Piranha: Firing Point

When Captain Gama had thrown off his harness and dashed out the door, he had shifted control of the ship to Lieutenant Teshio Jintsu.

Jintsu had trembled as he had strapped himself into the command-console seat, the leather of it still warm from Gama’s body. His hands shaking, he had selected the command compartment middle-level video monitor.

He had watched while the commandos had burst out of the aft pantry and gunned down all four senior officers.

He heard the screaming of the first commando, a tall black-faced vision from a nightmare, the coughing sounds of gunfire, the horrifying liquid thumps of the officers hitting the deck, the forward-looking camera showing the skulls of two officers rupture, spilling blood and brains to the deck. The commandos worked their way forward to the ladder, and Jintsu quickly brought up the camera monitoring the upper-level passageway.

The lead commando ran down the corridor toward control — toward him. With only seconds left, seconds before death, a choked whimper escaped from his lips.

Tears of fear and frustration streaked down his cheeks, Jintsu horribly embarrassed that he was disintegrating during the worst crisis of his life. He tried to think, to regain control of himself, but his thoughts spiraled uselessly in panic. Feeling detaching from himself, he watched as he slowly unbuckled the five-point harness and stood from the couch. He hurried around to the far corner of the room, the last seconds of his life counting off.

Teshio Jintsu looked around one last time, then shut his eyes, clamped them shut, and put his hands over his face.

He had a vague impression of a dimly lit space, humming with electronic displays, air blowing coldly into the room, a cocoon-like cockpit in front of him, the tops of the consoles a half-meter higher than his eye level. Two consoles were located farther aft, mostly obscured by the first. There was a console on his immediate left. Far over his right shoulder, two steps led up to the elevated platform to the first console, and behind it in the corner was an odd arrangement that must be the periscope station.

Chu’s war cry died in his throat as he found himself in an empty room. In his all-encompassing first glance, his head swiveling from left to right looking for the Japanese, he could see the console on the left, and its seat was empty. What he could see of the aft consoles was likewise empty. He stepped up to the elevated platform, ensuring the first console was deserted. The periscope station was empty. He looked down on the aft consoles to confirm his initial impression — they were deserted.

His AK-80 still at the ready, he slowly crept back down from the elevated deck to the main level. He was walking around the tall equipment console of the first station when he heard something, a muffled wet sniffle.

He spun to his left. Ahead of him was the starboard bulkhead. As he walked toward it, he saw a cramped, unused space between the outboard console of the single forward-facing cockpit and the curve of the bulkhead’s equipment panels. Stuffed into the space was a man— no, just a kid — in orange coveralls. His knees were crammed up under his chin, his body curled into a ball, tears streaking his cheeks from shut lids, both hands held up, palms outward imploringly, both hands trembling uncontrollably.

Chu’s pistol came down slowly until the barrel was aimed precisely between the youth’s eyes. He tensed his finger on the trigger.

“Mother of God,” Chu said finally, holstering the pistol.

He reached down and pulled the shaking kid to his feet by the front of his coveralls. He towed him out of the control room to the upper-level passageway. He dumped him back on the deck, the young officer still shaking, his eyes still shut, his hands shielding his face.

Chu pulled out the AK-80 and put the silencer to the man’s forehead.

There was no equipment here that could be damaged.

Chu could put an entire clip into the officer and not hurt the ship a bit. The Rising Sun was now his. The men of his platoon had gathered at the forward end of the compartment, and Lo Sun gave him the sign that all was secure. This kid was the last obstacle between Chu and command of this submarine.

There was no way he could let the officer live. The risk was too great. There was simply too much damage to the mission he could do. And there was no time to deal with a hostage. Chu’s op order briefing manual had specifically prohibited any commander from sparing a single Japanese officer.

Chu knew it was time to kill the officer. He squeezed his finger on the trigger, but stopped when the boy started to whimper.

The more Chu looked at him, the more he reminded him of Lo Yun, brother of his first officer, the way Lo Yun had looked ten years ago when he had been Chu’s Yak-36A backseat weapons officer. Lo Yun had been twenty-three years old when he died, about the same age as this youth.

The whimpering continued. Chu’s barrel remained on his forehead. His men looked at him wide-eyed.