John, Hoth and Ellison had just departed the general's office, but his clerk, Sergeant Harris, interrupted their procession.
"Excuse me, general," Harris said, "Colonel Fairchild needs you ASAP. He's concerned about ammunition for the operation, sir."
"Very well, sergeant," Hoth answered. "Inform the colonel that I'll be right over."
"At once, sir," Harris responded.
"If you'll excuse me now, gentlemen," Hoth said, beginning to walk into the maze of people and equipment, "I have a battle to supervise."
John exchanged glances Ellison. Of, course—the offensive in the valley. He assumed they were referring to the San Fernando Valley.
"After visiting Ally, I should head back to the Reese's Camp," John said. "They'll be expecting me."
"Oh, no!" Hoth said, stopping dead and spinning in his tracks. "You're too important to be risked on the front lines. Get used to this being your new home."
John couldn't help his bewilderment. All of his life he had been protected, but he had never felt more alive than in the last two days. They had been the only days in his life that his every move hadn't been scrutinized, that someone—or something—hadn't been protecting him at every opened door.
And now, back to prison. Or was it?
John paused and contemplated his answer to Hoth. In the past, he was the hunted, forever dodging Skynet assasins while he and his mother attempted to prevent Judgment Day. Now, as far as he knew, Skynet didn't even know he existed. That part of their mission had been accomplished, or so they believed, at Zeira in 2009. So now, Skynet became the hunted.
He also knew, instinctively, that the best way to lead was up front, asking the men and women who followed him to only do things that he'd done himself. Of course, he also knew that he would have to weigh danger with practicality.
But on the other hand, John thought, the ground war was going nowhere and there were certainly better tacticians out here than him. The real battlefield was the idea war—propaganda—and they needed to make some headway in that area—fast.
"I'll agree," John answered, tentatively, as the point-counterpoint debate raged in his mind. "But we still need to iron some things out."
With that, Hoth nodded and resumed walking to his destination, somewhere deep in the CIC.
John next turned to Ellison. "I'd like you to meet Allison," he said, "I really would. But I don't think either of you is ready for that. Not yet, anyway."
"What does that mean?" Ellison asked.
"I'll tell you later," John answered. "See you in a little while."
John was told not to run and he more-or-less obeyed the directive. Until he got out of the elevator. Then all sights became a blur, all sounds became distorted. All that mattered to him was to see Allison again, as soon as possible.
So when the clerk at the admissions desk was uncertain who John was asking about, it was hardly surprising that his patience had worn thin. Dismissing the clerk's attempts and objections, he simply went from room to room in the recovery ward until he found her.
"Allison!" John exclaimed, all but screaming. He was quickly shushed by nurses attending to other patients.
"John!" Allison replied, although slightly more subdued. John gingerly embraced and kissed her and then briefly looked her over.
Her right leg was in a large cast, extedning from just below her hip to just below the knee. It was currently in an elevated position, in a sling above the bed. A large wrap was around her head, concealing most of her hair and an IV and pulse monitor dangled down to her right wrist and hand, respectively.
The beeping pulse readout had accelerated at his approach. And the fire in her eyes had not diminished as she glared eagerly at John.
"She's got a broken femur, two broken ribs and a mild concussion," said the nurse who had silently worked her way over. "The ribs will heal with rest in a week or so, but that leg's gonna keep her down for six to eight weeks."
"What about the concussion?" John asked nervously.
"People always recover differently from head trauma," the nurse added, cautiously. "Rest and an absence of stress are the best courses of action."
"You hear that, Ally?" John chided, mockingly shaking a finger at her. "No more arm wrestling with terminators, at least not for two months or so."
Allison smiled. Even through her obvious discomfort, she hadn't lost her sense of humor. It was wonderful, the way her grin illuminated her whole face.
"How's Tomlinson, the other boy who came in with her?" John asked.
"He lost a lot of blood, but I think we got him here soon enough," she said morbidly. "Hopefully, if he's got as strong as will as she does, he'll pull through. But he is still in surgery."
"Thank you, nurse," John added. She took the cue and quietly glided out of the room.
"You were the source of my strength, John," Allison said, looking him straight in the eyes. "I wouldn't have pulled through without thinking of you."
"How do you feel?" John asked, softly, gently gripping her left hand with both of his.
"I'm okay," Allison lied, teers rolling down both her cheeks.
"I'm so sorry, Ally," John said, his lips trembling as he unsuccessfully tried to stifle his own tears. "I thought I lost you back there."
John cuddled his head into her chest. She caressed his hair with her right arm, in spite of the medical devices attached to it. They cried together quietly for a few minutes until John released himself from the embrace. He then grabbed a chair and pulled it next to her bed. They silently regarded each other for a few moments.
"Well," John said at last, drawing a long breath. "It looks like you're gonna be holed up here for a while."
"Looks that way," Allison responded meekly.
"I guess we'll have to find something else for you to do then," John added, smiling, "because you're done blowing up Skynet tanks for now."
Allison cringed at the thought. "Just when I get good at something, you're gonna take it away from me?" she responded, half grinning, half grimacing.
"I've just been informed that the war against Skynet isn't quite what it seems," John explained. "Apparently, we only understood half the story."
"What do you mean?" Allison asked.
"For starters," John said, "Have you seen anything like this hospital? Since the war started, I mean."
Allison glanced around. "I guess not, now that you mention it," she said.
"Kind of convenient, don't ya think?" John added. "Although, I'm hardly arguing with the results, considering how badly hurt you were. But the fact of the matter is this—Los Angeles is just one of many fronts of a war that's never supposed to end."
"I don't understand," Allison said, furrowing her forhead.
"It's pretty complicated," John said. "I'm not sure I understand it myself. But the major problems—besides Skynet blowing up half the damn planet—have been information and communication. It's like I said before. We've got to reintroduce the media—newsletters, broadcasts—something. We've got to start distributing information. Nearly everyone's in the dark, literally and figureatively."
"Including me," Allison said. "Come on, John. Fill in some blanks for me."
"I guess the easiest way to sum it up is to say that half the world's battling Skynet, while the other half is making money off that battle," John explained. "And the war isn't going to end any time soon."
"How do you know this?" Allison asked.
"General Hoth just briefed me on the whole thing," John said, matter-of-factly.
"General Hoth?" Allison repeated, mockingly. "I thought you didn't approve of the military efforts so far. Did you suddenly change your opinion?"
"He said that he agrees with me," John countered.
"And you believe him?" Allison challenged, her voice raising.
"I know how it sounds, Ally, but we have to start somewhere," John answered, more in a whisper, as he didn't want to get her too riled. "Trust between individuals will hopefully expand to trust between groups, and then trust between nations. It's the only way war can end."
"I didn't trust you at first," Allison said, more softly than her previous statements. Her gaze shifted from his as well. "You came out of nowhere, didn't know anything. I thought you were a fool."
"And now?" John said, squeezing her hand gently.
"And now, I trust you with my life," Allison said, looking him straight in the eyes as a tear rolled down her cheek.
"So there it is," John said, smiling. "The first peace accord of the war was between us. Now we just have to spread the love."
Allison returned the smile and brought his right hand to her lips, where she softly kissed it. John then caressed her cheek, wiping the tear way.
"But there is something you're not telling me," Allison added, a wearisome look growing on her face. "I don't know what it is, but I'm going to figure it out eventually."
Allison closed her eyes and fell fast asleep. John assumed the pain medications were taking full effect.
"She needs her rest," said that same nurse who a kept stealthy vigil on all the patients. "It was good of you to see her, though. Seeing those you love and care for is the best medicine."
John nodded and lowered his head before kissing Allison gently on the forehead. As he moved off, he wondered just how much he could ever really tell Allison.
After a little difficulty with security, John found his way back into the bunker. He made a mental note to get some sort of badge or pass to prevent that from happening again.
A young officer greeted John as he stepped out of the elevator. An attractive, slender blond-haired woman, at least half a meter taller than John, she gripped his hand firmly and introduced herself.
"Mr. Connor, I'm Lieutenant Benes," she said, "one of General Hoth's adjutants. He asked me to answer any of your questions."
"Please call me John," he answered. "Mr. Connor sounds like you're addressing my father."
The words had barely left his lips, but they sent a chill down his spine anyway as his mother's voice echoed in his mind. You never trusted anyone enough to tell them about your father.
"Okay—John," she said, laughing a little. "Come this way, please."
Benes led John through a myriad of people and equipment. It was perhaps more confusing than the path he traversed the day before in the ruins of Los Angeles, he thought. Finally, she instructed John to take a seat as the battle crept through its preparatory stages and finally initiated. John found his attention divided between several tactical displays and a group of monitors showing various vantage points of the actual battle.
In one sense, John thought, it was fascinating to see a battle reduced to a two-dimensional digital display. In a way, it reminded him of chess. On the other hand, he felt it was disgustingly callous notion to watch from afar as countless men and women put their lives on the line.
"Excuse me," John said as he cleared his throat. "Would you mind explaining what the symbols on the display represent?"
Benes walked John through the tactical readouts. He was amazed at the amount of information they contained—units, leaders, location, weapons, ammunition, casualties—a wide assortment of data. And it seemed that each of the technicians and officers clamoring about were attentive only to specific portions of the displays.
"Each blue squared 'x' represents an infantry squad—somewhere between five and 15 actual soldiers," Benes explained. "We have three full regiments in the field for the battle, so there's more than one thousand squads out there."
John was shocked by the scope of the coming battle. Some 10,000 soldiers were about to engage Skynet. He knew that Bedell's unit, the 132nd, was somewhere in that maze of information. He silently prayed for their safety.
"What's the objective?" John asked.
"We're sweeping the San Fernando Valley of Skynet," Benes said. "Today, we'll secure our northern flank around Los Angeles."
"You sound pretty sure about that," John said, perhaps a little too derisively.
"We've been setting this up for months," Benes answered defensively. "We were worried that little recon probe would discover our intentions, until you knocked it out. Thanks for that, by the way."
"You're welcome," John answered. "Recon probe? We thought they were coming to destroy us!"
"Sorry to inform you, but there is something of a war on," Benes answered, condescendingly. "They're more interested in military targets, just like we are. Your little camp just isn't important enough."
As infuriating as it was to hear, John decided to concede her point. He wasn't about to waste his breath on a lowly lieutenant, anyway.
"Thank you for explaining," John said, smiling, wishing Cameron could have heard him say that.
"So each red 'x' is a Skynet position?" John asked, refocusing.
"Right—that we know of," Benes answered.
"Well, there aren't too many out there," John said. "I only count nine or 10."
"We have to flush them out—use bait," Benes answered. "Tonight, we're using our biggest decoy ever—an entire battalion."
John swallowed hard. "Which one?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"The 132nd," Benes answered. "Captain Bedell's unit."