A sound drew its attention. Turning, searching the sky, it quickly focused on the incoming ordinance. Slipping the heavy weapon free, it aimed and fired with exceptional speed and precision. A shell struck one of the missile’s fins, knocking it off-heading—but only for an instant. The weapon’s internal self-governing guidance system instantly corrected course.
Even as the projectile inclined downward toward a patch of bare ground in the center of the expansive array, the guard was lining up his weapon to fire again. It was not at all concerned with what was about to happen to it.
The bunker-buster slammed into the earth with a thunderous whoom! The guard staggered, gathered himself, and prepared to aim his weapon again. Except that now there was only a hole in the ground to show where the missile had burrowed deep.
Then the world erupted in fire and sound as the warhead, having reached a preset depth, detonated.
Dirt and pulverized rock vomited skyward. Along with everything else in the immediate vicinity of the blast, the single guard was thrown helplessly skyward. He landed hard, rolled over, tried to rise, and sank back to the ground. Heat and flame had melted away skin to reveal the skull beneath. It should have shown white.
Instead, it gleamed.
Red eyes flickered.
Battling against the terrible damage it had sustained in the blast, the T-600 struggled to rise. Directives screamed for response. Servos whined and hydraulics pumped. But internal mechanics had been mortally impacted. That did not keep the Terminator from trying to stand.
Oblivious to the dogged determination of the severely impaired bipedal machine below, a flight of A-10 Warthogs roared past overhead, coming in low and slow. Unlovely and deadly, disdaining the sleek aerodynamics of much faster but less lethal aircraft, they began chewing up the ground in front of them with heavy cannon fire and rockets.
Instead of governmental insignia that had long since ceased to have meaning or validity, they were clad in a riot of colors and flurry of graffiti that reflected the tastes and attitudes of those who flew and serviced them: all of it wild, much of it obscene.
Popping up out of the ground, a single anti-aircraft weapon tracked, took aim, and fired. Striking one of the Warthogs behind its armor and hitting the vulnerable rear-mounted engines, it blew the Resistance fighter out of the sky. Before it could zero in on a second attacker, another aircraft hit it with a guided bomb that left only a smoking crater where the defensive weapon had once stood.
As the Warthogs whirled and danced overhead to provide cover, a flurry of helicopters appeared. Touching down, they began to disgorge squads of Resistance fighters clad in a mismatched array of uniforms, hunting gear, and civilian clothes. The attackers were armed with a hodgepodge of unusually hefty weapons that were as varied as the mix of military and civilian choppers that had transported them. Not one of the assault group would have passed muster in a proper military parade. On the other hand, all of them were alive.
One of the helicopter’s landing skids set down directly on the skull of the T-600 that had been patrolling the dish array, crushing the metal and pressing it deep into the ground. Reacting automatically to the proximate presence of human feet, the crippled killing machine still struggled to strike back. Its critically damaged servos whined loudly.
A narrow metal tube made contact with the red-eyed skulclass="underline" the barrel of a rifle. A single large-caliber shot blew half the glistening cerebellum off, sending it flying and bouncing to one side. Exposed to the light, internal circuitry flared, fizzled, and went dark.
John Connor regarded the lifeless T-600, waiting to make certain it was good and dead. The damn things had a dangerous habit of simulating death and then leaping up to bite you in the ass. This one, though, was good and demised. He lifted his gaze as another Warthog sputtered past overhead, trailing smoke. He did not look around as the weary but determined figure of Captain Jericho approached.
“Are you Connor?”
Grunting something unintelligible, Connor looked up.
“The John Connor?” Even as he addressed the other man, Jericho was keeping a wary eye on their immediate surroundings. “The guy who, according to the plan, was supposed to land his unit on the ridgeline and hump it in?”
Connor’s gaze met the captain’s.
“The plan was no good.”
Jericho looked as though he was about to say something else, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Connor’s unit. Spilling out of a nearby chopper, they assembled behind their leader and focused their attention on him.
“Trouble?” The grizzled trooper who spoke shifted his gaze from Connor to the captain.
Connor let his eyes linger a moment longer on Jericho. Over the last several years of fighting, the term “chain of command” had been transformed into an expletive that had more in common with the traditional SNAFU than with actual military procedure.
“No, no trouble. Let’s go.”
Jericho watched as Connor’s team joined the others in racing to the rim of the gaping breach the first missile had opened in the ground. There was plenty he still wanted to say. Wisely, he said nothing.
Leaning over to peer cautiously into the cavernous maw, one of Connor’s men declared with assurance if not eloquence, “That is one big-ass hole in the ground.”
“Wonder what’s down there?” His neighbor nudged him, just enough to unsettle but not unbalance his companion.
The other man snorted. “Want to bet we’re gonna find out?”
General Olsen was young for his rank and older than his years. Unrelenting combat had aged him. To save one soldier’s life he would throw procedure out the window. Now, in concert with his troops, he too found himself peering down into a darkness than was as metaphorical as it was literal.
“Make no mistake, men. We don’t have a goddamn clue what’s waiting for us down there. Hell, for sure. But what kind of hell we don’t know and we need to find out.” He glanced back. “So I need a volunteer—”
He broke off as a shape went shooting past him, seemed to hang in the air above the pit for a long second, and then went arcing downward. Like a spider’s silken support strand, a single braid of climbing cable trailed from Connor’s harness, glistening in the desert sunlight.
Away from the edge of the abyss, one of his men kept a watchful eye on the link where the other end of the cable had been secured to a twisted, seared hunk of aircraft debris.
Unable to decide whether to curse or cheer at Connor’s unhesitating initiative, Olsen settled for waving at the clusters of men who stood gawking at the younger man’s rapid descent into darkness.
“All right, single file! Everyone after Connor! Let’s go, go go!”
Swinging slightly at the end of the cable, Connor could not hear the general. Pulling a flare from his service belt and igniting it, he tossed it outward. It sank into blackness, revealing only fleetingly the extent of the underground labyrinth that marched off in all directions. The subterranean facility was enormous. Like the others, he had expected it to be sizable, but this was far beyond anything they had been led to expect.
He hung quietly at the end of his tether, not making a sound, waiting for his fellow spider-soldiers to join him.
Jet swings gave them access to the side corridors. One by one, individual teams fanned out into the depths of the vast complex.
The human infection is coming, Connor thought with satisfaction as he led his men into one flooded tunnel. Waist-deep in water, he took his usual position at point. Other team leaders preferred to stay in the rear or move forward only when surrounded by their troops. Not Connor. He looked forward to leading the way physic-ally as well as tactically. It was a decision that had taught him something early on: Soldiers are far more likely to follow a leader who actually leads.