Three Chinook helicopters buzzed low over the flat, sparse, almost featureless Arizona desert terrain; the only sign of movement within hundreds of square miles. They flew southwest towards the relative safety of the Mexican border. The three aircraft carried the weapons, equipment, and the last personnel of the United States Army's 4th Infantry Division: the survivors of Skynet's siege of Cheyenne Mountain. They planned to cross the border into Mexico and then head west until they hit the sea, to rendezvous with the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz. Some on board one of the Chinooks, however, had other plans.
In the rear cabin of the starboard Chinook sat Derek, Davenport, Ellison, Charley, and a squad of twelve fighters, all professional, experienced soldiers, having been part of 4th Infantry before Judgement Day and handpicked by Derek and Davenport for the ride. Derek didn't want any amateurs with him for what he had planned.
Derek looked to Davenport sat on the floor opposite him – the seats having been torn out to reduce weight - and caught the younger lieutenant's gaze, receiving a questioning stare in reply. Derek nodded at Davenport's assault rifle held between his knees and then tilted his head towards the cockpit. Davenport got the message and nodded, and the pair of them got up to their feet and strolled lazily towards the front of the aircraft, weapons in hand. Derek made it first to the cockpit and stood between the two pilots. He put on a headset so he could speak to the pilots above the roar of the whirring engines above them.
"We gotta turn west towards California," Derek tapped the pilot on the shoulder as he spoke.
"Not gonna happen," the pilot replied. "We've got a preset flight plan to follow; any deviation will either burn up too much fuel or get us shot down."
"We insist," Davenport shouted loudly as he raised his weapon, compensating for not having a headset on. Derek shouldered his own HK-G36 at the pilot's chest.
"Please, lieutenant," the pilot rolled his eyes, not impressed in the least at their half-assed, ill-thought-through hijacking attempt. After Bedell had been hijacked he wasn't the least bit surprised. These 4th Infantry boys had a couple screws loose. "You kill us and who's gonna fly this bird, you?"
"I never said 'kill'," Derek replied, pointing his HK-G36's barrel at the pilot's legs. "But a bullet through the kneecap's gotta hurt. You wanna limp for the rest of your life?"
"Tango Three to Tango Lead; we have a situation here," the pilot calmly spoke into his radio.
Derek shifted his aim to the radio console and fired a single round, shattering the aircraft's radio console in a shower of sparks and broken plastic. "Are you crazy?" the co-pilot screamed at him.
"Pretty much," Davenport answered before Derek could say anything. "Turn west and head for LA."
"That's suicide," the pilot protested. "I'm not flying through there; that's Skynet central."
"What's going on up there?" a corporal shouted from the rear as he got up to see what all the noise was about. Charley and Ellison stayed in place; Derek had told them he and Davenport would take care of this part, knowing that Charley wasn't the forceful type and Ellison had issues with hijacking a helicopter at gunpoint.
"We're taking a detour," Derek turned back towards the rear cabin to address everyone else while Davenport kept an eye on the pilots. "The Tin Can's found Connor; he's alive and being held in a work camp in Century City, in LA. We're going after him. Anyone have an issue with that, speak up now."
The soldiers looked at each other and murmured to one another in hushed conversation – as hushed as was possible in the back of a noisy aircraft, at least. Derek had picked these soldiers because some of them had been there in Fort Carson when John had saved their asses and taken command, and all of them had fought at Area 51 with John.
Corporal Fast, one of the survivors from Perry's ill-fated attack on Schriever AFB - stepped forward towards Derek, and nodded once. "We're with you, sir." The other soldiers murmured their assent and nodded almost in unison. Derek couldn't help but feel a little touched that they'd all agreed to risk their lives for John; maybe they were sick of constantly losing to Skynet, as they had since he'd been missing. Maybe they weren't that fond of Perry.
Whatever the reason, they were onside and willing to put themselves on the line for his nephew. He felt a sense of pride in John, too, that at such a young age he already commanded that kind of respect and loyalty from his men, even in his absence. Maybe especially in his absence, Derek thought. Since John had left things had gone from bad to worse; maybe they'd have still lost Cheyenne Mountain eventually, even if he'd been there, but that's not how a lot of them saw it. Even Perry himself had admitted that he'd rather be taking orders now than giving them. He'd had a taste of being the head honcho in this war and didn't like it one bit.
"We're all agreed, then," Davenport called out from the cockpit, still pointing his rifle at the pilots. "Turn west, head for Century; we're going to get Connor."
"Fine," the pilot sighed, seeing he had no other choice. He pushed the control stick to the right and the Chinook veered out of formation and flew west. "You guys are fucking crazy," he muttered under his breath. Flying into California on a wing and a prayer to save a general gone MIA was just sheer insanity.
Another lone helicopter – a Seahawk – flew out over the sea, so low the waves could almost reach up and touch the bottom of the aircraft's hull. The pilot handled the Seahawk with dexterity and skill that was beyond any human being, keeping the helicopter no more than twenty feet above sea level as they approached the mammoth form of the USS Nimitz.
Cameron turned her head to look at John, slumped in the co-pilot's seat next to her, his head lolling lazily to one side. She stuck out one hand and placed her palm gently over his neck, feeling his shallow breathing and slow pulse. The three-mile walk to the helicopter had exhausted John; he'd tripped and stumbled forty-nine times on the way back and she'd had to help him to his feet for the last sixteen. He'd been barely able to stand when they'd arrived and she'd had to lift him into the cockpit and buckle his seatbelt for him. She was worried the antibiotics weren't going to be effective, that infection was already setting in. She felt hurt, seeing John in his current condition.
"USS Nimitz to approaching aircraft; identify yourself."
"Martin Bedell," Cameron answered the radio message in the late lieutenant's voice. "Requesting permission to land."
"No names over the radio, lieutenant!" After a pause the operator on the carrier continued. "Permission to land granted, welcome home."
John groaned and opened his eyes, lifted his head up, despite his exhaustion and turned his head to face Cameron. "How'd you learn to fly, anyway?"
"I watched Martin Bedell," Cameron replied, expertly handling the controls as if she'd flown for years. She didn't find it very difficult and she found it strange that humans often took two years to learn how to fly; it had taken her only hours of observation to master flight. Humans were very inefficient.
As the carrier grew larger in the windshield Cameron pulled up on the control stick, then eased the Seahawk gently down onto the deck. Aircraft technicians rushed towards them, followed up by a pair of marines and an officer wearing captain's insignia. Cameron shut off the engine and kept her SCAR-H in hand as she opened her door and stepped out. John managed to push his door open but collapsed onto the flight deck as he stepped outside. He was so weak his legs couldn't keep him up. Cameron rushed around the front of the helicopter and lifted him to his feet. She pulled his arm over her shoulder and he instinctively leaned onto her.
"Who the hell are you?" Captain Wallace asked, frowning deeply. It was his bird, he recognised the stencilled insignia as Bedell's Seahawk, but there was no Bedell and the two people in front of him were complete strangers. "Where's Bedell, and where are the other choppers we sent out?" He had a sinking feeling he wasn't going to like the answer. Had he sent his pilots to their deaths on the mission to Colorado?
"This is John Connor, he needs medical attention," Cameron said. She wrapped one arm tightly around his waist to keep him balanced upright.
"'John Connor': yeah, right; and I'm Santa Claus," Wallace rolled his eyes. Who the hell did this kid think he was? "How did you get hold of this helicopter?" Wallace demanded.
"I stole it," Cameron answered honestly. "Martin Bedell flew me to Century City to rescue John."
"And Bedell is... where?"
John lowered his head in guilt. "He died covering us, I'm sorry." He really was, too. What made it worse was that it had happened before: Judgement Day had happened on the exact same date as in the future timeline, Cameron had told him before that he'd been imprisoned in Century Work Camp, and Derek had told him that Martin Bedell had died rescuing him from captivity; was everything destined to repeat itself?
"John needs medical attention," Cameron repeated firmly. He needed rest and somewhere safe and clean to recover and she'd see to it that he received exactly that.
Wallace looked John up and down and saw the kid was a complete state; he was thin as a beanpole, with pale, pasty skin covered in bruises and lacerations, and although the wound dressings that covered his face, neck and chest concealed whatever had happened to him, the fact that so much of him was covered up, that he was barely able stand on his own feet and he leaned heavily on the girl for support indicated he'd been through something heavy. "Get them to the infirmary," he barked at his sailors. He didn't know who the hell they really were but he felt compelled to at least get the kid patched up. "You two are to be escorted at all times, understand? You're welcome to stay on my ship but that's the limit of my hospitality."
Within moments a pair of medics emerged from the carrier island with a stretcher between them. Cameron carefully lowered him onto it and stayed at his side as the medics lifted up the stretcher and marched him off the flight deck and inside the ship. She kept pace with them as they made their way through the bowels of the carrier, down a long series of bare corridors, over metal floors and under lengths of steel pipes that hung from the ceiling, and down a utilitarian metal staircase. The interior of the carrier seemed very familiar to Cameron; they were almost identical to what she'd seen in the Allison Young flashbacks she'd experienced three years ago.
They reached the infirmary and the medics lifted John's stretcher onto a bed. A doctor entered from another room and the medics left them alone, though Cameron noticed that a pair of marines guarded the entrance to the ship's medical bay.
"What the hell happened to him?" the doctor asked; mouth agape at the sight of John.
"He was tortured," Cameron replied. She saw the nametag on his coat, it read Redman.
"John, is it?" Redman asked, receiving a nod from Cameron he carried on. "How did they torture you, John?"
"Electricity, boiling bleach, beatings..."
"I get it. What have you given him?" he asked Cameron.
"One injection each of morphine and penicillin," Cameron replied.
Redman nodded; impressed that such a young girl would know so much about treating injuries. "Good job; where'd you learn how to place dressings like this, too?" She'd done it even better than most field medics he'd known.
"I have detailed files," Cameron said. The doctor shrugged it off, having no clue what she was talking about; she must have been a med student or something before the war. He peeled off the dressings she'd so carefully applied to his burns, took a pair of surgical steel scissors and cut through the middle of his sweater, down John's sleeves and trouser legs, and peeled the clothing off, rendering John naked on the table.
"Jesus!" Redman gasped at what he saw, and Cameron's eyes widened at the full extent of his injuries. The sadness and hurt she felt for John was more acute as she recognised the obvious signs that he'd been tortured even worse than she'd thought. Besides the chemical burns from the boiling bleach she also saw electrical burns on his thighs, stomach, chest, and his groin. His testicles were twice their normal size and were completely covered in red burn marks and purple bruising that matched those blotched across most of his torso.
John had seen it all before during his torture; they'd left him naked on the bed so he'd had plenty of time to see the bruises and swelling start to form.
There wasn't much they could do in the immediate sense, Redman realised. Cameron had done everything necessary prior to arriving on the ship; he saw no signs of debris in the wounds, nothing to indicate infection, though he wasn't going to take the chance. He took a pair of syringes and stuck them one after another into John's arm, pushing their liquid contents into his veins to course through his body. "Antibiotics and sedatives are about all I can do for now," he told Cameron. "No broken bones, no permanent injuries – apart from the chemical burns; they'll probably scar for life. I'll start him on an IV, too. We'll probably want to give him a bath before we redress his wounds. You'll live," he slapped a hand onto John's left shoulder – one of the few places not covered with bruises, burns, or cuts. "And chicks dig scars," he winked at John as he left to attend to another patient.
John felt himself getting drowsy as the drugs surged through his veins and started to take effect. He couldn't keep his head up anymore and his eyes felt just as heavy. He closed his eyes and managed to reach out for Cameron's hand. She held hers out to him and he interlaced his fingers with hers, weakly squeezing them and feeling some comfort from her touch. "Do youdig scars, Cameron?"
"No," she replied. She didn't find anything appealing or unappealing about scar tissue; she didn't understand why some human women did. Her love for John wasn't based on any physical aspect of his appearance. She saw a slight look of disappointment on John's face and realised that wasn't the answer he'd wanted to hear. "Dig you," she smiled and squeezed his hand to reassure him.
John smiled back as Cameron's beautiful, glowing face blurred from view and his eyes closed as the sedative kicked in and he drifted off into a peaceful, dreamless slumber.
Cameron held John's hand for a few moments longer as his pulse and blood pressure dropped, and she heard his breathing slow into a shallow, relaxed rhythm. She let go and stepped out of the infirmary, heading towards the carrier's showers. She marched into the men's shower room, finding the room vacant. She opened up a cabinet and extracted scissors, a razor, and shaving gel, and headed back towards the infirmary and John. He needed a shave; the wounds on his face and neck would be much easier to dress and keep clean without long strands of facial hair in the way.
She worked quickly and efficiently, cutting John's beard first with the scissors; trimming it down to little more than stubble and then shaving his face clean, working with precision only a machine could employ to ensure she didn't touch any of his burns. Once his beard and his hair were neat and trim she treated his burns once again, gently yet meticulously clearing each one and ensuring they were clean before she applied a third round of dressings and taped them over his face, neck, and chest.
When she was done she sat at his side and held his hand in hers, constantly analysing his vital signs for any change she needed to be aware of, though the simple physical contact brought her pleasure. She'd spent so long away from John, worried for his safety and wellbeing so much she'd not considered what it would be like to simply hold his hand again. She'd stay at his side until he woke up, and remain there for as long as she could. After knowing for six months and fourteen days what it was like to not have John, she never wanted to experience that again.
"Captain Wallace; Tangos Three and Four are inbound, five miles out, and requesting permission to land."
Wallace groaned at the intercom as he pulled himself out of bed; the six hours' sleep he'd allowed himself since the two unwelcome newcomers had arrived on his boat had gone by like it was only ten minutes. "Let 'em land; I'll greet them up top." He walked over to the sink in his cabin and ran the cold tap, splashing water on his face to wake himself up. He hoped this landing would be less eventful than the last; he didn't need any more uninvited guests on his ship.
Somewhat awake, he left the comfort of his private quarters and marched through the corridors, up several flights of stairs and made his way up to the fight deck, stepping out into the freezing wind that had started blowing sometime after he'd gone to bed, and found himself wishing he'd put on a coat or jacket to keep the cold out. It was easily below zero; similar to Alaska in temperature. This wasn't a normal winter, he knew. Not for the Californian coast.
He watched the two Chinooks descend onto the flight deck and marched towards them as the rear hatches opened up. Soldiers flowed out of the back and plodded onto the deck – with the exception of the twelve marines who strode out towards the nearest elevator - then lined up in three ranks on the command of a tall black officer he guessed must be Perry.
"Colonel Perry," Wallace strolled towards him and offered his hand, surprised by the army officer's strong grip. The man looked strained, stressed, and needed not only a good rest but also a strong drink or three. He'd never seen anyone wound up so tightly, though given their circumstances he guessed he could hardly blame the man.
"Captain Wallace, thanks for having us," Perry smiled, finally feeling completely relieved after being under threat of being exterminated for months on end. They were finally safe now; had a place to call home where they couldn't be surrounded and smashed flat by the machines. He looked around and saw only five F/A-18D fighters on the deck, and wondered what the hell Skynet had thrown at them that had whittled down so many aircraft. These guys were just as battered as his own unit, but at least they could up sticks and move to a safer place when the need arose.
"I sent out four aircraft to pick you up, Colonel; what the hell happened? I know about the Seahawk, where's the other Chinook?"
"I don't know," Perry replied. "The pilot said they had a situation and then veered off course." The fact that the machine had taken the Seahawk and then the aircraft carrying Baum, Davenport, Ellison and Dixon went off course towards California gave him a pretty strong inkling of what where it had gone.
"We'll talk about that later. There's plenty of space in the hangars, Perry. We've set up cots and impromptu living areas down there; not like we need much space for aircraft anymore. It's not that comfy but it's the best we've got. There's food in the mess hall; tinned supplies mostly, but we've got plenty of fresh fish."
"Sounds good to me," Perry nodded. He wasn't much of a fish person but after eating one or two ration tins a day for so long any food – especially fresh – was welcome.
"There's something I need you to do first, Colonel," Wallace said as they stepped through a bulkhead door and into the carrier's interior. "One of our Seahawks landed earlier and a young man and woman came out." He led the way down to the infirmary as Perry thought hard about what he said; the tin can had come back to the carrier? He'd expected her to go back to Skynet. If she was here then there was a damn good chance the whole crew was in danger.
They stepped into the infirmary and Perry could barely believe his eyes. Sat up on a bed, covered in dressings and looking like he'd taken on Mike Tyson and come last, was...
"Connor?" Perry's jaw dropped slightly in shock at the sight of the kid sat in bed, drinking water through a straw in a clear plastic glass. "We thought you were dead, where the hell have you been?"
"Prison," John replied, his throat aching as he spoke. He took a long sip from the straw and gulped the water down, closing his eyes as the cool liquid ran down his throat and helped to ease the raw, dry feeling that reminded him of several bad hangovers he'd had in the past. "We just broke out."
"We?" Perry asked. "You mean-"
"Cameron," John interrupted. "She broke me out and we escaped."
I'll be a monkey's bare-assed uncle, Perry clenched his jaw. The machine had told them the truth. So it wasn't working for Skynet – yet. He still thought the AI could one day take control of it, and then Cameron would be its deadliest weapon. He wouldn't trust it as far as he could throw it.
Wallace turned towards Perry and interrupted his misgivings about the machine. "You know this kid?"
"This is General Connor," Perry replied.
"You're kidding me, right?" Wallace laughed mirthlessly. They were playing a damn prank on him; did they think this was funny?
"No, he really is Connor."
"I said he was John Connor," Cameron entered the room carrying a steaming plate of food and placed it on a tray next to John's bed. "He didn't believe me."
"What is it?" John beamed a smile at her and sat upright, ignoring Perry and Wallace stood at the foot of his bed.
"Fresh cod, fried noodles, carrots, peas, bean sprouts, and broccoli," Cameron replied. She'd left John to get him some food when he'd woken up and told her he was hungry.
"Fresh cod?" John asked. He hadn't eaten any fresh food since they'd raided the refrigerators in Fort Carson – human-meat broth in Century notwithstanding, and he just wanted to forget about that. He picked up the knife and fork Cameron had given him and started to dig in. The taste of the fresh, salty cod was almost pure bliss, complemented by the fried noodles and vegetables. Despite the pain he was in heaven right now.
"We catch fish to supplement our supplies," Wallace replied.
"The drop in temperature after Judgement Day caused north-dwelling fish species to migrate south," Cameron supplied. One of the few foods that had been plentiful in the previous timeline had been fish; the difficulty had been managing to safely catch large enough quantities to feed the resistance soldiers whilst avoiding machine patrols. Skynet had deposited hydrobots along the coast to attack fishing parties when it learned of the increased marine stocks.
"Back on topic," Wallace snapped. "You seriously expect me to believe that General Connor is a kid?" He lost Martin Bedell – one of his best pilots – and two choppers for a mission to rescue this child?
"John's not 'a kid'", Cameron replied. "He's twenty-one." Cameron didn't understand why humans emphasised age regarding status. Humans learnt from experience, not age. John had more experience fighting machines than anyone else alive, with the exception of Derek Reese, and he knew Skynet better than Derek did.
"I am John Connor," John stared coldly at Wallace. "I was at Presidio Alto with Martin Bedell, class of 2008. The crazy man who attacked him was a machine, like Cameron. I got it to chase me and we lured it into a tar pit and blew its head off. The thing he liked most about the academy was running cross country every day. That enough for you?" Wallace stood there, gobsmacked at his revelations. John could see that he'd struck a chord with the captain, saw he was mulling it over, and pressed his advantage before doubt crept back into Wallace's mind. "I saved his life that day and he just died saving mine. If you want him to have died for nothing then don't believe me."
"I always assumed Connor was in charge of the academy," Wallace muttered.
"Did he say Connor ran the academy?" John pressed further.
"No," Wallace admitted. He'd always just assumed that was the case. The kid knew about Bedell; he knew a lot about Martin Bedell. "I need to think about this," he told them. He turned around and left the infirmary, not sure what to think anymore.
"You going to tell me what happened to you?" Perry asked John once Wallace had left.
"Pretty much whatever Cameron told you," John replied.
"Connor-"
"I told you before, Perry; I trust Cameron with my life. You should too." John doubted it'd ever happen but he still hoped. It'd make his life easier if people learned to accept Cameron, and he'd work as hard as he could to make sure one day they did. Suddenly a thought just struck him; something he hadn't thought of until just now. "Where's Derek?"
"California, probably," Perry replied. "That's where they took the chopper when they split up from the rest of us. Looking for you, I'd say."
"Crap!" John looked to Cameron and then to Perry. They'd gone to rescue him and they were too late, heading straight towards a Skynet stronghold. "Perry, try to reach them tell them to come back." Perry saluted once and left the room for the bridge, leaving John and Cameron alone again.
"We've gotta go get them," he told her, starting to pull himself out of bed.
Cameron gently but firmly pushed him back down; he was no match for her strength and she held him in place easily. "You're still hurt." She wasn't going to let John go anywhere until he'd recovered, and even then she was averse to risk losing him again. "Perry will find them." She picked up his fork and scooped up a chunk of white, flaky cod wrapped in brown fried noodles and pushed it into John's mouth. He accepted it and chewed thoughtfully on the tasty fish, worrying about Derek, Charley, and the others. So many people had tried to save him; he wouldn't let them die for their troubles.
"The Nimitz has advanced radar," Cameron told him. "They can track the helicopter if it flies in range. They'll see it." Cameron sat down on the narrow bed and wedged herself beside John, enjoying the close contact once more as she kept one leg on the floor to maintain balance. "Trust me," she told John.
John wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her in closer, then pressed his lips against her forehead. Now they weren't worried about immediate survival, if he kissed her on the lips he didn't know if he'd be able to stop himself going any further, and this wasn't their quarters in Cheyenne Mountain; anyone could walk in on them at any time. Even if they had total privacy, after the shock treatment they'd done on his balls he wouldn't be in the mood for quite some time. Instead he contented himself to just snuggling up to her. That was enough for now. "I always do," he murmured. And he did trust her; she was right, he was in no state to help anyone right now. He'd do as she said and allow Perry to find and try to guide Derek and the others back; for now, at least.
"How long?" Derek leaned in and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. They'd been flying for some time now, trying to fly a longer route around the more barren, remote areas of California to try and reach Century through what they hoped would be the path of least resistance.
"We're just past Palm Springs," the pilot said back to him. They still weren't too happy about being hijacked at gunpoint but once Derek had explained to them they were going to rescue John Connor they'd calmed down somewhat. They still weren't happy, but they were willing to take the risk. "Just over an hour if we fly around LA County; then we gotta find a safe landing zone."
"How'd you know he's alive?" The co-pilot asked.
"Tin Can told me," Derek said, forgetting the crew of the Nimitz didn't have a clue about Cameron. Well, they would soon enough, he thought. He looked back and saw the squad. Most were doing what soldiers always did when they had the chance; sleeping. Those who couldn't sleep checked chambers, unloaded and reloaded magazines, and blew imaginary dust out of working parts and feed trays. Derek had never had a problem sleeping; years of living as a soldier in the future meant he could drop whenever and wherever he wanted, and the harsh, unpredictable nature of his own time had dictated that he be a light sleeper. He rarely ever took time stirring; he could go from seemingly comatose to ready for action in no time flat.
Derek moved into the back of the aircraft and watched the men under his command, illuminated by the green glow of dozens of cyalume sticks placed all over the walls, floor, and ceiling. He watched as Charley checked his medical pack for the umpteenth time – the only one other than Ellison who wasn't concentrated on his weapon.
"Hopefully he won't need that," Derek said as he sat down opposite the medic.
"I'm hoping he does," Charley countered. When he saw Derek's confused expression he elaborated. "He's been held there for six months; from what you told me about your brother's time in Century, John's gonna be in rough shape. Only way he won't need treatment is if we carry him out feet first." Derek hadn't thought of it like that but Charley was right. Kyle had been stuck in Century for two years alongside Future-John – who'd been there for six – and they'd both been little more than walking skeletons when they'd escaped.
"Hopefully he'll just need the Tylenol," Davenport chipped in. "That and a hot shower, hot meal, a hot toddy..."
Derek didn't listen to the rest. Ellison caught his attention, unconsciously fingering the cross hanging from his neck. He wasn't saying anything but Derek could easily guess what he was up to. "Say one from me," Derek kicked his boot to get Ellison's attention. He wasn't one for religion himself, but the hell with it, he thought; whatever helped.
Derek decided to 'rest his eyelids' for a moment, to catch up on the severe lack of sleep they'd all suffered from in recent weeks. He felt hot and drowsy, and just needed to close his eyes for a moment...
A klaxon wailed loudly and violently tore him from his slumber. Derek jumped up from his seat, instantly awake and found himself in the middle of a frenzied panic in the cabin. Screaming and shouting erupted all around him but he ignored it and surged to the cockpit once more.
"What's going on?" he shouted out, having forgotten to don the headset on this occasion.
"Aircraft on our tail," the pilot yelled back and pulled the control stick left, banking the Chinook sharply to one side as he tried to evade. "They're locked on!"
Shit! Derek didn't know what to do. On the ground he could defend himself at least; but in the air, stuck in a flying tin can being shot at by another flying tin can; there was nothing he could do.
"Missile inbound!" the pilot screamed and twisted the helicopter sickeningly to the right, throwing everyone in the back around like rag dolls. "Deploying flares!" Derek heard faint pops from the back of the aircraft; flares flying out, he guessed, as the Chinook banked even harder and he clutched hard onto the back of the pilots' seats to keep himself from falling over.
The Chinook pulled hard left as an X-45 unmanned drone released a Sidewinder missile from its weapons bay. The missile's rear flashed brilliantly as the rocket motor engaged and pushed it towards the helicopter, rapidly accelerating to two and a half times the speed of sound, tearing through the sky towards the much slower Chinook as flares shot out from the rear of the aircraft and ignited, burning brilliantly in the air to distract the missile from the helicopter. It homed in on one of the flares and exploded. Too close to the Chinook; debris from the blast shot forward and pelted the aft engine.
"Brace yourselves!" The co-pilot warned. Derek did just that and held on for dear life. An explosion rocked them violently and they listed to one side.
"What's going on?" Ellison called out.
"Rear engine's hit. We're going down; brace for crash-landing," the pilot struggled at the controls, keeping them as level as he could as the Chinook dropped towards the ground. The soldiers all bent over and put their heads between their knees, bracing themselves.
They hit the ground hard, throwing everyone in the back out of their seats and into a heap in the middle as the aircraft bounced once then struck again and skidded to a stop.
Derek shook himself off and stood up. He quickly checked himself for any injuries and found nothing more than a few bruises.
"Anyone hurt?" Davenport called out. The soldiers disentangled themselves from each other and all groggily muttered they were okay. Charley got up with the med pack and went from soldier to soldier and found nothing more than a few superficial cuts and bruises. They were all in shape to carry on.
"You two alright?" Derek asked the pilots.
"No! What the hell did you think would happen; hijacking a chopper and flying through fucking Skynet territory? Of course we're not alright; we're shot down, without a radio, and in the middle of the machine capital of America!"
"Grab a gun," Derek ordered them as he pushed the button to open the rear hatch. They were all alive, reasonably okay, if a little shaken. It was a miracle nobody was hurt; he'd give credit to Ellison and his best friend upstairs for that one. The soldiers quickly piled out of the rear and took defensive positions around the downed aircraft.
"Why?" the pilot asked. "We're aircrew, not special forces."
"You are today," Davenport grinned sarcastically and pressed an M4 carbine into each of their laps.
Derek, Davenport, and the two pilots were the last ones to leave the aircraft, and took position in the centre of the defensive circle. They were in the middle of a large, barren open space. Derek instantly recognised the posts for a football field and saw a high school a hundred yards off. They were in the middle of a huge open space full of sports fields. He took a knee and Davenport joined him as Derek took a map out of his pocket. He pointed at LA County on the map with his finger – he never marked positions on a map – something he'd learned in the future. "Where are we?" He'd fallen asleep since he'd last asked them; he had no idea where he was.
"Here," one of the pilots pointed. "Riverside."
"Century's forty-eight miles northwest," Davenport added. "Hell of a trek."
"We'd better get started, then," Derek folded up the map and slipped it into his thigh pocket. The fact the drone that had shot them down hadn't turned back to finish them all off on the ground told Derek that it was either out of weapons or only fitted with air to air missiles; either way it would have reported their location and Skynet would dispatch the nearest units to investigate. They had to be gone before the machines showed up. He raised his voice slightly so everyone in all-round defence could hear him. "We're heading northwest, bearing two-eight-zero degrees. Fast, take point. You two stay in the middle," he told the two pilots. They probably had some weapons training but as far as he was concerned they'd be a liability if they got into a fight. "Double time, no sound," he added.
One by one they moved out, keeping five metres between each man as they marched through the field towards the main road and the residential area on the other side. Derek stayed closer to the front whilst Davenport, Ellison, and Charley took the rear. Derek didn't want Davenport anywhere near him in case they were attacked; that way if one of them was hit then the other could take command. Forty-eight miles," Derek thought as he marched in silence. And that was as the crow flies; possibly more like sixty, depending on the route they took. At least the going was easy here, he thought. For now, anyway. The residential area was far from the blast sites and was more or less intact; the families were probably killed in their homes by follow-up chemical attacks. When they closed in on LA County the destruction would start to show and their route would be that much more treacherous.
Byrne stood in the crowd anxiously awaiting execution, being shepherded by the machines towards the gas chambers that bisected the camp. He'd managed to avoid being shuffled in for four days now but the machines had started to herd the people around him towards them. He'd found it ironic, even now, that what was once an ambulance garage – a structure that housed lifesaving vehicles – was being used to extinguish so many lives en masse. The architects who'd designed it would be rolling in their open, muddy graves by now, assuming they hadn't been completely vaporised by the nuclear blasts.
As far as he knew he was the only one of the original workers left in the camp. John and Slater had gone into the hospital and only John had come out – with Cameron unleashing hell on the machines as they made their escape. He doubted Johnny Boy would have abandoned Slater in the hospital so he figured his friend must be dead. Jim, Natalie; every single worker who'd joined in John's plan to blast their way out of the camp had been condemned and moved into the other half of the camp. He'd managed to carefully avoid being slaughtered in the gas chambers with some clever manoeuvring through the crowds but everyone else he'd met in the camp was now gone.
Children wept and cried, women tried to comfort them, and old men stared gravely in acceptance of their fate as they neared the chamber. They shuffled forwards and Byrne found himself swept with them, unable to escape the tightly cramped crowd. A T-70 stood close by and pushed them towards their doom. The gas chamber was packed tightly like a sardine tin and Byrne wondered how he and those around him would even fit inside, not that the machines cared about their comfort, and not that heor anyone else would even care in a few moments when the gas seared their lungs and poisoned them to death.
The human wave stopped moving and the doors descended only three feet from Byrne, sealing shut and giving him perhaps a few moments' reprieve.
In a matter of seconds the fearful screaming started, followed by loud bangs on the doors as people tried to break their way out of the gas chambers. Byrne wouldn't have had a problem admitting to anyone he was scared shitless right now; if it hadn't been for his training he knew he'd probably be out of his mind in fear. The screaming was slowly replaced with coughing, retching, and cries of agony as the gas took effect and burned their lungs inside their chests. He heard splashes on the ground inside as several people would have thrown up, pissed, or shat themselves in their final moments as they lost control of their bodies.
"Sod that," Byrne muttered and clutched the remaining hand grenade John's girlfriend had given him. He wasn't going to die pissing himself and struggling for breath on the floor while his lungs burnt away. When it was his turn next and the doors closed and the gas poured in he'd take care of himself and everyone else in the chamber with him. He'd pull the pin and make it quick and painless for all of them. Who knows? He thought; if I'm lucky it might even fuck up the gas chamber.
Something clamped down on Byrne's right arm and he growled in pain as metallic fingers tightly gripped his bicep and dragged him backwards through the crowd. "Easy!" he shouted at the machine, though it gave no sign of hearing or understanding him as it pulled him away. Once he was away from the crowd by the gas chamber the machine dropped him to the floor. "Jaysus!" he growled, clutching protectively at the muscles in his arm; purple bruises already started to appear where its fingers had dug in.
The machine grabbed his wrist and held it out up in the air, ignoring Byrne's obvious discomfort as it scanned the barcode tattoo on his wrist. Byrne stared at it in confusion; he had no idea what the hell it wanted from him. The T-70 forced him upright and held him securely by his wrist as it marched him towards a waiting Osprey in the corner of the camp, away from the gas chamber and the hospital on the other side. It shoved him towards the open rear hatch and Byrne got the message as it raised its gun arm at him. "If ye shoot me it's just gonna blow away the Osprey." The machine stared at him and its only reaction was to take a step forward. "Not that yer clever enough to think of that, tin can."
He stepped up the ramp and into the rear cabin, and sat down among a dozen other prisoners as the hatch sealed shut behind him. "Ye know what's going on?" he asked a tall, pale, heavyset man wearing jeans and a torn black sweater.
"No idea," he replied. "Taking us somewhere."
I couldn't have figured that out on my own, Byrne rolled his eyes at the man's comment.
The engines whined louder and louder as the rotors started to spin, building enough lift to raise the aircraft into the air as they started their ascent. Byrne started to wonder where they were being taken; perhaps to another camp elsewhere.
Or maybe not, he thought as they started to descend again only a matter of seconds after taking off. What the hell's going on? As soon as the aircraft touched the ground the rear hatch opened and they shuffled outside. Byrne couldn't believe it; they were outside the fence. They'd literally flown up and then back down a hundred-and-fifty metres outside the camp perimeter.
"They're letting us go?" someone asked.
"Not a chance," Byrne replied. There were a dozen of them from the back of the Osprey and he saw eight machines stood around, facing inwards, spaced out with plenty of room between them. "Don't run," he warned the others. It had all the illusions of freedom but if they tried to leg it they wouldn't make it six feet.
"What's going on?"
One of the machines led them towards a pile of shovels on the ground, next to steel poles and rolls of wire mesh. Byrne looked out and noticed large concrete stakes in the ground, ten feet tall and a foot thick. He saw three of them spaced out with fifty metres between each one, and he figured there were more that he couldn't see. Next to each stake was more wire mesh and razor wire. Where the hell did they get this from? It didn't take him long to work out what the machines wanted.
"They want us to put up fences," he told them.
"Why?" the man he'd sat next to on his brief Osprey ride asked.
"Extending the camp would be my guess," someone else replied. Byrne decided to cut the chatter before the machines blew them all away and picked a dozen other guys to take their place. Expanding the camp made sense to him, though. The machines wanted to kill everyone so they'd obviously try to make it more efficient. It galled him to be helping the machines kill more people, though. In the camp they'd just hauled around dead bodies; it hadn't really helped Skynet's war effort – more like clearing up after its mess, and only doing it because scavenging things off the dead would have helped them escape.
He picked up a shovel and started digging into the muddy ground. In short order he'd dug a hole ten metres to the left of one of the right concrete post, then another worker stuck in a ten-foot pole and held it upright while Byrne filled in the ground around it.
"Maybe we should do the crappiest job imaginable," the man helping him suggested. "Make it easy to escape?"
"Nah; I'd rather not risk it," Byrne replied. He had another idea, anyway. He fingered the hand grenade in his pocket; he'd plant it along with one of the poles and try to work a line to the pin so he could pull it from a distance. It'd take some time before he could, though; he wanted to make sure he planted it in a place where it'd blow the biggest hole possible in the fence, that he could get to easily enough. John had clearly brushed off on him, he realised.
He looked out into the city, staring out into the vast metropolis that surrounded them. John had escaped out there somewhere, or so he hoped. He'd seen the HK that had chased after them, watched it get shot down and crashed. He could even see the wreckage of the shattered drone strewn along the ground behind the smashed remains of a semi-truck's trailer about two hundred metres away. He heard a muffled cry in the distance and stared out towards the trailer, searching with keen eyes for anything out there. Movement caught his gaze out of the rubble pile as he compacted more dirt around the post. Byrne stopped and stared intently, his keen eyes scanning for something else.
He caught the something moving out there, beside the trailer. What looked like a person snatched up something and was gone a split second later. That left no doubt in Byrne's mind; someone was out there watching the camp, but who?
Martin Bedell opened his eyes and groaned. He hurt everywhere; he felt like he'd been hit by a freight train, and then he saw a flaming cylindrical jet engine a few feet away and remembered what he'd actually been hit by, or almost, anyway. How the hell he wasn't dead he had no idea, but he was just grateful to whatever powers that be that he wasn't. He remembered running from the HK, falling down, feeling it soar inches above his head and then a hot flash of fire in front of him. He tried to sit up and intense pain shot through both his legs, tearing through the flesh, sinew and nerve like a red-hot knife stuck into him. He cried out in pain, lifted his head up and looked down his body to his legs. He didn't need to be a doctor to tell they were both broken. One bent at an odd ankle and the jagged white bone of his shin stuck out the other. His jumpsuit was tattered and burnt, along with portions of his skin, and he was covered in lacerations from shrapnel thrown out by the explosion.
He fought the urge to scream again, knowing the machines would come down on him like a ton of bricks if he did. He gritted his teeth and pushed down on the ground with his hands, growling through the bones poking into his flesh as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He breathed deeply to try and control the pain and ignore the throbbing above his knees. He pulled out a small radio from his pocket, now battered and cracked, and held it up to his mouth.
"Cameron, Connor, this is Bedell; come in." No reply, just static. He tried it again and got nothing, then switched frequency to a channel the Nimitz used. "Nimitz, this is Martin Bedell, do you read?" Again, nothing. He tossed the radio and sighed; it must have been damaged when he'd been caught in the crash. Half of his jumpsuit was torn and shredded – just like his legs – and his skin stung where it had been singed and cut by burning debris. He took his helmet off to try and cool himself down – not thinking that the temperature was slightly below zero and the heat was just shock – and saw a large crack that stretched from front to back, almost bisecting it. If I hadn't been wearing it... he didn't even want to finish that train of thought.
Not that it mattered much, he realised. He was stuck out in the middle of Century City, barely a few hundred metres from the work camp, and both his legs were broken. Nobody knew where he was or that he was even still alive, and nobody would come to his rescue. He had a feeling even if they knew he was still kicking, Cameron wouldn't let John go. And rightly so, he thought. He'd swapped a quick fiery death for a slow one; he didn't have any food or water on him, so at best he had about three days before he died of thirst. Least it won't be for nothing, he thought. If Connor saves the world like his uncle said, then he guessed at least he'd have at least played some small part in it. They'd never told him what had happened to him in the future; now he guessed he knew why not.
The rumbling of nearby treads echoed through the city and Bedell snapped, instantly alert. He pressed his palms on the ground and pulled himself backwards towards the remains of the semi truck he'd sniped from. It took him a monumental effort and several minutes of tearing, agonising pain in his legs as he dragged himself backwards on his ass and into the remnants of the trailer, which had been almost cut in half by the HK clipping it. He pulled himself into the shelter of the trailer and saw the grey, dented form of his M82 Barrett laid on in front of the trailer. He reached out – and damn if that didn't hurt too – grabbed hold of the weapon by the barrel, and dragged it towards him. He could tell instantly the rifle was useless; the barrel was as crooked as a politician, one of the bipod legs was missing, and the cocking handle had snapped clean off.
The sights looked okay to him, though. He disconnected the scope, poked his head out of the trailer and towards the camp to take a look. He saw a group of prisoners with shovels and poles working outside the perimeter wire, under heavy machine guard. Looked like they were building an extension, he thought. He leaned as far out of the trailer as he dared and held the scope up to one of his eyes. In the distance he saw a convoy of three T-2s rumbling towards the work camp. "Explains the treads I heard," he muttered.
Minutes later he heard more movement and poked out the other side of the trailer, the way he'd come in from, and saw T-1s and T-70s moving together. He stayed inside the trailer, as still as he could, and didn't even dare to breathe as they approached. He gave it a minute and waited until they'd passed him before he slowly exhaled in relief and took another breath in. If they'd heard or saw him he'd be Swiss cheese by now. The machines had marched past him and, like the T-2s, were converging on the work camp. Reinforcements; and he couldn't blame Skynet for calling them in after what he and Cameron had done to their machines.
Within an hour he'd counted twenty machines that had made their way to the camp. They must be expecting trouble; there was no way they'd have that much just to guard the prisoners. They were expecting the escapees, or someone else, to return. He leaned his head against the metal wall and held the scope back up to watch the camp. He'd try to raise Connor and Cameron again in a few hours; until then he'd wait, he'd watch the camp, and he'd learn as much as he could.