by Greg Cox
“According to GPS, we’re about seventy-five kilometers northeast of the port, on the outskirts of some sort of industrial area. The terrain here shows only moderate damage. And, Captain, there appears to be a factory running!”
Losenko couldn’t believe his ears.
“A factory?”
“A manufacturing plant, I think.” The excitement in Zamyatin’s voice was contagious. “We’re still several meters away, but there’s white smoke and puffs of flame billowing from the stacks. We can hear heavy machinery, and there look to be lights and activity inside.”
The captain and radio operators exchanged startled looks. Losenko had hoped that maybe the scouts might have stumbled onto a refugee camp or scattered homeless survivors, but a working factory, still going strong when everything else was dead or dying? Losenko briefly wondered if Zamyatin was hallucinating. Too much radiation maybe?
“Can you see any survivors?”
“Negative,” Zamyatin answered. The captain visualized him peering through a pair of high-powered binoculars. “We’re too far away, and there doesn’t appear to be anyone on the grounds surrounding the plant. They must all be inside.”
Pushkin shook his head.
“Who the hell still goes to work at a time like this?” A sheepish look came over his scrawny face, as though he feared his careless remark might be taken the wrong way. “Outside of the armed forces, I mean.”
“At ease, Gennady,” Losenko assured him. The radio operator had a point; it did strike him as strange that the factory would still be in operation—unless perhaps a civilian plant had been converted to serve the war effort, in which case the government or the military might be in charge. Losenko leaned forward again, tightly gripping the mike.
“Mr. Zamyatin. Can you tell what is being manufactured at the facility?”
“No, sir,” the tactical officer admitted. “Sorry, sir.” He clearly regretted disappointing his captain. “There appear to be metal shutters over the windows and skylights. Plenty of automated security measures, too. Mounted cameras, searchlights, barricades.” The truck’s engine rumbled in the background, combining with the excited voices of the other men. “We’re moving in for a closer look.”
“Exercise caution, Mr. Zamyatin,” the captain advised. There was no guarantee that the facility remained in the hands of the lawful authorities, nor that its inhabitants would necessarily welcome visitors. It was even possible that the plant had been commandeered by the enemy. “Do not assume that Mother Russia is still friendly territory.”
“Understood, Captain—” The transmission broke up, but Pushkin managed to regain the signal. “—when I know more.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Zamyatin raised his voice to be heard over the rattle of the truck, which seemed to be on the move again. “Search party out.”
The speaker fell silent.
The captain handed the mike back to Pushkin, then retreated to the rear of the radio shack. He paced back and forth despite the tight space, his hands clasped behind his back. Reluctant to return to the conn until he knew more, he tapped his foot impatiently against the deck. He felt like Noah waiting for the dove to return.
Zamyatin’s discovery sounded encouraging, so why were his nerves on edge? The unidentified aircraft flew across his memory, adding to his unease. The Gorshkov had been out of touch with the mainland for weeks. Could American troops have already established a foothold in that time? What if that aircraft had been delivering supplies or manpower to an enemy outpost operating within Russia’s borders?
We have no idea who we’re dealing with, he realized. Nor what purpose that factory is now being put to.
“Hey, Gennady.” The assistant radio operator whispered to Pushkin. Seaman Ostrovosky was single, with a reputation for carousing while on leave. “You think there are women working at that factory?” His eager tone testified to weeks of enforced celibacy aboard K-115.
Even before the missiles flew, none of them had set eyes on a woman since leaving port. Is that what the deserters are going in search of? Losenko wondered. An Eve to their Adam?
Pushkin’s mind seemed to be heading in the same direction.
“Russia must be repopulated after all.” He grinned at his comrade. “I, for one, am prepared to do my patriotic duty.”
“Enough of that,” Losenko said sternly. He didn’t want any overactive libidos leading his crew to inefficiency or, worse, recklessness. He prayed that Zamyatin and the rest of the scouting party weren’t entertaining similar fantasies, at the expense of caution. “Keep your minds on your work.”
Pushkin blushed in embarrassment. Ostrovosky gulped. Both men busily occupied themselves with their apparatus.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ostrovosky said.
The tense silence was suddenly broken by a flashing signal light. Making up for his earlier frivolity, Pushkin quickly responded.
“K-115 to search party....”
His salutation was cut short by the unmistakable din of all-out battle. Frantic shouting and the strident blare of gunfire invaded the radio shack. Men screamed in agony. A deafening explosion momentarily overpowered the speaker system.
“Oh my God!” an agitated voice cried out. “They’ve got us pinned down!”
Losenko rushed forward. He yanked the mike from Pushkin’s shaking fingers.
“Search party, this is the captain! What’s happening?”
“We’re under attack!” the voice reported. “They came out of nowhere. They caught us by surprise!” A burst of automatic weapons fire interrupted the panicky report. Pounding footsteps sounded in the background. A heavy body slammed into the earth, and it sounded as if the speaker was rolling across the ground in a desperate attempt to avoid being shot. “There’s no place to run. God help us, we’re all going to die!”
The incoherent monologue tormented Losenko.
“Get hold of yourself!” he barked into the mike. “Where is Deputy Commander Zamyatin?”
“Zamyatin is dead! They blew his head right off.” The embattled sailor struggled to compose himself. “The truck is in flames. There’s nowhere to go!”
The shocking news hit Losenko like a torpedo, but he couldn’t let it rattle him.
“Who is this?” he demanded. “Identify yourself!”
“Yevgeny Pagodin, seaman second-class,” a shaky voice whimpered. “Arkady, watch out!” he hollered at an unseen comrade. A volley of shots rang out, too close for comfort. A wet sound splattered the walkie-talkie at the other end of the transmission. “No!” Pagodin sobbed. “Arkady!” His voice wavered. “This can’t be happening. Not Arkady too!”
Losenko was in hell. He wanted to hurl himself over the airwaves just to see what the devil was happening.
“Report, sailor! Who is attacking you?”
Looters? Enemy soldiers? Friendly fire?
“Machines!” Pagodin blurted. “A squad of machines!”
Losenko didn’t understand.
“What do you mean? Explain!”
An automatic pistol sounded in the captain’s ears. He guessed that Pagodin was firing back at his assailants. The besieged seaman fired off round after round, apparently to no avail. Bullets ricocheted loudly off metal.
“Nothing’s stopping them!” Pagodin babbled between rounds. “They just keep coming—like death in steel!”
Losenko heard a low rumble in the background, like the whirring of a machine. Gravel crunched beneath heavy wheels.
“Save yourself, Captain!” Pagodin shouted from 200 kilometers away. Something crunched noisily beneath a motorized tread, which seemed to be getting louder by the moment. “Don’t let them get you! Don’t let them—”
A hail of gunfire cut off his words. Instantly a burst of static assaulted Losenko’s eardrums.
Then nothing.
Pushkin worked like mad to reestablish contact.
“K-115 to search party, please come in! Can you read me?” His assistant sagged against
his seat, staring aghast at the silent speaker. He buried his face in his hands, all thoughts of women driven violently from his mind.
Pushkin stabbed relentlessly at his control panel, like a doctor refusing to give up on a patient.
“K-115 to search party! Is anybody there?”
“That’s enough, Gennady.” Losenko placed his hand on the radio operator’s shoulder. He knew a massacre when he heard one. “They’re gone.”
There would be no reply. Over a dozen brave men had been killed on their own soil.
By machines?
CHAPTER EIGHT
2018
The Terminator stalked the wilderness.
Titanium legs rose and fell like pistons, never missing a step, as they waded relentlessly through the snow. Thick drifts muffled its heavy tread. The sub-zero temperature might have compromised its hydraulics, but the T-600 hadn’t bled enough antifreeze to significantly endanger its mobility. The machine had been pursuing the dog sled without pause for 5.633 hours now. It was neither bored nor discouraged. The humans had left a clear trail. They would be terminated.
The only variable was when.
A small nocturnal mammal scurried away from the machine’s approach. Its optical sensors identified the specimen as Muslela erminea, the short-tailed weasel. The animal’s ermine coat was effective camouflage in this wintry setting, but failed to hide the creature from the T-600’s heat and motion detectors. Its CPU instantly processed the data.
THREAT ASSESSMENT: ZERO.
The Terminator let the weasel go. Such lower life forms were not considered threats to Skynet’s continued existence. Only humans required eradication.
The trail ascended into the mountains.
From its vantage point, the Terminator glimpsed what appeared to be derelict wooden structures infesting the southwest face of a hillside, several kilometers above. Geographical records, downloaded from Skynet, confirmed the existence of a former mining installation at those coordinates. The T-600 weighed the possibility that the human Resistance had taken shelter in the supposedly abandoning buildings. The hypothesis held promise, but could not be verified without closer inspection. It would be premature to dispatch reinforcements to the site.
FURTHER INVESTIGATION REQUIRED.
A ferocious roar interrupted the Terminator’s assessments. Its cranial case rotated atop the exposed neck assembly.
A large hirsute mammal lumbered into view 10.791 meters to the right. Thick brown fur, accented by silver tips, covered the beast—which appeared to weigh approximately 250 kilograms. It stood a meter tall at the shoulders while approaching on all fours. A disproportionate hump of muscle mass, arrayed above its shoulders, had evolved to add power to its forelimbs. Eight-centimeter-long claws sank into the snow beneath it.
Hostile brown eyes glared at the Terminator. Yellow fangs flashed within its gaping maw. Its physical characteristics and overall configuration matched that of Ursus arctos horribilis.
The grizzly bear.
The Terminator shifted to defensive mode. Unlike the ermine, the grizzly was an alpha predator of considerable mass and strength, displaying clear signs of aggression. The bear rose up on its hind legs until it was fully as tall as the T-600. Its size and weight indicated that it was an adult male. An angry growl issued from its open jaws.
A partially devoured caribou was splayed open on the ground 2.885 meters behind the grizzly, its bloody entrails exposed to the air. The carcass explained the bear’s territorial behavior; it was defending a kill.
THREAT POTENTIAL: SIGNIFICANT.
The grizzly’s presence was an unexpected complication. Given the season and temperature, the bear should have been hibernating. The data on the species indicated that grizzlies could be unpredictable in this regard, however. It was possible that the recent explosions and subsequent fires had roused the bear from its slumber. Or else the animal had simply craved raw meat.
In any event, the bear was an obstacle.
The Terminator swiftly analyzed its options. It briefly considered detouring around the creature, in order to avoid provoking it further, but doing so risked losing the dog sled’s trail. Should that occur, the Resistance base would remain hidden within the sprawling Alaskan wilderness.
That was unacceptable.
So the T-600 marched forward, its metal fists clenched in anticipation.
As predicted, the grizzly reacted aggressively to the challenge. Dropping down onto all fours, it charged at an average rate of 50.824 kilometers per hour. Saliva sprayed from its snarling jaws. The T-600 braced itself for the collision.
The bear slammed into the machine with the force of a speeding snowmobile, knocking the Terminator onto its back. Heavy paws pinned the machine to the earth. Powerful jaws closed on the robot’s cranial case. Ivory fangs shredded what remained of the infiltrator model’s human disguise before breaking against a titanium skull. Hydraulic fluid spurted from a severed cable. A jagged tooth lodged in the T-600’s cranium.
Another fang speared the Terminator’s left optical sensor, shattering the lens. Circuits shorted within the socket. The Terminator’s visual display wavered and went out of focus for 6.003 seconds before recalibrating. Angry claws scraped against an impervious endoskeleton.
IMPERATIVE: TERMINATE URSINE LIFEFORM.
The Terminator’s right arm shot up and seized the bear by the throat. Servomotors whirred as the arm pushed the grizzly’s head up and away, operating like a hydraulic jack. Its joints locked into place, putting precisely 67.426 centimeters between the Terminator’s face and the grizzly’s snapping jaws. The furious bear roared in frustration. Slobber dripped into the T-600’s damaged eye socket. Miniature baffles closed to prevent further contamination.
RECOMMENDATION: INTERNAL STERILIZATION DURING NEXT REGULAR MAINTENANCE CYCLE.
Every moment wasted in an engagement with the animal increased the risk of additional damage, and 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.