Mr. Suzuki sat trying to read some reports, but his thoughts kept wandering back to Risa.
He took out the chopstick holder and breathed in her scent again, savoring it as long as
possible. He looked at his watch and cursed how slow the time was moving—still ten
past nine. He calculated the time until their meeting and sighed, running his hands over his
bald head.
“Sumimasen. Excuse me,” came a voice from the door.
Suzuki looked up to see Kenichi standing in the doorway clutching a file.
“Dozo. Please come in,” he said irritably.
Kenichi bowed and entered.
“What is it this time?”
Kenichi bowed and then, holding the file with both hands, placed it on his desk.
“What is this?” asked Suzuki.
“It’s a report I have put together incorporating information I have gathered from
America,” he replied.
“About what?” asked Mr. Suzuki, opening the file.
Kenichi stood there, silent for a moment, staring at his boss.
Suzuki glared back. “About what?” he insisted, his patience running thin.
“About the dangers of operating this reactor.”
“You already gave me a report about that earlier.”
“No, that was about the risk of a tsunami,” he replied.
“So, what’s this about?” Suzuki asked.
Kenichi bowed and asked, “May I explain?”
Suzuki let out an exasperated sigh. “Please.”
Kenichi bowed slightly. “The Mark 1 BWR (The Mark 1 Boiling Water Reactor)
was designed with significant design and engineering flaws–”
“What are you talking about? Are you insane?” cut in Suzuki.
Kenichi ignored him and continued. “It has two major flaws that have had Band-
Aid fixes. Firstly, the containment vessel’s design is too small. In the 1970s, a report
showed that if there were an accident, the upward lift on the torus (the donut-shaped
cylindrical tube that is attached to the bottom of the containment vessel to catch molten
nuclear fuel in case of a meltdown) would destroy the vessel. This was rectified by
attaching large straps to the taurus to hold it down against these uplift forces—the first
Band-Aid fix. In the 1990s, the likelihood of a hydrogen explosion led to the installation
of vents to prevent the containment from overpressurization; this was the second Band-
Aid fix to a design that was problematic from its inception. I find the whole vent design
absurd since the idea of containment is to contain; the vents are designed to release
radiation into the atmosphere. It’s ridiculous.” He paused and looked at his boss, who
was leafing through the report.
Suzuki looked up. He was startled but not surprised. He had heard similar
reports over the years, but they were usually ignored as hype. He had been assured many
times there was nothing to worry about. “The problems have been dealt with sufficiently,”
Suzuki said. But there was doubt in his words.
“May I continue?” asked Kenichi.
“Yes,” said Suzuki.
“My next concern is that the control rods are entered from the bottom of the
reactor vessel. This presents a myriad of opportunity for multi-core materials to leak out
onto the containment floor. The Mark 1 BWR is built in a containment inadequate to
handle normal reactor forces. It is prone to melt throughs, and this has been outlined in a
report from Oakridge National Laboratory in America titled, ‘Fail Mode of BWR Reactor
Vessels Bottom Head’. How the IAEA (International Atomic Energy Agency) the NISA
(the Japanese nuclear regulator) and the JAEA (Japan Atomic Energy Agency) continue
to allow the use of such reactors is beyond me.” He stood staring down at Mr. Suzuki.
Mr. Suzuki closed the file and looked up at Kenichi. “What would you like me to
do?”
“Read it in detail and then give it to someone who will do something about it.”
Suzuki sighed. “They won’t do anything about it. I know and you know that. Do
you expect them to shut down the reactor?”
“Then I will go public with both reports,” he said, staring hard at Suzuki.
“You’ll lose your job and superannuation—everything.”
“I don’t care. Something must be done.”
“OK, I’ll read it and send it off with my stamp of approval.”
“Thank you,” he said. He bowed and then left.
Suzuki looked at the report. There had been countless cover-ups by Japanese
energy companies throughout the history of the nuclear industry in Japan. One of the
most recent was at the Kashiwazaki-Kariwa power plant in Niigata Prefecture, the
world’s largest nuclear power generation complex. On July 16, 2007, a 6.8 magnitude
earthquake hit nine kilometers northeast and seventeen kilometers below the Sea of Japan.
The tremors were more than double the quake-design benchmark for the plant. A later
study by the Meteorological Agency analyzed the aftershocks and ascertained the
possibility that the fault ran directly beneath the nuclear plant at a depth of twenty
kilometers. TEPCO may have underestimated the size of the fault whose existence was
confirmed by the power company around 1980.
The earthquake resulted in a series of malfunctions and mistakes. Oil leaked from
several electric transformers; one caught fire. Planks fell into a pool of spent nuclear fuel
rods, barrels of nuclear waste were knocked over, water sloshed out of the spent fuel pool
and was flushed into the sea, and radioactive steam was vented continuously for two days
into the atmosphere.
This led to an investigation by the nuclear safety agency. However, local
governments opposed this probe, saying if it became clear to the public that the earthquake
was the cause of the nuclear accident it would lead to too much apprehension. The
investigation was then dropped and the agency concluded “There is virtually no
possibility that natural disaster could cause a nuclear accident.”
Suzuki thought about what Kenichi had said; he knew Japan had seventeen
BWR Mark 1 reactors in service, but he had been assured they were safe. He put the
report in his drawer and forgot about it—as he had done so many times before.
He looked at his watch and then let fantasies of Risa take over his mind. They
were in a love hotel, the Cleopatra room; she was lying on the Sphinx bed half-naked, and
he knelt down, pushed back her Egyptian silks, and kissed her breast. Her body quivered
and she moaned.
**
The fisherman and grandson were drifting south.
“It’s strange there aren’t any boats out this morning,” said the grandfather,
scanning the horizon.
“Why is that?” asked the grandson, searching the empty sea.
“I don’t know,” he replied, looking back at his grandson. But nervousness
twisted in his stomach—something wasn’t right.
**
Sachie came back into the kitchen carrying two sets of armor, protective masks, and
bamboo swords. “Ready?” she asked Yukino.
“Hai. Yes,” said Yukino.
They walked through the kitchen and out to the backyard. It was enclosed by
stone walls except for the car entrance. On the right was an old wooden barn, the roof
heavily tiled, beneath which sat a white mini pick-up truck stacked with woven bamboo
baskets; the yard was dirt. Both girls readied themselves and then walked into the center
of the yard and bowed. They both took attack stances, arms outstretched, swords held
firmly. Sachie raised her sword, took a step forward, and brought the bamboo sword
down at Yukino’s head, shouting men; Yukino blocked perfectly. Again Sachie raised her
sword above her head, but this time called kote as she swung the sword down at her arms.
Again Yukino deflected the blow effortlessly. Over and over they practiced these basic
kendo moves, taking it in turns to attack.
“I’m bored,” said Sachie, taking off her protective headgear. “Do you want to
use real blades?”
“Sure,” replied Yukino, pulling her headgear off, letting the breeze ruffle her
hair. “There’s no one here is there?”
“No, everyone–” She froze when she saw the tiny tattoo behind Yukino’s right
ear.
“What is it?” asked Yukino.
“The tattoo! Are you an idiot?”
Yukino put her hand below her ear defensively. “It’s not the secret signature.”
Sachie took a step forward and brushed Yukino’s hair aside. “It’s very similar,”
she said, looking at the intertwining snake and dragon tattoo.
“It’s not the same,” she said in defense.
“Fool,” she cursed, and then added, “Keep it well hidden.
“Sorry,” she replied, bowing deeply.
Sachie moved to the barn and took an old rusty key from the rafter above the
door. The lock was a trick lock that required the person entering to know the combination
of different movements; it was designed in the sixteenth century to stop thieves from
stealing rice, the main commodity for barter in those times. Sachie inserted the key and
moved the lock in the correct combination and then slid open the door. She reappeared
with a long box wrapped in a purple cloth. She placed it on the ground and knelt down
and untied the cloth. The rectangular box was painted with checks, crafted in the mountain
hot spring resort town of Hakone, just south of Mount Fuji. It was a Himitsu-bako, or
Secret Box. The boxes were often used to hide jewelry or important documents. Sachie
put her hand on the right end of the box and slid a slat open. She then performed several
more complex movements, eventually opening the secret compartment that held two
swords. Their blades were engraved with an intertwining dragon and snake—very similar
to Yukino’s tattoo, except hers was missing the sword that ran between the snake and
dragon.
Sachie bowed toward the box and then with two hands reverently took a sword,
bowed to Yukino who returned the bow, and placed the sword in her hands. She then
took the other sword for herself and placed the box in the corner of the barn.
“Are you ready?” asked Sachie.
“Yes,” replied Yukino, gripping the sword tightly and cleaving the air with the
blade, allowing her arms to adjust to the blade’s weight. This was why she had come to
see Sachie. She had come to practice the secret and forbidden sword fighting known as
Kindan-no-Katana. It had originated in the fourteenth century, introduced by a Samurai
named Tesshu Yamazaki from Shikoku. The art itself followed the rules of Bushido, the
Way of the Sword, except that the opponent had to be killed, and if by some unfortunate
chance the opponent escaped, one was expected to take one’s own life by Seppuku, a
Japanese ritual suicide by disembowelment, plunging a short blade into one’s abdomen
and slicing from left to right. Kindan-no-Katana was originally performed as
entertainment between different Samurai warlords; the best fighters from each Samurai
Lord were pitted against each other. It had been outlawed in the early twentieth century,
and the sect had gone underground. Once a year, a grand tournament is held in a secret
location deep in the mountains on the island of Shikoku. Sword fighters from different
Dojos (a hall or room where martial arts are performed) come to fight, live, or die. The
tournament continues for four nights, the number four representing Shi, death, in the
Japanese counting system. At the end of the tournament, a Shinto ceremony is held, and
the dead are cremated and their ashes spread through the forest. It was the girls’
grandfather who had introduced them to the secret sect; he thought the training would give
them an edge over their kendo opponents, but he never for one minute expected them to
fight to the death.
Sachie felt the weight of the sword and then bowed to Yukino and said, “Onegai
shimasu. It would be my honor.”
Yukino returned her bow. “Onegai shimasu. I accept your invitation with honor.”
Sachie lunged forward and swords clashed—Sachie swung and Yukino blocked.
Sachie attacked again and Yukino deflected the blow and spun 360 degrees, her blade
slicing the air and missing Sachie’s chest armor by a hair and sending Yukino off balance.
Sachie saw the chance and her blade cut down, but Yukino managed to block it at the last
second. The two cousins stood, swords locked in a cross, glaring at each other, sweat
dripping down their faces. Sachie pushed Yukino back and screamed, “Hai!” Her blade
clashed with Yukino’s, sparks exploding off the metal. Sachie raised her sword and
attacked again. Yukino blocked. Sachie pushed forward, slicing at Yukino, but Yukino
managed to parry the strikes. Blow after blow, Sachie forced Yukino back toward the
barn.
“Enough!” called Yukino.
But Sachie’s sword came down with such force it almost knocked Yukino over.
“Enough,” shouted Yukino.
Sachie’s blade sliced at Yukino’s neck, missing by a fraction, sending her stumbling
back.
“Sachie!” Yukino screamed. “Stop!”
Sachie came at her sword raised; she swung and Yukino just managed to deflect the
blow, but it drew blood on her arm.
Yukino knew it was no longer practice. This fight was for real. She lunged at Sachie
their blades meeting with a deafening clang. Yukino raised her sword and attacked again,
but Sachie easily parried the blow and then countered the attack. Yukino ducked just in
time as the blade sliced over her head. Before Sachie knew what was happening, Yukino
somersaulted across the ground toward the white mini truck and grabbed a basket from
the back and hurled it at Sachie who sidestepped it and then charged at Yukino. Yukino
then jumped into the back of the truck. On the floor was one of her grandfather’s PVC
pipe with a hook attached. She picked it up and swung it at Sachie, stopping her in her
tracks. A smile spread across Sachie’s face, and she raised her sword and, with ferocious
strength, sliced the pole in two. Yukino dived from the truck and rolled out into the yard.
Sachie’s blade sent dust into her eyes as it sliced the ground next to her. She rolled left
just evading another blow, but she was half-blinded by the dirt in her eyes. She faintly
saw the glitter of the blade in the sunlight as Sachie lifted her sword for the kill; the blade
hissed through air but halted on Yukino’s neck. Yukino lay there panting; all she could
hear was her heart bashing her chest and feel the hot metal of Sachie’s blade against her
neck.
“Ma ma. So so,” she said, moving the blade away from her neck. “You need a little
more training.”
Yukino lay quietly, trying to catch her breath. “I thought it was the real thing. I
thought we were fighting to the death.”
Sachie offered her arm and pulled Yukino to her feet. They both bowed,
acknowledging the end of the fight. “Lucky I was the one who won!”
Yukino smiled guiltily. “Yes.”
Sachie bent close and inspected Yukino’s arm. “It’s just a scratch, but you should
wash it.”
“Yes,” panted Yukino.
“You missed one good opportunity to defeat me,” Sachie said. “You should have
kicked my feet from under me when I stood over you. We’ll need to do a lot more training
before the summer tournament in Tokyo.”
Yukino bowed deeply and said, “Onegai shimasu. It would be an honor if you could
train me.”
Sachie didn’t reply. She began removing her armor.
“I’ll get some water,” said Yukino, walking to the door.
“Thank you, but remember to take a chance when you have one,” said Sachie. “Kick
the feet from under them.”
“But that’s not allowed in kendo,” said Yukino.
Sachie sighed. “I didn’t mean it literally.”
“I see,” said Yukino, but her response lacked confidence.
Sachie sighed as she watched Yukino rush off to get some water.
Yukino took a plastic jug of cold water from the fridge and two glasses out of the
cupboard. She rinsed the blood off her arm and dried it with a tissue. Sachie’s phone rang
and she moved to the door to listen.
“Moshi moshi. Hello.”
Pause.
Sachie laughed. “Sure, any time.”
Pause.
“When?”
Pause.
“I’m supposed to–”
Pause.
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
Pause.
“Nochihodo. See you soon.” She hung up.
Yukino stepped from the door and walked over to Sachie. “When can we train
again?”
“Tomorrow,” she said, taking the glass of water Yukino offered her.
“Not this afternoon?” asked Yukino, trying to find out where she was going.
“No, I have something else to do.”
“What?” asked Yukino quickly, hoping Sachie would spill the information.
Sachie stared at Yukino and then smiled. “I’m not going to tell you.”
Yukino blushed. “Sorry.”
Sachie went to the corner of the barn and brought the Himitsu-bako back and placed
the swords inside. She then slid all the panels back into place, locking the box and
wrapping it in the purple cloth, and then disappeared into the barn.
Yukino looked at Sachie’s phone resting in her protective headgear. She quickly
snatched it up, flicked it open and memorized Tomo’s number.
“I’m going upstairs to get changed,” called Yukino.
“Be quick. I want to use the bathroom,” replied Sachie.
**
Tomo was standing on Kamaishi City harbor front, about twenty kilometers south of
Otsuchi. He was there to meet an American businessman who was interested in importing
fish. If the deal went through, he and the fishermen were set to make a lot of money.
Money Otsuchi and Kamaishi desperately needed. The ship, Asian Symphony was
scheduled to arrive any minute. He looked up at the giant Kannon, a Buddhist statue of a
female god; it stood on a hill in the middle of the harbor watching over the fishermen as
they went out to sea . His gaze moved out over the glassy water that was scythed by lines
of whitewater left by the fishing boats’ wakes. In the distance a massive breakwater wall
stretched out from both sides of the harbor. The tsunami defense wall had taken three
decades to complete. It was 1,950 meters long, 63 meters deep, and jutted 6 meters above
the sea. It had cost $1.5 billion and was the world’s biggest breakwater wall. It had
recently made it into the Guinness Book of World Records with the hope that it would
revive the rusting former steel-producing capital of Japan. Even a song called ‘Protecting
us for a hundred years’ was produced. However, during the design phase, there had been
concern that wave deflection from the breakwater wall could increase the wave size,
inundating two fishing villages, Ryoshi and Kariyado, that lay just north in two small
coves. Reports by coastal engineers from Tohoku University, released between 1974 and
1976, concluded this, leading to the construction of a 9.1-meter seawall along the two
villages’ coasts. His eyes focused on a ship sailing through the narrow entrance of the
breakwater wall; he could just make out the name, Asian Symphony.
His phone rang. He answered and a girl’s voice said. “Do remember me?”
No words came to his lips.
“It’s me,” said Yukino.
“I know,” replied Tomo. “Does she know?”
“Not yet,” she replied acidly.