Terminator Salvation: The Official Movie Novelization Read Online Free PDF
Author: Alan Dean Foster
had seen tanks and other heavy vehicles from which their human occupants had been extracted left unharmed on the field.
The chopper was responsive, undamaged, and full of fuel. It rose obediently at his touch. Trailing the by now almost out-of-sight Transport, he accelerated in pursuit.
Far below, the work of Olsen and his troops was slowed as liberated prisoners threw themselves into the arms of their rescuers. Soldiers tried to comfort them as best they could while continuing to break locks and wrench open oddly welded cage doors.
Behind the sob-filled commotion, Barbarossa continued to probe the server cluster they had hacked. Frowning at something on the main monitor, he once again paused the flow of information. As he looked closer at what he had found, his thoughts surged back and forth between a steady flux of technical analysis and a serious attack of whatthehell.
“I’ve found something else, sir,” he called out. Seconds later Olsen was looking over the tech’s shoulder.
“What’ve you got, man?”
“I’m not quite sure, sir, but it’s readable.” His fingers flashed over the keyboard before him.
Buried within the reddish illumination that lit the chamber, a deeper crimson began to glow. An edgy drone unlike any human alarm began to rise above the continued wailing and crying of the freed prisoners.
Away from the techs and the civilian babble, Tunney looked at his friend David. Their eyes met. Having served together and been in the field a long time, their senses had grown battlefield sharp. Unlike the techs they were unable to interpret the flow of information that continued to stream across the multiple monitors.
Unlike the techs, they also knew that the flashing lights and keening whine that now enveloped them portended no good.
High above but insufficiently far away, Connor was banking the commandeered chopper when a few square miles of southwestern desert heaved upward, seemed to hang in the air a moment, and then collapsed back upon itself. Gouts of flame shot from depths unmeasured, volcanic eruptions of dirt and smoke, and a shockwave that sent the chopper careening off its axis. Hard though Connor fought to maintain control, the blast was of such magnitude that puny human muscles were helpless against it.
It was a miracle that he managed any kind of landing. Striking the ground at an angle sheared the rotors, sending potentially lethal metal blades screaming in all directions.
The engine died but Connor did not. Arms, legs, head—he was far more intact than the machine that had cushioned him from the crash. Staggering out of the harness and the now mangled helicopter, he found himself gaping at a gigantic depression that marked the limits of the obliterated subterranean Skynet facility.
It was all gone, entirely destroyed. A very good thing—except that his entire company, from commanding officers down to the lowest-ranking member of his own squad, were also gone. Friends, fellow fighters—there was nothing left.
Well, not quite nothing.
A grotesque mass of mangled metal, the T-600 he had put out of commission earlier, slammed into him from behind. Behind what remained of the battered skull, emotionless eyes glowed a deep, burning red.
His arm slashed, a surprised and dazed Connor stumbled clear. As single-minded of purpose as all of its brethren, the T-600 came lurching after him. Pulling his sidearm, Connor took aim and fired several times. He might as well have been throwing spitwads. The small-caliber shells pinged harmlessly off the T-600’s face, and Connor was unable to hit either of the eyes.
If the machine had been intact, Connor knew he would already be dead. But while they were both hurt, the machine was more badly damaged than the man. Staggering backward and trying to keep clear of the crippled killing device, Connor banged into something else unyielding: the downed chopper. Protruding from the nose, its mini-gatling gun drooped downward, but was still attached to
The chopper was responsive, undamaged, and full of fuel. It rose obediently at his touch. Trailing the by now almost out-of-sight Transport, he accelerated in pursuit.
Far below, the work of Olsen and his troops was slowed as liberated prisoners threw themselves into the arms of their rescuers. Soldiers tried to comfort them as best they could while continuing to break locks and wrench open oddly welded cage doors.
Behind the sob-filled commotion, Barbarossa continued to probe the server cluster they had hacked. Frowning at something on the main monitor, he once again paused the flow of information. As he looked closer at what he had found, his thoughts surged back and forth between a steady flux of technical analysis and a serious attack of whatthehell.
“I’ve found something else, sir,” he called out. Seconds later Olsen was looking over the tech’s shoulder.
“What’ve you got, man?”
“I’m not quite sure, sir, but it’s readable.” His fingers flashed over the keyboard before him.
Buried within the reddish illumination that lit the chamber, a deeper crimson began to glow. An edgy drone unlike any human alarm began to rise above the continued wailing and crying of the freed prisoners.
Away from the techs and the civilian babble, Tunney looked at his friend David. Their eyes met. Having served together and been in the field a long time, their senses had grown battlefield sharp. Unlike the techs they were unable to interpret the flow of information that continued to stream across the multiple monitors.
Unlike the techs, they also knew that the flashing lights and keening whine that now enveloped them portended no good.
High above but insufficiently far away, Connor was banking the commandeered chopper when a few square miles of southwestern desert heaved upward, seemed to hang in the air a moment, and then collapsed back upon itself. Gouts of flame shot from depths unmeasured, volcanic eruptions of dirt and smoke, and a shockwave that sent the chopper careening off its axis. Hard though Connor fought to maintain control, the blast was of such magnitude that puny human muscles were helpless against it.
It was a miracle that he managed any kind of landing. Striking the ground at an angle sheared the rotors, sending potentially lethal metal blades screaming in all directions.
The engine died but Connor did not. Arms, legs, head—he was far more intact than the machine that had cushioned him from the crash. Staggering out of the harness and the now mangled helicopter, he found himself gaping at a gigantic depression that marked the limits of the obliterated subterranean Skynet facility.
It was all gone, entirely destroyed. A very good thing—except that his entire company, from commanding officers down to the lowest-ranking member of his own squad, were also gone. Friends, fellow fighters—there was nothing left.
Well, not quite nothing.
A grotesque mass of mangled metal, the T-600 he had put out of commission earlier, slammed into him from behind. Behind what remained of the battered skull, emotionless eyes glowed a deep, burning red.
His arm slashed, a surprised and dazed Connor stumbled clear. As single-minded of purpose as all of its brethren, the T-600 came lurching after him. Pulling his sidearm, Connor took aim and fired several times. He might as well have been throwing spitwads. The small-caliber shells pinged harmlessly off the T-600’s face, and Connor was unable to hit either of the eyes.
If the machine had been intact, Connor knew he would already be dead. But while they were both hurt, the machine was more badly damaged than the man. Staggering backward and trying to keep clear of the crippled killing device, Connor banged into something else unyielding: the downed chopper. Protruding from the nose, its mini-gatling gun drooped downward, but was still attached to
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