Every page of Daikon hums with urgency. At its heart stands Keizo Kan, a physicist whose training pulls him from chalkboards into firestorms. His entrance comes as he flees Tokyo air-raid sirens into a shelter.
His wife, Noriko, arrives under harsher light. She faces censors who accuse her of treachery for speaking German on the radio, trembling through interrogations that shape her path through the wreckage.
A third figure, Ryohei Yagi, brings a gambler’s cynicism. A Korean-born sailor forced into service, he voices his disdain when he mutters, “I would rather die in a brothel than in a bomber.”
Around them circle officers drunk on fantasy and fear. Colonel Sagara exhales smoke and boasts, “We will build a bomb fatter than any radish.” Captain Onda kneels before a Buddha carved from shrapnel, as though ritual could sanctify destruction.
Japanese soldiers scavenge uranium fragments from a mangled American B-29. Kan scratches “E = mc²” across a blackboard while plotting in silence. Hunger bleeds into villages where farmers trade daikon and dried fish for scraps of paper.
Each chapter stings with detail. Noriko coughs blood as she stumbles through scorched fields. Children giggle over charred candy wrappers. Engineers pack tungsten plugs into steel shells.
“Thirty-six uranium rings” shift from hand to hand like cursed coins. Priests chant sutras beside the airbase. Keizo thinks of his wife while rigging wires. Yagi dreams of pachinko halls as he palms dice. Onda prays with fervor sharpened by madness.
The story traces Keizo forced into service of a weapon named Daikon. Noriko wanders a ruined empire. Yagi endures coerced duty with a gambler’s stubborn spark. Officers shape a kamikaze plan around their improbable device.
Noriko trudges through villages stripped bare, her ordeal balancing Keizo’s chalkboard calculations. “If the temperature rises, the wiring fails,” he mutters, embedding sabotage beneath equations.
Sagara commands the bomber engines tested. Villagers cower from firebombs. The Emperor’s voice flickers through static, heavy with surrender.
The device moves from warehouse to hangar. Always a step from ignition. Always a breath from catastrophe.
The fusion of absurd comedy and apocalyptic dread recalls Kurosawa’s detailed fatalism. It shares the lunatic logic of Doctor Strangelove.
Hawley sharpens irony through detail: a lullaby hummed while soldiers swig kerosene-spiked sake, a farmer cursing that “the sweet potatoes shrank to the size of a man’s thumb.”
The book ponders the madness of science bent to power. It lingers on loyalty tested by ruin. It charts the collapse of empire through hubris, while survival sprouts in unlikely soil.
The author, a Canadian enthralled by Japanese history, anchors fiction in archival echoes. He stitches documents, diaries, and wreckage into a story that fuses gravity with grim wit.