“Hell, thanks for p-plucking me from the drink. I was starting to feel like an ice cube in a cold soda. Talk about a brain freeze!” She pulled away from her guardians and enthusiastically took the captain’s hand in an icy grip. “Corporal Luz Ortega. Pleased to meet you.”
Ivanov’s dark eyes narrowed. “You are U.S. Air Force?”
“Used to be,” Ortega said. She shrugged off the blanket to expose a bright red armband tied around her sleeve. She nodded proudly at it. “Resistance now.”
The Resistance! Losenko experienced a surge of excitement. Perhaps there was still a chance of reclaiming the planet from the machines.
Ortega offered her hand to Ivanov, as well. The XO ignored it, preferring to interrogate the pilot instead.
“How did you come to find us?”
“Weren’t looking for you,” Ortega admitted. She withdrew her hand. “We were hunting that shipload of metal-loving collaborators instead. Picked up your radio transmissions. Couldn’t quite make out all the Russian, but got the gist of it. Sounded like you were in trouble. Figured we’d lend you a hand.” She tugged the blanket back over her shoulders. “You know what they say. ‘The enemy of my enemy,’ etc. Besides, we’d been looking for a chance to engage that battleship. You folks were a good distraction.”
She glanced ruefully at the bodies in the water.
“It cost us, though. But that’s war. The enemy lost more than we did. That’s the important thing, right?”
Ivanov remained skeptical. The deaths of the other Americans meant nothing to him.
“Those communications were encrypted. How could you eavesdrop on them?”
Ortega chortled.
“Hell, Boris, we cracked your encryption moons ago. Some of your old comrades hooked up with us a while back, shared everything they knew. This is a united effort, you know. All us flesh-and-blood types against the metal.”
“A united effort,” Ivanov repeated doubtfully. He sounded sickened by the very idea. “You and our own people?”
Ortega didn’t back down.
“That’s what I’m saying, Boris. You got a problem with that?”
“My name is Ivanov,” the starpom said tersely. A muscle twitched beneath his cheek. “Captain Second-Rank.”
Losenko admired his self-control. Considering the dreadful loss of his family, Alexei had probably wanted to shoot the first American he met, or, at the very least, pound in the cocky pilot’s face. He thought it best to defuse the situation.
“Mr. Ivanov, please go below and oversee the repair efforts.” He stepped between his XO and the woman. “I want a full report on the extent of the damage, and how soon we might expect to be underway.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Ivanov seemed eager to leave the American’s presence. He turned on his heels and marched briskly away.
Ortega watched him go.
“What’s his beef?”
“The war has been hard on us all,” Losenko offered by way of explanation. He noted Ortega shivering and changed the subject. “You are freezing, Corporal. Let us find you some dry clothes and a warm meal.” He glanced up at the helicopter on the horizon. “I will inform your colleagues that you are safe and welcome aboard this ship. Later, we can make arrangements to return you to your own unit.”
Ortega waved her arms to signal the other chopper, before allowing herself to be escorted to the nearest open hatch.
“Much obliged, Captain.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as though she feared Skynet might be listening. “Is there someplace we can talk in private? To be honest, there’s a reason my buddies in the other chopper let you guys pick me up instead of them. The Resistance could use a boat like this. I may have a proposition for you... from my commanding officer.”
“John Connor?”
“No!” Ortega laughed at the very idea. “Connor’s just a voice. I’m not even sure if there really is such a person. I’m talking about the real thing. The big brass.”
Losenko tried not to let his disappointment show. Connor’s broadcast had offered the only hope that the world might someday be set right again. Now he gave Ortega a puzzled look.
“And who is your commanding officer?”
“Ashdown,” the pilot answered. “General Hugh Ashdown.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
2018
The back-up base, hidden deep in the remote forests of the Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, made the abandoned mining town look like a Vegas resort by comparison. The survivors of the T-600’s attack were scattered across acres of wintry wilderness, occupying whatever shacks, cabins, campgrounds, tents, RVs, caves, tunnels, and hastily constructed shelters could accommodate the evacuees. Spreading the cell out over multiple facilities— instead of one centralized location—was inconvenient and hampered organization, but at least it would keep them off Skynet’s radar.
Or so Molly hoped.
“So what’s the damage?” she asked Geir, bracing for the worst. They had commandeered a broken-down old prospector’s shack along the shore of the frozen creek. Bone-chilling drafts penetrated the bare wooden walls, despite the rags, cardboard, and scraps of foam rubber plugged into the various chinks. A broken window had been boarded up with two-by-fours. Melting snow leaked through the roof, dripping constantly into an array of buckets and pans that needed to be emptied far more often than she liked.
Sleeping bags were spread out on the floor. A faded pin-up calendar seemed so old that she wondered if it dated back to the Gold Rush. The outhouse was a cold, uncomfortable hike from the front door. A tattered bearskin rug smelled of mildew.
“Give me the gory details,” she continued.
She reclined in front of the stone fireplace, wrapped in a coat, her bandaged right foot propped up on a pillow dangerously close to the fire. In the end, she had only lost a single toe to frostbite; the camp’s medic had wanted to chop off more, but Molly had drawn the line at one little piggie. She didn’t have time to adjust to a prosthetic foot, even if they could scrounge one up from somewhere. It had hurt like hell, but, against the odds, she had practically willed the circulation back into her remaining toes, even if she wasn’t a hundred-percent sure they would ever feel warm again.
Could be worse, she thought. I could be sharing a glacier with a Terminator right now.
“We took a hit, that’s for sure.” Geir squatted next to her. Like Molly, he was wearing his jacket indoors just to keep warm. His eyes scanned the pencil marks on a yellow legal pad. “People are still checking in at the rendezvous point, but it’s looking like we lost twenty-eight people, counting the fatalities at the pipeline.”
“What about Ernie?” she asked.
“The medics got to him in time,” he assured her. “He’s going to be out of commission for a while, though. And he’s going to have to learn to sculpt with one arm.”
He’ll find a way, Molly thought, glad to hear that the old man was still with them. It sucked that he had been hurt, but it could have been so much worse. She made a mental note to call on him while he was recovering. It was the least she could do after he had saved her life. Her brain quickly moved on to more practical concerns.
“How about our supplies?”
“A lot of our provisions went up in the fire,” Geir admitted. “Thank goodness for the emergency caches we had stashed. Hunting parties are out looking for fresh game.”
Molly nodded. “Figured as much.” The casualty figures didn’t surprise her. She could still see the Terminator’s chainsaw slicing up Ernie and Roger whenever she heard a motor running. The smell of exhaust, mixed with the coppery tang of blood, haunted her memory. “What’s our ammo situation like?”