It was more than Yoshida could bear. Now his name would be reviled in Japan instead of glorified. He would die in shame, an object of ridicule. He began screaming, sobbing, cursing Petrevich, the Americans and the Japanese emperor who surrendered to end the war. “I will not turn back and further dishonor my father’s name. I will kill many Americans when I fly into the ground. The bomb will not matter.” Then there was only the sound of Yoshida sobbing.
That was the last transmission, but Cross had heard enough. He authorized Scrub to take all appropriate action.
Warfield was still on the phone. “Mr. President, you know it’s only Yoshida who thinks he’s not carrying a bomb.”
“I got it, Warfield,” Scrubb said.
“Let’s get it done, Plantar,” Cross said.
Yoshida shut off the radio. He saw the distant lights of Los Angeles through his tears. Maybe the city had escaped the fate of Hiroshima but Fumio Yoshida would not die in complete failure. If he went in low and slow he could take out a long swath of homes full of sleeping Americans before the 747 skidded to a stop and burst into flames. He would find an area where many houses were built close together. It would be very much like his father had done.
He thought of the second procedure required to arm the bomb, but remembered that was no longer important. But wait! Why not do it? Maybe the American on the radio was lying. There was no reason not to. Yoshida grabbed the notes he made when Petrevich instructed him on the procedures. He’d completed the first one earlier.
F-15 pilot Major John Raines had tailed the Japanese airliner as ordered for the last half hour but he hadn’t been told why. Now the colonel on the radio told him to bring the 747 down.
“Sorry, sir. Repeat that transmission.”
“Fire on the 747, Major Raines.” The colonel repeated Yoshida’s tail number and other identification.
“Sir, if I am hearing you correctly, only certain generals are authorized to give that order.”
“Major, you have your orders. Carry them out.”
There was a pause, then, “Sorry, sir. I respectfully take exception to that order.”
The colonel repeated the order to the captain flying the other F-15 trailing Yoshida.
“I agree with Major Raines, sir.”
Yoshida wondered why the F-15 at his wingtips were allowing him to go on. If they gave him a few more minutes….
In the Situation Room no one had moved. “Plantar, can you confirm that it’s over?” Cross asked.
“That’s a negative, sir. There’s a delay. They’re contacting the…the…the…oh holy God, the F-15 pilots are refusing to shoot it down…there’s some jockeying going on, just another few seconds—”
“We don’t have seconds, General,” Cross fired. “Where is the 747 now?”
“Too close for comfort, Garrison. We’re doing what we can here. They’ve got to get me voice contact with those F-15s!”
The F-15’s had peeled away and Yoshida was more hopeful now that they were letting him go. Maybe Tokyo intervened and somehow caused a delay. He had almost completed the final arming procedure when the F-15s began firing. In the brief moment he had left, images of Jotaro filled his mind. His father skimming the carrier deck. Charred planes and American soldiers. The emperor’s detestable surrender. His mother crying in pain. Those were the only things that ever mattered to Fumio Yoshida. And the last.
PART FOUR
Cam Warfield
CHAPTER 16
The doctor who dressed Warfield’s head wound reminded him how close Tokyo came to being his last stop. He and Komeito met with the Japanese and U.S. authorities beginning Sunday night to fill them in on Antonov, Yoshida and the Russians, and by noon on Tuesday Warfield was released to leave the country.
In the first two days of their investigation, Japanese authorities had interviewed the U.S. Ambassador to Japan, Norio, Aoki, John Anderson, Antonov’s prostitute Romi, Mrs. Nakamura, the old superintendent at the Tomodachi bath house, Mrs. Tanaka and Tex the bartender. Tex, wearing a bandage on his hand, threatened to file charges against Warfield for assault, but police, who by then had the bigger picture, said they would find reasons to arrest Tex if he persisted. He backed off.
After the authorities were through with Warfield, TK and Komeito drove him to his hotel. It would be their final ride together. Warfield told Komeito to stop at Guido’s first. There, he took Aoki aside. “If I ever have a son, I want him to be as brave as you.”
At the hotel, Komeito walked with Warfield to the lobby and they stood there sizing each other up for a silent moment. Komeito had earned Warfield’s respect. They had navigated a treacherous, narrow channel in the last few days and without Komeito the outcome might have been different. Warfield stood in front of Komeito and grasped him by the shoulders. No words were needed.
Cross arranged for a U.S. Air Force plane to return Warfield to Washington. As it climbed out over the North Pacific on the sunny mid-afternoon, Warfield looked out the window at the same blue waters Fumio Yoshida had flown above days earlier. He and his disastrous cargo had been sent to the bottom of the Pacific forty miles from the California coast — less than five minutes away from the mainland at five-hundred miles per hour. The bomb didn’t detonate and the Navy was determining the risk it posed and what needed to be done. Japan was cooperating.
Warfield had learned more about the 747 from the U.S. ambassador. The MOT had held it in lieu of payment of airport fees and other money owed to the Ministry by a struggling airline. The airline had bankrupted and Yoshida managed to sequester the plane by manipulating reports.
It was around three Wednesday afternoon when Warfield’s plane landed at Andrews Air Force Base near Washington. Cross had called him en route and invited him to come to the White House when he arrived. “Nothing urgent,” Cross said, so Warfield begged off until the next morning, but Cross went on to say the media reports were alarming the country and the world. Some speculated the Japanese government was behind Yoshida, and others wondered what dangers the submerged bomb posed at the bottom of the Pacific, yet so close to the mainland. Cross said he was addressing the nation at ten that night to quiet the rumors. When Warfield got off the plane at Andrews, a driver took him to Hardscrabble in an air force limousine reserved for VIPs.
Warfield saddled Spotlight and rode for a long while, returned to the house and took a steaming hot shower. When Fleming got home they drove to Ticcio’s for dinner and Warfield found himself loosening up. He didn’t say much about Tokyo and she didn’t probe. They had a couple of beers, danced a little and joked around. Fleming ribbed Warfield about the night he got bent out of shape when she came in with another man who happened to be her brother. Warfield winced at the memory but was able to laugh with her.
They got back to Hardscrabble minutes before ten and Warfield remembered Cross’s speech and flipped on the TV. Cross came on and assured the American people and the world that the Japanese airliner downing was an isolated incident orchestrated by a single, deranged civilian who happened to be Japanese. The Japanese government was never involved. The 747 was believed to be carrying a nuclear bomb but it was never activated and went intact to the bottom of the ocean far from land. The Navy was handling the situation. “Our defense systems worked as intended and there was never any risk to Americans,” Cross said. Warfield raised an eyebrow at that comment but knew the president’s words were carefully edited by Cross’s advisors.