by Greg Cox
Strung out behind the sub on a wire, the buoy would increase their ability to monitor transmissions from the destroyer.
The periscope pedestal tilted beneath his feet as K-115 climbed up from the depths, leveling out at roughly twenty-five meters below the surface. “Scope’s breaking,” the officer of the deck reported, unable to conceal the anticipation in his voice. He stepped aside to let Losenko see for himself. The overhead lights were dimmed to avoid reflecting the light up through the periscope, where it might give away their position. Display panels glowed like exotic bioluminescent fish in a darkened aquarium.
The captain seized the periscope’s handles and peered into the eyepiece.
It was twilight above the sea. White water lapped against the reticle. He glimpsed lurid red skies on the horizon.
“Position of contact?”
“Bearing three-one-zero,” Michenko reported. Headphones connected him with the sonar shack. Overhead video monitors, slaved to the main sonar array, monitored the destroyer via phosphorescent green waterfalls of data. “Contact slowing to seven knots.”
Losenko rotated the scope until... there!
The silhouette of a great gray battleship appeared some distance away. He twisted the right handle to increase magnification. The formidable contours of the vessel, with its imposing guns and towers, seemed to match that of a Kashin-class destroyer, but he would have to consult his reference manuals to be certain. He turned the scope over to Ivanov for his opinion. The XO eagerly scanned the mystery ship.
“It could be the Smetlivy,” he declared after a moment. Anticipation colored his voice, making him sound like a child on Christmas morning. A rare smile graced his features.
Was he already contemplating transferring to another ship?
“Four knots,” Michenko called out. “Three knots....”
The warship came to a halt approximately three kilometers away. Losenko was encouraged by the fact that the destroyer was making no aggressive moves toward them. Had it already identified K-115 as a friendly vessel?
Perhaps we really have made contact with an ally at last.
“Raise multifunction mast.”
It would be good to share his burden with another captain. And not see the same defeated faces every day. After months cut off from the world, they could finally begin to rebuild the Russian Navy. And perhaps discover the truth about Skynet.
He wondered what the Smetlivy’s captain thought of John Connor’s broadcasts.
“Incoming transmission from the other vessel, Captain!”
Losenko plucked a red phone handset from a box upon the periscope platform. The hotline employed secure UHF transmissions to communicate with allied ships and aircraft.
“Put it through.”
A burst of static preceded an unfamiliar voice, speaking in flawless Russian. “Attention unidentified submarine. This is Captain Konstantin Frantz of the Russian destroyer Smetlivy. Please respond.”
Losenko did not recognize the captain’s name. Then again, in the wake of Judgment Day, it was likely there had been more than a few battlefield promotions. Perhaps Frantz had only recently inherited his command.
“This is the captain of the submarine in question,” Losenko replied. Old habits prevented him from volunteering too much information right away. Even when setting out to sea from his home port, he had always avoided identifying the Gorshkov by name or number over the air. “Please state your intentions.”
Encryption caused a slight lag in the transmissions, so it was a few seconds before Losenko heard Frantz laugh.
“I appreciate your caution, Captain. The world is a dangerous place these days; no doubt you and your heroic crew have endured many hardships. You cannot imagine how relieved I am to discover that you survived the atomic war and its aftermath.” Frantz’s tone was affable. “I assure you, my only mission is to escort you back to Murmansk so you can rejoin what remains of the Northern Fleet.”
Murmansk? Losenko looked askance at the phone. The one-time naval base was nothing but a radioactive crater now, one likely to be uninhabitable for decades. Was Frantz unaware of this? Or was he attempting to deceive them to some end?
“My understanding is that Murmansk was destroyed,” he said, choosing his words carefully. He deliberately did not mention that he had beheld the devastation firsthand.
The lag at the other end seemed a little longer than before.
“Sadly, that is the case,” Frantz conceded. “But the rebuilding is already underway. Your ship and crew will find refuge at our new facilities.”
Losenko frowned. The other captain’s answers struck him as glib and unconvincing. When he had last explored the Kola Peninsula, the ravaged landscape had been overrun by murderous machines—and their human collaborators. Suspicion blossomed in his heart. “And what of Skynet?” he pressed. “Have you retaken the countryside from the Terminators?”
Only a foot away, eavesdropping intently on Losenko’s end of the conversation, along with every other man within earshot, Ivanov’s hopeful expression faded. He eyed Losenko with alarm, clearly displeased by the tack the discussion was taking.
“Captain!”
Losenko placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Remember your oath, Alexei. And the chain of command.”
The pointed reminder had the desired effect. Ivanov stepped back, swallowing any further objections. He did not look happy, however. His fists were clenched at his sides. He ground his teeth.
My apologies, Alexei, Losenko thought. I know how much this means to you.
The captain felt the eyes of the entire control room upon him. The last thing he wanted was to crush the hopes of the men, just when they finally had something to hold on to. But his gut told him that Frantz was not being honest with him. The stranger’s warm welcome and soothing promises were too good to be true.
If Judgment Day taught me anything, it is that the universe is seldom so forgiving.
Nor are our machines.
“Skynet?” Frantz’s reply did nothing to assuage Losenko’s doubts. “What is Skynet? And Terminators? Is that some new Yankee weapon?”
Losenko did not believe that the other captain could be so ignorant. If the Gorshkov’s antennae had intercepted John Connor’s broadcasts, then so would the Smetlivy. And what of the robots occupying the industrial base on the Kola Peninsula? How could the Russian military be unaware of their mechanized reign of terror, if indeed “Captain” Frantz truly represented the Northern Fleet?
“Before I can accompany you,” he informed the warship’s commander, “I will require authorization codes from Moscow.”
He locked eyes with Ivanov. The XO nodded back at him. In this instance, at least, they seemed to be on the same wavelength. Even Alexei saw the wisdom in so reasonable a precaution. Losenko was relieved to have his starpom watching his back for once.
“Those codes were lost in the initial attack,” Frantz insisted, after another awkward delay. “Have faith in your countrymen, Captain. The Russian people need you sailing beside us.”
Along with our remaining ballistic missiles, Losenko thought. K-115 was both a tempting prize and a potential threat to whoever Frantz truly answered to. Losenko remembered the collaborators who had attacked Grushka’s armored truck. He was not about to let the Gorshkov’s last two thermonuclear weapons fall into the hands of turncoats such as those.
“Faith is in short supply these days,” Losenko answered. “As you said, the world is a dangerous place. Perhaps if you can put us in touch with your superior officers, we can arrange to rendezvous at a neutral location.”
An ominous silence ensued. The mood of the control room soured as the excited men realized, along with their captain, that something was amiss. Ilya Korbut, who had succeeded the late Lieutenant Zamyatin as tactical officer, approached the captain.
“Excuse me, sir,” he whispered. “I have been reviewing the fleet records and there is no record of a Captain Frantz. The Smetlivy was under Captain Dob
rovolsky’s command at the outset of the attack.”
Losenko remembered Dobrovolsky. He was a good officer, ambitious but devoted to duty and his country. He would have scuttled the destroyer before he let it become the spoils of war.
Was Konstantin Frantz cut from the same cloth? Losenko had his doubts.
“Captain!” Michenko blurted out. The sonarman’s face went pale. “Smetlivy is flooding its torpedo tubes!”
“What!” Ivanov could not contain his shock. “But they’re our own people!”
Losenko knew how he felt. He just wished he was more surprised.
“Battle stations! Down bubble, full speed.”
The men scrambled to their posts, even as Frantz spoke again over the phone. “Surrender your vessel, Captain.” All pretence at civility went by the wayside. “Or we will sink you.”
“They’re opening torpedo doors!” Michenko reported.
“Traitor!” Losenko let loose his own anger, even as— outside the sub—plumes of mist vented from the ballast tanks, signaling their intentions. “Who is pulling your strings? Skynet? The Americans? Some petty warlord?” That a Russian warship would dare threaten K-115 was the final proof that the world had truly gone mad. What had become of patriotism and loyalty? “You call yourself a captain of the Northern Fleet? How can you live with yourself!”
His accusation hit a nerve.
“You don’t understand!” Frantz ranted “I don’t have any choice. None of us do. Skynet’s forces are everywhere, humans commanded by machines. They’re holding our families hostage. American missiles are aimed at what’s left of our country, ready to finish what they started on Judgment Day if we don’t comply with their demands. The machines are watching us every minute. There’s one right behind me at this very moment. It will terminate me if I don’t obey!”
“So you are a coward and a collaborator, just as I feared.” Contempt dripped from Losenko’s voice. He was tempted to hang up, but the longer he kept Frantz talking, the more time they had to submerge. “If you had any honor, you would defend this sub with your last breath, not turn your weapons against it!”
“And condemn the Motherland to further reprisals?” Frantz sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Losenko, who heard a guilty conscience behind the other man’s self-serving rationalizations. “You’re living in the past, Captain! This is Skynet’s world now. Our only hope for peace is to accept its new world order.”
That’s not what John Connor says, Losenko thought. Frantz was deluding himself if he thought that the machines would be content ruling over humanity like benign overlords. Most likely Skynet had already murdered the majority of the world’s population. Why assume it would let its human pawns survive once it was through with them? Gratitude was a human concept.
“You are being used, Mr. Frantz.” Losenko declined to honor him with the title of captain. “But you will not have my boat. Or my missiles.”
Keeping the hundred-kiloton warheads out of enemy hands was his supreme priority now. No threat or argument could convince him otherwise. He would take the missiles with him to the bottom of the sea if necessary.
“Don’t make me fire, Captain.” Frantz was practically pleading now. “Halt your descent!”
Like hell, Losenko thought. He hung up on Frantz.
An alarm blared from the speaker system.
“Captain!” Lieutenant Pavlinko reported. He monitored the electronic surveillance sensors installed atop the periscope. “Aircraft approaching from the northeast. Two American helicopters!”
Losenko found himself outnumbered. Were the fighters allied with the Smetlivy? If the American planes were equipped with anti-submarine torpedoes, Gorshkov’s odds of escaping had just turned considerably worse.
“Americans!” Ivanov snarled. “I should have known! This was a trap, using the Smetlivy as bait!”
Pavlinko’s next announcement stunned them all.
“The enemy aircraft have fired on the Smetlivy!” The weapons officer looked baffled by his own information. “The Americans are requesting our assistance. They say they’re the Resistance!”
The what?
Losenko didn’t know what to think. Despite John Connor’s broadcasts, the captain had seen no evidence that the so-called Resistance was anything more than an idea. Now American warplanes were defending them against a Russian destroyer?
Explosions upon the surface rocked the submarine. The sound of anti-aircraft fire, coming from the Smetlivy, penetrated the icy depths and the steel hull of K-115. The deck rolled beneath Losenko’s feet as though the sub was being tossed about atop a stormy sea, and not submerged beneath the waves. Dangling cords and cables swung wildly back and forth.
The captain didn’t fully comprehend what was happening, but he recognized an opportunity.
“Dive! Down bubble, twenty degrees!”
The submarine descended at a sharp angle, hoping to escape the conflict above.
“Scope’s under,” Ivanov announced. He lowered the periscope and locked it into place. The overhead lights flared up again.
“Forty meters.” The diving officer called out the depth. “Fifty meters.”
But Frantz wasn’t going to let them get away so easily.
“Two torpedoes launched and running!” the sonarman warned, then he began a continuing report on the projectiles’ speed, bearing, and range. Sweat glistened upon Michenko’s face. His gaze was glued to the slaved sonar screens.
“Torpedoes have acquired! Repeat: torps have acquired!”
“Helm! Hard to port!” Losenko spat out orders at a rapid pace. “Deploy countermeasures!”
The Gorshkov jettisoned a pair of decoys via the rear ejector tubes. Losenko heard them wailing loudly outside the sub. The acoustic noisemakers made a racket by releasing compressed air while vibrating like tuning forks. With luck, the decoys would lure the torpedoes away from K-115.
“Torpedo one veering away from us!” Michenko rejoiced. “It’s going for the decoy!”
An underwater shock wave buffeted the Gorshkov. The submarine yawed sharply to starboard, throwing Losenko against the massive steel column of the periscope. His uniform caught on a bolt, tearing the fabric and scratching his side. He ignored the pain, concentrating on the peril to his ship instead. The nearby explosion meant that the first torpedo had taken out the decoy instead. But what about the second? In theory, the sub’s dense double hull could conceivably survive a single strike, but he did not care to test that theory.
“Torpedo two?” he demanded.
Michenko’s jubilant tone evaporated.
“Still closing!”
The second torpedo had not taken the bait. Losenko cursed their luck. He wrapped an arm around the lowered periscope and shouted into the emergency address system.
“Brace for impact!”
Seconds later, the guided warhead smashed into the Gorshkov. The pedestal pitched sharply and Losenko clung to the scope with all his strength, while Ivanov and Korbut grabbed onto the railing. Undersea thunder roared in the captain’s ears, along with the clanging of battered metal. The overhead lights sputtered so that, for a few unnerving moments, the control room was lit solely by its glowing gauges and control panels. Losenko glanced at Ivanov. Blood dripped from the XO’s forehead. Losenko guessed that he had cracked it against the other periscope.
“Are you all right, Alexei?”
Ivanov fingered the wound.
“Nothing worth mentioning.” He wiped his fingers on the front of his coveralls, leaving a crimson smear behind. “The ship?”
Emergency power kicked in, bringing maybe eighty percent of the control room’s lights back on. Losenko surveyed the room, spotting extensive damage to both the crew and the equipment. Warning indicators flashed on nearly every console, while bruises, cuts, and minor burns scarred the faces of the frightened sailors. Steam jetted from a ruptured pipe, hissing like an enraged eel, until an alert crewman reached up to close a valve manually. Sparks erupt
ed from shorted circuits, until doused by the fire extinguishers.
A smoky haze contaminated the atmosphere, which smelled of cold sweat and burnt wiring. The men coughed at their stations. Damage reports started pouring in from all over K-115.
“Wounded, but still alive,” Losenko said, assessing their situation. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the long-dead engineers and shipwrights who had overseen the Gorshkov’s construction. Ordinarily, he would return to the surface to effect immediate repairs and stem any leaks in the ship’s hull, but not with the Smetlivy still lurking above them. Escape was still the order of the day.
But how deep do we dare descend with our hull scarred and our systems compromised?
And was Frantz done with them yet?
A thunderous detonation answered that question. The periscope platform lurched to port, throwing Losenko hard against the safety railing, bruising his ribs. Blue-hot sparks flared from the control consoles, forcing men to leap backward or risk electrocution. Sundered metal shrieked in protest somewhere above the control room. The periscopes rattled in their housings. Helmsmen, securely buckled into their seats, wrestled with their wheels, fighting and failing to keep the Gorshkov on an even keel. Something crashed loudly in the sonar shack. A voice cried out in pain. Losenko stumbled across the platform.
Ivanov reached out to steady the captain.
“Another torpedo?”
“No,” Losenko guessed. The explosion had not felt like a direct strike. “Depth charge.” As he recalled, the Smetlivy was equipped with rocket launchers capable of firing RGB-60 unguided depth charges. The rockets could be fired in multiple rounds, the better to increase the odds of destroying an enemy submarine. Despite the attacking aircraft, Frantz was sparing no effort to sink the Gorshkov. Apparently, Skynet would rather see the ballistic submarine destroyed than beyond its control.
A second charge, even closer than the first, pummeled the sub. Warning klaxons blared, but Losenko was proud to see that not a single seaman abandoned his post. The Gorshkov was taking a beating, but the shock waves were nothing compared to the damage they would sustain should one of the charges score a direct hit. Losenko doubted K-115 could survive another blow, yet it was only a matter of time before one of them came too close. Their only hope was to get away from the warship before that happened.
