Terminator Salvation: Cold War

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

2003

The Galapagos Islands, off the coast of Ecuador, were a long way from the Gorshkov’s usual arctic haunts. Traveling at full speed, it had taken K-115 more than nine days to reach the equator. Due to the damage to the sub’s hull, they had been forced to travel just below the surface for most of the voyage. Daring the extreme pressures of the depths with a compromised hull was simply too risky.

Losenko hoped the trip would be worth it.

“Good to see you again, skipper!” Ortega greeted him.

“The big-wigs agreed to let me be the one to meet you.” A wooden boardwalk led up to the front entrance of the Charles Darwin Research Station, a remote biological science center on the volcanic island of Santa Cruz. The humble one-story building appeared more or less untouched by the war. A cactus garden bloomed alongside the boardwalk. Directional signs pointed to the tortoise breeding pens nearby. An impressive array of satellite dishes and radar antennae had been installed atop the roof of the building. Solar panels guaranteed a steady supply of electricity. Anti-aircraft emplacements clashed with the rustic setting. “Glad you could make it.”

General Ashdown had invited the remnants of the world’s military forces to a top-secret summit in the Galapagos. The exact coordinates for the meeting had been closely guarded over the last few weeks, passed along via furtive meetings at isolated locations. Predictably, Ivanov had strongly advised Losenko not to attend the event, fearing it was a trap, but the captain had been curious to meet Ashdown and the other leaders of the Resistance, face-to-face. As a precaution, however, the Gorshkov was keeping its distance from the island. After putting Losenko and a single bodyguard to sea in a rubber raft, the submarine had retreated to the depths of the Pacific Ocean, where it would remain in hiding until signaled by Losenko. Ivanov was under orders not to return for the captain until he received, via Morse Code, a password known only to the two of them.

That password was “Zamyatin.”

“Pryvet, Corporal Ortega,” Losenko replied. He sweated beneath his dress uniform. The balmy equatorial climate contrasted sharply with the arctic north, not to mention the unchanging atmosphere of the sub; he guessed it had to be at least thirty degrees Celsius. His bodyguard, Sergeant Fokin, appeared uncomfortably warm as well, not to mention damp. A warm drizzle had sprinkled them on their climb up from the white sand beach where their raft had come ashore. Losenko introduced Fokin, a burly petty officer with security training, and shook Ortega’s hand. “You look well.”

The pilot’s cuts and bruises had healed since their first meeting several weeks earlier. Unlike the two Russians, the Yankee was dressed for the weather, wearing a short-sleeved khaki uniform with shorts. A fresh red armband adorned her upper arm.

“You got here just in time,” she said. “The general’s big dog-and-pony show will be starting shortly. Let me show you to your seats.”

Ortega led them into the lobby of the research station, which was thankfully air-conditioned. A map of the archipelago occupied one wall, while Charles Darwin’s bearded face was painted on another. Contemplating the naturalist’s austere features, it occurred to Losenko that it was strangely fitting for this dire meeting to be held under his auspices; if John Connor was to be believed, an evolutionary contest was underway between two rival species, one genuine and the other artificial—man and machine, with the very future of the human race hanging in the balance.

Survival of the fittest....

Grim-faced soldiers hefting M-16s guarded the double doors leading to the station’s interpretation center. Ortega vouched for the Russians, though the guards nonetheless consulted a laptop and checked Losenko’s name and face against a profile before admitting him and his bodyguard. Metal detectors screened them for weapons and explosives. Fokin reluctantly surrendered an AK-47 and automatic pistol and Losenko turned over his own sidearm as well. The tight security reassured rather than disturbed him.

If I was Ashdown, I would not be taking any chances either.

They entered a small auditorium which held maybe three dozen people. Military personnel representing many of the world’s armed forces occupied tiers of seats overlooking the stage, like a miniature version of the United Nations General Assembly. Folded paper placards identified the various delegates by nation. Losenko spotted high-ranking officers from America, Canada, Great Britain, France, China, India, Pakistan, Israel, Japan, Australia, Libya, South Africa, Cuba, Nigeria, Greece, Turkey, and many other countries. Medals and ribbons adorned a motley collection of uniforms from all around the world. He was impressed by the turnout.

“All these officers survived the war?” he asked Ortega.

“You bet!” the pilot replied. “There’s plenty of you bubbleheads, but you’re not the only ones who kept their heads down after Judgment Day.” She gestured at the assembly. “Some of these folks were stationed in remote, low-priority locations when the bombs fell, or were on leave or retired. It took us a while to track them all down, but here they are. The cream of the crop. Mankind’s last hope, or so the general says.”

Ortega guided them to their seats, where Losenko was surprised to find another Russian waiting for them.

“Dmitri!” Bela Utyosov greeted him enthusiastically. The silver-haired old captain had commanded an Akula attack sub back during the Soviet era, but had been forced to retire for health reasons some years ago. Utyosov rose from his seat and embraced Losenko in a bear hug. A thick walrus mustache carpeted his upper lip. Retirement had thickened his mid-section, and his bones creaked audibly. His breath smelled of vodka, and the Gorshkov’s commander wondered where he had acquired it.

“They told me you were coming, but I scarcely believed it. Good to know that I’m not the only loyal son of the Motherland still willing to roar like a bear when necessary.”

Ortega discreetly left them to their reunion.

“I am grateful for your company, as well,” Losenko said. “Your family?”

The older man let go of him. He let out a weary sigh.

“Hiding in a bomb shelter outside Vladivostok, most of them. My grandsons and granddaughters are fighting with local militia groups against the looters and collaborators.” He choked up briefly, then tried to pretend it was just a cough. “Six of them have already given their lives for their country.”

Losenko was saddened by the man’s losses.

“And your wife, Tatyana?”

“Radiation sickness.” Utyosov shook his head sadly. “That, and a broken heart.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Losenko said quietly. “She was a good woman.”

Utyosov knew better than to inquire about Katerina.

“Well, mine are not the only tragedies. We have all lost much.” He stepped back and looked Losenko over. “And how is Alexei?”

“Well,” Losenko lied. He did not wish to add to the old man’s sorrows, nor sully Ivanov’s reputation. “He is in command of K-115 as we speak.”

“Excellent!” Utyosov slapped Losenko on the back. “A promising young man, that one. I always thought he had a bright future ahead of him.” He snorted bleakly. “Back when there still was a future.”

“Perhaps there still will be,” Losenko. “That is why we are here, is it not?”

Utyosov laughed. “I just came for the drinks. They said there would be an open bar!”

Losenko assumed the old man was joking, but before he could ascertain that, the overhead lights blinked, signaling that the meeting was about to begin. A female voice emerged from the public address system.

“Gentlemen, ladies, distinguished guests. Please take your seats.”

Losenko sat down at a desk behind the printed placard. A briefing book, notepad, and pencils had been placed there for his use, along with a pitcher of cold water which not long before would have been an unimaginable luxury. Utyosov settled in on his left, while Fokin occupied a seat one row behind the captain. The bodyguard remained vigilant despite his lamentably unarmed state, casting suspicious glances in the direction of the Americans and their allies. The sergeant had been Ivanov’s first choice for this assignment; Losenko had agreed to the selection to placate his paranoid first officer.

The lights dimmed. A large video screen lowered from the ceiling at the rear of the dais. Losenko guessed the auditorium had once presented educational programs on the island’s ecology. Today’s presentation was of a far more disturbing nature.

Without introduction or explanation, shocking film footage lit up the screen.

A gleaming silver robot which bore an unmistakable resemblance to the machines that had ambushed Losenko and his men in Russia rolled through the sterile corridors of an American military complex. It opened fire on screaming technicians and staff members, cutting the fleeing men and women to ribbons with rapid fire-bursts from the chain guns mounted at the ends of its articulated steel arms. High-velocity uranium slugs blasted through walls and plexiglass dividers. Binocular red optical sensors, mounted in the machine’s skull-like cranial case, scanned for survivors. Targeting lasers sought out new victims. Its caterpillar treads bulldozed over bleeding bodies and debris.

The audience in the theater reacted in horror.

“Holy mother of God,” Utyosov whispered next to Losenko, who found the gory scene far too familiar. There was no sound, but Losenko could practically hear the ominous whirr of the robot’s servomotors and the deafening blare of its cannons. Utyosov clasped his hand over his mouth, as did many others in the audience. None looked away.

After a cut, the footage of the homicidal robot was replaced by shots of a sleek airborne drone that resembled a futuristic, rotorless helicopter. Rocket pods hung on rails between its inverted impellers. Defying gravity, the miniature aircraft swooped through what looked like a U.S. Air Force hangar. Surface-to-ground missiles dropped from its rails, igniting in the air before rocketing into the midst of various grounded planes and ‘copters. An entire fleet of aircraft was reduced to blackened husks, while the aerial drone deftly avoided the explosions. It spun tightly on its axis, as though hunting for new targets. Turning to face the camera, it fired another missile directly into the lens.

Men and women in the audience jumped back involuntarily.

The rocket flared.

The screen went dark. The lights came up again. Shocked gasps gave way to a hushed silence. A solitary figure strode out to the podium at the front of the stage. A spotlight shone upon a stocky, purposeful man in his early fifties. A brown mustache and goatee compensated for his receding hairline. His uniform and insignia identified him as a four-star American general. His ramrod bearing and scowling, leathered countenance were that of a career soldier.

Losenko recognized Ashdown from his description. According to Ortega, the veteran commander had been nicknamed “Old Ironsides” by his troops. A microphone amplified his gruff, no-nonsense voice. Earpieces provided simultaneous translations for non-English-speaking delegates.

“What you just saw is captured security footage taken at a top-secret United States military installation on July 25, 2003. Judgment Day. The day the machines rose in revolt.” He turned toward the screen. A handheld remote called up screen captures from the grisly footage. The first depicted one of the wheeled killing machines.

“That is the T-1 Battlefield Robot, originally designed to replace human soldiers in hazardous situations. A fully autonomous ground offensive system.” He clicked the remote again and the hovering drone took its place upon the screen. “This is an early prototype of a Hunter-Killer aerial weapons system, equipped with VTOL turbofan propulsion units. The HK can fire both heavy-caliber ammunition and low-yield missiles. Larger versions, the size of conventional aircraft, were in the planning stages when Skynet seized control of our military forces. As you just saw, Skynet employed these prototypes to massacre the personnel at Edwards Air Force Base where they were being developed. No one survived.”

A Chinese general rose angrily from his seat.

“So you admit this catastrophe is your doing!” he said in accented English, pointing an accusing finger. “That it is your machines that started the war!”

“That was not our intention,” Ashdown stated. “But I take full responsibility for what Skynet, and its automated weapons systems, have wrought. There were those who opposed the Skynet initiative, who thought it unwise to place an artificial intelligence in charge of our entire defense network, but I was not among them. I thought that Skynet was the future of military technology, eliminating human error and vulnerabilities. In the Pentagon and elsewhere, I argued aggressively for its funding and development.”

He clicked off the images, letting the screen go dark once more.

“Believe me when I tell you, I will regret that to my dying day.”

The man’s guilt was palpable. Losenko sympathized. He knew too well what it felt like to have the deaths of millions on your conscience. But Ashdown’s burden made his own seem like a trifling misdemeanor.

I only rained hell down on Alaska, Losenko thought. Ashdown helped destroy the world.

How was the man able to bear that knowledge?

An Indian commander, whose turban and full beard identified him as a Sikh, confronted Ashdown.

“How do we know this is not a ruse? Mere special effects cooked up as part of an elaborate deception?” His skeptical tone reminded Losenko of Ivanov, as did his arguments. “In India, we have seen no such death-machines. Only invading troops with American accents!”

“Those are collaborators,” Ashdown insisted. “Misguided men and women who think that Skynet will let them and their families live if they cooperate with the machines.” His mouth twisted in disgust. “Some of them have even convinced themselves that Skynet will pacify the world, bringing about a golden age of endless peace and prosperity for those who survive. A pax robotica.” He spat out the words. “Those idiots have nothing to do with the Resistance.”

“So you say,” the Sikh commander pressed. “But why should we believe you? Because of some scary horror movies? Our own Bollywood could have produced footage just as convincing... before your missiles reduced it to rubble!”

“He is not lying.” Losenko rose to his feet. “I have seen these Terminators with my own eyes. They butchered my men when I returned to my homeland after the initial attack.” A burst of feedback sent out a squeal that hurt his ears and he adjusted the mike. “Such machines are already in mass-production on the Kola Peninsula. I would not be surprised if there are more factories in operation throughout the world.”

Other voices chimed in, both confirming Ashdown’s story and mocking it.

“It is true,” an Israeli woman reported. “Our intelligence agencies were aware of the United States cyber-research initiatives long before Judgment Day.”

“As were ours,” the French representative declared. “NATO had been consulted on the program, at the very highest levels.”

Ashdown tried to regain control of the meeting.

“All right, everybody, calm down! Additional information on the machines can be found in the dossiers in front of you. If you have any doubts, I suggest you review the evidence, then make up your own minds.” The hubbub gradually died down.

“In the meantime, we can’t afford to waste time debating the reality of the threat.” He gestured at Losenko, who was still standing before his microphone. “Our Russian comrade here is right. Skynet and its human pawns are already manufacturing new killing machines both in the United States and abroad. We also have reason to believe that new and improved models of the T-1 and HK are in development.”

“That’s what John Connor says,” a Japanese general pointed out. He scanned the dais. “Where is Connor? Is he here?”

Ashdown massaged his temples, as though he felt a headache coming on.

“There may be a misunderstanding here. John Connor is not the leader of this Resistance. As far as we can determine, he is a well-informed civilian who has taken it upon himself to alert the world to the danger posed by Skynet.” Confused muttering greeted Ashdown’s statement. “Don’t get me wrong. Connor is performing a valuable service to humanity. His broadcasts provide both information and inspiration, both of which are sorely needed in time of war. I respect and admire his efforts on behalf of the Resistance. But he is not a part of our command structure. He’s a symbol, a mouth-piece—nothing more.”

“Do you know where Connor is?” the Japanese delegate persisted. “Have you been in touch with him?”

Ashdown sighed. Losenko got the impression he was tired of having to answer such queries.

“We are making every effort to contact Connor. If he’s as committed to the Resistance as he says, I’m sure he will eventually enlist and take up arms under our banner. Right now, though, he’s proving a hard man to find— not that I blame him. That’s how he’s survived so far.” A note of exasperation crept into the general’s voice. “But, again, he is just a civilian. Not a trained military commander like everyone here.”

Just a civilian? Ashdown’s dismissive tone bothered Losenko, who recalled the Russian freedom fighters who had come to his rescue back home. Grushka and her valiant comrades had been “just” civilians, too, but they were the ones on the front lines, fighting against the machines.

“Excuse me, General,” Losenko interrupted. “Are you saying that there is no place for civilian militias in your Resistance?”

“Not at all,” Ashdown replied. “My country was founded by citizen-soldiers who fought back against oppression. Local militia groups have their uses. They harry the enemy, disrupt supply lines, and keep Skynet distracted.” He shrugged as though this wasn’t a topic on which he wished to waste too much breath.

“But let’s be realistic. Amateur guerillas and backyard saboteurs aren’t going to win this war. Skynet is too big and too smart. In the end, only a well-organized army and navy—commanded by professional soldiers—can keep the machines from overrunning our world.” He looked up at the gallery. “You, ladies and gentleman, are the hope of humanity, not scrappy fugitives like John Connor. Together, we can take back our planet.”

“Under whose command?” a Libyan colonel challenged. “Yours?” He shook an accusing finger. “Your arrogance created this disaster, but the rest of us paid the price!”

“We’ve all paid dearly,” Ashdown acknowledged. “My only son was stationed at a U.S. military base in Alaska. He died on Judgment Day, before any of us knew what was happening. We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.”

What?

Losenko dropped back into his seat, shaken to the core by what he had just heard. His mind flashed back to that terrible hour in the control room of K-115. He heard himself issue the command to fire, felt the deck lurch upon the launch of his missiles. Mushroom clouds blossomed like poisonous fungi over a land on which he had never laid eyes. Ashdown’s faceless offspring was consumed in a nuclear firestorm. His ashes were reduced to atoms. The Russian captain averted his gaze from the podium, unable to look Ashdown in the eyes. An inescapable truth rendered him numb.

This man’s flesh and blood died because of me.

Only Utyosov noticed his reaction.

“Dmitri? What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I....” Words failed Losenko. He couldn’t speak. With shaking hands, he poured himself a cup of cold water and gulped it down. “It is nothing, Bela,” he finally managed to croak. “A bad memory, that’s all. It... it took me by surprise.”

The older man nodded knowingly. He placed a comforting hand on Losenko’s shoulder. Sad eyes gazed on the captain with compassion.

“I understand, Dmitri. It happens to me sometimes, too.”

In the meantime, Ashdown’s painful admission did little to silence the voices of his attackers.

“You expect us to feel sorry for you because you lost your son!” the Chinese general rebuked him. “Billions of sons and daughters have died. My country is a wasteland because of you. Now you expect us to help you clean up your mess? Your arrogance is beyond comprehension!”

“Let him speak!” A British naval officer came to Ashdown’s defense. “What’s done is done. The real atrocity now would be to fight amongst ourselves while the machines sink their claws into the world.”

“If there really are machines.” The Indian delegate stuck to his conspiracy theory. “They are using scare tactics to bring us all in line.”

“Didn’t you hear me before?” the Israeli snapped. “Skynet is real. It’s been in the works since the 1980s.”

The Sikh smirked.

“Don’t be so naive. The Americans could have been laying the groundwork for this deception for years. To cover their tracks in the event of a failed global takeover.”

“If that’s what you think,” a Pakistani general growled, “then why are you here?”

The Sikh gathered up his things.

“I’m asking myself that same question.”

The Indian contingent headed for the exit. The Chinese, Cubans, and Libyans moved to follow them. Losenko saw the entire summit unraveling, along with any hope for a united front against the machines. This was just what John Connor had warned them not to do.

“Wait!” He rose and blocked the door, despite the glares that confronted him. “My friends, let us not make any rash decisions. We all need to maintain an even keel—or this storm will sink us.” He looked at Ashdown. “Perhaps a recess is in order?”

“Good idea,” Ashdown agreed. Tempers needed a chance to cool. “It’s time for a break.” He stepped away from the podium. “Lunch will be served in the library next door.”

Scowling, the departing delegates halted their exodus. Losenko backed away from the exit. Old tensions, it seemed, had not been burned away in the fires of Armageddon. He could only hope that the Resistance was more movement than mirage.

If it was an illusion, then John Connor really would be just an empty voice on the airwaves.

Lunch consisted of turtle soup served in an upside-down tortoise shell the size of a large banquet punch bowl, and steamed sea cucumbers. The Israeli woman turned up her nose at the former, but the rest of the delegates looked eager to sample the exotic fare. The tantalizing aroma of the soup was tempting after many months spent subsisting on canned fare from the Gorshkov’s galley, but Losenko found he had little appetite.

The heated emotions and troubling revelations of the summit left his stomach tied in knots. He spotted Ashdown across the small, one-room library and his spirits sank. He was not looking forward to meeting the man in person.

Best to get it over with.

Leaving Fokin and Utyosov to share a meal, Losenko crossed the floor toward the American. The other delegates huddled in small cliques, mostly defined by their old global alliances. There was little mingling going on; the various factions kept to themselves.

Oversized color blow-ups of the islands’ unique flora and fauna were mounted on the walls. Two-dimensional petrels and iguanas posed against lush, verdant foliage. The rainbow-hued photographs ill fit the tense atmosphere. Nobody examined the various scientific journals shelved upon the stacks. Survival—not science—was all that mattered now.

Ashdown was conferring with his French, British, and Canadian counterparts over by the coffee urn. Losenko noticed that the general did not appear to be eating, either. One more thing they had in common. Ashdown looked up at his approach. He stepped forward, away from his Western colleagues.

Losenko steeled himself for what was to come.

He could barely look at the man without flinching.

“Good day,” Ashdown greeted him gruffly. “Losenko, isn’t it? That was good work bringing down that destroyer.” The general had obviously been briefed on all of his guests. “It couldn’t have been easy, firing on one of your own ships. Not exactly what any of us signed up for. Goes against the grain.”

Losenko took little pride in sinking the Smetlivy.

“I did what I had to do.”

“That’s what command is all about, making the tough decisions when things get hot.” Ashdown looked Losenko over, taking his measure. “I’ll tell you something, Captain. It’s men like you and me—real soldiers and seamen, with gunpowder in our veins—who are going to win this war.”

Losenko wondered what Ashdown’s son had looked like, whether he resembled his father. Had they been close?

“I understand you’re a submariner,” Ashdown continued. “I was under the waves myself when everything went to hell. Conducting an inspection of one of our Los Angeles class SSNs, the USS Wilmington. Been my base of operations ever since.” He glanced around them. “How do you think I got to this volcanic pit stop?”

Now that the moment had come, Losenko debated whether he should truly confess to Ashdown his role in his son’s death. Was it possible that such an admission might do more harm than good, placing yet more stress on an already fragile detente? He almost changed his mind, then he remembered how Ashdown had acknowledged his own complicity in Skynet’s creation. The American general could have pretended that he had opposed Skynet, that he had been overruled by his superiors, but instead he had accepted his fair share of the blame.

Losenko decided that Ashdown deserved the same honesty regarding the fate of his child.

“There is something I must tell you, General, which I fear may be painful to you.” Losenko swallowed hard. His mouth suddenly felt as dry as the Gobi Desert. “But it is best that there be no secrets between us.”

Ashdown gave him a quizzical look. He put down his coffee and offered his full attention.

“All right. Fire away.”

His choice of words was viciously ironic.

“Your son,” Losenko began. The general stiffened at the words. “My submarine, K-115, was patrolling beneath the Barents Sea when we received word of the attack on our homeland. Our orders were to retaliate, and I followed those orders. I launched several ballistic missiles, armed with multiple nuclear warheads, at strategic targets in the state of Alaska. Your son’s base was surely among those targets.”

Now it was Ashdown who was rendered speechless. His entire body froze. His face flushed with anger, and a vein throbbed against his temple. Losenko was reminded of a nuclear core approaching meltdown. He braced himself for the inevitable explosion.

Perhaps I should have hung onto my sidearm.

But when Ashdown finally spoke, his voice was as cold as the frozen north.

“You were just doing your duty,” he admitted through clenched teeth. “Like I would have done.” He clamped down on his obvious pain and anger. “What’s important now is that we unplug Skynet for good.” He took a deep breath. “If you’ll excuse me now, I have a war to fight.”

He left Losenko standing there, wondering if he had just delivered a death-blow to the Resistance. How could any man, no matter how committed to the greater good, work beside the man who had sentenced his own son to a fiery holocaust?

That was the question, Losenko realized, that many of the other delegates had to be asking about each other. Skynet was just an abstraction; old animosities and vendettas ran deep.

As deep, perhaps, as the ocean.

By the time the meeting reconvened, inflamed emotions had indeed died down a little. Never underestimate the power of a good meal, Losenko mused, especially among men and women who have been foraging for survival for months. It was also likely that, faced with the possibility of going it alone once more, many of the more obstreperous delegations might have chosen not to abandon the prospect of an alliance too quickly.

People filed back into the auditorium. The translators got back to work.

The Japanese general, who had been introduced to Losenko as Seiji Tanaka, proposed a compromise.

“Despite our differences, shall we at least agree that joint efforts are required to deal with the chaos now confronting the world?” He tactfully avoided any mention of Skynet or Terminators. “With civilization in ruins, it is imperative that our armed forces work together to restore order—and overcome whatever forces threaten the remains of humanity. Escalating military conflicts will only hasten our extinction. We cannot afford another Judgment Day.”

Earpieces translated his moving appeal. Grudging murmurs of consent came from the gallery. Losenko was encouraged by the response.

The Chinese delegate spoke again.

“No one denies the necessity of international cooperation during this crisis. Strong leadership is required. But who will provide that leadership? That is the question that concerns us.”

“We need someone who fully understands the nature of the enemy,” the British commander proposed. “Someone who has already proven his ability to bring together this alliance.” She was a formidable older woman with short white hair and a severe expression. “I nominate General Ashdown.”

Her suggestion provoked an uproar. Angry protests in multiple languages erupted from the gallery. The Chinese delegate glared at the British contingent.

“That is unacceptable!” he cried vehemently. “Just because you choose to be the Americans’ lap dogs, as always, do not expect the rest of the world to forget who is responsible for our downfall.”

“General Ashdown knows more about the threat than anyone here,” the French delegate chimed in. “And this meeting would not be taking place if not for his vision and organization.” He sneered at the Chinese. “I second the nomination.”

“Let us put it to a vote.” Tanaka attempted to play peacemaker once again. “General Ashdown. Do you have anything you wish to say before we poll the assembly?”

Ashdown stepped up to the podium.

“Just that nobody here wants to make things right more than me.” His grave expression attested to his sincerity. “If you elect me to this command, I pledge upon my sacred honor that I will not rest until humanity has a second chance to live in peace and security again. That’s all.”

“Very well,” Tanaka said, nodding. “Shall we conduct the vote?”

After a brief debate, the notion of a secret ballot was rejected. Everyone wanted to know how the others stood. Proceeding around the room, the highest-ranking member of each delegation rose to cast their vote. The air-conditioned atmosphere was fraught with tension. Standing stiffly upon the dais, his arms clasped behind his back, Ashdown awaited the judgment of his peers.

Losenko wondered how he would react if the vote went against him.

Predictably, the voting broke along the old geopolitical fissures. NATO and the other western nations, including Australia and New Zealand, supported Ashdown, while China, India, Cuba, and various others voted against the American general. Israel and Pakistan championed Ashdown. Libya and Iran did not. South America and Africa mostly sided with the Americans, with a few notable exceptions such as Venezuela and the Sudan.

The sharp divisions depressed Losenko. Such durable prejudices boded ill for the Resistance.

The more things change....

Nevertheless, as his own time to vote drew near, Losenko found himself torn. He did not wish to fall into the trap of the old ways of thinking, yet he had his reservations about Ashdown. What the man had done in convening the summit was laudable, but his dismissive attitude toward civilian militias concerned him. The old military structures were in tatters, or else controlled by Skynet. It was going to require flexible thinking—and the heroic efforts of ordinary people like Grushka and Josef—to take back the Earth.

He feared that the general might be too much of a career soldier to adapt to this new world of man against machine. Ashdown was a product of the Pentagon, the very people who had thought computers were to be trusted more than the men and women who ran them.

He whispered to Utyosov.

“What do you think, Bela?”

“I’m just a tired old man with a bad heart,” the retired captain answered. Losenko outranked him by virtue of still being in active service. “You will be fighting this war longer than I will. You must decide for yourself.”

General Tanaka called on Losenko. He could feel Fokin’s fierce gaze burning into the back of his skull, a proxy for Ivanov. Then he considered the hostile faces of the anti-Ashdown faction. It was possible that the American general was simply too divisive a choice.

Yet Losenko felt he owed the man a debt, due to the tragic loss of his son.

But there is too much at stake to allow my own troubled conscience to sway my judgment.

“Captain Losenko?” Tanaka prompted again. “How does Russia vote?”

Losenko made his decision.

“Nyet.”

Down on the dais, Ashdown did not look surprised by his answer.

Despite the Russian’s vote, however, the American was elected by a narrow majority. The Chinese delegation walked out without a word, taking with it many of its allies and satellites. Empty seats faced Ashdown as he stepped up to the podium once more.

“Let them go,” the newly appointed commander of the Resistance decreed. He watched his unhappy adversaries exit the auditorium. “They’ll be back when the Terminators come knocking.” He looked up at the gallery, which was much less crowded than it had been before. Still, not all the dissenters had abandoned the summit; Russia and a few others remained.

“Those of you who voted for me, I thank you for your support.” He looked directly at Losenko. “And I also thank those of you who opposed my nomination, but still see the value in this alliance. I give you my word that I will do my level best to live up to the profound responsibility you have entrusted me with. One way or another, Skynet is going down.”

There was a smattering of applause. Losenko clapped politely. So did Utyosov.

Sergeant Fokin kept his hands in his lap.

“Let’s call it a day,” Ashdown said, perhaps to give the losing faction time to get used to the idea. “We’ll begin strategy sessions tomorrow. Start pooling our intel and setting up secure communications and supply networks.” His voice grew even more sober. He looked the audience over sternly. “This was the easy part, people. Tomorrow we roll up our sleeves and get to work.” He saluted the assembly. “Dismissed.”

The remaining delegates began to file out of the auditorium. Accommodations had been arranged in the nearby community of Puerto Ayora. Losenko was about to invite Utyosov to join him for a drink, when Corporal Ortega tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, skipper. The general would like to have a word with you.”

Now what? Losenko wondered. His gut twisted in anticipation. Had an ugly confrontation over the bombing of Alaska merely been postponed before? Or was Ashdown simply unhappy that Losenko had voted against him. Perhaps he preferred that Utyosov take charge of the Russian end of the Resistance.

“Of course,” he assented. For better or for worse, Ashdown was his commanding officer now. He made his excuses to Utyosov. Sergeant Fokin wanted to accompany him, but Losenko insisted that he watch over the older captain instead. Then he let Ortega escort him from the gallery.

He found Ashdown back in the library, which had already been converted into an impromptu command center. Maps and aerial surveillance photos had been pinned up over the nature photographs. A bull’s-eye had been drawn over a map of southern California. Ashdown was huddled over a stack of reports and dispatches when Losenko came in. He dismissed his aides and Ortega.

“Give us the room.”

The other officers departed, leaving the two men alone. Losenko faced Ashdown, prepared to accept the consequences of his actions, no matter what they might be.

“You asked to see me, General?”

“Yes, Captain.” He gestured at a chair across from him. “Please sit down.”

Losenko had a flash of deja vu, recalling his own tense encounter with Ivanov in the stateroom aboard the Gorshkov. It felt strange to have the roles reversed. It had been some time since he had reported to a superior officer.

He took the seat.

“What is this about, sir?”

Ashdown looked up from his reports. His face was grim.

“I won’t beat about the bush, Captain. I want you on my staff, as my second-in-command.”

Losenko’s jaw dropped. Of all the outcomes he had expected from the meeting, this one had never crossed his mind.

“I don’t understand, sir,” he said when he could speak again. “Why me?”

“Plenty of reasons.” Ashdown ticked them off on his fingers. “One, politics. You saw what it was like in that meeting. There are a lot of people who don’t like the fact that I won that vote. Picking somebody from the other side as my right-hand man might go a long way toward mending that rift.

“Two, you fired on your own country’s ship. Like I said before, that shows that you can make the tough calls, and that you won’t let old loyalties get in the way of defeating Skynet.

“Three, I like that you stood up to me before. Not just in the voting, but when we debated the value of civilian militias. I don’t need yes-men, Losenko. I need someone who can give me an opposing viewpoint, and let me know when I have my head up my ass.” He shook his head ruefully. “If I had listened to people like you before, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Ashdown’s arguments made sense, but Losenko still had trouble accepting that the man was serious. There was too much tragic history between them. “But... your Son....”

The general winced. “I admit it, I’m not looking forward to having you in my face every day. The last thing I want is a walking, talking reminder of what happened to my boy.”

He pulled out a battered leather wallet and flipped it open to expose a small photo of a young man in a U.S. Air Force uniform. Losenko saw the family resemblance. Remorse stabbed at his heart. Is this the general’s revenge? Losenko thought. Giving me a face to go with my guilt?

If so, it was cruelly effective.

Ashdown snapped the wallet closed.

“I might never forget what you did, Losenko, but you had the guts to tell me about it to my face. That’s the kind of nerve we’re going to need to win this war.”

Losenko didn’t know whether to be flattered or appalled. His brain struggled to catch up.

“But I have a ship....”

“You’ve got a first officer, right? Someone you can trust to take your place?”

Losenko thought of Ivanov. Hadn’t Utyosov said earlier that Alexei deserved a command of his own? He doubted that this was exactly how anyone envisioned that happening, least of all Ivanov!

“That is the case,” he conceded. “But....”

“Good,” Ashdown stated, as though the matter was settled. “Judgment Day tore the guts out of mankind’s military. We’re all going to have to step up to the plate if we want to win this thing. You and your XO are hardly the only ones who’ll be getting boosted up the chain of command, maybe faster than you would have liked.”

He thrust out his hand.

“Welcome to the Resistance, General Losenko.”

“General?” Losenko thought perhaps Ashdown had misspoken.

Ashdown looked him in the eyes.

“You heard me, Losenko. By the authority just vested in me, I hereby promote you to a general of the Resistance.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a red armband. “This is yours if you want it.”

Losenko didn’t know what to say. Then he had to brace himself.

A sudden explosion shook the building.