Author's note: John's speech here is directly copied from Terminator IV: Salvation. It's one of the few parts of the movie I enjoyed.
In the driving rain, they were all but invisible. Gliding through the air like sharks through the sea, 25 Blackhawk helicopters sliced effortlessly through the downpour. Flying 200 meters above the ground, with their running lights off, the only thing visible to the outside observer was the faint glow emanating from the pilots' instrument panels—and only then, from above.
The trip would not be a long one—less than five minutes if all went well. Pathfinders had embarked earlier in the evening to mark their landing zones and sure enough, their signals were showing on the pilots' infrared displays.
Touchdown came and went without incident. The helos landed and 200 or so soldiers quickly disembarked near the old Westfield Fashion Square. The long lifeless complex of buildings was a shattered remnant of its former self, but enough of the structures remained to serve as a temporary command post.
"Gunny, Swede! On me!" announced a gaunt-looking young officer, dressed in camouflage fatigues and sporting a face full of green, black and brown paint. The patch above his left chest pocket indicated his name was Anderson.
The three quickly assembled near the blown-out entrance of the former plaza. The balance of the troops remained in the relative safety of the scattered debris, abandoned vehicles and battered shells of buildings that comprised the shopping centre. The rain continued at a steady pace.
"Gunny" was slang for Gunnery Sergeant Tom Burress, a forty-something Marine Corps vet who fit every imagineable stereotype of a jarhead sergeant—weathered, black face, just a hint of gray in his perfectly trimmed sideburns, a long, thin scar under his left eye, an unlit, days-old, disgusting stub of a cigar sticking out of the right corner of his mouth, and piercing, combat-ready eyes.
"Swede" was a knickname for Segeant Karl Magnuson, a fair-skinned, clean cut army brat who lacked Buress' intensity, but superceded him in experience against the machines. He had seen nearly continuous action for the past 10 years, and his 35-year-old features showed the wear-and tear.
"We'll do it just like we drew it up," said Anderson, clearly younger than either of his subordinates. He laid a small map on the ground, tracing troop movements with a laser pointer. "Gunny take your platoon west to the 405 and link up with the 177th. Swede, head east to 170, join up with the 219th."
The Gunny and Swede exchanged speculative glances with each other. They had already been briefed on the plan over and over again. It was all they could do to keep from rolling their eyes.
"No problem, LT," Burress said. "It'll be a walk in the park."
"Let's take it to those metal bastards," Magnuson added.
"Good hunting," Anderson said. "I'll hold this position with 3rd platoon in case you fall into any trouble."
Without another word, the sergeants moved off with their respective platoons.
Burress split his force into groups of 30, one for each side of the Ventura Freeway. Their advance through and around decayed and destroyed houses and builings and piles of debris would be relatively short. The 405 freeway was a mere three kilometers away.
Nevertheless, the Gunny, moving amongst the nothern squad, found himself itching for combat. His plasma rifle was special—bracketed with grenade launchers both above and below the plasma barrel, he was more than well-equipped to deal with the enemy. There was only one problem: they were nowhere to be seen.
Magnuson's task was similar, but they were moving toward the area Bedell had just vacated, so enemy contact was almost certain. However, to everyone's amazement, nothing happened.
"Where are they?" John asked, as technicians in the bunker scambled to-and-fro, trying to cross reference data to get some kind of fix on Skynet's positions. The hair on John's neck seemed to stand striaght up—he sensed danger.
"They'll find 'em," Benes said, confidently. "Just a matter of time now."
Still, the unsettling quiet remained. After 10 more minutes, Burress linked up with the 177th without incident. He quickly found Colonel Buckner, the regiment's commander.
"Report, Gunny," Buckner ordered.
"No enemy contact, sir," Burress said. "No activity, period."
Buckner furrowed his brow in confusion, but suddenly shifted his attention to the east, where bright orange explosions now lit up the horizon.
His momentary bewilderment was followed rapidly by shock, when he was struck by four rounds across the chest. Collapsing to the ground, his dying words were weakly and futilely uttered: "Fall back!"
Burress instictively dived for cover and crawled behind the front tire of a truck. What he saw was unbelieveable.
Advancing rapidly on the raised highway were waves and waves of T-600s, hundreds of them apparently. The resistance soldiers desperately fought back, but the element of surprise was total. Trucks erupted in fireballs as the terminators targeted their fuel tanks with alarming regularity. Confusion reigned as the once promising offensive turned into a rout for the humans.
Burress knew that the shelter provided by the truck was a temporary haven at best. Glancing out, he found a group of three T-600s and fired his grenade launcher. The weapon impacted on the center one, destroying it instantly, while the blast flattended the other two. Using this respite, Burress scrambled out from under the truck, barking orders.
"Company! Fire at will!" Burress yelled. "Find some cover! Fire and fall back!"
But his orders were suddenly interrupted by a volley of bullets that caught him across the back. Too shocked to scream, he fell to the ground in agony. Using his remaining strength to twist around, he saw that his assailant was one of the two T-600s that he had just felled with the grenade., but obviously not long enough. It was already searching for other targets.
As he lost consciouness, the Gunny asked himself, Where did they come from?
Reports filtered into headquarters from various men and women in both regiments. As they did, the tactical display slowly revealed what John had suspected from the start: a Skynet ambush. And escape did not appear likely.
Apparently hidden in the debris or climbing out of hidden, subterranean shelters, some 1,000 or more terminators were coming at the human regiments from all sides. Five hundred would have been overwhelming, but over twice as many were pouring unrelenting and merciless fire into the resistance's ranks. It was an unmitigated slaughter.
Their only chance for salvation was from Bedell and his parent unit, the 506th, who were now belatedly ordered into the maelstrom. But they too faced withering fire and could not relieve their trapped comrades.
Derek and Kyle watched with horror as McDonald and Foxtrot Company made a suicidal charge at the Skynet line. Met by a fusilade of automatic rounds, the few who survived desperately scurried for shelter while Bedell's and the Reeses' companies tried to provide some covering fire.
"Captain!" Derek screamed. "What the hell is going on? Why are there so many 600s out here? We gotta withdrawal!"
"Just hold fast Reese!" Bedell shouted. "Get ready to bug out, but we defend this position until regiment orders otherwise!"
"Yes, sir!" Derek said through gritted teeth. He nodded at Kyle, remembering their solemn plan of last resort.
Meanwhile, Anderson's small band fruitlessly attempted to join up with Burress' unit, but they were gunned down as well. Some of the trucks—perhaps 10 or 15—managed to reverse their course and escape north through Skynet's salvos. Resistance soldiers desperately clambered on board, saving an estimated 250 fighters.
But that meager total did not detract from Skynet's decisive victory. Instead of clearing the valley of Skynet, Hoth's plan seemed to accomplish the exact opposite.
"Reese, it's over," Bedell finally said. "There's nothing more we can do. Get your people back to checkpoint Zulu."
"Wilco, captain," Derek said stoically.
The subsequent quiet in the command bunker was understandable. A few technicians and runners milled about, but most sat in stunned silence. Benes was practically catatonic, a stunning reversal from her earlier cockiness, so John worked his way over to the general.
"How bad?" John asked.
John wasn't looking to embarrass the general, he just wanted to weigh the facts. But the military disaster did occur under Hoth's direction and this was the sort of thing that would need public scrutiny.
Hoth silently regarded John for a moment before nodding to another of his adjutants, Major Wagner, who tabulated his figures and cross-checked his displays.
Wagner drew a long breath. "Six thousand, three hundred eighty one unaccounted for, sir," he meekly said. "We're hoping more check in , but…"
Wagner's voice trailed off. He didn't have to say it—everybody prayed the number would go down, but they also knew they would have to temper their hopes and fears.
More than half the force was decimated. Much more. The numbers were numbing, forcing John to find a seat. He lowered his head and thought about his father and uncle, aspring for their escape from the bloodbath.
For what seemed an eternity, all was quiet in the bunker, save for muffled chatter emanating from various work stations. Suddenly, an aging, frail, bespectacled officer appeared to Hoth's right.
"Excuse me, sir," he said. "Cryptography has discovered something you should see, sir."
"What is it, Zimmer?" Hoth said angrily. "What could possibly be so important?"
"We believe we've cracked SN-5, general," Zimmer replied, with restrained enthusiasm. "We can read the signals Skynet sends to their communication hubs."
"Come with me captain," Hoth ordered. "Connor, join us as well."
The three men proceeded through the maze of personnel and equipment to the general's office. Hoth seemed perturbed as he nearly knocked over several people in his haste. John and Zimmer stuggled to keep his pace.
Once in the office, Hoth silently indicated for the other two to take seats, while he slammed the door shut. Loudly.
"Why in hell didn't you tell me about this before, Zimmer!" Hoth screamed with rage. "Six thousand men and women might have been spared!"
"I don't understand, sir," a perplexed Zimmer responded, a shocked expression on his face. "It was the last few Skynet communiques that unraveled it all for us. My decoders worked as fast as they could, but I'm afraid they weren't able to finish before this op started."
"Alright, explain it to me," Hoth said, remarkably more composed this time.
"Before this battle, all we had was conjecture and educated guesses," Zimmer explained. "Now we have proof."
"Before this operation, SN-5 had repeated references to to a specific 10-digit binary code," Zimmer added, walking over to Hoth's dry-erase board. "May I?"
The general nodded his affirmation, while simulataneously trying to hide his disdain for Zimmer. He and his crew had provided precious little for the war effort thus far and his highly technical and obtuse presentations usually made his eyes glaze over by the five-minute mark.
But after this evening's disaster, Hoth was willing to give anything a try.
On the other hand, John found himself riveted by Zimmer's technical report. Being somewhat of an amateur hacker himself, he was able to follow the jargon-filled report and even ask some pointed questions. Hoth found himself slightly amused at the prospect.
"So we eventually came to realize that Skynet was referring to Highway 405 in their messages," Zimmer concluded. "A little test that we ran confirmed it."
"What was the test?" John asked.
"Well, we waited for about 10 minutes, so that the remnants of the 177th were well clear of the area," Zimmer explained. "But a driver in one of the trucks reported that the Roscoe Boulevard interchange on the 405 was pretty badly flooded from the torrential rains. So we felt it was harmless enough and just broadcast the information in the open, you know, just like a normal advisory to stay clear until the storm passed."
"I don't understand," Hoth said.
"Skynet bit on it immediately, because they don't want their units bogged down in water either," Zimmer added. "Their communiques directly used that specific—and elusive—code as being flooded. It had to be 405."
John and Hoth exchanged speculative glances. "That's a little thin, don't you think, Zimmer?" John finally said.
"Thin?" Hoth said condescendingly. "I've seen toilet paper hold more water.'
Zimmer bowed his head at the general's criticism, something Hoth did not miss.
"Look, Zimmer, I'm not trying to rain on your parade. You've obviously got something here," Hoth said. "Let's see if you can actually predict some Skynet movements before they happen."
Zimmer nodded and started packing up his materials in preparation to leave. John interrupted his progress.
"I think the information is solid work, captain," John said. "We just need to build on it and combine it with some other efforts."
Hoth looked at John with a furrowed brow, sizing him up. "What other efforts?"
"I extracted a CPU from a T-600 we downed at Century City," John explained. "We need to combine the work of Zimmer's cryptologists with any of the work hackers or computer technicians have done on Skynet's chips. That means anything civilians have done as well. Pool our resources and work toward a common goal."
"Where is this chip now?" Zimmer asked.
"It's back at my base camp," John conceded. "I didn't want to bring it into battle today, in case I didn't come back."
"Very well, captain, that will be all," Hoth said. "I thank you and your team for your efforts."
"Yes, sir," Zimmer said, saluting before he exited the office.
"You're full of surprises," Hoth said. "When were you going to tell me about the chip?"
"I hadn't intended to keep it secret,"John admitted. "In fact, Captain Bedell had offered me a commission as a sergeant to work on it with his technical crew."
"Bedell?" Hoth said. "He's a solid officer. How do you know him?"
"We were classmates at Presidio Alto," John said, still a little uneasy discussing his past with Hoth. "Anyway, I turned down his offer, for reasons we've already discussed."
Hoth nodded in understanding. "But now, you're reconsidering?"
"I don't want to be in the military," John said. "We've got to get the information stream out of stagnation. That has to be our number one priority. And I don't think I'll be doing any good serving as a menial sergeant in cryptography. Nor am I trying to be a glory hound, but someone needs to get this thing off the ground."
"I'm no fool, Connor," Hoth said, looking John straight in the eyes. "But I believe everything that James Ellison has told me because we go way back. So I trust that he trusts you."
John matched his stare, uncertain what direction the conversation was headed.
"But understand this," Hoth added. "I'm giving you a free pass because of your relationship with Catherine Weaver. Peace with Skynet is my number one priority. Don't forget it."
"I don't intend to, general," John said.
"Good," Hoth abruptly said, standing up. "So what do you need from me?"
John let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Well, first I need to get back to the Reese camp and get the chip," he said.
"Alright, I'll provide an escort," Hoth said.
"And although I don't want to be part of your army, it's clear that I will be working with your soldiers and officers," John said. "They're unlikely to respond too well to my 'authority' unless I have some sort of rank or title."
"What do you have in mind?" Hoth replied, somewhat bemused.
"Something like 'Chief Information Officer,'" John answered, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk.
"I think that may need a little editing," Hoth said laughing.
"Perhaps," John replied, chuckling. "It was my first draft."
The two laughed a little more until regaining their composure. "I also want the Reese brothers here with me, and, of course, Allison Young," John said.
"What do they bring to the table?" Hoth asked.
"More than you can possibly imagine," John answered. "Let's just say that they're like a family to me."
"Very well," Hoth admitted. "It can be done."
John reflected on the answer, uncertain how to broach his next topic. Finally, drawing a deep breath, he dived in.
"Horrible defeat out there tonight, general," John said. "It will have a crippling effect on morale, of course. Have you thought of any way to remedy it?"
Hoth was taken back by John's statement. "I'm not sure there is a remedy," he said, blankly staring at the book shelf.
"Is there a way to speak to all of the men and women of your command without Skynet being able to listen in, some sort of transmitter?" John asked.
"Our secure communications link," Hoth answered. "What do you have in mind?"
"I think the troops could use a pep talk," John replied, grinning a little.
Hoth saw the gleam in John's eyes. Smiling back, he led John back into the equipment maze of the bunker. They found a young officer wearing a larger than normal headset, dutifully transcribing radio traffic.
"Lieutenant Walker," Hoth said. "Please advise all commands to receive an important outgoing message.
"Attention all companies," Walker said. "Prepare for statement from brass hat."
All became quiet in the bunker and everyone centered their attention on Hoth. Walker handed his headset to the general and found an extra set for John, who quietly received a quick tutorial on its functions.
Hoth cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen of Third Corps, this is General Hoth. Today, we experienced a terrible setback at the treacherous deceit of Skynet. But on this sad day, there is reason for hope. I give you—John Connor."
"Some of you know me," John said, "but for most, this is a first. I hope you like my voice and my words, because you're going to be hearing and reading a lot of both. Starting with these broadcasts and continuing with printed material, information that all of you need to know will be readily available and easily accessible."
John became aware of the men and women of the command bunker focusing on him, leaning on his every word. He put it to the back of his mind and drew a deep breath.
In the field, not all soldiers had head sets, so they huddled around those who did or found communications units with radio-like receivers. Derek and Kyle signaled for all to stop and listen. Meanwhile, in Allison's recovery room, a nurse alerted her to John's broadcast.
"We have been fighting for a long time," John continued. "We've all lost so very much. So many of our loved ones are gone. But you are not alone. And you have no idea how important you are—each and every one of you. Humans have a strength that cannot be measured by mechnanical means, by the machines that struggle to understand us."
John swallowed hard, thinking of all the sacrifice he had witnessed thus far and, especially, remembered his own personal losses. Tears began to well up in his eyes, but he forced them back and regained his composure.
"I promise—we will win," John added. "But you, me, everyone, we all need to keep fighting. My name is John Connor. If you're listening to this, you are the Resistance."
When John finished, a mighty roar echoed throughout the command bunker. The uplifting message he had promised had worked. John glanced at Hoth, who was smiling ear to ear and clapping too.
He couldn't help but return the grin and then he bowed his head and closed his eyes as his senses struggled to balance his conflicting emotions.