RED SUN ROGUE

by Taylor Zajonc

  “Thirty meters!” Vitaly sputtered, as the Scorpion breeched the surface like a great, blue whale. And then she fell back to earth, her belly slamming against her sister submarine below with the sound and fury of Thor’s hammer and anvil. Everyone was thrown to the deck as metal screamed against metal, lights flickered, and hydraulic fluid rained down from above. Several electrical panels short-circuited, bursting into flames.

  “Emergency flood procedures! Damage report! Vitaly, where’d we hit them?” shouted Jonah, almost shaking the helmsmen out of his seat.

  “Above conning tower, Captain!” said Vitaly. “We sheer off their snorkel, periscope, radar, everything! They blind and deaf now. No hull leak detected—all major systems or backups functioning.”

  “Then get us the fuck out of here. Emergency descent.” Vitaly obeyed, the engines once more roaring to full power as the Scorpion plunged into the sea.

  “How did you know we could out-climb them?” exclaimed Hassan. “Vitaly said we were evenly matched!”

  “They’re fielding a full crew,” answered Jonah. “And a full complement of torpedoes and other ordnance to boot. We may not have much, but we had the weight advantage and every chance of beating them to the surface with Alexis on the engines and Vitaly at the helm.”

  “Deaf and blind,” repeated Hassan, breathless as he shook his head.

  “But they still have a set of lungs,” added Jonah. “They’ll be howling for every NK anti-sub asset within five hundred miles. Vitaly, plot an evasive course; drop us beneath a thermal layer. Return to silent running. Let ’em think they got us, too.”

  “Aye,” Vitaly said, fingers shaking as he input the new instructions.

  “Captain, I must say this is an excellent opportunity to play dead,” said Hassan. “We can find a place to hide on the ocean floor, drop to minimal power. I don’t know how long we can hold out with no food and thinning air, but maybe it would be enough time for both the North Koreans and Japanese to stop looking for us. This isn’t our battle, Jonah.”

  Jonah nodded. “We’ve got to play this out, Doc. We can’t risk a gamble, not until we know what’s at stake. Orders stand. Set course for the Japanese fleet. Let’s see what they make of this mess.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Research Ship George D. Stillson

  East China Sea 30 Miles Northwest Amami

  Ōshima Island

  Freya Weyland leaned against the rusting stern railing, her hands curled around the hard steel, scarred knuckles white and fingertips as cold as the metal they rested upon. She leaned over and nestled her chin into her folded arms, eyes closed as the winter winds of the East China Sea swept across her face. The freezing air felt good, her skin prickling with goose pimples underneath a thin, fashionable sweatshirt, the chill numbing her fingers, stealing the breath from her lungs. A crescent moon hung low in the winter sky, casting dim illumination over the 170-foot research vessel as it quietly pushed through gentle swells.

  The young man next to her spoke passionately, winding through a ponderous, well-rehearsed epiphany that probably impressed the coeds of his university’s science department. His conclusions were clearly meant to be edgy, at least for a mainline academic; the rebellious hypothesis punctuated by the neglected cigar in his hand as it slowly burnt to ash in the darkness. Something about the benefits of selective near-extinction—how collapsed fishing stocks would lead to real legislative change faster than any conservation activism. Better the fish died now; perhaps enough would survive to repopulate the region while the Japanese fleets languished in scrapyards for lack of catch.

  He was handsome, at least compared to the balance of the R/V George D. Stillson’s male population. Tall, skinny— well, too skinny if she was honest with herself—trendy haircut with the long, slick top and shaved sides, half-lidded eyes, and a sly smile. And he could talk, really talk. He didn’t just stand around waiting for her to say something so he could pretend to agree. Maybe even a guy her mom might have called a breath of fresh air, the type who introduced himself as ‘Benny’ and not ‘Dr. Whoever the Third, PhD of Ivy-This or Ivy-That’.

  She liked listening to him talk. She liked how he filled the silence with such ease, how she could simply lean on the railing staring ahead, and he wouldn’t get bored and walk away. She almost felt at peace when he spoke. Maybe this was what it was like to be a woman who didn’t know the right ratio of diesel to urea fertilizer, or the correct detonator needed to blow it sky high, or the sound made by breaking vertebra if one twisted a neck just so.

  Freya raised up and turned towards the young man, smiling as she caught his eye. He stopped speaking for a moment, thrown from his pedantic verbal wanderings, and tilted an ear to better listen to her over the ship’s laboring diesel engines.

  But she didn’t speak. She instead took the small cigar from his fingers, puffed it twice, and handed it back. She pursed her lips to blow a thick, clinging cloud of smoke and warm vapor into the night sky. Benny smiled, shifting in his thick, red ski jacket as he watched her with sparkling eyes.

  “You’re hot blooded, aren’t you?” he said, trying to needle her into a response. “The type of girl who never gets cold, like maybe you grew up in Fargo, or an igloo?”

  Freya allowed herself an amused laugh as she glanced down at her thin, inadequate sweatshirt. But still she said nothing.

  In fact, the less she said the better—she’d made her way aboard the Stillson with a stolen passport, barely checked. But the exhaustive cover story she’d tediously memorized hardly mattered; nobody wanted to talk about academic papers or obscure oceanographic flora. Sure, small teams of Japanese and American graduate students wrestled over deck space and ship time as they netted fish, dissected specimens, gathered core samples, and deployed scientific instrumentation over the course of the working day. But the nights were the real attraction, bacchanalian parties in the recreation room winding down well into the early morning hours as the students stole away to explore one other in the darkened semi-privacy of their shared shipboard cabins.

  The air of political tension made the expedition all the more exciting. Spy games weren’t unheard of, and the waters off Amami Oshima had earned a reputation as the kidnapping grounds of North Korean intelligence agencies. A disguised spy vessel was spotted and chased by four Japanese Coast Guard ships just a few years previous, sparking off a six-hour gunfight that ended when the North Koreans scuttled their own trawler.

  The fifteen unlucky spies left clinging to the wreckage were deemed a security risk and abandoned to the unforgiving sea. Japan returned two years later to raise the trawler from the deep, finding her equipped with guns, rockets, a high-powered engine, and a hidden speedboat launch. Some of the Japanese grad students had visited the salvaged spy ship at the Coast Guard Museum of Yokohama, flashing the ubiquitous V-sign with their fingers as their photos were taken in front of the bullet-riddled hull.

  Freya decided that if Benny ever stopped talking and tried to kiss her, she might just let him. It’s what her cover identity Cindi Phelps would do, wasn’t it? Cindi Phelps with an ‘i’ at the end of her first name. Cindi Phelps the marine biologist in training who once wanted to become a dolphin trainer. Cindi the grad student who was determined to make her way to sea like a real scientist—at least until Yasua Himura decided her passport was worth more than her life. The real Cindi had been chosen deliberately, her digital fingerprint exactingly traced through social media, cell phone records, and online correspondence, until she was firmly established as the candidate best suited for replacement. As an added bonus, the real Cindi somewhat resembled Freya, albeit six inches shorter, and with a distinctive toothy smile that Freya could not reproduce no matter how hard she tried.

  Benny took two last careful puffs off the short cigar before carefully grinding out the red ember on the stern railing. She watched as he placed the cooling stub into a plastic bag with several others. It was all she could do to stop herself from scoffing at him, how he so carefully disposed o
f a single cigar butt after flying halfway across the world in a hydrocarbon-spewing jumbo airliner. Why not just toss it into the sea? What would it matter?

  “You should come to Thailand with me,” said Benny, clearing his throat as he inched towards her, the length of railing between them abruptly shrinking. “Have you ever been?”

  Freya shook her head, the tiniest smile appearing on her lips for a moment. She realized with surprise that it wasn’t Cindi’s—it was hers.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said with a faraway sigh. “White beaches, water so clear it just disappears. Five-hundred-year-old Buddhist temple ruins everywhere. We can wake up in the morning and do yoga on the sand. Eat seafood caught right in the shoals. Dive the reefs as the sun peaks. Spend nights dancing in the clubs. I’ve already booked a beach hut—there’s nothing like falling asleep to the sounds of the surf.”

  She could tell he almost ended the pitch with just the two of us, but the words died in his mouth before he spoke, almost as if uttering them into the cold would have robbed them of all meaning.

  “I’ll think about it,” said Freya, speaking for the first time. Would Cindi have said yes?

  “It’s not just me. A bunch of us are going,” added Benny quickly. “I mean, why travel all the way out here and not tack on a little fun at the end? You got somebody you need to go running home to?”

  “I said I’ll think about it,” said Freya, giving him the barest twitch at the corners of her mouth as she retreated from the railing. Pleased with the response, Benny smiled so wide that his face looked as though it’d split in two.

  Freya stepped through a hatch and into the interior of the Stillson, taking in the familiar stained, off-white steel interior and ’70s-era wood paneling, eyes adjusting to the too-bright fluorescents flickering above. Her cabin was just a few doors down, not much more than two bunks, and a tiny, shared bathroom. She unzipped the sweatshirt and took off her tank top, stripping down to a pair of tight athletic leggings and a sports bra. It was impossible to get enough protein on the ship, but her rigorous exercise routine still held great benefit, the discipline keeping her darker urges in check.

  Her slight Japanese roommate was perpetually— desperately—seasick, spending more time guzzling Gatorade and Dramamine in the research ship’s tiny infirmary than sleeping in her own bunk. The privacy of the de facto solo room was a welcome bonus, her unanticipated isolation circumventing the need for any unnecessary skulking throughout the crowded ship.

  Freya was only halfway through her thirty-minute pushup routine when she noticed the blinking light in her half-open duffel bag. The satellite phone had been easy to bring aboard. It hadn’t even required an explanation. Cindi was a rich girl, and rich girls got rich-girl toys. She felt a flutter of anxiety, consciously forcing herself to slow her heartbeat before she pulled the phone from the duffle, pressed it to her ear, and accepted the call.

  “Are you there?” spoke Himura with his soft, commanding voice. His intonation was like a warm blanket around her shoulders, filling her with purpose and resolve.

  Freya pressed the star button on the keypad, listening to the faint tone as it disappeared across the airwaves.

  “Can you speak?”

  Freya used the star button twice and waited in silence for his next words. Though she was alone in her cabin, she didn’t want to take the chance of a sudden interruption.

  “Take control of the bridge. Once inside, you must be prepared to hold the location for a minimum of ten minutes. Return this call when it’s done.” Freya started to finger the star button in acknowledgement, but it was too late—Himura had already disconnected.

  Ten minutes. A lot could happen in that time—not near enough time to lure and lock the bridge crew out. She’d need to fight.

  Freya slipped off her lightweight athletic shoes, exchanging them for the heavy leather work boots buried in the bottom of her duffle. They weren’t as broken-in as she would have preferred, but the high ankles, thick rubber lugs, and steel toe inserts offered other advantages. She tucked her feet into both and laced them up, tying the final knots high like a combat boot.

  No sense in giving a potential adversary more to grab onto than absolutely necessary—she’d keep the sports bra and yoga pants only, there wouldn’t be enough time to get cold. Freya secured her thick blonde dreadlocks with a rubber band and then ransacked her roommate’s luggage with the other. The young Japanese woman was exceptionally well prepared for the expedition. She’d brought at least three times as much stuff as she’d ever conceivably use. Freya tore open the clear toiletries bag first, locating a pair of delicate grooming scissors she used to cut through a handful of her longest dreadlocks. She removed the oversized first aid kit next, binding her knuckles and wrists with thick white athletic tape. Last was the lotion—she would have preferred Vaseline or even coconut oil, but her roommate’s thick, long-lasting skin cream would work almost as well. Connecting the satellite phone to a wireless earpiece, Freya secured the bulky handset in the rear of her waistband.

  Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus. Count to ten.

  Freya scowled as she walked past the passenger lounge. Inside, a dozen graduate students exchanged a bottle of cheap rice wine, laughing as they watched an old American horror movie. A ghostly hand emerged from a mirror, reaching towards an unsuspecting woman as she slipped out of her clothes—the students shrieked and pointed, giggling as they clutched each other on the sagging couches.

  Benny was in the center of the smallest couch, flanked by four of his friends from the same department. They stopped talking when they spotted her, smacking and hissing at each other until even the slowest among them stopped to stare openly in her direction. He’d no doubt told them about Thailand, how he was on the verge of bagging the ice queen, the cold bitch—she knew all the names they called her.

  I’d let her kick my ass any day of the week, whispered one. Benny halfheartedly tried to shush him while still soaking in every moment of the self-congratulatory frat-boy camaraderie.

  Freya eyed the knives from across the recreation room, barely visible behind the counter as they clung to the magnetic strip in the galley. She wanted to take one, but there were too many eyes watching her. It wasn’t just Benny and his boys, it was the girls now, too, their gazes dripping over her tight black yoga pants and sports bra, the sheen of lotion over her defined abdominals and muscled arms. Like she was some kind of freak for turning her body into what it was designed for. What did Himura call her? Yes—his perfect instrument, a form with unmistakable function.

  She walked to the teakettle on a nearby table, suspiciously glancing over her shoulder. The grad students were distracted by the movie again, the horror heroine having changed into highly impractical lingerie as she investigated a haunted mansion by candlelight.

  Grabbing a knife was still too obvious, leaving Freya to quietly fill the top of the now-boiling kettle with leftover olive oil from dinner. She waited until it was scalding before carefully filling a thick mug and pouring the rest down the drain just before it started to smoke.

  Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. Count to ten.

  Freya left with cup in hand, breathing slowly in and out as she ascended the main stairs towards the bridge. The pushups had driven fresh, hot blood to her arms and hands. She shook out her shoulders and ankles to keep her muscles warm and fluid.

  The bridge ran nearly the width of the thirty-four foot beam, large windows reaching from waist-level consoles and chart tables to the low ceiling above. With the sole exception of a single flat-screen, the bulk of the instruments dated to the mid-’70s. Freya felt she was stepping back in time. The short, barrel-chested American captain stood before the helm, hand resting gently on the simple steering lever, throttle set to a leisurely eight-knot cruising speed. He touched the lever out of habit alone. Freya knew the autopilot took the bulk of the helmsman’s duties, the computer gently adjusting the Stillson’s seaborne course as she plied the rolling swells.

  Tw
o officers flanked the captain. Freya noted with satisfaction that the larger of the two was the coverall-clad chief engineer, a tall, lanky man with thinning hair and crumpled earplugs slung around his neck, his permanently oil-stained fingers tapping absentmindedly on the nearby chart table. Good—dealing with him on the bridge would significantly lessen the chances that the remaining crew could contest her control of the ship from the engine compartment. The only other man on deck was the ship’s Japanese first officer, a quiet, jowly man who only rarely lifted his heavy eyes from other people’s shoes.

  The view from the large windows was impressive, made all the more so by the dim interior lighting. A crescent moon rippled like silver over the rolling ocean as the research vessel rose and fell through the waves, cresting each one in turn with a sudden gush of white spray over the distant bow.

  “Whud’ya need?” grunted the captain, barely nodding in her direction as he kept his eyes towards the distant moonlit horizon.

  Freya just closed her eyes. Focus. She visualized the moments to come in her mind—the first blow, the second, the look in their eyes when they realized something had gone very wrong. Her hand trembled for a moment, the scalding oil rippling as beads of sweat collected between her fingertips and the surface of the searing ceramic mug. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus.

  “Seriously?” said the captain, scratching his white beard in irritation at her lack of response. He swiveled to address her face-on. If Freya had been a normal passenger, she would have felt a flood of anxious energy wash over her as he prepared to dress her down. But she wasn’t a normal passenger.

  Three seconds. Focus.

  “This area is not for students. I’m going to need to talk to Harold about this—” began the captain.