Terminator Salvation: Cold War
Read Terminator Salvation: Cold War Online
Authors: Greg Cox
Also available from Titan Books:
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By Timothy Zahn
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SALVATION
COLD WAR
GREG COX
TITAN BOOKS
Terminator Salvation: Cold War
ISBN: 9781848569348 (eBook)
ISBN: 9781848560871 (print)
Published by
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Titan Publishing Group Ltd
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London
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First edition October 2009
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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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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
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 Peace
awaited 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.