Losenko hoped the trip would be worth it.
“Good to see you again, skipper!” Ortega greeted him.
“The big-wigs agreed to let me be the one to meet you.” A wooden boardwalk led up to the front entrance of the Charles Darwin Research Station, a remote biological science center on the volcanic island of Santa Cruz. The humble one-story building appeared more or less untouched by the war. A cactus garden bloomed alongside the boardwalk. Directional signs pointed to the tortoise breeding pens nearby. An impressive array of satellite dishes and radar antennae had been installed atop the roof of the building. Solar panels guaranteed a steady supply of electricity. Anti-aircraft emplacements clashed with the rustic setting. “Glad you could make it.”
General Ashdown had invited the remnants of the world’s military forces to a top-secret summit in the Galapagos. The exact coordinates for the meeting had been closely guarded over the last few weeks, passed along via furtive meetings at isolated locations. Predictably, Ivanov had strongly advised Losenko not to attend the event, fearing it was a trap, but the captain had been curious to meet Ashdown and the other leaders of the Resistance, face-to-face. As a precaution, however, the Gorshkov was keeping its distance from the island. After putting Losenko and a single bodyguard to sea in a rubber raft, the submarine had retreated to the depths of the Pacific Ocean, where it would remain in hiding until signaled by Losenko. Ivanov was under orders not to return for the captain until he received, via Morse Code, a password known only to the two of them.
That password was “Zamyatin.”
“Pryvet, Corporal Ortega,” Losenko replied. He sweated beneath his dress uniform. The balmy equatorial climate contrasted sharply with the arctic north, not to mention the unchanging atmosphere of the sub; he guessed it had to be at least thirty degrees Celsius. His bodyguard, Sergeant Fokin, appeared uncomfortably warm as well, not to mention damp. A warm drizzle had sprinkled them on their climb up from the white sand beach where their raft had come ashore. Losenko introduced Fokin, a burly petty officer with security training, and shook Ortega’s hand. “You look well.”
The pilot’s cuts and bruises had healed since their first meeting several weeks earlier. Unlike the two Russians, the Yankee was dressed for the weather, wearing a short-sleeved khaki uniform with shorts. A fresh red armband adorned her upper arm.
“You got here just in time,” she said. “The general’s big dog-and-pony show will be starting shortly. Let me show you to your seats.”
Ortega led them into the lobby of the research station, which was thankfully air-conditioned. A map of the archipelago occupied one wall, while Charles Darwin’s bearded face was painted on another. Contemplating the naturalist’s austere features, it occurred to Losenko that it was strangely fitting for this dire meeting to be held under his auspices; if John Connor was to be believed, an evolutionary contest was underway between two rival species, one genuine and the other artificial—man and machine, with the very future of the human race hanging in the balance.
Survival of the fittest....
Grim-faced soldiers hefting M-16s guarded the double doors leading to the station’s interpretation center. Ortega vouched for the Russians, though the guards nonetheless consulted a laptop and checked Losenko’s name and face against a profile before admitting him and his bodyguard. Metal detectors screened them for weapons and explosives. Fokin reluctantly surrendered an AK-47 and automatic pistol and Losenko turned over his own sidearm as well. The tight security reassured rather than disturbed him.
If I was Ashdown, I would not be taking any chances either.
They entered a small auditorium which held maybe three dozen people. Military personnel representing many of the world’s armed forces occupied tiers of seats overlooking the stage, like a miniature version of the United Nations General Assembly. Folded paper placards identified the various delegates by nation. Losenko spotted high-ranking officers from America, Canada, Great Britain, France, China, India, Pakistan, Israel, Japan, Australia, Libya, South Africa, Cuba, Nigeria, Greece, Turkey, and many other countries. Medals and ribbons adorned a motley collection of uniforms from all around the world. He was impressed by the turnout.
“All these officers survived the war?” he asked Ortega.
“You bet!” the pilot replied. “There’s plenty of you bubbleheads, but you’re not the only ones who kept their heads down after Judgment Day.” She gestured at the assembly. “Some of these folks were stationed in remote, low-priority locations when the bombs fell, or were on leave or retired. It took us a while to track them all down, but here they are. The cream of the crop. Mankind’s last hope, or so the general says.”
Ortega guided them to their seats, where Losenko was surprised to find another Russian waiting for them.
“Dmitri!” Bela Utyosov greeted him enthusiastically. The silver-haired old captain had commanded an Akula attack sub back during the Soviet era, but had been forced to retire for health reasons some years ago. Utyosov rose from his seat and embraced Losenko in a bear hug. A thick walrus mustache carpeted his upper lip. Retirement had thickened his mid-section, and his bones creaked audibly. His breath smelled of vodka, and the Gorshkov’s commander wondered where he had acquired it.
“They told me you were coming, but I scarcely believed it. Good to know that I’m not the only loyal son of the Motherland still willing to roar like a bear when necessary.”
Ortega discreetly left them to their reunion.
“I am grateful for your company, as well,” Losenko said. “Your family?”
The older man let go of him. He let out a weary sigh.
“Hiding in a bomb shelter outside Vladivostok, most of them. My grandsons and granddaughters are fighting with local militia groups against the looters and collaborators.” He choked up briefly, then tried to pretend it was just a cough. “Six of them have already given their lives for their country.”
Losenko was saddened by the man’s losses.
“And your wife, Tatyana?”
“Radiation sickness.” Utyosov shook his head sadly. “That, and a broken heart.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Losenko said quietly. “She was a good woman.”
Utyosov knew better than to inquire about Katerina.
“Well, mine are not the only tragedies. We have all lost much.” He stepped back and looked Losenko over. “And how is Alexei?”
“Well,” Losenko lied. He did not wish to add to the old man’s sorrows, nor sully Ivanov’s reputation. “He is in command of K-115 as we speak.”
“Excellent!” Utyosov slapped Losenko on the back. “A promising young man, that one. I always thought he had a bright future ahead of him.” He snorted bleakly. “Back when there still was a future.”
“Perhaps there still will be,” Losenko. “That is why we are here, is it not?”
Utyosov laughed. “I just came for the drinks. They said there would be an open bar!”
Losenko assumed the old man was joking, but before he could ascertain that, the overhead lights blinked, signaling that the meeting was about to begin. A female voice emerged from the public address system.
“Gentlemen, ladies, distinguished guests. Please take your seats.”
Losenko sat down at a desk behind the printed placard. A briefing book, notepad, and pencils had been placed there for his use, along with a pitcher of cold water which not long before would have been an unimaginable luxury. Utyosov settled in on his left, while Fokin occupied a seat one row behind the captain. The bodyguard remained vigilant despite his lamentably unarmed state, casting suspicious glances in the direction of the Americans and their allies. The sergeant had been Ivanov’s first choice for this assignment; Losenko had agreed to the selection to placate his paranoid first officer.