"A launch facility? Eva, that's impossible. The Japanese space program is all down on Tanegeshima Island, south of Tokyo. The island of Hokkaido is way up north. There's nothing up there but Holsteins and hay fields."
But, he thought suddenly, it's also just across from Sakhalin. The Soviet Far East. The place the party secretary who embezzled…
"This isn't hay fields, darling, believe me." Her voice seemed to drift out and blend with the rain. "Something you said this afternoon, that's what made it click. About the first man to leave the earth and soar into space…"
"You mean—"
"I didn't ask for this. Oh, Christ, how did I…" She paused again, uncertain. "You know, I finally think I've figured out what's happening, why it's so secret — the treaty, the protocol, cutting out their own intelligence. It's partly about space, all right. Has to be. Something's cooking, something they're eventually going to spring on the world like the first Sputnik."
"You still haven't decoded the damned thing."
"Okay, I'm guessing. But how's this? Somebody at the top, in the USSR, has decided to go for a giant gamble. To save their system, they've been forced to turn to some nutcakes in Japan who can loan them billions. And this project is part of it. The Soviets once cut a deal with Nazi Germany to buy time, so why not? The leadership needs time now desperately."
"And you think—?"
"Project Daedalus. That's the code name in the preamble. Think about it. You know what I believe? To get the money and technology they desperately need, the Russians have had to cave in and do the unthinkable. Form a new alliance. Michael, they're about to start rearming Japan."
Chapter Four
"Hai, so deshoo," Taro Ikeda, project director, bowed into the red telephone receiver, using that breathy, clipped speech all Japanese reserve for their superiors. "Kore wa honto ni muzakashi desu. It has been difficult, but they have finally agreed on the revised schedule. In nine days—"
He paused to listen, then continued. "Hai, so. There is no other way. Hai. The Diet will never approve the treaty unless there is some dramatic symbol of the advantages of the alliance."
He halted. "Hai, security has been maintained here. With deepest respect, the problem would seem to be with your—" He paused again.
Now tiny beads of sweat were glistening on his brow. "Hai, we are ready. The vehicle is… hai." He bowed again. "Of course, there will be no delay. The revised schedule is firm. Hai, Mino-sama, we—" He was bowing ever more rapidly into the phone. "Hai, we have pushed them as hard as we can." He bowed even deeper. "Hai, by tomorrow's report. Of course, Mino-sama. Thank you, domo arigato gozaimashita…."
The line, a high-security satellite link connecting the Hokkaido facility to the Mino Industries Building in the Ueno section of Tokyo, had gone dead. Tanzan Mino, CEO of Mino Industries Group, had other matters to concern himself with.
Taro Ikeda repressed a tremble. The technical part, the project here on Hokkaido, was going well; what was happening on the Tokyo end? First the delay of the funds, and now a rumored breach of security. KGB had intercepted the protocol. That was the word from his informant close to the CEO in Tokyo.
Shigata ga nai, he thought; sometimes things can't be helped.
Taro Ikeda was proud he had been personally selected by the CEO to be project director for the top secret Hokkaido operation. He was fifty-four years of age, a graduate of Tokyo University Law School, a twenty-five-year veteran, now retired, of MITI, the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. He was, in short, a mover in the New Japan and he looked it — elegantly graying temples, tailored silk suits, a small mustache to set off his high cheeks. At one time he had been the inside choice for MITI vice minister, before the CEO offered him a chance to fulfill a vision no official source in the ministry could ever admit existed.
Overall, he told himself, the CEO should be pleased. He had carried out his own responsibilities flawlessly. And MITl was providing an unofficial umbrella of technical support, covering any unexpected requirements. Through this project the CEO had set into motion a plan that would soon alter dramatically Japan's place in the equation of world power.
Bushido, the Way of the Warrior. The element of surprise. No one outside Mino Industries knew what was really planned, not even the prime contractors for the project. Security every step of the way. And now the drama was ready, the curtain poised. Only a few more days, and a technological miracle would soar upward from the earth, symbolizing the first step in the realization of Japan's age-old ambition. The world would know the twenty-first century had arrived, the Japanese century. Mino Industries had made it possible.
The CEO's sense of timing was impeccable. Only last week he had approved Taro Ikeda's final briefing to Noburu Takahashi, executive director of the National Space Development Agency. NASDA, through contracts to the Space Systems Division of Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, was in charge of the major hardware of the Japanese rocket program. Takahashi was also an executive of the new Daedalus Corporation, an unofficial "consultant."
Together they had traveled to the agency's space center on Tanegeshima, the island six hundred miles south of Tokyo, to monitor the shakedown launch of Japan's new H-2 rocket series. Although that vehicle was far superior to both the American Titan 34D and the European Ariane 4, it was a technological dinosaur compared to this project. This was unlike anything the world had ever seen.
The project had begun over two years earlier, when he was still director of MITI's Kokuki Buki-ka, the Aircraft and Ordnance Section. An "anonymous" scenario — conceived by the CEO of Mino Industries Group, Tanzan Mino — had arrived on his desk, detailing a revolutionary proposal. Every director in MITI had received a copy.
The eventual "consensus"? It was too visionary, would aggravate Japan's already delicate relationship with America. The Liberal Democratic Party could never be seen to embrace such a project publicly.
Accordingly, MITI's parliamentary vice minister turned it down. Officially. But that was merely tatame, his "public face." Afterward the classified moves, the real moves, began. Perhaps, it was hinted, if the idea were "explored" outside regular government channels…. Top-secret feelers were sent to the Soviets.
With a green light, Tanzan Mino had immediately created the Daedalus Corporation, hiring away Taro Ikeda and forty-seven of his MITI aerospace engineers, the best and brightest, from Kokuki Buki-ka. Start-up financing had been provided by the CEO personally, with some matching contributions by the top executives of Japan's major zaibatsu, industrial groups. The scenario was an easy sell, since they all realized its payoff would be staggering. The only requirement was that it remain top secret until the appropriate moment, when the Diet would be formally notified. By that time, however, there would be no turning back. Everything would have to go forward as a package.
Under the CEO's direction, Taro Ikeda and his forty- seven MITI engineers had relocated here on Hokkaido to oversee a secret, fast-track project. Forty-seven. Perhaps, he sometimes mused, that number was no coincidence. Perhaps it was an unconscious act of historical resonance. Forty-seven brilliant young technicians, just like the forty-seven ronin, the samurai of the famous legend. Those ronin had bided their time for many years, living in obscurity and ignominy until the moment when they rose up in triumph.