Terminator Salvation: Cold War

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 Losenko 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.”