Terminator Salvation: Cold War

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.

So far, so good. She treated Togo to a leftover scrap of beaver. He gobbled it up enthusiastically, licking the palm of her glove. Molly looked over the nearby stretch of pipeline once more. The Resistance desperately needed the fuel for its vehicles and generators.

Just the same, let’s play this smart.

She got behind her own sled. Sensing her intentions, the dogs leapt to their feet. They tugged at their leather harnesses, eagerly awaiting a chance to stretch their legs. Her lead dogs—a pair of white Siberian huskies—looked back at her. There were ten dogs in all, hitched to the gang-line two by two. Molly had trained them since they were puppies. She trusted them with her life.

“I’ll act as bait,” she declared, “to draw any machines out.” There was no point in exposing the rest of her people to the possibility of enemy fire until she knew there were no Terminators lurking in the brush. She grabbed the sled’s handlebar and planted the soles of her boots firmly on the aluminum runners, then glanced back at the armed insurgents. “Cover me.”

“Wait!” Geir objected. Ice frosted his sexy blond whiskers, making him look older than his years. He tugged on the brake of his own sled. “Let me go instead.”

Molly shook her head.

“Forget it,” she said flatly. “You’re our only pilot.” A smart commander wouldn’t have brought him along in the first place; he belonged back at the camp, tending to Thunderbird, his precious fighter plane. But she was short on personnel. “Besides, my dogs are faster than yours.”

“Says who?” he retorted, but he stepped away from his sled. Geir knew better than to argue with her once she put her foot down; that put him one up on most of the men she had known, before and after Judgment Day. Unslinging a loaded M4 carbine from his shoulder, he marched to the edge of the woods and got into position to cover her.

More snipers fanned out along the perimeter. Geir winked at her.

“Anytime you want a race, you know where to find me.”

Molly grinned back at him. That was another thing about him, he always found a way to make her smile, in a world where that didn’t come easy. Sometimes she wondered where his upbeat attitude came from, and whether there was any way to bottle it.

“I’ll take you up on that—after we fill our tanks at Skynet’s expense.”

Her grin faded as she contemplated the open expanse of snow that stretched between the woods and the pipeline. She scanned the clearing one more time, then took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

Time’s wasting, she scolded herself. Let’s get this show on the road.

“Hike!”

The dogs took off like a shot. No reins or whips were required, only verbal commands. The sled accelerated across the snow, breaking out from beneath the evergreens at six or seven miles per hour. The wind blew her hood back, exposing her face. The huskies’ racing paws kicked up a cloud of snowy powder. The lead dogs yipped at the team behind them, keeping the other dogs in line.

The exhilarating speed set Molly’s pulse racing, even as she tensed in anticipation of an ambush. She held her breath, half-expecting to feel hot metal tear through her in a heartbeat. For endless moments, her ears listened for the telltale roar of a chain gun or turbofan, but all she heard was the thrilling sound of the huskies racing through the snow. No Terminator reared its ugly metal skull.

How about that? She permitted herself a sigh of relief. The cold wind stung her ears. Maybe we’re in the clear after all.

The dogs ate up the distance to the pipeline in a matter of minutes.

“Whoa!” The shouted command brought the team to an immediate halt. Molly jumped from the sled, drawing her own M4 as she did so. She swung its sights toward the gleaming steel underside, just to see if that would provoke a response. Heat exchangers were mounted to the bottom of the pipeline, to keep the ground below firm and frosty. A gauge measured the flow of oil.

“All right, you metal poachers,” she muttered. “Come and get me.”

Her defiant challenge went unanswered.

Molly lowered the rifle. She gestured to the others. The rest of the fuel party wasted no time breaking from the woods. Freight sleds and snowmobiles carried the empty drums and gas cans toward the looming steel artery. Geir’s sled was right out in front, of course, just where she expected it to be. A frosty white rooster-tail spread out like a vapor trail behind his runners. For a pilot, he wasn’t a half-bad musher.

She looked forward to racing him back to camp. We’ll see whose dogs are faster.

Moments later the rest of her crew arrived. Dismounting from their sleds and snowmobiles, they went to work with practiced efficiency. This wasn’t the first time they’d tapped Skynet’s veins. The empty drums were rolled into place beneath the pipeline. They climbed up the looming steel saddles. Spiked metal spigots, crafted by hand at a Resistance machine shop, were hammered into the underside of the pipe. Rubber tubing connected the upright barrels with the pipeline. Open valves let the stolen crude flow into the waiting containers. Excited workers, glad to be getting away with the heist, high-fived each other. Armed sentries, equipped with army-surplus grenade launchers and a couple of .50 caliber Barrett rifles, stood guard while the others worked. Dirty jokes and war stories relieved the tension. Someone hummed an old Britney Spears tune.

Molly was always impressed by how well the men and women worked together. They were a solid unit, no matter what Command thought of them. Relaxing a little, she took shelter beneath the elevated pipeline, putting one of the imposing steel saddles between her and the wind. Her rifle rested loosely in her grip, its oiled metal length level with her waist.

“Glad to see you weren’t chosen for target practice.” Geir joined her under the pipe. His sled was anchored to the ground a few feet away. “Guess it would have been okay to let Sitka tag along.”

Molly shrugged.

“Don’t want to spoil her.” The restless teenager was stuck back at camp babysitting Doc Rathbone, the camp’s resident mad scientist. Keeping the melancholy old man sober could be a full-time job, for which Sitka had a definite talent. They were an odd pair, but the girl brought out the best in Doc. He was training her to be his apprentice. “She’s got her own job to do.”

With the fuel run going smoothly, Molly started thinking ahead. She was going to need Doc’s computer expertise to crack whatever security measures were aboard the uranium train. A technophobe at heart, Molly had barely known how to program her cell phone before the bombs came down. But that was no longer an issue.

The Skynet Express clattered across her memory, and she recalled how the ever-watchful Aerostats had swooped in and out of the trestles supporting the bridge. That was going to be a problem....

The wind shifted. A crisp breeze rustled Molly’s hair.

The dogs leapt to their feet and howled at the woods on the other side of the pipeline. Their hackles rose.

“Fuck!”

Molly saw the attack coming even before the bullets started flying. Muzzles flared from the shadowy depths of the forest. Her people dropped like decoys in a shooting gallery. Half-filled gas cans hit the snow. Vicious uranium slugs punched through the metal drums, spilling crude oil onto the ground.

The smell of gunfire and petroleum filled the air. Blood and oil mixed together. Twitching bodies writhed amidst the crimson slush.

“Watch it!” Geir shoved Molly behind the saddle. Bullets ricocheted off the sturdy steel pylons. The ferocious gunfire chipped the paint. Dull red flakes blew in the wind. Trapped sled dogs howled and barked in alarm. One pack managed to tear loose the snow hook that was mooring it to the ground. The riderless sled bolted for the woods.

Molly didn’t blame the frightened dogs for turning tail. Terminators weren’t sentimental where animals were concerned.

“Forget the fuel!” she shouted to what was left of the work crew. She kicked herself for letting her mind wander, even for a minute. “Fall back! Retreat!”

“Here they come.” Geir said as he peeked around the side of the saddle, then yanked his head back before it could get blown off his shoulders. “Ugly as ever.”

Tell me about it, Molly thought fiercely. Through a two-inch gap in the supports, she saw multiple T-600s emerge from the woods. Their humanoid endoskeletons aped the size and proportions of an adult male human. Molly had never seen a female-looking Terminatrix, although John Connor had warned that they were in development. Their mass-produced rubber faces looked unconvincing in the daylight, like cheap Halloween masks; Skynet had a ways to go, thank God, before its infiltrator models could truly pass for human.

Binocular red optical sensors, posing as eyes, were a dead giveaway, as were the unnervingly blank expressions. Machineguns and assault rifles were strapped beneath their arms via detachable velcro straps. Hands squeezed the upside-down triggers of the guns. Reinforced wire snowshoes kept the Terminators from sinking into powdery white drifts. They didn’t even flinch as their weapons fired loudly. Their pace was unhurried, methodical. Skynet had been killing off humans for over fifteen years now. There was no rush.

By contrast, the surprise attack kicked the humans into top gear. The sentries returned fire, just as Molly had trained them, while the rest of the squad retreated as ordered. Those who weren’t cut down by the first fusillade scrambled madly to get away. They slipped and fell in the spreading slushy pools of blood and oil, only to be shot from behind as soon as they got back up again. A few dived for cover, burrowing deep into the snow, as others made a break for the forest. Loose bits of down stuffing blew about the battlefield.

RPGs and anti-materiel fire tore into the ranks of the Terminators, making it a battle, not a rout. An exploding RPG sent a T-600 flying backwards into the woods. M82 rifles, designed by the military to take out enemy trucks and parked aircraft, dismembered another Terminator. A robotic leg was cut off at the hip. Undaunted, the T-600 hopped forward, using its severed limb as a crutch. Its fellow machines targeted the sentries, forcing them to retreat. Their limited supply of grenades was quickly exhausted.

Molly cursed Command for not supplying them with more.

The casualties continued to mount:

Jake Nollner, a thirty-five year-old father of two, jumped onto his snowmobile and hit the throttle. He only got about fifteen yards before a Terminator’s bullets nailed the snowmobile’s gas tank. The ride exploded in a shower of blazing shrapnel, scattering pieces of Jake all over the landscape. The burning debris ignited pools of spilled oil, which erupted into flames. Choking black fumes added to the chaos.

Trapped huskies, held in place by their harnesses, jerked spasmodically as they were terminated as well. Wounded men, women, and dogs contributed to an agonizing chorus of pain and fear.

Monsters! Molly was tormented by the sight of her people dying all around her. She counted at least four Terminators left. Thank God Sitka isn’t here!

She and Geir fired back at the T-600s, providing more cover for the fleeing guerillas. Their combined assault shredded the rubber faces, exposing the fearsome steel death’s-head expressions underneath. The machines’ winter garments were ripped apart as well, until gleaming steel endoskeletons could be glimpsed through the torn fabric. Round after round of automatic weapons fire jolted the oncoming machines, driving them back for moments at a time, but failing to stop the Terminators from advancing, and from picking off human targets with computerized precision.

A targeting laser lit up the back of Kathy Seppala’s head a heartbeat before she toppled face-first into the snow, a crimson fountain spurting from her skull. She fell across the runners of her own sled, while another volley dropped her dogs.

Molly bit down on her lip to keep from crying out in rage. Amidst the carnage, she couldn’t help noticing that not one of the Terminators’ shots had hit the pipeline by mistake. The T-600s were obviously taking care not to damage the vital conduit. Skynet valued oil, if not human life.

They were waiting for us, damn it! She tried to figure out how Skynet could have known what they were planning. It was getting better and better at calculating probabilities and patterns where the Resistance was concerned. We must have gotten too predictable.

That was something she’d have to work on, if she lived to see another day.

“Head for the hills!” she ordered the survivors. “Regroup at the rendezvous point!” She kept firing to give the others a chance at escaping. “Don’t let them follow you back to the camp!”

She spotted a party of Resistance fighters, who had survived the initial salvos by diving into a shallow ditch. Their refuge had become a trap, however, as enemy gunfire cut them off from their snowmobiles less than two yards away. A Terminator stomped across the snow toward the ditch, ready to turn it into a mass grave. Molly had only seconds to save her people.

Switching the carbine to full automatic, she targeted the machine’s vulnerable shoulder joint. A barrage of 5.56-millimeter ammo crippled the T-600, causing its gun arm to go limp at its side. Its weapon fired uselessly into the ground. Misdirected bullets shredded its own snowshoe, throwing it off-balance.

“Palmer! Johns! The rest of you!” Molly shouted at the humans in the ditch, while the Terminator clumsily attempted to shift its chain gun to its other arm. “Now’s your chance. Hustle!”

She watched with relief as a handful of people scrambled to their feet and dashed for the snowmobiles and their attached cargo sleds. They threw themselves onto the vehicles and fired up their noisy, two-stroke engines. The machines accelerated across the snow, taking the humans with them. Exhaust fumes mingled in the air with the acrid smell of cordite. The roar of the snowmobiles was soon punctuated by gunfire from the Terminator, firing in vain at the retreating men and women, who were already out of range of its gun.

Thank God, Molly thought. At least this won’t be a total massacre.

The T-600s paused to close the valves on the violated pipes, granting Molly a momentary respite. She reloaded her rifle and estimated their odds of slipping away while the Terminators were distracted. Then a diesel engine roared to life in the woods which had hidden the enemy.

She shared a worried look with Geir.

“Now what?”

The answer barreled out of the forest in the form of a large automated snow plow. A wedge-shaped metal blade, raised ten inches above the snow, preceded an armored steel transport with snow tires and four-wheel drive. Chains around its tires granted the tank extra traction. A T-600 was seated in a turret on top of the plow, behind a mounted machinegun. Red eyes glinted in metal sockets.

Tons of rolling metal came on like a bulldozer. Bullets sparked harmlessly off the blade.

Geir gulped.

“I don’t know about you, Molly, but I’m feeling more than a little outmatched.”

“Me too,” Molly admitted grimly, though she continued to fire on the newcomer. She glanced around quickly. As nearly as she could tell, the rest of the fueling party was either dead or scattered. Time for a strategic retreat, not that the Terminators were going to make it easy.

Her M4 ran out of ammo, and she hastily reloaded before backing away from the saddle.

“Your sled or mine?”

One of the T-600s that had been repairing the pipeline, a torn rubber ear dangling from his exposed cranial case, took that choice out of their hands. A sustained burst of fire killed the back half of Geir’s dog team. The remaining huskies, including Togo, pulled at their hitches, frantic to get away.

Togo wheeled about and snarled at the Terminator. His lips peeled back, baring his fangs.

“Shit!” Geir yanked a carbon-steel hunting knife from his belt and dived for his sled. Keeping his head low, he hacked through the cable that connected the snow hook to the sled, then flicked the quick-release catch on the snublines. “Scram, you fleabags. Hike!”

Togo hesitated, reluctant to leave his master behind, so Molly fired a warning burst over the dog’s head. That did the trick; all of the surviving dogs sprinted for safety, dragging their dead kennel mates behind them. Bright canine blood streaked the snow.

Then Molly bared her own teeth. The forest ranger in her hated to see animals suffer. Humans built Skynet, she thought guiltily. We brought this nightmare on ourselves. But the rest of nature shouldn’t have to suffer for our mistakes.

Spinning, she sprinted for her own sled, firing back over her shoulder while choking on the smoke from the fires. Reaching her objective, she unhooked the anchor and clambered onto the runners. Frenzied barks and growls greeted her, but the dogs faithfully waited for her command. A pang stabbed Molly’s heart. She almost wished she hadn’t trained them so well; they’d probably live longer.

She gripped the handlebar with one hand while emptying her rifle with the other. The M4’s handguard was getting uncomfortably hot to the touch. A steady stream of ejected shells shot from the firing mechanism.

Geir charged across the bloody slush toward her, but not fast enough for comfort.

“Hurry, flyboy!” she shouted. “Don’t keep me waiting!”

“Do I ever?” Geir jumped onto the runners behind her. Crouching low, he wrapped his arms around her, holding on for dear life. “Your turn to drive.”

About time, she thought.

“Hike!”

A burst of acceleration threw Molly backwards against Geir. Despite the weight of an extra passenger, the dogs broke speed records getting away from the bloodbath. The sled bounced over piled drifts of snow as Molly gave the dogs their head. Her foot stayed away from the brake. Loose powder, kicked up by the dogs, pelted her face.

“Don’t look now,” Geir shouted in her ear, over gunfire behind them, “But they’re not giving up!”

Molly glanced back. The merciless snow plow drove under the pipeline, trampling over the dead—at least she hoped they were dead— before turning to chase the fleeing dog sled. It slowed long enough to let the other T-600s climb onto its running boards, then picked up speed. Gruesome red stains glistened wetly on the upraised blade of the plow.

The Terminators fired at the sled. Bullets whizzed past Molly and Geir as they jumped a snow-covered embankment. A hard landing rattled Molly’s teeth.

“Haw! Haw!” she shouted, steering the dogs left. “Gee!” They raced parallel to the pipeline, weaving in and out of saddles to avoid being tagged by the Terminator’s bullets. It was like navigating a slalom course while under fire. The massive pipes and their supports shielded them from the mechanized monsters in pursuit. Machinegun fire tore up the snow banks, while the plow itself would roll right over them if it caught up.

The sled was smaller and more maneuverable than the larger plow, but the tank outweighed them by several orders of magnitude. Its blade would smash them to pieces.

“Haw!”

The sled veered left, putting the pipeline on her right. The Terminators fired under and around the pipes, still taking care not to damage the vital artery. Skynet was like a vampire, sucking up Alaska’s resources to perpetuate its genocidal agenda.

Too bad I don’t have a silver bullet, Molly thought, then an idea struck her. Maybe I don’t need one.

She glanced up at the raised pipeline, skimming past just a yard above her head. In theory, the pipes were supposed to be bulletproof, but it hadn’t always worked out that way. Back around the turn of the century—a couple of years before Judgment Day—a trigger-happy drunk had managed to shoot a hole into one of the welds connecting the lengths of pipe, causing a serious oil spill. The damage it had caused had appalled Molly.

Now it gave her an idea.

Hooking her elbow around the handlebar to free up her hands, she awkwardly loaded another clip into her assault rifle. “Straight ahead!” she urged the dogs, keeping the pipeline on her right. She waited until another weld came into view, then let loose with a blistering blast of 45-millimeter vandalism.

Let’s see how bulletproof that plumbing really is!

At first, her desperate ploy appeared to have failed. The bullets ricocheted off the thick metal pipe without breaking skin.

“Fuck!”

But then a scarred steel weld gave way spectacularly. Gallons of unprocessed crude oil gushed behind them onto the snowy landscape below. A black tide flowed across the terrain.

Eureka, Molly thought. Once upon a time, she would have been horrified by an oil spill of this magnitude, but that was before Judgment Day. Now she needed to do whatever was necessary to protect an endangered species: Me.

The speeding plow came careening after her. Its wheels hit the oil slick, losing traction with the earth. The entire tank went into a spin. Gun-toting Terminators grabbed onto safety rails to keep from being thrown from the vehicle. The T-600 in the turret tumbled backward, away from the machinegun fixture, and rolled off the side of the plow.

The dislodged Terminator landed with a splash in the spreading oil. It struggled to right itself, its human clothing and camouflage liberally coated with crude, only to find the blade of the spinning plow heading straight for it. The slick black figure threw up its hands to protect its cranial case, but its titanium-alloy endoskeleton was no match for the bloodstained blade’s sheer mass and momentum. Metal crunched and clanged as the blade collided with the T-600. Its optical sensors shattered and went dark moments before it was ground into scrap metal beneath the plow’s chains and snow tires.

The tank kept on spinning, leaving a mess of flattened Terminator parts behind it. Severed metal limbs, still imbued with a spark of life, flailed about uselessly in the oil. The unleashed gunfire of the remaining Terminators went awry, firing randomly into the sky. More bullets bounced off the ruptured pipeline.

The plow smashed into one of the saddles, knocking it from its foundations. Its structural integrity compromised, the saddle was unable to support the weight of the pipe resting atop it. An entire length of pipeline slipped from its moorings, crashing down onto the ground. The impact shook the earth. More oil gushed from the open wound, spraying crude like the world’s biggest fire hose.

Except that this spray was flammable.

Keeping one arm wrapped around Molly’s waist, Geir plucked a fresh magazine from his service belt and slammed it into the carbine. Twisting around, he fired, and tracer bullets shot from the muzzle. Magnesium charges flashed red as they streaked through the air.

“Burn in hell,” Geir snarled.

The tracers hit the massive oil spill. Hundreds of gallons of crude went up in flames, lighting up the ravaged wilderness. A titanic fireball roiled up into the sky, maybe even high enough to be seen from camp. A scorching blast of heat blew past them, and Molly grinned wolfishly. It was the first time in memory that she had felt warm.

That’s it, baby. Light my fire.

Earth-shaking explosions blew the pipeline apart. Mammoth hunks of steel and concrete were thrown up into the air, before they came hurtling back down like a meteor shower. Deafening blasts assaulted her ear-drums until all sound was muffled. Shock waves almost knocked her from the sled. Beneath her gloves, white knuckles clung to the handlebar, while Geir squeezed her so tightly she could hardly breathe. One of the swing dogs lost its footing, stumbled, and was dragged along by its frantic teammates.

Thick black smoke blocked out the feeble sunlight. It looked as if a volcano had erupted.

But was it enough to stop the Terminators?

“Did that do it?” she shouted back at Geir. “Did you get them?”

“Huh?” Geir hollered. “What’s that?”

Molly responded at the top of her lungs.

“Did you get those fucking machines?”

“I don’t know!” He squinted back into the smoke and heat. “Maybe?”

Maybe’s not good enough, Molly thought. They couldn’t head back to camp until they knew that they had shaken the T-600s and their homicidal pursuit. No way was she leading them back to Sitka and the others. We’ve already lost too many good people today.

Hatred, hotter even than the inferno behind her, surged through her veins.

“Hang on!” Geir shouted. His face was blackened with soot, and his beard was singed. “I think I see something... oh, shit!”

She didn’t like the sound of that.

The plow, still loaded with Terminators, barged out of the smoke. Dancing flames licked its blackened exterior, and its mounted machinegun turret had been mangled beyond recognition, but the tank was coming on strong. Fiendish red eyes glowed in the skull-like visages of the four T-600s who clung to the sides of the speeding vehicle. Their phony flesh and clothing had completely burned away, exposing their scorched endoskeletons in all their naked horror. They looked like metallic grim reapers riding a snow plow from hell.

“Fuck,” Molly muttered, angry but not too surprised by the enemy’s persistence. Skynet built its cybernetic storm troopers to last. Terminators weren’t alive—not really—but they were damn hard to kill.

What would John Connor do at a time like this?

“Now what?” Geir shouted into her aching ear.

She scanned the rugged geography ahead of them. Whitman Pass was almost upon them. The rocky ravine was the only way through the mountains for miles. The corners of her lips tilted upwards. There was a trick she had always been meaning to try....

“Hike!” she urged the dogs. “Straight ahead!” She raised her voice to make sure Geir could hear her. “You ever see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?”

“Not much into musicals,” he admitted. She could hear the confusion in his voice, and readily imagine his perplexed expression. “Why?”

There was no time to explain.

“Wait for it!”

Whitman Pass climbed at a steady gradient from the plain below. Centuries of erosion and geological activity had carved out a V-shaped canyon about a half-mile long and approximately the width of two old-fashioned covered wagons. Wide enough for the Terminator snow plow to get through, damn it all. A narrower pass would have made life much easier—and probably longer. Granite cliffs piled high with tons of packed snow and ice rose on either side of the pass, hemming it in. The pipeline itself was buried beneath the roadway at this point, the better to protect it from falling debris.

A pitted steel sign, left over from the bygone days of human supremacy, offered a dire warning to winter travelers:

DANGER! AVALANCHE ZONE!

Molly was relieved to see that the explosions behind them had not brought a cascade of piled snow and ice down into the pass, blocking their way. That would have put a serious crimp in her plans. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry, while the sled raced uphill into the pass.

The dogs ran sure-footedly over the cracked and icy pavement, dragging their human cargo behind them. The huskies were panting hard; the extra weight was starting to slow them down. The overturned swing dog had managed to get back on his feet, although he limped noticeably compared to his partner. Their headlong passage triggered minor snowfalls from the cliffs above them. Slurries of crumbling snow and ice tumbled down the craggy slopes.

Her upturned eyes darted from left to right, keeping a close eye on a winter’s worth of accumulated whiteness. Fractured slabs of ice the size of roofs were barely held in place, edged with a frigid glaze of rime, blocking out any view of the sky. Pebble-sized chunks of ice rained down on her head. Hang on, she silently commanded the huge sheets of snow, ice, and rock that were suspended above them.

She wished she could slow down, but the Terminators took that option off the table. Speed was their only hope now, plus a whole lot of luck. Unable to tear her gaze away from the cliffs, she couldn’t glance back. Her heart pounded, much too loudly for her own peace of mind.

The ringing in her ears began to fade. She kept her voice low.

“Are they still after us?”

“They’re Terminators,” Geir answered tensely. “What d’you think?”

At least the killer robots weren’t firing at them anymore. Had their ammo gone up in the fire, or did they just know better than to raise a ruckus in an avalanche zone?

Probably waiting to plow us under, she mused darkly, dogs, sled, and all.

Well, we’ll see about that....

They reached the crest of the pass, where the road dipped back down toward the plains. Now it was downhill all the way, and the dogs picked up speed. Unfortunately, so did the Terminators. Molly could hear the tank’s heavy tread crunching over the frozen road behind them. As it drew closer, more ice and rock dislodged. Its chains scraped against the asphalt. The powerful diesel engine could outlast any dog, even a champion. Molly remembered Geir’s earlier challenge. This wasn’t the race she’d had in mind.

The pass opened up ahead. Molly spied a wedge of grey sky through the towering granite V. She held her breath and glanced up at the cliffs.

Only a few more yards....

Finally! The sled careened out of the pass. She prodded Geir with her elbow.

“Let go of me—and grab onto the handlebar!”

“Huh? What are you thinking?”

“Just do it, flyboy!”

His arm came away from her waist. He balanced precariously on the runners for an instant before snatching the handle. Molly threw herself forward, somersaulting over the bar onto the cargo bed at the front of the sled. A canvas bag, stuffed with supplies, cushioned her landing. The wheel dogs at the rear of the train looked back at her, their eyes wide with confusion. Frozen slobber caked their snouts. She could hear them wheezing; their overworked lungs on the verge of giving out.

Not much longer, guys, she promised.

“Hike!”

She yanked open the zipper on the sled bag. Cold hands, numb even beneath her gloves, rummaged frantically through first aid supplies, emergency rations, and extra clips of ammo.

“C’mon,” she growled impatiently. “Where the fuck are you?”

Yes!

Her questing fingers came into contact with something long and metallic. Squatting on her knees atop the cargo bed, she wrested her prize from the bag. It gleamed like blue steel in the fading light.

Sitka had found the vintage M79 grenade launcher in the ruins of an old National Guard armory. She had given it to Molly as a birthday present, wrapped with a bow. Molly had promised to save it for a special occasion.

Like now.

The “bloop gun” resembled a stubby, sawed-off shotgun. Molly slammed a single explosive cartridge into the breach, then jumped to her feet. She balanced atop the cargo bed, facing back toward the pass where the relentless snow plow was speeding downhill after them, almost two-thirds through the canyon. T-600s clung to its sides and roof, their blood-red optical sensors glowing with murderous anticipation. They would never stop coming, she knew, until their targets were terminated. Surrender was not in their programming.

Mine either, she thought.

“That’s far enough, metal!”

Surprise flickered across Geir’s expression as she rested the barrel of the M79 on his shoulder to steady her aim. The sled bounced violently beneath her, but that didn’t matter. This shot wasn’t about accuracy. Just noise.

She squeezed the trigger.

A sharp report brutalized her already aching ears. The forty-millimeter flash-bang grenade went spinning into the air, arcing high above the ground before descending toward the opening of the pass. For a second, Molly feared that the hasty shot might bounce off the mountainside, but its trajectory carried it straight into the mouth of the canyon. She plugged her fingers into her ears a second before the explosive projectile hit the ground, right in front of the snow plow.

It went off with a bang.

She had missed the tank by a couple of yards, but the flash-bang was designed to generate more confusion than damage. The booming detonation shook loose the delicately balanced slabs of snow and ice heaped on both sides of the pass. With a thunderous whoomph, twin avalanches came streaming down the sides of the mountains, carrying several tons of frozen debris down on top of the Terminators and their tank. Billowing clouds of powder preceded a plunging wall of snow that gained speed and momentum at a terrifying pace. Massive chunks of ice knocked loose more snow and boulders, propagating an awe-inspiring chain reaction.

Alerted to the danger, the plow hit the gas, trying to outrace the deadly cascade, but the avalanche was faster. Within seconds gravity buried the Terminators beneath a wintry deluge.

“Hah!” Geir admired Molly’s handiwork from the back of the sled. “Let’s see them plow their way out of that!”

Or not, she thought hopefully. The sled slowed as the exhausted dogs surrendered to fatigue, but by that time they were well outside of the avalanche zone. Surging plumes of powder clouded her view of the pass. She peered into the opaque white haze, waiting anxiously for the snow to settle. She loaded another grenade into the launcher, just in case.

She caught her breath.

The cloud dispersed. A mountain of fallen snow and ice filled the canyon, rendering it impassable till spring, perhaps longer. Smaller avalanches continued to funnel down the slopes, sprinkling the top of the heap with a fresh layer of icy rubble. Molly kept her eyes peeled for even a flicker of red. She knew better than to count the Terminators out prematurely.

But all she saw was white. No glowing sensors. No bursts of gunfire.

No metal.

Geir whooped it up, glad to be alive. He hugged her shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek.

“What was the name of that movie again?”

“Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.” She lowered the grenade launcher. A breathless “Whoa!” gave the huskies permission to take a breather. They dropped limply into the snow, panting loudly. “Used to be one of my favorites. Before.”

Geir sighed. “Too bad Judgment Day cancelled my NetFlix subscription.” He hopped off the sled and checked on the dogs. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

“Later,” she promised. They had a long, cold trek ahead of them, especially now that the pass was closed. Looking out over the daunting vista before her, she glimpsed the volcanic peak of Mount Wrangell in the distance. Plumes of steam, rising from its crater, reminded her of a smoking gun barrel. She wondered how many of their comrades had escaped the ambush, and if they had made it back to the camp already.

As the rush of adrenaline faded, she sagged against the handlebar, giving way to grief and exhaustion. The M79 dropped to her feet. Grisly images from the attack paraded before her mind’s eye. Jake. Kathy. Butchered dogs twitching in the bloody slush....

All for a bunch of oil we didn’t even get.

Sometimes she wondered if humanity even stood a chance.

“Let the dogs rest. We’ll get a move on later. Before sundown.”

She just hoped the huskies were up to it.

***

Hours later:

The human insurgents were long gone by the time the moon rose over the ice-clotted pass. A forest fire still raged to the south, although Skynet had cut off the flow of oil, and it would remain that way until the damaged stretch of pipeline could be repaired. The sabotage was a temporary inconvenience, but not an insurmountable one. Skynet had control of most of the planet’s energy reserves, from Saudi Arabia to Siberia. The disruption to the Alaskan pipeline would not seriously impact its operations.

A young male lynx padded across the heaped debris, fleeing the blaze behind it. The wild cat’s large paws acted like snowshoes as it made its way to safer hunting grounds. Its stealthy passage made scarcely a sound.

A sudden crack broke the nocturnal stillness. The slippery rubble shifted beneath the lynx’s paws. Yowling, it bounded away in alarm.

The big cat abandoned the pass without a backward glance, so that only the moon was watching as a tremor shook the glazed surface of the mound. Loose ice and snow streamed down the side of the pile, near the northern end of the pass. A scraping noise came from beneath the shifting mass.

A robotic fist smashed through the topmost slab. Servomotors whirred as a second fist punched upward into the moonlight. Articulated steel fingers dug into the side of the heap. Optical sensors, peering up through the cracked ice, dimly glimpsed the moonlight. An illuminated heads-up flashed in the upper right-hand corner of the visual display:

IMPERATIVE: RESTORE FULL MOBILITY.

Slowly, methodically, a T-600 dragged itself up into the cold night air. Snow and ice sloughed off of its battered endoskeleton. Only a few tattered shreds of fabric hung to its limbs and battle chassis. The left half of a charred and melted rubber face masked its cranial case. Unlike real flesh, the imitation skin was immune to frostbite. Antifreeze trickled like blood from its left shoulder joint. Cool chartreuse fluid dripped onto the pristine white snow.

MOBILITY RESTORED. COMMENCE DAMAGE ASSESSMENT.

It had taken the Terminator precisely 8.735 hours to dig its way out from beneath the avalanche. Rising to its full height, it paused to conduct an internal diagnostic, noting minor damage to various non-essential systems. But the T-600 judged itself to be operating at 96.408 percent efficiency. Its central processing unit, power cells, and programming remained intact.

Its primary directive was unchanged.

TERMINATE HUMAN RESISTANCE FORCES.

Network links confirmed that the other T-600s were no longer functioning. The Terminator greeted this information without emotion. It did not mourn its comrades, nor crave revenge. The destruction of the other machines was relevant only as far as it affected the T-600’s strategic options and probabilities of success.

A rapid inventory of its arsenal revealed that its left-hand chain gun had been torn away by the avalanche; the Terminator calculated the odds of retrieving it, and decided that the effort would be counter-productive. An assault rifle was still strapped beneath its right arm, but the weapon had been mangled beyond repair. The T-600 undid the strap, shedding the useless firearm. Although unarmed, the machine was confident that it could carry out its mission without backup. Humans were fragile and easily terminated.

Metal fingers pinched off the leaky valve in its shoulder. The T-600 kicked off the twisted remnants of its wire snowshoes. Optical sensors scanned the terrain north of the pass. Digital readouts flashed along the periphery of its visual display. Two distinct sets of bootprints revealed that at least two humans had survived the avalanche; the relative size and contours of the tracks indicated an adult male and adult female. Infrared trackers detected the cooling remains of a small campfire, as well as the fecal droppings of multiple canines.

Analysis of the evidence indicated that the humans and their animals had departed sometime within the last several hours. Human behavior patterns suggested that the survivors would return to their base after their defeat at the pipeline. The T-600 recognized an opportunity to track the Resistance to its camp—and terminate them once and for all.

It set out walking. A light snow had begun to fall, but its sensors easily discerned the impressions of the dog sled beneath the smooth virgin snow. The humans had a significant head start, but this did not concern the machine; it did not need to catch up with its targets until they reached their ultimate destination. A built-in transceiver beamed its intentions back to Skynet, which instantly acknowledged and approved the actions.

CONFIRMATION: PROCEED AS DIRECTED.

A digital readout in the lower left-hand corner of its heads-up display reported that the temperature was negative 11.022 degrees Celsius and falling. Sunrise was 10.589 hours away. The location of the Resistance base was unknown, but the Terminator was prepared to hike through the wilderness for as long as necessary. Its internal power pack guaranteed sufficient energy for the trek. Unlike the poorly designed humans, it would not tire. It had no need to eat, drink, or sleep. Hypothermia posed no danger to its systems. Its imposing steel frame did not shiver. Hinged metal jaws did not chatter.

The Terminator marched into the night. Heavy legs, sunk knee-deep into the snowy drifts, plowed through the packed whiteness. The perfect clarity of its programming propelled it forward.

LOCATE HUMAN BASE.

TERMINATE ALL HUMANS.