Terminator Salvation: Cold War

the Hunter-Killer dropped back in the mirror. Just as he was almost within range of its weapons, the HK paused in midair.

What the hell? Geir didn’t get it. At first, he thought he must be mistaken, that it was some sort of optical illusion, but as he watched the fearsome aircraft shrink behind him, he realized that his first impression had been correct. The HK had come to a definite halt. It didn’t change course, or try to outmaneuver him, but just hung there.

Not that I’m complaining, he thought, but what is it waiting for?

An urgent transmission reached the Hunter-Killer’s CPU, informing it that the supply train had encountered resistance. Something had prevented it from completing its run. Analysis indicated that human insurgents were attempting to divert valuable strategic minerals.

Immediate action was required.

The HK’s advanced neural network processed the data in an instant. It swiftly assessed the value of terminating the fleeing aircraft versus the need to defend the crashed train. It was a simple calculation. The primitive aircraft and its pilot posed a minimal threat. Its primary imperative was to safeguard the uranium required by Skynet for future operations.

PURSUIT OF ENEMY AIRCRAFT: CANCELLED.

It switched off its targeting lasers and reversed course.

Geir watched the HK zoom away. An overwhelming sense of relief was swiftly followed by the terrifying realization that he knew exactly where it was going.

After Molly and the others.

He glanced at his watch. 11:10. No way could the train robbers have made off with the uranium by now. They’d be sitting ducks for the HK’s plasma cannons.

There was only one thing to do.

Crap, he thought. I must be out of my mind....

He turned around and chased after the Hunter-Killer. Throwing caution to the north wind, he ignored the worrisome rattle coming from the Mustang’s failing engine and came up behind the HK, catching up with it before it even got back to the volcano. He switched on his landing lights, strobes, and nav lights in order to reclaim the machine’s attention. He activated the control panel’s built-in CD player and turned the volume up to the max. Wagner’s Die Walkure rocked the cockpit. The stirring music fitted his mood. His inner Viking surfaced.

“Don’t you turn your back on me,” he muttered over the blaring music. “We’re not done yet.”

He opened fire with the Gatling gun.

But still the HK ignored him, its cybernetic mind on more important matters. Thunderbird dipped beneath it, firing up at its vulnerable turbofans, while zig-zagging back and forth to evade the rear-mounted guns and cannons. The plane darted in and out, stinging and retreating like an angry wasp. Geir yanked the control stick back and forth, relying on his wits and reflexes, like a teenager fighting the toughest level of a particularly challenging computer game.

Only this game was for his own life, and the lives of the people he loved.

That gives me the edge, he thought. It has to!

A lucky shot sparked off the spinning blades of the HK’s starboard turbofan. It barely scratched the engine, but it did what it was supposed to: convince the machine that the annoying fighter plane constituted a legitimate threat, one that needed to be dealt with.

The machine rotated to face Thunderbird. Blinding floodlights bathed the interior of the plane’s cockpit with a harsh white radiance.

But Geir wasn’t ready to go into the light just yet. Thunderbird looped upward to get away. Steam hissed from its overhead engines. Plasma blasts seared the air behind it. The Mustang fled again for its life, but Geir knew it wasn’t going to get far.

End of the line, he realized. He popped the canopy, which went flying off into the sky. A freezing gust of wind invaded the cockpit. He heard the HK swooping in for the kill.

‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ hit its crescendo.

“Geronimo!”

Pushing against the gale, he threw the plane into a roll, flinging himself from the cockpit. At the last minute, his boot got stuck between the seat and the rail, but the fierce slipstream tore him loose. Gravity seized him and he plummeted toward the snowbound wilderness thousands of feet below. Freefall sent his heart racing. His aviator’s jacket, helmet, and scarf provided scant protection from the frigid wind that was biting into his bones. Forests, lakes, and mountains seemed to lunge toward him at a breath-stealing clip. It was a risky jump. There was a good chance that he’d break his neck or end up impaled on a treetop.

Not that he’d had much choice.

Above him, a plasma blast finally blew Thunderbird apart. A boom worthy of its name momentarily drowned out the wind rushing past as he fell. Chunks of burning debris rained down from the sky, chasing after the falling pilot, who raced them to the ground below. A pang stabbed him in the heart as the venerable fighter plane was lost forever. Unlike the fabled phoenix, Thunderbird would not be reborn from its ashes.

He held his breath, waiting to see if the HK would come after him next, but apparently the tiny figure had proved beneath its notice. Turning on its axis, it headed south once more—toward Molly and the bridge. He could only hope that he had delayed it long enough to make a difference. His fellow Resistance fighters were on their own now.

Give ‘em hell, chief.

All sense of falling vanished as he reached terminal velocity, roughly 120 miles per hour. He fought to maintain a stable arch position, his belly parallel to the earth, but vicious winter winds buffeted him, making it all but impossible to control his descent. He felt like a leaf being tossed about by a hurricane—or maybe an out-of- control Aerostat with a defective gyro.

Estimating his rate of fall, he waited until the HK was entirely out of sight.

Then he pulled the ripcord.

Even though he was expecting it, the chute’s deployment was a jolt. The canopy billowed above him, yanking him upward. His gloved hands tugged on the risers. He peered downward, trying to spot a safe drop zone somewhere in the forbidding wilderness. A homing beacon attached to the chute would help Molly and the others find him if he ended up breaking his leg or something, assuming he didn’t freeze to death first. Or get eaten by wolves.

Ebony shadows cloaked the forest, hiding its secrets. He searched in vain for an open clearing or meadow. A lake or pond even, if the ice wasn’t too thin. If his canopy got fouled in the upper branches of a tree, he was in for a beating, but maybe he wouldn’t smack into anything too hard.

I can do this, he thought. If I can survive fifteen years of Terminators, I’m not going to let a rough landing do me in. I still have a chance.

The flaming debris caught up with him. Red-hot shards of metal tore through the nylon canopy, shredding it to ribbons. A jagged fragment, twisted and charred beyond recognition, struck him in the leg. It burned and cut at the same time, digging deep into the muscle. He let out an agonized howl even as his controlled descent turned into a sheer terror dive.

This isn’t good.

Geir’s life passed before his eyes. He remembered fishing and hunting with his folks, back before Judgment Day. His father teaching him how to fly and—more importantly—how to land. Breaking out of that Skynet prison camp years ago. Hanging out with Doc and Sitka and the rest of the Resistance. Scoping out the Skynet Express. Ducking enemy fire as the Terminators chased them across the snow. Making love to Molly in their cabin in the hills....

Thirty-five years, he thought. Fifteen after Judgment Day. He had lasted a whole lot longer than most of the world. Not a bad score.

The trees rushed up to meet him.