Terminator Salvation: Cold War

by Greg Cox

  “Down!”

  Molly and Sitka dived behind the other side of the concrete pier. A furious barrage of bullets chipped away at the sideways foundation. Molly heard the snowmachine roaring toward them. She remembered what had happened to Tom Jensen. The crumbling concrete block wasn’t going to shield them for long.

  She looked around frantically, trying to find some way out. The spray from the rushing river sprinkled her face again. Molly’s gaze seized on the frothing white water and rapids.

  It’s our only chance.

  Thrusting her pistol into her belt, she yanked the heavy pack off Sitka’s shoulders. It was only going to weigh her down.

  “Hey!” the girl protested. “What’s that for?”

  There was no time to explain. The Snowminators would be on them in a second.

  “Shut up and follow me!”

  Keeping low, she dived into the freezing river. Bullets whizzed over her head, but she could barely hear them over the crash of the rapids. The current gripped her and sent her hurtling downstream at a breakneck pace, far from the deadly machines. Tossed about like flotsam and jetsam, she fought to keep her head above the water. Churning white froth invaded her mouth and nostrils. She kicked and sputtered, swallowing a mouthful of ice water, then spitting it out again. The sudden, frigid immersion shocked her to her marrow. Her heart skipped a beat.

  She tumbled over the deep rapids.

  There was another loud splash behind her.

  “Molly!”

  Twisting her head, she caught a glimpse of Sitka bobbing in the water not far away.

  “Where are you?”

  Molly reached out for the teen, but the relentless current tore them apart. The river carried them away.

  Molly tried to remember if Sitka knew how to swim.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Gasping for breath, they dragged themselves to shore, many miles downstream from the battle at the bridge. Molly guessed that they’d been in the water for maybe ten minutes, tops, but it felt like hours had passed since they’d thrown themselves into the freezing current. Her entire body felt black and blue from bouncing over the rapids. She shivered from head to foot. Her legs were wobbly.

  She leaned against Sitka, the two women clinging to each other for support as they staggered away from the water, splashing through the thin ice and slush at the edge of the riverbank. Slowing as it rounded a rocky shoal, the river had slackened just enough to give them a chance to break free from the current. It was shallower and narrower here, too.

  Another lucky break.

  Thank God they hadn’t gone over any waterfalls!

  Exhausted, they collapsed onto the snow. Molly coughed up a gallon of water. She listened intently for the roar of the snowmachines, but heard only the river continuing on its way. If nothing else, they had escaped the vicious killers, who were presumably far behind them now, and in no position to follow them down the river. Sure, they can ski, she gloated, reveling for the moment in their unlikely escape. But they damn well can’t swim!

  Icy water dripped from her hair and clothes. Tremors shook her body. Forget the machines, she thought. Hypothermia was their enemy now. If anything, it felt colder on the shore than it had been in the water. The bitter wind chill could kill them just as surely as a Terminator’s bullets. At best, they had maybe a couple of hours before they froze to death. Probably less, given how drenched they were. She could feel her sodden clothing freezing already.

  Fuck, it was cold!

  “Up!” she ordered Sitka, resisting the temptation to sink forever into the soft white drifts. She hauled herself to her feet and turned her thoughts to survival. Years of wilderness training came to her rescue. Shelter, she realized. That was their top priority. She nudged Sitka with her toe. Water slushed inside the boot. “Up and at ‘em.” Her teeth chattered. “We’ve g-got work to do.”

  It took a couple of prods, but the grumbling teen finally got up.

  “Always so b-b-bossy.” Her soggy red mane was plastered to her head. Her lips were blue. She fumbled in her fanny pack for a cigarette lighter. Shaking fingers tried to get a spark going. “F-fire?”

  Molly shook her head. The snow and frost had left any available tinder too damp to kindle; by the time they got a fire going, it would be too late. Besides, they couldn’t risk the Terminators seeing the smoke or flames.

  “Sh-shelter.” She hugged herself to keep warm. It didn’t work. “F-follow me.”

  There was nothing to work with by the river’s edge, so they had to trek deeper into the woods before they found enough timber and debris to construct a crude shelter. While Sitka gathered as many fallen branches, leaves, ferns, and pine needles as she could rustle up, Molly got to work on the basic construction. First, she dug a shallow depression in the snow, barely big enough to hold both her and Sitka. She spread the branches and ground cover over the frozen earth like a carpet, then built a simple wooden framework over the ditch. Two crossed sticks, thrust upright into the dirt and snow supported a longer, diagonal ridgeline

  Working together, they leaned the extra branches and debris against the central pole, forming a crude lean-to whose narrow opening rose less than a foot above the surface. The rest of the structure tapered to the ground behind the opening. Packed snow, heaped up against the angled sides of the shelter, provided an additional level of insulation. Given time, it would freeze solid, hopefully keeping the two women from doing the same.

  Panting, Molly paused long enough to inspect their work. It wasn’t much to look at, but it might keep them alive until the sun came up. She shivered in the wind, taking shelter behind a nearby pine. The heavy exertion had warmed her up some, but had also left her dangerously soaked in sweat. Sitka looked just as cold. They had to get out of the wind before it was too late.

  “Y-you first,” Molly said. “H-hurry.”

  For once, the feral teen didn’t put up a fight. Getting down on the ground in front of the narrow opening, she wriggled feet-first into the shelter. Molly gave her a five-second head start, then squeezed in after her. It was a tight fit, but there was just enough room for both of them. Their faces were only inches apart. Molly could practically hear the girl’s heartbeat.

  “S-still cold,” Sitka complained. “Brrr.”

  “It’ll warm up,” Molly promised. “Soon.”

  They stripped off their wet clothes at last, then stuffed the wadded fabric in the mouth of the shelter to keep out the cold. They huddled together, sharing whatever body heat they could still muster. The packed branches and snow kept the warmth inside, just like it was supposed to. For the first time since she had dived into the river, Molly started to feel less like an icicle.

  “Uh, Molly,” Sitka murmured. “Wrong time to mention that I think I might be gay?”

  “Yeah,” Molly said firmly. “Wrong time.”

  Later on in the night, she thought she heard the girl crying.

  “I know,” Molly said. “I miss Doc, too.”

  She wondered what had become of Geir and the others.

  The next morning, they crouched around a modest campfire. They’d had to strip the damp bark from the kindling to get to its dry, flammable core, but it had been worth the effort. Their frozen parkas and boots were finally starting to dry out. They shared some scraps of smoked meat that had somehow survived their trip down the river. Molly decided she’d never again tease Sitka about being a packrat.

  The sound of a helicopter’s blades chopping up the air electrified both campers. They knew rescue was at hand. Skynet didn’t bother with helicopters. Hunter-Killers were its aircraft of choice. So they leaped to their feet and ran down to the shore, where they jumped up and down like maniacs, waving their arms in the air.

  Molly would have killed for another roman candle, but it turned out she didn’t need one. A Chinook transport chopper touched down on the riverbed. A door in its side slid open. A Resistance pilot sporting a red armband called out to them.

  “You Kookesh? General Los
enko sent me.”

  Within moments, they were safe and warm aboard the chopper. Molly quickly briefed the pilot on their experiences, then pumped him for information.

  “Any other survivors?”

  “Not yet,” the pilot said. A nametag on his uniform identified him as CARLINO. He had a Brooklyn accent. He looked nothing like Geir. “But we’re still looking.”

  Molly flinched. A sinking feeling came over her.

  “Any other aircraft in the vicinity? An old World War II fighter maybe?”

  “No, ma’am.” The chopper prepared to take off again. “My orders are to ferry you to the base in the Yukon. You’ll be safe there.” He shrugged. “Well, as much as any place is safe these days.”

  Molly shook her head.

  “Take her.” She stepped away from Sitka. “I’m not going anywhere. All I need from you are dry clothes, some ammo, and a survival kit.” She looked out the window of the chopper. “I’m not done here yet.”

  “Going with you then,” Sitka insisted. She crossed her arms atop her chest. “Sticking together all the way.”

  “Not this time.” Molly figured the girl knew why Molly needed to stay behind, but that didn’t matter. “This is personal. You go with these pilots. Be safe.” She played her trump card. “It’s what Doc would have wanted.”

  Sitka couldn’t argue with that. Pouting, she slumped into her seat.

  “Not fair. Sucks.”

  Molly wasn’t sure if she was referring to the invocation of Doc Rathbone or just the situation in general.

  She peeled the red armband off her sleeve. It was a bit soggy and faded, but still intact.

  “Here,” she said. “I think I promised you this.”

  The girl’s face lit up a little. She eagerly claimed the token.

  “Earned it?”

  “You bet.”

  A half-hour later, after wrangling some fresh clothes and supplies, Molly stood upon the shore and watched the Chinook take off into the sky. Sitka waved at her from a window. Molly waved back until the chopper was too high up to see anything.

  Give my regards to the old Russian, she had told the pilot right before she got out of the ‘copter. I owe him one.

  The Chinook disappeared, leaving her alone in the wilderness.

  She started walking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “To Alexei Mikhalyovich Ivanov, a hero of the Resistance.”

  Losenko raised a cup in memory of his friend and former officer. A few survivors of K-115 had gathered in the general’s private stateroom to honor their fallen comrade. Pushkin. Komarov. Aleksin. Pavlinko. He had uncorked a rare bottle of Massandra wine for the occasion. The good stuff, much better than the rotgut the enlisted men brewed when they thought the officers weren’t looking.

  The rosy vintage reminded him of the red wine they had consumed to combat radiation sickness in those terrible weeks and months immediately after Judgment Day. In retrospect, it was amazing that any of them had lived through those days, let alone for another fifteen years.

  “To Ivanov,” the men toasted in unison. “May he rest in peace.”

  The charred remains of a borrowed A-10 Thunderbolt had been sighted in the Alaskan wilderness, not far from where a railway bridge had once been employed by the enemy. The wreckage of the Warthog had been hopelessly fused and entangled with a downed Hunter-Killer. All evidence suggested that Ivanov had died striking a blow against the machines, just as he would have wanted to. Losenko had also been informed that Molly Kookesh and a handful of other Alaskan fighters had survived Operation Ravenwing. By all accounts, Ivanov had played a key role in keeping them alive.

  Well done, Alexei. Losenko mourned his comrade’s death, but found himself deeply moved as well. In the end, Ivanov had sacrificed his life to save some of the Americans he had hated so vehemently all these years. Perhaps John Connor was right all along. As long as mankind could stick together, overcoming old feuds and hatreds, maybe they still had a chance to win this war. If even Ivanov could learn that, anything was possible.

  Losenko raised his glass again.

  “To the future—and victory.”

  There you are, flyboy.

  Molly had been hiking for days, living off the land. A GPS tracking device, procured from the chopper pilots, had led her to an isolated stretch of densely-wooded forest north of the Wrangell Mountains. Several miles behind her, steam rose from the fuming crater of the volcano, which seemed far more active than usual. Molly was tired and hungry. Her feet hurt. An invisible toe itched. But she had found her missing lover at last.

  The body of Geir Svenson hung from the upper branches of a tall pine. The shredded remains of a parachute were hopelessly fouled in the branches. He had obviously had a hard landing, without ever hitting the ground. His head was crooked to one side, and his neck looked broken. Limp arms and legs dangled high above the ground. She was grateful for the tangled nylon cords suspending him in the air. That alone had probably kept the body from being carried off and devoured by some large predator. If a bear or wolf had found him first, she might still be searching for him.

  “I hope it was quick,” she whispered hoarsely. Moist eyes gazed up at him. Her throat tightened. She wasn’t surprised by her discovery. Deep in her heart, she had somehow known that he hadn’t survived that final sortie. But still....

  I loved you. You knew that, right?

  Climbing the tree wasn’t easy, but it had to be done. Her hunting knife cut through the nylon cords. A fresh layer of deep snow muffled the sound of the body hitting the earth as he finally completed his jump, many days after bailing out of Thunderbird.

  Molly descended to the ground, albeit much more slowly. She cut him free of the rest of the cords and laid him out gently upon the ground. She considered taking off his helmet and goggles, then reconsidered. She wanted to remember his face the way it was the last time she saw it, right after those feverish moments in the shack. Had they known then that they were never going to see each other again?

  Looking back, she thought maybe they had.

  She wasn’t going to bury him. She had given it a lot of thought while hiking through the woods by herself, and she’d decided that a Viking funeral—befitting his Nordic roots—would be in order. She would send him to Valhalla on wings of flame.

  First, though, there was one more thing to do. She unzipped his jacket and rummaged through his pockets. Thick gloves and numb fingers frustrated her efforts.

  “C’mon,” she muttered irritably. “It’s gotta be here somewhere. I know it.”

  She found the grenade ring in the front pocket of his flannel shirt. Right over his heart, just like she should have known. A sob tore itself from her lungs. A wave of emotion, even stronger than she had anticipated, hit her hard.

  She gripped it tightly in her palm, warming it, before she peeled off her left glove.

  “I hope you can fucking see this.”

  She slipped the ring on her finger.

  Later, she built a pyre and set it ablaze. As the rising flames consumed Geir’s body, she turned and started the long trek home.

  She still had a war to fight.

  EPILOGUE

  Losenko reported to the command center aboard the Wilmington. A messenger had informed him that General Ashdown required his presence. As he entered the compartment, Losenko wondered if this was about Ivanov’s unauthorized flight to Alaska. That deployment had cost the Resistance a valuable warplane and a veteran officer. Ashdown had yet to raise the matter, but Losenko expected to face the music eventually.

  He was prepared to take full responsibility for his decision.

  But Ashdown had more important affairs on his mind.

  “We’ve found it,” he announced jubilantly, as though he couldn’t wait to inform Losenko of the news. He gripped a rolled-up computer printout. Losenko had seldom seen him so enthusiastic. He thrust the paper at the Russian.

  “Read it.”

  Losenko skimmed the document. It was
a classified intelligence report suggesting that Skynet’s top-secret shutdown code could be obtained at an underground enemy communications complex in the sector of North America not far from the bombed-out ruins of Los Angeles. A substantial array of satellite dishes was the machine’s primary shortwave transmission hub for the entire region. If the hidden code was recorded anywhere, it was there.

  “This looks very promising,” he agreed. The implications of the discovery—if they could be verified—were enormous. They might finally be able to win the war, just as John Connor had always said they could. He wondered if it was just a coincidence that the code was hiding in the very same territory in which Connor was now serving. There were those who believed that Connor was destined to be the one who ultimately found the key to victory over the machines.

  An idea occurred to him.

  “I suggest we send in General Olsen’s forces to secure the code.”

  Which would include John Connor’s Tech Comm unit.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Ashdown said. “Contact Olsen and get this thing done.”

  Losenko smiled. A sudden renewal of hope dispelled whatever melancholy had lingered in him after Ivanov’s death. He could hardly believe his long voyage might at last be nearing its end. It was a shame that Alexei, and so many others, had not lived to see it.

  After fifteen long and brutal years, it seemed as if salvation was at hand....

  The End

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I still remember being blown away by the original Terminator movie when I first caught it at a multiplex outside Seattle way back in 1984. Three exciting sequels and a TV series later, it’s tremendously exciting to finally get to write a little bone-crushing, killer robot action of my own.

  Many thanks to my editor, Cath Trechman, for thinking of me and helping me throughout the writing and editing of this book, thanks as well to Steve Saffel and designer Louise Brigenshaw at Titan Books. Many thanks to James Middleton of The Halycon Company for graciously letting me pick his brains on all things Terminator. I also want to thank my agents, Russ Galen and Ann Behar, for handling the business end of things.