The Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell Read Free Book Online

of a gigantic paper balloon that had crashed outside Kalispell, Montana. Its construction, though elaborately conceived, was somewhat makeshift, and authorities initially believed it had been assembled and launched from a nearby German prisoner-of-war camp or one of the Japanese internment camps.
    But within the next few weeks, dozens more balloons were sighted. Some as far north as Saskatchewan and others just south of Santa Barbara. And while evidence of some of the early landings had disappeared in explosions, more balloons began to be recovered intact. (One western sheriff bravely, or comically, leapt after a balloon's trailing line as it near ed the ground; it bounced and dragged him across the desert for several miles before he finally managed to stop and anchor it.)
    The balloons found intact dispelled much of the mystery that had initially surrounded them. Since the Japanese had assumed any evidence of the balloon weapon would be destroyed in an explosion, they had done little to mask the weapon's source: serial numbers and other designations, written in Japanese, were printed directly on the balloon. Further evidence was found in the sandbags that served as ballast: government geologists determined the sand used was particular to the east coast of Japan 's mainland, or largest island, Honshu.
    Slowly, it became clear what was happening. Japan had developed and was deploying the world's first intercontinental warheads. And so far, America 's defense consisted of tall trees and wide-open spaces.

CHAPTER 3
    WE WERE IN THE AIR BEFORE SUNRISE, THE CAPTAIN, HIS men, their prize, and me all onboard a C-47 bound north. We refueled at first light in Seattle, and then started up to Anchorage. What takes three hours today took nine back then-or more, depending on whether the pilot had ever flown to Alaska before.
    I wish the trip had lasted even longer. Three hours, nine hours- one hundred hours probably wouldn't be enough transition time from the Outside world to Alaska. But these are the illusions planes perpetuate: the intimacy of great distances, the seeming absence of life below, and worst of all, the notion that by flying over the land, you have somehow conquered it. I rely on planes now; we all do. But there is an aspect to them that I hate, and it is the distance they put between you and the ground. The view, of course, is gorgeous, but it is completely sanitized, static beyond the glass, sometimes hidden beneath clouds. It allows you to think of Alaska the way the rest of the world does, a gigantic, postcard-perfect park, its mountains and trees and glaciers, however distant, reassuringly reachable and safe.
    I still remember that first trip, how strangely soft everything below looked, the towering peaks buried in snow and clouds. I would have stayed at the window the entire time, but the captain called me forward to hear my explanation of how I'd ended up at Fort Cronkhite. He offered no explanations of his own in return, other than to say that my leave had been canceled. He said I'd find out what I needed to know soon enough-both about my posting and our odd cargo. I asked if I could take a look at the wreckage stowed in the cargo bay, and for a moment, he looked ready to agree, but then shook his head and told me to catch some sleep. I went to my jump seat and closed my eyes, but all I could see was that balloon, floating there, closer and closer, bigger and bigger. I wanted to reach out and touch it, but I couldn't, even while dreaming. I finally fell back, frustrated, and let the balloon hang there in my mind, my arm lifted, hand outstretched.
     
    WHAT I CAUGHT, instead, was a message delivered to me directly by the empire of Japan.
    I'd gone downtown into Anchorage after we landed, and was standing on Fourth Avenue, screwing up my courage to enter a bar. I had plenty of choices. A low-flying plane buzzed overhead. No one looked up; enough planes were flying in and out of Elmendorf Field those days that the skies