Metal fingers pinched off the leaky valve in its shoulder. The T-600 kicked off the twisted remnants of its wire snowshoes. Optical sensors scanned the terrain north of the pass. Digital readouts flashed along the periphery of its visual display. Two distinct sets of bootprints revealed that at least two humans had survived the avalanche; the relative size and contours of the tracks indicated an adult male and adult female. Infrared trackers detected the cooling remains of a small campfire, as well as the fecal droppings of multiple canines.
Analysis of the evidence indicated that the humans and their animals had departed sometime within the last several hours. Human behavior patterns suggested that the survivors would return to their base after their defeat at the pipeline. The T-600 recognized an opportunity to track the Resistance to its camp—and terminate them once and for all.
It set out walking. A light snow had begun to fall, but its sensors easily discerned the impressions of the dog sled beneath the smooth virgin snow. The humans had a significant head start, but this did not concern the machine; it did not need to catch up with its targets until they reached their ultimate destination. A built-in transceiver beamed its intentions back to Skynet, which instantly acknowledged and approved the actions.
CONFIRMATION: PROCEED AS DIRECTED.
A digital readout in the lower left-hand corner of its heads-up display reported that the temperature was negative 11.022 degrees Celsius and falling. Sunrise was 10.589 hours away. The location of the Resistance base was unknown, but the Terminator was prepared to hike through the wilderness for as long as necessary. Its internal power pack guaranteed sufficient energy for the trek. Unlike the poorly designed humans, it would not tire. It had no need to eat, drink, or sleep. Hypothermia posed no danger to its systems. Its imposing steel frame did not shiver. Hinged metal jaws did not chatter.
The Terminator marched into the night. Heavy legs, sunk knee-deep into the snowy drifts, plowed through the packed whiteness. The perfect clarity of its programming propelled it forward.
LOCATE HUMAN BASE.
TERMINATE ALL HUMANS.
CHAPTER FIVE
2003
Murmansk, home to the Northern Fleet, had once been the largest city north of the Arctic Circle and a thriving military seaport. A warm North Atlantic current kept its harbor ice-free all year round. Losenko recalled bustling docks crammed with towering metal cranes and rows upon rows of covered boat barns, the latter intended to shield the fleet from aerial surveillance. Armed sentries and barbed wire had guarded the wharves, barracks, warehouses, and shipyards. Tugboats had escorted returning vessels back to port, beneath the icy brilliance of a cobalt-blue sky.
The sparsely wooded bluffs overlooking the channel had once been a welcome sight, promising fresh air and solid ground after long weeks under the sea. The salt air had been filled with the sounds of gulls and blaring horns.
But all that was a memory now.
Desolation.
That was what the captain beheld from the bridge atop the Gorshkov’s gigantic black fin. The submarine cruised toward shore along the Kola Fjord. White water lapped over the exposed bow and missile deck, while fully two-thirds of K-115 remained submerged beneath the waves. Ordinarily, maneuvering on the surface was fraught with hazards; it was all too easy for another ship to overlook the low-riding sub and plough right into it. Today, however, there were no other vessels with which to contend. They had the narrow channel all to themselves.
The view from his vantage point confirmed what Losenko had previously glimpsed through the periscope. An enormous crater, at least a thousand feet in diameter, had replaced the naval base. The ground was blackened and scorched. No trace of life remained—not a single weed or blade of grass. Every building had been razed to its foundations. The piers and boat barns were gone.
Though there was no surface traffic, sonar readings had detected the remnants of shattered ships and submarines scattered across the floor of the harbor. They would have to take care to avoid colliding with one of the sunken hulks. Their ruptured hulls now served as underwater tombstones.
We sail above a watery cemetery, Losenko realized. He shuddered beneath a heavy wool pea coat. A fur cap shielded his head from the cold north wind. The midnight sun hung low in the sky. How many crews and captains went down with their ships?
Losenko was dismayed by the devastation, but not surprised. He had seen photos of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Modern nuclear missiles were many times more powerful than the primitive atomic bombs the Americans had dropped on Japan sixty years ago.
Murmansk, he recalled, had once been home to over 300,000 people.
“Bozhe moi,” Trotsky whispered beside him. The deputy commander was serving as deck officer for this watch. His face was ashen. White knuckles gripped the railing. “There is nothing left, Captain. Nothing at all.”
Losenko placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, like a father consoling a grieving son. Chances were, he was the closest thing to a father any one of his men had left. They were all orphans now.
He and Trotsky were alone atop the vessel. Losenko had restricted access to the sail, giving Ivanov the conn until he could survey the situation with his own eyes. Still, he knew he could not spare his men this appalling vista for long. By now, word of the base’s utter destruction was surely spreading among the officers, and from there to the enlisted men. Such secrets were impossible to keep hidden.
“There are no docks,” Trotsky observed. Concentrating on practical concerns appeared to help him maintain his composure. Yet he averted his eyes from the nightmarish tableau. “What now, skipper?”
Losenko peered through binoculars. In the distance, miles beyond ground zero, he spied the skeletal ruins of a few surviving buildings. Pitted steel frameworks had been stripped clean of their facades. Mountains of charred debris littered the barren landscape. Nothing stirred except clouds of ash and grit blown about by the wind. He looked in vain for lights or campfires.
There weren’t even any vultures.
The captain lowered his binoculars.
“We sail on.” There was nothing left for them here but kilometers and kilometers of radioactive rubble. By his estimation, it would be a decade before the irradiated soil could be considered safe to live on—at least by peacetime standards. Murmansk was another Chernobyl. “There are fishing villages south of here, near Ponoy. They would not be considered military targets. Perhaps we can make port there.”
To be safe, he knew, they would need to put at least 200 miles between themselves and ground zero. Maybe 300.
“Yes, sir!” Trotsky seized onto the captain’s proposal as if it was a life preserver. He turned his back on Murmansk. “We’ll need to reverse propulsion at once.”
Before he could phone the new course down to the conn, however, one of the forward hatches clanged open. A midshipman in a blue jumpsuit clambered onto the deck. He gazed out in horror at the wreckage of Murmansk. A heart-rending cry tore itself from his lungs.
“No! NOOO!”
Losenko swore out loud. He hadn’t authorized this. It took him a moment to identify the reckless sailor as Nikolai Yudin, a new recruit who had been stationed in the engineering section.
“You there!” the captain bellowed from the bridge. “Get back below immediately, before I have you locked up for the rest of your miserable life!”