Derek gritted his teeth and ignored the jarring pain as his skull cracked against the metal above him for what felt like the hundredth time, and focused on just pushing forwards and trying not to bang his head on the metal above him again, though he knew his attempt would fail. He crawled his way forwards through the narrow tube, his elbows, knees, hands, shoulders and head all scraped and bashed against the narrow passage as he made his way forward. Before Judgement Day Kyle had kept pet hamsters; he'd saved up his allowance and bought a large cage with a maze of tubes and pipes for them to run through. Crawling on hands and knees through the pipe, Derek had a rough idea of what it was like to have been those hamsters. All I need now is a wheel, he thought.
Behind him he heard the muffled sounds of the others as they clumsily followed, and Davenport pushed forwards and blazed a trail for the rest of them. Derek could just make out the lieutenant a few metres ahead of him, immersed in almost total pitch blackness and illuminated only through the glow of the flashlight he held between his teeth.
"Stinks like crap down here," Sergeant Burke muttered from behind Derek; one of the four he and Davenport had chosen to take part in the raid on Schriever AFB.
Derek nodded knowingly despite nobody being able to see the gesture in the dark and narrow tunnel. "Makes sense, considering what this pipe used to be."
"Don't remind me," Davenport said up front as he crawled faster. "I've had to crawl through here twice now." That earned a wry grin from Derek. He'd led his squad to take part in a covert raid and he'd been determined to find a better way in than the one Perry had attempted before. They'd marched north, then headed east – parallel to the base – and doubled back southwest; the opposite direction from which Skynet would expect any attack from Cheyenne Mountain. They'd searched for any cover among the barren terrain that surrounded the base and come up almost empty: there was scant and sporadic cover to conceal them from ground units and absolutely nothing to keep them out of sight of aircraft.
They'd scouted the area – having little intimate knowledge of the features surrounding the base – and managed to come up lucky: They'd found a drainage pipe that ran almost half a mile from the base and into a ditch, which in turn ran off into a nearby river. From the smell of the pipe it had likely flowed from every toilet on the base, as Davenport had testified after he'd crawled through it before to confirm it ran into the base and that there was a viable way in. Derek found himself glad that Skynet at this early point in the war had decided to use existing military bases for its infrastructure: if this were 2027 they'd have had no chance of sneaking in like this.
"Tell you what," Derek said to Davenport. "When we're on board the Nimitz you can call first shower."
Everyone shut up after Derek's final comment; they didn't know how well sound travelled through the pipe but it seemed to echo all around them. They crawled the rest of the way in silence; the only sounds were heavy, laboured breathing and various body parts catching the steel sides of the pipe. The smell didn't get any better as they neared the base; Derek guessed the water had stopped flowing through the pipes shortly after J-Day. Screw it, he thought. They were soldiers and crawling around in crap and God-only-knows what else was something they should be used to by now.
Finally Davenport paused up front and pointed his flashlight upwards, illuminating a manhole cover above him and pointing up to it. Derek nodded once to him and stopped in his tracks, as did Burke and the others behind him. Davenport pressed his hands against the cover and pushed slowly. The grating of steel on steel echoed throughout the pipe and was far too loud for Derek's liking: it seemed impossible the machines wouldn't hear it. After what seemed like an age the manhole cover was finally clear and Davenport pulled himself up through the hole and onto the surface, emerging into an unlit space between two hangars. He'd checked out other manhole covers but this was their best chance of remaining undetected as they crawled out of the pipe, even if it was further away from the fuel depot than he'd have liked: the depot was on the other side of the runway, beyond a row of four hangars.
He shouldered his AA-12 shotgun and swept his aim across the base, finding no signs of movement. He heard a distant rumble of T-2 tracks but it came from outside the perimeter and knew the giant machine was protecting against threats approaching the base: it had no reason to look inside. Davenport thrust his hand back into the manhole and gave a thumbs-up to Derek, signalling him to come up. Derek emerged and copied Davenport's action: bringing his HK-G36 assault rifle to bear as he covered the opposite direction to the other lieutenant. One by one the others cleared the pipe and took up defensive positions.
"Split into pairs," Derek whispered softly. "Burke and McAllister, Sikes and Carpenter: plant as many charges as you can. Meet back here in ten minutes." The squad split up and the two pairs Derek nominated split and moved towards the other hangars. Derek and Davenport sneaked round the back of the large structures – marching in silence between the rear of the hangar and the perimeter fence – towards the base of the runway. Derek figured that would be where they'd keep the fuel depot: it wouldn't make sense for Skynet's UCAVs to have to taxi very far on the ground in order to refuel – creature of logic that Skynet was.
"Do you hear that?" Davenport whispered behind Derek, who stopped marching and paused, straining his ears to listen out for whatever it was Davenport had heard. He tensed up and his finger squeezed gently on his trigger, taking up first pressure as he pointed the weapon forward. The air was filled with the background noises of an active airbase: engines droned faintly inside the hangars, along with various mechanical sounds of the maintenance drones that tended to Skynet's fleet of unmanned aircraft, and machines rolled or marched on patrols inside and out. It all sounded ordinary to him.
"What is it?" Derek asked, just able to see Davenport's tense expression on his face through the inky darkness.
"Nothing," he said. Derek shook his head, wondering if the lieutenant wasn't a little too on edge. "Literally, nothing," Davenport said softly. "We should've heard the railgun by now."
Derek had thought about that, too. They'd set out with the intention of blowing up the fuel depot and grounding Skynet's aircraft, but deep down he'd hoped they'd be able to take out the railgun while they were at it. It was too much to hope for, he guessed, that the weapon would be inside the base. Perry had told him it could fire at a target two-hundred miles away, so it could be anywhere.
"Screw the railgun," Derek slapped Davenport on the shoulder and pointed forward. They were here for the depot and that was all that mattered: keep the metal grounded so they could escape. Skynet could do whatever the hell it wanted with Cheyenne Mountain once they were gone.
They jogged behind the mammoth hangars, dashing across the open ground between structures and continually keeping their eyes open for machine patrols. As they passed by the last hangar in the row of four on their side of the runway, Derek realised the fuel depot was nowhere to be seen. Beyond the row of hangars and the base of the runway were several dozen unused buildings – many now lined with satellite antennae - and beyond that were radar domes and dishes spread out through a wide open area. Shit: now what the hell were they going to do?
"Over there," Davenport pointed down the wall of the hangar they were hidden behind, past the runway and towards the hangars on the other side. Four large delta-shaped aircraft stood still on the taxiing area fifty metres or so to their right-hand side of the hangars opposite them. They were surrounded by maintenance robots of varying shapes and sizes. Derek stared through the sights of his weapon and saw through the green tinted scope that one machine on wheels rolled straight underneath the belly of one of the jets and raised what he guessed to be missiles into their bomb-bays. Other machines – two-handed versions of the T-70s, connected fuel lines from the large cylindrical depot tanks into the aircraft fuselages.
"Looks like another sortie," Davenport said as he looked through a pair of passive night-vision goggles and watched the same scene as Derek. Neither of them needed to guess where they'd be attacking. Skynet often followed up its railgun strikes with bunker-busting missiles, to make the hole in the mountain even bigger.
"Looks like one hell of a sortie," Derek replied. The four bombers rolled out of the hangar opposite and straight onto the runway. But he counted another twelve being fuelled up behind those. If the others were all part of the same mission then it was the largest air attack on the mountain since Skynet's initial assault weeks ago. Twelve bombers all at once, plus however many HKs they had: Skynet must know the mountain's almost done, Derek thought.
The first of the four aircraft taxied onto the runway and blasted down the runway, engines roared deafeningly as it tore along the tarmac and took to the sky. The second hurtled after it just seconds later. He counted them off as they took to the air. Derek was glad to see these aircraft all turned in different directions when they were airborne: these weren't going after Cheyenne just yet, but the twelve being fuelled and armed most definitely would be. When the third took off Derek turned to Davenport.
"We've gotta cross the runway," he said, still whispering even though the seventh UCAV's engines drowned out all other noise around them. This was the most dangerous part, Derek knew: the noise from the jet engines could mask approaching machines.
Davenport looked uneasily at Derek. "We won't make it." He pointed towards a pair of T-70s patrolling in front of the opposite hangars, and then towards another machine stood sentinel on top of a three-storey building with large round satellite dishes sporting from the from. Davenport figured that with the pair patrolling on the other side of the runway, there'd be another pair marching along the fronts of their row of hangars, and from past experience he knew the factories inside the structures held a small legion of machines.
In the shadows in the distance Davenport made out more movement; machines patrolling the other half of the base, marching between the communications and radar buildings and equipment. Whether they were security patrols or simply maintenance drones, he had no idea. They seemed to have eyes everywhere and after his last mission here he knew it would be a matter of time before some of those eyes fell on them. A pair of plodding metallic footsteps from the left-hand side of the hangar they were crouched behind signalled approaching machines. They'd round the corner in seconds and there was no way they could avoid being seen. The only place the machines wouldn't look, he realised, was on the runway itself.
As the Fourth Pegasus started to accelerate down the runway Davenport nodded at Derek in agreement and dashed round the corner, hugging the side of the hangar as he sprinted down its length. Derek cursed quietly and ran after Davenport. The unmanned jet's engines reached a high pitched crescendo as it tore down the runway, and Davenport ran straight towards its path.
Derek caught up with him quickly and saw what he was doing as the pair of them cleared the front of the hangar and carried on going. They dived onto the tarmac and lay flat on the runway as the drone tore past them; jet-wash buffeted them and tore at their clothes and hair as if they were caught in a sudden, violent storm. Davenport shielded his head with his arms felt, the heat from the exhaust wash over him and gave a silent prayer of thanks to whoever designed the things that they didn't build them with afterburners, or they'd have been burnt to a crisp.
Burke knelt down on the ground and shouldered his assault rifle to cover McAllister as he planted a C4 charge on the rear corner of the hangar. The younger soldier worked hastily to insert a remote detonator into the explosive block.
"How much more C4 do you have?" he whispered.
"Three more blocks," McAllister replied, holding up a second block in his hand.
"Let's plant one inside," Burke said. Detonating C4 inside would do far more damage than the one on the outside corner of the hangar.
"You crazy? Last time we went inside we got our asses handed to us."
"We'll be fine," Burke wedged his knife into the fire escape, between the door and the frame, and worked at the latch. It wasn't designed to keep people out, so it was an easy job and within seconds the door clicked open. Burke wedged the blade back and forth and managed to pull the door back enough to grip it with his fingers, then opened it and stepped through. McAllister followed and slowly pulled the door ajar after him. The interior of the hangar was brightly lit by work-lights hung from the ceiling, and illuminated the cavernous insides. "What the hell?" McAllister stared across the hangar in disbelief. The hangars, having been filled to bursting with machines before, were now empty. Three automated production lines stood still and inert, and the piles of crates they'd seen before were gone. "Where the hell did they all go?"
"Only one place they would go," Burke said as he felt the impending sense of dread creep up his spine with a frigid chill. Skynet had sent out its machines for the final assault on Cheyenne Mountain. He walked through the empty hangar and looked at the production lines with interest. The production lines had been designed by humans to build machines independently of any assistance: someone would oversee the machines to make sure nothing went wrong, and the automated systems would do the rest. There was even a computer screen that could be accessed if need be. Burke stood before it and pressed icons on the touch-screen, perusing through the files.
"What're you doing, sarge?" McAllister asked, watching the sergeant's back as he worked.
"Trying to find out exactly what we're up against," Burke pressed a series of icons indicating the types of machines produced and how many of each. Eventually he found a file labelled 'production records' and punched that. Even though Skynet would know how many machines it had; the facilities had been initially designed by people, and still held records of production rates, quotas, and anything else manufacturers would have found useful.
"Anything to give us a chance of... Jesus Christ!" The numbers on the screen boggled his mind: Skynet had produced four hundred ground and air units since the factories had been built on the base, and judging from the emptiness of the hangar Burke guessed the lion's share of them were already en route to Cheyenne Mountain.
"El-tee, we've got a problem," Burke spoke into his radio. "Machines are all gone: en route to the mountain."
"Got that. Carry on planting C4 and RV at the manhole in five minutes. Radio silence. Out."
Burke stuck a block of C4 onto the middle of the three assembly lines so when it went up the blast would damage the other two around it enough to halt production. Not that it would matter one bit if the machines wiped out everyone in Cheyenne Mountain.
Derek and Davenport worked quickly and in complete silence as they planted explosives onto the two massive circular fuel tanks. Derek had heard the bad news, as had Davenport, but they was determined to stay focused on their task. If Skynet had already sent them out then it must mean it had punched through the mountain in the time it had taken them to get to the base. But that didn't change their circumstances one bit: the best way to stop the attack was to keep the bulk of Skynet's aircraft grounded: if they couldn't fly then the operation would be delayed. Skynet wouldn't risk so many units without air support.
"Last one," Davenport nodded as he armed the explosives on the side of his tank and stood up. "Better get clear before we blow it; this place is gonna go up like a volcano."
Derek opened his mouth to reply but stopped as a mechanical plodding approached and a single T-70 emerged from the shadows towards them. It raised its gun arm at Derek and Davenport snapped up his AA-12 and fired a long burst into the machine: the explosive armour piercing shells tore through the drone's chest and head and dropped it to the ground as its minigun roared and spurted out fire into the air as it toppled over backwards.
"Run!" Derek shouted as he got up and sprinted towards the runway. The mission had gone noisy and they'd been discovered. It was time to get the hell out.
Favouring speed over stealth the two soldiers pushed their bodies as hard and fast as they could, adrenaline and fear surged them across the runway at near-Olympian speeds but Derek could already see a pair of T-70s down the runway turning and aiming at them.
An explosion flared in the midst of the two robots and was followed a split second later by a long chatter of assault rifle fire, dropping the machines to the tarmac.
"To me, to me!" burke roared, knelt next to a hangar wall, McAllister a few feet away, laying prone on the ground with an M4 barking as he fired bursts at more machines, who turned their attention to the new intruders shooting at them.
"Covering fire!" Davenport dropped to one knee and loosed another burst of shells whilst Derek sprinted onwards then turned to cover the lieutenant as he in turn ran past. The pair continued firing and manoeuvring whist Burke and McAllister gave covering fire, and quickly made their way to the cover of the hangars to join up with the two soldiers, then ran to the rear of the hangar and dashed towards their RV point.
"You really pissed them off, sir," burke said to Derek as they ran along the backs of the hangars and towards the manhole cover. They could hear rapidly approaching metallic footsteps as the machines chased after them, intent on destroying the human intruders.
The two other men – Sikes and Carpenter – were already at the open manhole cover and gesturing furiously at the others. Davenport dropped into the hole, followed by McAllister and Sikes. Another machine approached and fired a long burst towards them. Derek and Burke dived to the side and avoided being hit, but Carpenter wasn't so lucky. The hail of 7.62mm fire tore him to shreds and ripped his body apart into a bloody mess. Both Derek and Burke fired on the machine; their rounds pinged off its armour as it pointed the weapon at them, seemingly unaffected by the fire it took. Another burst of fire ripped into Burke and sprayed a fountain of gore onto Derek as he kept shooting, finally scoring a hit on the machine's face and the rounds penetrating through to its CPU. It stood upright for a moment before it fell backwards as if someone had cut its feet out from under it.
Derek didn't even bother to check Carpenter and Burke to see if they were still alive: even if they were they'd never make it back to the mountain and he had a mission to complete. Derek pulled out the remote for the detonators and dropped down into the manhole. He pressed the button and the ground shook around him a split second before several resounding booms rocked throughout the base. A bright orange-red explosion of fire tore above him. Secondary explosions erupted as the Pegasus bombers being fuelled at the depots ignited and blew apart, devastating a large chunk of the base along with them.
Derek didn't wait to see what happened next; he hurried as fast as he could down the pipe, completely ignorant to the dank smell or the tightness of the cramped tube. He barely even felt the bumps and knocks he took as he crawled as quickly as he could. This mission was now complete, but if this didn't stop the attack then their next mission would be a suicide run to take out as many machines as they could before they reached Cheyenne Mountain. He'd have to trust Ellison and Charley to find John.
Cameron awkwardly pushed the gas pedal down and the dusty and battered Topkick picked up speed down the long, isolated road. Cameron had driven for two days straight, only stopping to top up the gas tank from the jerrycan she and Courtney had put into the back seat. She'd kept away from the highways and cities and had driven cross country for several hundred miles, battering the 4x4 in the process. The Topkick looked almost in as bad a condition as she herself. Sounds from the engine and forward axle indicated damage had been sustained, and the radiator gauge indicated the engine was in severe risk of overheating. She didn't want to stop the car in case it didn't start again: many resistance fighters had maintained the practice of keeping engines running, as the few remaining vehicles in their motor pools were extremely unreliable.
Cameron was all too aware of her fuel cell slowly depleting, unable to ignore the constantly dwindling number that represented how much power she had remaining. Likewise, she found herself unable to stop analysing the probability of her ever seeing John again, despite the fact every time she did the number decreased slightly. And despite Courtney being dead, she was also constantly at the forefront of Cameron's thought processes, along with John. Cameron didn't wish she was still alive: that was impossible and machines didn't waste time wanting what couldn't be. But she still felt a powerful sense of loss now Courtney was gone. She missed her. She'd never had a friend before, and likely never would again. She had identified with Courtney, because she'd been similar in various ways to herself and to John. Cameron knew John would have liked Courtney.
Cameron continued along the small road, scanning the surrounding area for any threats or signs of movement. There were none: she was the only visible being around for miles. Something did catch her attention, though: a road sign in the distance. Cameron could see it from much further than a human could, and managed to read it when the sign was still half a mile in front of her. Colorado Springs 58 Mi. She estimated an hour and a half until she reached the outskirts of the city. Two hours before she arrived at Cheyenne Mountain and she could affect repairs and mobilize the entire company – every single soldier and armoured fighting vehicle inside Cheyenne Mountain: she'd do whatever it took to get John back.
Perry looked on as a pair of privates finished assembling the command centre's defences. The command centre looked totally different from how the military engineers of the fifties and sixties must have imagined it, Perry thought. Instead of monitoring and running a nuclear war or tracking a Soviet invasion of Western Europe from the safety of a mountain, the command centre was now going to be the front line. Skynet's railgun had finished blasting a crater in through the mountain and the hole ran right through the ceiling of the command centre, wide enough to easily fit twenty men through without them touching each other. Much of the already ruined computer equipment had been completely obliterated by the blast of the final shells; rendering the desks little more than shattered splinters of wood and plastic and turning the floor into possibly the world's largest pothole. Perry thanked his lucky stars that he'd ordered the one working long range radio removed from the command centre: if that had gone then he'd never be able to get in touch with Nimitz again and the choppers wouldn't come in to get them.
Whilst Derek had gone off to play commando in Schriever, Perry had prepared for the worst. Half the room had been transformed into a sangar, equipped with a .50 cal Browning M2 machine gun on a tripod. The gunner would be joined by a five man fire team armed to the teeth with grenade launchers and machine guns. They were the second line of defence after those out on the mountainside. In the corridors leading out from the command centre were similar defence points, semi-barricaded with whatever they could find to provide cover from fire. If and when they fire team in the command centre had to fall back.
On the outside of the mountain, around the crater that penetrated through, Perry had positioned three more M2s, plus a dozen men in makeshift sangars armed with Stingers, Javelins, 7.62mm machine guns, grenade launchers, and three mortar tubes. They were the first line of defence and would hold the mountainside as long as they could before falling back and fast-roping down the crater and into the command centre. The remaining men were split between internal defence and manning fire positions at the North and South Portals, keeping their exits open in case they got a chance to break out and escape. Every able bodied civilian now carried an M4 and at least two-hundred rounds, but even then the company was spread dangerously thin.
"How many rounds you got for the fifty, private?" Perry asked Private Anders, who'd finished preparing the Browning.
"Four belts linked together, sir," the young soldier replied. Perry nodded his assent at the private. Four-hundred rounds should be enough, he thought. It'd push the machines back and force them to try another way in or the soldiers would have to fall back well before the gun ran out of ammunition. It would have to do, he thought, because they didn't have any more ammunition left.
The double doors burst open and a corporal turned to face Perry, out of breath; the man had clearly sprinted to the command centre. "Sir, we just heard from Lieutenant Baum's team: they took out the fuel stores; aircraft should be grounded. He's on his way back now.
"Very good, corporal," he nodded. That crazy bastard Baum had done it, he could hardly believe it. Maybe we'll actually make it out of this one, he thought with a growing sense of hope. But he knew they weren't out of the woods just yet. There was still a chance some of Skynet's aircraft might have enough fuel in their tanks to make a run at the mountain: he had to assume that was the case until they were all aboard helicopters and well away from Colorado.
"Contact the Nimitz and tell them we're ready for them. Get an ETA so we know when to expect them. And tell Baum he's got twenty-four hours to make it back here." The corporal saluted and left the room, leaving Perry and the soldiers finalising the sangar defences alone. Perry switched on his radio to all channels and pressed the intercom button at the same time. He wanted everyone to hear this. "All units, this is Perry. We're expecting pickup in under twenty-four hours. Keep your eyes peeled until then."
There was no point in standing them all to, Perry knew. They couldn't remain at maximum alertness indefinitely. They just had to keep their eyes open and make sure nobody got sloppy or fell asleep at their posts. This was the most dangerous part: when rescue was imminent soldiers started thinking of home, of safety, and this was the point when they'd let their guard down. Once he got an ETA Perry decided he'd stand the whole mountain to an hour before the choppers were due to land. Now it was just a matter of whether Derek's effort was enough to have postponed the attack. All there was left now was to wait. Perry chewed nervously on his bottom lip. Waiting was always the worst part.
Bedell sat in his chair in the briefing room with other pilots and a squad of twelve marines, all staring intently at Captain Wallace at the front of the room. Behind Wallace was a projector screen with a map of the western United States displayed. Wallace touched a key on his computer and the image zoomed in on Colorado Springs, centring on Cheyenne Mountain a few miles away.
Bedell had felt completely useless for months. The Nimitz had barely escaped Alaska in one piece, losing almost all of their fighter complement in the process. The George H.W. Bush hadn't been so lucky: she'd been lost with all hands, struck by two anti-shipping missiles and had sunk rapidly. Nimitz and the Jimmy Carter had escaped south and made it into deeper waters, but not before being forced to fight another massive aerial battle that had seen several waves of Skynet aircraft attacking the carrier within a few hours. The ship's fighter pilots had just barely managed to hold each assault off, but the attack had decimated the carrier's fighter contingent from almost sixty F/A-18D Super Hornets down to just five intact jets.
Since then they'd floated out at sea, the now largely obsolete air staff fishing out in the lifeboats to complement their supplies. They'd been lucky that the Nimitz had taken on so many supplies and so much hardware.
Over the last two days Bedell had noticed a shift in atmosphere on board the ship. Maintenance crews had worked furiously on several helicopters, attaching external fuel tanks, fitting fuel bladders inside the cargo areas, and gutting the choppers of anything that wasn't completely necessary. Bedell wondered what was going on; nobody seemed to know. Now he was getting his answer.
Wallace spoke to the pilots and marine commander in the room, pointing at the screen. "This mission's been kept a secret because I didn't know until an hour ago whether or not we'd be going ahead with it. You've probably noticed the crews working on a number of choppers the last two days, and here's why: as soon as this briefing's over you'll be flying east over the mainland for a rescue mission. 4th Infantry in Cheyenne Mountain is under siege and they need extraction.
"As you all know, this is Connor's unit, and even though General Connor is declared MIA, we're not gonna leave these guys to the machines."
Bedell started to take notes and paid rapt attention to every word Wallace said. He still didn't believe John Connor was dead, he couldn't be, and this might bring him one step closer to finding him. If Connor was meant to save the world – and from what his uncle had said about how nobody else knew the machines like he did – then they needed him more than Wallace or anyone else could know. Everyone else had dismissed his attachment to Connor as hero worship after what had happened to him at the academy. Not one of them knew what he did, and none knew that if Derek was right, then Connor was their one chance at winning, and he wasn't going to let that go down the drain. Plus, Connor had saved his life against that cyborg and he was determined to even the score.
"Refuel here in Utah," Wallace pointed to a spot indicated by a grid reference, out in the middle of nowhere. Bedell jotted down the numbers as fast as he could. "Utah National Guard have agreed to hold a fuel tanker there for twenty-four hours. Land there and top up your tanks, then proceed on to Cheyenne Mountain. Colonel Perry's men will be waiting and will provide cover while you land. Load up everyone and backtrack along the same route you came in on; refuelling once again in Utah and then head southwest to the Mexican border. Turn west and follow the border out to sea and head home. Any questions?"
"What kind of resistance can we expect?" Sam, Bedell's co-pilot asked.
"California's the worst, so avoid flying near it if you can. Skynet now has almost total air supremacy, so anything airborne that's not you is a threat. Fly low and keep under their radar to avoid detection. The route we've planned avoids any known Skynet installations but they could still have air patrols reaching further out."
"What's our plan if we don't make it?" The marine captain asked.
"That happens then you're on your own," Wallace replied solemnly. He was taking a huge risk already, bringing the ship so close to the coast. If they loitered too long, especially so close to California, it would only be a matter of time until Skynet detected them and sent out bombers. He was going to keep the ship in position for two days before he sailed off for deeper waters. Not that there was anything for them if they did.
Bedell had questions but none he was willing to ask Wallace, especially not in front of the others. He'd be dismissed offhand if he did.
With no further questions Wallace dismissed the pilots and they all headed out to the flight deck and towards their helicopters. The four birds were already on the deck, ready and waiting for them. Bedell and Sam, his co-pilot, sat down and strapped into the cockpit of his Seahawk, as the other pilots and a dozen marines piled into three Chinooks that had been liberated from Fort Richardson in Alaska.
Bedell looked back into the rear of the helicopter and saw that it had well and truly been gutted: the machine gun, the fire-fighting and first aid equipment were gone. Even the seats had been torn out of the back. Any passengers he picked up would have to sit on the bare floor. Two large black rubber fuel bladders ran the length of the cabin.
Bedell felt his heart pumping wildly in his chest as he made his pre-flight checks. This wasn't just any flight; he'd been waiting for this since Connor had told him about the future. They'd been vague about his role in the war, but they'd told him he was important – important enough for Skynet to send a machine to kill him, anyway. Maybe this is it, he thought as he pulled back on the yoke and the Seahawk raised up into the air.
"Tango One," the air controller aboard Nimitz addressed Bedell over the radio. "You have the lead. Good luck."
"Tango One to all aircraft," Bedell spoke to the other pilots as their helicopters raised up and cleared the carrier. "Proceed east on bearing one-zero-one. Speed one-six-five knots, altitude one-two-zero metres." Bedell's Seahawk took the lead as the aircraft arranged themselves into a four-ship arrowhead formation and flew east over the sea and towards the west coast.
Derek scanned the ground before him from his lookout position and kept a sharp eye out for any signs of movement. Behind him Davenport drank from his canteen and Sikes and McAllister rested against a wall, taking advantage of their brief respite for a few minutes before they'd inevitably have to get up again and start marching. Derek had told Perry they'd blown the fuel tanks but he hadn't mentioned that they were going after the machines, too. Derek had made his mind up in the tunnel that they needed to scout out the machines and see if they were holding position or still advancing. If they didn't stop then they'd take out as many as they could, maybe make some small difference to help the guys still stuck in the mountain.
Derek looked down at his watch; they'd rested for ten minutes now, it was time to go. "We move in one minute," Derek said softly to the others behind him. He heard the rustle of the others getting ready, putting canteens and chocolate wrappers away, and the click of working parts as they picked up their weapons. Davenport knelt next to him, AA-12 pointed outwards.
"Colorado Springs is pretty big," Davenport said. It wasn't the largest city but at the same time it was by no means a tiny hamlet. "Sure we're gonna find them here?"
"Where'd you think they are?" Derek asked.
"North, northwest; if I was a machine army I'd head northwest." Derek couldn't help but smile at remembering Kyle saying something so similar once on patrol.
"Why'd you say that?"
"Stay out of the city; open ground. They can spread out, cover their flanks. City's too dangerous: one platoon could plant an ambush and take out a large chunk of 'em."
"We haven't got a platoon to spare," McAllister said as he stood ready. Sikes was just behind him.
"Skynet doesn't know that," Davenport replied. Derek wasn't sure which Skynet would do: he'd never seen an en masse assault force like the one assembled to take out Cheyenne. In the future Skynet patrols were smaller, in pairs or fours, usually. And they normally took the most direct route if they were going somewhere specific. But Davenport's theory made sense, too.
"Head west," Derek decided. "When we get to the outskirts we'll swing north and flank them." The idea of the four of them trying to flank a Skynet force that numbered in the hundreds was almost hilarious when he thought about it.
Davenport took point and they marched west in silence. Derek had them running through the city after a short while, determined to find the machines before they reached Cheyenne Mountain so he knew whether or not their plan had worked. The only sounds as they ran were their boots on the ground and their heavy, laboured breathing. They were lucky that the part of Colorado Springs they were in was reasonably intact, too far from the nuke that struck Peterson Air Force Base to have suffered any more than minor damage. Their old house wasn't far from the outskirts and Derek briefly wondered if it was still in one piece.
They were running down a road through a residential area when Davenport held his fist up in the air, signalling 'stop.' They all froze in place and crouched down to the ground, clutching their weapons tighter. Derek listened carefully and heard the all too familiar sounds of thudding metallic footsteps ahead. He pointed to a low wall in front of a large detached house and all four of them dived over it and hid behind in the large, empty front yard, lying in damp, cold mud and nervously listening out.
The thudding got closer and Davenport chanced a peek over the wall. A single T-70 marched towards them from an adjoining road, coming into view from behind the cover of a house. The machine raised its gun arm towards him and Davenport dropped back down to the ground and crawled away as machinegun fire roared loudly and bullets chewed through the wall. Seconds later a second minigun joined the fray as another machine closed in on them, both machines sprayed the area with rounds and kept the four soldiers pinned down as they approached for the kill.
"So much for staying in open ground!" McAllister shouted to Davenport as he poked his machine gun over the wall and fired a long burst back, ducking down to avoid an incoming burst of fire before he could see if his rounds hit the mark.
Derek rolled onto his front and pointed at Sikes. "We distract 'em, Davenport and McAllister take them out. On three: one... two... three!" Derek and Sikes jumped up to their feet and fired burst after burst at the machines as they ran to the right-hand side of the wall. Derek dived to the ground and tackled Sikes as rounds hammered the house behind them at chest level.
"Thanks, sir," Sikes puffed gratefully.
Davenport and McAllister popped up from the left and aimed their heavier weapons at the machines, each firing a steady burst at the machines. Frag-12s and 7.62mms hammered away at one of the machine and tore through its armour until they shattered critical systems and the T-70 dropped to the ground. Unfortunately in their haste they'd shot at the same machine, leaving the second one still to contend with. The second machine increased its rate of fire, throwing out multiple short bursts that picked the wall apart. They'd be hit sooner or later, Derek knew. They couldn't stay down. "Same again," Derek shouted to them. "On three..."
Derek trailed off as a loudly growling engine approached rapidly. Someone was really putting their foot down. The drone's minigun stopped firing and Derek looked over the wall in time to see a large black Topkick plough into the T-70 with an almighty crack. Shards of black and grey metal flew in all directions. Glass shattered, metal cracked and bent under the strain. Support struts and metal limbs buckled from the impact and the car rolled over the machine, large wheels crushing its chest into the ground.
"Nice!" Davenport grinned like a manic as the 4x4 ran over the tin can. Whoever was driving, he liked their style. Both he and Derek aimed their weapons at the downed machine and fired into it, shattering its metal skull to finish it off as the Topkick slowed to a stop. Derek looked into the cab and couldn't believe his eyes.
"Cameron?" The machine sat behind the wheel, staring at them with the same blank expression she always had. "Inside, now," Derek pointed at the car and jogged across the front. The car's hood was a buckled, shattered mess. The lights were gone and the whole thing looked like it had been ploughed into a wall. He opened the door and saw Cameron's pack on the front seat, her foot sticking out the top. "What the hell... where's John?" he asked, seeing his nephew was nowhere to be seen.
"Century Work Camp," Cameron replied, her face remained the same but Derek saw something in her eyes he could only describe as sadness. He hated that she felt something, wanted her to just be another unfeeling tin can, though deep down, after all that had happened since Judgement Day, he suspected what John already firmly and vehemently believed, that there was more to her. He was beginning to believe it, but he still wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not.
"Century... how?"
"We should switch seats," Cameron said, gesturing at her dismembered leg in the pack and raising what was still attached to her body. Derek said nothing but nodded as Cameron lifted herself out of the drivers' seat and moved over the handbrake to the passenger side. Derek got into the driving seat and started the engine. Davenport took the back seat and McAllister sat in the pickup box at the back and placed his M240 over the top of the cabin, whilst Sikes faced the rear with his rifle. Derek pulled away and drove through the outskirts of the city, heading west towards Cheyenne Mountain.
Cameron told Derek and Davenport everything that had happened since they'd returned to the mountain: John's failed ambush on Cromartie, how the T-888 had nearly killed them both, the HK attack that damaged her and how she rebooted to find John missing. She told them how Las Vegas Airport had been destroyed and that Colonel Ryan had betrayed them to Cromartie – Derek was shocked, to say the least, when Cameron said she hadn't killed him. She told Derek everything, only leaving out her friendship with Courtney: Derek didn't need to know.
Derek and Davenport listened intently as Cameron relayed what had happened to her over the past six months, neither saying a word.
"Why come back?" Derek asked, venom in his voice as he spoke. "You're supposed to protect John."
"Lay off," Davenport shot back. Cameron met his eyes through the rear view mirror and offered a tiny smile. Courtney was the only person she'd ever classified as a friend, but Davenport was definitely an ally. "How's she meant to help John with only one leg and... how much power left?"
"Point two-two-eight percent," Cameron reminded him.
"Meaning...?"
"Eleven days."
"I get it," Derek said, seeing he was losing this one. He knew, intellectually, she wasn't in any state to help John, but this was the closest link he'd had since John had gone missing and he was just frustrated. "So why come back?"
"I need repairs," Cameron said. "We kept spare parts in our wardrobe."
"Better than shoes, I guess," Davenport quipped.
"I only own three pairs of shoes. There's room for spare parts." Cameron only kept a pair of ballet pumps, her combat boots she was wearing now, and a spare pair in hers and John's wardrobe.
"Damn, Connor's lucky!"
"What?" Derek snorted at Davenport, incredulous at where this had gone.
"Any girl who only has three pairs of shoes is a winner in my book." Davenport decided to be serious for a moment and asked: "Connor's in this work camp in Century: so what're we gonna do about it?"
"We get him back," Derek and Cameron both answered at the same time. Derek decided he should explain what had happened here to Cameron. He told her about the failed assault on Schriever, about George – the Infiltrator- about the railgun that had torn through the mountainside, and how they were awaiting helicopters from the Nimitz to pick them up.
"Nimitz will have a hundred or so marines," Davenport said. "Should be enough to take the camp and rescue Connor."
"That's the plan," Derek said as he pulled out into the countryside and headed towards the mountain, only a few miles away now. Once they were aboard the carrier Derek would convince the guy in charge, one way or another, to lend him marines to help with the rescue. "Perry doesn't know it yet, but that's the plan."
A/N: Sorry about the wait, this chapter was quite difficult to write, so I hope it's okay.
Also: a sangar is a small, temporary fortified position. Normally made of sandbags, but in this case out of whatever they can find that'll stop bullets. The next chapter shouldn't take too long; I've already written over 2000 words for it whilst waiting for feedback from my beta-reader: Kaotic2. Thanks again, mate.