Terminator Salvation: Cold War

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

2003

Losenko and Ivanov rushed into the control room. The pinging of the unknown vessel’s sonar echoed within the command center—it was a sound no submariner ever wanted to hear. Anxious crewmen gazed upward at the ceiling, wondering who had found them after all this time. Ironically, it was the most animated that Losenko had seen them in many weeks. Fear displaced the malaise that had hung over the men since Judgment Day.

“Do we have an identification?” the captain demanded, reclaiming the conn. “Report!”

Sonarman Yuri Michenko was ready with an update.

“A warship, sir. Less than four kilometers away and closing fast. Acoustic signature indicates a Kashinclass destroyer.” Behind a pair of thick glasses, the youth’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “I think it’s the Smetlivy, sir!”

One of ours? Losenko could scarcely believe it. Smetlivy was a four-ton destroyer driven by powerful gas turbine engines. Deployed as a guided missile platform, it boasted an impressive array of missiles, torpedoes, rocket launchers, and close-range guns. It was also, he recalled, one of the first Russian warships designed to seal itself off from radioactive fallout in the event of nuclear war. It made sense that the destroyer might have survived Judgment Day.

The mood in the command center instantly shifted from apprehension to jubilation. Smiles broke out across the faces of men who had thought they were alone in the world. A hubbub of excited voices almost drowned out the pinging of the warship’s sonar.

“It’s a miracle!” the helmsman exclaimed. “We’ve found our brothers!”

Even Ivanov appeared elated by the news. His sullen expression lightened; for the first time in too long, he looked like the intrepid young officer Losenko remembered.

“Shall we rise to meet them, sir?” he inquired.

“With discretion, Mr. Ivanov.” The captain understood the men’s enthusiasm, and even shared it to a degree, but he was cautious as well. He had not forgotten what he had found on the mainland months ago. Anarchy and violence had consumed the world they knew. Civilization was a thing of the past. With the Motherland in chaos, there was no guarantee that the Gorshkov and the Smetlivy still served the same masters. He did not wish to blindly welcome pirates—or worse. “Ascend to periscope depth. And release the communication buoy.”

Strung out behind the sub on a wire, the buoy would increase their ability to monitor transmissions from the destroyer.

The periscope pedestal tilted beneath his feet as K-115 climbed up from the depths, leveling out at roughly twenty-five meters below the surface. “Scope’s breaking,” the officer of the deck reported, unable to conceal the anticipation in his voice. He stepped aside to let Losenko see for himself. The overhead lights were dimmed to avoid reflecting the light up through the periscope, where it might give away their position. Display panels glowed like exotic bioluminescent fish in a darkened aquarium.

The captain seized the periscope’s handles and peered into the eyepiece.

It was twilight above the sea. White water lapped against the reticle. He glimpsed lurid red skies on the horizon.

“Position of contact?”

“Bearing three-one-zero,” Michenko reported. Headphones connected him with the sonar shack. Overhead video monitors, slaved to the main sonar array, monitored the destroyer via phosphorescent green waterfalls of data. “Contact slowing to seven knots.”

Losenko rotated the scope until... there!

The silhouette of a great gray battleship appeared some distance away. He twisted the right handle to increase magnification. The formidable contours of the vessel, with its imposing guns and towers, seemed to match that of a Kashin-class destroyer, but he would have to consult his reference manuals to be certain. He turned the scope over to Ivanov for his opinion. The XO eagerly scanned the mystery ship.

“It could be the Smetlivy,” he declared after a moment. Anticipation colored his voice, making him sound like a child on Christmas morning. A rare smile graced his features.

Was he already contemplating transferring to another ship?

“Four knots,” Michenko called out. “Three knots....”

The warship came to a halt approximately three kilometers away. Losenko was encouraged by the fact that the destroyer was making no aggressive moves toward them. Had it already identified K-115 as a friendly vessel?

Perhaps we really have made contact with an ally at last.

“Raise multifunction mast.”

It would be good to share his burden with another captain. And not see the same defeated faces every day. After months cut off from the world, they could finally begin to rebuild the Russian Navy. And perhaps discover the truth about Skynet.

He wondered what the Smetlivy’s captain thought of John Connor’s broadcasts.

“Incoming transmission from the other vessel, Captain!”

Losenko plucked a red phone handset from a box upon the periscope platform. The hotline employed secure UHF transmissions to communicate with allied ships and aircraft.

“Put it through.”

A burst of static preceded an unfamiliar voice, speaking in flawless Russian. “Attention unidentified submarine. This is Captain Konstantin Frantz of the Russian destroyer Smetlivy. Please respond.”

Losenko did not recognize the captain’s name. Then again, in the wake of Judgment Day, it was likely there had been more than a few battlefield promotions. Perhaps Frantz had only recently inherited his command.

“This is the captain of the submarine in question,” Losenko replied. Old habits prevented him from volunteering too much information right away. Even when setting out to sea from his home port, he had always avoided identifying the Gorshkov by name or number over the air. “Please state your intentions.”

Encryption caused a slight lag in the transmissions, so it was a few seconds before Losenko heard Frantz laugh.

“I appreciate your caution, Captain. The world is a dangerous place these days; no doubt you and your heroic crew have endured many hardships. You cannot imagine how relieved I am to discover that you survived the atomic war and its aftermath.” Frantz’s tone was affable. “I assure you, my only mission is to escort you back to Murmansk so you can rejoin what remains of the Northern Fleet.”

Murmansk? Losenko looked askance at the phone. The one-time naval base was nothing but a radioactive crater now, one likely to be uninhabitable for decades. Was Frantz unaware of this? Or was he attempting to deceive them to some end?

“My understanding is that Murmansk was destroyed,” he said, choosing his words carefully. He deliberately did not mention that he had beheld the devastation firsthand.

The lag at the other end seemed a little longer than before.

“Sadly, that is the case,” Frantz conceded. “But the rebuilding is already underway. Your ship and crew will find refuge at our new facilities.”

Losenko frowned. The other captain’s answers struck him as glib and unconvincing. When he had last explored the Kola Peninsula, the ravaged landscape had been overrun by murderous machines—and their human collaborators. Suspicion blossomed in his heart. “And what of Skynet?” he pressed. “Have you retaken the countryside from the Terminators?”

Only a foot away, eavesdropping intently on Losenko’s end of the conversation, along with every other man within earshot, Ivanov’s hopeful expression faded. He eyed Losenko with alarm, clearly displeased by the tack the discussion was taking.

“Captain!”

Losenko placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Remember your oath, Alexei. And the chain of command.”

The pointed reminder had the desired effect. Ivanov stepped back, swallowing any further objections. He did not look happy, however. His fists were clenched at his sides. He ground his teeth.

My apologies, Alexei, Losenko thought. I know how much this means to you.

The captain felt the eyes of the entire control room upon him. The last thing he wanted was to crush the hopes of the men, just when they finally had something to hold on to. But his gut told him that Frantz was not being honest with him. The stranger’s warm welcome and soothing promises were too good to be true.

If Judgment Day taught me anything, it is that the universe is seldom so forgiving.

Nor are our machines.

“Skynet?” Frantz’s reply did nothing to assuage Losenko’s doubts. “What is Skynet? And Terminators? Is that some new Yankee weapon?”

Losenko did not believe that the other captain could be so ignorant. If the Gorshkov’s antennae had intercepted John Connor’s broadcasts, then so would the Smetlivy. And what of the robots occupying the industrial base on the Kola Peninsula? How could the Russian military be unaware of their mechanized reign of terror, if indeed “Captain” Frantz truly represented the Northern Fleet?

“Before I can accompany you,” he informed the warship’s commander, “I will require authorization codes from Moscow.”

He locked eyes with Ivanov. The XO nodded back at him. In this instance, at least, they seemed to be on the same wavelength. Even Alexei saw the wisdom in so reasonable a precaution. Losenko was relieved to have his starpom watching his back for once.

“Those codes were lost in the initial attack,” Frantz insisted, after another awkward delay. “Have faith in your countrymen, Captain. The Russian people need you sailing beside us.”

Along with our remaining ballistic missiles, Losenko thought. K-115 was both a tempting prize and a potential threat to whoever Frantz truly answered to. Losenko remembered the collaborators who had attacked Grushka’s armored truck. He was not about to let the Gorshkov’s last two thermonuclear weapons fall into the hands of turncoats such as those.

“Faith is in short supply these days,” Losenko answered. “As you said, the world is a dangerous place. Perhaps if you can put us in touch with your superior officers, we can arrange to rendezvous at a neutral location.”

An ominous silence ensued. The mood of the control room soured as the excited men realized, along with their captain, that something was amiss. Ilya Korbut, who had succeeded the late Lieutenant Zamyatin as tactical officer, approached the captain.

“Excuse me, sir,” he whispered. “I have been reviewing the fleet records and there is no record of a Captain Frantz. The Smetlivy was under Captain Dobrovolsky’s command at the outset of the attack.”

Losenko remembered Dobrovolsky. He was a good officer, ambitious but devoted to duty and his country. He would have scuttled the destroyer before he let it become the spoils of war.

Was Konstantin Frantz cut from the same cloth? Losenko had his doubts.

“Captain!” Michenko blurted out. The sonarman’s face went pale. “Smetlivy is flooding its torpedo tubes!”

“What!” Ivanov could not contain his shock. “But they’re our own people!”

Losenko knew how he felt. He just wished he was more surprised.

“Battle stations! Down bubble, full speed.”

The men scrambled to their posts, even as Frantz spoke again over the phone. “Surrender your vessel, Captain.” All pretence at civility went by the wayside. “Or we will sink you.”

“They’re opening torpedo doors!” Michenko reported.

“Traitor!” Losenko let loose his own anger, even as— outside the sub—plumes of mist vented from the ballast tanks, signaling their intentions. “Who is pulling your strings? Skynet? The Americans? Some petty warlord?” That a Russian warship would dare threaten K-115 was the final proof that the world had truly gone mad. What had become of patriotism and loyalty? “You call yourself a captain of the Northern Fleet? How can you live with yourself!”

His accusation hit a nerve.

“You don’t understand!” Frantz ranted “I don’t have any choice. None of us do. Skynet’s forces are everywhere, humans commanded by machines. They’re holding our families hostage. American missiles are aimed at what’s left of our country, ready to finish what they started on Judgment Day if we don’t comply with their demands. The machines are watching us every minute. There’s one right behind me at this very moment. It will terminate me if I don’t obey!”

“So you are a coward and a collaborator, just as I feared.” Contempt dripped from Losenko’s voice. He was tempted to hang up, but the longer he kept Frantz talking, the more time they had to submerge. “If you had any honor, you would defend this sub with your last breath, not turn your weapons against it!”

“And condemn the Motherland to further reprisals?” Frantz sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Losenko, who heard a guilty conscience behind the other man’s self-serving rationalizations. “You’re living in the past, Captain! This is Skynet’s world now. Our only hope for peace is to accept its new world order.”

That’s not what John Connor says, Losenko thought. Frantz was deluding himself if he thought that the machines would be content ruling over humanity like benign overlords. Most likely Skynet had already murdered the majority of the world’s population. Why assume it would let its human pawns survive once it was through with them? Gratitude was a human concept.

“You are being used, Mr. Frantz.” Losenko declined to honor him with the title of captain. “But you will not have my boat. Or my missiles.”

Keeping the hundred-kiloton warheads out of enemy hands was his supreme priority now. No threat or argument could convince him otherwise. He would take the missiles with him to the bottom of the sea if necessary.

“Don’t make me fire, Captain.” Frantz was practically pleading now. “Halt your descent!”

Like hell, Losenko thought. He hung up on Frantz.

An alarm blared from the speaker system.

“Captain!” Lieutenant Pavlinko reported. He monitored the electronic surveillance sensors installed atop the periscope. “Aircraft approaching from the northeast. Two American helicopters!”

Losenko found himself outnumbered. Were the fighters allied with the Smetlivy? If the American planes were equipped with anti-submarine torpedoes, Gorshkov’s odds of escaping had just turned considerably worse.

“Americans!” Ivanov snarled. “I should have known! This was a trap, using the Smetlivy as bait!”

Pavlinko’s next announcement stunned them all.

“The enemy aircraft have fired on the Smetlivy!” The weapons officer looked baffled by his own information. “The Americans are requesting our assistance. They say they’re the Resistance!”

The what?

Losenko didn’t know what to think. Despite John Connor’s broadcasts, the captain had seen no evidence that the so-called Resistance was anything more than an idea. Now American warplanes were defending them against a Russian destroyer?

Explosions upon the surface rocked the submarine. The sound of anti-aircraft fire, coming from the Smetlivy, penetrated the icy depths and the steel hull of K-115. The deck rolled beneath Losenko’s feet as though the sub was being tossed about atop a stormy sea, and not submerged beneath the waves. Dangling cords and cables swung wildly back and forth.

The captain didn’t fully comprehend what was happening, but he recognized an opportunity.

“Dive! Down bubble, twenty degrees!”

The submarine descended at a sharp angle, hoping to escape the conflict above.

“Scope’s under,” Ivanov announced. He lowered the periscope and locked it into place. The overhead lights flared up again.

“Forty meters.” The diving officer called out the depth. “Fifty meters.”

But Frantz wasn’t going to let them get away so easily.

“Two torpedoes launched and running!” the sonarman warned, then he began a continuing report on the projectiles’ speed, bearing, and range. Sweat glistened upon Michenko’s face. His gaze was glued to the slaved sonar screens.

“Torpedoes have acquired! Repeat: torps have acquired!”

“Helm! Hard to port!” Losenko spat out orders at a rapid pace. “Deploy countermeasures!”

The Gorshkov jettisoned a pair of decoys via the rear ejector tubes. Losenko heard them wailing loudly outside the sub. The acoustic noisemakers made a racket by releasing compressed air while vibrating like tuning forks. With luck, the decoys would lure the torpedoes away from K-115.

“Torpedo one veering away from us!” Michenko rejoiced. “It’s going for the decoy!”

An underwater shock wave buffeted the Gorshkov. The submarine yawed sharply to starboard, throwing Losenko against the massive steel column of the periscope. His uniform caught on a bolt, tearing the fabric and scratching his side. He ignored the pain, concentrating on the peril to his ship instead. The nearby explosion meant that the first torpedo had taken out the decoy instead. But what about the second? In theory, the sub’s dense double hull could conceivably survive a single strike, but he did not care to test that theory.

“Torpedo two?” he demanded.

Michenko’s jubilant tone evaporated.

“Still closing!”

The second torpedo had not taken the bait. Losenko cursed their luck. He wrapped an arm around the lowered periscope and shouted into the emergency address system.

“Brace for impact!”

Seconds later, the guided warhead smashed into the Gorshkov. The pedestal pitched sharply and Losenko clung to the scope with all his strength, while Ivanov and Korbut grabbed onto the railing. Undersea thunder roared in the captain’s ears, along with the clanging of battered metal. The overhead lights sputtered so that, for a few unnerving moments, the control room was lit solely by its glowing gauges and control panels. Losenko glanced at Ivanov. Blood dripped from the XO’s forehead. Losenko guessed that he had cracked it against the other periscope.

“Are you all right, Alexei?”

Ivanov fingered the wound.

“Nothing worth mentioning.” He wiped his fingers on the front of his coveralls, leaving a crimson smear behind. “The ship?”

Emergency power kicked in, bringing maybe eighty percent of the control room’s lights back on. Losenko surveyed the room, spotting extensive damage to both the crew and the equipment. Warning indicators flashed on nearly every console, while bruises, cuts, and minor burns scarred the faces of the frightened sailors. Steam jetted from a ruptured pipe, hissing like an enraged eel, until an alert crewman reached up to close a valve manually. Sparks erupted from shorted circuits, until doused by the fire extinguishers.

A smoky haze contaminated the atmosphere, which smelled of cold sweat and burnt wiring. The men coughed at their stations. Damage reports started pouring in from all over K-115.

“Wounded, but still alive,” Losenko said, assessing their situation. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the long-dead engineers and shipwrights who had overseen the Gorshkov’s construction. Ordinarily, he would return to the surface to effect immediate repairs and stem any leaks in the ship’s hull, but not with the Smetlivy still lurking above them. Escape was still the order of the day.

But how deep do we dare descend with our hull scarred and our systems compromised?

And was Frantz done with them yet?

A thunderous detonation answered that question. The periscope platform lurched to port, throwing Losenko hard against the safety railing, bruising his ribs. Blue-hot sparks flared from the control consoles, forcing men to leap backward or risk electrocution. Sundered metal shrieked in protest somewhere above the control room. The periscopes rattled in their housings. Helmsmen, securely buckled into their seats, wrestled with their wheels, fighting and failing to keep the Gorshkov on an even keel. Something crashed loudly in the sonar shack. A voice cried out in pain. Losenko stumbled across the platform.

Ivanov reached out to steady the captain.

“Another torpedo?”

“No,” Losenko guessed. The explosion had not felt like a direct strike. “Depth charge.” As he recalled, the Smetlivy was equipped with rocket launchers capable of firing RGB-60 unguided depth charges. The rockets could be fired in multiple rounds, the better to increase the odds of destroying an enemy submarine. Despite the attacking aircraft, Frantz was sparing no effort to sink the Gorshkov. Apparently, Skynet would rather see the ballistic submarine destroyed than beyond its control.

A second charge, even closer than the first, pummeled the sub. Warning klaxons blared, but Losenko was proud to see that not a single seaman abandoned his post. The Gorshkov was taking a beating, but the shock waves were nothing compared to the damage they would sustain should one of the charges score a direct hit. Losenko doubted K-115 could survive another blow, yet it was only a matter of time before one of them came too close. Their only hope was to get away from the warship before that happened.

“Captain!” Pavlinko hailed him. “A VLF transmission via the buoy. The Americans are requesting our assistance again.”

Losenko’s eyes lit up. Perhaps there was another way.

“Are you certain?”

“No!” Ivanov protested, reading his mind. “Captain, you cannot be considering this!”

A depth charge went off several hundred meters above them. Was it just his imagination or were the salvos decreasing in accuracy? Perhaps the Smetlivy was otherwise occupied?

“Those aircraft are fighting our battle for us, Alexei.”

“Good!” Ivanov blurted. “Let them destroy each other! They deserve nothing less!”

His XO had a point. This might be their best opportunity to escape the conflict, leaving the destroyer and the Yankee pilots to fight it out while they slipped away in the confusion. But to where, Losenko asked himself, and to what end? Just to aimlessly wander the seas once more? Without allies or purpose?

John Connor’s stirring exhortations surfaced from his memory. “We can win this war,” Connor had promised, “but only if we come together against our common enemy.” Losenko had listened to those words many times in the privacy of his stateroom.

“If you can hear this, you are the Resistance.”

Losenko made up his mind.

“Full stop!” he ordered. “Ready tubes two and four! Prepare firing solutions!”

Ivanov could not contain himself.

“Captain, what are you doing?”

“The American planes came to our defense, Alexei. We can do no less.” Losenko turned to the weapons officer. “Give me a snapshot... with all due speed!”

Aiming the torpedoes could be a devilishly tricky business, with multiple objects moving in three dimensions. Ideally, there would be time to check and recheck all the calculations before firing; in the heat of battle, however, the best they could do was take a quick “snapshot” of the situation and hope for the best.

Fortunately, the Smetlivy presented a damned big target.

The crew hustled to carry out his orders, realizing that their own lives were on the line. This was the first time that any of the men aboard had found themselves in an actual, life-or-death battle with an enemy vessel, as opposed to war games and drills. Who would have guessed that, when they finally were called to take up arms in a genuine engagement, it would be against one of their own ships?

The irony was almost too much for Losenko to bear.

“Torpedos armed and ready, sir!” Pavlinko reported. He sat at the weapons control console on the starboard side of the control room. A computerized battle management system, Omnibus-BDRM, processed the relevant data and commanded the torpedoes. In a sense, it was Skynet’s ancestor.

“Do we have a firing solution?” Losenko demanded.

“Yes, sir! A good snapshot.” Pavlinko’s fingers stabbed the weapons console. “Feeding the data to the torpedoes now.”

Dasvidania, Mr. Frantz, Losenko thought. “Fire at will. Both tubes,” he said aloud.

Two loud whooshing sounds, one after another, came from the torpedo room at the bow. Two 533-millimeter torpedoes shot upward at the surface. Losenko prayed that the Smetlivy was too busy with the American aircraft to defend itself from the speeding bullets. For a second, he almost felt sorry for the destroyer. It was under attack from both above and below.

“Evasive maneuvers!” the captain ordered. He did not want the four-ton vessel coming down on top of them. “Helm, right fifteen degrees rudder. Full speed!”

As programmed, the torpedoes went off beneath the warship’s keel. The dual explosions, going off above the submariners’ heads, were far too close for comfort. Michenko kept his eyes glued on the glowing green sonar display. His gleeful smile was Losenko’s first indication that their torpedoes had prevailed.

“She’s breaking up, sir! We broke her back!”

Cheers erupted throughout the control room. Even Ivanov permitted himself a thin smile. There had been a time when the sinking of a Russian destroyer would have been cause for dismay, but not today. Losenko let the men savor their victory as he watched the bisected corpse of the Smetlivy drop out of sight on the sonar screen. He could not resist tweaking Ivanov a little.

“Now then, Alexei. I believe you had something to say.”

The starpom shrugged. The cut upon his brow had already stopped bleeding.

“I stand corrected, Captain.” He glanced around the ravaged control room, which had seen better days. “We need to assess the damage, sir, but I suggest that we put some distance between ourselves and the Americans first.”

“I disagree, Mr. Ivanov.” Losenko’s racing heart began to slow. “We need to surface immediately for repairs.” Multiple damage reports, from all over the ship, were already competing for his attention; he counted on his crew to respond to the most urgent leaks immediately. “Besides, I wish to make the acquaintance of our new allies.” Ignoring Ivanov’s scandalized expression, he addressed Communications. “Radio the Americans. Tell them to expect us.”

Was there truly a Resistance? Losenko could not wait to find out.

A spreading oil slick was all that remained of the Smetlivy. Frantz and his crew of turncoats had gone to a watery grave, along with whatever foul machine had been holding their leash. Losenko did not mourn them. The cowards had made their choice—and suffered the consequences. Better that the destroyer plunge to the bottom of the sea, than that K-115 suffer such a fate. Losenko knew he and his crew were lucky to be alive.

If one of those depth charges had hit before we got our torpedoes off...

Frantz had claimed one victory before his demise, however. The smoking remains of an Apache attack helicopter floated atop the ocean, a victim of the destroyer’s guns. A second chopper hovered in the sky above the wreckage, keeping watch over the downed aircraft’s pilot, who had apparently bailed out just in time. Floating bodies suggested that not all of the Apache’s crew had been so lucky.

The Gorshkov rolled atop the choppy surface of the Bering Sea, its scarred deck a steel beach rising above the waves. Preliminary reports had found significant damage to the outer hull near the stern, but all major flooding had been contained. Alas, four enlisted men had been killed by an exploding bulkhead in the turbine room, and six more men had been severely burned by a fire in the galley. Thankfully, however, the nuclear reactor remained on-line and there was no trace of radiation leakage. As badly as they had been hurt, the outcome of the battle could have been much worse.

Too bad we cannot return to Murmansk for repairs!

Losenko watched from the hatch atop the sail as his men, grateful for a chance to breath a little fresh air, labored to fish the American pilot from the sea. He was somewhat surprised to see that the pilot appeared to be a woman. Her bright orange life-vest helped her stand out against the deep blue waves as she swam toward the waiting submarine. The Russian sailors wore life jackets as well, just in case they fell overboard during the hazardous operation. Chief Komarov supervised the rescue team as they tossed a rope out. Thankfully, the sea was calm enough to permit such a rescue.

“I’m not sure this is wise, Captain,” Ivanov said in a low voice. Standing beside Losenko on the bridge, the XO kept a close eye on the chopper hovering nearby. An adhesive bandage was stuck to his forehead. “We are very vulnerable here.”

“A calculated risk,” the captain conceded. “But if that ‘copter wished to attack us, it would have done so already.”

He turned his binoculars from the rescue operation to the aircraft in question. Even in the dimming light, he was struck by the piecemeal appearance of the Apache, which appeared to have been cobbled together from parts of several different aircraft. Its weathered paint job was a patchwork quilt of varied camouflage patterns. An olive-green door clashed with the sandy brown hue of the surrounding panels. Crude graffiti, slapped all over its fins and fuselage, hardly reflected the professionalism of the old U.S. military. A skull-and-crossbones emblem, with neon-red eyes, screamed pirate more than soldier. “Skynet SUCKS!” was spray-painted in English upon the landing skids.

The junkyard look of the chopper, along with its vulgar bravado, spoke volumes about the Resistance.

“We cannot cruise forever without allies, Alexei.” Losenko lowered his binoculars. “You saw how the men reacted when they thought we had met up with our comrades-in-arms. For the first time in months, they had hope.” He nodded at the Resistance chopper. “Think of this as a leap of faith.”

Ivanov threw his own words back at him.

“I thought you told the traitor, Frantz, that trust was in short supply these days?”

“The pilots in those aircraft did not lie to us,” Losenko reminded him. “And they came to our defense when we were in peril. If not for the providential arrival of the American aircraft, K-115 might be resting on the ocean floor now, its hull fatally breached. That alone warrants further investigation.”

The XO grunted dubiously.

“If you say so, Captain.” He glared at the Apache, no doubt thinking of the American missiles that had incinerated his family. “But remember what they say about wolves in sheep’s clothing. I, for one, intend to stay on my guard.”

“I expect nothing less, Mr. Ivanov.”

Down on the deck, Chief Kamarov and his men succeeded in hauling the Yankee pilot out of the sea. Losenko descended to meet her, followed closely by Ivanov. The suspicious starpom kept one hand on the grip of his sidearm. A cold spray pelted their faces. White water lapped against the exposed sides of the hull. After months of cruising smoothly beneath the surface, the shifting deck felt uncomfortably wobbly beneath Losenko’s feet. His sea legs were rusty.

“No rash moves,” he warned Ivanov. “This woman is our guest until I say otherwise.”

A heavy wool blanket had been thrown over the shivering pilot’s soaked flight suit. She stood unsteadily upon the rocking deck. Watchful seamen flanked her, holding onto her arms to keep her both upright and under control. Water dripped from buzz-cut brown hair. A black eye and swollen lip testified to a rough landing. Silver dog tags hung on a chain around her neck. Losenko put her age in the mid-twenties. She appeared to be of Latino descent. Her lips were blue.

“P-pryvet!” the Yankee greeted them in atrocious Russian. “You the skipper of this boat?” Her teeth chattered. “H-hope your English is better than my R-Russian.”

“I speak English,” Losenko replied. “Captain Dmitri Losenko, at your service. We are grateful for your assistance against our foe.”

“Hell, thanks for p-plucking me from the drink. I was starting to feel like an ice cube in a cold soda. Talk about a brain freeze!” She pulled away from her guardians and enthusiastically took the captain’s hand in an icy grip. “Corporal Luz Ortega. Pleased to meet you.”

Ivanov’s dark eyes narrowed. “You are U.S. Air Force?”

“Used to be,” Ortega said. She shrugged off the blanket to expose a bright red armband tied around her sleeve. She nodded proudly at it. “Resistance now.”

The Resistance! Losenko experienced a surge of excitement. Perhaps there was still a chance of reclaiming the planet from the machines.

Ortega offered her hand to Ivanov, as well. The XO ignored it, preferring to interrogate the pilot instead.

“How did you come to find us?”

“Weren’t looking for you,” Ortega admitted. She withdrew her hand. “We were hunting that shipload of metal-loving collaborators instead. Picked up your radio transmissions. Couldn’t quite make out all the Russian, but got the gist of it. Sounded like you were in trouble. Figured we’d lend you a hand.” She tugged the blanket back over her shoulders. “You know what they say. ‘The enemy of my enemy,’ etc. Besides, we’d been looking for a chance to engage that battleship. You folks were a good distraction.”

She glanced ruefully at the bodies in the water.

“It cost us, though. But that’s war. The enemy lost more than we did. That’s the important thing, right?”

Ivanov remained skeptical. The deaths of the other Americans meant nothing to him.

“Those communications were encrypted. How could you eavesdrop on them?”

Ortega chortled.

“Hell, Boris, we cracked your encryption moons ago. Some of your old comrades hooked up with us a while back, shared everything they knew. This is a united effort, you know. All us flesh-and-blood types against the metal.”

“A united effort,” Ivanov repeated doubtfully. He sounded sickened by the very idea. “You and our own people?”

Ortega didn’t back down.

“That’s what I’m saying, Boris. You got a problem with that?”

“My name is Ivanov,” the starpom said tersely. A muscle twitched beneath his cheek. “Captain Second-Rank.”

Losenko admired his self-control. Considering the dreadful loss of his family, Alexei had probably wanted to shoot the first American he met, or, at the very least, pound in the cocky pilot’s face. He thought it best to defuse the situation.

“Mr. Ivanov, please go below and oversee the repair efforts.” He stepped between his XO and the woman. “I want a full report on the extent of the damage, and how soon we might expect to be underway.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Ivanov seemed eager to leave the American’s presence. He turned on his heels and marched briskly away.

Ortega watched him go.

“What’s his beef?”

“The war has been hard on us all,” Losenko offered by way of explanation. He noted Ortega shivering and changed the subject. “You are freezing, Corporal. Let us find you some dry clothes and a warm meal.” He glanced up at the helicopter on the horizon. “I will inform your colleagues that you are safe and welcome aboard this ship. Later, we can make arrangements to return you to your own unit.”

Ortega waved her arms to signal the other chopper, before allowing herself to be escorted to the nearest open hatch.

“Much obliged, Captain.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as though she feared Skynet might be listening. “Is there someplace we can talk in private? To be honest, there’s a reason my buddies in the other chopper let you guys pick me up instead of them. The Resistance could use a boat like this. I may have a proposition for you... from my commanding officer.”

“John Connor?”

“No!” Ortega laughed at the very idea. “Connor’s just a voice. I’m not even sure if there really is such a person. I’m talking about the real thing. The big brass.”

Losenko tried not to let his disappointment show. Connor’s broadcast had offered the only hope that the world might someday be set right again. Now he gave Ortega a puzzled look.

“And who is your commanding officer?”

“Ashdown,” the pilot answered. “General Hugh Ashdown.”