RED SUN ROGUE

by Taylor Zajonc

  He never finished.

  Freya hurled the entire mug of olive oil into his face, soaking him with the near-boiling liquid. A scream erupted from his lips in a pitch too high for a man as his fingernails already dug into the red, sloughing skin around his eyes. Freya turned, took aim, and flung the empty mug directly into the tall engineer’s face, hearing his nose crack as the cup bounced off his face and hit the ceiling before shattering to pieces on the linoleum floor.

  Yes—this approach was better. A knife was obvious, recognizable, reactionary. The oil gained her a minimum two-second advantage, maybe even double that. Even so, she would have preferred a blade, something to brandish, a last-ditch backup if nothing else. The Japanese first officer rushed her with unexpected speed, grabbing at her arm. His grip slid right off her slick skin, giving Freya the split-second opportunity to bury her fist into the side of his jaw. He dropped hard, sliding across the floor before slamming headfirst into a map cabinet. The captain was screaming louder now, shaking uncontrollably as he held his blistering, ruined face. She turned just in time to see the engineer drag himself off the floor which gave her time to plant one, two, three steel-toed kicks to the side of his head. Freya cocked a fourth kick with her boot, silently daring him to move.

  Without warning, pain erupted across her back like she’d been smacked with a baseball bat, her shoulder blade and right arm instantly numb from the tooth-rattling impact. She whipped around to see the Japanese first officer—he didn’t stay down, goddamn it—brandishing an oversize Maglite like a club. His mistake.

  “You should have crushed my skull when you had the chance,” she said as she grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off his feet as he struggled in her grip, flailing ineffectually with his flashlight. She hurled him against the wall. Off-balance, his already-broken jaw dangerously exposed, she jammed one vicious elbow after another into his face. The heavy light tumbled from his grasp and rolled across the rocking bridge deck as he slumped to the floor for the final time, bleeding and unconscious.

  Freya cracked her neck and massaged the back of her injured shoulder, trying to will feeling back into her still-tingling right arm. The blow to the scapula had hurt, goddamn it, more than she cared to admit. Her mistake: underestimating the short, lethargic first mate.

  Focus. Breathe in. breathe out. Release the pain.

  The door behind her creaked opened. Freya twisted around, hands already up, fists balled and ready to strike. The captain had slipped into shock behind her, silence falling over the bridge deck once more.

  “Cindi…?” sputtered Benny, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared at her in abject horror. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window; face blood-flecked and snarled, teeth gritted, glistening skin rippling as she breathed hard and fast. Freya took a running start towards Benny before he could utter another word. She leapt forward and slammed him in the chest with both booted feet. Benny flew backwards, losing an unlaced shoe as he tumbled through the air, his thick red ski jacket a blur in an uncontrolled free fall. He was halfway down the stairs before he landed, outstretched wrist catching the edge of a step as he snapped down like a cracked whip, collarbone taking the brunt of the impact. Screams erupted from the lounge below as Freya closed her eyes and latched the door with quivering, adrenaline-fueled fingers.

  Steadying herself, Freya activated the earpiece and dialed Himura’s number. The phone clicked and beeped, slowly making the connection as she locked and barricaded the remaining doors. She inadvertently jumped a little as the bridge’s still-charging hand radios erupted with static and frantic voices begging for help, begging for information. The doorknob to the interior door abruptly moved. Fortunately, the lock held as the rattling increased and the voices took on a desperate, violent pitch.

  The call went through. She didn’t need to hear his voice to feel him on the other end. His calm, gentle presence pulling the jittery energy from her body, centering her, focusing her, and preparing her for what was to come.

  “Is it done?” His soothing voice was barely audible over the distant connection.

  “Yeah,” she confirmed between heaving gasps. “I have control of the bridge.”

  “How long can you maintain your position?”

  “A few minutes at least,” she answered. “Probably the full ten, maybe longer. Depends on how much of a fight they’re willing to put up. So far, it’s been manageable. One of them landed a decent hit, but nothing feels broken.”

  The grad students and crew had already begun to organize themselves, and the pounding against the thin interior door grew louder with each passing second. Others climbed the cold exterior stairs and gathered on the exposed bridge platform, cupping their hands to look through the glass windows, their eyes darting between Freya and the three unconscious bodies on the floor around her. The braver among them began to smack against the glass like she was a zoo animal, shouting at her, trying to get her attention.

  Focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Count to ten. Hold the bridge.

  The carnage around her—slick, still-hot olive oil on the linoleum floor, bloody handprints on the wall, three barely-breathing men lying at the feet of her steel-toed boots—was distracting.

  Freya closed her eyes, centering herself. After all, she knew the East China Sea was always intertwined with death. North Korean ghost ships had drifted through these waters for decades, their crews driven to madness and suicide as their disabled vessels drifted aimlessly atop endless ocean. So too had the divine winds of kamikaze swept these waves, first as the twin typhoons faced by Mongolian invaders, and, seven centuries later, as 4,000 young men plunging headlong from the sky towards Allied warships. Now it was the specter of unrestrained industry—the horsemen of the apocalypse opening their seals to pour forth plastics, poisons, hydrocarbons, fertilizer, and radiation into the sea.

  “Set course to north-by-northwest,” ordered Himura. “Full possible speed. You will see a radar contact. Steer towards that contact.”

  Freya nodded, knowing full well Himura couldn’t see her acknowledgement. “What am I intercepting?”

  “A North Korean patrol vessel,” he answered. “They believe they are hunting a Japanese spy ship. They will board the George Stillson and summarily execute her crew and passengers before scuttling the ship. I trust you can make your escape, perhaps in one of the small outboard crafts?”

  She froze. “How?” was all she could manage as she opened the navigation software, preparing to enter the new course. “How could you possibly have arranged this?”

  “Meisekimu has become exceedingly proficient at utilizing their military codes—and she’s enjoyed learning to imitate the voices of their naval commanders as well.”

  Freya swallowed hard, closing her eyes as she prepared to ask the real question. The only question that mattered. “But why?”

  “It’s a pretext for an inevitability,” said Himura impatiently. “Have you set the new course?”

  “No,” said Freya, louder this time as she shook her head. “That’s not what I meant—why? Why any of this? These people—they’re like us, they’re on our side.”

  “Then give them their martyrdom, as you are willing to take yours, and I, mine.”

  “But I know what I signed up for—and I know they don’t want to be fucking martyrs.”

  “Please set the course.”

  Freya swallowed again. The pounding on the windows and doors was loud now, impossibly loud. She wanted to scream at them, tell them to shut the fuck up, let her think. Didn’t they know what was at stake? Himura’s orders were simple, so terribly simple—enter the new course, lock out the computers, disable the steering mechanisms, and escape. There’d be plenty of opportunity to slip away before the shooting started, leaving behind baffled passengers and crew who’d be glad to rid themselves of her, unaware of their fate. But try as she might, she couldn’t do it. Her finger froze as it hovered over the keyboard.

  “Please do this, Freya,” pleaded Himura. The ton
e was new, even softer than his gentle persuasion—he was all but begging her. “Do it, or I will put a second, bloodier plan into motion. A plan that will take many more lives. I do not wish to take so much unnecessary life—but I will if I must.”

  Crack! A fire extinguisher smashed against the glass windows, the sharp impact echoing throughout the darkened bridge. The grad students and remaining crew were furious now, mob-like, some having armed themselves with broomsticks and chair legs, which they beat across the windows like hail. Two of the crewmen wielded a massive extinguisher tank from the engine room, drawing it back like a battering ram as they prepared to slam it against the window once more. Others had begun to beat against the opposite side of the bridge with hammers and wrenches, cracks already beginning to spread throughout the thick, typhoon-proof glass.

  Freya punched the new numbers into the computer, preparing to confirm Himura’s course. She could see the North Korean ship now, just a tiny green blip lurking at the far reaches of the radar screen. Her finger hovered over the enter key, preparing to punch it, end the standoff. But . . . she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  The red fire extinguisher slammed against the window a fourth, a fifth time, the clear pane already a ruin of chipped and breaking glass. They were all pounding on the windows now, smashing and scratching with table legs, knives, hammers, wrenches, and their bare hands, all made anonymous in their violence. Freya’s half-numbed knuckles throbbed underneath the bloodstained athletic tape, muscles clenching and unclenching as she prepared to defend herself against the seething mob.

  Focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Count to ten. Get ready to fight.

  Whack! The extinguisher burst through the window, its momentum tearing it from their hands as it bounced end over end and rolled across the tilting deck. Like falling stars the scattershot of diamond-shaped glass fragments danced across the linoleum floor. Freya rushed the broken window, hurling heavy books and operations manuals at her attackers. But they were ready for her, five of them falling over themselves as they spilled over the sill and into the bridge interior. She launched herself into their midst, punching and kicking and scratching—but there were too many. Two of them caught her wrists, shoving her backwards as another swung at her ribs with a broomstick, landing a stinging blow. Yelping in pain, Freya kicked with her steel-toed boots and rolled away, leaping back up with fists cocked, back against the wall.

  More shattering glass cascaded across the floor from the other side of the bridge. Two students leapt through the window with knives and wrenches in hand. Distracted for an instant, she was once again enveloped by the mob-like mass of attackers, then thrown facedown onto the floor. Four wriggling bodies pounced on her, pinning her to the floor. Before she could move, someone threw a blanket over her face from behind, yanking back so hard she thought her neck would snap. A table leg connected just above her left ear an instant later, the blinding concussion nearly knocking her senseless. All she could do was groan and struggle to free her wrists, seeking something—anything—to grab, someone to hurt. But, there was only the slick, oil-soaked floor.

  Then, motion. She was jerked to her feet. The thick, scratchy blanket pinned her throbbing head. She couldn’t breathe. Her elbows bent upwards behind her back by an impossible number of grasping hands. The screaming in her ears was muffled now, far away, like it was happening to someone else in the far reaches of a long hallway. Burning, flashing lights swam across her black vision as she violently convulsed, vomiting into the smothering blanket over her eyes and mouth. She coughed, gasping, sucking the acidic mess out of the fibers and into her lungs.

  And then pain—sharp, digging pain pulled her from the stupor as her bare stomach was dragged across the broken glass rim of the windowsill. Freezing wind ripped the last of the warmth from her sweat-soaked skin as she was held headfirst over the rusting railing of the bridge deck.

  Focus . . . breathe . . . but I can’t.

  Somehow she sensed the emptiness below.

  The pressure from her wrists and elbows released abruptly as she pitched violently forward. She felt only the briefest, sickening sensation of weightlessness, blanket falling from her face as she plunged headlong into the dark, frigid ocean.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Scorpion slipped through the open waters of the Sea of Japan, the rocky North Korean coastline now more than a hundred miles behind her. Jonah stood the night watch alone, giving his crew a few more hours of hard-won sleep as the submarine slowly made way towards the waiting Japanese fleet. His throbbing carbon monoxide headache had begun to settle, replaced by equally painful, cramping hunger pangs.

  They all handled the two-and-a-half days without food differently. Jonah kept his silent watch, well used to the sensations of deprivation. Dalmar and Vitaly hunkered down in their quarters, conserving energy as they rested listlessly under the sheets. Alexis busied herself with engine repairs and preventative maintenance, while Marissa took over Jonah’s cabin, snapping at anyone who made the mistake of checking in on her. Perhaps Hassan handled himself best of all, retreating to the galley to produce a steady array of thin broths and juices from discarded onions, orange peels, and the coffee dust collected in the furthest reaches of the cupboards.

  Light footsteps echoed down the darkened main corridor as Sun-Hi approached. She’d worked diligently to tailor her oversized, secondhand coveralls, taking in fabric from every quarter until the outfit almost fit her. The clothes she’d worn escaping North Korea were ultimately deemed unsalvageable after disintegrating under mild detergent as she attempted to launder them in a sink.

  Sun-Hi held a steaming mug of over-steeped black tea in front of her, offering it to Jonah. He didn’t recognize the Chinese brand name on the dangling tag, and strongly suspected she’d carried it with her as she fled across the ice.

  She stuck the mug out again and bowed slightly, proffering it to Jonah as though she hadn’t been clear enough the first time. He took it gratefully and sipped, feeling the slight caffeine boost zip along his body as welcome warmth reached his contracted stomach.

  “Thanks,” said Jonah, handing the mug back to her. But, cup in hand, Sun-Hi didn’t leave. Instead, she just stood there staring at him until he felt uncomfortable. “Why don’t you take a walk around, see if anybody else wants a sip? I bet you can get a couple of cups out of that bag at minimum.”

  “No. It’s for captain only!”

  “On the Scorpion, if you can eat, drink, or breathe it, it’s for everybody. We don’t stand much for captain-only privileges. I’m serious. I hope you’ll consider sharing it with the crew. That being said, I’ll turn a blind eye if you want to keep it for yourself. My guess is you’ve been hungry for a lot longer than the rest of us.”

  A little flash of disappointment crossed Sun-Hi’s face as she lowered the cup. Jonah frowned. She wanted something from him, something he couldn’t yet put his finger on.

  “Why didn’t you leave with the rest of them?” he asked, interrupting the brief silence with a question that had weighed on his mind since her discovery. He took the mug again and allowed himself a second sip, much to her immediate pleasure.

  “All my people to go to one place,” she said, eyes wide. “Maybe Osaka or Tokyo, maybe Seoul. But this ship—what you say? Scorpion? She go everywhere.”

  “You don’t regret your decision? Not even after what happened to us?”

  “No.” “So, you didn’t stay because you were scared of the Japanese? You stayed because you wanted to leave with us?”

  “Yes!”

  He handed the cup back to her. “Even though you didn’t know a thing about me or my crew?”

  “No-no!” She was shaking her head now, her bowl-cut flopping one way and the other. “I know many thing about you.”

  “Like what?” asked Jonah, perplexed.

  “Number one thing, you very tall,” said Sun-Hi, cocking her head as she looked up at him. She offered the mug back to Jonah, who declined it more firmly this time.

  “
Sure, but that’s not a very good reason.”

  “There are other reason.”

  “Such as?” “When army come, everybody always run. Always, always. Men leave mother, even leave baby. But you stay. You fight. You brave. I brave, too. We are same, so I come with you. And I stay with you.”

  Jonah couldn’t help but chuckle in baffled wonder. Even on a good day it felt like the ragtag crew of the Scorpion had joined forces as the punch line of some great cosmic joke. Other times it was more like a purgatorial prison sentence among strangers. “I’ll think about it,” Jonah grunted. “But you’ll need a job.”

  “I cook! I do laundry! I clean bathroom!” began Sun-Hi before Jonah raised his hand to cut her off.

  “We’ve got the doc for cooking,” said Jonah. “And we do our own laundry and cleaning around here.” It was true, mostly. Dalmar didn’t do much of anything domestic besides obsessively maintain the weapons of the forward armory. So far, nobody had been brave enough to bring up Hassan’s shipboard chore wheel assignments with the pirate.

  “But bathroom not so clean?” said Sun-Hi, confused.

  “Never mind that,” said Jonah, abruptly recalling that it was probably his turn to clean the head. “You want a job? Let’s get you a real job. An important job.”

  “Important?” breathed Sun-Hi in hushed anticipation. Jonah paused for a moment before saying anything more. She seemed earnest enough. He didn’t exactly know what a spy or secret agent might act like, but she didn’t seem the type. Besides, there was no good way to get rid of her without locking her in a cabin or throwing her off the side. “Why not? I know you’re good with computers and radios. That’s great—I’m in need of a crewman on the communications and hydrophone console.”

  “I know all about radio!” “That’s a good start, but there’s still a lot to learn. I’ll have Alexis train you on how the communication systems work aboard the Scorpion. You shouldn’t have any problems figuring it out. My guess is that most of the principal concepts are pretty similar to your old job as an announcer. The hydrophones will be more difficult. Takes a skilled ear and a lot of knowledge. I’m going to have Vitaly give you access to our computer’s sound library. You’ll need to play the sounds over and over again, eventually memorize and identify each one. I can’t stress enough how important this is. You’ll need to study very hard.”