RED SUN ROGUE

by Taylor Zajonc

  Alexis recoiled in horror when the smell hit her. “Oh god . . . you stink, Captain. Like, bad.”

  “The smell is the least of my problems,” grunted Jonah. “I’ve been stuck inside that goddamn lockout chamber sleeping upright and crapping in a goddamn bucket for four goddamn days. Everything hurts, and I ran out of reading material two days ago.”

  “Dalmar has a few magazines stashed away,” grinned Alexis. “But rumor has it they cater to somewhat specific tastes.”

  “He will not lend,” said Vitaly. “I have asked many time.”

  “I thought everything on ship is for everybody?” said Sun-Hi, confused. “But magazine only for Dalmar?”

  “These magazines are,” added Alexis quickly. Sun-Hi started to ask another question, but Alexis quickly headed off any further awkward conversation. “How did decompression go?”

  “We pushed the safety margins a bit,” said Marissa. “It was a rough ride up there. I need everybody to keep an eye on Jonah—symptoms like joint pain, rashes, anything that could indicate the bends. We can always put him back in the chamber for another round or two if necessary.”

  “I’m never going back in that chamber.” Jonah leaned over Sun-Hi’s console. “I’d rather get buried in concrete under Giants Stadium.”

  Sun-Hi cocked her head, amazed. “There is stadium for giants?”

  “Uhhh . . . ” Jonah didn’t know how to respond. “Can you order the crew to the command compartment for me? We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

  Sun-Hi nodded curtly, as though imitating a movie portrayal of a particularly diligent officer. She put the order through the intercom system, and it wasn’t long before Hassan and Dalmar made their way up the corridor to join the rest.

  “What’s the latest?” Jonah playfully smacked the doctor on the shoulder as he passed. Alexis could tell Hassan found the gesture deeply uncomfortable, a fact that Jonah probably knew as well.

  “We took a few pictures before sunset,” said Hassan. He pointed to Vitaly, who began to pull open the saved image files. “We tried again after dark, but night vision was all but useless. The island is too overgrown with jungle to make anything out.”

  Vitaly slowly scrolled through the photos from when the Scorpion had circled the perimeter of the island at periscope depth. Few revealed anything more than crashing breakers, black sand beaches, and sea cliffs. The only evidence of human habitation was in the final photo—a dim image of a hundred-year-old lava flow emerging from a cauldron-topped volcanic peak through a scattershot of crumbling buildings before disappearing into the sea.

  “Any landing sites for an armed scouting party?” asked Jonah.

  “Is not good situation.” Vitaly flipped open a digital nautical chart. “Entire island is ringed by shoal and reef. There is only way in. Eastern approach to shallow harbor.”

  “There used to be a colonial plantation and township here,” said Hassan. “It was apparently abandoned in the late 1800s after the most recent major eruption. The volcano remains active to this day.”

  “That’s not ominous or anything,” said Marissa. “Secret underground volcano base maybe?”

  “Wholly impractical,” sniffed Hassan.

  “We can’t even consider running the breakers at any other compass point,” said Alexis. “We’d just run aground and get beat to pieces by the waves, even at high tide.”

  “And if we try to swim in or take a raft, it’ll be like going through a washing machine.” Jonah scratched his chin. “Only with more razor-sharp coral. The Japanese used to love these islands back in World War II. They’d sit back in gun bunkers and cut Marines to ribbons by the hundreds as they tried to land.”

  “There are also many shark,” deadpanned Vitaly.

  “Our enemy picked this location well,” said Dalmar. “Any ideas?” said Jonah. “There’s got to be an answer other than turning around and giving up.”

  “We make our enemy come to us,” said Dalmar. “We burn the jungle to the ground, drive them to the sea.”

  Alexis thought about the idea for a second. “If an entire volcano couldn’t burn the island down, I doubt we could do it. Besides . . . what about all the jungle animals? It would be super sad if they all lost their homes, right?”

  “One way in, one way out,” said Jonah. “So, unless anybody brought a jetpack, we’re stuck going through the front door.”

  Dalmar crossed his thick arms, a frown on his face. He was clearly disappointed in Alexis’ criticism of his idea. “A flamethrower is more practical than a jetpack.”

  “We can’t even approach the harbor submerged,” said Alexis. “All the nautical charts show it’s too shallow. They’re going to see us coming from a mile away.”

  “So it’s settled—we’re going right in through the front door,” said Jonah.

  “Because the last thing they’ll expect is a full frontal assault at high noon?” protested Hassan angrily. “I say nothing is settled—certainly not this front door business.”

  “Let’s go through this all again,” said Marissa, flipping back through the charts and photos. “There has to be something we missed—another way past the breakers. We’ll check everything if we have to: nautical maps, surveillance photos, satellite imagery, tidal data—”

  “Give me some credit, Doc,” said Jonah as he scrutinized the data on another screen. “The harbor is deep enough for a low-tide approach, barely. And the timing is good; it will start coming back in just fifteen minutes before dawn. We’ll go old school—run the submarine awash, put the armed team on the deck and slide the bow of the Scorpion right up onto the sand. I don’t trust the dock; we’d probably knock the whole thing down if we approached at speed. Dalmar, Hassan, Alexis, and myself will hit the beach.”

  Alexis gulped as she heard her name mentioned. “And if we get in over our heads?” she said. “You know, with bullets and stuff?”

  Jonah sighed, pausing before he spoke, staring at every member of the crew in the eyes, lingering on each one. “Retreat,” he finally said. “Vitaly will pilot the Scorpion back out to sea, run submerged towards Indonesia, and find a quiet place to scuttle her. We’ll split up and scatter. Each of us will have to find our own way from there. But know this—if we run, we’ll have to continue running . . . forever. They’ll never stop hunting us.”

  “What if we can’t make it back to the submarine in time?”

  “Then you’re out of luck,” said Jonah. “If this goes to hell, anyone who can’t get back before the Scorpion makes it off the beach is on their own.”

  “But things always go wrong,” mumbled Vitaly.

  “I know it’s not much of a backup plan,” said Jonah. “But it’s the only one I got.”

  “I’m coming,” said Marissa, her voice firm. “I’m joining your landing party.”

  “Not this time,” said Jonah. “I’ve seen you with a rifle and you’re goddamn useless.” Marissa started to protest, but he stopped her with a single look—Jonah wasn’t angry, wasn’t teasing, wasn’t punishing her. There was something sad in his eyes, like they might not see each other ever again. Alexis figured both knew better than most what that felt like.

  “I have compulsory military training,” said Sun-Hi. “I will storm beach with you.”

  Jonah just shook his head. Alexis didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know exactly what he was thinking. One of the refugees has to survive, or everything—all of this—we’ve done is for nothing. She felt a sick feeling deep in her stomach, realizing Jonah still hadn’t had a chance to tell Sun-Hi the terrible fate of her friends and fellow refugees. It would have to wait, at least for now.

  “You really think we’ll catch them by surprise?” asked Hassan.

  “Yes,” said Jonah. “Vitaly found this site by data-mining North Korean and Japanese radar telemetry. Nobody else had access to both datasets, and, whoever deployed those weapons, designed them as all but invisible. They have no reason to think anybody would find them.”

  “I only have
one question,” said Dalmar, glaring at Jonah. “Do you have time for a shower? I find your odor most disagreeable.”

  “We’ll make time,” said Marissa, pointing down the access corridor before Jonah could respond on his own behalf.

  “I will gather arms for the landing party,” announced Dalmar. “They will be my least polite weapons.”

  “Should we grab body armor, too?” asked Alexis.

  “Not unless you want to sink like a goddamn rock,” said Jonah as Marissa shuffled him away. “No armor.”

  “I put Scorpion in position for suicide run . . . again,” grumbled Vitaly.

  “Come,” said Hassan to Alexis. “We must prepare.”

  Jonah just grinned and squirmed as Marissa shoved him out of command compartment, herding him towards the stern of the submarine. Alexis could only stare ahead into space, a thousand terrible visions of what might await them on the island racing through her mind.

  The conning tower of the Scorpion rose through foamy waters and into the predawn light. Vitaly steered for the mile-distant shoreline, the open harbor flanked by white-topped breakers and coral shoals. Jonah emerged from the deck hatch first. He pulled himself over the lip and onto the deck, rifle slung around his back as he walked towards the bow.

  Hassan went up the ladder next, pausing to reach down and help Alexis up and out of the submarine. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the rush of wind, her skin and clothes already wet from the leaping ocean spray on either side.

  Jonah stood alone at the bow, completely exposed, binoculars in hand as he surveyed the looming black shoreline. Above them, Dalmar rose from conning tower hatch, briefly reaching into the tower to retrieve a massive sniper rifle measuring nearly as long as he was tall. He flipped open the bipod stabilizing legs and rested it at the edge of the tower, covering the party from his nest above. Hassan and Alexis retreated towards the stern, taking up positions behind the thick metal hull of the conning tower. She flopped down to her belly on the soaking deck, warm tropical waters wicking into the heavy fabrics of her dark blue coveralls.

  The doctor shot her a tight-lipped glance, thick with concern. He held his black assault rifle reluctantly, nothing like the ease with which he carried a medical kit.

  Alexis was equally uncomfortable. The short-barreled M-4 variant in her hands was no 10-22 pinker or pump-action skeet shooter, and outside of some target shooting from the back deck of the Scorpion, she’d barely trained with the assault rifle.

  She tried to remind herself that she was already a killer, albeit a reluctant one. She shuddered. She’d never forget the Scorpion’s previous engineer, the man with the gaunt face and glinting knife, the look of hatred on his face when he lunged at her. But even worse was his wide-eyed surprise when she stitched five shots across his chest with Hassan’s 9mm.

  On her worst moments, she hated Hassan for letting her take his pistol and walk into the engine room alone. Selfish—by saving a life, he’d forced her to take one.

  Not a day went by when she didn’t remind herself that she wore a dead man’s boots. Sometimes she’d suddenly realize she was kneeling over the same spot of grimy deck where her attacker coughed out his bloody last breath. She would always force herself to stop what she was doing, repeat a mantra—It’s just a room, a room like any other— before she could continue working. Alexis didn’t know how killers were supposed to feel, but couldn’t imagine they were ever as scared as she was in that moment.

  Hassan adjusted his grip on the rifle, awkwardly aiming the barrel towards the beach. Drawing himself up on his elbows, he tried to position himself in front of her, instinctively blocking as much of her body as possible without interfering with her line of fire. She supposed she appreciated the gesture. Not, however, that it would mean a goddamn thing if it came down to a fight. Their unknown adversary had taken out an entire Japanese naval fleet. What chance could four amateurs with stolen rifles possibly have? Maybe their only saving grace would come from how utterly insignificant they were—a mosquito too small to swat.

  “Promise me you’ll retreat below deck if we receive fire—no matter what happens to me,” said the doctor, looking to her with imploring eyes. The Scorpion sliced through rolling waves, sending a fresh spray of warm tropical water across the already slick deck.

  “Texans don’t get shot in the back,” she snapped. She slicked back her wet hair and yanked the rifle’s charging handle, pulling a round into the receiver. She tapped the forward assist for good measure, snapping the bolt closed. Dalmar kept excellent care of the armory. The weapon slid and clicked with military precision. Her thumb hovered over the safety, ready to flick it into firing position. She stared down the red reticle of her low-magnification sight, searching for a target along the distant jungle tree line, ignoring Hassan’s concerned missives.

  I’m already a killer, she reminded herself again. But it still didn’t make her feel brave—only sad and scared.

  “I think I should like to visit Texas someday,” said Hassan. “I hear the Alamo is quite striking.” The doctor mimicked her actions, charging a round into the receiver and flipping down the bulky safety lever of his modernized AK-47.

  “You’d like it,” she whispered. “We’ll go camping with my dad. It’ll be fun.”

  The beach approached at incredible speed, Vitaly pushing the Scorpion to maximum power until the last possible moment. Thick, black diesel smoke belched out of the stack. She tried not to think about the strain on her engines—not now, goddamn it—as she scanned the black beach. Massive breakers crashed against the shoals at either side of the open harbor, the dark sand now lit golden by a rising sun.

  “We must sing ‘Ride of the Valkyries’!” shouted Dalmar from the conning tower. He started to belt out a rising baritone duh-duh duh-DUH-duh, duh-duh duh-DUH-duh over the sound of churning engines and roaring waves. Vitaly blew the ballast, raising the Scorpion’s bow as she began to skim over the last of the waters.

  Alexis glanced up at Dalmar. He’d braced himself against the conning tower, massive sniper rifle swaying against the tilting yaw of the charging sub. It felt comforting somehow, as though she were under the wings of some great and deadly bird.

  Jonah stood on the bow, his unslung assault rifle cradled in his arms, eyes to the beach. “What is he doing?” hissed Hassan.

  Alexis swallowed hard. Jonah was presenting himself as an obvious target. Too obvious. He was trying to lure any hidden gunmen into taking an early potshot, one that would give the rest of the crew time to retreat before it was too late. Goddamn you, Jonah. She was just over his swaggering, shoot-from-the-hip bullshit and disinterested shrugging when he had to go and once more reveal his true self. Sometimes she felt as though she was Jonah’s personal archaeologist, digging away at his endless layers of alpha-male bluster and half-assed approach to leadership. She always expected to find nothing beneath it, but kept hitting the same noble bedrock every time, and it totally pissed her off. It was almost as if he wanted his crew to think little of him, insisting his every sacrifice be made in silence, unrecognized.

  But she saw right through him. Goddamn you, Jonah. Why did he always have to become a decent man at the worst possible time?

  The Scorpion began to shudder like the propellers had just thrown half their blades—Vitaly had reversed the engines. They were too close to stop now, just meters from the beach. To her right was a mammoth concrete dock, eroded and collapsing. A long set of railroad tracks paralleled the dock, dipping beneath the waves. Black sand drifted over the tracks, their steel all but lost to rust.

  Jonah knelt, bracing himself. Alexis heard a soft, rushing crunch of metal against sand as the Scorpion’s armored bow slid up through the surf and onto the beach. She pressed her shoulder against the base of the conning tower to steady herself against the protracted, grinding impact. Jonah was over the side before she could even stand, throwing himself into the crashing surf with a splash, both hands clutching his rifle above his head. Hassan went over next, landing in w
aist-deep waters.

  It was a longer drop than she expected, just long enough to lose her balance mid-air and hit the water butt-first, the shallow surf washing over the top of her head as she struggled to keep the rifle dry. And then she was up again, dripping wet, rifle in hand, Hassan dragging her up and out of the surf as they ran along the length of the Scorpion’s hull towards the beach.

  The submarine’s engines throbbed behind her, its propellers whipping a white froth as the bow slowly withdrew, leaving behind a deep, flooded gouge in the black sand.

  Alexis and Hassan flopped down beside Jonah, joining him behind the cover of a thick driftwood trunk at the top of the debris-ridden, high-tide mark. The sand beneath them was still cold from the long tropical night. She peeked over the top of the felled tree, seeing clearly for the first time the imposing volcano at the center of the island. It had once loosed a thick basaltic flow from the caldron above, following the valley through the abandoned colonial town, burying the long line of crumbling buildings to their roofs. Only a single, lonely bell tower and steeple poked out from the buried township, the bells within, long since rusted to nothing, and the cross atop the church tilted and broken. A single trickling stream ran down the center of the buried street, while the remaining city slowly lost a long war of attrition with the encroaching jungle.

  Dalmar descended the exterior conning tower ladder, running the length of the Scorpion’s bow before sliding off the deck and dropping into the shallows, the submarine now released from the grip of the sandy shore. Jonah stood up and swung a leg over the driftwood trunk, followed by Alexis and Hassan. Dalmar strode behind them, his massive rifle carried almost casually over one shoulder. The foursome slowly walked toward the abandoned township.