“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.