Terminator Salvation Page 2

  There was a bulletproof glass partition. One side featured seats reserved for the invited: witnesses, the media, family members of the condemned’s victims. The other side was reserved for death.

  Many executions were attended only by those necessary to carry out the will of the people. Not Marcus Wright’s. While not drawing the fervor of a seventeenth-century public beheading, it was the capital punishment equivalent of a full house.

  Serena Kogan was among the spectators. Not because her presence was required, but because for reasons known only to herself she felt incumbent to be present.

  Flanked by the ever-attentive guards, the prisoner shambled in on his own power. Too many had to be dragged, or sedated beforehand.

  Not Wright.

  Aided by the guards, the execution team took over. Guiding him firmly, they positioned him on his back on the gurney. As wrist and ankle shackles were removed, thick leather straps were buckled across his body and carefully tightened. At the moment of truth, powerful men who had been calm and even boastful beforehand had been known to fly into violent, uncontrollable convulsions. It was why the straps had been made strong enough to hold down a bucking steer.

  As the team continued its silent, methodical work, Longview’s warden spoke from where he was standing nearby. He did not say much. This was neither the time nor the place for idle chatter.

  “Final words?”

  Lying on the gurney as others labored silently and efficiently around him, Wright considered. He never had been very good with words. Maybe if he had been better with them than with his fists.... Too late for that now. Too late for any sort of recriminations. He would have shrugged, had the straps allowed it.

  “I killed a man who didn’t deserve it. Fair’s fair. So let it rip.”

  In his years at Longview the warden had heard it all. It was not an eloquent farewell, but neither had the prisoner given in to hysteria. For that the warden was grateful. The process was no less distasteful for having become rare. It was always better when it was not messy.

  A technician swabbed Wright’s arm with alcohol. Turning his head to watch, he wondered about that. What, were they afraid he might get an infection? There was barely a twinge when the IV was inserted. The tech was very good at his job and the needle going in didn’t hurt at all. Wright was unaccountably grateful.

  His eyes began to move rapidly, taking in his surroundings and the rest of the chamber. Everything appeared suddenly new and heightened. The color of the technicians’ coats. The blue of a guard’s eyes. The intensity of the overhead lights. There was something else new, too. For the first time in the prisoner’s eyes, fear.

  Off to one side a technician adjusted a valve. Fluid began to flow through the tube that now ran into Wright’s arm. The tube was plastic, the liquid transparent. It looked like water.

  His eyes moved faster. Monitors showed that his heart rate had increased sharply, along with his breathing. There was no pain save the pain of realization. Along with the chemicals, he suddenly realized how badly he wanted to live. He wanted to fight back, needed to struggle. But he could not. The lethal cocktail was already taking hold, doing its work, shutting down system after system. Nervous, respiratory, circulatory, end of story.

  He would have screamed but could not.

  Overhead, the light was bright and white. Clean, cleansing. Faintly, as thoughts and mind and the remnants of consciousness slowly slipped away, he fought to compose a final, last thought. It was not about the things he had done that had led him to this place and this point in time. It was not of happier days, or of how his life had gone astray and might have been changed for the better. It was not of food or of sex or laughter or sorrow.

  It was of that last kiss, and how he might have done it better.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Animals appear and thrive and then go extinct. Plants cover ground like a green blanket, retreat, and return with greater fecundity. Life expands, contracts, shatters and recovers, sometimes falling to the margins of survival.

  But the Earth endures. No matter the number of species that swarm its surface or fall victim to flood, earthquake, plague, tectonic drift, or cosmic catastrophe, the planet continues its methodical swing around its unprepossessing yellow star. The waves of the ocean roll on, the molten iron at its core seethes and bubbles, winds fitful or steady continue to scour its surface. Ice forms and retreats at the poles, rains drench the equator, and heat shimmers above its deserts.

  One such desert in the south-central part of the continent called North America was about to receive a momentary upsurge in heat that was not normal.

  The missile came in low and fast on a trajectory designed to evade even the most advanced detection systems. The warhead it carried contained considerably more bang than would have been suspected at first glance. Guided by both its programming and its internal sacrificial intelligence elements, it skimmed along the surface so low that it was forced to dodge the occasional tree and still-standing power transmission tower.

  Its target was a flat, burnt-out plain from which dozens of huge satellite dishes rose like shelf coral on a reef. The only sign of life in this technological forest of parabolic growths was a single bipedal figure. Marching at a steady, untiring pace among the dishes, it occasionally reached up to reposition the oversized rifle that was slung over one shoulder.

  A sound drew its attention. Turning, searching the sky, it quickly focused on the incoming ordinance. Slipping the heavy weapon free, it aimed and fired with exceptional speed and precision. A shell struck one of the missile’s fins, knocking it off-heading—but only for an instant. The weapon’s internal self-governing guidance system instantly corrected course.

  Even as the projectile inclined downward toward a patch of bare ground in the center of the expansive array, the guard was lining up his weapon to fire again. It was not at all concerned with what was about to happen to it.

  The bunker-buster slammed into the earth with a thunderous whoom! The guard staggered, gathered himself, and prepared to aim his weapon again. Except that now there was only a hole in the ground to show where the missile had burrowed deep.

  Then the world erupted in fire and sound as the warhead, having reached a preset depth, detonated.

  Dirt and pulverized rock vomited skyward. Along with everything else in the immediate vicinity of the blast, the single guard was thrown helplessly skyward. He landed hard, rolled over, tried to rise, and sank back to the ground. Heat and flame had melted away skin to reveal the skull beneath. It should have shown white.

  Instead, it gleamed.

  Red eyes flickered.

  Battling against the terrible damage it had sustained in the blast, the T-600 struggled to rise. Directives screamed for response. Servos whined and hydraulics pumped. But internal mechanics had been mortally impacted. That did not keep the Terminator from trying to stand.

  Oblivious to the dogged determination of the severely impaired bipedal machine below, a flight of A-10 Warthogs roared past overhead, coming in low and slow. Unlovely and deadly, disdaining the sleek aerodynamics of much faster but less lethal aircraft, they began chewing up the ground in front of them with heavy cannon fire and rockets.

  Instead of governmental insignia that had long since ceased to have meaning or validity, they were clad in a riot of colors and flurry of graffiti that reflected the tastes and attitudes of those who flew and serviced them: all of it wild, much of it obscene.

  Popping up out of the ground, a single anti-aircraft weapon tracked, took aim, and fired. Striking one of the Warthogs behind its armor and hitting the vulnerable rear-mounted engines, it blew the Resistance fighter out of the sky. Before it could zero in on a second attacker, another aircraft hit it with a guided bomb that left only a smoking crater where the defensive weapon had once stood.

  As the Warthogs whirled and danced overhead to provide cover, a flurry of helicopters appeared. Touching down, they began to disgorge squads of Resistance fighters clad in a mismatched array of
uniforms, hunting gear, and civilian clothes. The attackers were armed with a hodgepodge of unusually hefty weapons that were as varied as the mix of military and civilian choppers that had transported them. Not one of the assault group would have passed muster in a proper military parade. On the other hand, all of them were alive.

  One of the helicopter’s landing skids set down directly on the skull of the T-600 that had been patrolling the dish array, crushing the metal and pressing it deep into the ground. Reacting automatically to the proximate presence of human feet, the crippled killing machine still struggled to strike back. Its critically damaged servos whined loudly.

  A narrow metal tube made contact with the red-eyed skull: the barrel of a rifle. A single large-caliber shot blew half the glistening cerebellum off, sending it flying and bouncing to one side. Exposed to the light, internal circuitry flared, fizzled, and went dark.

  John Connor regarded the lifeless T-600, waiting to make certain it was good and dead. The damn things had a dangerous habit of simulating death and then leaping up to bite you in the ass. This one, though, was good and demised. He lifted his gaze as another Warthog sputtered past overhead, trailing smoke. He did not look around as the weary but determined figure of Captain Jericho approached.

  “Are you Connor?”

  Grunting something unintelligible, Connor looked up.

  “The John Connor?” Even as he addressed the other man, Jericho was keeping a wary eye on their immediate surroundings. “The guy who, according to the plan, was supposed to land his unit on the ridgeline and hump it in?”

  Connor’s gaze met the captain’s.

  “The plan was no good.”

  Jericho looked as though he was about to say something else, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Connor’s unit. Spilling out of a nearby chopper, they assembled behind their leader and focused their attention on him.

  “Trouble?” The grizzled trooper who spoke shifted his gaze from Connor to the captain.

  Connor let his eyes linger a moment longer on Jericho. Over the last several years of fighting, the term “chain of command” had been transformed into an expletive that had more in common with the traditional SNAFU than with actual military procedure.

  “No, no trouble. Let’s go.”

  Jericho watched as Connor’s team joined the others in racing to the rim of the gaping breach the first missile had opened in the ground. There was plenty he still wanted to say. Wisely, he said nothing.

  Leaning over to peer cautiously into the cavernous maw, one of Connor’s men declared with assurance if not eloquence, “That is one big-ass hole in the ground.”

  “Wonder what’s down there?” His neighbor nudged him, just enough to unsettle but not unbalance his companion.

  The other man snorted. “Want to bet we’re gonna find out?”

  General Olsen was young for his rank and older than his years. Unrelenting combat had aged him. To save one soldier’s life he would throw procedure out the window. Now, in concert with his troops, he too found himself peering down into a darkness than was as metaphorical as it was literal.

  “Make no mistake, men. We don’t have a goddamn clue what’s waiting for us down there. Hell, for sure. But what kind of hell we don’t know and we need to find out.” He glanced back. “So I need a volunteer—”

  He broke off as a shape went shooting past him, seemed to hang in the air above the pit for a long second, and then went arcing downward. Like a spider’s silken support strand, a single braid of climbing cable trailed from Connor’s harness, glistening in the desert sunlight.

  Away from the edge of the abyss, one of his men kept a watchful eye on the link where the other end of the cable had been secured to a twisted, seared hunk of aircraft debris.

  Unable to decide whether to curse or cheer at Connor’s unhesitating initiative, Olsen settled for waving at the clusters of men who stood gawking at the younger man’s rapid descent into darkness.

  “All right, single file! Everyone after Connor! Let’s go, go go!”

  Swinging slightly at the end of the cable, Connor could not hear the general. Pulling a flare from his service belt and igniting it, he tossed it outward. It sank into blackness, revealing only fleetingly the extent of the underground labyrinth that marched off in all directions. The subterranean facility was enormous. Like the others, he had expected it to be sizable, but this was far beyond anything they had been led to expect.

  He hung quietly at the end of his tether, not making a sound, waiting for his fellow spider-soldiers to join him.

  Jet swings gave them access to the side corridors. One by one, individual teams fanned out into the depths of the vast complex.

  The human infection is coming, Connor thought with satisfaction as he led his men into one flooded tunnel. Waist-deep in water, he took his usual position at point. Other team leaders preferred to stay in the rear or move forward only when surrounded by their troops. Not Connor. He looked forward to leading the way physic-ally as well as tactically. It was a decision that had taught him something early on: Soldiers are far more likely to follow a leader who actually leads.

  Weapons at the ready, David and Tunney hung close behind. As they advanced, David was muttering under his breath. Connor knew why but said nothing. David didn’t mind dirt, wasn’t afraid of action, would take on half a dozen enemy all by himself without bothering to call for backup—but he couldn’t swim. Not normally a cause for concern in the southwestern deserts, and yet here he was up to his collywobbles in water.

  Tunney flanked David, and Connor suspected it was all he could do to restrain himself from commenting on his partner’s obvious discomfort.

  The burrower bomb had done its work well. Ceilings had collapsed throughout the tunnel, unattended flames ate at advanced instrumentation, and the distinctive red lighting typical of Skynet environments flickered unsteadily. Connor would have been perfectly happy to see it all wink out, turn black and lifeless. If that happened, he and his men had come equipped with adequate illumination of their own.

  The percussive chorale of distant gunfire echoed faintly through the corridor they were probing. Evidently some of the other squads were encountering more than just dim lighting and broken plumbing.

  Something stirred the water behind them, and it wasn’t a consequence of collapsing infrastructure. By the time the T-1 was half out of the water both David and Tunney were whirling on it. It was David who got off the necessary burst. Shards of metal and carbon fiber splinters went flying as the would-be assassin was blown apart.

  “Hey bro, I thought it was my turn.” With the muzzle of his own weapon, Tunney nudged a floating scrap of Terminator.

  David shrugged. “Gotta be faster than that, Ton. I’m going for a new high score. But I’ll sit back and watch while you take out the next two.”

  His partner grinned tightly. “’Preciate it, bro. Anyway, if you’re going for T-1s, you’re not even in the game.”

  “Over here.” Connor interrupted, calling to them from just up ahead. Instantly the two soldiers were all business again.

  Shouldering his weapon, Connor used both hands to tug on the large handle of a heavy door set in the tunnel wall. It refused to budge. Another man might have put a foot on the door to gain leverage or asked his companions to assist. Having better things to do and insufficient time in which to do them, Connor instead removed a brick of C-4 from his backpack, followed it with ignition cord and a detonator. In his hands the complete explosive package came together like a pizza in Naples. Clustering nearby, his team looked on in admiration.

  “Don’t lose any fingers there, Chief.” Nervousness was apparent in the voice of one of the younger soldiers as he watched Connor’s fingers fly. A far more relaxed David glanced back at the concerned speaker.

  “Shit, Connor’s been a Class A terrorist his whole life. How many fingers is he missing? Right—none. Only thing getting blasted here is that door.” Turning, he started wading back the way they had come. “Might w
ant to put a little distance between you and the show. Otherwise you might lose face.”

  As soon as everyone had cleared, Connor set the timer and sprinted to join them. Time passed with interminable slowness before another soldier could not keep from whispering.

  “I know how experienced he is, but it’s sopping down here and mayb....”

  The thunder of the C-4 was magnified by the narrowness of the corridor. The effect was not unlike hearing a dozen trumpets sound off all at once—with the listener crammed inside one of the instruments.

  Several of the soldiers flinched. Not Connor or his two backups, Tunney and David. The explosion was just one more peroration in an interminable concert scored for instruments that consisted of expressively volatile compounds. Even before the air had cleared, Connor was leading them forward.

  The room they entered was large and filled with smoke. While the haze was already dispersing, it was still difficult to see. Difficult enough so that Connor slipped on something and nearly fell. Looking down, he expected to see more water. Instead, the liquid underfoot was dark and sticky. For an instant he held onto the hope that it might be machine oil. But the color was wrong, too red.

  The blood was reasonably fresh.

  New sounds distracted him. For the first time since he and his squad had entered the complex they heard voices other than their own. The strongest of them was subdued, the weakest barely audible. Moans and pleas. Reaching down to his belt, he pulled and ignited another flare and lobbed it forward. It lit up the still diffusing mix of smoke, debris, evaporating liquid—and cages.

  The voices were coming from multiple knots of humanity who had been packed with inhuman lack of concern into numerous holding pens. As Connor and his men drew close, hands extended toward them. His gaze flicked over pleading faces, gaunt bodies.

  Some of the internees were in the last stages of exhaustion or starvation.