Terminator Salvation: Cold War

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 had 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.”