Shattered Trident (56 page)

“Please, Nodoka-chan, what are you talking about?”

Her expression started to dissolve again, but she pulled herself together. “Your drinking. After two days and two nights, I couldn’t bear it anymore. The doctor gave me something and I added it to your drink, to make you sleep. You passed out right away, and we all brought you to your room so you could rest.”

Still on her knees with her head down, she backed up several feet, then rose to take something from the desk. Back on her knees, head down, she held out a folded paper in both hands. “Please,
sensei,
accept this.” He looked more closely at it. It was neatly labeled
Resignation
.

“No,” he said, shaking his head and immediately regretting the gesture. Then, as his brain began fitting the facts together, he asked, “How long have I been asleep?”

Still on her knees with her head bowed, she glanced up at the clock. “About twenty-nine hours. Doctor Ono has visited you several times, and gave you vitamin and fluid injections so you wouldn’t get dehydrated.”

“How long have I been asleep?” he repeated, anxiety rising. “Over a day?” He looked at the clock. It was morning, on the 13th!? Panic rising, he sat up quickly, and again regretted the sudden movement.

Miyazaki saw his pained expression, rose, and retrieved a bottle from the desk. She shook out a pair of pills. “For your headache,” she explained, and helped him swallow them with water. After she put the glass down, she was still holding the resignation, and turned to offer it to him again. Her expression was a model of unhappiness.

Still striving for coherent thought, he said quickly, “Put that away,” but when her expression became even more miserable, Komamura stopped himself and said more gently, “Your resignation is not accepted. I cannot forgive you, because you have done nothing wrong.”

There was a knock on the door, and it opened a little. He heard another of his graduate students, Saotome, ask softly, “Miyazaki-san, do you think…” As he cautiously peeked around the edge of the door, he saw the professor and said brightly, “You’re up!” and closed the door.

“Minister Hisagi and the admiral wanted to be notified the moment you woke,” she explained.

“Then I’d better get dressed,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Child, I have been a fool and a poor teacher. I must ask your forgiveness. I have been most troublesome. Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

“We were happy to do it,” she replied. Miyazaki was smiling, but still a little teary. “I’ll get you some breakfast.”

*   *   *

It took Komamura some time to dress and make himself presentable, although it felt like he was hurrying. Hisagi and Admiral Orihara were already waiting in the garden, standing next to a small table, when the professor arrived. When they saw each other, he stopped for a moment, gathering himself, then slowly approached the pair.

Bowing deeply, he said, “I have neglected my duties and caused great difficulty at a critical time. My behavior was inexcusable.” His head still throbbed, but he continued to hold his bow until he’d finished his speech.

He straightened slowly, one hand on the table for support, as Hisagi replied. “Your actions are understandable and forgivable. You grieved for a friend, and nobody would ever criticize that. We accept your apology, and look forward to you resuming your duties.”

There were three chairs, and Komamura gratefully sat down as the others did. Miyazaki appeared with a tray, and while the professor carefully ate, the others had tea and brought him up to date.

*   *   *

After breakfast, feeling humbled but also ready to work, he returned to his office. Komamura’s desk had been neatened to an almost frightening degree. Several piles of documents containing ongoing projects were missing, and he could only hope that one of his assistants had taken them, or some of the alliance’s deepest secrets were in danger.

Most of his assistants shared a single large workroom, but Miyazaki had been given a small office of her own. The door was open and she was hard at work, and he stood silently for a moment watching her, proud as any parent. She’d run things while he’d wallowed in grief and drink.

He knocked on the doorframe. “I came by to see if you could use any help.” He smiled, and the expression felt a little unfamiliar.

She almost bolted from her chair. “
Sensei,
please come in, sit down.”

With very little urging, he sat. “Hisagi and Orihara have briefed me on the situation, and your actions while I was—” He corrected himself. “—over the past few days. You’ve done well. We are all in your debt. Please, tell me what I have missed.”

Miyazaki nodded. “We’re continuing to supply target recommendations, of course. Several Malaysian and Singaporean submarines have passed to alliance control. There have been almost no merchant ship sinkings. There’s almost no one left at sea. I’ve got Akashi reviewing data on the accuracy of SINOPEC production reports. He’s detected some inconsistencies.”

“Good,” Komamura said approvingly.

“I had to take Kasugi off of damage analysis,” she reported, then suddenly stopped herself and nodded toward the door. The professor reached over and closed it.

“I’ve assigned him to the Ryusei project,” she continued, “along with a new Indian officer that the admiral’s brought in. I’m assuming Minister Hisagi and Admiral Orihara told you…”

“Yes,” Komamura replied. “Ballistic missiles. Surprising, but logical. But why Kasugi?”

“We needed his mathematical skills. We’ve never had to analyze groups of targets like this.”

“May I see the requirements?” he asked.

She handed him a hard copy that described the weapon’s accuracy, penetration against different types of armor, blast radius. He saw a second column. “What’s this second set of figures?”

“An improved version. They say it will have an increased radius of effect, and use a different type of explosive.”

“I should say so,” he remarked. “It’s more than four times as large, and with greater destruction within the radius.” Even as he said it, a chill ran up his spine. Was he really awake? But if they wanted to hurt China and end the war, it couldn’t be helped.

“Calculating the measure of effectiveness when groups of targets are involved has been difficult,” she explained. “Kasugi’s made good progress.”

“I think you chose well. I’ll take over the oil infrastructure analysis now, since I won’t have my time taken up with supervisory duties.”

She looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Hisagi and Orihara both suggested that you should be the new head of the economic intelligence section. They asked me to concentrate exclusively on the Chinese economic situation. I told them I approved completely. The working group will ratify it shortly.”

“I’m honored by your confidence,
sensei
. I will do my best.”

*   *   *

Back at his desk, Komamura plopped several fat folders down, returning each one to its accustomed place. His head was clear, but he could feel his body still waking up, his energy slowly returning. He looked over at the shrine to Admiral Kubo in the corner. His first impulse was to remove it, to remove temptation and banish the sadness, but then he decided he could leave it. He’d said good-bye. It was time to move forward.

He reached for the folder with the Chinese economic data, but still hadn’t put away the hard copy with the ballistic missile targeting requirements. Both Hisagi and Orihara had made it clear that this was a “sensitive” program, meaning that knowledge of its existence should be limited, even within the alliance leadership. It was, literally, a “secret weapon.”

Ballistic missiles were offensive weapons, forbidden by Japan’s postwar constitution, but he’d argued in his book that at some point, Japan would face a circumstance that required their use, and now they found themselves in exactly that situation. Still, for it to come about so quickly, and as a consequence of his writings, was unnerving—a self-fulfilling prophecy?

He reviewed the information again. It was a powerful weapon. Even a handful would do tremendous damage, especially after the new warhead became available in a month’s time. Where before they needed dozens of cruise missiles, or three of the early Ryusei missiles to destroy an area target, the improved version could flatten a refinery with one hit, and destroy a fair amount of the surrounding landscape.

How could they do it? In his new work with the alliance, he’d become familiar with different types of weapons and their general capabilities. He understood how the Ryusei’s warhead worked, with many small charges, even as he shuddered at the damage it would inflict. But the details of the new warhead were not included, which was reasonable. It was still being developed, after all, but it was hard to imagine how anything short of …

*   *   *

Admiral Orihara had taken over Kubo’s old office, of course, although it held two desks now, for the admiral and his aide. The Hirano estate had never been intended to serve as the headquarters for a multinational military alliance.

Komamura stood silently at the open door for a moment. Orihara had been an aviator, and the model of
Tachikaze,
Kubo’s first ship, was gone. One wall was covered with photos of different Japanese aircraft. A photo of Kubo, bordered in black, had been added as well.

His aide, a lieutenant, noticed Komamura first, and stood, almost coming to attention. “Yes, Doctor?”

Struggling with several emotions, the professor did not respond right away. Reading Komamura’s troubled expression, Orihara glanced toward his aide. The lieutenant said, “I’ll bring tea,” but Komamura shook his head, still silent. At a nod from the admiral, the aide grabbed a sheaf of papers and quickly left.

“Please, come in,” Orihara urged. Once inside, Komamura closed the door carefully and sat down, feeling the admiral’s eyes on him. He felt painfully aware of what Orihara’s impression of him must be—at best, a melancholy drunk. But that could not be helped. He would not hold back.

Komamura leaned forward and laid the hard copy he’d gotten from Miyazaki in front of Orihara. “By my estimates, the improved warhead for the Ryusei has a yield of about fifteen kilotons. It’s a plutonium implosion design, correct?”

He was watching for Orihara’s reaction, and the admiral seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The improved warhead—”

“Cannot achieve the described level of destruction using any known conventional explosive,” Komamura interrupted. Now that he’d said it out loud, he felt unexpected anger, and fought to control it. “Damage over such a large area can only be achieved by a nuclear weapon.”

Orihara did not answer immediately, but instead picked up the phone and punched a number. After a short pause, he said, “Please ask Minister Hisagi to come to my office immediately.”

As he hung up, Komamura asked, “How did you get permission from the Diet? I was surprised that they approved the ballistic missile, even with a conventional warhead, but this? Wait. Do they even know?”

“The prime minister, the defense minister, and the head of the Japanese Atomic Energy Agency know,” the admiral answered. “As you can imagine, security is extremely tight.”

“Is ‘extremely tight’ good enough?” Komamura asked, his voice rising. He paused for a moment, then spoke more softly. “If China learns of a nuclear weapons program in Japan, it almost guarantees instant devastation.”

There was a knock on the door, and Orihara answered, “Come in.” Hisagi stepped inside quickly, closing the door again.

The admiral announced, “Dr. Komamura has deduced the nature of the Ryusei’s ‘improved’ warhead.”

Hisagi’s face registered surprise, then it went blank for a moment before he carefully responded. “That is unfortunate, Doctor. You were not supposed to be briefed into the project.”

“I’m not surprised. You certainly knew what my reaction would be. I’m repelled by the very idea.” Looking at the two, he asked harshly, “Are either of you truly Japanese?”

Both reacted to the insult as if they’d been slapped. The use of nuclear weapons in World War II had scarred Japan’s national psyche. You didn’t have to have family near Hiroshima or Nagasaki, or have met someone suffering from radiation-induced illness. It was enough to have been born and raised in Japan.

Orihara answered carefully, “Your opinion is respected, Doctor, even now, but this was a matter of national and alliance policy. You were never part of the decision process.”

Suddenly he felt helpless. He’d caught Orihara’s slight—“even now”—and the admiral had referred to him as an academic, instead of the “
sensei
” everyone else used. His message was clear.
I don’t care who you are
.

“I cannot imagine a Japan that possesses nuclear weapons. What about the other alliance members? Do they know?”

Hisagi answered, “They all know. Like the ballistic missiles, the weapons will be jointly owned, and based in all of the alliance countries.”

“Why not just procure some Indian ballistic missiles, then?”

“India has reservations and refused. The other nations agreed that it would be better if we developed our own nuclear technology. These will be alliance weapons, not just Japanese. We’ve had the technical capability; we’ve just chosen not to develop them.

“It will proceed very quickly. The MOX fuel used in our nuclear reactors is seven percent weapons-grade plutonium. We already have several labs at work chemically separating the element, and we only need a few kilograms for a small implosion warhead. The Indians have agreed to provide assistance, as well.”

Komamura remembered the officer working with Kasugi. “And you’re already picking out targets. It’s unbelievable.”

“We have no intention of using them,” Hisagi protested, “but think,
sensei
. Not a single ballistic missile has fallen on Indian soil. The reason is obvious, as is the solution. Deterrence works, and these will be our shield against future attacks.”

“Unless the Chinese decide that seven more nations with nuclear weapons is too many,” Komamura argued. “We are frighteningly vulnerable now, with a secret worse than the existence of the alliance initially was. Remember our fears then of being discovered? If China learns of the program, she’ll immediately strike every location she can think of that might be involved in their development.”