Page 48 of Daikon

TWENTY-SIX

KEIZO KAN STARED DOWN IN horror at the map that Captain Onda had unrolled on the low table, following the lines on the onionskin overlay moving east.

“San Francisco?” His voice was strangled.

They were seated in a circle on the floor in Onda’s room in the barracks, Onda to Kan’s right, navigator Kamibeppu to his left, copilot Yoshino and flight engineer Otani facing, companionably sharing a cigarette, passing it back and forth.

PO Yagi wasn’t with them. He had been removed from the mission, his role eliminated along with the tail gun.

He had done nothing more than nod when Captain Onda informed him, his manner restrained after the harrowing experience on the plane.

He was now representing the Navy in a lowlier fashion, helping the mechanics and ground crew strip weight from the Renzan and install auxiliary fuel tanks in the bomb bay alongside the Daikon.

Yagi’s absence left Kan feeling gutted. The thought of sitting in the radio operator’s compartment, completely alone—how would he bear it? And with the target now to be San Francisco… He should never have mentioned Fu-Go. Stupid! Why had he tried to be helpful?

Otani was sucking air through his teeth, looking doubtful. “Ten thousand meters… We never got above eight thousand. We need better fuel.”

“And we’ll have it,” said Onda. “The Colonel has made arrangements at Army Fuel Headquarters for proper aviation fuel this time. No more Number Two gas. This will be high octane. We should receive it today.”

“No more A-Go?” said Yoshino with a chuckle, making light of the near catastrophe the volatile alcohol fuel in the outboard tanks had caused.

“No more A-Go,” said Onda, smiling. “Let’s leave it for the trainees.”

Kamibeppu was still overwhelmed by the yawning expanse of ocean, three times farther than he had ever navigated before. “That must be at least 9,000 kilometers,” he said.

“Closer to 8,500,” said Onda. “Normally that would be beyond the range of even the Renzan. But by flying at high altitude, we’ll be able to ride the air currents blowing up there, a river of air.

So no headwind this time. We’ll have a powerful tailwind.

It could add an extra 200 kilometers per hour to our speed.

That would make it a fifteen-hour flight, but we should be able to manage eighteen hours if we have to.

It’ll be risky, of course, but the only risk is the distance.

The Americans won’t be expecting us to fly all the way across the Pacific, and they won’t be able to spot us at 10,000 meters.

They won’t see us until we’re on our final approach. ”

Onda patted Kan on the knee. “That’s when I’m going to need you, Sensei. You studied in America. You speak English very well, I believe.”

Kan gave an involuntary start. He had slept only fitfully in the twenty-four hours since their return and was feeling light-headed and jumpy. “I can speak English,” he said, “but my accent isn’t good.”

“Well, it will have to do,” said Onda, unfolding a map of San Francisco and spreading it out over the larger chart of the ocean.

It was a prewar street map, full color, showing the city in detail.

“We’ll drop down to 400 meters and approach from the west.” He ran his finger along the map’s most notable feature, an immense rectangle of green stabbing more than five kilometers inland from the coast. “Golden Gate Park,” he said, reading the name.

“We use this as our guide. We fly in low, following the north edge of the park, and detonate the bomb here, right at the center.”

Onda was tapping the target.

“San Francisco City Hall. A large domed building, open space all around it, looks just like the Capitol Building in Washington. What could be better than that? We can’t miss it.

If the effect is anything like Hiroshima and Nagasaki, immediate blast damage and then the fires will destroy most of the city. ”

Onda turned to Kan.

“What I need from you, Sensei, is to speak English to the Americans for the final few minutes, if we’re challenged.

There’s a good chance we’ll be challenged.

Say that the plane is having mechanical trouble, that we’re lost, that our compass is broken—anything to keep them confused. Can you do that?”

Kan gazed down at the map. He had lived across the bay from San Francisco for three years, when he was studying at the University of California in Berkeley.

He had completed his doctorate there. He had met Noriko there.

He had wandered the streets of San Francisco and visited the sights there numerous times—including City Hall, where the bomb was to be detonated.

He and Noriko had walked past the distinctive dome on the very evening he had so awkwardly revealed his love, the very evening they had agreed to marry.

His eyes shifted northwest to Noriko’s street, hilly Buchanan Avenue where it intersected with Pine. He returned to City Hall and continued east to the distinctive triangular intersection. Yes, the Warfield theater was marked.

Where they had seen Garbo and Taylor in Camille…

The room started to swim. Kan placed his hands on the floor for support.

“Are you all right?” said Onda.

Kan squeezed his eyes shut as an image of the terrifying final moments flashed through his mind.

He saw the coastline approaching over an ocean of blue, Golden Gate Bridge off to the left, the green rectangle of park down below, the network of streets.

He saw himself stammering into the radio, trying to speak through his terror, his hand on the trigger, waiting for Onda’s instruction.

He saw Noriko’s mother in her apron covered with daisies staring at the distant plane from her porch and being blinded by an intense flash of light.

He felt Kamibeppu’s arm around his shoulder. He felt Onda examining his injured right hand, so much worse looking now, the skin torn by his thick glove on the plane.

“Are you all right, Sensei?”

The spell passed. Kan opened his eyes and looked around at the concerned faces.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m all right.”

“Good,” said Onda. “Because we’re going to need you.” He looked at the others, the sparkle coming back into his eyes. “If we test the engines this afternoon and everything is all right, we should be able to leave tomorrow. What do you say?”

Copilot Yoshino, navigator Kamibeppu, flight engineer Otani—they all solemnly nodded.

“All right,” said Onda. “If the engines check out, tomorrow we go.”

Kan spoke to PO Yagi after lunch, as they were making their way from the mess hall. They detoured behind the pilot training school building so they wouldn’t be overheard.

“The Yankees deserve it,” said Yagi, unmoved by the audacity of the new target. “They deserve a hundred attacks after what they’ve done to our cities. Don’t you want revenge?”

“Yes, of course,” said Kan, annoyance coming into his voice. “But think about it. If we succeed…”

He fell silent. He had bottled up his private thoughts, his dangerous thoughts, for so long that he no longer knew how to express them.

They continued on for another moment in silence. The runway came into view.

The runway. It would be Kan’s last contact with the ground. He had been lucky once. That would not happen again. The Renzan would roll down the runway and lift into the air and he would never again set foot on the earth.

Yagi inclined his head toward Kan’s ear and lowered his voice.

“Over there,” he whispered, jutting his chin toward the far side.

“See the firing range? It’s unguarded. And there’s no fence.

I checked. See those berms? Wait until it’s dark, then go through there, between those berms, then turn north and go to the conduit and follow it east. There are hardly any people over there. No one will see you.”

Kan gazed longingly across the runway.

“Onda can take off without you,” whispered Yagi. “There’s no need for you to go. Why should you go?”

The vision of escape faded as Noriko returned to Kan’s mind. What would happen to her? If only he could speak to her one last time.

“Wait until dark,” Yagi was saying. “Then just walk away. It’ll be easy.”

Kan continued to gaze at the runway.

He lowered his eyes and shook his head sadly.

“I can’t.”