The television screen continued to flicker with images.
The NHK reporters were certainly dedicated, bombarding viewers with a relentless stream of helicopter aerial shots and live ground reports.
But the more Takuya Nakayama watched, the tighter his brow furrowed. Finally, he slammed the teapot onto the table and shook his head in frustration.
More than twenty hours had passed since the earthquake, and the golden hours for rescue were slipping away second by second.
The screen showed dust-covered citizens trying to rescue themselves, or firefighters struggling to douse flames with hoses that seemed too weak to even spray water.
Where are the Self-Defense Forces?
Where are those burly men in camouflage, paid for with the taxpayers' hard-earned money?
The camera finally caught a glimpse of a uniformed figure, but before it could get a clear view, it was swallowed by the surging crowd.
The news ticker at the bottom of the screen displayed a number that was almost laughable: The number of SDF personnel currently deployed to the disaster zone was less than two thousand.
Two thousand?
The arrival of the Self-Defense Forces in Kobe, a city of 1.5 million people, made barely a ripple.
The official reason was plausible: traffic congestion and the inability of heavy machinery to access the area.
Takuya Nakayama had anticipated the Japanese government's incompetence yesterday, having seen related reports. To his surprise, nothing had changed today.
"Bullshit," Takuya muttered to the empty air.
If land routes were blocked, why not use water routes? If those were blocked, why not use air routes?
Osaka Bay was right there. With all those open spaces, couldn't helicopters land there?
The truth was clear: the higher-ups hadn't received that red-stamped "deployment order." No one dared to make the first move.
Then came a breaking news alert that pushed this absurdity to its peak.
On the screen, a news anchor read the script in a near-monotone voice: "The Ministry of Foreign Affairs has officially rejected the US Navy's offer to deploy the Seventh Fleet to assist in rescue efforts."
The reason?
"There's no precedent."
That wasn't all.
Professional rescue teams from Switzerland and France, complete with search-and-rescue dogs, applied for entry but were held up at Narita Airport by the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries.
The quarantine officers, magnifying glasses in hand, insisted that under the Rabies Prevention Act, these life-saving dogs had to undergo isolation and quarantine first.
Isolation and quarantine? By the time they let the dogs out, Kobe would have been rebuilt from the ground up.
"Do these people have brains made of jelly?" Takuya Nakayama asked, his anger twisting into a bitter laugh. His knuckles rapped sharply against the desk.
This was the Japanese bureaucracy they prided themselves on.
Normally, it was as tightly sealed and precisely run as a Swiss watch.
But when faced with an unforeseen situation not covered in the manual, these elites instantly transformed into robots, spouting legal clauses like parrots.
The US Navy aircraft carrier was docked at Yokosuka, equipped with desalination equipment, a field hospital, and thousands of trained soldiers.
So what were those old men in Kasumigaseki still worrying about?
The Three Non-Nuclear Principles?
Or the fact that foreign doctors lacked Japanese medical licenses?
With lives on the line, they were still bogged down in procedures and liability.
On the television, a Kobe resident cried out to the camera: "We need water! We need doctors! Who cares who it is—even aliens! Just let anyone in who can save us!"
The piercing wail pierced the television screen, echoing through the luxuriously decorated Executive Office.
Takuya Nakayama fumbled for a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, but forgot to light it.
He knew all too well that this rigidity and inflexibility would never change, not even in thirty years.
This was the core of this country's nature: a pathological obsession with "avoiding responsibility," etched into its very bones.
As long as officials followed the procedures, they wouldn't be held accountable, even if everyone died.
But to break the rules to save lives? That would be political suicide.
"What a—what a hopeless country."
He snapped the unlit cigarette in two and tossed it into the waste bin.
Compared to natural disasters, man-made tragedies cut even deeper.
The image on the television screen finally brought a slight softening to Takuya Nakayama's face, which had been grim all day.
Compared to the politicians in Nagatachō, poring over the Six Codes to debate whether the Self-Defense Forces could be dispatched, the response from the Japanese public was so swift it was like another species.
In the camera's view, the entrance to Kobe's famous Daiei supermarket was not the chaos and looting he had expected.
Although the store's glass was shattered and the shelves lay askew, the staff managed to clear a path through the rubble.
There was no "rationing by ticket" and no price gouging.
Those same merchants who would haggle over a few cents profit in normal times now displayed a touching sense of unity.
With the power out, the cash register was useless. The manager simply brought out a cardboard box and placed it by the door.
Onigiri, bread, batteries—take what you need.
Those who could afford it dropped a few coins into the box. For those who couldn't, the staff still handed them bottles of water with both hands.
No one was calculating the accounts; anyone with cash on hand paid voluntarily.
Even a member of the Yamaguchi-gumi was there, maintaining order in a symbolic way, though order was hardly needed.
"Now that's what I call business," Takuya Nakayama said, watching the scene unfold, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. "Anyone still worrying about inventory losses at a time like this might as well give up on doing business in Kansai. Kou Nakauchi, the boss of Daiei, is a real tough guy. I heard he ordered all of Kobe's inventory to be opened to the public, even if it meant airlifting beef to make sure disaster victims could get a hot meal."
This wasn't limited to retail.
Asahi, Kirin, and Suntory—beer giants who usually battled fiercely—moved with surprising unity.
Production lines urgently halted beer bottling, switching entirely to drinking water and oolong tea.
Trucks bearing beer logos, loaded with life-saving water, used their drivers' intimate knowledge of the terrain to bypass collapsed overpasses, reaching the disaster zone a dozen hours ahead of the Self-Defense Forces.
While official channels were clogged, the nation's capillaries were pumping blood with frantic energy.
The scene shifted to a more microscopic view.
In narrow alleyways too small for heavy machinery, no uniformed rescue teams were present, yet relief efforts never ceased.
Neighbors rescued neighbors, and strangers helped strangers.
A young man, his head bleeding, used a jack to prop up a collapsed beam, freeing an elderly stranger trapped beneath.
Nearby, housewives brought out their families' remaining rice, setting up outdoor stoves to cook porridge in large pots.
No one had time to cry; tears were the most useless thing.
What moved Takuya Nakayama most was an NTT (Nippon Telegraph and Telephone) temporary communication point.
Beside several green-painted emergency communication vehicles, temporary satellite antennas had been erected.
A line of hundreds of meters stretched out, yet it was quiet and orderly.
No cutting in line, no shouting, not even loud complaints could be heard.
Everyone waited patiently for the line to move.
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