Terminator Salvation: Cold War

can’t risk you. Zamyatin is more than capable of leading the expedition.”

Now that the truck was up and running, Losenko was dispatching a team to search further inland, looking for signs of life and foraging for supplies. The town itself appeared to have been stripped clean already, and what canned food remained was dangerously irradiated.

“Is that the real reason?” Ivanov challenged him. “Or is it that you don’t trust me out of your sight? Do you think that I will desert, to go searching for my family?” A bitter smirk twisted his lips. “Let me assure you, sir, you need not worry on that account. I have no illusions that my loved ones survived the Americans’ treacherous attack.” He spat upon the ground, barely missing the charred skull fragment. “I know they are dead.”

The starpom’s surly tone bordered on insubordination. Losenko’s right hand fell discreetly upon the grip of the semi-automatic pistol that was holstered on his hip. Conscious of Ivanov’s heart- breaking losses, he had made allowances for the younger officer’s sullen attitude, but he was not about to have his authority questioned— not even by a man he had once thought of as a son.

“I do not need to justify my decisions to you, Mr. Ivanov,” he said brusquely. “Do not forget that I am still the captain here. If you have a problem with that, I am more than willing to relieve you of your duties.”

As he spoke, Losenko kept a close eye on Ivanov’s rife. He held his breath, waiting to see if the combative XO would back down. He felt the eyes of the other crewmen fall upon them both.

“That won’t be necessary, Captain.” Ivanov stepped back and saluted Losenko, albeit grudgingly. “I will instruct Deputy Commander Zamyatin to commence scouting further afield, per your orders. Will that be all, sir?”

Losenko’s hand came away from his gun.

“Thank you, Mr. Ivanov. Go about your duties.”

Stone-faced, the captain watched silently as the XO marched back to the truck and gave Zamyatin some final instructions before waving them on. The tactical officer rode shotgun in the truck’s cab beside the driver. The pickup disappeared down a cratered highway heading west into the heart of the Kola Peninsula. Its spinning wheels raised a cloud of grey dust and ash. Scattered bones, human and otherwise, crunched beneath its tread.

Soon the truck disappeared into the distance.

Not for the first time, Losenko chided himself for not organizing a detail to collect and bury the strewn remains. It was a crime to leave the skeletal fragments exposed to the elements like this. But the sheer enormity of the task forced him to confront the futility of any such effort. The dead outnumbered the living now, and the whole world was their crematorium.

He wondered if there were enough people left on Earth to bury them all.

My duty is to the living, he concluded, not to lifeless bones.

He prayed that the scouting party would find survivors—perhaps clusters of refugees fleeing the former population centers. He desperately needed to believe that some remnant of the Russian people endured, that he and his crew were not entirely alone in this godforsaken new world. They had not even been able to make contact with another Russian sub. Whether this meant that all of them had been destroyed in the fighting after the attack, or that they were simply laying low as submarines were designed to do, remained unknown.

Where did his duty lie if there was no nation left to defend?

He surveyed the devastation, unable to escape it. Was this what Alaska looked like now? His own role in the holocaust still haunted him. Should I have launched those missiles? Did I retaliate against a computer glitch?

What if the American general, Ashdown, was telling the truth?

“Captain! Captain!”

A young ensign came running down the gangplank from the sub. Losenko recognized him as Alyosha Mazin, a trainee currently assigned to Operations. He sprinted toward Losenko with more energy than the captain had seen in any of the crew for weeks. His eyes were wide with alarm. He shoved his fellow sailors aside.

“Out of my way! Coming through!”

What the devil? Losenko instantly went on the alert.

“Something’s coming, sir!” The breathless ensign skidded to a halt in front of him. “Radar’s detected an incoming aircraft, heading this way fast!”

Adrenalin shot through Losenko’s veins.

“What kind of aircraft?”

“Undetermined, sir!” The messenger labored to catch his breath; weeks of sedentary life aboard the sub had left him out of shape. His pale face was flushed. “Bearing northwest, sir. From the sea.”

The Americans? Losenko bit back a profanity. Docked at the pier, the Gorshkov was a sitting duck. Even if he could get everyone back aboard K-115 in time, and rig the sub for immediate departure, the narrow inlet was too shallow to allow them to submerge entirely. And unlike the old days at Murmansk, there were no anti-aircraft emplacements to defend the vulnerable submarine. If this was indeed an American bomber approaching, the Gorshkov presented a tempting target.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

“Take cover!” he bellowed into the bullhorn. Even if his ship was defenseless, he could still try to save his crew. “Out of sight—now!”

The men scrambled to obey, ducking beneath the rebuilt dock or darting into gutted buildings. The security team crouched within the rubble, aiming their guns and rifles at the sky. Several more men started up the gangplank toward the sub, but Losenko called them back.

“Belay that! Stay clear of the boat!” If the Gorshkov came under fire, the massive vessel would rapidly become a watery tomb.

Losenko considered evacuating the sub, leaving only a skeleton crew aboard, but time deprived him of that option. He and Mazin took cover behind an overturned garbage truck. His eyes turned upward, searching the sky, but he heard the aircraft coming before he saw it, flying at a high altitude several kilometers to the north. It was hard to make out at this distance, but it appeared to be some sort of wide-bodied cargo plane, possibly a military transport—perhaps bearing enemy troops and equipment, or simply emergency relief supplies.

It was too far away, and moving too fast, to discern its insignia. Losenko could catch only a glimpse of it.

So he waited for the large, fixed-wing aircraft to veer toward them. And waited, and waited....

To his surprise, the plane did not alter its flight path. Seemingly oblivious to the exposed sub, it passed by in a matter of minutes. Losenko watched intently as it left the coast behind, heading further west.

In roughly the same direction as the scouting party.

Mazin laughed out loud, unable to contain his euphoria. Death had passed them by. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. He looked at the captain. Relief gradually gave way to confusion on his youthful face.

“Whose plane was that, sir? One of ours? Or the enemy’s? Where is it heading?”

Losenko wished he knew.

***

“K-115 to search party. Can you read me?”

Losenko hovered in the radio shack behind the seated operators. More than two hours had passed since the reconnaissance team had headed inland. They were overdue to check in.

“K-115 to search party, please come in.”

Transmitting from the sub was a calculated risk, especially after sighting that unidentified aircraft, but the captain was anxious to know the status of his scouts. To his dismay, at least a half dozen men had taken advantage of the crisis to desert; after scrambling for cover, they were nowhere to be found. No doubt they had chosen to take their chances on their own, rather than spend another moment in the service of an extinct navy.

I should be furious with them, Losenko thought. But instead all he felt was fatigue and disappointment. He, too, was sick to death of this endless voyage. Who could blame the runaways for wanting to escape? Why spend your last days trapped inside a metal tube? He shook his head ruefully. At this rate, I will soon be the commander of a ghost ship.

Was that what had become of Zamyatin and his scouting party? Had they also struck out for parts unknown,