by Greg Cox
“Who did this, Captain?” Ostrovosky asked. The junior radio operator had volunteered to join the patrol; Losenko suspected that he wanted revenge for the atrocity they had been forced to listen to yesterday. “Scavengers?”
He doubted it. Nothing appeared to have been stolen—not even the search party’s arms and ammunition—and the attackers had chosen to destroy the pickup truck rather than capture it. The captain also liked to think that trained Russian seamen could hold their own against any ragtag band of marauders, unless they were severely outnumbered. From what they had heard over the radio, however, the scouting team had not stood a chance. It had not been a battle, but a rout.
“Just keep your eyes open, Mr. Ostrovosky,” he said crisply. “For all we know, we’re behind enemy lines now.”
Over his first officer’s protests, Losenko had chosen to personally investigate the massacre. It was foolhardy, perhaps, given his rank and responsibilities, but what was Ivanov going to do about it, report back to his superiors? Losenko chuckled wryly. One of the few perks of surviving a thermonuclear war was that he no longer had to answer to Moscow.
Zamyatin and the others had died carrying out his orders. If I want to find out what happened, and see it with my own eyes, the captain thought, then that’s my prerogative.
Or maybe he just had a death wish.
Chances were, he wasn’t the only one.
Bloody tread marks crisscrossed the asphalt. Losenko remembered the motorized tumult he had overheard. The parallel tracks were roughly 150 centimeters apart, too close together for a tank or an automobile. Grease marks stained the blacktop. Pools of oily fluid collected in cracks and potholes. Losenko knelt to inspect such a puddle. He dipped a gloved finger into the liquid and held it to his nose.
It reeked of petroleum. Some sort of lubricant?
Machines, Pagodin had said. A squad of machines.
He peered intently at the liquid that dripped from his fingertip. Had his men drawn blood from the enemy before they were slaughtered?
Losenko wanted to think so.
He stood up and assessed the patrol. He had brought a larger force this time, fully twenty-five men, all armed to the teeth with assault rifles, handguns, and plenty of ammunition. They had crept upon the scene stealthily, having left their salvaged vehicles in a junkyard half a kilometer back. The cars and trucks were hidden in plain sight, like Poe’s famous purloined letter, amidst the numerous scrapped autos.
Losenko himself had ridden in a battered family station wagon that was missing all its windows. He had been disturbed to find a forgotten doll and candy wrappers under the passenger seat. He didn’t want to think about what might have become of the wagon’s former owners.
Perhaps he had trodden on their bones.
A pair of sentries had stayed behind to watch over the cars—and each other—while the rest of the party had continued forward on foot. Losenko’s legs ached from the strenuous hike. Quite a workout after being cooped up in the sub for weeks on end. Zamyatin’s GPS coordinates, transmitted along with his final broadcast, had led them to yesterday’s fatal battleground.
“Eyes open!” he exhorted his men. Lookouts were posted along the perimeter, vigilant for any suspicious movements. “Safeties off. Arms at the ready.”
Such orders were almost certainly unnecessary. The carnage at their feet was enough to keep the men alert to danger. Wary sailors gripped their weapons tightly, some jumping at every stray gust of wind. A veteran submariner, Losenko felt uncomfortably exposed out here in the open. He preferred to fight his wars from the depths of the ocean. His men no doubt felt equally out of place. They were sailors, not commandoes.
We are out of our element, Losenko thought. Like fish out of water.
He would not turn back, however, until he had uncovered what sort of devilry was underway. Zamyatin and his men had discovered this infamous factory, and had paid with their lives. That they had been mercilessly gunned down, just for approaching the facility, implied that its secrets were of great importance, at least to someone.
That it was also the only evidence of life for leagues added to the captain’s curiosity. He needed to know what in Russia had survived the war—if only for the sake of his own sanity.
The road rose and fell between the battle site and the factory, following the natural contours of the terrain. Walking along the curb, he climbed to the crest of a low hill and crouched down behind the concealing shelter of an abandoned mail truck. He scooted along the tilted hood, being careful to keep his head low. A lookout, the barrel of his rifle laid across the top of the hood, squatted beside Losenko. Pavel Gorski glanced up briefly from his rifle sight.
“Watch yourself, skipper,” the boy warned in a hushed tone. The young enlisted man usually worked in the torpedo room. “I hear the scouts never saw it coming.”
Losenko could tell that Gorski was frightened. Like the rest of the crew, he had never seen real combat before.
“Do not worry about your captain,” he replied. “A submariner knows better than to stick his periscope where it might be shot at!”
The quip elicited a weak smile.
“I guess you would know, sir!”
“Just pretend that rifle fires torpedoes,” Losenko advised, nodding. “Then you’ll feel right at home.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” The lookout shifted his grip on the weapon. “Just like back on the boat.”
Losenko wanted to promise Gorski that he would see his bunk on K-115 again, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.
Despite the danger, he peered over the crumpled metal hood, to inspect the puzzle that had lured the scouting team to their end.
Just as Zamyatin had reported, the factory dominated the horizon several meters to the west. Pillars of thick white exhaust spewed from its looming chimneys, polluting the air. Periodic gouts of bright orange flames shot upward from the smoke stacks, making them look like gigantic roman candles.
If Losenko strained his ears, he could even hear the sound of heavy machinery. The clanging noises, the rumbling assembly lines would have never been tolerated aboard a submarine, where silence was paramount. Flashing lights as bright as a welder’s torch could be glimpsed through cracks in the drawn metal shutters. The plant sat on the banks of the Ponoy River, the better to discharge its noxious wastes into the flowing current.
My apologies, Oleg, the captain thought. It appears you were not hallucinating after all. He glanced back over his shoulder at the tread marks and grease stains, then looked back at the factory. A grim conviction took root in his mind.
It was impossible to tell at this distance exactly what was being manufactured within the sprawling facility, but he doubted that it was microwave ovens or cheap compact cars.
A squad of machines....
Something buzzed overhead. At first, Losenko thought it was a bug, but then he glanced up and caught a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye. An unmanned aerial vehicle, about the size of a large kite, flew above them. Its streamlined black wingspan was about three meters from tip to tip. Miniature red sensors, mounted in its nose turret, scanned the territory.
Losenko’s blood went cold. He knew at once what he was looking at: a remote-control surveillance drone. Russian military and counter-terrorism forces had been experimenting with such mechanisms for years now, as had the Americans. Indeed, the unmanned aerial vehicle that hovered above them bore a strong resemblance to the Scan Eagles employed by the U.S. military. They were intended to perform aerial reconnaissance missions in a variety of environments, without endangering flesh-and-blood soldiers.
“Damnation!” he cursed. “We’ve been spotted.”
Gorski spied the flying drone as well. With admirable speed and aim, he shouldered his rifle and fired at the UAV. The muzzle brake deflected the sound of the blast to the sides, much to Losenko’s discomfort. Hot lead sprayed across the device’s flight path.
It changed course abruptly, zigging and zagging across the sky with frighten
ing agility. A lucky shot winged it, however, and it went spinning through the air. Sparks flew from its tail, it dipped precipitously, then righted itself at the last moment. As it swooped upward again, slowing long enough to stabilize its erratic tumbling, Gorski let loose with another volley.
This time the drone wasn’t fast enough to evade the gunfire. Flames erupted as the 5.45-millimeter rounds punched through its lightweight composite casing.
“I got him!” Gorski whooped jubilantly. “Torpedoes away!”
But the drone wasn’t dead yet. As though determined to take its attacker with it, the UAV reversed course and dived straight at Losenko and Gorski. Trailing a plume of fire and smoke, it whistled through the air like a miniature missile.
“Incoming!” Losenko shouted. He shoved Gorski out of the way.
With only seconds to spare, the men hurled themselves in opposite directions. The kamikaze drone crashed to earth between them, digging a furrow deep in the soil alongside the road. Dirt and gravel went flying.
Gorski scrambled to his feet on the other side of the crater. He slammed a fresh banana clip into his AK-74, then took aim at the crashed drone.
“Come on, you flying maggot!” he snarled, taking out all his pent-up fear and anger on the pulverized machine. Blowback from the rifle smudged his face. “I’m ready for you!”
“That’s enough, sailor.” Losenko lifted himself from the ground. This time of year, the upper layer of permafrost was loose and soggy. “You’ve killed it once already.”
Not that it mattered. While impressed by Gorski’s reflexes and marksmanship, the captain knew the damage had already been done. The drone had surely reported their presence back to its unknown masters, just as the gunfire had given away their location. Losenko felt as though his hull had been pinged by an enemy sub’s sonar.
We have to get out of here, he realized. Now.
“After me!” he said to Gorski. They sprinted down the hill toward the rest of the patrol, who were already rushing to join the battle. Anxious eyes scanned the hill between them and the factory. Agitated voices pelted Losenko with questions.
“Retreat! Back to the cars!” he shouted over the clamor. He gestured back the way they had come. “Reverse course, full turbines! Gorski! Fedin! Cover our rear!”
He prayed they could get away without a fight, but the odds of that happening were shrinking by the minute. At least we know what we’re in for... unlike Zamyatin.
“But, skipper!” Ostrovosky looked back at the fallen bodies of the scouting party. “Lieutenant Zamyatin and the others....”
“Leave them!” Losenko barked. He hated to abandon the dead crewmen, but if they tried to recover the bodies, they would quickly join them. He prodded Ostrovosky between the shoulders with the muzzle of his pistol. “Eyes front! That’s an order!”
He stepped over Pagodin’s rotting remains.
Dasvidania, comrade.
The men raced at full speed away from the carnage. Their boots pounded against the bloodstained blacktop. Stealth was no longer an issue, so they didn’t bother clinging to the shadows as they had on the way in. Losenko hung back, near the rear of the exodus, constantly glancing back in expectation of seeing the enemy in pursuit.
But what enemy? The question nagged at him even as he hurried his charges back toward their waiting transport. Fourteen men dead, and we still don’t even know who we’re running from!
They had only made it a few meters before the trap was sprung. A loud metallic clatter caught Losenko by surprise. To the left, the corrugated steel door guarding one of the storage units rolled up noisily, exposing a dark cavernous space beyond. A pair of glowing red eyes lit up in the shadows. A motor roared to life—and a thing rolled out of the open unit.
Losenko’s eyes widened in shock.
Exposed beneath the pitiless glare of the arctic sun was a robotic killing machine mounted on tank-like treads. About the size of the conn area back in the control room, it resembled the remote-controlled robots used by bomb squads to detonate suspicious packages. Heavy armor plating—the dull gray color of gunmetal—shielded the machine’s base, torso, and head. The wedge-shaped cranial case had a vaguely serpentine appearance. The robot rose from a defensive crouch until it was nearly three meters tall. Optical sensors, installed in the viper-like “face,” scanned the scene. A pair of menacing black chain guns served as the robot’s arms.
They had met the enemy—and he was not human.
Servomotors whirred into action. Targeting lasers swept over the startled humans. The robot opened fire, unleashing a continuous spray of bullets that cut down a third of the patrol in a matter of seconds. The deafening report of the chain guns, which fired shot after shot with murderous efficiency, drowned out the men’s final screams. Bright arterial blood spurted from gaping wounds. Depleted uranium slugs punched through protective flak jackets as though they were made of tissue.
The robot rolled easily over the uneven terrain. Its head and shoulders swiveled from side to side, raking the road with a scythe of whizzing death. Its spinning muzzles flared like hellfire.
Losenko threw himself onto the pavement. Bullets whizzed about his head, practically grazing his scalp. He wriggled forward on his hands and knees toward the nearest available shelter: the soggy ditch alongside the road. He tumbled headfirst into the gully, landing between two bulldozed vehicles. Bodies hit the asphalt only a few meters away.
This is like something out of a science fiction movie! he thought. The mechanical monster hadn’t even issued a warning before opening fire. This wasn’t security; it was slaughter, pure and simple. What sort of madman programmed this thing? And sent it out to kill?
Just when he thought matters couldn’t get worse, the garage doors at the service station blew off their hinges. A second robot, identical to the first, rumbled out on the other side of the street. Its chain guns rotated into place. Unblinking red eyes surveyed the carnage.
A sailor who had been hiding behind one of the empty gas pumps spun around in surprise. He fired frantically at the newcomer, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the robot’s sooty steel carapace, striking sparks off the armor. The man emptied his weapon, then tossed the rifle aside. He threw his hands up above his head.
“Don’t shoot!” he squealed. “I surrender!”
The robot pivoted toward him. The muzzles of the chain guns flared. Twin bursts of gunfire all but cut the unarmed sailor in two. His bisected body flopped limply onto the concrete.
Surrender, it seemed, was not an option.
Losenko squeezed beneath a wrecked convertible. His coat snagged on the jagged underside of the vehicle before tearing loose. A rusty exhaust pipe scraped against his back. Coming out on the other side, he clambered to his feet. A quick glance revealed little hope of survival, for himself or his men.
“It’s not fair,” he whispered. “They don’t deserve this....”
The vicious crossfire had left only a handful of sailors alive. The terrified survivors were in full retreat, dashing down the road away from the ambush. Their only chance was to get back to the vehicles they had stowed at the junkyard half a kilometer away. They fired back at the robots as they ran, to maddeningly little effect. Smoke bombs, hurled by the fleeing men, offered only minimal cover. The deadly machines rolled out onto the street. Their armored treads trampled over the bodies, grinding flesh and bone into the blacktop.
Losenko recalled Pagodin’s panicky final broadcast.
“Nothing’s stopping them! They just keep coming...!”
He hurried after the fleeing sailors. “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, although it was doubtful they could hear him over the roar of the chain guns. Eschewing the center of the road, he raced across a series of adjoining parking lots, taking evasive action to avoid the whizzing bullets. “Don’t wait for me! Get back to the boat!”
Somebody had to warn Ivanov and the crew back at the sub.
Hairs rose on the back of his neck. Some sort of psychic sonar alert
ed him to danger. Glancing back over his shoulder, he found himself looking straight into the crimson sensors of the first robot. A targeting bead lit up his chest. The robot’s right-hand cannon swung toward him.
“Down, sir!”
Gorski sprang up like a jack-in-the-box from behind a roadside bus shelter. With expert aim, he fired at a narrow band of exposed hydraulics around the neck assembly. Valves and circuitry ruptured violently. Oily black ichor sprayed like blood. The robot’s gun-arms jerked erratically as its torso rotated 360 degrees to protect its throat. A blistering volley of gunfire strafed the air above Losenko’s head. Glass from a shattered streetlight rained down onto his scalp.
“That’s for Lieutenant Zamyatin!” Gorski gloated. “See, Captain! We can hurt them. You just have to hit the right targets!”
The marksman’s triumph was short-lived. The second robot avenged the attack on its partner by turning both its guns on Gorski. Twin blasts from its barrels flung him against the back of the bus shelter. His body danced spasmodically beneath the impact of the bullets. The Kalashnikov went flying from his fingers. A faded advertisement on the shelter urged commuters to explore “Exciting New Careers in Electronics & Computer Programming!”
Losenko’s tore his gaze from the grisly spectacle. Running as though the entire American Army was after him, he was half a block away before Gorski’s bullet-riddled body collapsed onto the curb. Broken glass shattered beneath his feet. The damaged robot retreated, perhaps for repairs, while its murderous comrade continued the pursuit. Its versatile treads easily navigated the potholes and crevices marring the two-lane highway. Mechanical limbs moved with unnerving fluidity.
The monster smelled of smoke and oil.
A valiant sailor struggled to assist a wounded crewmate. His arm around the other man’s shoulders, he half-supported, half-dragged his limping comrade as they lurched after Losenko and the others. Seaman Sasha Krosotkin’s heroism, while worthy of a medal, proved fruitless; unmoved by the touching display, the robot reduced both men to bloody pulp. It then trundled past their intertwined bodies without a backward glance.
