Over Mount Fuji – Prologue –
January 16 —
Above the Pacific east of Kyushu Island, before dawn lit the horizon, Major Okino tipped the right wing of his jet and dived toward the massive hulk below. He glanced at his gun sight: six pursuing planes matched the spin within firing range. Pressing the throttle, he banked right, left, right again, but he couldn’t shake the shits off him.
Okino pushed the nose of the sleek F/A-18J Super Hornet toward the gray water, piercing wisps of clouds. A typhoon had swept through the area three days before, unusual in winter. Now the wind had calmed, but a thousand miles to the southeast, another typhoon was gathering strength, moving menacingly toward the Japanese islands.
The last drill, he thought.
He pushed the throttle for maximum thrust, giving the jet a burst of momentum. It slid down in a semicircle, skimming close to the ocean surface in the tightest of arcs, spraying plumes in its wake. His pursuers couldn’t follow; if they did, their wider trajectory would force them into the sea.
Circle completed, the Major climbed to keep the pursuing planes in sight. Heading three-five-zero, he used his radar to scan the sky ahead—the six F/A-18E Super Hornets appeared two miles away. He switched to attack mode.
After checking the gauges and readying his weapons, he nudged to the left and closed in on one of the Hornets. At maximum speed, he switched on the pulse-repetition frequency to get a clearer view of the Hornets and squared up for a bull’s eye on the radar screen. The fire-control computer displayed the target’s flight data—azimuth, airspeed, direction and elevation information—ten thousand feet . . . five thousand feet.
The computer tracked the F/A-18E on a dot and kept it within firing line. A green blinking diamond appeared. The radar superimposed it over the target in the center of the display, indicating a heat-seeking missile had succeeded in trailing the object.
Major Okino activated his radar’s launch mode. The enemy plane banked at full afterburner in a zigzag, but remained within firing range. Clenching his jaw, he pressed a button on his stick to lock the target. No matter how tight the F-18E turned, he managed to keep the dot within his blinking diamond.
Following tightly, he could press the trigger on his control stick and launch a missile in a brief burst of flames from either one of the two modules under the jet’s wings. The missile would follow the guidance signals from the laser beam and hit the F-18E dead-on in a cloud of fire.
Major Okino held his breath and closed in for the kill, but stopped. The last leg of the grueling session over, he radioed its successful conclusion.
He had completed the drill for the umpteenth time.
As he eased the throttle and pulled back the stick, his face lit up. The jet gained altitude while his airspeed slowed. Designed and assembled by Mitsubishi Jet Industries to launch the new fighter to a higher combat limit, the new F-18J series had substantial technological superiority over its American version, a worrying issue to Northrop and Lockheed. Now one of its prototypes had outmaneuvered the F-18E.
The Major flexed his fingers. Every morning, the muted light filled him with a sense of awe. From his canopy at twenty thousand feet, the world looked tranquil and at peace. His life had always revolved around flying, and even more than just a commanding career, it was his passion.
He checked the gauges and applied the autopilot, allowing the jet to cruise. Feeling relief—he would soon land at the Itazuke Air Base—he released a deep breath. When the typhoon passed over the next day, he would be with his family, celebrating his mother’s sixtieth birthday.
The Major turned his head to the left—three sleek F-18Es flew alongside in array, and to his right—three more completed the formation. He gave the thumbs up. The all-weather squadron roared through the sky, propelled at a speed that made him feel motionless, and lulled into a sense of serenity.
A squeal pierced his ears, startling him. Smelling a burnt fuse, Okino stared at the console, then at the horizon. Nothing.
He jerked off his helmet. A pulse drummed in his ears as he fought for breath. He put his helmet back on and forced himself to draw air into his lungs. Gripping the throttle and control stick, he grimaced at the console.
Shimatta! Damn it!
The thrust-indicator on the console refused to respond. He checked the electronic readings and multifunction displays on the instrument panel. The lights dimmed and flickered.
Why had the avionics stopped working?
The Major fired his jet higher and banked left. He caught a glimpse of his airspeed indicator and pressed the throttle, but the plane slowed and dropped altitude. He pressed harder. Nothing happened.
The engines had shut down.
The heavens turned hazy. With clenched jaws, he watched a yellow arc and bursts of orange brilliance before him.
“A strong tailwind,” he shouted into his mike. “A blitz of light at ten o’clock.”
He hit the switch for a glide and nudged the control stick. In disbelief, he triggered the afterburner. He tried every switch. Still nothing happened. He pressed the throttle again.
Shimatta!
His plane stuttered. A voice crackled through the intercom, but he couldn’t make sense of it. A bright tongue of fire at three o’clock headed his way. A jet in full afterburn streaked across the sky, fizzling left and right. Then a brief puff of fire burst behind the cockpit.
What’s going on?
His muscled stiffened as he checked the flight control indicators. Blank. Everything had gone blank.
Several thick strokes of orange-red flare appeared at one o’clock. Then streaks of light came from different directions. Searching for a point of reference, Okino swung his head away, squinting when the flames erupted in midair, one after another, flashing brighter.
“Mayday! Mayday!”
He clamped the ejection lever between his legs. Eyes wide in terror, he yanked and waited.
Nothing.
He pulled again. No response. Stars swam in his field of vision. His sense of balance shifted and he felt weightless; his body floated under the harness. Pain constricted his throat and lungs. His face crumpled; his mind spun with the wings. A hot jab spiked through his sinuses; his eyeballs ruptured in the electrified air.
IN HER TOKYO home, preparing for her birthday cerebration, a wave of disorientation hit Mrs. Okino. Her hands shook, her heart fluttered, and a chill ran down her spine.
She looked out the window. A breeze creaked through the trees. Her vision blurred; the image in her mind shrunk to a pinhole. An outline took shape. Seven blossoms formed an elaborate ribbon, twirling down from the sky, gyrating like a falcon homing in for the kill. Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears. Dizziness washed over her as she stared at the image: her son’s rasping gulps for air, spitting blood.
A gasp escaped her lips. “Not my son! It can’t be . . .” Mrs. Okino moaned as she bit her tongue. “Not a beast, not in the belly of a . . .”
