Terminator Salvation: Cold War

escape route. Molly slept better with multiple exits.

She kicked off her boots and got ready for bed. The king-sized four-poster, with its mismatched comforters and quilts, looked warm and inviting. It had been a long day and then some. She was ready for it to be over.

“Admit it,” Geir teased her. He was already down to a flannel shirt and jeans. His aviator’s jacket hung on a hook by the door. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She knew he was referring to the wedding.

“I suppose. Like you said, it was good for morale.” She placed her rifle by the door. A loaded semi-automatic pistol already rested on a table next to the bed. “Beats being shot at by T-600s, I guess.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” He deposited his own weapons on the opposite side of the bed. “And speaking of weddings....”

Uh-oh.

Before she could stop him, he dropped down onto one knee.

Oh, fuck, Molly groaned inwardly. Not this again.

He fished a polished metal ring from the pocket of his shirt.

“Molly Roxana Kookesh, will you marry me?”

She recognized the ring. It was the pin from a hand grenade he had hurled at a Terminator during that raid on a Skynet interrogation facility in 2015. Her team had liberated more than two dozen POWs, including one grounded bush pilot. After she’d freed Geir from solitary confinement, they’d ended up fighting a whole passel of T- 70s, side-by-side. Their “first date,” as it were.

Geir had hung onto the ring ever since.

“For God’s sake, stand up,” she told the kneeling pilot. It was hardly the first time he’d pulled this stunt. “You look ridiculous.” As usual, she treated the ring as though it was radioactive. “How many times do we have to go through this?”

He rose to his feet again, but didn’t put the ring away.

“C’mon, Molly. We’ve been together, through all kinds of hell, for three years now. What are we waiting for?”

“Are you kidding?” She couldn’t believe they were actually having this discussion again. “There’s a war on, remember? If Skynet has its way, the human race is kaput. Marriage and white picket fences and all that shit will have to wait until the machines are scrap metal—if and when that ever happens. What’s the point in planning for the future? Today is all that matters. Tomorrow’s a long shot at best.”

He flinched at her harsh words.

“Roger and Tammi didn’t think so.”

“Roger and Tammi are a couple of stupid kids who don’t know any better. They’re just foot soldiers. Cannon fodder. They can afford to cling to their starry-eyed illusions, at least until the Terminators get them.” She made sure the bedroom door was securely locked and bolted. Sleigh bells hanging from the doorknob would jangle loudly if anyone tried to force their way in while they were sleeping. Then she turned to face him.

“I’m in charge here, Geir,” she said. “I can’t allow myself to forget what really matters.”

“Neither can I,” he said stubbornly. Visibly disappointed, he dropped the ring back into his pocket. “That’s why I’m not going to give up.” His hurt expression got to her, although not enough to make her change her mind.

“I know,” she said softly. She peeled off her sweater. A scar across her flat belly was a souvenir of a close encounter with a Hunter-Killer. Geir liked to trace it with his finger sometimes. “Just be happy with what we have, okay?” She undid her ponytail. Long black hair tumbled past her bare shoulders. “I don’t want to think about tomorrow anymore. Just tonight.”

The rest of her clothes hit the floor. She climbed into the bed and threw back the covers.

“Now get over here and keep me warm.”

Geir was smart enough to know an invitation when he heard one. He shrugged in defeat.

“Beats being shot at by machines, right?”

Molly watched him undress.

“You know it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

2003

Something crunched beneath Losenko’s boot.

He looked down. A charred human jawbone lay in pieces atop the cracked and broken pavement. The grisly relic elicited only a rueful grimace. He was inured to such remains now. The port was nothing but bones.

A small fishing community situated near the mouth of the Ponoy River, it had not taken a direct hit from the enemy missiles, but it was a ghost town nonetheless. All that was left were the gutted remains of burnt-out homes and buildings. Torched vehicles, their windows blown out, rusted in the streets. Truncated iron beams jutted from the wreckage of an abandoned cannery. Industrial machinery had melted into shapeless heaps of solid slag. Thermal blasts, shock waves, and radioactive fallout had reduced the village to a rotting corpse.

Preliminary scouting teams had discovered evidence of looting as well. Losenko took that as a good omen. It meant that someone had survived the initial attack, at least for a time.

The Gorshkov was moored at the village’s one surviving pier, which an engineering detail was busily reinforcing. Armed sentries, hand-selected by Master Chief Komarov, stood guard over the work crew. Losenko wanted no more deserters. He wondered if he should post guards to watch the sentries.

Flak jackets and helmets protected the security team. Losenko wasn’t expecting an attack, but it paid to be cautious. Desperate survivors could be dangerous.

The captain paced along the shore. A bullhorn rested in his grip. He stepped onto a blackened concrete foundation and again raised the bullhorn to his lips. His amplified voice echoed across the desolate wasteland.

“Attention, citizens! This is Captain Dmitri Losenko of the Russian Navy. If you are hiding, please show yourself. We are here to offer you whatever assistance we can provide. Do not be afraid. We mean you no harm. Repeat: do not be afraid. Please let us help you.”

He lowered the bullhorn and listened expectantly, but without much hope. This was not the first time he or his officers had made such an announcement.

As before, there was no response. Was the village truly deserted, or were there still survivors huddled somewhere in the wreckage, afraid to come forward?

Who could blame them? Losenko mused. The military had failed to save them; indeed their unfortunate proximity to the naval base had brought this disaster down upon them. Why put themselves in the hands of strangers with guns? They had to assume that civilization had collapsed. It’s every man for himself now.

Duty compelled him, however, to make his best effort to locate any survivors.

A truck engine roared to life a few meters away. The sub’s mechanics had salvaged the abandoned pickup from the bottom level of a local parking garage. A dozen armed seamen were seated in the bed of the rundown vehicle. Its scorched blue paint job was cracked and peeling. Improvised patches kept its tires inflated. Ivanov kicked them, just to be sure.

Scowling, the XO crossed the pavement to join his superior. A Kalashnikov assault rife was slung over his shoulder. A dosimeter was pinned to the lapel of his heavy overcoat; the treated plastic film measured his exposure to radiation. Earlier scans had found the level of radiation higher than they would have liked, but not immediately life-threatening. Losenko suspected that they were going to have to live with a revised definition of “acceptable” from now on. At the moment, the threat of cancer was the least of their worries.

“Scouting team is ready to depart, sir,” Ivanov reported. “Request permission to lead the reconnaissance mission.”

Losenko shook his head. An identical dosimeter was pinned like a badge to his own lapel.

“Permission denied.” He lowered his voice to avoid being overheard. “We’ve already discussed this, Alexei. I