Terminator Salvation: Cold War (3 page)

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?”

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.