Terminator Salvation: Cold War (35 page)

More firepower was required.

“Sitka!” Molly barked. “Grenade!”

They had lost a lot of their heavy-duty hardware in the fire, but Molly had brought along a few just for moments like this. Reaching into her overstuffed pockets, Sitka pulled out a M67 fragmentation grenade. She lobbed it at Molly, who yanked the grenade away from the pin. The device had a 4.2 second fuse.

“Tammi! Duck!” Molly let go of the lever and heaved the grenade at the mechanized monster, even as Tammi burrowed for cover beneath her barricade. She threw her hands protectively over her belly. The instinctive gesture, so essentially human, tore at Molly’s heart. “Heads down!”

The snowmachine launched itself off the beach and jumped toward the tracks. The hurling grenade met it in mid-air. The M67 exploded, the blast tearing open the machine’s armored chassis. Flying shrapnel shredded its skis and motor. Jagged metal shards ricocheted off the mangled iron tracks protecting Tammi. Mother and baby would not be joining Roger Muckerheide today.

Molly figured this made up for not speaking at the damn wedding.

“Run!” she hollered over the fading echoes of the explosion. “Before another one gets here!”

Tammi scrambled out from beneath the smoking barricade. She looked startled to be alive. Her rifle slung over her shoulder, she hesitated briefly. Her gaze swung back and forth between the train and the waiting snowmobile

“Forget about us!” Molly ordered. “Save your baby!”

Another Snowminator headed toward them from several yards away. Molly drew her pistol and shot at the machine to draw its fire away from Tammi. The young widow got the message and clambered onto the snowmobile. She took off through a gap in the crumpled train cars, jumping the broken connectors. Molly wished her godspeed.
Somebody
had to pass on that stupid gown to the next poor bride.

She ducked inside the car, only seconds before a blistering hail of bullets slammed into the wall outside. For the first time ever, Molly was thankful for the uranium train’s heavy armor.

Sitka came up behind her.

“Tammi?”

Molly shrugged. “She’s got a shot.”

“May fate look out for her,” Rathbone murmured. For once, he wasn’t moved to reminisce. “She’s so young....”

But Molly couldn’t worry about Tammi any longer. They weren’t out of this mess yet. Hastily assessing their situation, she realized that the three of them were pinned down inside the derailed train with at least three Snowminators on the warpath outside. The minute they stepped out of the car, the machines would be on them. She could hear the ferocious roar of their engines through the gap in the wall.

There was no way out.

Unless....

She pulled out her PDA and keyed in a special priority code Losenko had given her a couple of days ago. It was a one-time only thing, he had explained, to be used only in case of an extreme emergency. There was also no guarantee that he would be in a position to receive the message. Under the circumstances, it was the longest of long shots.

But what did she have to lose?

She typed in a single, three-letter message.

SOS.

“Cmon, you old Russian warhorse,” she muttered under her breath, while Sitka and Doc looked on. Rathbone had his arm draped over the girl’s shoulders. Molly fired off the plea. “I don’t know where you are right now, but be there when I need you!”

Even nuclear subs needed to go to periscope depth from time to time, to take care of urgent tasks and routine housekeeping. Communications masts needed to be raised in order to send and receive messages from the outside world. Navigation needed to get a fix that would determine the sub’s actual position. Engineering needed to vent the steam generators once in a while. Even excess trash had to be ejected, an unglamorous but essential task which, for technical reasons, was best performed at shallow depths.

For all these reasons, the U.S.S.
Wilmington
routinely raised its periscope every forty-eight hours or so, assuming there were no enemy machines in the vicinity.

The timing of such episodes was usually left to the captain’s discretion, but Losenko had prevailed upon the sub’s current commander—Captain Lucy Okata—to schedule a visit to the surface at a specific hour. The captain hadn’t asked for a reason, and Losenko had not volunteered one.

He felt a twinge of guilt at having gone behind Ashdown’s back, but his outstanding debt to the people of Alaska was a deeper and more profound obligation. He consulted the ship’s chronometer. By his calculations, it was nearly 11 PM in Alaska. Operation Ravenwing was already in progress. He prayed that Kookesh and her allies had not encountered any unexpected obstacles, but knew that was an unlikely wish.

It was a truism that even the most carefully worked-out battle plan seldom survived contact with the enemy. For all he knew, they had already been terminated.

“Any unusual messages?” he asked Pushkin. Again, it wasn’t by coincidence that the
Gorshkov’s
radioman was working a late shift tonight in the
Wilmington
’s aging radio shack. Losenko’s old crew had largely gone their separate ways over the last fifteen years as time, attrition, reassignment, and the hazards of war had eaten away at their ranks. But a few aging veterans had stuck with their skipper.

Pushkin was one such loyalist. Losenko had conspired to have him on duty at this crucial juncture. He leaned over the man’s shoulder as he monitored incoming transmissions.

“No, sir.” He knew the general wanted to be ready to receive any emergency alerts from Alaska. They spoke in Russian to avoid being overheard by the other radio operator, a young Filipino woman Losenko didn’t know very well. The old custom of excluding females from submarine duty had long ago fallen by the wayside. “Everything seems quiet. Just the usual encrypted updates and reports.”

Perhaps that’s a good thing,
Losenko thought. He recalled the American saying, no news is good news. Maybe the silence meant that Kookesh and her crew were doing fine on their own, with no need of outside assistance. He’d like to think so.

Perhaps I dispatched Ivanov to Canada for nothing.
That, too, would be perfectly acceptable. Still....

“Keep monitoring the frequencies we discussed,” he urged. For security’s sake, the
Wilmington
wouldn’t stay at periscope depth indefinitely. Soon they would have to return to the greater safety of the ocean depths. But until then, he intended—with Pushkin’s help—to keep his electronic ears open up to the very last minute. Molly Kookesh deserved that much.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Pushkin glanced at a chronometer. His new partner regarded them curiously, surely wondering what the old Russians were up to. Neither man illuminated her. “Looks like you might be wasting your time, General.”

“Perhaps,” Losenko conceded. “If so, it will hardly be the first time.”

Pushkin settled back in his seat, getting comfortable. A matrix printer churned out reports for Ashdown’s inspection. “You ever wonder if we’ll be able to go home someday, sir?” Neither man had set foot on Mother Russia since they had fled the Kola Peninsula. Most of the continent remained under the thumb of Skynet. “I admit that I miss the sunsets some—”

A light flashed at his console, signaling an incoming message. Pushkin sat up straight. He looked at Losenko in surprise.

“An emergency alert, from Alaska, sir. On your private channel.”

Dread gripped the general’s heart. Something had indeed gone wrong with the assault on the uranium train.

“Put it through.”

“Aye, aye!”

The other operator noted the activity.

“What is it?” she said in English. “Shall I notify Captain Okata? General Ashdown?”

“That won’t be necessary, sailor.” Losenko answered in English. Her name escaped him. Too many crewmen had passed through the sub over the years—he couldn’t keep track of them anymore. “I believe we have the situation under control. Please attend to your own duties.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The junior operator retreated to her console, but kept glancing back at the Russians. She knew something was amiss.

With a few deft keystrokes, Pushkin moved Kookesh’s text message to the top of the printing queue. The machine spat it out in an instant. Breaking protocol, Losenko snatched the brief message from the printer with his own hand. His eyes took in three stark letters.

SOS.

His heart sank.

I knew it,
he thought. The Alaskan cell was in trouble.

He briefly considered appealing to Ashdown once more, informing the general of the measures he had already taken as a precaution against just such an occasion. But, no, Ashdown was holed up in his stateroom with the latest intelligence on the shutdown code. He had instructed that he was not to be disturbed.

Losenko decided to take him at his word.

“Contact Captain Ivanov,” he ordered Pushkin. Alexei was standing by at the Resistance airfield in the Yukon, a little more than 300 miles away from Kookesh’s theater of operations. A fighter plane was fueled up and ready. “Give him the word.”

Pushkin nodded. He checked to make sure he had understood the general.

“And that word is?”

“Go.”

Gunfire and screams penetrated the ruptured wall of the railcar. The ghastly din of the Snowminators hunting down her people scraped at Molly’s soul. The armored walls of the car spared them the same fate, but also trapped them inside the train.

Stuck in the innards of the machine that’s trying to kill us,
she thought, fighting despair.
Not a good situation to be in.

Forcing herself to tune out the carnage outdoors, she took stock of their surroundings. An unsettling red light, characteristic of Skynet’s installations, suffused a cramped vestibule at one end of the car. A second rent— this one in the ceiling—offered a glimpse of shimmering sky. Riveted steel walls were devoid of signage or ornamentation. The train was as ugly and utilitarian on the inside as it was on the surface.

Beauty was strictly a human concept, or so Ernie Wisetongue always insisted.

“Not exactly the Orient Express,” Doc said, reading her mind. He tapped his skull. “Still, I will endeavor to employ all my little grey cells.”

Thank God for small favors,
Molly mused.
At least Rathbone wasn’t freaking out. Though this would certainly be an appropriate time....

Sitka who had never heard of Agatha Christie—let alone read her novels—didn’t understand the reference. “Oriented how?” she asked.

She kept close to Molly and Doc, clearly shaken by the sudden deaths of Jensen and the others. Molly had never seen her so subdued, but wasn’t surprised by her reaction. The ugly reality of war could dampen even the most irrepressible spirit.

“Never mind,” Molly said. She’d explain later, if there was a later. In the meantime, they still had a mission to accomplish. The slaughter outside only increased her determination to ensure that their friends and comrades hadn’t died in vain. No way was Skynet going to get its uranium.

She inspected their surroundings. The tiny space into which they were crowded constituted only a narrow sliver of the railcar’s interior. A reinforced steel door cut them off from the rest, which was probably filled with freshly mined and processed yellowcake. The door had no handle; she guessed that it opened and closed automatically. That meant their prize was on the other side.

“All right, Doc.” She rapped the vault door with her knuckles. “You’re on.”

“Yes, of course.” He seemed to welcome the challenge—most likely to avoid thinking about the hopelessness of their situation and the bloodbath they had just witnessed. He contemplated the barrier, squinting over the tops of his bifocals. “First, though, let us make certain it is truly worth our while.” He turned toward Sitka. “The counter if you please, young lady.”

The girl rummaged through her book bag. A handheld Geiger counter surfaced from its cluttered depths. The device was held together by all sorts of improvised, mickey-mouse wiring and add-ons.

“Here goes,” she said, and she handed it over to him like a scrub nurse assisting a surgeon during a delicate operation.

Doc flicked on the device. It hummed to life, then began clicking like a castanet. The scientist nodded in satisfaction.

“Processed uranium, all right. Just as I expected, our mechanical adversaries didn’t bother with radiation shielding.” He put the counter aside. “And why should they? The damnable automatons have no fear of cancer or genetic mutation.”

Such things didn’t worry Molly, either. Kids weren’t in her future, and she didn’t expect to survive long enough for cancer to be a problem.

“Better get my red armband for this,” Sitka muttered. Breaking into the storage compartment helped distract her as well. “Earned it this time.”

“Tell you what,” Molly promised, “we get out of this, you can have mine.”

The girl’s freckled face lifted a little.

Doc moved to a thin metal lid that was mounted to the wall next to the vault. Some sort of maintenance panel, presumably. Even unmanned, artificially intelligent trains needed tune-ups sometimes.

“Screwdriver,” Doc demanded of his assistant. Sitka produced one from a fanny pack around her waist, then peered intently as the Doc went to work trying to pry the lid open. “Can’t believe it’s come to this. My esteemed parents never raised me to be a train robber or safecracker. I was a systems designer, for chrissakes, a white-collar worker. Not the Sundance Kid.”

Sitka emitted a long-suffering sigh. “Speaking in tongues again.”

Grunting, he bore down on the locked panel. A hinge snapped and the lid popped open. A computer interface panel was exposed. Doc stepped back and took a bow, like a stage magician who had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

“Eureka!”

“Careful!” Molly warned. “It might be booby-trapped.”

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Skynet surely never expected anyone to get this fa—”