Naked and in shock, Marcus Wright parted his jaws wide and howled at the sky.
Shivering slightly, Wright wrapped his arms around his naked chest and lowered his gaze to the tormented earth on which he stood. Then he noticed the crashed chopper. Slowly, cautiously, he started toward it. Leaning into the ruined aircraft, a disoriented and bewildered Wright found himself gazing upon the dead body of one of the pilots, a bullet hole punched neatly through his helmet.
Wet, cold, confused, and very, very alone, he could only stand, stare—and wonder.
CHAPTER THREE
Connor thought he might have heard an owl, but it could just as easily have been ground sundered by distant lightning. His hearing wasn’t working too well and his vision was dimmed by exhaustion. He was tired and hungry, but at least dehydration hadn’t been a problem. As the storm had moved on, it had left in its wake dozens of desert pools overflowing with fresh water. He badly wanted to take a bath, but experience dictated otherwise.
In his present debilitated condition, confronting even a damaged Terminator could be dangerous. Encountering one while floating stark naked in fresh water would be fatal.
He didn’t know how the big chopper found him and he didn’t much care. Once he had established to his satisfaction that it was actually crewed by his own kind and was not a Skynet decoy, he hustled out from behind the rocks he had been using for cover and forced himself to travel the rest of the distance to the waiting vehicle on the run. By the time he reached the idling Chinook, someone inside had slung the door open.
Gazing inside, he found himself face to face with a pair of startled troopers. To their credit, they didn’t panic at his sudden appearance. Turning in his seat, the pilot looked back and noted the new arrival.
“RTB?” he asked, his voice indicating that he figured he already knew the survivor’s desired destination.
Connor surprised him.
“Take me to Command,” he snapped.
The pilot hesitated. “Sir?”
“Command. Now.”
Another moment’s hesitation, and then the man nodded.
“Roger—rerouting.”
They were in the air a long time. Improvising out of necessity and working with concentrated biofuels, bioengineers and airframe techs had improved the range of such transports. They had been forced to do so since countless airfields had been rendered untenable by the forces of Skynet.
Hitting heavy weather as soon as they crossed the coast, the storm made it impossible to see land in any direction. For all Connor knew there might have been an entire archipelago underneath the ’copter. If so, it was submerged beneath a steady succession of enormous swells the likes of which Connor had never encountered, not even in recordings of old weather broadcasts.
He could only guess at how long they had been fighting through the storm while over water when the co-pilot called out to the noncom who had been staring at Connor for the better part of an hour. There had been little chatter between the passenger and soldiers, which suited Connor fine. He was exhausted, needed the rest, and was in no mood for casual chitchat. Occasionally one of the soldiers on board looked at him as if to say something, but thought better of it. Connor was clearly preoccupied.
Forward movement ceased as the Chinook slowed to a hover. One of the chopper crew pulled back the door and the interior of the craft was assailed by wind, rain, and intermittent illumination courtesy of frequent flashes of lightning. Peering out and down, a dubious Connor could just make out crashing waves not too far below. From up front, one of the pilots called back to him.
“Request denied. Command doesn’t want to give up their physical position. They’re allowing radio comm only.”
Connor eyed the enormous waves.
“Are they down there?”
The pilot shook his head.
“Doesn’t matter. Request has been denied, sir.”
The passenger looked thoughtful. Then he rose.
“Open the ramp. Tell them I need divers for a lock-in. Now.”
After a moment’s hesitation the pilot nodded and turned back to his console. Walking to the rear of the chopper, Connor waited tensely until the rear-loading ramp was lowered. The additional opening only made the chopper more unstable and it began to rock even more violently in the howling wind.
Taking a deep breath and murmuring something under his breath that he hoped neither of the soldiers could hear, John Connor took a short run down the length of the metal platform and sailed off into the darkness.
For several minutes he was, oddly enough, able to relax. Leaning his head back and thrusting out his legs, he let himself be drawn up, up, and then down first one and then two huge swells. It would be different if they started to break over him instead of simply passing beneath. His concerns about having to body surf in the middle of the ocean soon proved unfounded. A dark low shape became visible nearby—a sub.
Moments later he was swarmed by a clutch of divers.
Cold and soaking wet, he was escorted into the sub with the same grim-faced determination that had been shown to him during the long flight on the chopper. Sailors treated him with an odd mixture of wariness and admiration.
He was immediately given warm towels, food and water, and a soft cot to lie on. He dried himself off and did his best to make himself at least semi-presentable given the limited resources that had been provided. Not that he much cared what anyone in Command might think of his appearance, but retaining a modicum of personal pride was an important element in sustaining one’s humanity.
He had just finished cleaning himself up when they came for him.
The sub was enormous, a modified Los Angeles-class self-contained underwater community. Big as it was, though, he could tell when they sat him down in a chair on the bridge that a lot of the electronics surrounding him were hastily cobbled-together add-ons. Where the interior hull was not covered with information-rich monitors it was wallpapered with printouts, charts, and complex lists.
In addition to the members of the crew, the bridge conference table was occupied by several Very Senior Officers. While Connor recognized some of their insignia, others sported motifs in styles and languages that were as foreign to him as their wearers. It dawned on him that many of the generals and admirals from the world’s surviving armed forces were crowded into the same room.
As he was brought in, several of them glanced in his direction. Most ignored him. Armed sailors and marines had been watching him ever since he had been brought onto the bridge. Several of them were more nervous than Connor would have liked.
There was one empty seat at the table, near the center. Turning, a standing four-star general started toward it. His attention was focused not on the table and his fellow officers, but on Connor. The name patch over his breast pocket read “ASHDOWN.” The general did not otherwise introduce himself, nor did he extend a hand in the prisoner’s direction. His speech was clipped, gruff, and left no doubt as to the nature of his opinion of the new arrival.
“Soldier, you put everyone in this tub in jeopardy with that little frogman stunt of yours.”
Connor said nothing.
When the general halted beside the table, the other officers rose. Ashdown slapped a file down on the synthetic wood.
“Take a seat.” He paused, glanced at the file, then up at the newcomer. “John Connor. Prophesied leader of the Resistance. Let’s get something straight. I’ve been a soldier for a very long time, and soldiers don’t put much weight in prophecy.” With a shrug, Connor walked over to join the gathering of officers.
Showing unexpected speed, Ashdown pulled his sidearm and jammed the muzzle in Connor’s face. The newcomer didn’t flinch.
“At least, I don’t when one can rewrite the future in a heartbeat,” Ashdown murmured from behind the service revolver. “We on the same page?”