Terminator Salvation: Cold War (11 page)

Where did his duty lie if there was no nation left to defend?

He surveyed the devastation, unable to escape it.
Was this what Alaska looked like now?
His own role in the holocaust still haunted him.
Should I have launched those missiles? Did I retaliate against a computer glitch?

What if the American general, Ashdown, was telling the truth?

“Captain! Captain!”

A young ensign came running down the gangplank from the sub. Losenko recognized him as Alyosha Mazin, a trainee currently assigned to Operations. He sprinted toward Losenko with more energy than the captain had seen in any of the crew for weeks. His eyes were wide with alarm. He shoved his fellow sailors aside.

“Out of my way! Coming through!”

What the devil?
Losenko instantly went on the alert.

“Something’s coming, sir!” The breathless ensign skidded to a halt in front of him. “Radar’s detected an incoming aircraft, heading this way fast!”

Adrenalin shot through Losenko’s veins.

“What kind of aircraft?”

“Undetermined, sir!” The messenger labored to catch his breath; weeks of sedentary life aboard the sub had left him out of shape. His pale face was flushed. “Bearing northwest, sir. From the sea.”

The Americans?
Losenko bit back a profanity. Docked at the pier, the
Gorshkov
was a sitting duck. Even if he could get everyone back aboard K-115 in time, and rig the sub for immediate departure, the narrow inlet was too shallow to allow them to submerge entirely. And unlike the old days at Murmansk, there were no anti-aircraft emplacements to defend the vulnerable submarine. If this was indeed an American bomber approaching, the
Gorshkov
presented a tempting target.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

“Take cover!” he bellowed into the bullhorn. Even if his ship was defenseless, he could still try to save his crew. “Out of sight—now!”

The men scrambled to obey, ducking beneath the rebuilt dock or darting into gutted buildings. The security team crouched within the rubble, aiming their guns and rifles at the sky. Several more men started up the gangplank toward the sub, but Losenko called them back.

“Belay that! Stay clear of the boat!” If the
Gorshkov
came under fire, the massive vessel would rapidly become a watery tomb.

Losenko considered evacuating the sub, leaving only a skeleton crew aboard, but time deprived him of that option. He and Mazin took cover behind an overturned garbage truck. His eyes turned upward, searching the sky, but he heard the aircraft coming before he saw it, flying at a high altitude several kilometers to the north. It was hard to make out at this distance, but it appeared to be some sort of wide-bodied cargo plane, possibly a military transport—perhaps bearing enemy troops and equipment, or simply emergency relief supplies.

It was too far away, and moving too fast, to discern its insignia. Losenko could catch only a glimpse of it.

So he waited for the large, fixed-wing aircraft to veer toward them. And waited, and waited....

To his surprise, the plane did not alter its flight path. Seemingly oblivious to the exposed sub, it passed by in a matter of minutes. Losenko watched intently as it left the coast behind, heading further west.

In roughly the same direction as the scouting party.

Mazin laughed out loud, unable to contain his euphoria. Death had passed them by. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. He looked at the captain. Relief gradually gave way to confusion on his youthful face.

“Whose plane was that, sir? One of ours? Or the enemy’s? Where is it heading?”

Losenko wished he knew.

***

“K-115 to search party. Can you read me?”

Losenko hovered in the radio shack behind the seated operators. More than two hours had passed since the reconnaissance team had headed inland. They were overdue to check in.

“K-115 to search party, please come in.”

Transmitting from the sub was a calculated risk, especially after sighting that unidentified aircraft, but the captain was anxious to know the status of his scouts. To his dismay, at least a half dozen men had taken advantage of the crisis to desert; after scrambling for cover, they were nowhere to be found. No doubt they had chosen to take their chances on their own, rather than spend another moment in the service of an extinct navy.

I should be furious with them,
Losenko thought. But instead all he felt was fatigue and disappointment. He, too, was sick to death of this endless voyage. Who could blame the runaways for wanting to escape?
Why spend your last days trapped inside a metal tube?
He shook his head ruefully.
At this rate, I will soon be the commander of a ghost ship.

Was that what had become of Zamyatin and his scouting party? Had they also struck out for parts unknown, leaving their duties and responsibilities behind?

A signal light flashed. A burst of static broke into his bitter ruminations. Pushkin fiddled with the controls on his receiver. He tapped his headphones.

“I think I have something, sir!”

“Put it over the speaker,” Losenko instructed. He wanted to hear for himself.

“Right on it, sir!”

Pushkin pressed a button. Zamyatin’s voice entered the cramped compartment.

“Search party to K-115.” The transmission was scratchy and faint, but audible. Pushkin did something to increase the volume. “Lieutenant Zamyatin reporting.”

Good man,
Losenko thought. His heart swelled with pride. It was good to know that there were still dedicated officers within his crew. He took the mike from Pushkin and pressed down on the speaker button.

“Losenko here. What is your position and status, Mr. Zamyatin?”

Static punctuated the officer’s reply.

“According to GPS, we’re about seventy-five kilometers northeast of the port, on the outskirts of some sort of industrial area. The terrain here shows only moderate damage. And, Captain, there appears to be a factory running!”

Losenko couldn’t believe his ears.

“A factory?”

“A manufacturing plant, I think.” The excitement in Zamyatin’s voice was contagious. “We’re still several meters away, but there’s white smoke and puffs of flame billowing from the stacks. We can hear heavy machinery, and there look to be lights and activity inside.”

The captain and radio operators exchanged startled looks. Losenko had hoped that maybe the scouts might have stumbled onto a refugee camp or scattered homeless survivors, but a working factory, still going strong when everything else was dead or dying? Losenko briefly wondered if Zamyatin was hallucinating.
Too much radiation maybe?

“Can you see any survivors?”

“Negative,” Zamyatin answered. The captain visualized him peering through a pair of high-powered binoculars. “We’re too far away, and there doesn’t appear to be anyone on the grounds surrounding the plant. They must all be inside.”

Pushkin shook his head.

“Who the hell still goes to work at a time like this?” A sheepish look came over his scrawny face, as though he feared his careless remark might be taken the wrong way. “Outside of the armed forces, I mean.”

“At ease, Gennady,” Losenko assured him. The radio operator had a point; it did strike him as strange that the factory would still be in operation—unless perhaps a civilian plant had been converted to serve the war effort, in which case the government or the military might be in charge. Losenko leaned forward again, tightly gripping the mike.

“Mr. Zamyatin. Can you tell what is being manufactured at the facility?”

“No, sir,” the tactical officer admitted. “Sorry, sir.” He clearly regretted disappointing his captain. “There appear to be metal shutters over the windows and skylights. Plenty of automated security measures, too. Mounted cameras, searchlights, barricades.” The truck’s engine rumbled in the background, combining with the excited voices of the other men. “We’re moving in for a closer look.”

“Exercise caution, Mr. Zamyatin,” the captain advised. There was no guarantee that the facility remained in the hands of the lawful authorities, nor that its inhabitants would necessarily welcome visitors. It was even possible that the plant had been commandeered by the enemy. “Do not assume that Mother Russia is still friendly territory.”

“Understood, Captain—” The transmission broke up, but Pushkin managed to regain the signal. “—when I know more.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Zamyatin raised his voice to be heard over the rattle of the truck, which seemed to be on the move again. “Search party out.”

The speaker fell silent.

The captain handed the mike back to Pushkin, then retreated to the rear of the radio shack. He paced back and forth despite the tight space, his hands clasped behind his back. Reluctant to return to the conn until he knew more, he tapped his foot impatiently against the deck. He felt like Noah waiting for the dove to return.

Zamyatin’s discovery sounded encouraging, so why were his nerves on edge? The unidentified aircraft flew across his memory, adding to his unease. The
Gorshkov
had been out of touch with the mainland for weeks. Could American troops have already established a foothold in that time? What if that aircraft had been delivering supplies or manpower to an enemy outpost operating within Russia’s borders?

We have no idea who we’re dealing with,
he realized.
Nor what purpose that factory is now being put to.

“Hey, Gennady.” The assistant radio operator whispered to Pushkin. Seaman Ostrovosky was single, with a reputation for carousing while on leave. “You think there are women working at that factory?” His eager tone testified to weeks of enforced celibacy aboard K-115.

Even before the missiles flew, none of them had set eyes on a woman since leaving port.
Is that what the deserters are going in search of?
Losenko wondered.
An Eve to their Adam?

Pushkin’s mind seemed to be heading in the same direction.

“Russia must be repopulated after all.” He grinned at his comrade. “I, for one, am prepared to do my patriotic duty.”

“Enough of that,” Losenko said sternly. He didn’t want any overactive libidos leading his crew to inefficiency or, worse, recklessness. He prayed that Zamyatin and the rest of the scouting party weren’t entertaining similar fantasies, at the expense of caution. “Keep your minds on your work.”

Pushkin blushed in embarrassment. Ostrovosky gulped. Both men busily occupied themselves with their apparatus.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Ostrovosky said.

The tense silence was suddenly broken by a flashing signal light. Making up for his earlier frivolity, Pushkin quickly responded.

“K-115 to search party....”

His salutation was cut short by the unmistakable din of all-out battle. Frantic shouting and the strident blare of gunfire invaded the radio shack. Men screamed in agony. A deafening explosion momentarily overpowered the speaker system.

“Oh my God!” an agitated voice cried out. “They’ve got us pinned down!”

Losenko rushed forward. He yanked the mike from Pushkin’s shaking fingers.

“Search party, this is the captain! What’s happening?”

“We’re under attack!” the voice reported. “They came out of nowhere. They caught us by surprise!” A burst of automatic weapons fire interrupted the panicky report. Pounding footsteps sounded in the background. A heavy body slammed into the earth, and it sounded as if the speaker was rolling across the ground in a desperate attempt to avoid being shot. “There’s no place to run. God help us, we’re all going to die!”

The incoherent monologue tormented Losenko.

“Get hold of yourself!” he barked into the mike. “Where is Deputy Commander Zamyatin?”

“Zamyatin is dead! They blew his head right off.” The embattled sailor struggled to compose himself. “The truck is in flames. There’s nowhere to go!”

The shocking news hit Losenko like a torpedo, but he couldn’t let it rattle him.

“Who is this?” he demanded. “Identify yourself!”

“Yevgeny Pagodin, seaman second-class,” a shaky voice whimpered. “
Arkady, watch out!”
he hollered at an unseen comrade. A volley of shots rang out, too close for comfort. A wet sound splattered the walkie-talkie at the other end of the transmission. “No!” Pagodin sobbed. “Arkady!” His voice wavered. “This can’t be happening. Not Arkady too!”

Losenko was in hell. He wanted to hurl himself over the airwaves just to see what the devil was happening.

“Report, sailor! Who is attacking you?”

Looters? Enemy soldiers? Friendly fire?

“Machines!” Pagodin blurted. “A squad of machines!”

Losenko didn’t understand.

“What do you mean? Explain!”

An automatic pistol sounded in the captain’s ears. He guessed that Pagodin was firing back at his assailants. The besieged seaman fired off round after round, apparently to no avail. Bullets ricocheted loudly off metal.

“Nothing’s stopping them!” Pagodin babbled between rounds. “They just keep coming—like death in steel!”

Losenko heard a low rumble in the background, like the whirring of a machine. Gravel crunched beneath heavy wheels.

“Save yourself, Captain!” Pagodin shouted from 200 kilometers away. Something crunched noisily beneath a motorized tread, which seemed to be getting louder by the moment. “Don’t let them get you! Don’t let them—”

A hail of gunfire cut off his words. Instantly a burst of static assaulted Losenko’s eardrums.

Then nothing.

Pushkin worked like mad to reestablish contact.

“K-115 to search party, please come in! Can you read me?” His assistant sagged against his seat, staring aghast at the silent speaker. He buried his face in his hands, all thoughts of women driven violently from his mind.

Pushkin stabbed relentlessly at his control panel, like a doctor refusing to give up on a patient.

“K-115 to search party! Is anybody there?”

“That’s enough, Gennady.” Losenko placed his hand on the radio operator’s shoulder. He knew a massacre when he heard one. “They’re gone.”