Record of Lorelei: Chapter 11

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After calming down a little, Rui began walking slowly back toward the barracks, accompanied by Mikami. The formation was probably being called, and someone was likely looking for him. But right now, Rui didn’t have the strength to face Abukawa. Mikami had reassured him, saying, “The chief mechanic probably has a good idea of what’s going on.”

“You’re really trusted, aren’t you?” Rui muttered bitterly. His throat felt shredded, and every attempt to speak brought a sharp pain and the taste of blood. Mikami didn’t respond. It wasn’t hard for Rui to realize that it wasn’t just Mikami being trusted—it was also his own lack of credibility.

“There’ll be more trouble now,” Rui said, coughing as the pain in his throat worsened.

Why are your eyes blue? Can you see enemy planes with those foreign-looking eyes? You must have American blood—are you a traitor, a spy? Don’t look at me with those blue eyes. Get out of here.

The same cycle, over and over, wherever he went. Until people got used to his eyes, the prejudice and suspicion would persist. If anything went missing, he’d be the first one accused—just because his eyes were blue. And now, with what had just happened, the truth about him being Asamura’s son would likely come to light. It was sure to make for a rough stretch of days ahead.

“…I’ve been meaning to say this for a while,” Mikami spoke, breaking the silence as they walked side by side. “Your eyes, Rui. They’re beautiful. Like gemstones.”

“Are you serious?” Rui couldn’t help but ask.

Mikami blushed as he stepped on some weeds, raising a fist to his mouth and averting his gaze.

“I know it’s a cheesy thing to say, but I can’t think of a better way to put it,” Mikami admitted awkwardly.

What a strange man, Rui thought, even as he found himself believing Mikami’s words. It wasn’t flattery or an attempt to console him. Mikami’s sincerity made it easier to accept. Not that being called beautiful was particularly uplifting—he was a man, after all—but it was better than being insulted. Even so, Mikami’s words didn’t quite reach the loneliness in Rui’s heart.

“I wish my eyes were black like everyone else’s,” Rui murmured.

These blue eyes had caused him endless trouble. Mikami, with his black eyes, couldn’t understand the hardships they had brought. If he could be reborn, Rui thought, he’d ask God without hesitation to give him black eyes.

Mikami’s gentle smile remained unwavering as he replied, “I think the Rui who’s here now, just as you are, is wonderful.”

Mikami walked neither faster nor slower, maintaining the same steady pace that seemed to be his habit. After a while, he spoke again, his tone soft.

“Do you know about blue fluorite?”

His profile was still tinged with a hint of embarrassment.

“It’s a kind of mineral, like a lake frozen in stone. You could stare at it all day and never get tired of it.”

＊ ＊ ＊

Occasionally, Mikami would say things that made no sense.

Today, too, he came up to Rui, looking as if he had resolved something important, and said something with an air of self-importance. Rui didn’t understand what he meant and conveyed his confusion through his expression. Mikami, undeterred, repeated himself coolly.

“Shall I show you my dogeza?”

It wasn’t that Rui hadn’t heard him. He simply wanted to say, What are you even talking about? But it didn’t seem like Mikami got the message. As Rui frowned, Mikami, looking perfectly serious, explained.

“If you’ll stop putting on that U-shaped part, I’ll get down on my hands and knees. Whenever you want to see it, just say the word.”

Ah, so that’s what he meant. Rui understood now but still had no idea how to respond.

“As long as that part stays on the aircraft, I’ll remove it every single time, no matter what. So please stop attaching it. It’s a complete waste of time—no matter who you ask, no matter how many times you do it, I’ll take it off. And it damages the plating.”

Rui knew Mikami was right, but it wasn’t a suggestion he could agree to. Fortunately, it wasn’t Rui himself reinstalling the part after Mikami removed it. It was always some other mechanic. Recently, though, it had been getting harder to find anyone willing. The moment Rui ordered someone to attach the part, they’d mutter, “Mikami, Mikami,” as if invoking a curse, and flee. That was Mikami’s fault.

“If I beg you on my hands and knees to stop, and that works, I’ll do it. I’d even perform a naked dance if it would help. And if you give me some prep time, I might even be able to produce doves.”

“Doves?” Rui was so taken aback that he stared, dumbfounded.

Mikami’s already stern expression became even more so. “Yes. At the mechanics’ academy, we were told that having a party trick could make things easier at your post. So an officer taught me.”

Ridiculous. Hilarious.

When was the last time Rui had laughed like this? Maybe it was the first time in his life he’d laughed so hard he cried. And yet, even as the tears streamed down his face, Rui still didn’t have an answer for Mikami’s request.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

On mornings with scheduled sorties, the mechanics began their work before dawn.

Mikami woke in pitch darkness and reached for the clock by his bedside. The fluorescent-coated hands showed it was just before 4 a.m. During the night, he had been using Rui’s clock.

He lifted the mosquito net covering his bed and slid his upper body into the one beside his, where Rui was sleeping. Rui lay curled up, facing away. Quietly, Mikami placed the clock back on the pillow near Rui’s head and gently brushed his cheek, which was warm and peaceful in sleep. Then, he returned to his own net.

The sound of someone snoring echoed faintly in the background. In the dark barracks, Mikami was the only one awake. He folded his mosquito net noiselessly, groped around for his clothes, and dressed in silence. Carefully, he opened and closed the door, slipping outside without a sound. The stars were still scattered across the sky. A tingling sensation prickled between his eyebrows—a familiar sign of sleep deprivation.

Just one more game. Just one more. Here, Mikami, have some vodka. Come on, let’s go again.

How late had he stayed up last night, playing Go with Kido? Despite warnings that the duty officer would reprimand them, despite knowing there was a sortie early the next morning, Kido had refused to let him leave, repeating last game, this is the last one. Mikami had finally managed to fall asleep, but the hours were far too short to feel rested.

As he rubbed his tired eyes and walked toward the maintenance area, he noticed someone waving at him from the dimly lit path ahead.

“I was just about to come wake you.”

It was the voice of a colleague. Knowing that Mikami was the only one from the barracks waking up alone, they’d come to ensure he didn’t oversleep.

“Thanks. Good morning.”

“Good morning. Hot night again, wasn’t it?”

Exchanging greetings, they walked together down the slope. By the time they neared the maintenance area, the sky had begun to pale at the edges. Mikami yawned, watching as the horizon slowly grew more distinct. In just a few minutes, the faint line between sea and sky became more pronounced.

The curtain of the day rose quietly over the ocean. The morning sun backlit the aircraft, rendering them as dark silhouettes. It marked the start of another day full of grease and tools for the mechanics.

“Good morning!”

The mechanics lined up to receive their orders from the squad leader.

“In preparation for this morning’s sortie, begin maintenance! Stay sharp!”

“Yes, sir!”

From now until Rui and the others took off, there would be no rest for the mechanics.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Fatigue clung to Rui’s body, a persistent heaviness like the ache after a long-distance swim. There was no time to recover before the next sortie, and the exhaustion compounded daily. On the ground, headaches and palpitations that seemed unimaginable intensified to the point of nausea. Each episode drained Rui further. Lying down didn’t ease the discomfort, and while sleeping pills offered escape, the risk of a sudden emergency sortie kept him from using them.

The Japanese air force was steadily dwindling.

With fewer aircraft available for sorties, the rotations came more frequently. Rui’s name appeared again on the roster for today, even though he had flown just the day before. Recently, it seemed less like taking turns and more like an alternating schedule. Still, Rui knew the rotations were fair, the burden distributed evenly among the pilots.

Dozens of engines roared to life, filling the air with deafening noise. It was an emergency scramble—cruisers had detected enemy aircraft movement. They had to take off immediately and intercept as far from the base as possible. Such scrambles were becoming more frequent. We’re dancing to the enemy’s tune, Rui thought. Often, their sorties couldn’t keep up.

Mikami accompanied Rui to the plane.

“The engine isn’t fully warmed up, but it’ll heat up in flight. If you engage in combat within ten minutes, keep your altitude low just in case,” Mikami said, his hands working swiftly to check Rui’s harness and safety straps.

“The boost has been adjusted slightly lower compared to the previous tuning, but it’ll last longer. Start using it earlier to escape and keep using it until you’re clear. It should last over forty seconds. Also, I’ve reduced the play in the machine gun switches. They’ll respond quicker now, but they might feel a bit stiff. Fire a test shot in the air to get used to it. And—”

Mikami repeated changes Rui had already heard twice, as if etching them into his memory. Rui glanced at him. Mikami was always intense, pouring everything into the aircraft as though he were the one flying it. Why does he care so much? Rui wondered. Mikami wasn’t the one who had to face the enemy up there, yet he was relentless, meticulous.

“I’ve also increased the flaps by two degrees. You probably won’t notice much difference—”

“Mikami.”

There was something more important than these last-minute instructions, something Rui had to say before taking off.

“Yes?”

“Stay alive until I return. If there’s an air raid, run. If you can go back to the mainland, then go.”

Only the pilots knew this yet, and even they avoided saying it out loud.

The southern front was crumbling under the pressure of the Allied forces. We used to scoff, “No matter how many we shoot down,” Rui thought bitterly. Now, they were fatigued by the realization that the enemy’s numbers didn’t dwindle. Every time they took to the skies, it seemed the Allies had replenished their ranks entirely. Veterans, once untouchable, had fallen one after another. By the time they realized they were outmatched, the situation had already flipped. Now, their air battles were desperate chases against enemies who outnumbered them several times over. The skill of Japanese pilots surpassed their foes, but that alone couldn’t compensate for the growing disparity in equipment.

The pilots couldn’t retreat, but those who could escape should take the chance as soon as it arose.

Mikami’s eyes widened at Rui’s words, his gaze wavering. He looked pained, then leaned in close, as if to share a secret.

“You’re the one who has to come back.”

At the end of his plea, Mikami pressed his lips gently to Rui’s lips. Warm and soft, the touch lingered only a moment before he pulled away.

“Sorry.”

Mikami apologized in a steady voice, then added, “And one more thing.”

“Please keep removing that part. I’m begging you. I’ll give everything I’ve got to maintain the plane. Trust me, not something like that.”

If the war had been in the same state as when Rui first met Mikami, perhaps he could have nodded to that promise.

Mikami’s maintenance was exemplary. The new Zero fighter Mikami had tuned flew better than any Rui had ever piloted. The problem wasn’t the maintenance—it was the enemy aircraft. They had surpassed the Zero in speed, and the performance gap was widening. Without the U-shaped part, the difference was enough to make proper combat nearly impossible.

＊ ＊ ＊

After takeoff from the base, combat broke out much earlier than expected, well before the designated area.

“Tch—!”

Rui couldn’t out-climb the enemy, forcing him into desperate lateral slides to escape their range. He rolled, twisted, and looped, but no matter what he tried, the enemy’s machine guns relentlessly chased him. Each time he thought he’d shaken them, tracer rounds sliced through the air, closing in again from his flanks.

The sky was a chaotic battlefield, packed with nearly fifty fighter planes.

“!”

Enemy fire streaked diagonally upward toward him, forcing Rui to bank hard. He clenched his teeth against the crushing g-force that seemed intent on dragging him down. The familiar sight of Zeros dominating the skies was absent. Instead, American fighters darted freely in every direction, pressing the attack while the few remaining skilled Zero pilots barely dodged their pursuers by the thinnest of margins. The noise was dominated by American engines and gunfire; their sheer numbers drowned everything else.

Rui had been tailed repeatedly but clung to the edge of his limits, leveraging every ounce of skill he had painstakingly honed to create opportunities to fight back. He evaded, waiting for a chance to bring another enemy into his sights. Squinting, he fought gravity and exhaustion, wrestling the control stick as if it were an enemy itself. His Zero, outmatched in horsepower, danced among the clouds and winds in a deadly game of patience and precision.

The maintenance is incredible.

As he tilted the control stick to the right, Rui marveled at how seamlessly the plane responded to his commands. The Zero moved exactly as he envisioned it, fluid and precise. Bullets struck true to where he aimed. The engine’s power felt steady and reliable, and acceleration was smooth and resilient. It wasn’t the abrupt, bone-jarring responsiveness of the “killer flaps” adjustments he used to demand, but something better—seamless, almost human in its intuition. It felt like an extension of himself.

This plane can do it, Rui thought, a flicker of determination igniting in his chest. It was as if the machine itself understood his intent and exceeded expectations. Mikami’s work. It felt like Mikami himself was in the cockpit, ensuring every part performed to its peak. Rui believed—for the first time in a long while—that he could fight.

At that moment, a loud bang shook the aircraft violently. The tail section had been hit. The plane rattled and groaned under the impact. No fire, Rui confirmed quickly. The oil tank seems intact.

This Zero was responding to him like no other had before. It moved as if it were alive, synchronizing perfectly with his thoughts and actions.

But the numbers. The speed.

The American plane that couldn’t keep up with his descent was already back on his tail. Even when Rui twisted his flight path to shake them, they simply closed the gap in a straight-line chase.

How much has their capability improved? Is the difference in skill no longer enough to bridge the gap?

“!”

A cluster of clouds loomed ahead, and Rui instinctively veered to avoid them, losing precious acceleration. In that brief moment, the gap between him and his pursuers closed, brutally clear in his view. Another enemy appeared directly ahead. Rui reflexively squeezed the trigger, but his bullets skimmed just over the enemy’s canopy without hitting.

Cornered this tightly, Rui knew he couldn’t bring down an enemy without the U-shaped part.

No matter how impeccable the maintenance, no matter how refined his piloting skills—

The Zero is done for.

＊ ＊ ＊

Even if you vomit, even if you collapse, the enemy planes keep coming.

“Refuel the serviced planes first, quickly!”

Amid the shouts of the mechanics and ground crew, Rui and his squad gathered in one corner of the airfield. Every pilot wore the fatigue on their faces. Some covered their eyes with their hands, their heads bowed.

Before the current sortie returned, they would need to take off to intercept the enemy and shield the planes limping back on empty tanks. The fatigue from the last sortie hadn’t healed. Rui’s symptoms of flight sickness—dizziness and palpitations—were worsening. Every pilot was the same. Complaints were pointless. Yet the situation continued to deteriorate.

“Second wingman Lieutenant Mimura fell in the last sortie. Asagure, from today, you’re the new second wingman. Third wingman, Kita.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You move up to third wing. Everyone else, shift up accordingly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Every loss meant shifting positions upward to fill the gaps. The vacancies grew like unchecked wounds. Rui, who had never moved above Number Three, was now pushed into the Number Two position. It wasn’t a matter of merit but necessity.

The Japanese Air Force was bleeding dry. Veteran pilots were being shot down, and plugging the gaps with numbers alone meant fresh replacements were quickly picked off, leaving more sorties for the remaining pilots. Exhaustion was rampant. Rui had witnessed countless planes crash into the sea on their way back—not from enemy fire but from pilots passing out from fatigue or flight sickness.

More than half of their main force had retreated to Truk Island to conserve strength. The official reason was preservation of forces, but among the pilots, rumors spread: the Navy was planning to abandon Rabaul.

Rui didn’t care—he had no intention of returning to the mainland anyway. He was fine with staying behind to cover the retreat. But if things continued like this, they’d be wiped out in no time. Simply enduring and launching sortie after sortie would only get them crushed under the enemy’s sheer numbers.

Rui decided to propose an idea he’d been mulling over since the previous night.

“What is it, Asamura?”

The captain, his eyes dark with fatigue, addressed Rui, who had raised his hand.

Rui held up a piece of paper where he had drawn three circles.

The disparity in aircraft performance was too great. Aerial dogfights based on one-on-one honor-bound duels were futile. The Navy’s insistence on a samurai ethos in air combat strategy no longer had any place. Rui drew the Japanese flag inside two of the circles and wrote “米” (America) in the third. Arrows extended from the Japanese circles, pointing toward the American one.

Rui suggested that two Japanese planes should team up to attack a single American plane from both sides, using the same tactics the Americans employed. One would chase the enemy while the other cut ahead to finish them off. It wasn’t the time to count individual kills or tally glory. Fair, honorable combat was only viable when forces were equal. Air battles weren’t competitions; they were life-and-death struggles. Knowing their planes were outmatched in both performance and numbers, it was foolish to cling to outdated methods.

The captain, seemingly understanding Rui’s explanation, gave him a curious look. If he had the audacity to bring up bushidō now, Rui was ready for a fight. Meeting his gaze, Rui stared him down. The captain studied him for a long moment before his face twisted into a grin.

“For you, of all people, to suggest shared kills… hell must have frozen over.”

Like it’d snow this far south, you idiot, Rui thought bitterly.

“…Maybe it will,” he muttered to himself, finding the thought unexpectedly amusing.

Fight until exhaustion. Let the enemy tear you apart. Die with your finger still on the trigger. That had been Rui’s wish until recently. Now, here he was, proposing a flanking strategy that the Navy derided as cowardly, all in the name of defeating the enemy—of protecting Rabaul.

“I understand. Let’s try it. Asamura, you’re paired with me. Third and Fourth, Fifth and Sixth planes will be teams. Confirm before takeoff.”

Whether this makeshift strategy would work was uncertain, but it had to be better than having their formation scattered and being chased down individually by multiple enemy planes.

When the war is over, why don’t you come to my place?

The echo of Mikami’s dreamlike offer lingered, a part of Rui wanting to believe it could be real.

He knew better. That’s impossible. After the war, especially after a victory, returning to the mainland with eyes like his would only invite harsher contempt and voyeuristic ridicule upon the Asamura family.

But still, if Mikami’s words could somehow become reality—how wonderful would that be? Even as he entertained the thought, the image of his father’s anguished, bloodshot eyes burned against the back of his eyelids, and the sound of his mother’s muffled sobs rang in his ears.

Life itself no longer mattered. Rui’s personal anguish had already been softened by Mikami’s sincerity. If there was anything left that he could wish for, it was to protect Mikami—and Rabaul, the place Mikami was fighting to preserve.

To win, they had to shoot down as many enemy planes as possible. A single plane allowed to retreat could fire its machine guns at Mikami. It could bomb the forest where the mechanics lived.

I want that part.

There was nothing lacking in Mikami’s maintenance. But straightforward fighting was no longer enough to win. Rui’s instincts as a fighter pilot screamed for the U-shaped component.

The Zero was performing well, its aim steady. But the machine guns couldn’t hit the enemy’s shadow within that U-shape. Skill alone wasn’t enough anymore. Neither was good maintenance.

Trust me.

Mikami’s earnest voice echoed in his mind. Mikami had made a vow, giving Rui a plane that exceeded all his expectations. Rui didn’t want to sadden him, nor did he want to betray him. But still—

“…Someone.”

Rui raised his right hand, scanning his surroundings. A mechanic noticed and hurried over. Convenient. It was a familiar face.

Rui pulled out the notebook from his chest pocket and began to write.

＊ ＊ ＊

It’s not easy to measure a person’s true feelings, and Mikami knew that. Whether his sincerity reached Rui, whether the care he poured into his maintenance was understood—perhaps it was all just Mikami’s self-satisfaction. To Rui, it might only have been the obvious devotion expected from any mechanic.

When Rui returned from his flight, Mikami lashed out at him with uncharacteristic fury. It was unheard of for a mechanic to criticize a pilot, but Rui’s betrayal was too much. If Mikami were honest with himself, it wasn’t just about the breach of trust—it was that Rui’s rejection of his heartfelt plea felt like a personal failure.

“You don’t understand at all!”

He had made Rui understand—or so he thought. He had received Rui’s answer, a promise.

And yet, just before the mission, Rui had instructed another mechanic to attach the U-shaped part to his plane. After Mikami had signed off on the Zero, Rui had it secretly altered, adding the component and counterweights for balance. It was like stealing. It felt like Rui had trampled all over Mikami’s prayers for his safe return.

“We had an agreement! Why did you put that part on?!”

Mikami only noticed the modification as the plane was being towed to the flight line, too late to do anything. Rui’s attachment to the U-shaped part was no secret—many knew about it. It was impossible to ground Rui for that reason alone.

All Mikami could do was watch Rui’s Zero take off, helpless and consumed by frustration. In the back of his mind, he could hear the haunting melody of the Lorelei, the same song he had once heard aboard the Type-1 land-based bomber. They’ll find him. He’ll be hunted through the clouds. Until Rui returned, Mikami couldn’t stop trembling.

“Tell me the truth, Asamura First Class Petty Officer.”

Had it been self-delusion to think he’d earned Rui’s trust by using his name, by being entrusted with the repair of his precious watch?

“What’s wrong with my maintenance? Don’t you trust me?!”

“Hey, Mikami!”

One of the other mechanics tried to pull Mikami away as his voice rose with emotion.

Rui didn’t stop them. He simply stood there, silently meeting Mikami’s gaze.

“Mechanics wouldn’t understand,” Rui said softly.

How could they possibly understand? Mikami seethed. How much we worry, how much we wait, trembling, for your return while you’re up there in the skies?

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