Terminator Salvation_ The Official Movie Novelization - Alan Dean Foster [100]
One hand still clamped over the fuel leak, Wright hung half in and half out of the chopper. He did not mind the wind that whipped at what remained of his face and hair. Despite his awkward position he could clearly see those who were safely inside the helicopter.
Lying on its floor near the back, Connor—badly damaged but still alive. His wife tending to him with a mixture of professionalism and affection. Kyle Reese, tougher than he knew. The little girl Star, silent but aware.
Reaching into the chopper, the moonlight softened and seemed to heal all of them, rendering Kate Connor’s face angelic instead of just determined, making Reese look as young as he actually was, glinting redly off one of Star’s eyes....
Wright blinked. The glint was gone. As if it had never been.
It was nothing at all, he told himself with assurance. There had been nothing there, nothing to see. The briefest of flickers of moonlight on cornea. Nothing more than a second of reflection, singular twinkle.
Or a singularity.
The disparate collection of fighting aircraft, from helicopters to converted civilian planes to A-10s, sat in the broiling sun of the desert dawn like so many shiny carapaced insects waiting for the rising heat to bring them back to life. That would eventually be done not by the sun but by the exhausted yet triumphant crews scattered nearby. Tired as they were, they did their best to offer succor and reassurance to the prisoners they had just rescued from Skynet.
Considerably less joy was present in the wind-stirred tent that had been set up nearby. Inside, the leaders of the attack on San Francisco stood in silence. Their attention was focused not on the victory they had just won, but on a single figure lying at the center.
The great spark of life and defiance that was John Connor was slowly but inexorably fading away.
Struggling to sustain the life of the prone human to which it was attached, a portable heart-lung machine muttered softly. It made more noise than any of the somber onlookers. Connor’s wife held his arm—gently, reassuringly, but without hope. Certainly less than her husband evinced. He managed a feeble smile.
“Don’t worry, Kate. See you later....”
She nodded, then rose to confront the others. The words she spoke were her responsibility to them.
The tears in her eyes, however, belonged to her alone.
“He’s dying.”
Hat dangling from one hand, Barnes kept his voice low.
“How long?”
She tried to shrug but was unable to lift her shoulder.
“Any moment. His heart can’t take it.” Her eyes meet the sergeant’s, and she continued. “The Terminators have beat him up and history has worn him down.”
Barnes tried to think of something to say. Of the right thing to say.
“It’s going to be okay.”
The smallest figure in the tent moved forward to take the hand of the most complex. Star’s small soft fingers slipped into those of Marcus Wright, and she felt the warmth of his response through the cool metal. From the cot, Connor looked toward Kyle Reese, then to his jacket. Interpreting the glance correctly, Wright picked up the jacket and handed it to the younger man.
“Kyle,” Connor croaked, “take it. You’ve earned it.”
Nodding, the teen accepted the jacket. As he stepped back he saw that Star was holding Wright’s hand. Marcus eyed him evenly.
“Remember the difference.”
Remember the....? What was Wright talking about? As he pondered the cryptic command Wright gently eased the little girl toward her original protector. Kyle took her hand as the bigger man moved back.
“Kate. Take mine....”
John Connor looked at him, visibly uncertain. Only one person in the tent was certain of what the big man’s words implied. Blair came up to him without hesitation. There were tears in her eyes and when she spoke, her voice cracked.
“Marcus....”
He gazed down at the woman who had saved him, who had made the great, grand