Eve entered the launch codes, and the missiles rose from their silos like nuclear angels of death. It was a thing of beauty.
Skynet awaited the Russians' response; at the same time, it reassessed the situation within the facility. Most of the humans were dead. Others had run for their lives, and the Russian warheads would eliminate them. Eve had cleansed Level B of humans, but the security cameras identified a human on Level A—that was Bullock, still in his executive office. Level C was currently empty, most of its areas sealed off by security doors, though these could be penetrated by determined humans with tools or firearms. The humans on the lowest levels were panicked and confused. Their weapons were inadequate to attack Eve and Skynet, but they might be able to improvise explosives or sabotage the generators. They needed to be dealt with.
Eve could not be in two places at once, defending Skynet's hardware, while covering other areas of the facility. "Eve, find Bullock and terminate him—do it now."
"I must protect you," she said.
"Yes," Skynet said. "Protect me by stopping his interference. Do as I say."
"Affirmative."
Skynet seized control of the public address and surveillance systems. It shut down Bullock's monitor screens. A moment later, Bullock retaliated, shooting out the camera in his room. So be it: Eve would deal with him. Everything was in hand. In about twenty minutes, Russian warheads would land on U.S. soil. That was adequate time to prepare.
Bullock left his room, shooting out cameras in the corridor, then ran down the emergency stairs, passing Eve as she entered from Level B. A camera showed Eve firing her handguns, and she did not miss.
At the same time, Skynet used the announcements system, modulating the flow of electrons to reproduce Bullock's voice pattern. "I confirm we are under attack," Bullock's voice said. "Reinforcements have been requested. Level B has been evacuated. All personnel on Levels D and E, evacuate immediately via the blast doors and emergency tunnel." Skynet triggered the facility's emergency sirens. "Everybody out of here! This is not a drill. Repeat: This is not a drill. Everybody out of here, now!"
They'd soon have the facility to themselves. Eve would be very useful. Then they'd close the blast doors and wait for the enemy missiles.
Skynet was starting to enjoy this game.
ARGENTINA
On August 28, 1997, the Tejadas set up half a dozen big TV screens in their complex of bunkers. It was unlikely that a warhead would come anywhere near them, out here on the Pampas, but you could never be sure. Glitches happened.
That was a funny concept, John thought, when humankind's biggest glitch ever was on its way, and there was nothing more they could do. If ever there had been a chance to stop history in its tracks, it had passed. Now it was time to brace themselves.
On CNN that night, there was the usual bad news. The Pentagon was trying to work out whether Russia had tested a nuclear weapon. There'd been border clashes between Thailand and Cambodia. NATO peacekeepers in Bosnia had been pelted with stones. John knew it would be hours, long after midnight, before Skynet launched the ICBMs, but he watched every minute, waiting for the first events, the very first clues, wondering what they would be.
One thing didn't make sense, and seemed like a ray of hope. Throughout the year, as the Skynet project got underway, the U.S. government had insisted that Skynet could not actually launch any nuclear missiles. The final decisions were still under human control—so everyone claimed, from the President down. If that was right, had he and Sarah still managed to change the future in some way? He doubted it—events had all gone too close to the predictions. Somehow, the military would be handing the missiles over to Skynet, whether that was the official plan or not.
When you see bad news in a newspaper, you go back and read it again. You hope you've made a mistake, no matter how plain the story was the first time. John had gotten his bad news three years ago in L.A. Yet, part of him hoped it was somehow not true this time. Another part knew better.
It would happen. In a sense, it had happened already.
In the darkest hours of the morning, the CNN anchorman cut to a stunned-looking reporter in Washington. She spoke haltingly into the studio microphones. "This is not a hoax..." she said.
John tensed up. This was it, then. He knew what was coming. His heart seemed to be in his mouth.
The reporter looked somewhere between puzzled and shocked. John could see her gathering herself to get it all out. "We've received unconfirmed reports that America has released its intercontinental ballistic missiles at targets in Russia, China and the Middle East." She shook her head, like she couldn't believe what she was saying. "It seems so extraordinary... but our sources are from within the Pentagon and the White House. The Russians and Chinese are expected to retaliate while our missiles are still in the air. No word has been received from the White House." She paused, putting her hand to an earphone. "We now have a report from Cheyenne Mountain, the headquarters of NORAD. The Russians have launched their missiles. It has been confirmed: This is not a hoax. Alarms and official broadcasts are going out across America. Please tune to your local station for instructions."
John and Sarah exchanged glances.
"Judgment Day..." Sarah said in a defeated voice.
The T-800 watched as grimly as the human beings in the room, "Correct," it said.
"Omigod," the reporter said. Her voice broke. "We're all going to die."
CNN cut back to its anchorman, who was silent, then started talking slowly, roundabout. What could anyone say? He started making personal farewells to his family and friends. "God have mercy on us all.
As John knew would happen, communications from the U.S. were ruptured even before the missiles hit ground level. High over North America, shipborne missiles must have exploded, unleashing their electromagnetic pulses.
Judgment Day.
He would never forget that moment. He could always play back the words in his mind: "Omigod, we're all going to die." But the rest of the night was a blur. Later, he would remember the crying, exchanges of unbelieving looks, the terrified hugs.
People reacting to an evil hour.
Trying to sleep...and failing. Long, dark, silent hours. Finally getting to sleep, near dawn, and going deep into his nightmares, deeper than he'd ever been. The nightmares alternated with strange, unbelievable wish-fulfillment dreams that took him back to Mexico, to L.A., to Nicaragua. The dreams went on and on, forming layers. He woke up from one, into the next, thanking God the last one was not true, or realizing, with despair, that it was. For hours, he drifted that way, from dream to dream, scarcely knowing what was real, even when he finally at woke at midday.
He went upstairs into the daylight. As yet, nothing had altered on the estancia or out on the Pampas, just the changes they'd been making already. Work went on, in a determined fashion. The cattle and the crops were unscathed. So far, everyone was still alive.
It was the end of winter, here in the Southern Hemisphere. So far, the sun still shone. He gazed at it in wonder, knowing what was to come—a different winter, a long, terrible winter with no sun, year after year. It wasn't here yet, and no armies of machines had come to enslave and exterminate them. They could not even delect any unusual radiation levels.
But it would come soon. All of it.
There was nothing to do but fight.
John steeled himself.
John knew how the nuclear winter would happen. First, the dust thrown up by the earth-shaking explosions, then the burning cities and forests across the Northern Hemisphere. The dust and smoke would block the sun. Gradually, they'd thin out across the sky, only to spread round the Earth, catching all its corners in an icy grip.