The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
MONDAY
A large map is unfolded and laid flat across the kitchen table. It depicts the west coast of California and the entire Pacific Ocean, complete with islands and archepelagos. Are we planning a vacation? I wish. No, John wishes to ascertain the precise location where the stricken HunterKiller crashed.
"Where were you when you baled?"
I tell him the coordinates and observe as he plots them on the map.
"How high up?"
"Two miles."
"Quite a fall."
"It had its moments."
"Okay, presuming it didn't alter trajectory too much then it most likely hit the water...here. Two hundred miles east of Hawaii. That's deep ocean. Good. Last thing we want is that thing washing ashore at Waikkii beach."
Sarah Connor enters the room. She's just returned from her morning run and her hair is still damp from the shower. She should stick her head in the oven like me. Dries perfectly. Of course, you have to be careful not to burn your ears off.
"I think that dog might have worms. I just caught him shaking his butt in the air."
John smiles. "Snowy doesn't have worms. He's twerking."
"Twerking?"
"It's a new dance craze Mia taught him. She's teaching him Gangnam style next."
"Do I need to know what that is?"
"Probably not."
"You're too old," I add. This earns me a scowl.
"What are you doing with the map?"
John explains and brings her up to speed with his conclusions. She stares thoughtfully at the map. "Could it survive the impact?"
"In part," I reply. "The AI is well shielded. There is no chance it will ever fly again though."
"And the chip?"
"It depends whether the containment cell is breached by the water pressure at that depth. If so, the chip will slowly corrode in the salt water and be rendered harmless."
"And if it stays intact?"
"Then the AI will remain powered down and dormant until such time as it is salvaged and reactivated."
"I don't think there's any chance of that happening," John insists. "Its down deeper than the Titanic. Even supposing the military know its exact location it'll take more than sending a frogman down and attaching a line to haul it up."
"There are submersibles that can operate at those depths."
"Sure. But a salvage operation would be dangerous and very expensive. I'm guessing tens of millions of dollars. And the Pentagon never really got a demonstration of what they had. Best guess, they'll write it off and start over with another contractor, one that doesn't have access to future tech."
"I hope you're right. This was a little too close for comfort."
John clears the map away then pushes a small piece of paper across the table in front of his mother.
"What's this?"
"The address of the cemetery where your roomate Ginger is buried. Remember you said you never knew where? I did some research."
Sarah Connor stares at the piece of paper without speaking.
"Row F. Plot number-"
"I can read."
"O-kay. Her boyfriend was cremated so your guess is as mine."
"What about the others?"
"Others?"
"The other innocent victims. The women who had the same name as me. The people in Club Noir who were gunned down. The cops in the station house. You find out where they're buried too?"
"Mom, I just thought-"
You thought - what? I'd want to buy some flowers, visit Ginger's grave and pay my respects. Maybe shed a tear or two for auld lang sine. What's done is done. The best way to respect Ginger and all the others is to wipe those things from the face of the earth once and for all."
"I didn't mean-"
"Sentiment has no part of our lives, John. I thought I taught you better than that. Obviously I was wrong."
Sarah Connor leaves the table and goes outside. Snowy moves to follow then thinks better of it. Wise dog. That's the downside of twerking - it's an inviting target for a swift kick up the hindquarters. Miley Cyrus, take note.
John crumples the paper in his fist and thumps the table. "Jeez, what a hardass!"
"Lunges."
"Huh?"
"It's the lunges she does that gives her a hard ass."
John stares at me then sighs and shakes his head.
I get the impression I have said something wrong. Interpreted his reaction incorrectly. Stupid Fitness Channel. Stupid skinny women in leotards.
TUESDAY
Night. The open highway. I am alone and behind the steering wheel of a fully laden SUV travelling southeast at an average speed of 124mph, the fastest I can coax from this rental vehicle with all the extra weight. The buildings and suburbs of Los Angeles have long since receded. This is the wilderness I am travelling through, the true desert. Although my ability to see in infra red makes the headlights redundant I keep them on, the twin beams lighting the empty asphalt ahead in a manner I find reassuring. I must be getting soft in my old age.
Back at the safe house everyone is sleeping. More to the point, no one knows where I am or why. I hate keeping information from John but on this occasion needs must. Sarah Connor is correct: the unexpected appearance of the HunterKiller was indeed too close for comfort. My mission to protect John and keep him safe can hardly be counted a success if we are both radioactive piles of ash. So in order to protect the future I must revisit my past. Alone.
My HUD begins to flash, the terminator equivilent of SatNav telling me I have reached my destination.
I slow to virtual walking speed and turn off the highway. The tires scrunch softly as we traverse the desert hardpan. I steer around cactus and other plant life. No need to leave a trail of broken branches. Not that there is anyone around to notice.
I switch off the engine, kill the lights and climb out of the SUV. I step away from the vehicle and turn in a circle, gazing upward at the multitude of distant stars shining out of the night sky. With my optics boosted they cast enough light for me to see clearly, light that has travelled billions of miles across interstellar space to illuminate this desolate spot. Thank you, Universe. Much appreciated.
I take a shovel from the SUV's trunk and begin digging. Three feet down there is a soft clang, metal striking metal. Good. After all these years it is still where I left it. I would hate to have come all this way and spent so much money on equipment chasing a chimera.
The shovel quickly clears a hole a yard deep and wide. There is a hatch in the middle. I grasp the handle and twist. It opens easily. I never bothered to lock it. The odds of someone randomly digging in this area of desert and coming across it by accident are so infinitesimal they are hardly worth calculating.
Slowy I climb down the metal ladder, counting off the twenty three rungs in pitch blackness until I reach the bottom. I find the switch on the wall and flip it. Nothing happens. Bummer. The batteries are flat. I suppose after thirty years it was inevitable. Even a Duracell bunny would struggle to last that long.
The generators are nearby. I find the crank handle where I left it, insert it right way round and begin cranking. Once. Twice. Third time is the charm. The engine catches, burning the abundant supply of gasoline to spin the dynamos that provide electricity.
Slowy, section by section, light returns to the underground nuclear bomb shelter for the first time since Ronald Reagan was President. The Big Gipper, they called him. I have no idea what a gipper is but apparently his was big. Perhaps that was why he was so popular. Sometimes size is everything.
-0-
In the years after I was sent back to 1969 to meet Davie Ginsberg at Woodstock and persuaded him to help me constuct a spare time machine and before my meeting with the youthful John Connor at a New Mexico high school, my mission instructions were simple: gather weapons and survival equipment and bury them in strategic locations throughout the country, well away from the major cities and their zones of radiation, where they will one day be discovered and utilised by the human Resistance. This redoubt in the desert outside Los Angles was the most westerly and last to be constructed in the early 1980s. Also the biggest and most ambitious. Not just a dump for weapons and survival gear but a fully functioning nuclear bomb shelter, capable of keeping up to twenty people alive and protected from fallout for up to three years. Who ordered its construction and why here? I don't know. That information is encrypted and kept from my knowledge. I have always assumed on the orders of Future John. Why the secrecy? I don't know that either. I trust him. I'm sure he had - will have - his reasons.
The construction was a major undertaking, even for an entity such as myself who never requires sleep or rest periods. Everything I needed had to be purchased or stolen and hauled to this remote location. I couldn't rely on UPS. They won't deliver to a non-existent address in the middle of nowhere. The slackers.
The hole alone took a month and wore out two excavators. Slowly it bagan to take shape. I welded every metal seal and hammered every rivet myself, then promptly reburied it all. The excess soil, all two thousand tons of it, I dumped elsewhere. A new hill where formerly there was nothing. You're welcome.
Of course there is much more to this place than a buried metal box. Filters had to be installed. Fuel tanks filled. Cables. Lighting. Communications. Water tanks. And vast storage rooms full of tinned food with a shelf life measured in decades.
Not everything was hard to come by. In the 1980s, the two rival ideologies of capitalism and communism were still at loggerheads. A nuclear exchange remained a very real possibility. Others were preparing for the worst and a thriving industry had sprung up selling supplies to the nervous and paranoid. And me.
Despite the collapse of communism, the fear of civilization suddenly being destroyed by some non-nuclear cataclysm still exists, thrives even especially in the wake of the banking crisis of a few years ago. None, as far as I know, have gone to the extreme of building a nuclear fallout shelter underground in the middle of the desert. Equally, none know what I know: that a storm is coming that might very well be inevitable and will sweep away everything in its path and bathe the rest in a radioactive glow that will persist for years. To be followed by a veritable avenging army of lethal machines roaming the poisoned land and displaying no mercy to those it hunts. Truly, it never rains but it pours.
I make several return trips to the SUV, transfering supplies below ground. Technology has moved on apace, not least in radiation survival gear . The new silvery uniforms and helmets are lighter, more flexible and can withstand up to sixty percent more rads than before. Alas, I have not been able to find dog-shaped suits. Snowy will have to make do with protective gear designed for an infant and be carried everywhere. He will not appreciate this imposition, though since the alternative is to have his flesh slowly cooked on his bones by invisible gamma rays I'm sure he will come around. That or melt.
Long life food is also much improved from the canned variety of thirty years ago. Today your friendly neighborhood survivalist store has a wide range of freeze dried meals. Just add water and a tasty meal ensues. I have brought with me fifty thousand foil sachets, around a third of which are dessert. Snowy will be pleased.
Once I have stowed the new provisions in the storage rooms, I head into the Rec Room, the largest area in the bunker apart from the sleeping dorms. In the middle is a pool table, its bright red baize surface a welcome splash of color amid the drab utilitarian greys. Thirty years ago I was far less knowledgable about what constituted human entertainment. It shows. Besides the pool table there is an old fashioned CRT TV with a video cassette machine to match. High tech - not! On a shelf is the only video I purchased - a boxset of Three's Company. How could I think this would be sufficient to keep people entertained for possibly years and years? I'll definitely need the second season. Come knock on our door...We've been waiting for you...
My footsteps sound hollow in the enclosed space as I make my way to the comms room. This too shows its age, the stacks of electronics mostly obsolete and worthy of a museum exhibit. Yet the old analogue equipment is still perfectly functional and I see no imperative to replace it. After all, I'm an obsolete design myself - and I'm not throwing me out.
Thirty years ago no one envisaged the digital revolution. Except me, of course. Perhaps I should have sought out the teenage Bill Gates and whispered a few secrets in his ear. Might want to give that tablet idea a rethink, Bill. And ditch Balmer. He sweats too much. Gross! I wonder what would've freaked him out most - hearing about future tech or being in close proximity to a pretty girl. The latter, I suspect. Nerds. Gotta love 'em. Well, sort of.
I sit down in front of the console and press a switch. Above me, unseen and unheard, a powerful hydralic ram is pushing up through the gritty regolith. When it reaches the surface an aerial will extend fifty feet in the air. This antenna will be able to detect the faintest of radio signals from hundreds of miles away. Of course, in this day and age such sensitivity is overkill. Turn the dial where I will and the human babel is being broadcast everywhere, 24/7. Music, voices of every language and dialect. Mankind is seldom reticent about making itself heard.
"Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee;
I have thee not, and yet I see thee thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw."
My random turning of the tuning dial has discovered this station, broadcasting what appears to be a play of some vintage, the voices clipped and curiously archaic in speech. Then my database finds a match. It's a drama, a play by the long dead William Shakespeare. Macbeth. The story of a man who would be king and who after attaining this goal by murder and other foul deeds winds up brutally slain by decapitation. I do love a happy ending!
I give every system a thorough testing. If this place is ever operational then there must be no failures. Lives may depend on it. John may depend on it.
The bunker equipment passes each test and I finally pronounce myself satisfied. No malfunctions. No glitches. No leakages. My compliments to the builder. Oh - that would be me.
I return to the base of the ladder and switch off the generator. As it runs down the lights throughout the bunker flicker and fade until everything is dark and silent. Like a tomb. Oops - not a good simile in the circumstances.
I climb the ladder to the surface and reseal the hatch. Above ground the wind has increased in velocity, strong enough now to propel loose desert fines through the air giving it a harsh abrasive quality. This is not a place to spend any amount of time. That will change. Come the end of the world.
-0-
Relieved of its heavy burden of supplies, I coax an extra fifteen mph out of the SUV. We hurtle across the desert landscape, machine and machine in perfect harmony. Though the sky is beginning to lighten in the east, I estimate I should arrive back in LA well before breakfast. No one will even suspect I have been gone all night. Perhaps I will acquire takeout. Everyone loves takeout. Well, nearly everyone.
FOOD AND GAS ONE MILE
The signpost is briefly illuminated in my headlights before vanishing behind. I check the fuel gauge. Less than a quarter tank. I have ridden the SUV hard and it is thirsty. Time for a refill.
The gas station is situated well back from the highway, a low one storey building bright with lights. The pumps are on a narrow concrete island, much longer than the ones in the city, no doubt constructed to accomodate the long haul trucks that regularly cross the border to and from Mexico.
Something about the silhouette of the main building and the backdrop of the desert behind triggers a memory. I have been here before. Many times, in fact. This was where I filled up back in the 80s when I was constantly bringing supplies in to construct the nuclear bunker. I drove a flatbed Ford back then and wore jeans teamed with plaid shirts and a black cowboy hat that helped keep the dust out of my hair. The pumps weren't self-service then and one of the gas station operatives who regularly served me , an older man named Ralph, nicknamed me Blackhat Betty. He said it with a smile on his face so I let him live. I've been called worse.
I push my credit card into the slot on the pump and the gasoline begins to flow with a soft hiss, filling the SUV's tank. Lit by the building's lights, I can see that my offroading has caused the vehicle to be covered all over in a thick patina of dust. It looks like I'm driving a giant dungball.
"Check your oil, miss?"
For a moment I think it's Ralph doing the asking, but no, this isn't the 80s and although this man is equally old and wearing similar denim bib overalls, he is taller and greyer and his baseball cap doesn't have OREOS on the peak.
"Miss, are you okay? Ah surely didn't mean to startle you."
I assure him I'm fine. He nods. Though tall he seems to stand with a slight stoop.
"Ah heard ya coming a ways back. Work here long enough you get to hearing things long before you see 'em, especially this early in the morning. And with this breeze sound carries a fair distance."
I check the pump gauges. Still more than half the tank to fill. The man stares at me, a slight smile on his leathery suntanned face. "You didn't answer my question."
"Question?"
"Check your oil?"
I tell him the oil's fine. He nods and says, "Looks like you picked up a little dust. Least let me wipe your screen."
I offer no objection and he takes a rag from a pocket of his bib overalls. Soon the rag is so thick with dust you could plant tomatoes in it. He nods towards the building. "Got a pot of coffee brewin'. First cup's on the house. Can't offer you much in the way of food. Company took the grills away to save money. All vending machines now. And a microwave for the frozen stuff. When ah first came here we had a fine cook name of Ralph Timmins. Made the best Sloppy Joes this side of Abilene, Texas."
"Ralph Timmins? A man your age. Shorter. Wider. Wore a cap with OREOS on it."
"Aye, that's Ralph right enough. Loved the Oreos."
"They are a tasty snack," I agree. Snowy certainly thinks so. He 'd get through a pack a day if we let him.
The man laughs, which quickly morphs into a wheezy cough. "Bless you, miss. The Oreos are a baseball team. Ralph hailed from Baltimore originally ."
"Oreos aren't cookies?" What next - are Ring Dings a football team?
"Well, that's as mebbe. But the Ralph Timmins I knew was a baseball fan first and foremost. If you don't mind me askin' - how's a young girl like yourself know old Ralph?"
"He pumped gas for me. Some time ago."
He stares at me curiously. "Now how could that be? Ah came here in '84. Ralph Timmins quit in '86, not long after the space shuttle exploded. Ah remember that plain as day. Retired to Florida, so he did. It's a long shot, but for all ah know he's still there sunning his old hide. So you see, miss, ain't no way Ralph Timmins pumped gas for you because ah sincerely doubt you was even born back in '86."
I smile and tell him my bad. Must have been a different Ralph Timmins in a different gas station in the middle of a different desert. I don't think he's convinced but what is the alternative - that I travelled back in time and never age? Get real.
"Are you alone here?" I ask. If I have to terminate him it is better if there are no witnesses. I would hate to start a bloodbath - I didn't bring a change of clothes.
"Aye. Now everything's automated there's not too much to do round here. And the company don't like paying folk to do nothing. That's the government's job." Another wheezy laugh. "Not like the old days. There were eight of us of workin' here. Four on four off. Now it's just me and Julio, a mexican fella. Nice boy. Likes jalapena peppers. Eats 'em raw. Gives me heartburn just watchin' him chew. Julio takes the afternoon shift while I catch some shuteye. That's if he turns up. Boy's been gettin' a mite tardy lately. Lives nearer the border with a young family to raise and the commute's getting to be a sonofabitch - excuse ma french."
Sonofabitch isn't french but I let it pass. The tank is full now. I replace the hose and retrieve my credit card. I hand the old man a ten dollar bill as a tip. In the past it would've been a hundred, but John says excessive tipping is a good way to get noticed and remembered. Tightwad's are less memorable apparently.
"Thank you kindly, miss. You take care now. You're a purty little thing and no mistake. The highway can be a dangerous place for the likes of you."
"Don't worry," I assure him. "I'm not planning on harming anybody."
This provokes another wheezy laugh that becomes a rattly cough. He really should get that looked at.
I climb behind the wheel and restart the engine. Before pulling away I wind down the window, lean out and say, "If you hear from Ralph Timmins tell him Blackhat Betty says hi."
-0-
The sky is appreciably lighter in the east now. Calling at the gas station put a dent in my ETA but I should still reach LA with plenty of time to spare. What kind of breakfast takeout should I buy, I wonder - pizza, tacos or fried chicken? The chicken, I think. For the protein.
An object by the side of the highway catches my attention. A motorbike, perched on its stand. No sign of the rider. Possibly he is behind one of the tall cacti taking a leak. Urination is a private affair - unless you're Snowy, who goes anywhere and everywhere.
Three miles further on I spot a man walking by the side of the highway. He's wearing a dark biker's jacket. The owner of the motorbike? It seems a long way to go for some privacy. No one's that shy surely.
He hears my approach and steps into the middle of the road waving his arms above his head. I have two choices:
1) Stop and offer assistance.
2) Run him down.
In the past, option 2) would prevail. Time spent with John means option 1) now holds sway. Pity. I used to enjoy option 2). Good times.
I slow to a halt. The SUV's sluggish stopping distance has carried me several hundred yards past the biker. I watch in the rear view mirror as he jogs towards me. Tall man. Average build. Long dark hair. Black leather jacket over grey tee. Dark jeans. Sturdy boots. He pulls open the passenger door and gets in. "Am I glad to see you! Bike threw a piston miles back. You're the first person I've seen. Thought I was gonna have to walk all the way to Los Angeles on foot."
So he wants a ride. I see no reason to deny him. Just because I'm a ruthless killing machine originally designed to wipe humanity off the face of the earth doesn't mean I can't play Good Samaritan once in a while.
"Wow, you're really shifting," he says as I accelerate back to maximum cruising speed. "What's under the hood - vee eight?"
"Yes."
"Sweet. Your vehicle?"
"Rental."
"Y'know, I read someplace that the rental companies are lojacking their vehicles nowadays."
I reach down between the seats and show him the mangled remains of such a device. I removed it before I left LA. No one but me needs to know my business.
"Ha! Way to go, honey. You all on your lonesome? Sweet. You know what this is?"
Something protrudes from the folds of his leather jacket. I glance across. My database finds a match. "It's a Smith and Wesson M&P R8 handgun. Scandium frame with shrouded barrel and rail for mounting a laser guide or flashlight. The cylinder has eight chambers instead of the conventional six."
"Well well, aren't you just full of surprises."
"You have no idea."
"Okay, here's what you're gonna do. Slow down and stop a ways off the highway. Take your clothes off and climb in back. We'll have ourselves a little fun before we turn round and pick up my bike. Damned if I'll just leave it there for some dumbass trucker to help himself."
"Sounds like a plan," I agree convivially.
"Do as you're told and I won't hurt you."
"You're lying."
"Swear to God. Once we get to LA I'll let you go. I ain't gonna shoot you long as you do what I say."
Another lie. I let it go. To call him on it would only elicit another lie.
"Hey - you're not slowing down."
"I have plans of my own."
I push him. Hard. The door bursts open and the slimstream claims him. I watch in the rear view mirror as he tumbles over and over, arms and legs flailing helplessly until gravity and friction work their magic. He comes to rest in the middle of the road, straddling the white line, a shapeless bundle of misaligned limbs. I don't bother to turn around or even slow in the slightest. My knowledge of physiology tells me a human body thrust out of a speeding vehicle onto a hard unyielding surface such as tarmac will sustain multiple external and internal injuries, several of which are likely to prove fatal especially if no medical help is immediately forthcoming. We are in the middle of the desert. Good luck with that.
I return my gaze to the road ahead, after reaching over to shut the door. The biker left without closing it. Honestly, some poeple have absolutely no manners.
-0-
After I have visited a couple of drive in fast food franchises, I abandon the rental and walk the final few blocks home. At this time of the morning there are few people up and about. Those that are give me a brief glance and look away. Just a teenage girl carrying a large carton of takeaway. They probably think I've got the munchies.
At the safe house Sarah Connor is doing stretches in the front yard prior to heading off on one of her interminable runs. She stops stretching when she sees me and asks, "What's in the box?"
"Breakfast." I open the lid to show her.
"Tattertots and fried chicken wings. You call that a healthy breakfast?"
"It's finger lickin' good."
"Maybe for someone without arteries to clog. At least make sure Mia drinks the organic fruit juice I've bought."
"She doesn't like the organic juice. She says it tastes like cats p-"
"I know what she says. Where have you been all night anyway?"
"Patrol," I lie.
Sarah Connor stares at me. Does she doubt my word? I never lie. Oops, there I go again.
"Kill anyone?" she asks.
"No."
Our eyes meet and lock. Finally she breaks the stare and adjusts the stopwatch on her wristwatch. Without another word, she is gone. I watch until she is out of sight. Thanks to my emergency surgery, she can now complete a 26 mile marathon distance in less than ninety minutes, a feat that would be a world record for either sex were it witnessed and verified.
Inside the house Snowy is the first to be attracted by the smell of fired chicken wings. No surprise there. I chop some up and place it in a dish. He devours it with his customary lack of table manners.
Mia is next to show, yawning and stretching in her rumpled One Direction tee shirt. "Is that breakfast? For real? Cool! Lucky Sarah isn't around to see it."
"Yes, isn't it." I am out of control.
"She'd be like - ooh, calories, bad - ooh, saturated fat, bad - ooh, cholesterol, bad. How can something that tastes so good be so bad?"
I agree it is a conundrum, although you probably require a stomach to appreciate it.
"Have you had any yet, Snowy?"
Snowy brazenly shakes his head. It seems lying is contagious.
"Are you sure?" Mia eyes the empty dish suspiciously.
Snowy hangs his head sheepishly. Unlike me he is a terrible bluffer. Mia tosses him a tattertot as consolation.
John is the last to show. "Hmm, something smells good."
"Me?" I ask hopefully.
"I meant the fried chicken."
"Oh." Stupid Colonel Sanders and his stupid special recipe.
"How was patrol?" John enquires once Mia and Snowy are safely ensconced in the basement den watching cartoons.
"Largely uneventful." This is not strictly a lie. "The Abbots in number fourteen have installed a large trampoline in their backyard."
"Good for them."
"It is possible that by leaping continuously they will be able to see into our yard."
"Well, yeah, I guess. But I hardly think they'd be doing it to spy on us. A trampoline's not much use as a surveillance device."
"Nevertheless I will monitor the situation and take appropriate action if necessary."
"If necessary? Cam, the Abbots are a harmless retired couple. They probably bought the thing for their grandkids to play on when they come visit."
"That could be a cunning ruse to allay our suspicions."
"You're being paranoid. Leave the Abbots alone. That's an order."
"Can I at least burn down the trampoline?"
"No."
I never get to have any fun.
-0-
Basically a chapter about Cameron visiting a hole in the ground. Hold up - I'm dissing my own fanfic!
The Baltimore Orioles are called the Oreos by older fans. Yeah, the Brit knows baseball. Or at least how to use Wikipedia to get a cheap laugh.
I think you'll agree the biker creep got what he deserved. No good deed goes unpunished.