by Greg Cox
He owed it to his crew not to let them see any cracks in his resolve.
Yet, as he took a razor to his chin, shaving in front of the small mirror in his private washroom, he couldn’t help but notice the haunted look in his bloodshot eyes. Dark purple pouches testified to long, sleepless nights.
Under the circumstances, he consoled himself, it’s a wonder that I don’t look more wretched. With that he resumed his assault on the encroaching stubble.
Once he was satisfied that he looked like a proper captain, Losenko made his way to the control room. A defeated-looking seaman squeezed past him en route to Engineering. The sailor failed to meet his captain’s eyes. His grimy coveralls smelled as though they had not been laundered in days. He stumbled over a fire bucket that someone had carelessly left sitting in the passageway.
“Look lively, sailor!” Losenko said sternly. “And stow that pail where it belongs.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the man muttered in response. Even with his captain looking over his shoulder, however, the seaman moved as though in a daze. He trudged away listlessly, bearing the offending bucket with him. The rubber soles of his sneakers barely lifted from the floor.
Losenko watched as the zombie-like figure disappeared into the stern of the boat. How many more are there like that? he pondered grimly. Even on the most uneventful of patrols, the crew started to get a little stir crazy after several weeks cooped up in a cramped metal tube. Now, with nothing to look forward to but the aftermath of a nuclear war, nerves had to be at breaking point. How long before discipline breaks down entirely?
The situation in the control room did little to reassure him. Even as he stepped foot into the nerve center, he heard Ivanov harshly upbraiding an unlucky subordinate.
“Five minutes to load a torpedo?” The XO stared in disgust at the stopwatch he held in his hand. He and the captain had been running frequent drills, in part to keep the crew’s mind off the holocaust that had engulfed their homes. “What’s wrong with those slugs down there? Have they got lead in their sneakers?”
Weapons Officer Pavlinko gulped.
“No, sir. Not that I’m aware of, sir. We’ll do better next time!”
“And suppose there had been a real American sub hunting us?” Ivanov retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Had that been the case, do you think there would have been a next time?”
Pavlinko accepted the tongue-lashing.
“No, sir.”
“Then maybe you need to give those lazy shirkers a solid kick in the butt, before the enemy really comes calling!”
The venom in the starpom’s tone added to Losenko’s woes. There was a bitterness in Ivanov’s heart that had not been there before the Americans had launched their suicidal attack. The young officer had been tough, but fair, and well-liked by the crew. Now he was short-tempered all the time, taking out his fury on the men beneath him.
Anger is eating away at him, Losenko realized, just as sorrow never lifts from my shoulders.
He joined Ivanov upon the periscope pedestal.
“Easy, Alexei,” he cautioned in a low tone. “These men have faced the unimaginable.”
Ivanov stiffened. “There is a war on,” he responded. “We cannot afford the luxury of grief.”
Even for your wife and daughter? Losenko thought. His heart ached for the younger man’s loss. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he had no children of his own. “Perhaps you are right. Or maybe the war is already over—and both sides have lost.”
In that moment he decided that he could not delay any longer. His men deserved to know what had become of the world they had left behind.
“Any contacts on the sonar?” he inquired.
Ivanov glanced in the direction of the sonar shack.
“Nothing. Not even biologics.”
No whales, porpoises, or schools of deep-sea fish, in other words. Had humanity taken the rest of the animal kingdom with it when it had self-destructed?
“I see,” Losenko replied. Despite their earlier concerns, they had encountered no American attack subs since the war broke out. This was both encouraging and worrisome, in that it suggested that the navies of the world no longer possessed the capacity to hunt their enemies. Nevertheless, he intended to take no chances.
“Turn the boat around,” he instructed, to make certain no hidden dangers were skulking in their baffles. Gorshkov’s own propellers created a sonic “blind spot” in the submarine’s wake. A shrewd commander made a habit of checking his rear. “Left fifteen degrees rudder, steady course three-seven-zero.”
K-115 executed an expert turn. The sonar dome at its nose found nothing suspicious in the vicinity. Confident that they were not under observation, Losenko turned toward the diving officer.
“Mr. Orlov, ascend to periscope depth.”
In response to his orders, K-115 tilted toward the bow, while Orlov counted out the depth as the boat climbed toward the surface. The helmsman and planesman pulled back on their steering wheels, working in perfect harmony. Seated to their left, the diving officer and the chief of the watch manned the ballast controls, blowing water from the tanks to increase the sub’s buoyancy. The hull popped noisily as the pressure outside changed dramatically.
“Fifty meters,” Orlov announced. “Thirty meters.”
Losenko visualized the ice above their heads. He unhooked the mike and spoke into it.
“All hands, brace for impact.”
He grabbed hold of the railing.
“Twenty meters.”
Metal shuddered as the sub broke through the icecap. Its twelve meter-tall sail cut through the snow-covered floes like a blade. The jarring impact threw one of the newer crewman off-balance, and he staggered before grabbing onto the handle of an overhead chart cabinet. A loose folder clattered to the deck.
Water flooded the trim tanks as K-115 leveled off. The helmsmen pushed their wheels forward.
“Scope’s breaking,” Ivanov reported. He gripped the handlebars of the number one periscope and peered through the eyepiece. His body tense, he rotated the scope a full 360 degrees. “No close contacts,” he said with what sounded like a trace of disappointment. Losenko saw clearly that Alexei longed for an enemy upon whom to take vengeance. It was a dangerous trait to have in a first officer.
Unlike their XO, the other crewmen let out an audible sigh of relief at hearing that they had not ascended into a war zone. Beeps and chirps came from an electronic surveillance sensor that automatically began sweeping the area for signals from any nearby ships or aircraft. An alarm would sound if it detected any approaching threat.
No alarm came.
Losenko took the periscope from Ivanov. Planting his feet, he squinted into the eyepiece. Twilight in the Arctic Circle looked much as he remembered it, until he realized that—according to the sub’s chronometer—it should have been bright and sunny outside. Instead, clouds of smoke and ash clotted the sky, allowing only a paltry fraction of daylight through. Like the smoke from a funeral pyre, he thought morosely, drifting over the top of the world.
“Chief of the watch,” the captain instructed, “raise the main multifunction mast.”
The mast, which was housed in the sail, boasted an array of sophisticated electronic antennae capable of receiving and transmitting signals along a broad spectrum of frequencies. It could also contact GPS satellites to receive position updates.
Our ears are open, Losenko thought. But is there anybody out there?
Unwilling to wait any longer for an answer, he stepped down from the pedestal and headed for the radio shack, just forward of the control room. Crossing the conn, he poked his head through the port side doorway. Inside the chamber, a pair of radio operators shared the cramped space with a battery of communications and cryptographic equipment. The two men were seated before their consoles, earphones clamped over their heads. Glowing green screens recorded multiple incoming transmissions. Matrix printers began spewing messages as fast as the computers could decode them.
“Downloading now,” the senior radio operator, a man named Pushkin, reported. He was a nerdy scarecrow of a man with mussed black hair and thick glasses. “There’s a lot of chatter out there.”
Losenko suppressed a sigh of relief. They were not alone, then. There were other survivors.
He stepped forward and tapped Pushkin on the shoulder.
“What do you hear?”
The young seaman took off his headphones. A pained expression came over his face.
“Chaos,” he reported. “Sheer chaos.”
Losenko convened the meeting in the officer’s wardroom. He sat at the head of a long rectangular table. Ivanov sat to his right, ahead of the rest of the senior staff. A baker’s dozen of department heads were crammed into the wardroom. Transcripts of radio transmissions lay in a stack in front of the captain. He leafed through them once again, before lifting his eyes from the printouts. Soundproof bulkheads and a locked door ensured their privacy.
“Mr. Cherkov,” Losenko addressed the communications officer, “please brief us on the situation.”
Cherkov was a phlegmatic sort by nature, but the captain could tell that he was shaken by what he was about to report. He swallowed hard.
“In a word, sir, confusion—utter confusion. There is a great deal of chatter, but nobody seems to be in charge. And everybody is fighting, well, everybody. The Israelis are blaming the Arabs, and vice versa. India is retaliating against Pakistan. Georgia and Chechnya even think we bombed them. Al Qaeda has issued a fatwa on the American president. There are widespread accounts of looting and civic unrest.
“Scattered ships and planes are sending out inquiries, but receiving no authorized orders in reply. Our Akula attack subs are being engaged by Chinese and American subs. Many are believed to have been lost. Hard information is in short supply. Rumors are flying....” He hesitated, consulting his own notes as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them. “There are even unconfirmed reports that, insanely, the Americans bombed their own bases and cities.”
“What?” Ivanov blurted out. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Maybe not,” Cherkov said. “An American general named Ashdown is sending out a nonstop message on all frequencies, stating that the initial attack was an accident, that some kind of experimental computer system malfunctioned. He calls it ‘Skynet.’”
Of course, Losenko thought. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. And as he did so, cold tendrils began to grip him.
Ivanov disagreed. “An obvious trick, to get us to lower our guard.”
“But why would the Americans attack us now?” Losenko observed. He feared that Ivanov’s emotions were clouding his judgment. “The threat of Mutual Assured Destruction deterred them all through the Cold War. Why court annihilation now, after the war is over? There was no reason to it, none at all. Yet a computer malfunction would explain it.”
Guilt stabbed his heart. I should have realized that it was an accident. We all should have.
Still Ivanov refused to absolve the Americans.
“Perhaps they feared that Mother Russia would rise to challenge them once more?” He clenched his fist at the prospect, before entreating Losenko. “Please, Captain, don’t tell me that you are falling for so blatant a deception. Those America bastards attacked us without warning, like the cowards they are.” He pounded his fist on the table. “We cannot believe anything they say!”
“I have heard of this Ashdown,” the captain stated. “He is said to be one of their top-ranking generals.” Ivanov’s expression darkened. Losenko held up his hand to forestall any further outbursts from the junior officer. “But you are correct, Alexei. We cannot accept the Americans’ explanation without corroboration. For the time being, we must remain on guard.”
“So what do we do now, Captain?” Deputy Commander Trotsky asked. His pale face, dry skin, and chapped lips attested to long weeks spent cloistered aboard the sub. “We cannot hide from the Americans indefinitely. Our rations are running low, and the men are at the end of their rope.”
“So they are,” Losenko agreed. He had already made his decision. “We need to see for ourselves what has become of the Motherland.” He rose from his seat. “Set a course for home.”
CHAPTER FOUR
2018
The Trans-Alaska Pipeline stretched across 800 miles of rugged wilderness, connecting the oil fields on the north slope of Prudhoe Bay with the ice-free port in Valdez. For more than forty years, the pipeline had transported nearly a billion gallons of crude oil each day across mountain ranges, tracks of verdant wilderness, rivers, and streams.
Judgment Day had halted the flow for a time, but not for long; repairing the conduit and placing it under its direct control had been one of Skynet’s top priorities, alongside exterminating the human race. As a result, all of the oil— and the energy it contained—belonged to the machines.
But that didn’t mean the Resistance didn’t help itself to a sip now and then.
From the edge of the woods, Molly surveyed an elevated section of pipeline. Faint sunlight filtered through the snow-laden branches of towering pines and spruces. Pendulous gray clouds threatened to drop more snow any time now. A bitter wind chafed her face. Her lips were chapped and raw.
She chewed on a tough piece of smoked beaver. An owl hooted in the forest behind her. Something scurried through the underbrush. A breeze rustled through the trees.
The sun was high in the sky. Despite the cover of the forest, she felt uncomfortably exposed, sneaking up on the pipeline in broad daylight. As counter-intuitive as it seemed, however, nocturnal raids were even more dangerous. The Hunter-Killers’ infrared sensors worked even better after sundown, while the darkness placed their human prey at a disadvantage.
John Connor had taught her that, in one of his invaluable pirate broadcasts. She had never met the man—hell, she didn’t even know what he looked like— but, like so many other freedom fighters, she owed her life to the urgent warnings he had been broadcasting ever since Judgment Day. He had given her hope, and tips for survival when all had seemed lost. In her mind, his would always be the voice of the Resistance.
If the machines ever get him, I don’t want to know about it.
Several yards away, the pipeline zig-zagged across a glossy white plain leading toward a narrow mountain pass less than a mile to the north. Dense green forest encroached on the cleared strips of land on either side of the conduit. Riveted steel saddles, red paint protecting them from the elements, lifted the huge links of pipe over ten feet above the frozen earth. The enormous white cylinders were four feet in diameter. Coiled heat pipes topped the vertical supports to keep the permafrost from thawing beneath the heavy saddles. The zigzag layout was supposed to protect the pipeline from earthquakes, as well as from drastic temperature shifts. Or so Molly had been told.
None of that mattered at the moment. She just wanted to come through this fuel run in one piece.
“Look clear?” Geir asked. He stood a few feet back, behind the basket of one of the fifteen dog sleds she had mustered for this operation. Teams of well-trained malamutes, huskies, and mutts waited patiently for the command to go forward. They rested upon the ground, sniffing idly at the snow. Empty metal drums and plastic gas cans were piled in the cargo beds of the freight sleds. A few of the sleds were hitched to snowmobiles instead of dogs.
Grim-faced men and women, bundled up in mismatched winter gear, stomped their feet to keep warm. Goggles, scarves, and earmuffs protected their faces from the cold. Scarlet armbands marked them as members of the Resistance. A thermos of hot coffee was passed around. Roughly thirty guerillas had been drafted for this operation. Nervous eyes searched the snowy canopy overhead. You never knew when an HK, or maybe just a snoopy Aerostat, might come zipping above the trees.
“What about it?” Geir pressed when she didn’t answer. “Have we got a clear shot?”
“Maybe,” Molly hedged. Not even Skynet could patrol all 800 miles of pipeline all the time
, and the nearest automated pumping station was fifty miles north at Delta Junction. That was where security would be the thickest, but any unguarded stretch—such as this one— would serve just fine. All they needed to do was hurry in, tap the pipeline, and get away before Skynet even realized that it was bleeding oil.
Should be a cakewalk, she thought. Not like taking on that monster train, which they intended to do as soon as their plans were set. “But let’s not take any chances,” she said aloud.
Their Resistance cell had lost three commanders in four years. Molly wasn’t looking to be the fourth, at least not until she took her shot at the Skynet Express. She stroked the head of Togo, the big gray samoyed at the head of Geir’s dog team.
“What about you, boy?” she asked as he nuzzled her glove. “Smell any suspicious metal?”
Over the course of the war, man’s best friend had proven incredibly valuable when it came to sniffing out Terminators, especially the new T-600s with the phony rubber skin intended to mimick human flesh. At a distance or in the dark, a T-600 could be mistaken for a living, breathing human, but not by a dog. Their keen noses sniffed through the disguise with no problem. Thus, the Resistance had learned to rely on their canine cohorts.
Another trick Connor taught us.
Togo’s tufted ears perked up, like maybe he was hoping for a snack. He sniffed the air, but seemed more interested in the rations in Molly’s pocket. The rest of the pack were still curled up in the snow, licking their paws or absently watching out for squirrels. The dogs’ nonchalance reassured Molly. If there had been Terminators upwind, they would have been barking like crazy.
So far, so good. She treated Togo to a leftover scrap of beaver. He gobbled it up enthusiastically, licking the palm of her glove. Molly looked over the nearby stretch of pipeline once more. The Resistance desperately needed the fuel for its vehicles and generators.
