“What?” Ivanov blurted out. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Maybe not,” Cherkov said. “An American general named Ashdown is sending out a nonstop message on all frequencies, stating that the initial attack was an accident, that some kind of experimental computer system malfunctioned. He calls it ‘Skynet.’”
Of course, Losenko thought. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. And as he did so, cold tendrils began to grip him.
Ivanov disagreed. “An obvious trick, to get us to lower our guard.”
“But why would the Americans attack us now?” Losenko observed. He feared that Ivanov’s emotions were clouding his judgment. “The threat of Mutual Assured Destruction deterred them all through the Cold War. Why court annihilation now, after the war is over? There was no reason to it, none at all. Yet a computer malfunction would explain it.”
Guilt stabbed his heart. I should have realized that it was an accident. We all should have.
Still Ivanov refused to absolve the Americans.
“Perhaps they feared that Mother Russia would rise to challenge them once more?” He clenched his fist at the prospect, before entreating Losenko. “Please, Captain, don’t tell me that you are falling for so blatant a deception. Those America bastards attacked us without warning, like the cowards they are.” He pounded his fist on the table. “We cannot believe anything they say!”
“I have heard of this Ashdown,” the captain stated. “He is said to be one of their top-ranking generals.” Ivanov’s expression darkened. Losenko held up his hand to forestall any further outbursts from the junior officer. “But you are correct, Alexei. We cannot accept the Americans’ explanation without corroboration. For the time being, we must remain on guard.”
“So what do we do now, Captain?” Deputy Commander Trotsky asked. His pale face, dry skin, and chapped lips attested to long weeks spent cloistered aboard the sub. “We cannot hide from the Americans indefinitely. Our rations are running low, and the men are at the end of their rope.”
“So they are,” Losenko agreed. He had already made his decision. “We need to see for ourselves what has become of the Motherland.” He rose from his seat. “Set a course for home.”
CHAPTER FOUR
2018
The Trans-Alaska Pipeline stretched across 800 miles of rugged wilderness, connecting the oil fields on the north slope of Prudhoe Bay with the ice-free port in Valdez. For more than forty years, the pipeline had transported nearly a billion gallons of crude oil each day across mountain ranges, tracks of verdant wilderness, rivers, and streams.
Judgment Day had halted the flow for a time, but not for long; repairing the conduit and placing it under its direct control had been one of Skynet’s top priorities, alongside exterminating the human race. As a result, all of the oil— and the energy it contained—belonged to the machines.
But that didn’t mean the Resistance didn’t help itself to a sip now and then.
From the edge of the woods, Molly surveyed an elevated section of pipeline. Faint sunlight filtered through the snow-laden branches of towering pines and spruces. Pendulous gray clouds threatened to drop more snow any time now. A bitter wind chafed her face. Her lips were chapped and raw.
She chewed on a tough piece of smoked beaver. An owl hooted in the forest behind her. Something scurried through the underbrush. A breeze rustled through the trees.
The sun was high in the sky. Despite the cover of the forest, she felt uncomfortably exposed, sneaking up on the pipeline in broad daylight. As counter-intuitive as it seemed, however, nocturnal raids were even more dangerous. The Hunter-Killers’ infrared sensors worked even better after sundown, while the darkness placed their human prey at a disadvantage.
John Connor had taught her that, in one of his invaluable pirate broadcasts. She had never met the man—hell, she didn’t even know what he looked like— but, like so many other freedom fighters, she owed her life to the urgent warnings he had been broadcasting ever since Judgment Day. He had given her hope, and tips for survival when all had seemed lost. In her mind, his would always be the voice of the Resistance.
If the machines ever get him, I don’t want to know about it.
Several yards away, the pipeline zig-zagged across a glossy white plain leading toward a narrow mountain pass less than a mile to the north. Dense green forest encroached on the cleared strips of land on either side of the conduit. Riveted steel saddles, red paint protecting them from the elements, lifted the huge links of pipe over ten feet above the frozen earth. The enormous white cylinders were four feet in diameter. Coiled heat pipes topped the vertical supports to keep the permafrost from thawing beneath the heavy saddles. The zigzag layout was supposed to protect the pipeline from earthquakes, as well as from drastic temperature shifts. Or so Molly had been told.
None of that mattered at the moment. She just wanted to come through this fuel run in one piece.
“Look clear?” Geir asked. He stood a few feet back, behind the basket of one of the fifteen dog sleds she had mustered for this operation. Teams of well-trained malamutes, huskies, and mutts waited patiently for the command to go forward. They rested upon the ground, sniffing idly at the snow. Empty metal drums and plastic gas cans were piled in the cargo beds of the freight sleds. A few of the sleds were hitched to snowmobiles instead of dogs.
Grim-faced men and women, bundled up in mismatched winter gear, stomped their feet to keep warm. Goggles, scarves, and earmuffs protected their faces from the cold. Scarlet armbands marked them as members of the Resistance. A thermos of hot coffee was passed around. Roughly thirty guerillas had been drafted for this operation. Nervous eyes searched the snowy canopy overhead. You never knew when an HK, or maybe just a snoopy Aerostat, might come zipping above the trees.
“What about it?” Geir pressed when she didn’t answer. “Have we got a clear shot?”
“Maybe,” Molly hedged. Not even Skynet could patrol all 800 miles of pipeline all the time, and the nearest automated pumping station was fifty miles north at Delta Junction. That was where security would be the thickest, but any unguarded stretch—such as this one— would serve just fine. All they needed to do was hurry in, tap the pipeline, and get away before Skynet even realized that it was bleeding oil.
Should be a cakewalk, she thought. Not like taking on that monster train, which they intended to do as soon as their plans were set. “But let’s not take any chances,” she said aloud.
Their Resistance cell had lost three commanders in four years. Molly wasn’t looking to be the fourth, at least not until she took her shot at the Skynet Express. She stroked the head of Togo, the big gray samoyed at the head of Geir’s dog team.
“What about you, boy?” she asked as he nuzzled her glove. “Smell any suspicious metal?”
Over the course of the war, man’s best friend had proven incredibly valuable when it came to sniffing out Terminators, especially the new T-600s with the phony rubber skin intended to mimick human flesh. At a distance or in the dark, a T-600 could be mistaken for a living, breathing human, but not by a dog. Their keen noses sniffed through the disguise with no problem. Thus, the Resistance had learned to rely on their canine cohorts.
Another trick Connor taught us.
Togo’s tufted ears perked up, like maybe he was hoping for a snack. He sniffed the air, but seemed more interested in the rations in Molly’s pocket. The rest of the pack were still curled up in the snow, licking their paws or absently watching out for squirrels. The dogs’ nonchalance reassured Molly. If there had been Terminators upwind, they would have been barking like crazy.