Terminator Salvation: Cold War

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“To Alexei Mikhalyovich Ivanov, a hero of the Resistance.”

Losenko raised a cup in memory of his friend and former officer. A few survivors of K-115 had gathered in the general’s private stateroom to honor their fallen comrade. Pushkin. Komarov. Aleksin. Pavlinko. He had uncorked a rare bottle of Massandra wine for the occasion. The good stuff, much better than the rotgut the enlisted men brewed when they thought the officers weren’t looking.

The rosy vintage reminded him of the red wine they had consumed to combat radiation sickness in those terrible weeks and months immediately after Judgment Day. In retrospect, it was amazing that any of them had lived through those days, let alone for another fifteen years.

“To Ivanov,” the men toasted in unison. “May he rest in peace.”

The charred remains of a borrowed A-10 Thunderbolt had been sighted in the Alaskan wilderness, not far from where a railway bridge had once been employed by the enemy. The wreckage of the Warthog had been hopelessly fused and entangled with a downed Hunter-Killer. All evidence suggested that Ivanov had died striking a blow against the machines, just as he would have wanted to. Losenko had also been informed that Molly Kookesh and a handful of other Alaskan fighters had survived Operation Ravenwing. By all accounts, Ivanov had played a key role in keeping them alive.

Well done, Alexei. Losenko mourned his comrade’s death, but found himself deeply moved as well. In the end, Ivanov had sacrificed his life to save some of the Americans he had hated so vehemently all these years. Perhaps John Connor was right all along. As long as mankind could stick together, overcoming old feuds and hatreds, maybe they still had a chance to win this war. If even Ivanov could learn that, anything was possible.

Losenko raised his glass again.

“To the future—and victory.”

There you are, flyboy.

Molly had been hiking for days, living off the land. A GPS tracking device, procured from the chopper pilots, had led her to an isolated stretch of densely-wooded forest north of the Wrangell Mountains. Several miles behind her, steam rose from the fuming crater of the volcano, which seemed far more active than usual. Molly was tired and hungry. Her feet hurt. An invisible toe itched. But she had found her missing lover at last.

The body of Geir Svenson hung from the upper branches of a tall pine. The shredded remains of a parachute were hopelessly fouled in the branches. He had obviously had a hard landing, without ever hitting the ground. His head was crooked to one side, and his neck looked broken. Limp arms and legs dangled high above the ground. She was grateful for the tangled nylon cords suspending him in the air. That alone had probably kept the body from being carried off and devoured by some large predator. If a bear or wolf had found him first, she might still be searching for him.

“I hope it was quick,” she whispered hoarsely. Moist eyes gazed up at him. Her throat tightened. She wasn’t surprised by her discovery. Deep in her heart, she had somehow known that he hadn’t survived that final sortie. But still....

I loved you. You knew that, right?

Climbing the tree wasn’t easy, but it had to be done. Her hunting knife cut through the nylon cords. A fresh layer of deep snow muffled the sound of the body hitting the earth as he finally completed his jump, many days after bailing out of Thunderbird.

Molly descended to the ground, albeit much more slowly. She cut him free of the rest of the cords and laid him out gently upon the ground. She considered taking off his helmet and goggles, then reconsidered. She wanted to remember his face the way it was the last time she saw it, right after those feverish moments in the shack. Had they known then that they were never going to see each other again?

Looking back, she thought maybe they had.

She wasn’t going to bury him. She had given it a lot of thought while hiking through the woods by herself, and she’d decided that a Viking funeral—befitting his Nordic roots—would be in order. She would send him to Valhalla on wings of flame.

First, though, there was one more thing to do. She unzipped his jacket and rummaged through his pockets. Thick gloves and numb fingers frustrated her efforts.

“C’mon,” she muttered irritably. “It’s gotta be here somewhere. I know it.”

She found the grenade ring in the front pocket of his flannel shirt. Right over his heart, just like she should have known. A sob tore itself from her lungs. A wave of emotion, even stronger than she had anticipated, hit her hard.

She gripped it tightly in her palm, warming it, before she peeled off her left glove.

“I hope you can fucking see this.”

She slipped the ring on her finger.

Later, she built a pyre and set it ablaze. As the rising flames consumed Geir’s body, she turned and started the long trek home.

She still had a war to fight.