Seventeen

by Hideo Yokoyama

  No inspection ordered for SR-type 747 aircraft

  JAL administration put profit above safety

  Pilots’ working hours excessive

  Loss of pressurization robs ability to think

  Voice and flight recorders to be made public; Upper House committee passes resolution

  Yuuki took a break and checked the clock. It was almost nine. Kishi and Nozawa had already gone home, and Yuuki was alone at the island of desks. He reached both arms high into the air and stretched, turning his head from side to side at the same time.

  He went back to editing, but it was as if he could feel it through his skin—something had changed in the atmosphere of the newsroom. The excitement had faded and been replaced by a sense of calm, of composure. The bustle and the noise were still there, but the fervor, the seething frenzy under the surface, was gone. The dry, prickly feeling that until yesterday had hung in the air had been somehow dampened down. One way to put it would be that it was a “before the JAL crash” atmosphere.

  They were over the peak. The phrase rattled around in Yuuki’s brain.

  Tomorrow’s edition, for August 18, which was put together today, the seventeenth, was almost done. The crash had happened the night of the twelfth. He counted on his fingers … today they were making their sixth “JAL crash page.” Tomorrow it would be a week, one business cycle. Perhaps this was causing each person to stop and think.

  Last night, the paper’s failure to run with the bulkhead story had damaged morale, and everyone’s enthusiasm for crash-related news had cooled a little. The revelation of the cause of the crash was a huge scoop to the mass media. Having let that slip through their fingers, they were not likely to get their hands on a scoop of that magnitude for a good while. If they did, it would probably be about the police’s legal action. The search of the Japan Airlines premises. Arrest of the responsible parties. Or the decision to send them to trial. They could be the first to pry out the details and get one over on the other papers. But this wasn’t going to be tomorrow’s article—or even the day after tomorrow’s. Just as Detective Shimagawa had made clear, they were going to have to wait another three years for those stories.

  It had been like living in a dream—the world’s biggest air disaster.

  The newsroom had been hypnotized by it all, and chaos had ensued. They’d spent the whole of that first night without sleep, waiting to hear the location of the crash site. They’d rejoiced when they heard there were survivors. They had been worked up into a state of fevered anticipation over the bulkhead theory, then plunged into despair when they couldn’t run it. And now, tonight, the whole newsroom had shed tears over the victims’ final letters to their loved ones, bringing a kind of calm to the turmoil. Yuuki had felt a sense of peace returning to him, too.

  He was still going to make sure he wrote detailed, informative articles. His mind was clear and unwavering. Now that JAL crash fever was cooling down, Yuuki had no idea how much longer the post of JAL crash desk chief would exist. There was very little chance that, after their altercation that morning, Oimura would quietly back off. But right until the moment he was relieved of his command, he was not going to deviate from his plan. He was convinced this was his duty.

  It turned ten o’clock. Yuuki had finished all his editing and picked up the phone. He paged Hanazawa again, and then the man who had come up with the bulkhead story, Tamaki. Neither called back.

  Next, he tried the police press club room. Right away, as if he’d been expecting the call, Sayama picked up.

  “I’ve got two requests for you. First, please let Hanazawa know he’s got nothing to worry about.”

  “About what?” Sayama asked, feigning ignorance.

  “I know he’s right there with you. Tell him he doesn’t need to worry about what happened on the mountain.”

  “… Okay.”

  “Second, another message for Hanazawa. Tell him that, although I said I was going to climb Mount Osutaka tomorrow, I’m not going to after all.”

  “Really? So when are you going to come?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a pause as Sayama considered this answer.

  “So, you’re not postponing, you’re canceling. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s right. I think your eyes should be enough.”

  Confident that he’d expressed his feelings clearly, Yuuki got ready to hang up, but Sayama hastily stopped him.

  “Just a minute, please. I’m putting Hanazawa on the line.”

  The line was quiet for a few moments, long enough for Yuuki to hear that the police were announcing the names of the most recently identified victims. Ever since the crash, no one in the press club had had a moment of sleep.

  “This is Hanazawa.”

  He sounded depressed.

  “Like I just told Sayama, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Are you planning to climb again tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I’m taking Wajima with me.”

  Wajima. Yuuki felt relieved at the mention of the timid reporter’s name.

  Yuuki replaced the receiver, but then something occurred to him. He grabbed it again, checking the phone list of branch offices as he dialed.

  “Hello. North Kanto Times, Maebashi branch.”

  “This is Yuuki. Could you pour me a coffee?”

  “You idiot!” replied Chizuko, laughing. It felt like the first time he had ever heard her natural speaking voice.

  “Why don’t you get Sayama to show you how he writes articles?”

  She called him an idiot one more time and hung up.

  It was half past eleven. The proofs of the front page were ready.

  “I’m grateful that I got to live such a happy life.”

  There was a hushed silence in the newsroom.

  Could he have written a goodbye letter like this one?

  Yuuki’s thoughts turned to Anzai, lying in his hospital bed. He’d never had the chance to say goodbye to his family before falling asleep. After his operation, he had had a brief moment of consciousness, but all he had said was, “Tell him to go on ahead.” A message for Yuuki to go ahead and climb Tsuitate—or at least that was what Anzai seemed to be saying.

  “Live life to the full.”

  “Grow up to be wise and good.”

  Yuuki pictured Rintaro’s young face.

  Of course, Anzai hadn’t known he was about to die. But Yuuki still wished he had left his son some kind of farewell message. Even just a few words. If he’d managed to do that, how much more reassured Rintaro would have felt.

  43

  A voice echoed from the sky above.

  “Yuuki-saaaan! Can you hear me?”

  “Yes! I can hear you perfectly!”

  “I’ve reached the belay station. You need to unhook your carabiner and start to climb.”

  Yuuki was looking directly upward from Two-Person Terrace. Viewed from here, the first overhang was intimidating. Rintaro had just successfully traversed it. Now it was his turn.

  He grasped the rope as tightly as he could. The other end had disappeared over the top of the overhang. But he wasn’t afraid, because he knew Rintaro was there.

  “I’m going for it!”

  “Stay calm.”

  Using the rope as his guide, Yuuki began to climb toward the left edge, where the overhang began to jut out. There was a slight rift close to the center. He knew that was the weak point. Edging sideways like a crab, he moved cautiously up until he’d reached the underside of the roof. He looked up, uneasy. Nothing but unyielding, dark rock stretched out above him. There must be some way out from under this roof. He was now at the toughest part of Cloud Ridge route number 1. Climbers would call it the crux of the whole climb. It required equipment that looked like a mini-rope-ladder, known as an aider or a stirrup. He needed to hook this aider onto pitons that had been hammered into the rock and left as a climbing aid. This called not only for good technique and ba
lance but also Yuuki was aware that if he didn’t climb quickly and efficiently, the drain on his stamina and his time would have a significant effect on the rest of the climb. It wasn’t even beyond the realm of possibility that, if he messed up too badly, he would end up having to make camp there overnight, hanging from the ledge.

  This was all from stories he’d heard from Rintaro. In preparation for their attempt on Tsuitate, they’d spent hours at the ski resorts practicing with the aider, but today was the first time Yuuki had ever used one to climb an overhang.

  “I’ve reached the underside!”

  “Right, you need to be fast and focused.”

  Yuuki did exactly what Rintaro advised. He attached his aider to the first piton and stepped on it. He felt himself suspended from the roof, buffeted by the wind. The breeze that had felt so pleasant on his cheek had turned into something devilish. He moved up the rope steps, stretched out an arm, and hooked the aider onto the next piton. Again, he climbed the rope ladder to the top. He repeated the same steps over and over, climbing at a steady pace. It was like clambering across the monkey bars in a children’s playground. There were moments when his back was completely parallel to the ground way, way below, and it was hard to keep his balance. He knew that Rintaro, up in the lead, would be using all his concentration to work the rope to support Yuuki’s climb. The route was meandering and, if Yuuki wasn’t careful, there was a danger the rope could stop moving smoothly.

  His assault on the overhang continued for about an hour, but then he found himself at an impasse. The next piton in the rock was too far away for him to reach. He would need to place his foot on the very highest rung in order to reach it with his hand. But if he placed his foot there, he’d be very likely to lose his balance. He couldn’t summon the courage he needed to take that step.

  His chest felt tight and he was as short of breath as if he had just finished a hundred-meter sprint. With the incline at more than ninety degrees, he was losing power fast. He was beginning to experience what Rintaro had explained to him before they’d set out. His feet weren’t on the ground, and therefore they were unable to support his weight. He was forced to rely on his arms for the most part, and they were getting weaker. The tips of his fingers clinging to the aider were going numb.

  He jumped at a loud clang from the rock face below. Something had fallen out of his pocket. He twisted his neck to look and watched a carabiner bouncing merrily away down the rock wall at a speed it had never previously experienced. A chill ran down his spine. He turned his head back. Right in front of him was the thick edge of the overhang. There was no other way to cross it than to place his foot on the top rung of his aider, yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  Fifty-seven. He suddenly became very aware of his own age.

  He called up to his climbing buddy.

  “Hey! Please be ready. I might fall!”

  “Don’t worry. If you slip, I’ll pull you up.”

  Rintaro sounded cheery. Pull him up? Yuuki was sure that would be impossible. But then he heard Rintaro’s voice again.

  “Yuuki-san? You need to be brave and step on that upper rung.”

  Yuuki was struck with admiration. There was no way that Rintaro could see him, but he was able to read the situation completely, including what was troubling him. This was enough to invigorate him. If Anzai had been alive, how proud would he be right now?

  “I climb up to step down.”

  Anzai had wanted to go climbing with his son, that much was certain. But he’d never been able to free himself from the painful place he’d been in since the death of his climbing buddy. Still, he had been determined to climb Tsuitate with Rintaro someday. For that reason, he’d made the decision to “step down” from the NKT. He’d gone to Lonely Hearts that night to change his life, to shed that other version of himself that he’d become. To prepare himself for his fresh assault on Tsuitate.

  Yuuki was going to be Anzai’s witness. Anzai had finally achieved a level of financial stability, but he was still connected to his life as an employee of the North Kanto Times. He’d been ready to sever his connection with the company, and that was why he was going to climb Tsuitate with Yuuki. He’d been planning to return to the life of a rock climber. Please see the person I’m going to become. Be my witness. That was what Anzai had been saying to Yuuki.

  “Tell him to go on ahead.”

  Anzai wanted more than anything to come here to Tsuitate.

  “Yuuki-san?”

  Rintaro was calling him. It was as if Yuuki could see his face. He was worried, but acting as if he weren’t.

  Yuuki smiled. This time, it was Jun’s face he could see. That day, seventeen years ago, when he’d turned around, mistaking his dad for Yumiko. That awkward smile. The first time his dad had suggested they go to the mountains together. He’d been really happy—

  It felt as if the stiffness in his limbs had melted away; his airways opened up and he breathed in new air. There was no other way. If he didn’t step on the upper rung he wouldn’t be able to cross the overhang.

  He recalled the decision he had made seventeen years ago. On the seventh day of the Japan Airlines crash story. The last decision he ever made as JAL crash desk chief. The toughest and most awful decision he’d ever made. The result of which …

  Yuuki shut his eyes. He moved his right leg and stepped on the upper rung of the aider. His body began to tremble. To hell with it! He brought up his left leg, too.

  He snapped open his eyes, stretched his body as far as he could, and reached out for the piton. Five centimeters more …

  Yuuki was going to conquer Tsuitate.

  44

  It was August 18. Yuuki was in the office at 11:00 a.m. There was a reason for being there earlier than usual. The night before, he had called the deputy chief of the company’s Book Publishing Division, a man by the name of Kaizuka, at home, to sound him out about the possibility of putting together a volume about the crash of Flight 123. He’d expected to be refused point-blank, but to his surprise Kaizuka had been enthusiastic about the idea. They were meeting this morning to talk about the specifics.

  The idea of documenting the crash in book form had been rolling around in Yuuki’s head ever since they’d crossed the peak that marked the end of the first phase of the crash.

  Or, another way of looking at it might be that they were through the preliminaries and had finally reached the main part of the case. It was going to take a long while to finish identifying five hundred and twenty victims. Then there were the personal belongings to sort through; the opening of the mountain for the families of the dead to pay their respects; the removal of all the plane debris; not to mention the joint memorial service that was planned, and the ongoing crash investigation. None of this was going to die down anytime soon.

  Be that as it may, whenever an accident or a crime is drawn out over a long period, it inevitably becomes difficult to maintain morale. Already it wasn’t only Yuuki who was beginning to feel this strain—he’d been seeing the symptoms of it throughout the newsroom. Even if the news when it first breaks is earth-shattering, it will by its very nature lose its freshness over time, eventually becoming completely stale.

  Yuuki knew this from experience. Reporters and their editors tended to get themselves into a rut researching and writing about one particular case. They would find themselves waiting for the next story. Sometimes, without even realizing it, they were anxious for the next big case that would surpass the one they were working on.

  Yuuki wanted to make an exception. He wanted the coverage of the crash of Flight 123 to keep going, to keep its freshness. That was one of his reasons for wanting to publish the book. He wanted to plant the seed of an idea that even the most fleeting moments at a newspaper could be captured forever in a book, and he wanted to slow the fading of memories within the company.

  Another reason for publishing the book was his sense of obligation as JAL crash desk chief to reward the efforts of his staff. He intended to send
as many of the young reporters as possible up to the crash site. By this point, one week after the disaster, he’d managed to send more than fifty people up Mount Osutaka but, because of the sheer numbers, most of the articles they’d produced had never made it into print. They languished in Yuuki’s desk drawer. Now that the moment had passed, many of them could never be used. Yuuki planned to read over these rejected manuscripts, edit them as needed, and then compile them into a book. This way the JAL crash news team would all have their names recorded for posterity. As long as they expressed the wish to write, Wajima could tell the story of his deep regret at having failed to climb Osutaka, and Tamaki his anger at the failure of the JAL desk chief to run his bulkhead scoop.

  Yuuki pondered this as he climbed the stairs of the paper’s headquarters. He stopped at the first floor and took the connecting corridor to the west annex. He was momentarily blinded by the sunshine pouring through the corridor skylights. Today was going to be another scorcher.

  He opened the door to the Book Publishing Division. Considering it was Sunday morning, a fair number of faces turned to look at him, Kaizuka’s among them.

  “You look very busy.”

  “Ah, a lot of our self-publishing customers are only available to meet with us on the weekend.”

  Yuuki had a bad feeling about this. Kaizuka seemed completely different from how he had been on the phone—as if Yuuki’s presence was an unwelcome interruption.

  “So, let’s talk in here,” said Kaizuka, ushering Yuuki into the department chief’s office.

  Yuuki quietly acquiesced, but inwardly he was cursing Kaizuka. If he’d already brought the topic up with his boss, the Book Publishing Division chief Moro, that meant the idea was going nowhere. He’d deliberately approached Kaizuka first because he knew the man was an ex-reporter.

  Moro glanced at Yuuki and Kaizuka and waved a vague hand in the direction of the sofa. With exaggerated regret, he closed the book he was holding, took off his reading glasses, and placed them back in their case. Running his fingers through the longish hair that fell below his ears, he got up from his desk. He was definitely the smug, know-it-all type.