Page 47 of Daikon
TWENTY-FIVE
“COWARD!” COLONEL SAGARA HAD ROARED into the phone. Captain Onda had been on the other end of the line, calling from Tama Airfield to inform him of the Renzan’s return.
“How dare you return! What happened to your fighting spirit? You didn’t prepare yourself properly! You lost your nerve! You’ve dishonored yourself!”
The colonel continued ranting until he heard the sound of weeping at the other end of the line.
He fell silent, his lips quivering.
His face slowly relaxed.
“All right,” he said, finally ready to listen. “Tell me what happened.”
It had been Number Two gasoline in the Renzan’s fuel tanks. The barrels had been labeled “No. 1 Gasoline,” with an octane number of 91, but they had actually contained Number Two, octane 87. And it had come from here, Army Fuel Headquarters.
Sagara looked out at the disguised refinery complex, still untouched by American bombers, as his staff car passed through the front gate.
He was in Fuchu, a half-hour drive west from his War Ministry office in central Tokyo.
Tokyo Racecourse, closed since 1943, was visible to the south, its stables housing Australian prisoners of war.
To the north, the sprawling cemetery where Sagara’s father was buried.
The sharp sulfur smell of rotten eggs filled the air.
As for the engine flameout, that had been caused by A-Go having found its way into three outboard tanks, the wretched gasoline-alcohol mix that was used only for training and had sent so many trainee pilots plummeting to their deaths.
A-Go was not intended for use in combat.
And it certainly was not to be used in high-altitude flight.
Two members of the ground crew at Tama Airfield had already been demoted for this slipup.
But the trouble had started with the mislabeled fuel—the fuel that had come from Army Fuel Headquarters.
Sagara was going to have a word with a Colonel Hattori about it.
He struggled out of the back seat of his staff car and limped into the refinery’s headquarters building. He was finding it difficult to walk today. The midnight return from Tama Airfield in the cramped motorcycle sidecar had somehow damaged his leg.
He passed through the entrance and made his inquiry.
He regretted his harsh words to Captain Onda.
For he now realized that fate was at work.
With the Renzan’s return, an opportunity had presented itself, a chance to correct War Minister Anami’s order to attack Tinian Island.
It was Anami who had forced him to give up his vision, to stray from his destiny, his preordained path.
Use the heaven-sent atomic bomb to attack a military target after the Americans had destroyed so many Japanese cities?
No, he would not make that mistake again.
The time had come for independent action.
A clerk appeared and led Colonel Sagara down a hall.
Luckily, the aircraft could be repaired.
The wrecked engine was being replaced with a nearly new Homare 24 salvaged from a grounded Saiun reconnaissance plane.
And the damage to the rudder had turned out to be only a severed cable.
A bigger job, already under way, was to strip out all the guns and armor.
The Renzan had to be as light as possible for its new purpose, its intended purpose.
And that meant the man Yagi was no longer needed.
Including a navy man, not to mention a Korean, had sullied the purity of the mission and brought them bad luck.
He arrived at Colonel Hattori’s office and was shown inside. The two men were of the same rank. They settled into facing chairs and the meeting took an informal tone.
“Yes, well, it’s unfortunate if a labeling error occurred,” said Hattori, after Sagara explained what had happened.
“But you know the situation. The aviation fuel we’re producing is going to frontline bases.
If you received any from us, of any grade, I’d say that was rather generous on our part, wouldn’t you? ”
“It was responsible for the failure of an important mission,” Sagara said, struggling to keep his temper in check. Offending Hattori would not serve his purpose.
“An important mission?” Hattori raised his eyebrows, interest piqued.
Sagara didn’t respond.
Hattori’s eyebrows subsided. He leaned back and crossed his arms, like closing a door. It was then that Sagara noticed the black-bordered photographs on the shelf behind him. The man had lost two sons in the war.
“Do you know what has been happening at the Imperial Palace?” he asked.
Hattori nodded. “I’ve heard rumors.”
“What would you do if the war ended? If we allowed ourselves to surrender?”
“I would kill myself,” Hattori replied without hesitation.
Sagara made up his mind. This was a man to be trusted. And his assistance was needed.
“It was a mission to attack an American base in the south,” he explained. “But the target is changed now.” He went on to lay out the broad strokes of the new mission.
Hattori’s eyebrows rose again, this time in wonder. “Is that even possible?”
“Entirely possible. We have the weapon. And we have the plane.”
“So what are you asking?”
Sagara leaned forward, his eyes bright. “I need at least sixty-five barrels of the highest-quality aviation fuel you have. Preferably refined from southern crudes. Or Omonogawa.”
“Impossible! Even the Emperor couldn’t get that. We don’t have it. It’s all gone.”
Sagara let out a growling breath. “I need high-grade aviation gasoline. What can you give me?”
Hattori began shuffling through papers on his desk. He arrived at one and studied it with pursed lips. “I shouldn’t be offering you this,” he said, “but we have some stocks of experimental fuel, high-quality aviation gasoline refined from pine root oil. I think we could manage sixty-five barrels.”
“Pine root oil!” Sagara erupted out of his seat at what felt like an affront. “I need proper aviation fuel, not some experimental tarry stuff! Put that in your trucks!”
Hattori, equally affronted, rose up to face him. “Our pine root aviation fuel isn’t tarry! It’s every bit as good as Number One gasoline. Even better!”
The two men settled back into their seats and scowled at each other.
“Do you have any idea,” grumbled Hattori, “what that program has cost us? Our soybean oil distillates have been disappointing, I admit. But our pine root oil program has been successful. We’ve refined aviation gasoline of the highest quality from pine roots.”
Sagara’s scowl began to fade. “All right,” he said without enthusiasm. “Tell me about it.”
Hattori took a moment to master his clearly offended feelings. He grudgingly located a report and handed it to the colonel.
“These are our test results for aviation fuel refined from pine root oil using high-pressure hydrocracking.” He turned to the second page and pointed to a chart. “Look at that. Octane 93. Octane 94.5. Octane 97. Extremely high grade.”
Sagara was nodding. The numbers were impressive.
“The only thing I can’t speak to,” continued Hattori, “is long-term performance. Beyond fifty hours, I can’t guarantee there won’t be some residue buildup in the engines. But that shouldn’t be a problem with this mission you’re proposing. How long a flight, do you think?”
“Around fifteen hours,” said Sagara, scrutinizing the paper.
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem at all. But why don’t I call in the lieutenant who did the engine testing. He can give you all the information you need.”
The aviation gasoline from pine root oil was gratefully accepted.
Colonel Hattori agreed to have it sent to Tama Airfield the next day.
After shaking Colonel Sagara’s hand and seeing him out of his office, Hattori sat back at his desk, in front of his dead sons, marveling at the audacity of the mission the War Ministry officer was proposing.
Could it succeed? If so, it would be a fitting blow to the Americans. Just retribution.
He gazed at the map adorning his wall and traced the route across the Pacific Ocean to the target.
“San Francisco,” he murmured.