Terminator Salvation: Cold War

leaving their duties and responsibilities behind?

A signal light flashed. A burst of static broke into his bitter ruminations. Pushkin fiddled with the controls on his receiver. He tapped his headphones.

“I think I have something, sir!”

“Put it over the speaker,” Losenko instructed. He wanted to hear for himself.

“Right on it, sir!”

Pushkin pressed a button. Zamyatin’s voice entered the cramped compartment.

“Search party to K-115.” The transmission was scratchy and faint, but audible. Pushkin did something to increase the volume. “Lieutenant Zamyatin reporting.”

Good man, Losenko thought. His heart swelled with pride. It was good to know that there were still dedicated officers within his crew. He took the mike from Pushkin and pressed down on the speaker button.

“Losenko here. What is your position and status, Mr. Zamyatin?”

Static punctuated the officer’s reply.

“According to GPS, we’re about seventy-five kilometers northeast of the port, on the outskirts of some sort of industrial area. The terrain here shows only moderate damage. And, Captain, there appears to be a factory running!”

Losenko couldn’t believe his ears.

“A factory?”

“A manufacturing plant, I think.” The excitement in Zamyatin’s voice was contagious. “We’re still several meters away, but there’s white smoke and puffs of flame billowing from the stacks. We can hear heavy machinery, and there look to be lights and activity inside.”

The captain and radio operators exchanged startled looks. Losenko had hoped that maybe the scouts might have stumbled onto a refugee camp or scattered homeless survivors, but a working factory, still going strong when everything else was dead or dying? Losenko briefly wondered if Zamyatin was hallucinating. Too much radiation maybe?

“Can you see any survivors?”

“Negative,” Zamyatin answered. The captain visualized him peering through a pair of high-powered binoculars. “We’re too far away, and there doesn’t appear to be anyone on the grounds surrounding the plant. They must all be inside.”

Pushkin shook his head.

“Who the hell still goes to work at a time like this?” A sheepish look came over his scrawny face, as though he feared his careless remark might be taken the wrong way. “Outside of the armed forces, I mean.”

“At ease, Gennady,” Losenko assured him. The radio operator had a point; it did strike him as strange that the factory would still be in operation—unless perhaps a civilian plant had been converted to serve the war effort, in which case the government or the military might be in charge. Losenko leaned forward again, tightly gripping the mike.

“Mr. Zamyatin. Can you tell what is being manufactured at the facility?”

“No, sir,” the tactical officer admitted. “Sorry, sir.” He clearly regretted disappointing his captain. “There appear to be metal shutters over the windows and skylights. Plenty of automated security measures, too. Mounted cameras, searchlights, barricades.” The truck’s engine rumbled in the background, combining with the excited voices of the other men. “We’re moving in for a closer look.”

“Exercise caution, Mr. Zamyatin,” the captain advised. There was no guarantee that the facility remained in the hands of the lawful authorities, nor that its inhabitants would necessarily welcome visitors. It was even possible that the plant had been commandeered by the enemy. “Do not assume that Mother Russia is still friendly territory.”

“Understood, Captain—” The transmission broke up, but Pushkin managed to regain the signal. “—when I know more.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Zamyatin raised his voice to be heard over the rattle of the truck, which seemed to be on the move again. “Search party out.”

The speaker fell silent.

The captain handed the mike back to Pushkin, then retreated to the rear of the radio shack. He paced back and forth despite the tight space, his hands clasped behind his back. Reluctant to return to the conn until he knew more, he tapped his foot impatiently against the deck. He felt like Noah waiting for the dove to return.

Zamyatin’s discovery sounded encouraging, so why were his nerves on edge? The unidentified aircraft flew across his memory, adding to his unease. The Gorshkov had been out of touch with the mainland for weeks. Could American troops have already established a foothold in that time? What if that aircraft had been delivering supplies or manpower to an enemy outpost operating within Russia’s borders?

We have no idea who we’re dealing with, he realized. Nor what purpose that factory is now being put to.

“Hey, Gennady.” The assistant radio operator whispered to Pushkin. Seaman Ostrovosky was single, with a reputation for carousing while on leave. “You think there are women working at that factory?” His eager tone testified to weeks of enforced celibacy aboard K-115.

Even before the missiles flew, none of them had set eyes on a woman since leaving port. Is that what the deserters are going in search of? Losenko wondered. An Eve to their Adam?

Pushkin’s mind seemed to be heading in the same direction.

“Russia must be repopulated after all.” He grinned at his comrade. “I, for one, am prepared to do my patriotic duty.”

“Enough of that,” Losenko said sternly. He didn’t want any overactive libidos leading his crew to inefficiency or, worse, recklessness. He prayed that Zamyatin and the rest of the scouting party weren’t entertaining similar fantasies, at the expense of caution. “Keep your minds on your work.”

Pushkin blushed in embarrassment. Ostrovosky gulped. Both men busily occupied themselves with their apparatus.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Ostrovosky said.

The tense silence was suddenly broken by a flashing signal light. Making up for his earlier frivolity, Pushkin quickly responded.

“K-115 to search party....”

His salutation was cut short by the unmistakable din of all-out battle. Frantic shouting and the strident blare of gunfire invaded the radio shack. Men screamed in agony. A deafening explosion momentarily overpowered the speaker system.

“Oh my God!” an agitated voice cried out. “They’ve got us pinned down!”

Losenko rushed forward. He yanked the mike from Pushkin’s shaking fingers.

“Search party, this is the captain! What’s happening?”

“We’re under attack!” the voice reported. “They came out of nowhere. They caught us by surprise!” A burst of automatic weapons fire interrupted the panicky report. Pounding footsteps sounded in the background. A heavy body slammed into the earth, and it sounded as if the speaker was rolling across the ground in a desperate attempt to avoid being shot. “There’s no place to run. God help us, we’re all going to die!”

The incoherent monologue tormented Losenko.

“Get hold of yourself!” he barked into the mike. “Where is Deputy Commander Zamyatin?”

“Zamyatin is dead! They blew his head right off.” The embattled sailor struggled to compose himself. “The truck is in flames. There’s nowhere to go!”

The shocking news hit Losenko like a torpedo, but he couldn’t let it rattle him.

“Who is this?” he demanded. “Identify yourself!”

“Yevgeny Pagodin, seaman second-class,” a shaky voice whimpered. “Arkady, watch out!” he hollered at an unseen comrade. A volley of shots rang out, too close for comfort. A wet sound splattered the walkie-talkie at the other end of the transmission. “No!” Pagodin sobbed. “Arkady!” His voice wavered. “This can’t be happening. Not Arkady too!”