Page 24 of Daikon
THIRTEEN
They took off from Tama Airfield in the dark, just after two o’clock in the morning. The destination was the airfield at Yuu in Yamaguchi Prefecture, on the Inland Sea up the coast from Hikari. Estimated flight time: three hours.
The copilot emerged from the cockpit with a thermos. “Biwa-ko!” he shouted above the roar of the engine, pointing down.
Colonel Sagara decided he had waited long enough. He swallowed two Philopon tablets with the lukewarm tea the copilot offered. The methamphetamine burned in his stomach as he looked out the window—a small price to pay for the energy and confidence it would bring.
They were passing over Lake Biwa, lost in the blackness, then a scattering of pinprick lights indicating the presence of Kyoto.
The ancient city, Sagara knew, remained untouched by American bombing.
An oversight? Almost certainly not. The Americans did not spare civilians and cities.
They had some plan for Kyoto. Perhaps it would be next.
He leaned back, remembering his honeymoon in Kyoto in 1934.
What a ludicrous week! His wife had not appealed to him at all—it was an arranged marriage—and the feeling was mutual, judging from the minimal effort she made.
Within two years, still childless, she stopped making any effort, after discovering that her husband’s tastes lay elsewhere.
He was feeling better now. Yes, much better. And sure of his plan. A smile spread across his face as he envisioned it unfolding. He was certain it was going to work.
The flight proceeded without incident, the Mitsubishi landing on the dirt runway at Yuu Airfield as the sky was starting to lighten.
A truck was waiting as Sagara had ordered.
It would transport him and the soldiers the rest of the way, thirty-five kilometers south and west along the coastal road to Hikari.
The flight crew was to refuel the plane and await his return.
Keizo Kan scrutinized his right hand, peering at it over the top of his glasses.
Some swelling was now apparent, but the redness no longer seemed to be spreading.
The tenderness on the fingertips persisted and was accompanied by a mild tingling sensation.
He opened his notebook and jotted down the time and the progression of symptoms, after the ominous entry he had made the previous night: “loss of appetite; difficulty eating; mild nausea.”
He proceeded to the base infirmary, taking his camera, to check on Seaman Wada. The young man was lying in bed, his injured hand resting in a pan of chipped ice. He tried to sit up when Kan entered.
“Pardon me, Sensei,” he said, apologizing yet again. “I’m very sorry.”
“No, no, please just rest.” Kan placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder, urging him to lie back. “Any more nausea?”
Wada shook his head and smiled weakly. “Nothing really.”
“Diarrhea?”
“No. I’m fine.”
Kan smiled encouragement. “Good, good.” He felt Wada’s forehead. Hot and clammy. He bent down to look at the hand. “I’m afraid it’s causing you pain.”
Wada hesitated. “A little.”
He was lying, of course. Kan could see the pain in Wada’s drawn face.
He hid his concern as he examined the seaman’s hand, so swollen now that the flesh had burst open and was oozing clear liquid.
Its color was also evolving, the uniform bright red of yesterday shading into a waxy gray blue.
Kan had never before seen gangrenous flesh, but he imagined that it might start out looking like this.
And all from a split second of exposure.
What fundamental damage had it done? What did it mean?
Perhaps he should ask the doctor to take a blood sample.
“The doctor says it’s only a burn,” said Wada.
“I’m sure he’s correct. It certainly looks like a burn.” Kan held up his camera and smiled again. “May I take a photo?”
Wada nodded. Kan adjusted the aperture and focus and clicked off two shots, one from each side, using up the last of his film. He felt the need to document the process, even though he didn’t know what use it would be.
“Well,” he said, snapping the camera back into its case, “if the stomach upset and diarrhea have passed, I should say there’s nothing to worry about. All that remains is for your hand to get better.”
He bid Wada an awkward farewell, feeling doubly guilty now, the photo of Marie Curie’s radiation-destroyed amputated hand lingering in his mind.
He was descending the steps of the infirmary building when base commandant Koreeda’s clerk spotted him and hurried over.
“Kan-sensei,” the man said. “You are required in the Lieutenant Commander’s office!”
There was a heavy truck parked in front of the bungalow-style administration building housing the office that base commandant Koreeda shared with his executive officer.
Four Imperial Army soldiers, hard-faced veterans, were standing on the veranda, Arisaka rifles over their shoulders.
Keizo Kan warily skirted around them as he followed the agitated clerk up the steps.
“Precautionary security,” said the clerk. “That’s what he said.”
He opened the door to the office and stepped aside for Kan to enter. Koreeda’s executive officer, Lieutenant Miyata, was sitting behind his desk, looking as perturbed as the clerk. Seated facing him was Colonel Sagara in high boots and full uniform, smoking a cigarette. The clerk closed the door.
“Ah, there you are, Sensei,” Colonel Sagara said, rising to greet the scientist with affected good humor.
“Come and help me clear this up. Lieutenant Commander Koreeda unfortunately isn’t here at the moment and Lieutenant Miyata is under some misapprehension.
I’m sure you consulted fully with the Commander about the object you were sent to investigate. Yes?”
Kan looked nervously between the two men, unsure of the game that Sagara was playing. He had breached his instructions for secrecy with what he had revealed to Koreeda, but at the moment the colonel seemed to want an affirmation of full consultation.
“Yes,” he tentatively replied.
“And you informed him that the Army would be taking charge of it. By War Ministry order. You explained this. I’m sure he must have understood this.”
“Yes,” Kan said. “I believe so.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” said Lieutenant Miyata, struggling to stand firm against an army officer who greatly outranked him. “But the object can’t be released without Commander Koreeda’s order. I’m sorry.”
Sagara blew out a lungful of smoke, squinting at the embattled lieutenant through the haze. He carefully stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him and placed it next to the first one he had smoked.
“Lieutenant Miyata,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“This is a War Ministry matter. That makes it a matter of national importance. Commander Koreeda would understand this if he were here. It’s unfortunate that you’re unable to grasp what I’m sure your commanding officer would see in an instant. ”
Miyata was looking desperately unhappy. “I’m sorry, Colonel,” he stammered. “There’s nothing I can do. Please understand.”
“There really is no more time to discuss it. I’ll just ask you one last time for your cooperation. Do I have it? Yes? No?”
“Please, Colonel, I can do nothing without Commander Koreeda’s—”
Sagara’s face twisted with sudden fury. He lurched up out of his chair and placed his hands on Miyata’s desk, looming over the lieutenant, his eyes blazing. Kan took a step back, as shocked as Miyata, thrown back in his chair.
Whatever passion had seized the colonel passed. His shoulders relaxed. He straightened his uniform and looked around the office, then through the open door behind Miyata into the empty inner office and Koreeda’s desk.
He turned to Kan. “Get the corporal.”
Kan, still shaken, scuttled to the door. The toughest looking of the soldiers waiting outside answered his whispered summons.
“Corporal,” said Sagara when the man entered. “The lieutenant here is not to leave the office. He is to remain at his desk with the door locked. He is not to use the telephone or communicate in any way with anyone. Understand?”
The corporal snapped a nod. “Hai.”
Miyata, the color returning to his face, at last found his voice. “But, Colonel—” he started to protest, rising out of his chair.
The corporal unshouldered his rifle and leveled it at his chest. “Sit down.”
Miyata subsided into his seat, shock returning to his face.
“Pardon my crudity,” said Sagara, “but there is really no time. Now, where is the object? As a representative of the Ministry of War, under General Korechika Anami, I am taking control.”
Miyata’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“It’s down by the water,” said Kan. “The building is locked.”
“The key,” said Sagara, beckoning to Miyata. “Give me the key.”
The lieutenant fumbled in his desk drawer and produced a key. Sagara took it and led the way out of the office. He closed the door before the hovering clerk could see in. Kan heard it lock behind them.
Sagara motioned his three remaining soldiers to the truck. He turned to the clerk, who was looking suspiciously between Sagara and Koreeda’s locked office door.
Sagara waved him into the truck. “You too. I may need you.”
The truck made its way through the base, past the exercise field and barracks buildings to the workshop near the south perimeter fence.
Kan sat in front, sandwiched between the driver and the colonel, deeply troubled over what he had just witnessed.
The look he had seen in Sagara’s face, the rage in his eyes—it was as if some sort of insanity had flared up inside him.
Kan cast a furtive glance at the colonel, whose thigh was pressed against his. His other knee was jiggling up and down as he stared straight ahead. His face appeared normal. He had apparently returned to himself.