Terminator Salvation: Cold War

water.

He would not turn back, however, until he had uncovered what sort of devilry was underway. Zamyatin and his men had discovered this infamous factory, and had paid with their lives. That they had been mercilessly gunned down, just for approaching the facility, implied that its secrets were of great importance, at least to someone.

That it was also the only evidence of life for leagues added to the captain’s curiosity. He needed to know what in Russia had survived the war—if only for the sake of his own sanity.

The road rose and fell between the battle site and the factory, following the natural contours of the terrain. Walking along the curb, he climbed to the crest of a low hill and crouched down behind the concealing shelter of an abandoned mail truck. He scooted along the tilted hood, being careful to keep his head low. A lookout, the barrel of his rifle laid across the top of the hood, squatted beside Losenko. Pavel Gorski glanced up briefly from his rifle sight.

“Watch yourself, skipper,” the boy warned in a hushed tone. The young enlisted man usually worked in the torpedo room. “I hear the scouts never saw it coming.”

Losenko could tell that Gorski was frightened. Like the rest of the crew, he had never seen real combat before.

“Do not worry about your captain,” he replied. “A submariner knows better than to stick his periscope where it might be shot at!”

The quip elicited a weak smile.

“I guess you would know, sir!”

“Just pretend that rifle fires torpedoes,” Losenko advised, nodding. “Then you’ll feel right at home.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” The lookout shifted his grip on the weapon. “Just like back on the boat.”

Losenko wanted to promise Gorski that he would see his bunk on K-115 again, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Despite the danger, he peered over the crumpled metal hood, to inspect the puzzle that had lured the scouting team to their end.

Just as Zamyatin had reported, the factory dominated the horizon several meters to the west. Pillars of thick white exhaust spewed from its looming chimneys, polluting the air. Periodic gouts of bright orange flames shot upward from the smoke stacks, making them look like gigantic roman candles.

If Losenko strained his ears, he could even hear the sound of heavy machinery. The clanging noises, the rumbling assembly lines would have never been tolerated aboard a submarine, where silence was paramount. Flashing lights as bright as a welder’s torch could be glimpsed through cracks in the drawn metal shutters. The plant sat on the banks of the Ponoy River, the better to discharge its noxious wastes into the flowing current.

My apologies, Oleg, the captain thought. It appears you were not hallucinating after all. He glanced back over his shoulder at the tread marks and grease stains, then looked back at the factory. A grim conviction took root in his mind.

It was impossible to tell at this distance exactly what was being manufactured within the sprawling facility, but he doubted that it was microwave ovens or cheap compact cars.

A squad of machines....

Something buzzed overhead. At first, Losenko thought it was a bug, but then he glanced up and caught a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye. An unmanned aerial vehicle, about the size of a large kite, flew above them. Its streamlined black wingspan was about three meters from tip to tip. Miniature red sensors, mounted in its nose turret, scanned the territory.

Losenko’s blood went cold. He knew at once what he was looking at: a remote-control surveillance drone. Russian military and counter-terrorism forces had been experimenting with such mechanisms for years now, as had the Americans. Indeed, the unmanned aerial vehicle that hovered above them bore a strong resemblance to the Scan Eagles employed by the U.S. military. They were intended to perform aerial reconnaissance missions in a variety of environments, without endangering flesh-and-blood soldiers.

“Damnation!” he cursed. “We’ve been spotted.”

Gorski spied the flying drone as well. With admirable speed and aim, he shouldered his rifle and fired at the UAV. The muzzle brake deflected the sound of the blast to the sides, much to Losenko’s discomfort. Hot lead sprayed across the device’s flight path.

It changed course abruptly, zigging and zagging across the sky with frightening agility. A lucky shot winged it, however, and it went spinning through the air. Sparks flew from its tail, it dipped precipitously, then righted itself at the last moment. As it swooped upward again, slowing long enough to stabilize its erratic tumbling, Gorski let loose with another volley.

This time the drone wasn’t fast enough to evade the gunfire. Flames erupted as the 5.45-millimeter rounds punched through its lightweight composite casing.

“I got him!” Gorski whooped jubilantly. “Torpedoes away!”

But the drone wasn’t dead yet. As though determined to take its attacker with it, the UAV reversed course and dived straight at Losenko and Gorski. Trailing a plume of fire and smoke, it whistled through the air like a miniature missile.

“Incoming!” Losenko shouted. He shoved Gorski out of the way.

With only seconds to spare, the men hurled themselves in opposite directions. The kamikaze drone crashed to earth between them, digging a furrow deep in the soil alongside the road. Dirt and gravel went flying.

Gorski scrambled to his feet on the other side of the crater. He slammed a fresh banana clip into his AK-74, then took aim at the crashed drone.

“Come on, you flying maggot!” he snarled, taking out all his pent-up fear and anger on the pulverized machine. Blowback from the rifle smudged his face. “I’m ready for you!”

“That’s enough, sailor.” Losenko lifted himself from the ground. This time of year, the upper layer of permafrost was loose and soggy. “You’ve killed it once already.”

Not that it mattered. While impressed by Gorski’s reflexes and marksmanship, the captain knew the damage had already been done. The drone had surely reported their presence back to its unknown masters, just as the gunfire had given away their location. Losenko felt as though his hull had been pinged by an enemy sub’s sonar.

We have to get out of here, he realized. Now.

“After me!” he said to Gorski. They sprinted down the hill toward the rest of the patrol, who were already rushing to join the battle. Anxious eyes scanned the hill between them and the factory. Agitated voices pelted Losenko with questions.

“Retreat! Back to the cars!” he shouted over the clamor. He gestured back the way they had come. “Reverse course, full turbines! Gorski! Fedin! Cover our rear!”

He prayed they could get away without a fight, but the odds of that happening were shrinking by the minute. At least we know what we’re in for... unlike Zamyatin.

“But, skipper!” Ostrovosky looked back at the fallen bodies of the scouting party. “Lieutenant Zamyatin and the others....”

“Leave them!” Losenko barked. He hated to abandon the dead crewmen, but if they tried to recover the bodies, they would quickly join them. He prodded Ostrovosky between the shoulders with the muzzle of his pistol. “Eyes front! That’s an order!”

He stepped over Pagodin’s rotting remains.

Dasvidania, comrade.

The men raced at full speed away from the carnage. Their boots pounded against the bloodstained blacktop. Stealth was no longer an issue, so they didn’t bother clinging to the shadows as they had on the way in. Losenko hung back, near the rear of the exodus, constantly glancing back in expectation of seeing the enemy in pursuit.

But what enemy? The question nagged at him even as he hurried his charges back toward their waiting transport. Fourteen men dead, and we still don’t even know who we’re running from!

They had only made it a few meters before the trap was sprung. A loud metallic clatter caught Losenko by surprise. To the left, the corrugated steel door guarding one of the storage units rolled up noisily, exposing a dark cavernous space beyond. A pair of glowing red eyes lit up in the shadows. A motor roared to life—and a thing rolled out of the open unit.