Piranha: Firing Point

“It would have been just like the Annapolis sinking— the smoke — it smelled the same. It was a torpedo-fuel fire. That’s what happened to us!”

“Two torpedo-room fires in one operation,” Pacino said, struggling to sit up. “No one should have to go through that.”

“I can’t believe you went in there, sir. It was… amazing.”

“Didn’t have a lot of choice, John. It was go into the torpedo room or go down with the ship.”

“How do you feel?”

“Terrible. Am I burned?” He looked down at his skin — most of his legs was red or blistering. His hands were blistered, his face feeling sunburned.

“Minor, Admiral. You look like you’ve been to Club Med.”

“John, I need to talk to Colleen. Could I have a minute?”

After Patton excused himself, Pacino leaned against the equipment cabinet, his eyes half shut, feeling more exhausted than at any time in his life.

“Don’t try to talk, honey,” Colleen said.

“I have to,” he said. “I need to tell you. I—” “I know,” she said, one finger over her mouth. “Hush, we’ll do that later. It’s not right here, not inside a sub with all these Navy guys and all this equipment. Give a woman some romance.”

“I’d be happy to,” he said. He felt her arms go around him, supporting him. The feel of her, the smell of her skin, was deeply relaxing. He fell asleep instantly, without realizing he was utterly spent.

The seaplane had struggled to get airborne, one of the turbines damaged from the fired bullets. The American fighters had flown high overhead, searching for them while the seaplane hugged the coastline, almost on the water. Eventually, the fighters had given up and flown back to wherever they came from.

Admiral Chu Hua-Feng sat in the canvas seat, holding the bleeding and dying form of his second in command, Lieutenant Commander Lo Sun, in his arms. Lo was bleeding from his chest, and Chu was covered with his blood.

“I’m so sorry, Lo,” Chu said, low enough that no one else could hear him. “I lost your brother, I lost him. He was my best friend, the best weapons officer a pilot could have. He was my friend when no one else would be because I was the admiral’s son. And he’s gone. Now, Lo, you are my friend, the best friend in the world.

You’ve gone into two hot submarine hijackings with me.

You’ve been my first officer. You’ve taken down a whole convoy with me. We fought for the ship together, and we escaped when it was lost. Lo, please don’t leave, don’t go, don’t die. You are my friend. Please, Lo, I’m so sorry.”

Why did it have to be Lo? He prayed. Why couldn’t he have taken the bullet?

“Chu,” Lo Sun said, his eyes half open. “I’m dying. I can feel it. I’m cold. But there is a light. You must talk to… my mother. Tell her—”

“What?”

Lo’s eyes shut. His lungs hissed, a rasping rattle, and his body was still. And Admiral Chu Hua-Peng, Red Dagger mission commander, wept, his tears washing over the younger man’s face.

Hours later, when they landed in Tianjin, he stepped out of the hatch, carrying Lo’s body like that of a child’s.

A crew of paramedics took Lo Sun from him. Gently laying his corpse on a white-sheeted gurney, they loaded it into a van and drove off. Chen Zhu and Xhiu Liu came by, putting their hands on his shoulders, then walking off down the pier. The rest of the crew followed them, all the others of his unit surviving except Lo.

For what seemed an hour Chu stood on the pier after the van with Lo’s body drove off. The cold eased as the sun rose in the east, shining out over Go Hai Bay, and he realized he wasn’t alone.

“I waited for you,” she said, the voice music. “I heard that one crew survived, and I was hoping it was you.

But no one knew. You’re alive.” “Mai,” he said, his tone saying everything he wanted to say to her. He stood, looking at her, the weight of the world on his shoulders, the mission behind him, but still vivid in his memory. Impulsively he walked to her and hugged her hard, her arms wrapping around him.

He could feel her heart beating through her tunic, her slim body small in his arms.

“What happened?” he asked. “What is the news? Did we succeed?”

The sadness in her eyes told him all, all of it. “All of the Rising Suns were sunk. The American backup force headed into the East China Sea. Chairman Yang watched them on the news. I was with him when he saw.”

“What did he do?” “I’m sorry, Chu. He said, ‘Sue for peace. Give the Whites whatever they want. Just don’t let the Americans on Chinese soil, whether Red or White.”

“Then what?”

“Phone calls were made. Our PLA is withdrawing from all fronts. The Whites have taken more territory to the west. We still have Beijing. Peace talks start tomorrow, but the American fleet is ten kilometers off Shanghai, their guns and missiles pointed across White China at us. It’s over. It almost worked, Chu. Almost.” “Almost is never good enough,” he said.

“Who cares?” She said, burying her head in his shoulder.

“At least you’re safe.”