Seventeen

by Hideo Yokoyama

  Yuuki stood frozen by the door. But then it was as if a fire had been lit, and he was moving again.

  We’ve got to get to that crash site.

  What he felt wasn’t a huge rush of flames, more a spark running along a fuse wire toward something that threatened eventually to explode.

  But it still wasn’t clear where to go. Was it Gunma? Nagano? Saitama? Where had that plane come down?

  “Yuuki!”

  He turned at the sound of his name. Editor in chief Kasuya was heading in his direction.

  He had a bad feeling. How many different motives were concealed behind those eyes?

  “You take this one.”

  There was no question of refusal. This was an order.

  “JAL crash desk chief. You’re in charge of seeing this story through to the end.”

  Yuuki stiffened.

  He’d been put in charge of the story. And that meant telling other people what to do.

  The Tsuitate rock face had gone from his mind. Ryota Mochizuki’s nervous face had also been banished. But, for some reason, he could still hear Anzai’s words.

  “There’s a fine if you back out.”

  5

  War had broken out in the newsroom.

  Someone had written in large letters on the blackboard: “JAL desk chief: Yuuki.”

  All the empty desks in the central island had been given over to reporters assigned to the story. Newly designated subeditor Nozawa slammed the Glico Morinaga file down on his desk, complaining bitterly that he “can’t work like this.”

  Everyone was too busy to pay Nozawa any attention. Between eight and nine that evening, Yuuki had been leading the troops. From the speaker in the wall, fragments of information about the crash came raining down on him. There were raised voices coming at him from every direction. He felt battered from all sides, but he was eventually able to cobble together all the bits and pieces into what was known for certain.

  The vanished plane was Japan Airlines Flight 123, a jumbo jet flying from Haneda Airport in Tokyo to the city of Osaka. It was an American-made Boeing 747S with 15 crew and 509 passengers on board. Most of the passengers were either on business trips or on their way to spend the Obon summer holidays with family, and the plane had been completely full.

  Flight 123 took off from Haneda at 6:12 p.m. Around twenty minutes later, at 6:31 p.m., and approximately fifty-five kilometers west of Izu Oshima island, the aircraft sent out a distress signal. Another ten minutes later, at 6:41 p.m., Haneda Airport’s Japan Airlines Operation Center received a radio broadcast from the pilot: “Rear right-side door damaged. Loss of pressure in passenger cabin; initiating emergency descent.” After that, two broadcasts of the phrase “out of control” before all communication with Flight 123 was lost.

  At 6:54 p.m., the aircraft disappeared off the radars of both the Ministry of Transport’s Tokyo Airports Bureau and the Yokota Air Base. It was concluded that the plane must have crashed. Immediately afterward, a resident of the village of Kawakami, in the Minamisaku District of Nagano Prefecture, contacted the police to tell them that a low-flying aircraft coming from the direction of Saitama had just crashed into the mountains on the border of Gunma and Nagano, and that bright red flames and black smoke could be seen rising from the southern part of Budotoge Ridge.

  At 7:13 p.m., a U.S. military C-130 transport plane spotted a burning aircraft 54.4 kilometers west-northwest of Yokota Air Base. At 7:30 p.m., an RF-4 reconnaissance plane out of Hyakuri Air Base, belonging to the Japan Air Self-Defense Forces, confirmed the report. The crash site was a mountainous region between fifteen hundred and two thousand meters above sea level.

  Yuuki scowled at the wall clock. It was exactly 9:30 now. Waving away five or six staff members who were leaning over his desk, Yuuki reached for the phone and paged Sayama. He should be at the Second Security Division of the prefectural police headquarters. Around eight that evening, an incident room devoted to the “missing JAL aircraft” had been set up.

  Sayama called back right away.

  “So which is it?”

  Yuuki’s question was blunt. He meant, was the crash site in Gunma or Nagano Prefecture? That was the biggest issue as far as the North Kanto Times was concerned. If it was Gunma, they would have to treat it as “our crash.” The company would pour all its resources into the coverage.

  “They’re not sure yet. At the moment they think it’s likely to be Nagano, but they haven’t dismissed the possibility of us or Saitama.”

  Yuuki pressed the palm of his hand over his other ear. Right above him, someone from the copy team was having a loud argument with a guy from local news. And the Kyodo News chime must be broken, because it was ringing nonstop.

  Yuuki was forced to raise his voice, too.

  “How come they don’t know? Both the U.S. military and the Self-Defense Forces released information about direction and distance.”

  “That’s just it. At Yokota, they use this thing called tactical air navigation to measure the distances. Seems it’s fairly rough in its estimates. Could be several kilometers off, apparently.”

  Yuuki let out a groan. He’d assumed that establishing the exact location of the crash would be a simple matter, but now it looked as if it was going to drag on for ages. It’d affect the deadline of the paper going to press.

  “What are the police doing?”

  “They’re heading off to Budotoge Ridge in droves. The incident room here has been renamed the Plane Crash Emergency Task Force. And they’re also setting up a local incident room tonight, at the village office in Uenomura.”

  Budotoge Ridge was right on the Gunma-Nagano border. Yuuki had already put together a team of four, plus a photographer, from the press club at police headquarters, added one member from each of the newspaper’s branch offices in Takasaki and Fujioka, and dispatched them to the crash site. Anzai had always told him that for a person with no experience or knowledge to attempt to climb a mountain in the dark was tantamount to suicide. The six reporters and the photographer were to wait in their vehicles. Under no circumstances were they to set foot on the mountain. However, if the prefectural police were setting up a local incident room, it’d be wise to have them on standby there, where there were both telephones and information to be had. As for the Uenomura village office in the Tano District, Yuuki thought, that would serve as the NKT’s news-gathering front line.

  Just then Sayama’s voice suddenly became excited.

  “Yuuki-san, please let me go to the crash site, too.”

  “If you go, who’s going to cover police headquarters?”

  “I can ask the guy who covers the prefectural office business. Just let me go. Please.”

  “We still don’t know if it’s Gunma or not—”

  Sayama went on the offensive.

  “Yuuki-san! You know that’s got nothing to do with it. The world’s largest-ever plane crash has just happened right on our doorstep. It doesn’t matter whether it’s us or Nagano—reporters still need to be there.”

  Yuuki instructed him to be patient a while longer and hung up the phone.

  He felt a little envious. To be there at the site of the world’s biggest crash. Sayama was going to get that chance.

  He looked around at the heaving newsroom and noticed something for the first time: there were about three times as many people as usual. The noise was about the level of a rock concert, but all the older men—and by “older,” he meant those of his age or over—didn’t have the same energy or excitement about them as the younger ones. Even if they were trying to hide it, they weren’t succeeding. They were faced with the biggest accident this region had ever seen, but, somehow, they weren’t on board; they wore expressions of utter indifference—as if it were someone else’s problem. Even Kishi at the next desk was acting this way. And Nozawa’s sulking wasn’t just because he’d been made subeditor and he’d have to now take orders from Yuuki.

  Yuuki understood because, in a way, he felt the same. The most famous
incidents to date in Gunma Prefecture were the case of the serial killer Kiyoshi Okubo and the Japanese Red Army siege at Mount Asama, both back in the early seventies. Calling them “big stories” didn’t come close to describing how important they were. For the local news reporters, these were unique incidents. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and nothing like it would ever happen again. In the Okubo case, eight women had been raped and murdered, then buried on Mount Haruna. The Red Army incident was even more gruesome. First, at their hideout on Mount Haruna, Red Army members had tortured and killed twelve of their comrades, then twenty-four-hour television coverage of the ensuing siege at a mountain lodge on the lower slopes of Mount Asama had shaken the whole country. The cases had happened in successive years, 1971 and 1972, meaning that reporters from that era had experienced two once-in-a-lifetime cases in quick succession.

  They referred to it as the “Okubo/Red Army” period. Many of the reporters from those cases had seen their professional lives completely changed by the experience. To put it bluntly, their heads swelled. Okubo/Red Army had been their meal ticket for the past thirteen years. They’d drunk expensive sake to the tale of Kiyoshi Okubo, stunned junior reporters into silence with their tales of the exploits of the Red Army, behaved with the arrogance of people who’d gone to battle with something huge and emerged the victors.

  By sheer fluke, these reporters had scored themselves career gold medals. And despite failing to set any records, they would still be considered winners for the rest of their lives. The two with the worst superiority complexes were managing editor Oimura and chief local news editor Todoroki, who back then had been lead and number-two reporter at police headquarters, respectively. Their junior staff had consisted of Yuuki, Kishi, and Nozawa, all of whom had spent time at the crime scenes. To this day, all these men still relished the good fortune that had allowed them to set foot on such sacred ground.

  Tonight, that golden age had come to an abrupt end. The biggest single aircraft disaster in history … In a matter of an instant, their medals’ gold had lost its sheen. Or rather, now there was a medal that threatened to gleam even more brightly than gold.

  Although there was a tinge of disappointment, it was mostly relief that Yuuki was feeling. It was as if he had been waiting for this day for the past thirteen years. Somewhere deep inside, he was ashamed of the lifestyle he’d been leading, exploiting his past Okubo/Red Army glories.

  Kasuya would be having mixed feelings right about now. One reason he had rushed to put Yuuki in charge was strategic: he was laying the groundwork for Yuuki’s probable transfer next spring. But there was another one. During Okubo/Red Army, Kasuya had been chief local news editor and had to remain in the office, missing out on going to the crime scenes. He’d had his hands full with Oimura and Todoroki, as they became ever more arrogant, so doubtless he was making sure not to repeat this mistake. He was afraid that if they got this case, too, they’d be even more out of control. And so he’d attached the chain to Yuuki’s neck—or that was how Yuuki saw it.

  It was all about the crash site.

  Yuuki would be giving orders and directions, but he would not actually be working at the scene. A true dyed-in-the-wool reporter couldn’t boast about working at a scene unless he’d personally experienced it.

  Anzai’s face flashed into his mind. For him, there was no other site besides Tsuitate. Yuuki hadn’t contacted him, so he could only assume he’d taken the train by himself. Yuuki estimated that he would have reached Doai Station long ago. Humming the theme song from the anime version of Ashita no Joe, he was no doubt ambling his way to the Climbing Information Center.

  He suddenly wished Anzai were here. He didn’t mean to repeat what Sayama had just said, but even if the crash site turned out to be on the Nagano side, the North Kanto Times was based just over the mountain ridge in the neighboring prefecture. Tomorrow, as soon as the sun rose, he was going to have to send several reporters up the mountain. The crash site was at a similar elevation to the Tanigawa mountain range. If it was a mountain that people didn’t usually climb, there wouldn’t be any climbing courses marked out. And he was sending a group of reporters who had no experience of mountains beyond a bit of hiking. He shuddered to think of it. But if Anzai were to lead them, the danger would be considerably less. If every media company was racing to get to the scene of the accident first, then Anzai would be a valuable asset.

  Yuuki decided he had nothing to lose by calling Anzai’s home phone, just in case. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Anzai had been disappointed at being stood up by his friend and had gone home.

  “Hello, this is Anzai.”

  It was the voice of Anzai’s wife, Sayuri. He’d been dragged into that house by Anzai so many times in the past that he knew Sayuri better than any other of his colleagues’ wives.

  “This is Yuuki. I’m sorry to be calling so late.”

  “Oh, Yuuki-san.”

  In her unassuming way, Sayuri sounded pleased to hear from him.

  “Is he home?”

  “What? I thought you were going up to the mountains tonight.”

  Yuuki was disappointed. Feeling bad about worrying Sayuri, he explained that he’d been unable to go because of the plane crash. Sayuri sounded surprised, but then soon made the connection between Yuuki’s explanation and the TV screen before her. After asking her to get Anzai to contact him the minute he got back, Yuuki hung up.

  Yuuki opened his pocket diary. He hadn’t been able to get hold of Anzai, but he could do the next best thing—put together his own support team. There was still the hiking club. The group may have been all about having fun, but they weren’t complete amateurs. Several of the members also dabbled in rock climbing. He could use them. He set about making a list of five candidates and immediately called the strongest climber of the group, Miyata in Advertising.

  Miyata answered the phone right away and was instantly enthusiastic. It sounded as if he was ready to run right over. Yuuki called the other four and asked them to make any necessary preparations and be on standby.

  As Yuuki replaced the receiver, Kishi, at the next desk, frowned at him.

  “You’re using the hiking club guys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But they’re from other departments.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. If our reporters get lost or injured in the mountains, they won’t be covering anything.”

  “Hadn’t you better check with management, just in case?”

  “Forget about it. It’s been over a year now and General Affairs still can’t make up their minds whether to get wireless transmitters.”

  Yuuki couldn’t help the cynicism in his tone. Up in the mountains, a lack of communication could be fatal. The North Kanto Times reporters were going to climb a mountain and put together a report on the crash, then it wouldn’t be until the whole party had gotten down again that they’d be able to get their article to the newspaper. And if they met with some kind of accident on the way, they wouldn’t even be able to achieve that much.

  Yuuki snorted irritably. One of the reasons the introduction of the transmitters was dragging on so long was because nothing like that had been used in the Okubo/Red Army days. Back then the reporters had run around the mountains in below-freezing temperatures, jumping on bicycles and cycling for miles to get to the nearest telephone. That was what it meant to be a newspaper reporter—nothing easy about it, no time to think about being comfortable. This over-the-top idealism frequently got in the way of the modernization of the North Kanto Times.

  Yuuki knew that he was one of these hardened “war criminals.” He often felt guilty about it.

  A shout went up from the team working on the passenger list.

  “Look! I’ve found one! This guy!”

  Five employees were working through the official manifest they’d got from Japan Airlines, trying to find anyone with a connection to Gunma Prefecture.

  There was one—the father of one of the baseball play
ers from Nodai Niko High School. He’d boarded Flight 123 to watch his son play his second-round match in the Koshien baseball tournament. He must have been feeling excited and proud …

  There was a brief moment of silence, and then everyone was shouting at once.

  “Photo and interview, ASAP!”

  “The game’s in Osaka. Call up the Osaka Koshien Committee!”

  “Redo of the local news pages!”

  The hands on the clock showed it was after 11:00 p.m.

  It was agreed the deadline should be put back an hour, but that still meant they had less than two hours. The copy team began to work on the front page. The top headline would be JAL JUMBO IN FIERY CRASH. The subhead would be NO HOPE FOR 524 ON BOARD? But they still didn’t have confirmation of the crash site.

  “You don’t know yet?” yelled Oimura, who had gone into full-on Firecracker mode. It sounded as if he blamed Yuuki for the lack of information.

  “We’re going to be down to the wire on this one. Please let Production know.”

  The phone rang, breaking up the confrontation. It was Sayama. His voice was brimming with excitement.

  “Looks like it’s our crash site.”

  Yuuki shuddered. He paused before asking, “What’s your source?”

  “The emergency task force just heard an eyewitness report. There was white smoke coming off Budotoge Ridge, apparently from the Gunma side. Nagano and Saitama police radio are reporting the same thing.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Yuuki put Sayama on hold and stood up, cupping one hand around his mouth to amplify his voice.

  “Likely to be Gunma!”

  Fifty heads turned to look at Yuuki, and a split second later the same number of voices reverberated loudly through the newsroom.

  Yuuki put the receiver back to his ear, only to have Sayama’s eager voice pierce his eardrum.

  “So we’re good, then? Let me go to the site.”

  Yuuki was at a loss for words. Sayama was a hunting dog that had caught the scent of its prey and was pawing impatiently at the ground. Yuuki could barely keep hold of his collar.