Number 9 dream Page 0,134

heading, holding depth 5 metres. Surfaced 0342 confirm position with visual fix. Enemy fleet clearly silhouetted harbour lights. Troop carriers, transport ships, fuel tankers, at least 3 battleships, 3 destroyers, 2 heavy cruisers. No carriers, many fat targets. Eating, asleep, shitting, smoking, drinking, talking Americans. I, their executioner. Strange sensation. At strategy meeting on I-333 agreed first kaitens should target distant vessels – guesswork required. Used kids choosing-chant: Do – re – ni – shi – ma – sho – ka? Ka – mi – sa – ma – no – iu – to – explosion. Shock waves rocked kaiten. Steadied periscope, saw fuel tanker, plum-blossom fire, smoke already obscuring stars. Secondary explosion. Orange. Beautiful, terrible, could not tear eyes away. Flares climbed, lit Passage brighter than day. Hunted, I dived. Waking dream. Being, not doing. Chose nearest large naval ship and manouevred to appropriate angle. Klaxons, engines, chaos. Another major explosion – kaiten, nearby depth-charge, no knowing. Patrol boat? Vibrations nearer, nearer, nearer – dived to 8 metres – passed over. Sizable explosion to starboard. Loneliness – afraid brothers leave me here among hostile strangers not my race. Slowed to 2 kph, surfaced for position check. Fires/smoke/after-explosions 2 locations. Chose large outline due west – light cruiser? 150 metres. Eyes dazzled by searchlight, but cloaked by chaos on-shore. Dived to 6–7 metres. Throttled to 18 kph. Flying, strange air. Cut to dead halt. Surfaced, final check. Cruiser filled the night. 80 metres. Saw figures streaming. Ants. Fireflies. Dived 5 metres. Primed warhead. One thought: ‘This is my final thought.’ Opened throttle lever to maximum velocity. Acceleration shoved me back, hard . . . 70 metres closing, 60, 50, 40, 30, 20, impact next moment, impact now

Clang like temple bell. Wild spinning – up = down, down = up, drilling, flung left right up down, loose objects flying, me too. Lungs empty. So this death, I think, then I think, Can dead think? Pain rings from head erased further thought. Lurching crunch > hung downwards > judder halt. Engines howling, rudder control dead and free in hand, scream noise from engines, heat climbing, burning oil smell – same moment I realize not dead and must cut engines, engines die. Failure. Warhead did not detonate. Kaiten glanced off hull = bamboo spear off metal helmet. Periscope sights slashed face, broke nose. Sat, listened to noises from surface. Tried to ignite TNT manually, strike casing with wrench. Tore off fingernail in attempt. Impact broke chronometer. Minutes or hours, cannot tell. Periscope blackness> blueness now. Flask of whisky. Will drink, put these pages into flask. Takara. Message in bottle in dead shark. Learn this song, Takara?Corpses adrift and corpses swollen,Corpses abed in the swollen sea,Corpses adream in the mountain grasslands,We shall die, we shall die, we shall die for the emperor, and we shall never look back.

Abed in the swollen sea. Air thinner. Or imagine air thinner. Now? Divers may discover me – typhoon shakes me loose, beaches me – remain here end of time. Kaiten was not way to glorious death. Kaiten is urn. Sea is tomb. Do not blame us who die so long before noon.

‘No hope,’ answers the woman who is not Ai. It is after midnight but she sounds more amused than angry. She has a brick-thick Osaka accent. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh. Can I ask when, uh, Miss Imajo is expected back?’

‘Feel free to ask, but whether I answer is another Q.’

‘When is Miss Imajo due back? Please?’

‘And tonight’s top news story: Ai Imajo is summoned to the ancestral seat in Niigata in a last-ditch attempt to break the diplomatic deadlock. When reporters asked the defiant Miss Imajo how long the summit would last, we were told: “As long as it takes.” Stay tuned!’

‘Days, then?’

‘My turn. Are you the karate kid?’

‘No. The head-butt kid.’

‘Same kid. Nice to meet your disembodied voice at last, karate kid. Ai calls you head-butt kid, but I think karate kid sounds wittier.’

‘Uh, for sure. When Ai gets back could you—’

‘I inherited my granny’s psychic powers. I knew it was you calling. Don’t you want to know who I am?’

‘Are you Ai’s shy, retiring flatmate, by any chance?’

‘Hole in one! So. Is Ai dating a human being, or are you another psycho gremlin?’

‘Not exactly dating . . .’ I take the bait. ‘“Psycho gremlin”?’

‘Fact. Eighty per cent of Ai’s admirers go on to successful careers in the horror movie industry. The last one was the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Webby, floppy, water-resistant, caught bluebottles with his