Over Mount Fuji

Over Mount Fuji

A Novel

By

Joel Huan

mysteries

about the bloop

about islets and calderas

about the mythical and scientific

about Japan

Copyright © 2014 Joel Huan

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is a work of fiction. All institutions, names and places are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

January 16 —

Before dawn, above the sea southeast of Kyushu Island, 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 his spin coming within firing range. Pressing the throttle, he banked right, left and right again, but he couldn’t shake the shits off him.

Okino pushed the nose of the sleek F/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 had gathered strength, moving menacingly toward Japan.

My last sortie before the storm.

He pushed the throttle for maximum thrust, shattering the jet in 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 pace with the pursuing planes. Heading three-five-zero, he used his radar to scan the sky ahead—the six F/18A Super Hornets appeared two miles away. He switched to attack mode.

Once he had checked the gauges and readied 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 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, altitude—ten thousand feet . . . five thousand feet.

The computer tracked the F/18A on a dot and kept it within firing line. A blinking green diamond appeared. The radar superimposed it over the target at the center of the display, indicating a heat-seeking missile had succeeded in trailing the object.

The Major activated his radar’s launch mode. The enemy plane banked at full afterburner in a zigzag. Clenching his jaw, he pressed a button on his stick to lock the target. No matter how tight the F/18A turned, he managed to keep the dot within his blinking diamond.

Following tightly, he thought about pressing the trigger on his control stick and launched a missile 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/18A dead-on in a burst of flames.

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 elevation while its 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 the F/18A, a worrying issue to Northrop and Lockheed. Now one of its prototypes had outmaneuvered its American version.

The Major cracked his knuckles. Every morning, the muted light filled him with 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 engaged the autopilot, allowing the jet to cruise. Feeling relief—he would soon land at the Nyutabaru 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/18As flew alongside in array, and to his right—three more completed the formation. He gave the thumbs up. The all-weather stealth 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.

Desperate, he jerked at his helmet. A pulse drummed in his ears as he fought for breath, forcing himself to draw air into his lungs. Gripping the throttle and control stick, he grimaced at the console.

Kuso! Damn it!

The thrust-indicator on the console refused to respond. Heart racing, he checked the electronic readings and multifunction displays on the instrument panel. The lights dimmed and flickered.

Why have the avionics stopped working?

The Major fired his jet higher and banked left. His jaw clenched, his eyes bulged. 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 mic. A blitz of light at ten o’clock.

He hit the switch for a glide and nudged the control stick. He triggered the afterburner. In disbelief, he tried every switch. Still nothing happened. He pressed the throttle again.

Kuso!

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 muscles 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 crisscrossed in rapid succession. Okino swung his head, squinting when the flames erupted in midair, one after another, flashing brighter.

Mayday! Mayday!

He clamped the ejection lever besides him. 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 gusts.

A hot jab spiked through him; his eyeballs ruptured in the electrified air.

IN HER TOKYO home, Mrs Okino prepared for her birthday, but a wave of disorientation hit her. Her hands shook, her heart fluttered and a chill ran down her spine.

Mrs Okino 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 burst with 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! No! It can’t be my son. Mrs Okino moaned as she bit her tongue. Not a beast, not in the belly of a—

ONE

February 9 —

All morning, heavy fog slowed the traffic from Manhattan to Boston and obscured much of the scenery. But after four exhausting hours, the muck lifted, and Eileen whispered a word of thanks to the offshore wind that had done the trick.

Now, skirting the Charles River basin, her eyes kept straying off the road to glance at the chunks of ice and debris floating in the muddy expanse. The messy aftermath was the result of fierce storms and heavy rains that spawned flooding across Massachusetts.

What a relief! The milder day that thwarted the forecasted chilly winds was a welcomed change. Yet Eileen shivered, recalling a recent surge of strange weather that had stymied the world’s finest meteorologists. Not that she was a weather nut, but she had a niggling feeling that what was happening must be more than just Mother Nature throwing off a fit. A new and unprecedented global nightmare—gales raged, temperatures plummeted. For twelve weeks, sleet pounded New York’s LaGuardia, Newark and JFK, halting all flights. And blizzards blitzkrieged the northern hemisphere from Paris and Berlin onto Moscow and Beijing since early October.

Most bizarre of all, seven fighter jets had disappeared above the Pacific, east of Kyushu Island, just before a typhoon struck the Japanese archipelago. With fishermen’s claims of seeing streaks of light during the incident and no trace of the crash being found, alien abduction enthusiasts that normally fielded speculations in tabloids had taken a foothold in the universities.

But Eileen couldn’t resist a troubling suspicion that the downside effect of Mother Nature had taken the seven jets into a self-destructive mission. If so, there could be a sensational Are the Hornets on a Suicide Mission? article for the new startup monthly magazine, the Raging Planet.

On the campus of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Eileen parked her Honda Civic beside the Geology Department. She scooped up her bag and tucked her digital recorder into her pocket. But the moment she opened the door, a gust of wind slammed into her.

Dammit, she muttered, hugging her bag tight.

Eileen staggered across the parking lot. As scraps of trash flew and clusters of broken branches fluttered around, she broke into a quarterback’s zigzagging run on heels with her a-frame skirt. If the Institute’s towering walls made her feel insignificant, this Arctic squall just increased its intimidation. Now the immense buildings and the wide swathes of lawn seemed braced for a battle to the death: the Intellect against Nature.

The door swooshed open for her at just the right moment. Well, at least something’s on my side, she said to the boggle-eyed security guard.

Finally in the elevator, on the way to the upper reaches of the edifice where the loftier echelon of genius held court, Eileen blessed the wall mirror for being kinder than she deserved. Once she had straightened her jacket and skirt, she gave her blonde hair a quick brush and reapplied her lipstick. Not bad for thirty-four, her green eyes glimmered with satisfaction; she could still pass for a mid-twenties.

The moment the doors swung open, her heart pounded. This really had to work; her career might not hinge on it, but if she could get to the nitty-gritty of Nature’s rage, her article would bump into the frontlines.

Out and down the hallway to the right, she clickity-clacked her way along the oak parquet in rhythm with her racing heartbeat.

The gold-stenciled sign on the clear glass door read: Professor Wilhelm Wulfstein.

She knocked. No answer. She knocked again. She pushed the door open.

Come in, a silver-haired secretary said from behind her desk.

With a sigh of optimism, Eileen strode inside. I’m Eileen O’Neill. I’ve an appointment with Professor Wulfstein at two-thirty.

I’m sorry; he’s running a bit late. The secretary gestured toward a corner couch. Please take a seat.

Eileen sat down and looked around. It was a memorable sight. A glass cupboard of shelves held plates, awards and other commemorative items that marked a man’s accomplishments in his field. But as she leaned forward for a closer look, she became startled over an oil portrait hanging on the wall; its caterpillar-like eyebrows struck her attention right away. It was Wulfstein, an eminent Professor who had graced every major newspaper. His sharp face, aquiline nose and narrow chin looked too familiar, but it was his alert eyes—piercing and intense, inexpressibly staring back at her—that sent a chill down her spine.

She closed her eyes, recalling her turmoil. Even after three years, the loss of her late husband Jerry was as painful as in those early days. All her dreams and expectations had vanished. How different life would have been if he had survived that expedition to Mount Unzen on Kyushu Island. She had warned him to give the volcano more space, but he’d persisted in venturing to the very heart of his research. Still, it came as a shock when Jerry disappeared during that burst of pyroclastic flow.

Calm down, her inner voice said, preferring to savor the good fortune of being granted this interview. Many journalists had tried, but Wulfstein turned them down. She checked her watch—2:46. Has he forgotten? Why so late?

The sharp-tongued weather wizard had been on time for her interview a year ago. She cringed, recalling his response to a Christmas cocktail party invitation by the Dean of his faculty: I’d rather stroll through a morass of literature than through the twin towers of Babylon.

Babylon! What a weird expression! Since then, everyone had been anxious about Wulfstein’s statements. His talk around the academic circle about the pulse of the planet and his unorthodox comments on the weather had created scorn and derision among his associates. As a result, he’d become withdrawn and moody, giving his Jekyll and Hyde reputation more credence. Now it was rumored he had an interest in the transcript of the missing Hornets. Odd. Why should a geologist be so interested in an atmospheric incident?

I’ll be right back, the secretary said, stepping into the hallway.

Silence, except for a ticking clock.

When Eileen stood and tiptoed to the portrait for a closer look, Wulfstein burst from his office and headed toward the exit.

Her heart jumping, she moved toward him. Excuse me, Professor. We have an appointment.

We do? It’s not on my calendar.

I’m Eileen O’Neill. I made the appointment three weeks ago.

I’m sorry, Ms O’Neill. Next time, verify before you come.

We have an appointment, Professor. She tried to block his path, putting out her hand, but he bypassed her and headed for the hallway. She followed.

Wulfstein held the door open for her to pass through and hurried off.

What’s happening, Professor? Eileen asked, trailing behind. Where are you off to?

Not that it concerns you, but I’m on my way home.

I can interview you while you drive, she said. I have a transcript that will interest you.

He stopped and turned back. You mean the Super Hornets?

She waved some papers before him. Yes, sir.

Who sent it to you?

I have my contacts.

Wulfstein sighed. Okay, come on then, he said, quickening his stride. But I don’t intend bringing you back.

That’s fine. I’ll call a cab.

Once they reached his weather-beaten Volkswagen, Wulfstein signaled her to get in. As she opened the car door, her skirt swirled in the howling wind but she managed to keep it down; but when Wulfstein leaned forward to put his laptop on the back seat, a magnifying glass dropped from his shirt pocket.

Eileen rushed in to pick it up, but her skirt whirled over her head from behind, and after handling the magnifying glass to him, she struggled to appear presentable on her seat before Wulfstein started the engine.

Once neatly belted in, she pressed the record button of her recorder. Some scientists are saying the Hornets disappeared because of atmospheric anomalies. What’s your opinion?

No comment, Wulfstein said, looking ahead.

You’ve said it’s a bad omen.

So you already have my opinion. He drove out of the parking lot, the wind continued to howl.

Eileen weighed her options while more questions flooded her. But a couple of bleeps sounded from his laptop, interrupting her thoughts.

Wulfstein stopped the Beetle at the roadside. He reached for his laptop and switched off the alarm. It’s nothing serious, only some seismologic activity from Sakhalin Island.

‘Bloo-oo-oop! Bloo-oo-oop!’ another sound replaced the bleeps.

Eileen looked at the Professor and noted a moment of uncertainty in his eyes. I’ve heard of this sound before, but what does it signify?

Nature has many mysteries. You may Google this ‘bloop’ and find all the speculations you want. What’s strange is that the source of this mystery has been on the move.

So what does this mean?

Right now, my guess is as good as yours. But I’m picking up underwater soundwaves with the hydrophones in the Pacific and incorporating changes of animal behavior into my analysis.

How can you record this sound over such distance?

I’ve linked up with Japan’s Earthquake Prediction Center and relaying via satellites all data to my computer here. He set the laptop back on the seat.

And what’s your prediction? she asked the moment Wulfstein put his car into gear.

I’m predicting an unprecedented earthquake will soon hit the Izu Peninsula.

What sort of timeline are we looking at?

He looked uncertain for a moment, then murmured, Within twelve months.

Eileen looked at him—the dark shadows around his eyes made him look like a tormented soul. He was a bit off kilter and speedy in his thoughts, but Izu Peninsula lay east of the Kantō Plain, and a major hit would be catastrophic to a populated Tokyo. Can you be more specific?

Sorry, I’m still looking into that. There’ve been too many distractions in the office, so I’m doing most of my analysis at home.

How can you be sure? Isn’t it true that whatever the computer says depends upon what you’d programmed it to say?

This fallacy could easily be avoided if you give the computer intelligence. He let out a derisive snort when the car stopped at a traffic light. In integrating seismic activity with changes in animal behavior around Japan, incorporating a bit of aquatic mythology along the way. In doing so, I’ve projected a logical chain of events that could eventuate into my prediction. So I am giving the computer a mind of its own.

Feeling his smugness, Eileen decided to take a more confrontational route. "The scientific community has called your hypothesis science fiction."

Science fiction? Wulfstein laughed. No, it’s scientific heresy.

"They say it’s a product of your imagination."

"If it’s only my imagination, that’s fine. His tone hardened. But my colleagues are so closed-minded. I couldn’t resist stirring them up by poking their asses with a stick."

You mean you don’t even care if your science is flawed?

He stomped on the accelerator when the light turned green, but an edgy silence fell between them. Only a month ago, a tabloid had listed Wulfstein as the most intriguing scientist, a dubious honor. It made him the brunt of endless ribbing from the scientific community. Today, the accolade surfaced to haunt her.

You may hate to hear this, Eileen said, but your statements have created lots of negative reviews.

To hell with reviews. On what criteria are they based?

They described your hypothesis as unscientific.

Then why are you here, Ms O’Neill?

I’m giving you a chance to defend yourself.

Wulfstein turned silent as Eileen grimaced at his belligerent face. To calm herself, Eileen gazed across the street—the view, lush and grassy on previous visits, was now covered in white. Snow even blanketed the sidewalk. Finally, she decided to change tactics by questioning him on more familiar issues. I’m interested in your view on the world’s seismic hot spots.

There is only one place to watch—Japan—it maybe a Necklace of Islets, but what’s not known is that Japan is also a Necklace of Calderas.

Why Calderas?

Calderas are supervolcanos!

Like Yellowstone?

Exactly, so why are you shocked?

Eileen felt heat rushing up on her face. She didn’t realize this odd geologist had taken such an issue so seriously. She stared outside—squatty, hulky and fearsome, a snowplow worked its way like an insect grinding on its feet.

Besides, Japan sits along the gridlock of tectonic plates that dive into deep trenches, Wulfstein continued, yet no scientist has the vision or courage to admit a catastrophe is on its way.

These scientists have no vision? Her husband was different, she protested in her mind.

Not only that, they’re ignorant, too.

I’ve interviewed them, many are experts with decades of experience. Not enough imagination, perhaps, but aren’t these scientists the best in their field?

The best? He sighed, then steered the Beetle through two more icy corners. In a climate of playing-it-safe, they predicted such quakes could happen during the next twenty-five years, or else, the next hundred years. No one can prove the blind wrong.

The blind? Won’t calling them names provoke them even more?

If they’re provoked, that’s good. He tightened his grip as the Beetle bounced over more potholes, spraying roostertails of snowy slush. Now that you’ve heard my prediction of the Big One, you’re entitled to write more nonsense on the issue.

Frustrated, Eileen could relate to other journalists who’d enjoyed taunting him. His bloated self-assurance would alienate a colleague or even a friend.

Wulfstein made another turn, up the ramp and stopped his Volkswagen on a driveway. Now that I have answered all your questions, Ms O’Neill, can you show me the transcript?

Certainly. From her bag, she took the transcript and thrust it at him. You can read it for yourself.

Wulfstein scanned the contents. Mayday . . . mayday. We’re having an unexpected strong tailwind, he whispered. "This isn’t working. This isn’t working.

A damned blitz of light. Mayday . . . mayday . . . Can’t do it manually.

He turned to Eileen. Do you have any idea what this means?

No, not really. She shook her head. I was hoping you’d know.

It seems bizarre there was a sudden blitz of light.

None of the electronics are working. This is bad. This is . . . His eyebrows furrowed. Unreadable. Where’s the audio tape?

The Japanese have it. The planes just disappeared, but were they on a suicide mission?

He flinched, ignoring her question. But what was that blitz of light?

Nobody knows. There was a lot of static between transmissions which might give some clues.

Damn. Wulfstein jumped from the car. He slammed the door, rushed into his cottage, and slammed the cottage’s door as well.

What a frosty response! Weird—there hadn’t been a chance to ask him how such an atmospheric incident could be linked to his geological work, or why scientists had been thwarted by a spurt of climatic oddities.

Hoping to pursue such questions, Eileen collected her belongings and got out of the Beetle. The wind had calmed and she strode up the path. All was silent, except for the dog barking inside. She knocked, then pounded, but the dog barked louder.

Weird—there wasn’t any chance.

Eileen gathered her thoughts. A psychologist she had interviewed told her a person environments revealed the personality and character of its inhabitants. So she studied the Professor’s homestead. The brightly painted homestead wasn’t what she had expected.

In the soft haze along the forecourt of cobblestones, a few mighty oaks from the adjacent neighborhood cast long shadows. Snow covered the quaint surroundings, but trimmings of purple and red from a genus of maple still dazzled the garden with a surreal aura, creating a haunting effect in the dead of winter. Although crystalline flakes still whirled about, a sense of tranquility prevailed.

In solitude, she looked across the street. The chestnut trees lay barren, but as thunder rumbled in the distance, it was the dusky twilight that reminded her of the dangers that might come after dark.

She searched her handbag for her cell phone.

Damn it, she muttered, realizing she’d left it in her car. Seized with foreboding, she tried to be positive, comforted by the thought of a stormy article for the monthly magazine. Besides, she had little time left—there was that forthcoming interview with Mrs Okino in Tokyo—with an opportunity of asking if this cranky planet had driven the seven pilots to a suicide mission.

Eileen remembered while staying at Mrs Okino’s home years ago as an exchange student, she watched such movies with the Okino’s family, how toward every ascendancy, Yukio Mishima’s and other legendary figures’ agonizing suicides always ended with so much artistry, splendor and intensity. Feeling flabbergasted and yet intrigued, Eileen had sworn she would return to Japan to learn more. Now that such seppuku had taken a revival in Japan, she just couldn’t shake off the inkling that Major Okino had followed the creepy path of Mishima. Why was Japan the only nation to have such excruciating deaths with such flare, influencing many of her young and vibrant to follow suit? Is Japan a black swan? She shook her head.

Hoping the trek back to the Institute would clear her mind, Eileen turned and headed to the street.

So astounded was the mystery surrounding Major Okino and the surge of seppuku that she stood near the street corner, not knowing which way to turn. Her eyes just fixed on the mighty oaks swaying in the distance, reminiscing, oblivious to the cold and reverberating danger that could soon arise. Are the latest phenomena an indication that the Japanese are seeking strength from the very roots of their culture—the Hagakure, Chushingura—and if so, why do their central themes all converged around a suicide?

A taxi pulled up, startling her. Are you Eileen O’Neill? the driver asked, smiling. I’m here to take you back to MIT.

Puzzled, Eileen stared at the driver for a long moment. Finally, she asked, Who called for your service?

Professor Wulfstein.

TWO

February 12 —

Under a velvet canopy of glittering stars, icy winds roar in Wulfstein’s ears as he hurls on the Leviathan’s back. Far below, a necklace of islands rears up from the indigo sea like a string of black pearls. A voice whispers to him, You’ll soon be there.

Near a snowcapped mountain, the flying Leviathan dives through a blur of clouds, crooning soft words of encouragement. Pitching awkwardly, Wulfstein can’t ignore the fear swirling in his head: No, I can’t continue.

"Don’t