A narrow metal tube made contact with the red-eyed skull: 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.”