From the Fatherland, with Love, page 17
Of course, the fact that he was in a helicopter was also top secret. And in the meantime, Yamagiwa was unable to make any official statement since he wasn’t authorized to act as a government spokesman. “Tell the media that even after 9/11, the US President didn’t make any statement until the next day,” he roared. The Prime Minister had had to make his way to the nearest SDF base in Morioka, from where it was at least two hours by helicopter to his official residence in Tokyo. “Two hours,” muttered Kawai, pulling a map of the Korean Peninsula out of the papers he had prepared. Why had the people occupying the Dome insisted on the air-defense warning system being closed down for two hours? This had already been bothering him, but now he was beginning to feel a real sense of foreboding.
The crisis-management room was noisier than ever. Katsurayama from the National Police Agency was yelling at Yoshizaki, “How the hell can we confirm the North Korean statement that it’s a rebel army faction? Get on the phone to Beijing, or Pyongyang!” Whenever there was an international incident, Foreign Ministry officials always took the blame; in peacetime they were considered an incompetent elite, in an emergency they were gutless wimps. There was some truth in the criticism, even though the ministry did have a number of talented young analysts and negotiators; and when a country’s diplomats were no good, the risk of war was heightened. “We’ve been constantly on the phone to the North Korean embassy in Beijing, as it’s not possible to call Pyongyang directly,” Yoshizaki quietly replied. “What about getting some information from the Korean Residents Association?” Katsurayama, a bit calmer now, said, “They seem to be just as surprised as we are.” The General Association of Korean Residents in Japan, commonly seen as the de facto DPRK embassy, had already denounced the event as “an outrageous terrorist attack carried out by a section of treacherous officers of the People’s Army intent on destabilizing the Republic.” Katsurayama was from the Security Division of the NPA and presumably was kept informed by their sources in the association. Then again, while North Korea might say publicly that the “Chongryon” was important as a source of funds and information, it was clear that they didn’t really trust the association.
After talks between the NPA’s Tsuboi and the Prime Minister in his helicopter, it was decided the Osaka police would send an SAT, or Special Assault Team, to Fukuoka that night. Kawai wondered how much the government or the NPA knew about North Korean Special Operations Forces. The People’s Army as a whole was hobbled by a lack of resources and fuel, but its SOF units were still extremely well equipped. It wasn’t possible to get exact numbers, but they were said to be a hundred thousand or even a hundred and fifty thousand strong, while America’s Green Berets, for example, numbered only about fifty thousand. The Eighth Corps was the army’s flagship SOF, but all twelve corps were specially trained. Also, the North Korean secret police boasted its own special operations unit, as did the intelligence agencies known as the Operations Department and the United Front, and indeed there were several under the direct control of the Party brass. Other branches of the military that had similar crack units included the Capital Air Defense Corps and the Third Engineers Brigade responsible for nuclear power installations, not to mention Kim Jong Il’s own private army and bodyguards, the enigmatic Twenty-Second and Thirty-Ninth Units.
All these outfits were made up of people selected for their ability and courage. In other countries, young men and women from solid backgrounds with good brains and physical fitness could be expected to get ahead in various fields, but in North Korea they went into special ops. Training was extremely tough, lasting from three to six years, after which recruits had become super-fit soldiers who were themselves dangerous weapons in one-on-one combat. There was an anecdote about an SOF soldier, the only one of twenty-two men to make it back to the North after the 1996 submarine infiltration of the South at Gangneung on the east coast, who crossed the border holding his guts in place with his own hands after having been shot in the belly. Recruits were the children of the core elite, and in addition to clothing, food, and accommodation, they received better medical care and education, all of which helped establish an unwavering loyalty to Kim Jong Il.
Listening to the conversation between Yoshizaki and Katsurayama, Kawai couldn’t help feeling that the story of the rebel army faction simply didn’t add up. In the transition period from Kim Il Sung to his son, the People’s Army had been restructured any number of times—not so much in order to adapt it to the post-Cold War world as to stamp out any possibility of rebellion or coup d’état. Its complex organizational structure was nigh on impossible for outsiders to understand—even the Korean Intelligence Division hadn’t really grasped it. The priority of their national defense systems was less to protect the country than to ensure that the military remained under the control of Kim Jong Il and the Workers’ Party. Kim himself had made conspicuous efforts to secure his position with the army even before coming to power, and would probably try to destroy the country himself at the first hint of sedition. It was just inconceivable that the armed guerrillas were a rebel army faction; Kawai was becoming increasingly convinced of it. Staring at the map of the Korean Peninsula, he tried to think what those two hours could mean. Why did they want the air-defense system shut down for that amount of time and not, say, twenty-two hours, or two days, or two weeks, or two months?
Kawai felt someone tap him on the shoulder and looked up to see Suzuki’s rather flushed face. He’d probably had a beer before he was summoned. “Looks like a slow Saturday night for Tokyo’s fun spots,” he said as he took a seat. “There are rumors of a Taepodong on its way, and all the bars are deserted.” He glanced at his watch. “Still took nearly two hours to get here,” he muttered.
Everyone seemed worried about a Taepodong, but there was no way that North Korea would fire a missile at Japan, for the simple reason that it would mean the end of Kim Jong Il’s regime if they did. Any missile fired at Tokyo would spark all-out warfare in the area, and Kim was not so stupid as to start a war against the South Korean army and the US forces based in Korea. A war would mean that America’s plan to recognize the regime in exchange for their abolishing nuclear warheads and nuclear-fuel-processing facilities, as well as continuing face-saving talks on unification, would all come to nothing. If a missile were ever to be fired at Japan, it would be because Kim Jong Il had himself decided that the country called North Korea should cease to exist.
“What’s going on?” Suzuki asked, as he scanned the room. “It’s a mess,” said Kawai, the map of the Korean Peninsula still spread out on his knees. “Is that your verdict, or that of everyone here?” Suzuki was already running his eyes over the thick pile of briefing papers. “Both,” said Kawai wryly. “I missed it,” Suzuki sighed, mechanically turning the pages. “How many times did you wonder about those North Korean warships setting sail? That was all probably leading up to this—a blind for this operation.”
“Quiet, please! Everyone be quiet!” Hida, of the Home Affairs Ministry, rose to his feet, still holding the telephone receiver. “I’m on the phone to the security guards’ room at Fukuoka Dome. They have a couple of water cannon for subduing rioters and drunks, and are asking whether they can use them on the guerrillas. What does everyone think?” he asked excitedly. Yonashiro and Sakuragawa looked uncertain, while Yamagiwa, Korenaga, and Tsuboi started firing questions: What’s the water pressure? Who’ll operate them? Do they know for sure how many guerrillas there are in the Dome, and where they’re located? Hida repeated the questions into the phone.
“Gimme a break,” an aide seated next to Kawai muttered incredulously. He was from the SDF Intelligence HQ. “They want to throw a bit of water at guys armed with rocket grenades? It’s not like they’re dealing with some student demo!”
“The two hours are almost up,” Suzuki said. “No Taepodong yet—so what was the guerrillas’ demand about? The SDF radar hasn’t picked up any missiles or unidentified aircraft or anything.”
The radar hasn’t picked up anything. Something clicked with those words, and Kawai’s ominous premonition suddenly took concrete shape. The North Koreans had the Soviet-made transport plane, the Antonov An-2. It was a biplane, an antique of the sort you only saw in museums nowadays. Constructed almost entirely of wood and flying at low altitude, it was hard to detect on radar. North Korea had something like four hundred of these planes, which they used for special operations. Kawai started calculating the distance from their main airbases to Fukuoka, avoiding South Korean airspace. At the Antonov An-2’s cruising speed, it would take between two and two and a half hours for them to arrive. If the planes had taken off before the guerrillas announced their demands, they could be there within two hours.
Kawai looked at his watch. It was 9:17 p.m. At the round table, Hida and Sakuragawa were bickering. “Whose responsibility will it be if the guerrillas retaliate by executing hostages?” demanded Sakuragawa, to which Hida shot back: “It’s our duty to consider every means possible!” A call came from the Chief Cabinet Secretary saying that it would take too long to get to the helipad from Osaka Station, so he was coming by bullet train. Yoshizaki informed Yamagiwa that he should be able to talk to the US deputy secretary of state in about three hours’ time. Yonashiro was offering the use of one of the SDF’s large transport helicopters to transfer the SAT unit from Osaka. Tsuboi expressed gratitude for the offer but told him it wouldn’t be necessary: the Osaka police would soon have all their own helicopters available. Katsurayama was working on how to coordinate the Fukuoka prefectural police, the SAT unit, and other prefectural police forces. Suddenly laughter was heard at the door to the room. A Cabinet member had at last arrived. It was Nomiyama, Minister for the Environment, dressed in a morning suit, having apparently come from a wedding party in his constituency. The relief at a minister finally turning up was palpable, and there was another round of laughter when he quipped, “Are there any movies where the hero fights terrorists in tails?” Nomiyama had been a founding member of Japan Green after working for a major trading company. “Thank you for holding the fort,” he said, turning to Yamagiwa and shaking his hand.
As Nomiyama took his seat at the round table, there were cries of “What the hell is that?” All eyes turned to the TV screens, which now showed a formation of aircraft like migrating birds flying lower than the surrounding buildings, captured by a camera that had been filming onlookers outside the hotel next to Fukuoka Dome.
“What are they?” asked Suzuki.
“Antonov An-2 transport planes,” said Kawai.
The camera zoomed in, filling the screen with a single plane. “Looks like it’s for training or something,” muttered Yonashiro, rising to his feet. They were beautiful, like something out of an old documentary, thought Kawai. There were no identifying marks on them—they must have painted over the stars. The leading plane dropped even lower and prepared for landing. “What’s it doing? There isn’t any airport around there!” cried Yamagiwa. Hida, phone in hand, pointed out that it was the site of the old Gannosu Air Station, with three landing strips for small aircraft running alongside the JR rail tracks, and lit by streetlights in the area. The Antonov An-2s began to land one after another. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight… someone was counting them off. They could already make out about twenty of them on the screen, and still more were coming in.
“How many personnel can each of those things carry?” Suzuki asked, the color draining from his face.
“Ten to fifteen apiece,” Kawai told him. He seemed to remember that Suzuki was from somewhere up north—Fukushima, or was it Akita? Kawai himself was from Tokyo, his wife from Nagano. He was glad he didn’t have any family in Kyushu.
The first plane pulled up at the end of the landing strip, the door opened, and out poured soldiers in camouflage fatigues. All were heavily armed with AK assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades. Once on the ground, the soldiers stayed low, looked around them, and fanned out at speed to cover the planes still coming in to land.
5
DECLARATION OF WAR
April 2, 2011
NOTIFIED BY TELEPHONE to report immediately to Ishihara’s room, Yamada and Mori ran to Building C. It was only two hundred meters or so, but neither of them was much of a runner, and they had to stop twice to catch their breath, as a precaution against passing out. Building C, where Ishihara, Ando, Fukuda, and the forty-something Takei lived, was the same shape and size as their own building, but Ishihara’s room wasn’t like anyone else’s. It had once been a motorcycle shop, run by an old friend of his whom Yamada and Mori had never met. It was about the size of a basketball court—at least ten times the size of the other rooms—and the ceiling was two stories high. But Ishihara had turned it into a communal living room, which he called the “Living” for short. He had sectioned off one corner of the room with a handmade plywood screen and dubbed this triangular space his study. It had a small desk and a rocking chair, where he’d sit to think deep thoughts or pick the guitar or write poetry.
Yamada knocked at the door to the Living, but no one came to open it. They could hear people cheering. “It’s probably open,” Mori said, and he turned the knob. Inside, they found the entire group assembled—a very rare event. They were all watching television.
The TV was a fifty-one-inch plasma-screen model, a discarded relic that Felix had repaired. The floor of the Living was concrete, covered with random patches of linoleum, wooden pallets, and a large carpet where shoes were banned. In the center of the room was a long, flower-patterned sofa and a table. Kaneshiro, Fukuda, Takeguchi, and Shinohara sat side by side on the sofa, with five or six others leaning against it or sitting on its arms. Yamada and Mori slipped out of their shoes and plopped down among the group seated on the carpet. Ishihara had dragged out his rocking chair, a battered specimen that cried out for a shawl-knitting old lady. This chair, along with the sofa, had been reclaimed from a garbage dump and restored by Fukuda, Takeguchi, and Ando, who were good at that sort of thing. Ishihara sat facing the television. To his left were the big bookcases that held his library, and rising behind the bookcases was the long steel stairway that led from this, the first or ground floor, straight up to the third. On the opposite side, next to the entrance, was a large accordion curtain, behind which was the old boiler room, now subdivided and refurbished as a narrow kitchen, a toilet, and a shower. Building C had been a warehouse for furniture and musical instruments and was equipped with an enormous climate-control unit, so it was comfortable in both summer and winter. Building H—where Mori and Yamada stayed, along with Tateno, Hino, and Shinohara—had no air conditioning and only a few small windows, which made it hellishly hot in summer.
When they sat down, no one greeted them or asked what had taken them so long. No one here said things like How you doing? or What’s going on? or Sorry I’m late! or Everything all right? Mori liked this and thought it made life a lot easier, but Yamada missed that sort of small talk. Not that he imagined he’d have any answer for greetings like the ubiquitous “Genki?” In fact, he didn’t really have a clear sense of what being genki, or “in good spirits,” was supposed to mean. On the TV were some guys holding military weapons, and each time one of them was shown in close-up the group cheered. Yamada turned to Sato, next to him, and asked if it was a movie. Sato was one of the Satanists. He had big eyes and a sweet face.
“No,” he said. “It’s real. And it’s live. Those guys are guerrillas from North Korea.”
Yamada and Mori looked at each other. The screen switched briefly to the TV studio, where a news anchor peered into the camera and said, “It’s not clear what the armed guerrillas want!” Okubo said, “What’s this guy, an idiot?”—and several voices replied in the affirmative. Someone shouted, “They want to kill and destroy, that’s what they want!” Mori smiled and murmured, “Real guerrillas. Fantastic!” Yamada wondered how long it had been since he’d last seen Mori smile, then realized he’d never seen him smile. “Where’s this happening?” he asked Sato. “Fukuoka Dome,” Sato said, his big eyes never leaving the screen. The baseball stadium? Yamada secretly loved sports. He’d never actually participated in any, outside of phys-ed classes in school, but he liked to watch people run and jump and throw or kick balls around. He didn’t like Fukuoka Dome, however. He was creeped out by Warm Hands Plaza, with its ghastly bronze replicas of the outstretched hands of Michael Jackson and other famous people, and he was even more creeped out by the official Hawks cheering section, who all wore matching white tunics. He’d also once had a very unpleasant experience at the food court in the shopping mall next to the Dome. He’d ordered pork-bone ramen at a noodle place there before noticing that all the other customers had discount coupons that entitled them to a free plate of gyoza dumplings. The man at the next table told him the coupons were being handed out at the entrance to the food court. Yamada had only eaten half his ramen, and since he hadn’t paid yet he figured he still had time and went to get one of the coupons. When he returned, he found that his unfinished bowl of noodles had been taken away. He wanted to burn down the shop and watch the guilty waitress blaze from hairdo to pubes, but he had no lighter and no gasoline. Worse, the waitress was a sexy-looking thing, if a bit chubby, so he was unable even to speak to her and left the shop with tears of rage welling up. Yamada hoped the guerrillas would blow Fukuoka Dome to smithereens.
Matsuyama pointed at the TV and said, “Who are the people wearing those ridiculous outfits?”
Yamada was able to answer that. The Hawks cheering section were making their way up the aisle toward a pair of guerrillas. Their leader, a man with a long beard, shouted at them through a handheld megaphone: “What the hell?” The anchorman, speaking from the studio, said with some anxiety, “It’s no time to be playing the hero! That’s dangerous!” Fukuda said, “Hero? It’s just some dickhead with a beard!” A security guard tried to stop the cheering section, but their leader pushed him aside with his megaphone and shouted “What the hell?” again. Takei muttered, “Is that all this asshole can say?” The camera now zoomed in on the guerrilla at whom the man was pointing his megaphone. He was holding a pistol, with a machine gun slung over his shoulder. “Check out the muscles on that guy,” said the Satanist Kondo. “Think he’s been working out?”
