Terminator Salvation: Cold War ts-3

by Greg Cox

  For the first time since the missiles flew, he realized that he wasn’t ready to die yet.

  If they could just get back to the cars!

  Gunfire blasted behind him as the maimed robot disposed of more stragglers. Losenko glanced back. The drifting haze of the smoke bombs obscured his view. Was it just his imagination, or was the killing machine falling behind? He thanked providence for the freak explosion that had damaged its treads. How far, he wondered, was the robot willing to chase them before returning to its base of operations? All the way back to the docks?

  Desperate minutes felt like hours, and he had begun to doubt whether any of them would see K-115 again, when he finally spied the dilapidated chain-link fence surrounding the junkyard. Hope flared in his heart. Maybe they still had a chance. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys to the station wagon. From the looks of things, the wagon alone might have room enough to carry all that remained of the patrol. Besides himself, there looked to be only seven or eight men left alive... out of a team of twenty-five brave volunteers.

  Someone will pay for this, he vowed silently. I swear it upon the lives of my men!

  “Thank heaven!” Ostrovosky gasped, appearing a few meters ahead of the captain. The sight of the junkyard gave the exhausted sailors a second wind. They dashed toward the front gate with renewed hope and alacrity. The assistant radio operator slowed to catch his breath. “I never thought we were going to make it!”

  Neither did I, Losenko agreed.

  A shocking burst of gunfire, coming from inside the junkyard, froze the men in their tracks. Losenko skidded to a halt, his heart sinking like an anchor. By now, he recognized the telltale rat-a-tat of the robots’ ever-firing chain guns.

  A crazed shout was cut off mid-expletive.

  The guards! Losenko realized. The ones left behind to watch the cars.

  A gas tank exploded within the auto graveyard. The station wagon? One of the other vehicles? A bright orange fireball rose into the sky. Clouds of pungent black smoke billowed upward. Mangled pieces of steel were thrown into the air, only to clatter to the ground like a metal hailstorm. Losenko felt the heat of the blaze upon his face. He choked on the fumes.

  “Nyet!” Ostrovosky dropped to his knees. Anguish contorted his face. His military discipline faltered, exposing the overwhelmed human being beneath the uniform. “It’s not fair! We were almost there!”

  Losenko knew just how he felt. It seemed as if fate was conspiring against them. Mother Russia had become a slaughterhouse overrun by heartless mechanical butchers.

  We should have stayed at sea where we were safe!

  A scorching wind drove them back, away from the searing flames. For a brief moment, Losenko entertained a desperate hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the robot in the junkyard had been destroyed by the explosion, along with the patrol’s only means of transportation.

  He scanned the open road that lay before them. The junkyard had been located at the outer fringe of the industrial center. Nearly a hundred kilometers of barren tundra stretched between them and the remote fishing village where the Gorshkov was docked. He could hear the second robot rumbling behind them. His eyes searched the surrounding territory for the safest route back. Alas, the rugged terrain, carpeted by moss and sedge, offered little in the way of shelter.

  Perhaps if they scattered and headed cross-country?

  Such strategies evaporated as a third robot tore out of the burning junkyard, smashing straight through the dump’s locked front gate. Its burnished armor hadn’t even been scorched by the conflagration. Smoke rose from the muzzles of its twin chain guns. Speeding onto the highway, it wheeled around to face the panicky humans, blocking their escape. Its upper body straightened, assuming its full height as it staked out the high ground atop another low hill. A burst of fire sent the men darting for cover.

  Ostrovosky did not get off his knees fast enough. Rapid-fire rounds shredded the hard-living young man. He went down in a geyser of scarlet mist. Sticky red droplets sprayed across Losenko’s face.

  We’re trapped, the captain realized. The other robot had herded them straight into the sights of the mechanized assassin that stood before them. He wondered how long they had been under the machines’ surveillance. And why they had been marked for death in the first place. This is our homeland, which we killed millions to defend. We should be welcome here!

  To their credit, his men refused to be slaughtered without a fight. Darting for cover, they opened fire on the homicidal robot. The smell of cordite added to the suffocating fumes blowing from the raging fire that had engulfed the junkyard. An impressive display of fire-power actually succeeded in holding the robot off for a moment or two.

  Losenko drew his own pistol and took aim at the neck assembly, just as Gorski had done earlier. The marksman’s ugly demise flashed across his mind’s eye, but he savagely pushed the image out of his thoughts. He needed all his wits about him now.

  Don’t think, he commanded himself. Just shoot, damnit!

  Then one of his shots struck home. Circuits shorted in the junction connecting the monster’s left gun-arm to its torso. Discharged electricity crackled. The arm twitched and drooped limply to one side. Hydraulic fluid spurted onto the pavement.

  But even crippled, the robot still had one good arm left with which to fight. Its upper body rotated toward Losenko, the whir of the chain gun promising high-caliber retaliation. The captain swore he saw a flash of anger in the robot’s luminous red sensors.

  Impossible.

  Braving the scorching heat and smoke, he retreated toward the junkyard, only to find himself backed against an intact length of the chain-link fencing. The metal links were hot to the touch; he could feel them through the back of his heavy wool coat.

  The robot’s head tracked the captain’s movements. Random fire bounced off its armor plating. It raised its single working gun-arm.

  His back against the red-hot fence, Losenko had no place left to run. Insanely, his ex-wife’s face surfaced from some forgotten corner of his memory. Katerina. He wondered if she would be waiting for him, despite everything....

  He braced himself for death. If he was lucky, it would be quick, like facing a firing squad. He kept his eyes open, willing himself to meet his end like a man—tempted to spit in defiance, but what was the point? The gesture would mean nothing to a machine. Instead he merely glared at the hateful mechanism, wishing he had its anonymous inventor in his sights.

  If only Zamyatin had never laid eyes on that goddamn factory.

  Well, he thought impatiently. What are you waiting for?

  To his surprise, the robot’s head swiveled from left to right, its optical sensors scanning for its prey. Losenko’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. He didn’t understand.

  Why didn’t it fire?

  Unless....

  He recalled how the emergency flares had distracted the other robot. If the machine’s targeting circuits relied on auditory, heat, and motion sensors, then maybe the raging fire was blinding it, concealing his precise location. That’s got to be it, he thought. If I just stand still, it can’t “see” me against the blaze!

  Unfortunately, the intense heat was hard on human flesh as well. Spreading flames consumed the junkyard, moving ever closer to where Losenko stood. Smoke stung his throat and nostrils, and he bit down on his knuckles to keep from coughing. His back felt like it was on fire, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay where he was.

  Soon he would be forced to choose between burning to death or being gunned down by a trigger-happy robot....

  What a decision!

  Red-hot flames licked at the opposite side of the fence. Animal instinct threatened to overcome logic, and he was on the verge of hurling himself away from the inferno. Suddenly, an ear-piercing blast of sound sliced through the air.

  What the devil? Losenko thought. That sounds like an air horn! He tore his gaze away from the confused robot in time to see an armored truck—of the sort formerly used to transport cas
h and valuables—come speeding toward the battlefield. Tinted windows of bulletproof glass concealed the driver from view. A dented piece of sheet metal in the shape of a tombstone was welded to the front grille. A crudely rendered caricature of a robot’s skull was etched on its surface. Both headlights were blown out. Reinforced plastic liners protected the tires.

  A powerful engine roared as the truck zoomed madly down the highway, straight toward the automaton.

  The machine appeared to be just as surprised as Losenko by the truck’s unexpected arrival. It turned away from the burning junkyard, its upper body rotating ninety degrees to face the oncoming vehicle. It barely had time to fire off a single burst of uranium rounds, which failed to penetrate the truck’s hardened-steel shell. The bulletproof windshield cracked, but did not shatter.

  The truck struck the robot at high speed. Its considerable mass and momentum flattened the machine, which disappeared beneath the armored chassis.

  Losenko’s jaw dropped. He felt as though he had been tossed a lifeline. He staggered away from the blazing junkyard toward the road. Painful coughs cleared the smoke from his lungs. Confused eyes sought out the truck that had just saved him.

  Who...?

  The armored vehicle spun around, turning its back toward the captain and his men. Brakes squealed as it skidded to a halt a few meters away. A pair of double doors slammed open, revealing human figures in the cargo hold. An outstretched arm beckoned to the surviving sailors.

  “Get in!” a raspy female voice called out. Losenko got a quick impression of a short, stocky woman in soiled work clothes.

  “Hurry!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  2018

  The dogs barked loudly enough to raise the dead.

  Molly’s eyes snapped open. Instantly alert, she sprang from the bed even as Geir stirred beneath the covers. The frantic baying, coming from outside, sent a jolt of adrenaline though Molly’s veins.

  She raced across the shadowy bedroom and threw open the shutters. It was still night outside; the sun was nowhere near rising. Darkness shrouded the forgotten mill town. The barks sounded as if they were coming from the south, maybe from over by the playground. She squinted into the blackness, but even as her eyes adjusted the other buildings blocked her view.

  A high-pitched yap was cut off abruptly.

  Geir sat up in bed. Darkness hid his face, but not the tension in his voice.

  “What is it?”

  “Trouble,” she guessed. It was possible the dogs were reacting to a stray animal—perhaps a bear or wolf— wandering too near the camp, but she doubted it.

  We should be so lucky.

  The jarring staccato of gunfire instantly confirmed her worst fears. No way would the lookouts be opening fire on wildlife like that, especially not in the wee hours of the morning. There could be only one explanation.

  Skynet had found them.

  Molly had to know what was happening... and now. Fumbling in the dark, she snatched a walkie-talkie off the top of a chest of drawers and thumbed the speaker button.

  “Security, this is Kookesh. What the fuck is going on out there?”

  Static crackled in her ear, then an agitated voice could be heard over a din of angry shouting and gunfire. The shots echoed through the window as well, lending them an unnatural stereo effect.

  “We’ve got a breach!” She recognized the raspy twang of Tom Jensen, a logger-turned-guerilla. He was supposed to be patrolling the southwest perimeter. “A machine! T-600, I think!”

  Molly’s heart sank. Just what I was afraid of.

  “Keep it busy!” she barked into the receiver. “I’ll be right there!”

  She flung the walkie-talkie onto the bed, then started scooping her clothes up from the floor. The inky blackness frustrated her.

  Where the hell are my pants?

  A match struck loudly just a few feet away, igniting the kerosene lamp by the bed. A flickering golden radiance lit up the bedroom, much to Molly’s relief. She glanced over to see Geir standing naked by the lantern. He blew out the match.

  “Thanks!” she grunted, pulling on her slacks. “I’ve gotta get down there.”

  “Hang on.” He retrieved his own garments, which were draped over the back of a ratty easy chair. “I’ll be right with you.’

  Molly shook her head vehemently.

  “Forget it. You’ve got to get that plane out of here.” Geir’s vintage plane, Thunderbird, was kept in a camouflaged hangar down by the glacier. “We can’t afford to lose it.”

  “Crap!” he swore. “I hate it when you’re right.” He grabbed the pistol that sat by the bed and tossed it in her direction. “Do me a favor. Be careful, okay?”

  She thrust the sidearm into its holster, and shot him a wry grin.

  “It’s the machines that need to worry,” she said, flaunting a bravado she didn’t feel. Moments later her M4 carbine was locked and loaded. “Just keep T-bird away from the metal.”

  Sleigh bells jangled as she yanked open the door. She ran downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Excited yelps greeted her; she had forgotten about the huskies sleeping by the stove.

  Crossing the murky office, she pulled open the front door. An arctic blast of wind invaded the cabin. The cold hitting her face jolted her awake faster than the strongest coffee.

  “Scoot!” she ordered, motioning to the dogs, anxious to give them a chance to escape. “Go on, scram!”

  The huskies obeyed, and she followed them out into the freezing night air. The isolated camp was spread out around her. A single gravel road connected most of the mill’s sheds, plants, storehouses, and bunkhouses, which the Resistance had converted to its own purposes. The old ammonia leeching plant was now an armory and communications center. The powerhouse was a garage.

  A fourteen-story breaker mill dominated the hillside further up, with a rickety wooden tramway that had once carried raw ore to the top of the building, where it had been dumped into the chutes and crushers below. To the east, rusty metal tracks led to a dilapidated railway depot that hadn’t seen a locomotive for more then eighty years. A crumbling wooden bridge spanned a wide, ice-covered stream that fed the glacier below.

  Opaque black clouds kept the moon from relieving the nocturnal gloom, and Molly kicked herself for not remembering to grab a flashlight.

  Lights flared inside the buildings, barely visible through the shutters, as the sleeping camp was shocked awake by the hair-raising tumult. Startled cries and curses escaped the ramshackle bunkhouses that were home to most of the Resistance fighters and their families. Frightened faces appeared in the windows. Babies wailed behind flimsy wooden walls. Molly’s heart went out to her people whose well-earned rest had just gone to hell. She wanted to assure them that they were going to be all right, that she had things under control.

  But that would be a lie.

  Despite the stygian blackness, she had no trouble figuring out which way to go. Gunfire, screams, and shouting drew her onward. A blind woman could have followed the trail to where the fighting was. Rifle in hand, she sprinted across the camp. Her loose hair blew in the wind.

  Taking a shortcut between the mess hall and the machine shop, she emerged from an alley into an open junkyard that had been converted into a makeshift playground for the camp’s children. A swing set, slide, merry-go-round, and jungle gym had been cobbled together from scraps of discarded mining equipment. Like the upside-down extraction vat that had been converted into a children’s playhouse. Snow-covered sawdust cushioned the ground. An authentic Tlingit totem pole—carved by Ernie Wisetongue himself—watched over the area. The brightly colored visages of Raven, Beaver, Killer Whale, and Wolf perched atop each other on the pole.

  Some distance away, on the other side of a sundered barbed-wire fence, towering pines marked the southwest border of the camp. The dense forest had always been a buffer zone sitting between the rebel outpost and the outside world.

  Tonight that barrier had failed.

  Muzzles flared
in the night as a handful of sentries sought to repel the invader. The strobe-like flashes revealed a battle-scarred T-600 on a rampage. The Terminator looked as if it had been through the wars. Deep scratches and scorch marks defaced its carbonized endoskeleton. Congealed blood caked the cold metal. A single blood-red “eye” glowed malignantly above its leering death’s-head grimace, and only patches of melted rubber skin and polyester were still fused to the metal. And was that a large yellow tooth stuck in its skull?

  Molly experienced a sudden flash of deja vu. Had one of the T-600s aboard the snow plow survived the avalanche?

  Who the hell knows? she thought. Fucking machines all look the same. Even so, she gritted her teeth at the thought that the machine might have followed her all the way back to the camp.

  Flying lead sparked off the Terminator’s metal chassis and cranium. Reaching the playground, the machine wrenched the merry-go-round from the ground to use as a shield, effortlessly hefting the 300-pound cast-iron disk. It pushed forward against the gunfire like a bipedal bulldozer, holding the merry-go-round out in front. The inexorable advance forced the frantic soldiers to fall back, rapidly losing ground.

  Why isn’t it shooting? she wondered, and that cinched it. It must be one of the ones we buried in the avalanche. It has lost its weapons. But that didn’t stop the invader from following its primary directive.

  A foolhardy sentry attempted to get a better shot by climbing to the top of the slide, but the Terminator barreled straight into the structure, toppling it over onto the unlucky sniper. Pinned and unable to defend himself, the human whimpered in pain, his rifle having fallen out of reach.

  “My leg!” he cried out. “It’s broken!”

  Who? Molly thought. It was too dark to make out his face.

  A second later, a fractured leg was the least of his concerns. The T-600 trampled over the mangled slide to get to the downed human. Bones and aluminum crunched in unison. A heavy titanium foot stomped on the soldier’s head. It exploded like an overripe melon.