Terminator Salvation: Cold War Read Online Free PDF Page A

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