The Norikumiin

Sekkin Sōgū

1997, at a classified radar instillation on Kumagaya Air Base.

This is bad, Kubo Ischii thought as he swiped his sweaty palms down his navy blue military dress pants. His cheek, pink and warm, hovered next to the face of the air traffic controller frantically adjusting switches and dials on the console. Perspiration misted off Kubo's forehead and reflected emerald green off the large, round screen on which his eyes were riveted.

“Situation report, Arima Shichō!” Kubo ordered in his native Japanese. He wanted to convey authority, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him. “Have we located the unidentified object?”

Arima blinked away the sweat which made his short black hair part like thin fingers on his forehead.

 “Still nothing from Kedena, Ichii-san,” Arima muttered, referring to his superior by his rank.

Hissing out a breath, Kubo Ichii stood upright. He paced.

Arima swallowed hard and returned to his radar screen.

The decrepit air conditioner chugged along, making the air taste damp to Kubo, like a fetid pond. The lights were set low inside the station to accommodate the glare on the screens. Voices and the clicking of keyboards resonated off the tempered windows that spanned the walls from ground to ceiling.

Kubo’s steps took him down a long row of radar consoles. All were manned by controllers from the Japanese Air Self-defense Force, each technician monitoring his or her respective air region for signs of the same object. None of the controllers dared to meet Kubo's eyes as he passed. The shame they faced was too overwhelming. After the hand-off from Kushimoto station, they'd lost sight of the object invading their skies—an unforgiveable lapse. Kubo looked up at the clock protected behind a white metal cage.

The blunder occurred nearly an hour ago.

Kubo marched back to his original spot. The communication specialists with their oversized headphones spoke over each other, sounding like drunks in a crowded bar.

Kubo stood over Arima's shoulder.

“Any change?” Kubo asked above the din.

Arima looked up and stammered, “It's…only been a minute, sir—”

“I did not ask the time, Arima Shichō!” Kubo shouted.

Arima wilted, shoulder crumbling to one side.

Kubo leaned down to look at the radar screen again. The islands of Japan were outlined in glowing green lines. On the left, green dots inched down the screen heading south and southwest. They dragged their four-letter call-signs behind them in radiant green digits.

Every dot on the radar was accounted for. Civilian aircraft were being told to divert and land at the nearest airport. The same instructions were being repeated across the nation to clear the airways from commuter traffic.

“I see call-signs, but have we heard any more squawk codes from civilian aircraft?” Kubo Ichii asked.

“None, Ichii-san,” Arima replied, louder than before, but still softly.

Kubo's shoulders felt the weight of those words. He had hoped the UFO warning from Kadena Air Base was just an errant civilian aircraft which had lost the NAVAID transponder path and flown off course. If the object had been picked up again, then the flight data processor would have displayed the assigned call-sign and squawk codes on the screen. Had that been the case, Arima's display would have shown a green dot moving in the opposite direction as the diverted aircrafts. But with only known call-signs visible, it meant they truly had an unidentified flying object unaccounted for. Seeing no point in crowding the young controller further, Kubo Ichii backed away.

Through the pane-glass window of the radar station, the rain looked like dark tears to Kubo. He had ordered searchlights to be placed around strategic points on the tarmac, and now their beams crisscrossed the sky. Kubo wiped his hands on his uniform again. It was a dirty habit his superiors often chided him about, pointing with disgust at the dark brown stains streaked on the blue.

Kubo searched the sky as if he could somehow see the object through the storm. Searchlights rolled along the dark, cigar-smoke clouds pregnant with rain.

Strategically placed mobile ground radar stations had been authorized by the Minister of Defense after they lost sight of the object. Kubo hoped the deluge would not delay their positioning. If successful, the stations would cover the small gap between his base and Sendai airport, making the coverage of Japanese airspace in their region nearly one hundred percent. With any luck, all they needed was the object to be picked up by one of their many sensors for the hunt to begin anew.

Only if this blasted rain allows it, Kubo thought.

“Ichii-san! We have something!” Arima Shichō reported with a shout.

Kubo blinked away his angry thoughts and returned to the radar screen. He spotted a lone green dot smaller than an eraser tip. It moved away from the last commercial aircraft on the screen at a brisk pace, and lacked any commercial code of identification trailing next to it.

“Report!” Kubo barked, leaning over Arima's desk.

“Target is heading northeast,” Arima responded, glancing down at his finger. “Flying at six thousand meters. No call-sign or squawk. Speed is six hundred and ten knots.”

“Six hundred and ten knots?” Kubo repeated, knowing that the speed exceeded passenger aircraft’s velocity, even pushed to top speed. That ruled out Kubo's lost commercial aircraft theory. His heart pumped a tsunami of nervous blood into his warm ears. “Is it friendly? Check the interrogator system.”

Without a word, Arima rolled to his left, wheels rattling on the linoleum floor as he looked at the square beige box next to his radar station. After adjusting small nodes on the front, the young ASDF member stared at the screen in the middle of the box. Kana symbols typed along the screen in white letters, forcing Arima Shichō to squint as he read.

“'Unable to identify friend or foe,'" Arima quoted. "The interrogator says 'unknown pending further information,' Ichii-san.”

The corners of Kubo's mouth sagged. The IFF was a system used by both the Japanese and the allied American forces to identify themselves on radar as friendly. Had the interrogator recognized the on-board transponder symbol, the radar station would have returned the corresponding tail number.

However, Kubo was taught that "unknown" did not automatically equal a hostile force. Transponders could be accidently turned off or damaged in flight. Yet with the speed of the object, the lack of civilian identification, and no signal from the IFF system, all signs pointed to a grave threat to national security and sovereignty.

The taste of salt stung Kubo's tongue. He licked his lips. The screen at Arima’s station flickered as the green dot sped over the outline of Japan.

“The object is heading on a northeastern trajectory. So Sendai airport should be able to pick it up on radar?” Kubo asked.

Arima Shichō slowly nodded his head. “Correct sir,” he said, “sort of.”

“Sort of?”  Kubo repeated. “What do you mean, Shichō? Speak!”

“Sendai is a civilian airport, and the object is not following the NAVAIDS, sir,” Arima replied, his voice wavering like a child speaking to a stern father. “Sendai might not pick the object up. We could lose track again once the object goes beyond our range.”

“That's right,” Kubo breathed. His sweat-saturated collar was like a warm, wet towel against his neck. To lose the object again would be the end of his career. It had truly just begun with his assignment as tower commander. He had only been at Karima for a scant few weeks, a whisper of time to barely learn the names and personalities of his subordinates. Then, just as he'd begun to settle into comfort, this dire emergency was hoisted upon his shoulders; the buck passed by a panicked Kushimoto station.

The green dot ticked across the screen, close to where Kubo knew Fukushima was on the unlabeled map. Could the object be Chinese or North Korean? A new technology from one of Japan's enemies, ready to unleash hell for some perceived past grievance? Or perhaps it truly was a UFO, which would have been an even more dire threat to his people. Either way, he would be held responsible for the loss of the object, a failure compounded since it neared a major population.

Then Kubo remembered in a flash.

“The mobile radar!” he breathed out and turned to look at Arima. “Arima Shichō, can the mobile radar perhaps stay with the object?”

Arima lowered his eyes, shaking his head, flinging off drops of sweat.

“No sir,” he said, his voice losing all previous confidence. “Maybe they could, for a time, but not at the speed the object is going.”

Kubo sighed.

“Isn't there a nuclear power plant in the city?” he pondered as the green dot on the screen ticked closer to the large city of Fukushima.

Questions clouded Kubo's mind, masking the way forward. More variables complicating the matter. Was the plant the target? Did the object aim to cause a major disaster to a considerable metropolitan area? 

A glance in the young controller Arima's eyes only passed along the urgency for answers from his tower leader. Had he turned around, Kubo knew he would see the same longing expression from the rest of those under his charge. His indecision was failing them all.

“Who is in charge here?” a voice echoed out through the tower.

The clicking of keyboards ceased. The whir of small desk fans and the belches of the air conditioner unsettled the air. The hairs on the back of Kubo's neck rose from the voice, the perspiration turning as cold as an arctic river. Having recognized the voice, Arima’s back stiffened. He turned on his heels and raised the back of his hand to his brow.

“Attention Kumagaya tower!” he shouted.

A man marched towards Kubo, flanked by two others he did not know. All three were wearing the dark blue dress uniforms of the ASDF. The front man had large silver buttons on his jacket buttoned up to the neck, and he held a stiff hat in one hand by the cuff. A chest full of rainbow-colored ribbons covered his left breast just below a pin of a silver bird with its wings spread wide. There was a gleam upon his shoulders, and Kubo noticed the three silver clusters above two parallel bars which shone a pale green.

“Stay at your stations!” the man shouted to the specialists and controllers who scrambled to attention.

“Yes sir!” they shouted together and sat back down, heads lowered, monitoring radar stations and channels with renewed energy. The click of keyboards started up again, even more forcibly than before.

The man in the lead quickly took command with his presence. To Kubo, who had met him once before in passing, he was known as Iwakani Itto Kusa, a colonel who was second in command of Kumagaya Air Base. His hair was a sea of salt and pepper marking his age, but Iwakani’s dark eyes were like steel set in his weathered face.  His shoulders were still stiff and strong, as if he carried the weight of the nation as he marched forward.

Stopping before him, Iwakani returned the salute with a crisp one of his own. Kubo lowered his hand from his brow and put it down his side with a downward-facing fist. The others may have been put at ease, but Kubo was still before his commanding officer.

“You!” Iwakani exclaimed. The Colonel's breath smelled liked mint from menthol cigarettes, which reminded Kubo how much he craved a smoke. “Are you in charge here?”

Kubo swallowed to wet his throat. “Yes sir!”

Iwakani's forehead wrinkled downward, which made his dark eyes appear fierce as a lion.

“So this catastrophe in the making is your doing,” he taunted. He stood just behind controller Arima, who did his best to keep his eyes forward. He barely moved when Iwakani leaned over his shoulder and studied the radar screen.

“It is near Fukushima,” Iwakani said without looking at Kubo.

“Yes, Issa-san,” Kubo replied, using the abbreviation for colonel. “We have no identification, civilian or military. And since the object is moving at such incredible speeds, we risk losing the craft.”

“And you have not scrambled any air support?” Iwakani badgered in a guttural shout.

Trembles moved through Kubo's hand, and he swallowed hard again. “Sir, we do not have military jets close enough to intercept the object,” he stammered as if back in basic training again.

“You work on faulty information, Kubo Ichii,” Iwakani grumbled. He stood and spoke in a loud voice, “Contact the tower at Yakota Air Base, and tell them to scramble their aircraft. Cut off the object!”

“Yakota Air Base?” Kubo mumbled. From his recollection, Yakota housed mostly troop transports like C-140s—too large, bulky, and slow to catch the UFO.

Iwakani stared at Kubo, his sharp eyes tearing through the young Captain. “Yes, Yakota. There is a squadron of F-15s refueling there as we speak, on loan from Kadena for the Yujo Matsuri.”

A breath whistled through Kubo's teeth, and he closed his eyes. There was a report he read about the fighter jet's deployment to Yakota for the friendship festival. The celebration of the U.S. and Japanese alliance was held at the same time every year, and he had forgotten about it during the night. During training, he was told it was minute details like those that make strong officers or break others. Given the reputation of the fiery Itto Kusa, that oversight would be added to his pile of shame.

“Forgive my ignorance, sir,” Kubo responded, bowing low at the waist.

With the command takeover complete, Iwakani returned a slight bow and then turned toward the row of controllers.

Standing upright, Kubo inquired, “But given the distance sir, can even the F-15s intercept the object?”

Iwakani did not answer Kubo but asked Arima, who still had not uttered a word, “Where is the object now?”

“Object has reached Nasushiobara Issa-san, still traveling at a sustained six hundred and ten knots,” Arima replied.

“Is that all you see?” Iwakani questioned. He turned and leaned in so the screen lit the wrinkles on his face with a soft, green hue. Arima licked his lips as he studied the map. As if the Issa had conjured them, three new bogeys appeared at the bottom left of his screen.

“Three new targets, sir!” Arima exclaimed. He rolled his chair in closer and adjusted the instrumentations on his console until the green dots became sharper. “All three are heading in the same northeast direction. Speed, approximately thirteen hundred knots.” He looked at Iwakani and dared a tight smile. “Friendlies, sir. The interrogator reads them as ours!”

“Before I arrived, the command was given orders to scramble the F-4 phantoms from Iruma,” Iwakani informed Kubo as he stood. “At their speed, they should overtake the object just over Fukushima. As a contingent, if the object were to change course, the F-15s would be airborne to intercept from the north. This is your answer, Kubo Ichii. It will be the Japanese Phantoms who will be the protectors of Japanese skies.”

Kubo stood on the other side of Arima and leaned in, crowding the poor traffic controller between his shoulder and Iwakani's hip. The three friendly green dots differed from the object by the four-letter call-signs that dragged beside them. The three fighters had already cleared Utsunomiya on the map, just under one hundred and forty-five kilometers away. Although Kubo had previously been awed at the speed of the object, it paled compared to the fighter jets. As the object ticked towards Fukushima, the three green fighter jet dots glided over the map like guided missiles.

Kubo's breathe quickened. The F-4 Phantoms were now over the mountains of Nakagawa. Their trajectory took them further northeast at a sharp fifty-degree angle on the radar monitor. He knew after they reached a certain point, they would then veer north to intercept their target.

“The fighters should overtake the object soon, sir,” Arima advised.

“Put the fighter comms over the speaker!” Iwakani commanded with a deep tone.

Behind him, Kubo heard the rolling of a chair bumping over grooves in the floor as a communication specialist scrambled to fulfill the order. There was a low crackle over the intercom which rolled over the ceiling. Adjustments to the instruments by the specialist slightly cleared the scrabble, and a voice broke through the static.

“Over Tanagura. Maintaining speed and altitude,” the pilot reported through the din. To Kubo, the voice sounded like the pilot was speaking through a tin cup. Through the comm system, the screaming engines of the F-4s rumbled through the floor.

“Tanagura,” Kubo thought. He looked at the radar map. After the jets had cleared Utsunomiya, the fighters must have turned up the speed to Mach 2. Tanagura put them just south of the object, halfway to Fukushima. Kubo blinked, and already the friendly dots had passed Koriyama. They were less than fifty kilometers away, and hot on the object's tail. Looking to his left, Iwakani remained standing, his face intense as he waited for further communication from the pilots.

“Activating the FCR,” a voice crackled through the speakers.

Kubo's eyes widened. The FCR was the fire-controlled radar aboard the fighter jet. Since they were stationed at an inland city, the Phantoms were likely equipped with sidewinder air-to-air missiles. Their speed could take out the object before it reached the populated city.

Kubo breathed out when he heard the announcement over the intercom.“Object nearly in range,” one of the pilots noted.

The FCR had a minimum range of two hundred nautical miles. Given their proximity, the fighters should reach the range of the object in mere moments. The warmth of Kubo's hands made them perspire again.

Even with the broken air conditioner, the air was dry and crisp. It tingled with the feeling just before a lightning strike. Kubo looked up as if the cold, gray ceiling would help him see what the pilots were seeing. From his peripherals, he saw Iwakani Itto Kusa staring at the ground. The tip of his chin was between the thumb and index finger and the other arm hugged his torso.

“Even the mighty Issa is concerned about the activities,” he thought.

“Description. Can they see the target?” Iwakani asked. Quickly, a specialist relayed the message, speaking low into a microphone close to his mouth.

Only static on the comms. Kubo held his breath again. Everyone waited for the response.

“We have visuals,” a pilot announced.

The control-room waited, a pause fraught with anticipation.

“Object is circular. No visible propulsion system,” the pilot reported. “White. With some sort of light surrounding the periphery.”

“It looks like a white sun,” another pilot broke in.

“Maintain focus, Yamada,” the first pilot chided, taking over, continuing between deep breaths. “Shimmering. Object appears solid, approximately seven meters wide.”

“That's as big as a house,” Iwakani muttered. “Tell the pilots to lock on the target.”

“Sir!” Kubo protested while the controller relayed the message. “The target is unidentified, yes, but has yet to show hostility." The Issa glared, but Kubo was determined not to wilt. "The protocol is to attempt to contact and issue a warning that deadly force—”

“Do not lecture me about protocol, Kubo Ichii!” Iwakani barked. “We have an unidentified object the size of a parliamentary wing, glowing with some unknown energy, whose power source is still unidentified, heading toward a densely populated city with a nuclear facility!” Not waiting for a reply, Iwakani turned to the controller in contact with the pilots and ordered, “Tell the lead pilot to lock on target, and take out the object on my orders!”

Kubo looked at the young controller whose name he thought was Sugiyama. Sugiyama glanced between him and the Issa with wide eyes behind black-framed glasses. Kubo knew there was no true choice between obeying him and obeying the Colonel. Sugiyama donned his headset. Holding the small microphone, he relayed Iwakani's orders in a wavering voice.

“Hai! Locking on target,” the pilot replied. “One minute to lock.”

The speakers crackled as the jet engines roared like a hurricane. Having flown several sorties as a pilot before, Kubo pictured the square tactical information display in the center of the jet console. Dashed lines dominated the center, separated by a small blank space. Through the Doppler on the jet, the object would appear like a green dot, and the dance would begin. The two opponents would play cat and mouse as the pilots attempted to center the dot inside the space.

A thought chilled Kubo's blood. He wondered if the sidewinders could harm the object. If it was extraterrestrial, who was to say a terrestrial weapon would even destroy it? Perhaps it had thus far not acknowledged the fighter jets because their presence is so far beneath its attention. Perhaps the missiles will only anger the object. Incur its wrath.

And what does it look like if it decides to defend itself?

A low beeping echoed through the overhead speakers.

“We have a lock,” the lead pilot shouted.

Kubo quietly inched closer to the communication specialist who turned a dial to the right, amplifying the crackle filling the control tower from floor to ceiling. Kubo put his hands in his front pockets, careful not to let the Issa see him dry them on the fabric inside. The breathing through the pilot's mask intensified through the speakers. Kubo's fingers tightened as if he were about to pull the trigger himself. Just as his index finger closed inside his pocket, a shout rattled the panes of all four windows.

Iwakani Itto Kusa stepped forward. “What's going on?” Eyes wide, he shouted, “Report!”

“The light. Too bright,” one of the pilots responded, his breath heaving. Kubo noticed the sound of the wind over the wings change from light to a deep thundering whistle. The plane was losing speed and altitude.

There was a moment of just a whine of wind against metal.

“The light is dying down,” another pilot interjected. “Hard to see through the spots, but I think its shrinking, sir.”

“The object?” Iwakani asked.

“It's gone, sir!” the lead pilot spoke again.

“What!” Iwakani exclaimed. Stuffing his stiff military hat beneath his armpit, he marched towards the specialist, who swallowed upon seeing the Issa approach. Kubo caught up with the Colonel with broad steps.

Snatching the microphone off the specialist's head, Iwakani fumbled as he put the small padded microphone to his mouth. “Explain! Did you terminate the target?”

There was a sound, like fabric swiping over an open microphone.

“Negative sir,” the pilot answered through the static. “Before we could fire, the object blinded us with some nova-like burst. When I could see it again, the object was no bigger than a beach ball. And it accelerated out of sight at great speed.”

Iwakani looked at Kubo, a trail of sweat running down the side of the Issa's hard face.

“What direction?” Iwakani asked through the mic. He pulled the headset over his ears.

“North,” the pilot answered, then paused. “Northeast from my gauge. From its speed, it has to have already passed Sendai.”

“Can you intercept?”

“Negative. Even at top speed, from what I saw, sir, we would burn the engines out before gaining on the object.”

“The F-15s were in-bound—” Iwakani began, but the pilot interrupted him.

“Not on that trajectory, sir,” he asserted. “It's moving away from the F-15s as well. As if it knew they were moving to intercept.”

Iwakani slowly pulled the headset from over his head, mussing his hair. His eyes were blank as he handed it back to the specialist, who never took his eyes off the Issa.

“We need to notify Misawa,” Kubo uttered.

Pulled from his daze, Iwakani looked at Kubo Ichii. “The Americans?”

“Yes, with aid from the ASDF there,” Kubo added, knowing the public would not respond well to a purely foreign intervention over their sovereign land. “The Americans have a handful of the new F-16s stationed there. They could intercept the object before it's too late.”

Iwakani bit his lip as he thought about the prospect, then nodded at the specialist who turned and adjusted his radio equipment to reach the base in the far north. The sound of the communications specialist relaying the update to Misawa Air Base turned to a mumble as Kubo's mind wandered. He wondered if even the Americans would be able to handle this object when it had eluded the modern Japanese forces thus far.

And there's something else, far more dangerous—

Iwakani's voice penetrated Kubo's thoughts.

“I know what you're thinking, Kubo Ichii,” Iwakani said. For once, his voice was an even tone, instead of laced with tension. “You are wondering if our combined forces can combat this thing.”

“Yes Issa-san,” Kubo nodded. “I was also wondering how it will react now, knowing we tried to attack it.”

Iwakani's brow creased into deep furrows over his eyebrows. “You believe it is aware of the missile lock?”

Kubo nodded again. “Look at the object's response, the bright light, then shrinking to evade the Phantoms. It performed these acts just when the pilot locked on.”

The face of the Issa darkened. The object had indeed reacted to his command like an evading intruder.

“Specialist!” Iwakani shouted. The low-pitched anger had returned.

"One moment." Specialist Sugiyama finished before he put his hand over his microphone and looked up at the Issa. “Yes, Issa-san?” he said.

Iwakani looked down at the specialist, his eyes sharp once again.

“Tell the Americans to come in hot. I want the object nullified,” he replied. He glanced over at Kubo, who slowly nodded. “I have full confidence the alliance in the north will get the job done.”

“I pray we are right, Issa-san,” Kubo confessed with a sober tone. “The Americans might be our last hope.”