Terminator Salvation: Cold War ts-3

by Greg Cox

  “Haw! Haw!” she shouted, steering the dogs left. “Gee!” They raced parallel to the pipeline, weaving in and out of saddles to avoid being tagged by the Terminator’s bullets. It was like navigating a slalom course while under fire. The massive pipes and their supports shielded them from the mechanized monsters in pursuit. Machinegun fire tore up the snow banks, while the plow itself would roll right over them if it caught up.

  The sled was smaller and more maneuverable than the larger plow, but the tank outweighed them by several orders of magnitude. Its blade would smash them to pieces.

  “Haw!”

  The sled veered left, putting the pipeline on her right. The Terminators fired under and around the pipes, still taking care not to damage the vital artery. Skynet was like a vampire, sucking up Alaska’s resources to perpetuate its genocidal agenda.

  Too bad I don’t have a silver bullet, Molly thought, then an idea struck her. Maybe I don’t need one.

  She glanced up at the raised pipeline, skimming past just a yard above her head. In theory, the pipes were supposed to be bulletproof, but it hadn’t always worked out that way. Back around the turn of the century—a couple of years before Judgment Day—a trigger-happy drunk had managed to shoot a hole into one of the welds connecting the lengths of pipe, causing a serious oil spill. The damage it had caused had appalled Molly.

  Now it gave her an idea.

  Hooking her elbow around the handlebar to free up her hands, she awkwardly loaded another clip into her assault rifle. “Straight ahead!” she urged the dogs, keeping the pipeline on her right. She waited until another weld came into view, then let loose with a blistering blast of 45-millimeter vandalism.

  Let’s see how bulletproof that plumbing really is!

  At first, her desperate ploy appeared to have failed. The bullets ricocheted off the thick metal pipe without breaking skin.

  “Fuck!”

  But then a scarred steel weld gave way spectacularly. Gallons of unprocessed crude oil gushed behind them onto the snowy landscape below. A black tide flowed across the terrain.

  Eureka, Molly thought. Once upon a time, she would have been horrified by an oil spill of this magnitude, but that was before Judgment Day. Now she needed to do whatever was necessary to protect an endangered species: Me.

  The speeding plow came careening after her. Its wheels hit the oil slick, losing traction with the earth. The entire tank went into a spin. Gun-toting Terminators grabbed onto safety rails to keep from being thrown from the vehicle. The T-600 in the turret tumbled backward, away from the machinegun fixture, and rolled off the side of the plow.

  The dislodged Terminator landed with a splash in the spreading oil. It struggled to right itself, its human clothing and camouflage liberally coated with crude, only to find the blade of the spinning plow heading straight for it. The slick black figure threw up its hands to protect its cranial case, but its titanium-alloy endoskeleton was no match for the bloodstained blade’s sheer mass and momentum. Metal crunched and clanged as the blade collided with the T-600. Its optical sensors shattered and went dark moments before it was ground into scrap metal beneath the plow’s chains and snow tires.

  The tank kept on spinning, leaving a mess of flattened Terminator parts behind it. Severed metal limbs, still imbued with a spark of life, flailed about uselessly in the oil. The unleashed gunfire of the remaining Terminators went awry, firing randomly into the sky. More bullets bounced off the ruptured pipeline.

  The plow smashed into one of the saddles, knocking it from its foundations. Its structural integrity compromised, the saddle was unable to support the weight of the pipe resting atop it. An entire length of pipeline slipped from its moorings, crashing down onto the ground. The impact shook the earth. More oil gushed from the open wound, spraying crude like the world’s biggest fire hose.

  Except that this spray was flammable.

  Keeping one arm wrapped around Molly’s waist, Geir plucked a fresh magazine from his service belt and slammed it into the carbine. Twisting around, he fired, and tracer bullets shot from the muzzle. Magnesium charges flashed red as they streaked through the air.

  “Burn in hell,” Geir snarled.

  The tracers hit the massive oil spill. Hundreds of gallons of crude went up in flames, lighting up the ravaged wilderness. A titanic fireball roiled up into the sky, maybe even high enough to be seen from camp. A scorching blast of heat blew past them, and Molly grinned wolfishly. It was the first time in memory that she had felt warm.

  That’s it, baby. Light my fire.

  Earth-shaking explosions blew the pipeline apart. Mammoth hunks of steel and concrete were thrown up into the air, before they came hurtling back down like a meteor shower. Deafening blasts assaulted her ear-drums until all sound was muffled. Shock waves almost knocked her from the sled. Beneath her gloves, white knuckles clung to the handlebar, while Geir squeezed her so tightly she could hardly breathe. One of the swing dogs lost its footing, stumbled, and was dragged along by its frantic teammates.

  Thick black smoke blocked out the feeble sunlight. It looked as if a volcano had erupted.

  But was it enough to stop the Terminators?

  “Did that do it?” she shouted back at Geir. “Did you get them?”

  “Huh?” Geir hollered. “What’s that?”

  Molly responded at the top of her lungs.

  “Did you get those fucking machines?”

  “I don’t know!” He squinted back into the smoke and heat. “Maybe?”

  Maybe’s not good enough, Molly thought. They couldn’t head back to camp until they knew that they had shaken the T-600s and their homicidal pursuit. No way was she leading them back to Sitka and the others. We’ve already lost too many good people today.

  Hatred, hotter even than the inferno behind her, surged through her veins.

  “Hang on!” Geir shouted. His face was blackened with soot, and his beard was singed. “I think I see something... oh, shit!”

  She didn’t like the sound of that.

  The plow, still loaded with Terminators, barged out of the smoke. Dancing flames licked its blackened exterior, and its mounted machinegun turret had been mangled beyond recognition, but the tank was coming on strong. Fiendish red eyes glowed in the skull-like visages of the four T-600s who clung to the sides of the speeding vehicle. Their phony flesh and clothing had completely burned away, exposing their scorched endoskeletons in all their naked horror. They looked like metallic grim reapers riding a snow plow from hell.

  “Fuck,” Molly muttered, angry but not too surprised by the enemy’s persistence. Skynet built its cybernetic storm troopers to last. Terminators weren’t alive—not really—but they were damn hard to kill.

  What would John Connor do at a time like this?

  “Now what?” Geir shouted into her aching ear.

  She scanned the rugged geography ahead of them. Whitman Pass was almost upon them. The rocky ravine was the only way through the mountains for miles. The corners of her lips tilted upwards. There was a trick she had always been meaning to try....

  “Hike!” she urged the dogs. “Straight ahead!” She raised her voice to make sure Geir could hear her. “You ever see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?”

  “Not much into musicals,” he admitted. She could hear the confusion in his voice, and readily imagine his perplexed expression. “Why?”

  There was no time to explain.

  “Wait for it!”

  Whitman Pass climbed at a steady gradient from the plain below. Centuries of erosion and geological activity had carved out a V-shaped canyon about a half-mile long and approximately the width of two old-fashioned covered wagons. Wide enough for the Terminator snow plow to get through, damn it all. A narrower pass would have made life much easier—and probably longer. Granite cliffs piled high with tons of packed snow and ice rose on either side of the pass, hemming it in. The pipeline itself was buried beneath the roadway at this point, the better to protect it from falling debris.


  A pitted steel sign, left over from the bygone days of human supremacy, offered a dire warning to winter travelers:

  DANGER! AVALANCHE ZONE!

  Molly was relieved to see that the explosions behind them had not brought a cascade of piled snow and ice down into the pass, blocking their way. That would have put a serious crimp in her plans. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry, while the sled raced uphill into the pass.

  The dogs ran sure-footedly over the cracked and icy pavement, dragging their human cargo behind them. The huskies were panting hard; the extra weight was starting to slow them down. The overturned swing dog had managed to get back on his feet, although he limped noticeably compared to his partner. Their headlong passage triggered minor snowfalls from the cliffs above them. Slurries of crumbling snow and ice tumbled down the craggy slopes.

  Her upturned eyes darted from left to right, keeping a close eye on a winter’s worth of accumulated whiteness. Fractured slabs of ice the size of roofs were barely held in place, edged with a frigid glaze of rime, blocking out any view of the sky. Pebble-sized chunks of ice rained down on her head. Hang on, she silently commanded the huge sheets of snow, ice, and rock that were suspended above them.

  She wished she could slow down, but the Terminators took that option off the table. Speed was their only hope now, plus a whole lot of luck. Unable to tear her gaze away from the cliffs, she couldn’t glance back. Her heart pounded, much too loudly for her own peace of mind.

  The ringing in her ears began to fade. She kept her voice low.

  “Are they still after us?”

  “They’re Terminators,” Geir answered tensely. “What d’you think?”

  At least the killer robots weren’t firing at them anymore. Had their ammo gone up in the fire, or did they just know better than to raise a ruckus in an avalanche zone?

  Probably waiting to plow us under, she mused darkly, dogs, sled, and all.

  Well, we’ll see about that....

  They reached the crest of the pass, where the road dipped back down toward the plains. Now it was downhill all the way, and the dogs picked up speed. Unfortunately, so did the Terminators. Molly could hear the tank’s heavy tread crunching over the frozen road behind them. As it drew closer, more ice and rock dislodged. Its chains scraped against the asphalt. The powerful diesel engine could outlast any dog, even a champion. Molly remembered Geir’s earlier challenge. This wasn’t the race she’d had in mind.

  The pass opened up ahead. Molly spied a wedge of grey sky through the towering granite V. She held her breath and glanced up at the cliffs.

  Only a few more yards....

  Finally! The sled careened out of the pass. She prodded Geir with her elbow.

  “Let go of me—and grab onto the handlebar!”

  “Huh? What are you thinking?”

  “Just do it, flyboy!”

  His arm came away from her waist. He balanced precariously on the runners for an instant before snatching the handle. Molly threw herself forward, somersaulting over the bar onto the cargo bed at the front of the sled. A canvas bag, stuffed with supplies, cushioned her landing. The wheel dogs at the rear of the train looked back at her, their eyes wide with confusion. Frozen slobber caked their snouts. She could hear them wheezing; their overworked lungs on the verge of giving out.

  Not much longer, guys, she promised.

  “Hike!”

  She yanked open the zipper on the sled bag. Cold hands, numb even beneath her gloves, rummaged frantically through first aid supplies, emergency rations, and extra clips of ammo.

  “C’mon,” she growled impatiently. “Where the fuck are you?”

  Yes!

  Her questing fingers came into contact with something long and metallic. Squatting on her knees atop the cargo bed, she wrested her prize from the bag. It gleamed like blue steel in the fading light.

  Sitka had found the vintage M79 grenade launcher in the ruins of an old National Guard armory. She had given it to Molly as a birthday present, wrapped with a bow. Molly had promised to save it for a special occasion.

  Like now.

  The “bloop gun” resembled a stubby, sawed-off shotgun. Molly slammed a single explosive cartridge into the breach, then jumped to her feet. She balanced atop the cargo bed, facing back toward the pass where the relentless snow plow was speeding downhill after them, almost two-thirds through the canyon. T-600s clung to its sides and roof, their blood-red optical sensors glowing with murderous anticipation. They would never stop coming, she knew, until their targets were terminated. Surrender was not in their programming.

  Mine either, she thought.

  “That’s far enough, metal!”

  Surprise flickered across Geir’s expression as she rested the barrel of the M79 on his shoulder to steady her aim. The sled bounced violently beneath her, but that didn’t matter. This shot wasn’t about accuracy. Just noise.

  She squeezed the trigger.

  A sharp report brutalized her already aching ears. The forty-millimeter flash-bang grenade went spinning into the air, arcing high above the ground before descending toward the opening of the pass. For a second, Molly feared that the hasty shot might bounce off the mountainside, but its trajectory carried it straight into the mouth of the canyon. She plugged her fingers into her ears a second before the explosive projectile hit the ground, right in front of the snow plow.

  It went off with a bang.

  She had missed the tank by a couple of yards, but the flash-bang was designed to generate more confusion than damage. The booming detonation shook loose the delicately balanced slabs of snow and ice heaped on both sides of the pass. With a thunderous whoomph, twin avalanches came streaming down the sides of the mountains, carrying several tons of frozen debris down on top of the Terminators and their tank. Billowing clouds of powder preceded a plunging wall of snow that gained speed and momentum at a terrifying pace. Massive chunks of ice knocked loose more snow and boulders, propagating an awe-inspiring chain reaction.

  Alerted to the danger, the plow hit the gas, trying to outrace the deadly cascade, but the avalanche was faster. Within seconds gravity buried the Terminators beneath a wintry deluge.

  “Hah!” Geir admired Molly’s handiwork from the back of the sled. “Let’s see them plow their way out of that!”

  Or not, she thought hopefully. The sled slowed as the exhausted dogs surrendered to fatigue, but by that time they were well outside of the avalanche zone. Surging plumes of powder clouded her view of the pass. She peered into the opaque white haze, waiting anxiously for the snow to settle. She loaded another grenade into the launcher, just in case.

  She caught her breath.

  The cloud dispersed. A mountain of fallen snow and ice filled the canyon, rendering it impassable till spring, perhaps longer. Smaller avalanches continued to funnel down the slopes, sprinkling the top of the heap with a fresh layer of icy rubble. Molly kept her eyes peeled for even a flicker of red. She knew better than to count the Terminators out prematurely.

  But all she saw was white. No glowing sensors. No bursts of gunfire.

  No metal.

  Geir whooped it up, glad to be alive. He hugged her shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek.

  “What was the name of that movie again?”

  “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.” She lowered the grenade launcher. A breathless “Whoa!” gave the huskies permission to take a breather. They dropped limply into the snow, panting loudly. “Used to be one of my favorites. Before.”

  Geir sighed. “Too bad Judgment Day cancelled my NetFlix subscription.” He hopped off the sled and checked on the dogs. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  “Later,” she promised. They had a long, cold trek ahead of them, especially now that the pass was closed. Looking out over the daunting vista before her, she glimpsed the volcanic peak of Mount Wrangell in the distance. Plumes of steam, rising from its crater, reminded her of a smoking gun barrel. She wondered how many of their comrades had escaped the ambush, and
if they had made it back to the camp already.

  As the rush of adrenaline faded, she sagged against the handlebar, giving way to grief and exhaustion. The M79 dropped to her feet. Grisly images from the attack paraded before her mind’s eye. Jake. Kathy. Butchered dogs twitching in the bloody slush....

  All for a bunch of oil we didn’t even get.

  Sometimes she wondered if humanity even stood a chance.

  “Let the dogs rest. We’ll get a move on later. Before sundown.”

  She just hoped the huskies were up to it.

  ***

  Hours later:

  The human insurgents were long gone by the time the moon rose over the ice-clotted pass. A forest fire still raged to the south, although Skynet had cut off the flow of oil, and it would remain that way until the damaged stretch of pipeline could be repaired. The sabotage was a temporary inconvenience, but not an insurmountable one. Skynet had control of most of the planet’s energy reserves, from Saudi Arabia to Siberia. The disruption to the Alaskan pipeline would not seriously impact its operations.

  A young male lynx padded across the heaped debris, fleeing the blaze behind it. The wild cat’s large paws acted like snowshoes as it made its way to safer hunting grounds. Its stealthy passage made scarcely a sound.

  A sudden crack broke the nocturnal stillness. The slippery rubble shifted beneath the lynx’s paws. Yowling, it bounded away in alarm.

  The big cat abandoned the pass without a backward glance, so that only the moon was watching as a tremor shook the glazed surface of the mound. Loose ice and snow streamed down the side of the pile, near the northern end of the pass. A scraping noise came from beneath the shifting mass.

  A robotic fist smashed through the topmost slab. Servomotors whirred as a second fist punched upward into the moonlight. Articulated steel fingers dug into the side of the heap. Optical sensors, peering up through the cracked ice, dimly glimpsed the moonlight. An illuminated heads-up flashed in the upper right-hand corner of the visual display:

  IMPERATIVE: RESTORE FULL MOBILITY.

  Slowly, methodically, a T-600 dragged itself up into the cold night air. Snow and ice sloughed off of its battered endoskeleton. Only a few tattered shreds of fabric hung to its limbs and battle chassis. The left half of a charred and melted rubber face masked its cranial case. Unlike real flesh, the imitation skin was immune to frostbite. Antifreeze trickled like blood from its left shoulder joint. Cool chartreuse fluid dripped onto the pristine white snow.