Pathway to Japanese Literature

Lieutenant “Hmm, so he’s come again.” With that, Captain Tagome flicked the cigarette he’d been holding in his mouth into the ashtray, then stared at the front of the business card with a perplexed expression.

Before him stood the sentry, making a sour face.

This was the officers' club at the XX Defense Air Corps Headquarters near the Imperial Capital.

“Ah, Captain. Who might that be?” Lieutenant Togawa, who had only been assigned to this air corps about a week prior, stopped flipping through the phone book and addressed his superior. “Well, that ‘Fireball Lieutenant’ has come again.” “What? ‘Fireball Lieutenant’?”

With that, Lieutenant Togawa raised his eyebrows high, “Ah, you mean Rokujō.” “So that Rokujō fellow was here?”

Lieutenant Togawa’s eyes lit up like a boy’s as he glanced back toward the entrance. But there was no sign of anyone there.

Now this “Fireball” Lieutenant Rokujō Sōsuke—referred to by his rank—and Lieutenant Togawa had been classmates. And once, while keeping watch on the Soviet-Manchurian border ahead, they had lain side by side in the barracks of a forward airbase, their heads rising and falling as they slept. Though the two were inseparable comrades, their personalities were polar opposites. In contrast to Lieutenant Togawa—a meticulous and composed warrior ideally suited for a flight officer—Rokujō was an extraordinarily bold officer whose very nickname made it clear that every fiber of his being was charged with combat prowess. And so the two of them used to trade good-natured insults with each other.

“What’s this? You!” “Someone like you—if you keep obsessing over numbers—you’ll never pull off a victory bigger than your damn calculations!”

When Rokujō Sōsuke would tease him, Togawa, for his part, “Don’t be ridiculous. If someone like you forgets all about the numbers the moment combat starts, you’ll end up getting some third-rate enemy soldier thrusting a bamboo spear into your side—that’s where you’ll meet your end.” so he would retort.

Yet in truth, these two officers had always respected each other's strengths. Though Togawa’s words had not exactly become a prophecy, an unfortunate incident suddenly befell Rokujō Sōsuke, forcing him to withdraw from the front lines. That unfortunate incident occurred one day when he was standing before a partially collapsed house to inspect the aftermath of a Soviet Air Force bombing raid, only for a supply corps truck taking a sharp curve to come charging toward him. The moment he dodged with a sharp gasp—whether due to inexperience or panic—the soldier driving the truck fumbled the steering wheel, causing the vehicle to veer in the opposite direction and crash into the pillars of the partially collapsed house. With a thunderous roar, it finally brought down what remained of the structure. There, Lieutenant Rokujō—who had taken shelter inside the building whether through misfortune or lack of careful attention—ended up being crushed beneath it. Everyone immediately worked together to dig out the lieutenant’s body, but his injuries were so severe that it seemed miraculous he was still alive. In the end, from that time onward, the "Fireball Lieutenant" lost all use of his right arm, retreated to a field hospital, and ultimately had his right arm amputated from the upper arm.

With one arm gone, the "Fireball Lieutenant" could no longer pilot an aircraft. As a result, he was to be sent back from the front lines—but "Fireball Lieutenant" would not listen no matter what anyone said. He struggled and struggled, but no matter how hard he fought, he understood that his severed arm would never grow back as it once was—and so he was forcibly taken back to the mainland. “I know what he’s saying,” Captain Tagome continued. “He insists that since there’s no one but him who can smash through those Soviet heavy pillbox clusters, we ought to bend every effort to get him back to the front lines immediately.” His voice grew heavier as he added: “He’s already come here thirty or forty times to meet us, but no matter how much he begs, there’s just nothing we can do about this particular matter.”

With that, Captain Tagome shook his head from side to side with an utterly troubled expression. “Are you saying he can still perform even without his right arm?” Lieutenant Togawa had been dispatched to headquarters and separated from Lieutenant Rokujō before this incident occurred, so he had not met him since.

“Exactly,” said Captain Tagome. “He insists he still has his left arm and both legs—a mouth full of hard teeth and a thick neck too.” His voice lowered gravely. “That fighting spirit commands respect…but some matters simply won’t bend.”

Just as he was saying this，a rough bellow came echoing from the direction of the reception desk．Captain Tagome and Lieutenant Togawa involuntarily exchanged glances． “Very well． “Hey，sentry！” “Bring Lieutenant Rokujō here．”

Captain Tagome finally said.

“Captain,sir.MightIalsoremainhere,sir?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” “Please stay there and give the ‘Fireball’ Lieutenant some comfort for me.” Before long, a burly man entered the room led by the sentry—upon closer inspection, he was clad in a civil defense uniform and even had a proper right hand.

New Civil Defense Member

“Oh, that getup of yours—” As Captain Tagome voiced his bewilderment, the burly man respectfully raised his right hand in a salute, “Ah, today I have come so that you might find some reassurance in seeing this appearance of mine, Captain Tagome-sir.” “Ah, Togawa—Lieutenant Togawa-sir. It has been quite some time, hasn’t it?” That burly man was indeed the "Fireball" Lieutenant. It was none other than Lieutenant Rokujō. For some reason, the "Fireball" Lieutenant was uncharacteristically cheerful today. The Lieutenant was uncharacteristically cheerful.

“Oh! You bastard—good to see you!”

With that, Lieutenant Togawa stood up and reached his hand toward Lieutenant Rokujō. At that moment, the lieutenant felt something hard and chilling in his palm. When he looked, it was the “Fireball” made of steel and hard rubber. It was the lieutenant’s prosthetic hand.

“Lieutenant Togawa-sir.” “In terms of results, this constitutes my defeat.” “I should have declared this immediately upon meeting you, Lieutenant Togawa-sir, but until today circumstances afforded me no opportunity to do so.” “Ahaha—what absurdity are you spouting now?”

“However, Lieutenant Togawa-sir. I declare that while losing my right hand has reduced my physical strength in appearance, my fighting spirit has instead grown more vigorous than before.” “Hmph, how splendid.” “Fireball” Lieutenant suddenly noticed this and saluted Captain Tagome, “My apologies, sir. As I happened to meet an old friend, I unintentionally ended up delaying my report to you, Captain Tagome-sir…”

“No need to concern yourself. But what precisely constitutes this ‘report’? You’re not here to announce approval for returning to your frontline unit, I presume?” “While I’ve indeed troubled you greatly regarding that matter of rejoining my combat regiment, Captain Tagome-sir—today’s purpose lies elsewhere. Observe this. I’ve enlisted in the Civil Defense Corps. Until frontline redeployment authorization comes through, I mean to serve through civil defense.” “Ah, that’s commendable.” Captain Tagome’s features at last registered full understanding.

“And what kind of position is it?”

As a captain, he still found himself concerned about the assignment of his former subordinate, the "Fireball" Lieutenant. “Yes, the surveillance unit.” “Oh, the surveillance unit. Well now—that’s an excellent assignment you’ve received.” “For someone like the ‘Fireball’ Lieutenant, it’s nearly too good for an observation post.”

Captain Tagome spoke the truth. "That’s not the case."

Rokujō immediately dismissed this in the spirited tone befitting the "Fireball" Lieutenant, “Never before has the work of the observation post been as crucial and fraught with difficulty as it is today. “The current situation suggests that the Soviet Far Eastern Army’s heavy bomber squadrons may take wing and strike the skies of the Imperial Capital as early as tonight.” “I have resolved to undertake my duties starting tonight.”

“Hmm—you say you’ll take up your duties. How exactly do you plan to do that?” “Yes, I am to board the balloon.” “What? Boarding a balloon?” “What kind of balloon are you boarding? What exactly will you be doing?” Captain Tagome was somewhat surprised that the “Fireball” Lieutenant had proposed boarding the balloon. “Yes—starting tonight, the Imperial Capital will deploy tethered balloons.” “Tonight there will only be one, but from tomorrow onward their numbers shall increase slightly.” “I am to board that first one and monitor the skies above the Imperial Capital late at night.”

“Can you see at night?”

“Yes, the moon will rise at 3 AM. Until then, we will detect enemy aircraft propellers using the E-type sound detector.”

“Hmm, that must be quite an undertaking.” “Then I’m counting on you to do this properly.” Captain Tagome was deeply moved to learn that even as a disabled man, the blazing combat spirit of “Fireball” Lieutenant still resided within the lieutenant’s heart.

That "Fireball" Lieutenant stiffened his posture even further when taking leave before Captain Tagome and his old friend Lieutenant Togawa, his face flushing crimson like a lacquer basin. “However—this Rokujō earnestly desires to be permitted back to his original unit at the earliest opportunity, to lead the charge in that XX Army’s pillbox cluster assault and there lay bare his corpse. Therefore I must insist you both not overlook this matter and continue your steadfast efforts on my behalf.” Having solemnly declared this, the "Fireball" Lieutenant turned about-face and departed.

After seeing him off, Captain Tagome and Lieutenant Togawa exchanged glances, “He really is the ‘Fireball’ Lieutenant after all.” “At first I thought he’d given up on returning to his original unit—but judging by his words now, on the contrary—it seems our professor here absolutely intends to meet his death right in the middle of that XX Army pillbox cluster!” “Ha ha ha!” With that, he laughed cheerfully.

Delayed Ascent

That "Fireball"

That "Fireball" Lieutenant boarded the tethered balloon at 9 PM that night at XX Base in the northeastern district of the Imperial Capital. Around that time, a spiteful southerly wind began blowing with considerable force, causing the balloon—which seemed to crouch low against the earth—to sway ponderously. Initially, six people had been scheduled to board the gondola beneath this balloon, but when the critical moment arrived, only “Fireball” Lieutenant alone ended up boarding.

“What on earth happened?” “You don’t mean to say they lost their nerve.” He laughed.

“No, Mr. Rokujō. The squad leader and other key personnel are tied up at the moment, you see. How about you postpone as well while you’re at it?” The elderly clerk from the civil defense group said. “I will board as scheduled. Enemy planes will come if they mean to, wind or no wind.” “No—it’s not about the wind being fierce or anything like that. They say two or three suspicious figures were seen prowling around the fence behind this XX Base. That’s why the squad leader’s got everyone out patrolling right now. Doesn’t that give you the creeps?”

The elderly clerk’s head quivered violently. “Suspicious individuals—hah! You really believe that? To a coward, an earthworm looks like a snake.” “Mr. Rokujō—if the brass hears you saying such things, they’ll raise hell.” “What’s there to fuss about? Having one or two shady characters prowling around during this conflict is only natural. No need for even the squad leader to go stirring up trouble. Leave that snooping to those staying groundside—we should board as scheduled. The enemy’ll rain bombs on us whether we’re squabbling or not, I tell you.”

“That may be so, but earlier they were searching around this balloon too. From what I heard from the military police officer, it’s quite the manhunt—apparently a high-ranking Soviet Communist Party spy named Kinchakov, who illegally disembarked last month from a cargo ship anchored in Yokohama Bay and escaped, seems to be mixed up in this.” “Kinchakov... That name sounds familiar somehow. "But Kinchakov will always be Kinchakov, and an observation post will always be an observation post." “Now then, go tell the crew that the scheduled time has come and to hurry up untying the balloon’s mooring ropes.”

“Oh, so you’re still going up alone after all, Mr. Rokujō?”

“Haven’t I been saying that over and over already? Go tell the crew that. If they keep dawdling, tell them I’ll cut the mooring ropes and ascend on my own—make it clear in no uncertain terms.”

“Huh?! You’re cutting the balloon’s mooring ropes?!” “You, even as a joke, you shouldn’t say such violent things.” “If you cut the balloon’s mooring ropes, we’ll be blown clear out of the atmosphere—isn’t that right?!” “Ha ha ha!” “That’s enough—go hurry and tell the crew to get moving.” “Ah, understood.”

As the old man ran off toward the other side, Rokujō Sōsuke found himself alone by the balloon. The wind still howled shrilly around his ears, and the gondola—hovering barely a meter above ground—rattled violently. When he peered into the dark sky, the balloon’s massive form swayed violently as if howling at the heavens, its mooring ropes creaking so alarmingly it unnerved him.

The crew members Rokujō was waiting for did not appear at all.

“What are they doing?” With a click of his tongue, he surveyed the entire pitch-dark XX Base. Then, every now and then, several flashlights could be seen flickering like fireflies. They must be the search party. “Hmph... So it was true after all.” “So there really were suspicious guys who’d sneaked in…”

But for the "Fireball" Lieutenant—who had lived under strict military discipline—the balloon’s failure to ascend at the scheduled time was a profound irritation, even if chaos erupted right beside him. "Well, no helping it," he thought. "Should I go down and give them a real piece of my mind?"

Just as he was thinking this, the gondola suddenly shook with a heavy thud and leapt two or three meters up from the ground. That was also evident from how the signal lights on the ground suddenly grew distant.

“Hmm? What’s going on here?” As he wondered this, the gondola jolted with another heavy thud and leapt up another two or three meters.

"Hmm…" At that moment, the lieutenant noticed a single figure frantically trying to untie the mooring ropes in front of the signal lights on the ground.

“Ah, finally—the balloon crew’s ground personnel are here. Though honestly, handling this with just one man seems a bit unreasonable.” As he was saying this, the gondola shook violently with a heavy thud, and in that instant, his hand slipped from its edge, sending him tumbling like a potato across the bottom. By the time he righted himself, the balloon was already surging upward through the wind.

From the ground, several flashlights were moving toward them. However, all those lights were frantically tracing out crosses. Cross-shaped flashlight signals! Ah—that was the "Caution Required" signal! “What do you mean ‘Caution Required’?!” And so "Fireball"—the lieutenant was staring at the diminishing lights on the ground.

The "Caution Required" signal.

It was some time later—when "Fireball" Lieutenant had noticed the aerial anomaly—that he first heard the XX Base’s sirens wailing through the wind, followed by every last one of XX Base’s searchlights swiveling to illuminate the balloon carrying him.

Up until that point, he had assumed that the ground crew had rushed through their busy duties to loosen the mooring ropes of Tethered Balloon No. 1 for his sake.

However, it was only when the ominous commotion of sirens and searchlights began afterward that he finally began to harbor a certain suspicion.

"How strange," he thought. "What could possibly be causing such a commotion down there?" They'd said no one else would board besides him—but could there still be someone aboard? Was that why they kept flashing that damned 'Caution Required' signal? Yet if that were true, why hadn't they ordered a 'Hold Departure'? The 'Caution Required' warning made no sense—no, what truly unsettled him was how every searchlight at XX Base now tracked their balloon's ascent. If their launch inconvenienced the base, why not simply reel them back down? Why let them rise unchecked?

Even the "Fireball" Lieutenant began to feel a flicker of unease as he shielded his eyes from the searchlights’ dazzling beams and stared down at the commotion below.

Before long, he noticed something terrible for the first time. It concerned the mooring ropes of the balloon he was aboard. One mooring rope had snapped short and was swaying in the searchlight’s beam.

"Oh, that mooring rope’s been cut!"

He involuntarily cried out in shock, but when he then shifted his gaze to the other ropes, an even greater shock awaited him.

"Ah! That mooring rope’s been cut too!"

He clung to the edge of the gondola, tracing from one mooring rope to the next as he followed their lines. The inspection revealed all six mooring ropes securing the balloon had been cleanly severed. Not a single tether remained to anchor the craft to earth. Ah—where could a balloon without mooring ropes possibly drift? "Damn—this is catastrophic!" "Fireball"— Boiling blood surged backward through the lieutenant's entire body.

"Disaster! Disaster! Disaster!" He grabbed the gondola's edge and shook it like a zoo monkey. The calamity grew greater with each passing moment.

On the ground, the searchlights now traced crosses, signaling "Caution Required." "Caution Required" was far too late now.

At that moment, he noticed there might be a wireless device inside the gondola, so he bent down and looked around.

"Ah, here it is. That must be it." Amidst the faint lamplight inside the gondola, the black-painted panel of the wireless device caught his eye. As a flight officer, he had some knowledge of wireless devices and could distinguish which panel was the receiver and which was the transmitter. He hurriedly placed the receiver to his head and flipped the switch. The vacuum tube suddenly flared to life.

After a moment, a voice burst forth from the depths of the receiver.

“This is XX Tethered Balloon No. 1.” “This is XX Base.” “This is XX Tethered Balloon No. 1.” “Can you hear me?” “We’ve made contact with the ○○ Flight Squadron – pursuit aircraft will be dispatched. Maintain position.” “This is XX Tethered Balloon No. 1!” “If receiving this transmission, respond immediately with your signal.”

It was the voice of XX Base's communication officer. When he heard this, Rokujō felt his courage surge a hundredfold. Those on the ground had clearly noticed that this balloon had come untethered and begun drifting through the air. A flight squadron had reportedly been hastily dispatched to rescue the balloon. Now all he needed was to remember to inform either ground control or the rescue planes of their position. It simply required operating the wireless device's transmitter and speaking into the microphone to relay their voice.

Rokujō extended his left hand and flipped the switch on the wireless device’s transmitter. The pilot lamp flared to life. The vacuum tube glowed inside the cabinet. He opened the lid, took out a microphone with a long cord from inside, and brought it to his mouth.

“This is Tethered Balloon No. 1. “Rokujō Sōsuke is transmitting.” “The balloon is being carried by the wind while rapidly ascending.” “Atmospheric pressure is currently seven hundred…” As Rokujō said this and peered at the luminous-needled barometer beside him, suddenly—from out of nowhere—someone seized his left hand gripping the microphone in a vise-like grip.

The Unexpected Phantom

“Ah—!”

The “Fireball” Lieutenant Renowned for His Daring Even this lieutenant—celebrated for his audacity—let out a guttural cry of shock from his very core at this wholly unforeseen assault. He’d been certain beyond doubt that he alone occupied this gondola adrift through starless night—making this abrupt vise-grip on his microphone-clutching wrist all the more inconceivable. Small wonder such shock overtook him. “Wh—who’s there!” Friend or foe? The instant Lieutenant “Fireball” spun around, searing agony erupted through his left wrist—twin events fused into one brutal moment.

“Wh—what are you doing?!”

he cried out, but the excruciating pain in his wrist—so severe he thought the bone might be shattered—made it impossible to keep his eyes open. But "Fireball"—the lieutenant’s eyes captured the grotesque figure of his opponent.

“Y-you... Who the hell are you?!” The assailant bared his white teeth and grappled him from behind. The brute strength was overwhelming. “Japanese، shut up. “If you value your life، don’t resist.” The assailant’s words had been in Russian. _Ah، a Soviet!_

This intruder, as previously noted, possessed considerable brute strength. Moreover, Lieutenant "Fireball"— the lieutenant had taken a surprise blow to his left wrist, and it still felt numb. So he couldn’t muster any strength. Perhaps aware of this, the assailant tightened his arm coiled around Rokujō’s neck with relentless force. “Ugh, you…”

“Fireball” For the lieutenant, it was a double crisis. Both were unforeseen ambush crises he had never anticipated. Most men would have already blacked out without a struggle by now, but the greater the peril, the more fiercely Fireball rebounded— —this was the lieutenant’s very nature. Even now, with his breath nearly stopping, he used his peripheral vision to memorize the layout of crucial instruments within the gondola.

“Japanese, hurry up and die!” The Soviet intruder tightened his arm coiled around Rokujō’s neck with renewed force. “Ugh...”

Grunting, Lieutenant "Fireball’s" upper body arched backward. “Japanese! Aren’t you dead yet?”

“Ugh.” Fireball’s upper body arched backward like a shrimp. Even the mysterious Soviet grappling him from behind—unable to withstand the lieutenant’s rigid head against his chest—was violently pressed against the gondola’s edge. “Hey! Don’t arch back like that.” “You’re a real pain in the ass, aren’t you.”

It was at that moment when the mysterious Soviet forced Rokujō’s body forward. “Hah!”

A desperate shout burst forth from the throat of "Fireball," who had lain as though dead until this very moment. It burst forth from the depths of the lieutenant's throat. Then his body sank with a dull thud, as though diving into water. “Whoa—!” With a strange scream, the body of the mysterious Soviet who had been triumphantly clinging to the lieutenant’s back suddenly flipped like a firecracker and was flung forward with a heavy thud. At that moment, had Lieutenant "Fireball" released his grip, the mysterious Soviet’s body would have vaulted over the gondola’s edge and been hurled into empty space with nothing to grasp in the blink of an eye. The lieutenant, seeming to anticipate this, yanked the man’s sleeve toward himself with such force that the opponent—his tailbone striking the gondola’s corner with a sickening crack—crumpled upside down into the basket in a heap and lay motionless. Why would he save an enemy—"Fireball"? The lieutenant’s motives were impossible to discern.

“What’s wrong? Coming back for more?” The lieutenant stretched out his leg and kicked the assailant in the head. But the assailant showed no resistance, perhaps having lost consciousness. Thinking to use this interval, Fireball The lieutenant once again took up the microphone, intending to urgently entrust his report to the radio waves,

“Haah, this is Rokujō from XX Tethered Balloon No. 1.” “The radio waves are still transmitting, I suppose.” “There’s a Soviet who infiltrated this gondola.” “It appears he climbed up from outside.” “He’s unconscious now—I’ll investigate thoroughly and report later.”

The lieutenant’s voice as he spoke these words showed not the slightest difference from his usual tone when talking. They simply could not accept that this was the voice of a man anxiously surviving inside a drifting balloon bound for who-knows-where. Kinchakov

However, this transmission from Lieutenant "Fireball" did not receive the expected response.

When he thought something was off and checked, he found that the microphone’s cord had snapped clean through at some point. In this state, it was no wonder there was no response from the ground. The cord must have been severed during the earlier fight. He immediately began repairing it. If he didn’t quickly restore communication with the ground, there was a risk they would lose all means of tracking where the balloon had drifted.

When he glanced down at the ground, XX Base had already shrunk to the size of a matchbox containing a tiny bulb. The altitude was three thousand meters; though their bearing remained unclear, they appeared to be drifting northward.

The wind grew increasingly fierce; he realized the gondola was tilting severely.

“Fireball” The lieutenant seemed to focus too intently on reattaching the microphone’s cord. The demeanor he projected outwardly did not appear flustered, yet one could not say there was no trace of panic in his heart. After all, he became convinced that unless he quickly restored wireless communication with the ground, a major crisis would occur. This led him to focus too intently on repairing the microphone and neglect to pay attention to the suspicious Soviet.

The suspicious Soviet remained upside down as if he'd been slammed there, but his eyes were slightly open, watching Lieutenant 'Fireball's' hands.

Gradually, one of the mysterious man’s hands began moving slowly and cautiously, starting to search inside his coat pocket.

Quietly, when his wrist emerged again, a powerfully built pistol was gripped there. The mysterious man, still upside down, repositioned his pistol toward 'Fireball'. He took aim at the lieutenant. 'Fireball' The lieutenant finally noticed at that moment. He thought something in the gondola had moved and raised his head to look, only to find this terrifying weapon now pointed his way.

“Hey Kinchakov. You can shoot me if you want, but with that forced stance of yours, you won’t hit a damn thing.”

Lieutenant "Fireball" barked in fluent Russian. “What? How do you know my name…?” It was no wonder the mysterious Soviet was startled—not only had the Japanese man abruptly started speaking Russian, but he’d even called him by name. To be fair, "Fireball"—as for the lieutenant, Russian was his greatest strength, and he had simply recalled Kinchakov’s name—learned from an old logistics officer at XX Base before departure—in that moment.

“Hey Kinchakov.” “I knew you were chased by everyone at XX Base and had no choice but to jump in here.” “So what?” “What ‘no choice’?” “I cut those anchor cables with a knife—meant to escape using this balloon.” “I already knew that without your confession.” “You—think you’ll make some clean getaway in this thing?” “I have to escape.” “Call it escaping if you want—this balloon just drifts wherever the wind blows.” “Where’ll it land? Or maybe once it climbs to heaven, it’ll never come down—who knows?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, you Japanese.” “A balloon has to come down to ground eventually.” “There’s no such thing as ascending to the heavens and staying there forever.”

Kinchakov attempted an impertinent protest. "If you understand that much, that’s good enough. Do you plan to fight the wind and rain alone until this balloon comes down, or do you think it’s better for you and me to fight them together?" "Fireball." The lieutenant skillfully drove the conversation to a critical juncture. "Hmph." "If you’ve realized that much, you should tuck that pistol back in your pocket. If you take a clumsy shot and hit the balloon, what do you think will happen? In an instant, the balloon would be engulfed in flames, and we’d be smashed against the ground like lumps of candy—flames on our backs—bidding farewell to this world."

“...” “Hey, you’re one indecisive bastard, Kinchakov. Put away that pistol and figure out how we’ll get back to the ground safely—then act on it immediately. Don’t waste your efforts.” Told this, Kinchakov finally removed his helmet. He reluctantly tucked the sturdy pistol into his pocket. Then, like a daruma doll righting itself, he rolled his body over with a heavy thud and faced Lieutenant “Fireball”.

“Hah, so you’re Kinchakov. You look decades older than me, but…”

“Fireball” The lieutenant utterly underestimated his opponent.

Enemies in the same boat.

And so, this bizarre Japanese-Soviet aerial drift continued. The microphone had been repaired, but even with it attached, the transmitter refused to function. It seemed another malfunction had occurred besides the microphone, but Rokujō—no specialist—couldn’t immediately locate the faulty component.

Therefore, of the wireless equipment, only the receiver proved useful.

“Haah, XX Tethered Balloon Number One!” They could hear them calling out endlessly through their headset receivers - those urgent repetitions of their designation cutting through static - but those transmissions kept losing strength like blood draining from a wound. That meant they'd finally drifted beyond rescue range of XX Base. The wireless receiver kept crackling with updates about dispatched rescue squadrons.

Indeed, that must have been the case. Was it nearing 2 AM? A single reconnaissance aircraft—bearing red and blue markings and moving at remarkable speed—approached the drifting balloon. “Hey, Kinchakov. I’ll wave too, so you take this flashlight and swing it like this. Got it?”

Rokujō had Kinchakov send signals as well, thinking that if either of them was spotted by the reconnaissance aircraft, it would suffice. Kinchakov didn’t seem particularly eager, but he nevertheless cooperated, swinging the flashlight in a circular motion. “Oh, they’re flying right over there—they should’ve spotted us by now...” “And ‘Fireball’—” The lieutenant pointed upward. Three aircraft marker lights pierced through the pitch-black darkness as they moved along. They appeared to gradually draw closer.

“Nice!” “They’re definitely coming this way.” “Something’s off.” “At that altitude, they’re too high—they’ll pass right over the balloon.” Kinchakov made a remarkably logical observation. “Let them pass us by? Like hell!” “Hey, now.” “Swing that signal light harder!”

The two of them believed they had swung their flashlights with all their might. However, the aircraft ultimately passed approximately five hundred meters above the balloon—just as Kinchakov had predicted—and gradually grew more distant. “Damn it, they finally got away.” “It’s no use, you know.” “A light this small is useless.” “On top of that, there’s a whole spread of tattered clouds—surprisingly hard to see through from above, you know.”

Kinchakov began smugly explaining. "Fireball" The lieutenant saw through it—Kinchakov was a highly skilled Soviet-trained spy. In that case, he would have to be even more vigilant from now on.

Eventually, a little past 3 AM, the moon rose. Then, after about an hour and a half had passed, the eastern sky turned white. The wireless transmissions from XX Base—which had been calling out incessantly since the previous night—suddenly dwindled to a faint sound. And before long, nothing could be heard at all.

After that, the rescue planes stopped giving chase as well.

Over an endlessly vast sea of clouds, the balloon continued drifting at the wind’s mercy. Beyond it stretched nothing—not a single trace of life remained visible. This boundless expanse might well have been heaven’s gateway. "In what stretch of clouds would their two corpses find burial?"—such musings crossed Fireball’s mind. The lieutenant too fell briefly into melancholy before that desolate celestial vista.

Sharp fangs. “Hey, Rokujō. “Looks like the balloon’s stopped ascending.”

Kinchakov, slapping his body as if cold, said to Rokujō, who was engrossed in disassembling the transmitter. “Hmph, seems like it’s stopped moving altogether, hasn’t it?”

Rokujō nodded in response. When he looked at the altimeter, they were indeed at eight thousand meters. Even summer couldn't ward off this cold.

The balloon was stretched taut, fully inflated. “This is just like a balloon stuck to a ceiling—not the least bit interesting.” Kinchakov remarked carefreely. “Hey, don’t you know anything more about wireless?”

Rokujō asked.

“Well, it’s completely hopeless.” Kinchakov replied nonchalantly. There was a point where Kinchakov seemed to transcend life and death more than Rokujō did—Fireball The lieutenant, too, was finding this somewhat grating. However, there was naturally a fundamental difference between those who merely lived in idleness and those who fulfilled their duty as imperial soldiers—it wasn’t that Rokujō was the cowardly one.

“Oh! The balloon’s starting to descend!” “Ah, thank goodness.” “It’ll get warmer.” “Hmph, don’t go plunging into those clouds over there.”

Kinchakov became animated.

Rokujō had finally given up on the wireless device. Ever since the aerial drift began, he had recalled his comrade Togawa and resolved to approach things with meticulous care and composure this time around—but no matter how he tried to tell himself it was just a single wireless device, it refused to show the slightest sign of repair.

(After all, things not suited to my nature are useless.) He felt as though he had reached a realization for the first time. At the same time, the strange gloom that had weighed on him until now seemed to dissipate like mist.

“Oh! It’s really going down.” “So this is finally the first step toward crashing?” “Don’t try to scare me.”

“There’s a rule that strange talk makes strange truths,” Rokujō countered. “Keep your tongue civil.” “Bah—eat this while you can,” Kinchakov retorted, thrusting forward a ration. “Might put steel back in your spine.”

Rokujō pulled out portable rations from the gondola’s cupboard and shared some with Kinchakov. Inside were heated field meals and compressed whiskey tablets. With six men’s worth of provisions having been stored beforehand, food at least wouldn’t run short for the time being.

The real problem was water. The water had been brought in last night by an old man from general affairs, but it held only one day’s worth per person. The portable rations puffed up into a mouthful. Unless water was poured over them from above, they simply wouldn’t go down. But if they didn’t conserve water, there was no telling what might happen next. Rokujō, his eyes darting wildly, looked over at Kinchakov’s face—the Soviet spy’s own eyes were similarly wide as he wolfed down the portable rations.

“Oh! Clouds. We’re finally descending!”

In mere moments, the balloon was enveloped within dense clouds. In the blink of an eye, their clothes were soaked through with water droplets, which then streamed down like rivers over them. From above their heads too, a small waterfall came splashing down. Even though they looked up and couldn’t see it, the water droplets that had accumulated on the balloon must have gathered and were now falling from above. But no matter what, nothing could be seen. It was as if they were viewing the gondola’s interior through polished glass. Kinchakov seized this moment to lap up the rainwater streaming down his face with his long tongue, licking eagerly all around.

While the dense clouds had been below them or while they were passing through them, the sensation hadn’t been particularly strong, but the moment the balloon slipped through the clouds and found itself beneath them, a sudden, intense feeling of plummeting was felt.

Below them stretched a vast, open expanse of sea. And the sea surface was surprisingly close, only four or five hundred meters away.

“Ah, the sea.” “Oh, it’s the sea.” “What sea could this be?” “This color—it’s the Sea of Japan.” What Rokujō had said was not mistaken.

“If it’s the Sea of Japan, ships must pass through frequently—even if we crash, we’ll be rescued safely.” Kinchakov’s face suddenly lit up with delight, but then—as if struck by a thought—he pulled out that pistol from his pocket and thrust it at Rokujō. “What are you doing, Kinchakov?” “No, this isn’t a bluff—I’m serious. When a ship comes into view, you’ll pull the cord to release the balloon’s gas and descend to be rescued—but I’ve got a little condition about that.”

“What do you mean by that?” “Out with it!” “Even if Japanese ships pass by, you must not descend.” “In other words, the condition is that we’re rescued by non-Japanese vessels.” “Of course, I won’t allow any objections from you.” Kinchakov firmly placed his finger on the pistol’s trigger. “Fireball.” The lieutenant showed no sign of shock. “Rather than clutching that thing, checking whether ships are passing below is what truly matters for survival.”

“Hmph. You think I’d be careless enough to fall for that trick?” “Projectile weapons decide victories every time.” Kinchakov, laying bare his true nature, snarled “Fireball” while keeping the pistol trained on the lieutenant undeterred.

(What a noisy bastard.) He thought, but Rokujō didn’t seem particularly bothered by the pistol pointed at him and continued gazing down from the gondola at the sea surface veiled in morning mist.

Instead, it was Kinchakov who let out a sigh.

Endless Drift

If not for that prankster called the Discontinuity Line, one of the two might have soon been rescued by a steamship sailing across the Sea of Japan. And that flight duration record might have ended in a mere ten-odd hours. However, where had it been lurking? The mischief-maker known as the Discontinuity Line collided head-on with the drifting balloon, leaving them no escape.

“Oh! The balloon’s rising again!” “Ah, no mistake.” “Oh, Rokujō!” “Look at that black cloud!” “Why don’t we take the plunge here—release the gas and descend to the sea surface?”

“What are you on about?” “I don’t want to go down.” “I can’t swim, you know.” “I’ll help you.” “I said no, and I mean no.” “Can’t you see this pistol?”

Kinchakov brandished the pistol. “Ugh, you! You’ve been pointing that pistol at me all this time—think you can intimidate me?” “What—coming at me, Japanese? Come then! One shot’ll make a red flower bloom from your chest!” “You damn fool!”

Almost simultaneously with his shout came the deafening gunshot echoing in his ears. “Hah, got you.”

Rokujō suddenly felt a searing pain in his right chest as though a red-hot poker had been thrust into him. When he put his hand to his chest, his palm was smeared thick with blood. The instant he did so, he choked violently. With a violent gagging sound, what came flying out from the depths of his throat was bright red blood.

“Damn you! You actually did it!” “Fireball.” The lieutenant refused to yield to his grave injury and rose up with fierce determination. As Kinchakov tried to regrip the pistol, he immediately leaped in and delivered a kick. The pistol sprang upward with a metallic clang before flying out of the gondola. “Ah, damn it!” As Kinchakov reached toward the gondola’s edge, the “Fireball” charged in. In a fit of rage, the lieutenant struck Kinchakov’s skull with his right hand—a sharp crack echoing through the cabin. That right hand was no ordinary hand. It was a steel prosthetic. Kinchakov released a bestial scream before collapsing limply onto the gondola floor.

“Fireball.” When the lieutenant saw his opponent had stopped moving, he too collapsed wide-eyed where he stood. Yet within ten-odd minutes, he sluggishly raised his head again. Finally pushing himself upright on the spot, he vomited blood once more. “Ugh.” He gritted his teeth until they creaked. Rubbing at his chest, he soon rolled up his jacket, pulled out a white undershirt, and tore it with a ripping sound. He pressed the torn fabric against his wound to stem the bleeding. His eyes and hands still moved as he tried tearing the canvas cloth nearby, but failing in the end, he collapsed heavily while still clutching that stiff fabric.

That was the "Fireball." This marked the rupture point in the lieutenant's previously unbroken chain of memories.

At that moment, the balloon carrying the two unconscious men plunged into the discontinuity line and was violently tossed about. A tremendous updraft pulled the balloon in—it was unbearable. Until this very moment, the balloon had been steadily descending, but now it began to rise rapidly instead. A thousand meters, two thousand meters—it cleared them in an instant and continued climbing vigorously between the clouds, as if hurtling beyond Earth itself. The surroundings were pitch-dark as if they’d entered a cavern, and hail pelted through the air. At times, fierce flashes of lightning lit up between the dense clouds.

It was unclear how much time had passed since then. Kinchakov seemed to have regained consciousness first; at that moment, Rokujō lay at the gondola’s bottom, barely clinging to life. Though he could have easily strangled Rokujō, Kinchakov did nothing at all. The reason remained unclear—perhaps he had grown reluctant to attack again, or perhaps Rokujō’s ghastly appearance, smeared from chest to face with fresh blood, had cowed him into submission. Of course, Kinchakov too—having regained only consciousness—lay motionless at the gondola’s bottom, a state little different from Rokujō’s own condition.

“Ugh... I slept well.”

This was the first thing Rokujō said upon regaining consciousness.

Then, for about another three hours, he sank into a heavy sleep.

The next time he awoke, he truly came to his senses. Inside the gondola, the splattered bloodstains had already darkened. He felt strangely alive. He extended his left hand and groped around the area again and again. Eventually, two or three hard, round objects touched his fingertips.

He gripped it, brought it before his eyes, and when he opened his hand, it was solid whiskey. “Ah, heaven’s help,” he thought at that moment.

He voraciously ate the two of them. It revitalized him as though it were an elixir. He unintentionally started to bring the last piece to his mouth but suddenly stopped,

“Kinchakov!” he called out. “……” Kinchakov’s arm slithered toward Rokujō’s arm as if to ensnare it, but the solid whiskey plopped down between them. Then for several hours, both men fell into a deep, heavy sleep. Around what they thought was a day or two later, both Rokujō and Kinchakov—though still lying at the gondola’s bottom—had recovered enough strength to at least speak. This was because Rokujō knew about the cupboard containing provisions; he would take them out and share them to eat. However, the problem was that not a single drop of water remained. The two men, remaining prone, occasionally exchanged words.

“Hey, Kincha. “I wonder where we’re drifting now.”

“This balloon first went north, then drifted west the next day.” “And it must have been four or five days by now.” “So we’ve likely drifted all the way near Outer Mongolia or the Transbaikal region.”

“Could we really have drifted that far?” “Alright—today I’ll practice getting up using my arm strength and try to peek outside the gondola at least once.” “I have a feeling we’re somewhere around the middle of the Pacific.”

And once again, the two men sank back into a deep sleep.

How long they had slept they couldn’t tell, but the roar of an aircraft jolted them awake. When they focused, the plane seemed to be circling endlessly around the gondola. Occasionally, aircraft-like shapes flickered between the gondola’s edge and balloon fabric, but their weakened vision rendered everything indistinct. Then came a siren-like wail. “Maybe I’m imagining it,” Rokujō muttered, “but that siren’s pitch matches XX Base’s…”

“What nonsense are you spouting? “That’s the Transbaikal District’s siren.” “I know it well.”

Some time later, the two men were struck by a sudden violent impact and hurled from the gondola before they could even gasp. It was no wonder they both lost consciousness the instant it happened. The balloon descended further and further until finally the gondola collided with the ground.

The next day, Lieutenant "Fireball" awoke in a hospital bed. When he thought "Huh?" and raised his eyes, he was startled to find Captain Tagome and Lieutenant Togawa's faces before him. The jubilation that followed needs no elaboration here, but astonishingly, the place where his balloon had descended was none other than the original XX Base from which they had launched seven days prior. It was an event so unreal, it seemed like a lie. Those who spoke of it and those who heard alike erupted in astonishment at this bizarre occurrence—but that this was none other than the Discontinuity Line's mischievous doing would only be revealed later, after Lieutenant "Fireball" had recovered his strength.

Kinchakov had unfortunately suffered a concussion when the gondola collided with the ground and passed on to the next world then and there.