I need to inform Ivanov of his new command....
The sickening tang of freshly spilled blood wafted past his nose, putting him on alert. Glancing around, he glimpsed a body lying between two nearby vehicles. A leg stuck out into view. A crimson stream flowed out from beneath a parked ambulance. The blue trousers and black sneakers matched those worn by the crew of K-115.
Fokin?
“Watch out!” Losenko spied the glint of a rifle barrel poking up from behind the hood of Ortega’s jeep. Someone was lying in ambush. “Sniper!”
A muzzle flared. Automatic weapon’s fire tore into Ortega, who collapsed onto the pavement. After surviving a battle against a Russian destroyer and the crash of her helicopter, the irrepressible pilot was gunned down only a few meters away from her own vehicle. Her body thrashed upon the blacktop, then fell still. A scarlet halo spread out around her head. The only flying she would be doing now would be on the wings of angels.
No! Losenko tackled Ashdown, knocking him out of the line of fire. The two men tumbled behind the shelter of an empty minivan. One of the general’s guards tried to fire back at the sniper, but took a bullet in the shoulder for his efforts. He dropped to the ground, clutching his wounded arm.
The other guard scrambled for safety. He dived behind the wheel of a rundown tour bus. Bullets chased after him. Losenko couldn’t tell if he was hit or not.
“Who the hell?” Ashdown blustered. The two men crouched behind the van while red-hot lead slammed into the other side. Bullets blew out the vehicle’s windows, sprinkling them with cubes of safety glass. “The mole?”
“One of them, certainly.” Losenko heard the sniper let loose another burst. The staccato report reminded him of a Russian AK-47, perhaps the very one that Fokin had brought with him from K-115. He suspected that the sergeant had reclaimed his weapon from the summit security forces before being waylaid by some unknown traitor. All he had seen was Fokin’s leg, but he had no doubt that the unfortunate seaman had joined Zamyatin and Ostrovosky and too many others.
My crew is shrinking, day by day.
He guessed that Utyosov was dead, as well.
“Ortega?” Ashdown asked.
Losenko shook his head. He remembered shaking the female pilot’s hand on the Gorshkov’s slippery deck only weeks ago. He wished he’d had a chance to get to know her better.
“Bastard!” Ashdown looked like he wanted to tear the sniper to pieces with his bare hands. Losenko knew how he felt. “Who do you think that miserable son of a bitch is? And how the hell are we going to get to that jeep?”
The sniper interrupted his fire.
“Dmitri?” a voice called out to Losenko in Russian. “Is that you?”
Utyosov? Losenko couldn’t believe his ears. He’s the sniper?
“Bela?” He kept his head down, but shouted back. “Bela! What are you doing? Have you gone mad?”
Ashdown blinked in surprise. He wiped the blood from his eye.
“You know this lunatic?”
“A decorated Russian captain,” Losenko answered. “And an old friend.”
Ashdown spat upon the ground.
“Well, that old friend has screwed us all! And the Resistance!”
“Leave this place, Dmitri!” Utyosov urged him. “I don’t want to kill you, too. If you run now, you might have a chance!”
Losenko wasn’t going to desert Ashdown and the others. “Don’t shoot, Bela!” Pistol in hand, he started to stand up. “I just want to talk!”
Ashdown grabbed onto him, tugging him back down.
“Are you out of your mind? That bastard just killed Ortega!”
“I know this man!” Losenko insisted. He pulled free of Ashdown’s grip. “Let me try to reason with him!” He stood up behind the hood of the van, exposing himself to view. His hands were up, and his Glock was pointed upward, toward the sky. “Here I am, Bela! Talk to me!”
“There’s nothing to talk about!” Utyosov pointed the stolen AK-47 at Losenko. “Go, Dmitri! I’m giving you one chance. For old time’s sake!”
“For God’s sake, Losenko!” Ashdown barked. “Get down! That’s an order!”
Losenko ignored him. He focused on his former comrade.
“But why, Bela? I don’t understand. Did you kill Fokin?”
“I had no choice!” The old man did not deny his guilt. “They have my granddaughter, my little Anastasia!” Trembling hands caused the rifle to shake. “I had to tell them about the summit! They were going to torture her if I didn’t!” Anguish contorted his face, followed by a sudden grimace of pain. A cold sweat broke out across his features. He gasped for breath. “My heart...!”
Utyosov staggered behind the Jeep. The rifle slipped from his fingers. It clattered upon the pavement.
Losenko saw his opportunity. His gun arm snapped down. He squeezed the trigger of the Glock.
A single shot felled Utyosov. He crumpled to the ground behind the Jeep. Losenko heard him whimper. He swept the parking lot with his gun, just in case Utyosov had an accomplice, but no other targets presented themselves.
“All clear!”
Ignoring Ashdown’s further protests, he rushed to Utyosov’s side. He found the old sailor sprawled on the pavement, gasping out his final breaths. Bright arterial blood spurted from the bullet hole in his chest. His face was ashen.
“Good shot, Dmitri,” he murmured weakly. “The Navy trained you well....”
“Blast you, Bela!” Losenko felt sick to his stomach. His gorge rose. He was tired of killing his own countrymen. “Why did you make me do this?”
Utyosov coughed. A bloody froth stained his thick mustache.
“Maybe it’s better this way, Dmitri. You heard the fighting in there, the hatred. We would have killed ourselves eventually, even without Skynet. Maybe this is the only solution... maybe the machines will bring us peace....”
His voice trailed away. Glassy eyes stared blankly into oblivion.
No, my friend. Losenko closed the old man’s eyes. He thought of all the people who had died on Judgment Day, and all who had suffered since, including, no doubt, Utyosov’s doomed granddaughter. There will be no peace until Skynet is destroyed.
“Losenko!” Ashdown called to him. The general fished Ortega’s car keys from her body. He helped the wounded guard into the jeep, then got behind the wheel. The second guardsman ran to join them. Ashdown revved the engine. “You coming?”
“Just a moment!” Losenko confiscated the AK-47, then took the time to assure himself that Fokin was indeed beyond saving. The murdered sergeant had no pulse; his body was already going cold. From the looks of things, Utyosov had struck Fokin from behind—perhaps when the crewman had been distracted by the explosions—then cut his throat. In all the chaos and confusion, no one had noticed the old Russian’s treachery. Poor Fokin had never seen it coming.
Ashdown honked the Jeep’s horn.
“You done there?”
“Yes, I am.” Losenko silently commended the dead seaman for his sacrifice. He turned and limped hurriedly over to the Jeep, detouring around Ortega’s lifeless body. Their escape from Santa Cruz was proving a costly one.
He dropped into the passenger seat next to Ashdown.
“I am ready to leave.”
“Good of you to join us!” Ashdown put the Jeep into gear. They peeled out of the parking lot onto the island’s only main thoroughfare. Palm trees blurred past them as the Jeep sped down the road toward the harbor. The American general groused over the roar of the wind. Drying blood caked his scarred face like war paint. “I don’t know what you said to your loco comrade back there, but that’s the kind of ‘talking’ I can get behind. You took care of that problem all right.”