Terminator Salvation: Cold War

military seaport. A warm North Atlantic current kept its harbor ice-free all year round. Losenko recalled bustling docks crammed with towering metal cranes and rows upon rows of covered boat barns, the latter intended to shield the fleet from aerial surveillance. Armed sentries and barbed wire had guarded the wharves, barracks, warehouses, and shipyards. Tugboats had escorted returning vessels back to port, beneath the icy brilliance of a cobalt-blue sky.

The sparsely wooded bluffs overlooking the channel had once been a welcome sight, promising fresh air and solid ground after long weeks under the sea. The salt air had been filled with the sounds of gulls and blaring horns.

But all that was a memory now.

Desolation.

That was what the captain beheld from the bridge atop the Gorshkov’s gigantic black fin. The submarine cruised toward shore along the Kola Fjord. White water lapped over the exposed bow and missile deck, while fully two-thirds of K-115 remained submerged beneath the waves. Ordinarily, maneuvering on the surface was fraught with hazards; it was all too easy for another ship to overlook the low-riding sub and plough right into it. Today, however, there were no other vessels with which to contend. They had the narrow channel all to themselves.

The view from his vantage point confirmed what Losenko had previously glimpsed through the periscope. An enormous crater, at least a thousand feet in diameter, had replaced the naval base. The ground was blackened and scorched. No trace of life remained—not a single weed or blade of grass. Every building had been razed to its foundations. The piers and boat barns were gone.

Though there was no surface traffic, sonar readings had detected the remnants of shattered ships and submarines scattered across the floor of the harbor. They would have to take care to avoid colliding with one of the sunken hulks. Their ruptured hulls now served as underwater tombstones.

We sail above a watery cemetery, Losenko realized. He shuddered beneath a heavy wool pea coat. A fur cap shielded his head from the cold north wind. The midnight sun hung low in the sky. How many crews and captains went down with their ships?

Losenko was dismayed by the devastation, but not surprised. He had seen photos of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Modern nuclear missiles were many times more powerful than the primitive atomic bombs the Americans had dropped on Japan sixty years ago.

Murmansk, he recalled, had once been home to over 300,000 people.

“Bozhe moi,” Trotsky whispered beside him. The deputy commander was serving as deck officer for this watch. His face was ashen. White knuckles gripped the railing. “There is nothing left, Captain. Nothing at all.”

Losenko placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, like a father consoling a grieving son. Chances were, he was the closest thing to a father any one of his men had left. They were all orphans now.

He and Trotsky were alone atop the vessel. Losenko had restricted access to the sail, giving Ivanov the conn until he could survey the situation with his own eyes. Still, he knew he could not spare his men this appalling vista for long. By now, word of the base’s utter destruction was surely spreading among the officers, and from there to the enlisted men. Such secrets were impossible to keep hidden.

“There are no docks,” Trotsky observed. Concentrating on practical concerns appeared to help him maintain his composure. Yet he averted his eyes from the nightmarish tableau. “What now, skipper?”

Losenko peered through binoculars. In the distance, miles beyond ground zero, he spied the skeletal ruins of a few surviving buildings. Pitted steel frameworks had been stripped clean of their facades. Mountains of charred debris littered the barren landscape. Nothing stirred except clouds of ash and grit blown about by the wind. He looked in vain for lights or campfires.

There weren’t even any vultures.

The captain lowered his binoculars.

“We sail on.” There was nothing left for them here but kilometers and kilometers of radioactive rubble. By his estimation, it would be a decade before the irradiated soil could be considered safe to live on—at least by peacetime standards. Murmansk was another Chernobyl. “There are fishing villages south of here, near Ponoy. They would not be considered military targets. Perhaps we can make port there.”

To be safe, he knew, they would need to put at least 200 miles between themselves and ground zero. Maybe 300.

“Yes, sir!” Trotsky seized onto the captain’s proposal as if it was a life preserver. He turned his back on Murmansk. “We’ll need to reverse propulsion at once.”

Before he could phone the new course down to the conn, however, one of the forward hatches clanged open. A midshipman in a blue jumpsuit clambered onto the deck. He gazed out in horror at the wreckage of Murmansk. A heart-rending cry tore itself from his lungs.

“No! NOOO!”

Losenko swore out loud. He hadn’t authorized this. It took him a moment to identify the reckless sailor as Nikolai Yudin, a new recruit who had been stationed in the engineering section.

“You there!” the captain bellowed from the bridge. “Get back below immediately, before I have you locked up for the rest of your miserable life!”

Yudin didn’t even look up at him. He was too busy gawking at the nearly unrecognizable ruins of their home base. He tugged on his hair so hard that Losenko half-expected the distraught seaman to rip out his scalp.

“Marina!” he called out hoarsely to the shore. “Holy God... MARINA!”

Who was Marina? Losenko wondered. His wife? His girlfriend? His daughter? The captain tried to remember if Yudin had a family. There were more than a 150 men aboard K-115. Shaking the thought away, he wheeled around toward Trotsky.

“Get a security team up here... now!”

Trotsky barked instructions into a mike, but Yudin’s crewmates were way ahead of him. Five more men scrambled out onto the deck to retrieve their shipmate. Choppy waves made it a risky endeavor, and none had taken the time to don lifejackets. The newcomers quickly lost track of the task at hand, as they were stunned by the sight of the murdered shore.

“You men, return to your posts,” Losenko bellowed, and three of the men glanced his way. Remembering their purpose, they moved toward Yudin, who fled to the very edge of the deck. He balanced precariously at the brink.

“Stay back!” he shouted hysterically. “Don’t touch me!”

His fellow seamen backed away warily, not wanting to provoke him into doing something rash. One held out his hands.

“Please, Nikolai!” the man said, the sound carried on the brisk, cold wind. “Come away from the edge. Let us talk to you. Let us help you!”

Up on the sail, Trotsky drew his sidearm. He nodded at the hysterical sailor below.

“Shall I intervene, sir?”

The captain shook his head. He doubted that Yudin cared for his own safety right now, and he did not appear to be armed. The man’s best hope lay in the open hands of his brothers-at-sea. He cursed himself for not anticipating such an incident. All his men had passed rigorous psychological testing before being allowed to serve on a ballistic missile submarine, but no amount of screening could predict how any one of them might react to the end of the world. What they were facing now was enough to drive the strongest man to despair... or madness.

An alarm sounded loudly across the deck.

A three-man security team, led by Master Chief Komarov, charged through the open hatch. Unlike the first group of would-be rescuers, they were fully equipped with lifejackets, nightsticks, and firearms. They had been warned what to expect, but even so they paused at the sight of what had become of Murmansk. Their chief was the first to regain his composure.

“Down on the deck!” Komarov ordered gruffly. “Hands where I can see them!”

“Leave me alone!” Yudin shrieked back at them. Crazed blue eyes darted back and forth between his comrades and the blasted wasteland ashore. When he spoke again, his voice was pleading. “It’s gone... they’re all gone!”

Losenko felt the situation slipping out of control. He knew in his heart where this was going.