Terminator Salvation_ The Official Movie Novelization - Alan Dean Foster [8]
“Don’t lose any fingers there, Chief.” Nervousness was apparent in the voice of one of the younger soldiers as he watched Connor’s fingers fly. A far more relaxed David glanced back at the concerned speaker.
“Shit, Connor’s been a Class A terrorist his whole life. How many fingers is he missing? Right—none. Only thing getting blasted here is that door.” Turning, he started wading back the way they had come. “Might want to put a little distance between you and the show. Otherwise you might lose face.”
As soon as everyone had cleared, Connor set the timer and sprinted to join them. Time passed with interminable slowness before another soldier could not keep from whispering.
“I know how experienced he is, but it’s sopping down here and mayb....”
The thunder of the C-4 was magnified by the narrowness of the corridor. The effect was not unlike hearing a dozen trumpets sound off all at once—with the listener crammed inside one of the instruments.
Several of the soldiers flinched. Not Connor or his two backups, Tunney and David. The explosion was just one more peroration in an interminable concert scored for instruments that consisted of expressively volatile compounds. Even before the air had cleared, Connor was leading them forward.
The room they entered was large and filled with smoke. While the haze was already dispersing, it was still difficult to see. Difficult enough so that Connor slipped on something and nearly fell. Looking down, he expected to see more water. Instead, the liquid underfoot was dark and sticky. For an instant he held onto the hope that it might be machine oil. But the color was wrong, too red.
The blood was reasonably fresh.
New sounds distracted him. For the first time since he and his squad had entered the complex they heard voices other than their own. The strongest of them was subdued, the weakest barely audible. Moans and pleas. Reaching down to his belt, he pulled and ignited another flare and lobbed it forward. It lit up the still diffusing mix of smoke, debris, evaporating liquid—and cages.
The voices were coming from multiple knots of humanity who had been packed with inhuman lack of concern into numerous holding pens. As Connor and his men drew close, hands extended toward them. His gaze flicked over pleading faces, gaunt bodies.
Some of the internees were in the last stages of exhaustion or starvation.
Tunney surveyed the unfortunate detainees with a jaundiced eye. As he contemplated a situation that, based on experience, made no sense, movement at the far end of the room caused him and his companions to hastily raise their weapons.
Almost as quickly, they relaxed. David even smiled. A larger compliment of their colleagues had broken into the chamber from another corridor.
Pushing his way through the internment area, Connor forced himself to ignore the pleading and extended hands. He was making his way toward a set of illuminated screens that fronted compact consoles. The latter, thankfully, were still functioning—but for how much longer it was impossible to tell. One thing he did know—they’d better work quickly. Hefting his communicator, he spoke into the pickup.
“Olsen, objective located. There’s something else you have to see.” Putting up the hand unit, he moved to the computation complex.
The general arrived soon after. Taking one glance at the glowing, living complex, he turned and barked a name.
“Barbarossa!”
Immediately, the team’s lead technician hurried to join the two men. Soldiers moved around them, sealing the location. The tech halted, stunned by what he was seeing.
“Come on, man,” Olsen prodded him. “We don’t know how much time we’re going to have here.