From the Fatherland, with Love, page 18
Yamada looked over at Kaneshiro, whose eyes were glued to the screen. Just about everyone else was shouting Kick ass! or Shoot him! or How cool is this? but the aspiring terrorist hadn’t said a word. He looked like a mountain climber surveying the final approach to the summit. Yamada admired Kaneshiro’s combination of intensity and detachment. It called to mind something Shinohara had once said about a certain snake, the black mamba. “It’s the simplest, most amazing creature on the planet,” Shinohara had told him, his eyes shining. “Its neurotoxin is ten times as powerful as the king cobra’s, and it’ll attack anything that comes within six meters—elephants, lions, rhinos, whatever. Most of the poisonous reptiles have a special electric signal in their brains that triggers the attack mode, but black mambas are always in attack mode—there’s no off switch. That’s why they look so miserable when they don’t have anything to strike at.” Hearing this, Yamada had imagined a snake with eyes like Kaneshiro’s.
The guerrilla pointed his pistol at the man and said something. He was too far away from any microphones to be audible, but Mori translated. Mori had gone through a long period, after his brother killed their parents and botched his own suicide, when he didn’t speak and refused to hear. During that time, he got in the habit of reading people’s lips instead of listening to their voices. Stop! If you come any closer, I’ll shoot. He held his hand like a pistol as he transmitted the words, then lowered it and smiled bashfully. The five Satanists shouted at the TV in near unison: “Shoot him!” Felix asked why the cheerleaders were dressed like “gay bikers.” Having grown up in South America, he wasn’t familiar with much of Japanese pop culture. The question was aimed at Matsuyama, next to him, but Matsuyama had joined the Shoot him! chorus. Tateno, the new kid, answered instead, saying, “People like that, they just get off on dressing alike.”
When Yamada was in sixth grade, his father had lost his job and decided to take up farming. The family moved to a mountain village in Fukushima Prefecture, a place where wild monkeys greatly outnumbered the people. A group dance called the Soran-odori was a big deal with all the villagers, and everyone was supposed to join in. Yamada had hated doing it, and he’d been chewed out viciously when he refused to take part. The Soran dancers had headbands too, and long, billowy tunics like something the ancient shaman queen Himiko might have worn. He felt sick just thinking about it again.
From the TV speakers there suddenly came a sound like someone opening a well-shaken can of soda. A puff of smoke issued from the top row of seats on the first-base line. Takei leaped to his feet and shouted “RPG! RPG!”—a throwback to his guerrilla training in Yemen. The rocket spat short orange flames behind it and left a white vapor trail as it raced in an almost perfectly straight line toward the back screen in centerfield. It was beautiful, Yamada thought—a home-run ball for the ages. And then the right half of the enormous electronic scoreboard exploded with a thunderous roar and the brittle, crackling sound of glass shattering into a billion pieces. Sparks flew out in every direction, like luminous butterflies bursting from their cocoons. The crowd seemed to have frozen solid. Even the anchorman was speechless. A stunned silence reigned briefly in the Living as well. Yamada sat there with his mouth hanging open, astonished at the RPG’s destructive power. Mori too looked stunned, like an owl caught in the beam of a flashlight.
After launching the rocket, the guerrillas had complete control over Fukuoka Dome. The spectators sat in their seats as still as mannequins. There were no more announcements over the PA system, and the entire stadium was bizarrely quiet. This made a deep impression on Yamada: there was a certain strange power in watching thirty thousand people sit in absolute silence. It was especially satisfying to see the cheering section, in their stupid costumes, looking utterly defeated. Everyone in Ishihara’s living room was pumped. Tateno was bobbing his head affirmatively, and the five Satanists were beaming like a boys’ choir about to break into song. Takeguchi and Toyohara had actual tears of joy in their eyes. Felix was pumping both fists, Matsuyama was all dimples, and Okubo leaned back and gazed heavenward, as if thanking God for this gift. Hino, a soft-spoken kid from Building H, was pretending to hold an RPG on his shoulder and quietly imitating the sound the rocket had made: Pashoop! Pashoop! Shinohara, as shiny-eyed as one of his frogs, was slapping Tateno on the back. All of them were exhilarated to see a crowd of that size subdued by just a handful of people, to see power stripped from the same general public that had treated them like dirt all their lives.
After some time, when nothing further happened, the TV broadcast switched back to the studio. A military analyst and a university professor, an expert on North Korea, had joined the anchorman to speculate on the guerrillas’ intentions. “They describe themselves as a rebel army faction opposed to the Kim regime, but it seems doubtful,” the professor was saying. He explained that the influence of the Party permeated every nook and cranny of the North Korean military. Mutual surveillance was the norm at all levels, so that even though tiny buds of resistance might appear now and then, they had very little chance of ever blossoming. The anchor asked how the North Koreans could have infiltrated Fukuoka. “We’ve heard so many news reports about suspicious vessels,” the military analyst said, “that we tend to think that none of North Korea’s armed spy ships ever escape our notice, but it’s impossible for our surveillance planes to keep an eye on all the seas around Japan.” He pointed to a map that had been set up in the studio. “We have an incredible number of fishing vessels operating in the waters around Kyushu, especially at this time of year, and it would be easy to disguise a North Korean spy boat as one of them. As you know, our defense budget has been slashed each of the last several years. The SDF have no surveillance satellites of their own and have to rely on the Americans for much of their intelligence. But it isn’t possible to monitor every vessel that leaves every port on both the east and west coasts of North Korea. Most of the spy boats spotted thus far have been identified by reconnaissance flights of the P-3C Orion surveillance aircraft, but that’s probably something like two or three boats for every fifty that are out there. The old cliché about looking for needles in a haystack just about sums it up.”
On a different channel, displayed in a small rectangular inset in the corner of the screen, they were still showing Fukuoka Dome. Kaneshiro used the remote to switch over. Inside the Dome, a sea of spectators sat there staring straight ahead, but the guerrillas were no longer visible anywhere. Perhaps those in the broadcasting booth, where there would be monitors, had ordered the others to move to locations where the cameras wouldn’t pick them up. The spectators sat in their seats like children being punished. No one was whispering to the person next to them, and no one tried to stand up. A mother stopped her child rustling a paper bag full of sweets. The white-clad cheering section looked as if they’d been sentenced to mass execution. They sat slumped over, feet together, hands on knees.
A little while ago, reporters in the press box above the infield seats had been furiously typing copy on their laptops, but they had stopped abruptly when the rocket was fired and were now just sitting quietly like everyone else. Had the guerrillas told them to cease all communications, or was it simply that nothing was happening? The players for the Hawks and the Marines were still in their respective dugouts, along with the coaches and batboys and umpires. They presumably could have left the stadium through the locker-room exits, unless guerrillas were stationed there too.
A soft-drink vendor was sitting on the steps of one of the aisles, his tray beside him. The camera zoomed in on the empty paper cups, then the cylindrical drink dispenser, the nozzle of which was dripping slowly. The stadium security guards sat together primly in a row of folding seats, facing the field. They weren’t using their walkie-talkies now. On one of the seats were piled all their handsets and riot batons. Had they elected to disarm themselves? It seemed unlikely that the guerrillas would go to the trouble of ordering them to lay down their meager weapons and equipment; they themselves must have decided to surrender their only means of communication and self-defense. “It would appear that there are people who need to go to the restroom but can’t,” a reporter said in an anguished tone of voice, implying that this proved how heartless the terrorists were. But since the rocket launching, the guerrillas hadn’t made any public announcements over the PA, which meant they hadn’t said that no one could go to the restroom, any more than they’d told the security guards to lay down their batons. Yamada wondered if the spectators hadn’t just assumed that they were to stay where they were and make no sudden movements. Earlier, one of the guerrillas had been speaking Japanese. Why didn’t people just raise their hands and ask if they could use the toilet? Not to ask and to wet yourself, then blame the nasty guerrillas, seemed ludicrous.
Yamada wondered what he would do if he were in that position. There was no way you could stand up to pistols and machine guns, and he would hate to get shot, so he’d never have done what the bearded guy did. That was sheer lunacy. But what if he couldn’t hold his pee any longer? To pee in your pants in front of thirty thousand people—not to mention on TV—would be too humiliating. He’d probably raise a white handkerchief, the international sign of surrender, and ask if he could use the restroom. Of course, he probably wouldn’t actually have a white handkerchief, but maybe he could borrow one from somebody. In any case, he’d definitely do everything he could to keep from pissing his pants. He might also look for a chance to escape. One thing he wouldn’t do was just sit there like a Zen monk, the way all those people in the Dome were doing.
No one in the Ishihara group would have marched toward people who had guns, yelling at them through megaphones, but neither were any of them the sort who would suddenly curl up like condemned prisoners. They’d been treated since earliest childhood the way these spectators in the Dome were being treated now, and they were used to dealing with it. They’d been under constraint and pressure from the moment they first became aware of their surroundings, threatened with punishment if they didn’t follow orders. And they’d had it engraved on their minds, with the edged tools of fear and pain, that they were powerless. Everyone in this world was a hostage to some form of violence; it was just that most people never realized it. That’s why when the people in the Dome suddenly found themselves at the mercy of armed guerrillas and face to face with the raw reality of power, they became so disoriented that their brains ceased to function properly. You wouldn’t challenge a gun with a megaphone if you were capable of thinking, but neither would you slump in your seat afterwards like someone under arrest.
The cameras switched to a view outside the Dome, where rubberneckers had begun to congregate. Guests from the hotel next door, taxi and truck drivers, and groups of cyclists and pedestrians had gathered on the street and in the parking lot to gape at the stadium. Many were taking photos or talking on mobile phones. Most had begun their vigil after seeing the rocket explode on TV, and since nothing more had happened they appeared to be getting bored. Neither the police nor the fire department had shown up, but the crowd nonetheless kept its distance. The Dome and the high-rise hotel were aligned parallel to the coastline. On the opposite side of the Dome was the big shopping mall, and across its vast parking lot was the Kyushu Medical Center. It seemed that most of the shops in the mall were closed. Few cars were plying the nearby streets, and on TV the anchor said that traffic on Fukushima Expressway Route 1 and other main arteries in the area was being strictly regulated. “Let’s go down there and cheer them on,” Okubo said, and the five Satanists all expressed approval of the idea. Felix suggested they make a banner saying: “A hearty welcome to our friends from North Korea! Congratulations on a successful terrorist operation!” and Fukuda, Hino, and a few others literally applauded.
Kaneshiro was studying Ishihara’s face. “What do you think, Ishihara-san?” he said. “Should we try to help the guerrillas, join up with them?” When Ishihara replied “Do as you please,” the entire group cheered. Yamada too thrust both fists in the air, thrilled to think that the battle had begun at last. He’d once read somewhere that North Korean soldiers were unrivaled when it came to combat. If the Ishihara group could join them as a support force, they could help keep the thirty thousand sheeple in Fukuoka Dome under control. Neither Yamada nor Mori had ever been in a fight in their lives, but they shared an abnormally high tolerance for pain. The tattooing, for example, hadn’t hurt in the least, and Mori had once stepped on a nail that became embedded in his foot, but didn’t even notice until one of the attendants at the institution heard an odd clicking sound, discovered the nail, and pulled it out with a pair of pliers. Yamada had had similar experiences and learned from a doctor that this sort of thing wasn’t unusual in survivors of severe trauma. From the time Kaneshiro had mentioned assisting the guerrillas, Mori had been hyperventilating, making an owl-like Phoo! Phoo! sound and showing his oddly round, puckered dimples in a big smile. Seeing Mori like this made Yamada happy, and he exposed his rabbit-like front teeth in a grin of his own. It would be fun to ally themselves with the guerrillas, to be on the winning side for once. Like leaping on the back of an anesthetized whale or elephant, beating your chest, and howling.
“We’ll need to take weapons, right?” Takei said, and Kaneshiro, rising to his feet, said that of course they would. Takei had a habit of speaking and gesturing like the host of a variety show. He clapped his palms together and said, “All right! We’ll have to dig what we need out of storage. Probably best to take weapons we’ll be able to exchange with the North Koreans. The Browning and the Uzi might prove valuable. And the Vz 61 Scorpion, of course—it’s good for close range, and pretty much the last word in urban terror. Will we need the AKs? Trouble is, it’s difficult to choose our weapons until we know whether the Self-Defense Force is going to show up, and in what sort of numbers.”
“Shouldn’t we have explosives too?” Takeguchi suggested, and Fukuda seconded the motion. These two were bomb-making specialists. Takeguchi had been indirectly inspired to start making bombs by his father, who in protest against getting fired from his job had strapped dynamite to his waist, burst into the offices of his old company, and succeeded only in blowing himself to bits. Takeguchi wasn’t capable of respecting a man who’d died that way, but he wasn’t capable of looking down on his own father either. What he’d decided after much deliberation was that it wasn’t about the old man being bright or dim, admirable or laughable, winner or loser, but that he’d simply lacked sufficient knowledge about explosives. From the age of ten, Takeguchi had begun making bombs out of everyday household materials. On the Internet it was easy to find recipes for homemade bombs, but even with the simplest of recipes the actual construction was difficult. You needed a delicate touch, steady nerves, concentration, and a solid grasp of chemistry. Bomb-making basically came down to inducing the crystallization of an oxidizing agent and a combustible agent by mixing them together. The mixing and drying procedures were the hard part.
Takeguchi had made his first bomb at the age of ten years and seven months. There wasn’t much to it—he merely crammed dry ice and nails into a small energy-drink bottle and replaced the cap—but it was a spectacular success. He later made grenades with aluminum powder he obtained by shaving down one-yen coins, bazooka bombs with homemade black gunpowder and PVC pipes, and simple incendiary bombs containing a mixture of tar and sawdust.
In time, Takeguchi learned that all combustion, all explosions, depended upon the molecular arrangements of the materials used. The high explosive trinitrotoluene, or TNT, was an organic compound composed of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen, and there were countless other compounds that contained these four elements. The fearsome destructive power resulted from a nitro group and a methyl group bonding uniformly to a ring of carbon and hydrogen; explosions happened when an unstable material attempted to stabilize itself all at once through the exchange of protons and electrons. An explosion wasn’t a material throwing itself apart, it was a massive amount of energy released in a specific chemical resolution.
Takeguchi liked the concept of an extremely unstable material trying to stabilize itself. He became more and more fascinated with bombs, and at thirteen he used iron oxide and aluminum powder to create an incendiary grenade, with which he burned down one wing of his school. Several students failed to escape in time and died in the fire. He was sent to a reformatory, and there he met Fukuda, who later introduced him to the Ishihara group. Fukuda’s parents were members of a cult that had committed large-scale terrorist attacks. He’d been moved from one school to another, but it was in middle school that he got to know about both explosives and morality. He came to the conclusion that sex was what was messing up the world, and that the most evil manifestation of sex was commercial prostitution. At the age of fifteen he used a simple bomb he’d made out of chloric acid and sugar to blow up a newly opened “fashion & health” massage parlor in Akihabara.
Takeguchi made full use of the reformatory library to deepen his knowledge of chemistry and electricity. After Takei joined the Ishihara group, they were able to obtain high explosives and electric detonators, and their bombs took a great leap forward in terms of precision and size. From talking with these two, Yamada had learned that we live our daily lives surrounded by materials that are potential bomb components. Not only had they made bombs from sugar and aluminum but detergents, yarn, cow shit, egg whites, and even blood.
