Terminator Salvation: Cold War (2 page)

“All hands, combat stations.”

Losenko released the mike. He faced his officers.

“Instruct Sonar to be on the alert for enemy vessels. I want to be informed at once of any contacts.” The men relayed his message across the conn. “Mr. Ivanov, plot an evasive course to begin immediately after the release of our weapons.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” his XO replied. Launching their missiles would instantly signal their location to the enemy. They would have to strike quickly, then retreat at full speed. Ivanov consulted a notebook filled with combat strategies. Anger seethed in his voice. “Those sons of bitches won’t catch us with our pants down.”

The next several minutes were like a nightmare from which Losenko could not wake. Top-secret codes were transmitted directly from Moscow, and once they were employed, the procedure for launching a nuclear attack was as tightly scripted and choreographed as a Bolshoi ballet. Trigger keys were extracted from closely guarded combination safes. Missiles were fueled and prepped. Silos were pressurized. Coordinates were loaded into the guidance systems and targeting computers. Warheads were activated.

Heavy metal hatches slid open, exposing the tips of the warheads. More codes unlocked the firing mechanisms. Each man played his part, like a cog in some infernal assembly line designed to manufacture Armageddon.

A regimented litany of checks and responses proceeded with sickening inevitability. Losenko watched himself perform his own functions without hesitation, yet all the while a frantic voice at the back of his mind screamed silently.

WHY?

It made no sense. The Cold War was over and international tensions, while never completely at rest, were nowhere near a level that might justify such madness. He was aware of no crisis—no global emergency—that could have escalated to all-out nuclear war in a matter of hours. His most recent updates from Fleet Command had hinted at nothing of the sort. The Americans had troubles enough in Afghanistan and Iraq. They did not need any more.

A sense of almost supernatural horror gripped the captain’s soul. What demon had possessed them? Had their president lost his mind? Didn’t he realize that he had just doomed his own country? The man was supposed to be a cowboy, not a maniac.

Losenko resisted an urge to cross himself.

The sub leveled off as it achieved firing position.

“Fifty-six meters,” the diving officer called out. “Fifty-five meters.”

For a brief moment, Losenko considered going higher, all the way to periscope depth. Perhaps he should risk raising his masts, then break radio silence long enough to consult with Fleet Command one last time before passing the point of no return. Billions of lives hung in the balance. What if this was all some terrible misunderstanding?

What other explanation could there be?

But, no, the risk was too great. He shook his head to clear his mind of any lingering doubts. He dared not compromise the safety of his ship, not before he had fulfilled the awful responsibility Fate—and Mother Russia—had entrusted to him. His orders were clear, double-checked and authenticated beyond all question.

It was time to kill more than six million men, women, and children.

“All compartments report readiness,” Ivanov informed him. A muscle twitched beneath his cheek. “Missiles one through fourteen await your order.”

Losenko nodded. Moscow had ordered nearly all of the
Gorshkov’s
complement of ballistic missiles into the air, leaving only two rockets in reserve. Even that degree of caution struck the captain as faintly ludicrous under the circumstances. Would there be anything left to bomb after the initial exchange?

He felt a dozen eyes upon him, while the sub itself seemed to be holding its breath. His mouth felt as dry as ashes. He would have killed for a shot of vodka.

“Initiate fire,” he commanded.

His words were carried to the weapons officer in missile control. The final trigger was activated. The entire boat bobbed slightly as, one after another, the massive weight of fourteen 130,000-ton missiles exited its silos in sequenced bursts of expanding nitrogen gas. Automated systems pumped tons of water into the missile compensation tanks to keep the sub more or less level.

They were close enough to the surface that the sound of shattered ice penetrated the stillness of the ocean when the unleashed missiles burst through the arctic icecap. In his mind’s eye, Losenko could see them arcing through the sky as their first-stage rockets ignited high above the Barents Seas, then veered away from one another en route to their ultimate destinations, thousands of miles away.

“One through fourteen away,” the missile chief reported. “Launch successful.”

It’s done,
Losenko realized.
Once our birds have flown, they cannot be recalled.

Although the target package selected by Moscow had been expressed in terms of coordinates and computerized programs, he knew all too well where the missiles were going. To the American state of Alaska, home to major population centers and key military installations. All those targets—and those who lived there—had just been condemned to incineration. Losenko had never visited Alaska, but he had heard it was a beautiful place.

He wondered what would be left of it.

“God help us all,” he murmured. “Execute evasive maneuvers. Down bubble, thirty degrees!”

During testing, the successful launch of a missile was cause for pride and celebration. But not today. Now that the deed was done, Losenko’s strength and discipline threatened to desert him. His legs felt limp and a dreadful weariness descended upon his shoulders. Looking out over his men once more, he saw tears streaming down the faces of veteran sailors. Muttered prayers and curses rose from the general hubbub.

“Yankee bastards!” Ivanov spat. Rage contorted his handsome features. His fists were clenched at his sides. “May they burn in hell forever!”

The captain allowed the XO his outburst and his anger. Alexei had just lost his family and his future, like everyone else aboard K-115.

We are all damned now,
he thought.
May heaven forgive us.

He had no idea how he was going to live with what he had just done.

“Dive the boat!” he barked hoarsely. “Dive!”

The fire was not dead yet.

Thousands of miles from the Barents Sea, in the verdant heart of Alaska’s Chugach State Park, a young forest ranger scowled at the still smoldering campfire. Her long black hair blew in the breeze. An ivory pendant, carved in the shape of a raven, added a touch of personal flair to her green park uniform. Dark eyes flashed angrily.

How could people be so careless? Didn’t they know an abandoned campfire like this could burn the whole forest down?

Her fingers drifted to the grip of the pistol resting against her hip. The thoughtless hikers were lucky that they had already moved on. New to the Forest Service, with a spanking new degree in environmental science, the ranger took her responsibilities seriously. Nobody was going to mess with Alaska’s pristine wilderness on her watch.

A blinding white flash, many miles to the south, drove the smoking embers from her mind. The ranger threw up an arm to shield her eyes. A thunderous blast echoed in the distance. She watched in horror as a mushroom cloud rose on the horizon.

Oh God,
she thought.
That was Anchorage.

The forgotten campfire meant nothing now. A larger blaze was consuming the world.

The ranger knew her life had just changed forever.

“Heads down. It’s coming.”

Molly Kookesh took cover in the Alaskan brush. She wriggled forward on her belly atop the hard-packed winter snow until she had a better view of the remote river canyon below. The wooded slope provided an ideal vantage point. Frosted evergreens, their branches weighed down by snow, hid her from the moonlight. A damp mist hung over the valley—and the massive timber bridge spanning the river. Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance.

“Where?” Sitka’s head popped up beside her. A mane of wild ginger hair that barely knew what a comb was framed the teenager’s face. An oversized army surplus jacket hung like a tent upon her gangly frame. Her pockets bulged with miscellaneous odds and ends, scavenged from wherever. Freckles accented her gleeful expression. She brushed her bangs away from her eyes.

“Wanna see!” she said eagerly.

“Down, packrat.” Geir Svenson shoved the girl’s head back behind a ridge. A scruffy blond beard just enhanced the bush pilot’s rakish good looks, at least as far as Molly was concerned. A battered aviator’s jacket was zipped up to his chin, the better to keep out the bitter cold. A wool cap kept his head warm. His breath frosted from his lips. “Unless you think that silly head of yours needs a couple of extra holes in it,” he added.

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” the teen muttered, but she got the message and hunkered down in the snow between the two adults. “Wanted a peek, that’s all. Wasn’t gonna get spotted.” Sitka doled out pronouns sparingly, as if they were too valuable to be wasted. “Not a child anymore, you know.”

Molly let out an exasperated sigh. She should have known better than to let Sitka tag along but, eager to earn her colors, the girl had been pestering her for months to be included in an operation. Tonight’s outing—a simple recon gig—had seemed like a good opportunity to test the teenager in the field. Now Molly wasn’t so sure.

“Quiet, both of you!” she hissed. “Don’t make me regret bringing you along.”

That shut Sitka up, at least for the moment. Geir adopted a wounded look.

“Whoa! What did I do?”

“Nothing,” she admitted. “But I’ve got a hard-ass reputation to keep up.”

Geir shot her an appreciative once-over.

“Trust me, chief, that ass speaks for itself.”

“Gag!” Sitka feigned sticking a finger down her throat. “Nauseous now.”

Molly tried not to grin.

“Enough banter. Eyes on the prize.”

A fur-lined parka matched her tight sealskin trousers. She tossed back the hood, exposing a head of lustrous black hair tied up in a ponytail. High cheekbones, dark almond eyes, and copper skin proclaimed her Native Alaskan roots. A carved ivory Raven totem dangled on a leather strap around her neck. A scarlet armband marked her as a member of the Resistance, the red dye symbolizing the blood spilt by all the brave men and women who had died fighting the machines over the last fifteen years.

Sitka eyed it enviously. She had yet to earn an armband of her own.

Propped up on her elbows, Molly squinted through her binoculars. Half a mile away, the huge trestle bridge stretched across the valley, looming more than 300 feet above the raging river below. Icebergs collided harmlessly against the massive concrete piers. Bolted timber struts and trusses supported the bridge, which was over 700-feet long. Iron train tracks ran across its deck. An electrified third rail eliminated the need for old-fashioned diesel or steam engines. The high-tech transportation system had been built on top of an old mining company railway, dating back to the Gold Rush.

The more things change....

The tracks appeared empty, except for a bald eagle roosting midway across the bridge. A low rumble rattled the tracks, audible even at this distance, and the raptor shot up into the air.

Smart bird,
Molly thought. The rumble grew louder by the moment. A tunnel carved into the hillside on the northern side of the canyon hid the source of the noise from view until the train came zooming out onto the bridge.

Molly’s eyes widened.

“Wow!” Sitka whispered in awe. “Way skookum!”

Like all of Skynet’s mechanical offspring, the driverless train was ugly, brutal in its design, making no concession to human aesthetics. Gray armor-plating covered its streamlined contours. Sealed gun-ports ran along the length of its sides. Red optical sensors glowed like demonic eyes above its bullet-shaped nose. Razor-sharp skewers jutted like fangs from the bloody steel “cowcatcher” at the prow. The rotting carcass of an unlucky moose was impaled upon the spikes.

Bright blue sparks flared beneath the train cars, where their contacts met the electric rail. The deafening clamor of its passage drowned out everything else, even the rapid beating of Molly’s pulse. On straightaways, she knew, the bullet train clocked at least 180 miles an hour.

And to think I used to find trains romantic
....

The “Skynet Express” carried uranium, copper, and other strategic minerals necessary to the war effort, transporting them from automated mining operations in the Yukon. Unrestricted by environmental or conservation concerns, Skynet had gouged the wilderness, wresting raw materials from Mother Earth for its own unholy purposes. Preexisting rail lines running across hundreds of miles of rugged terrain had been linked and upgraded to fit the cybernetic intelligence’s specifications. Weekly runs transported the ore to a Terminator construction plant in Valdez.

But not for much longer,
Molly vowed.
Not if I have anything to say about it.

The value Skynet placed on the ore was driven home by the transport’s daunting defenses. Not only was the armored juggernaut loaded with concealed weapons, but the supply train rated air support, as well. Molly ducked lower into the brush as a Hunter-Killer glided over the canyon. The steady thrum of the aircraft’s VTOL turbofans contrasted with the noisy clatter from the train tracks. High-speed impellers kept it aloft, and its ugly gunmetal exterior matched that of the train it was escorting. Usually HKs preceded the trains they were protecting; Molly guessed that this one had hung back to check on some disturbance prior to the tunnel. Maybe a noisy herd of caribou, or a falling tree.

Going into hover mode, the HK hung in the sky above the bridge. Powerful floodlights scoured the vicinity, on the lookout for human targets.

“Nobody move!” she whispered urgently. The HKs relied on infrared motion trackers to locate prey. The best way to escape their notice was to blend into the surroundings and not move a muscle. They had to be still as a corpse—or risk becoming one.