Terminator Salvation: Cold War

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

2003

“Still no word from Moscow, sir?”

Losenko met with his senior officers in the wardroom. Weeks had passed since the massacre on the mainland and the Gorshkov was safely back beneath the sea. The sub had surfaced long enough to scan the airwaves on all frequencies, and Losenko had summoned Ivanov and the others to brief them on the results.

The captain shook his head at Trotsky. A bottle of red wine rested in the middle of the conference table; the ship’s doctor had prescribed a daily glass for all personnel. The strontium in the wine was supposed to provide some degree of protection against radiation poisoning. The wine had been found in an underground cellar back on the mainland. The doctor had judged it safe to consume.

“Moscow is gone. We need to accept that. Only static greets our requests for further instructions.” Losenko was starting to get used to being autonomous. He had been sorely tempted to lob one of their remaining ballistic missiles at that cursed factory south of Murmansk. Only the memory of the heroic civilians in the vicinity had deterred him. “But Pushkin intercepted something I want you all to hear,” he continued.

“What is it, Captain?” Ivanov asked.

“A pirate transmission,” Losenko explained. “From the Americas. It’s on a repeating loop, airing twenty-four hours a day from shifting locations. Its range and frequency are constantly shifting as well; Pushkin stumbled onto it by accident while searching for communications from the rest of the fleet. He was unable to get a lock on its exact point of origin, so he suspects that it’s being routed through various mobile transmitters to mask the location of the sender.”

“America?” Predictably, Ivanov reacted with suspicion and simmering hostility. His face flushed darkly. “More lies from that general, Ashdown?”

“No,” Losenko said brusquely. The XO’s vengeful attitude, however understandable, was becoming tiresome. “This is something different.” He rose from his seat at the head of the table and lifted a sound-powered phone from its cradle on the wall, then spoke into it. “Mr. Pushkin, you may commence the playback.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The senior radio operator channeled the recording to the wardroom’s overhead speaker system. Static crackled in the background, but he had applied his expertise to cleaning up the audio as much as possible.

A gruff, male voice, speaking English with an American accent, spoke from the loudspeakers.

“This is John Connor. Some of you may know me. Most of you don’t. But that’s not important. What matters is that you understand what’s happened to our world. And what happens next.”

“Connor?” Ivanov interrupted. “Do we know this Connor?”

The name meant nothing to Losenko. He raised a finger to his lips.

“Just listen, Alexei.”

“Earlier this year,” the voice continued, “an artificial intelligence system known as Skynet, designed by the Pentagon to oversee United States defense operations, became self-aware. It developed a mind of its own. And Skynet decided to eliminate the only major threat to its existence: the human race.

“Skynet launched the missiles on Judgment Day. Skynet started the war. Not the United States. Not humanity. Skynet.”

Ivanov bristled.

“More disinformation! The Americans refuse to take responsibility for their crimes!”

“Quiet!” Losenko shot the intemperate XO a warning look.

“But Judgment Day was just the beginning. Skynet will not stop until it has fulfilled its primary objective: the complete elimination of every man, woman, and child on the face of the Earth. To that end it has already begun creating an army of machines to carry out its campaign of eradication. Robot soldiers called Terminators. Unmanned Hunter-Killer aircraft. The designs for these devices are based on top-secret military prototypes. Early models are already out there. And they will be coming for you. It might not be today, it might not be tomorrow, but it will be soon.”

Losenko recalled the unstoppable robots he had encountered in Russia. The ones that had killed nearly forty of his men.

Terminators, he mused. A fitting name for such abominations.

“I won’t lie to you,” the voice continued. “We face a long and difficult war against Skynet and its killing machines. But the Terminators can be fought—and they can be destroyed.” Losenko was impressed by the utter conviction he heard in Connor’s voice. “We can win this war, but only if we come together now as a united species, committed to unwavering resistance against our common enemy. Whatever issues divided us in the past don’t matter anymore. Race, religion, nationality, gender... forget about all that. It’s us against the machines now, and our future depends on us realizing that in time.”

Connor’s voice grew more pensive.

“My mother always taught me that there is no fate but what we make. I truly believe that. Despite everything, our destiny is still in our hands. We just have to fight for it... together.

“This is John Connor. If you can hear this, you are the Resistance.”

The recording ended.

Losenko let Connor’s ominous words sink in. He hoped each officer’s English was up to the task of appreciating what they had just heard. Then he slid a stack of folders, labeled “classified,” across the top of the table.

“Enclosed are translations of the text of the broadcast. Please consult them for any nuances you might have missed.”

The officers passed the folders along. They began perusing the transcripts. Except for Ivanov, who disdained to even open his. He shoved the folder away from him.

“With respect, Captain, why are we wasting time with such nonsense?” He snorted derisively. “Skynet? Terminators? This isn’t even good propaganda. It’s science fiction.” He shook his head. “Do they take us for fools?”

“You forget, Alexei,” Losenko reminded him, “I have seen these Terminators with my own eyes. They killed nearly forty of our men. I observed the factory that birthed them, built right on Russian soil.” Painful memories added an edge to his tone. “I believe this John Connor knows what he is talking about.”

“But how, Captain?” Lieutenant Pavlinko asked. “Who is he? From where did he get his information?”

“I don’t know,” Losenko confessed. “Perhaps he helped program Skynet. Perhaps he was an investigative journalist. All I know is that I have not heard a better explanation for everything that has befallen us since—” What did the American call it again? “Since Judgment Day.”

Ivanov stubbornly clung to his own vendetta.

“I have another explanation: psychological warfare. The Americans are trying to sow fear and confusion, using this ridiculous comic-book fantasy.” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “I know what you saw, Captain. I don’t doubt your word—or the evidence of your senses. But surely there were men operating those machines. Enemy forces perpetuating a shameless hoax by remote-control.”

“The XO has a point,” Chief Navigator Igor Trotsky conceded. “It could all be a trick. First there was that initial report about the ‘computer malfunction,’ now this business about a rogue A.I. If I may speak frankly, sir, it sounds a bit dubious to me.”

Losenko understood the men’s skepticism. They had not looked into the unblinking red eyes of the enemy as he had.

“But why would any rational person launch a first strike on the world, for no discernable reason?” As far as he was concerned, that was the most compelling argument in favor of the Skynet scenario. “It sounds fantastic, I know, but I can more readily accept that an insane computer would set the world on fire, than the idea any human general or president would do so.”

“The Americans have resorted to nuclear weapons before,” Ivanov reminded him. “Hiroshima... Nagasaki.”

“That was nearly sixty years ago, during a world war.” Losenko did not accept the comparison. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten already, but the United States and the Motherland were not at each other’s throats in the days before the attack. This sub was not on alert.” He vividly recalled how shocked he’d been by the sudden emergency directive that had come from Moscow. “Judgment Day struck without warning—as if a switch had been flipped.”

Perhaps when Skynet was turned on?

“Is there anything else, Captain?” Pavlinko asked. His voice made it sound as if he didn’t know what to believe.

“Not at present,” Losenko replied. “Naturally, this theory needs to be verified by as many independent sources as we can locate. For the moment I ask only that you review the transcripts—and attempt to keep your minds open.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Pavlinko finished off his wine. No doubt he felt as if he needed a drink. “Shall we share this... intelligence... with the crew?”

“I think not. Let us keep this to ourselves for now.” Losenko had not yet decided how best to reveal the truth about Skynet. He was uncertain how they might react to the news that mankind was at war with its own machines. For the time being his instinct was to be sparing with this information, although in the long run that was probably a lost cause. Gossip was as essential as oxygen aboard a submarine. Chances were, Connor’s astounding claims were already spreading.

“That will be all for now. You are dismissed.”

The men gathered up their folders and headed for the doorway. Losenko heard them whispering and muttering to each other. Ivanov sneered at his own copy of the transcript, as though he might leave it behind, then grudgingly tucked it under his arm. He marched briskly for the exit.

“Not so fast, Mr. Ivanov.” Losenko indicated that the XO should remain. “A moment of your time.”

Ivanov gave the captain a wary look. He looked less than enthused at the prospect of engaging his superior in further discussion. “I am needed on the conn,” he stated.

“Chief Komarov can manage for a few more moments,” Losensko insisted. He waited until the other officers had departed, leaving them alone in the wardroom. “Close the door, Alexei. We need to talk.”

The XO surrendered to the inevitable. He secured the door and turned back toward the captain. However, he declined to sit back down at the table. “What is there to talk about, sir? This ridiculous radio drama about a deranged computer?” He stood stiffly at attention. “I believe I have already given you my opinion on the subject.”

“That you have,” Losenko conceded. He gestured for Ivanov to sit down. “But it is your attitude that concerns me now, Alexei. There is an anger inside you that shows no sign of abating. I have felt it, and so has the crew.” He adopted a sorrowful tone, not a scolding one. “It worries me, Alexei. It is not like you.”

He remembered the first time he had met Ivanov. The younger officer had immediately struck Losenko as a man of integrity and sound judgment, not to mention an exemplary husband and father with an enviable family life. The captain had made it a point to take Alexei under his wing. He had been, if not quite young enough to be the son Losenko had never had, at the very least a younger brother of sorts. Indeed, after his own painful divorce, Losenko had sometimes shared holidays with Alexei and his family. They had been generous that way.

“Of course I am angry,” Ivanov retorted. He reluctantly resumed his place at the table. “Have you forgotten what was done to our country, to the world?”

Losenko recalled the wasteland Russia had become. The radioactive ruins of Murmansk.

“I can never forget that. You have every right to be angry. But, for your own sake, as well as the boat’s, you cannot allow thoughts of revenge to consume you. Or to cloud your judgment.”

“So what do you suggest, Captain?” Ivanov countered. “That I consult a psychiatrist? A grief counselor?” His scornful tone conveyed more than just a military man’s customary aversion to having his head shrunk. A humorless laugh escaped him. “I’m not sure there are any left!”

In fact, Losenko sometimes regretted the lack of having a professional psychological counselor aboard. Boris Aleksin—the Gorshkov’s medical officer—was an able physician, but he was not equipped to cope with over a hundred men traumatized by the loss of everything they knew. The doctor had run out of sedatives and antidepressants weeks ago. Suicide attempts and breakdowns were becoming regular occurrences. Just last week, a distraught seaman had succeeded in hanging himself in the engine room...

“We all must deal with our grief in some manner, or else go mad,” the captain said solemnly. He spoke as a worried friend, not a disappointed superior. “Tell me, Alexei, have you cried for your wife, or for your daughter?”

Ivanov jerked backward, as though he had been slapped in the face. His expression darkened. For a second Losenko thought the young man might move to strike him, but then Ivanov managed to regain his composure.

“With all due respect, Captain, you go too far. That is none of your concern.”

“The mental health and stability of my XO is very much my concern,” Losenko stated. “You must mourn your family, Alexei, if you are to endure the trials ahead.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ivanov shot back. “The Navy was your only family.” His face was set in stone. A muscle twitched beneath his cheek; a facial tic that had become more pronounced since Judgment Day. “I will weep for my loved ones when the Americans have paid for their sins.”

Losenko let Ivanov’s cruel assessment pass.

“And if this ‘Skynet’ is indeed responsible?”

Ivanov shrugged. “Who built Skynet?”

“The Americans have already suffered the consequences of their folly,” Losenko reminded him. Mushroom clouds still rose above Alaska in his dreams. “We ourselves saw to that.”

“Good!” Ivanov said emphatically. “That knowledge alone lets me sleep at night. We did our duty—and struck a mighty blow against the enemy. They got no more than they deserved.” He poured himself a fresh glass of wine and gulped it down. Under the circumstances, the captain overlooked the indulgence. “Permission to speak frankly, Captain?”

“By all means,” Losenko assented. This confrontation was long overdue. They needed to clear the air between them.

Ivanov did not hold back.

“To my eyes, it is you who are having difficulty coping with what has transpired, who refuses to accept the reality of what was done to our country and our people. Instead of feeling the anger you so condemn in me, the righteous fury any true patriot should feel in the wake of so treacherous an attack, you wallow in guilt and melancholy and impotent philosophizing. You seize on this ‘John Connor’ deception as if hoping it will grant you absolution—for something you have no cause to be ashamed of!”

Losenko did not flinch at the accusations. He waited for Ivanov’s diatribe—which had obviously been festering within the other man for some time—to exhaust itself. Then he spoke softly.

“You are mistaken, Alexei,” he said. “There is no absolution for me. If Connor’s story is true, it only magnifies my guilt because it means that I did not strike back at the enemy, as you put it; instead I was tricked by a machine into killing millions of innocent people.”

Ivanov shook his head. “I refuse to believe that.”

“But you are not the captain,” Losenko said firmly. His voice took on a sterner tone. “I should not have to remind you of that.”

Ivanov glowered at him.

“What do you want, Captain? My resignation? To confine me to my quarters?” There was no brig aboard Gorshkov. “I would request reassignment, but I fear that is no longer an option!”

There was still no word from any other subs. As far as they knew, they were the Russian Navy.

“No one is suggesting that you resign,” Losenko assured him. “Believe me, I can ill afford to lose my most able officer. I simply want your word, on your family’s sacred memory, that you will not let your anger against the Americans override your duty to this ship, and that you will curb your present tendency toward insubordination.”

“Insubordination?” Ivanov looked genuinely offended. “How can you even suggest such a thing? I am the starpom, not a mutineer!”

Losenko leaned forward.

“Do I have your word, Alexei?”

“You are the captain.” Ivanov placed his right hand over his heart. “On the memory of my martyred Yelena and Nadia, I pledge that I will continue to respect the chain of command. You need never question my loyalty— save in one respect.”

“Which is?”

Ivanov lowered his hand. He looked squarely into the captain’s eyes.

“Do not ask me to forgive the Americans. Not in my heart.” A flicker of pain crossed his face. “That is one command that is beyond my ability to obey.”

“I understand,” Losenko said, taking the young officer at his word. “I can ask no more of you.”

But I pray that someday you will find a measure of peace, my friend.

Even in a world now menaced by machines.

A sudden ringing, like the sonorous peal of a church bell, interrupted the tense encounter. The two officers shared a startled look. Both men knew what the ringing meant. Gorshkov had been pinged by another vessel’s sonar.

The intercom crackled to life, bearing an urgent message from the sonar room.

“Captain, we have contact! On the surface, bearing straight toward us, speed thirty knots!”

The sub had been found.

But by whom?