Terminator Salvation: Cold War (32 page)

Ashdown wasn’t convinced.

“We find that code, any new models will never go on-line.”

“And if we don’t?” the Russian persisted.

“Failure is not an option, Losenko.” He went back to his reports, indicating that the matter was closed. “You should know that by now.”

***

“You are not alone,” John Connor said. “None of us are. At this very moment, all around the world, from South America to the Yukon, from Asia to Australia, Resistance cells are fighting to reclaim our future from the machines. It may seem as if we’re scattered, divided, existing only in tiny enclaves, cut off from each other. But that’s just what Skynet wants you to think....”

Losenko and Ivanov listened to Connor’s latest broadcast from the stateroom they shared aboard the
Wilmington.
The radio shack had downloaded the transmission while the sub had been at periscope depth, at the same time Losenko had been conversing with Molly Kookesh. Bootleg copies were already circulating among the crew. Ashdown allowed the practice because it was good for morale.

Connor’s raspy voice emanated from the miniature MP3 player that was resting on a footlocker that sat between the two men.

“The truth is that we are all connected,” Connor continued. “Whether you know it or not. Every human being who survives another day foils Skynet’s vision of a world empty of humanity. Every blow struck against the machines helps us all—and hastens the day we can finally declare victory over cold, unfeeling metal. That day will come, I promise you, thanks to battles being waged and won in distant places you’ve never heard of.

“You are not alone.

“
We
are not alone.

“And, together, we will win this war.

“This is John Connor. If you can hear this, you are the Resistance.”

The message dissolved into static. Losenko leaned forward to switch off the player.

“I would like to meet this man someday.”

As Ashdown had predicted years ago, Connor had finally surfaced and enlisted in the Resistance. He was currently assigned to a Tech Comm unit based in the Greater Los Angeles Area, under the command of General Olsen. Connor’s unit had an impressive record. Losenko assumed he had taken part in the destruction of the radar towers.

Apparently, he was much more than just talk.

“He speaks well,” Ivanov granted. “For an American.”

Fifteen years serving in the Resistance had mellowed Ivanov to a degree. Although he still blamed the Americans for Skynet and Judgment Day, he could no longer deny who mankind’s true enemy was. Even he had been forced to put aside his grudge for the time being, although in private he sometimes spoke of charging Ashdown with crimes against humanity, if and when the machines were finally defeated.

Losenko had never mentioned this to the general.

Connor’s words echoed in the older man’s brain.

“
Every blow struck against the machines helps us all....”

He thought of Molly Kookesh, whose plight he had outlined to Ivanov before they sat down to listen to the broadcast. Fighting her own war against Skynet, away in the wilderness. He wasn’t looking forward to informing her of Ashdown’s decision. Knowing her reputation, she would doubtless attempt her assault on the uranium train anyway, with or without reinforcements.

Who knew if the Alaskan Resistance could survive such a daring raid?

He contemplated the man sitting across from him. Ivanov was pushing forty-five now, but had retained much of his youthful good looks. Long hours on the sub’s treadmill had resisted any hint of a middle-aged spread. His face bore a habitually dour expression. Although he no longer seemed on the verge of exploding at any minute, he had never truly recovered from the loss of his family. The ambitious young officer Losenko had once mentored was long gone, replaced by a joyless submariner driven only by duty.

As a matter of principle, Ivanov had carefully maintained his original Russian Navy uniform, shunning the ragtag garments of the Resistance. Months had passed before he’d grudgingly slipped a red armband onto his sleeve.

An idea occurred to Losenko.

“You looked tired, Alexei. When was the last time you took a leave?”

Ivanov shot him a puzzled look.

“What do you mean?” he asked warily. “I feel fine.”

“No, Alexei,” Losenko insisted. “I can see it in your eyes. You need to get away from here. Breathe some fresh air.” He looked pointedly at the other man. “Perhaps somewhere near Alaska?”

The junior officer stiffened. His eyes widened in understanding.

We cannot pin all our hopes on the elusive code,
the senior officer thought,
no matter how promising. Other matters demand our attention. Just as loyal soldiers deserve our support.

“On second thought,” Ivanov said, “perhaps you are right. I believe I am in need of a brief leave. My nerves are shot.”

Losenko smiled, glad that he did not have to spell it out. That made him feel slightly less guilty about circumventing Ashdown’s orders.

“I will arrange for a Chinook to ferry you to a base in Canada, just across the border. There’s a good airfield there. Perhaps you can get in some flight training, while you are recovering from your fatigue.”

Tiring of the claustrophobic life of a submariner, Ivanov had in recent years begun training as a fighter pilot. The Resistance encouraged its members to be versatile, especially considering the high casualty rate. Losenko had approved of Ivanov expanding his skill-set. Never more so than at this minute.

“I think I would enjoy that, sir.” A rare smirk lightened his saturnine expression. “Perhaps I’ll take in some of the local scenery.”

“Yes,” Losenko agreed. “Keep your eye on things.”

Just in case you’re needed.

It was a cold, clear night. The icy surface of the glacier gleamed blue beneath the shimmering colors of the aurora borealis. The frozen river of ice flowed slowly downhill between two jagged snow-capped ridges.

Geir Svenson took comfort from the bluish tint of the glacier; it meant the compacted ice was deep and firm. A whiter color would have indicated that the ice was riddled with tiny air bubbles, compromising its stability.

Blue ice made a better runway.

10:30 PM.
Time to go.

He fired up
Thunderbird.
The single-engine, low wing fighter plane, a restored P-51 Mustang, roared to life. Its thirty-seven-foot wingspan was painted white for camouflage. A spinning propeller sliced up the crisp night air. Skis replaced the pontoons he used for water landings. M2 Browning machineguns were mounted on its wings. The Mustang’s landing lights illuminated the glacier.

Bundled up in the cockpit in front of the flight controls and instruments, he had the single-seat plane to himself. Molly had pried the antique World War II fighter out of Command a few years back. This wasn’t one of the charter flights he and his bush-pilot dad used to run back before Judgment Day, ferrying hunting parties, fishermen, and sightseers from place to place. Lars Svenson had been in Anchorage, trying to get a bank loan to buy a new floatplane when the bombs fell.

Geir still missed him.

Goggles and a visorless flight helmet protected his face. A fraying wool scarf was wrapped around his neck. He felt like a flying ace from an old black-and-white war movie.

Watch out, Red Baron.

He opened up the throttle.
Thunderbird
skied across the icy tongue of the glacier. The surface appeared smooth enough, but Geir kept his eye out for any newly formed crevasses. Picking up speed, the plane was nearing the debris field at the edge of the glacier’s terminal moraine when Geir pulled back on the stick, taking to the air.
Thunderbird
lifted off with nary a bump. Within seconds, it was soaring above the snowy ravine that lay below the glacier.

That was the easy part.

He checked his watch by the light of the instrument panel.
10:35.
He and Molly had synchronized their timepieces before they’d gone their separate ways. Timing was going to be crucial here. There was little margin for error.

He banked south toward the bridge. As he did so, he couldn’t resist scanning the wilderness below, hoping for a glimpse of Molly and her team moving into position. The nocturnal woodlands, with their dense cover and murky shadows, made it a real long shot—which was, he reminded himself, a good thing. The Resistance needed to move like phantoms tonight, unseen and unheard until the moment came.

He patted his chest. The grenade ring was safely tucked inside the front pocket of his flannel shirt, underneath his sweater and jacket. One of these days he’d get Molly to wear it.

See you soon, chief.

He spotted the Hunter-Killer’s floodlights first. The Skynet Express was right on time, barreling through the mountains toward the bridge several miles ahead. He gulped at the sight of the formidable armored juggernaut, as well as its aerial escorts. He wasn’t looking forward to the wild goose chase that lay ahead—especially since he was supposed to be the goose.

Here goes nothing.

An Aerostat spotted him. Zipping back to investigate, the levitating drone buzzed past his cockpit, scanning him with its lasers. Geir rolled down the side window and drove it off with a blast from a Smith & Wesson pistol. The pesky machine darted out of the line of fire.

“That should get the HK’s attention,” he muttered. Cold air invaded the cockpit. “Lucky me.”

Sure enough, the Hunter-Killer banked away from the tracks below, leaving the train unescorted. Its powerful impellers tilted as it rotated to face its quarry. Larger and more heavily armored than the antique fighter plane, it was like a condor turning to confront a sparrow. Its floodlights searched the heavens, almost blinding Geir.

He opened fire with his machineguns, more for form’s sake than anything else. The heavy-caliber fire would barely dent the HK’s reinforced-steel fuselage. He’d need a well-aimed rocket to bring this sucker down.

Too bad he didn’t have any.

Having baited the HK,
Thunderbird
fled for its life. Geir leaned on the stick, and the plane made a tight 180-degree turn, heading back the way it had come. Away from the bridge. He switched off his nav lights to make himself less visible, and poured on the speed. His mission now was a tricky one. He had to stay out of range of the HK and its plasma cannons, while not getting so far ahead that the Hunter-Killer would give up on the chase. The last thing he wanted was for the HK to reverse course and head back toward the train.

And Molly.

As he hit the gas the sudden burst of acceleration shoved him into the back of his seat. He gritted his teeth. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the HK gaining on him. Floodlights and targeting lasers swept the air behind him, competing with the colorful spectacle of the aurora above.

Whose crazy idea was it to volunteer for this suicide run?

He smiled ruefully.

Oh, yeah. Mine.

Evasive tactics were his only hope. He pulled back on the stick, climbing steeply toward a higher altitude at nearly a thousand feet per minute. Pushing
Thunderbird
to her limits. Way past its prime, the obsolete fighter was too old for this kind of barnstorming stunt. Geir offered up a silent prayer for the throbbing Rolls-Royce engine. Here was where all his nonstop maintenance and fussing would pay off... hopefully.

40,000 feet was as high as the Mustang could safely fly. He kept one eye on the altimeter and the other on the HK that was soaring after him. It was sticking to him like glue.

Scary, armored glue.

35,000 feet.
Thunderbird’s
nose was pointed toward the heavens, at so steep an angle that Geir found himself staring straight up into the prismatic splendor of the northern lights, some thirty miles above his head. Rippling green curtains glowed against the night sky. Faint yellow pinwheels spun hypnotically. The celestial light show was caused by the collision of solar winds, drawn by the magnetic lure of the North Pole, with gas particles high in the ionosphere. Even though the aurora occurred at an altitude far beyond
Thunderbird
’s capabilities, Geir could practically feel the charged particles suffusing the air.

Hairs rose along his arms and at the back of his neck. There was a peculiar crackling in his ears. Ozone tickled his nostrils. The awe-inspiring sight, as it filled up the view in front of him, imbued him with hope.

He wasn’t just enjoying the colored lights. He was staking his life on them.

The aurora borealis produced over a trillion watts of electricity with a million amp current. With any luck, the massive electromagnetic fluctuations would interfere with the HK’s targeting systems. It was ironic, in a way. He was praying that the ionized stream of plasma would save him from the HK’s fearsome plasma cannons.

Nature versus technology,
he thought.
That’s this war in a nutshell.

A warning light flashed on his instrument panel, which Doc Rathbone had upgraded with salvaged military electronics. An alarm sounded.

The HK had a lock on him!

Geir considered bailing out, but he was too high up— it would mean certain death. Besides, he still needed to keep the HK occupied and away from the train. So he crossed his fingers and hoped for the best.

That uranium had better be worth it!

The HK’s plasma cannons, which were mounted on its undercarriage, flared like supernovae. A sizzling blast of superheated hydrogen ions shot upward toward
Thunderbird,
missing it by less than twenty yards!

Geir gasped in relief. The aurora had done the trick, screwing up the HK’s aim just when it counted. He wanted to kiss the incandescent haloes above him.

“Thank you, you beautiful colors!”

But he knew he couldn’t count on the aurora to keep on saving him. The HK’s fiendishly clever neural network was doubtless already adapting to the charged atmosphere, recalibrating its sensors to compensate for the troublesome electromagnetic interference. Geir would have to pull another trick out of his hat if he wanted to prolong this one-sided dogfight.