Cold War E-Book

Greg Cox

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 462

Beschreibung

Russia 2003.When it appears that the United States has unleashed its entire nuclear arsenal upon the world, Captain Dmitri Losenko, commander of the nuclear submarine Gorshkov, has no choice but to retaliate. His target? Alaska. Alaska 2018. Fighting for survival in the frozen wilderness, Molly Kookesh struggles to protect her makeshift Resistance cell from the Terminators. Inspired by John Connor's radio broadcasts and following a brutal encounter with a fearsome machine, she decides it's time to fight back... An official novel exploring the post-judgement day world of the hit movie Terminator Salvation.

Leseprobe

Also available from Titan Books:

TERMINATORSALVATION

From the Ashes

By Timothy Zahn

TERMINATORSALVATION

The official movie novelization

By Alan Dean Foster

TERMINATORSALVATION

COLD WAR

GREG COX

TITAN BOOKS

Terminator Salvation: Cold War

ISBN: 9781848569348 (eBook)

ISBN: 9781848560871 (print)

Published byTitan BooksA division ofTitan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark StLondonSE1 0UP

First edition October 200910 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Terminator Salvation: Cold War is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Terminator Salvation ™ & © 2009 T Asset Acquisition Company, LLC.

Cover imagery: Beautiful Mountains © Shutterstock. An Eerie Night © Shutterstock. Arctic Night © Shutterstock. Forest © Shutterstock.

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To my relatives in Alaska,

past and present.

“The strongest of all warriors are these two—

Time and Patience.”

Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

Table Of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eightteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

About The Author

CHAPTER ONE

JULY 25, 2003

Judgment Day came without warning.

Captain First Rank Dmitri Losenko sipped tea from a warm ceramic mug as he updated the ship’s log in the privacy of his stateroom aboard the Delta IV nuclear submarine K-115. His lean, hawk-like features were clean-shaven. Strands of silver had begun to infiltrate his short brown hair. Medals and insignia gleamed upon his dark blue uniform. Shrewd gray eyes focused intently on his work.

His personal quarters were as trim and impeccably organized as the man himself. Steam rose from the brass samovar resting on his desk. Polished wood paneling covered steel bulkheads. The cotton sheets of his bunk were fitted and folded with the careful precision and attention to detail that life aboard a submarine demanded.

A multifunction display screen, mounted adjacent to the bunk, allowed him to check on the sub’s tactical status at a glance. A dog-eared copy of War and Peaceawaited his leisure. As a loyal officer in the new Russian Navy, Losenko had commanded this vessel for more than a year now. He liked to think that he was prepared for both war and peace—and that he played a vital role in preserving the latter.

It was a routine watch aboard K-115, christened the Gorshkov after the father of the modern Russian Navy. 150 meters below the frozen surface of the Barents Sea, the sub patrolled silently, bearing its deadly cargo of ballistic missiles. For nearly twenty years, through the Cold War and beyond, K-115 and the rest of the Northern Fleet had held its fire, always returning to port without unleashing thermonuclear hell upon the world.

Alone in his cabin, Losenko had no expectation that this mission would end otherwise. He looked forward to returning to his dacha outside St. Petersburg after another successful run. The countryside was beautiful in the summer.

A squawk from the intercom disturbed his reverie. Losenko put down his tea and plucked the microphone from its cradle. A black plastic cord—kept scrupulously free of tangles—connected the mike to the speaker system.

“Captain’s quarters,” he said brusquely, his voice deep. “What is it?”

The voice of Alexei Ivanov, his executive officer, or starpom, escaped the mike.

“Captain. We’ve received an urgent communication from Fleet Command.”

Losenko arched an eyebrow.

“I’ll be right there.”

Abandoning his logbook, the captain rose to his feet. His black leather boots resounded against the steel deck plates as he strode down the corridor. Unlike a surface ship—subject to the choppy motion of the waves—the submarine’s deck remained steady and level beneath his feet. If not for the constant thrum of the ship’s engines in the background, there was little indication that the vessel was moving. Cables and conduits grew like ivy over the bulkheads. The freshly scrubbed air was a comfortable twenty degrees Celsius. A double hull shielded him from the black, frigid water outside the sub. As always, he found comfort and pride in the efficiency and reliability of the machine he commanded.

What does Moscow want now? he fretted. Worry furrowed his brow. I was not expecting any new orders.

A brisk march brought him quickly to the central command post, which lay only one compartment aft of the officers’ quarters. As he entered, his ears were instantly assaulted by emergency alert signals which reverberated from the radio shack just beyond the command center. At best he could only pick out random words and phrases erupting from the speakers.

Rows of illuminated instruments, gauges, and control panels lined the walls of the compact chamber, which was roughly the size of the kitchen in a small Moscow apartment. Two cylindrical periscopes, one optical, the other electronic, rose like bolted metal pillars from the center of a raised platform overlooking the control room. Alert submariners manned their posts, their postures straightening somewhat upon the captain’s entrance. Striped black shirts could be glimpsed beneath their dark blue jumpsuits.

Toward the bow, the diving officer stood watch over the helmsmen as they operated the planes and rudder by manipulating a pair of large steering wheels. A digital depth display confirmed that the ship was currently at 150 meters below the ice. A fathometer measured the remaining distance to the ocean floor.

“Captain in CCP,” the chief of the watch announced over the nearby din.

Captain Second Rank Ivanov surrendered the conn to Losenko, who joined the younger officer on the periscope pedestal. A fit young man with slick black hair, striking violet eyes, and the face of a poet, the first officer was sometimes teased by his peers for his matinee-idol good looks. Ivanov thrust a paper printout at his commander. His bearing was suitably professional, but Losenko knew his young protege well enough to catch the tension in his voice. The captain realized at once that something was seriously amiss.

“This arrived via ELF,” Ivanov announced.

The Gorshkov boasted a loop antennae in its sail capable of receiving extra low frequency radio messages even as the vessel traveled at great depths. Losenko quickly scanned the communique—and his heart skipped a beat. Despite his training and experience, he had to resist an urge to grab onto a railing to steady himself.

Printed in stark black and white, the words before him were every commander’s worst nightmare.

And a death sentence for the world he knew.

According to the printout, the United States of America had just done the unthinkable: they had launched their entire nuclear arsenal at their rivals throughout the world. Even as Losenko examined the message once more, letting his disbelieving eyes confirm that he had read the decoded report correctly, the American missiles were in the air, en route to targets in Russia, China, and the Middle East.

Moscow had authorized immediate retaliation.

No, he thought numbly. There must be some mistake.

He lifted his shocked gaze from the paper, and spoke in a low growl. “Has this been verified?”

Ivanov nodded grimly. Deputy Commanders Pavlinko and Zamyatin stood by, clutching the latest code packets. The seals of the packets were freshly broken.

“The codes are in order,” Ivanov said. “The message is authentic.”

The man’s voice was taut. Standing at attention, he fairly vibrated from the strain of keeping his emotions under control, like a pressure hull on the verge of buckling. Losenko knew he had to be thinking of his wife and daughter back in Ukraine. The daughter, Nadia, had just turned twelve....

“Very well, then.” He clamped down on his mounting sense of horror, relying on years of training and discipline to hold himself together. Both his crew and his homeland were depending on him now; he would not let them down in their darkest hour. “We have our duty.”

Time was of the essence. While he had been sipping tea, World War III had begun, and the enemy had already fired the first salvo. For all he knew, K-115 was already a target. American aircraft and attack subs were surely hunting them, determined to prevent the Gorshkov from retaliating.

“Ascend to firing depth,” he barked, his orders quickly echoing along the chain of command. “Initiate launch procedures.”

The Gorshkov was armed with sixteen liquid-fueled missiles, each one equipped with four independently targetable warheads. Every warhead was capable of generating at least 100 kilotons of explosive force. Translated into human terms, K-115 could kill almost eight million people and injure many millions more. The Second World War would be considered a mere skirmish by comparison.

Can any man live with so many deaths on his conscience? Losenko pondered. Can I?

The deck tilted upward toward the bow as pumped air displaced water in the ballast tanks. Years of experience aboard both ballistic and attack subs allowed Losenko to keep his balance during their rapid ascent. His boat could set loose its lethal birds from underwater, but only from a depth of fifty-five meters or less. The frozen icecap would offer no barrier to his missiles. With a range of over 6,000 kilometers, the missiles could reach their targets even from the Arctic.

The captain considered his crew. Glancing around, he noted furtive glances exchanged between the men crammed into the control room. Despite—or perhaps because of—the hushed voices of the officers, he knew the crew had to be aware that this was no ordinary maneuver. The tight quarters of a submarine allowed few secrets, while the commotion from the radio shack was impossible to ignore. He took hold of a hanging mike.

“Put me through to all hands.”

He took only a moment to organize his thoughts before addressing his entire crew.

“This is your captain speaking,” he began, his voice steady. “Make no mistake. This is not a drill. The moment for which we have long been prepared has come round at last. Our nation is at war, attacked without explanation by an enemy who cannot be allowed to strike with impunity at the Motherland. What is asked of us now is no easy task, but this is what we have trained for, what our nation and people demand of us in this terrible hour. I fully expect every man on this vessel to do his duty.” He swept his stern gaze over the anxious sailors under his command.

“All hands, combat stations.”

Losenko released the mike. He faced his officers.

“Instruct Sonar to be on the alert for enemy vessels. I want to be informed at once of any contacts.” The men relayed his message across the conn. “Mr. Ivanov, plot an evasive course to begin immediately after the release of our weapons.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” his XO replied. Launching their missiles would instantly signal their location to the enemy. They would have to strike quickly, then retreat at full speed. Ivanov consulted a notebook filled with combat strategies. Anger seethed in his voice. “Those sons of bitches won’t catch us with our pants down.”

The next several minutes were like a nightmare from which Losenko could not wake. Top-secret codes were transmitted directly from Moscow, and once they were employed, the procedure for launching a nuclear attack was as tightly scripted and choreographed as a Bolshoi ballet. Trigger keys were extracted from closely guarded combination safes. Missiles were fueled and prepped. Silos were pressurized. Coordinates were loaded into the guidance systems and targeting computers. Warheads were activated.

Heavy metal hatches slid open, exposing the tips of the warheads. More codes unlocked the firing mechanisms. Each man played his part, like a cog in some infernal assembly line designed to manufacture Armageddon.

A regimented litany of checks and responses proceeded with sickening inevitability. Losenko watched himself perform his own functions without hesitation, yet all the while a frantic voice at the back of his mind screamed silently.

WHY?

It made no sense. The Cold War was over and international tensions, while never completely at rest, were nowhere near a level that might justify such madness. He was aware of no crisis—no global emergency—that could have escalated to all-out nuclear war in a matter of hours. His most recent updates from Fleet Command had hinted at nothing of the sort. The Americans had troubles enough in Afghanistan and Iraq. They did not need any more.

A sense of almost supernatural horror gripped the captain’s soul. What demon had possessed them? Had their president lost his mind? Didn’t he realize that he had just doomed his own country? The man was supposed to be a cowboy, not a maniac.

Losenko resisted an urge to cross himself.

The sub leveled off as it achieved firing position.

“Fifty-six meters,” the diving officer called out. “Fifty-five meters.”

For a brief moment, Losenko considered going higher, all the way to periscope depth. Perhaps he should risk raising his masts, then break radio silence long enough to consult with Fleet Command one last time before passing the point of no return. Billions of lives hung in the balance. What if this was all some terrible misunderstanding?

What other explanation could there be?

But, no, the risk was too great. He shook his head to clear his mind of any lingering doubts. He dared not compromise the safety of his ship, not before he had fulfilled the awful responsibility Fate—and Mother Russia—had entrusted to him. His orders were clear, double-checked and authenticated beyond all question.

It was time to kill more than six million men, women, and children.

“All compartments report readiness,” Ivanov informed him. A muscle twitched beneath his cheek. “Missiles one through fourteen await your order.”

Losenko nodded. Moscow had ordered nearly all of the Gorshkov’s complement of ballistic missiles into the air, leaving only two rockets in reserve. Even that degree of caution struck the captain as faintly ludicrous under the circumstances. Would there be anything left to bomb after the initial exchange?

He felt a dozen eyes upon him, while the sub itself seemed to be holding its breath. His mouth felt as dry as ashes. He would have killed for a shot of vodka.

“Initiate fire,” he commanded.

His words were carried to the weapons officer in missile control. The final trigger was activated. The entire boat bobbed slightly as, one after another, the massive weight of fourteen 130,000-ton missiles exited its silos in sequenced bursts of expanding nitrogen gas. Automated systems pumped tons of water into the missile compensation tanks to keep the sub more or less level.

They were close enough to the surface that the sound of shattered ice penetrated the stillness of the ocean when the unleashed missiles burst through the arctic icecap. In his mind’s eye, Losenko could see them arcing through the sky as their first-stage rockets ignited high above the Barents Seas, then veered away from one another en route to their ultimate destinations, thousands of miles away.

“One through fourteen away,” the missile chief reported. “Launch successful.”

It’s done, Losenko realized. Once our birds have flown, they cannot be recalled.

Although the target package selected by Moscow had been expressed in terms of coordinates and computerized programs, he knew all too well where the missiles were going. To the American state of Alaska, home to major population centers and key military installations. All those targets—and those who lived there—had just been condemned to incineration. Losenko had never visited Alaska, but he had heard it was a beautiful place.

He wondered what would be left of it.

“God help us all,” he murmured. “Execute evasive maneuvers. Down bubble, thirty degrees!”

During testing, the successful launch of a missile was cause for pride and celebration. But not today. Now that the deed was done, Losenko’s strength and discipline threatened to desert him. His legs felt limp and a dreadful weariness descended upon his shoulders. Looking out over his men once more, he saw tears streaming down the faces of veteran sailors. Muttered prayers and curses rose from the general hubbub.

“Yankee bastards!” Ivanov spat. Rage contorted his handsome features. His fists were clenched at his sides. “May they burn in hell forever!”

The captain allowed the XO his outburst and his anger. Alexei had just lost his family and his future, like everyone else aboard K-115.

We are all damned now, he thought. May heaven forgive us.

He had no idea how he was going to live with what he had just done.

“Dive the boat!” he barked hoarsely. “Dive!”

The fire was not dead yet.

Thousands of miles from the Barents Sea, in the verdant heart of Alaska’s Chugach State Park, a young forest ranger scowled at the still smoldering campfire. Her long black hair blew in the breeze. An ivory pendant, carved in the shape of a raven, added a touch of personal flair to her green park uniform. Dark eyes flashed angrily.

How could people be so careless? Didn’t they know an abandoned campfire like this could burn the whole forest down?

Her fingers drifted to the grip of the pistol resting against her hip. The thoughtless hikers were lucky that they had already moved on. New to the Forest Service, with a spanking new degree in environmental science, the ranger took her responsibilities seriously. Nobody was going to mess with Alaska’s pristine wilderness on her watch.

A blinding white flash, many miles to the south, drove the smoking embers from her mind. The ranger threw up an arm to shield her eyes. A thunderous blast echoed in the distance. She watched in horror as a mushroom cloud rose on the horizon.

Oh God, she thought. That was Anchorage.

The forgotten campfire meant nothing now. A larger blaze was consuming the world.

The ranger knew her life had just changed forever.

CHAPTER TWO

2018

“Heads down. It’s coming.”

Molly Kookesh took cover in the Alaskan brush. She wriggled forward on her belly atop the hard-packed winter snow until she had a better view of the remote river canyon below. The wooded slope provided an ideal vantage point. Frosted evergreens, their branches weighed down by snow, hid her from the moonlight. A damp mist hung over the valley—and the massive timber bridge spanning the river. Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance.

“Where?” Sitka’s head popped up beside her. A mane of wild ginger hair that barely knew what a comb was framed the teenager’s face. An oversized army surplus jacket hung like a tent upon her gangly frame. Her pockets bulged with miscellaneous odds and ends, scavenged from wherever. Freckles accented her gleeful expression. She brushed her bangs away from her eyes.

“Wanna see!” she said eagerly.

“Down, packrat.” Geir Svenson shoved the girl’s head back behind a ridge. A scruffy blond beard just enhanced the bush pilot’s rakish good looks, at least as far as Molly was concerned. A battered aviator’s jacket was zipped up to his chin, the better to keep out the bitter cold. A wool cap kept his head warm. His breath frosted from his lips. “Unless you think that silly head of yours needs a couple of extra holes in it,” he added.

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” the teen muttered, but she got the message and hunkered down in the snow between the two adults. “Wanted a peek, that’s all. Wasn’t gonna get spotted.” Sitka doled out pronouns sparingly, as if they were too valuable to be wasted. “Not a child anymore, you know.”

Molly let out an exasperated sigh. She should have known better than to let Sitka tag along but, eager to earn her colors, the girl had been pestering her for months to be included in an operation. Tonight’s outing—a simple recon gig—had seemed like a good opportunity to test the teenager in the field. Now Molly wasn’t so sure.

“Quiet, both of you!” she hissed. “Don’t make me regret bringing you along.”

That shut Sitka up, at least for the moment. Geir adopted a wounded look.

“Whoa! What did I do?”

“Nothing,” she admitted. “But I’ve got a hard-ass reputation to keep up.”

Geir shot her an appreciative once-over.

“Trust me, chief, that ass speaks for itself.”

“Gag!” Sitka feigned sticking a finger down her throat. “Nauseous now.”

Molly tried not to grin.

“Enough banter. Eyes on the prize.”

A fur-lined parka matched her tight sealskin trousers. She tossed back the hood, exposing a head of lustrous black hair tied up in a ponytail. High cheekbones, dark almond eyes, and copper skin proclaimed her Native Alaskan roots. A carved ivory Raven totem dangled on a leather strap around her neck. A scarlet armband marked her as a member of the Resistance, the red dye symbolizing the blood spilt by all the brave men and women who had died fighting the machines over the last fifteen years.

Sitka eyed it enviously. She had yet to earn an armband of her own.

Propped up on her elbows, Molly squinted through her binoculars. Half a mile away, the huge trestle bridge stretched across the valley, looming more than 300 feet above the raging river below. Icebergs collided harmlessly against the massive concrete piers. Bolted timber struts and trusses supported the bridge, which was over 700-feet long. Iron train tracks ran across its deck. An electrified third rail eliminated the need for old-fashioned diesel or steam engines. The high-tech transportation system had been built on top of an old mining company railway, dating back to the Gold Rush.

The more things change....

The tracks appeared empty, except for a bald eagle roosting midway across the bridge. A low rumble rattled the tracks, audible even at this distance, and the raptor shot up into the air.

Smart bird, Molly thought. The rumble grew louder by the moment. A tunnel carved into the hillside on the northern side of the canyon hid the source of the noise from view until the train came zooming out onto the bridge.

Molly’s eyes widened.

“Wow!” Sitka whispered in awe. “Way skookum!”

Like all of Skynet’s mechanical offspring, the driverless train was ugly, brutal in its design, making no concession to human aesthetics. Gray armor-plating covered its streamlined contours. Sealed gun-ports ran along the length of its sides. Red optical sensors glowed like demonic eyes above its bullet-shaped nose. Razor-sharp skewers jutted like fangs from the bloody steel “cowcatcher” at the prow. The rotting carcass of an unlucky moose was impaled upon the spikes.

Bright blue sparks flared beneath the train cars, where their contacts met the electric rail. The deafening clamor of its passage drowned out everything else, even the rapid beating of Molly’s pulse. On straightaways, she knew, the bullet train clocked at least 180 miles an hour.

And to think I used to find trains romantic....

The “Skynet Express” carried uranium, copper, and other strategic minerals necessary to the war effort, transporting them from automated mining operations in the Yukon. Unrestricted by environmental or conservation concerns, Skynet had gouged the wilderness, wresting raw materials from Mother Earth for its own unholy purposes. Preexisting rail lines running across hundreds of miles of rugged terrain had been linked and upgraded to fit the cybernetic intelligence’s specifications. Weekly runs transported the ore to a Terminator construction plant in Valdez.

But not for much longer, Molly vowed. Not if I have anything to say about it.

The value Skynet placed on the ore was driven home by the transport’s daunting defenses. Not only was the armored juggernaut loaded with concealed weapons, but the supply train rated air support, as well. Molly ducked lower into the brush as a Hunter-Killer glided over the canyon. The steady thrum of the aircraft’s VTOL turbofans contrasted with the noisy clatter from the train tracks. High-speed impellers kept it aloft, and its ugly gunmetal exterior matched that of the train it was escorting. Usually HKs preceded the trains they were protecting; Molly guessed that this one had hung back to check on some disturbance prior to the tunnel. Maybe a noisy herd of caribou, or a falling tree.

Going into hover mode, the HK hung in the sky above the bridge. Powerful floodlights scoured the vicinity, on the lookout for human targets.

“Nobody move!” she whispered urgently. The HKs relied on infrared motion trackers to locate prey. The best way to escape their notice was to blend into the surroundings and not move a muscle. They had to be still as a corpse—or risk becoming one.

Geir and Sitka followed her example. Thank heaven for small favors!

A cold wind rustled the branches overhead. A glop of wet snow fell onto her head and shoulders, most likely dislodged by the passing of the damned HK, and she had to resist the urge to shake it off. Melted ice trickled down the back of her neck and it took all of her self-control not to shiver. Sandwiched between the frozen whiteness beneath and the freshly deposited snow on her back, it was hard to ignore the chill creeping into her bones. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Was it just her imagination, or had the harsh Alaskan winters gotten even worse since Judgment Day?

Nothing like a nuclear winter to let the air out of global warming. She couldn’t wait until spring. Assuming I last that long....

The Hunter-Killer wasn’t alone. Aerostats—slender football-sized surveillance drones with glowing red eyes at one end—buzzed around the train like mosquitos. Some scanned the track ahead of the train, while others darted amidst the bridge’s supports. A brown bear, fishing for salmon further downstream, attracted an Aerostat’s attention, and the mechanical sentinel buzzed down for a better look, scanning the startled bear with ruby lasers that transmitted a digitized profile of the animal back to Skynet. The bear reared up on its hind legs and swatted at the levitating pest, which expertly stayed out of reach of the massive paws. The animal was tempting fate by attacking the drone, but apparently Skynet judged it no actual threat to the train, so the Aerostat flew back up toward the tracks.

The bear went back to its fishing.

Molly filed the encounter in her memory. Now that the data was stored in the massive computer, would it be possible to use a bear costume to deceive Skynet in the future? It was something to think about.

Lord knows I wouldn’t mind being stuffed inside a toasty bearskin right now!

The train seemed to go on forever. Molly lost count of how many linked cars rattled over the bridge. Several minutes passed before the last one exited the tunnel. Its bullet-shaped nose matched the lead car at the other end. Evil red eyes watched behind as the train finally pulled away, disappearing into the wilderness that lay across the river. A swarm of watchful Aerostats chased after it.

The HK rotated in midair, sweeping the canyon one last time with its blinding floodlights, before rising to a higher elevation. Its turbofans tilted to the side as it flew south above the train tracks. Molly watched its airborne bulk glide away, defying gravity. The eerily weightless way they flew never failed to send a chill down her spine.

“Wicked!” Sitka started to spring up from the ground, but Geir held her down by placing a heavy hand between her shoulders. HKs and Aerostats had been known to circle back for a second look. “Yeah. Right,” she muttered.

Better safe than sorry, Molly mused silently.

She waited for the echoes of the train to fade away, then counted to fifty before sitting up and shaking the snow from her head and shoulders. She gave Geir and Sitka the all-clear sign, and the pair climbed to their feet. Geir brushed the snow from his jacket and heavy-duty denim jeans. Sitka acted oblivious to the cold. Molly sometimes suspected her of being part polar bear.

She hastily consulted her watch: an antique, spring-operated gizmo she had salvaged from the ruins of an old pawnshop. She preferred manual timepieces these days. It was easier to re-wind them than to try to scrounge up batteries.

“It’s 10:48 exactly,” she announced.

“10:48,” Geir confirmed, consulting his own watch. He cracked a wry smile. “Gotta hand it to Skynet. It’s got the trains running on time.”

Molly wasn’t inclined to give Skynet credit for anything. “So did Mussolini.”

“Muso-who?” Sitka asked.

No surprise that the teenager didn’t recognize the name. Only sixteen years old, the orphaned girl had no memory of life before Judgment Day, nor much in the way of an old-fashioned education. Nobody even knew what her real name was; Molly had found her living as a scavenger in the ruins of the town of Sitka over ten years ago, and that had become her name. She had literally grown up in the Resistance, having never known a world that wasn’t overrun by Terminators.

“Ask Doc back at the camp,” Molly said. Now was no time for a history lesson. “He’ll fill you in.”

“Never shut up either.” Sitka rolled her eyes. “Know how he is once he gets going ‘bout the old days. Borrrrring.”

Molly envied the teen her blithe disregard for the past. There were times she wished she could forget how good life used to be, before Judgment Day.

What I wouldn’t give for a vacation at a luxury hotel—or even just cable television.

Sitka didn’t miss any of that.

How could she?

“So that’s the infamous Skynet Express,” Geir said, changing the subject. “Pretty big train.”

“Ginormous,” Sitka agreed. She peered across the canyon, as though hoping to catch another glimpse of the evil locomotive. “Makes a Hydrobot look like an earthworm!” Eager green eyes sought out Molly. “So when do we blow it up?”

The uranium train was a tempting target. If the Resistance could somehow intercept it, not only would they disrupt the enemy’s supply lines, but they might also come away with valuable resources. Molly was sure the uniforms in Command could make use of some unprocessed uranium, not to mention copper, zinc, and other essential metals.

“Could be quite a haul,” she mused aloud. “Maybe put us on Command’s radar. Show them what we’re really capable of.”

Even though her small band of Resistance fighters had been waging a guerilla war against Skynet for more than a decade now, she often got the impression that the top military brass didn’t take citizen soldiers like her seriously. They got the occasional pat on the back, sure, but not much in the way of serious material support. Old-school Pentagon types like Ashdown hogged all the resources for their own troops.

It’s not fair, she thought, a familiar frustration raising her blood pressure. My people may have started out as loggers, park rangers, pipeline workers, refugees, and half-feral kids, but we’re all soldiers now, and have been since the first Russian bombs fell fifteen years ago. It’s like John Connor always says—if you’re still breathing, you’re the Resistance.

So why couldn’t Command get that through their thick skulls?

“Not going to be easy, Molly.” Towering over her, Geir draped an arm around her, sharing some of his body warmth, for which she was silently grateful. He stared out at the bridge below. “You’re talking several hundred tons of rolling Terminator, with air support and back-up.” He whistled in anticipation of the fight the train and its escort could put up. “Minor raids are one thing, but this would be the biggest operation we’ve ever attempted.... by far.”

A worried look came over his rugged face.

“You really think we can pull it off?”

Molly thought of all the T-600s and Hunter-Killers Skynet could power with the uranium each train carried, all the new surveillance and tracking systems it could set up. Who knew how many people would die because of the weekly supply runs? Who knew the cost to the very planet itself?

She had been a U.S. park ranger before the bombs fell. It killed her to see the land raped by Skynet.

“If we don’t, who will?”

CHAPTER THREE

2003

It is a perfect summer afternoon. A clear blue sky unfolds above the skyscrapers. Warm sunlight bathes the bustling city streets and sidewalks.

Pedestrians crowd the pavement. Office workers fetch coffee from a sidewalk vendor. Giggling teenagers hurry home from school. A beautiful young mother pushes a stroller. Infant twins gurgle happily. An old man walks a bulldog. Vendors hawk frozen treats from carts. Cars, trucks, and taxis honk impatiently. Flowers sprout from window boxes. Pigeons flutter and coo as they perch upon the granite facades of the downtown buildings. A gentle breeze blows down the street. A mouth-watering aroma spills from the open doorway of a busy bakery.

Losenko smiles. He is glad to be alive.

The sudden blare of an air-raid siren drowns out the everyday hubbub. Frightened eyes turn upward. People scatter and run. Her eyes wide with fear, the young mother places her body protectively over her babies, glancing around frantically to locate the source of the danger. The old man tugs on the bulldog’s leash, but the dog stubbornly refuses to hurry. Panicked birds take flight.

No, Losenko thinks. Not now. Not again!

A blinding white flash lights up the sky. He shields his eyes with his arm, but it’s too late. A fireball rises from the heart of the city, many blocks away. A shock wave knocks him from his feet. A scorching wind flays the flesh from his bones. His skin and clothing burst into flames.

A mushroom cloud swallows up his screams....

Losenko woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat. His bunk enclosed him like a coffin. The violet glow of the tactical display screen revealed the dimly lit contours of his cabin aboard the Gorshkov. He lay still, waiting for his racing heart to settle.

A weary sigh escaped his lips.

“Again,” he whispered hoarsely. He had no trouble recalling the details of the apocalyptic nightmare, and the sensations it left had become all too familiar to him. He had suffered through the same dream, or variations thereof, every night since that horrible day some four weeks ago when K-115 had unleashed its missiles. Sometimes he woke thinking the entire war was just a bad dream. Then the awful reality came crashing back down again.

Thanks to its nuclear engines, the Gorshkov could stay submerged indefinitely, limited only by its food supplies. A distilling plant in the engine provided a steady supply of fresh water for the men and batteries. The sub had been hiding from the enemy for a month now without word from Fleet Command. Losenko rather suspected there was no one left in Moscow to issue any new orders, so he clung to the ocean floor and waited for the conflagration to die out overhead. Radioactive fallout decayed at an exponential rate; in theory, it might finally be safe to breach the surface again.

He shuddered to think what they might find. The Americans had possessed enough bombs to reduce the Motherland to a cinder.

For a moment he flirted with the notion of trying to get back to sleep, but decided against it. A glance at the plasma screen display revealed that the next watch was due to begin in less than an hour anyway. Moreover, he was in no hurry to experience his nightmare once more, at least not so soon.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see the horrified face of the young mother as she tried in vain to shield her children from the coming holocaust. That she bore a distinct resemblance to his ex-wife, back when they were still young and in love, was surely no coincidence. His subconscious mind had a cruel streak.

Forcing the troubling images from his mind as much as was possible, he rose and dressed. Now, more than ever, he considered it important to take care in his appearance, in order to provide a strong and reassuring example for the crew. Maintaining morale and discipline—even after the end of the world—was crucial. He couldn’t allow the men to sink into apathy and despair. He could not allow himself to falter, not even for a moment. An abyss, deeper than any ocean, would suck them all down if they surrendered to the full horror of their situation.

He owed it to his crew not to let them see any cracks in his resolve.

Yet, as he took a razor to his chin, shaving in front of the small mirror in his private washroom, he couldn’t help but notice the haunted look in his bloodshot eyes. Dark purple pouches testified to long, sleepless nights.

Under the circumstances, he consoled himself, it’s a wonder that I don’t look more wretched. With that he resumed his assault on the encroaching stubble.

Once he was satisfied that he looked like a proper captain, Losenko made his way to the control room. A defeated-looking seaman squeezed past him en route to Engineering. The sailor failed to meet his captain’s eyes. His grimy coveralls smelled as though they had not been laundered in days. He stumbled over a fire bucket that someone had carelessly left sitting in the passageway.

“Look lively, sailor!” Losenko said sternly. “And stow that pail where it belongs.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the man muttered in response. Even with his captain looking over his shoulder, however, the seaman moved as though in a daze. He trudged away listlessly, bearing the offending bucket with him. The rubber soles of his sneakers barely lifted from the floor.

Losenko watched as the zombie-like figure disappeared into the stern of the boat. How many more are there like that? he pondered grimly. Even on the most uneventful of patrols, the crew started to get a little stir crazy after several weeks cooped up in a cramped metal tube. Now, with nothing to look forward to but the aftermath of a nuclear war, nerves had to be at breaking point. How long before discipline breaks down entirely?

The situation in the control room did little to reassure him. Even as he stepped foot into the nerve center, he heard Ivanov harshly upbraiding an unlucky subordinate.

“Five minutes to load a torpedo?” The XO stared in disgust at the stopwatch he held in his hand. He and the captain had been running frequent drills, in part to keep the crew’s mind off the holocaust that had engulfed their homes. “What’s wrong with those slugs down there? Have they got lead in their sneakers?”

Weapons Officer Pavlinko gulped.

“No, sir. Not that I’m aware of, sir. We’ll do better next time!”

“And suppose there had been a real American sub hunting us?” Ivanov retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Had that been the case, do you think there would have been a next time?”

Pavlinko accepted the tongue-lashing.

“No, sir.”

“Then maybe you need to give those lazy shirkers a solid kick in the butt, before the enemy really comes calling!”

The venom in the starpom’s tone added to Losenko’s woes. There was a bitterness in Ivanov’s heart that had not been there before the Americans had launched their suicidal attack. The young officer had been tough, but fair, and well-liked by the crew. Now he was short-tempered all the time, taking out his fury on the men beneath him.

Anger is eating away at him, Losenko realized, just as sorrow never lifts from my shoulders.

He joined Ivanov upon the periscope pedestal.

“Easy, Alexei,” he cautioned in a low tone. “These men have faced the unimaginable.”

Ivanov stiffened. “There is a war on,” he responded. “We cannot afford the luxury of grief.”

Even for your wife and daughter? Losenko thought. His heart ached for the younger man’s loss. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he had no children of his own. “Perhaps you are right. Or maybe the war is already over—and both sides have lost.”

In that moment he decided that he could not delay any longer. His men deserved to know what had become of the world they had left behind.

“Any contacts on the sonar?” he inquired.

Ivanov glanced in the direction of the sonar shack.

“Nothing. Not even biologics.”

No whales, porpoises, or schools of deep-sea fish, in other words. Had humanity taken the rest of the animal kingdom with it when it had self-destructed?

“I see,” Losenko replied. Despite their earlier concerns, they had encountered no American attack subs since the war broke out. This was both encouraging and worrisome, in that it suggested that the navies of the world no longer possessed the capacity to hunt their enemies. Nevertheless, he intended to take no chances.

“Turn the boat around,” he instructed, to make certain no hidden dangers were skulking in their baffles. Gorshkov’s own propellers created a sonic “blind spot” in the submarine’s wake. A shrewd commander made a habit of checking his rear. “Left fifteen degrees rudder, steady course three-seven-zero.”

K-115 executed an expert turn. The sonar dome at its nose found nothing suspicious in the vicinity. Confident that they were not under observation, Losenko turned toward the diving officer.

“Mr. Orlov, ascend to periscope depth.”

In response to his orders, K-115 tilted toward the bow, while Orlov counted out the depth as the boat climbed toward the surface. The helmsman and planesman pulled back on their steering wheels, working in perfect harmony. Seated to their left, the diving officer and the chief of the watch manned the ballast controls, blowing water from the tanks to increase the sub’s buoyancy. The hull popped noisily as the pressure outside changed dramatically.

“Fifty meters,” Orlov announced. “Thirty meters.”

Losenko visualized the ice above their heads. He unhooked the mike and spoke into it.

“All hands, brace for impact.”

He grabbed hold of the railing.

“Twenty meters.”

Metal shuddered as the sub broke through the icecap. Its twelve meter-tall sail cut through the snow-covered floes like a blade. The jarring impact threw one of the newer crewman off-balance, and he staggered before grabbing onto the handle of an overhead chart cabinet. A loose folder clattered to the deck.

Water flooded the trim tanks as K-115 leveled off. The helmsmen pushed their wheels forward.

“Scope’s breaking,” Ivanov reported. He gripped the handlebars of the number one periscope and peered through the eyepiece. His body tense, he rotated the scope a full 360 degrees. “No close contacts,” he said with what sounded like a trace of disappointment. Losenko saw clearly that Alexei longed for an enemy upon whom to take vengeance. It was a dangerous trait to have in a first officer.

Unlike their XO, the other crewmen let out an audible sigh of relief at hearing that they had not ascended into a war zone. Beeps and chirps came from an electronic surveillance sensor that automatically began sweeping the area for signals from any nearby ships or aircraft. An alarm would sound if it detected any approaching threat.

No alarm came.

Losenko took the periscope from Ivanov. Planting his feet, he squinted into the eyepiece. Twilight in the Arctic Circle looked much as he remembered it, until he realized that—according to the sub’s chronometer—it should have been bright and sunny outside. Instead, clouds of smoke and ash clotted the sky, allowing only a paltry fraction of daylight through. Like the smoke from a funeral pyre, he thought morosely, drifting over the top of the world.

“Chief of the watch,” the captain instructed, “raise the main multifunction mast.”

The mast, which was housed in the sail, boasted an array of sophisticated electronic antennae capable of receiving and transmitting signals along a broad spectrum of frequencies. It could also contact GPS satellites to receive position updates.

Our ears are open, Losenko thought. But is there anybody out there?

Unwilling to wait any longer for an answer, he stepped down from the pedestal and headed for the radio shack, just forward of the control room. Crossing the conn, he poked his head through the port side doorway. Inside the chamber, a pair of radio operators shared the cramped space with a battery of communications and cryptographic equipment. The two men were seated before their consoles, earphones clamped over their heads. Glowing green screens recorded multiple incoming transmissions. Matrix printers began spewing messages as fast as the computers could decode them.

“Downloading now,” the senior radio operator, a man named Pushkin, reported. He was a nerdy scarecrow of a man with mussed black hair and thick glasses. “There’s a lot of chatter out there.”

Losenko suppressed a sigh of relief. They were not alone, then. There were other survivors.

He stepped forward and tapped Pushkin on the shoulder.

“What do you hear?”

The young seaman took off his headphones. A pained expression came over his face.

“Chaos,” he reported. “Sheer chaos.”

Losenko convened the meeting in the officer’s wardroom. He sat at the head of a long rectangular table. Ivanov sat to his right, ahead of the rest of the senior staff. A baker’s dozen of department heads were crammed into the wardroom. Transcripts of radio transmissions lay in a stack in front of the captain. He leafed through them once again, before lifting his eyes from the printouts. Soundproof bulkheads and a locked door ensured their privacy.

“Mr. Cherkov,” Losenko addressed the communications officer, “please brief us on the situation.”

Cherkov was a phlegmatic sort by nature, but the captain could tell that he was shaken by what he was about to report. He swallowed hard.

“In a word, sir, confusion—utter confusion. There is a great deal of chatter, but nobody seems to be in charge. And everybody is fighting, well, everybody. The Israelis are blaming the Arabs, and vice versa. India is retaliating against Pakistan. Georgia and Chechnya even think we bombed them. Al Qaeda has issued a fatwa on the American president. There are widespread accounts of looting and civic unrest.

“Scattered ships and planes are sending out inquiries, but receiving no authorized orders in reply. Our Akula attack subs are being engaged by Chinese and American subs. Many are believed to have been lost. Hard information is in short supply. Rumors are flying....” He hesitated, consulting his own notes as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them. “There are even unconfirmed reports that, insanely, the Americans bombed their own bases and cities.”

“What?” Ivanov blurted out. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Maybe not,” Cherkov said. “An American general named Ashdown is sending out a nonstop message on all frequencies, stating that the initial attack was an accident, that some kind of experimental computer system malfunctioned. He calls it ‘Skynet.’”

Of course, Losenko thought. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. And as he did so, cold tendrils began to grip him.

Ivanov disagreed. “An obvious trick, to get us to lower our guard.”

“But why would the Americans attack us now?” Losenko observed. He feared that Ivanov’s emotions were clouding his judgment. “The threat of Mutual Assured Destruction deterred them all through the Cold War. Why court annihilation now, after the war is over? There was no reason to it, none at all. Yet a computer malfunction would explain it.”

Guilt stabbed his heart. I should have realized that it was an accident. We all should have.

Still Ivanov refused to absolve the Americans.

“Perhaps they feared that Mother Russia would rise to challenge them once more?” He clenched his fist at the prospect, before entreating Losenko. “Please, Captain, don’t tell me that you are falling for so blatant a deception. Those America bastards attacked us without warning, like the cowards they are.” He pounded his fist on the table. “We cannot believe anything they say!”

“I have heard of this Ashdown,” the captain stated. “He is said to be one of their top-ranking generals.” Ivanov’s expression darkened. Losenko held up his hand to forestall any further outbursts from the junior officer. “But you are correct, Alexei. We cannot accept the Americans’ explanation without corroboration. For the time being, we must remain on guard.”

“So what do we do now, Captain?” Deputy Commander Trotsky asked. His pale face, dry skin, and chapped lips attested to long weeks spent cloistered aboard the sub. “We cannot hide from the Americans indefinitely. Our rations are running low, and the men are at the end of their rope.”

“So they are,” Losenko agreed. He had already made his decision. “We need to see for ourselves what has become of the Motherland.” He rose from his seat. “Set a course for home.”

CHAPTER FOUR

2018

The Trans-Alaska Pipeline stretched across 800 miles of rugged wilderness, connecting the oil fields on the north slope of Prudhoe Bay with the ice-free port in Valdez. For more than forty years, the pipeline had transported nearly a billion gallons of crude oil each day across mountain ranges, tracks of verdant wilderness, rivers, and streams.

Judgment Day had halted the flow for a time, but not for long; repairing the conduit and placing it under its direct control had been one of Skynet’s top priorities, alongside exterminating the human race. As a result, all of the oil— and the energy it contained—belonged to the machines.

But that didn’t mean the Resistance didn’t help itself to a sip now and then.

From the edge of the woods, Molly surveyed an elevated section of pipeline. Faint sunlight filtered through the snow-laden branches of towering pines and spruces. Pendulous gray clouds threatened to drop more snow any time now. A bitter wind chafed her face. Her lips were chapped and raw.

She chewed on a tough piece of smoked beaver. An owl hooted in the forest behind her. Something scurried through the underbrush. A breeze rustled through the trees.

The sun was high in the sky. Despite the cover of the forest, she felt uncomfortably exposed, sneaking up on the pipeline in broad daylight. As counter-intuitive as it seemed, however, nocturnal raids were even more dangerous. The Hunter-Killers’ infrared sensors worked even better after sundown, while the darkness placed their human prey at a disadvantage.

John Connor had taught her that, in one of his invaluable pirate broadcasts. She had never met the man—hell, she didn’t even know what he looked like— but, like so many other freedom fighters, she owed her life to the urgent warnings he had been broadcasting ever since Judgment Day. He had given her hope, and tips for survival when all had seemed lost. In her mind, his would always be the voice of the Resistance.

If the machines ever get him, I don’t want to know about it.

Several yards away, the pipeline zig-zagged across a glossy white plain leading toward a narrow mountain pass less than a mile to the north. Dense green forest encroached on the cleared strips of land on either side of the conduit. Riveted steel saddles, red paint protecting them from the elements, lifted the huge links of pipe over ten feet above the frozen earth. The enormous white cylinders were four feet in diameter. Coiled heat pipes topped the vertical supports to keep the permafrost from thawing beneath the heavy saddles. The zigzag layout was supposed to protect the pipeline from earthquakes, as well as from drastic temperature shifts. Or so Molly had been told.

None of that mattered at the moment. She just wanted to come through this fuel run in one piece.

“Look clear?” Geir asked. He stood a few feet back, behind the basket of one of the fifteen dog sleds she had mustered for this operation. Teams of well-trained malamutes, huskies, and mutts waited patiently for the command to go forward. They rested upon the ground, sniffing idly at the snow. Empty metal drums and plastic gas cans were piled in the cargo beds of the freight sleds. A few of the sleds were hitched to snowmobiles instead of dogs.

Grim-faced men and women, bundled up in mismatched winter gear, stomped their feet to keep warm. Goggles, scarves, and earmuffs protected their faces from the cold. Scarlet armbands marked them as members of the Resistance. A thermos of hot coffee was passed around. Roughly thirty guerillas had been drafted for this operation. Nervous eyes searched the snowy canopy overhead. You never knew when an HK, or maybe just a snoopy Aerostat, might come zipping above the trees.

“What about it?” Geir pressed when she didn’t answer. “Have we got a clear shot?”

“Maybe,” Molly hedged. Not even Skynet could patrol all 800 miles of pipeline all the time, and the nearest automated pumping station was fifty miles north at Delta Junction. That was where security would be the thickest, but any unguarded stretch—such as this one— would serve just fine. All they needed to do was hurry in, tap the pipeline, and get away before Skynet even realized that it was bleeding oil.

Should be a cakewalk, she thought. Not like taking on that monster train, which they intended to do as soon as their plans were set. “But let’s not take any chances,” she said aloud.

Their Resistance cell had lost three commanders in four years. Molly wasn’t looking to be the fourth, at least not until she took her shot at the Skynet Express. She stroked the head of Togo, the big gray samoyed at the head of Geir’s dog team.

“What about you, boy?” she asked as he nuzzled her glove. “Smell any suspicious metal?”

Over the course of the war, man’s best friend had proven incredibly valuable when it came to sniffing out Terminators, especially the new T-600s with the phony rubber skin intended to mimick human flesh. At a distance or in the dark, a T-600 could be mistaken for a living, breathing human, but not by a dog. Their keen noses sniffed through the disguise with no problem. Thus, the Resistance had learned to rely on their canine cohorts.

Another trick Connor taught us.

Togo’s tufted ears perked up, like maybe he was hoping for a snack. He sniffed the air, but seemed more interested in the rations in Molly’s pocket. The rest of the pack were still curled up in the snow, licking their paws or absently watching out for squirrels. The dogs’ nonchalance reassured Molly. If there had been Terminators upwind, they would have been barking like crazy.

So far, so good.