Terminator Salvation: The Official Movie Novelization (4 page)

It was a miracle that he managed any kind of landing. Striking the ground at an angle sheared the rotors, sending potentially lethal metal blades screaming in all directions.

The engine died but Connor did not. Arms, legs, head—he was far more intact than the machine that had cushioned him from the crash. Staggering out of the harness and the now mangled helicopter, he found himself gaping at a gigantic depression that marked the limits of the obliterated subterranean Skynet facility.

It was all gone, entirely destroyed. A very good thing—except that his entire company, from commanding officers down to the lowest-ranking member of his own squad, were also gone. Friends, fellow fighters—there was nothing left.

Well, not quite nothing.

A grotesque mass of mangled metal, the T-600 he had put out of commission earlier, slammed into him from behind. Behind what remained of the battered skull, emotionless eyes glowed a deep, burning red.

His arm slashed, a surprised and dazed Connor stumbled clear. As single-minded of purpose as all of its brethren, the T-600 came lurching after him. Pulling his sidearm, Connor took aim and fired several times. He might as well have been throwing spitwads. The small-caliber shells pinged harmlessly off the T-600’s face, and Connor was unable to hit either of the eyes.

If the machine had been intact, Connor knew he would already be dead. But while they were both hurt, the machine was more badly damaged than the man. Staggering backward and trying to keep clear of the crippled killing device, Connor banged into something else unyielding: the downed chopper. Protruding from the nose, its mini-gatling gun drooped downward, but was still attached to its swivel mount.

Reaching into the cockpit, he fumbled at the controls, working from practice and relying on memory. Equally unbalanced, the Terminator lunged at him. Connor jerked to one side and the stabbing claw-hand just missed his face.

Recovering, the T-600 re-triangulated its apparently helpless target and came forward again. As it did so, the human used his other hand to swing the barrel of the gatling hard around. The muzzle slammed into the Terminator’s faux human jaws as Connor yelled and activated the trigger.

A shriek of metal-piercing rounds blew the T-600’s head into a hundred pieces of scrap metal. Breathing hard, Connor slumped back against the side of the chopper. Small flames from ignited circuitry flared from the neck of the decapitated machine—Terminator terminated.

When the voice reached him the shock of it was nearly as great as the reappearance of the T-600. But this was a recognizably human voice. The source was the helicopter’s radio. Garbled at first, the transmission gradually became fully intelligible as the operator at the other end worked hard to clear the frequency.

“Bravo Ten, come in,” the exhausted Connor was able to make out. “Bravo Ten, this is HQ. Anyone there? Respond, come back.”

Reaching inside the cockpit, he located the compact mike, brought it to his lips, and switched it on. What should he say after what he had just been through and had just witnessed? What
could
he say?

“Here,” he gasped.

There was a pause at the other end, as if the caller was trying to derive whole reams of information from the one-word response.

“Who is this?” the mike finally crackled afresh.

“Connor.”

“John Connor?”

“No. Lucy Mae Connor.”

That prompted another pause, followed by a query voiced in a stronger, no-nonsense tone.

“Is the target destroyed?” When Connor didn’t respond, the voice tried again, more forcefully. “Connor! You’re in a hot zone! You have no time. Acknowledge. Do you copy? I repeat—is the target destroyed?”

Gathering himself, Connor gasped out a one-word reply.

“Affirmative.”

The radio voice turned from demanding to anxious.

“You have a location on General Olsen? We can’t raise him.”

This time Connor took a deep breath before replying.

“Olsen’s dead.”

A longer pause.

“Proceed to ex-fil point. We’ll send pickup. How many survivors are there?”

Straightening, Connor regarded the new valley that had appeared where formerly there had been flat desert and a few low, scrub-covered hills. Still settling dust continued to obscure the view. The vast satellite array, the rest of the Skynet center, all the poor, pitiful human prisoners, every one of his comrades—dead and buried as the ages. Remembering that he was isolated only physically, he lifted the mike once again.

“One.”

The voice on the radio came back much subdued.

“Repeat—please.”

“One!” Connor snapped.

Perhaps surprisingly, nothing further was heard from the mike. After waiting to make sure the connection had been cut, Connor put it down, straightened, and started limping away from the chopper. Not because he had a destination in mind—he wasn’t even sure exactly where he was. Not because he feared a resurgence of the T-600 he had finally and definitively put down. He started walking because, if nothing else, he desired to put the scene of colossal devastation and destruction as far behind him as he possibly could.

If he was lucky, he mused as he trudged toward an increasingly stormy horizon, maybe he would find a lizard. In the world in which he now found himself, any companion not made of metal and circuitry was one to be cherished.

***

The storm brought darkness to the desert sooner that it would otherwise have arrived. Frequent flashes of lightning illuminated the scorched and shredded fragments of the day’s reckoning: bits of bone, limbs both human and metal that had been divorced from their owners’ bodies, pieces of machine that had served humans, pieces of machine that had been motivated by their own ruthless and uncompromising drive. Among the organic and metallic debris, nothing moved save clouds and bursts of torrential rain.

Even the birds and insects had fled.

Amid the destruction, a patch of mud stirred. Wormlike shapes emerged from the sodden earth and thrust skyward. Not snakes, not centipedes—human fingers. The fingers were attached to a hand, the hand to a wrist, the wrist to....

A shape arose, cloaked in mud and dripping fragments of debris. Eyes opened, vitreous but not glowing. Dazed by the reality of itself, arms at its sides, the figure tilted back its head to stare at the storming night. Driving rain lashed mud and dirt from face and ribs, limbs and torso. The shape was that of a man.

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?”

“Yes sir.” Connor spoke calmly, evenly. “We’re on the same page.”

Ashdown hesitated a moment longer, then smiled thinly and put the gun down on the table.

“Good. Good. This Command is well aware of your exploits and your valor in the field. We’ve all heard your broadcasts. And I, personally, appreciate everything you’ve been doing for the cause.” He stopped momentarily, and the smile vanished. “So tell us, soldier—what the hell are you doing
here
?”

Before replying, Connor took his time concluding his study of the bridge, taking in the makeshift electronics, the dedicated but worn crew, the chatting officers. He was less than impressed. His eyes met those of the general as he offered a terse explanation.

“We’ve been able to determine that Skynet is taking human prisoners for R and D. They’re dissecting them. Replicating human tissue for the new model Terminator. I saw the schematics. Based on my knowledge of...” he hesitated, “based on what I know, that’s ten years too early. If the new model goes on line now, this war is over.”

Ashdown nodded, let his gaze meet the expectant gazes of his fellow senior officers.

“A new genesis of Terminator.”

Connor was feeling better. It appeared that he wasn’t going to have to explain everything from scratch.

“Cyborgenic infiltration unit. Titanium combat chasis. Nuclear fuel cell, fully armored, very tough.”

“Yes,” Ashdown agreed readily, “and also the machine that tried to kill your mother, Sarah.” Connor stared at him. Ashdown didn’t miss a beat. “Pescadero State Mental Institution. Escaped. Connor, crazy isn’t going to win this war. Soldiers like you and I are. Don’t give the new model another thought. It’s not going to be a problem because it’s never going to go into production.”

Connor frowned. “How do you know that?”

Ashdown’s grin returned. “You think you’re the only one who knows things in advance? You’ll be briefed on a need-to-know basis.”

“Okay—how about right now? I need to know. My men died down in that hole. So I need to know. Why did we launch that attack? Why did we go down there? And most importantly, what did we
find
down there?” His expression twisted. “I would’ve asked the survivors myself—except I couldn’t find any survivors.”

Ashdown considered before finally replying.

“Hope. We found hope.” He gestured to one of the other generals. In addition to his insignia in Cyrillic, the other officer wore a second identification patch with the name Losenko. Connor eyed him with interest. The older man’s face was as gnarled as an old Siberian Spruce. Here was a man who plainly had spent time in the lower ranks. Someone who would talk straight with a lower-ranking officer—and shoot him point-blank if he thought the other man represented a threat.

“We found a solution that can end this war once and for all.” As Connor stared at him, he turned and gestured to a waiting aide. The man nodded and turned to manipulate hidden controls. A nearby screen flashed to life. Though he was familiar with the subject matter, the initial images were new to Connor and he straightened slightly, taking in every detail of the portrayed new model.

“We know the machines use short-wave transmitters to communicate among themselves. Thanks to your assault, intelligence has isolated a hidden channel riding beneath the primary.” He was looking hard at Connor. “This secondary channel allows for direct control of the machines. It permits anything—or anyone—broadcasting on it to override the usual communications.”

On the screen, a line of code was isolated and highlighted. It was not impressive, but what it represented was. Ashdown picked up from the Russian.

“Skynet is a machine. And like every machine it has an ‘Off’ switch. Thanks to you and your troops, we now have that switch in our possession. We’re going to shut them down and bomb them back to the Stone Age.”

While he had taken it all in, Connor’s thoughts remained focused elsewhere.

“What about the human prisoners?”

Ashdown’s brow furrowed as he replied.

“What about them? You questioning my humanity? When the time comes, I’ll do the right thing.”

Their eyes locked and held. Finally Connor nodded, tersely.

“Okay, our intel people have found this signal. They’ve analyzed it. They think they know what it does. Which leads to the next question:
does
it work? Or are our tech teams just spitting theory?”

“Will it work?” Ashdown glanced down at the file on the table. “Yes. Has it been field tested? No.”

A quick surge of adrenaline pulsed through Connor.

“I’ll do it. I’ll test it. Give it to me.”

Ashdown eyed him a moment longer, then looked across at Losenko. The Russian pursed his lower lip as he contemplated the man who had dived from a helicopter into open, storming ocean in hopes that they would allow him to join them.

“Mr. Connor and his tech comm unit have an excellent record. Assuming enough of them survived, I think we should allow him this opportunity.”

“All right.” Looking past the table, General Ashdown directed his words to the soldiers who had brought Connor in. “Take him topside. Prepare for lockout.” His gaze fell once more on the visitor. “If we get this right, the war is over, Connor.” His expression tightened. “Good luck, soldier. We mount our offensive in four days.” Turning, he headed for the far end of the bridge. The other senior officers rose to accompany him.

Only Losenko remained. Removing a small portable drive from a shirt pocket, the Russian handed it over.

“These are the codes for the signal. I have all confidence that your technical people can put together the appropriate instrumentation to propagate it. Good luck.”

Pocketing the drive, Connor nodded.

“Why four days?”

“A ‘kill’ list was intercepted from Skynet. It says matter-of-factly that everyone in this room will be dead by week’s end. You were number two on the list.” He turned to rejoin his fellow officers.