called
Okinawa　a　dress　rehearsal　for　Japan。　He　had　demanded　that　Finn　observe　it　as　only　a　former
jungle　fighter　could。
Finn　had　asked　why。　General　Groves　had　not　answered。
Okinawa　had　been　a　disturbing　experience　from　the　beginning。　Instead　of　fighting；　as　he　had
been　trained　to　do；　Finn　waited　safely　until　an　area　was　secure。　Then；　guarded　by　a　trio　of
seasoned　Marines；　he　went　in。　He　had　quartered　the　battle　zones　despite　the　protests　of　his
guards。　He　had　seen　the　bodies　of　Americans　and　Japanese；　and　bloody　meat　that　defied
identification。
He　could　never　remember　how　long　he　spent　on　Okinawa。　Hours　blurred　into　days；　separate
battles　coalesced　into　a　single　truth；　the　Japanese；　soldier　and　civilian　alike；　would　not　surrender。
Women　fought　alongside　men　and　children　alongside　their　parents。　But　that　was　no　more　than
Finn　had　expected；　not　different　from　Burma；　a　familiar　shade　of　green。
He　had　talked　to　a　boy　who　was　thirteen　and　ashamed　that　he　had　not　died　in　battle；　he　had　not
been　able　to　keep　up　with　the　retreating　Japanese　force。　Finn’s　Japanese　was　fluent。　Under　gentle
questioning；　the　boy　admitted　that　he　was　part　of　a　large　group　of　soldiers’　families　who　had　not
been　evacuated　in　time。
Finn　followed　a　Marine　patrol　to　the　place　where　the　boy　said　families　were　hidden。　There　the
island　was　steepsided；　eroded　by　the　sea。　Because　Finn　was　a　VIP；　he　was　not　permitted　to　risk
himself　in　what　could　be　an　ambush。　He　stayed　behind　with　his　three　guards　on　one　horn　of　a
deeply　curved　cliff　that　ile　long。　On　the　other　horn；　across　the　water；　was　a
small　clearing　along　the　cliffs　edge。　He　watched　it　through　his　binoculars；　wondering　if　the　boy’s
family　was　waiting　there。
The　worst　of　what　followed　was　the　silence。　Women　and　children　running　from　American
soldiers　until　there　was　no　place　left；　nothing　but　wind　above　and　rocks　below。　It　should　have
been　the　moment　of　surrender；　when　mothers　gathered　children　in　their　arms；　comforting　them
and　hiding　their　small　faces　from　the　enemies　running　out　of　the　jungle。
There　was　no　surrender；　no　comfort。　In　silence；　older　children　lined　up　and　threw　themselves　off
the　cliff　and　onto　the　rocks　below。　Some　died　immediately。　Younger　children　were　hurled　to
their　deaths　by　their　own　mothers；　children’s　screams　lost　in　the　wind；　mouths　black　circles　in
faces　too　young　to　understand。　The　mothers　followed　quickly；　arrow　straight；　welcoming　death
as　a　place　where　no　children　screamed。
In　his　dreams　they　spun　and　turned　and　fell　endlessly；　and　they　all　wore　a　single　face；　the　face　of　a
child　too　young　to　understand。　The　child　fell；　twisting　until　he　could　see　his　mother’s　face。　Then
he　held　out　his　arms　in　perfect　trust　that　his　mother…murderer　would　snatch　him　back　to　safety。
The　child　fell；　wrapped　in　trust　and　silence；　until　he　smashed　onto　rocks　and　only　silence　was　left。
Finn　had　lowered　the　binoculars　because　he　could　no　longer　see。　The　man　in　him　raged；　but　the
warrior　in　him　bowed　with　respect。　By　death；　if　not　by　birth；　the　women　and　their　children　were
samurai。
He　had　written　about　that　afternoon　on　the　cliff　in　one　of　his　many　reports　to　Groves；　knowing
as　he　wrote　that　the　words　were　useless；　that　nothing　could　convey　the　silence　and　the　horror；
the　mangled　families　floating　on　the　green　tide。　In　the　end　he　had　said　what　anyone　who　had
fought　the　Japanese　in　the　jungle　already　knew：　the　defeat　of　Japan　would　require　not　only　the
death　of　its　soldiers；