I should get as far away from here as possible, especially since we don’t even know what’s happening!
And yet... despite their recent differences, he was reluctant to leave Losenko in jeopardy. The captain is the highest-ranking Russian military officer I know to have survived Judgment Day, he rationalized. Surely, that warrants special consideration.
Didn’t it?
“Captain!” Pavlinko looked up from the radar console. “I’m detecting aircraft approaching Santa Cruz.” He scrutinized the display on his screen. “One, maybe two helicopters heading for the island at high speed.”
Ivanov struggled to keep up with events. He felt as if he was under siege.
“Point of origin?”
“One of the smaller islands,” Pavlinko surmised. The Galapagos were composed of numerous islands of differing sizes. “Pinzon, maybe.”
Helicopters? Explosions? Ivanov massaged the itchy scar on his forehead, trying to sort out what was happening. Was this the trap he had feared, springing shut at last? But why would the Americans attack their own headquarters? It made no sense.
All he knew for certain was that Captain Losenko was trapped in the middle of the chaos.
“Ahead full speed,” he ordered. “Plot an intercept course for those helicopters.”
Before he abandoned Losenko, he wanted to determine who was fighting who.
Hold on, Dmitri, he thought. We’re coming for you.
No harbor on Earth was deep enough to allow a nuclear submarine to depart port while submerged. A long shallow channel stretched before them. The Wilmington would be exposed and vulnerable until they reached the open sea beyond Santa Cruz.
Smallwood commanded his boat from the bridge atop the sail. A temporary plexiglass windshield protected him from the weather. A light rain had begun to fall. Ashdown and Losenko lurked at the back, keeping out of the way. Losenko in particular found it unsettling not to be steering the ship himself, but had no desire to undercut the other skipper’s authority. No one liked a back-seat driver, especially not the captain of a seagoing vessel.
Such restraint was made easier by the fact that Smallwood obviously knew what he was doing. The Russian was impressed by the man’s calm and assurance during this nerve-wracking passage. He recalled the Gorshkov’s hasty departure from Russian soil after the massacre on the peninsula. Losenko had not truly relaxed until his sub had been safely hidden beneath the waves once more.
The mouth of the harbor lay ahead. He estimated that deep water was only about half an hour away. He wondered how he would manage to contact K-115 once they were clear of the islands. Perhaps he could persuade Smallwood to surface to periscope depth long enough to transmit a message to the Gorshkov. He could just imagine the look on Ivanov’s face when he received the password from an American attack sub!
He very nearly smiled in spite of himself.
The bridgebox, which linked them to the control room below, squawked in alarm. “Bridge, control!” an anxious voice reported. “Radar detecting two bogies directly ahead!”
Smallwood cursed. He targeted his binoculars on the open water beyond the harbor.
“There they are, damnit!”
Ashdown came forward.
“What is it, Captain?”
“Two Apache helicopters, loaded for bear.” He passed the binoculars over to Ashdown. “They’re hovering above the sea, just waiting for us!”
“Any way to get around them?” Ashdown asked.
“No, sir,” Smallwood replied. “There’s only one way out, and no place to dive.”
Ashdown nodded, unsurprised by the captain’s answer.
“Guess we’re going to have to fight our way out, then.” He glanced back, and Losenko nodded. Turning back was not an option. Santa Cruz was no longer a safe haven for the Resistance. Only the ocean could hide them now.
Smallwood got on his mike.
“Battle stations! Arm Harpoons!” He spat out orders, racing against the speed of his own ship as it cruised toward the enemy. The sub’s Harpoon missiles were their best defense against the Apaches, which were surely armed with missiles and torpedoes of their own. “All ahead one third.”
The captain turned to the two generals.
“Perhaps you might want to go below, gentlemen. It might be safer.”
“Forget it,” Ashdown snarled. “If I’m going down, I want to look the bad guys in the eye first.” He made no move to abandon their post.
Losenko chose to remain, as well. He took the binoculars from Ashdown. Peering through the lenses, he spotted the helicopters hovering up ahead. He guessed that they had taken off from one of the many smaller islands surrounding Santa Cruz. For all he knew, Skynet had been planning this trap ever since it first learned of the summit. He wondered who was piloting the Apaches. More human collaborators?
Like Utyosov?
“Missile control! Ready torpedo tubes!”
They were nearing the effective range of the Harpoons when, without warning, another missile shot out of the ocean behind the helicopters. The heat of its launch sent a plume of hot steam into the air. Its first-stage rocket ignited and it arced through the sky before exploding into one of the choppers from behind, its excess fuel adding to the conflagration.
Taken entirely by surprise, the Apache plummeted into the sea trailing smoke and debris. The crash was visible from the bridge of the Wilmington.
“What the hell?” Ashdown exclaimed. He turned baffled eyes toward Smallwood. “Did we do that?”
“No, sir!” The captain looked equally perplexed. “We have not opened fire yet.”
Losenko could only think of one explanation.
“My submarine!” K-115 was capable of firing Viyuga missiles at enemy aircraft while submerged. “It must be the Gorshkov!”
Unfortunately, launching the missile had given away the submarine’s location as surely as if it had painted a bull’s-eye on itself. The surviving Apache immediately retaliated. ASW torpedoes dropped from the chopper into the water below. Losenko prayed that Ivanov was taking evasive action, if it was not already too late.
Dive, Alexei. Dive!
Ashdown was more concerned about the Apache itself.
“Now!” he barked at Smallwood. “While it’s got its hands full with that other sub. Bring down that chopper!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” The captain clutched his mike. “Missile control! Take your best shot!”
One after the other, a pair of Harpoon missiles shot from the Wilmington’s forward torpedo tubes. They burst from the surface in an explosion of fire and steam, climbing over fifteen meters into the air to collide with the outnumbered chopper, which went tumbling down to join the wreckage of the first Apache. Burning fuel and flotsam spread across the mouth of the harbor. A wind blew the black smoke back toward the submarine.
“Target destroyed,” Smallwood informed the control room. He wiped the sweat from his brow before addressing Ashdown. “I believe the way is clear, sir.”
“About time,” Ashdown responded. He turned to Losenko. “What about that sub of yours, Losenko?”
An underwater explosion, further out to sea, answered his question before Losenko could. Losenko gripped the railing. His heart pounded.