To the Gates of Hell

Chapter 1

26 February 1936

The radio of the lead T-95 fighter plane crackled and Captain Hino Arai's voice came through. We’re only doing 180 miles an hour! We’d need a typhoon up our arses to reach the 250 that marks a first-class fighter plane!

Captain Kenji Ishikawa looked to the plane off his left wing and spoke into his microphone. Genda, what do you think?

More power, came the reply.

Kenji laughed. His cousins would ride their engines to Hell and still ask for more power. A bigger engine would shake this plane apart, he said.

Junk it! Hino exclaimed.

We’re paying for these kites, not the government, Kenji said.

I call a meeting of the board of the Ishikawa zaibatsu—conglomerate—right here in the sky, Hino announced.

I'll go back to the drawing board, Kenji said. We need a stronger fuselage without added weight so we can install a more powerful engine in this single-wing plane.

Hino and Genda Arai both grunted.

Kenji gazed down at the whitecapped ocean, wondering if it could be farmed to feed the people of Japan. He scribbled his question on a memo pad strapped to his leg. Seven years of rising birthrates and severe economic depression had weakened the morale and morals of the Japanese people. Female infanticide was being practiced again. Young women were sold to brothels. Robbery on the roads and theft in the cities had increased tenfold. For many Japanese, starvation was one meal away. The army is demanding the invasion of China to solve our economic problems, Kenji thought. Others favour communism. Most of our people accept their fate and do nothing.

Land coming up, Kenji said. Reduce speed to 120 miles!

The three pilots throttled back and flew low over the coastal mountain range of central Honshu. Kenji noted the long narrow funnels of rice paddies that petered out on terraced heights in the valleys. Rows of tea bushes clung to steep slopes. Orchards and vegetable gardens ran right up to the houses of the villages below. Every inch of land is being used, he thought, but it’s still not enough to feed seventy million people. If I had studied oceanography instead of aeronautics at Cal. Tech., would I have been in a better position to help my country? He looked around the cockpit of the plane. No. I can’t solve every problem. If I try to do it all, I’ll accomplish nothing. My studies have given me the knowledge to build planes. Our zaibatsu has made the commitment to perfect a world-class combat aircraft. Japan will need that for her survival.

The zaibatsu's money had been used to purchase land in California, Australia and New Zealand, but those countries now barred Japanese from owning property. The imperial navy wanted to force its way south into Malaysia and the Dutch East Indies; the army favoured pressing north into China from its bases in Korea and Manchuria. The air force, in which Kenji and his cousins held the rank of captain, had nothing to say. They were subordinate to the older military establishments.

Static in Kenji's earphones was followed by the familiar voice of the flight controller. Experimental flight T-95, this is Gifu tower at Ishikawa field. I have you in sight and you are clear for landing. The wind is from the west at twelve miles an hour. Visibility fair and beginning to cloud.

Flight leader reading you loud and clear, Kenji answered. Prepare the beer!

A blue smoke rocket soared above the red windsock on the open wooden tower. Kenji waggled his wings to get his cousins' attention, then hand signaled them with a diving motion towards the tower. Hino and Genda signalled Kenji with thumbs-up. The three pushed their throttles forward. The Mitsubishi engines roared. The planes' wood frames shuddered and the canvas wings rippled as they dived towards the landing field.

No, no, the flight controller cried. Don’t do that! It’s against regulations!

Kenji chuckled into the microphone. The man in the tower jumped from side to side. He waved his arms to turn away the three planes, then dived to the wooden floor. Kenji’s plane roared in. He pulled his control stick back, clearing the tower by only twenty feet. Genda and Hino roared by on either side.

The controller’s shaky voice came over the radio. There’ll be no beer if that happens again. It’s a good thing you three own the company or I’d report you. Come down. There’s an urgent message.

Kenji signalled Hino and Genda to land. He stayed aloft to watch the storm clouds moving in from the sea. Then he flew over the field, flipped the plane into a barrel roll, up into a reverse loop, and touched down in a perfect three-point landing.

At the hangar, the ground crew took over Kenji’s plane. The flight controller served Dutch cheese and steins of German beer on the polished roof of a brand-new four-door Lincoln Continental.

Kenji read the note placed in his hand. Call this number immediately. Ask for Mangiro. He showed it to his cousins and the three eyed each other, but said nothing. The telephone number was one of many at imperial army headquarters in Tokyo; the name was of someone long dead.

I don’t see how you can drink cold beer in the winter, the flight controller said to Kenji. At least your cousins know enough to take it warm.

They acquired their tastes in London, but mine comes from the States. That’s the difference between Americans and Englishmen, cold beer. Kenji shoved the stein into the controller’s hand. Try it. He strode to the company telephone.

The number Kenji dialed was answered immediately. Mangiro, please, Kenji said.

Kenji Ishikawa? an unfamiliar voice asked.

Speaking.

Mother of autumn.

Father of spring, Kenji responded without hesitation, although he had never before used the secret passwords.

I warn you of a coup attempt in the capital this evening, the voice said. Your uncle, Hiroki Koin, lord keeper of the privy seal, is to be assassinated. I am unable to reach him. The voice gave additional information, and signed off.

Kenji cranked the telephone again. Operator, Captain Ishikawa of the imperial air force speaking. This is an emergency! Call the following numbers ...

Kenji charged out of the hangar, shouting to Genda and Hino as he ran. Leave everything and get in the car!

The two pilots handed their steins to the flight controller and jumped into the Lincoln. Kenji slipped behind the steering wheel and kicked the starter switch. The big twelve-cylinder engine purred with power.

Are we off to the Gifu pleasure quarter for wining and wenching? Hino asked.

Tokyo in three hours, Kenji said.

That’s 180 miles. What did army headquarters tell you?

The whitewall tyres spun and the car shot forward. Kenji ignored the exit road and drove out on the half-mile airstrip. The Lincoln’s speedometer read 110 miles when

the car left the tarmac and hit the dirt service road paralleling the Gifu-Tokyo turnpike. The big black automobile careened down the narrow road; a cloud of dust billowed up behind. Kenji swerved right; the car hit the rise at the entrance to the turnpike and catapulted on to the paved road.

My stomach’s in my socks, Hino said. Why can’t we fly to Tokyo? What’s going on?

Tokyo airport is closed, Kenji said. Army headquarters and Central Police Station have no outside communication. A coup attempt is about to take place! He jammed his foot to the floor and reached down for a German luger automatic in the leg pocket of his flying suit.

Who informed you? Genda asked.

The voice was unfamiliar but he said Uncle Hiroki is in danger and can’t be reached. I had the operator check the lines. They’re dead!

The political assassinations of five years ago were a bloody slaughter, Hino said.

Hang on, Kenji shouted. He braked the car to avoid a group of villagers returning from the fields. The car skidded, narrowly missing the farmers.

If there’s an attempt to take over the government, then Tojo’s involved, Genda said.

Tojo is pulling the strings of the puppet governments in Korea and Manchuko, Hino said.

He’s also involved with Koda-ha, the Imperial Way Society, Genda said. They’ve vowed to abolish the constitution and return absolute control of the country to the Emperor.

Hirohito doesn’t want to govern, Kenji said.

I’ve listened to younger officers in the Imperial Hall of Martial Arts, Genda said. Tojo has them convinced he knows what the Emperor really wants. They believe that Uncle Hiroki and others in the Diet are preventing his majesty from expressing himself.

What does military intelligence have to say? Kenji asked.

Genda grunted. There’ve been rumours of a coup. He reached under the front seat and pulled out a Thompson submachine gun. He fitted the round drum of .45 calibre lead-nosed bullets on to the barrel and drew back the bolt.

Fat drops of sleet splattered the windscreen. Grey clouds darkened the sky as they sped north.

Chapter 2

5 p.m. 26 February 1936, Tokyo

Raiko Minobe’s large, dark eyes dominated her smooth young face. She was slim and elegant in a beige kimono with a purple obi around her small waist. Lord Hiroki Koin, wearing a cutaway tuxedo, seemed fascinated by the tiny young woman before him.

Is it true you were patron to the artist Auguste Rodin? Raiko asked.

Hiroki, aware of Raiko’s background, took no offence at the un-Japanese bluntness of the question. Twenty years ago the depression in France was as bad as it is here now. The French government withdrew its support of many fine artists. It was possible to purchase superior works of art for the price of a week’s lodging and a few bottles of wine.

From the stories Father tells of you and Madame Koin, I’m certain Rodin received a fair price for that. Raiko pointed at a huge sketch that covered an entire wall. It portrayed a maze of twisted, tortured figures in the throes of intense agony.

Noriko Koin entered the room and placed a bowl of fruit on the table. She too wore the traditional kimono. Her graceful movements and eloquent speech projected a quiet dignity. That was Rodin’s gift to my husband. Hiroki supported the artist until his death. The sketch eventually became a huge metal door.

Raiko looked again at the mass of human suffering, and shuddered. I could not keep such a thing. It is too painful.

Your father used to meet Noriko and me in Europe,

Hiroki said. We often travelled together while you were growing up in New York. He influenced me to accept Rodin’s gift and keep it prominently displayed.

Father prefers softer paintings at home. Nothing so harsh. He has several Monets.

There is a photograph of your father, Noriko and me with Claude Monet, Hiroki said. The waterlilies in the picture, and those in Monet’s paintings, were grown from lotus roots out of our pond in the rear of this house. This sketch, which so disturbs you, is called The Gates of Hell. It reminded your father of the Russo-Japanese war in which we served together. Hiroki remained silent for a few moments, then recalled, I met your father for the first time in the trenches outside Port Arthur. That was in 1904. We served in aerial reconnaissance during the Manchurian campaign. He received a bloody nose when our observation balloon was shot down. Hiroki tapped his left leg with his cane. I broke this in three places. Your father went on to become a professor at Tokyo University and Japan’s leading authority on constitutional law. I am now the first adviser to the Emperor. Hiroki shook his head. It is remarkable how lives progress. Upon my appointment as lord keeper of the privy seal, your father convinced me to accept this sketch as a reminder of the horrors of war. Japan lost 100,000 men in the Russo-Japanese war. Before I attend any session on military matters, I look closely at the picture. Then I counsel against war. Of late though, the army heeds neither the Emperor, your father, nor me.

Do you refer to our Kwangtung army in Manchuko? Raiko asked.

Hiroki and I prefer the true name of Manchuria, Noriko said. General Tojo renamed it Manchuko when he placed the Chinese Emperor Henry Pu-yi on a false throne. Tojo has Emperor Henry addicted to opium. The general tells him what to say, and when.

Korea is also under Tojo’s thumb, Hiroki said. The Kwangtung army milks Korea and Manchuria in the same way that the Europeans drain their foreign colonies.

Our occupation of those areas has some positive aspects, Raiko said.

Noriko smiled. I am pleased you said our. Because of your American education, I feared you might have dual loyalties. And you should know that this is the first time I have ever heard my husband discuss economics and foreign policy with a woman.

Raiko is an extremely intelligent young woman, Hiroki said. The girl has a BA in mathematics from Vassar, and two MAs summa cum laude from Harvard in statistics and history.

See how my husband boasts about you, Noriko said. Your father has kept us informed of your progress. Hiroki always wished to have a daughter.

Raiko saw a look of sadness pass between the couple and knew the conversation reminded them of their two sons who had died in the 1923 earthquake. Hiroki led the two women out on to a glass-enclosed porch at the rear of the house.

Father told me you planted a tree when I was born, Raiko said.

The very day. Hiroki pointed. See that snow-covered cryptomeria between the lily pond and the storeroom?

It doesn’t look very tall for twenty-three years, Raiko said.