The mood in the command center instantly shifted from apprehension to jubilation. Smiles broke out across the faces of men who had thought they were alone in the world. A hubbub of excited voices almost drowned out the pinging of the warship’s sonar.
“It’s a miracle!” the helmsman exclaimed. “We’ve found our brothers!”
Even Ivanov appeared elated by the news. His sullen expression lightened; for the first time in too long, he looked like the intrepid young officer Losenko remembered.
“Shall we rise to meet them, sir?” he inquired.
“With discretion, Mr. Ivanov.” The captain understood the men’s enthusiasm, and even shared it to a degree, but he was cautious as well. He had not forgotten what he had found on the mainland months ago. Anarchy and violence had consumed the world they knew. Civilization was a thing of the past. With the Motherland in chaos, there was no guarantee that the Gorshkov and the Smetlivy still served the same masters. He did not wish to blindly welcome pirates—or worse. “Ascend to periscope depth. And release the communication buoy.”
Strung out behind the sub on a wire, the buoy would increase their ability to monitor transmissions from the destroyer.
The periscope pedestal tilted beneath his feet as K-115 climbed up from the depths, leveling out at roughly twenty-five meters below the surface. “Scope’s breaking,” the officer of the deck reported, unable to conceal the anticipation in his voice. He stepped aside to let Losenko see for himself. The overhead lights were dimmed to avoid reflecting the light up through the periscope, where it might give away their position. Display panels glowed like exotic bioluminescent fish in a darkened aquarium.
The captain seized the periscope’s handles and peered into the eyepiece.
It was twilight above the sea. White water lapped against the reticle. He glimpsed lurid red skies on the horizon.
“Position of contact?”
“Bearing three-one-zero,” Michenko reported. Headphones connected him with the sonar shack. Overhead video monitors, slaved to the main sonar array, monitored the destroyer via phosphorescent green waterfalls of data. “Contact slowing to seven knots.”
Losenko rotated the scope until... there!
The silhouette of a great gray battleship appeared some distance away. He twisted the right handle to increase magnification. The formidable contours of the vessel, with its imposing guns and towers, seemed to match that of a Kashin-class destroyer, but he would have to consult his reference manuals to be certain. He turned the scope over to Ivanov for his opinion. The XO eagerly scanned the mystery ship.
“It could be the Smetlivy,” he declared after a moment. Anticipation colored his voice, making him sound like a child on Christmas morning. A rare smile graced his features.
Was he already contemplating transferring to another ship?
“Four knots,” Michenko called out. “Three knots....”
The warship came to a halt approximately three kilometers away. Losenko was encouraged by the fact that the destroyer was making no aggressive moves toward them. Had it already identified K-115 as a friendly vessel?
Perhaps we really have made contact with an ally at last.
“Raise multifunction mast.”
It would be good to share his burden with another captain. And not see the same defeated faces every day. After months cut off from the world, they could finally begin to rebuild the Russian Navy. And perhaps discover the truth about Skynet.
He wondered what the Smetlivy’s captain thought of John Connor’s broadcasts.
“Incoming transmission from the other vessel, Captain!”
Losenko plucked a red phone handset from a box upon the periscope platform. The hotline employed secure UHF transmissions to communicate with allied ships and aircraft.
“Put it through.”
A burst of static preceded an unfamiliar voice, speaking in flawless Russian. “Attention unidentified submarine. This is Captain Konstantin Frantz of the Russian destroyer Smetlivy. Please respond.”
Losenko did not recognize the captain’s name. Then again, in the wake of Judgment Day, it was likely there had been more than a few battlefield promotions. Perhaps Frantz had only recently inherited his command.
“This is the captain of the submarine in question,” Losenko replied. Old habits prevented him from volunteering too much information right away. Even when setting out to sea from his home port, he had always avoided identifying the Gorshkov by name or number over the air. “Please state your intentions.”
Encryption caused a slight lag in the transmissions, so it was a few seconds before Losenko heard Frantz laugh.
“I appreciate your caution, Captain. The world is a dangerous place these days; no doubt you and your heroic crew have endured many hardships. You cannot imagine how relieved I am to discover that you survived the atomic war and its aftermath.” Frantz’s tone was affable. “I assure you, my only mission is to escort you back to Murmansk so you can rejoin what remains of the Northern Fleet.”
Murmansk? Losenko looked askance at the phone. The one-time naval base was nothing but a radioactive crater now, one likely to be uninhabitable for decades. Was Frantz unaware of this? Or was he attempting to deceive them to some end?
“My understanding is that Murmansk was destroyed,” he said, choosing his words carefully. He deliberately did not mention that he had beheld the devastation firsthand.
The lag at the other end seemed a little longer than before.
“Sadly, that is the case,” Frantz conceded. “But the rebuilding is already underway. Your ship and crew will find refuge at our new facilities.”
Losenko frowned. The other captain’s answers struck him as glib and unconvincing. When he had last explored the Kola Peninsula, the ravaged landscape had been overrun by murderous machines—and their human collaborators. Suspicion blossomed in his heart. “And what of Skynet?” he pressed. “Have you retaken the countryside from the Terminators?”
Only a foot away, eavesdropping intently on Losenko’s end of the conversation, along with every other man within earshot, Ivanov’s hopeful expression faded. He eyed Losenko with alarm, clearly displeased by the tack the discussion was taking.
“Captain!”
Losenko placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Remember your oath, Alexei. And the chain of command.”
The pointed reminder had the desired effect. Ivanov stepped back, swallowing any further objections. He did not look happy, however. His fists were clenched at his sides. He ground his teeth.
My apologies, Alexei, Losenko thought. I know how much this means to you.
The captain felt the eyes of the entire control room upon him. The last thing he wanted was to crush the hopes of the men, just when they finally had something to hold on to. But his gut told him that Frantz was not being honest with him. The stranger’s warm welcome and soothing promises were too good to be true.
If Judgment Day taught me anything, it is that the universe is seldom so forgiving.
Nor are our machines.
“Skynet?” Frantz’s reply did nothing to assuage Losenko’s doubts. “What is Skynet? And Terminators? Is that some new Yankee weapon?”
Losenko did not believe that the other captain could be so ignorant. If the Gorshkov’s antennae had intercepted John Connor’s broadcasts, then so would the Smetlivy. And what of the robots occupying the industrial base on the Kola Peninsula? How could the Russian military be unaware of their mechanized reign of terror, if indeed “Captain” Frantz truly represented the Northern Fleet?