The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [199]
“Tinian tower, Dimples Eight Two. Request permission to land.”
“Dimples Eight Two, clear to land Runway Able. Winds eleven knots at zero eight zero.”
“Roger, Tinian Tower. Dimples Eight Two out.”
He nosed the plane toward the runway’s western end, the B-29 responding with perfect precision now. He glanced over to Lewis, thought of letting him handle the landing, thought, no, let’s keep this by the damn book. This jackass behind me’s probably puked on his shoes, and he’ll still be looking for something to bitch about.
The plane settled low, hovered slightly, then dropped the last few feet, touching down with a squeaking jerk. Tibbets pulled the throttles back farther, touched the plane’s brakes, said, “Time, Colonel Blanchard?”
There was a silent moment, and Blanchard responded now.
“Yes, we’re exactly fifteen seconds late. I’ve seen what I needed to see, Colonel.”
Tibbets smiled, said nothing. The instructions came from the tower, but he knew the configurations of the taxiway, moved the plane that way, to the special security area, away from the other squadrons. He applied the brakes, the plane rolling to a stop, the engines shutting down completely. He sat for a moment, the roar of the engines still in his ears, fading to a soft hiss. Blanchard was up already, moving out from behind him, and Tibbets saw a smile on his co-pilot’s face, heard Blanchard’s voice.
“Thank you for the demonstration, Colonel Tibbets. It will be my recommendation to General LeMay that you and your crew proceed with your mission as ordered.” He paused. “You proved your damn point.”
HEADQUARTERS, 509TH COMPOSITE GROUP, TINIAN
JULY 26, 1945
He sat on the small porch of his quarters, the smoke from the pipe rolling up around him, carried off now by a warm breeze. The sun was sinking rapidly, and beside him the chaplain sipped from a china cup, the coffee Tibbets knew was strong enough to melt tin. After a silent moment, the chaplain said, “How can you drink this stuff?”
“Iron stomach. Comes from training in a B-29. Never had any sweat in a B-17, like flying in your mama’s lap. I’ve gotten all kinds of heartburn from these bigger birds. Some engineer took a few shortcuts, I guess. War Department probably got in a hurry, said, just build the thing, let the pilots worry about keeping them in the air.”
Tibbets took another deep pull at the pipe, the smoke delicious, the most relaxed he had been all day. He glanced at the chaplain, said, “My old man still doesn’t understand how any plane stays in the air. I’ve tried explaining it to him, he just … stares at me. But I’ll never forget that first day … he bit his damn tongue and let me go up. Probably scared the wits out of him. Imagine watching your boy, a twelve-year-old for God’s sake, going up in a biplane with some stranger you don’t know from Adam.”
“Where was that?”
“Miami. There was a promotion by the people who made Baby Ruth candy bars, and my father was the local dealer for the company. They were giving the stuff away, trying to get people hooked on ’em, I guess. The idea was to fly over the Hialeah Race Track, then the beach. It was summer, the places packed with people. Some old barnstormer got the job from the candy company to do bombing runs, swooping low over the crowd, dropping small bags of Baby Ruth bars, attached to little parachutes. Doug Davis. Yep, that was his name. He looked the part, the leather hat, the goggles, just what a twelve-year-old wanted to see. I jumped all over the guy, made myself as obnoxious as I could, let me go, let me go.” Tibbets laughed. “He gave in, no matter that my father was probably begging him not to. But I had to work for it. Tied every damn one of those parachutes myself. Davis did the flying, I did the bombing. All I remember is that it was over way too quick. Greatest damn adventure any kid could have. No Arabian prince on his magic carpet ever had a thrill like that. Changed my whole damn life.” He looked over toward