Terminator Salvation: Cold War ts-3

by Greg Cox

  He knows what he’s doing, she assured herself. He’ll be fine.

  The PDA vibrated in her pocket, paging her. She checked the illuminated screen. According to the lookout posted on the other side of the tunnel, the train was on its way.

  “Right on time,” she muttered. “Let’s hear it for machine punctuality.”

  She texted a one-word message back to the lookout: HK?

  NEGATIVE, the lookout replied.

  Molly permitted herself a slight smile. Thank you, fly-boy. It sounded like Geir had come through for them on his end of the operation. She pinned an imaginary medal on him. You pull this off, maybe I won’t laugh at you the next time you propose.

  She wouldn’t say “yes,” mind you. She just wouldn’t laugh.

  “All right, folks!” she barked. “Train’s coming.” She gestured toward the shadowy woods. “Move your butts!”

  They scrambled up from the beach into the hills overlooking the canyon, putting plenty of distance between themselves and the sabotaged bridge.

  “Hurry!” A quavery voice called out to them from further up the slope. Doc Rathbone’s grizzled head popped up from behind a fallen tree trunk. A voluminous Goretex parka, patched in several places with silver duct tape, had practically swallowed his emaciated frame. He beckoned to them anxiously. “Don’t let them see you! Or you’re going to get us all terminated!”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” She didn’t often bring the crazy old coot into the field with them, but she figured they’d need Doc’s computer expertise to crack into whatever vaults held the uranium ore. Molly, Tammi, Sitka, and Jensen joined him behind the snow-covered log. They dropped to their bellies, keeping low and out of sight.

  Tracks rattled inside the mountain tunnel. They could hear the train in the distance.

  “Listen to that,” Rathbone whispered. He shuddered at the sound. “You know, there was a time when I thought trains were the only way to travel. The romance of the rail. The iron horse. I remember this lovely rail excursion I took from London to Bath once. Lush green scenery racing past my window while I enjoyed a good book. Met this delightful English couple in the cafe car....”

  Sitka sighed irritably. “Off we go again.”

  Molly tuned them out. Last she’d heard, London was a radioactive graveyard, Bath was a Skynet manufacturing hub.

  She fondled the detonator in her grip.

  A swarm of Aerostats came flying out of the tunnel ahead of the train, their glowing red eyes a clear indication of their presence. With the HK off chasing after Geir, they had been left to watch over the vital ore shipment on their own. Molly counted at least four airborne surveillance drones. They darted in and out of the trestles that were supporting the tracks, on the lookout for sabotage. Molly prayed that none of her people were stupid enough or angry enough to take a pot shot at one of the machines. She held her breath as an Aerostat buzzed suspiciously above the rotting bear carcass. If the machine figured out that there was dynamite inside the gamy meat and fur, the whole operation was kaput. The uranium train would reverse course, giving the bridge a wide berth until Skynet could arrange to have it stripped clean of explosives.

  Not that Molly would give the machines a chance to do so. In a pinch, she’d settle for blowing up just the bridge, then running like mad. That would disrupt Skynet’s supply lines for a while, at least, but damn, she really wanted to bring down that big-ass train, too. And carry off some precious uranium.

  They just needed to fool the Aerostats.

  Nothing to see, she mentally lied to the hovering surveillance drone. Just a decomposing grizzly. Nothing to worry about. Move along.

  The Aerostat scanned the carcass with its laser, checking for life-signs, but the dead bear was as cold and unresponsive as the frost-covered concrete pier against which it slumped. Nothing about it registered as a threat.

  The machine buzzed away, joining its fellow watchdogs above the bridge.

  Yes!

  The glazed white C-4 bundles went undetected as well. Molly grinned approvingly at Tammi, who merely nodded grimly in reply. The vengeful widow glared at the bridge. Waiting.

  But not for long. Like a sleek gray bullet with glowing red eyes, the Skynet Express came whooshing out of the tunnel and onto the bridge. The train was just as ugly as Molly remembered. The vicious skewers at its prow demonstrated its implacable determination not to stop for anything that might cross its path, human or otherwise. Blue-hot sparks sprayed out from beneath it as it rattled over the tracks. A clamorous din echoed across the gorge.

  “Do it!” Sitka nudged Molly with her elbow. “Bang time!”

  “Not yet.” Her finger poised above the detonator button, she waited until the train was almost halfway across the bridge. Her jaw set in determination. Her dark eyes flashed.

  This is for Roger, you bastards. And everybody else.

  She pushed the button.

  Synchronized charges went off all at once. Plastic explosives demolished carefully selected wooden struts. The dynamite ignited, blowing the dead bear to pieces and shattering the concrete pier at the bridge’s foundations. The entire structure of the trestle collapsed like a house of cards.

  Steel rails twisted and snapped. The tracks and deck caved in beneath the train, sending it plunging headfirst into the river 300-feet below. Trailing the rest of its cars behind it, the engine crashed down onto a heap of splintered timbers and mangled steel, crushing everything beneath its weight. White water was hurled into the air, along with a billowing cloud of dust and debris. Dislodged ice floes collided into each other before being carried away over the rapids. The smell of nitroglycerine and chemical explosives polluted the air.

  The noise was deafening. Molly wasn’t sure what had been louder, the explosions or the crash.

  The latter, probably.

  “Skookum!” Sitka enthused, jumping to her feet. “You see that? Boom!”

  Molly gave Tammi and Doc a thumbs-up. “Good job, you two.”

  The haze blew away, revealing the spectacular results of their handiwork, eerily visible in the light from the aurora borealis. The train lay crumpled across the river, its rear cars piled atop the front ones like a broken steel accordion. Cut off from the electrified third rail, iron wheels spun uselessly before slowing to a stop. The force of the crash had dented and torn open the armored sides of the train. Ragged gashes showed as gaping shadows, and offered entry to some of the cars. The spiked cow-catcher had snapped off.

  Binocular red sensors dimmed at both ends of the double-headed train. Molly hoped that meant it was dying, but wasn’t going to bet her life on it. Aerostats buzzed about the wreckage in alarm, infrared beams scanning the crash site from every possible angle—all for Skynet’s benefit.

  Which meant the Terminators already knew about the disaster.

  Good, Molly thought. She hoped the A.I. program choked on the images. Keep watching. We’re just getting started.

  She didn’t see any yellowcake spilling out of the train, not even through its gouged and lacerated outer walls. Presumably, the ore was still locked up inside secure crash-proof storage containers, just as Doc had predicted. Those were going to take some effort to get at.

  Exactly why I brought the old man along.

  The clock was ticking. It was only a matter of time before the missing Hunter-Killer came running to check on the derailed train. They needed to move fast if they wanted to hijack any of the uranium. Molly wished again that Command could have provided additional manpower and some transports. Without the reinforcements, she knew she could only spirit away a small fraction of the train’s total haul. Her people would need to grab as much as they could manage, then blow up the rest.

  For herself, she just wanted a sample she could arrange to have shipped to Ashdown, preferably gift-wrapped. Proof that her cell and her people could hit Skynet where it hurt, as hard or harder than any of the general’s military types.

  Let’s show ‘em what we can do.

 
Sitka extracted a roman candle from her backpack, retrieved from an abandoned warehouse full of forgotten fireworks. The girl also produced a lighter from her pocket.

  “Signal?”

  Molly had promised her she could do the honors.

  “Let ‘er rip.”

  Clambering over the fallen log, the teen aimed the candle out over the valley and lit the fuse. Thankfully, it wasn’t a dud. Bright yellow fireballs shot up into the sky. The color held a message of its own.

  Yellow for caution.

  As planned, previously selected members of the Resistance opened fire on the train from the surrounding hills and woods, but didn’t yet show themselves. Ammo of wildly varying caliber and stopping power pinged against the crumpled machine. Molly watched to see how the train reacted, keeping her gaze on its sealed gunports. Even crippled, the Skynet Express might be able to defend itself.

  Her fears were right on target. The train’s red eyes flared up again. About a third of the gunports—the ones that hadn’t been jammed or warped in the fall—slid open. Cannons thrust into view. Their muzzles flashed. Bursts of superheated plasma scorched the riverbank and the edge of the forest. Snow and ice were vaporized by the blasts. Steam fogged the bottom of the gorge.

  Hah! Molly thought. I knew you were playing possum.

  Boulders exploded along the fringe of the wilderness. Towering evergreens went up in flames, turning into gigantic torches that lit the scene and cast madly dancing shadows. Molly hoped all her snipers had pulled back to a safe distance, as instructed. The train seemed to be firing erratically. Perhaps the cannons’ targeting sensors and articulated mounts had been damaged in the crash.

  As if to compensate, the Aerostats zoomed into the woods to act as the train’s eyes. Searching for targets, they beamed back to the train. What they saw, the guns saw.

  The nearest Aerostat—maybe even the same one that had checked out the dead bear earlier—zeroed in on Molly and the rest.

  “It sees us!” Doc shrieked, bolting to his feet. He ran away from the canyon, deeper into the hills. “Skynet knows where we are!”

  “Stop him!” Molly barked at Sitka. “Don’t let him get away!”

  Jensen swung up his shotgun. The weapon went off in Molly’s ears. Buckshot ripped through the Aerostat, which was built for speed and agility, not durability. She and Tammi ducked to avoid being tagged by shrapnel. Sparks flew from the drone’s ruptured casing as it tumbled through the air before crashing into a solid tree trunk. Breaking apart, its lifeless pieces came to rest at the base of the pine.

  Twin red sensors blinked out.

  No more spying for you, Molly thought vindictively. She shoved Tammi and Jensen away from the fallen log only seconds before a plasma blast reduced it to splinters. The Alaskan guerillas scrambled to a new location.

  Not far away, Sitka tackled Doc, knocking the panicked scientist to the ground. Getting a firm grip on his arm, she yanked him to his feet, then dragged him back to the others. Molly was glad to see that he hadn’t gone far. His part in this operation wasn’t over yet.

  “No more of that,” she chided him. “Nobody runs out until I say so.”

  He gave Sitka a dirty look. The teen kept her fingers locked around his arm. Then he turned back to the group’s leader, his eyes imploring in the red glow of the firelight.

  “It’s not fair,” he whimpered. “I used to work in an office. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing.” He licked his lips. His hands shook. “God, could I use a drink right now!”

  “Later,” Molly promised, offering a carrot. “You stick with us and you can have all the moonshine you want when this is over with.”

  The promise of booze steadied the old man’s frazzled nerves. “Really?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  Explosions, coming from the gorge below, cut short the pep talk. Molly realized that phase three of the assault on the train had begun. She watched from above as daring Resistance fighters charged from the woods toward the crash site. Dodging fire from the misaligned cannons, they targeted the exposed gun ports. Strong arms flung grenades, pipe bombs, blasting caps, and sputtering sticks of dynamite into the open gaps around the cannons.

  Explosion went off inside and around the gun ports, blowing up the train’s defenses one by one. Warped metal screamed in protest as the damaged cannons fought to swivel into position. White-hot blasts tore up the landscape, yielding yet more steam and melted ice, but missed the nimble guerillas. The last of the river’s ice was broken loose by the explosions and sizzling plasma. Debris from the wrecked cannons was swept away by the current.

  Molly silently cheered the bomb-throwers on. So far, everything was going according to plan.

  Only one cannon still pointed in the attackers’ direction. Vic Folger raced toward it, holding a smoking pipe bomb. He hurled the explosive at the gun port, but his throw fell short, landing several yards short of its target. Not giving up, the former soccer coach dashed forward and kicked the bomb straight past the cannon into the gap behind it.

  “Goal!” he yelled.

  It was his final victory. The cannon wrenched itself in his direction. Its muzzle flashed like lightning. A single burst of plasma reduced him to ashes in an instant.

  A second later, the pipe bomb exploded, avenging his death. Flames erupted behind the cannon, blasting it all the way onto the shore. Charred fragments landed just where Folger had been standing only moments before.

  Mission accomplished. Molly mourned the man’s death, but honored his sacrifice. She had expected to lose some good people in this attack. Too bad one of them had to be Vic.

  The echoes of the battle, bouncing off the steep walls of the gorge, began to fade away. As nearly as Molly could tell, there were no more guns pointed in their direction. A couple of Aerostats were still buzzing around, but they posed no actual threat. They were good for surveillance only.

  The way was clear, at least for the moment.

  This time Molly gave the signal. Retrieving another roman candle from Sitka’s pack, she lit the fuse and fired it out over the river. The streaking fireballs were a different color than before.

  Green for go.

  The Resistance fell upon the disarmed train like a pack of wolves, whooping and hollering, a few of them firing their guns in the air. Molly scowled at the undisciplined display. Granted, they had long ago sacrificed the element of surprise, but they could not afford to get sloppy. Dog sleds scampered down the hills and along both sides of the river, ready to cart away as much radioactive booty as they could carry. Protective lining in the metal drums and foot lockers was supposed to cut down on the emissions, but Molly knew that a little excess radiation wasn’t something most freedom fighters cared about these days. Cancer was an abstract, long-term danger. Few of the guerillas expected to live long enough to worry about it.

  Herself included.

  She was eager to take part in the plunder. After all, why should the rest of the cell have all the fun? She wanted to gather her gift basket for General Ashdown. A nice big slice of yellowcake for him to swallow along with his words, and a hefty portion of crow.

  “Go for it!” she shouted to those who were closest. “But stay sharp!”

  Pulling out flashlights and kerosene torches, now that the enemy had apparently been subdued, they dashed down to the riverbed. Smoke and haze hung over the floor of the canyon. Oily machine parts littered the snow. Bits of flaming debris sputtered out along their path. Burning timbers crackled beneath the weight of the train. High above their heads, the truncated ends of the bridge jutted from both sides of the canyon like roads to nowhere. The northern lights added a surreal touch of beauty to the devastation. The train’s glowing red eyes impotently tracked the Resistance teams as they converged on their prey.

  Molly looked forward to stealing the uranium from right out beneath the train’s optical sensors.

  Couldn’t happen to a nicer machine!

  She led the way, and hugged the northern shore of
the river, being careful not to slip on the icy stones. Tammi and Jensen followed closely. Sitka brought up the rear, dragging Doc behind her. A damaged railcar, lying atop a heap of splintered trestles, called out to her. Its armor plating had been sundered in the fall, tearing open a deep gash that looked wide enough to squeeze through. The opening was like an invitation.

  Don’t mind if I do, she thought. Yellowcake, here we come!

  “This way,” she called out to the others. Elsewhere along the length of the downed train, she saw her fellow bushwhackers attacking other cars with crowbars, sledgehammers, and even a welding torch. They went to work, peeling the train’s titanium skin from its bones. Lookouts stayed on alert. She shouted at the team behind her.

  “Over here. I think I see a way in!”

  She had just started climb up the heaped logs toward the gap, however, when the hiss of hydraulic doors came from both of the train’s twin locomotives. The bullet-shaped noses opened up, unfolding like the petals of a deadly metal flower, and disgorged four new machines that came roaring out.

  Molly’s blood went cold. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  “What the fuck?”

  The streamlined newcomers resembled a cross between a Terminator and a snowmobile, not unlike the two-wheeled Moto-Terminators that sometimes patrolled Alaska’s few remaining highways. But these driverless killing machines had obviously been designed for more hazardous terrain. Growling two-stroke engines broke all the old noise pollution standards. Sleek black skis preceded the machines’ tapered, aerodynamic noses. Motorized tracks at the rear propelled them across the snow and ice. Binocular red sensors were mounted in their heads.

  Dual mini-guns projected from both sides like stabilizers.

  The would-be looters were caught by surprise. Rounds of gunfire cut down a score of humans before they could even grab for their weapons. The lookouts fired back at the speeding machines, while the rest scattered for the woods, the snowmachines chasing after them at sixty, maybe seventy miles per hour.