Losenko didn’t want to talk about it.
“Incoming!” a guard shouted from the back seat. He pointed at the sky.
To Losenko’s dismay, another unmanned drone soared overhead. Its ominous hum was by now far too familiar. He tensed, waiting for the Predator to fire upon the Jeep, but the UAV zipped past them and continued on toward the port.
He recalled that many of the summit’s delegates were residing in Puerto Ayora.
There were explosions up ahead as the drone unleashed its missiles on the quaint seaside community. Hotels, bars, and restaurants which had once catered to the tourist trade now went up in flames. Native islanders ran screaming from collapsed buildings. Shock waves rocked the Jeep, but Ashdown managed to keep its wheels on the road. Heedless of the destruction, they zoomed through the middle of the town, which had become a war zone. There was only one way to the sub and this was it.
Firestorms flanked the roadway. An air raid siren, left over from World War II, wailed like a banshee. The Jeep swerved wildly to avoid the rubble raining down on the pavement; the sudden turns tossed Losenko back and forth in his seat. The rampant destruction tugged at his heart; Puerto Ayora had largely avoided the war until now. He wondered if Ashdown blamed himself for bringing this havoc down upon the unsuspecting populace.
Within minutes, Academy Bay stretched before them. Prior to Judgment Day, the harbor had attracted yachts and cruise ships from around the world. Now only a handful of fishing boats shared the docks with the U.S.S. Wilmington. The nuclear attack sub was berthed at one of the outer piers. The Los Angeles-class vessel was smaller than K-115, only 110 meters from bow to stern, but it still dwarfed every other vessel in the water. A rubbery black coating helped shield it from enemy sonar. Its sail and masts rose high above its deck.
Gunfire and explosions echoed across the harbor.
“Damn!” Ashdown cursed. “I was afraid of this!”
The Wilmington was under attack. Soldiers and seamen, sporting red armbands over a random mixture of civilian garb and uniforms, scrambled across the deck, firing on the predator with both machineguns and shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. A Stinger nailed the UAV before it could fire its remaining weapons. The enemy drone crashed down into the bay.
“Good shot!” Ashdown gloated. “That’ll teach ‘em!”
He hit the gas. The Jeep bounced down the road toward the docks, before squealing to a halt only a few feet from the wharf. The men clambered out of the Jeep and raced down the dock, still supporting the wounded man. A salt breeze blew against their faces, dispersing the smoke from downtown. Panicked gulls squawked overhead. Ashdown was the first across the gangplank, where he was met by a uniformed officer wearing captain’s bars.
He was a slender black man with a short brown crewcut, about Losenko’s age. Sweat soaked through the pits of his short-sleeve shirt.
“General!” A deep bass voice held an American accent. “We weren’t sure you were still alive.”
“Well, it wasn’t for lack of trying on the machines’ part,” Ashdown complained. He winced as his fingers explored the gash by his eye. “And we’re not in the clear yet. Make ready for immediate departure!”
“Way ahead of you, sir.” Across the deck, crewmen were already taking in the lines binding the sub to the pier. “We started rigging for a quick escape as soon as we got word of the attack on the science station.” The captain nodded at Losenko as the Russian helped the injured guardsman onto the sub. “Welcome aboard, gentlemen.”
Ashdown rushed through introductions.
“Captain Smallwood, meet General Losenko. He’s just joined the Resistance. And disposed of one metal-loving traitor already.”
Losenko flinched, but said nothing.
“Good for you, sir!” Smallwood saluted Losenko. He peered nervously up at the sky, before escorting them to a hatch. “Now let’s get underway before another one of those damn predators comes winging for us.”
Losenko agreed absolutely. He would have made the same call if this was his ship. He peered out at the mouth of the harbor. Deep water meant safety. He wondered how Ivanov was doing aboard K-115.
Ashdown seemed to read his mind.
“So what’s up with that boat of yours, General?”
“I wish I knew.”
Captain Second-Rank Alexei Ivanov lowered the periscope. His scowl deepened. Captain Losenko had been gone for hours now, and the longer he was away, the more convinced Ivanov was becoming that his onetime friend and mentor had made a colossal mistake.
How could the captain even think of meeting with the very people responsible for the destruction of their homeland, for the deaths of hundreds of millions of innocent men, women, and children? It was like conferring with Hitler.
Never mind the fact that those American helicopters had helped them defeat the Smetlivy. Ivanov rather suspected that the Apaches had been more interested in sinking a Russian destroyer than assisting the Gorshkov. Currying favor with the captain had merely been an added bonus, or so Ivanov assumed. All part of an overall strategy to distract and deceive the world from the truth behind Judgment Day.
Do they truly think we can ever forget what they did? Acid churned in his gut. He felt his blood pressure rising at the very thought. An annoying muscle twitched beneath his cheek. I can never forget. Never!
K-115 cruised at periscope depth off the coast of Santa Cruz, carefully keeping watching over the entrance to the harbor. It was still too early to expect the captain’s signal, yet Ivanov found himself compulsively scanning the island, returning to the periscope again and again like a tongue to an aching tooth.
What am I looking for? he asked himself. Proof that the captain and Fokin have walked into a trap?
“Captain Ivanov!” Michenko rushed from the radio shack. “Something’s happening on the island. We’re picking up reports of explosions, anti-aircraft fire, and casualties! I think the Resistance is under attack.”
“The Americans, you mean.” He did not swallow any of this nonsense about the Resistance—the summit had been convened by a Yankee general, that was all Ivanov needed to know. But this talk of hostilities concerned him. “Under attack by who?”
Skynet? Just for a second, he remembered the captain’s absurd conviction that an insane computer program was out to destroy humanity. Was it conceivable that there was something to that theory after all? No, that’s ridiculous. He shook his head, clearing the notion from his brain. I know who the enemy is....
“I don’t know, sir,” Michenko replied. “The reports are a jumble. The Resis—I mean, the Americans—sound like they were caught completely off guard!” He fumbled with his printouts. Sweat dripped from his forehead. “Do you think the captain is all right, sir?”
“How the hell do I know?” Ivanov snapped. He hurriedly raised the periscope once more. He rotated it toward the island. Acid climbed his throat as his own eyes confirmed what the radio shack was reporting.
Smoke and flames were climbing high above Santa Cruz, visible even from kilometers away. He increased the magnification to get a better look at the blaze. The flames appeared to be coming from the southern coast of the island, inside the harbor.
Exactly where the so-called “summit” was being held.
Damnation, he thought. Now what should I do?
Part of him thought that he should immediately turn the submarine about and head out into the Pacific, putting as much distance as possible between K-115 and whatever hostilities were engulfing Santa Cruz. That would be the prudent choice, the one Moscow would have wanted, back when there still was a Moscow. He could not risk the Gorshkov for the sake of two men—even if one of those men was the rightful captain of the vessel.