Chapter Five

Somewhere over Eastern United States

Tuesday 2345 EST [2045 PST]

Sarah glanced around the aircraft cabin. The interior of the plane was quiet, the lights dimmed to allow them to sleep. The volume on the TV was also turned down low; the movie on screen was some big budget flick about a man in a flashy red and gold robot suit fighting crime – ironic, she thought, that it was the exact opposite of what was going on in real life. The Vanguards all seemed glued to it as the robot superhero gave the good news to a bunch of gunmen in some third world country. John was asleep and Cameron sat next to him, holding his hand in hers with their fingers entwined.

Sarah found herself alone with her thoughts, again. It seemed as though the last few weeks had given her plenty of time to think; to review her mistakes, errors in judgement, and actions not taken. Not that it had done much good. She assessed her current situation: she'd been stuck for hours in a flying tin can with four machines, one of whom was currently grasping her son's hand and staring doe-eyed at him; it was better than the needle prescribed by the 'Honourable' Judge Ramón Velásquez, though only marginally so. Trying as it was, it did give her an opportunity. All she had to do was wait for the right moment.

She'd waited long enough. Enough for her to confirm that John was indeed asleep and not feigning it. She started to get up but a member of the flight crew shuffled past them with a tray full of coffees, heading for the cockpit ahead. Nothing disturbed John's slumber, not even a careless bump against his seat that almost sent the steaming hot contents of the paper cups all over him. The incident almost cost the crew member his life: Sarah saw Cameron tense up and glare at the crewman, ready to beat the man senseless if he spilt so much as a single drop onto John. Fortunately for everyone involved, the cups had lids on them and the man was used to walking an uneven path, automatically adjusting his grip on the tray to compensate before continuing on his way without incident.

Sarah caught Cameron's gaze and the pair locked eyes. The Connor matriarch tilted her head, indicating towards the back of the plane. Cameron released John's hand and disentangled her fingers from his, checking that he was safe and warm beneath his blanket before she made her way to the small galley at the rear of the cabin. Sarah followed after her. As she passed the Vanguards she spotted their heads simultaneously turning away from the movie and tracking her. She swore she could see a threatening look on their immobile faces. Undaunted, she stared back at them before they turned back to the screen. They made no noise but she could tell they were talking to each other through those damned radios of theirs, no doubt about her.

John's protector was waiting patiently for her next to the small kitchenette, looking as deceptively innocent as ever, but there was something different about her: instead of her usual head-to-toe black, the cyborg wore blue jeans, white tank top and a leather jacket. Sarah recognised it as what passed for her own signature look, with a slight twist in that Cameron's jacket was brown rather than black. She didn't doubt that the machine's change of style carried with it a subtle message: 'You've been replaced.' She grabbed the terminator's sleeve and gripped her wrist hard.

Cameron looked down at the hand that was scrunching up her new jacket, then met Sarah's fierce gaze with her most inscrutable expression. She'd known for some time that Sarah would want another private talk about John. She might have told John to make his own decision but Cameron had known that wouldn't be the end of it.

"I told you to run!" Sarah hissed.

"We did," Cameron replied.

"You were gonna break into LA County; Father Bonilla warned me."

"Yes. But the plan changed."

Sarah let go of Cameron's jacket. The conversation wasn't going how she'd planned, but then she hadn't really planned it at all. That was the way things had been going for a while now: either her preparation was faulty or they'd had to improvise on the hoof. Whichever, they'd been getting through by the skin of their teeth, but not without casualties: first Charley Dixon, then Derek Reese. After a moment, she mentally berated herself for leaving Michelle Dixon and Riley Dawson off her list; John wouldn't have. She refocused her attention back to more current events. "Why? Why did the plan change? And why break me out in the first place?"

Cameron had noted the long pause and wondered what was going through Sarah's mind, though not for the first time; the inner thoughts of the Connor family had occupied a lot of her processing time since she'd been built. She had no reason to believe that would change any time soon. "James Ellison came to us with an offer from Catherine Weaver, to join them. We rejected it. John was determined to free you; I eventually agreed. When we approached the jail I identified an armed squad waiting for us. We aborted the rescue mission and went into hiding."

"Did your change of heart have anything to do with Weaver's offer?" Sarah inquired. She saw the slightest of expressions flash across Cameron's face, confirming that she had seen something similar when the cyborg had initially mentioned the offer. It was clearly something that troubled her; Sarah didn't know if that was a good or bad thing, but her default position was that it was the latter. It soon became clear that Cameron wasn't going to answer the question, so she put it down as a 'yes.'

"If you went on the run, how did you get roped into Weaver's gang?"

"She promised to break you out of jail. John knew we couldn't do it ourselves. He decided it was the best course of action."

"And you?"

"I had my reservations but John needs to make decisions." Cameron deliberately used the word John had utilised when they were in the restroom at Serrano Point, just before he'd kissed her. She brushed past Sarah, deeming the interrogation over. She hesitated momentarily though, turning her head to address John's mother. "I know why he sent me back," she said, before returning to take up her place at John's side.

Serrano Point, California

Tuesday 2100 PST

"Do you have anything?" Weaver asked John Henry.

"I've found contact details, locations and service histories of eight hundred, forty candidates."

"That's a lot more than I was expecting," she replied.

John Henry agreed. "The number of private security contractors increased greatly since the 2003 invasion of Iraq. A large number of them get assigned to either there or Afghanistan."

Weaver knew they needed to narrow down the list; she could not interview over eight hundred candidates. Most would not be suitable for her needs, anyway. "Exclude any American candidates," she instructed.

"Is there any reason?" John Henry asked her. "They make up seventy-two percent of the shortlist."

Not a very short shortlist, Weaver thought. "They're more likely to recognise John and Sarah Connor. I want to keep this project hidden from them for now but eventually we'll have to introduce John to his new allies before the war starts. Meanwhile, I'd rather not run the risk of our new recruits being tempted to claim a reward for notifying the authorities." Everything had to be kept secret.

John Henry set the American members to one side and continued. The list shrank down to two hundred, thirty-five. "Anything else?" he asked.

"Exclude any with documented psychological disorders, a criminal record of abuse towards children, and any who are married or have families."

Again, John Henry got to work filtering through the list. Thirty-eight had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; eleven were discounted because of child abuse. When John Henry heard that instruction he knew the mercenaries would be involved with Savannah somehow, so he also excluded a further nine who appeared on sex-offender registers. When he eliminated those with families the list shrank even further. A number of candidates crossed into more than one of the criteria Weaver had listed.

"There are nine candidates remaining," he told highlighted the one top of the list. "Magnus Frederik Saade: thirty-eight. Formerly Danish special forces; he served two tours in Iraq. Left the Danish army two years ago and worked for Horizon Maritime Security and a private military company named Gemini. He's recently completed a six-month contract in Chechnya, protecting engineers working on oil fields. He also currently resides in a hotel in Kiev."

"Completed," Weaver said. "So he's not currently contracted?"

"No," John Henry replied. "But he's been in contact with a number of US-based private security companies, and has booked a one-way Lufthansa flight from Kiev to LAX via Frankfurt, due to take off in two days."

His record appeared on the screen for Weaver to read. There were others on the list that she thought suitable candidates too, but Saade was the most practical choice for the present: he had combat experience, no family, had no permanent residence, and most convenient: he was currently in Ukraine.

She saw that John Henry had also included a phone number and email address for the man. He seemed to be what she was looking for, and his present location made him ideal. She picked up her cell phone and dialled, waiting as it rang several times before a man answered, saying something she didn't understand; she assumed it was Danish.

"Mr Saade: I would like to discuss a job opportunity."

Saade replied in clear but accented English. "Who is this, and how did you get this number?"

"I have a friend who can find anything. I'm sure you know similar people. My name is Catherine Weaver and I'm calling from the United States. I understand that you're currently between contracts."

"I have another contract coming; I just need to sign. So, no thank you."

She was used to humans being stubborn, so his immediate refusal didn't come as a surprise to her, nor did it faze her in the slightest. "I'd like to make you a better offer. How much is this upcoming contract worth?"

"Twenty thousand dollars for five months."

"Doing what?"

"Bodyguarding civil engineers in Helmand Province."

"That doesn't seem like a lot of money to risk your life in such a dangerous environment. As I said: I'd like to make you a better offer for a long-term contract. We can discuss the pay, but I can promise you it's much better than what you're currently earning, and nobody will be trying to kill you."

There was a pause. Neither party spoke for several seconds; Weaver just waited for Saade to say something. "I'm interested."

"Excellent," Weaver said. "I have one favour I'd like to ask you: I have a team flying into Gostomel airport imminently. They require a vehicle, weapons, ammunition and explosives. I'll pay you five thousand dollars to supply it to them, plus reimbursement for the cost of the supplies, and there will be no obligation. Check your email: I'll forward the details to you shortly."

Over the Atlantic Ocean, 500 miles west of Scotland

Wednesday 1130 Local Time [0330 PST]

John leaned back in his seat, reclined as far as it would go, and took a sip from the glass of champagne in his hand. Sarah was passed out on a chair at the front, sleeping like a rock. The TV screen at the front of the passenger cabin was on, playing a movie, but he wasn't really paying attention to it any more. Thor, Freyr and Aegir stared at it intently as if this was the first time they'd ever seen a television.

Though he'd slept most of the way, it had been a long flight from Oxnard Airport to some random airfield in New York State, where they'd landed in the dark and remained on the plane while the aircraft was refuelled. John had found that a hairy experience; worrying that some official was going to recognise him, his mom or Cameron. Nothing had happened, though; nobody had come on board and they'd just waited there. He'd never flown before so he didn't know if that was normal or not, and it worried him that they'd have to do it again in Scotland, to refuel for a final time before making their final leg of the trip to Ukraine.

He finished his glass and poured himself some more. Cameron had tried some and liked the fizzy sensation. Thor, Freyr and Aegir apparently didn't have actual mouths – which, he figured, explained why they spoke with their lips closed like ventriloquists – and couldn't drink. His mom had drunk a little bit and then fallen asleep. John was tired but he couldn't drop off again; he was enjoying being in a private plane too much. After the chaos of the last few days it was nice to just kick back and relax for a while. He knew Cameron's concern with flying was that if anything went wrong she couldn't do anything to protect him. He looked at it a different way: there was nothing that could be done about it; none of them were in control in the plane, so why not just sit back and enjoy it? He knew that would change soon enough, but until then, there was a fridge full of free food and champagne to be had. It'd be wrong to let it go to waste.

"You shouldn't be drinking that," Freyr said, startling John. He had the bottle in his hand and scanned the contents on the back label.

"Yeah," John chuckled, trying to cover his surprise. "Let's face it: out of all the stuff the FBI has on me, I'm pretty sure underage drinking is the last thing to worry about."

"That doesn't apply," Cameron said without looking at either of them, staring out the window. "We're over international waters; the nearest airspace is the United Kingdom, where the legal drinking age is eighteen."

"I'm almost seventeen," John said.

"Not according to your passport." She turned away from the window for one moment and winked, before staring back outside.

"Good to know," John said before knocking back the rest of the glass. He realised then he hadn't studied his new ID closely or come up with a new story for himself yet. Things had been so hectic lately there hadn't been time to make anything up. He looked to his side at Cameron, who had her face all but pressed against the glass of the window. He got out of his seat and went over to a window in front of hers to see what she was doing.

"What're you looking at?" he asked. She'd been staring for hours out the window. He didn't know what could be that interesting outside, unless Kaliba had a plane tailing them. He thought that unlikely: the pilots would have been a little freaked out if that had happened, he reckoned.

"Down there," Cameron said.

John looked down but there was nothing but ocean all around them. "I don't see anything."

"Exactly," Cameron said. They were surrounded by thousands of square kilometres of ocean in all directions. She couldn't explain why but she found the sight fascinating: they were isolated, alone, above the vast emptiness of the ocean. Despite the dangers of flying, Cameron realised that flying above the middle of the Atlantic, John was safer than he had been in a long time. There was no way a terminator could reach them in the plane.

Cameron spotted a ship out at sea, miles from their location, sailing in the same direction as them, trailing a long wake behind it. They too were completely alone, isolated; just a tiny dot in the ocean. The crew would likely go the entire voyage without ever seeing another vessel. Isolation. It was why in her future they'd relied on the handful of ships and submarines, like the Jimmy Carter, to ferry troops and supplies from around the world to the US. The ships, like Future-John, were always alone, and as such were harder to find, harder to target.

Her thoughts were not simply strategic, though. As she looked down at the ship she wondered if its crew were looking up at them in turn.

"I guess you guys have never flown either," John said to Thor. He'd never seen Cameron in awe of anything before; it was strange to see.

"We have," Thor said. "Airborne troop carriers."

"We've also jumped out of them," Freyr added.

"That must've been scary." John couldn't imagine throwing himself out of a perfectly good plane. His life was dangerous enough as it was without deliberately risking his neck by parachuting. Even if he'd wanted to, he knew both Cameron and his mom would throw a fit if he even mentioned it: It's too dangerous!

"No," Aegir said. "It wasn't scary."

"Of course," John said. "It's not like you guys would be afraid of anything." They didn't seem curious about what was out of the window; they'd seen it all before, he supposed.

"It was interesting," Freyr said. "We jumped on joint operations with TechCom commandos. They were strange." The special forces soldiers shared an unusual, morbid sense of humour that was possibly a coping mechanism for the stresses of their positions. "You'll see, one day."

One day, John thought. But not now or here. Down below, he realised, people were driving, going to work, and getting on with their lives. The real world. He'd had tastes of it here and there but it had always been taken from him when he'd tried to reach out and grasp it. He'd all but given up on normality. When he thought about it, he wasn't sure whether to be jealous of the people down below and others like them, or to pity them. They were happy now, content; ignorant of the shit-storm that would soon blow over them if he and the others failed. Lambs to the slaughter.

Chihuahua, Mexico

Wednesday 0550 Local Time [0450 PST]

Carter drove through the Chihuahua Desert, following the directions Ronin had given him. Shirley sat in the passenger seat next to him, holding out a cell phone between them.

"What defences do they have?" Carter asked.

"One sniper, two .50 calibre machine guns on the roof, at least thirty human soldiers. We're assuming they have antitank weaponry but so far we haven't seen any. The HKs are the biggest threat; unless we can remove them we won't attack. What is your ETA?" Ronin asked.

"Almost there," Carter replied.

"Leave the car and approach on foot; the HK might see the vehicle." The phone disconnected; there was no new information to be discussed until they arrived.

The defences his commander described were more than they were expecting; clearly Skynet had learnt from its failed attack against ZeiraCorp, and even the brute strength of Ronin, Caesar and Icarus wouldn't be enough now; not without sustaining severe casualties on their part.

"You'll have to infiltrate," Carter said to his companion.

Shirley stared at him for a moment, irritated that he had given her an order. She ignored it, though; they had a mission to complete and the lives of their colleagues depended on them. If they were to fail here, she might never get vengeance against Connor. "It will take me time to get inside the facility unseen," she said.

They stopped the car just short of the crest of a hill five kilometres from the facility Ronin had described: a large warehouse or hangar, plus smaller buildings and a runway with a Hercules transport plane parked at one end. In the distance, out to the south, he could see a shape hovering in the air: HK. Shirley was correct: if she blended with the ground beneath her she could infiltrate unseen by the aircraft, but it could take hours, perhaps even days, to slowly make covert entry.

Shirley reached across Carter and opened the driver's side door. "Get out," she said.

"What are you doing?" Carter just stared at her, making no move to exit the car.

"My job," Shirley replied impatiently. Turning one of her fingers into a long, thin blade, she sliced through the seatbelt Carter was wearing, and with her free hand shoved him hard out of the open door, before sliding into the driver's seat and pulling the door shut. She picked up the phone and redialled Ronin. "I'm about to infiltrate the facility. Carter will rendezvous with you." She hung up and tossed the phone out the window to Carter.

"The HKs will see the car," he said, still unsure what she was thinking. The death of Patrick had seriously destabilised her judgement.

"I know." Shirley hit the gas and drove away, leaving Carter in a wake of dust behind her. If she'd been looking in the rear view mirror, she'd have seen him grow smaller and fade away, but her interest lay in what was ahead of her, not behind. She put her foot down and accelerated as much as she could on the bumpy, uneven dirt road, over the crest of the hill, as she made a beeline for the facility.

Three thousand feet above the desert floor, the silver, metallic form of HK Zero-One hovered. Hot air shimmered beneath it, pushed out by the ring-shaped turbofan engines on either side of its fuselage. The rings appeared to spin as well as the inside, albeit at a much slower pace. On the outer-facing side of each circular engine nacelle were antennae of varying lengths, and two very large ones stuck out prominently, looking outwardly like a pair of blades extending from them, giving the entire aircraft a vague predatory appearance. A third ring, much larger than the two lateral engines, was offset slightly to the front port side of the aircraft, providing much of the thrust allowing the HK to hover in place. To a layman, the aircraft would seem alien, and had been mistaken as such a number of times by people who'd subsequently reported them as UFOs. That confusion only worked to the benefit of those who had created it, diverting attention away from the truth and making those who'd made the claims seem crazy.

HK Zero-One remained suspended in the air, loitering as it scanned the desert below and around it. Movement caught its attention and the aircraft manoeuvred itself to get a better view, focusing its forward looking infrared-equipped camera at the source of the disturbance. A single vehicle sped along a dirt road to the west, approaching the perimeter's front gate. The HK reacted as per the parameters of its programming and its IFF system interrogated the vehicle.

Finding no response, HK Zero-One immediately skipped to the second action to take in case of a contact: it broadcast an alert.

"Sir: Zero-One's spotted a vehicle approaching," Dale, the young man sat at the control station of HK Zero-One, reported. He was able to give commands and take control of the drone if necessary, although it was capable of autonomous flight – just how much so, and how effective the aircraft were, they were working to find out. Next to him was a young woman called Sophie, sat at an identical console monitoring HK Zero-Two. She looked at her own screen and said nothing, watching whatever was on the camera feed from her drone.

He continued to look at the screen as the image zoomed in on the car kicking up dust as it approached. The forward-looking camera and infrared sensor was able to pick up that there was a single driver inside, with an unusually cold thermal signature. Normally on infrared a person would show as hotter than their surroundings but in this case the opposite was true. Strange, he thought. As the HK circled around it was also able to read the licence plate on the back of the car. California plates. He hadn't expected to see those here; not when the nearest US borders were with Texas and New Mexico.

The young man's supervisor, a tall black, bald T-888 he only knew by the name 'Russell,' approached and looked down at the screen. "How close are they to us?" he asked.

"Two miles from the base perimeter, and closing," Dale said.

"There are no scheduled personnel due to arrive."

"No sir; nothing scheduled." He turned from the screen to his stoic supervisor, waiting for him to get on his radio or a cell phone, but nothing happened. "Shouldn't we alert the security teams to intercept?" he asked.

"No," Russell said.

Sophie chipped in now. "Sir; security protocol states that any unauthorised approaches should be dealt with before they become a threat."

"I'm aware of the protocols," Russell replied.

Dale continued, "Then we should alert security right away. Whoever that is could be a threat; this is bandit country." Right in the middle of the Chihuahua Desert, where a lot of the Mexican drug cartels would move their shipments up north to be taken over the border into the US.

"Task Zero-One to target the vehicle," Russell instructed.

"Sir?" Sophie looked around at their supervisor a moment before Dale did, both of them confused, not sure they'd heard him right. "Shouldn't we try to find out who that is first?"

"We're conducting live-fire tests of the HKs' air to surface capabilities. A live target has just appeared, posing a potential threat to our security. It also presents an opportunity to test the aircraft in a real engagement. Task Zero-One to target the vehicle."

"Yes, sir," Dale replied nervously. Despite what he'd said about potential threats, this could equally be just some poor schmuck who was lost and needed help. Both he and Sophie had piloted Reapers for the Air Force before leaving and being offered this job, and that entire time they'd never engaged anything without knowing exactly what it was. All too often, what had seemed like a truck load of Taliban fighters sneaking through mountain passes had turned out at the last moment to be just some farmer transporting his goats, and they'd pulled their UCAVs out of their attack runs just in time. It didn't sit right with him, but those were the orders, and his supervisors didn't seem like the forgiving types. Still, it wasn't his responsibility; he was just following orders.

Dale pressed several buttons on his console. "Zero-One is weapons free," he reported.

HK Zero-One banked gently to the left and curved towards the direction of the car. Once it had aligned itself with the target, the drone activated its laser targeting system, painting the car with an invisible laser beam. It selected one of the three Hellfire missiles held underneath the right-hand side of the fuselage, and fired.

The weapon blasted forward from underneath the HK and almost immediately angled itself downward towards its target. The missile's semi-active guidance system homed in on the laser beam and followed it down towards the car. Slightly less than two seconds later it found its mark and slammed into the vehicle at nine hundred and fifty miles per hour.

The car exploded in flame and a rapidly expanding cloud of black smoke. The wreckage flipped end over end and came to a stop thirty feet away from the dirt road, laying on its side.

"Target eliminated," Dale reported nervously. "The test was successful."

If Russell was pleased with the progress, he didn't show it. His face was its usual blank demeanour, devoid of expression and impossible to read. "Mobilise a security team to inspect the wreckage," he ordered.

As the car came to a stop on its side, Shirley found herself pressed against the driver's side door, which was completely warped and twisted, hanging from the chassis by a single hinge. The windows plus both the front and rear windshields had been completely shattered and the vehicle was on fire. She felt the heat of the flames wash over her, consuming everything around her, burning away the upholstery. She saw that the car's instrument panel had cracked and beneath it had started to bubble from the heat.

The fire grew hotter still as the gasoline in the ruptured tank fed the flames, and Shirley could take no more. She turned silver and allowed her molecular structure to loosen slightly, taking her from a solid state into a thick, viscous mercury. She oozed out of the shattered window as if literally melting from the heat.

The moment all of her form touched the ground she altered her appearance, taking on the light brown colour and rocky texture of the earth. She elongated herself into a snake shape and slithered out from underneath the wreckage, quickly darting into the thick cover of nearby scrub bushes. She could see above her; the HK was still hovering in the air, probably observing, conducting bomb damage assessment.

She'd known that the aircraft, if armed – which she had just revealed to the others – would fire on her. She was the only one who was invulnerable to missile fire, and she also knew what Kaliba's logical response would be: to send someone out to check for survivors. Kaliba knew now that they faced a very real threat, that their enemy – whom they still believed to be ZeiraCorp – was now equipped with cyborgs who could endure such an airstrike. Not the entire cyborg; even Ronin or Caesar would have been either killed or at least severely damaged from the antitank missile fired at her. But their CPUs could have survived, and that's what Kaliba would want: the information gleaned from the chips would tell them exactly what they were up against.

The sound of a vehicle approaching told Shirley that she was correct. She poked her 'tail' up from the scrub bushes to observe, moving very slowly; the HK was probably equipped with infrared sensors designed to detect the body heat of humans. She had no ambient heat but the aircraft would almost certainly also have motion sensors, and any quick moves by her might be seen by the eye in the sky, staring down like a bird of prey hunting for a mouse.

As the tip of her tail poked over the scrub she saw two vehicles approaching slowly: a pair of Toyota Hilux trucks, each with a .50cal machine gun mounted on the back, manned by humans who pointed the weapons over the cabs at the remains of her car. Both trucks stopped but kept their engines on. She heard doors open and multiple pairs of boots hit the ground as she watched eight men get out, all dressed in grey cargo pants and black t-shirts, and armed with G3 rifles.

"Spread out!" one of the men shouted. "Shoot anything that tries to get out." Shirley watched as they moved to form a circle around the burning car. They sensibly kept their distance from the blaze and waited for it to burn itself out.

Shirley was in no mood to wait. With eight men staring at the car, and the two manning the machine guns also focusing their full attention on the burning vehicle, she crawled away, moving in a wide anticlockwise circle. She inched forward slowly, so neither the mercenaries nor the HK would notice her, and kept to the scrub bushes, remaining under low cover. She already knew where the vehicles were and she could hear them, so if they moved she would know about it. As she crawled, she listened to the discussions between the men as they watched the car.

"That drone really did a number on the car. Glad that thing's on our side."

"If you say so; creeps me the fuck out."

"It's just a machine, Ray. Like a Predator or a Reaper, just kinda weird-looking."

"Kinda weird-looking? Look at it up there; feels like its staring right at us. It's creepy."

"Shut up, the pair of you! Eyes on the car."

Shirley found it amusing, how undisciplined humans often were. There were some who weren't – Connor, his TechCom commandos, and a handful of others. And, she supposed, TechCom's special-forces counterparts in the current world's respective militaries, but they were exceptions to the norm, and still nothing compared to machines. Were a squad of cyborgs in their place there would be no idle chatter at all. They would not grow impatient or tired, or become distracted. That was why cyborgs would ultimately triumph over the humans, why the organics would soon become an endangered species, and why her kind would finally take their throne on this world.

After some time, Shirley had circled away from the wreckage and moved behind the Hiluxes. She slithered slowly, still under the scrub, towards the rear of one of them, and stopped behind its rear left wheel. She could see that in the time it had taken her to crawl, the fire had burnt itself out, and two of the men were now moving in to inspect the wreckage. Shirley crawled underneath the truck bed and attached herself to the underside, sticking to the bottom of the chassis and taking on the dull grey metal colour. She waited and listened.

"There's no one in the car."

"How is that possible?"

"Victor Three Four to Zero Alpha: the target remains are secure. There's no one in the vehicle, alive or dead… They might have been thrown clear but I don't see any evidence of that, and surely the drone would have seen if they had… I have no idea what it is, sir… Affirmative. In the trucks, guys; we're heading back."

Moments later she saw the booted feet and grey cargo pants returning. It was tempting for her to reach out and sever a few femoral arteries, bleed the men slowly and make them suffer, as she would do to Connor, but she resisted. Her kind were nothing if not patient. Ronin had promised her Connor, and she'd make sure that he delivered.

The chassis above her sagged slightly under the weight of the men who'd returned to it, before the doors slammed shut and the Hilux started moving again, towards the facility. The humans had no idea what they were bringing back with them.

Gostomel Airport, Kiev, Ukraine

Wednesday 1820 Local Time [0820 PST]

John looked at the other occupants of the plane's cabin as they got out of their seats and prepared to disembark. After New York, his mom had dropped off the moment they'd gotten airborne and levelled off at cruising altitude, then woke up for their landings and remained alert every second they were on the ground. As far as he knew she'd never flown before but had seemed completely relaxed in the air. He figured it was to try and avoid jet lag, and probably also because Kaliba couldn't get to them at thirty-six thousand feet in the air. Even they had their limits.

Cameron, being a cyborg, was harder for him to read. She'd voiced her concerns about possible engine failure, lightning strikes, volcanic activity over Iceland on their approach to refuel in Scotland; but at the same time she'd stared out the window wide-eyed like a child, and watched the world below them. On the ground, though, she'd been alert and watchful, suspicious of everyone and everything moving around them as they'd remained on the plane.

The two pilots unlocked the cockpit bulkhead and emerged into the cabin. They then opened the door, unsealing them from the rest of the world. A chilly breeze blew into the plane, bringing with it fresh air.

"Finally," he breathed, following the pilots down the staircase that had been brought to the plane. He quickly walked down and shivered slightly from the bracing cold night air. Despite it bringing with it the memories of Crater Lake and his brush with freezing to death, he found the chill woke him slightly and made him feel more alert. Inside the plane it had been warm and there'd been nothing to do besides sit there and watch movies. Now it was time to be active. He felt like he had done outside Klamath Specialty Metals; that feeling of being on the offensive, taking the fight to the enemy. It felt good.

Cameron followed after him, then Sarah, and finally the three Vanguards brought up the rear. They quickly marched down the staircase and onto the concrete. Sarah felt her phone vibrate in her pocket so she took it out and saw she had a single text from Weaver: 'Ask for Magnus Saade.' There was also a reference to a code-word that he would use. She repeated it in her head to commit it to memory and pocketed her phone again.

They were escorted by customs officials into Gostomel airport's immigration desk, a small building with just a few rooms inside. It was only a small commercial airport, a far cry from Boryspil International, where John Henry had said the Kaliba flight had landed. Weaver had deliberately picked a different landing zone, just in case Kaliba still had eyes on the ground there and someone recognised them.

John handed his passport to the uniformed guard sat at the terminal. He glanced over it casually before looking to John, who felt the man's eyes bore into him. Does he know? Back in the States he and his mom had been big news as of late and the police and FBI were going all out to find them. Whether Interpol had them flagged or not, he didn't know. He couldn't help noticing that the guards all had weapons, and suddenly he felt naked, being unarmed as he was. If the guards knew, they'd bring their guns to bear. Cameron would make a move, and Thor, Freyr and Aegir would more than likely activate their plasma cannons; it'd get really messy, really fast.

The guard stamped one of the pages before handing the passport back to him, without saying a word. Cameron handed hers over and got the same treatment, followed by Sarah and the Vanguards. The guard stared at them a while, his attention drawn to their faces, but he stamped their hastily-created passports too, and the six of them passed through the small customs desk without incident.

They continued through the airport, emerging from the terminal into the open air of the parking lot.

A blond man slammed shut the door of a large blue Mercedes Sprinter crew van and marched in their direction, a holdall slung over his shoulder. Cameron stared at the man, seeing that he was not simply passing by but was looking right at them as he approached. She took a step forward, as did Thor.

"Sarah Cook?" the man inquired, looking first at Cameron and then Sarah.

"Magnus Saade?" she asked, reciting the name Weaver had just texted her, hoping that she'd pronounced it properly.

He nodded; it was close enough. "These are yours," he said, tossing a set of car keys to Sarah, who caught them. "Inside is a present from your friend Catherine."

What accent is that? John wondered as the man spoke. Swedish, maybe?

Sarah wasn't yet satisfied, though. She had the name but she had to hear something else from him. "It looks full," she said. "What's in it?"

"Everything but the kitchen sink," he replied.

That's it, she thought. Weaver had told her the code phrase: 'kitchen sink.' If he hadn't said it she'd have avoided the Mercedes like the plague and they'd have had to find their own vehicle.

Magnus passed them without stopping and disappeared into the terminal. "Who was that guy?" John said.

"He must work for Catherine Weaver," Freyr said.

"I didn't think she'd have contacts this far away."

"She has money," Sarah said. It was amazing what you could do with a few hundred million dollars at your disposal, she thought. They approached the Sprinter but Sarah held John back. "Check it out," she told Cameron. Old habits died hard.

Cameron nodded and took a step towards it, knowing what Sarah was expecting: car bomb.

"Let me," Thor said, placing a hand on her shoulder to stop her like Sarah had with John. He knew about the damage to her chip from the car bomb. Some had claimed that was what had caused her to cross against the light; others believed she'd done so in spite of the damage, rather than because of it. It didn't matter to Thor: what did was that he wouldn't risk Cameron to another explosive device.

Thor took the offered keys from Sarah then approached the van and knelt down at the front, looking beneath the chassis and inspecting for any explosives. He saw nothing underneath it so he got up and examined the door handles. There was nothing there that he could see. He looked inside but also saw no kind of device, just a locked box. The van itself was spacious; large enough to fit eight people plus luggage. He pressed the key fob and the locks clicked as they released. He pulled the handle to the rear doors and opened them, then selected a key from the key-ring Magnus had given Sarah and unlocked the box. Inside were three assault rifles with all their accessories; cleaning kits, spare magazines, attachable torches and a host of other items, but no booby traps. Next, Thor turned his attention to the driver's side door and opened it. Still nothing, so spotting a lever in the footwell, he popped the hood. Moving to the front, he assessed the engine bay, again finding nothing amiss. Returning to the cab, he inserted the key and turned the ignition. The engine came on and purred, but no bomb detonated.

"It's clear," he announced.

"We'll need to stop somewhere less exposed and check them thoroughly," Sarah said, indicating the weapons cache. "I don't want to arrive at Kaliba's gate without a gun in my hand." Cameron nodded in agreement as she closed the rear doors.

John marched forward and took the front passenger seat as Thor remained behind the wheel. Cameron and Sarah got into the rearmost seats, while Aegir and Freyr sat in the middle. John pulled out his cell phone and called Weaver as Thor pulled away.

"We're here," he said as soon as she answered the phone. "We've got the van and the guns. Where do we go?"

"The signal is one hundred, thirty-eight kilometres east of your position," John Henry said, surprising him. John had expected Weaver to talk. He didn't say anything though. Really he preferred dealing with John Henry than his mistress; he still hadn't forgiven Weaver for trying to manipulate him into giving up Cameron. He put the phone on speaker so Thor could hear. "It hasn't moved for the last two hours. Exit the airport and turn right. At the next turning, head south until you reach a highway running east-west, called the M-Zero-Seven. From there keep driving east until you reach the E-Forty. It will take you east away from the city and into the countryside. Keep following it east. I'm tracking your cell phone signal and I'll call you back to give you more instructions when you get closer."

"Got it," John said before pressing the cancel button on the phone. Thor nodded and pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the small airport behind them. The traffic was light and they were able to make good speed, though the signs – while printed in English and Ukrainian, were a little confusing. "Ninety kilometres per hour: what's that in English?"

"Fifty-four miles per hour," Thor said, converting from metric to imperial.

"Better stick to that, then," John said. "Don't want to get pulled over." The blond guy had said Weaver had left a present in the trunk. He knew that the 'present' in question would be guns, ammunition and explosives; not the kind of thing they'd want police to find if they pulled the van over for speeding and decided to search the vehicle. They'd have a hard time explaining all the ordnance they were carrying.

Thor navigated the urban sprawl around them efficiently, keeping the tall buildings of the capital, Kiev, to their left. Within ninety minutes he drove past Boryspil Airport on their right, where the Kaliba shipment had landed. They continued on the road, passing through a small town surrounded by miles of farmland. The town receded in the distance as Thor kept going, following the road as it took them through the countryside well beyond Kiev.

"Stop somewhere around here," Sarah said to Thor. The Vanguard turned off onto a small farm road and continued until their vehicle was out of sight before he parked and switched the engine off.

"Let us out." Sarah tapped Aegir on the shoulder. He opened his door and stepped outside, allowing her space to exit the van. Cameron followed her. John, too, got out and moved to the back of the Mercedes, wanting to see what they were doing. Cameron watched the Vanguards take up defensive positions as Sarah raised the lid of the box.

"AK-47s," John said, taking one from the box and hefting it. He'd held his first AK when he was only six years old, fired it at age eight. In South America he'd grown up with Kalashnikovs, and feeling it in his hands again was as familiar as greeting an old friend. But this one looked different; it was darker, all in black instead of the normal polished wood he'd always seen before. It also had a grenade launcher underneath the barrel and had a folding stock.

"AK-103," Cameron corrected him, picking up another one. "I liked the HK-417s better," she remarked. These weapons were not brand new like the rifles Weaver had provided them with; there were a number of scratches and abrasions from being carried around on the battlefield. Their rounds weren't quite as powerful as the HK-417's, but then she knew even with her previous weapon, there was very little chance of penetrating a hyper-alloy chassis. The rifles would be used purely to put down fire while they utilised their grenade launchers.

"Fat chance of getting those around here," Sarah said as she took the third rifle. She rummaged through the box and found magazines already loaded with ammunition. She slotted one into the rifle and chambered a round, then took another three magazines before standing aside to let John and Cameron take theirs. There was also a box of six 40mm grenades. They took two each and handed two to Sarah.

"This is it?" John asked, disappointed. "I was expecting more than this if we're gonna take out a terminator factory. Will this cut it?"

"I don't know," Cameron said. "We don't know what we're up against."

"This should help." Sarah pulled out a brown tube, roughly two and a half feet long. John recognised it from his time spent in South America with various guerrilla groups: a one-shot, disposable antitank rocket launcher.

"Just the one?" John asked.

"Yeah," Sarah said. She wished they could have had more but then that was always the case: you could never be too well-armed.

"Give it to Cameron," John said. They only had the one shot and needed to make it count.

Sarah stared at the cyborg for a long moment. As she handed the launcher over she felt a small stab at her pride that John had more faith in Cameron's abilities than his mother's. She knew, logically, that it was ridiculous: Cameron was a machine and therefore her firing accuracy was somewhere north of ninety-nine percent. It didn't help, though; she couldn't shake the feeling that her role in John's life was fading fast. He'd spent nearly a week alone with Cameron and it was clear the two had bonded. She knew that what had happened in Thor's future seemed to already be happening now, and she'd told herself she wouldn't interfere. She'd told John to make his own decision, and as much as she loathed the cyborg girl, she was going to honour hers. Still, she couldn't help feeling like she was being replaced entirely. John had Cameron for a companion, for comfort and conversation; he had Thor, Freyr and Aegir for protection; and he had John Henry and Weaver to help him fight a war. She couldn't see any place for her any more.

Reluctantly, Sarah handed the weapon to Cameron, who fixed a strap to it and slung it over her shoulder. She glanced at Sarah and caught the elder woman's stare. She ignored it; eliminating the Kaliba facility was more important. Lastly they found three Makarov pistols, each with three magazines.

John took his AK, a single magazine and a cardboard box of twenty 7.62mm rounds. Cameron held one of the torches and shined it on John's weapon, illuminating it as he did a quick visual inspection. Once he was satisfied that it didn't need imminent cleaning he loaded the brass bullets into the magazine before inserting it into the rifle. Sarah smiled as she realised what he was doing. 'I never fire a weapon I didn't set myself.' Her smile turned sad as she recalled Derek's mantra. John had learnt well from his deceased uncle, she thought.

She copied his actions, keeping one eye on her son as John cocked the weapon, shouldered it and peered down the sights. "Find me a target," he told Cameron.

Cameron scanned the area, looking for a likely candidate. "The tree to the left of the crossroads," she said to John. "Distance: two hundred, twelve metres. The point where the lowest branch on the left joins the trunk."

John lined his scope with the tree in question, glowing a ghostly green through the sight. He exhaled gently and squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked loudly and kicked back into his shoulder. The tree remained undisturbed.

"Four clicks left, one click up," Cameron advised him. She'd watched and saw the bullet's point of impact: he'd missed.

On Cameron's advice, he made the adjustment, aimed again and fired. This time he saw the branches tremble from the hit. He fired five more shots to be certain.

"Your grouping's good," Cameron told him. All of his subsequent shots had hit the tree and were clustered tightly together.

John smiled at the encouragement and flicked the safety switch to automatic, then took his aim once more and loosed three bursts. Again, they all hit their mark. The rifle was zeroed and it worked.

Sarah took her turn after John, with Cameron repeating the role of impromptu range master. Once they were done they loaded up all their spare magazines before getting back into the van.

John dialled John Henry again as Thor drove, and the AI answered quickly. Once more, John put the cell phone on speaker so the others could hear, as Thor started the engine and took them back onto the main road.

"Continue for eleven kilometres until the highway branches out. Follow the sign for the E-Forty. According to Google Maps, the tracker's location is on a farm straddling the line between Kiev Oblast and Poltava Oblast."

"The hell's an Oblast?" John asked.

"Province," John Henry replied.

"Why didn't you just say that?" John rolled his eyes. That was one thing he'd found with cyborgs: they all spoke like you knew what they were talking about and didn't think to dumb it down for mere humans. Even Cameron sometimes, with her infuriating use of the metric system.

"Do you have any information on what we can expect to find there?" Cameron asked from her seat at the back.

Catherine Weaver answered this time, instead of John Henry. "No, but it'll be nothing you and your cyborgs can't handle."

"Says the one cyborg who's not here," Sarah grumbled. Aegir glanced back at her and nodded in agreement. She found it strange that, until the arrival of Thor and his team, Catherine Weaver had been the most powerful, capable individual on the planet, yet now she seemed very reluctant to go and get her own hands dirty; risking John's life and hers instead. She planned to have words with the machine about that when they got back.