Terminator Salvation: Cold War (28 page)

“Look,” Molly said, “nobody has to take part in this mission who isn’t up to it. I’m just looking for volunteers. But every time that train completes its run, Skynet gets a little bit stronger. We need to cut off its supply line
now.”

“
What about Command?” Lucille Johns asked. The ice road trucker had served in the Alaskan National Guard before Judgment Day, which had given her a lasting appreciation for the chain of command. “Have they approved this operation? Will they be providing air support?”

Molly didn’t lie to her. “Maybe, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Hah!” Jensen crossed his arms defiantly. “We all know what that means. We’re screwed. Or will be if we try this on our own.”

“So what are you suggesting, Tom?” she challenged him. “That we let Skynet get away with assaulting our friends and loved ones?” Ernie Wisetongue’s crippling accident flashed through her brain. The old sculptor had not been able to attend the briefing; he was still recuperating from his injuries. “I don’t know about you, but I want payback... with interest!”

“Easy for you to say.” He nodded at the drafty walls of the shack. “You’re not living in a tent like some of us. I lost everything I owned in the fire!”

Another voice sounded, low and firm, from the back of the room.

“And I lost my husband.”

Tammi Muckerheide rose at the rear of the audience. The teenage widow had insisted on attending the meeting, despite her recent bereavement and swelling belly. A black armband had joined the red one on her sleeve. She seemed to have aged five years since her hellish wedding night several days ago. She continued, “But I know that Roger would want me to keep on fighting— for our baby’s sake.” She patted her abdomen. “What kind of future will he or she have if we don’t stop Skynet now?”

Molly felt a lump in her throat, and even Jensen backed off a little.

“Gee, Tammi, I’m not talking about giving up, you know that. I wanna send the damn machines to the scrap yard as much as anybody. But I’m not sure Molly’s got the right idea here. I’m afraid she’s going to get us all terminated.”

“Molly saved my life back at the camp,” Tammi shot back. “And she’s kept us alive longer than anybody else could.” Her voice cracked. She wiped a tear from her eye. “What’s more, she drowned the metal that killed my Roger.” She glared at the others, as though daring them to dispute her. “That’s good enough for me.”

Murmurs of assent seconded her vote of confidence. Molly felt the room turning back in her favor. She wanted to hug Tammi, protruding stomach and all.

“Aw, hell.” Jensen conceded defeat. He plopped back down onto his seat. “What more have I got to lose anyway?”

Doc lurched to his feet, shaking off Sitka’s best attempts to keep him quiet.

“Volley’d and thunder’d,” he declaimed, seemingly determined to get to the end of the verses. “Stormed at with shot and shell....”

Molly didn’t recognize the poem, but it sounded like a pretty good description of what they were in for. She couldn’t tell if he was in favor of Operation Ravenwing or not.

“Into the valley of death....”

The explosion rattled the library. Losenko was knocked off his feet. Books and journals were thrown from their shelves. Chairs toppled over. Dust and plaster rained down from the ceiling.

Ashdown grabbed onto his desk to keep from falling. Charts and documents blew about the room before wafting down to the floor. Losenko swatted the falling papers away from his face. His ears were ringing.

He stared up in alarm. It had come from above them, perhaps from the roof of the research station. He threw his arm over his face, half-expecting the ceiling to cave in on them, but only dislodged plaster speckled him. The echoes of the unexpected detonation began to fade away, and he realized that he had survived the bombing. The walls were still standing, at least for the moment.

He scrambled to his feet, choking on the dust.

“General?”

Ashdown smacked his fist on the desk. Although spattered with debris, he appeared unharmed. “What the Sam Hill was that? Are we under attack?” He appeared more angry than alarmed. His voice was hoarse. “Damnit, this was supposed to be a secure location!”

Losenko doubted the explosion was accidental. But who was responsible? The Chinese and their allies? The human collaborators? Skynet? The Resistance had too many enemies. For a second, he even wondered if maybe Ivanov had launched one of the
Gorshkov’s
cruise missiles at the summit.

Don’t be ridiculous,
he chided himself.
Alexei is angry, not insane.

The library door banged open. Corporal Ortega— accompanied by two armed security guards—burst into the library.

“General Ashdown!” the pilot called out through the dusty haze. An M-16 was cradled in her arms. “Are you all right?”

Ashdown patted himself down.

“Looks like it,” he said brusquely. He squinted at Losenko, quickly ascertaining that the Russian was intact as well, before getting straight to business. “Sitrep...
now!”;

“A bomb, sir!” Ortega reported breathlessly. “On the roof. It took out our primary communications and radar arrays.” Her agitated voice crept up an octave. “We’ve been sabotaged!”

“No shit,” Ashdown replied. “We’ve got a goddamn mole in our midst. Maybe more than one.”

Ortega beckoned from the doorway.

“We need to get you out of here, sir. The roof’s on fire. This whole building could go up.”

The pilot wasn’t exaggerating. Smoke began to seep into the library. Losenko heard flames crackling overhead. Weakened rafters creaked ominously. He tugged on his collar; the room was already feeling uncomfortably warm. A smoke alarm went off, hurting his ears. The high-pitched squeal made it seem like the center itself was screaming in pain.

“Understood.” Ashdown scooped up the nearest maps and reports and thrust them carelessly into a battered leather valise. He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t forgetting something important. “All right, let’s go.” He nodded toward the newly appointed Russian general. “Losenko, you’re with me.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Losenko was concerned about Utyosov and Sergeant Fokin, but now wasn’t the time to go searching for them. He would have to hope that his fellow Russians could look after themselves. On impulse, he snatched the red armband from where it had landed on the floor, and slipped it over his sleeve. “I’m ready.”

The guards, each toting an M-16, led the way as they rushed out of the burning building. Losenko reached for his own pistol, then remembered that he had surrendered it earlier. He scowled, unhappy to be without a weapon at such a moment. What if the saboteurs intended further mischief?

“General,” he reminded Ashdown, “I am unarmed.”

Ashdown instantly grasped his predicament.

“Corporal!” he barked at Ortega. “Give General Losenko your sidearm.”

“General?” Ortega did a double take, but handed over the weapon without hesitation. “Here you go, skipper.”

The Glock automatic pistol fit comfortably into Losenko’s grip. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

The party scurried off the front porch onto the boardwalk. The sun was sinking in the west, and twilight was creeping across the island. Losenko paused to look back at the research station. Bright orange flames ascended from the shingled roof. The satellite dishes and antennae were nothing but mangled metal, obscured by the smoke and flames. Alarmed delegates and their bodyguards ran from the building; Losenko searched for Utyosov and Fokin, but did not see them.

A fire crew hustled to put out the blaze. Ashdown looked like he was tempted to join them, but thought better of it.

“My sub, the
Wilmington,
is docked down at the bay,” he said. “We need to get it away from here. This island isn’t safe anymore.”

Losenko had thoroughly studied Santa Cruz on the way to the summit. As he recalled, the anchorage was about 2.5 kilometers away. The island’s only paved road connected the research center with the port of Puerto Ayora.

“I can drive you, sir,” Ortega volunteered. “My jeep is parked nearby.”

“You’ve got yourself a fare, Corporal.” He strode past her decisively, and motioned to the Russian. “Let’s get going.”

Before they could head for the parking lot, however, the base’s anti-aircraft units boomed into action. A pair of Avenger air defense systems, mounted atop a pair of modified Humvees, fired a round of Stinger missiles into the sky.

“Incoming!” came the shout, and a soldier pointed northwest into the setting sun. “We have company!”

A low hum, like a swarm of angry bees, came from above. Losenko looked up to see an unmanned aerial vehicle—less sophisticated than the Hunter-Killer prototype Ashdown had warned of before—soaring toward them at a high altitude. Missiles were mounted to the underside of its wings. It took Losenko only a moment to identify the aircraft as one of the U.S. military’s new radio-controlled drones. A Predator maybe, or a Reaper. Both, he knew, had been designed to target suspected terrorist bases.

“Crap!” Ashdown exclaimed. “That used to be one of ours!”

The UAV unleashed its lethal payload. A hellfire missile rocketed downward at the blazing research station, which possessed a fiery signature that made it almost impossible to miss. A thunderous explosion destroyed the structure in an instant. A tremendous blast of heat knocked Losenko to the ground. Flaming shrapnel whistled above him. He threw his hands over his head. Less than a meter away, Ashdown cried out in pain. Screams and curses came from closer to the blast.

The fire crew,
Losenko realized.

He lifted his head and looked back at what had once been the Charles Darwin Research Station. The building had been razed to its foundation; nothing of the facility remained. Dead and injured soldiers littered the charred cactus garden and boardwalk. One of the Humvees had overturned, its gunner trapped beneath it. A guardsman was on fire. He threw himself onto the ground and rolled about, shrieking, while another soldier worked frantically to douse the flames.

Losenko prayed that Utyosov and Fokin had not lingered behind to wait for him. The remaining Avenger swiveled its turret, trying to catch the UAV in its sights. Another Stinger rocketed into the sky.

“Damnit!” Ashdown cursed, rising from the splintered ruins of the boardwalk. A flying shard of glass had carved a crescent-shaped gash near his left eye. Blood streamed down his face; another centimeter and he would have lost the eye itself. “First, they took out our radar. Then they caught us with our pants down. The goddamn machines knew just what they were doing!”

A Stinger finally nailed the UAV. The primitive Hunter-Killer exploded in the sky. Metal debris was scattered like hail across the island. Ragged cheers erupted from the soldiers who were still standing.

Ortega helped Losenko to his feet.

“This way, sir!” she called to Ashdown and his guards. “There could be more on the way!”

Losenko hated leaving the injured and the dying behind, but the pilot was right. Where there was one Predator, there could be another. With the station’s radar reduced to molten slag, they would have little warning of another sortie. He limped after the others, his eyes scanning the horizon for flying Hunter-Killers. Would his throbbing ears even hear them humming?

They made it to the parking lot, about fifty meters from the ruins of the science station. An eclectic assortment of vehicles, from pickup trucks to motorcycles, filled the lot. Ortega pointed toward an olive-colored Jeep at the far end of the pavement. She let out a sigh of relief.

“Almost there!”

Good,
Losenko thought. He had twisted his leg when he fell. He looked forward to getting off his feet and back to sea where he belonged. Perhaps the
Wilmington
could arrange to rendevous with the
Gorshkov
far from these dangerous islands?

I need to inform Ivanov of his new command....

The sickening tang of freshly spilled blood wafted past his nose, putting him on alert. Glancing around, he glimpsed a body lying between two nearby vehicles. A leg stuck out into view. A crimson stream flowed out from beneath a parked ambulance. The blue trousers and black sneakers matched those worn by the crew of K-115.

Fokin?

“Watch out!” Losenko spied the glint of a rifle barrel poking up from behind the hood of Ortega’s jeep. Someone was lying in ambush. “Sniper!”

A muzzle flared. Automatic weapon’s fire tore into Ortega, who collapsed onto the pavement. After surviving a battle against a Russian destroyer and the crash of her helicopter, the irrepressible pilot was gunned down only a few meters away from her own vehicle. Her body thrashed upon the blacktop, then fell still. A scarlet halo spread out around her head. The only flying she would be doing now would be on the wings of angels.

No!
Losenko tackled Ashdown, knocking him out of the line of fire. The two men tumbled behind the shelter of an empty minivan. One of the general’s guards tried to fire back at the sniper, but took a bullet in the shoulder for his efforts. He dropped to the ground, clutching his wounded arm.

The other guard scrambled for safety. He dived behind the wheel of a rundown tour bus. Bullets chased after him. Losenko couldn’t tell if he was hit or not.

“Who the hell?” Ashdown blustered. The two men crouched behind the van while red-hot lead slammed into the other side. Bullets blew out the vehicle’s windows, sprinkling them with cubes of safety glass. “The mole?”

“One of them, certainly.” Losenko heard the sniper let loose another burst. The staccato report reminded him of a Russian AK-47, perhaps the very one that Fokin had brought with him from K-115. He suspected that the sergeant had reclaimed his weapon from the summit security forces before being waylaid by some unknown traitor. All he had seen was Fokin’s leg, but he had no doubt that the unfortunate seaman had joined Zamyatin and Ostrovosky and too many others.

My crew is shrinking, day by day.