delayed the completion of the Terminator’s assigned purpose. It worked its free arm out from beneath the grizzly’s bulk. The elbow joint bent to a ninety-degree angle. A steel fist rocketed upward with enough force to punch through solid concrete, smashing through the grizzly’s rib cage and into its heart.
The meaty organ exploded upon impact.
THREAT POTENTIAL: TERMINATED.
The grizzly went limp, turning into 263.472 kilograms of dead weight. Its fierce brown eyes glazed over.
The Terminator withdrew its fist. A torrent of hot arterial blood gushed from the gaping cavity in the bear’s chest, spilling onto the T-600’s supine form. Steam rose from the crimson flood. The machine took hold of the dead grizzly with both hands, shifting its grip to improve the leverage before tossing the carcass aside.
It landed with a heavy thump, not far from the disemboweled caribou. The blood of predator and prey mingled atop the snow.
The machine rose to its feet. Claw marks scored the surface of its endoskeleton. Sticky red fluid, cooling rapidly in the cold night air, streamed down its chassis to pool at its feet. The shattered optical sensor blinked out, leaving the T-600 blind on one side and compromising its depth perception.
Although there had been minor damage to an actuator in its lower jaw, and two internal valves had been wrenched loose by the impact with the grizzly, a thorough diagnostic reported no other major malfunctions. Backup systems compensated for damaged components. Valves resealed to prevent loss of vital lubricants. A fang remained embedded in its skull.
OPERATIONAL EFFICIENCY: 78.406 %.
The grizzly had inflicted significant damage, the Terminator concluded, but not enough to deter it from fulfilling its programming. Its remaining optical sensor zeroed in on the decaying buildings high up on the slopes of the mountain. The humans’ trail continued to lead in that direction.
The T-600 saw no reason to linger at the site of the battle. Leaving the dead bear behind, it marched uphill.
CHAPTER NINE
2003
The bodies of the scouting party had been left where they fell. The arctic chill had retarded decomposition, but insects and bacteria had already left their mark on the dead submariners. Maggots swarmed in the eye sockets. Pale flesh had begun to blacken. Marbled veins stood out beneath peeling skin. Rigor mortis had passed, leaving the bodies limp and rubbery.
Bullets riddled the scattered corpses, which lay amidst pools of congealed blood. Lieutenant Zamyatin’s face had indeed been blasted apart; Losenko could identify him only by the insignia on his uniform. Pagodin’s lifeless fingers still clutched the blood-splattered walkie-talkie.
The massacre had taken place on a lonely stretch of road running through a deserted industrial area. The two-lane highway was flanked by a private storage facility on the right and an empty service station on the left. Discarded vehicles had been shoved into ditches alongside the road, perhaps to clear a path to the factory over the hill. Mummified skeletons slumped over the wheels of some of the cars. Most of the storage units looked as though they had been broken into by looters, although a few still had their corrugated steel doors intact.
The storage sheds and service station provided plenty of cover for hidden snipers; the location struck Losenko as the perfect site for an ambush. Fourteen of his men had learned that firsthand.
Evidence of the slaughter was everywhere. The overturned pickup lay on its side, blown apart by an explosion. Twisted metal fragments were strewn like shrapnel. Shell casings littered the asphalt. Bullet holes perforated the dented cars lining the road. Stray shots had chipped away at street signs, telephone poles, and concrete traffic dividers.
Losenko pried a loose slug out of the pavement; it appeared to be made of depleted uranium. One did not have to be a detective to realize that the scene had born witness to a furious firefight.
The only thing that was missing was the enemy. If Zamyatin and his men had managed to take any of their killers with them, those bodies had been carried away. Unlike the rotting corpses of his men.
“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.
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?
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.
