by Greg Cox
“A lot of our provisions went up in the fire,” Geir admitted. “Thank goodness for the emergency caches we had stashed. Hunting parties are out looking for fresh game.”
Molly nodded. “Figured as much.” The casualty figures didn’t surprise her. She could still see the Terminator’s chainsaw slicing up Ernie and Roger whenever she heard a motor running. The smell of exhaust, mixed with the coppery tang of blood, haunted her memory. “What’s our ammo situation like?”
“Better than you might expect.” Geir consulted his notes. “After fifteen years of being hunted by Terminators, that’s the first thing people grab during an evacuation. Food and clothing are a distant second.” He looked up from his notes. “You think it would be worth sending a salvage team back to the mill? See if anything valuable survived?”
Molly shook her head.
“Too risky. Skynet probably has the site staked out, with Aerostats if nothing else. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past the machines to have a Terminator laying in wait for any careless scavengers.” She sniffed her sweater; it still smelled like smoke. “Forget that place. What’s gone is gone.”
Geir sighed. “Story of our lives.”
“Ever since Judgment Day,” Molly agreed. She forced herself to think ahead, as opposed to dwelling on the past. “Any helping hands from our friends in the Resistance?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t look optimistic, though. “We’ve been in touch with cells in Canada and the Lower 48, hoping they can resupply us, but there are no guarantees. Ordnance and electronics are more valuable than gold these days, and most cells have barely got enough materiel for their own operations. As usual, Command doesn’t see us as a high priority.” Geir made a face. “The scuttlebutt is they’re throwing all their weight at California and the southwest. That’s where they think the real action is.”
No surprise there, Molly thought. San Francisco, or rather what was left of it, was Skynet Central these days. But we’ve got to fight the machines everywhere, not just in their own backyard. Why doesn’t Command see that?
“So, in other words, we’re on our own,” she muttered. “Same as fucking usual.”
“Something like that,” Geir admitted. “On the bright side, pretty much all of the families got out okay. And there haven’t been any follow-up assaults.” He cracked a smile. “Maybe Skynet is focusing on the Lower 48, too?”
“Doubt it,” Molly said. “Skynet’s way too good at multitasking. It’s more like Alaska is still too big to search effectively, even for the machines.” Not for the first time, she was grateful for the sheer immensity of the state’s untracked wilderness; the largest state in the USA, and the least populated even before Judgment Day, the land of the midnight sun offered plenty of dense backwoods to hide in. “Any other good news?”
Geir had a talent for finding silver linings even in the darkest mushroom clouds. Sometimes it was annoying, but right now she could use a little optimism.
“Well,” he pointed out, “we managed to do some serious damage to the pipeline the other day. Don’t forget that.”
Molly was disappointed. That’s the best you’ve got? she thought, glaring at him in spite of herself.
“The machines will have that stretch of pipeline repaired in no time,” she replied. “And what do they care about oil spills? The environment means nothing to them.” She stared glumly into the fire, unable to duck the discouraging truth. Her crippled foot mocked her. “Skynet hurt us way more than we hurt it.”
Geir put aside his inventory lists. He gently shifted her foot from the pillow to his lap. Molly winced, but didn’t complain.
“Just a flesh wound, chief,” he said softly. “The war’s not over.”
“All the more reason to hit that fucking train,” she said savagely. “Show Skynet that we’re still in the game.”
Geir gave her a dubious look.
“You sure about that? After everything that’s happened, maybe we should postpone that operation until we’re back on our feet again.” He blushed as he recalled the injured appendage in his lap. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”
Molly couldn’t care less about his faux pas.
“Postpone? Not a chance!” Her blood boiled at the thought. “Just because we took a hit, like you said, we’re not going to slink away with our tails between our legs! We need to strike back, fast and hard. It’s the last thing Skynet will be expecting.”
“With reason, maybe.” Geir pleaded caution. “I don’t know, chief. I’m not sure if now is the right time to launch a major offensive. Our people have been through a lot. There hasn’t even been time for a memorial service yet.”
“Screw that!” Molly yanked her foot back and lurched awkwardly to her feet, ignoring the pain that shot up her leg. She limped across the cramped, one-room shack and grabbed a crude iron poker from a rack by the hearth.
“You’re the one who’s always talking about morale.” She viciously jabbed the embers that were dying in the fireplace, stirring up sparks. “Enough with the damn weddings and prayer vigils. The machines killed our friends and torched our homes. The only thing that’s going to make that better is kicking Skynet right in the balls!”
“For you, maybe, but what about everyone else?” He got up and took the poker from her hands, putting it back in its rack. There was an edge to his voice that she seldom heard. “Damnit, Molly. Not everyone is as hard, as tough, as you are. What about Sitka and Doc and the others? You can’t expect people to just shake off what’s happened and go right back to fighting—like that Terminator you dropped a mountain on. They’re only flesh and blood!”
“You think I don’t know that?” Molly snapped. She knew the name of every single human being who had died under her command. Sometimes she counted them, like sheep, to get to sleep at night. “But that’s what Skynet is relying on, us poor, weak, fragile humans to give up and die... like we should’ve done after Judgment Day. Well, forget that. If we didn’t quit after Skynet trashed the whole fucking world, we’re sure as hell not going to throw in the towel just because we got our butts kicked a few times.”
He took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him.
“Nobody’s saying we should quit. But it’s just too soon to pick another fight with the machines. You’re pushing too hard.”
“There’s no such thing, not anymore.” She pulled away from him. “The machines aren’t going to take a time-out, so neither can we.”
She plopped down on the floor again and grabbed the discarded legal pad. She starting scribbling notes on the back of the inventory lists. Her plans for the train assault had gone up in flames with her old cabin, but they were still locked up tight inside her fevered brain. She jotted them down as fast as she could.
Pausing for a second, she fingered the Raven pendant around her neck. In Haida mythology, Raven was a trickster god who brought light to the darkness. They would need all of Raven’s cunning to outwit Skynet. Molly was up to the challenge.
Operation Ravenwing was still a go.
“Get hold of Doc. Sitka.” She didn’t look up, though, and kept writing furiously as she spoke. “I want to meet with them tomorrow morning, bright and early. Pump Rathbone full of black coffee if you have to.”
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....”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
2003
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 h
ad 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 o
f 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.