Terminator Salvation: Cold War

themselves.

“All clear!”

Ignoring Ashdown’s further protests, he rushed to Utyosov’s side. He found the old sailor sprawled on the pavement, gasping out his final breaths. Bright arterial blood spurted from the bullet hole in his chest. His face was ashen.

“Good shot, Dmitri,” he murmured weakly. “The Navy trained you well....”

“Blast you, Bela!” Losenko felt sick to his stomach. His gorge rose. He was tired of killing his own countrymen. “Why did you make me do this?”

Utyosov coughed. A bloody froth stained his thick mustache.

“Maybe it’s better this way, Dmitri. You heard the fighting in there, the hatred. We would have killed ourselves eventually, even without Skynet. Maybe this is the only solution... maybe the machines will bring us peace....”

His voice trailed away. Glassy eyes stared blankly into oblivion.

No, my friend. Losenko closed the old man’s eyes. He thought of all the people who had died on Judgment Day, and all who had suffered since, including, no doubt, Utyosov’s doomed granddaughter. There will be no peace until Skynet is destroyed.

“Losenko!” Ashdown called to him. The general fished Ortega’s car keys from her body. He helped the wounded guard into the jeep, then got behind the wheel. The second guardsman ran to join them. Ashdown revved the engine. “You coming?”

“Just a moment!” Losenko confiscated the AK-47, then took the time to assure himself that Fokin was indeed beyond saving. The murdered sergeant had no pulse; his body was already going cold. From the looks of things, Utyosov had struck Fokin from behind—perhaps when the crewman had been distracted by the explosions—then cut his throat. In all the chaos and confusion, no one had noticed the old Russian’s treachery. Poor Fokin had never seen it coming.

Ashdown honked the Jeep’s horn.

“You done there?”

“Yes, I am.” Losenko silently commended the dead seaman for his sacrifice. He turned and limped hurriedly over to the Jeep, detouring around Ortega’s lifeless body. Their escape from Santa Cruz was proving a costly one.

He dropped into the passenger seat next to Ashdown.

“I am ready to leave.”

“Good of you to join us!” Ashdown put the Jeep into gear. They peeled out of the parking lot onto the island’s only main thoroughfare. Palm trees blurred past them as the Jeep sped down the road toward the harbor. The American general groused over the roar of the wind. Drying blood caked his scarred face like war paint. “I don’t know what you said to your loco comrade back there, but that’s the kind of ‘talking’ I can get behind. You took care of that problem all right.”

Losenko didn’t want to talk about it.

“Incoming!” a guard shouted from the back seat. He pointed at the sky.

To Losenko’s dismay, another unmanned drone soared overhead. Its ominous hum was by now far too familiar. He tensed, waiting for the Predator to fire upon the Jeep, but the UAV zipped past them and continued on toward the port.

He recalled that many of the summit’s delegates were residing in Puerto Ayora.

There were explosions up ahead as the drone unleashed its missiles on the quaint seaside community. Hotels, bars, and restaurants which had once catered to the tourist trade now went up in flames. Native islanders ran screaming from collapsed buildings. Shock waves rocked the Jeep, but Ashdown managed to keep its wheels on the road. Heedless of the destruction, they zoomed through the middle of the town, which had become a war zone. There was only one way to the sub and this was it.

Firestorms flanked the roadway. An air raid siren, left over from World War II, wailed like a banshee. The Jeep swerved wildly to avoid the rubble raining down on the pavement; the sudden turns tossed Losenko back and forth in his seat. The rampant destruction tugged at his heart; Puerto Ayora had largely avoided the war until now. He wondered if Ashdown blamed himself for bringing this havoc down upon the unsuspecting populace.

Within minutes, Academy Bay stretched before them. Prior to Judgment Day, the harbor had attracted yachts and cruise ships from around the world. Now only a handful of fishing boats shared the docks with the U.S.S. Wilmington. The nuclear attack sub was berthed at one of the outer piers. The Los Angeles-class vessel was smaller than K-115, only 110 meters from bow to stern, but it still dwarfed every other vessel in the water. A rubbery black coating helped shield it from enemy sonar. Its sail and masts rose high above its deck.

Gunfire and explosions echoed across the harbor.

“Damn!” Ashdown cursed. “I was afraid of this!”

The Wilmington was under attack. Soldiers and seamen, sporting red armbands over a random mixture of civilian garb and uniforms, scrambled across the deck, firing on the predator with both machineguns and shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. A Stinger nailed the UAV before it could fire its remaining weapons. The enemy drone crashed down into the bay.

“Good shot!” Ashdown gloated. “That’ll teach ‘em!”

He hit the gas. The Jeep bounced down the road toward the docks, before squealing to a halt only a few feet from the wharf. The men clambered out of the Jeep and raced down the dock, still supporting the wounded man. A salt breeze blew against their faces, dispersing the smoke from downtown. Panicked gulls squawked overhead. Ashdown was the first across the gangplank, where he was met by a uniformed officer wearing captain’s bars.

He was a slender black man with a short brown crewcut, about Losenko’s age. Sweat soaked through the pits of his short-sleeve shirt.

“General!” A deep bass voice held an American accent. “We weren’t sure you were still alive.”

“Well, it wasn’t for lack of trying on the machines’ part,” Ashdown complained. He winced as his fingers explored the gash by his eye. “And we’re not in the clear yet. Make ready for immediate departure!”

“Way ahead of you, sir.” Across the deck, crewmen were already taking in the lines binding the sub to the pier. “We started rigging for a quick escape as soon as we got word of the attack on the science station.” The captain nodded at Losenko as the Russian helped the injured guardsman onto the sub. “Welcome aboard, gentlemen.”

Ashdown rushed through introductions.

“Captain Smallwood, meet General Losenko. He’s just joined the Resistance. And disposed of one metal- loving traitor already.”

Losenko flinched, but said nothing.

“Good for you, sir!” Smallwood saluted Losenko. He peered nervously up at the sky, before escorting them to a hatch. “Now let’s get underway before another one of those damn predators comes winging for us.”

Losenko agreed absolutely. He would have made the same call if this was his ship. He peered out at the mouth of the harbor. Deep water meant safety. He wondered how Ivanov was doing aboard K-115.

Ashdown seemed to read his mind.

“So what’s up with that boat of yours, General?”

“I wish I knew.”

Captain Second-Rank Alexei Ivanov lowered the periscope. His scowl deepened. Captain Losenko had been gone for hours now, and the longer he was away, the more convinced Ivanov was becoming that his onetime friend and mentor had made a colossal mistake.

How could the captain even think of meeting with the very people responsible for the destruction of their homeland, for the deaths of hundreds of millions of innocent men, women, and children? It was like conferring with Hitler.

Never mind the fact that those American helicopters had helped them defeat the Smetlivy. Ivanov rather suspected that the Apaches had been more interested in sinking a Russian destroyer than assisting the Gorshkov. Currying favor with the captain had merely been an added bonus, or so Ivanov assumed. All part of an overall strategy to distract and deceive the world from the truth behind Judgment Day.