The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [221]
NORTH FIELD, TINIAN, RUNWAY ABLE
AUGUST 6, 1945, 2:45 A.M.
He ignored Lewis now, no banter between them, nothing at all. Tibbets kept his thoughts inside him, a stream of words, thoughts of the amazing weapon in the belly of his plane, the length of the runway, any detail on the checklist they might have missed. Eleven months, he thought. All that training … for this. Well, don’t screw it up.
“Dimples Eight Two to North Tinian Tower. Ready for takeoff on Runway Able.”
The response was immediate.
“Dimples Eight Two. Dimples Eight Two. Cleared for takeoff.”
Tibbets released the brakes, the plane easing forward, slowly, far more slowly than he was used to. Just another takeoff, he thought. Just one more time. Outside the row of runway lights was something new, more lights blinking red. It was a fleet of emergency vehicles, fire trucks mostly, spread out the entire length of the mile-and-a-half strip. Wishful thinking, he thought. This thing noses in, those boys won’t have much to do. They’re just as likely to go up with us.
The lights on each side of the runway were moving past more quickly now, the plane’s speed increasing, and he stared straight ahead, knew exactly where the end of the runway would be, and how fast he had to go to bring the plane airborne. He felt the sluggishness beneath him, more thoughts rolling through his brain, knew they were carrying four hundred pounds less fuel than usual, any effort to make the plane lighter. That was a damn good idea, he thought. Come on, just a little more speed. They were less than a thousand feet from the end now, and he felt the yoke in his hands move, knew it was Lewis, the man sensing a problem, pulling back, trying to lift the plane off the ground. No! Tibbets jammed the yoke forward, the clear signal to his co-pilot, just a little more! The end of the runway was a thick row of light in front of him, closer now, the plane hugging the ground, Lewis staring fixed, Tibbets as well, feeling the plane’s gentle bounce, the nose starting to rise. He kept the wheels on the ground, the roar of the engines a part of him, filling his brain, the shouting in his ear, his own, a little more … The lights were right in front of him now, and he eased the yoke back, the wheels rising, clearing the lights by a few feet. The plane was flying now, climbing, and he felt the knot inside of him release, realized he was breathing heavily, glanced at Lewis, saw wide-eyed terror on the man’s face. Lewis sat back in his seat, didn’t look at him, and Tibbets nodded to himself, satisfied, thought, just had to make sure, that’s all. He studied the altimeter, knew there was no rush, no need to reach altitude yet. The skies were total darkness, the moon not yet rising, and he studied the instrument panel, the pressures, the levels, the plane’s attitude. He focused again on the altimeter, passing through two thousand feet, a steady climb, the roar of the engines constant, no shudder, no skipping, nothing to cause any of the crew concern. No machine guns, he thought. Great damn idea. Makes this a hell of a lot smoother. The plane continued its climb, and he glanced at his watch, saw that a quick ten minutes had passed, looked to the compass, the heading, three-three-eight degrees, knew that already Saipan would be beneath them. Jap soldiers still there, he thought, probably hear us going over. Some guy in a hilltop hole looking up, trying to see, maybe taking a potshot with his worn-out rifle. Not tonight, pal. By tomorrow, you might not have a war to fight.
He knew that Parsons was already down in the bomb bay, helped by the man chosen to assist him, Lieutenant Maurice Jeppson. I hope somebody put fresh batteries in his damn flashlight. He thought of using the intercom, a progress report. Nope, let him be. It took him about a half hour to do it in practice. Don’t pressure him any more than he’s pressuring himself. If there’s a problem, he’ll tell me. Or … we might never even know. One big damn puff of smoke.
The voice came in his