NOVEL FROG Chapter 2: New World.
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At 11:45 a.m., the calm of the Boeing 747's routine flight over Yamagata Prefecture
shattered when a single hijacker surged from his seat. Passengers gasped and screamed
as he brandished what looked like plastic explosives strapped to his chest. With a chilling
calmness, he declared his allegiance to the Aum Shinrikyo cult, a name that echoed with
notoriety after the Tokyo subway Sarin attacks.
"Stay in your seats, and no one gets hurt!" his voice cut through the cabin's panicked
murmurs. The hijacker's eyes darted around, his gaze piercing anyone who dared meet it.
He cornered a flight attendant, hissing instructions that she relayed to the cockpit.
"He says he has bomb," she stammered to the pilot, her voice a mix of fear and disbelief.
"He's demanding we land in Hakodate and wants the plane refueled for a return to Tokyo.
He wants Shoko Asahara released."
The pilot's hands clenched the controls tighter. The demands were insane, but with 365
lives at stake, there was no room for error. He nodded silently, adjusting the flight path to
Hakodate under the strict gaze of the hijacker, who now prowled the aisle to ensure his
commands were followed.
As the aircraft descended into Hakodate at 12:42 p.m., the hijacker grew increasingly
agitated, barking at the crew to keep the passengers quiet and refusing any offers of food or
drink to be brought on board. His frequent checks of a crude, beeping timer became a
terrifying countdown to an unknown catastrophe.
Passengers huddled, some praying, others weeping silently, all under the watchful eyes of
the hijacker who paced like a caged animal. The tension in the cabin was palpable, every
cough or shuffle of feet amplified in the haunting silence.
The plane touched down with a jolt, and police and anti-terrorism squads immediately
surrounded it. Negotiators tried to establish contact, but the hijacker only communicated
through scribbled notes passed via cabin crew.
....
Under the cloak of night, the airport was a sprawling expanse of shadows and dim lights,
with the parked Boeing 747 sitting like a giant at the center of a tense standoff. Rika Minami
was perched in a sniper position on the airport's roof, her eyes trained through the scope,
watching every movement inside the lit windows of the aircraft. Far below, Captain Tosiwo
Nakayama and Tajima Hirakawa, the newest member of the Special Assault Team (SAT),
approached the rear of the plane, their movements silent and calculated.
The light was dim, ideal for maintaining their stealth as they moved. Tosiwo felt the familiar
flutter of urgency in his chest—time was of the essence.
"What's the report?" Tosiwo whispered into his comms, addressing the intel team
positioned in a discrete nearby van.
A static-laced voice responded, "Nationwide background search of each passenger
completed, sir. Confirmed, the hijacker is the sole suspicious individual on board."
"You ready?" Tosiwo turned to Tajima, his voice low.
Tajima looked tense, his eyes flicking to Tosiwo. "How do you do it, Captain? How do you
stay calm when any mistake could result in the death of an innocent?"
Tosiwo cracked a slight smile. "I don't. But I remember the most important thing I'm fighting
for."
"Family?" Tajima guessed, voice hopeful.
"No, stupid, money." Tosiwo joked, breaking the tension for a moment. Tajima chuckled, his
shoulders relaxing slightly, having heard stories of Tosiwo being a dedicated family man.
Suddenly, static voice cut through their earpieces, crisp and urgent.
"Captain, I see the terrorist moving towards the cockpit via thermal cameras. You need to
move now."
With the command given, Tosiwo's demeanor shifted instantly to dead serious. He nodded
to Tajima, and together, they made their way to the landing gear, the nearest point of entry
that would give them access to the plane's interior without attracting attention.
The duo maneuvered skillfully, their bodies low and movements synchronized as they
crawled towards the underbelly of the plane. Reaching the landing gear, they used special
tools to quietly open the access panel.
....
Inside the dimly lit cabin of the Boeing 747, a panel popped open silently near the rear.
Tosiwo and Tajima emerged, their presence instantly drawing the wide, hopeful eyes of the
frightened passengers. Tosiwo put a finger to his lips, signaling for silence as they crept
forward towards the cockpit.
Finding the cockpit door closed and locked, Tosiwo clicked his tongue in frustration. He
needed a distraction, a way to draw the hijacker out. Turning to the passengers with a
deliberate calmness, he motioned for them to start making noise. The idea was to create a
commotion that would force the hijacker to leave the safety of the cockpit to address the
perceived threat among the hostages.
Understanding the plan, the passengers began to murmur loudly, some even starting to
shout and bang on the seats. The noise level built quickly, turning into a cacophony of cries
and panic.
Positioned on either side of the cockpit door, Tosiwo and Tajima aimed their weapons,
ready to confront the hijacker. The tension was palpable, the weight of the moment heavy
in the air. Then, driven by the noise, the hijacker burst out of the cockpit, screaming threats
to regain control.
In that instant, Tosiwo felt the gravity of the situation converge upon the cold, hard grip of
his gun. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, his palms were sweaty, but his aim was
steady. All it took was one trigger pull, one moment of decision. The lives of 365 people, the
resolution of this crisis, now hinged on his action.
Tosiwo met the hijacker's eyes, seeing the desperation and madness there.
Bang!
The resolution of the hijacking had drained everyone involved. Tosiwo, Rika, and Tajima had
spent the last few hours debriefing, handling paperwork, and navigating the flood of media
that swarmed them the moment they stepped out of the plane. He sat slumped in the
passenger seat of the car, while Rika Minami, still buzzing with adrenaline, was munching
on takeout beside him. In the back seat, Tajima Hirakawa was passed out, the day's events
having driven him to drink until he blacked out.
"At least you two had a good time," Tosiwo remarked dryly.
"Don't worry, captain, I managed to dodge those blood-sucking reporters," Rika replied with
a grin, sparing him a glance.
Tosiwo gave her a pointed look, then sighed, his thoughts drifting. "At least the civilians are
safe."
"Do we know the motive behind why the terrorist wanted to free Shoko Asahara?" Rika
asked, turning the car onto a quieter street.
"The guy was part of the doomsday cult," Tosiwo explained, rubbing his temples. "Believes
in some end-of-the-world scenario involving zombies and superhumans appearing in five
years."
Rika snorted, disbelief evident in her expression.
"Well, Captain, what are you going to do in the zombie apocalypse?"
"I'll become the emperor of Japan," Tosiwo replied with a chuckle, managing to keep a
straight face.
As they pulled up to a normal-looking house, Rika quipped, "Well, your majesty, we are
here."
Tosiwo nodded and stepped out of the car, bidding them goodbye with a tired smile. As Rika
began to drive away, her thoughts were a mix of relief and fatigue.
Suddenly, a loud explosion shattered the night, jolting Rika from her thoughts. The
shockwave was so powerful it rocked the car, causing her to slam on the brakes. Her heart
raced as she stared in disbelief at the rising smoke—it was coming from Tosiwo's house.
"Oh no," she muttered, a cold dread creeping up her spine. For a moment, the fear that the
doomsday cult might have targeted Tosiwo crossed her mind, but she quickly pushed it
aside.
"Tajima! Call the ambulance! I'm going in!" Rika shouted, her voice cracking as she bolted
from the car. Tears blurred her vision as she ran toward the smoldering remains, the
possibility of losing Tosiwo—a mentor, a friend, the man who had made her feel safe in
Japan—overwhelming her with grief and fear.
Rika's instincts took over as she approached the blazing house. Without hesitation, she
kicked in the already weakened front door, its frame charred and splintering under the
force. Smoke billowed out, thick and acrid, stinging her eyes and clogging her lungs, but
she pushed forward.
Inside, the aftermath of the explosion was chaotic. Furniture was overturned, windows
shattered, and flames licked the walls, feeding off the debris scattered around. The air was
hot, almost unbearable, but Rika's focus was singular.
Her eyes scanned the destruction, searching desperately for her Captain.
Amid the remnants of the shattered living room, Rika found him on the ground, his body
contorted in a protective arc over a small, motionless form. It was his son, shielded by his
father's last heroic effort.
His clothes were torn and singed, and shrapnel wounds were evident across his back and
sides. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and stark against the scorched floor. His face was
smeared with ash and blood, cuts and bruises marring his features.
Rika quickly took off her jacket, pressing it against Tosiwo's back where blood soaked
through his shirt.
"Don't worry, old man, you'll be safe," she said, her voice trembling with emotion as she
tried to staunch the bleeding.
Despite his grave injuries, Tosiwo managed a weak smile. His face was pale, smudged with
soot and blood, pain etching deep lines around his eyes. "Take care of my son," he gasped,
his voice barely a whisper as he clutched at her arm weakly.
Before she could respond, his grip slackened, and his eyes closed. Tosiwo went limp, his
head falling to one side.
Rika's heart shattered.
Tears streamed down her face as she let out a choked sob. The suddenness of it all, the
brutal finality, was overwhelming.
"Rika." Tajima's voice cut through the thick cloud of grief enveloping her as she gently laid
Tosiwo's head down on the ground. She stood up, her movements stiff with shock and
sorrow, and carefully lifted his son into her arms.
Together, they rushed to the car, Rika placing the boy in the backseat beside Tajima.
"Cover the boy's wounds and start resuscitation!" Rika commanded as she slammed her
foot on the accelerator.
Tajima, his hands shaking, quickly assessed the boy's injuries. He found a pulse, weak and
thready, and noticed the boy's chest was barely moving. Without hesitation, he began CPR,
counting the compressions under his breath, trying to keep his own panic at bay. His hands
pressed down rhythmically, desperately trying to push life back into the small body.
For a fleeting moment, the boy's eyes fluttered open, meeting Tajima's gaze with a look that
seemed to carry both confusion and a faint, heartbreaking hope. It was as if he had been
snatched back from the brink, a brief flicker of life reigniting in his dull eyes.
But just as quickly, his eyelids drooped and closed, his body surrendering once more to
unconsciousness. In that fleeting moment of awareness, one brief thought fluttered
through the boy's mind: Didn't I just die? Did someone save me? Or is this an isekai? The
last notion was mere wishful thinking, a child's imagination touched by stories he loved, as
he drifted back into darkness. His small form went limp under Tajima's hands, the weight of
his life hanging precariously in the balance