Japan Sinks

by Sakyo Komatsu

  JAPAN SINKS

  SAKYO KOMATSU

  TRANSLATED BY

  MICHAEL GALLAGHER

  DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  MINEOLA, NEW YORK

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1973 by Sakyo Komatsu

  English translation copyright © 1976 by Harper & Row, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2016, is an unabridged republication of the 1976 edition originally published by Harper & Row, Inc., New York.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Komatsu, Sakyo.

  [Nippon chimbotsu. English]

  Japan sinks / Sakyo Komatsu; translated by Michael Gallagher.

  p. cm. — (Dover doomsday classics)

  eISBN-13: 978-0-486-81052-2

  1. Catastrophes (Geology)—Fiction. 2. Japan—Fiction. 3. Science fiction.

  I. Gallagher, Michael, 1930–translator. II. Title.

  PL855.O414N5613 2016

  895.63’.5—dc23

  2015030381

  Manufactured in the United States by RR Donnelley

  80292201 2016

  www.doverpublications.com

  This translation is for Rosemary and Maureen

  Contents

  I:The Japan Trench

  II:Tokyo

  III:The Government

  IV:The Home Islands

  V:The Sinking Country

  VI:Japan Sinks

  Epilogue:The Death of the Dragon

  I

  The Japan Trench

  1

  The area around the rear entrance of Tokyo Station was crowded as always. The air conditioning hardly seemed to be making any headway at all against the clammy heat that radiated from the flesh of the milling crowd, most of whom were bound for the seashore and mountains or else returning to their native places for the approaching Festival of the Dead.

  Toshio Onodera looked around with a grimace of distaste as he wiped the sweat from his chin with the back of his hand. The spring rainy season had been cold, and the Weather Service had been forecasting a cool summer, but once the rain was gone, a fierce heat wave had struck. It had taken its toll in both Osaka and Tokyo, killing many of its victims. And then there was the usual summer water shortage.

  Onodera had some six or seven minutes until his train pulled in. Since he had no desire at all to go into one of the packed and steaming station restaurants, he walked restlessly about, elbowing his way through the sweaty crowd. Each of the bodies mottled with sweat that slipped by on either side seemed to radiate heat like a foot-warmer—a short, thickset office worker in short sleeves, wearing his best suit and down-at-the-heels shoes; a middle-aged woman from the country in denim pants cut off at the knee, staggering along under a heavy load of baggage, her face red from the heat, her too-full breasts wrapped in a cheap striped blouse; a girl in her late teens, a stiff straw hat wound with a gaudy ribbon on her head and sweat dripping from the tip of her flat nose . . .

  As he made his way through this assortment of people, the thought struck him that his own hot, sweat-drenched body was in no way different from theirs, that it, too, reeked. And perhaps the lingering odor of the gin that he had gulped down the night before mingled even now with that of his sweat. Onodera shivered with disgust.

  Finding himself in front of a water fountain, he stooped to take a drink. But then, ignoring the trickle of cold water, he crouched, mouth half open, with his gaze riveted upon a spot just to the rear of the water fountain. A thin crack ran up the wall, zigzagging ever so little, so thin as to be almost imperceptible. The wall on one side of the crack seemed about an inch higher than on the other.

  “Something wrong?”

  He heard a somewhat irritated voice behind him. Unnerved, he took a quick gulp of water and moved back from the fountain.

  “Excuse me. Go right ahead.”

  So saying, he attempted to give place to the tall man behind him, but the latter moved to block his way. Taken aback, Onodera looked up into the man’s broad face.

  “Hello!” the man said to Onodera, seizing his shoulder with a huge hand. White teeth flashed in his dark, sunburned face.

  Onodera, at a total loss for a moment, suddenly grinned in return. “Goh! Not you?”

  “A hangover, eh?” said Rokuro Goh, wrinkling up his nose. “Now I see. You looked like a carp there, gulping down that water.”

  Paying no attention to Onodera’s denials, the towering Goh bent over and began to drink as though he intended to drain the cooler right then and there.

  “Where are you headed?” Goh asked, wiping his wet mouth.

  “Yaizu.”

  “Still at it, eh?” Goh bent back the fingers of his right hand and made a dipping motion.

  “Right. Where’re you going?”

  “In the same direction. Hamamatsu.”

  “What’s in Hamamatsu? Work?” Onodera asked, as he sipped his beer in the train’s air-conditioned snack bar.

  “Yes, the usual thing—construction.” Goh, already finishing his second beer, made a grimace that pulled taut his sunburned skin.

  ‘The Super Express?”

  “Yes. There’s been one problem after another. The work on the roadbed is stalled.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  The train began to move. The view outside the window seemed to waver, catching Onodera’s attention. Just for a brief instant, how beautiful seemed the confused, dusty scene at the platform, the row of heat-oppressed faces. . . .

  “What kind of problems, you say?” said Goh. Gripping his glass of beer tightly, he stared moodily at the dissolving froth. “All kinds. But it wouldn’t do to say anything about them yet. The newspapers might get on to it.”

  Onodera did not press him further. He poured himself a second glass of beer.

  “I don’t see how the survey could have been so far off,” Goh muttered as though talking to himself. “We have to practically start from scratch. The work’s in full swing, and then every thing blows up in our faces.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, I suppose. But take it from me, Onodera, Japan these days seems to be very, very shaky. Like a mass of jelly . . . Another beer? Or should we go back to our seats?” asked Goh, looking around the crowded dining car.

  “What’s going on in Yaizu, by the way? A sunken ship or something? Great work for hot weather.”

  “Not so great,” answered Onodera with a wry grin. “A Security Agency ship is taking us south. It’s a matter of doing some research using a deep-sea submarine—the Wadatsumi.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Southeast of Torijima. There was an island there, and it seems that it disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? Was there an eruption?”

  “No, there wasn’t any eruption. It just sank—just like that.”

  2

  The Wadatsumi, covered with canvas, was already loaded upon the rear deck of the Marine Security patrol boat Hokuto in the harbor at Yaizu when Onodera arrived.

  Professor Yukinaga of M—— University caught sight of Onodera on the dock and waved to him: “Hello there. . . . I’m sorry about this. I hear you were on vacation.”

  Surprised at the stir aboard ship, Onodera glanced at his watch in surprise. “Is it sailing time already?” he asked as he came on board.

  “Well, we have to sail as soon as we can,” answered Yukinaga, looking down at the wharf. “Should the papers find out that the Wadatsumi is going out, you see, it would be awkward.”

  Onodera grinned. “The A——Journal is especially eager, I hear. I understand they chartered a seaplane.”

  “They’re making too much of it,” said Y
ukinaga, shrugging. Though his field was marine geology and he spent much of his life aboard ship, his pale skin seemed untouched by the sun. “Anyway, I don’t think there’s any cause for alarm. They won’t learn anything even if they do fly down there.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s the slow season for news.”

  “There would be quite an uproar, though,” said Yukinaga, dropping his voice and narrowing his eyes somewhat in the strong sunlight, “if something were to come out about the trouble they’re running into with the new Super Express line.”

  “Oh?” Onodera was taken by surprise. “You know about that?”

  “I’ve heard things,” said the professor, his voice still low. “A colleague of mine was commissioned to make a confidential investigation. . . .”

  Suddenly Yukinaga raised his hand. Down the concrete pier swarming with buzzing flies, a broad, plump figure was running toward them in a flurry of sweat. He banged the suitcase he was carrying against a capstan and almost went sprawling when he trampled upon one of the fish that lay scattered over the con crete, but, nevertheless, he finally reached the ship.

  “Hurry up,” said Yukinaga, laughing. “We’re on our way.”

  “Without me?” the fat man shouted indignantly. “If you want to go, go. I’ll come swimming after you.”

  “I know you would,” said Yukinaga, reaching out for the man’s suitcase as he came across the gangplank. “Onodera, this is Professor Tadokoro.”

  “Oh, yes, Professor . . . underwater volcanoes . . .” said Onodera, nodding eagerly. “I’m Onodera of Sea Floor Development.”

  “The truth is my field is geophysics,” said Tadokoro, “but I stick my nose into everything.” With that, he walked abruptly back to the stern, where the Wadatsumi lay beneath its tarpaulin.

  He rapped his hand smartly against the steel plating under the canvas. “So this is it? You know, I asked that fellow Yamashiro at your place again and again. ...”

  “Well, there’s been a constant demand for it,” Onodera re plied, smiling awkwardly. “The Wadatsumi 2 will be finished soon, and then I think things will be better.”

  “It’s the same design as the Archimedes. So it should be able to dive to thirty-five thousand. Right?” said Tadokoro, eying Onodera sharply. “How absurd to use something like this to study ocean currents and fishing grounds. Like using a laser beam to cut up a chicken.”

  “It’s a tricky ship. The deeper you go, the less time you can stay under,” said Onodera, stroking the side of the submarine.

  “How many times has it gone down really deep?”

  “Thirty thousand feet, four times. Beyond thirty-five thou sand, twice. There was no particular danger, but . . .”

  “How about the Vityaz Deep? Would it be safe to go all the way down there?”

  “Well, if it were the new submarine ...” said Onodera.

  “Yukinaga!” said Tadokoro, moving away from the Wadatsumi with sudden resolution. “Let’s talk for a bit.” He threw his arm around Yukinaga’s shoulders, and the two walked toward the cabin door, leaving Onodera to himself.

  Now that everyone was accounted for, the Hokuto’s departure siren sounded. The crew cast off the hawsers, and white water boiled up at the stern as the sleek, shiny gray-blue patrol boat moved away from the dock. Though there were a few people on the dock to wave farewell, it was an austere leave-taking.

  Shortly after they were under way, Onodera noticed a small man with an unlit corncob pipe in his mouth coming from the forward deck.

  “Yuki!” he shouted. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “I’m just here to hand things over to you,” said the little man, grinning nervously. “I’ve been a little concerned. Anyway, if I was back on shore, I’d only be suffering from the heat. I’ll give you a hand with the repairs.”

  “I understand that the gondola was scraped,” said Onodera, turning toward the submarine. A revolving gondola was at tached to the bottom of the craft. Heavy and egg-shaped, it was made of steel bolstered with molybdenum.

  “Where it scraped was on the side here. The window has a slight crack, but we have a spare one.”

  They began to discuss Onodera’s mission. The request for the Wadatsumi, Yuki said, had probably come from scientists in the group already dispatched by the Weather Service to investigate the sinking of the island.

  “Have you heard any news since then?” asked Onodera. “I thought that the meteorological people were concerned about volcanic activity in the Fuji area. And so to go to all this effort for the sake of one uninhabited island . . .”

  “Not completely uninhabited,” said Yuki, his face showing signs of fatigue. “Some Polynesian fishermen stopped there the night it sank.”

  “Really?” said Onodera, surprised. “Were they rescued?”

  “Yes. A Japanese fishing boat happened to be anchored in the lee of the island.”

  3

  While the Hokuto kept to its course to the south at high speed, Onodera and Yuki completed the repairs on the Wadatsumi and did the necessary maintenance work despite the fierce heat of the sun. Hachijojima appeared on the horizon and then fell away behind the ship’s long white trailing wake. Now there was no trace of anything on the horizon—nothing to be seen but a vast, convex expanse of water.

  With time hanging heavy, Onodera climbed to the crow’s-nest and looked around him. From this vantage point, the Hokuto seemed no more than a tiny waterbug set down atop that vast globe of water of mind-numbing size. This was the area where the Pacific Tropics stretched far to the north, borne upon the ocean currents. Now the prow of this tiny, yet somehow brashly resolute ship was pointed toward the Torrid Zone and the islands below the Equator. Ever more to the south . . .

  Down as far as Cape Horn, except for the small islands scattered like a handful of dust across that broad expanse, the face of the globe was covered with nothing but water, ever more water. The world’s largest ocean, its mean depth was 14,155 feet, and at the Equator it stretched over nearly 180 degrees of latitude, nearly half the distance around the world—a vast sea that contained almost half of the water in the world, that covered one third of the surface of the world, that, even if all the continents were set within it, would still consist of over 14 million square miles of ocean.

  “How about coming down?” Yukinaga called up to him, wav ing a can of beer. “It’s cold. Let’s have one.”

  Yukinaga was leaning against the ship’s rail, beer can raised to his lips, when Onodera came down. When he pulled back the tab on the chill can Yukinaga gave him, the wind snatched at the clinging white froth that bubbled up and mingled it with the spray.

  “I wonder if that’s Aogashima,” said Yukinaga, shading his eyes and looking toward the east where a cluster of clouds lay over the horizon. “I suppose it is. At this rate, we should be at Torishima before sunset.”

  “Look over there,” said Onodera, pointing. “Do you think it’s a ship?”

  Straight ahead, almost directly to the south, there was a trace of black smoke upon the horizon. As it rose, the wind caught it and blew it in a trailing swirl to the northeast.

  “That’s no boat,” answered Yukinaga, narrowing his eyes. “It’s from a volcano. It’s near the Bayonnaise Rocks.”

  “Is it Myojin Reef?”

  “No. Myojin isn’t active right now. But Smith Reef has shown signs of erupting, after more than fifty years. It stands to reason that there should be something in the Bayonnaise Rocks ready to erupt about now.”

  Onodera suddenly remembered something from his child hood—how he had read about the eruption of Myojin Reef. That had been in 1952. Could it have been that long ago? From the sea floor, covered by the glassy surface of the ocean, fire, smoke, and lava had suddenly come heaving upward. The fire had raged in the midst of the sea, the smoke boiling up right out of the water. How powerful an impression the news photo had made upon Onodera! A weather-survey ship, the Kaiyo Maru, had been destroyed, with the loss of thirty-one crewmen, when
the cold, tranquil surface of the Pacific had dissolved in a catac lysmic surge of searing smoke and ashes. Even now the bizarre, disordered nature of the event caused Onodera’s chest to tighten. A shiver ran through him.

  “Torishima had its own catastrophe in 1886,” Yukinaga said in a low voice, his cheeks a faint red from the wind. “A mountain right at the center of the island exploded. In an instant the whole population of the island, 125 people, was wiped out.”

  “There seems to be a lot of volcanic activity recently,” said Onodera.

  “Yes. Oshima, Miyakejima, Aoshima... and there’s talk about Amagi now.”

  “Is there any connection?”

  “There’s not supposed to be—the way we’ve understood things up to now. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Well, the emergence of a volcanic region is linked with mountain-building activity, and so it seems that any change in the structure as a whole would have to have some general effect.”

  The two were silent for a time, looking at the sea.

  The ship was now pursuing its southward course directly above the Fuji volcanic range running across the floor of the ocean. Beginning in Central Honshu with Mounts Shirauma, Hida, and Norikura, moving through Asama and Fuji, Hakone, Amagi, the Izu Islands, Aogashima, the Bayonnaise Rocks, Torishima, and farther down yet, to the Iwojima chain and almost to the Tropic of Capricorn, there stretched a long belt of fire covering 1,000 miles. Here and there along its length, volcanic peaks broke the surface of the sea, rising up from the ocean floor, some 13,000 feet below. These scattered islands, extending from the Equator north to the fire-spouting Kasai Ar chipelago, constituted the true western shore of the Pacific, a vast undersea mountain range over which the ship was now passing. They marked the great geological fold that began in Siberia and extended down through Hokkaido to Central Honshu. Thence it lay along the ocean floor beneath a thousand fathoms of water, its course marked by the Fuji Archipelago, the Ogasawara Archipelago, the Marianas, and the Palau Is lands, curving at last to link up with the arc of Java and Sumatra. This ring of fire, this sunken shoreline, fell away on its Pacific side to trenches of awesome depth.