Fortunes of War

26

Two mechanics driving a Ford pickup found Jiro Kimura in an area of scrub trees on the side of a hill ten miles from the air base. Jiro had broken his right leg during the ejection. When found, he was still attached to his parachute, which was draped over a small tree. After the mechanics got the Japanese pilot to the makeshift dispensary, Bob Cassidy went to see him. He just stood looking at him, trying to think of something to say. “I figured it was you flying that plane, Jiro.”

“And I knew it was you behind me.”

Cassidy didn’t know what to add. “The doc is going to set your leg. They’ll give you a sedative. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“You should have killed me, Bob.”

“Shizuko would have never forgiven me.”

Jiro didn’t say anything. “I would have never forgiven myself,” Bob Cassidy said to Jiro Kimura. Then he walked away. Cassidy sat down on a rock outside the building and ran his fingers through his hair. He could hear a television that someone had turned up loud. The satellite dish was in the lawn in front of Cassidy. President Hood was speaking. Cassidy could hear his voice. The sun was warm on his skin. He was sitting like that, half-listening to the television, imagining the faces of his dead pilots, when he realized Dick Guelich was squatting beside him. “Hoppy, I was thinking perhaps we should send the Cessna to look for survivors. The others who went with you this morning? Did anyone … “They’re dead.” His mouth was so dry, the words were almost impossible to understand. He cleared his throat and repeated them. “They’re dead.”

“Dixie?”

“Midair with a Zero,” Cassidy whispered. “In a dogfight. Didn’t see a chute.”

“Scheer and Smith?”

“Hit by missiles, I think. At those speeds …” He gestured to the east. “Send the Cessna. Let ‘em look.”

“I’m sorry, Colonel.”

“Get those other two airplanes up. Have the pilots go out at least a hundred miles. Make sure they are no more than twenty miles apart, so one can help the other if he’s jumped.”

“I’ve briefed them, sir.”

“When those planes from Germany land, fuel them and get them armed. Send the pilots to me for a brief. I don’t think the Japs will try it again but they might.”

“Yes, sir,” Guelich said, and he was gone. It felt good to sit. He had neither the energy nor desire to move. Poor Dixie. Now, there was a woman. The sun seemed to melt him, make him so tired that he couldn’t sit up. He slid down to the grass, put his back against the rock. “I did my best, Sabrina … Honestly …”

When the tears came, there was no way to stop them. Bob Cassidy didn’t try.

The bayonet was in excellent condition even though it was old. The army issued it to Atsuko Abe’s father when he was inducted in 1944 at the age of sixteen. Of course, the elder Abe never saw combat. If he had, presumably the bayonet would now decorate the home of some American veteran’s son. The boy soldier spent his military career guarding antiaircraft ammunition dumps in northern Japan. The army disintegrated after the war. Abandoning his Arisaka rifle, young Abe hitchhiked back to his home village. For reasons that he never explained, he kept the bayonet and the scabbard that housed it. Almost a small sword, the bayonet was about eighteen inches long, with a straight, narrow blade. It had a wooden handle, which suited it admirably for military tasks like slashing brush and opening cans. Originally the blade was not very sharp, but as a youngster Atsuko had ground a keen edge on the steel, including the tip. In a nation with strict laws on the ownership of handguns, the old bayonet made a formidable weapon.

Abe always displayed it on a small wooden stand designed to hold a samurai sword, across the room from his shrine. This evening Atsuko Abe sent the servants away. He ensured the doors to the prime minister’s residence were locked, then retreated to his chamber, where he bathed and donned a silk kimono that his wife had given him years ago, before she died. He spent some time sitting on a mat in front of his shrine writing letters. He wrote one to his sister, his only living relative, and one to the emperor, Hirohito, son of the late Emperor Naruhito. He apologized to them both. He asked his sister’s forgiveness for shaming the family. He begged forgiveness of the young emperor for failing Japan. The Japan of which Abe spoke was not the workaday nation of crowded cities, apartments, factories, and tiny farms where he had lived most of his life; it was an idealized Japan that probably only existed in his dreams. The brush strokes on the white rice paper had a haunting beauty. Oh, what might have been! Abe finished the letter to the emperor and signed his name. He put each letter in an envelope, sealed it, wrote the name of the recipient, and placed the envelopes on the shrine. The final letter was to his father, who had been dead for twenty years. He explained his dreams for Japan, his belief in her greatness, and bitterly told of the shipwreck of those dreams. He had misjudged the Japanese people, he said. They had betrayed him. And themselves. It was shameful, yet it was the truth, and future generations would have to face it. That letter also went into an envelope, but after putting it on the shrine and praying, he dropped it into the incense burner, where it was consumed. Abe lit a stick of incense and watched the smoke rise toward heaven. He wafted some of the smoke toward him so he could get a sniff. Finally Atsuko Abe realized he just wanted to get it over with. He was ready for the pain, ready for whatever comes after life. He bared his belly, then drew the bayonet from its scabbard. The ancient and honorable way to commit the act of seppuku, or harakiri, is to stab deep into the belly, pull the blade across the stomach, severing the aorta, then turn the blade in the wound and pull it upward. The cuts lead to massive internal hemorrhaging, and death soon follows. The disadvantage is that few men have what it takes to inflict this kind of injury upon themselves. To preserve their honor, condemned samurai in olden days equipped themselves with an assistant, the taishatu run, usually a close friend, who would decapitate the warrior after he had made the ritual cut, or before, if the assistant glimpsed the slightest indication of pain or irresolution. Of course, Abe had no taishatu, for his honor demanded that he suffer. Atsuko Abe reached forward and grasped the handle of the bayonet with both hands. He took several deep breaths, readying himself. To fail here would dishonor him still further. Sweat popped out on his brow. He said one last prayer and, using both hands, rammed the bayonet deep into his gut. The pain about felled him. With steadfast courage, he pulled the sharp blade across his belly. He got it about halfway when his strength failed him. The pain robbed him of his resolve. He summoned all his will and courage and twisted the blade. The agony was astounding. The final cut and it would be all over. Moaning, gnashing his teeth, and trying to stifle a scream he felt welling up, he pulled the handle upward. His hands slipped. There was only a little blood seeping out of the wound. If he didn’t get the blade out, he would suffer here for a week. With one last mighty heave, he pulled the bayonet free of his flesh. The little sword got away from him, flew halfway across the room and landed with a clatter. The blood came better now, although the pain was only a little less than with the blade in. Try as he might, he could not remain sitting upright. He toppled slowly onto his side. He bit his lip, then his tongue. Blood flowed from his mouth, mixed with the perspiration that covered his face. He should have drunk more wine. That would have dulled the pain. At least honor was satisfied. He had failed Japan, but not his honorable ancestors, whom he soon would join. Time passed. How much, he didn’t know. His mind wandered as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Then he heard a man’s voice. Doors opening. A questioning voice. His senses sharpened; the pain in his stomach threatened to overwhelm him. The door to his room slid open. He tried to turn to see.

Abe caught a glimpse of the face. It was the chief of the domestic staff. A civil servant in his fifties, the man had risen through the ranks of the domestic staff since joining it as a young man. Now the staff chief stood wordlessly, taking it all in, then left, closing the door behind him. Atsuko Abe moved, trying to ease the agony. Nothing seemed to work. When he realized he was groaning, he began actively chewing on his lips and tongue. Anything to keep from shaming himself further. Episodes of the past few months played over and over in his mind: the meetings with his ministers; General Yamashita; Emperor Naruhito; speaking before the Diet. The jumbled, mixed scenes ran through his mind over and over again. Oh, if only he had it to do one more time. A door opened below. The sound was unmistakable. What was the time? The small hours of the morning. The staff chief had been here-what? Two hours ago, at least. Who could this be?

The door opened. A woman was standing there. Abe tried to focus. She came across the room, stood in front of him. Masako. Empress Masako. Shame flushed Atsuko Abe, then turned to outrage. That a woman should see him like this! The staff chief had dishonored him, the prime minister. “Your Majesty,” he managed. Summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, he managed to lever himself into a sitting position. “Please leave me. You shame me with your presence.”

She stood before him, looking around, taking in the blood-soaked white mat, the bayonet, the shrine, saying nothing. She was wearing a simple Western two-piece wool suit, white gloves, sensible shoes, and a stylish matching hat. In her left hand she held a small white purse embroidered with pearls. She looked down at the purse and opened it. Using her right hand, she extracted a pistol. “Your Majesty, no. I beg—“

“This,” she said evenly, “is for my husband. And my son.”

With that, she leveled the pistol and shot Atsuko Abe in the center of his forehead. His corpse toppled forward.

Empress Masako put the pistol back in the purse, snapped the catch, and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

The two weeks after the untimely death of Aleksandr Kalugin were busy ones for Janos Ilin. He helped with the security at Marshal Stolypin’s inauguration, and he assisted police in rounding up and disarming Kalugin’s loyal ones. He whispered long and loudly to prosecutors about which loyal ones should be brought to trial. He argued that Kalugin’s key lieutenants had to answer for their crimes. Private armies, he thought, were bad for democracy and bad for business. President Stolypin helped carry the day. He didn’t think much of private armies, either. One evening Janos Ilin sat in his office, trying to assess the pluses and minuses of the late Russo-Japanese War. Tomorrow Captain First Rank Pavel Saratov and the surviving crewmen of the submarine Admiral Kolchak were flying in from Tokyo. President Stolypin would meet them at the airport and decorate every man. Saratov would be declared a hero of the Russian Republic and be promoted to rear admiral. From the reports Ilin had seen, Saratov richly deserved the honor. Today the American president had announced a new foreign-aid bill for Russia, the largest in American history, one that for the first time gave substantial tax credits to American firms that invested in Russia. And soon American firms would have money to invest. The last two weeks had been the biggest in the history of the American stock market. Everyone, it seemed, had suddenly decided that peace was wonderful. Atsuko Abe’s death led to a new government in Japan, one that Ilin thought might be more attuned to the future than the past. The inescapable fact was that Russia was rich in natural resources and Japan had capital and technical know-how. Put together in the right kind of partnerships, there should be something there for everyone. Something for everyone was the way the world worked best, Janos Ilin thought. Soon it would be time for Agent Ju to send another message to Toshihiko Ayukawa. This time Ju would point out the best people in Russia to approach for Siberian joint ventures, people who could make things happen. For a while there, Ilin thought Ju’s message reporting the destruction of all of Russia’s nuclear weapons had backfired. For months the out come of that gambit had looked grim indeed. Still, looking back, he thought as he had thought when he drafted the message — that enormous risks were justified. Russia had little to lose and everything to gain if a foreign enemy forced her to fight. The nuclear raids on Japan had been a close squeak. He had never suspected Kalugin would go over the edge, order the use of nuclear weapons. Fortunately, nothing had come of it, but Kalugin certainly had tried. Yuri Esenin and the bombs on board a Kilo-class sub — that was an effort doomed from the beginning. Only the skill and courage of Pavel Saratov had allowed the sub to get as far as it did. The air raids on Japan were another matter. When they were launched, the spymaster thought his worst nightmare had come true. Then the planes just disappeared. Ilin, of course, set out to discover what had happened. After reading the reports of the interrogations of the survivors of the Tokyo/tateyama Peninsula raids, Ilin thought it likely that Yan Chernov had shot down the Russian tankers, dooming all the planes to crash landings. It was his voice, two survivors believed, that warned of airborne Zeros, yet not a single enemy fighter had been seen. One of Ilin’s agents in an American seismic exploration unit working in Siberia said that a man answering Chernov’s description had shown up two days after the raid attempt with only a flight suit on his back, nothing else. The Americans fed him and gave him a job. He was still there, the informant said. Either Chernov or the Japanese had shot down the Russian tankers, dooming the strike planes. Whichever, Ilin thought the nuclear strike on Japan was a matter best forgotten. Poor Russia, a land without hope. Now it had some. With Kalugin gone, with the government rejuvenated and foreign nations willing to make investments, hope was peeping through the rubble. Perhaps hope would continue to grow. With all this hope and billions in foreign capital, Russia might even grow into a country worthy of its patriots, men like Yan Chernov and Pavel Saratov. Time would tell.