Terminator Salvation: Cold War

Do they truly think we can ever forget what they did? Acid churned in his gut. He felt his blood pressure rising at the very thought. An annoying muscle twitched beneath his cheek. I can never forget. Never!

K-115 cruised at periscope depth off the coast of Santa Cruz, carefully keeping watching over the entrance to the harbor. It was still too early to expect the captain’s signal, yet Ivanov found himself compulsively scanning the island, returning to the periscope again and again like a tongue to an aching tooth.

What am I looking for? he asked himself. Proof that the captain and Fokin have walked into a trap?

“Captain Ivanov!” Michenko rushed from the radio shack. “Something’s happening on the island. We’re picking up reports of explosions, anti-aircraft fire, and casualties! I think the Resistance is under attack.”

“The Americans, you mean.” He did not swallow any of this nonsense about the Resistance—the summit had been convened by a Yankee general, that was all Ivanov needed to know. But this talk of hostilities concerned him. “Under attack by who?”

Skynet? Just for a second, he remembered the captain’s absurd conviction that an insane computer program was out to destroy humanity. Was it conceivable that there was something to that theory after all? No, that’s ridiculous. He shook his head, clearing the notion from his brain. I know who the enemy is....

“I don’t know, sir,” Michenko replied. “The reports are a jumble. The Resis—I mean, the Americans—sound like they were caught completely off guard!” He fumbled with his printouts. Sweat dripped from his forehead. “Do you think the captain is all right, sir?”

“How the hell do I know?” Ivanov snapped. He hurriedly raised the periscope once more. He rotated it toward the island. Acid climbed his throat as his own eyes confirmed what the radio shack was reporting.

Smoke and flames were climbing high above Santa Cruz, visible even from kilometers away. He increased the magnification to get a better look at the blaze. The flames appeared to be coming from the southern coast of the island, inside the harbor.

Exactly where the so-called “summit” was being held.

Damnation, he thought. Now what should I do?

Part of him thought that he should immediately turn the submarine about and head out into the Pacific, putting as much distance as possible between K-115 and whatever hostilities were engulfing Santa Cruz. That would be the prudent choice, the one Moscow would have wanted, back when there still was a Moscow. He could not risk the Gorshkov for the sake of two men—even if one of those men was the rightful captain of the vessel.

I should get as far away from here as possible, especially since we don’t even know what’s happening!

And yet... despite their recent differences, he was reluctant to leave Losenko in jeopardy. The captain is the highest-ranking Russian military officer I know to have survived Judgment Day, he rationalized. Surely, that warrants special consideration.

Didn’t it?

“Captain!” Pavlinko looked up from the radar console. “I’m detecting aircraft approaching Santa Cruz.” He scrutinized the display on his screen. “One, maybe two helicopters heading for the island at high speed.”

Ivanov struggled to keep up with events. He felt as if he was under siege.

“Point of origin?”

“One of the smaller islands,” Pavlinko surmised. The Galapagos were composed of numerous islands of differing sizes. “Pinzon, maybe.”

Helicopters? Explosions? Ivanov massaged the itchy scar on his forehead, trying to sort out what was happening. Was this the trap he had feared, springing shut at last? But why would the Americans attack their own headquarters? It made no sense.

All he knew for certain was that Captain Losenko was trapped in the middle of the chaos.

“Ahead full speed,” he ordered. “Plot an intercept course for those helicopters.”

Before he abandoned Losenko, he wanted to determine who was fighting who.

Hold on, Dmitri, he thought. We’re coming for you.

No harbor on Earth was deep enough to allow a nuclear submarine to depart port while submerged. A long shallow channel stretched before them. The Wilmington would be exposed and vulnerable until they reached the open sea beyond Santa Cruz.

Smallwood commanded his boat from the bridge atop the sail. A temporary plexiglass windshield protected him from the weather. A light rain had begun to fall. Ashdown and Losenko lurked at the back, keeping out of the way. Losenko in particular found it unsettling not to be steering the ship himself, but had no desire to undercut the other skipper’s authority. No one liked a back-seat driver, especially not the captain of a seagoing vessel.

Such restraint was made easier by the fact that Smallwood obviously knew what he was doing. The Russian was impressed by the man’s calm and assurance during this nerve-wracking passage. He recalled the Gorshkov’s hasty departure from Russian soil after the massacre on the peninsula. Losenko had not truly relaxed until his sub had been safely hidden beneath the waves once more.

The mouth of the harbor lay ahead. He estimated that deep water was only about half an hour away. He wondered how he would manage to contact K-115 once they were clear of the islands. Perhaps he could persuade Smallwood to surface to periscope depth long enough to transmit a message to the Gorshkov. He could just imagine the look on Ivanov’s face when he received the password from an American attack sub!

He very nearly smiled in spite of himself.

The bridgebox, which linked them to the control room below, squawked in alarm. “Bridge, control!” an anxious voice reported. “Radar detecting two bogies directly ahead!”

Smallwood cursed. He targeted his binoculars on the open water beyond the harbor.

“There they are, damnit!”

Ashdown came forward.

“What is it, Captain?”

“Two Apache helicopters, loaded for bear.” He passed the binoculars over to Ashdown. “They’re hovering above the sea, just waiting for us!”

“Any way to get around them?” Ashdown asked.

“No, sir,” Smallwood replied. “There’s only one way out, and no place to dive.”

Ashdown nodded, unsurprised by the captain’s answer.

“Guess we’re going to have to fight our way out, then.” He glanced back, and Losenko nodded. Turning back was not an option. Santa Cruz was no longer a safe haven for the Resistance. Only the ocean could hide them now.

Smallwood got on his mike.

“Battle stations! Arm Harpoons!” He spat out orders, racing against the speed of his own ship as it cruised toward the enemy. The sub’s Harpoon missiles were their best defense against the Apaches, which were surely armed with missiles and torpedoes of their own. “All ahead one third.”

The captain turned to the two generals.

“Perhaps you might want to go below, gentlemen. It might be safer.”

“Forget it,” Ashdown snarled. “If I’m going down, I want to look the bad guys in the eye first.” He made no move to abandon their post.

Losenko chose to remain, as well. He took the binoculars from Ashdown. Peering through the lenses, he spotted the helicopters hovering up ahead. He guessed that they had taken off from one of the many smaller islands surrounding Santa Cruz. For all he knew, Skynet had been planning this trap ever since it first learned of the summit. He wondered who was piloting the Apaches. More human collaborators?

Like Utyosov?

“Missile control! Ready torpedo tubes!”

They were nearing the effective range of the Harpoons when, without warning, another missile shot out of the ocean behind the helicopters. The heat of its launch sent a plume of hot steam into the air. Its first-stage rocket ignited and it arced through the sky before exploding into one of the choppers from behind, its excess fuel adding to