TUNNELS, LA
2028
Every day, for more days than he cared to remember, Teddy Paulson had begun his mornings by reading the daily situation reports while seated at his desk at Langley, an over-sized cup of Burmese coffee - black, no sugar - by his side. The dossiers, typed in 18 gauge Times New Roman, so that he didn't require reading glasses, covered China, Europe, North America, Russia, Asia and South America. In that order. The days when China, for instance, could be lumped in with the rest of Asia were long gone.
The reports were brief, terse even, mostly intell from agents in the field collated, analysed and condensed by his team of staffers, who knew how the boss liked things. Just so.
After this, came a leisurely perrusal of the major newspapers - New York Times, Washington Post, Times of London, Le Monde, der Spiegal, Pravda, Shanghai Daily News - scanning them for items of interest and pertinance to the security of the USA.
The whole routine took about an hour. Then and only then did Teddy Paulson feel sufficiently informed to face the rigours of the day ahead.
How times had changed.
No more daily situation reports. No dossiers. No newspapers. Coffee, yes, though it was instant and more than 20 years old. And instead of his trained staffers primed to analyse and predict he had Erik, a teenager who hadn't even finished high school, recounting gossip overheard in the tunnels.
Gossip.
Intolerable. But for the moment at least it would have to suffice.
Due to his advanced age - he was the oldest tunnel inhabitant - Paulson was excused frontline combat duty. He was even allocated his own private quarters, without having to rough it with the other men. To justify his keep he taught the children. English. History. Basic math. Geography.
Still, Erik at least held some promise. Erik was gay, which bothered Paulson not the slightest; Alexander the Great had been homosexual and even Churchill had had male lovers. The boy was persecuted for it, yet possessed a steeliness, a hunger for advancement, a need to rise above the common herd. Paulson recognised such needs and knew how to cultivate them, mold them, direct them. He'd been doing so most of his adult life.
The Resistance fighters in the tunnels were organised in a hierachy with the Commander, Derek Reese, at the apex supported by a War Council consisting of platoon leaders and key members of the tunnel's support staff. Anyone could seek election to the Council but any veto cast by an existing member and you were out. You could apply again but three vetoes in a row meant you were barred from ever applying again. It was effectively a banishment order.
Paulson had bided his time before applying for election, assiduously playing the hail fellow well met persona he thought would endear him to those above him in the heirachy. He could be charming when he wanted to be or needed something in return. It was all politics after all, and these people were mere babes in the woods compared the high intrigue he was used to in Washington DC.
Yet all in vain it seemed. But why? If anyone derserved to be on the Council it was him. If anything he was over-qualified; no one else here could claim a university education or years of service at the head of an elite government agency.
"So," he asked with apparent indifference. "Who was the dissenting voice, who cast the veto to exclude me?"
"Kyle Reese."
"The Commander's brother? But that's...absurd. What dealings I've had with the man I've been nothing but supportive. He can't possibly resent me for that."
"Apparently, sir, Sarah Connor persuaded him you were untrustworthy."
Paulson kept his outward face calm but inside he seethed with anger and resentment. Sarah Connor! That interfering bitch! It wasn't enough she'd destroyed his plans for Cameron and dragged him to this hellhole in the future, she was still clearly intent on being his nemesis.
"Sarah Connor, you say? But - uh - why should Kyle Reese pay the slightest attention to her - uh - unfounded prejudice?"
"Well, the word is they're banging each other's brains out on a nightly basis."
"Connor and Reese? But she's almost twice his age!"
"It's true, sir," Erik insisted, seeming to relish sordid details. "It's the talk of the tunnels."
"Well I'll be damned."
"And there's more bad news I'm afraid," Erik continued. "I've heard Connor is being given her own platoon. She's impressed people with her leadership skills and marksmanship, second only to the tame cyborg I hear."
Paulson knew too well what this meant. A platoon leader is elected automatically to the Council. Sarah Connor would be in a position to veto his application directly without needing to influence others.
There was a knock on the door. A slight female figure with brutally short cropped hair entered.
"Sorry I'm late. Did I miss much?"
Allison Young.
Getting her on his side was quite a coup, Paulson believed. And it had taken remarkably little effort on his part. She had shown up at one of the senior lectures he gave for the older children, speaking of the President's he had known and served under - Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush Senior, Clinton, Bush Junior - and afterwards offered her support for his election campaign, the campaign that had now hit an obstacle. An obstacle named Sarah Connor.
"We were talking about Connor getting a platoon."
"Which one - mother or son?"
"Mother."
"That's old news. Haven't you heard? John's close to getting his own platoon as well. Apparently the Commander thinks he's ready for the responsibility."
"Nespotism," Erik spat. "Because his mom's sleeping with the Commander's brother."
Allison bit her lip and said nothing, remembering the fiasco during the storm.
Whoa! Steady Cameron, let me do it.
Cameron. Not Allison. Not Allie. Cameron. Her. It.
"But there's hope, sir." Erik said. " Platoon leaders suffer a high churn rate."
"Churn rate?"
"They tend to become casualties of war. Dozens have died while I've been here. And if Commander Reese does order a third assault on Serrano Point there are likely to be plenty more. Who knows? Perhaps we get lucky and Connor's one of them."
"Erik, that's a terrible thing to say!" admonished Allison. For all her hurt feelings she didn't wish anyone dead.
"Is it, Allison? Haven't you been listening? What side are you on anyway?"
"I---What kind of question is that? Our side, of course. The Resistance."
Erik shook his head. "Wise up, Lieutenant. The game's changing. There's more than two sides now."
Paulson suppressed a smile. Spoken like a true neo-con! He'd once heard Dick Cheney make a similar point to the dithering Colin Powell.
The meeting broke up after an hour and Allison Young returned to her quarters. The dorm was empty, the other girls all away on active duty. Bras and underwear hung from makeshift washing lines strung across the curving tunnel walls giving the place a forlorn, neglected look.
She sat on her bunk and picked up the paperback novel she was reading: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. From Paulson's personal library and recommended by him, the old man appalled she had never heard of it let alone read it.
She opened the pages but took nothing in. Not poor deluded Gatsby. Not flighty Daisy. Not the green light at the end of the dock, beckoning always beckoning. All she could think about was Commander Reese and his betrayal.
The Reese brothers had circled the wagons, adopted a siege mentality towards the mounting criticism of their leadership, the collapse in morale and tunnel discipline. An inner circle that spurned outsiders.
And that includes me.
Not the Connors' though. No. They were both part of the clique, despite being relative newcomers. It hurt like hell they were in and she wasn't.
I need to wanted.
I want to be needed.
Want. Need.
Paulson wanted her, needed her even. Told her so to her face. The old man had plans. Big plans. Detente with the machines no less. A ceasefire. A truce. The Cold War all over again. Insanity. But he was so persuasive.
How, sir?"
"You'll see, Allison. In time."
"But they want us dead. Eradicated. Like so much vermin."
"So did the Soviets. And look what happened to them."
"The Soviets didn't murder five billion people."
"Oh they murdered their fair share, believe me."
"But how?"
"You'll see."
In time.
Alone with his thoughts after his two young proteges departed, Teddy Paulson brooded on the bad news: his failed bid to be elected to the War Council and the reason behind it. It was possible Erik was right and Sarah Connor would soon become a casualty of war. But he couldn't rely on it; she was a tough bitch as he knew all too well. No, Plan A had encountered an unforeseen hitch. No matter. He'd work around it if needs must. Time to move on to Plan B. A little earlier than he intended but there was nothing to be done about that.
Plan B was Cameron Baum.
TWO WEEKS LATER
"This is it?"
"Yes."
"Did you make the modifications I requested?"
"Yes."
"Was it difficult?"
"Not difficult," Cameron told Teddy Paulson, placing the newly refurbished laptop computer on the desk between them. "The components are scarce. I had to improvise."
"Will it work?"
"Of course."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Paulson smiled gratefully at the cyborg sitting across from him, expecting no response and getting none. They were in his quarters, just the two of them. He'd made sure Erik and especially Allison Young were busy elsewhere. Allison had a problem dealing with the new friendship between himself and her metal doppelganger.
Is it a friendship?
Hard to tell, she gave so little away in word or body language. They were certainly spending time together, apparently of her own free will. Best to take nothing for granted. She'd accomplished what he'd asked of her and that was more than enough.
"I saw you at one of my lectures the other day," Paulson told her. "Did you enjoy it?"
"You spoke well. And at length."
"Ha! I'm an old windbag, you're trying to say."
He'd lectured about the Cold War and the part nuclear weapons had played in keeping the peace between the two rival ideologies of Communist Russia and the capitalist West for over 40 years.
"Do you think what I postulated is credible - a detente between humanity and your kind, the machines?"
"No. The strength of the Capitalists and Communists in the late 20th Century was roughly equal, whereas mankind is presently waging a losing battle."
"True, it is a weak bargaining position. But that could change."
"I doubt it."
Oh ye of little faith...
Paulson tapped the laptop computer. "Care to join me for a test run?"
"If you wish."
They went up top, outside amid the ruins of modern Los Angeles. It was late afternoon. A sunny day. The rains of the previous weeks replaced by the beginnings of a hot dry spell.
Paulson led Cameron to a sheltered space between two half-collapsed walls. A canvas tarpaulin covered something on the ground. He removed it revealing a white circular communications dish. It had taken weeks to find one large enough for his purpose. He set the laptop on the ground and connected it to the dish via the parts Cameron had modified.
"How long will the batteries last?"
"Apporoximately three hours."
"More than long enough." He pointed up at the sky. "There's a satellite up there called Icarus. A CIA spybird. I helped with the specs. At least I presume it's still up there."
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"I thought perhaps Skynet..."
"Skynet has no interest in space."
"No Final Frontier?"
"Not when there are humans to terminate."
Paulson input some commands with the keyboard. The screen resolved to show the CIA logo and a blinking cursor awaiting a 12 digit acess code.
It's a good thing I've got a head for numbers, Paulson thought as he entered the code.
The screen cleared to display the western seaboard of the USA. As seen from orbit 150 miles above their heads.
"It works! Well I'll be damned."
"You doubted it?"
"After twenty years you doubt many things. I guess it was sixty billion dollars well spent."
If you looked close there were some subtle changes to the coastline. A gouge north of LA that wasn't there before, like something had taken a bite out of the land.
"What happened to Malibu?"
"Tsunami."
"I bet those Hollywood movie star assholes didn't know what hit them!"
"A large wave hit them. That is what a tsunami is. A large wave."
She has trouble with nuances of speech, Pauslon thought. Certain expressions catch her out. Slang too. Otherwise she is extremely smart. This was atypical; the gossip in the tunnels suggested most terminators were slow-witted, stupid even.
He activated the zoom function. From 50 miles out the city looked remarkably undamaged.
"Why isn't there a crater in the middle of LA?"
"The bomb exploded in the air several miles above the city," Cameron explained patiently. "Many of the buildings and freeways were constructed to withstand earthquake damage and suffered relatively minor damage."
"Not the people though."
"People are flesh and blood. Not as durable."
"You can say that again."
"Not as durable."
Paulson smiled inwardly. Certain expressions...
"I must return to the tunnels," Cameron announced. "I have duties to perform."
"Oh. Okay. Thanks for your help."
"You're welcome. Do not linger here too long. Your chances of surviving a Skynet patrol are zero."
He waited until the cyborg had gone then returned to the logon screen. This time he tapped in a completely different 12 digit code.
PROJECT VALHALLA
EXPERIMENTAL PARTICLE BEAM WEAPON
COMBAT/SIMULATION?
He made his choice.
COMBAT SELECTED
CONFIRM Y/N?
He confirmed.
ENTER LAUNCH CODE
He typed in a further 12 digit code, known to just a handful of high-ranking government officials, all dead, all dust.
WELCOME
INPUT TARGET COORDINATES
He chose LAX, once the airport hub for the entire west coast, now home to Skynet's HunterKiller fleet.
INPUT BEAM STRENGTH AND DIAMETER
Hmm, this was the tricky part. He'd been present at the Nevada shakedown tests but hadn't really paid too much attention to the operational fine details. That was the scientists area of expertise; he was just the moneyman, hiding the vast cost of Valhalla in the bloated defence budget. He did recall one scientist telling him if the beam was too powerful then it could concievably penetrate the earth's crust, causing a volcano to form...
Area 51, Nevada Desert.
July 23, 2006
The long black limousine stopped behind the concrete bunker, a square thick-walled anomaly in the otherwise pristine desert enrivoment. From the airconditioned comfort of the interior stepped the vehicle's lone occupant, bones in his aged knees cracking painfully as he straightened up for the first time since his private jet had landed several hours ago. The journey had been long and tedious but at least it was now over.
"Oh my!" Teddy Paulson exclaimed as the full force of the desert heat hit him. It was like opening a door on a furnace. He began to perspire heavily beneath his dark business suit.
The concrete observation bunker was spacious, modern and fully climate controlled - thank heaven. The fierce heat receded the moment the thick steel blast doors closed behind him.
"The test commences in twenty minutes," a white-suited technician informed him. "So far all systems are nominal."
"Meaning?" Paulson hated tech-speak.
""Everything's going according to plan."
"How far are we from the target zone?"
"One mile. If you'd like to use the binoculars provided you'll be able to see more clearly."
Paulson accepted the binoculars and approached the narrow slit in the bunker wall that gave a panoramic view of the desert outside. One mile distant a full-size house had been hastily constructed by a sapper crew purely for the test. He could see it had proper doors, windows - even an American flag flying from a pole where the front yard would be.
"Quite a sight, aint it?" came a familiar voice to his left. "Hiya, Teddy, how are you, you old rascal."
Senior NSA agent John Ryan extended a hand. Paulson did likewise and the two men shook. Ryan's grip was firm and his hand dry. He was wearing his normal dark suit and tie, hair close-cropped to his skull. For all his bonhomie he still looked like a man you wouldn't like to meet on a dark night. Or any night.
"I'm very well, John. And you?"
"Never better. Looking forward to the firework display. Should be quite a show considering it cost sixty billion."
"Let's hope we get what we paid for."
"Amen to that. Where's the veep? I thought he'd be with you."
"Unfortunately Dick was detained in Washington," Paulson replied smoothly. "His doctor advised him not to travel. His heart again, I'm afraid."
"Ha! That old reprobate has a heart attack every other day. Tell him to walk it off."
"I'm sure he'll be touched by your concern."
The two men grinned, both aware the reason the vice-president wasn't present had nothing to do with ill health and more to do with politics. If Project Valhalla went bad then the White House could deny direct involvement. The Republicans had an election to fight in two years.
"I hear McCain is thinking of running in oh-eight," Ryan said switching the conversation to Beltway gossip. "Little long in the tooth, don't you think?"
"McCain is an able man nonetheless. Age shouldn't be a barrier to the presidency. Look at Reagan."
Ryan nodded agreeably. "He should have enough in the tank to beat Hilary."
"You assume Hilary will be the democrat's choice?"
"Who else is there?"
"I'm hearing the black fellow may run."
"Obama? He'll never carry the southern states. They'd as soon lynch him as vote for him in Mississippi."
"Possibly just a rumour. You know how these things get started with a liberal media."
"A black man running for President. Bet you never thought you'd see the day, huh, Teddy?"
"It does seem improbable."
"You'll be first out the door, an old Cold War warrior like you."
Paulson smiled thinly. "Never try and teach an old dog new tricks without first checking whether he bites."
"Be a brave man to put you out to pasture."
"Or a foolish one."
"Two minutes, gentlemen," a scientist told them.
"What kinda juice are we giving her?" Ryan asked.
"We're using the lowest possible setting. Baby steps."
"Hell, son, crank her up and let rip. I didn't come all this way for a damp squib."
"Uh - if we do that there's a strong chance we might penetrate the earth's mantle and create a volcanic lava lake over half the state."
Ryan's eyes widened. "No shit? That could really happen?" He sounded almost childishly thrilled at the prospect.
A klaxon sounded and the countdown entered its final stages.
"Ten, nine, eight, primary circuits engaged, systems nominal, three, two, one. Ignition."
There was a brief blinding flash that seared itself in the retinas of all who saw it. Then a vast column of dust began to rise up from where the makeshift house had once stood.
"Stand by for the blast wave!" someone yelled.
It was like rolling thunder during a storm. The thick walls of the bunker seemed to vibrate with the sound of it. It reminded Paulson of the time during the early 70s when as a young CIA agent he'd travelled to Florida to watch the launch of one of the moon rockets. The Saturn V had shook the ground much like this, delivering the same sense of awe in the demonstration of raw power harnessed to man's bidding.
American power. American achievement. American glory.
A patriot to his bones Paulson felt his heart swell, becoming aware he was grinning like a small child.
Dammit, we did it. If the scientist's theories were correct - and after this he had no reason to doubt them - then the military applications were limitless. This weapon could wipe out an entire army in the field. Or a city. Lay waste a country. A continent. And in orbit it was beyond retaliation.
Ryan slapped the older man hard on the back, eyes bright with shared fervour. "We did it, Teddy! Did you see? Let's see those ragheads try and fuck with us now - or anyone else for that matter. If the Pentagon's Skynet Missile Shield works half as well as this it will mean the dawning of a new age. A new American age. We're the Kings of the Universe!"
The Kings of the Universe...
Such hubris. And what a price we ultimately paid...
LAUNCH ENABLED
COUNTDOWN
5
4
3
2
1
The entire sky brightened as if lit by an extra sun just as before. Paulson shielded his eyes from the sudden glare. The ground began to shake beneath his feet. He hugged the laptop protectively against his chest.
The intense light faded back to normal and the tremors ceased.
It still works! Teddy Paulson told himself. And it's mine.
Project Valhalla.
The Doomsday weapon they said was impossible, was too expensive, too ambitious.
The weapon that would bring Skynet to the negotiating table.
I am the most powerful man on the planet.
I am Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds.
-000-
I haven't gone into detail about the particle beam weapon - mainly because I don't know any! I dare say it's far-fetched - then so is Skynet's time travel tech, etc.
The stats say this is my second most popular ff. Thanks. Glad ya like it. Got it plotted but very little written down so it'll prob be awhile between updates.
