It was after ten when Fumio got Jotaro to bed but he had one other job before he could prepare for Saito. He booted up an aging desktop PC, logged onto the Internet and went to the website he’d visited hundreds of times before, if not thousands. The Internet was a gift from the gods for Fumio, making it easier for him to get the latest research from the Radiation Effects Research Foundation, where he had long hoped to find some breakthrough research that would mean a better life for Jotaro. He’d read multitudes of RERF reports and by now accepted what he had known deep down long ago — that all the research in the world could never help Jotaro. So when Yoshida visited the website these days it was for a different reason: To read the morbid statistics that nourished the hungry, organic hatred that grew inside him.
After twenty minutes at the RERF website he leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes and visited the familiar place in his mind where the essence of all the RERF reports was preserved, where the damnable reality of Jotaro had festered for so long, beginning with mere resentment in the earlier years when Fumio first began to comprehend what had happened — that by some fateful roll of the dice on the day Hiroshima was bombed, his mother was at the exact distance from ground zero and at the precise stage in her pregnancy that meant her fetus would survive to become Jotaro but that his mind would never be normal.
How could all those stars have lined up against his mother and his brother? In all of Hiroshima and Nagasaki close to half a million people died from the Americans’ atomic bombs, but little Jotaro in the sanctuary of his mother’s womb was much less fortunate than they were, Fumio felt, left with a mind too undeveloped to wonder or to imagine or to serve its own body.
And the guilt. How was it that he, Fumio, happened to be in Sapporo, far to the north with his aging grandmother when the bomb came, safe from any harm? He should have been there with his mother so that perhaps he could have died from radiation like she did soon after delivering Jotaro. But, no, that would have left Jotaro alone. Their father had placed his loyalty to Japan above everything else — including his family and his very life — and died a kamikaze in the second world war, and Fumio had come to understand his father. Over the years, Fumio Yoshida’s resentment for Americans turned to blackest hate and consumed his soul. Like hate always does.
Fumio shut down the computer and took a folder labeled Jotaro out of his desk, removed the rubber band and looked at the last notation he’d made. His eyes narrowed as he read once again his own distillation of Japan’s surrender to end World War II. It was not the first time he’d returned to his short manifesto in the two years since he’d written it: “The Emperor in surrender did not speak for Fumio and Jotaro Yoshida, to whom the only acceptable alternative to victory is a fight to death. The instruments are being put into place to achieve a modicum of justice for Jotaro and for other Japanese lives destroyed by the Americans.”
After that entry, there had been no more analyzing or researching or rationalizing to write about. He had started a new file that night, a file he labeled Harvest. It was time to focus on the execution of his plan. Yoshida nodded as he closed the file, reaffirmed by his own writing. This is what it is all about, Minister Saito. You will understand soon, but not tomorrow.
Fumio replaced the thick Jotaro file, retrieved the one labeled Harvest and spent the next hour going over his notes and numbers inside. He compared them with printouts he brought home from the CAB, checked a few totals with a small calculator, and scribbled several notations on a legal pad. He wondered if it were the politicians who were behind Saito’s inquiry. They were always snooping around in areas they didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. He’d been careful. And he could give Saito all the explanation he needed for the politicians. His plan for Jotaro had cost more than he expected but he had succeeded in hiding the costs up to this point and could explain them away. And this would be the last time he’d have to do it. Of that he was certain.
It was almost midnight when he put the Harvest file back in the desk and slipped the notes he’d made into his notebook. He turned out the lights and went to bed but as happened too often he couldn’t sleep. As his plan neared reality, excitement replaced the constant tiredness he’d felt for so many years.
Fumio walked into his office at seven-twenty-eight the next morning, zoomed through the paperwork his assistant left for him, cleared everything off his desk and walked up the single flight of stairs to the top floor where the Minister of Transport’s office was located. He stood at Saito’s outer door and counted down the seconds until exactly eight o’clock and entered carrying a thin vinyl notebook. “Ahh, good morning Minister Saito,” Fumio said, with a traditional bow.
Saito’s eyes bulleted in on the folds of green printer paper on his desk as the downward corners of his mouth reflected what Yoshida had figured were the result of a lifetime of negativism. Yoshida did not judge this harshly, however, as that was the condition his own life had brought him to. “Yoshida,” Saito said with his usual bombast, “I have been called to a meeting with the Diet budget oversight committee this morning! I will be expected to explain this five million dollars for security systems at Hangar 23,” he said, rigidly stabbing the printout with a stubby finger, “and this six-point-six million for Hangar 23 renovations. The committee demands an accounting for these expenditures, as do I! Why was I was not informed of these costs?” he said, his voice continuing to rise.
Fumio watched for any hint Saito suspected wrongdoing. He had hoped this accounting was only for Saito’s preparation to meet with the politicians in the national legislature and not because of any suspicions he might have.
Saito had not invited Yoshida to sit and he stood straight with his arms at his sides. “Hai! I am preparing Hangar 23 to accommodate the Oberon.”
Saito’s face became a pretzel. “Oberon!” he said as he stiffened in his chair. “Impossible, Yoshida. You think I am a fool? The supersonic Oberon has three bases, just like the Concorde had before it was discontinued: Paris, London and New York. We do not even have the accommodations required to establish a base here, Yoshida! It will be years before it lands here, you imbecile, if ever.” Saito was incredulous.
“The Oberon is much closer than you may be aware, Minister.” Fumio nodded an apologetic gesture for daring to disagree. “I am in touch with my counterparts in London and Paris, who speak very encouragingly. It is currently most secretive, but Tokyo will have it, right here at Narita. In-progress design modifications to the Oberon will increase its range. I have been in negotiations for a Tokyo route for several months.”
“Why have I not been told of this? And what imposters are you negotiating with, Yoshida?”
Yoshida looked down. “I am at fault for not better informing you, Minister Saito. The talks are rather general at this point, with officials beneath your level of authority. I elected not to burden you until decisions worthy of your time and position are required. As to the expenditures, I believed we would have much better opportunity to get the Oberon if we are able to demonstrate preparedness. I am aware that twelve million dollars is a very large sum, but to the total Ministry of Transport budget, it is like comparing the toy airplane of a child to a Boeing 747. Perhaps after consideration you will agree that it is a prudent expenditure. However, if not, I will accept full responsibility for my extreme foolishness and immediately resign my post as head of the Civil Aviation Bureau.” Yoshida knew he was taking a great chance with that statement.