Page 52 of Daikon

TWENTY-NINE

IT WAS A BLACK-PAINTED metal ashtray with a dial thermometer attached, a promotional item with the name of the instrument manufacturer printed on the dial. Judging from the chips and scratches and residue buildup, it had been in use since before the war.

The thermometer was affixed to the ashtray by a thumbscrew underneath. Yagi was able to remove it with his fingers. He cupped the thermometer in his hands, checking that his body heat was moving the needle. It did. It worked.

He nodded to Kan. Kan moved the ashtray, minus the thermometer, to the shelf, where he hoped it wouldn’t be noticed, and led the way out of the office.

The hangar was almost deserted. Only two mechanics were working on the Renzan, their attention on one of the starboard engines. Then Kan saw the tank truck parked outside and off to the left, Captain Onda and others gathered around it. The promised gasoline from Army Fuel Headquarters had arrived.

They slipped into the workshop and closed the door.

The job of converting the thermometer was easily completed.

Yagi, with his two good hands, did the work.

First he removed the glass covering, held in place by a screw-on brass band, exposing the dial and the needle.

He drilled a small hole in the dial face—at the minus-fifteen-degree-centigrade mark, they decided after a whispered discussion.

The temperature inside the Renzan would certainly go well below that.

He then inserted a small nail into the hole.

The final step was to attach a length of wire to the nail and a second piece of wire to the pin holding the needle—carefully, so the movement of the needle would not be impeded.

The result was an open circuit that would close when the temperature fell.

After the Renzan took off and began its climb, the needle of the thermometer would creep its way to the left, closing the gap between its tip and the nail.

Twenty degrees, ten degrees, zero, minus five, minus ten, minus fifteen.

Contact. The needle would touch the nail, completing the circuit, at an altitude of around 6,000 meters.

Kan wound the tails of wire around the thermometer, his right hand almost useless, and put it in his left pocket.

He picked up the pliers with his left hand and awkwardly reached around to slip them into his right pocket.

The twisting motion made him feel dizzy.

He grabbed onto the desk to steady himself.

Yagi was sourly watching him the whole time. His eyes went to Kan’s swollen and cracked hand, almost useless, then back to his ashen face.

“Are you sure you can do this?” he said.

Kan curtly nodded. He took a moment to prepare himself.

He went to open the door.

Yagi put his hand on the handle to stop him. He looked again into Kan’s face, this time with real concern.

He motioned toward the chair where Kan had just been sitting. “Step up onto that.”

Kan looked at him, puzzled.

“You have to climb into the plane,” explained Yagi. “Then climb down off the catwalk to get at the wiring. Show me you can at least step up on that chair.”

Kan regarded the challenge. The seat was no higher than his knees. He went to the chair and got one leg up on it, holding on to the back for support. A grunting, heaving effort, and he tried to stand up.

He couldn’t. His legs were too weak.

Yagi let out an annoyed growl and held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“No,” Kan began to protest. “I should be the one—”

“Shut up. Just give it to me.”

Kan hesitated. He knew his strength was failing, but this latest display of weakness had shocked him. How would he even climb into the plane? Yagi was much more able to do it. But why would he jeopardize himself? The question hovered in the scientist’s mind.

His shoulders sagged, relenting. He was so very weary. He handed over the thermometer and the pliers. Yagi shoved them into his pockets and turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Kan took off his watch and held it out. “I asked you to look for my watch,” he prompted. “I thought I left it on the plane.”

Yagi nodded his understanding and took the watch. He exited the workshop into the open space of the hangar. The Renzan was parked ten paces away.

He went back to work, cleaning up the scattered pieces of metal that still lay on the floor, the armor that had been stripped from the Renzan, carrying them to the side of the hangar and piling them out of the way.

Kan held back, trying to appear nonchalant as he surveyed the scene.

The Army Fuel Headquarters truck had just departed.

Men were returning to work. There were seven or eight within sight of the plane: two mechanics working on the newly installed engine, putting the cowling panels back in place; a handful more occupied with other tasks; two armed soldiers standing guard at the front of the hangar, facing out.

And here was Lieutenant Kamibeppu, the navigator, walking his way.

“We have the fuel,” Kamibeppu announced. “We’ll soon know if the engines check out.”

Kan nodded.

The bomb bay doors of the Renzan were closed.

To gain access to the Daikon, which was sealed inside, Yagi would need to climb up to the flight deck, pass through the rear door of the compartment, and climb down into the bomb bay to work in the dark.

There was a flashlight in the radio operator’s compartment, in a cabinet beside the desk.

Kan continued to loiter, his eyes going from the plane to Yagi to the diminishing pile of metal still to be moved, Yagi’s only reason for being so near the plane.

The hatch on the underside of the fuselage behind the cockpit was open, the ladder in place.

Could Yagi climb up it and get inside without being seen?

Not with Kamibeppu standing here, watching.

If the lieutenant left, however, he might have a chance, the mechanics being preoccupied and the inboard engine blocking their view.

Yagi was down to the last armload. He was taking his time now.

He carried it to the side and set it on the pile.

A glance back at Kan and Kamibeppu. He turned back to the pile and did a little rearranging.

Then he was strolling back to the plane, looking around for any overlooked pieces. There were none. The floor was clean.

A nod of satisfaction at a job well done. Another glance at Kan. Then he was backing away.

Kan grimaced and let out a groan, holding his stomach.

“Still having trouble, eh?” said Kamibeppu, turning away from the plane.

Kan groaned again and doubled over, attracting Kamibeppu’s full attention and assistance.

He straightened up, sighing with relief as if the spell was passing. “Thank you. I’m all right now,” he said.

He looked over at the plane. No sign of Yagi.

Kamibeppu hadn’t noticed. He remained with Kan for another few minutes, then walked away.

Yagi stood still in the space behind the cockpit, listening for trouble, a shout from Kamibeppu or one of the guards, the sound of boots as they ran over to order him out of the plane.

He heard nothing, only the sound of his heartbeat. He waited for it to slow. Then he took off his boots.

He passed through the door at the rear of the flight deck, moving silently in sock feet.

He traversed the catwalk leading back, crossing over the Daikon down below in the dark of the bomb bay, auxiliary gasoline tanks in place on either side.

A second door opening into the radio operator’s compartment, light flooding down from the window in the fuselage overhead.

He set his boots on the floor, found the flashlight kit in the storage cabinet, checked it.

It worked. He hitched the battery unit around his waist with the attached belt and clipped the lamp to his shirt.

There were two things he needed to do. First, he had to cut the wire running from the Daikon to the guillotine switch and splice in the thermometer.

Second, the guillotine switch mounted on the radio operator’s desk, the bomb’s trigger, had to be disconnected, reversed, and reinstalled so that it would appear closed when in fact it was open.

When the setup was complete, the only thing keeping the Daikon from exploding would be the four-centimeter arc from the thermometer needle to the nail in the dial face at minus fifteen degrees.

He returned to the bomb bay and flicked on the flashlight. The auxiliary tanks, capacity 1,500 liters each, left little room to move around. He unclipped the lamp from his shirt and directed the yellow beam down the side of the space, following the course of the wire.

There. In the final meter and a half, before it entered the tail end of the weapon, a protruding flange in the airframe screened the wire from view from above. And the Daikon would hide it from below when the bomb bay doors were open. Install the thermometer here and it wouldn’t be seen.

Yagi clipped the lamp back onto his shirt, stepped off the catwalk and climbed down, placing his stocking feet with care so as not to make any noise. He wedged himself into position beside the Daikon, removed the pliers from his pocket and cut the wire.

“All set?”

Yagi froze. It was Captain Onda, outside the plane.

A second voice: “It’s ready.” One of the mechanics.

Boots on concrete. Onda walking toward the front of the hangar. Then his voice raised to a shout: “All right, bring it over!”

The sound of a tractor starting in the distance. Getting louder, approaching. Yagi silently removed the thermometer from his pocket and began to splice it into the cut wire, lines of strain now creasing his face.

The tractor entered the hangar, the roar of its engine reverberating off the walls, then abating to idle.

Yagi finished the job and climbed back up onto the catwalk.

The clank of metal on metal, then a jolt that nearly threw him off his feet and the plane was moving.

He recovered, slipped into the radio operator’s compartment and closed the door.