The gray-haired minister leveled an uncertain stare at Yoshida. Fumio knew the tyrannical egomaniac Saito had never liked him much and would be grateful for a reason to boot him to another area within the MOT so he wouldn’t have to deal with him on a one-on-one basis, or even force him to retire, but for the Oberon he might tolerate him a while longer. Saito’s face softened ever so slightly as he said, “You will not resign, Yoshida. I have rarely had cause to question your judgment so I must assume you have acted appropriately. In fact,” he said after hesitating for a moment, “when it is time to tell this news to the legislative group I will acknowledge that we planned it together. The politicians will find value in any reasonable expenditures that may be expected to secure an Oberon base.”
Walking back to his office, Fumio Yoshida had no regret for the lies he was forced to tell. Until he needed the money to carry out his plan, he’d never taken so much as one illegal yen from the Ministry of Transport, but now through obscure billing and payment procedures he’d managed to pay the down payment to the Russian and full payment to the broker named Seth who demanded all of his millions in advance.
Seth had made the arrangement with Petrevich for the procurement and transport of the uranium from Russia by way of Iraq. This was an intentionally deceptive route; the U.S. authorities were unlikely to even imagine Tokyo to be the final destination, while Iraq was easily believable. Yoshida was committed to make this final payment to Petrevich upon his completion of the project. Now his reconfiguration of the Boeing 747 aircraft to accommodate the deadly payload would be the final step. When the deception was discovered perhaps all of Japan — at least those who had suffered as he and Jotaro had — would approve after they have learned the whole truth. Yoshida’s only concern now was that Minister Saito or someone higher up would decide to visit Hangar 23 to see all the non-existent improvements, but he could stall them for a few days and then it wouldn’t matter — at least not to Yoshida. He almost smiled as he thought of the trap Saito was going to set for himself by claiming part credit for the Oberon idea at the highest levels of the Japanese government.
That night at the bath house Fumio caught himself staring at his brother as he splashed around in the water. He wished he could explain to him what he was doing. And why. But Fumio had no doubt Jotaro would approve. He was a Japanese first, and then a Yoshida. They would stick together no matter what, like after the bomb when they were placed in the government orphanage, and later when Fumio returned from the university and the military where he’d been a pilot like his father. After that, Fumio had applied to the Ministry of Transport for a job that would allow him to remain close to aviation. Jotaro was nineteen then and Fumio moved them into a private apartment over the strong protests of the orphanage officials. Impossible, they said. Unfair to both of them. But Fumio persisted. Jotaro was his brother and he would take care of him for as long as he lived. For as long as we live, Fumio thought to himself now as he stood in the edge of the water.
Early on at the CAB, Fumio Yoshida was recognized as one of the most capable and dedicated, and by the time he was forty he’d been singled out from the pack by his superiors. Making good money then, he bought a traditional Japanese home in an older section of Tokyo and went about Jotaro-proofing it as he had done in their tiny apartment, removing anything his brother might harm himself with. After that he left Jotaro at home with the television and his toys while he was away at the CAB. And he bought a dog to keep Jotaro company.
Mrs. Tanaka, the old widow next door, had tried to get acquainted with the Yoshidas but Fumio didn’t reciprocate. Even so, once she knew about Jotaro’s condition her motherly instinct took over and she kept an eye on the Yoshida house during the day. Fumio Yoshida knew that. She intercepted Jotaro twice when he ventured out of the house but she’d never been so bold as to go inside.
As Fumio Yoshida climbed through the ranks to the top of the CAB he kept everyone at arm’s length, more than fulfilling his duties but doing little to ingratiate himself to anyone. It had not been particularly difficult for him to get special approval to work beyond the standard retirement age, partly, he thought, because of his exemplary accomplishments in the Civil Aviation Bureau. If he took care of his family and did whatever was required to progress in his work at CAB, which was critical to his plan, nothing else should be necessary. He had never socialized with the others after work. There was no time for it. He had his brother to take care of, and the anger inside sapped his drives and desires.
When they returned home from the bath house that night, Jotaro and his dog Yuki-Yuki got into a wrestling bout on the floor and Fumio went to his own room and opened the Harvest file. He could recite every detail of the plan from memory, but holding the file in his hands made it more real. Things were falling into place now. It was true that he’d come to despise the Russian Boris Petrevich, but if he completed his project on time Yoshida would pay him the second half of the fee they’d agreed on.
Fumio had paid Seth his ten million upon his delivery of Petrevich and the uranium, but, still, he had no stomach for whores like Seth who sold their services to the highest bidder. Seth was a man with no values, no morals. Pay a man like him enough money and he would sneak up behind his own mother in the kitchen, surprise her with a hug, slit her throat from ear to ear, and then sit down and eat the meal she had cooked for him. But if the deal he made with Seth produced the result Fumio demanded, then using even scum like him was justified.
Hangar 23 was one of several hangars at Narita reserved for the exclusive use of Ministry of Transport and came under administrative control of Fumio’s Civil Aviation Bureau. MOT records indicated it was vacant and unused so there was no reason for anyone to go there, but since the time Yoshida set it up as the place where Boris Petrevich and his two Russian assistants would work, he had driven himself there perhaps a hundred times. And even though Hangar 23 was located in an untraveled and secluded corner of Narita Airport, Yoshida worried the traffic would make someone curious.
Fumio felt at peace around planes and loved most the behemoth airliners like the 747, but his executive duties at the CAB were to be endured. They involved aviation, but nothing was like being out there on the tarmac looking up at the jetliners that were to him so beautiful, and climbing into the cockpit where he could experience the power that came with being at the controls of a machine that could lift four-hundred tons and transport them to some place thousands of miles away before it touched Earth again.
Fumio’s most cherished memories of his father were of him in the military. He had a photo of him standing by the wing of a small airplane Fumio imagined was the one that carried his father and, Fumio hoped, many American soldiers to a fiery death. Back then Fumio had known only that his father was a pilot. It was many years later that he found a letter his father wrote to Fumio’s mother on the last day of his life. Today his plane would be given enough fuel for a one-way trip. He was proud to have been selected by his leaders to fly it into the enemy. When all his bullets were spent and bombs released, he would still have one weapon left: Himself, as part of his plane. He would do it again and again for the defeat of the hated America if he could.