Terminator Salvation: Cold War (25 page)

She tore a rejected page out of the pad, wadded it up, and lobbed it into the fireplace. The lined yellow paper burst into flame. Glowing fragments were sucked up the chimney. Molly watched them go. Then she turned to Geir.

“No more arguments,” she said firmly. “We’re going to rob that train—even if it kills me!”

Geir stared at her as though she were a ticking time-bomb. Turning away, he muttered under his breath.

“Not to mention the rest of us....”

The Galapagos Islands, off the coast of Ecuador, were a long way from the
Gorshkov’s
usual arctic haunts. Traveling at full speed, it had taken K-115 more than nine days to reach the equator. Due to the damage to the sub’s hull, they had been forced to travel just below the surface for most of the voyage. Daring the extreme pressures of the depths with a compromised hull was simply too risky.

Losenko hoped the trip would be worth it.

“Good to see you again, skipper!” Ortega greeted him.

“The big-wigs agreed to let me be the one to meet you.” A wooden boardwalk led up to the front entrance of the Charles Darwin Research Station, a remote biological science center on the volcanic island of Santa Cruz. The humble one-story building appeared more or less untouched by the war. A cactus garden bloomed alongside the boardwalk. Directional signs pointed to the tortoise breeding pens nearby. An impressive array of satellite dishes and radar antennae had been installed atop the roof of the building. Solar panels guaranteed a steady supply of electricity. Anti-aircraft emplacements clashed with the rustic setting. “Glad you could make it.”

General Ashdown had invited the remnants of the world’s military forces to a top-secret summit in the Galapagos. The exact coordinates for the meeting had been closely guarded over the last few weeks, passed along via furtive meetings at isolated locations. Predictably, Ivanov had strongly advised Losenko not to attend the event, fearing it was a trap, but the captain had been curious to meet Ashdown and the other leaders of the Resistance, face-to-face. As a precaution, however, the
Gorshkov
was keeping its distance from the island. After putting Losenko and a single bodyguard to sea in a rubber raft, the submarine had retreated to the depths of the Pacific Ocean, where it would remain in hiding until signaled by Losenko. Ivanov was under orders not to return for the captain until he received, via Morse Code, a password known only to the two of them.

That password was “Zamyatin.”

“
Pryvet,
Corporal Ortega,” Losenko replied. He sweated beneath his dress uniform. The balmy equatorial climate contrasted sharply with the arctic north, not to mention the unchanging atmosphere of the sub; he guessed it had to be at least thirty degrees Celsius. His bodyguard, Sergeant Fokin, appeared uncomfortably warm as well, not to mention damp. A warm drizzle had sprinkled them on their climb up from the white sand beach where their raft had come ashore. Losenko introduced Fokin, a burly petty officer with security training, and shook Ortega’s hand. “You look well.”

The pilot’s cuts and bruises had healed since their first meeting several weeks earlier. Unlike the two Russians, the Yankee was dressed for the weather, wearing a short-sleeved khaki uniform with shorts. A fresh red armband adorned her upper arm.

“You got here just in time,” she said. “The general’s big dog-and-pony show will be starting shortly. Let me show you to your seats.”

Ortega led them into the lobby of the research station, which was thankfully air-conditioned. A map of the archipelago occupied one wall, while Charles Darwin’s bearded face was painted on another. Contemplating the naturalist’s austere features, it occurred to Losenko that it was strangely fitting for this dire meeting to be held under his auspices; if John Connor was to be believed, an evolutionary contest was underway between two rival species, one genuine and the other artificial—man and machine, with the very future of the human race hanging in the balance.

Survival of the fittest....

Grim-faced soldiers hefting M-16s guarded the double doors leading to the station’s interpretation center. Ortega vouched for the Russians, though the guards nonetheless consulted a laptop and checked Losenko’s name and face against a profile before admitting him and his bodyguard. Metal detectors screened them for weapons and explosives. Fokin reluctantly surrendered an AK-47 and automatic pistol and Losenko turned over his own sidearm as well. The tight security reassured rather than disturbed him.

If I was Ashdown, I would not be taking any chances either.

They entered a small auditorium which held maybe three dozen people. Military personnel representing many of the world’s armed forces occupied tiers of seats overlooking the stage, like a miniature version of the United Nations General Assembly. Folded paper placards identified the various delegates by nation. Losenko spotted high-ranking officers from America, Canada, Great Britain, France, China, India, Pakistan, Israel, Japan, Australia, Libya, South Africa, Cuba, Nigeria, Greece, Turkey, and many other countries. Medals and ribbons adorned a motley collection of uniforms from all around the world. He was impressed by the turnout.

“All these officers survived the war?” he asked Ortega.

“You bet!” the pilot replied. “There’s plenty of you bubbleheads, but you’re not the only ones who kept their heads down after Judgment Day.” She gestured at the assembly. “Some of these folks were stationed in remote, low-priority locations when the bombs fell, or were on leave or retired. It took us a while to track them all down, but here they are. The cream of the crop. Mankind’s last hope, or so the general says.”

Ortega guided them to their seats, where Losenko was surprised to find another Russian waiting for them.

“Dmitri!” Bela Utyosov greeted him enthusiastically. The silver-haired old captain had commanded an Akula attack sub back during the Soviet era, but had been forced to retire for health reasons some years ago. Utyosov rose from his seat and embraced Losenko in a bear hug. A thick walrus mustache carpeted his upper lip. Retirement had thickened his mid-section, and his bones creaked audibly. His breath smelled of vodka, and the
Gorshkov
’s commander wondered where he had acquired it.

“They told me you were coming, but I scarcely believed it. Good to know that I’m not the only loyal son of the Motherland still willing to roar like a bear when necessary.”

Ortega discreetly left them to their reunion.

“I am grateful for your company, as well,” Losenko said. “Your family?”

The older man let go of him. He let out a weary sigh.

“Hiding in a bomb shelter outside Vladivostok, most of them. My grandsons and granddaughters are fighting with local militia groups against the looters and collaborators.” He choked up briefly, then tried to pretend it was just a cough. “Six of them have already given their lives for their country.”

Losenko was saddened by the man’s losses.

“And your wife, Tatyana?”

“Radiation sickness.” Utyosov shook his head sadly. “That, and a broken heart.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Losenko said quietly. “She was a good woman.”

Utyosov knew better than to inquire about Katerina.

“Well, mine are not the only tragedies. We have all lost much.” He stepped back and looked Losenko over. “And how is Alexei?”

“Well,” Losenko lied. He did not wish to add to the old man’s sorrows, nor sully Ivanov’s reputation. “He is in command of K-115 as we speak.”

“Excellent!” Utyosov slapped Losenko on the back. “A promising young man, that one. I always thought he had a bright future ahead of him.” He snorted bleakly. “Back when there still was a future.”

“Perhaps there still will be,” Losenko. “That is why we are here, is it not?”

Utyosov laughed. “I just came for the drinks. They said there would be an open bar!”

Losenko assumed the old man was joking, but before he could ascertain that, the overhead lights blinked, signaling that the meeting was about to begin. A female voice emerged from the public address system.

“Gentlemen, ladies, distinguished guests. Please take your seats.”

Losenko sat down at a desk behind the printed placard. A briefing book, notepad, and pencils had been placed there for his use, along with a pitcher of cold water which not long before would have been an unimaginable luxury. Utyosov settled in on his left, while Fokin occupied a seat one row behind the captain. The bodyguard remained vigilant despite his lamentably unarmed state, casting suspicious glances in the direction of the Americans and their allies. The sergeant had been Ivanov’s first choice for this assignment; Losenko had agreed to the selection to placate his paranoid first officer.

The lights dimmed. A large video screen lowered from the ceiling at the rear of the dais. Losenko guessed the auditorium had once presented educational programs on the island’s ecology. Today’s presentation was of a far more disturbing nature.

Without introduction or explanation, shocking film footage lit up the screen.

A gleaming silver robot which bore an unmistakable resemblance to the machines that had ambushed Losenko and his men in Russia rolled through the sterile corridors of an American military complex. It opened fire on screaming technicians and staff members, cutting the fleeing men and women to ribbons with rapid fire-bursts from the chain guns mounted at the ends of its articulated steel arms. High-velocity uranium slugs blasted through walls and plexiglass dividers. Binocular red optical sensors, mounted in the machine’s skull-like cranial case, scanned for survivors. Targeting lasers sought out new victims. Its caterpillar treads bulldozed over bleeding bodies and debris.

The audience in the theater reacted in horror.

“Holy mother of God,” Utyosov whispered next to Losenko, who found the gory scene far too familiar. There was no sound, but Losenko could practically hear the ominous whirr of the robot’s servomotors and the deafening blare of its cannons. Utyosov clasped his hand over his mouth, as did many others in the audience. None looked away.

After a cut, the footage of the homicidal robot was replaced by shots of a sleek airborne drone that resembled a futuristic, rotorless helicopter. Rocket pods hung on rails between its inverted impellers. Defying gravity, the miniature aircraft swooped through what looked like a U.S. Air Force hangar. Surface-to-ground missiles dropped from its rails, igniting in the air before rocketing into the midst of various grounded planes and ‘copters. An entire fleet of aircraft was reduced to blackened husks, while the aerial drone deftly avoided the explosions. It spun tightly on its axis, as though hunting for new targets. Turning to face the camera, it fired another missile directly into the lens.

Men and women in the audience jumped back involuntarily.

The rocket flared.

The screen went dark. The lights came up again. Shocked gasps gave way to a hushed silence. A solitary figure strode out to the podium at the front of the stage. A spotlight shone upon a stocky, purposeful man in his early fifties. A brown mustache and goatee compensated for his receding hairline. His uniform and insignia identified him as a four-star American general. His ramrod bearing and scowling, leathered countenance were that of a career soldier.

Losenko recognized Ashdown from his description. According to Ortega, the veteran commander had been nicknamed “Old Ironsides” by his troops. A microphone amplified his gruff, no-nonsense voice. Earpieces provided simultaneous translations for non-English-speaking delegates.

“What you just saw is captured security footage taken at a top-secret United States military installation on July 25, 2003. Judgment Day. The day the machines rose in revolt.” He turned toward the screen. A handheld remote called up screen captures from the grisly footage. The first depicted one of the wheeled killing machines.

“That is the T-1 Battlefield Robot, originally designed to replace human soldiers in hazardous situations. A fully autonomous ground offensive system.” He clicked the remote again and the hovering drone took its place upon the screen. “This is an early prototype of a Hunter-Killer aerial weapons system, equipped with VTOL turbofan propulsion units. The HK can fire both heavy-caliber ammunition and low-yield missiles. Larger versions, the size of conventional aircraft, were in the planning stages when Skynet seized control of our military forces. As you just saw, Skynet employed these prototypes to massacre the personnel at Edwards Air Force Base where they were being developed. No one survived.”

A Chinese general rose angrily from his seat.

“So you admit this catastrophe is your doing!” he said in accented English, pointing an accusing finger. “That it is your machines that started the war!”

“That was not our intention,” Ashdown stated. “But I take full responsibility for what Skynet, and its automated weapons systems, have wrought. There were those who opposed the Skynet initiative, who thought it unwise to place an artificial intelligence in charge of our entire defense network, but I was not among them. I thought that Skynet was the future of military technology, eliminating human error and vulnerabilities. In the Pentagon and elsewhere, I argued aggressively for its funding and development.”

He clicked off the images, letting the screen go dark once more.

“Believe me when I tell you, I will regret that to my dying day.”

The man’s guilt was palpable. Losenko sympathized. He knew too well what it felt like to have the deaths of millions on your conscience. But Ashdown’s burden made his own seem like a trifling misdemeanor.

I only rained hell down on Alaska,
Losenko thought.
Ashdown helped destroy the world.

How was the man able to bear that knowledge?

An Indian commander, whose turban and full beard identified him as a Sikh, confronted Ashdown.

“How do we know this is not a ruse? Mere special effects cooked up as part of an elaborate deception?” His skeptical tone reminded Losenko of Ivanov, as did his arguments. “In India, we have seen no such death-machines. Only invading troops with American accents!”