Terminator Salvation Page 4

  Amid the destruction, a patch of mud stirred. Wormlike shapes emerged from the sodden earth and thrust skyward. Not snakes, not centipedes—human fingers. The fingers were attached to a hand, the hand to a wrist, the wrist to....

  A shape arose, cloaked in mud and dripping fragments of debris. Eyes opened, vitreous but not glowing. Dazed by the reality of itself, arms at its sides, the figure tilted back its head to stare at the storming night. Driving rain lashed mud and dirt from face and ribs, limbs and torso. The shape was that of a man.

  Naked and in shock, Marcus Wright parted his jaws wide and howled at the sky.

  Shivering slightly, Wright wrapped his arms around his naked chest and lowered his gaze to the tormented earth on which he stood. Then he noticed the crashed chopper. Slowly, cautiously, he started toward it. Leaning into the ruined aircraft, a disoriented and bewildered Wright found himself gazing upon the dead body of one of the pilots, a bullet hole punched neatly through his helmet.

  Wet, cold, confused, and very, very alone, he could only stand, stare—and wonder.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Connor thought he might have heard an owl, but it could just as easily have been ground sundered by distant lightning. His hearing wasn’t working too well and his vision was dimmed by exhaustion. He was tired and hungry, but at least dehydration hadn’t been a problem. As the storm had moved on, it had left in its wake dozens of desert pools overflowing with fresh water. He badly wanted to take a bath, but experience dictated otherwise.

  In his present debilitated condition, confronting even a damaged Terminator could be dangerous. Encountering one while floating stark naked in fresh water would be fatal.

  He didn’t know how the big chopper found him and he didn’t much care. Once he had established to his satisfaction that it was actually crewed by his own kind and was not a Skynet decoy, he hustled out from behind the rocks he had been using for cover and forced himself to travel the rest of the distance to the waiting vehicle on the run. By the time he reached the idling Chinook, someone inside had slung the door open.

  Gazing inside, he found himself face to face with a pair of startled troopers. To their credit, they didn’t panic at his sudden appearance. Turning in his seat, the pilot looked back and noted the new arrival.

  “RTB?” he asked, his voice indicating that he figured he already knew the survivor’s desired destination.

  Connor surprised him.

  “Take me to Command,” he snapped.

  The pilot hesitated. “Sir?”

  “Command. Now.”

  Another moment’s hesitation, and then the man nodded.

  “Roger—rerouting.”

  They were in the air a long time. Improvising out of necessity and working with concentrated biofuels, bioengineers and airframe techs had improved the range of such transports. They had been forced to do so since countless airfields had been rendered untenable by the forces of Skynet.

  Hitting heavy weather as soon as they crossed the coast, the storm made it impossible to see land in any direction. For all Connor knew there might have been an entire archipelago underneath the ’copter. If so, it was submerged beneath a steady succession of enormous swells the likes of which Connor had never encountered, not even in recordings of old weather broadcasts.

  He could only guess at how long they had been fighting through the storm while over water when the co-pilot called out to the noncom who had been staring at Connor for the better part of an hour. There had been little chatter between the passenger and soldiers, which suited Connor fine. He was exhausted, needed the rest, and was in no mood for casual chitchat. Occasionally one of the soldiers on board looked at him as if to say something, but thought better of it. Connor was clearly preoccupied.

  Forward movement ceased as the Chinook slowed to a hover. One of the chopper crew pulled back the door and the interior of the craft was assailed by wind, rain, and intermittent illumination courtesy of frequent flashes of lightning. Peering out and down, a dubious Connor could just make out crashing waves not too far below. From up front, one of the pilots called back to him.

  “Request denied. Command doesn’t want to give up their physical position. They’re allowing radio comm only.”

  Connor eyed the enormous waves.

  “Are they down there?”

  The pilot shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter. Request has been denied, sir.”

  The passenger looked thoughtful. Then he rose.

  “Open the ramp. Tell them I need divers for a lock-in. Now.”

  After a moment’s hesitation the pilot nodded and turned back to his console. Walking to the rear of the chopper, Connor waited tensely until the rear-loading ramp was lowered. The additional opening only made the chopper more unstable and it began to rock even more violently in the howling wind.

  Taking a deep breath and murmuring something under his breath that he hoped neither of the soldiers could hear, John Connor took a short run down the length of the metal platform and sailed off into the darkness.

  For several minutes he was, oddly enough, able to relax. Leaning his head back and thrusting out his legs, he let himself be drawn up, up, and then down first one and then two huge swells. It would be different if they started to break over him instead of simply passing beneath. His concerns about having to body surf in the middle of the ocean soon proved unfounded. A dark low shape became visible nearby—a sub.

  Moments later he was swarmed by a clutch of divers.

  Cold and soaking wet, he was escorted into the sub with the same grim-faced determination that had been shown to him during the long flight on the chopper. Sailors treated him with an odd mixture of wariness and admiration.

  He was immediately given warm towels, food and water, and a soft cot to lie on. He dried himself off and did his best to make himself at least semi-presentable given the limited resources that had been provided. Not that he much cared what anyone in Command might think of his appearance, but retaining a modicum of personal pride was an important element in sustaining one’s humanity.

  He had just finished cleaning himself up when they came for him.

  The sub was enormous, a modified Los Angeles-class self-contained underwater community. Big as it was, though, he could tell when they sat him down in a chair on the bridge that a lot of the electronics surrounding him were hastily cobbled-together add-ons. Where the interior hull was not covered with information-rich monitors it was wallpapered with printouts, charts, and complex lists.

  In addition to the members of the crew, the bridge conference table was occupied by several Very Senior Officers. While Connor recognized some of their insignia, others sported motifs in styles and languages that were as foreign to him as their wearers. It dawned on him that many of the generals and admirals from the world’s surviving armed forces were crowded into the same room.

  As he was brought in, several of them glanced in his direction. Most ignored him. Armed sailors and marines had been watching him ever since he had been brought onto the bridge. Several of them were more nervous than Connor would have liked.

  There was one empty seat at the table, near the center. Turning, a standing four-star general started toward it. His attention was focused not on the table and his fellow officers, but on Connor. The name patch over his breast pocket read “ASHDOWN.” The general did not otherwise introduce himself, nor did he extend a hand in the prisoner’s direction. His speech was clipped, gruff, and left no doubt as to the nature of his opinion of the new arrival.

  “Soldier, you put everyone in this tub in jeopardy with that little frogman stunt of yours.”

  Connor said nothing.

  When the general halted beside the table, the other officers rose. Ashdown slapped a file down on the synthetic wood.

  “Take a seat.” He paused, glanced at the file, then up at the newcomer. “John Connor. Prophesied leader of the Resistance. Let’s get something straight. I’ve been a soldier for a very long time, and soldiers don’t
put much weight in prophecy.” With a shrug, Connor walked over to join the gathering of officers.

  Showing unexpected speed, Ashdown pulled his sidearm and jammed the muzzle in Connor’s face. The newcomer didn’t flinch.

  “At least, I don’t when one can rewrite the future in a heartbeat,” Ashdown murmured from behind the service revolver. “We on the same page?”

  “Yes sir.” Connor spoke calmly, evenly. “We’re on the same page.”

  Ashdown hesitated a moment longer, then smiled thinly and put the gun down on the table.

  “Good. Good. This Command is well aware of your exploits and your valor in the field. We’ve all heard your broadcasts. And I, personally, appreciate everything you’ve been doing for the cause.” He stopped momentarily, and the smile vanished. “So tell us, soldier—what the hell are you doing here?”

  Before replying, Connor took his time concluding his study of the bridge, taking in the makeshift electronics, the dedicated but worn crew, the chatting officers. He was less than impressed. His eyes met those of the general as he offered a terse explanation.

  “We’ve been able to determine that Skynet is taking human prisoners for R and D. They’re dissecting them. Replicating human tissue for the new model Terminator. I saw the schematics. Based on my knowledge of...” he hesitated, “based on what I know, that’s ten years too early. If the new model goes on line now, this war is over.”

  Ashdown nodded, let his gaze meet the expectant gazes of his fellow senior officers.

  “A new genesis of Terminator.”

  Connor was feeling better. It appeared that he wasn’t going to have to explain everything from scratch.

  “Cyborgenic infiltration unit. Titanium combat chasis. Nuclear fuel cell, fully armored, very tough.”

  “Yes,” Ashdown agreed readily, “and also the machine that tried to kill your mother, Sarah.” Connor stared at him. Ashdown didn’t miss a beat. “Pescadero State Mental Institution. Escaped. Connor, crazy isn’t going to win this war. Soldiers like you and I are. Don’t give the new model another thought. It’s not going to be a problem because it’s never going to go into production.”

  Connor frowned. “How do you know that?”

  Ashdown’s grin returned. “You think you’re the only one who knows things in advance? You’ll be briefed on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Okay—how about right now? I need to know. My men died down in that hole. So I need to know. Why did we launch that attack? Why did we go down there? And most importantly, what did we find down there?” His expression twisted. “I would’ve asked the survivors myself—except I couldn’t find any survivors.”

  Ashdown considered before finally replying.

  “Hope. We found hope.” He gestured to one of the other generals. In addition to his insignia in Cyrillic, the other officer wore a second identification patch with the name Losenko. Connor eyed him with interest. The older man’s face was as gnarled as an old Siberian Spruce. Here was a man who plainly had spent time in the lower ranks. Someone who would talk straight with a lower-ranking officer—and shoot him point-blank if he thought the other man represented a threat.

  “We found a solution that can end this war once and for all.” As Connor stared at him, he turned and gestured to a waiting aide. The man nodded and turned to manipulate hidden controls. A nearby screen flashed to life. Though he was familiar with the subject matter, the initial images were new to Connor and he straightened slightly, taking in every detail of the portrayed new model.

  “We know the machines use short-wave transmitters to communicate among themselves. Thanks to your assault, intelligence has isolated a hidden channel riding beneath the primary.” He was looking hard at Connor. “This secondary channel allows for direct control of the machines. It permits anything—or anyone—broadcasting on it to override the usual communications.”

  On the screen, a line of code was isolated and highlighted. It was not impressive, but what it represented was. Ashdown picked up from the Russian.

  “Skynet is a machine. And like every machine it has an ‘Off’ switch. Thanks to you and your troops, we now have that switch in our possession. We’re going to shut them down and bomb them back to the Stone Age.”

  While he had taken it all in, Connor’s thoughts remained focused elsewhere.

  “What about the human prisoners?”

  Ashdown’s brow furrowed as he replied.

  “What about them? You questioning my humanity? When the time comes, I’ll do the right thing.”

  Their eyes locked and held. Finally Connor nodded, tersely.

  “Okay, our intel people have found this signal. They’ve analyzed it. They think they know what it does. Which leads to the next question: does it work? Or are our tech teams just spitting theory?”

  “Will it work?” Ashdown glanced down at the file on the table. “Yes. Has it been field tested? No.”

  A quick surge of adrenaline pulsed through Connor.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll test it. Give it to me.”

  Ashdown eyed him a moment longer, then looked across at Losenko. The Russian pursed his lower lip as he contemplated the man who had dived from a helicopter into open, storming ocean in hopes that they would allow him to join them.

  “Mr. Connor and his tech comm unit have an excellent record. Assuming enough of them survived, I think we should allow him this opportunity.”

  “All right.” Looking past the table, General Ashdown directed his words to the soldiers who had brought Connor in. “Take him topside. Prepare for lockout.” His gaze fell once more on the visitor. “If we get this right, the war is over, Connor.” His expression tightened. “Good luck, soldier. We mount our offensive in four days.” Turning, he headed for the far end of the bridge. The other senior officers rose to accompany him.

  Only Losenko remained. Removing a small portable drive from a shirt pocket, the Russian handed it over.

  “These are the codes for the signal. I have all confidence that your technical people can put together the appropriate instrumentation to propagate it. Good luck.”

  Pocketing the drive, Connor nodded.

  “Why four days?”

  “A ‘kill’ list was intercepted from Skynet. It says matter-of-factly that everyone in this room will be dead by week’s end. You were number two on the list.” He turned to rejoin his fellow officers.

  “Who’s number one?” Connor called after him.

  Losenko looked back and shrugged, more indifferent than bemused.

  “Some unknown. A civilian named Kyle Reese.”

  The infirmary was crowded—the infirmary was always crowded. Doctors and nurses, general services technicians, soldiers and supply personnel surged back and forth like the tide, according to whether wounded were incoming or those that had been adequately treated were being moved out. It was a routine that, while far from comfortable, had at least become familiar.

  Then John Connor walked in.

  Initial feelings of relief and even joy turned rapidly to sorrow as one by one those present realized that he was alone. Hopes that there might be surviving wounded elsewhere vanished with his continuing silence. Had there been other survivors of the mass assault on the Skynet VLA, he would by now have said so.

  Approaching the new arrival, a lieutenant with “BARNES” stitched across his shirt spoke for everyone in the room when he inquired softly, “My brother didn’t make it, did he?”

  Connor put a hand on the man’s shoulder. He knew Barnes, just as he knew everyone who was permanently assigned to the base.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Pain flushed the noncom’s face. In lieu of tears he replied, fighting to keep a rising quiver out of his voice.

  “If he died fighting with you, he died well.”

  Connor nodded, dropped his hand, and pushed on. There was nothing more to be said and nothing else he could do.

  In her work among the wounded and the dying, Kate Connor had become entirely too conversant with t
he persistence of bloodstains. She had long ago given up trying to keep her scrubs spotless. No one expected it of her and, at several months pregnant, she had neither the energy nor the inclination to try. She had rather more important issues to focus on.

  Like the man washing his face at the sink.

  Raising his head, Connor stared at his face in the mirror. Both of them were used, beaten up, slightly cracked. Lifting his hands, he wiped at the beads of liquid on his skin. Kate came up behind him.

  “Do you want to talk about him, John? You haven’t said anything about him.” He looked over at her. “About Kyle.”

  Turning, he nodded toward the doorway.

  “He’s out there, somewhere. Alone, I would imagine. And Skynet is hunting him.” He toweled off his face. She was with him, but he was still alone. His gaze met hers.

  “This isn’t the future my mother told me about.”

  Moving to a nearby desk, he sat down and activated the laptop in front of him. The portable drive that had been given to him by the Russian general protruded from one side. Pulling up a chair, Kate sat down beside him. She didn’t have to look at the screen to know what he was studying so intently. They had discussed it earlier.

  “What about the signal? Have the tech people come to any conclusions?”

  He shook his head, irritated not at her but at the uncertainty that surrounded what he was viewing.

  “No one knows if it’ll work. I don’t know about this, Kate. It doesn’t seem like the sort of backdoor vulnerability Skynet would overlook. Still, if it goes back to the original programming....” His voice trailed away momentarily. “I’ll know more when I get the chance to test it out. In the field. For real.”

  She put a comforting arm across his shoulders.

  “Why don’t we start out with something small. Something we know. I’ll have our people capture a Hydrobot.” She nodded to her left. “They’re always patrolling the river outside the base perimeter. We’ll bring one in for testing.”

  He considered, then nodded his approval.

  “Yes, but we have to be careful. We can’t risk Skynet learning that we’ve found this code. If it does, it’ll take immediate steps to close off the vulnerability. Whatever we test this on, we have to destroy.” He went silent, looking past the laptop. An old picture rested there, carefully positioned upright. Reaching out, he picked up the photo of his mother.