Terminator Salvation: Cold War

CHAPTER NINETEEN

2003

The explosion rattled the library. Losenko was knocked off his feet. Books and journals were thrown from their shelves. Chairs toppled over. Dust and plaster rained down from the ceiling.

Ashdown grabbed onto his desk to keep from falling. Charts and documents blew about the room before wafting down to the floor. Losenko swatted the falling papers away from his face. His ears were ringing.

He stared up in alarm. It had come from above them, perhaps from the roof of the research station. He threw his arm over his face, half-expecting the ceiling to cave in on them, but only dislodged plaster speckled him. The echoes of the unexpected detonation began to fade away, and he realized that he had survived the bombing. The walls were still standing, at least for the moment.

He scrambled to his feet, choking on the dust.

“General?”

Ashdown smacked his fist on the desk. Although spattered with debris, he appeared unharmed. “What the Sam Hill was that? Are we under attack?” He appeared more angry than alarmed. His voice was hoarse. “Damnit, this was supposed to be a secure location!”

Losenko doubted the explosion was accidental. But who was responsible? The Chinese and their allies? The human collaborators? Skynet? The Resistance had too many enemies. For a second, he even wondered if maybe Ivanov had launched one of the Gorshkov’s cruise missiles at the summit.

Don’t be ridiculous, he chided himself. Alexei is angry, not insane.

The library door banged open. Corporal Ortega— accompanied by two armed security guards—burst into the library.

“General Ashdown!” the pilot called out through the dusty haze. An M-16 was cradled in her arms. “Are you all right?”

Ashdown patted himself down.

“Looks like it,” he said brusquely. He squinted at Losenko, quickly ascertaining that the Russian was intact as well, before getting straight to business. “Sitrep... now!”;

“A bomb, sir!” Ortega reported breathlessly. “On the roof. It took out our primary communications and radar arrays.” Her agitated voice crept up an octave. “We’ve been sabotaged!”

“No shit,” Ashdown replied. “We’ve got a goddamn mole in our midst. Maybe more than one.”

Ortega beckoned from the doorway.

“We need to get you out of here, sir. The roof’s on fire. This whole building could go up.”

The pilot wasn’t exaggerating. Smoke began to seep into the library. Losenko heard flames crackling overhead. Weakened rafters creaked ominously. He tugged on his collar; the room was already feeling uncomfortably warm. A smoke alarm went off, hurting his ears. The high-pitched squeal made it seem like the center itself was screaming in pain.

“Understood.” Ashdown scooped up the nearest maps and reports and thrust them carelessly into a battered leather valise. He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t forgetting something important. “All right, let’s go.” He nodded toward the newly appointed Russian general. “Losenko, you’re with me.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Losenko was concerned about Utyosov and Sergeant Fokin, but now wasn’t the time to go searching for them. He would have to hope that his fellow Russians could look after themselves. On impulse, he snatched the red armband from where it had landed on the floor, and slipped it over his sleeve. “I’m ready.”

The guards, each toting an M-16, led the way as they rushed out of the burning building. Losenko reached for his own pistol, then remembered that he had surrendered it earlier. He scowled, unhappy to be without a weapon at such a moment. What if the saboteurs intended further mischief?

“General,” he reminded Ashdown, “I am unarmed.”

Ashdown instantly grasped his predicament.

“Corporal!” he barked at Ortega. “Give General Losenko your sidearm.”

“General?” Ortega did a double take, but handed over the weapon without hesitation. “Here you go, skipper.”

The Glock automatic pistol fit comfortably into Losenko’s grip. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

The party scurried off the front porch onto the boardwalk. The sun was sinking in the west, and twilight was creeping across the island. Losenko paused to look back at the research station. Bright orange flames ascended from the shingled roof. The satellite dishes and antennae were nothing but mangled metal, obscured by the smoke and flames. Alarmed delegates and their bodyguards ran from the building; Losenko searched for Utyosov and Fokin, but did not see them.

A fire crew hustled to put out the blaze. Ashdown looked like he was tempted to join them, but thought better of it.

“My sub, the Wilmington, is docked down at the bay,” he said. “We need to get it away from here. This island isn’t safe anymore.”

Losenko had thoroughly studied Santa Cruz on the way to the summit. As he recalled, the anchorage was about 2.5 kilometers away. The island’s only paved road connected the research center with the port of Puerto Ayora.

“I can drive you, sir,” Ortega volunteered. “My jeep is parked nearby.”

“You’ve got yourself a fare, Corporal.” He strode past her decisively, and motioned to the Russian. “Let’s get going.”

Before they could head for the parking lot, however, the base’s anti-aircraft units boomed into action. A pair of Avenger air defense systems, mounted atop a pair of modified Humvees, fired a round of Stinger missiles into the sky.

“Incoming!” came the shout, and a soldier pointed northwest into the setting sun. “We have company!”

A low hum, like a swarm of angry bees, came from above. Losenko looked up to see an unmanned aerial vehicle—less sophisticated than the Hunter-Killer prototype Ashdown had warned of before—soaring toward them at a high altitude. Missiles were mounted to the underside of its wings. It took Losenko only a moment to identify the aircraft as one of the U.S. military’s new radio-controlled drones. A Predator maybe, or a Reaper. Both, he knew, had been designed to target suspected terrorist bases.

“Crap!” Ashdown exclaimed. “That used to be one of ours!”

The UAV unleashed its lethal payload. A hellfire missile rocketed downward at the blazing research station, which possessed a fiery signature that made it almost impossible to miss. A thunderous explosion destroyed the structure in an instant. A tremendous blast of heat knocked Losenko to the ground. Flaming shrapnel whistled above him. He threw his hands over his head. Less than a meter away, Ashdown cried out in pain. Screams and curses came from closer to the blast.

The fire crew, Losenko realized.

He lifted his head and looked back at what had once been the Charles Darwin Research Station. The building had been razed to its foundation; nothing of the facility remained. Dead and injured soldiers littered the charred cactus garden and boardwalk. One of the Humvees had overturned, its gunner trapped beneath it. A guardsman was on fire. He threw himself onto the ground and rolled about, shrieking, while another soldier worked frantically to douse the flames.

Losenko prayed that Utyosov and Fokin had not lingered behind to wait for him. The remaining Avenger swiveled its turret, trying to catch the UAV in its sights. Another Stinger rocketed into the sky.

“Damnit!” Ashdown cursed, rising from the splintered ruins of the boardwalk. A flying shard of glass had carved a crescent-shaped gash near his left eye. Blood streamed down his face; another centimeter and he would have lost the eye itself. “First, they took out our radar. Then they caught us with our pants down. The goddamn machines knew just what they were doing!”

A Stinger finally nailed the UAV. The primitive Hunter-Killer exploded in the sky. Metal debris was scattered like hail across the island. Ragged cheers erupted from the soldiers who were still standing.

Ortega helped Losenko to his feet.

“This way, sir!” she called to Ashdown and his guards. “There could be more on the way!”

Losenko hated leaving the injured and the dying behind, but the pilot was right. Where there was one Predator, there could be another. With the station’s radar reduced to molten slag, they would have little warning of another sortie. He limped after the others, his eyes scanning the horizon for flying Hunter-Killers. Would his throbbing ears even hear them humming?

They made it to the parking lot, about fifty meters from the ruins of the science station. An eclectic assortment of vehicles, from pickup trucks to motorcycles, filled the lot. Ortega pointed toward an olive-colored Jeep at the far end of the pavement. She let out a sigh of relief.

“Almost there!”

Good, Losenko thought. He had twisted his leg when he fell. He looked forward to getting off his feet and back to sea where he belonged. Perhaps the Wilmington could arrange to rendevous with the Gorshkov far from these dangerous islands?

I need to inform Ivanov of his new command....

The sickening tang of freshly spilled blood wafted past his nose, putting him on alert. Glancing around, he glimpsed a body lying between two nearby vehicles. A leg stuck out into view. A crimson stream flowed out from beneath a parked ambulance. The blue trousers and black sneakers matched those worn by the crew of K-115.

Fokin?

“Watch out!” Losenko spied the glint of a rifle barrel poking up from behind the hood of Ortega’s jeep. Someone was lying in ambush. “Sniper!”

A muzzle flared. Automatic weapon’s fire tore into Ortega, who collapsed onto the pavement. After surviving a battle against a Russian destroyer and the crash of her helicopter, the irrepressible pilot was gunned down only a few meters away from her own vehicle. Her body thrashed upon the blacktop, then fell still. A scarlet halo spread out around her head. The only flying she would be doing now would be on the wings of angels.

No! Losenko tackled Ashdown, knocking him out of the line of fire. The two men tumbled behind the shelter of an empty minivan. One of the general’s guards tried to fire back at the sniper, but took a bullet in the shoulder for his efforts. He dropped to the ground, clutching his wounded arm.

The other guard scrambled for safety. He dived behind the wheel of a rundown tour bus. Bullets chased after him. Losenko couldn’t tell if he was hit or not.

“Who the hell?” Ashdown blustered. The two men crouched behind the van while red-hot lead slammed into the other side. Bullets blew out the vehicle’s windows, sprinkling them with cubes of safety glass. “The mole?”

“One of them, certainly.” Losenko heard the sniper let loose another burst. The staccato report reminded him of a Russian AK-47, perhaps the very one that Fokin had brought with him from K-115. He suspected that the sergeant had reclaimed his weapon from the summit security forces before being waylaid by some unknown traitor. All he had seen was Fokin’s leg, but he had no doubt that the unfortunate seaman had joined Zamyatin and Ostrovosky and too many others.

My crew is shrinking, day by day.

He guessed that Utyosov was dead, as well.

“Ortega?” Ashdown asked.

Losenko shook his head. He remembered shaking the female pilot’s hand on the Gorshkov’s slippery deck only weeks ago. He wished he’d had a chance to get to know her better.

“Bastard!” Ashdown looked like he wanted to tear the sniper to pieces with his bare hands. Losenko knew how he felt. “Who do you think that miserable son of a bitch is? And how the hell are we going to get to that jeep?”

The sniper interrupted his fire.

“Dmitri?” a voice called out to Losenko in Russian. “Is that you?”

Utyosov? Losenko couldn’t believe his ears. He’s the sniper?

“Bela?” He kept his head down, but shouted back. “Bela! What are you doing? Have you gone mad?”

Ashdown blinked in surprise. He wiped the blood from his eye.

“You know this lunatic?”

“A decorated Russian captain,” Losenko answered. “And an old friend.”

Ashdown spat upon the ground.

“Well, that old friend has screwed us all! And the Resistance!”

“Leave this place, Dmitri!” Utyosov urged him. “I don’t want to kill you, too. If you run now, you might have a chance!”

Losenko wasn’t going to desert Ashdown and the others. “Don’t shoot, Bela!” Pistol in hand, he started to stand up. “I just want to talk!”

Ashdown grabbed onto him, tugging him back down.

“Are you out of your mind? That bastard just killed Ortega!”

“I know this man!” Losenko insisted. He pulled free of Ashdown’s grip. “Let me try to reason with him!” He stood up behind the hood of the van, exposing himself to view. His hands were up, and his Glock was pointed upward, toward the sky. “Here I am, Bela! Talk to me!”

“There’s nothing to talk about!” Utyosov pointed the stolen AK-47 at Losenko. “Go, Dmitri! I’m giving you one chance. For old time’s sake!”

“For God’s sake, Losenko!” Ashdown barked. “Get down! That’s an order!”

Losenko ignored him. He focused on his former comrade.

“But why, Bela? I don’t understand. Did you kill Fokin?”

“I had no choice!” The old man did not deny his guilt. “They have my granddaughter, my little Anastasia!” Trembling hands caused the rifle to shake. “I had to tell them about the summit! They were going to torture her if I didn’t!” Anguish contorted his face, followed by a sudden grimace of pain. A cold sweat broke out across his features. He gasped for breath. “My heart...!”

Utyosov staggered behind the Jeep. The rifle slipped from his fingers. It clattered upon the pavement.

Losenko saw his opportunity. His gun arm snapped down. He squeezed the trigger of the Glock.

A single shot felled Utyosov. He crumpled to the ground behind the Jeep. Losenko heard him whimper. He swept the parking lot with his gun, just in case Utyosov had an accomplice, but no other targets presented themselves.

“All clear!”

Ignoring Ashdown’s further protests, he rushed to Utyosov’s side. He found the old sailor sprawled on the pavement, gasping out his final breaths. Bright arterial blood spurted from the bullet hole in his chest. His face was ashen.

“Good shot, Dmitri,” he murmured weakly. “The Navy trained you well....”

“Blast you, Bela!” Losenko felt sick to his stomach. His gorge rose. He was tired of killing his own countrymen. “Why did you make me do this?”

Utyosov coughed. A bloody froth stained his thick mustache.

“Maybe it’s better this way, Dmitri. You heard the fighting in there, the hatred. We would have killed ourselves eventually, even without Skynet. Maybe this is the only solution... maybe the machines will bring us peace....”

His voice trailed away. Glassy eyes stared blankly into oblivion.

No, my friend. Losenko closed the old man’s eyes. He thought of all the people who had died on Judgment Day, and all who had suffered since, including, no doubt, Utyosov’s doomed granddaughter. There will be no peace until Skynet is destroyed.

“Losenko!” Ashdown called to him. The general fished Ortega’s car keys from her body. He helped the wounded guard into the jeep, then got behind the wheel. The second guardsman ran to join them. Ashdown revved the engine. “You coming?”

“Just a moment!” Losenko confiscated the AK-47, then took the time to assure himself that Fokin was indeed beyond saving. The murdered sergeant had no pulse; his body was already going cold. From the looks of things, Utyosov had struck Fokin from behind—perhaps when the crewman had been distracted by the explosions—then cut his throat. In all the chaos and confusion, no one had noticed the old Russian’s treachery. Poor Fokin had never seen it coming.

Ashdown honked the Jeep’s horn.

“You done there?”

“Yes, I am.” Losenko silently commended the dead seaman for his sacrifice. He turned and limped hurriedly over to the Jeep, detouring around Ortega’s lifeless body. Their escape from Santa Cruz was proving a costly one.

He dropped into the passenger seat next to Ashdown.

“I am ready to leave.”

“Good of you to join us!” Ashdown put the Jeep into gear. They peeled out of the parking lot onto the island’s only main thoroughfare. Palm trees blurred past them as the Jeep sped down the road toward the harbor. The American general groused over the roar of the wind. Drying blood caked his scarred face like war paint. “I don’t know what you said to your loco comrade back there, but that’s the kind of ‘talking’ I can get behind. You took care of that problem all right.”

Losenko didn’t want to talk about it.

“Incoming!” a guard shouted from the back seat. He pointed at the sky.

To Losenko’s dismay, another unmanned drone soared overhead. Its ominous hum was by now far too familiar. He tensed, waiting for the Predator to fire upon the Jeep, but the UAV zipped past them and continued on toward the port.

He recalled that many of the summit’s delegates were residing in Puerto Ayora.

There were explosions up ahead as the drone unleashed its missiles on the quaint seaside community. Hotels, bars, and restaurants which had once catered to the tourist trade now went up in flames. Native islanders ran screaming from collapsed buildings. Shock waves rocked the Jeep, but Ashdown managed to keep its wheels on the road. Heedless of the destruction, they zoomed through the middle of the town, which had become a war zone. There was only one way to the sub and this was it.

Firestorms flanked the roadway. An air raid siren, left over from World War II, wailed like a banshee. The Jeep swerved wildly to avoid the rubble raining down on the pavement; the sudden turns tossed Losenko back and forth in his seat. The rampant destruction tugged at his heart; Puerto Ayora had largely avoided the war until now. He wondered if Ashdown blamed himself for bringing this havoc down upon the unsuspecting populace.

Within minutes, Academy Bay stretched before them. Prior to Judgment Day, the harbor had attracted yachts and cruise ships from around the world. Now only a handful of fishing boats shared the docks with the U.S.S. Wilmington. The nuclear attack sub was berthed at one of the outer piers. The Los Angeles-class vessel was smaller than K-115, only 110 meters from bow to stern, but it still dwarfed every other vessel in the water. A rubbery black coating helped shield it from enemy sonar. Its sail and masts rose high above its deck.

Gunfire and explosions echoed across the harbor.

“Damn!” Ashdown cursed. “I was afraid of this!”

The Wilmington was under attack. Soldiers and seamen, sporting red armbands over a random mixture of civilian garb and uniforms, scrambled across the deck, firing on the predator with both machineguns and shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. A Stinger nailed the UAV before it could fire its remaining weapons. The enemy drone crashed down into the bay.

“Good shot!” Ashdown gloated. “That’ll teach ‘em!”

He hit the gas. The Jeep bounced down the road toward the docks, before squealing to a halt only a few feet from the wharf. The men clambered out of the Jeep and raced down the dock, still supporting the wounded man. A salt breeze blew against their faces, dispersing the smoke from downtown. Panicked gulls squawked overhead. Ashdown was the first across the gangplank, where he was met by a uniformed officer wearing captain’s bars.

He was a slender black man with a short brown crewcut, about Losenko’s age. Sweat soaked through the pits of his short-sleeve shirt.

“General!” A deep bass voice held an American accent. “We weren’t sure you were still alive.”

“Well, it wasn’t for lack of trying on the machines’ part,” Ashdown complained. He winced as his fingers explored the gash by his eye. “And we’re not in the clear yet. Make ready for immediate departure!”

“Way ahead of you, sir.” Across the deck, crewmen were already taking in the lines binding the sub to the pier. “We started rigging for a quick escape as soon as we got word of the attack on the science station.” The captain nodded at Losenko as the Russian helped the injured guardsman onto the sub. “Welcome aboard, gentlemen.”

Ashdown rushed through introductions.

“Captain Smallwood, meet General Losenko. He’s just joined the Resistance. And disposed of one metal-loving traitor already.”

Losenko flinched, but said nothing.

“Good for you, sir!” Smallwood saluted Losenko. He peered nervously up at the sky, before escorting them to a hatch. “Now let’s get underway before another one of those damn predators comes winging for us.”

Losenko agreed absolutely. He would have made the same call if this was his ship. He peered out at the mouth of the harbor. Deep water meant safety. He wondered how Ivanov was doing aboard K-115.

Ashdown seemed to read his mind.

“So what’s up with that boat of yours, General?”

“I wish I knew.”

Captain Second-Rank Alexei Ivanov lowered the periscope. His scowl deepened. Captain Losenko had been gone for hours now, and the longer he was away, the more convinced Ivanov was becoming that his onetime friend and mentor had made a colossal mistake.

How could the captain even think of meeting with the very people responsible for the destruction of their homeland, for the deaths of hundreds of millions of innocent men, women, and children? It was like conferring with Hitler.

Never mind the fact that those American helicopters had helped them defeat the Smetlivy. Ivanov rather suspected that the Apaches had been more interested in sinking a Russian destroyer than assisting the Gorshkov. Currying favor with the captain had merely been an added bonus, or so Ivanov assumed. All part of an overall strategy to distract and deceive the world from the truth behind Judgment Day.

Do they truly think we can ever forget what they did? Acid churned in his gut. He felt his blood pressure rising at the very thought. An annoying muscle twitched beneath his cheek. I can never forget. Never!

K-115 cruised at periscope depth off the coast of Santa Cruz, carefully keeping watching over the entrance to the harbor. It was still too early to expect the captain’s signal, yet Ivanov found himself compulsively scanning the island, returning to the periscope again and again like a tongue to an aching tooth.

What am I looking for? he asked himself. Proof that the captain and Fokin have walked into a trap?

“Captain Ivanov!” Michenko rushed from the radio shack. “Something’s happening on the island. We’re picking up reports of explosions, anti-aircraft fire, and casualties! I think the Resistance is under attack.”

“The Americans, you mean.” He did not swallow any of this nonsense about the Resistance—the summit had been convened by a Yankee general, that was all Ivanov needed to know. But this talk of hostilities concerned him. “Under attack by who?”

Skynet? Just for a second, he remembered the captain’s absurd conviction that an insane computer program was out to destroy humanity. Was it conceivable that there was something to that theory after all? No, that’s ridiculous. He shook his head, clearing the notion from his brain. I know who the enemy is....

“I don’t know, sir,” Michenko replied. “The reports are a jumble. The Resis—I mean, the Americans—sound like they were caught completely off guard!” He fumbled with his printouts. Sweat dripped from his forehead. “Do you think the captain is all right, sir?”

“How the hell do I know?” Ivanov snapped. He hurriedly raised the periscope once more. He rotated it toward the island. Acid climbed his throat as his own eyes confirmed what the radio shack was reporting.

Smoke and flames were climbing high above Santa Cruz, visible even from kilometers away. He increased the magnification to get a better look at the blaze. The flames appeared to be coming from the southern coast of the island, inside the harbor.

Exactly where the so-called “summit” was being held.

Damnation, he thought. Now what should I do?

Part of him thought that he should immediately turn the submarine about and head out into the Pacific, putting as much distance as possible between K-115 and whatever hostilities were engulfing Santa Cruz. That would be the prudent choice, the one Moscow would have wanted, back when there still was a Moscow. He could not risk the Gorshkov for the sake of two men—even if one of those men was the rightful captain of the vessel.

I should get as far away from here as possible, especially since we don’t even know what’s happening!

And yet... despite their recent differences, he was reluctant to leave Losenko in jeopardy. The captain is the highest-ranking Russian military officer I know to have survived Judgment Day, he rationalized. Surely, that warrants special consideration.

Didn’t it?

“Captain!” Pavlinko looked up from the radar console. “I’m detecting aircraft approaching Santa Cruz.” He scrutinized the display on his screen. “One, maybe two helicopters heading for the island at high speed.”

Ivanov struggled to keep up with events. He felt as if he was under siege.

“Point of origin?”

“One of the smaller islands,” Pavlinko surmised. The Galapagos were composed of numerous islands of differing sizes. “Pinzon, maybe.”

Helicopters? Explosions? Ivanov massaged the itchy scar on his forehead, trying to sort out what was happening. Was this the trap he had feared, springing shut at last? But why would the Americans attack their own headquarters? It made no sense.

All he knew for certain was that Captain Losenko was trapped in the middle of the chaos.

“Ahead full speed,” he ordered. “Plot an intercept course for those helicopters.”

Before he abandoned Losenko, he wanted to determine who was fighting who.

Hold on, Dmitri, he thought. We’re coming for you.

No harbor on Earth was deep enough to allow a nuclear submarine to depart port while submerged. A long shallow channel stretched before them. The Wilmington would be exposed and vulnerable until they reached the open sea beyond Santa Cruz.

Smallwood commanded his boat from the bridge atop the sail. A temporary plexiglass windshield protected him from the weather. A light rain had begun to fall. Ashdown and Losenko lurked at the back, keeping out of the way. Losenko in particular found it unsettling not to be steering the ship himself, but had no desire to undercut the other skipper’s authority. No one liked a back-seat driver, especially not the captain of a seagoing vessel.

Such restraint was made easier by the fact that Smallwood obviously knew what he was doing. The Russian was impressed by the man’s calm and assurance during this nerve-wracking passage. He recalled the Gorshkov’s hasty departure from Russian soil after the massacre on the peninsula. Losenko had not truly relaxed until his sub had been safely hidden beneath the waves once more.

The mouth of the harbor lay ahead. He estimated that deep water was only about half an hour away. He wondered how he would manage to contact K-115 once they were clear of the islands. Perhaps he could persuade Smallwood to surface to periscope depth long enough to transmit a message to the Gorshkov. He could just imagine the look on Ivanov’s face when he received the password from an American attack sub!

He very nearly smiled in spite of himself.

The bridgebox, which linked them to the control room below, squawked in alarm. “Bridge, control!” an anxious voice reported. “Radar detecting two bogies directly ahead!”

Smallwood cursed. He targeted his binoculars on the open water beyond the harbor.

“There they are, damnit!”

Ashdown came forward.

“What is it, Captain?”

“Two Apache helicopters, loaded for bear.” He passed the binoculars over to Ashdown. “They’re hovering above the sea, just waiting for us!”

“Any way to get around them?” Ashdown asked.

“No, sir,” Smallwood replied. “There’s only one way out, and no place to dive.”

Ashdown nodded, unsurprised by the captain’s answer.

“Guess we’re going to have to fight our way out, then.” He glanced back, and Losenko nodded. Turning back was not an option. Santa Cruz was no longer a safe haven for the Resistance. Only the ocean could hide them now.

Smallwood got on his mike.

“Battle stations! Arm Harpoons!” He spat out orders, racing against the speed of his own ship as it cruised toward the enemy. The sub’s Harpoon missiles were their best defense against the Apaches, which were surely armed with missiles and torpedoes of their own. “All ahead one third.”

The captain turned to the two generals.

“Perhaps you might want to go below, gentlemen. It might be safer.”

“Forget it,” Ashdown snarled. “If I’m going down, I want to look the bad guys in the eye first.” He made no move to abandon their post.

Losenko chose to remain, as well. He took the binoculars from Ashdown. Peering through the lenses, he spotted the helicopters hovering up ahead. He guessed that they had taken off from one of the many smaller islands surrounding Santa Cruz. For all he knew, Skynet had been planning this trap ever since it first learned of the summit. He wondered who was piloting the Apaches. More human collaborators?

Like Utyosov?

“Missile control! Ready torpedo tubes!”

They were nearing the effective range of the Harpoons when, without warning, another missile shot out of the ocean behind the helicopters. The heat of its launch sent a plume of hot steam into the air. Its first-stage rocket ignited and it arced through the sky before exploding into one of the choppers from behind, its excess fuel adding to the conflagration.

Taken entirely by surprise, the Apache plummeted into the sea trailing smoke and debris. The crash was visible from the bridge of the Wilmington.

“What the hell?” Ashdown exclaimed. He turned baffled eyes toward Smallwood. “Did we do that?”

“No, sir!” The captain looked equally perplexed. “We have not opened fire yet.”

Losenko could only think of one explanation.

“My submarine!” K-115 was capable of firing Viyuga missiles at enemy aircraft while submerged. “It must be the Gorshkov!”

Unfortunately, launching the missile had given away the submarine’s location as surely as if it had painted a bull’s-eye on itself. The surviving Apache immediately retaliated. ASW torpedoes dropped from the chopper into the water below. Losenko prayed that Ivanov was taking evasive action, if it was not already too late.

Dive, Alexei. Dive!

Ashdown was more concerned about the Apache itself.

“Now!” he barked at Smallwood. “While it’s got its hands full with that other sub. Bring down that chopper!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” The captain clutched his mike. “Missile control! Take your best shot!”

One after the other, a pair of Harpoon missiles shot from the Wilmington’s forward torpedo tubes. They burst from the surface in an explosion of fire and steam, climbing over fifteen meters into the air to collide with the outnumbered chopper, which went tumbling down to join the wreckage of the first Apache. Burning fuel and flotsam spread across the mouth of the harbor. A wind blew the black smoke back toward the submarine.

“Target destroyed,” Smallwood informed the control room. He wiped the sweat from his brow before addressing Ashdown. “I believe the way is clear, sir.”

“About time,” Ashdown responded. He turned to Losenko. “What about that sub of yours, Losenko?”

An underwater explosion, further out to sea, answered his question before Losenko could. Losenko gripped the railing. His heart pounded.

Alexei!

“Flooding in compartments four and five!” Chief Komarov reported. Warning lights flashed all around the control room. “Fires spreading through the engine room and galley.”

Countermeasures had failed. An evasive dive had earned them only a few extra minutes to brace for impact. The enemy torpedo had dealt a death blow to the Gorshkov. Ivanov was amazed that they hadn’t come apart completely. He suspected that the torpedo had hit one of the decoys, but far too close for comfort.

Firing the missile had been a calculated risk. He still wasn’t entirely sure why he had done it. But the presence of the attack helicopters—poised to attack the escaping American submarine—clearly indicated that a third party was out to destroy the so-called Resistance. Skynet? Terrorists? An aspiring superpower hoping to stake its claim by taking out the opposition?

Ivanov had no idea who the aggressors were, yet he knew which side Losenko was supposed to be allied with. If the helicopters were attacking the summit and its guests, then they had posed a threat to Losenko.

But not anymore.

I just hope I did the right thing.

Now he had to deal with the consequences.

“The reactor?”

“Shielding intact, but there’s evidence of a primary-to-secondary link in the boiler tubes.” Komarov didn’t need to explain what that meant. Radioactive steam would eventually contaminate the hull of the ship. Fixable under ordinary circumstances, but not when the ship was taking on water and filling with smoke.

Ivanov knew what he had to do.

“Scram the reactor.” He turned to Lieutenant Trotsky, who was currently serving as officer of the deck. “Blow all groups.”

They couldn’t stay submerged while dealing with floods, fire, and radiation. An emergency blow was their only hope. Ivanov grabbed onto the rail around the periscope and switched on the speaker system so that the whole sub could hear him.

“Surface! Surface! Surface!”

The diving alarm sounded three times to signal an emergency ascent. Over at the ship’s main control station, the chief of the watch yanked on two solid metal levers. High-pressure air rushed into the ballast tanks, driving massive amounts of water out through vents in the submarine’s keel. A deafening racket invaded the control room, even as the floor tilted beneath Ivanov’s sneakers like a funhouse ride. The entire ship slanted precipitously, so that the forward compartments suddenly looked as though they were at the top of a dangerously steep slide.

Ivanov’s stomach lurched. Acid reflux sloshed up and down his digestive tract.

The other crewmen grabbed onto anything that might keep them from tumbling aft. Loose mugs and clipboards rolled across the deck. The helmsmen fought to keep the boat on an even keel. The diving officer called out the depth, shouting out the changes as rapidly as an auctioneer.

“300 feet! 200 feet! 100 feet!”

What was waiting for them on the surface? Another helicopter? A hostile American attack sub? Ivanov had little time to worry about such things. They would find out soon enough.

“Broach!”

Losenko stared out at the ocean in despair. The underwater detonation, which had thrown a geyser of white water into the air, filled his heart with dread. He feared that the Gorshkov had become yet another casualty in the war against the machines. He sagged against the side of the bridge.

Did my desire to join the Resistance cost me my crew? Have I gained new allies, only to lose everyone who depended upon me?

Then the water erupted once more, and K-115 flew out nose first. The 7,000-ton submarine rose so far out of the ocean that only its twin screws remained beneath the waves. It hung in the air for a seemingly endless moment before it crashed back down into the water, producing a tidal wave of churning white foam that washed away much of the debris from the fallen ‘copters. Its massive bulk smacked loudly against the surface of the sea.

“Hah!” Losenko laughed out loud, overcome by relief. He knew an emergency blow when he saw one. The Gorshkov was in trouble, but it wasn’t dead yet. The men aboard still had a chance. “You see that!” he boasted to the other men. “That’s my boat! K-115!”

“Good work. Damned if I ever thought I’d owe my life to a Russian SSBN!” Ashdown slapped Losenko on the back. “Captain Smallwood, render whatever assistance that ship needs. That’s a priority.”

“Understood, sir.”

After falling back into the ocean, the Gorshkov momentarily disappeared underwater, before bobbing up to the surface again. Hatches opened atop its deck as the crew poured out, many of them diving into the balmy equatorial waters. Despite his earlier relief, Losenko was distressed to see smoke billowing from the sub’s vents and hatches, and that K-115 was also listing seriously to starboard. Gaping wounds had opened in her hull. Water gushed into the gaps. He doubted that the sub could stay afloat much longer— hence the hasty evacuation.

The Gorshkov had survived Judgment Day and months at sea in a world at war, but the boat had finally come to the end of its fateful voyage. He watched through binoculars as Chief Komarov helped Ivanov escape the boat. The XO was the last to leave the doomed vessel

Thank you, Alexei. I could not ask more of you.

The Wilmington sailed out of the harbor, ploughing through what was left of the wreckage of the downed choppers. Smallwood’s men immediately went to work rescuing the Russian sailors from the ocean. Losenko remembered doing the same for Ortega not too long ago. Tragically, those efforts had only bought her a few more weeks of life.

What was her first name again? Luz?

Sinking fast, K-115 submerged for the last time. Losenko realized sadly that his only photo of Katerina was still in his stateroom aboard the sub. More than one chapter in his life was closing forever. His throat tightened. He silently bid the Gorshkov farewell.

Dasvidania, and godspeed.

While Losenko watched his past vanish into the depths of the Pacific, Ashdown turned to consider the island they had just escaped, and the Russian followed his gaze. Santa Cruz faded into the distance, but the smoke and flames rising from Puerto Ayora could still be viewed from miles away. The fall of night only made the orange glow easier to make out.

“Okay,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “We’ve learned a lesson. The land is too dangerous now, particularly for the leadership.” He turned to address Losenko. “This sub is our headquarters now. Command needs to stay out of sight, beneath the ocean, if we’re going to stay alive long enough to bring Skynet down.”

He smirked. “Better get settled in, General. This could be a long voyage.”