Losenko’s eyes widened in shock.
Exposed beneath the pitiless glare of the arctic sun was a robotic killing machine mounted on tank-like treads. About the size of the conn area back in the control room, it resembled the remote-controlled robots used by bomb squads to detonate suspicious packages. Heavy armor plating—the dull gray color of gunmetal—shielded the machine’s base, torso, and head. The wedge-shaped cranial case had a vaguely serpentine appearance. The robot rose from a defensive crouch until it was nearly three meters tall. Optical sensors, installed in the viper-like “face,” scanned the scene. A pair of menacing black chain guns served as the robot’s arms.
They had met the enemy—and he was not human.
Servomotors whirred into action. Targeting lasers swept over the startled humans. The robot opened fire, unleashing a continuous spray of bullets that cut down a third of the patrol in a matter of seconds. The deafening report of the chain guns, which fired shot after shot with murderous efficiency, drowned out the men’s final screams. Bright arterial blood spurted from gaping wounds. Depleted uranium slugs punched through protective flak jackets as though they were made of tissue.
The robot rolled easily over the uneven terrain. Its head and shoulders swiveled from side to side, raking the road with a scythe of whizzing death. Its spinning muzzles flared like hellfire.
Losenko threw himself onto the pavement. Bullets whizzed about his head, practically grazing his scalp. He wriggled forward on his hands and knees toward the nearest available shelter: the soggy ditch alongside the road. He tumbled headfirst into the gully, landing between two bulldozed vehicles. Bodies hit the asphalt only a few meters away.
Just when he thought matters couldn’t get worse, the garage doors at the service station blew off their hinges. A second robot, identical to the first, rumbled out on the other side of the street. Its chain guns rotated into place. Unblinking red eyes surveyed the carnage.
A sailor who had been hiding behind one of the empty gas pumps spun around in surprise. He fired frantically at the newcomer, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the robot’s sooty steel carapace, striking sparks off the armor. The man emptied his weapon, then tossed the rifle aside. He threw his hands up above his head.
“Don’t shoot!” he squealed. “I surrender!”
The robot pivoted toward him. The muzzles of the chain guns flared. Twin bursts of gunfire all but cut the unarmed sailor in two. His bisected body flopped limply onto the concrete.
Surrender, it seemed, was not an option.
Losenko squeezed beneath a wrecked convertible. His coat snagged on the jagged underside of the vehicle before tearing loose. A rusty exhaust pipe scraped against his back. Coming out on the other side, he clambered to his feet. A quick glance revealed little hope of survival, for himself or his men.
“It’s not fair,” he whispered. “They don’t deserve this....”
The vicious crossfire had left only a handful of sailors alive. The terrified survivors were in full retreat, dashing down the road away from the ambush. Their only chance was to get back to the vehicles they had stowed at the junkyard half a kilometer away. They fired back at the robots as they ran, to maddeningly little effect. Smoke bombs, hurled by the fleeing men, offered only minimal cover. The deadly machines rolled out onto the street. Their armored treads trampled over the bodies, grinding flesh and bone into the blacktop.
Losenko recalled Pagodin’s panicky final broadcast.
“
He hurried after the fleeing sailors. “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, although it was doubtful they could hear him over the roar of the chain guns. Eschewing the center of the road, he raced across a series of adjoining parking lots, taking evasive action to avoid the whizzing bullets. “Don’t wait for me! Get back to the boat!”
Somebody had to warn Ivanov and the crew back at the sub.
Hairs rose on the back of his neck. Some sort of psychic sonar alerted him to danger. Glancing back over his shoulder, he found himself looking straight into the crimson sensors of the first robot. A targeting bead lit up his chest. The robot’s right-hand cannon swung toward him.
“Down, sir!”
Gorski sprang up like a jack-in-the-box from behind a roadside bus shelter. With expert aim, he fired at a narrow band of exposed hydraulics around the neck assembly. Valves and circuitry ruptured violently. Oily black ichor sprayed like blood. The robot’s gun-arms jerked erratically as its torso rotated 360 degrees to protect its throat. A blistering volley of gunfire strafed the air above Losenko’s head. Glass from a shattered streetlight rained down onto his scalp.
“That’s for Lieutenant Zamyatin!” Gorski gloated. “See, Captain! We can hurt them. You just have to hit the right targets!”
The marksman’s triumph was short-lived. The second robot avenged the attack on its partner by turning both its guns on Gorski. Twin blasts from its barrels flung him against the back of the bus shelter. His body danced spasmodically beneath the impact of the bullets. The Kalashnikov went flying from his fingers. A faded advertisement on the shelter urged commuters to explore “Exciting New Careers in Electronics & Computer Programming!”
Losenko’s tore his gaze from the grisly spectacle. Running as though the entire American Army was after him, he was half a block away before Gorski’s bullet-riddled body collapsed onto the curb. Broken glass shattered beneath his feet. The damaged robot retreated, perhaps for repairs, while its murderous comrade continued the pursuit. Its versatile treads easily navigated the potholes and crevices marring the two-lane highway. Mechanical limbs moved with unnerving fluidity.
The monster smelled of smoke and oil.
A valiant sailor struggled to assist a wounded crewmate. His arm around the other man’s shoulders, he half- supported, half-dragged his limping comrade as they lurched after Losenko and the others. Seaman Sasha Krosotkin’s heroism, while worthy of a medal, proved fruitless; unmoved by the touching display, the robot reduced both men to bloody pulp. It then trundled past their intertwined bodies without a backward glance.
For the first time in his life, Losenko truly hated a machine.
Running low on ammo, Ostrovosky resorted to flinging signal flares at the robot. Blinding scarlet flames erupted across the highway, adding to the chaos. The robot fired on the flares as though they were armed combatants. Losenko guessed that the machine’s thermal sensors had trouble distinguishing between the road flares and the heat signatures of a firing rifle.
One of flares rolled beneath the robot’s treads just as it bulldozed over the body of another murdered sailor. The incendiary device ignited the corpse’s spare ammo clips, triggering an explosion that rocked the robot from below. Losenko watched hopefully as the robot toppled over onto its side, then cursed as the stubborn mechanism began to right itself. Internal shielding seemed to protect its vital components from the blast but its treads appeared to be badly damaged. Smoke gushed from beneath it as the machine awkwardly limped forward. The chain guns spewed a seemingly inexhaustible swarm of hungry metal slugs.
Bile rose at the back of Losenko’s throat. Could nothing stop these cursed machines?
The next several minutes were like a nightmare. There was no order or precision to the men’s flight, only a dwindling number of panicked submariners being cut down as they ran. Losenko had lost track of the body count within the first few seconds of the ambush. Adrenalin fueled his headlong race along the edge of the road. Stray debris, puddles, and depressions threatened to trip him, lying across his path like pitfalls. He stumbled over a toppled “STOP” sign, almost pitching forward onto his face, but managed to regain his balance before it was too late.
The close call left him gasping. He knew that if he fell, he would never get back up again. The relentless machine would trample him just as it had the first few victims.
His breath was ragged. A painful stitch stabbed him in the side. The racing of his pulse resounded behind his ears. His mouth was as dry as one of the
