The future war, p.21
The Future War, page 21
“Thanks, John. Will do. Out.”
Luddites. He’d known that Skynet had human assistance, but he’d never expected it to come from that quarter. The progress-hating, machine-scuttling, science-despising Luddites would seem to be the last people Skynet could get to help. And yet…
They share a lot of the same goals. Namely, reducing humanity in population and power. Of course I don’t think that most Luddites want to reduce humanity to zero. But there would be some who would. He winced. Wendy would have hated this.
Connor moved out onto the now bustling floor of the once abandoned building that his mother had acquired—it had originally been HQ and smelter for a series of gold dredges. They’d spent a lot of time and money improving the building from the inside before Judgment Day. Outside, they were well disguised as a semidilapidated series of aging buildings of unpainted pine. Inside, they were weather tight and roomy enough to provide barracks, offices, training areas, a canteen, and hardened storage for tons of electronic equipment.
John still went home occasionally; he needed his alone time. But it made his heart swell with pride to see the people they’d recruited before Judgment Day pitching in and recruiting people themselves. The resistance was really shaping up.
It helps that we’re not coming from behind this time, he thought. They’d drained Dieter’s freely given fortune to build this. Exploited his every contact and resource, and it was paying off, visibly.
Now they were in a kind of race, to see if they could prevent Skynet from building its army, or at least defeating it far sooner than they had the first time.
Would that mean that Kyle Reese would never be born, or that having been born, he’d never be sent into the past?
Will I disappear midsentence one day? John wondered. Who cares? What’s one life if I can save millions by giving mine.
He’d never liked the idea that he was destined to send his father to his death. If he could prevent that by ceasing to exist, well, C’est la guerre. He grinned. It isn’t like I’d know.
Comodoro Rivadavia, Argentina
“I’m not asking for anything like your full production,” Sarah said.
“I’m only asking for a slight increase to those countries you’ve already been supplying.”
“But all to the advantage of the United States,” Señor Reimer said. “Do we really wish to see the United States once again so powerful?”
Sheesh! Sarah thought. To hear people down here talk, you’d think we were the Roman legions; invading everywhere, stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down—including the people—and then pretending it was a good deal because one day the remaining folks would be citizens. We have our faults, God knows, but we weren’t that bad.
Sarah’s Spanish was virtually accent-free—with a tinge of Paraguay and Nicaragua—and she seldom bothered to mention that she was from California. It simplified things. Unfortunately, it was impossible to get this business done without being a bit more up-front.
For a moment she looked out the window, controlling her temper. Comodoro was on the northern edge of Patagonia; steep ground fell to the cold-looking gray water, and oil storage tanks and pipelines and refinery cracking towers were everywhere. There wasn’t much of a tang in the air because the wind blew constantly—she’d considered hiding out around here when she was on the run with John after the attack on Cyberdyne, but the perpetual howling and the bleak flat landscape didn’t appeal to her. Comodoro’s other buildings were mostly medium size and flat-roofed; one of the bigger ones had a ten-story-high colored Coke ad, something that sheep ranchers came miles to see.
And they have to sell the oil, she told herself. Argentina hadn’t been badly hit—no actual nuclear bombs, yet. That didn’t prevent economic collapse, riots, regional warlordism, and general crisis. She’d have preferred to deal in Venezuela, but the Maricaibo fields there had been major enough to be on a target list.
“It is unlikely that the United States will ever be that powerful again,” she said aloud. “In the meantime, there are people there that need our help. And there are opportunities here for those with the vision to take them. South America is in a position to take its place as a world leader.”
Reimer looked thoughtful. “Ah, but which South American country shall lead? That is the question.”
Long training kept Sarah from rolling her eyes and yelling: “No, it’s not, you idiot!”
The United States never would have gotten powerful enough for morons like this one to resent it if the big question had been: Which state is going to be the most important? No wonder Simón Bolívar, South America’s equivalent to George Washington, had died despairing and saying his career had been like trying to plow the sea…
Things would have been tougher still, of course, if the early Americans had had Skynet to contend with instead of just the British. But telling Señor Reimer about a great computer menace would certainly end this already shaky interview.
Poor bastard, she thought. Sooner or later Skynet’s going to come after you, too—with nukes or plagues or HKs, or all of the above.
She’d worked her way from Mexico to near the tail of Argentina reaffirming arrangements for food and other supplies to be shipped to their resistance cells in the United States. But suddenly some people she already had contracts with had begun to object that she didn’t represent the U.S. government. Which was weird because she’d never claimed to. Since whipping out a pistol and blowing them away was not going to help, Sarah had applied diplomacy and the occasional—
All right, more than the occasional bribe.
Oddly enough, it was the criminals who had been most likely to stick to their agreements. But then, they knew she might whip out a pistol and blow them away. The certain knowledge that it was a possibility kept things conveniently civilized; not to mention that they knew she had backup who’d rescue her or at least avenge her death. Which was especially useful because she was a woman trying to work within a very macho society.
The wise criminal knew that a gun didn’t care if its user worenail polish and perfume. But a lot of the politicians and businessmen she’d dealt with were sexist goons who, if she drew down on them, might well mention how big the gun looked in her dainty little hand.
So far, though, in spite of complications, her success rate had been pretty high. But fuel was the crucial element, and that was hard to pry out of the hands of oilmen. Particularly those who suddenly saw themselves as world leaders.
If only she could tell them that they were in more danger than they imagined. But Skynet wasn’t ready to make its move yet, so any attempt to reveal its evil plans would get her laughed out of South and Central America and possibly right into another mental institution.
Never thought I’d wish to see a Terminator, Sarah thought. But I really, truly, wish one would crash in here right now and smack the smirk off Reimer’s fat face.
Reimer’s assistant burst in from the outer office, his dark eyes shining. “Sir! An American submarine has just entered the harbor!”
Even better than a Terminator, Sarah thought, though she was impressed by the timing. This might actually be something she could use. Assuming she could prevent the Argentine government from seizing it.
By mutual agreement, she and Reimer ended the meeting, scheduling their discussion for another day.
Captain Thaddeus Chu was not happy. He hadn’t been happy since he’d disobeyed Admiral Read’s orders to report to the nuclear cinder that was San Diego. Read had answered Chu’s every request for confirmation with the proper codes, and the voice was definitely the admiral’s. Other officers had agreed with Chu about that. But they, too, had noticed something not quite right with the way he spoke.
Something besides his insane order to commit suicide.
In addition, Chu had monitored a civilian broadcast by a woman named Sarah Connor, who had described the situation with terrifying accuracy. Unbeknownst to the general public, every navy ship recently refitted with a complex new cyberbrain had found itself firing missiles with no executive orders to do so and wandering the sea-lanes helplessly as their crews starved.
His old lady had been at the bottom of the list to be refitted; she was an Ohio-class missile sub originally equipped with Trident missiles, but converted to a commando carrier with a hundred SEALs aboard. They would have been in San Diego when the bombs dropped but for an accident that had required fairly extensive patching, delaying their departure from Okinawa for a critical two weeks.
Chu had been looking forward to having a better job done at the naval facility in California; now it looked like she’d bear those scars on her nose for the rest of her days. And yet he was grateful for that accident; though he pitied those who’d lost family in California, he was not sorry to be alive himself.
They were all but out of food now and other sundries. Most West Coast ports in the United States were so much rubble, and what research could be done from the ship indicated that the East Coast wasn’t much better. Nor were the coasts in China, Japan, Russia, or Europe.
South America, however, had possibilities. Which was why they were here in Comodoro Rivadavia—major city, good port facilities, and a history of friendly relations with the United States. Not that that necessarily meant much in these post-nuclear-holocaust days.
Bob Vaughan, the XO, knocked and stuck his head through the door of Chu’s ready room—which was about the size of a walk-in closet. A submarine was still a sub, even if it displaced as much as the HMS Dreadnought.
“There’s a delegation from the city to see you, Captain.”
“Right there,” Chu said. He sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then picked up his hat and followed the executive officer up on deck. He’d decide about letting people through the hatchway later.
Waiting on the dock were a number of impatient-looking men in good suits and one guy in a military uniform with some very impressive medals on his chest. They looked up at Chu, obviously waiting for an invitation. The temperature was chilly enough to make you remember that the seasons were reversed in the southern hemisphere, not to mention the gunk still circulating in the upper atmosphere.
No honor guard or suchlike, Chu thought. He was surprised; they looked like the kind of men who enjoyed ceremony. He walked down to the end of the gangway—which did have armed guards, his own men—and nodded to the delegation.
“Gentlemen,” the captain prompted.
“We’d like a few words with you, Captain?” a particularly sleek specimen said in excellent English.
Chu wasn’t sure if the question was a request for his name or confirmation of his rank. Both, probably. “I’m Thaddeus Chu,” he said. “Captain, USS Roosevelt. And I’ll be happy to speak to you gentlemen. You’re welcome to board, but I must remind you that if you do come aboard you are entering United States territory.”
The delegation stared up at him for some time without moving or speaking. Then their spokesman, who had not deigned to identify himself, took a step forward.
“You must know, Mr. Chu,” he said, with a frown that probably hid some inward glee, “that the United States has effectively ceased to exist.”
“It’s Captain Chu, sir. And you may find that assessment to be premature.”
“Come, come, Captain. The U.S. is all but hammered flat, in all probability never to rise again. If you didn’t think so yourself, you wouldn’t have stopped here.” He gave the captain a smug smile.
“Would you?”
Chu looked down at him with a sinking heart and a poker face. He honestly hadn’t expected it to be easy, but he’d hardly expected them to be so blatant. “You are welcome to board, gentlemen, with the understanding that upon boarding you are in U.S. territory.”
The men on the dock looked at one another and conferred quietly. Then the spokesman stepped forward once more.
“Perhaps we should leave you to contemplate your options, Captain,” he said. He gestured toward the mouth of the harbor.
Chu’s eyes widened as he watched a huge oil tanker slide into place behind the Roosevelt. He turned to stare at the grinning men on the dock.
“Just send us a message when you’re prepared to be reasonable.” The man waved affably and the whole group turned and walked away.
The captain crossed his arms over his chest and watched them go in disbelief. When he’d pulled into this berth his biggest worry had been how he was going to pay for supplies. Now he was faced with capitulation to as-yet-unknown terms or doing something pretty vile. Though with a hundred SEALs aboard, he should be able to limit any necessary damage.
But damn! I don’t want to go down in history as a pirate. Nor did he want to be remembered for simply surrendering his ship. His father had arrived in the United States from South Vietnam via a rickety boat and a stiff brush with Thai pirates. He didn’t intend to start the family saga over again in Latin America.
Reasonable, my royal Asian-American ass! he thought, and turning went below. “Get me Commander Smith,” he half snarled.
Sarah watched the show through binoculars; Comodoro fortunately had a nice selection of high places from which to view all the kingdoms of the earth—or at least of Patagonia. She didn’t need to be a lip-reader to work out what had happened. As soon as she’d seen that tanker on the move, she’d guessed how this conference
was going to end. The sub was neatly trapped and there wasn’t a lot the captain could do about it. Nothing civilized anyway. Clearly they needed help.
Sarah turned and walked away. She had a number of arrangements to make, and information to acquire.
And I’m not all that civilized, either, she thought.
After a cheerless supper of steamed rice and water, Chu had retired to his cabin to “consider his options.” Which prospect made him glad of his bland meal. He had decided not to allow shore leave as he’d originally planned in hopes of allowing the men to find their own more substantial dinners. It was a sure bet that any American leaving the Roosevelt would be immediately arrested.
Of course, then at least they’d get a square meal.
There was a tap on the door.
“Enter,” Chu called out.
“Sir,” his XO said, “there’s a message for you, but you’ll have to take it at the decoder terminal.”
The captain raised his brows. It was a rare message that couldn’t be patched through to his quarters. “A message from command?”
“No, sir. It’s being transmitted via the hydrophones—modulated sonic from outside the hull. Expertly blurred—the sonar watch can’t give a location.”
“Who is it from?” he asked, with a spurt of well-concealed alarm. If the locals have frogmen outside the hull with limpet mines, we are fucked.
The younger man looked at Chu and swallowed, more emotion than he usually showed in a week; he was very black, and stress thickened the Mississippi gumbo of his accent. “She says she’s Sarah Connor, sir. The message could be coming from anywhere.”
Chu rose and followed his second-in-command down the narrow corridor. Avoiding the jagged bits that stuck out ready to tear your uniform or bang your elbow, and color-coded conduits, was second nature, but he did appreciate shoreside fresh air. The big boomers didn’t develop a ripe stink like the old-time pigboats, but things did get sort of stale after a few weeks submerged.
And sailors get sort of thin without food, he thought grimly. Let’s hope this Sarah Connor can help.
Sarah floated beside the sub waiting to hear from the captain; it would have been dark fifteen feet down in daylight, and this was well after sunset. The water was cold, but her wet suit made it tolerable; she didn’t think she’d need to worry about anyone on board finding her here. They were being carefully watched from the harbor and from the oil tanker, and at the first sign that the sub might be deploying sailors, there’d be trouble.
Her expensive face gear would allow her to speak to them as though she were on dry land. Eventually they’d figure out that she was right beside the sub, but probably not until she’d swum away.
“This is Captain Thaddeus Chu of the USS Roosevelt. Please identify yourself.”
Her lips quirked, not a request. “This is Sarah Connor,” she said. “You may have heard my broadcast.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Damn, it did sound like her. “What is it you want?”
“To help. Down-coast at Puerto Deseado, there’s a cache of supplies waiting. You’ll have to pick them up yourselves. I’ll be there waiting for you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Chu said. “But we have a small problem here.” Which you may have noticed since it’s as big as a city block and sitting on my back.
“It’s being taken care of, Captain. Be prepared to move momentarily. Connor out.”
“Ma’am?” Chu said. He looked at the radioman.
“She’s gone, sir.”
Chu looked up and met Bob Vaughan’s eyes for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “If worse comes to worst we’ve had a drill. If we’re lucky and the lady is as good as her word, we’re back in business. Status?”
“Ready to go, sir, as per your orders.”
That was one good thing about a nuke boat; as long as you kept the reactor hot, you were ready to roll whenever you wanted, and you didn’t have to worry about wasting fuel much.
Sarah swam off, guided by an occasional glimpse at the GPS compass on her wrist, confident in the knowledge that she’d hired the best pirates that pure gold could buy. She’d left them scaling the side of the huge tanker. They were well armed and quite capable of capturing the small band of soldiers aboard and two of them could pilot the tanker if no crew had been left aboard.
She popped up on the far side of the harbor, well away from the lights the army had set up. Her battered Jeep—driving something too desirable, like a Humvee, was asking for trouble—and clothes were all as she’d left them; something very loud and unfortunate would have happened if anyone had tried to lift them.
