softly, almost a whisper. Saratov tried to think of something upbeat to say, but he couldn’t.
He pretended he didn’t hear the michman’s comment, which mercifully the man didn’t repeat.
“The technological superiority that the Americans have given the Russians must be eliminated, in the air and on the ground. The F-22 squadron base at Chita will be destroyed and the F-22’s eliminated as a threat.”
The Japanese officer who made this pronouncement was a two-star general. His short dark hair was flecked with gray. He was impeccably uniformed and looked quite distinguished. Three of the four Zero pilots sitting around the table nodded their concurrence. The fourth one, Jiro Kimura, did not nod. Despite his fierce resolve, he immediately thought of Bob Cassidy when the general mentioned the F-22 squadron base. The general didn’t seem to notice Jiro’s preoccupation, nor did any of the colonels and majors who filled the other seats in the room. “I have just come from a briefing at the highest levels in the defense ministry in Tokyo. Let me correct that and say the very highest level. As everyone in this room is aware, air supremacy over Siberia is absolutely essential to enable us to supply our military forces and the civilian engineering and construction teams this winter. Without it … well, without it, quite simply, we must begin withdrawing our forces or they will starve and freeze in the months ahead. In fact, without air supremacy, it is questionable if we can get the people out that we have there now. “Frankly, if Japan cannot neutralize the technological edge the Americans gave the Russians, Japan will lose the war. The consequences of such an event on the Japanese people are too terrible to imagine. “Gentlemen, the survival of our nation is at stake,” the general continued. “Consequently, the decision has been made at the very highest level to use a nuclear weapon on Chita.”
The room was so deadly quiet that Jiro Kimura could hear his heart beating. He didn’t know Japan had nuclear weapons. Never even dreamed it. From the looks of the frozen faces around the room, the fact was news to most of the people here. “I must caution you that the very existence of these weapons is a state secret,” the general said, albeit quite superfluously. “The weapons we will use will be of a low yield, about ten kilotons, we believe, although we have never actually been able to verify that yield by testing one of these devices.”
One of the pilots sitting at the table held up his hand. The general recognized him. “Sir, my father’s parents died when the Americans bombed Nagasaki. I cannot and will not drop a nuclear weapon on anyone, for any reason. I took an oath to this effect before I joined the military. My father demanded it of me.”
The general gave a slight bow in the pilot’s direction, then said, “You may be excused from the room.”
The general looked at the colonels. The senior Zero pilot, Colonel Nishimura, rose from his chair against the wall and reseated himself beside Jiro at the table. Jiro Kimura didn’t know what to do. His mouth was dry; he was unable to speak. He was hearing what was said and seeing the people, but he was frozen, overcome by the horror of being here, being a part of this. The two-star droned on, then used a pointer on the map hanging behind him. Four planes, four bombs, one must get through. The senior man, now Colonel Nishimura, was in charge of tactical and flight planning. Then it was over and Jiro was walking down the hallway with his fellow pilots, feeling his legs move, seeing the doorway to the building coming toward him, going down the outside stairs, walking across the lawn, and vomiting in the grass.
When he first heard it, Saratov wasn’t sure. He pressed the earphones against his head and listened intently. The night had come and gone, he had snatched a couple of hours of sleep, and he was back in the control room, watching the sonarman play with the data on his computer screen and listening to raw sound on his own set of earphones. A P-3 was up there, somewhere, and the beat of its propellers was insistent. Embedded in that throb … Yes. Pinging. Very faint. Far away. “Captain …” said the sonarman, who was in his tiny compartment a few feet away. “I hear it, too,” Saratov muttered. He listened for a while, then got off his stool and looked at the chart. “Where are we, exactly?” he asked the navigator. “Here, Captain.” The navigator pointed. “If we stay on this course, we go in the main channel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“General Esenin — ask him to come to the control room.”
Despite the fact that Esenin hadn’t had a bath in days, he looked like a Moscow politician, clean-shaven and spotless.
Saratov took off the headphones and handed them to the general. “Listen.”
After a bit, Esenin said, “I hear…, humming.”
“That is a P-3, looking for us. Do you hear a chime?”
After a moment, Esenin said, “I believe so. Very faintly. Like a bell.”
“That is a destroyer, probably near the entrance to the main channel. He is echo-ranging his sonar. Pinging. Sending out a sound that echoes off solid objects, like submarines.”
“But we hear the noise and can avoid him.”
“If you will, please look at the chart. The destroyer is roughly here, pinging away. Somewhere closer to the mainland will be a Japanese submarine. They will be listening for the sonar ping to echo off our submarine, yet they will be too far away from the emitter for us to hear the echo from their boat. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Esenin handed the earphones back. “What do you suggest?”
“I am wondering just how secret your little mission to flood half of Japan really is.”
“Are you suggesting that there has been a security leak?”
“I suggest nothing. I merely observe that the Japanese seem well prepared for our arrival, almost as if someone told them we were coming.”
“I fail to see the relevance of that observation.”
“Perhaps it isn’t relevant.”
“We have our orders. We wilt obey. Now, how do you propose to get us in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think of something, Captain. Keep us alive to do our duty.”
Saratov put the earphones back on and retreated to his stool. He listened to the pinging and stared at the navigator’s chart, which lay on the table a few feet away.
Other people were also talking of duty. “Colonel Nishimura, I do not think I have the warrior’s spirit that will be necessary to complete this mission.”
“Kimura, no sane man wants to drop a nuclear weapon. We will do it because it is our duty to our nation.”
“I understand, Colonel. But we all have a similar duty. Someone else can fly this mission and fulfill his duty.”
“I cannot believe you said that, Kimura. The comment is offensive.”
“I do not mean to offend.”
“You are a Japanese officer. You have been chosen for this mission because you have had the most success against F-22’s. Your experience cannot be replaced.”
“It is true, I am still alive when others are dead. And it is true, I successfully shot down several F-22’s. Both these feats happened because I wore a helicopter night-vision helmet to see the enemy. I was the only pilot to do so. I suggested it to others, including Colonel Handa, who refused because higher authority had not sanctioned it.”
“Ah, yes, good Colonel Handa, a bureaucrat to the backbone. That sounds like him.”
“I survived only because I wore the helmet.”
“Everyone will wear such a device on this mission,” Nishimura replied. “We have altered them to attach to our regular helmets so that we can also wear our oxygen masks.”
“Then you don’t need me,” Jiro rejoined. “I wish to pass the honor of striking this blow for the nation to one of my colleagues.”
The colonel struggled against his temper. “You have the experience. Only you. I want to hear no more of this. Honor and duty require this service of you. The future of your country is at stake.”
“Saito was excused. This is also his country. Extend to me the same courtesy that was extended to him.”
“Have you taken an oath, like Saito?”
Kimura lowered his head. “No, sir,” he admitted. “All that you are,” the colonel said thoughtfully, “you owe to Japan, to the Japanese people, who gave you life, nurtured you and educated you and made you the man you are. Your obligation cannot be erased or made smaller.”
“I owe other obligations too,” Kimura murmured. “I do not wish to discuss this further,” the colonel said. “We will speak of it no more.”
