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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 1
Date: 19 April 2005, 9:52 AM

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 1

ONI Signals Intelligence Center
United North American Protectorate
Midway through Covenant Invasion of Earth
Late night/Early morning

      In a small workstation, a big discovery was about to be made. The Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) had a signals intelligence center in every major region of every continent; their purpose was to intercept any Covenant message over the extensive BattleNet and send it to High Command, deep in the bowels of Sydney. Most of the signals centers were busy all through the day, but in the Northeast region of the United North American Protectorate, the facility had been, for lack of a better word, bored. The Battle of New York and the fall of Pittsburgh had been the biggest news in recent months, but those days had passed. Save a few small reconnaissance missions and subsequent rescue operations, the signals center was increasingly finding itself on the sidelines of the war. That fact was becoming more and more apparent to one particular analyst as night proceeded into morning.

      From his workstation, Ensign Keith Keaveny was hardly listening to his headphones. The models were antiques and comically bulky; the silver bulbs protruded from his ears like giant gleaming earmuffs. In fact, it had taken several hours to sync up the relics to ONI's intelligence net, but he had done it. In his opinion, Keith always said, he missed nothing with the headphones. Neural laces be damned.

      The mid-level analyst was hunched over his workstation, his face bathed in a variety of colors. The harsh reds, blues, greens, and purples emanated from his holo-panels and the huge viewing screen that took up the entire wall of the half moon-shaped operations floor. Keith squinted for a second as he tried to focus his thoughts. The early hour and the perpetual darkness of the operations floor created both a sense of intense immediacy and creeping drowsiness. At the moment, Keaveny was succumbing to the latter. The Ensign slapped his cheeks for a second and went back to working on yet another intelligence report.

Scans over the past few weeks have revealed increased chatter in the Northeast...

      Keith leaned back in his chair and heard several vertebrae crack. What was the point? He asked himself. He stared at the holo-panels in front of him, then checked lines of text that would soon be gathering electronic dust in the inboxes of Command. He shook his head, mired in his own redundancy. He got back to the report.

the increase may be indicative of increased Covenant presence in cities, but recent detections of IR feedback in the evacuated city of Boston point to different type of technology. It seems to be completely unlike Covenant tech seen thus far; more like experimental UNSC stealth technology. After conducting research into UNSC operations in the area, no such troop presence is accounted for.

      Whether it was remaining Covenant forces or mop-ups from the UNSC, the Ensign couldn't be sure which was the cause. It mattered little. The cities that could not be saved were left, the ones that served a purpose were, in a clinical ONI term, "Cleaned."

      It was midway through his shift, and Keaveny was drifting off to sleep, the neutral drone of static making his eyelids heavy. This was yet another day in a long war, and to the young ensign the days were starting to blend together. At the same moment that he was convincing his body to get up and talk to one of the prettier female recruits, a sudden urgent chirping sounded in his headphones. A red light began blinking in the Ensign's peripheral vision, and he stared at it quizzically. How did I get a priority alert? He wondered. Who fell asleep at the switch upstairs? Must be nothing. Keith was about to turn the alert off when he remembered protocol. "No matter what," he mentally quoted his training officer, "a priority alert must be answered." Even if that priority alert was being handled by a mid-level analyst.

      The Ensign turned to a holo-panel and his fingers drifted over several keys, transferring the communication to his headset. The broadcast nearly made him fall out of his chair. His dreary eyelids snapped up, and he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. His pages of notes and cup of Zanzibar-blend coffee became casualties of his flailing around looking for paper. The transmission was crystal clear. This was too good to be true. How did they miss THIS? This was an emergency UNSC broadcast!

      "Contact! Contact! Five Covenant Banshees on my six! Sensors also detect two Wraith tanks with infantry support closing on your position! New contact! I've got a squad of Ghosts coming from the South of you! Fire team, what have you stumbled on to?"

      Keaveny clutched the headphones to his ears, his fingers turning white as he rewound the transmission, taking in the entire dialouge. His fingers now danced across several holo-panels simultaneously, and on a large map of the United North American Protectorate, a green dot glowed bright and true. A date and time popped up in red, semitransparent digits on his workstation. The Ensign did a double-take with surprise. This is nearly a day old! He yelled in his mind. Oh man, someone up high really dropped the ball on this one. Keith scribbled some notes, then stood ramrod straight as his chair slid backwards, colliding with the desk behind his.

      "Get me Commander Young, on the double!" The excited Ensign said into his desk's communicator, making the observation of his career, "He may want to come and listen to this..."

Evacuated City of Boston
Morning

      The loud beeping brought Captain Jack O'Shea into a world of pain. As the commander of the Minutemen, Boston's militia resistance against the Covenant, he had to wake up at the earliest of hours to get a head start on each busy day. But this morning was different. This morning, the usually dutiful and responsible leader prayed for another two hours of sleep. The prayers were unanswered. O'Shea went to stretch but was greeted by a wave of pain and tension throughout his entire body. Jack accounted for each ache and pain like a timeline of the day before, one of the longest and hardest days in the history of the Minutemen. Even the Captain's eyes ached as he willed his eyelids to separate.

      His feet ached. Jack winced as they hit the floor, thinking of the miles of sewer he had trudged in the dark while trying to escape the Covenant. He then thought upon the medics that had carried the stretcher with a badly wounded Marine, and suddenly his feet did not hurt that much anymore.

      His legs ached. Upon closer inspection, the forty-year-old man could see numerous bruises and lacerations from debris, near misses by plasma weaponry, and concussions from explosions and other engagements. He thought of all the times he had to dodge out of the way as several waves of Covenant reinforcements assaulted their position during what the Minutemen were now calling "The Battle of Commonwealth Avenue."

      His torso and his ribcage hurt badly. O'Shea hadn't told anyone, but he had gotten a bruised rib from being hit by debris. He was lucky as he thought about it, the debris had come from a high-rise apartment building that had been turned into a parking lot in the space of fifteen minutes. Many of his troops had been crushed from huge pieces of structure falling from the sky, so Jack looked upon one bruised rib as a trivial matter. That didn't make breathing any more comfortable, though. Jack lifted up his faded gray t-shirt, crumpling the bold black block letters UNSC. He revealed a large dark bruise along his right side, running perpendicular to his strong stomach muscles. The Captain prodded the bruise with two fingers, wincing at the sharp electricity of pain that rippled out of the bruise. He resolved to drop by the medical tent later.

      Jack stretched his arms above his head pulling on his right wrist and bringing it across his body. O'Shea realized he had spent nearly all of yesterday holding his urban camouflaged battle rifle in a ready position, and the strain had finally taken its toll. Jack wondered if he could even heft a cup of coffee.

      Or more importantly, water and pain killers, he thought as he rubbed his hands just above his temples. Images of last night's party flashed through his head with each throbbing pain. The shot glass memorials, Parsons and McManus promotions, the friendly faces, the warm feelings of home, the pain and sadness of loss, and Laura. O'Shea turned around as his wife groaned, obviously irked about the early hour, as always.

      "What time is it?" She asked, her dirty blonde hair splayed out on her pillow, dressed in one of the Captain's beat-up, old Marine t-shirts and cotton shorts. Jack allowed himself a brief smile as images of the events after the party flashed briefly through his mind. He added that to reasons he was tired.

      "You don't want to know," O'Shea said, moving his hands from his temples to his cheeks, scraping them across stubble that had not yet been shaved off. His hair was messed up as well, and Jack ran a hand through the brown and gray mess, smoothing it somewhat. The fog in the old Minuteman's head was beginning to clear, but the hangover would probably remain until noon.

      "Today, el Capitan, I'm giving you a day's leave." Jack laughed appreciatively at his wife's pet name. He heard the soft sound of sheets moving behind him as Laura moved across the deep, warm, and comfortable bed. She draped her arms over his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. "That's an order," she said into her husband's ear as she proceeded to massage his aching shoulders.

      "Tomorrow I'm relieving myself of my command," O'Shea said as he accepted the massage gratefully. The aches and tension began to melt away under his wife's skilled fingers. Jack's eyes opened in surprise as he felt his body being pulled back to bed. He had forgotten Laura was in very good shape and, if driven, could probably kick his ass.

      "No!" She said playfully, pinning Jack down easily. "I am your wife, Jack!"

      "My love.

      "Your devotion!"

      "All true."

      "Thus I outrank you, sir."

      Jack put up a show of resistance. "And if I disobey my orders?"

      "You get court-martialed...and your sentence is tickling!" Laura's knowledge of the Captain's weaknesses, combined with her leverage over the body of her husband, gave her an immediate tactical advantage as Jack found himself sinking helplessly into the deep mattress. O'Shea squirmed and gave his wife ample resistance, but he savored the levity of the moment, until his wife's searching fingers found his bruised rib. His face contorted in a flash of pain. Laura immediately sobered.

      "What?" She asked, and lifted up Jack's shirt. A hand went to her mouth instantly, and she got off her husband. "You're hurt!" She said, sitting by O'Shea's side as he rose up into a leisurely sitting position, keeping his weight on his elbows.

      "Bruised rib. No big deal. I had worse in high school."

      "No big deal? Jack, how close were you?"

      "To what?"

      "To dying!"

      Jack frowned and shook his head. This exchange was inevitable every time he came home, but it still stung him. He put his life on the line every time he ventured out of the camp, and he had not gone without injury over the last two years. He had received worse injuries than this, of course, but every time Jack appeared vulnerable to harm, his wife would worry and try to get him to retire. And that, the Captain thought to himself, is not going to happen.

      "It's just a bruise. Honey, I'm fine. Trust me here."

      "You're just going to go out there again, go play 'hero'...one of these days, you're not coming back, and where will I be?"

      "Laura, you're my world, but these people need me to keep the Covenant at bay. Otherwise, we won't have a city or friends to protect. I don't go out there to be a hero, I go out there to make sure people survive. Not just you and me, but all the other refugees who won't leave this city."

      Mrs. O'Shea got off the bed and walked to the dresser, leaning heavily on her elbows, staring straight ahead but keeping her husband's reflection in front of her gaze. "Jack, I know why you go out there, I know why you fight. God knows, I love Ron and Timmy like they were our own kids...but Jack," she turned and looked into her husband's eyes, "I don't care about them. I only care about you. You're all I have left in this world."

      She came to him then, and Jack held her tightly like he always did when the hostilities ceased. She was crying softly, her face buried in his chest, and he knew this was her way to grieve for those who had been lost before. This was part of how she mourned. Everyone had their way. "You have to come back to me," she said, her voice muffled in the cotton shirt.

      "I will always come back to you," he said into her hair, staring straight ahead, eyes heavy with guilt.

      Forty-five minutes later, the Captain left his train to leave for work. High above his head the daylight simulating lamps had yet to activate, keeping the South Station base and refugee camp in a peaceful gray darkness. The entire camp was a converted subway station, the largest in Boston, with towering vaulted ceilings and an incredibly large amount of floor space. Two main tracks ran parallel to each other and bisected the main terminal; on each track double decker commuter and luxury trains sat, converted into civilian and military offices as well as officer's quarters.

      On either side of the trains the refugee tents were pitched, creating spacious pedestrian streets. The South Station camp was a city in and of itself; some creative refugees and Minutemen had even taken the liberty to name streets within the camp. O'Shea allowed himself a brief smile of pride and satisfaction as he approached the communications car. Helping humanity survive, he thought to himself.

      Jack slid the door open and walked into the converted train. After walking past rows upon rows of surveillance and communications eqiupment, the Captain came upon a small stairway leading up to the second floor and ascended into the Minutemen war room. In contrast to the relatively crowded ground floor, the war room was nearly bare. The long rectangular shape held only a dozen or so chairs, four hanging pictures of the South Station camp and Minutemen in action, and one large oval table that also served as the holographic projector for briefings.

      At the moment, a nearly transparent wire skeleton of the city of Boston hovered six inches off the table. Jack looked through the map of the city and saw a trail of steam wafting out of a large, white ceramic mug. Next to the mug was a large sandwich, half eaten, and behind it all was Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds, reclining in a leather office chair, shuffling through documents. The second-in-command had his shiny black boots up on the table's edge, but his laid-back posture was not relfected in his dress. Jack was hard pressed to make out a single wrinke or stain anywhere on his friend's uniform.

      "I'm just going to say it, Gus, because I know you won't;" O'Shea said as he let his eyes adjust to the dark for a second, "it's way too fuckin' early." Trying to get a rise out of his old war buddy had always been a game of his, and for the Captain, there was no time like the present. Jack playfully threw a bagel that he had stolen from his kitchen at his second-in-command; the ring shaped snack passed through the city like a rock through a thin waterfall. To the Captain's amazement, Reynolds caught the bagel without looking up, took a large bite, and threw it back. "Long night at the bar last night, sir," the Master Guns said. "You know what they say: awake 'til you're sober-"

      "-never hungover." The two finished the saying. O'Shea broke off a piece of his breakfast and switched off the hologram. The green wire mesh of the city fell away like grains of green sand, vanishing completely from view. Jack then turned the lights up, illuminating his comrade's stern features. The African-american officer slapped his paperwork on the table and took a long swig of his coffee.

      "What do we have on the docket today?" Jack asked, settling into his seat. It would be a full hour until the other Minutemen officers arrived, but the two veterans liked to have the time to catch up. Rank, protocol, and formality did not exist for this hour. O'Shea put his feet up on the table as well, his black boots reflecting the overhead lighting.

      "Civilian or military?" Gus asked, gesturing to two piles of paper. Even though the post of Captain was a military designation, Jack O'Shea was the chief civilian administrator in the city of Boston as well. While there were elected members of the city who coordinated various functions for the community, most of the major decisions fell on the Captain's shoulders, including food distribution, waste management, and...

      "...winter preparations," Gus Reynolds said, pushing a small booklet O'Shea's way. The leader of the Minutemen sighed and flipped through pages as his old friend continued talking.

      "Temperatures are dropping faster this year, weather algorithms we've run indicate this is going to be a bitch of a winter."

      "That will work well against Covenant," Jack muttered absent-mindedly.

      "It'll work even better against humans without heat energy," Reynold replied, getting his superior's attention.

      "Ok," Jack said, thumbing through the research and options, "Look into shutting down the heaters in some of the weapons storage closets until we get our first frost; and drop the temp in the main terminal by a couple degrees. Everyone will complain, but just tell 'em to dress warmer. Other than that, conserve wherever we can. Let's not get caught with our pants down."

      "Check," Gus said, making a note. After fifteen minutes of back-and-forth on various civilian issues, Reynolds pushed the other pile of pages at Jack.

      "I thought we fought a battle yesterday," Jack complained as he took the stack of papers, rolling his eyes, "aren't they all dead yet?"

      Reynolds chuckled, a deep bass that rumbled from out of his barrel chest. "Bastards are like rabbits, Jack."

      "Seriously..." O'Shea shook his head, rifling through paper after paper. After going through nearly half the stack, the Minuteman Captain stopped and scrutinized a page. He held it closer to his face as if the paper would reveal its secrets if Jack looked hard enough. He passed it back across the table.

      "You see that?" Jack asked, his head slightly cocked in confusion. "IR pickup last night outside city limits. Minimal, but still..."

      "UNSC surveillance droid?" Gus guessed, running his finger down the page as he read.

      "IR would have been a heckuva lot higher," Jack said as he called up the Boston city map. He punched in a few commands and the map rotated to give them a bird's-eye view of the city. A red dot glowed outside the border of the city. "Can't be Covenant, they don't have technology like that, at least, not that I've seen or heard of."

      Gus Reynolds frowned and pointed at the position of the dot. "Right by an outlet of the Charles River, too," he noted as the map zoomed in, "that's a defenseless entry point into the city. We haven't had the time to put cameras by there."

      The Captain grumbled to himself. "Our own damn fault. Stay vigilant with the cameras we do have, tell the surveillance guys to keep their eyes peeled. If there's anything new, I want to know about it right away." Jack rubbed his eyes vigorously and stared into the map again. "Until then, not much we can do about it."

      A chirp sounded, and the hologram of Boston fell away, replaced with big blue letters that read, "Incoming transmission." A robotic female voice announced the same.

      "Receive," O'Shea commanded, and there was a short tone.

      "Morning, guys," a disembodied voice said over the war room's speakers. The two Minutemen raised their mugs in an unseen toast and sipped on their drinks.

      "Morning, Mike," Jack said. "How's everything at BC? Keeping busy?"

      Colonel Mike Fox laughed over the COM. "Everything at Boston College is boring. Covies don't take any interest in this fucking place anymore. I think we've read all the books left in the library."

      "We should all be so lucky, my friend." The Captain replied. "What can we do for you?"

      "Food's getting a little stale over here," Fox said, his voice barely echoing in the sparse war room, "and getting a bit low. Are we due for some groceries, or should we just start going on diets?"

      The two veterans laughed appreciatively. Gus leaned against the table and spoke into the air, unsure of the microphone's location. "We'll arrange a pickup tomorrow on the Charles. Same deal: floating trash heap with an attached submerged ration package. Should float to the pickup zone at sixteen-hundred. But remember, Mikey, you've got ample space to grow some of your own. Everyone does their part, now."

      "I got you, Gus. I think you'll be very pleased with this year's potato crop."

      "Couldn't be worse than last year's," O'Shea jabbed, and the three shared a quick laugh in the empty room.

      "Sixteen-hundred tomorrow. We'll be there." The camp commander confirmed, and for a few seconds, the only sound was that of shuffling papers.

      "Now what's this I hear about you promoting Parons?" The voice asked. O'Shea and Reynolds shared a glance and laughed appreciatively. The Captain waved his hand and severed the transmission.

      Jack stared across the table in mock disapproval as his second-in-command wiped a mirthful tear from his eye. "But seriously, Jack," Gus said, taking his feet off the table and swiveling the chair to face his CO, "that IR pickup by the river troubles me. We haven't had anything like that since last year when the Covies got that armor reinforcement. I don't want to have bad intel on their troop strength. We underestimated them back at Comm Ave. I don't want to have to face that again."

      The Captain considered it for a second. "All right, Gus," he said as he tossed his half eaten bagel between his hands and stared up into the ceiling. "First tactical orders of the day: get Parsons and McManus on recon. Send 'em to a safe sector, but keep them by the river. While they're at it, have them update some of the surveillance cameras with the new translation software we got from the Marines. I want to hear what the Covies think of the past battle."

      Reynolds finished scribbling on a pad, stabbing a period at the end for emphasis. "Done and done, sir." He answered. "They'll be out of the house in two hours."

      Two dozen meters above ground, Boston was a ghost town inhabited by aliens and decaying remains of bodies and buildings alike. The overcast morning only made the husks of structures appear even more gray, their imposing shadows falling over destroyed cars, twisted streetlights, buckled pavement, and corpses. The scene at the Charles River was quite the opposite, however.

      The wide waterway weaved through the center of the city; the environment along the riverbank was almost tranquil, even if the balconies of past apartment buildings were nothing but crumbling slabs of concrete and the sides of the structures looked as if a gigantic fist had punched through their sides. The river still ran full and strong along its grassy banks, and a patrol of Grunts that loitered along the Charles was taking it all in.

      The scene played itself out through the Oracle scope of a S2AM sniper rifle half a kilometer away. Dark brown eyes watched behind a full faceshield as calculations and tactical data streamed across a heads-up display. The sniper observed the six aliens without compassion or remorse. He had signed up to kill Covenant, to preserve humanity, to make a difference, and now he was getting his first big shot.

      "Six fatboys." The sharpshooter said evenly.

      "No other species?" His partner asked in a grave and weathered voice.

      "Negative. I have a good line on them. Give me the word and they ain't goin' home."

      "Hold fire. We're avoiding detection, and when that patrol doesn't check in, someone will notice." A short crack and fizzle of electricity sounded behind the sniper, and the man turned his head from his prone position to face his commanding officer. While the sniper considered himself in the peak of physical shape, and every test he had taken agreed with him, his commanding officer was head and shoulders above him.

      The trooper, dressed completely in black battle armor and urban camouflage, moved with incredible speed as he dismantled a security camera hidden in the shadows of the roof they had occupied. The commanding officer reached into one of the tactical pouches around his belt and withdrew a set of pliers, driving them into the thick black cable that supported the surviellance device.

      White and blue sparks flew from the forced entry, but the material of the special operations uniform negated the electricity that would have fried an unprotected human. In an extraordinary show of strength, the soldier tore the cable from a hole in the roof and dislodged the camera, allowing himself to get a better look at it. The black-clad trooper held the armored camera in his hands as electricity still sparked from the end of its' severed cable. In a blur, the pliers were back in the pouch that rested right above the commando's thigh-holstered M6C sidearm.

      "Another camera?" The sniper asked.

      The soldier regarded it with concern for a second, even though it was impossible to discern any expression through his faceshield. "The third one so far. Not Covenant tech."

      "Civilian model?"

      "If it is, why's it still active?" The trooper handed the camera over to the sniper and pointed at the gray markings underneath it. "And why's it labeled 'UNSC'?"

      The black-clad sniper swore under his breath. "If there's one thing worse than no intel-"

      "It's bad intel."

      "Fuckin' spooks." The sniper said, tossing the camera down leisurely.

      "Move out," the trooper ordered, "this facility ain't comin' to us."

      The two Orbital Drop Shock Troopers extracted quickly from the roof, throwing long black ropes from the edge as they rappelled down the face of the damaged building.

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 2
Date: 2 May 2005, 3:24 PM

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 2
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Morning

      Boston still reeked of decay two year's after its death. The streets of the evacuated capital had been bare for years, yet in many ways they still looked as if every inhabitant of the city had just dropped what they were doing and ran out of the condemned metropolis fully expecting to return. Cars, through charred, smashed, and in a general state of destruction, still lined the smaller roads in straight lines. Small stores and shops, though bombed out and bare, still had the odd "open" sign hanging from their doors. Newspapers dating back to Boston's occupation rolled and drifted like tumbleweeds in the desert, sometimes wrapping around a bent or broken lamp post and flapping in a breeze that cooled no human body. Buildings loomed over the buckled and cratered concrete like massive tombstones, their gutted insides causing an unearthly howling and moaning in high winds. The city of Boston was a ghost town, but even ghosts didn't want to live there.

      The nearly perpetual silence on one particular street was broken by a patrol of six Grunts as they strolled along at a leisurely pace. While a major battle had just occurred two days ago with massive losses, the Covenant cannon fodder that ambled down the road seemed oblivious to the danger. They were bunched in a tight group, unaware of their surroundings, even unsure of their actual destination. Shiny, new plasma pistols were drawn but hung at their sides as the routine patrol continued on. The clopping of their hooves echoed off the imposing structures on either side, announcing their presence for many meters in front of them. Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons knew this; he had heard them coming for three minutes now.
      The Minutemen's ranking sniper stared intently from a small sewer grate in the middle of the street. Parsons held a small monitor in his hands that broadcast the feed from a faraway security camera. He had maximized the zoom of the surveillance device and examined the area the Covenant were approaching. The screen displayed the entire street in high resolution color, he could see his position on the right, twenty-five meters from the approaching Grunts. They were jabbering in their alien tongue, but Ron was too far away to make it out through his newly acquired translation software. He pressed two fingers to his throat mike.

      "Hey, Tim, what're they saying?" He whispered as he kept a close eye on the monitor.

      Corporal Tim McManus laughed through his nose for an instant, rolling his eyes in feigned disgust. The bright white of his eyes contrasted sharply with the dark facepaint and pitch black of the room he was hiding within. Parsons' partner looked through the scope of his urban camouflaged S2 AM and shook his head slightly. His ghillie suit, made up of dark grays, blacks, and stone, shook with him. While it wasn't absolutely necessary for him to wear the suit, it broke up his human silhouette and made him blend in even further with the darkness. McManus put two fingers to his throat, keeping his right hand on the trigger of the bipod-balanced rifle. The muzzle of the precision weapon barely protruded into the morning air from a broken window. Even though he was three stories up in a bare apartment and twice as far away as Parsons, he had been able to listen to the Grunt conversation through yet another security camera that was closer to the street, though it couldn't actually see the Covenant patrol. "Trust me, buddy," Tim muttered, "it's better you don't know."

      "Whaddaya mean?" The hushed question came back in McManus' right ear.

      "Let's just say I now know more about Covenant...um, relations, than I would prefer."

      Silence reigned for a second. "I'm deleting this software as soon as Cap lets me. It's done me no favors." Parsons grumbled.

      "Huah to that," McManus agreed, and regulated his breathing. The image in his scope zoomed in as all other details of the world blurred around his target. A small red circle in the center of the scope settled above the lead Grunt's head, just below the left eye. The red armor of the Covenant foot soldier indicated an officer, and McManus tracked it expertly. He maliciously chuckled inside his head at the Covenant patrol tactic. You stick your patrol leader up front? He mused to himself. What if there's a trap, or an enemy sniper? The faint metal and plastic click of the safety disengaged, barely registered in the room. Or what if there's both? "Target acquired," Tim whispered, "Officer Grunt leading patrol, center street, ten meters from your position. Sights are hot and standing by."

      Ron could now see the Grunts for himself. Silently Parsons laid the monitor on a piece of dry concrete and left it unattended in the deserted sewer. He pulled his face up to the opening of the grate that connected the street to the curb. Ron gave silent thanks that he didn't have a manhole to deal with. Those fucking lids were really heavy. The only noise the Staff Sergeant surrendered was the soft rustle of cloth and a slight metallic clinking of a pin striking up against the high explosive fragmentation grenade. Ron felt the weight of the spherical metallic weapon in his hand and gazed intently at the coming Covenant.

      For a second, Ron felt a dark joy in the opportunity to kill the unsuspecting enemy; he still thought upon the Jackal sniper that had killed Ibanez, the Elites that slaughtered his friends and family. His grip tightened on the grenade as one thought flooded his mind: vengeance. I'll make every one of these fuckers pay, he thought. Yet at the same time, his clear thinking saw through the murderous pleasure he was experiencing. He was still mourning the deaths of two days ago; he doubted he would ever truly stop. Those had been his only friends, his only family, and these aliens had taken them from him for no good reason. If that isn't motive to kill, his mind told him, then what is?

      "One meter," McManus' voice came into Parsons ear. Ron nodded, though he knew Tim couldn't see him, and clicked his radio twice. The clopping was now much louder, and he could hear the high pitched voices of the Grunts clearly now. He could clearly hear the hiss of the Methane masks, he could even discern the bumping of the rebreather "backpacks" that were ill-fit against the laboring spines of the low-ranking invaders. Anticipation welled up inside the sniper. His heart began pounding, his vision focused, the entire world became a little more clear. Parsons forced his heart rate to lower as he prepared the grenade. He readied himself to kill once again, for Boston. For humanity. For himself.

      The first two Grunts sauntered by without incident, but after the third passed Ron pulled the pin from the grenade and pushed it through the grate as if he were sliding a letter into a high mailbox. He watched the grenade skitter into the middle of the street, then the sniper dropped quickly to the floor of the sewer. He snatched up the monitor and observed with a dark smile. He could hear the scene plainly, but he wanted to watch.

      "What the- grenade!" One Grunt managed to squeal. The grenade exploded right in the middle of the patrol, sending projectiles and bodies flying all over the street. The sharp boom of the device shook silt and dust from the roof of the sewer; and simultaneously, smoke, dirt, and purple blood came through the grate and deflected off the wall on the opposite side. The area briefly stank of methane gas, but the stench blew away in the prevailing winds. As the echo of the explosion died away, Ron heard the wet smack of a bullet entering a body, though no shot could be heard. The Corporal's voice immediately came over the COM.

      "Hostile down. Sniper fired after determining POW status negative. Audio output negligible. Sights are cold."

      "Using experimental ammunition in the field, Corporal," Ron chided his subordinate, pronouncing each separate word like a disciplinarian father, "is not exactly smiled upon by the Captain."

      "But these subsonic armor piercing rounds are optimal in these conditions, sir," McManus' matter-of-face voice stated. Parsons knew when he was getting a masked, "Fuck you," and this was being done brilliantly. "...Especially in tight environments, a SABOT round fired from this rifle would break the sound barrier and the surrounding structures would make this street like an enormous bullhorn, creating-"

      "I know, Tim, I know. A loud fucking noise." Parsons rolled his eyes and glanced out of the grate. Despite his proximity to the patrol, Ron could not get a proper view of the damage. He looked for his monitor while Tim made his comeback.

      "You always had a way with words, honey." McManus' sentence dripped with sarcastic cuteness.

      "That's what Mom used to tell me." Parsons turned his attention to the handheld wireless monitor to appreciate the full scope of the carnage. To his surprise, the screen showed nothing but static. "Weird..." Ron's voice trailed off as he called his partner. "Tim, pick up river camera niner on your monitor.

      McManus took his eyes off the scene in the middle of the street and took out his monitor. Three button presses later, his screen showed static as well. "Nothing," Tim responded. "Camera's out."

      Parsons' voice crackled over the COM. "It was on two seconds ago. I'll call the office. Maybe they flicked a switch."

      "Orders?" McManus asked.

      "Form up on me five-zero meters north of my position, grid tango-seven. We'll go on recon to river camera niner's location. Objective rally point at river camera eight if necessary. Captain's orders were to watch the Charles, anyway. Parsons out."

      McManus folded the bipod to his rifle, unscrewed the sound and flash suppresser and dismantled the gun in a little over a minute. He turned from his window and took in the large, empty apartment. There was nothing remarkable about the dusty wooden floors or cracked beige paint on the walls, but for a moment, the Corporal was incredibly lonely. When is this going to be over? He asked himself. When can I have a place like this all to myself without having to shoot through the window? Tim thought back to his promotion the night before and the pride he had felt. Yes, he did feel pride at being recognized for his contribution to the insurgency, but on some level it all rang hollow. He questioned what his purpose was.

      His father had been crippled by the Covenant in the first few hours of the invasion, and though he was in good condition at Boston College's medical camp, McManus still felt his age and yearned for his father's presence. Captain O'Shea was a good man and a great leader, but Tim saw the way the Captain looked at him and Ron. McManus had heard all the stories, he knew about the losses the Captain had suffered. Tim knew. When O'Shea looked at Ron and Tim, he saw the children he would never see again. McManus, though no fault of his own, felt guilty about that. The Corporal turned at the door to the bare apartment, checking once again to see that he left no trace of his presence. McManus was a ghost in this city. A silent, deadly ghost that left no trace. At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

      The Corporal descended the stairs with his sidearm out and ready, sweeping the dark, wide corridors and moving as noiselessly as humanly possible. The rubber soles of his boots created no sound, yet McManus' ears were ringing from the cacophony of thoughts in his head. He tried to think of anything else to take his mind off his own doubts and fears, and found his mind settling on the same image it always did. He saw the short, curly, auburn hair. He could clearly imagine the button nose, the smiling mouth, the gentle face. In the dead silence of the stairway in the middle of a city of destruction, Tim could hear her voice saying soothing words to his soul. For a second, McManus was at peace, thinking of the girl back in the camps. He fought for Boston, but he also fought for Rachel.

      The two had a lot in common: separated from their parents by the Covenant's occupation, but still lucky enough to be in contact with them. Both had been in their third year of college, both had their education and lives disrupted by the invasion. In fact, it was by pure bad luck that the two had met. Rachel had traveled the short distance from the campus of Boston College into the city to deliver an exam just before the invasion had begun. She had little choice but to remain, whisked off the streets by O'Shea and the first bands of Minutemen. For Tim, his route had been simpler: the South Station refugee camp was a relatively short distance from Harvard, and the only safe place in the city.

      The two college students had been nothing but scared kids back then. Now they were hardened by a desire to survive. Now McManus fought to kill the Covenant, and Rachel fought to keep the refugees alive. She had made good on her study in political science and psychology, and strangely enough was working under Mrs. O'Shea in the camp's day-to-day affairs. Tim and Rachel had become close, and after a year and a half of sacrifices, terrible loss, and few victories, they had a bond that he thought could never be broken. Fighting for your life every day tended to have that effect.

      Tim could see the main entrance to the building on the ground floor. He walked toward it, but turned left and headed for a window by a back alley. The door presented too good a target. The Corporal found himself with a few more seconds of darkness in the hallway and briefly allowed himself to think of the future. He was twenty-three now, and he knew plenty of Minutemen younger than him that had gotten hitched during the course of the war.

      Why not me? He asked himself. Part of him refused to do it, though. McManus was no fool; he understood the risks he was taking every day. Tim realized full well that he could die at any point to a foolish mistake, a wrong turn, a lucky Jackal that was in the right place at the right time. The Corporal would never let Rachel be subjected to that. But if she asked me, he thought for a playful second, then wiped all those thoughts from his mind. He had reached his alleyway entrance. He climbed out through a small basement hatchway, and left his emotions in the building.

      Tim took a minute to make sure the street was completely deserted before leaving the relative safety of the alley. The malfunctioning camera was a straight shot six hundred meters away from Tim's street and positioned on the roof of a large hotel on the banks of the Charles River. Tim took in the remarkable beauty of the day; the streaming morning sunlight made the damaged hotel glow in a cream and rosy hue. It almost looked inviting. McManus took out his pair of tactical binoculars and tried to locate the camera. He scanned the roof, examining each air conditioning unit and ventilation fan for the malfunctioning device, but he soon found his attention shifting to the sections with good lines of sight and proper cover. The Corporal sighed to himself and realized he would never stop thinking like a sniper.

      Tim was about to put the binoculars away when a blotch of black suddenly appeared between two ventilation fans, then disappeared. McManus ripped the binoculars from his eyes for an instant, opened his trained eyes wider, then put the binoculars up again. It had looked like-no, he thought, that's impossible. It's just too early, I'm still kinda hungover, I'm imagining things. There's no way that was...no, there's no way. Tim shook his head and stalked along the shadows, hurrying to meet with Parsons. A sense of foreboding crept into his head, but McManus did his best to wipe it from his mind.

      A dry, calloused hand dragged itself down a hard and stubbled cheek, pausing at the jawline before it retraced its path back up. In the background, a German accent could be softly heard going on and on about damage spheres and "areas of decimation." The room, dark already, dimmed even further as Commander Thomas Young felt himself losing consciousness. His head suddenly felt heavy, he could feel his neck begin to lose its secure hold on his head. Suddenly, he regained full control and composure, and his head snapped back up.

      The room brightened slightly, and on instinct he quickly scanned the room. The rectangular office was as it should be: two chairs in front of his desk, a small round table with five chairs in the far right corner by the door, a long counter that displayed trophies, photographs, and commendations along the left side. Nothing had moved; he was still alone in the room. He cursed the paranoia ONI had put in him and yearned for a cigarette. He spent the next few seconds after his craving berating himself for the moment of weakness. Young realized he had not slept in over thirty hours.

      The Commander ran both his hands through his head of full gray hair as he swiveled in his chair, turning away from his desk. He walked to the back wall of his office, where a small wet bar stood stocked with all natures of exotic elixers from Earth and across the galaxy. He took a moment to regard his collection, then shook his head. Another moment of weakness. Get yourself together, man. The war is turning in the next few days. You don't have time for weakness. Young instead moved to the left of the bar to a small sink. He ran cold water over his hands, losing himself in the feeling of his chilled palms and relative calm of the sound of running water. He splashed a small amount of it on his face and patted his face dry with a small white towel next to the bar. Thomas glanced toward the windows of the office. As usual, they were closed.

      "Open blinds," Young ordered, surprised at how weak his voice sounded. He needed to get some kind of sleep.

      The Bavarian voice paused for a moment as it relented to the mechanical sounds of the blinds opening. Young frowned as he took the short walk to the right wall of his office. The windows revealed the entire operating section of the signals intelligence center, and though the clear matrial in front of him was sound and bulletproof, Thomas could nearly feel the buzz of energy and intrigue that was starting to develop on the floor. The staff seemed to be aware of it now; an operation was in progress, the covert kind, and everyone had to be on their game. In his mind, he could hear every noise. The static transmissions, the random noises of machines, the whispered code words, the swishing sounds of holograms. All of it excited him greatly.

      The ONI station chief stood with his legs shoulder-length apart, his hands clasped behind his back. Quickly noting the time, Thomas grunted in disapproval as he noted the duty shift had still not changed. Command had ordered that as long as an operation was going on in his area of responsibility, his staff would be on emergency alert. That meant no monitor would be ignored, but that also meant that his skeleton staff would be spread thin and fatigued, like him. Mistakes were bound to be made. And mistakes, Young reminded himself, could not be made during this operation. There was too much to lose.

      The Commander turned to face the opposite wall and looked at the numerous framed photographs that hung in his office. Next to staged shots with dignitaries like the Secretary-General were candid photos of a young, confident man with his other buddies who were young and confident as well. Cocky, Young corrected himself with something like a slight smile. We were all too young and goddamn cocky. They all wore shiny new Marine armor and carried around MA5B assault rifles that even the lowest ranking Marine would be ashamed to use these days. Every one of them looked happy and absolutely sure they would change the galaxy. Young gave a slight snort at his past self, but inside he was proud of where he had ended up. He was the hand guiding the tip of the spear. With any luck, that former cocky Marine would thrust it deep into the heart of the Covenant beast. The Commander allowed himself a moment of reflection on what they were close, so close, to accomplishing. He would be doing his old, cocky buddies proud. The gruff, yet insightful voice behind him broke the still air of reflection.

      "Commander, I need your attention." Thomas turned on his heel and faced Bismark, his advanced AI. The holographic representation displayed a man in Imperial Prussian ceremonial dress, and his moustache nearly hid his mouth.

      "Listening." Young tersely responded with short nod.

      "I've just picked up a communication inside our network. It pertains to intelligence garnered from the area of operation."

       Thomas' eyes narrowed. All introspective inclinations were wiped from his mind. Any sort of communication from his team's general location had the potential to be incredibly bad news. The Commander had always tried to think one step ahead of whatever occurred, and rarely did he ask a question he did not know the answer to. However, this particular operation was full of holes and unknowns. It had all the possibilities of being a disaster, but the reward was more than worth the risk. He readjusted his dress tie and listened carefully. "Go on," he said as a hand came to his chin. "They're not dead, are they?"

      "No, Commander, Valiant Reclamation is still dark. It seems a different operation has been carried out."

      "Different?" The Commander tilted his head slightly. Young doubted that very much. There was nothing going into that city that he did not know about in advance or divert himself. Unless something more covert than his own operation was occurring, Thomas was certain that information was false. He crossed the room as he made his way to the desk. Bismark continued.

      "An Ensign, Keith J. Keaveney, will be coming to present his analysis."

      "When?" Young snapped.

      "In approximately fifteen minutes."

       Young turned quickly and looked at his AI with a quizzical, yet angry face. His tone expressed the same. "Why wasn't I told?"

      "It appears, Commander, that your advance receptionist is asleep. I have surveillance on site if you would like to see."

       Thomas sighed and shook his head. That was the first personnel mishap he had heard of, but he imagined if an Ensign was coming to him with urgent news, then someone at a much higher rank had let one slip. That higher rank employee was going to get chewed out, publicly. While the Commander understood the situation his people were in, he was not about to let that become a weakness. An example would have to be made. The secretary, though, was a trivial matter.

      "Let her sleep. We're going to need it." The Commander ran a hand through his short silver strands and straightened his dress uniform. He passed his desk on the way to the back wall, where a large wood and glass box sat to the left of the sink. Within the display case were at least a dozen medals, gleaming impeccably against a black background. There were some gaps between medals, signifying operations that had warranted medals, yet could not be recognized at the present time, possibly ever.

      "I want a complete dossier on the Ensign," Young ordered as he looked into a mirror. He looked like hell, but a quick shave would make him look fresh and rested. Thomas imagined the young Ensign was coming off the end of his shift and would not look nearly as presentable. "Give me all records. I want to know if this kid can give me quality analysis." Thomas Young unlocked the case and began fastening his myriad of medals to his dress shirt.

      "Done, sir." The AI stated, and the Commander allowed himself a brief confident look into the mirror. Appearance was everything.

       Captain Jack O'Shea's face was in a stern scowl. He exhaled slowly through clenched teeth as Parsons' transmission came loud and clear into the war room. His morning meeting with Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds was over, and now the entire Minutemen command crew sat at the holographic projector table and listened to the communication.

      "...It's totally severed, sir." The sniper finished.

      "And this is-" Jack started to ask again.

      "The third camera that's gone offline today, yeah." Ron confirmed. The Staff Sergeant scratched the back of his head as he grit his teeth in consternation. "We thought it was just a problem with the power back at the station, but I wouldn't be surprised if this was the same situation with the other two." Ron peeked around his corner to assess the current condition again. McManus was on the edge of the roof, concealed under his ghillie suit and several other pieces of cover, performing overwatch of the area around the hotel roof.

      The city, what was left of it, was spread out in all directions below them. In different circumstances, Parsons would have enjoyed the view. Now, he simply felt exposed. He had his back against a large ventilation fan and held the heavily armored surveillance camera in his hands, the thick black cable severed at one end. Circuitry and all manners of wires still hung limply out of the opening, but it had been a clean cut, more or less. Ron shook his head in confusion and concern.

      "Any evidence of plasma scoring?" The Captain's voice came into Parsons' right ear. Ron sighed and looked at the immediate area again.

      "No evidence of plasma weaponry, though an energy sword could have made this cut, or any other manner of Covie instruments. But just so we're clear on this, sir, this doesn't look like some Grunt got hungry and started chewin' on it. This is a clean cut. Invasive, but precise."

       Jack rubbed his eyes and looked around the table. The big news of the morning had been the IR detection while everyone in the camp had been at the memorial/promotion ceremony last night. Each officer had a short briefing and the details of the detection in front of them. That had been worrying enough. The loss of three surveillance cameras in the same general sector so recently did not appear to be a coincidence. O'Shea took a second to carefully think out his next sentence, but there was no easy way around it. "Is there any evidence," he asked slowly, "of this being...human tech?"

       The response was predictable. Just about every head in the war room turned and regarded their commanding officer with incredulous looks. Jack was sure the question had been pondered by more than one officer or NCO in the room, but to hear it from their Captain would seem to be making everyone's worst fear a reality, as if the threat could only be real if Jack were to say it out loud. The Minutemen Captain, at that awkward moment in time, really hated being in charge. O'Shea was relieved to hear Parsons voice, even if it was not what he wanted to hear.

      "The cut does not indicate Covenant or human technology. The absence of plasma scoring keeps me from definitively calling this alien, but we don't have any evidence whatsoever of this being done by anything."

      "Just that it's cut precisely by something that knew what it was doing to one of our most valuable assessment tools."

      "Affirmative. Not ideal, sir."

      No shit, Jack thought as he busied himself with shuffling papers. Either way O'Shea looked at this, it was not good. "Thanks for your update, Staff Sergeant. You're on patrol to river camera seven to perform overwatch on the Charles. You're to call out troop movement and anything that merits attention to the COM center. Hold at your position until we call you. Rally points are at your discretion. Acknowledge."

      "We copy," Parsons said, "Recon patrolling to river camera seven. Will perform overwatch until your signal. Recon out." The channel closed with a chirp and all eyes were once again on the Captain. The looks were not returned. Jack had his eyes on the current report, and after a second of circling something on the paper, O'Shea spoke without looking up.

      "Master guns," Jack said to the table like a teacher calling on a star pupil.

      "Yes, sir," Reynolds replied in a serious and prepared tone.

       The Captain looked up and locked eyes on his second-in-command. He was sending a message to the room that he wanted to hear what his friend had to say, and that was it. Jack gave a small nod to his old friend. "I want to know what you think."

      "With respect, sir, you don't want to know what I think."

       Jack looked across the table at the concerned visage of Reynolds. O'Shea knew Reynolds was thinking in worst-case scenario, but in truth, so was the Captain. He put his left hand on the table and laid it on his briefing paper as he draped his right arm over the back of his chair.

      "Yeah, Gus, I do."

       The Master Gunnery Sergeant took a second. "If they're not finding evidence of plasma on that rooftop, or any other Covenant evidence, then this looks bad either way." Reynolds bit down on his lower lip briefly and stared down at his reports. He shook his head.

      "If that's Covenant, then they've figured out that we're watching them and that those cameras probably go back to a central source. At best, they'll order more reinforcements and up their readiness. At worst, they'll purge this city 'til they find us." Jack knew this was not what Reynolds thought. O'Shea abandoned his at-ease body language and shifted in his seat so both elbows were on the table. He pressed his palms together and pointed them across the space at Gus, opening them slightly as if asking for more. The Captain shot Reynolds a look that told him to continue.

      "If it's human...then it's real bad, sir. We know what happened to Pittsburgh and Hartford, and if ONI or UNSC run up on Covenant in this city and does the long division...we may be faced with Cronin Protocol."

      "Hold on a second," a Second Lieutenant said from the side of the table, "Cronin Protocol? Sir, what the fuck is Cronin Protocol?"

       Jack was not surprised some of the officers didn't know about the imminent danger Boston had always been in. The only ones who knew were the officers who monitored the UNSC channels or were trained to communicate with the military, but not give away any location. Therefore, Parsons and McManus knew the risk of calling the UNSC, but other officers may not have known. O'Shea sighed and folded his arms across his chest.

      "This conversation did not occur. No details of what you've heard or are about to hear can be shared with anyone. Fellow officers, spouses..." Jack let his words sink in for a second, "No one. In 2552 after the Covenant got a foothold on Earth and began to solidify their invasion, the Navy quickly decided that there could be 'acceptable civilian losses' in this war. Admiral Matthew Cronin, after learning the effectiveness of similar tactics at Cote D'Azure, established the following protocol: in certain circumstances if the Covenant presence is entrenched and the city has an 'accpteable minimum number' of civilians," Jack took a short breath, "nuclear bombardment is acceptable."

       The room did not erupt in a frenzy of activity, in fact it felt to Jack as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Some heads fell, their gaze locked on the table; others stared into space as if their own death sentence had been read. O'Shea and Reynolds continued to stare at each other. "But why now, Gus? Why after two years would the military be back in Boston?"

       Reynolds looked sadly at his commanding officer. "Remember, Jack?" He said as a resigned look came over his face. "We called them here."

       The Pelican pilot had tried to maintain a business-like attitude as he called out the many enemy contacts that seemed to materialize out of nowhere, but any confidence was lost in the confused, scared, and slightly frantic tone that played out over the airwaves. Commander Young looked up from the written transcript that lay on the surface of his workspace. The mid-level analyst stood at attention in front of the desk, his eyes straight ahead, not looking at the Commander. Keaveney didn't have any choice; Young had not yet told him he could move. Keith stood ramrod straight as he listened to the transmission yet again, and sighed inside his mind.

      You know what everyone's said. "Commander Young likes to maintain control." Don't show weakness. Don't move. Don't speak 'til spoken to. And whatever you do, Keith, keep it short and sweet. The sooner I impress this spook, the sooner my ass is off the sidelines and in the game. Oh, son of a bitch, he's playing it again?

       The transmission played over the speakers once more, down to the final "Mayday," call and the subsequent static. To his credit, the Commander noted to himself, he hasn't moved an inch, and I've played this same transmission over seven times in a row. "All right, Ensign," the Commander finally said, switching off the Pelican's transmission. "I don't think you need to be reminded that this information has been classified." To emphasize his point, Young automatically shut the blinds of his office, sealing the room and turning the already foreboding environment dark reds and greens. "What is your analysis?"

      "Sir," Keaveny started, inserting a data pad into a slot on the front of the Commander's desk. A large hologram of the city of Boston marked with green and purple pulsing points of light, appeared in the center of the room. Keith walked backwards from the desk toward the hologram. The city slowly rotated until the Ensign moved his hand, shifting the map. "About two days ago, that transmission was intercepted by our signals intelligence drones in the Northeast sector. After cross referencing the transmission with UNSC deployments over the last week, a match was obtained.

      "It seems two Pelicans, call signs Golf Seven-oh-Seven and X-ray Three Thirty-One were sent to reinforce and extract an advance fire team in the evacuated city of Boston. Both Pelicans had full complements of Marines. The mission was standard rescue op: the fire team reportedly ran into a surprisingly overwhelming force of Covenant and needed to get out. I've traced the Pelican homing beacons to two locations, and it would appear as though all Marines were KIA." The Ensign moved his hand slightly, and the city of Boston rotated so the Commander now had a bird's-eye view of the area. The hologram seemingly enlarged, but in reality it was zooming in on a strip of road, labeled "Commonwealth Avenue." Two blue dots glowed with call signs underneath them: the downed Pelicans.

      "Yet what is more surprising than the Covenant presence, sir, is this 'Fire Team Foxtrot'. Even with the help of Bismark, sir, I could not access any such record of this team's existence." Keaveney paused. He knew that he probably wouldn't get an answer, but if he did, it would certainly narrow the list of possibilities. He cleared his throat. "If I may ask, sir, are they one of ours?"

       Young leaned forward in his chair. Even with the help of the Commander's personal advanced AI, the fire team could not be located. That point stood out in the Commander's mind. The Ensign was asking questions above his rank, but he was impressed by the skilled research and analysis. "I'm afraid I am not privy to any of ONI's operational missions," the Commander lied, "but I'm curious about your conclusions on the fire team. Assuming they're not ours and they're not UNSC, who are they?" Thomas smiled in the dark as the Ensign's body language changed. The youthful ONI recruit had been waiting for his superior to ask that.

      "Sir, if they are not UNSC or ONI, I believe we cannot keep the label of 'evacuated' on the city of Boston. It would appear that civilians are not only living in the city, but operating in conventional military capacity against the Covenant."

       Young had mixed emotions regarding the seemingly dead-on analysis. It was true; there didn't seem to be any other explanation. The only ONI operatives that were in that city Young had sent there personally. While the Covenant would be occupied by a guerilla war, and those ODSTs were trained to be invisible, the additional human presence created too many variables in the equation. What if they found the ODSTs? Would they co-operate? And what had the militia found so far? It had been two years since the UNSC pulled out of Boston, two years with that city all to themselves. Eventually they would have to stumble on...was it even there? Young asked himself. Covenant were there! How could it be otherwise?

      "Sir?" The Ensign broke the Commander out of his thoughts.

      "Ensign Keaveny, this is first-rate analysis. You beat a lot of senior ONI to the ball on this one."

       The analyst nodded. "Thank you, sir."

       Young lifted his right hand slightly from the desk, signaling caution. "However, this is a most delicate and complicated manner. Command is considering initiating Cronin Protocol on Boston. It's been in the works for a few weeks now."

       The Ensign almost took a step forward. They can't do that! "But sir! The city is inhabited! We have to revoke the-"

       The hand came up once again. Keaveney knew when he was being put in his place. He returned to his normal stance as his commanding officer continued. "I have seen the intelligence, Ensign. As I have said, it is first-rate, and will put you at the front of the line for promotion. It's nothing to scoff at. You're going from 0-1 to 0-3 in one hop, and I think we both know that kind of jump is extremely rare in our line of work, especially at this station. In addition, I see that you've requested to be transferred. I don't blame you; young kid like yourself, wants to see the galaxy, wants to make a difference in this war." You have no idea what you're missing here and now, the Commander thought. Now it was time to buy the boy's silence. This was bigger than them both.

      "I will ask you to wait two days to let me muscle this commendation through, but at the end of the day, I think you'll agree it is for the best. For both of us. Understood, son?"

       The soon-to-be Lieutenant nodded numbly. He had not seen that coming. He almost forgot about the city he had just selected to be wiped off the map. It's "acceptable losses", Keith, he told himself. Command knows what they're doing. Let them worry about it. With that, the Ensign pushed Boston from his mind. What did he care about some backwater militia, anyway?

      "Thank you for your time, Ensign. Leave all intelligence materials on my desk. After that, you are dismissed. Get some rest, you look tired." Young watched as the ONI member laid down all relevant materials on the Commander's desk, saluted, donned his black ONI dress cover, and walked smartly out of the room. As the door shut, a bluish man appeared on the holotank with the soft swoosh sound that accompanied many AI's arrivals.

      "Bismark?"

      "Hier, mein Kommander." The AI responded.

       Thomas Young began to unfasten the medals from his dress shirt. "Wipe those intel materials clean," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

       Only the slight clicking of metal clasps, followed by the heavy sounds of metal on wood could be heard for several moments. "Done, Commander." The AI stated. "It appears as if my analysis of the city was correct. Covenant occupation would certainly indicate that they are looking for it."

      "But can we get it in time?"

      "Uncertain, Commander."

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 3
Date: 28 July 2005, 5:52 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 3
Evacuated City of Boston
Morning

      One of the City of Boston's most famous landmarks was Faneuil Hall Marketplace, a broad expanse of shops, open air markets, and famous sites from the era of old American history. The center of the Marketplace, Quincy Market, was an acropolis-style building, long and thin; it's white granite construction made it a sturdy monument to stand the test of time, but the architects had not anticipated plasma warfare in their schematics. The formidable structure now was a shadow of its former self, the sloping roof caved in at multiple locations, several of the imposing granite columns crumbled away and threatening total structural collapse. Thirty meters away a bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin, the early American patriot and intellectual, stood by Boston's old town hall. Only former residents of Boston could have known the statue had been Ben Franklin. The Covenant had fired so many rounds into the statue's face it was unrecognizable. It had been a habit of the Covenant to deface statues, crying "Idolaters" every time they ruined a monument.

      Now Quincy Market stood stubbornly among mangled and bombed-out buildings, and though the Market had at least twenty meters of open space before meeting another shop, it appeared to stand like a scarecrow in a wide open field. A striking and frightening figure, haphazardly shaped by circumstance and necessity, warning all wary travelers to stay the hell away. The moving blotches of darkness that approached the Market were not wary. They were Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. Fear was not an impediment, it was an aid to perform in situations any other man would shy from.


      Two inconspicuous shapes moved to the very edge of open space before Quincy Market. Both ODSTs checked every sight line and examined every visual clue before they reached a consensus: the coast was clear. They became nothing but streaks of darkness as they traversed the open area, as fleeting as a shadow and about as tangible. The two reached the inside of the crumbling building and made their way to the central room, a circular dining area ringed by tables and a massive spiral staircase to the second floor. The two took position on the second floor and backed into a dark corner, sensors and scans confirming they were not followed. Upon closer inspection, the commanding Trooper, bearing Sergeant stripes, noticed yet another security camera. Staying in the darkness, he moved along the edge of the wall outside the camera's field of view. With the lightning speed he had displayed before, he severed the power cable to the device and watched with satisfaction as the sparks splayed out in the dark and the electricity bled away from the white, armored surveillance tool. He quickly joined his partner in the dark corner and took a knee, taking out his data pad.

      "Nothing in sector one," he said, tapping the pad with his finger.

      His partner, a Lance Corporal, nodded in confirmation. "Sector two is dark, about what I expected. Thermals show a few underground bunkers, but nothing that matches the facility data. This place is wiped clean."

      Both ODSTs crouched in silent contemplation. The Sergeant grunted in a brief and rare show of frustration. The mission was not going well. The insertion had been perfect: a fast and low approach via stealth dropship, one he had never seen before, and a textbook wet drop into the outlying harbor. The swim into the city had almost been enjoyable. After that, the Sergeant thought, everything Command told us had been wiped. They're not even sure the facility is here. Tactical data streamed by the veteran ODSTs eyes and he frowned at it behind his faceshield. He placed his hands on his thighs as he crouched, his agile mind assaulting the task at hand from multiple angles. He finally decided he wanted a second opinion. His partner had been with him for several months now, and the Sergeant valued his subordinate's straightforward, sometimes even blunt opinions, but nearly always absolutely correct. "Assessment." The ranking ODST ordered, his voice sounding grave and a little artificial as it came out of his helmet.

      The Lance Corporal looked up from his data pad. Though it was nearly impossible to see through the polarized shatter-resistant faceshields, the Sergeant imagined he could see his partner's face contorted in thought. The kid had always shown too much with his face, the veteran recalled.

      "Two problems, sergeant," the Lance Corporal reported. "First, there's a lot more Covenant here than initially reported. Briefing said this place was deserted. We've stalked three patrols so far, and I've picked up at least twice that number on my long-range motion sensors."

      "Are you complaining, son?" The Sergeant said, almost joking.

      "With respect, sergeant, don't ever 'son' me again. I never complain. Just giving you my assessment."

      The Sergeant nodded understandingly. "Continue."

      "Number two, the cameras. Someone's here, or used to be. I suspect this city is still inhabited. I ran that explosion earlier today through my audio databank. That was a M-9 High Explosive grenade, sir. Not a mine. Sure, it could have been a rigged grenade, but if it's not...I don't think we're the only humans here, Sarge. And that means that our secondary mission orders may be FUBAR."

      The commanding trooper was about to remind his subordinate about the definition of "priorities," when both of their helmets sounded a warning tone. The motion tracker had picked up a signal. The Lance Corporal tapped his faceshield twice and pointed his hand toward the main entrance to Quincy Market. Whatever was registering was making its way along the ground floor, approaching the rotunda that the ODSTs occupied and overlooked. Though it would have been nearly impossible to see the soldiers in the darkness of the second floor's shadows, the pair of warriors slinked back further into the inky darkness, leaving rays of dusty sunshine in front of them that fell past the spiral iron staircases and splayed across the marble floors of the dining area. The black-clad troopers waited patiently, their ears straining to detect the slightest sound. The strain was unnecessary.

      "Whoa! Check this place out, Mike!" A voice called out into echoing depths of the obliterated building. The voice bounced around abandoned kiosks and stands, fading out in the distance.

      The answering voice seemed jovial, even carefree. "Pretty cool echoes. Kale, go see if there's any food around here.

      In the ensuing silence, the Sergeant detected multiple footsteps that seemed to indicate a small group. He glanced at his motion tracker and began to count the separate contacts when a tremendous metallic clanging assaulted his ears. The distinctive commotion of pots and pans striking a hard surface spread out in an acoustic tidal wave, bouncing off the walls and doubling back on itself. A string of curse words and a bashful apology followed shortly after as the noise began to subside. Both Special Forces soldiers exchanged looks with the other. Don't they know this place is crawling with Covenant? Are they trying to get themselves killed?

      The group continued on through the market, chatting openly and discussing trivial, non-tactical matters as if they owned the Covenant-occupied city. As they passed through the central circle of the market, they stopped to regard the dome that held resolutely almost thirty feet over their heads, gawking like tourists at the obvious plasma damage. The ODSTs cursed them and wished they would continue on. They were only bringing more risk into the mission.

      "Let's move out," a stern, matriarchal voice sounded from the back. With the audible shuffling and hesitant footfalls more appropriate for schoolchildren, the pack seemed to make their way to the other entrance, the only indication of their departure the slamming of a door and a fading laugh from one last disembodied voice. The troopers slowly emerged from their cover and tried to get a handle on the moment.

      "Not the inhabitants we're looking for," The Lance Corporal remarked as he shook his head, "but they might have made contact with them."

      "Agreed." The Sergreant replied as he pulled back the charging handle of his modified battle rifle. "Let's go ask them."

      Hung Lam enjoyed his job. In fact, Lam loved his job. Not only was he protected and fed, but he was protected and fed to do what he enjoyed most: toying around with electronic surveillance systems all day. Before the invasion, the specialist had been an independent military contractor to the UNSC, designing the technology and specifications for the Navy's Clarion spy probes. His company was particularly good at signal interception and direct streaming video feeds to Navy ships that would have been far out of range with older models. Lam had been the proud owner of a picturesque penthouse apartment in Boston's Back Bay area, and had made Boston magazine's "Most Eligible Bachelors," section for the last three years. Lam had been sitting on top of the world, then the Covenant had kicked him off.

      To get back at the invaders that had taken his home, his friends, and his city, he volunteered any and all of his services to the Minutemen the moment he arrived in the South Station camp, lugging two large bags of electronic equipment. Lam had prided himself on building the Minutemen's entire COM network, surveillance infrastructure, and signal intelligence from the ground up. It had taken several covert excursions by hand-picked Minutemen teams to infiltrate his opulent penthouse, and several more to raid his research & development labs, but they had done it in a remarkably quick pace. Hung credited Captain O'Shea's astounding leadership skills in getting so many people mobilized under Lam's direction, and even further, to get them to work as a cohesive team. The team, under the Asian technophile's guidance, had arguably become better than UNSC technicians.

      But today they were having some problems. Lam rubbed his hands together vigorously as he sat in a leather swivel office chair, clapping them together twice as if to wake his brain up from sleep mode. He sat in front of an imposing bank of closed circuit television monitors, each displaying in dazzling high definition color the scenes their respective cameras pointed to. The Minutemen had rigged up nearly two hundred cameras for safe observation of the city, and since they lacked two hundred television screens, they occasionally "switched channels" to any camera that detected motion. Lam considered this innovation to be one of his more brilliant additions, and couldn't help but allow a smile to creep across his face. However, he was there to solve the problem of three individual screens that showed nothing but static. He had replayed each of the camera's feeds, and each time he saw the same scene: pristine, though obliterated, beauty by the Charles River, an instantaneous blur of black, then a sudden downward jerk of the camera followed by static. Whatever it was that was taking down these cameras was methodical, but quick as hell. Hung called up the footage again and slowed down the feed, his left hand dancing across the tiny blinking buttons while his right hand slowly turned a large gray knob in a clockwise direction.

      After ten minutes of trying to isolate the blur, he finally isolated a single frame that allowed him the biggest view of the curiosity. The specialist allowed himself a brief fist punch through the air in acknowledgement of his victory, then went to work enhancing the image. As he bit his lower lip in concentration, one of his subordinates opened the door to the surveillance room, flooding the small space with light. Lam shielded his eyes for a moment as the other technician passed him coffee. Hung took it wordlessly and sipped on the hot liquid in thoughtful focus. It was a well known fact that when the founder of the Minutemen's COM network was working hard, he rarely said a word. This did not deter the subordinate. "How's it lookin', boss?" He asked.

      Lam simply gestured to the black blur in the lower left corner of the surveillance room's most imposing screen. The huge, rectangular flatscreen was for analysis and intelligence-gathering purposes only, and as such, the feeds of the cameras could be changed to thermal, infrared, or electromagnetic detection settings when linked on what the Minutemen liked the call, "The Lam's Eye." The Specialist had designed every armored camera with the same optic equipment used in his deep space probes, and as such they were more than capable of visual enhancement. The subordinate grabbed a high-backed swivel chair and pushed the wheeled furniture with a small shove toward his mentor. He loved watching Lam work. It was nothing short of art and science fused together in a flowing ballet of information and aesthetics.

      The only sound in the entire room was the light ticking of keys as each was manipulated by their master, the image growing larger and more crisp with each passing second. The technician found himself leaning forward in his chair as though this would make the image on The Lam's Eye come into sharper focus. After what seemed like the briefest of moments, the enhancement stopped. The image on the giant screen now showed what might have been a black shoulder and the slight sloping of a neck, but the subordinate could not be sure. He glanced at Hung for a moment. The electronics genius was staring wordlessly at the image.

      "What do you—" The man started to ask, until he was silenced by the immediate resumption of the ticking keys. Now a red box appeared on the screen, centering on middle of what the technician thought could have been a shoulder. After centering on the splotch of black, the image suddenly zoomed forward until nothing could be seen but senseless black. Before the subordinate could protest, small, green, italicized words blinked on the top of the image. Thermal scan in progress...please wait. A moment passed as a thin blue line passed over the image from top to bottom. By the time it had reached the bottom, the clear outline of a comet, complete with trailing tail, could be seen. On a small screen beside The Lam's Eye, a series of symbols flew by, too fast to be discerned individually.

      "Just a hunch," Lam said uncharacteristically as the search progressed.
"Sunlight reflecting off the neck, I guessed if the thing's human, it might have something on the lapel. Some military designation. I have no idea what a comet is for, though."

      The search finally halted on an identical match: a golden comet with trailing tail. Large, unfriendly red letters flashed on each screen, then continued to blink. Match Found: Designation: Orbital Drop Shock Trooper (Helljumpers).

      The sound of the ticking keys had stopped. The only sound that registered was the shattering of a ceramic coffee mug as it fell from Hung Lam's hand. Yet as shocking as that news was, a brief warning tone ripped the incredulous stares of the two technicians away.

      "Motion by Fanueil Hall," the subordinate said in a confused tone, his mind still struggling to grasp what the cameras had just picked up. He slid over to a set of keyboards and called up the image on several of the screens in front of the two technicians. "Oh, son of a..." the subordinate's voice trailed off in an exhale of disgust and despair as Lam rolled to the left to scrutinize the camera's feed.

      "When it rains," Hung muttered in anger as he jabbed a finger at the screen, "it really freakin' pours." The Specialist snatched up a headset and placed it snugly on his head, his spiky black hair obscuring the microphone before he pulled it down in front of his mouth. "Get me Captain O'Shea, first priority message: we have new refugees wandering Boston." Lam turned quickly as the other technician swore loudly. The younger man had his left hand pressed against his forehead and was now staring at his superior with a look of helplessness and surprise. Hung stared at the screen behind him and knew why the technician had turned a shade lighter than pale. He grabbed the microphone and put the receiver directly in front of his lips as he leaned his entire body over the keyboards and control equipment. "Addition: they're being tracked by Covenant."

      The refugees of the South Station Camp had been given specific jobs from the minute they had set foot underground. The jobs ranged from mundane janitorial tasks to food management planning and construction of more elaborate and secure facilities in the subterranean compound. O'Shea and the civilian leadership of Boston had realized early on that a hidden existence every day would take its toll on the morale and psychology of the refugees, so under controlled circumstances, cycles of refugees would get, as the camp government called it, "Recess." However, much of the last two years were spent indoors and underground for any non-Minutemen personnel. Captain Jack O'Shea had chalked that up as one of the reason volunteers were so plentiful in the militia. Therefore, any new kind of excitement or visual stimulation in South Station was a public spectacle and never went unnoticed. So when the Captain had burst out of the command train with Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds in tow, and the two of them were visibly agitated, many civilians were curious, making everyone else curious. Unbeknownst to the two senior Minutemen, talk began to spread rapidly through the camp.

      O'Shea quickly crossed the space between the war room car and the main Minutemen ready room/training ground. His right hand was pressed against his ear, listening to Lam back in the surveillance room one last time. "And you're absolutely sure they're not one of ours?"

       "Sir, I'm looking at today's work reports, and there's no civilian operations going out today." The Specialist's voice came through clearly to the Captain as he jogged quickly across the open space of the cavernous train station.

      "Could they just be unaccounted for?" Jack asked, knowing full well that it would be incredibly unwise and also quite difficult to sneak out of the camp without anyone knowing.

      "They're dressed in a civilian and military mix," Hung's voice stated over the COM, "and we don't dress like this. I am completely sure that they're not ours and that this Covenant force is deliberately tracking them."

      "Copy," Jack said through grit teeth. "I'm getting a team out now. Call the armory and have them prep equipment for a rescue operation using ten Minutemen.
I'll upload personnel once we get a roster." The Minutemen had a standard daily routine of conducting watch outside the station, but when Minutemen weren't on watch duty or otherwise engaged in operations or administrative duties, they were required to be in the ready room/training area. They could be called on at any point in the day to leave on patrols, ambushes, or in this case, operations.

      "Acknowledged. Lam out." The COM snapped off, leaving O'Shea and Reynolds at the door to the ready room. The Master Gunnery Sergeant glanced at his CO as Jack briefly exhaled.

      "Master guns," Jack said, his voice authoritative and confident, "call the snipers. Have them create a diversion to keep any Covenant out of the Market area."

      "Yes, sir," Reynolds replied. "Meet you at the armory." The broad shouldered veteran turned on his heel and walked away at a brisk pace. Business had to be done, and there wasn't a lot of time to do it.

      The Captain put his hand on the door and shifted his weight forward, just about to open it and shatter the illusions of calm and tranquility the militia inside were feeling. He stopped suddenly as he sensed a presence on his left. He jerked his head to the left, his heart already pumping a little harder with anticipation of the coming mission, and he found himself quickly assessing the threat the figure in his view presented. Jack quickly decided his wife was not a threat. Yet.

      "Composing yourself before a mission, honey?" Laura O'Shea said, arms crossed and eyes boring holes into her husband. She was carrying a thin black data pad in her right hand, and Jack realized she had taken a break from her camp duties to intercept her husband. "Subtlety has never been your strong point. Half the camp knows something's up."

      "Half the camp has nothing better to do than gossip," Jack found himself saying. He relaxed for a second as he realized he talking to the only person in the world he could converse freely and openly with, free of fear or repercussions of public panic. He allowed himself a moment to change his cold demeanor. "We better put another casserole on, kiddo," Jack used his term of endearment to soften his last comment, "the boys are going to pick up some more company. They looked a little lost."

      Mrs. O'Shea covered the space between her and the last remaining member of her family quickly, kissing him softly and giving Jack a quick, tight embrace. They always knew every day might be the last time they saw each other. She'd be damned if she was going to forget that and take this moment for granted. "You're coming back to me," Laura said into his ear as she finally let go.

      Her husband winked at her. He knew she hated when he feigned bravado. "I always am," he said softly, reassuring the bond between them once more. "Always." With that, Mrs. O'Shea nodded and walked backwards, letting Jack get back to work. O'Shea threw the door open and stormed into the room, inspired and filled with purpose once more.

      "Saddle up, Minutemen!" The voice boomed in the room as the scuffling of feet jumping to attention could be heard from outside. "Fine day for a drive!"

      The two ODSTs had been stalking the group through the streets for three hundred meters before they suddenly took cover in a small warehouse by the water. The nearly demolished monstrosity looked like an antique, the steel siding didn't have the saline-repellant paint coating, didn't have the automated door systems, in all respects, the dock warehouse was a relic. The ODSTs noted it as soon as they peeked around the doorframe.

      "This is perfect!" A voice cried out from deep within the darkness.

      "No rats..." Another voice said as there was the loud sound of falling crates.

      "And a sea view!" A female piped up from another corner. The Lance Corporal did a quick mental count, and spoke silently through his helmet to his commanding officer through their encrypted COM network.

      "I count twelve," he said, his voice crystal clear over their sophisticated connection.

      "I confirm," The voice of his Sergeant sounded in his ears. "They appear unarmed. Warehouse is too dark inside. Take a quick threat assessment, keep to the shadows. Activate light amplification."

      The Lance Corporal clicked his radio twice to signal that he understood, then blinked in a pattern. The shadows, shades, and pitch black corners of the spacious warehouse then turned to a series of grays and greens, while his HUD displayed each heat signal in the warehouse as a red shape. The threat indicator on his faceshield, detecting the metal and hardened plastic of two pistols, highlighted the weapons in an orange trim. The weapons remained clipped to the belts of two men in the group that seemed to be preoccupied with exploring the seaside warehouse.

      "Threat." The Lance Corporal announced. "Two pistols, M6C. Designate priority."

      "Copy," The Sergeant replied. "I'm on the right, you stay on the left. Flash and clear. This room is too big for it to hurt them permanently, and until we're sure they're friendly, we've got a mission to complete. Deploy flash on my mark." The lower ranking ODST immediately yanked a cylindrical, sleek gray flash-bang grenade from a pouch on this chest and held it in both hands. He risked a peek around the large doorway and sighted on the two pistol bearing men. His partner was on the opposite side of the doorway, taking in the same scene.

      "Mark." The Lance Corporal ripped the pin away from the device and hurled the grenade in a half sidearm, half overhead toss that bounced the grenade three meters from the targets with weapons.

      "Hey, what the fuck--?" A man cried out, and a tremendous bang sounded as the room was briefly awash with light. The two ODSTs came flying around their corners, Battle Rifles up and threat indicators scanning for new dangers. On their faceshields, the slightly blurry red shapes moved about in frenzied confusion, some bumping into each other in their disoriented status. Both troopers covered the twenty meter distance a little less than three and a half seconds. With force, both troopers snuck behind the men and expertly kicked out at the back of their knees with adrenaline-aided force. The pistol-wielding refugees fell to the ground in a heap, both crying out in surprise and immediate pain. As the effect of the grenade began to wear off, the grimy civilians focused their eyes to try and take back the advantage. They would find no advantage, only the gleaming, polished, black barrel of an ODST's Battle Rifle.

      "Oh God, oh G-God!" One of the men stammered. The two pistols were yanked from the men and were underfoot in seconds.

      "Freeze!" The Sergeant barked, sweeping his weapon across the warehouse as the Lance Corporal covered him. "On the ground, now!" The Lance Corporal loved his partner's "Intimidation voice." The other men in their squad had joked that it could domesticate a wolf in under thirty seconds, and make even the most confident of foes literally piss themselves.

      Works like a fuckin' charm, the Lance Corporal chuckled in his mind. The other ten people, dressed in a wide assortment of patched and dirty clothes, both civilian and military, were on their knees with their hands behind their heads.

      "I think they've heard this before." The Lance mused via COM.

      "I intend to ask why."

      The ten Minutemen raced through the underground tunnels as fast as they could, passing red lights that served as the only in the tube-like, claustrophobic access way. The intricate network of sewer tunnels, maintenance access ways, and improvised underground pathways could have led the team to the
Quincy dock area, but they simply didn't have enough time. Therefore, Captain Jack O'Shea had decided on a course of action that they had not done is a very, very long time. Jack could sense the excitement of the younger with him; young soldiers who had never encountered the thrill of speed and danger they were about to embark on. He could almost hear the thought of the Private First Class running alongside him, thinking We're really gonna do it, we're really gonna do it...

      O'Shea didn't have time to try guess the young man's thoughts, however. His mind was occupied trying to make out the latest intelligence from the surveillance room. Lam's voice was beginning to succumb to static as the squad moved deeper and deeper into the bowels of Boston.

      "...Strangest thing, sir...-ovies have backed of-...like they sense a thr-" the COM was losing strength, and fast. Jack pushed the receiver deeper into his ear and stopped his advance for a minute, straining to understand the words one more time before he lost the link for good.

      "Repeat that one more time, Lam. As few words as possible." He ordered. The COM crackled and fizzled, then Jack could discern a final few seconds of clarity. Hung was talking fast.

      "Hunting party giving space, like they're spooked, or saw something." That was the last O'Shea was going to hear from South Station for some time. He jerked his head forward in delivering a quick curse word, then ran the short distance to catch up with the fading footfalls of the squad.

      They skid to a collective stop in front of a gleaming stainless steel door. O'Shea glanced behind him to see that all nine Minutemen were accounted for, and he took a brief look down the concrete tunnel that was lit intermittently by the shielded red lights. Some were beginning to falter, creating a disturbing strobe-like effect in the long darkness, but that was least of his concerns right now. Jack looked around the group. "We ready?" He asked with authority.

      "Yes, sir!" The group replied in unison.

      "Huah," The Captain answered, and placed his hand on a sleek rectangular pad by the door. A blue light glowed brightly for two seconds, then disappeared as the stainless steel door separated down the middle and parted for the squad, moving on greased and silent tracks. As the Minutemen looked past the oblong doorway, all they could see was blackness, as if another solid wall stood beyond the first door. They stared at an infinite expanse of pitch black until they heard the gentle of humming of a generator and the satisfying sounds of many large overhead florescent lights switching on. One by one the gigantic lights flashed on, one after another in a long row, illuminating a large cavernous garage. Before the Minutemen were three rows of wheeled vehicles, Warthogs, ATVs, and civilian automobiles. O'Shea could have sworn he heard a small gasp from the young man beside him.

      "This," the Private First Class breathed, "is the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

      "Note to the PFC:" Gus Reynolds noted as he visually inspected the garage, "get laid."

      "What is this place, Captain?" Another young voice inquired.

      "Used to be the main garage for Boston Police." Jack stated as he took the first steps into the motor pool. "We added a couple 'Hogs and managed to pinch a Lynx from the old UNSC post; we couldn't salvage the whole mechanized supply, though. So we make do with what we have."

      "We always do," Gus Reynolds confirmed with a nod, "and we do it well. Hustle up, ladies! These crates ain't gonna drive themselves."

      The squad now hustled down a small iron staircase to the garage level, where all nine Minutemen made for the row of gleaming, pristine Warthogs. Though they hadn't been driven in nearly a year, refugees with special clearance had earned the job of maintaining the minuscule mechanized infantry. They had not disappointed their protectors. The chain guns that pointed down at the decks of the Warthogs gleamed with a malicious polish, and behind them in neatly stacked crates were drums of ammunition.

      Beside two Warthogs was the slightly larger and higher M858A Lynx Light Transport Vehicle. The cockpit of the armored personnel carrier sat three operators, a driver, weapons system officer, and a commander in the center of the cockpit. A large, 20mm autocannon sat perched above and slightly behind the cockpit, where it could be controlled by the weapons system officer or manually handled by a gunner in the rear troop bay. The rear 12.7 mm machine gun had been stripped to add speed to the Lynx, and had been placed back in the South Station camp as part of a fixed defensive position. The troop bay held sixteen, perfect for the upcoming mission, and all three of the light vehicles were painted in drab grays and blacks like the Minutemen uniforms.

      The militia had been broken up into three teams while on the way to the garage, and the two passenger-seat navigators stuck by O'Shea's side as the gunners ran with the drivers to load the 12.7 mm armor piercing rounds into the intimidating Warthog guns. Gus Reynolds and the Lynx's weapons officer retrieved large drums of the 20mm autocannon ammunition for the larger ground transport. There were a few shouted commands which echoed harmlessly off the heavily armored and insulated garage walls, and the clinking of ammo belts could be heard being threaded through well-oiled chain guns. The militia, while never actually having used the vehicles' weapons before, had trained in preparation drills on loading the sizeable guns.

      Jack meanwhile took the two navigators and unfolded a large map on the hood of the Lynx. As his right hand traced a route from the garage to the docks, his left began inputting points into a data pad. O'Shea looked up for one second as he noted how quickly and efficiently his boys were moving. He smiled to himself for a brief second. The organized chaos was comforting, in a way.

      "Move it, I want to be peeling out in two mikes!" He shouted as his voice echoed in the garage, and a chorus of "huahs" came in reply. The Captain finally finished inputting the points into his data pad and displayed it to the other two navigators. They produced their thin black devices and held them in the general vicinity of the Captain's. Two button presses later, O'Shea's device had transmitted all relevant material to the other two via wireless connection. The two Minutemen then ran to their Warthogs and jumped in the passenger seats, one yelling, "Shotgun!" as he jumped in.

      O'Shea threw open the front left door and slid into the uncomfortable center seat behind the weapons officer, who was starting up his weapons diagnostics and testing the fourteen smoke grenade launchers that bristled from the sides of the carrier. "Autocannon online," O'Shea heard the WSO announce. "The big girl's all yours, master guns, sir. Switching to manual now."

      "How we doin', Gus?" Jack asked into his COM.

      "I am now behind the controls of a very large autocannon, Captain, the very nature of which device is to put twenty millimeters of anti-alien at the rate of four hundred and twenty rounds a minute into as many of the enemy as I can sustain," came a gruff, yet joyful voice. "You may record my mood as 'very motherfucking optimistic'."

      Jack nodded in satisfaction at the laughs that came from around the garage. Reynolds had opened his COM to the whole team, it seemed. The Captain mentally approved of the motivational tactic. On his command display, he saw acknowledgement lights winking from all members of the team. O'Shea would be in charge the fast-moving rescue operation, and he intended to bring each soldier those lights represented back home alive. He opened a squad-wide channel. "All right, listen up, Minutemen." He said in his most serious voice. "No fucking around here. We haul ass to the waypoint and grab those refugees, willing or no. You all have four restraints with your gear. If these refugees give you shit, do not, I repeat, do not hesitate to restrain them and throw them in the Lynx. The longer we stick around, the better chance we get dead. In and out. That is all, I am calling this mission a go. Can I get a 'huah'?"

      Jack wished he had taken out his earpiece before he said that. The resounding, adrenaline-pumped response left his right ear ringing. The Minutemen response was followed with the roar and subsequent rumbling of engines being activated. The garage immediately smelled of gasoline fumes and the faint tingle of ionized air from power cores being spun up.

      "Russ, you've got point, designate your Warthog Whiskey-one. Suppressing fire once we reach the docks." An acknowledgement light winked blue on the screen by Jack's left hand. "Sam, you've got the rear guard. Designate your Warthog Whiskey-two. Cover the extraction, then you're on point back to base. Designate my Lynx Lima-one." Another blinking light. Both navigators understood.

      "Fire 'em up, Minutemen!" Gus Reynolds yelled over the din as he fastened protective goggles over his eyes. "For Boston!"

      A large titanium garage door lowered down into the floor as the three vehicles sped out into the morning. As they left, the door went back into the ceiling and the lights all clicked off, one by one. Only the vague hint of gasoline fumes indicated that anything had been there at all.

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 4
Date: 30 August 2005, 4:11 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter Four

ONI Signal Intelligence Center
United North American Protectorate
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Late Morning

      Ethereal gray smoke wafted toward the pitch-black ceiling in a curling, sensuous trail of odor and transparency. As it continued its dissipation into the already hazy recycled air of the office, the cigarette smoke was shoved aside by an exhaled breath of the addicting tobacco. The muted electric reds and greens in the background briefly took on the amorphous nature of the smoke as Commander Thomas Young felt his nerves begin to settle once more. It was weakness, he knew, but even in these trying times of war he allowed a moment of weakness. He reminded himself of that fact once more for good measure. In his particular position, he identified with the smoke. He wished to become one with its fleeting, nearly invisible form. He pushed the thoughts from his mind just as quickly as he withdrew the burning cigarette from his lips.

      Thomas Young was not patient, and he was certainly not forgiving. He stamped out the tobacco and reviewed the new wrinkle in his plan yet again. He had been completely certain that the evacuated city of Boston had been just that, evacuated, but the current situation did not seem to suggest that was true. A team of Marines had gone into the city to support a fire team that did not exist on any UNSC database, and that fictional fire team did not belong to his ONI, either. Boston now held two things that were making his assignment a living Hell: civilians and Covenant. The Covenant were easy enough to deal with. A large nuclear bomb courtesy of the late Admiral Matthew Cronin would wipe the city clean, but the presence of civilians, especially civilians acting in a proficient military capacity, worried him.

      Young had wrestled with similar issues before, and he had still chosen to push the button, yet a voice in his head—instinct, intuition, whatever it was he wanted to call it—told him this was different. If those civilians had been in the city since the evacuation, then they had nearly unrestricted access to any and all installations in the city, including…did the damn thing even exist? If it does, I'm a hero. If it doesn't, I'm a murderer. Thomas racked his sturdy and well-trained mind, and found himself surprised as his vision blurred with the strain. The ONI Commander had a sudden moment of panic as he tried to convince himself that these moments of limitation were fabrications of his mind, just another meaningless piece of subterfuge he himself was creating.

      As Thomas often did when he felt a problem getting too complicated, he fell back on the simplest indications of right and wrong: hard numbers and simple calculations. With a wave of his weathered hand, a series of holograms appeared in air, scrolled by his bloodshot, flashing gray eyes. The numbers seemed to go by too fast, the data accumulating far too suddenly than he could comprehend. This does not happen to ONI Commanders! This won't fucking happen to me! In a sudden burst of uncharacteristic rage, he swept his arm violently across his desk, wiping it clean of anything not bolted down. What the hell is wrong with you, Commander? He berated himself as he struggled to regain control. He was losing focus and dangerously close to losing his hold on a mission that would undoubtedly change the course of the war. How dare you, Thomas. This is bigger than yourself.

Evacuated city of Boston
Late morning

      Bright blue eyes blinked twice in the late morning sun behind the cold metal and glass of an Oracle scope. A brisk autumn wind whistled through the concealed location, causing a brief shiver to warm the rest of the eyes' body. The precise instrument of observation sat perched above a coil of black climbing rope as its owner scrutinized the position below it, a brief curse word emanating from his lips in near-silent exultation. Hundreds of yards away from him, Grunts sat in a circle and wandered about aimlessly. Two Shade turrets pointed at the dying grass of a University's quad, in obvious need of repair. Oddly domed, tent-like structures squatted in neat rows, their Elite occupiers growling from within. The entire scene suggested the enemy was completely sure of their security, which could not have placed them in greater peril. The small Covenant encampment was too enticing for Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons to pass up.

      The snipers' position was difficult to reach indeed, and Parsons gave thanks that the large, red letters that read "Hyatt," along the side of the hotel had not been completely destroyed. Otherwise, they would have never gained their magnificent view of the town of Cambridge, Massachusetts. From the towering position high above the Charles River, Ron barely moved his scope to fully take in the brain trust of the United North American Protectorate. Cambridge was home to both Harvard University and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, the alma mater of Daniel Shaw, co-creator of the Slipspace translight engines the UNSC was putting to use. Those facts, and the rich histories of both storied institutions, were now nothing more than print and whispers; university traditions had evaporated with the ivy walls as soon as the Covenant landed, and the end was still not in sight. The Staff Sergeant smiled to himself as he sighted the encampment, knowing in a few seconds his spotter, still technically a student of Harvard, would realize what was going on. Ron smiled in satisfaction as his partner synced with Parsons' line of sight and uttered a strong curse word.

      "Oh no way," Sergeant Tim McManus breathed. "We are not about to do what I know you're planning on doing."

      "Do you see a better target at this point, McManus?"

      The buzzed, brown haired sniper took a mental picture of the sight hundreds of yards away. The Covenant had guessed that the high walls, gates, and bombed-out buildings surrounding Harvard Yard would be ample protection from attack. Indeed, the wide open space was ideal for temporary encampment, and taking the Yard by ground force would have been nothing short of insane. But Parsons didn't care about re-taking the Yard. He was only thinking of confusion and sudden attack. No warning, no hesitation. No mercy. The ensuing confusion would divert most of the Covenant forces to Harvard, thus taking the pressure of their Captain, who was performing a rescue operation near Boston Harbor.

      Ron stayed silent within his thoughts until his partner made a brief count and assessment. "Two patrols of Grunts, three plasma mortars, two shade plasma turrets under construction, and what looks to be a clutch of Elite tents or living quarters." McManus sighed in resignation. Another home bombed for our survival. How the hell are we gonna live in this city if we ever actually win this war? "No, Ron," he said, "I don't see a better target."

      "Then it's decided," the sniper said behind the powerful telescope. "We paint the target and mortar strike your alma mater."

      Tim chambered the first round of his S2-AM sniper rifle and pulled out his field radio. "I really wish you weren't enjoying this."

      Parsons shrugged and glanced at McManus. "Whatever takes the focus off the Captain."

      "That wasn't a 'No.'"

      Captain Jack O'Shea found himself tightening the straps of his helmet after the unforgiving metal began to bump roughly against his head. The Lynx transport vehicle was having a hard time with the rough urban terrain, and the occupants were feeling every jolt along the way. The Captain realized after a few short minutes that two years out of a proper vehicle had made him intolerant of the bumps and jostles that urban military transport created even in the most normal of combat patrols. And the fact that the Lynx was faster, but also heavier, than the lead and support Warthogs, made the jaunt to the harbor all the more uncomfortable.

      "Coming up on the docks in two minutes," Private First Class Russ Chevelle called over the COM.

      "Lima-one copies," O'Shea replied, glancing at his city scans, the holographic maps giving him an accurate view of the route ahead. The Captain squinted into the distance, knowing full well that machines could fail him and his men at any moment. He concentrated on quickly refocusing his attention on the devastated city landscape that was passing by so quickly. In an instant, Jack knew, a pair of Hunters could appear and end his mission prematurely, as well as leaving a weary, hard working wife with nothing but an empty train car. Jack pushed those thoughts from his mind as fast as he could. The blurs of bent and broken street signs and advertisements for trivial products were all that consumed his attention now. Every shadow was a threat, every misshapen piece of rubble was a possible Covenant mine, and every second not back in the safety of their camp was a death wish. The towering city of Boston could not have been more threatening.

      After two minutes' time, the shadows, howling winds, and groaning ruins of the former high-rise office buildings dropped away, revealing nothing but toppled warehouses, abandoned fueling stations, and obliterated docks, their wooden planks breaching the Atlantic ocean in jagged spikes. It was absolutely glorious. A brisk wind was blowing in from off shore, tingling O'Shea's nostrils with salty air. The day's sunlight, absent from the South Station camp and all but banished from Boston's inner city, overwhelmed every militiaman, even drawing raised eyebrows from the most seasoned veterans in the team. In the bright daylight, Jack was struck with the awesome majesty of the ocean, even as he realized how easily the small convoy would be able to be seen from the city. They were inviting the Covenant to follow them, but he had little choice. With any luck, his Minutemen would be able to create a diversion.

      Even among the bumps and jostling of the vehicle, the Captain managed to find his throat mike. He opened the COM with a chirp.

      "Recon, status."

      The COM crackled with static for an instant. "This is Staff Sergeant Parsons. We are eyes-on Covenant encampment within the old Harvard Yard. Estimate position is platoon-sized with anti-infantry stationary guns. Request permission to mortar."

      "Permission granted, recon. Relay coordinates and fire at will."

      Fear was a powerful tool. Those who were not able to harness its power often found themselves paralyzed by it, unable to react to situations and dangers that placed their very lives in jeopardy. Ten refugees had done just that, and had paid the price of their inaction with their liberty. They were now prisoners of two hardened Orbital Drop Shock Troopers.

      Organizing the refugees had been easy. In less than two minutes, both Special Operations soldiers had bound the civilians in improvised restraints made of the migrants' own clothing. All ten of the worn down travelers were now on their knees, hands behind their backs, facing out in a circle. Their position made widespread communication nearly impossible, and all potential troublemakers could be easily identified by the minimum number of guards. But the ODSTs weren't interested in the troublemakers; they wanted to find and question the leader.

      The Staff Sergeant pointed at one woman, a long dark scar running along the left side of her face. Of the entire group, she had been the only one to stand her ground when the soldiers had entered the warehouse with a powerful flashbang, making the refugees fall to the floor nearly blubbering in fear. She had simply stared right at the troopers as they forced her to her knees and restrained her. She was courageous and brave, the Staff Sergeant noted. She was an early suspect as the brains of the operation. "You," He said forcefully, his voice amplified and grave as it boomed out of his helmet, "you lead this group?"

      The woman nodded, eyes on the floor, curly red hair beginning to obscure her face. "I do."

      Bingo. Tell me what I want to know. "How long have you been in this city?"

      The voice was quiet, hardly above a whisper. The woman sounded defeated. "We just arrived."

      "Where did you come from?"

      "Many places."

      The ODST took a menacing step forward, his two footfalls echoing in malice as the sounds died in the expanse of the warehouse. The woman still stared resolutely at the ground as the towering soldier looked down on her. His voice could have frozen fire. "I want a better answer."

      The refugee leader finally raised her head to look her captor in the faceshield. With a short, stubborn exhalation of breath a few red strands puffed up and away from the refugee leader's eyes. The green eyes flashed with anger, but they only met their own reflection in the trooper's faceshield. "Most of us come from Lexington, others were found along the way."

      The Staff Sergeant nodded, confident the woman was telling the truth. But even though it was the truth, it did not explain the reason for their presence. He pressed further.

      "Why come to Boston? This is an evacuated, Covenant-occupied city. Why risk your lives to come here?"

      Before the red-haired leader could reply a small, angry voice behind her spoke up. "The Minutemen."

      Both troopers wheeled on the voice. Apparently the refugees did not prefer to see their leader questioned. "The who?"

      "Shut the fuck up, Mike!" Another voice chided, but it was too late. The Staff Sergeant had crossed the distance and taken the man out from the circle, placing him alone in the middle of the warehouse. The refugees could only look on as their comrade was placed ten feet from them. It was a striking picture: a tattered and worn traveler, restrained by his own clothes, kneeling, his head hanging low in front of an immensely powerful and intimidating soldier dressed entirely in blacks and grays. The sunlight reflecting off the sea entered the warehouse and backlit the two figures as a second interrogation commenced.

      "Who are the Minutemen?"

      The refugee, Mike, slowly raised his head and silently stared up at the bigger soldier in defiance. The stare was returned with the back of an armored glove, spraying a fine mist of blood across the floor as the refugee's face snapped to the left. The body dropped clumsily to the floor, leaving Mike groaning in pain and spitting out several teeth. Several refugees jerked forward as if to rush the interrogator, only to be deterred by the Lance Corporal leveling his Battle Rifle in their direction and shaking his head slowly. The other black-clad warrior proceeded to pick up the civilian, blood trickling from his mouth.

      "You delay my mission any longer and I'll leave you hanging from a light pole for the Jackals to play with. Now who are the Minutemen, and where do I find them?"

      Before the man could manage a reply, sensors in both soldiers' helmets sounded a warning tone. Motion trackers had picked up a signal outside the warehouse. The Staff Sergeant risked a glance at his subordinate.

      "Fast-moving contacts, vehicles, three of them." The Lance Corporal identified, moving quickly for the large steel doors. The lower-ranked ODST peeked his head around a corner for an instant before reporting. "Two Warthogs and a…wow, a Lynx. Two standard 'Hog chain guns, one twenty mike-mike autocannon. They can pin us down pretty easy, Sergeant." The Lance Corporal closed the large doors as quickly and as silently as possible, activating his light amplification as he did so. Only a thin sliver of yellow light now streaked across the wide warehouse floor.

      The Sergeant almost chuckled as he saw the bloody refugee's face light up with hope. "Took them longer than a minute," he noted coldly as he checked his ammunition counter. The ranking soldier keyed his silent communications link within his helmet. "If they're after these refugees, let's give 'em their refugees."

      The Lance Corporal nodded as he seized a young man by his upper arm, hoisting him off the ground. The ODST's right hand ripped open a Velcro pocket and withdrew a roll of heavy-duty tape as he tossed the traveler back to the ground.

      The three drab gray all-terrain vehicles zipped past salt-encrusted structures, each buildings' façade a whitish gray from two years of brine and neglect. A faint odor of salt, steel, and squandered fish entered the nostrils of each militaman as they sped by the dockyards; their eyes constantly moving, constantly scanning a region that afforded them little room to maneuver. They were out in broad daylight with the sea to their right. The Minutemen realized this rescue mission did not allow for optimal evasion tactics, causing each soldier to hear a small voice speaking nagging worries into their minds. The Sun continued its inexorable journey through the sky, reflecting brightly off the structures and hindering the Minutemen's vision into the warehouses. O'Shea swore to himself under his breath.

      "Last camera readings had them in this warehouse cluster, sir," the surveillance technician informed him via COM. The holographic map in front of Jack now displayed a bright green dot on the wire mesh building displays. "They'll probably give off a good heat signature."

      "Not at this time of day," Jack said, his eyes boring holes in the three warehouses that stood squat, side by side. "Heat from the sun will radiate off those metal walls; fuck up our sensors."

      "So we do it the old fashioned way," Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds noted from behind the Lynx's autocannon. "Great."

      The line of militia cars broke formation fifty meters from the dockside structures. The lead Warthog skid to a fishtailed stop in front of the first warehouse as its gunner swiveled precisely to cover the doorway. Once the vehicle came to a stop the passenger and driver leaped out of their seats, Battle Rifle and M90 Shotgun out and sighted into the darkness. The approach on foot took three seconds and they waited an additional second to stack on the left corner of the doorway. With a nod, both Minutemen pivoted to the left and switched on their tactical flashlights. The gunner squinted into the empty black space as he prepared to let lead fly into whatever might try to get the jump on his comrades. He saw none, and two seconds later he heard confirmation via COM.

      "This is Whiskey-one, Chevelle reporting. Structure one clear."

      "Roger, Chevelle," O'Shea acknowledged. "This is Lima-one. Coming up on structure two. Come to us and cover our ass."

      "Huah," Russ replied, and shifted his weight to the left. The standing platform responded to the change in weight and turned counter-clockwise from the warehouse. The Private First Class now faced the path from which he came and wondered how long it would take the aliens to arrive. He prayed for a few extra minutes, but he knew full well that when it came to the Covenant, God never liked answering his prayers. The young volunteer squinted from behind weathered sunglasses and strained to see a few meters farther. "C'mon, c'mon," he whispered into the wind.

      The Harvard football stadium, or what was left of it, had been constructed in a Coliseum design; its open bowl shape was framed by massive stone arches that, while not completely imposing, towered over the surrounding athletic facilities. While Harvard Stadium has drawn comparisons to the Roman Coliseum, it now bore more of a resemblance to the ancient Circus Maximus, due to an entire section of the wall that had been completely decimated in the Boston National Guard's last stand. Having been defeated all over the city and realizing all avenues of retreat and escape had been effectively cut off, the head of the National Guard had mustered all his forces for one final trap of the Covenant forces. After drawing the legions of alien invaders to the structure, the General had blown out the entire east end zone of the stadium, launching debris and Covenant bodies as far as the Charles River. Sadly, it had not been enough. The wave of escaping troops met only the inexorable tidal wave of Covenant reinforcements, the Grunt troops hurling themselves at the humans in droves. Not a single human survived, but their massacre had not been in vain.

      The resulting carnage had been tremendous, the ground soaked to the bedrock in human and Covenant blood, the drab gray stone of the enormous stadium stained as a witness to slaughter, the unimaginable terror of war. Even the bloodthirsty Covenant had refrained from attempting to clean, or even burn, the site. The Minutemen had taken full advantage. Every place the Covenant refused to tread the Boston militia made their sanctuary. Now the dismal grass that had once been brown, dry, and crackling at best was replaced by sea of bleached white skeletons of every species. The vultures themselves had tired of this place. The Minutemen Mortar Team had not.

      The Minutemen Mortar Team had bragged on numerous occasions that, given they were within the maximum distance of their equipment, they were the only division of the militia that could actually effectively function within sixty seconds. On the fifty-yard line of the stadium, a single human skeleton lay in a grotesque pose as if it was a discarded puppet, its puppeteer bored and dismissive. The mass of bones shuddered for a moment, then rose up slightly from the ground. Finally the heap of white lifted into the air and slid down a short slide, the hatch built into the ground having moved the corpse aside. Gloved hands then appeared in the daylight, followed by an urban-camouflaged body and five escorts. Having been given the coordinates ahead of time, the team wasted none of it as they prepared two base plates, two firing tubes, two D&E mechanisms, and several shells each. The leader, Lance Corporal Brian Kellogg, withdrew his data pad and mirrored sunglasses from his tactical vest. He inspected both tubes for a brief second and placed his hand to his forehead to shield the sun, despite the sunglasses. He wore the aviator-style eyewear for effect, giving him a cool and collected feeling. Other Minutemen thought he looked like a jackass.

      Kellogg stared into the sunny beyond, his view unobstructed due to the absence of an eastern wall. "Recon, this is Mortar team-alpha. We are aboveground."

      "Mortar-alpha, this is recon." the hushed reply came. "Adjust fire, over."

      Kellogg nodded in reply and briefly looked over the preparations. Small stacks of artillery shells waited to be loaded onto cannon tubes, the ammunition men waiting in expectation to hand their rounds to the assistant gunners, who would in turn fire the weapons. Each man was lightly armed and even less armored, trusting their survival to speedy infiltration and exfiltration. "Recon, Mortar team-alpha. Adjust fire out."

      "Grid 339-179, enemy platoon in the Yard, over."

      Kellogg repeated the sniper's words and was met with a hasty, "Fire when ready, over." I am ready, the young man from Braintree, Massachusetts thought. I'm ready to rain down hell on those fucking bastards, get away before they know where it came from, and tell the story over beers in two hours. Who says militia life ain't fun? The Lance Corporal watched as each assistant gunner stood poised with the high explosive round in their hands over the tubes. Brian smiled out the corner of his mouth and made a chopping motion toward the University. In a slight Boston accent, the still air was broken with his single word.

      "Fiah."

      Jack O'Shea, like any good soldier, had a healthy sense of fear. He had never been one of the green rookies who always complained about having a bad feeling, but he knew how to manage experience and instinct. As the veteran commander of the Minutemen approached the salt encrusted façade of structure-two, both Jack's experience and instinct were telling him that he had much to fear. He knew little of the interior and knew less about the intentions of the refugees he was coming to "rescue." The fact that Covenant were hot on their heels did not ease the tension of the situation, either. The warehouse doors were slightly ajar, but there was no way the Captain could get a clear look inside.

      Directly to his right, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds kept his MA5B Assault Rifle leveled at the door. The rubber-soled combat boots made soft contact with the ground on each separate step, each foot coming down on one edge and then carefully transferring the weight so each stride was silent. The two Minutemen stacked at the edge of the left door, and O'Shea hesitantly peeked in. "No visual," Jack breathed, "I can't see in."

      At the conclusion of the Captain's sentence, the faint high pitched tone of a Warthog fusion engine reached the two veterans' ears, causing Reynolds to turn. Whiskey-one had arrived, rolling to a quiet stop near the doors. Both the Lynx's autocannon and the Warthog's chain gun were pointed at the structure in silent, menacing poses, their shiny surfaces glinting in the sunlight. In seconds, the driver and passenger of Whiskey-one deployed and stacked on the other side of the door. The warehouse door had swung in by about a foot, but each militiaman realized they would have to open the door further to gain access, not to mention performing a sweep in the dark. Jack switched on his attached tactical light almost as an afterthought. O'Shea and Whiskey-one's leader exchanged hand signals for a moment, concluding with Jack volunteering to move in first.

      In an instant, Jack shouldered the door open by two more feet, creating more precious sunlight as his Battle Rifle scanned the room. Room clearing always got Jack's blood pumping; O'Shea could not think of an assignment more fraught with peril. Without grenades, enemies could hide anywhere; and if the room was big enough they could wait until their heart's content to send O'Shea to his maker. That was why, refugees or not, Jack was not taking this lightly. Boston had dealt with raiders masquerading as refugees before, and with Covenant on their heels, O'Shea did not have time to mess around. The searching beam of light only found large cardboard and steel cargo boxes, each stenciled in white letters and numbers. There was nothing here but huge crates, a corrugated tin roof, a high surrounding catwalk, and—

      "Contacts, look like refugees, restrained, center floor." Gus Reynolds announced via COM. Jack now wheeled to his left and faced the center of the warehouse. In the middle of the cavernous, wide-open space, ten refugees were kneeling in circle, bound and gagged by their own clothes and heavy-duty tape. The warehouse doors were now wide open, flooding the floor of the structure with light and making the ten travelers shy away from the brightness, awkwardly attempting to shield themselves with shoulders and bent necks. Others looked to O'Shea and attempted to speak through their tape. Their muffled voices sounded urgent and scared, and their eyes were wide open in fear. Alarms immediately began to ring in Jack's head before he even fully analyzed the situation.

      O'Shea had clumsily placed himself directly in the vehicles' fields of fire. If he moved, he put the refugees in peril; refugees that had been deliberately left there in that way. The Minutemen had been trapped, pinned down without a shot being fired. To further add to the imminent danger they were now in, the four Minutemen inside the space jerked their heads up as a steely cold voice commanded from the catwalk above, "Freeze! Drop your weapons!" A second voice shouted the same command from the darkness above and behind them. With his unseen enemies shrouded in darkness, O'Shea could not tell how many threats were in the building.

      The voice came again, though this time it seemed to come from a completely different area. "Drop your weapons now or we will fire!"

      "Motherfuckers!" A young Minuteman exclaimed.

      "Worse," Gus Reynolds replied, as his assault rifle jerked back and forth between splotches of darkness. "Helljumpers."

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 5
Date: 21 June 2006, 3:03 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter Five

Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Late Morning

      Fear was a tool, panic was a death sentence. At present Captain Jack O'Shea, the leader of the Minutemen, Boston's underground militia, was standing in an abandoned warehouse. While he tried to piece together the present, his thoughts immediately went back to his UNSC training on Reach years ago. He remembered his instructors had taken their time hammering lessons into his open mind one expletive at a time. "Are you receiving me, boy? Obtain the advantage! Assess the situation! You will fucking capitalize on it every fucking time! If you do not, you will be fucked! Your squad will be fucked! And I will personally be disgusted to write a fucking letter of condolence to your fucking wife and fucking kids, provided your maggot self lives that long! Now answer me, private! Will you allow yourself to be fucked?"

      O'Shea, as well as his Minutemen teammates, were exactly that.

      "I will say this one more time: put your weapons on the deck or you will be fired upon!" The wind moved with a quick swish and the light rustle of nylon fabric as four rifles shifted toward the bodiless voice's new point of origin. The steely sound of authority came from the darkness above and across from the Captain and the three other militia members. There was no way to see the threatening figure in the giant cavernous space of the dockside warehouse. O'Shea doubted it was only one man, as the voice came from more than one location, and even though he could not see his enemy, Jack knew this foe could not possibly move from end to end that fast. A metal catwalk ringed the floor over twenty feet above the militia and captive refugees. There was nowhere the Minutemen could take cover.

      The Captain found his mind divided, and he could not stand it. To open fire across empty space toward a target they could not see was futile, but to do as their enemy commanded was probably suicide. And the refugees they sought to protect would probably be next. Jack had seconds, what he wanted was hours. These were the times the Captain hated being in command.

      "Cap," Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds said under his breath to get his commanding officer's attention. In his head, O'Shea berated his old friend and fellow officer for even thinking that Jack was not completely dialed into the situation. Jack took stock of his surroundings one more time. In front of him were nearly a dozen civilians, bound with tape and shreds of their own clothing. Without a doubt, they were refugees, and it was a duty of the Minutemen to take in those looking for shelter and aid. Jack's rescue mission was even more important when the Boston militia realized the refugees were being hunted by Covenant. Now, inexplicably, Jack's small team was trapped in an ambush by an unknown hostile force. Not just any hostile force, O'Shea told himself, a really freaking good one. The Captain wondered how much help two Warthogs and a Lynx transport would be against their opponents.

      O'Shea let the information from the last few minutes filter for another half second, then made up his mind. Buy time, Jack calmly instructed himself. Slowly he took his hands off of his BR-55 Battle Rifle. Jack could feel the eyes of his small team boring into the side of his helmet. With a very short, stern nod, Jack silently commanded his squad to follow suit. Slowly, the three other militiamen did the same, taking their hands off their weapons, unslinging them, and placing them on the floor.

      "Secondary weapons as well." the voice commanded, now coming from a completely different position.

      "Multiple hostiles," a young Minuteman whispered as he knelt down to put his sidearm on the floor.

      "No shit," another soldier replied as he removed the pistol from his thigh holster, "I'll make sure they put that on your tombstone."

      "Identify yourselves." The cold, hard, grim noise came again, each syllable enunciated clearly with a touch of malice. Jack turned to face the voice as best he could, putting all his authority into his next statement.

      "My name is Captain Jack O'Shea. I command this group, which also includes heavy support outside this warehouse. If your intentions are hostile, you won't leave this dock alive."

      "I sincerely doubt that." The Minutemen were shocked to realize the voice was now coming from the ground floor, no more than thirty feet into the shadows. It took all of their discipline not to retreat a step backwards as the enemy finally revealed himself, easily six feet tall, his black helmet and faceshield reflecting their images back at them. A clean black Battle Rifle, immaculately kept, was pressed against his right shoulder, sights aligned, O'Shea guessed, to put a three-round burst right below Jack's left eye.

      Jack quickly observed from the uniform that the soldier was a Sergeant. The man in front of the Captain was a living, breathing, rifle-toting recruitment poster. In the pinnacle of physical shape, this soldier was everything the UNSC wanted. The soldier was an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. As the Helljumper took slow, deliberate steps forward, it dawned on O'Shea that he was now a target of humanity's very best. For the first time in years, Jack fought back the urge to gulp in fear.

      Gus Reynolds found beads of cold sweat forming under his helmet. His mind raced, and even though he knew he should have been concentrating on how to get out of the warehouse alive, he found his thoughts racing but focusing on the city. A Helljumper in Boston. They're sent for a reason. They know people are here. They know Covenant are here. This city is going to be an irradiated parking lot in a few days.

      Reynolds recalled the briefing his Captain had given him earlier in the day. How an old Admiral named Matthew Cronin had given authority to the UNSC to use nuclear bombardment of a human city if it was Covenant controlled. Even if significant numbers of civilians were still inside. Boston had survived because the UNSC did not know about the mass of Covenant that had been swarming within the once-bustling seaport. Now the cream of the UNSC's crop had all the intel they needed. In Gus' mind, the Minutemen and the city they had sworn to protect was a giant, pulsing bulls-eye. The Orbital Drop Shock Trooper's voice derailed Reynolds' train of thought.

      "How many men are outside?" The Trooper asked.

      "Enough to surround the compound." O'Shea replied evenly.

      "Unlikely. Give me a number."

      "I can't do that." Jack shook his head to emphasize his point, but it was not well received.

      "Yes, you can. And yes, you will." A second Helljumper, a Lance Corporal, was now diagonally across Jack's left side, weapon pointed at the back of a refugee's head. The pair of special operations soldiers were playing an expert game: they knew which of the Minutemen's buttons to press and when to press them. O'Shea was uncomfortable with putting his team at risk, but he knew he could not bear being responsible for the death of a refugee. The Captain was frantically looking for any kind of escape, and he nearly missed it when the opportunity presented itself.

      What Jack saw was the Lance Corporal allowing his gaze to shift from the present mission at hand to the sunshine of the outside world. Jack guessed that the quick look outside was one of concern. Special operations soldiers did not last this long without knowing their surroundings. They had to know the Covenant were in the area and closing in. O'Shea, out of options by now, was ready to bet his life on it.

      "We can assist," Jack said, making sure his eyes, tone, and body language all remaining neutral, nearly passive. "But we need to get these refugees out of harm's way. There are enemies hunting them that you will not see until it's far too late." O'Shea was certain the ODSTs had seen some of the Covenant presence in the city, but there was no way of knowing if they were aware of the hunting party that was tracking the refugees.

      As O'Shea finished his statement, a sharp tone sounded in his right ear. After a short squak and burst of static, the voice of a Warthog gunner came over the COM. "Proximity warning. Covenant on long-range sensors."

      "Covenant are inbound on this position." O'Shea said, gesturing toward the city.

      "We've got them on ours, too." The Sergeant's voice was eerie coming out of his helmet with no discernable expression behind it. Jack wondered exactly how long the ODSTs had known the Covenant were approaching.

      "We've got to get the refugees out of here." Gus Reynolds piped up from behind O'Shea.

      "Negative," The Sergeant replied. "They're not part of our objectives."

      "Saving humanity is part of your fucking objectives!" A refugee said, duct tape dangling from one corner of his bleeding mouth. The ODST Lance Corporal responded with the butt of his rifle, smashing it into the side of the man's head. The refugee, on his knees already, did not have far to fall, violently jerking to the floor, left shoulder crashing to the ground and followed closely by his head. O'Shea fought the urge to pick up a weapon.

      "Touch another one of those innocent civilians and you won't leave this building," Jack said. "We will help you to the best of our abilities, but if you don't respect our mission, we won't respect yours." Jack was about to continue before a curious tone sounded in his right ear. It was unlike any of the COM transmissions he had received, this one was a rising tone that lasted a full second. O'Shea did not have to take time to recognize the voice that followed. The ODST Sergeant had somehow established what appeared to be a private link.

      "Out of expediency you will provide transport out, and we will provide assistance in the refugee extraction. However, if you try to fuck with myself or my team, I will fuck you worse and harder. Nod if you understand."

      Jack looked into the large soldier's reflective faceshield and nodded once. The nod in return was imperceptible to anyone not in on the private communication.

      "Stand down, Lance Corporal." The Sergeant's helmet moved slightly toward his partner as expert hands flicked off the safety and squeezed the polished black Battle Rifle into his right shoulder. "Take point while the militia handles those refugees. Wheels moving in one mike."

      Jack grabbed his weapon off the brine-encrusted floor and was on his way to the refugees before the Lance could finish his "Yes, sir." He ran in a fast trot to the circle of refugees, turning on this throat mic as well. "All units, this is O'Shea. Prep for immediate evac. I want detailed holographic in my vehicle before our wheels start spinning. Lima-one, prep for twelve passengers."

      Moving the weary bones of the ragged travelers was harder than O'Shea remembered. The four Minutemen made long gaps all the way to the waiting gray Lynx Transport vehicle, passing each hobbling, discombobulated refugee along until all were loaded. By the entrance to the warehouse, the two ODSTs crouched with one knee on the ground, weapons pointed to the right of the wide steel doors and focused down the long line of piers to the main Boston inroads. Jack grabbed the last refugee by the back of the collar and half-carried the man to the back of the large transport vehicle that was idling between two Warthogs. The other three Minutemen ran out of the building as if a bomb were about to explode.

      As the last two militiamen cleared the building, the urban-camouflaged troopers took notice and flanked the running Minutemen. As the Minutemen broke left and took up station in the driver's and passenger's seats in the trailing 'Hog, the ODSTs leaped into the back carrier compartment of the Lynx. The fusion engines whined to life as the convoy nearly squealed out of the warehouses toward Boston. The ODSTs trained their weapons out of the open rear of the Lynx, the longer, heavier vehicle rocking slightly as it gained speed.

      Gus Reynolds squinted into the distance from behind the Lynx's Autocannon. He was the only exposed Minuteman in the vehicle, but while he was wary of his own personal peril, he cared more about the three light-armored transports being ambushed. He listened in over the COM as the Minutemen's central command gave instructions.

      "Covenant troop movement advancing too quickly for main road extraction." The cool, calm, and collected voice instructed from deep within Boston. "Recommend secondary evasion. Use the alleyways, convoy."

      "Have you ever tried to drive a Lynx through a fucking alley?" The Lynx driver asked over the COM. "Sir, we've never tried that before...not even in simulation!" The outburst was only met with O'Shea's response to command.

      "How long until the Covenant are on our location?" Jack asked as he studied the holographic map in front of him. The Captain ignored the driver's incredulous look from the front left of the Lynx and the Weapons Officer's head shaking from the front right.

      "About one minute." O'Shea wished he could grow wings.

      "If we don't get to the alleys in time," Gus yelled over the din of rushing air into his COM, "the Covies will be all over this convoy!"

      "Then we better break some traffic laws!" Jack yelled back, trying to mask his fear with bravado. His palms had already become sweaty and he found himself wiping them on his trousers to calm himself. Old rubber skid across older pavement as the armored vehicles took a sharp right, bringing giant, smoking, shattered buildings into view. To Jack O'Shea, they were gargantuan tombstones, memorials to millions who had been lost in the invasion. The Captain once again found himself removing his helmet and running a hand through his short brown and gray hair. For a moment, his eyes fell upon a small photograph of his wife, beautiful blonde hair radiant in a Boston sunset. He angrily pushed the thought from his mind and focused on keeping his men alive. Another moment of distraction like that would keep them from their homes forever.

      Laura O'Shea was paralyzed. Many of the women who were wives and girlfriends of the Minutemen were used to bouts of grief and anxiety which only added to the stress of living underground for nearly all hours of the day. This was different. Laura could not move. Not one finger would answer the orders of her brain. The only message relayed back to her was one of dread and despair.

      He is going to die.

      He is going to die and you will be left alone.

      Beads of sweat formed and quickly fell down her forehead, moist reminders that she could not taste at the moment. The only sense that obeyed was sight, and her eyes could see her co-worker, Rachel Lynch, running her side.

      "Laura, are you all right?"

      He is going to die. You know he is going to die.

      "Laura?"

      Blackness crept across the edge Laura's vision. Laura O'Shea had always held a quiet air of bravery and courage as the Minutemen Captain's wife, a pillar of strength and resolve. That pillar was now made of sand and crumbling against ocean waves.

      "Laura, answer me!"

      O'Shea now experienced a new sensation. She felt air rushing past her face; she saw the ground coming up to greet her. Both were welcome respites from the premonitions she knew were true. A scream, a single word was all she heard.

      "Laura!"

      He is going to die and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 6
Date: 13 July 2006, 3:24 pm

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter Six

Harvard University
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Noon

      Raglap did not want to die. Unfortunately, at this exact moment he felt his fate was out of his control. The junior-grade Grunt was late with yet another status report, this one detailing the equipment losses for the catastrophic engagement the day before. It was due at least three cycles ago, and Raglap knew that Gra 'Talsamee, his Sangheli leader, would not be merciful again. This was the third time he was late with a report. Rarely did an Unggoy live past one mistake.

      Small, short legs propelled the Grunt with all speed through the open space of the wretched human University. The young soldier had not been one of the first to take the city, but he remembered that the school had been designated as one of the primary sites to control. The short, stout alien had not been there when the human city fell. Rarely did an Unggoy fight through a lengthy battle and survive. Of course, some officers were both very skilled and very lucky, and they were treated with the highest respect by their peers. Raglap reminded himself once again that the Sangheli were not his peers.

      His unit had been charged with holding the human learning centers since their capture, and such a relatively easy assignment had been sweet music to the junior Grunt's tiny ears. He relished menial tasks and stayed away from combat as much as he could; a far cry from his Elite leaders' desire to wade waist-deep into "glorious" battle. Raglap had seen battle, and there was nothing glorious about it. With a methane-recycled sigh, the analyst Grunt slowly remembered that, combat or not, 'Talsamee would most likely execute him as a public display of discipline.

      The steady, regulated hiss of his Methane rebreather was calming as possible as he counted off each row of Sangheil tents. Each white dome structure was collapsible and thin, but it was surprisingly effective against the elements. With another few seconds to reflect on his condition, Raglap wondered why his exalted leaders got such wonderful housing and his comrades were forced to sleep outside night after weather-filled night.

      There, He thought with a suppressed sigh. Gra's dwelling. Plasma pistol drawn and field intelligence report pad in hand, Raglap debated the merits of ending his own existence to rob his commander of the chance. Just as soon as the thought entered his simple mind, the Grunt took another breath of the sublime life-giving Methane and the suicidal thoughts left his brain.

      Only a few feet from the tent, the yellow-armored foot soldier glanced once more at the intelligence report and thought of the one he was still working on: how a patrol group was missing as of this morning in an area that had been growing more treacherous over time. The command group's leaders had been mapping the "Human rhombus" region for some time, and the area of operation was growing more definite by the day. Perhaps if the good news were delivered with the bad, it would save him from death.

      But it was not an Elite officer that would end the Grunt's life.

      Raglap had always thought that he would hear the approach of a human mortar. He had listened to tales around the food nipple, and each small soldier was certain one could hear a high noise fade into a low boom and scurry to safety in time. No such luck.

      All that registered in the terrified Grunt's mind was a streak of gray that intersected directly with the top of Gra 'Talsamee's tent. The white structure was never designed to repel anything harder than hail, so the entire tent collapsed inside itself as the mortar round pierced the shell, exploding with ferocious energy.

      The force of the high explosive ordnance propelled jagged bits of Elite armor, body parts, and soggy chunks of turf over a wide range. The last things Raglap saw before he bled out over the quad of Harvard University were two more successful impacts on an Elite tent and a Shade gun turret, throwing the once sleepy temporary camp into utter Covenant chaos.

      Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons pumped a black gloved fist from behind his tactical binoculars. "Target," he announced over the COM, allowing himself to convey some professional enthusiasm. "Fire for effect, over."

      The reply over the COM was crisp and equally enthusiastic. "Fire for effect, out."

      Upon the completion of the sentence another volley of gray mortar rounds arced high over the scout snipers' heads. To Parsons' right, his partner Corporal Tim McManus stared through the sights of his modified S2-AM sniper rifle. The ghillie suited sniper began searching out stragglers that looked as if they might survive the initial assault. The sharp brown eyes of McManus flitted ever so slightly over the landscape, eventually settling on a mark outside of Harvard University's famous gated yard.

      "Contact," The Corporal stated, left hand reaching away from his bipod-steadied rifle to operate this throat mike, "Elite red officer operating device, forty yards north to target. Appears to be Covenant mortar tracking device. Request permission to fire."

      The scout/sniper Minuteman team had been designed to work seamlessly with the Minuteman Mortar Team as efficient forward operators. As the stealthy eyes ahead of the mortars, the snipers had two important duties. The first was to provide accurate and fast intelligence on mortar attacks, and the second was keep the mortar team from being discovered for as long as possible.

      As the Minutemen had been using more and more mortar attacks on the Covenant, and escaping into the urban jungle, they had noticed that Covenant officers were getting better and better at setting up accurate trackers of the distinctive sound signatures and trajectories of the human's mobile "pocket artillery."

      Parsons did not hesitate. "We picked this location for a reason, buddy. Hold fire, wait for my command."

      The sniper team had positioned itself perfectly for the operation. Not only did Parsons have a straight line of sight into the yard, but in the event McManus had to fire, the round would pass by at least five buildings that would have been excellent firing positions as well. The sound of the round would be masked by the conflicting echoes smashing up against each other, and the partners were well hidden. McManus was concealed underneath an urban ghillie suit and Ron was safely tucked underneath a black tarp and behind strategically placed bricks. The observing Staff Sergeant took his time and waited as the mortar team launched their next wave.

       "Shot over," came the call over the COM. Parsons could feel McManus' body relax as he anticipated the next report. The team had just reported their incoming volley. It was a matter of seconds now.

       "Splash over," The Mortar officer reported. Five seconds to target.
      "Splash out." Parsons responded. Two seconds passed, and the Staff Sergeant immediately gave the fire count to the Corporal. In a slow, steady voice, Ron spoke every second. "Fire. Fire. Fire..."

       The shot ripped out of the powerful rifle and immediately broke the sound barrier, making a tremendous amount of noise. At the same instant, a high-explosive shell collided with the ground hundreds of yards away, masking the bullet's announcement effectively enough that when chunks of the Elite officer's head landed on the pavement, the Covenant around the body had no earthly idea how it had happened. Tim McManus only blinked twice to clear his vision as Parsons recorded the kill.

      "Recon, Mortar team Alpha. Tubes are dry, leaving the area."

      The blond haired observer nodded as he brought his binoculars from his eyes and rolled onto his back. "Mortar team, Recon. Copy tubes are dry, we're gone as well. See you back at the ranch."

      "Homeward bound. Buy you a beer, Staff Sergeant."

      "It's gonna be two tonight, Kellogg." Parsons statement was met by a short exclamation of a laugh and the chirp of the COM closing. Silently the two sharpshooters attached climbing cables and readied themselves to extract without a trace. Ron keyed his COM and called into the Boston militia's central command as his partner was disassembling the rifle in a cross-legged position. "Command, Recon. Mortar strike a success, heading back to camp now. Hope that was enough distraction for the Cap."

Copley Square
Evacuated City of Boston
Noon

      Captain Jack O'Shea could feel his eyes straining in their sockets, yearning to catch his unseen enemy so his convoy might have one more precious second to escape intact. O'Shea was a patient man, but his current station between two Warthogs and quickly coming up to skinny city alleys made him claustrophobic. Adrenaline pumped through his veins with every new beat of his powerful heart, heightening his senses to the point where he could smell each sweaty refugee crammed in behind him in the Lynx's troop bay. Each frightened sniffle, every last creak on the sturdy plastic and metal seats, the last wisps of sea air, these minute details lasted an eternity in Jack's mind.

      O'Shea cursed aloud at the miserable view he had ahead of him. The lead Warthog was doing its best, swerving only so slightly, the young gunner pivoting left to right and constantly scanning the rooftops of abandoned townhouses and brownstones. Jack hastily opened a channel to the lead 'Hog and reprimanded the gunner for losing focus.

      "Private, keep your eyes on the street. Master Guns has your top cover, you just keep us from being lit up by IEDs and FRCs."

      The Captain mentally rebuked himself after the lead gunner gave a stammering "Yes, sir." Come on, Jack, O'Shea told himself, how is that kid supposed to stay sharp when I'm on his ass?

      Each of the three vehicles in the convoy made smart right turns as they entered Boston's urban sprawl. Before the militia had been ambushed by ODSTs and realized the Covenant were hot on their tail, the mood had been nearly carefree. Now as the bright sunshine of Boston's main port warmed their backs the gloomy shade of the city fell over them like a tidal wave of despair crashing to the pavement.

      Each Minuteman could feel themselves tense up. The constant commotion of the sea gave way to the haunting sounds of a city's dying breaths. The militia that prided itself on stealth was now having a parade in the center of a Covenant occupied city. And the worst part, Jack knew, is that we don't have a fucking choice.

      None of the Minutemen had said a free word in the time they had loaded up into the transports, and the stress was beginning to make the air thick with dread. O'Shea looked down and found that the data pad he was using was shaking slightly due to his hand gripping it so hard. He forced himself to separate the device from himself and went back to boring holes into the windshield with his eyes. Nothing. Still nothing. Please, dear God, keep it that way.

      The mood in the back of the Lynx was no less tense, but the two black-clad Orbital Drop Shock Troopers were more than used to deathly silence. It was a part of their mystery, part of their legend. How could mortal men show no emotion and act with such professionalism and composure as their comrades were cut down all around them? The Sergeant quietly thanked his reflective faceshield. Not being able to see an ODST's face made all the difference.

      At the moment, however, the Sergeant's face was not showing the wide eyes of fear; his brow was furrowed, consternation and concentration broadcast only for him to know. With a slight flick of his left wrist, he opened up a private channel with his partner, a Lance Corporal.

      "Lance Corporal, I want you to prepare for transmission to the Office of Naval Intelligence."

      His partner's reply from the other side of the Lynx's troop carrier bay was quick and quizzical. "Sir?"

      "ASAP, son."

      "Sir, with respect, we are only supposed to transmit upon obtaining the objective and for extraction."

      "There's a substantial hostile presence in this area, along with militia irregulars fighting those hostiles. I think our superiors will see this wrinkle as substantial enough to report, don't you?"

      The reply was slightly hesitant and briefly drew the CO's irate curiosity. "Aye...sir."

      The ODSTs brought with them the very best military training the UNSC had to give the human race. State of the art body armor, fully upgraded weapons, constant real-time battlefield intelligence, and private security channels ensured that they would be the premier fighting force and their communication would always be secure.

      What they could not cover, though, was the subtle body language every human gave away when communicating precious secrets to another. The intimate act always closed the distance between two, either literally, figuratively, or both, and this slight joining movement drew Jack O'Shea's eye even as his convoy was heading into mortal danger.

      The Captain knew when he took the responsibility of protecting the population of Boston that he would be spread thin and hard pressed in many occasions. But this time, O'Shea was terrified that losing his focus would either lose him the city or his and convoy's life. He had no doubt that the pair of elite soldiers were on a sensitive mission from the highest ranks, and the thought of what they might be there for was chilling.

      Jack knew the danger Boston had always been in. Anytime the UNSC saw fit, if they suspected there was a large enough Covenant presence in the city, Boston would be reduced to irradiated rubble along with its sizable refugee population. The only thing that had saved their hides was the military's write-off of the city. O'Shea's former employers thought the city was absolutely deserted, a worthless and evacuated region.

      A few days ago two units of Marines had discovered the truth, but they and their Pelicans had been destroyed by the Covenant, save one Marine in the Minutemen's ICU. It was hard to imagine Orbital Drop Shock Troopers would suffer the same fate. Jack was no fool; no one was foolish enough to get in over their heads with the occupying aliens, but if there was any group that could survive the current predicament, it was those two silent men in the back of his Lynx.

      With as much speed as he could muster, Jack dashed off a message to the center of the South Station refugee camp, where his technical expert would be the city's only chance at keeping their secret from the outside world...at least for a while longer.

      CONVOY: Lam. O'Shea. Suppress all outgoing UNSC transmissions.

      Specialist Hung Lam squinted at the message curiously for a moment, then sipped his coffee with a little more vigor. His dark surroundings melted around him as he focused on one particular bright screen where the message blinked below a feed showing the convoy's progress. He set down the ceramic mug and his hands flew across the keyboard.

      STATION: DIFFICULT.

      CONVOY: Explain.

      STATION: UNSC Transmits on Ultra-Low Frequency (ULF). Cannot suppress. Possible to delay and reroute.

      CONVOY: Result?

      STATION: Destination of transmission will never receive.

      CONVOY: Acceptable. Make it so.

      STATION: Copy. Heads up Cap. you're entering Newbury Street.

      The Captain closed the messaging window of the data pad and glanced up. He could tell simply by looking at the stone-set images of determination that his convoy had started in on Newbury Street. On both sides, rows of boutiques and high-end shops stretched for blocks. Those same shops that boasted wares in pristine and glittering displays of every color now looked like horribly abused pinatas, their walls disfigured and contents ruined over months of harsh sunlight.

      In the old days, Boston's Newbury Street had been the destination of the city's upper classes to shop; to be see and be seen. In Boston's days of glory and sunshine, exposure was the key to success. These days, the only way to succeed was to have the consistency of vapor.

      "Picking up movement," the Lynx weapons officer announced warily, his voice trying valiantly to stay steady and strong. The Warthog at the head of the convoy announced the same.

      "Short range sensors giving off a bad tone, sir," The lead 'Hog passenger said. "Still negative for FRCs."

      O'Shea was about to respond with instructions when the air was shattered with the rhythmic beat of a 12.7 millimeter chain gun.

      "Contact. Contact!" Jack looked down at the communications display to see that it was the gunner of the lead Warthog that had transmitted the call. Stress lines, already deeply creasing the Captain's face, etched even deeper into the flesh as he lifted his head to take in the sight. The gunner's helmet was shaking back and forth ever so slightly as streaks of tracer rounds flew toward an alley ahead of the convoy. Phosphorescent blood spouted and sprayed across the street as a large clutch of Grunts tried to take position in the street and fire.

      The bodies only succeeded in becoming speed bumps as they stumbled to their deaths, still bleeding as the humans ran over their bodies at ever-increasing speed. Any kind of order that O'Shea thought was maintained was going down the tubes. At this point, all he or any of the Minutemen could do was rely on training and instinct.

      Another hail of gunfire opened up, this time from the Lynx. "Contact high! Lima-one engaging!" Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds bellowed, trying to be heard over the sound of his center-mounted autocannon. "Whiskey-one! Keep fire low! Whiskey-two, cover my ass!" From the sides of of the Lynx, six of the fourteen grenade launchers controlled by the weapons officers belched forth smoke grenades, trying desperately to mask their passage through the dangerous throughway.

      Private First Class Russ Chevelle was sweating as he tried to see through the acrid smoke. Plumes of gray made curtains on each side of the street, keeping him hidden from his enemies but also robbing him a solid visual as well. At the end of Newbury he knew they could easily evade the Covenant by splitting up and taking any number of alleyways that snaked through the city. Some had secret garages that could engulf a vehicle without so much as a sound. In a few seconds, the car and its occupants would be another piece of the city.

      Chevelle tightened his grip around the trigger of his 12.7mm chain gun and tried to keep focused. As the gunner of the last Warthog in the convoy, it was his job to "mop up" all Covenant resistance that the Master Guns or lead Warthog left, or to cover them if they had too many targets to engage. For the young Minuteman, it was too much for him to bear.

      How the fuck am I supposed to do this? The Private First Class thought, his frightened eyes twitching at every movement ahead. From his position, he could see into the Lynx's open troop bay, where the two ODSTs were sitting on the last seats, weapons at the ready, staring into the space behind him. Or perhaps they were staring at him, and were only pointing their weapons to distract him. As Russ' terrified mind tried to get over the intense pressure and intimidation he felt, he forgot to follow his most basic gunner training. He forgot to constantly scan the road. The momentary mistake, born of an instant's distraction and rookie nerves, cost the Private First Class his life.

      A shrill tone sounded in Chevelle's ear as his threat radar sprang to life. Oh no. In his immediate vicinity, the distinctive energy signature of a Fuel Rod Cannon had been detected, and to his horror, the Minuteman could not find out where. Then, in one second, it was clear. As the Captain's Lynx transport vehicle, the middle transport in the convoy, passed a single alleyway, two Grunts hopped from out of the smoke. They looked confused, but at the sight of the humans, they suddenly snapped to and took aim at Russ' Warthog.

      The driver, to his credit, must have heard the same tone as the three-passenger machine swerved to the right to evade the fire. All Russ could manage to do was reflexively clutch his hand around the trigger as if it were a rope bridge that kept him from plunging to his doom. As the heavy rounds escaped the barrels of the gun and impacted harmlessly short of their target, two words escaped the militiaman's lips.

      "C-Contact! FRC!"

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 7
Date: 20 July 2006, 4:14 pm

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 7
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Noon

      Months upon months of advanced technology training, and he still never got used to the shriek of the threat indicator. The ODST Lance Corporal's head jerked to the left as he heard the shrill tone jump to life in his left ear. At the same time, the all-hands COM announcement from the rear Warthog focused his view on the doomed gunner. Nearly thirty rounds left the gun, all of them hitting harmlessly short of two Grunts wielding Fuel Rod Cannons. The convoy was moving at a nearly absurd thirty miles and hour, and for an instant the Lance thought the two radioactive projectiles would miss the 'Hog.

      The first one sailed wide right of the vehicle, it's green afterglow trailing behind it in the smoky haze, but the second hit straight and true. One minute, the militiaman, no older than eighteen, was there. Then in a flash of lime light and unbearable heat, he was gone. The Warthog bucked upwards for a minute, swerving left and right as if trying to throw an invisible force from the top of its frame, then slowed considerably as the COM became almost incoherent with traffic.

      "FRC! FRC! Where'd that fucking come from?"

      "--iskey-two taking enemy fire!"

      "Hostile contact high! Smoke deployed!"

      "... covering f-fire! Tokarz, on that gun!"

      "Whiskey-one, status."

      "Can't see a bleedin' thing in this smoke!"

      "--karz, get on that goddamn gun!"

      "Not if you fucking paid me!"

      The Lance Corporal did not hesitate. The convoy as a whole had slowed considerably and sprayed the vicinity with projectiles, but somehow the Grunts on the side of the street had still survived. In one motion, the Lance grabbed a handhold on the right side of the Lynx and vaulted from the vehicle, bringing his Battle Rifle to bear as he landed.

      The force of the transport's progress and his small jump forced him to an awkward knee, but he soon found exactly what he was looking for. Even as the wind changed and began to completely obscure the area with white and gray clouds, the Lance's sophisticated targeting software in his helmet guided him almost immediately to the direction of incoming fire.

      The two Grunts, top heavy with their large weapons, were beginning to ready themselves for another strike. The emerald glow of the anti-vehicle rounds radiated light around them and made the small aliens beacons for fire. Finding his bearings almost immediately, the special operations soldier brought his rifle to his shoulder and took dead aim. Years of training went into moments like these, ensuring a steady hand and trusting the fate of others to the one man who had either the courage or madness to put himself in his position.

      The sights moved fluidly from left to right, the calm and sure trigger finger squeezing a three round burst directly into the center of one Grunt's forehead. The subsequent pull caused a bright blue mist to eject from all angles from the head of the second alien. Both Covenant dropped to the ground heavily, as if an invisible hand had pushed straight down from the sky.

      "FRCs neutralized," the ODST stated coldly, "moving to take rear gunner position."

      The ODST Sergeant did not have time to protest as the subordinate ran for Whiskey-two, now a smoking sitting duck in the middle of the bare gray street. By some miracle, the round had struck the body of the gunner only and left most of the vehicle relatively unscathed. The rear weapon's controls were still smoking, but the heavy, high-tech material in the Trooper's gloves kept the searing heat from affecting this flesh. Before they continued on, the Warthog driver tried to make a brief plea.

      "We can't just leave Chevelle's body in the street!" He yelled over the COM.

      "We'll be joining him if we don't punch it." Captain O'Shea replied. "Keep moving and stay alive. We can't afford another stop."

      "But...yes, sir."

      The flurry of enemy activity disappeared just as soon as it had arrived. Intelligence streamed to Jack's data pad indicated that twelve hostiles had engaged the convoy. Of those twelve, ten had been fired upon, and six were confirmed kills. As the lead Warthog broke off from Newbury street to the labyrinth of alleyways and hidden tunnels, a brief sense of relief washed over O'Shea. The Lynx pulled his body to the left as it took a sharp right and all the refugees grabbed onto something as the vehicle increased speed. They were in the clear.

      The hated rooftops and open spaces of Boston's wealthier districts gave way to sweet, life-giving darkness as the walls of ruined townhouses and apartment buildings closed in around them. What was a claustrophobic man's nightmare was Captain O'Shea's idea of Paradise. The hidden tunnel to the Boston Police garage opened silently and took both the Lynx and damaged Warthog into safety. With a barely disguised sigh of relief, Jack unstrapped his helmet and dropped it to his lap. A weary right hand came up to his throat and opened a squad-wide channel on the COM.

      "Lima-one, all clear." The driver and weapons officer slid heavily out of their drab gray doors and hit the smooth garage floor as lightly as they could manage. The Captain exited through the passenger door and looked toward the back of the troop carrier. Tired, haggard-looking refugees were being taken out of the Lynx one by one and made to sit in three rows on the ground. The harsh overhead lighting of the garage made their dirt-caked features even more striking, their eyes stinging and faces tear-streaked from the smoke grenades. The leader of the Boston militia could feel a pang of sorrow for the ordeal that those travelers had gone through. Who knew what hardships they had endured, what losses they had suffered, to make it to a city that Jack could only call the lesser evil.

      The "all clear" call from the trailing Warthog had been academic; O'Shea could see that the vehicle had made it back safely, and he was only satisfied when a worn-out voice slowly stated "Whiskey-one...all clear," as the final reply.

      "Copy all clear," The Captain stated with fatigue. "Station, be advised we are twelve heavy and sustained one casualty." Despite the rigid, all-business tone that Jack had used to address the men awaiting the team's call, O'Shea truly felt the weight of the city on his flak jacket covered shoulders. There was no escaping this pain; there was no easy way of walking to yet another tent to yet another family to tell them yet again that yet another good man had died in what was looking like a hopeless insurgency. He had once been told many years ago by his commanding officer that he would get used to it, that the pain of loss and the dull ache gnawing inside would lessen over time. That man was a goddamn liar.

      He wiped it from his mind as quickly as he could. As badly as he felt about having to give tragic news to the Private First Class' kin, the sight of two armed Orbital Drop Shock Troopers caused Jack to quickly prioritize. Walking to the rear of the Lynx, he pulled Gus Reynolds aside from the Master Gunnery Sergeant's task of preparing the refugees for underground living.

      "Gus, a word.." O'Shea said softly, making sure the two were close enough to not be overheard.

      "All ears, Cap." Reynolds dark brown forehead formed wrinkles of concern and expectation as his tilted his head forward.

      "I know it's S.O.P for me to address the refugees and get them oriented, but I need you to take the lead. I'm going to make sure our other new guests don't cause a panic."

      Gus remained silent for a moment, glanced over his shoulder, and then spoke slowly. "Jack, I know how this is going to sound, but we know what they're here for. They don't care about those refugees, you saw that. I guarantee you they don't have our best interests in mind."

      "Where are you going with this, Gus?"

      "Think of this city, Jack. Think of your wife. What if we just got rid of them?"

      "Gus, old friend, if I ever hear you say something like that again I'll have you imprisoned. Have I made myself clear?

      Reynolds exhaled sharply out of his nose. "Understood sir."

      O'Shea put a hand on his war buddy's shoulder. "I will protect this city with every inch of my being. Nothing, and I mean nothing will keep me from that duty." Good, Jack thought as the Master Guns returned his look with understanding eyes, I'm getting through to him. "We've survived this long, despite the world's best efforts. I don't intend to stop now." With that, O'Shea turned from his friend and walked toward the best soldiers the UNSC had to offer.

      Both of the special operations soldiers were sitting on large wooden crates, loads marked in black stencil. The Sergeant's helmet was pointed in the direction of the refugees, now being led toward a large stainless steel door, but for all the Captain knew the ODST could have been keeping his eyes trained on Jack the whole time. Their helmets and faceshields still kept their features hidden and therefore undecipherable. The Lance Corporal was cleaning his Battle Rifle with mechanical efficiency, snapping the rifle's bolt back in place just as the Captain stood in front of the pair. Neither looked up from the ammunition crates they were sitting on.

      "I see from your uniforms that you are a Lance Corporal and a Sergeant," O'Shea said matter-of-factly, "as ODSTs I'm sure you're the cream of the crop, but in this city I am the ranking officer."

      "You're not UNSC," the Sergeant replied, his helmet moving slightly to align with Jack's face. Hands that had once been resting on the Sergeant's armored thighs now crossed over his chest. Even when sitting the man was an intimidating physical specimen, "and as such we do not recognize your authority."

      O'Shea was tempted to roll his eyes. He stared off and to the right of the Troopers, fixing his gaze on a refueling pump about twenty feet away. "I don't have time for a pissing contest." Jack looked back at the men. "We're on the same side, and we have the capability to support your mission. You can accept our help, or not. I doubt your orders told you this city was Covenant-occupied."

      "This fucking world is Covenant-occupied," the Lance Corporal retorted, "why should this city be any different?"

       O'Shea was relieved to see the Sergeant suddenly face the subordinate in what could only have been a silent rebuke of the outburst. At least one of them was keeping a cool head. The Sergeant spoke again.

      "All we need is some intelligence on the area," the helmet moved up and down slightly, "and we'll be out of your hair. You won't even know we were here."

      "That's the problem," The Captain said as he motioned for the men to follow him. To his relief, they stood and walked with him toward the tunnels leading to South Station. "My men do know you're here. That creates a problem that I would wish to speak with you alone. Let myself and my staff support you in secret, and we can make some progress on winning this war. Your commanders have left this city for dead for quite some time, and we're comfortable with being left alone. I can make temporary amends in exchange for your name. You do have a name, right, Sergeant?"

      For a few seconds, the only noise in the garage was the organized clatter of Minutemen working on the damaged Warthog in the corner, and the gentle swish of cloth and nylon over metal projectiles, grenades, and body armor. The Sergeant seemed to be considering the merits of his next action. After what seemed to be an eternity, the relative silence was broken with, "Todd. The Lance is Sam."

      Thank God. That's one barrier down."Eric, the people I protect are living in the only place they feel somewhat safe in. Your presence here will worry them at best; I fear it will panic them. As long as our city remains safe, I will help you in any way we can."

      The Sergeant nodded. "Our mission, plain and simple, is to win this war. I don't see how panicking civilians accomplishes that objective."

      The glaring omission of keeping the civilians safe registered in the Captain's mind, but for the first time in over an hour, O'Shea began to feel that the proverbial ticking time bomb would be defused. He nodded continued to walk toward the thick steel doors. As they reached the doors, Jack put his palm on a small blue screen and the doors opened wide to a concrete tunnel lit by small red bulbs.

      "Sergeant," O'Shea said with as much a sense of humor as he could conjure, "welcome to Boston." Jack was about to continue with proper introductions when his COM chirped.

      "Jack, Reynolds." The Captain could sense a worried, anxious tone in his friend's voice over the COM.

      "What is it, Gus?" Jack asked, glancing slightly toward the ODSTs.

      "Sir...it's Laura..."

      The Helljumpers' personnel scanners beeped a tone, indicating the militia Captain's heart rate skyrocketed.

ONI Signal Intelligence Station
Location Classified


      It was only a matter of time. A shaky yet powerful hand held on to the crystal tumbler for dear life as the clear vessel made its way to dry lips, allowing the amber liquid to flow over the tongue and burn the throat. With what could best be described as a dry gasp, the glass was placed heavily back down on the desk, the dregs of the expensive imported liquor leaving translucent traces along the sides.

      Commander Thomas Young was not himself. The commanding officer of his ONI post had been the prime example of everything the Office of Naval Intelligence wanted. Sharp uniform, fresh and presentable at all times, agile mind, ruthless, and absolutely determined to save humanity. That determination was what had kept him awake for nearly two days straight. That determination was what had led him to his private bar alone in his office for the first time in years. The Commander felt sleep weighing heavily on him as his AI, Bismark, appeared at the head of his desk.

      "Mein Kommander," the small, rotund man said in a slight Bavarian accent. Young wheeled around from his bar several feet away and stared at his assistant.

      "What news, Bismark?"

      "You wanted to be informed when the team's mission time has exceeded simulations."

      "The simulations have always been ridiculous, just a smokescreen so Sydney would let me execute the operation under a different guise. How can we simulate something that we don't even know the location of?"

      The slightly transparent apparition of data and numbers shifted its "weight" from foot to foot. In reality, Bismark was moving titanic amounts of data through his infinitely capable protocols, attempting to find the solution for his master's now erratic behavior. Bio scans showed a high body temperature, elevated heart rate, and higher blood pressure despite the increased blood/alcohol levels. The artificial intelligence chose his words carefully.

      "Commander Young, I feel I must remind you that you set the parameters for the operation's simulation. All data retrieved puts the objective within city limits, and it is possible that the higher levels of command will notice that our team is running behind schedule, even if the operation reported is only a ruse."

      "We're being butchered out there, Bismark. They've condoned the elimination of inhabited cities. They're not looking at Boston."

      "I am not alarmed by the team's delay in satisfying their objectives, but perhaps it would be prudent to consider...other options."

      The clinking of glass on glass stopped. The spotless black dress uniform shifted ever so slightly as Thomas looked over his shoulder. He locked eyes with his AI, and the ONI officer's mind began to move in several directions at once. "You're not telling me something," Young said warily.

      The AI's small eyes quickly looked down and to the left, then returned to his master's gaze. "I was not sure what to make of it at first, sir, and I doubted its relevancy, but given the delay...there has been a development."

      "Continue."

      "A ULF web was put over the city of Boston, Commander, unknown origin, but subsequent pings have been...well, for lack of a better word, 'deflected.'"

      "Which means?"

      "Someone or something is keeping all UNSC transmissions from reaching their intended vectors, sir, and the web is quite strong. It will take me some time to break through it."

      Bismark should have seen it coming. The rising pulse, the tensing of the muscles, sometimes the human body broadcast what it was going to do before it actually did it. Therefore the Commander's violent smashing of the crystal tumbler against his conference table was slightly surprising but not overly so. The glitter of shards littered the rich black carpet like a clear starlit night in the middle of the desert. Thomas swept the scene away with a polished dress shoe.

      The ONI station chief's head hung low as his arms supported him over the table. This was the posture of a defeated man. "Even if they find it, we won't know until you break through."

      "Correct."

      I'm out of options. My one moment of victory, the day Thomas Young wins the war for humanity, and a petty militia force robs us of salvation. For that, I will destroy their city...no! What good will that do me? I'm not a monster. There's no advantage to be gained by... The Commander's eyes fell across the haphazard grouping of smashed glass on his carpet. He blinked once. Twice...Two! The first one! With newfound vigor, Young called up a series of holograms, several files flew across the sealed office and after fifteen seconds, Thomas marched straight to his bar and drew up another drink. Bismark automatically scanned each file that had been drawn up instantly and already started to discern the Commander's thoughts. He was truly reaching.

      "The last known...was destroyed on Imbari V." Young whispered.

      "Yes, Commander."

      "But reports from the Valiant Knight stated that it gave off a distinct signal around that the time it was destoryed."

      "That's been debated, sir. The Valiant Knight was going into slipspace at that moment."

      " But they were drawn to it."

      "Yes...Commander."

      Young stabbed a finger toward a slowly spinning hologram of Boston. "If it's there, and I know it is, we may yet win the day. It drew them here, Bismark. It will draw them closer if they know its location."

      "Sir?"

      "Not one strike. Two. One to draw them, another to slaughter them. Bismark, even if we lose this objective, we may still be the heroes we have been destined to be."

      We may destroy an entire city of innocent people, Commander. "We" may be destined to be the worst criminals of the war. Bismark did not have time to slow down the racing mind of Thomas Young. The officer was already running his hands through his thick gray hair; he always did that when he was really thinking.

      "Get me our best analysts, Bismark. I want them prepared to execute Cronin Protocol."

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 8
Date: 28 July 2006, 5:28 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 8

South Station
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Afternoon

      Since the Covenant invasion of Earth, Captain Jack O'Shea had been shot, burned, broken, and beaten. He had lost friends, lost relatives, lost children, and lost a city. In all of that time, Jack had known sorrow and agony that would have broken lesser men many times over. As time passed, he slowly began to make peace with himself. In the time that had passed the Captain told himself that no matter how hard and dark his life would be as leader of Boston's Minutemen, he would never feel agony like the first days that Boston was lost. Jack was wrong.

       There was complete peace in the pristine conditions of the field hospital room. No medical monitor dared disturb the tranquil peace that hung in the sterile air. No intravenous drip would shatter the silence that the man in urban camouflage bore witness to. And no whisper of breath would ever again part the air in front of Laura O'Shea's lips as she lay in the tomb-like quiet deep underground Boston. She lay still, a picture of peace and rest, the color of life having just left her beautiful face.

      Laura O'Shea was dead. And Jack's soul followed soon after.

      The weathered eyes that had taken in more combat action than any other Minuteman closed tightly with pain and shame. The hands that saved countless lives quivered and slipped as they desperately tried to gain purchase on the bedrails before them. The legs that covered ground more treacherous than many men's worst nightmares could no longer carry strength; they failed their master and gave way to gravity. If not for the chair that had been hastily left for the Captain, he would have been found on the floor.

      It was a gripping image to the nurses and workers who passed by the cubicle-like unit, and many had to make conscious efforts to not stand by and watch their leader sink into utter despair. They had seen grief, and each knew that it was a most personal affair, but to those who passed, it was the most heart-breaking process to witness.

      In the dimly lit white of the intensive care unit Laura O'Shea lay in eternal slumber, her soft blonde hair gracefully framing her head and shoulders in an almost regal way. To her right the man who stood for courage, composure, and survival was slumped in a heap of fatigue, his advanced flak jacket open, his helmet on the floor, his head completely buried in his hands. There was no strength in this man. It was as if the will to live had been drained from his body, depositing a limp husk on the metal chair. Next to the very embodiment of serenity sat the picture of unimaginable sorrow.

      This was the end of Captain O'Shea. All that he had fought for, all that he had sacrificed for, was now gone. He knew that most men under his command fought for something, an ideal, survival, the protection of the city, or their loved ones. Jack had loved the city of Boston, but it was far behind his love for his late wife. She was his anchor, and through his devotion to her he had become a leader of men, a leader of a desperate city clinging to life. No more.

      Jack felt a sob begin to build. The last gasps of his duty to the city, his need to be an example, held out. He was ashamed to show weakness. At this moment, he hated his role as head of the Minutemen. He hated the fact that he had survived so much suffering, that he was expected to bear this burden alone. He hated the fact that he was not a man, he was a symbol. Symbols don't break down. They can't see you break down!

      What have they done for me? Given me nothing but anger and fear! Taken my only reason to survive! This place took her from me!

      The doctor's words had been simple and to the point as Jack stood stock-still beside her resting form, but O'Shea was fighting to remember them now.

      "It wasn't a heart attack, Jack. It wasn't any sort of injury. She just...we've seen this once or twice before. The strain is internalized, the stress builds and wears away at the body until...until it can't take it anymore. There wasn't...any...she didn't feel anything, Jack."

      Jack's mind screamed words in a fury his lungs could not. I never asked for this!

      And then, in an instant, Jack knew he could not be in that room any longer. He could not be in that godforsaken underground station any longer. The Captain's anger ran unchecked as his eyes flew from point to point, searching for an outlet for his rage. For a moment, Jack O'Shea fantasized about destroying the entire camp in one broad stroke. In this room, underground, he saw only death; and he prayed to be a part of it.

      As that moment passed, the leader of the Minutemen, the symbol of Boston, turned on his heel and marched out of the room, leaving the love of his life behind. Two attendants, at the wrong place at the wrong time, were thrown to the floor as they accidentally came into O'Shea's warpath. Their instruments clattered to the shiny clean floor and they stared with mouths agape as they realized who had so angrily tossed them aside. Jack hadn't noticed.

South Station
      "Lights to one-quarter," the weary voice commanded. The bright overhead lights of the large room dimmed considerably as the large man appeared to brace himself in the door frame. Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds looked around at the lengthened shadows as they obscured his favorite place in the camp. The Last Line of Defense was Boston's only remaining pub, lovingly constructed as the final touch of the South Station camp. It was the only part of the large underground space that had any kind of warm feeling to it, the rich wood and copper giving the Last Line an intimacy and friendly feeling that was missing from the rows of crowded tents, hollowed-out commuter trains, and field hospital that dominated the former train station. Though was tucked away in a corner, it was always pleasing to any passer-by's eye. To Gus' relief, no one had seen him sneak in.

      The old Minuteman let out a long sigh that sagged his shoulders and led him into the dark space. This was where the dark-skinned soldier had gone to lose himself in work as the city fell, in constructing the one large room that survivors could come to and forget about the fact that their homes and loved ones lay above in smoking rubble. This was where he had worked countless hours with Captain O'Shea, always after a long day of creating Boston's refugee infrastructure. Finally, after hours upon hours of hard work, they had place they could be proud of. For Reynold's it was where he finally banished the memories of his family, each and every one of them slain in the initial attacks. But as The Last Line of Defense was finally built, those memories returned. With that, Gus found himself coping the only way he had left, through those bottles of fiery amber salvation that made his daughters' voices hazy and finally, nothing but a bad dream followed by a hangover.

      Drowning his grief was exactly what Gus was here to do. Exhaustion crept up his legs as tired limbs dragged him across the space, past the high tables ringed with tall chairs, past the counter that ringed the space, past the smiling pictures of Boston in better days, of young men over alien bodies, happiness to be alive written across their features. Today, there was no happiness. There was only a cursory glance through the slits of the shades, a quick flick of the wrist to hide himself from the eyes of the camp, and five strides to get away from this world of death and tragedy.

      The bottle of whiskey, dated several decades back, was sloppily poured over ice in the short glass, spilling some precious liquid on the bar. The veteran cursed softly and wiped it away with a sweep of his sleeve, bringing the glass to his lips at the same time. He gulped it down, begging to feel differently, to forget that his best friend's wife had just died, to wipe from his memory the fact that he did not have the courage to tell him.

      "Jack...it's Laura. She's in the hospital. She...she...you need to get there right away."

      Gus shook his head in disgust. The same man that had faced the Covenant juggernaut and survived was afraid to tell his only living friend the worst news he would ever hear in this life. Fuck me, he thought, I don't deserve to be here. How am I supposed to help these kids when I can't even help my best friend? He stared intently at the bottom of the glass as if the answer to his searching questions could be spelled out in ripples and cubes of frozen water. It was hopeless. Reynolds downed the rest of the glass in one heft of the vessel. Gus could feel the heat of the depressant slosh down to his empty stomach.

      Hastily, the Minuteman grabbed for the bottle again and put it near to the finished drink with a hard clash of glass on wood. He plunged his hand briefly into a container of ice, feeling the shock of cold reach up his arm as two more pieces of ice were pitched into the glass. But as he took up the bottle for his second round, the door to the pub opened. Son of a bitch, I forgot to lock it.

      The Master Guns tried as hard as he could to disguise what he was truly doing to the intruder. He knew it was impossible to hide the fact he was pouring a drink, but he gave it his best effort to make it seem like he was preparing a glass of water instead of aged whiskey. As he saw who came around the door, however, he knew it was futile. Though the man silhouetted in the filtered light of the outside was more slight than Reynolds, Gus knew the shape well and further deduced he had been observed quietly by afar. With an air of resignation, he brought the bottle back up into view from behind the polished oak. "Don't suppose you want a pull of this, Parsons?"

      Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons shook his head sadly and opened his tactical vest, placing it on the bar stool next to him, pulling out a shiny piece of metal, and passing his XO in silence. From behind the bar, the Minuteman's ranking sniper grabbed a shot glass high up above the bar's mirror and placed the gleaming dog tag gently inside of it. Stepping up on a stool, he placed the small memorial next to dozens of others, all dramatically underlit by lights installed within the back wall's shelves. "Russ Chevelle." he said to the clear containers, then glanced at Reynolds, who raised his glass to the rows of dog tags. "I didn't see it happen." Parsons muttered.

      "Young kid," Gus remarked as he shook his head. "Good kid. Hard worker. Was always writing about what was going on in the camp." The Master Guns laughed slightly from his nose. "Said all this would make a hell of a story one day." He slid his tumbler down the oak surface to the Staff Sergeant, offering it to him. Ron quickly slid it back and snatched a pint glass, filling it to the brim with water, and went back around to the front of the bar, separating himself from Gus.

       "Not just yet, Master Guns." The sniper said, running his hand over his short blond hair with his left hand and drinking with his right. "I prefer to shoot straight while on duty." At the completion of his sentence, Parsons put down his glass and looked right into his superior's flashing hazel eyes. Gus snorted at the masked reprimand.

      "Way I see it, Staff Sergeant, I can deal with this shit after we win, or more likely I kick the bucket up there fighting aliens. Personally, I'm more worried about the latter." The bottle poured the intoxicating liquor steadily and finally came to rest between the two soldiers.

      "Your life, sir." Parsons said, leaning backwards, his arms extended to stretch his tired muscles. Satisfied, he took the water in his hands and gestured around the bar with it. "But right now, you're in charge of other people's lives. I can understand you're upset about the Cap--"

      The sniper never got a chance to finish his sentence. In one powerful stroke, the Master Gunnery Sergeant smashed the pint out of Parsons' hands and reached over the bar, grabbing him by the collar and bringing the shocked young Minuteman close to his face. Ron could smell the whiskey on Gus' breath.

      "You think you know real loss, son?" Reynolds' words grated through his set jaw. "You don't know a goddamn thing about losing family. You think because you and McManus wield precision weapons you know responsibility? You've no idea what we go through, what we sacrifice to keep these people alive. And we don't ask for a fucking thing in return!"

      The commanding officer released Parsons with force, dropping the man to the floor in a heap. Not finished, Gus got out from behind the bar and walked purposefully to Ron, crouching down to look into his confused face. "You're a smart kid, I'll give you that. Someday you might even be smart enough to run this camp. But until that day, Parsons, you thank whatever God you believe in that you don't have to go through what the Captain's gone through every day...what I go through every day to keep us on the level."

      Gus Reynolds stood and looked out the window, shades drawn and only surrendering a partial dull dark green glow. "And now Jack doesn't even have that. He's lost everything today. I don't ever want to remember how that feels. And if it takes a nasty habit to keep those memories out of my head, I choose the fucking habit."

      Ron collected himself and grabbed his vest from off the floor. He slipped it over his shoulders once more and secured it over the center of his chest, standing straight and looking directly at the man he had caught more than once in the depths of alcoholism. Everyone had a way of coping with their situation. This, Parsons knew, was Reynolds' way. "Sir," the sniper started, "I don't presume to judge what's right and wrong down here. All I know is there's a camp to protect and I've been told our CO is incapacitated. I hope to God the same isn't true with the XO I see in front of me."

      As Gus turned, Parsons continued. "Because I managed to sneak a peek at what looks like two ODSTs in our debriefing room, sir, and I don't imagine they're here on a goodwill tour. Someone told me they got left there by the Captain, and I expect they'll want to see the man in charge. So will you be the man I know you are, sir? Will you lead this city of desperate people who need a leader?"

      Gus took one last look at the bottle that stood there, perched as if mocking the Master Guns' weakness. "If you've got a plan," Reynolds' said as he looked toward the bar, "I'll hear it on the way." A few seconds later, the door to the bar opened, and the new leader of the Massachusetts Minutemen stepped out into the camp, ready once again to defend against Boston's enemies.

      The debriefing chamber was a drastic departure from the Minutemen's long briefing/conference room. The large oblong table that doubled as a holographic projector was noticeably absent; only a plain rectangle filled the center of the space, ringed by seven black leather chairs, ergonomically designed for long sessions after operations. Gone were the moody, urgent lights hidden in the corners of the ceiling; the debriefing room sported harsh florescent fixtures that made the entire area seem bright and bare. Every speck of dust, each slight imperfection on the body armor of the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers was apparent. The two special operations soldiers were alone in the room, casting wary looks at the three doors to their left, right, and front.

      They had been waiting for an hour now. The ODST Sergeant sat at the head of the table, facing the opposite wall that sported a small map of the city of Boston. He silently swore to himself for letting the militia Captain talk him out of handing over his helmet before the Minuteman disappeared into the camp. With his standard issue Helljumper combat helmet, he could have kept a record of the map and put it to much better use. Now all he could do was memorize every minute detail of the large paper map, and he was doing a very good job of it. A few moments later, he asked the question he had been repeating since they ended up in this room. "Status?"

      The Lance Corporal held up his slim data pad and stared at it as if it had just said something unintelligible. "No tune, no tone. They're not getting anything I transmit." With a resigned wave, the subordinate walked from his spot on the wall toward his partner and placed the pad down on the table. "I don't like this, sir. At all."

      The older soldier grunted at the device, his dark eyes shooting daggers at the equipment that refused to work. "Agreed, but until we get the intel we need, we're groping around deep in the enemy's backyard."

      "Sir, with respect, I don't think we're thinking about the real enemy. These 'friendlies' aren't exactly pleased we're here. I've been trained to engage Covenant, sir, but I think the larger threat is here."

       The Sergeant put both of his padded elbows on the table, resting his chin on his left hand. His urban camouflage moved seamlessly underneath his solidly built torso armor, but he found himself wondering if perhaps he could get away with removing it. At the moment, he did not feel safe enough. He scratched the back of his UNSC-regulation hair and took in his surroundings yet again. "We've been trained to engage all threats, Lance Corporal, but these people are our best chance at completing this mission. Keep it in line and remember your role."

      "Yes, sir." The reply was not hesitant, but resigned. The younger ODST had a bad feeling about his surroundings, his own sense of fear registered with the probing, suspicious looks the locals had given him. I didn't survive this long without knowing when shit didn't smell right, sir, and this...this don't smell right.

      The Lance's eyes once again glanced at their two most prized possessions, their custom-modified Battle Rifles, and his heart sank as he recalled having to take the ammunition out of them earlier. Now all they had were their concealed combat knives, and they weren't even supposed to have those. Both soldiers knew that if push came to shove they could wield their devices with deadly efficiency; but here, deep underground in unknown territory, they prayed it would not have to come to that.

      Both men immediately turned as the door across the room swung open with a squeak that filled the empty white space. The Sergeant recognized the man who entered as the Master Gunnery Sergeant and second in command behind the Captain. The Minuteman was carrying a folder filled neatly with papers and was still in his fatigues and combat vest. It seemed that they had not been taking a break while the Troopers had sat and waited. The militiaman sat across the table from them and calmly removed a few sheets. If he was intimidated by the elite soldiers' presence, he was not showing it. Once again, the senior ODST felt an extreme disadvantage at not having his personnel scanner on him. Why did I decide to trust these people?

      "Sergeant Todd and Lance Corporal Sam, correct?" The Minuteman asked in a neutral tone. "I'm Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds. I've been instructed to give you whatever help we can offer."

      "We thank you," Todd replied with a slight nod. "Any help you can give us is greatly appreciated. We'll be out of your way and out of your city as soon as we complete our mission."

      "That brings me to my first question, Sergeant," Reynolds said, eyes down and shifting one paper over another, "what exactly is your mission here in Boston? The UNSC has been done with this city for quite some time."

      "My apologies, this is a classified mission. There's nothing more I can say on the matter."

      The hard eyes of the seasoned Minuteman met the steely intensity of the Obrital Drop Shock Trooper. Both men had been through hardship, and neither would relent. A frown crossed over Gus' weathered brown face.

      "Sergeant, I'll be clear with you. Showing up in Boston after leaving us for so long worries me. The fact that you won't play ball in sharing your objectives worries me further. But what worries me most, what worries the rest of the 'evacuated' cities, is the prospect of being wiped off the map by our own species."

      "I don't understand."

      I bet you understand completely, you son of a bitch. Reynolds fought to keep his emotions in check. "A man named Matthew Cronin initiated a protocol to eliminate Covenant in human cities. After an area has met the satisfactory ratio of Covenant to human, it is deemed an 'acceptable loss' and destroyed by nuclear bombardment. The intelligence gathering for such a strike is usually done by a covert advance team so the hostiles are not alerted to a threat." Gus pushed the papers to the side and leaned over the table, glaring at the imposing soldier. "I'm worried you and your partner are that advance team."

      Gus and Ron had argued the whole way to the debriefing room about showing their hands in this way. Reynolds feared it would trigger the ODSTs' survival instincts, Parsons was worried their surprise guests would somehow get a desperation message out and Boston's days would be over. Instead, the normally cool, calm, and collected Helljumpers both betrayed too much emotion. The Lance Corporal shook his head with vigorous anger. The Sergeant looked jabbed a finger in the Reynolds' direction.

      "Let's get this straight here, weekend warrior. We've watched men die for causes greater than this graveyard. I've been on missions they don't even let you see the medals for. I don't know a goddamn thing about any fucking admiral bombing Earth cities; all I'm here to do is kill Covenant and preserve humanity. Now you're either part of the solution, or you're part of the problem. You receiving me?

      The Master Gunnery Sergeant's eyes never left his opponent's, and his pulse remained constant. Perhaps it was the years of high-stress training, perhaps it was the alcohol coursing through his veins, but Gus did not show any sign of backing down, even as he smoothly depressed a button on the side of the table.

      "I receive you, Sergeant, and I'm sure you and your partner are very talented; however," Reynolds stated calmly, eyebrow twitching up slightly, "I never said Cronin was an Admiral."

      The Lance, eyes shooting laser beams into the smooth concrete floor, jerked his head up in the direction of the Minuteman. The Sergeant, to his credit, did not realize his mistake until a moment afterward and even then only partially revealed his disappointment. His eyes had been angry downward slants, now they opened more and a long exhale came from his nose. Both their hands were blurs as they reached for the combat knives sheathed behind their backs. The Sergeant shoved away his chair with a swift push of his legs, but he was beat to the draw by the Minutemen reinforcements waiting behind the doors to his left and right.

      Two pairs of Minutemen, fully armored save their combat helmets, burst in from either side, M6C Magnums up and pointed directly at each Helljumper.

      "Drop the knives!" Each of the four yelled in unison. "Put your hands on the back of your head now!"

      As both ODSTs were searched, Ron Parsons walked in with a small device and handed it to Gus, who pushed a small button on the top of it. "I've heard you guys jump into Hell," he said as he leaned back in his chair and studied the two detainees. "I'd rather know why you jumped into Boston. So, let's talk about this 'classified mission'."

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 9
Date: 4 August 2006, 5:15 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 9

South Station Refugee Camp
Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Coveneant invasion of Earth
Afternoon

      Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds could not remember the last time he killed a human being, but at this moment he was certainly willing to make a new memory. The two men who sat across from him were the pinnacle of military training, and with that intense training came a completely maddening ability to keep absolutely calm when being interrogated at gunpoint. I gotta give them credit, Reynolds thought, I always thought it was faceshields that made 'em look emotionless. These guys are fuckin' statues.

      The Minutemen's now-ranking officer looked quickly at two sheets of paper, then set them down forcefully on the table. It was clear to him that the IR pick up from the night before had been their insertion, and it was a known fact that the two Helljumpers were responsible for disabling many surveillance cameras around the city. And to top it all off, the bastards were more than likely sent by ONI to choose the optimal location for a nuclear bombardment to begin...in my city! It took all of the Master Guns' control to not leave the room and come back with his own sidearm to make sure the coordinates were never sent. Instead, he turned his back to the special operations soldiers and waved at a large map of Boston.

      "We know what you're here for," he said with obvious disdain in his voice, "and I won't let you do it. You took out our surveillance cameras, you beat and interrogated innocent refugees, and now you're trying to make us believe you give a flying fuck about the safety of these civilians. The Captain might have bought into it, but you and I both know it's bullshit." Reynolds was fighting hard not to slur his words, his quick whiskey fix back at the pub had put more into him than he thought. Today, however, was more important than most days. Today was his responsibility.

      Gus was not going to waste his energy on stupid theatrical tricks, so he refrained from throwing his folder of papers or banging the table with more force than he had to. Besides, it would not have done any good on the silent, black-clad Troopers sitting motionless next to each other. A long, hard journey through a Covenant held city, and their posture was still pretty flawless. Even as rage coursed through Reynolds' body, he had respect for what the UNSC was capable of putting out into the galaxy. The unforgiving florescent lighting cast small, stark shadows across each man's face, but there was hardly a spare blink from the ODSTs.

      Reynolds had had enough. He was truly at an impasse; as an interrogator he was no good. There was simply nothing he could say or do to goad them into speaking. There was nothing he could possibly offer the two men he was sure were in Boston to destroy the former capital.

      As he strolled to the far door that led to a one-way mirror he stopped and looked over his shoulder at the rigid stares that met him. "You know," Gus said, a frown creeping along his mouth, "you boys signed up to fall through the atmosphere and make a difference. You keep this up, you won't matter at all. You will be forgotten...just like me." The door closed, and the covert operators were left with a large map of Boston and a mirror to further confirm the four other Minutemen in the room with guns would never let them go without proper orders. In each of their heads, they let out a simultaneous sigh and tried to steel their minds for what might occur next. Everyone breaks eventually.

      The door gave a slight hydraulic hiss and then clicked shut, leaving Reynolds in a poorly lit observation room, boasting only a table, two chairs, another door into a hallway, and a large thermos. Reynolds walked to the center of the glass, where Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons gazed intently at his two marks, his arms crossed over his chest, black watch cap covering his short blond hair. As Gus came closer, Parsons silently motioned toward the large dark green thermos, where the older militiaman took a slug of hot coffee to combat the alcoholic effects the Master Gunnery Sergeant was feeling. "Thanks," he said in his deep voice as he placed it back on the table, "open to suggestions on our two stone action figures."

      Ron grunted and his eyes narrowed in malicious thought. "They may be the UNSC's wonder boys, but if we put enough pressure on them, they'll tell us what they're up to."

      Gus let the hot caffeinated liquid slide down to this stomach before he replied. "Doubtful. Even if we wanted to torture them, it probably wouldn't help. Any man will eventually say something to save his hide." Gus put the coffee back on the table and picked up a fresh stack of charts. Printed on the sheets were former UNSC military installations drawn up by their resident surveillance expert. Reynolds put them in Parsons' hands and stepped to the side while he continued. "But we'd have to torture them pretty hard before they talked, and there'd be no way to validate any of it in time. Nope, right now they've got to talk. Unfortunately at this point in time...we can't kill them."

      "Yet." Ron said after a beat, his fists clenched hard.

      "Yet."

      "So what's there to talk about?"

      Gus almost shrugged his shoulders. "I brought up a list of the UNSC military installations in Boston. Smaller list than I remember. Oh well, we've only explored about ten percent of them, most are ruined. See if they've hid anything in them: any kind of transmission device, anything that could be used as a target. While it's very unlikely, they might also have another team with them. We'll see if they cough that up."

      Parsons was starting to lose sight of the interrogation. It was a good idea to disarm and detain the elite soldiers, but the Staff Sergeant's mind was racing to figure out how they could be of further use. Hostages? No, the moment we tell the UNSC we've got 'em, they'll pinpoint the transmission and drop on that. What's two more men in a city of thousands? Bait? For what? A platoon of Covenant that will be reinforced in hours? We could us their transponders to re-target the barrage. Yeah, but they're already way deep inside the city. They might have already dropped targeting markers...or...no. Well, what if? What if implementing the Protocol is a secon-- "--dary objective?" Ron was surprised to hear his own thoughts come out of his mouth.

      "What was that?" Reynolds shot a look over his shoulder to the younger militiaman, curious about the half sentence outburst.

      Ron, while still unsure of his question, gave it extra enthusiasm. It was beginning to gain traction in his mind. "I've researched the other times they've used Protocol. The teams always do it from outside the city to escape the blast, but they're in the middle of Boston. What if the Protocol is a secondary objective?"

      Gus gave Parsons a stern look. "Even if wiping Boston off the map is their secondary, or even fucking last, objective; it's number one with a bullet for me."

      The Staff Sergeant turned to his right to face this commanding officer, poking at the folder in his hands to emphasize his point. "This could be leverage, sir! If we can figure out what's more important to them than destroying the city, then we might be able to stall, or even eliminate that threat."

      "It's flimsy."

      "Sir, I'll take flimsy over nothing."

      Reynolds sighed, the sobering effects of the last two hours bringing him into what could best be called a depressed sense of duty. Suddenly the whirlwind events following their return home caught up with the de facto leader of the Minutemen. It was too much. What had seemed manageable and clear just a few seconds ago was now convoluted and vague. What were they supposed to do? What action could they possibly take? How am I supposed to do this on my own? What would--

      "Sir."

      Reynolds' head came up quickly, and he caught himself leaning heavily against a counter on the side of the room. Gus immediately stood up and tried to keep his head from spinning. He looked blankly at the sniper, who stared back at him with a prompting expression. Try as he might, Gus could not speak.

      "Sir?"

      The Master Guns swallowed hard. Finally, in a weak voice that was all he could muster, he got out, "Do what you have to do." His weight inexplicably took him toward the door to the hallway outside. He felt powerless to stop himself. This is not how a commanding officer acts! Stand your ground, man! But this was not a battle the Minuteman would win.

      "Huah," Ron replied sadly. He knew exactly where Gus was going, and to a small degree, it broke his heart. The man he had hoped would lead this city out of crisis was going back to his old habits. Parsons was sure at one point the large soldier had been brave and powerful, now the XO seemed a shadow of his former self. The Staff Sergeant turned toward the door to the debriefing room. Now alone in the anteroom, Parsons collected himself for a moment, took a breath, and let it out easily. "Here goes nothing," he muttered, and walked in toward the pair of Helljumpers.

      Scalding hot water washed down the scarred but muscled back, it swept away the grime of decaying city streets and sweat. As Captain Jack O'Shea lifted his head, the spray hit his face with force, dripping down his chin and clearing his features of bits of camouflage and tears. Then, just as he thought the worst was over, it hit again. The rough convulsing started high in his chest and spread up and down, bringing Jack's head out of the shower's path and down into his body, sobbing as he had only minutes ago. He had been able to control it, then. Now there was no stopping it.

      O'Shea collapsed on the tile of his large shower, the bathroom door open into the freshly made bed his wife had fixed only hours ago. He kept his back against the cold ceramic surface as fresh tears mixed with the steam and water. As the water started to become cold, Jack sniffed away his final tears. With effort, he stood. There was nothing you could do, Jack, he told himself. There was nothing you could do. This is the life you had to lead. He continued to repeat that in his mind as he wrapped a towel around himself and walked into the bedroom. As he entered the room, he stopped at the foot of the bed. To get to his closet, to fresh clothes and a slight feeling of renewing himself, he had to walk past his wife's side of the bed.

      There, on the night-stand beside it, was a picture of the two in Boston's brighter days, both of them skating on the city's famous Frog pond. Amongst the items were a pair of earrings, a book well-thumbed, and her husband's dog tags. He knew she kept them with her whenever she felt alone, as if holding the slim pieces of shiny metal would make him close to her. This was my life, and it killed her.

      How does a soldier deal with grief? Jack's mind flashed to every time he watched another Minuteman mourn, and each one was truly different. Their situation was truly the most desperate. Not only had their homes been ripped from their grasp, but each additional loss was one more tragedy for individuals who were beyond the breaking point.

      For some, like Gus, O'Shea knew his old friend drank too much. His former comrade Mahmoud Tonsi coped with religion. Others put up large defensive walls, fortified by a sense of humor. Jack didn't want to drink, and he certainly did not want to laugh. In three quick strides he picked up the night-stand and threw it across the room, shattering the mirror on the other side; his image fell from view in dozens of separate pieces. The Captain reached into the closet and ripped clothing out one by one, flinging them in rage and screaming until he no longer had breath.

      Then, as his strength became depleted. he looked around the destruction in his bedroom, his one place of sanctuary. It looked exactly how he wanted the camp to look: broken, chaotic, and full of miserable sorrow. Jack felt his hands coming up to his head as he fell to his knees, grabbing his hair and burying his face in the deep sheets of the bed his wife had salvaged. He breathed in hard and smelled her scent, and in that moment he begged for ONI to deliver a large yield nuclear weapon directly on him.

      After a few minutes that felt like invasive surgery on his stomach and chest, O'Shea lifted his head and looked at the uniform that had been viciously thrown onto the bed. He rose slowly and picked it up. What did I fight for? What did I sacrifice for? A better life for Laura. Jack knew he had only been interested in saving his family as Boston fell, though he lost his children in the process. The days since had been spent keeping Laura and those his men had found from harm, and though O'Shea was cognizant of it, that protection for his wife had eventually spread to caring for an entire city. A city that demanded so much of me that the strain killed the only love I had left. What did I do wrong? Why do I have to suffer?

      Jack knew he would not have the answers to those questions yet. He was still reeling from the shock of Laura's death, and it would be some time before he would be able to pull himself up from the figurative canvas. The soldier still left inside O'Shea recalled a moment from basic training as he reached for the BDUs.

      "At some point in this war you will experience loss," the drill instructor barked with remarkable compassion, "that is tough shit. A Marine will kill or he will be killed. When you break it down like a motherfucking fraction, all you will have left when the shit hits the fan is the other Marine next to you. You will not have your fucking girlfriend, you will not have your fucking dog, and you certainly will not have your fucking mommy! You will only have the Marines! Am I understood?"

      "Oorah." The Captain breathed, letting himself fall back into the mental vacancy of his training as he finished putting on his uniform. O'Shea was not going back to work; he was going to see the only other Marine he knew at the last rally point they had left.

      "I used to get your flyers. You know, 'First to rise. Last to fall.' It was cute. So, what's your primary objective?"

      The question was direct and spoken quickly. The two ODSTs looked at the Minuteman in front of them with vaguely quizzical expressions. Ron Parsons rolled his eyes and sighed. He asked again.

      "What's your primary objective?"

      The Sergeant spoke up. "That's--"

      "Classified." Ron cut him off, pointing with the manilla folder. "You've said that already. I get it. But seriously, what is it?" Both soldiers stared back at him, their faces changed from quizzical to stone once more.

      "All right, here's the deal. My Captain thinks you guys were here on a legitimate mission. My other commanding officer thinks you're here to wipe us off the map. No shit, he wants to fucking kill you, just bang! Bang!" Ron pointed his fingers at each of the men to emphasize the end of his sentence.

[indent"You get me? So I'm in the middle here, trying to make sure you guys don't get clipped, 'cause I think you're maybe here for something else." The sniper opened the folder and slid identical sheets toward both men. "So prove me right, or I have to join the pool that says the taller of you bleeds more."

      Nothing but deafening silence filled the room as both soldiers stared at the printed paper in front of them. Then, as if on cue, both Troopers used their cuffed hands to slide the lists back to the Minuteman.

      The sniper pulled off his black knit watch cap and placed it on the table. With a slight huff, he sat down in a simple metal chair and rubbed his eyes briefly. "Ok, I'm impressed. You don't back down to threats or direct questioning. I suppose my only option from here on out is to hurt you. A lot. But I really don't want to do that."

      Parsons got up and looked at the large map of Boston hanging on the wall of the sparse room. "I live underground and fight Covenant every day so that hopefully one morning I can get out of my tent and start rebuilding my home." He could hear the even breathing of the ODSTs as the Staff Sergeant made his final push.

      "We both fight for the same cause. You know there are people here, people who have fought and died to defend this place. We're doing a fucking good job of it, too! If you can help us and keep to your mission of protecting humanity, what's the problem? Right now, you two assholes are too busy being the best the UNSC can be at keeping your traps shut. That silence has us convinced you're here to destroy what we hold most sacred. Plain and simple, we won't let you do that. You want to complete your mission? Ball's in your court. Until then, you won't see one more second aboveground."

      Ron stalked off, fuming at the continuous mutes seated across from him. Maybe Master Guns was right. Maybe it's better if we just shoot--

      "The installation's not on this sheet."

      His form darkened the entrance to one of his favorite buildings once more. Each time before had been with happiness and seeking revelry, but on this occasion his visit was anything but. Jack slipped into the Last Line of Defense with his keys in hand, not surprised to find that he was not alone in the pub. There, sitting in front of the bar, was Gus; he held a short glass filled with clear liquid and wordlessly motioned toward an identical tumbler filled with a darker concoction.

      O'Shea walked slowly toward the softly lit scene; only a few lights had been switched on, and they had been dimmed to convey the appropriate mood. Jack led his hands over the smooth surface and finally brought them together in front of him, sitting beside his oldest and best friend in Boston at the pub they had built together. It was a tragic, but touching, scene.

      "Whaddaya havin', Gus?" The Captain asked, gesturing slightly towards the Master Gunnery Sergeant.

      "Sir," came the subordinate's reply, "if you have to ask that question, you haven't been paying great attention for the last couple years. That in front of you, I will add, is most definitely not apple juice."

      The slightly smaller, but no less tough, Minuteman took a pull of the whiskey. "Seriously, old friend--"

      "It's vodka, it's a habit, and I'm dealing." Reynolds cut him off. " I have to. Didn't you hear? I've got a city to run now."

      Jack avoided eye contact and looked toward the shaded windows. "I wish the fucking place would burn to the ground."

      The new man in charge put a hand on his war buddy's shoulder. "You mean that now. You won't later." O'Shea looked up to see kindness and compassion in Gus' eyes, a broken heart that understood the bottomless pit the Captain felt himself falling into. "I know the hurt, Jack. I know the rage. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair. This sacrifice keeps others alive. You told me that. Don't forget it."

      The once-proud commander of the city of Boston felt the pressure welling up again. This was not anger, though. He was in the private company of a friend who had shared his greatest victories and most bitter loses together. Now, the emotion O'Shea was feeling was guilt. All the anger that he had projected on those he protected now became an outburst of apologies to a woman who no longer lived. Once again, his arms did not provide strength. All Jack's weight was on the oak surface and the shoulder of his comrade as he cried for his late wife.

      "Oh, my God!" He sobbed. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

      As each had done for one another more times than they cared to count, Gus put an arm around his Captain's shoulders and let the man pour forth grief into a mourning room. Above them, a happy black and white picture of the original Minutemen smiled down on the pair. Gus held his brother-in-arms and looked up at the old photograph. "I can't do this without you, Cap," he said quietly.

      I'm so sorry, Laura.

      Parsons turned sharply and faced the other end of the room. The Helljumper Sergeant was examining the paper, his two cuffed hands scrolling quickly down the sheet. "The installation's not on this sheet." The Lance Corporal nodded in affirmation.

      "You're going to have to explain that." The interrogating Minuteman said, crossing his arms.

      The Sergeant spoke first. "Primary mission objective is to locate and capture a missing object in a military facility, either UNSC or ONI. That facility isn't listed here."

      "What does the object look like?" Ron asked.

      "We don't know."

      "Where's the facility?"

      "We don't know."

      "You know," Ron said, anger rising in his voice, "This relationship is starting to look very one-sided."

      The Lance Corporal nearly stood, pointing with one finger while the other hand hung limply by its side. "Look Blondie, all we get is a facility name, a city name, and instructions not to die."

      "Sounds like a bad briefing to me," Parsons muttered. "How do you know what you're looking for? How do you keep from taking something worthless?"

      "Our briefing only got as specific as the facility name and a vague description of the object's properties." The Sergeant stated. "The facility was called 'Chawla,' and as for the objective...all our commander could say was that we would definitely know it when we encountered it. It...behaves strangely. Apparently it defies some basic laws."

      Ron shook his head. "I don't have time for this." Facilities that don't exist when we've known the city for years, weird indefinite objects that defy 'basic laws,' what the fuck is a basic law anyway? Parsons walked straight out of the room and threw the folder onto the dark table of the anteroom. His eyes shifted toward his throat mic. I can't believe I'm even thinking about buying into this bullshit. Gus was right. They're just buying time until we're all ash. Ron angrily activated the COM and called down to the Minutemen's surveillance room, where Specialist Hung Lam kept a constant vigil on the city.

      "Lam, Parsons."

      "Lam here." Ron waited a second as he was sure Hung was taking yet another slug of his ubiquitous coffee. "What can I do for you, sir?"

      The Minuteman's ranking sniper put a hand on his forehead. "This is going to sound odd, but...have you registered anything...I don't know...weird, recently?"

      "I would not categorize anything that occurs in this city as normal, Parsons."

      "I mean very out of the ordinary. Like signals coming out of nowhere, explosions, high unexplained enemy casualty rates..."

      "Well...now that you mention it..."

      Ron could feel his heart stop for an instant, and then beat all the faster.

      Five minutes later, he nearly kicked the door down into the debriefing room, carrying a map and two data pads. He spread them out on the table and looked across at one of the Minutemen guarding the ODSTs. " Go to the Last Line and find Gus Reynolds now. Bring me every ranking officer you can find." As the militiaman exited, he pointed at the two soldiers, who now had a very different look on their faces. Even bound and uncomfortable from sitting still in their battle armor, they looked eager to get back into business.

      "We need to talk." Parsons stated.

      "We do." The Sergeant answered back, a slight smile creeping across his face.

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 10
Date: 3 November 2006, 7:01 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 10

South Station Refugee Camp Surveillance Hub
Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Coveneant invasion of Earth
Afternoon


      It's always funny when they fight, Specialist Hung Lam chuckled to himself as he called up the feed from a well-hidden surveillance camera. The image shifted from the top right of a large bank of screens into the middle, growing larger and sharper in detail. Lam took a satisfying sip of black coffee as the humorous scene unfolded for him alone. Two grunts were fighting in a deserted back alley near the ruins of Fenway Park, the scene bore a striking resemblence to an elementary school brawl. The two combatants were encircled by their comrades, all chanting in unison what Hung could only assume was "Fight!"

      As one blue armored alien hit the pavement, a short tone sounded in the Asian Specialist's ear, which Lam quickly identified as Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons' COM channel. He quickly picked up.

      "Lam, Parsons."

      "I'm here," Hung answered, stifling a laugh as the victorious Grunt executed a near-perfect body slam on its bludgeoned opponent. "What can I do for you, sir?"

      "This is going to sound odd, but...have you registered anything...I don't know...weird, recently?"

       Hung looked back at the fight on screen and pushed it back into obscurity. "I would not categorize anything that occurs in this city as normal, Parsons."

      The Staff Sergeant's voice sounded much more urgent than normal. Lam leaned forward and paid more attention. "I mean very out of the ordinary. Like signals coming out of nowhere, explosions, high unexplained enemy casualty rates..."

       The light bulb turned on with a brilliant glow as the Minuteman smoothly rolled his chair across the surveillance room. He swiveled to bring himself closer to a bank of pulsing, beeping displays and grabbed a sheet of paper in his hands. "Well...now that you mention it..."

      "Yeah?"

      "I just started picking up this anamoly a couple hours ago."

      "What do you mean?"

      "The Cap wanted me to suppress all ULF transmissions in Boston. I couldn't suppress, but I was able to throw over a ULF web. Basically I put the whole city under a glass case."

      "Go on."

      "Well, while it blocked out all incoming transmissions, all outgoing messages originating in Boston kinda ricocheted inside the web until I intercepted it. The transmission isn't a message I can decipher, and it only lasts from half a second to five minutes."

      "Lam, assume I have no idea what you're talking about. Why is that interesting?"

      "It's not that the ULF transmissions are interesting, it's the fact that the same transmission comes on ultra-high frequency as well, the kind of frequency the Covenant use...and it doesn't behave like any kind of device I've ever detected."

      "This is the part where you pause and explain why in normal-people terms."

       The Specialist sighed. Sometimes he got really tired of having to dumb things down. It really did not do the discovery justice to use everyday terms. "Parsons, if you go from ultra-high to ultra-low, you have to at least stop over through the moderate ranges. But when the transmissions swing, it's like the signal kind of...I don't know...phases out, or something. It simultaneously hops over from one to the other. That's impossible."

      "But it's occurring."

      "For the better part of today; yes, sir."

      "Where's the point of origin?"

       Lam swiveled in his chair and called up a new screen on one of the dozen computers around him. A large map of Boston rotated, then zoomed in at a fantastic speed to a blinking green point framed and identified with small blue letters. Hung squinted at it. "UNSC facility. ID has it as 'Chawla.'"

      "That's impossible."

      "I feel like we've had this conversation."

      "I'm holding a list of all UNSC facilities and installations. Chawla is not one of them."

       Lam rolled his eyes. "You have a list of the all UNSC facilities that are accessible, sir. The Master Guns only wanted those. Chawla was off the list 'cause it's inaccessible."

      "I don't have time for insinuation and nit picking, Lam. Can we get into it?"

       A scrolling diagnostic list lit up the left side of the Asian Specialist's face. He scanned it and summarized. "The main entrance is sealed like a dam right now, but it probably has some well-hidden ventilation access." Hung performed a quick speed read and tried to verbally put forth the highlights. "It's an underground bunker, really well fortified, but..." Lam stopped and double-checked the next bit of information. It was not good news. "Fuck me running. Our recon lists Chawla as inaccessible due to the fact that it's directly underneath a very impressive Covenant camp."

      "You're shitting me."

      "Shit you not, sir."

      "Can we access it?"

       Hung frowned at a wide bank of seven screens above the diagnostic list before him. Multiple black-and-white images showed a robust scene of alien military might. The Asian Specialist cleared his throat. "They've got light artillery, mechanized infantry, and they're at least batallion strength, without reinforcements. If we stand a chance at slipping in, we'd need some very transparent soldiers."

       Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons looked through the glass at the two captive Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, staring right back at him through the two-way mirror. "I need an 'all hands' transmission to on and off-duty officers, Lam. Get 'em to the debriefing room, and bring all your materials, too. Be ready to explain all of this over again. We need a strategy, and we need it yesterday."

       The COM snapped off in the Specialist's surveillance room. Left alone in the flickering light of dozens of screens and data arrays, Hung jotted yet another urgent instant message to Corporal Tim McManus. The Asian tech expert finished the rest of his cold black coffee and swore aloud to no one in particular. "Son of a bitch," he said to the instant message screen, "where are you, McManus?"

Refugee Camp

       The throat mike and COM unit had been hastily, almost disrespectfully, tossed aside and now lay on its side against the beige canvas of the tent wall. The sophisticated yet rugged device announced its existence with renewed vigor, a simultaneous signal vibrating and chirping in the slim black data pad across the room from it.

      "If I wanted to talk to you, I would have picked up one of the past three times," Corporal Tim McManus said in a slightly groggy voice, reaching toward the data pad and brining it close to his face. The soft blue light of the instant message lit up his face in the relative darkness of the tent, illuminating a look of consternation and annoyance. "Fuck," he muttered to himself.

      "Repeat after me," the gentle voice of an interrupted female came from McManus' side, "'Sir, I'm indisposed.'" Rachel Lynch propped herself up on one elbow, holding the sheet with her other hand just below her chin. She shot the sniper a slightly perturbed look as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and began to get dressed. "Try it out. I'll hold the microphone."

      "Afraid it doesn't quite work that way, sweetheart." Tim responded, straightening his legs and tightening his belt as his redheaded partner grabbed a discarded shirt from the foot of the large glorified cot. As she slipped the ribbed cotton over her head, McManus came back to her, smiling a familiar comfortable smile, one they had traded back and forth for months. On his hands and knees, he leaned forward and kissed her softly, only to be drawn in with her two good hands for an additional forty-two seconds. As he reluctantly pulled away from her, they both saw clearly the look of love on each other's face. This, Corporal, Tim reminded himself, cannot be found anywhere else on Earth.

       The COM unceremoniously butted into the moment, drawing another muttered curse word from McManus and a playful push from his girlfriend.

      "One of these days I'm wrapping my arms around you and I'm not letting go." She stated, arms crossed over her healthy chest.

       Tim chuckled. "Prove it, darlin'." With perfect muscle memory, the Minuteman fastened his throat mike and inserted his earpiece securely in his right ear. Then with gentle speed he put one hand behind the girl's head and allowed himself a moment of distraction as his fingertips passed impeccably smooth strands of deep red hair. McManus drew her head forward with care and pressed his lips against her forehead. She smiled silently and wished harder than ever that one day he would get the guts to ask the question every other militiaman seemed to be asking.

       The rustle of cloth and metal filled the still air of the tent as the sniper made his way to the door. As he reached the exit, Rachel's voice met his ears and filled him with contentment and ease. "Tim, get back here safe."

       McManus turned his head and winked. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

       With that, he was gone. Rachel Lynch, the only person to watch the death of Jack O'Shea's wife, sat alone again in the dark. A chill ran up her spine and she found herself pleading with God to bring back the only person who gave her peace of mind. Please, he's all I have left.

Debrief Room

      "The Covenant don't appear to be stopping until they puncture that bunker. That's the situation on the ground." Ron Parsons finished, standing straight and looking across the table to Gus Reynolds, the old veteran scrutinizing the live feed from Lam's data pads with almost feral intensity. Ron had taken seven minutes presenting the entire situation to the small collection of Minuteman officers in the room and each one, to a man, looked as if his dog had just been kicked.

       Reynolds scratched his chin and glanced toward the two Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. Both elite soldiers stood tall and attentive, but betrayed a slight look of impatience. For the Mastery Gunnery Sergeant, it was relatively simple for him to realize what was going through their heads. They were men of action, and certainly hated the situation they were currently in. Gus continued to stare at the data and questioned the UNSC soldiers. "What advantages can you give us, Sergeant?"

       The ODST Sergeant looked up and fixed his eyes on the side of the de facto Minuteman commander's head. "The enemy intends to hold that ground until they extract the objective," the Helljumper stated matter-of-factly, "but given your tactics against them, I don't think they anticipate any kind of attack. If you didn't know there's something valuable there, you wouldn't try to hit a location like that."

      "But there is something there," a Corporal spoke up from the other end of the table, "and we do have to hit them. We need to decimate that position."

      "Negative," Parsons piped up from his seat. "We don't have the capability to take a force that size, not without committing a number of ground troops we simply don't have. We have to continue to maintain a low profile in the city. The last thing we want is another battle like Commonwealth Ave." Heads around the room nodded in silent agreement. "We need to pull enough of their forces out of there so we can infiltrate, get to the objective, and extract before it gets too hairy."

       Reynolds regarded the two black-clad soldiers as Parsons gave his analysis. Through his years of training and observation of how soldiers acted amongst their peers, he had noticed that nearly half of all communication was nonverbal. From what Gus could see, the two veteran special operations soldiers were listening intently, and judging from their forward-leaning posture, eager to get back into the game.

      "Here's the way I see it," the Master Guns said, authority coming clearly from his tone and posture, "we don't stand a chance in going toe to toe with a force this size. But there's no other way to get into that facility than through those remote ventilation chambers behind their position, right, Lam?"

       The tech specialist nodded, and Gus continued. "We're going to need to bring the Covenant out of the immediate area."

      "Easy for us to say," another Minuteman said. "Even minor engagements with Covenant always lead to casualties. I won't ask my guys to mount a frontal assault on a fixed Covenant position."

      "Even if it saves this city?" Parsons asked pointedly.

      "Even if it saves this city." The Minuteman responded, glaring back at the Staff Sergeant.

      "Less talk, more rock, guys." Everyone in the room, ODSTs included, turned to look at the figure entering the chamber. Tim McManus stepped into the room and tossed a data pad onto the surface. "I think we have a workable strategy."

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 11
Date: 15 December 2006, 5:36 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 11

Office of Naval Intelligence Outpost
Location Classified
Midway through Coveneant invasion of Earth
Afternoon


      "We have lost this war." Commander Thomas Young looked around the room for a moment, letting his words sink into walls that were built to keep any and all kinds of noise within. A dozen pairs of eyes watched the ONI officer; each set trying to keep visual contact but never actually meeting Young's gaze. Thomas was used to that.

      "The Covenant have cut through our defenses without hesitation. They have glassed our outer worlds and slaughtered billions. All of us have lost friends, family, and comrades to their genocidal butchery. And they remain on Earth, on our point of origin, awaiting the moment that they will turn this planet to ash. With that, we will exist no more."

       The Commander stood with his hands behind his back. Now, with a subtle gesture toward the center conference table, a wireframe map of the city of Boston sprung to life, illustrating a city decimated and decaying. None of the Office of Naval Intelligence technicians gave it a second thought.

      "If any of you believe what I have just said, leave this room immediately. Because today we have the strongest chance of dealing our enemies a massive blow. I know I've run you ragged and our crews have been thin. For that I apologize, but you must look upon all our past action as training for this moment, this moment when you would summon your inner reserves and finally drive the Covenant from our home." Young was now standing at the head of the conference table, his posture perfect, every hair and medal carefully positioned to convey absolute confidence and authority. His audience of new officers and technicians were nearly at the end of their collective ropes, and Thomas knew it would be a challenge to reach them all.

       Commander Young's station was a shadow of its former self. One by one, his officers had been reassigned to other posts until it was generous to say the ONI outpost was manned by a skeleton crew. Yet Thomas had never worked them harder. The constant strain was showing. It was showing through hard creases and bristling stubble on weary cheeks and chins. It was showing in the far off look in weary eyes; it was showing in missed signal intelligence that caused Young and his staff to be moving several days late on crucial ground information.

      "We cannot afford mistakes." The Commander's voice was stern and forceful, but he could tell it didn't register. Thomas sighed inwardly. He hated overdone theatrical gestures, but now seemed like an appropriate time. With force, Young swung a fist against the table, rattling cups of coffee and precious data pads. Everyone in the room straightened with fear and a healthy shot of adrenaline.

      "Don't you get it?" The Commander yelled to no one in particular. "This is our last option! Our only shot at survival! Fuck this up, agents," Thomas began to control his heart rate and ease the harsh red creeping across his face, "and we won't have a tomorrow."

      "What's the plan, Commander?" One solitary voice piped up from the end of the table. Each head turned as one toward the junior technician. The techie looked like he had not slept in at least two days; his uniform was wrinkled, his tie was stained in two spots, and dark half moons hung below his bloodshot eyes. This was a man too weary for so much hot air. Thomas understood it was time to get to the plan.

      "Simply put, we're initiating Cronin Protocol on the city of Boston." The men were simply too exhausted to coordinate an united vocal protest, and the Commander was satisfied to go on. "As Protocol mandates, intelligence assets are on the ground..."

      "How many?"

      "Classified. Suffice to say they have confirmed Boston's 'evacuated' status and we are approved to go ahead."

      Commander Young could already see the junior technician's head beginning to lean to the side. He could nearly hear the inner workings of the man's brain begin to process what he had just heard. "If you have all the assets in place," the tech said slowly, "you only need half this staff to launch on the city. Why are the rest of us here?"

       Son of a bitch must have caught a nap, The ONI officer thought, I hoped I could avoid this for another few minutes. "The reason I doubled our numbers for this operation," Thomas said to the drowsy room, "is for the staggered launch of a second missile on the same location in Boston."

       In the dead silence of the command bunker's war room, Young could hear the breathing of every agent stop for one entire second. There was no sound of every eye in the room focusing with renewed shock and vigor on the impeccable black uniform, but Thomas could feel the pressure of their gaze on him. They're not dead after all.

      "This is the body blow followed by an uppercut, ladies and gentlemen. Use any and all means necessary to launch a warhead of equal or greater power on the same location as our first strike. Bismark and I will aid in any way we can. All your other operations and missions have just become secondary. Operation: Urgent Hope is now across-the-board primary."

       There was an instant of hesitation and then "Aye, sir," was murmured simultaneously around the table.

      "Very good. All further inquiries should be sent toward Bismark. You are all ordered to get two hours rest and then report back to your stations. All passes are cancelled until the end of the operation. Dismissed."

       The technicians and analysts groggily rose from their seats and saluted their Commander. Thomas smartly returned the salute and waited until the sleep-deprived workers cleared the room. Now left with an empty chamber, Young's advanced AI, Bismark, appeared on the central holo panel. "Should I assume that your priorities have shifted as well, mein Kommander?"

       Young picked up his hat and briefly examined the interior, absent-mindedly running a finger along the lining. "Indeed, Bismark. I want Operation: Valiant Reclamation scrubbed. It never happened. Bury all assets involved but keep all relevant intelligence." Thomas quickly placed the cover on his head and lightly pulled down the brim so his bloodshot eyes would be masked from all inquiring looks. He turned on his heel and headed out of the room.

      "And the two ODSTs, sir?"

       Young paused at the door for a moment. He never looked back. "They're KIA, Bismark. A month ago."

South Station Refugee Camp
Evacuated City of Boston

      "It's a shitty plan."

       Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons looked up as he buckled in one last compartment on his combat vest. He cocked his head slightly to the left as he regarded his partner, Corporal Tim McManus. "That's a pretty bold statement coming from the guy who came up with this 'shitty plan' and got it unanimously approved by the command staff."

      "Come on, Ron," McManus said, inspecting the ejector on his BR55 Battle Rifle and then sliding it shut again, "it's fucking awful. I only threw it out there to get our heads thinking in the right direction."

       Parsons picked up an empty S2 AM Sniper Rifle cartridge and began inserting rounds, emphasizing each point as he slid the bullets in. "A sustained mortar strike on their command and control structure followed by a hit-and-run armored infantry attack, all for the purpose of getting us and the UNSC silent action figures into the secret ONI facility's back door. If we had more troops, it'd be a knockout plan."

      "But we don't have more troops."

      "And I don't have a villa on Tectron staffed by dozens of beautiful university coeds, but somehow I get by, Timmy." Ron stopped himself from going on and looked at his partner. "What's really bothering you?"

      McManus angrily shouldered his tactical pack and began fastening his three point sling for his Battle Rifle. After half a minute of silence, the young Minuteman stopped and stared at the floor. "This is the first big op I've gone on without him," he muttered.

       Ron instantly understood. Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds made it very clear to the men gathered at the debriefing room that Captain Jack O'Shea would not be coming with them. Rumors had spread quickly around the refugee camp that the Minuteman leader had just recently lost his wife and suffered a complete mental breakdown. While Parsons knew the first half of the rumor was tragically correct, he doubted with every fiber of his being that the man who had come so far and shown such strength in crisis had suddenly lost his marbles. The Staff Sergeant grabbed his own bag and put it down on the table in front of McManus.

      "Hey," Ron said, getting Tim's attention, "the Cap lost his wife. I'm just glad his mind's intact. Be thankful for what we have now. You've got that redheaded minx back at camp. Focus on getting back to that."

       Tim handed the Staff Sergeant disassembled parts of his sniper rifle. "That's part of the problem." He said.

       Ron carefully placed each component into the tactical pack, then stopped suddenly as he realized what the Corporal was saying. "Don't you even say the 'M' word. I was trying to keep your mind off big ugly Elites, but Timmy..."

      "I'm just saying it makes sense. Minutemen who get hitched get more time in--"

      "--the camp?" Parsons' suddenly yelled at McManus. "You want to spend more time in the fucking camp, Tim?" Ron shoved the last piece of the rifle in the pack and turned his back on his friend, marching directly toward the just-cleaned Battle Rifle on the other side of the room. As soon as it was in his hands, Ron wheeled around and pointed a steady finger at the other sharpshooter. "The Captain loved his wife more than anything in this city and he never missed an operation that needed him unless he couldn't fucking walk! Last time I checked, you shoot better than the average bear, and the other last time I checked, this fucking militia ain't gettin' fucking bigger!" Parsons slapped home a magazine into the modified rifle and stalked past McManus, the younger Minuteman's mouth agape.

      Ron shoved open the snipers' armory and artificial sunlight silhouetted him for an instant. The Staff Sergeant faced a cavernous space of hollowed-out commuter trains and an improvised tent city; the sniper's head hung for the briefest of moments. Tim could tell his superior officer was tremendously disappointed in him. "Someone out there wants this city destroyed, Corporal." Ron said gravely. "They sent two special ops soldiers to do it. You proposed a plan that puts a lot of guys our age, hitched or not, at risk; and all you can think about is asking some broad to marry you." Ron turned and leveled a look at Tim that he had never seen before. "You get your damn head straight, Corporal," Parsons said through gritted teeth, "before you kill us all."

Boston Police Garage

      "It's a shitty plan and you know it, sir."

      Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds shot a look at the Minuteman officer that could have punched a hole through steel. "Permission to speak freely denied, Master Sergeant." Reynolds finished unloading the ammo drum into the back of the Warthog and hopped off, wiping his hands with an oily towel. The Master Sergeant, shorter and younger, but no less ferocious than the old UNSC veteran, continued to press his case.

      "Sir, we're being too forward about this. There's too much risk to our troops."

      Gus grabbed his tactical pack and MA5B Assault Rifle from a stack of crates. "It's a war, Forte. There's always risk to our troops."

      Master Sergeant Forte tried to put a data pad in his CO's hands. It was to no avail. "We've never left our mortar team exposed for this long." He said, nearly pleading.

      "They're rarely above ground for more than five minutes. This is merely ten."

      "Our forward observers will be out of the game after the first strike."

      "Parsons and McManus are going with the ODSTs to make sure they don't slit our throats, Forte." Gus was beginning to lose his patience with the man who had hours ago nodded along with Tim McManus' strategy.

      "And you're going into the teeth of a fortified Covenant position with three Warthogs and no other support."

      The Master Guns looked up at the ceiling of the former Boston Police garage. He disliked showing any emotion other than confidence and positivity before a mission, but then again, he had never been in charge of the entire city of Boston before. "I don't know if you read through the operation completely, Forte, but the point of the hit and run is the running. We have the advantage inside the city, especially toward Copley and Government Center."

      "We don't have the troops."

      "And I don't have the villa on Charybdis IX with a dozen supermodel maids, but I survive, Forte!" The background noise of Warthog maintenance, equipment checks, and radio chatter suddenly came to a halt. Reynolds leaned down until his eyes were locked with the Minuteman NCO's. "You signed on to this plan, Master Sergeant. I don't care if it's not perfect. No plan is. Get your fire team prepped and wheels spinning in ten minutes or I promise you will not see daylight until the city is liberated."

      The man had been put in his place for the time being. Forte, realizing that it would be better to live and argue another day, saluted the Master Gunnery Sergeant and walked briskly to his group. Gus nodded to himself and felt a brief wave of nausea wash over him. Son of a bitch, I could use a drink. Reynolds found himself feeling around his vest for his emergency flask as he approached the wild cards in the operation, a pair of Orbital Drop Shock Troopers.

      The two men were silently cleaning their weapons. The Sergeant was being slow and methodical as he cleaned and oiled his Battle Rifle, while the Lance Corporal was working the slide of his M6C sidearm and smoking a cigarette. As Gus approached, the Lance twirled the sidearm expertly and holstered the pistol against his right thigh. The Sergeant, Todd, looked up and examined Reynolds with glacier blue eyes.

      "Is there anything you need?" Gus asked, arms folded across his chest to show he'd be unwilling to give anything.

      The Sergeant examined the inside of his helmet for moment and tightened several straps around his Titanium-A leg armor. "We could use a couple suppressed SMGs, to be honest."

      Reynolds grunted. "We're tight on supplies already."

      "We're going into a tight underground bunker directly behind a fortified enemy position to acquire an object they're obviously after," the Lance Corporal said, exhaling smoke. "If you'd like us to succeed, I suggest you give us every available resource."

      "If I can get SMGs for all of you, you got it," Gus said. "I still don't have a reason to trust you."

      "Yeah," the Lance said, slipping on his helmet, "that's going around."

      It was a full hour until the convoy was fully up and ready to move. Every Minuteman involved in the mission huddled in a semicircle in front of the Master Gunnery Sergeant and a holographic projection of the city of Boston. Behind all of them, the clean surface and bright lights of the Boston Police garage awaited their footsteps toward battle. But before the militiamen and UNSC soldiers departed, Reynolds wanted a few words.

      "This is a precisely timed and coordinated operation, so stay on your schedules and don't get sidetracked. The Lynx will deposit our FOs and ODSTs to direct fire for the mortar team. Mortars, you've only got one time for one call to adjust fire. After that, you're sustaining your barrage for nine minutes and displacing. Huah?"

      The Minuteman mortar team gave an enthusiastic "huah" back. They rarely got to see action twice in one day. After they calmed down, the green wireframe image enlarged and rotated so the Covenant position was clearly marked and detailed. Several dots of various colors popped up to mark troop strength and movement.

      "FOs and ODSTs will then begin to swing around what remains of Lansdowne Street and Fenway Park. Lam's already got a nav point on the best insertion zone. To cover your progress, myself and four other Warthogs, designated Whiskey-one through four, will hit the Covenant fortifications here," Gus gestured toward a large red dot, "and here."

      Reynolds continued to go on about the fast-moving attack's path, but Parsons and McManus weren't paying attention. Both their capable minds were occupied with the second part of their mission: going in with the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers to the ONI facility to extract whatever object the Covenant were after. None of their related thoughts were happy ones.

      Tim McManus risked a glance to his right at Ron. The Staff Sergeant stood stone faced, holding onto battle armor just below his collarbone. Parsons rocked back and forth ever so slightly. McManus knew he only did that when he was anxious, angry, or both. It only seemed like the natural time to make up.

      "Hey," Tim whispered, leaning slightly to his right, "I'm sorry. I'm dialed in and you know it."

      Ron continued to stare straight ahead.

      "Cut me a fucking break, man." McManus said with a tad more venom. "We've been partners since this thing started. I need you out there. You got my back?"

      Parsons cleared his throat and spit on the ground. Tim gritted his teeth in frustration and took in the end of the briefing.

      "I will be commanding this operation, but any intelligence or battlefield updates will be handled by Specialist Lam back in South Station."

      The Lance Corporal turned to his Sergeant in near-shock. "They don't have a battlefield AI?"

      An eavesdropping Minuteman, no older than nineteen, leaned toward the imposing figure. "Does that impress you or scare the fuck out of you?" The boy asked with a smile. He was instantly shut up with a combined glare from the Troopers.

      Gus Reynolds finished the briefing and switched off the holograph, the green wireframe falling away like grains of emerald sand. "Any questions?" The Master Guns asked the room. The look in every soldier's eye yelled for him to give the order. Gus nodded. "All right then. Saddle up, we're movin' out!"

      Everyone who had been sitting in chairs or on the floor now jumped up and grabbed their packs. Minutemen who had been standing against pillars, crates, and vehicles smiled giant grins fueled by bravado. They exchanged handshakes and shouted words of encouragement. Tim and Ron simply slung their tactical packs over one shoulder and wordlessly walked past the revelry of setting out into an impossible war.

      "Toss me that lighter, Rodriguez!"

      "Hey Murphy! Three beers says I get back to camp before you."

      "I'll see that and raise you a pack of smokes."

      "Only you're the one gettin' smoked!"

      The two snipers walked with long purposeful strides toward the idling Lynx. Their nostrils tingled with the ionized air of fusion fuel cores being spun up, every sense heightened and flying through their bodies on the wings of adrenaline. The two UNSC special operations soldiers followed silently behind. The four were professionals. Cocky words did nothing to steel their nerves; they knew behind so many shouted syllables were a load of scared shitless kids. The faster they completed their mission, the less danger they would be in.

      Ron and Tim both pitched their packs inside the enclosed troop carrier of the Lynx and started to climb in.

      "I'm only mad 'cause I'm losing a drinking buddy."

      McManus stared at Parsons, the older sniper smoothing his close-cropped blonde hair with fingerless gloves. Ron then looked to his left and met eyes with his partner. "I keep losing ass clowns like you to sweet pieces of ass, who am I going to keep hanging out with?"

      The Corporal's dark green eyes narrowed. "I'm not fucking around with you, Ron."

      "I know these guys come first for you. I know you have my back. I always got yours, regardless. We shoot together or we die alone."

      "That's some real shit."

      "Fucking right."

      The two old friends put their fists together and let them linger for a moment as the black-clad Helljumpers got into the vehicle. Parsons patted the Minuteman in the passenger seat on the shoulder. "We're all here," he said. "Let's roll." The Lynx drove forward into the dying afternoon light of the doomed coast city.

      "Besides," Parsons said in a deadpan voice, "she's busted."

      "You're a real prick."

      "So's my mom."

      The lead militia transport slithered out of the concealed underground garage, sneaking between skyscraping tombstones and pulverized dreams.

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 12
Date: 24 August 2007, 4:21 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 12
Landsdowne Street
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Afternoon

      Fenway Park was protected by God. In the entire occupation of the city of Boston, through the mass hysteria of the initial evacuation to the sporadic decimation of urban guerilla warfare, Fenway Park had somehow, someway, gone almost completely untouched.

      The distinct green paint was more or less intact, the towering left field wall, though jagged from wayward shots and sporting a few gaping holes, was more or less intact. The intimate atmosphere of the limited seating and proximity to the field was made all the more cozy by the orderly rows of temporary Covenant tents and command structures within.

      The Boston landmark had seen an eighty-six year dry spell between championships, the Steriods purge of the 2010's, the dynasty decade in 2140, and the addition of the Mars League. Now it bore witness to what might be humanity's last home stand.

      "Last camera in place," Corporal Tim McManus whispered into his throat mike. The silence was a little redundant as the Minuteman sniper was several stories above and a couple hundred yards away from the alien fortification, but years of training and a healthy survival instinct kept the young man's habits in check. The miniature camera was securely latched onto the side of a decrepit office building, but at the moment it was not facing towards its intended target. The Minutemen had learned that the Covenant snipers, the Jackals in particular, were excellent at sighting flashes or glints of light; the recon team was taking no chances of having a lucky observer blow their cover, no matter how well hidden the camera was.

      "Testing visual feed," McManus breathed again, keeping his entire body below the edge of the rooftop. With one gloved hand, Tim waved it across the camera's field of view and waited.

      "Copy that," the disembodied voice of Specialist Hung Lam sounded over the COM. "I have good resolution and a strong signal.Proceed to forward observer position and check in with the Master Guns."

       Tim caught himself exhaling hard, almost sighing. He was nervous, but these kind of jitters that sat in the pit of his stomach weren't the usual pre-mission kind. This was affecting his focus, and McManus was angry at himself for that. The young sharpshooter, head covered by a dark gray jeep cap and face painted in a smattering of urban camouflage, looked at his hands and began flexing them an even number of times. After half a minute of regulating his heartbeat and what could best be called light meditation, he rolled over onto his stomach and crawled toward the corner of the building, where Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons was on overwatch alongside an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper, a Sergeant. Both men were hidden under black and gray tarps, the muzzle of the ODST's rifle was balanced over the edge of the abandoned structure. Parsons was spotting targets though a dark gray rangefinder. Tim glanced over his shoulder and spied the ODST Lance Corporal crouched in the middle of the rooftop, hunched over a data pad.

      "How's he doing?" McManus asked, pointing subtly at the Lance.

      "He's trying to find a hack into Chawla's schematics, find the fastest way into whatever it is we're supposed to find." Parsons replied, muttering through his thick tarp. "Taking his sweet time about it. Everything check out with the cameras?"

      "Green across the board. Lam wants us to phone home."

      "Mom and dad do have a tendency to worry when we borrow the car," Parsons sighed with mock concern. He changed the channel on his COM unit and lightly pressed the tips of his fingers against his throat mike. His jovial pre-mission voice was instantly replaced by crisp enunciation and an all-business tone.

      "Convoy, this forward observer post. All cameras in place and green across the board. What's your status, Master Guns?"

       The COM chirped as Master Gunnery Sergeant called back. "FO, this is convoy. Waiting on the Lynx to return to base. Mortar team should be poking their heads up in ten. Prioritize targets and standby to direct fire."

      "Copy that. FOs prioritizing and standing by. FOs out."

       Just as quickly as Ron's "business voice" came, it melted away as soon as the sniper looked through his scope. The Staff Sergeant began taking a mental count of targets and humming under his breath. "He's making a list, he's checking it twice..."

UNSC Frigate Telemachus
Over United North American Protectorate

       The docking of the large, black Pelican dropship was much smoother within Earth's atmosphere than the sometimes tricky maneuvers coming through the airlock systems of UNSC vessels. Various crew of the Telemachus scurried around and made ready for the arrival and departure of additional airships as the Pelican touched down gently in the docking bay. Squads of Marines jogged through down wash and guarded their ears from the screams of Longsword fighter engines. The Telemachus was obviously a busy ship, and for the purposes of this particular Pelican's payload, chaos was a divine blessing.

       The ramp dropped from the back of the dropship and disgorged four extremely alert Orbital Drop Shock Troopers carrying BR55 Battle Rifles and gleaming M6C side arms. Their eyes scanned every inch of the docking bay, taking in exits and entrances, years of training teaching them to find the quickest way from point of insertion to their objective. Behind them, two officers from the Office of Naval Intelligence got up from their jump seats and walked calmly down the ramp, placing their black caps on as they left the ship. The XO of the ship, Commander Justin Beaudry, a tall man in his forties with short clipped brown hair and the posture of an officer who had stood over too many holo-maps, walked up to the two officers at a brisk pace. The four ODSTs made two lines and let the three officers meet in between them. Beaudry returned the salute of the taller of the pair, a Lieutenant Commander. The naval officer felt himself being scanned by the man's bright green eyes, but try as he might to avoid looking in the vicinity of the man's gaze, the XO couldn't avoid observing the obvious plasma scars on the right side of the ONI officer's face.

      "Commander Beaudry, I'm Lieutenant Commander Ricardo, this is Lieutenant Phillips. Thank you for meeting with us."

       Justin frowned. "I won't lie to you, this is short notice and very unexpected. We're not entirely comfortable with it."

      "I can appreciate your concern, sir. Trust me; we want this to be resolved as soon as possible."

      "Sure. What exactly is this you need resolved?"

       The three men began walking quickly out of the docking bay, the four special operations troopers falling in not but five paces from their charges. The Commander was used to ONI's signature cagy style, but the presence of the soldiers was downright disturbing. He tried to keep his head in the game.

      "I'm sure you can appreciate our security protocols, sir," Ricardo said, walking straight for the bay exit as if he had done this a hundred times before. "What you and your captain have to hear is for you and you alone."

Landsdowne Street
Evacuated city of Boston


      "I swear to God, they almost look bored."

       Tim McManus glanced over from the scope of his sniper rifle at the ODST Sergeant. The Helljumper was staring through his own smart-linked scope at the Covenant encampment below them in Fenway Park, and seemed slightly bemused with the scene. McManus saw it differently.

      "They're bored because they've had nothing to do. With no reinforcements all we can do is try and hit patrols and small outposts. Hitting an emplacement like this is close to suicide, so they don't see any action here." The resulting silence did not indicate sympathy or disregard, just the empty truth of Boston's hopeless situation. Finally, the Sergeant spoke.

      "If you can't drive them out, why do you still fight here?"

      "Is there someplace you'd rather have us?" Parsons joined in, marking down target areas in the grid on his data pad. His voice betrayed just a slight bit of venom.

      "Just sounds like you're complaining about your situation and not doing too much about it."

      "We've survived for two years on nothing. No support, no armor, no air power, no supplies, nothing. We made our lives here." Parsons felt himself getting angrier at yet another UNSC soldier who had no sympathy for the way his superiors had handled the city, but Tim stepped in to abate his partner's rising temper.

      "Look, this might seem stupid to you, but when we first started it was to help people survive the invasion and get out of harm's way. There was no way to know that job would still be necessary today."

      "Like helping those refugees in the warehouse? The fact those idiots even made it to the city is pure dumb luck. They'll only expose you and get you killed in the end."

       McManus tried to look at the special ops soldier, but the face shield kept him from seeing any kind of emotion in the man's face. Tim found himself feeling sorry for the ODST instead of disgust. "I don't have to tell you that protecting people like them is what you signed up to do, right?" The cold silence hung in the air again, abated only by the high whistle of wind over pulverized bricks.

       Parsons stared at his data pad in anger for another moment, then turned to give the Sergeant a piece of his mind. Before he could speak, however, the silence was broken by the other Helljumper's exclamation behind them.

      "Hey, can someone tell me what this is?"

       All three of the men turned around to see the ODST Lance Corporal holding an air conditioning grate in his right hand and rustling around inside the duct with his left. Ron and the Sergeant swiveled around and walked toward the open compartment in the center of the roof, keeping their heads down despite being on the roof.

       Inside the air conditioning duct were a half dozen mangled squirrel carcasses, assorted roots, a handful of rotting fruits, and other items none of the soldiers recognized.

      "Fuck. Me." Parsons said, eyes closed tight. "McManus!" He whispered harshly, "we got trail mix."

      "Fuck me," Tim spat, his body tensing slightly behind his rifle.

      "What is this?" The Sergeant asked, his polarized faceshield turned toward the Minuteman sniper.

      "It may look less than appealing to you," Ron explained, taking off his jeep cap, "but the Jackals love it. When they set up sniper nests, they usually leave this here for breaks in their shifts. It's like their version of trail mix." Parsons took a sniff inside the duct, recoiled in disgust, and exhaled hard through his nose to clear the stench from his nostrils. "It's pretty fresh, and more than we usually see. At least one squad is using this roof top."

      "Is?" The Lance asked pointedly.

      "Is." Parsons replied. "They'll be back."

      "How soon?" The Sergeant asked, his voice still calm and even.

      "Impossible to say, but we gotta get off this roof ASAP." The Staff Sergeant pointed at the shorter of the special operations soldiers. "Finish up that map best you can and cover roof access. Sergeant, find some rope out of my pack and fix us a second exit. We'll coordinate the mortars as soon as they arrive." Parsons stole a look toward the bristling alien defenses and sighed. "We needed to launch this mission fifteen minutes ago."

UNSC Frigate Telemachus

       Captain Paul Van Baak opened the door to his office with such force that everyone inside wondered what would have happened if they had been within its swing. The two ONI officers tried to stand up out of the black leather chairs, but the Captain crossed the carpet of his tastefully designed sanctuary so fast that he was past them in seconds.

      "Goddammit, I had to scrap two Longsword missions to allow your Pelican a docking vector! We're losing Los Angeles airspace twelve hours after we took it back! Give me impossibly good news now."

       The Captain, a tall and moderately built man with stress etched across his face, sat down at his desk and made a show of calling up his holo panel. His displeasure at being called in was more than obvious. Neither of the ONI officers was fazed.

      "Captain," Lieutenant Commander Ricardo said calmly and evenly, "we come with orders from ONI High Command."

      "No shit. There's no other way I'd let you on my ship like that if you didn't. Do me a favor while you're here, will you? Talk like a human being, not like a manual." Van Baak swiveled in his chair and put a mug under his office replicator. In six seconds the Captain was back to facing the group with a lukewarm cup of coffee. They noticed he did not offer them the same.

       Lieutenant Phillips withdrew a data pad from inside his coat and placed it on the Captain's desk; it absorbed the information from the pad and transferred it immediately to the holo panel. Van Baak's eyebrows arched for a brief second as he skimmed the orders.

      "Under protocol set forth by former Admiral Matthew Cronin, we require the use of your vessel for one Shiva nuclear missile strike." Ricardo barely got the sentence out before the Captain sighed in exasperation.

      "What do you think you're trying to pull? Frigates are forbidden from following Cronin Protocol. Shivas are our last stand. I don't know if you intel pukes have really seen the world outside your desks, but we don't have the armor of destroyers and wisely are ordered not to expend that ordnance!"

       The Captain was fuming at this point and so missed the marks on both officers that would suggest they had indeed seen time in the field. Van Baak gulped down the rest of his coffee and immediately put it under the replicator again. "And even if I could, I'd send you packing to find some other Judas to nuke another Earth city."

      "Sir, I cannot stress how important it is that this occur. We can re-arm you in—"

      "I'm pretty sure I just made myself clear, Lieutenant Commander. The Covenant won't wait for you to re-arm us. They'll attack out of the black and then I'm responsible for the deaths of hundreds of personnel! I will follow the orders of people smarter and higher up than you and deny ONI's request to enact Protocol. Please give ONI my regards."

       The Captain took another aggressive sip of his coffee. Five seconds after his statement, Paul Van Baak dropped to the floor dead, coffee spreading around the navy officer like a blood stain. Large chunks of the ceramic mug splayed around the plush blue carpet.

      "Nice of him to fit the Office into his last words," Philips noted smugly as he regarded the corpse.

       Commander Beaudry rushed to the body of his CO and nearly collapsed next to him, his uniform starting to be stained by the dull brown carpet and the flash sweat appearing along his collar and forehead. The XO's perspiration only increased as he heard the distinctive sound of a M6C's slide being racked, and looked down the barrel of a matte black suppressor.

      "Commander Beaudry," Ricardo said, gripping the pistol like a man who knew too well how to kill a man from this position, "you now have the Telemachus."

       The entirely flabbergasted Commander could only stammer for a moment, "B-b-but—"

      "How?" The slight Germanic accent asked from the Captain's desk. All eyes but Ricardo's turned to the desk where Bismarck, Commander Thomas Young's personal AI, stood in his imperial Prussian uniform. The small purple man walked purposefully from the data pad across the desk surface and looked down its nose at the freshly deceased UNSC officer.

      "Six seconds in this ship and I analyzed your Captain's behavioral patterns and leaked lethal amounts of core coolant into his replicator," Bismarck said with more disappointment than disdain, "not only was he hopelessly predictable; he was due to get off the caffeine."

       The two ONI spooks lifted Beaudry from under his arms and hoisted him up so he could finally support his weight against the desk. Both black-clad officers regarded the XO with nothing but contempt as the man's arms trembled in shock and fear.

      "Mr. Beaudry." Bismarck said, trying to get the now-captain's attention, which was understandably focused on the silenced weapon leveled at his head.

      "Mr. Beaudry!" The XO flinched at the surprisingly loud voice of the AI and shakily turned around. "Commander, I note that UNSC chain of command has registered the loss of the Captain and transferred all relevant launch codes of the Telemachus to your neural lace. I'm told it feels like a rather severe but nearly instantaneous headache."

       The very slight squint of the khaki-clad hostage's left eye confirmed the AI's assumption.

      "Very good. Commander Thomas Young of ONI offers you the chance to save humanity."

Boston Police Garage


       Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds spun the firing tubes of the rocket launcher and inspected the firing mechanism for what must have been the thirtieth time. And just like the previous times, he stared at the weapon in his hands and simply said, "Lynx status."

       The Warthog driver to his left sighed as subtly as he could and called it in. After a brief pause he stated, "Fifteen minutes."

       Gus stewed. "Are they fucking walking?"

      "They delivered cargo all the way to Fenway, sir. It's a hike."

       Reynolds wanted to comment on the driver's tone, but he did not blame him. Gus knew he was being seen as the substitute teacher. The leader and pillar of strength for the Minutemen, Captain Jack O'Shea, had lost his wife only hours ago and had understandably withdrawn to God knows where. Now Reynolds was at the helm, trying to maintain an incredibly shaky plan to assault a fixed Covenant position in Fenway Park and buy his snipers and ODSTs time to sneak into a hidden UNSC facility underneath the baseball stadium. It was like keeping a sand castle from a tsunami.

       Every one of the remaining Minutemen were ready for the go order, those who were not already in the two Warthogs were waiting idly by drums of ammunition and fusion cores, some smoking just to pass the time, trying to hide their shaking fingers. The chirp of Reynolds' COM made him flinch, and he found himself reminding his fingers where the transmit button was as he opened the channel.

      "Reynolds."

      "Master Guns, this is Parsons."

      Fuck, Gus thought, you shouldn't be calling me again. "Go ahead."

      "Sir, you need to give the go order, and you needed to give it yesterday."

       Panic began to rise in Gus' chest and he started to feel the urge for a drink. "That's impossible right now, Parsons. The Lynx is still RTB, and mortar teams aren't aboveground yet."

      "Sir, this rooftop is Jackal owned, I don't know how surveillance missed it. They'll be back any minute. We need to go, and we need to go now, or this mission's a bust."

      "This plan won't work if we don't have all our numbers moving at the same time."

      "It won't work if the mortar team has no targets to shoot at and no one to keep the Covenant from targeting them, either."

       Gus' shoulders sagged for a moment. He knew Parsons was right, and he further knew that the house of cards that had been their battle plan was now tumbling to the ground. It was not that he was upset that the plan was all but scrapped, it was the dreadful certainty that there would be casualties. As a leader, Reynolds had always known death was constantly by his side, but now that he was fully in command of the entire militia, this weighed down on him like the tons of concrete and steel above his head.Gus swore to himself.

      "Sir?"

       The Master Guns punched the side of his Warthog in a rare display of emotion in front of the men. "Understood. We're en route now. Prep targets and tell mortar teams to fire immediately. Don't wait for my approval. Convoy out." Reynolds snapped off the COM and looked around at the collective group of militia.

      "We're moving out!" Gus announced. "Right now! Everyone on the Lynx gets on as soon as it arrives, no refueling, no rearming!" Reynolds felt himself losing control of the mission already, and it sat in his stomach like a cannonball.

South Station Refugee Camp

       The communications and operations hub of the Minutemen was filled to bursting with pure focused energy and anxiety. Worried hands glided over keyboards, stabbing keys and keeping channels as open to friendly ears as possible. The room was contained in darkness, save only splotches of colorful screens and holographic displays telling the Minutemen what they already knew: the mission was falling apart before a single shot was fired.

      The cohesion of the operation was sliding out from under the Minutemen's feet like a coil of rope attached to a piano and tossed off a building. The men in that gutted train knew they'd be pulled over as they tried to pick up the slack, but that didn't mean they wouldn't pull back with all their might.

       In official and efficient tones, they walked navigators through complicated routes and made sure not one second would be spared between the emergence of the mortar team and firing their first rounds. Everyone had several jobs in front of them, but their purpose was clear and their resolve was strong. So it was no surprise when the small door to the hub was opened and light filled the entrance, very few people noticed. When they realized it was Captain Jack O'Shea, however, they knew they would have to take a moment.

       The men had all heard the phrase "shadow of his former self," but when they looked at Jack O'Shea, only at that point did they truly realize what it meant. The Minuteman who walked slowly and hesitantly, still needing his eyes to become adjusted to the pressing darkness, was not the man who had killed scores of Covenant, had rescued dozens of comrades from certain death, had given a single small flame of hope to a massacred city.

       This was a man who had sacrificed absolutely everything and gotten nothing in return. Hard, dark lines were etched across his face, either from shadow or intense pain, and his posture suffered like he was struggling with a heavy pack on his back. Despite all of this, the presence of the Captain renewed their vigor and inspired them to press on. In the face of death and immeasurable pain, the Captain still walked, still breathed. And at that moment, O'Shea reached the man who could help him.

       The Private felt the heavy hand come down on his shoulder and nearly leaped from his chair. He turned and looked into the sad but burning eyes of his commander. "Yes, sir?" Was all he could get out, and it was hardly whispered.

      "I need a channel to the Master Gunnery Sergeant." The voice was not one of clear, crisp order. It sounded choked off and forced, as if using it for the first time.

      "Yes, sir." A few keystrokes and the Private handed a headset to Jack. "I have Captain O'Shea for Reynolds. Yes, really. Captain—Captain O'Shea."

       The young man gave a brief thumbs up to O'Shea. "Good to see you back, sir," he said with reserved happiness, still unsure how to play his part. He gave up his seat and retreated into the dark. Jack sat down and looked at the monitor, pulsing, colorful, chaotic. O'Shea was lost in his thoughts as his best friend's voice came over the COM, the sound of wind rushing by telling Jack that the Minutemen were on the move.

      "Sir?"

      "I'm here, Master Guns."

      "Damn glad to hear your voice, Jack."

      "Yours too, old friend." In the momentary silence, O'Shea tried to fall back on being a leader, but ended up falling short. "Do you have everything you need?"

      "Shit, sir, when was the last time we had everything we needed?"

       There was a pause as both men tried to find the words. Gus wanted to give Jack as much time as he could, and Jack fought to keep his emotions in control around the men.

      "Gus?"

      "Here."

      "There's been enough loss today."

       For two friends who had known each other for years and shared more private moments of grief than anyone else in the camp, there didn't need to be any outpouring of emotions or tearful instructions. That one sentence meant more to Reynolds than any number of conversations they could have had.

      "Understood."

       The COM clicked off and left Jack in full silence. The rest of the room's ambient noise now faded completely away as O'Shea went back within himself. He had spoken with the only friend he had left, and that was enough. As he stood, he felt some, but not all, of the hidden weight fall off his back. His dark lines of grief and stress were not so apparent, though they could be seen. The Captain was not fully himself yet, but he had stepped out of the darkness of his shadow and was ready to be seen again.

      "Private," the voice came out much stronger and clearer than before, and the boy that Jack replaced reported quickly.

      "Yes sir?"

      "Who's in charge of the Lynx load out?"

      "Uh, Lance Corporal Jeevaji, sir."

      "Tell him I'm on my way to assist the loading. I'll need a list sent to my data pad so I know what materials we need. We don't have any time to spare."

      "On it, sir."

       Jack stopped at the communications hub door and grabbed a vest and throat mike. He had no intention of using the vest, but at least he could feel the physical weight. He shrugged his shoulders once, fastened the throat mike, and set out for the garage. He left hope behind him.

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 13
Date: 21 September 2007, 4:16 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 13
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant Invasion of Earth
Late afternoon

      The child's outstretched hand grasped in vain for the skittering leaf that blew toward his hand. Every flutter of the dead piece of foliage was a flirtation, a skipping and sliding journey toward the forever patient fingers of the little boy. Had the boy been alive, he might have been able to grasp autumn's bounty and feel the crisp crunch inside his hand. Instead, the pale bones offered token resistance as the golden leaf flitted by, flipping over the tiny white digits and continuing on towards a thin alley. Ten feet later, it was crushed underfoot by the careful steps of a very alive Minuteman.

      "This has to be the most depressing shit ever," the young militiaman remarked as he regarded the body of the child. "Why do we have to set up here, Kellogg?"

       The COM chirped as Lance Corporal Brian Kellogg responded. "Let's play a game. Let's pretend I'm in charge of the mortar team, and you're under my command. Let's pretend I've been doing this longer than you and want this go off without a hitch. Let's further pretend you don't question my orders."

      "A simple, 'Shut up, fall in' could've done."

      "Shut up, fall in."

       The Minuteman Mortar Team slipped through the basement window of a bombed-out townhouse facing the Charles River. As the group emerged into daylight, they turned right and regarded the fenced-in playground that they intended to attack from. At this time of day, the current was moving swiftly and throwing cold, crisp wind at them that moved the swing sets and seesaws as if the ghosts of Boston's young were playing silently among the men. Kellogg put on a knit cap and shivered despite his urban camouflage jacket.

      "Fuck me, it is creepy."

       The ten members of the mortar team finished wiggling out of the window and extracted their gear with speed and stealth. Because the mortar squad depended on infiltrating and extracting quickly and quietly, they carried only the basics when it came to tactical gear. No man carried any weapon larger than a submachine gun, and their most robust armor was their helmets, which only a few bothered wearing. Despite operating deeper inside Boston than they had ever dared, their load out was no different.

       Two Minutemen took the lead and peeked around corners to make sure the small playground was completely clear. After giving the all clear, the team scaled the fence and prepared to launch their desperately needed assault. Four tubes, base plates, and D & E mechanisms were all in place as fast as their hands could assemble them. As the organized chaos unfolded, Kellogg called in.

      "FOs, this is mortar team alpha. Setting up shop and should be up in two. What's your status, Parsons?"

      Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons' voice was strained with stress, as if he had been waiting for hours instead of minutes. Kellogg imagined he was speaking through grit teeth."Status is we might not have two minutes. This place crawls with Covenant. If you don't launch posthaste, the Master Gunnery Sergeant and the rest of that convoy is FUBAR. Call when you have real news."

       Kellogg grunted in frustration as the COM clicked off. He tapped his second-in-command, a Private First Class, who was preparing a small pile of high explosive rounds for an assistant gunner.

      "How's threat radar?"

       The PFC looked down at his data pad. "Clean sweeps so far. Townhouses have us covered from every side 'cept the Charles River. We can shoot over the buildings and still have range to Fenway."

      "Check security anyway." The Minuteman looked up at Kellogg for a second, then nodded quickly and carefully laid down the mortar round. He jogged to the fence, scaled it with the ease of a troubled youth evading police, and snuck out of view.

      This better work, Brian thought, and vigorously rubbed his stubbled-covered chin, trying to relax his clenched jaw. He visually inspected the line of shining, constantly cared for weapons and scoured his data pad for the hundredth time, memorizing every bit of the targeting grid. The crew looked ready, if not completely anxious. Kellogg crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and tried to look at ease. It was not working. "I need good news, guys," he said impatiently.

      "Mortar one ready," a gunner announced, taking a quick step back and giving his weapon one last look-over. An instant later, the other members of the mortar team finished as well. The Lance Corporal, who had the build of a cyclist rather than a warrior, pumped his fist quickly and opened a channel to the snipers.

      "FOs, this is mortar team alpha. Tubes are hot and in position."

      "About fucking time. Adjust fire, over."

      "FOs, this is mortar team, adjust fire out."

      "Grid...sixty-seven four four niner. Covenant command bunker, lightly fortified. Heavy traffic leaving and entering, over."

      "Grid sixty-seven four four niner. Let's punch 'em in the head. Out."

      "Fire on my command, over."

       The COM chirped in each militiaman's ear, indicating Parsons was alerting everyone about the opening salvo. Despite months of hard fighting and uncountable amounts of combat experience, everyone felt a twinge of fear, adrenaline, and anxiety. Everyone's vision became just a bit clearer.

      "Convoy, convoy, this is forward observer. We're gonna make it rain out there. Master Guns, you better be close."

       The gruff voice of Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds came through in everyone's right year. "FOs, this is convoy. Whiskey-one and three just linked up with Whiskey-two. Turning onto Lansdowne now. Let 'er rip."

       In that moment, Kellogg felt the relative lull of travel and preparation pull away from him like a rip tide current. The world caught up and passed him; time hurtled by at breakneck speeds, and every new moment seemed to blend together in one rush. The faint, but certainly audible sound of wheels on decimated city streets grew into a growling rush of rubber on pavement as the Warthog convoy approached the mortar positions. None of the Minutemen, save the Private First Class on the security sweep, could actually see the convoy. Regardless, they knew now was the time for action. Everyone was ready for the sniper's next transmitted word.

      "Fire."

      Gus Reynolds was no stranger to mortar fire. The crack of the "pocket artillery" was as welcome to him as the sound of clinking beer bottles, but when he heard the simultaneous discharge of two mortars followed by a third and fourth a millisecond later, it was the most joyous thing his ears had ever heard.

      "Well, at least the mortars work!" The driver shouted over the fading echoes of the attack, his white knuckles over the steering wheel betraying any attempt at a positive tone. The young man's face was fixed in a look of concentration as he scrutinized the sky for any sign of the high explosive rounds.

      "Hold fire until we get target confirmation from the FOs!" Reynolds shouted over his shoulder to the gunner. Ahead of the three Warthog convoy was the point of no return; an intersection several blocks up that would put them in full view of the Covenant upon taking a right turn. Gus could feel cold fear creeping up his stomach.

      "Splash over." Kellogg was telling the snipers impact was in five seconds.

      "Splash out," Parsons responded on the COM. Reynolds wondered for an instant if the same trepidation was in the snipers as well. The intersection loomed like a precipice as the convoy strained to hear something, anything, from Fenway Park or the COM.

       A series of muffled explosions could be heard ricocheting off the dilapidated building walls. Ron's voice came loud and clear over the COM, "Target hit! Fire mortars one and two for effect and stand by for new targets for tubes three and four." Gus noticed the driver pounding the steering wheel in excitement as the Minutemen received their first good news of the day. The Master Guns opened a channel to the convoy.

      "We're in business!" Reynolds yelled. "We're approaching the encampment! Convoy, right turn ahead, Whiskey two and three, form up on my left and right, respectively. I want eyes on target and rockets hot! Greenstein, how's that Gauss?"

       The COM chirped, and Reynolds' gunner called back, "M68 shows green and slug tube open. Gauss Cannon ready to kick out the jams."

      "Turrets are first priority. Cycle down from there."

      "Huah."

       With a block to go until the point of no return, Gus dropped in on the channel between the mortar team and the snipers.

      "—Grid sixty seven four five seven, emplaced Covenant guns and roadblocks, reinforcements inbound, over.

      "This is mortar team. Grid sixty seven four five seven, out.

      "Fire when ready."

      "Firing! Suck on this, baby!"

       The rushing wind whistled in Gus' helmet and obscured the graveyard silence of Boston, but he could still hear the fading announcement of the mortar fire from behind him. His eyes snapped up to the sky as he tried to track the incoming rounds, but instead decided to follow his survival instincts and scan for enemies in high cover. The buildings were all in different stages of collapse and obliteration, but there was still the odd rooftop that survived and would be a tempting place to stage precision fire. Reynolds began to worry again, but focused anew as he felt the pull of the Warthog tightly turning right.

      Behind him, Whiskey-two accelerated with a roar and began skidding into its turn, centering itself just in time to avoid smashing into the far side of the street. Whiskey-three's rear came dangerously close to striking Gus' side of the vehicle, but made its turn intact as well. The vehicle-bound Minutemen would have breathed sighs of relief if they weren't swearing aloud at the sight half a mile ahead of them.

       Three manned Shade plasma turrets sat inside armored nests; their operators well shielded behind plasma barriers. Several groups of Covenant warriors stood, armed and waiting, behind fixed fortifications. Gus spotted the glow of fuel rod cannons, their Grunt gunners hustling to get to the front lines. The only way through the checkpoint was through a gate only big enough for one Warthog to squeeze through at a time. The Master Gunnery Sergeant had to mentally remind himself to set his jaw so the men did not see it hanging agape in awe and fear.

      "Are you fucking kidding!" Reynolds' gunner yelled from behind his Guass cannon. "We don't stand a goddamn chance!"

       No sooner had the panicked young man finished speaking than the turret on the far left side of the street ferociously exploded in splinters of metal and concrete and black billowing smoke. A clutch of Grunts running towards the turret were hit an instant later, their bodies tossed in all directions and flopping down on the dirty street.

      "Target!" Parsons voice came over the COM triumphant and slightly surprised. "Fire for effect! Fuck yeah!" Reynolds could see the building the snipers and Helljumpers were hiding in six blocks ahead. When he strained his eyes, he could see the muzzles of their weapons and occasional glimpses of their heads.

      "Convoy, prioritize targets and fire at will!" Gus shouted with as much gusto as he could.

      Less than a second after the order, two more mortar shells landed behind Covenant lines and gave incoming reinforcements second thoughts about their approach to the roadblock. At the same time, the rocket operators on either side of Gus' Warthog fired, white smoke trailing splotches of gray as they streaked toward their targets. From above the de facto leader of the Minutemen, the imposing Gauss cannon fired, it's twenty-five millimeter depleted Uranium slug streaking at impossible speeds toward the middle turret. The round punched clear through the metal shield, the controls of the weapon, and the Grunt operator. It ended up embedded in another stocky Grunt, flinging the cannon fodder a full hundred feet from the point of impact and pinning it to the baseball stadium's wall.


      Reynolds steadied his hands and put his eye to the launcher's scope. He could hear the radar trying to get a steady lock, the soft tone in his ear increasing about as fast as his heart rate. Finally he heard the steady whine of a solid lock and squeezed the trigger with satisfaction. Fuck you. In other circumstances, Reynolds would have tracked the rocket all the way to the enemy, but he was more interested in creating as much confusion as possible. It was the only way the convoy and the recon team would make it to their objectives alive. The tubes spun and locked into firing position.

      "Convoy, this is recon. Be advised, we still have reinforcements inbound. They've got FRCs. Sights are hot, request permission to break rules of engagement."

      Reynolds instinctively looked to the rooftop where Parsons, McManus, and two ODSTs were stationed. They had jump-started the mission when they discovered their position was an inexplicably empty Jackal sniper nest, and it was only a matter of time until the previous tenants came back for it. They're wasting enough luck as it is, Gus thought, rein 'em in before—

      Several top-floor windows on the recon team's building exploded outwards with tremendous force, throwing dust, glass shards, and bricks into the street. Debris clanked against the helmets and body of the leftmost 'Hog as its occupants barely shielded themselves.

      "—Jackals! They tripped my booby trap!" Reynolds recognized the voice on the COM as the ODST Lance Corporal, who he guessed was watching recon's back. "Multiple contacts! Throwing frag!" Another explosion bathed the top floor in light and a mist of purple blood sprayed into the open air.

      Gus wasted no time opening a channel. "Recon, disengage and move on to position two!"

      Staff Sergeant Parsons voice came through immediately. "Recon copies. Bugging out. God damn it!" The COM closed abruptly. Reynolds squeezed his left fist tightly and reached down for rocket ammo. Settle down, son, he thought, we all have targets on our foreheads and if we don't—

       The shrill shriek of the threat indicator sounded painfully in Gus' ear. His head snapped up and he immediately scanned the ground, knowing that the Warthog's sensors would only sound the tone if it sensed a fuel rod cannon right next to it or—Oh no. The gunner beat Reynolds to it.

      "Mines! Twelve o'clock lo—!"

       Gus watched helplessly as the plasma mine, concealed underneath a few pieces of rubble, passed underneath the front bumper of the vehicle. For an instant, the Master Gunnery Sergeant thought they might have miraculously passed over the device, but as he felt the back right corner of the gray and black 'Hog lift up into the air he knew that he was dead wrong. There was no sound.

      Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons was hastily activating the last targeting camera, his fingers refusing to work as fast as his mind demanded. Fighting to control the shaking brought on by his skyrocketing heart rate, he finally pressed the last transmission button and pointed his pistol at the roof access hatch. A Jackal made the mistake of poking its head into the afternoon light and was promptly dropped with three rounds from an ODST Battle Rifle. Parsons glanced toward the opposite side of the roof, where the two Helljumpers and his partner, Tim McManus, were about to rappel off the roof. Ron took a single step toward them before he heard the gunner's call over the COM.

      "Mines! Twelve o'clock lo--!"

      The Staff Sergeant had just enough time to run to the street side of the building and watch the middle Warthog lift into the air as if a giant hand had thrown it from the right rear bumper. The piercing sound of the explosion was only equaled by the cry of pain ripping through Parsons' lungs.

      He watched as the Warthog flew through the air in a flat counter-clockwise spin, terminating out of view, but shaking the building with its unseen impact. Ron stood, rooted to the spot, his urban camouflaged face hiding the fact that all the blood had left his features. This can't be happening.

      "Staff Sergeant!" Tim McManus' voice could barely be heard over the continuing mortar strikes. Parsons didn't move.

      "Ron!" The sudden sound of a Battle Rifle being fired snapped Parsons back into reality. He turned and stared at the roof access hatch and then at the three soldiers waiting for him. McManus yelled again, pain and a hint of anger in his voice, "now!"

      Parsons jogged as fast as his lead-weight legs could take him, swallowing hard to ease his suddenly dry throat. "Command, recon! Convoy is hit! Whiskey-one is down! I say again, Whiskey-one is down!" The Minuteman sniper felt hot tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. "Master Guns is hit! Please advise!"

Boston Police Station
Minutemen Vehicle Garage

       Trembling fingers reached for the thin black plastic of the throat mike. Light flooded the stubbled, rough face of the officer as the garage doors opened and a Lynx transport rolled into the cavernous garage. The man's eyes blinked once, then twice, trying to avoid every man's stare while trying to find something to fix onto, to hold onto. The officer swallowed once before opening the channel.

      "This is Captain O'Shea. We're on our way."

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 14
Date: 2 November 2007, 6:40 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 14
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant Invasion of Earth
Late afternoon

Boston Police Garage
Outside South Station refugee camp

      Lance Corporal Ankit Jeevaji had seen many good men die in stupid ways. On his first operation as a Minuteman, he watched in horror as two of his comrades were taken down by a plasma grenade. One of the militia gunners had been stuck by a lucky throw and his buddy was blown up trying to pry the sticky explosive off the gunner's arm; both men ceased to exist in an instant flash of azure and heat. That was the first time he had every felt another man's blood on him, and at that moment he realized death was part of the job, but needless death was more than avoidable. That was why Jeevaji was clamping a stern hand on Captain Jack O'Shea's shoulder as O'Shea prepared to take his place in the Lynx Personnel Carrier.

      "You really think this is a good idea, sir?" Ankit said, trying to sound like he was telling rather than asking.

      He was answered by the coldest look he had ever seen from anyone. The Captain's glare hit the Lance Corporal between the eyes and made the usually stoic soldier flinch. As O'Shea turned on him, Jeevaji wondered for a moment if his commanding officer was about to beat him to the ground.

      "Jeevaji, the day you lose everything, you'll get to ask me that question." Jack then wheeled back around and pointed at a young Minuteman getting in the back of the Lynx. "Find extra shells for the mortar team! They've got to sustain that barrage!"

      Ankit found the moment he was looking for. As O'Shea tossed in his pack and secured his custom Battle Rifle inside the cab of the Lynx, Jeevaji stood at the door and spoke directly to the Captain. "Sir," he said, doing his best to show he was not directly challenging the leader of the Minutemen, "listen to yourself. I know you've lost a lot today, sir, I do; but ask yourself if you're really doing what's smart. These men, myself included, would do anything for you, sir, but look at convoy's SITREP. Master Gunnery Sergeant's 'Hog is FUBAR, recon's walking into a Covenant base on foot, and mortar team's in the red for ammo. Are you asking us to die for nothing?"

      The Captain looked hard at Jeevaji as the rest of the Minutemen pitched themselves inside. "I'm telling you if we don't do this, everyone in this city will die. You want to make yourself useful? Get out of my way, power up our Mongooses, and find some extra rocket launchers. We need heavy weapons on the roofs or we're asking for quick deaths."

      Jack let his statement hang in the air for exactly one second, then slammed the door. How dare that little twerp question my judgement.

      "Sir?" O'Shea turned to his left to face the Lynx driver, who was gesturing to a holomap in between them. "What're your orders?"

      "Fast as possible to Fenway," Jack said with a slight nod, "buy the assault some time. Recon must get below ground and in that facility."

      "What about the convoy, sir?"

      Jack stared at the flashing quadrants of red on either side of a thin yellow line that led to Fenway Park. He felt shivers of sadness and guilt creep along his shoulders. "If they're alive, we'll get them after."

Lansdowne Street

      Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons' boots hit the ground with the soft touch of an experienced climber, his powerful legs absorbed the impact silently and flexed to ease himself onto the street. As soon as he touched down, he disengaged his climbing gear and ran to an overturned dumpster across the alley. Behind that dumpster were two Orbital Drop Shock Troopers and his Minuteman partner, Corporal Tim McManus. No sooner did Ron get halfway across the narrow, canyon-like alley then the ranking Helljumper, a Sergeant, slapped his partner, a Lance Corporal, on the shoulder and yelled, "Hit it!"

      The Lance Corporal quickly squeezed his hand twice and took cover as the rooftop they had all just fought from exploded outwards in a shower of bricks, mortar, and Jackal pieces. Ron's entire body flinched as he covered his head, stumbled, and fell in the middle of the alley.

      "What the fuck!" He shouted over the sound of small bits of rubble showering down. He scrambled to his feet and tossed himself headlong into the group, noting no one else seemed surprised about the explosion. The Staff Sergeant was livid, and stabbed a finger angrily at the ODST Sergeant. "You blow your goddamn booby traps when I'm fucking clear, asshole!"

      The silence that followed and the blank faceshield looking back at Ron made him so angry he wanted to rip the helmet right off him, and that's precisely what he did.

      Ron now looked into eyes of rage. He had interrogated the soldier not but a few hours ago, but that time and place seemed like a memory from a distant planet. No longer was he sure of several armed Minutemen just waiting to jump in at the first sign of trouble, now he was directly threatening an armed special forces trooper in a hostile war zone. Ron was not surprised to receive the first punch directly to his face, followed by two more lightning-fast jabs. Parsons got his wits about him immediately after the third blow and countered with a vicious right hook that staggered the taller man.

      The two soldiers were surprisingly even-matched. What the ODST Sergeant had in strength and training, Ron had in pure grit and anger. The men pummeled each other for a few seconds, pushing each other into the dumpster and the brick wall of the alley, until their respective partners separated them with force usually reserved for large animals.

      Corporal Tim McManus shoved his superior into the wall and grabbed him by the collar of his armor, pulling him two inches from Tim's face. "The fuck do you think you're doing!" He shouted over the blasts of mortar fire. "You pout about Master Guns all you want, but fuck you if you're gonna get me killed doing it!" The shorter Corporal began slamming Parsons against the charred bricks to emphasize his points, nearly ending in a scream. "You wanna act like a fucking child, fine! Do it in the street and get your goddamn head blown off, you fucking lunatic!"

      He finally let the Staff Sergeant go, grabbing Ron's discarded jeep cap off the ground and hurling it at him with more anger than Parsons had ever seen from him. McManus turned on his heel and jabbed a finger at the ODST Lance Corporal, who was following Tim's lead with his superior.

      "Is he going to be a problem?" McManus asked pointedly.

      "Is yours?" The Lance Corporal asked back in the same tone.

      Parsons shook his head silently. Tim looked at the ODSTs with a demanding look.

      "Mine neither," the black-clad Trooper said finally, handing his commanding officer his helmet. The group got squared away quickly and silently, the only noise echoing along the corridor was the high whine of wind and vehicle-borne anti-infantry guns. They moved fast, in pairs, along either side of the alley, weapons up and ready for threats. Ahead of them by two hundred yards was Fenway Park, and on both of the Minutemen's data pads they could see the orange nav point indicating their insertion point. Before they could make their final move toward the objective, a chirp sounded in each man's receiver. Parsons put a hand to his ear and tried his best to listen to the incoming transmission.

      "Recon, this is Captain O'Shea. What's your status?"

      Ron signaled for the group to take cover. Each soldier was skilled in scouting and becoming one with the environment, and they all melted into shadows for cover. Even Parsons had a hard time seeing them.

      "Cap, we're two hundred meters from the objective. Looks like a clear shot, but we're being cautious."

      "Convoy status?"

      The Staff Sergeant closed his eyes and tried to identify every sound he could, as muffled, echoing, and distorted as it was. "Can't see anything from where we are, sir, but with Master Guns' Gauss out of it, I think I can hear a Shade turret firing. Convoy sounds like it's getting hit hard."

      "Did you get a look at the Master Guns' vehicle? Do you have a status?"

      Parsons grit his teeth. "Negative. Don't have a status on Whiskey-one."

      "We're still a few minutes out. Can you tag and prep for medevac?"

      Before Ron could answer, Tim McManus' head emerged from the shadows and locked eyes with the senior sniper. McManus shook his head ever so slightly. Don't even think about it.

      "Negative, Cap. I can link to TACMAP with my best guess, though."

      "I'll take it."

      Parsons slipped out his data pad and took a brief look at the mission's progress. He could see markers for the remaining convoy, his own IFF tag, and the mortar team's tag. The mortar and convoy markers were blinking yellow, indicating they were in combat action. The Captain's and recon's tags were green. Parsons did not see Whiskey-one's marker, and he considered that to be very bad. He took his best guess and tapped the screen twice. An orange square, marked "Search and Rescue - MEDEVAC" appeared on the satellite image. Parsons put his fingers to this throat mic and opened a channel.

      "This is recon. Whiskey-one tag sent. Acknowledge."

      "Recon, we copy. Tag's on our TACMAP. Any chance you got a look at friendly rooftops? I have rockets en route."

      Ron's brow furrowed as he tried to recall the lay of the land above the streets. Finally, he tapped two points on his map. Small green squares popped up and Parsons stowed his data pad. "Best assessment on your TACMAP, but stay on alert. Jackals nearly caught us back at our last position."

      "I'll take it under advisement."

      "Good luck, Captain."

      "You too, Parsons."

      The Staff Sergeant closed the channel and motioned for the group to move out. Like objects coming quickly into focus, the three other soldiers emerged from behind rubble, dropped down from a low ledge, and slipped out from behind a crevice. Ron put his modified Battle Rifle hard against his right shoulder and moved, low and fast, toward his objective. The reconnaissance squad got two more blocks before a clutch of Grunts suddenly turned into the alley.

      Two of the squat aliens were dragging an injured comrade away from the battle and had no idea they had put themselves in the way of two of humanity's best trained soldiers and two of Boston's greatest guerilla fighters. The very second the Grunts emerged in the alley, the four men became only suggestions of shapes, hugging every piece of terrain that would keep them from being discovered. Parsons immediately began screwing a sound and flash suppressor on his Battle Rifle.

      "I count five Grunts." The ODST Sergeant's voice come through in Ron's right ear.

      The Minuteman sniper did his best to bring his heart rate down and stole a brief glance down the alley. "I count five, too," he responded. "We can't go around them. Can you go quiet?"

      "Suppressed SMGs. Iffy at this range."

      "Agreed. I've got a silenced BR, move up. I'm good for one on the right, maybe two, before they get wise. Think you can mop up the rest between the two of you?" Parsons waited for a reply, then looked across the alley where the Helljumpers had just been. Nothing but bare brick stood in the spot where the elite Troopers had taken position. Ron swore as he wondered where the hell they had gone, but then caught a hint of urban camouflage and black body armor in his peripheral vision. The two special operations soldiers were already moving up, unheard and unseen, on the Grunt group, which seemed to be arguing over what to do with their wounded comrade.

      "Damn, they're fast," Tim whispered in the dark.

      "Yeah," Ron muttered, getting low to the ground and moving behind a pile of discarded mattresses and trash. His sights settled over the only officer he could see, a frantic-looking alien gesturing around with an intimidating Needler. He relaxed his body and allowed the sights to settle in the center of the Covenant soldier's head, knowing that the three-round burst would leave no chance for survival. The COM chirped once more.

      "In position. Standing by."

      Parsons inhaled and held his breath, exhaling only to whisper, "Firing."

      The report of each round was negligible in the dull roar of war. Each bullet easily penetrated the Grunt's armor and fragile frames, dropping them in heavy wet heaps in the middle of the alley. The one wounded Grunt struggled mightily to get up and escape, his claws digging into the unforgiving pavement, scratching and clutching faster and faster as it realized death was looking right at it. Parsons knew they couldn't have a straggler calling in their position. A slight pull of the trigger and the entire alley was still. The squad advanced hastily on the fallen hostiles and relieved them of their plasma pistols, grenades, and Needler. With silent nods exchanged amongst them, they slipped along the sides of the narrow street, getting ever closer to their target.

      The ride in the Lynx was bumpy, noisy, and tense; but inside the cabin and troop bay, there was strained silence. Captain O'Shea knew what it was like to ride in the back of one of these transports; the battlefield zipping by in blurs of gray, the dim red lights inside the vehicle, the horrible echoes of approaching war mixed with the scent of sweat and hot breath. Each man would have their private thoughts, but in the back of their minds Jack knew they were all wondering the same thing: how the hell am I getting home alive?

      The long, urban camouflaged troop carrier bowled over stray debris as it approached Lansdowne Street. O'Shea took turns glancing at the holomap and the real world outside the Lynx's windshield, staring into the city and clenching his fists, begging the vehicle to go faster. As it finally made its way to the final intersection, Jack fought the faint voice in his head telling him that no matter what they did and no matter how hard they fought, this was a losing battle. The cold fingers of fear crept up his back as the Lynx skidded to a stop a block from their objective. O'Shea turned in his seat and faced the Minutemen sitting in the troop bay.

      "Harris! Becker! Get those spare shells to the mortar team, on the hop! Watch our six when you're done!"

      "Huah!" Shouted the men with gusto. They grabbed a pair of sacks each and jumped into the afternoon light, running as fast as they could to cover and the needy mortar team beyond. As the two men left, three Mongoose Ultra-Light All Terrain Vehicles pulled alongside the much larger Lynx. O'Shea glanced to his right and caught sight of Lance Corporal Jeevaji riding behind his Mongoose driver. It did not look like it had been a comfortable journey. The indian militiaman carried the large M41 SSR MAV/AW Rocket Launcher on his shoulder, and two extra rocket tubes were lashed to the passenger seat, forcing Jeevaji to stand the entire trip. The two Minutemen nodded at one another.

      "TACMAP says we have a couple firing positions!" Jeevaji shouted over the booming blast of another mortar strike. "Give us some smoke and we'll spank the bastards!"

      "Move fast, deploy quick, and watch your backs! Jackals are all over this area!" O'Shea called back, cupping his hands around his mouth. With that, the three all-terrain vehicles zipped off and fishtailed right, followed closely by the lurching Lynx Transport. As the carrier made the turn, Jack felt his jaw go slack.

      The wide street was a mess of twisted concrete, black billowing smoke, alien bodies, and crumbling buildings. The acrid smoke made visibility terrible, but O'Shea could make out through the holomap and his eyes combined, a pair of mangled Warthogs, still driving and operational, but barely. Occasionally a mortar would impact the enemy fortification and throw up another quick shower of earth, cement, and flesh; its quick punch of bass registered in the teeth of every Minuteman as the sound wave careened down the avenue of destruction.

      The two surviving Warthogs were doing their best to approach the Covenant blockade, strafe past in a wide fishtail, retreat, and then try again. They were alternating attack patterns, desperately trying to disrupt the enemy's balance, but with only two vehicles and no other ground support, it was only a matter of time.

      One Warthog, whiskey-two, made a wide turn fifty yards from the barricade. As it finished its fishtail, three Grunts sprang up from behind cover and fired their fuel rod cannons. The green blobs of energy streaked toward the unlucky vehicle and collided ferociously against its side. The sheer force of impact lifted the 'Hog off the ground, sending it tumbling across the street and narrowly missing the other attacking Warthog, whiskey-three. The doomed transport smashed into the front windows of a deserted restaurant, sending glass, twisted metal, and furniture into the war zone. O'Shea tried to keep himself together as he watched the entire operation fall to pieces. Tongues of flame began to appear from the wreckage as the COM burst to deafening life.

      "Whiskey-two is hit!"

      "Mark MEDEVAC and keep firing!"

      "You insane? We are going to die! We are going to fucking die!"

      Jack slammed a fist against the dashboard in frustration. "All units, this is Captain Jack O'Shea. Keep up the pressure on that blockade! No one quits until recon's underground!"

      O'Shea shouted over this shoulder to the weapons officer sitting behind him to his left. Stray spiker rounds began to ping off the Lynx as the troop carrier barreled toward the barricade. "Pop smoke, full cover! Get that autocannon online now! Target those FRCs!"

      Within moments, the Lynx shuddered as seven of the fourteen grenade launchers bristling from the vehicle fired. Thick white smoke arced toward the Covenant forces, masking the Lynx's approach as O'Shea closed on Whiskey-two's wreckage. Within seconds, the APC braked to a hard stop outside the obliterated facade of the restaurant. Jack threw his door open and jumped into the fray before the Minutemen in the back even made a move to join him. Pulse racing and breathing heavy in the dense smoke, the Captain brought his Battle Rifle up and aimed as best he could at the last spot the cannon Grunts had appeared. Sure enough, his sights lit up as they registered the faint green glow of the weapons.

      Please, God, let me kill them, O'Shea thought as he let three bursts fly in the enemy's direction. He did not have time to wait and see if the shots were accurate; Jack was already running in front of the Lynx, sprinting toward the burning Warthog inside the building to his left.

      Four other militia piled out and followed their leader, shouting instructions to each other as they desperately tried to reach their comrades in time. To O'Shea's relief, the Lynx's autocannon began to fire, heavy thumps of large caliber rounds being shot echoed off the metal and brick of the surrounding buildings. Each man ducked reflexively as the slugs tore through the air, smashing against targets too far ahead to see. Jack's eyes burned in the combat environment, his eyes began to water and he blinked hard to clear his vision as he neared the ruined Warthog.

      Whiskey-two lay on its side in the large, expensive-looking eatery. O'Shea could already see one Minuteman, the driver, lying face down ten feet from the vehicle. He ran to the body and slid across the floor on his knees as he got close. The Captain gave the body a thorough inspection, his features contorted in a show of frustration and anger as he regarded the burned skin and mortal wounds to the brave soldier's head and chest.

      "Driver's gone!" O'Shea yelled at top of his lungs, his voice nearly drowned out in the blast of another mortar shell. The other Minutemen scoured the site, swearing aloud and doing their best to keep themselves together.

      "Passenger's here!" A young voice cried out in the relative darkness.

      "And here!" Another Minuteman, a Private, called from the smashed entrance. "Kid was torn apart! This is fucked!"

      "Hey! I got a live one here! Medic! Medic!" Every head in the rescue squad now snapped towards the voice deep within the restaurant. They ran as fast as they could to the two men; one Minuteman was doing his best to treat the egregious wounds on the Warthog's gunner, blood leaking from the injured man's arms and chest. O'Shea grabbed a canister of biofoam from his vest as the stricken militiaman coughed up dark red blood.

      "Looks internal!" Jack shouted over his shoulder. "Medic!"

      The medic, a pale-faced Specialist no older than twenty-three, came as fast as he could, taking his scanner from his chest pocket and swiping it quickly over the wounded man.

      "Collapsed lung, ruptured spleen to start. Massive trauma, I can't treat him here. He's gotta be evac'd now." The medic stated with as much gravity as he could. O'Shea shook his head vigorously.

      "We can't spare the Lynx," Jack said over the din. "Can you move him on Mongoose?"

      "If you want him to die in transit!" The medic said incredulously. "Sir, are you serious? This man's going to die."

      "As soon as recon's reached their insertion point, we bug out." The Captain stated, looking straight into the field medic's eyes. "Stabilize him best you can until then."

      "Then he's KIA, sir!" Jack could see the soldier's eyes open wide in flickering light of the Warthog's fire. The medic was giving up. O'Shea grabbed the smaller Minuteman by the collar of his combat vest and shook him once hard.

      "He is not the mission!" The Captain roared. "Recon's gotta get underground, and without our support they don't stand a chance! They're going to make it, and so is he! Now get it together and save him."

      "Yes, sir!" The Specialist replied, realizing Jack's tone. He pointed at the Minuteman that was cradling his incapacitated comrade. "Keep his head up and do not move him unless I say so."

      O'Shea got up quickly and led the rest of the squad to the waiting Lynx. They dragged and carried their dead out of the restaurant, never wanting to give the Covenant bodies to crow over. As Jack crossed out of Whiskey-Two's final resting place and into the open air of the street, he watched two rockets streak from a rooftop across the road, the explosives trailing thin contrails of smoke as they careened toward their targets. Through the haze, twin flashes of blue and orange light erupted, followed by a call on the COM channel, "Jeevaji here! Shades hit! That should buy us some time, Cap!"

      Jack reached deep within the troop bay and slid out a stretcher; he and another Minuteman ran past the destroyed Warthog to the medic's position. They hopped over splintered chairs and tables and weaved around collapsed sections of the roof, but eventually made it safely to the grim procedure being performed. The stench of sweat, burning metal, and human entrails filled each man's nostrils, but they shoved it out of their minds as they laid down the stretcher for the medic to place the wounded gunner on. Satisfied that the job was being done properly, O'Shea clapped a hand on the medic's shoulder and shouted into his ear over the bedlam, "Prep him for evac! I want him ready to load the moment we get the all-clear!" The medic nodded silently, keeping his eyes trained on the gunner's body. Jack might as well have been talking to him from the Moon. The Captain stood up and pointed at the rest of the militia gathered in front of him.

      "We split up from here. First squad's with me; we've got to secure Whiskey-one's crash site while we still can. Everyone else, suppress the blockade, take some pressure off our vehicles."

      Before O'Shea could continue, two more shots from Fuel Rod Cannons hit the middle of the street, blasting debris inside the restaurant. The whole group took cover for a moment as the dust quickly settled. Jack shook the soot off himself for a second before finishing up. "Low and fast, Minutemen! Let's get it done."

      The group yelled "Huah" as hard as they could, trying to rally themselves to the task ahead, then swiftly moved out, back into the street fight. Jack's squad emerged from the building and into the relative glare of hazy sunlight. The Captain took one last glance back at the bristling barricade, then glanced at his data pad, where one last orange square stood out, sixty yards from his position.

      Hang in there, Gus, O'Shea pleaded desperately in his head. I have nothing left.

      The rest of recon's trek to Fenway Park had been uneventful, though they had paused for a moment to recognize the sound of the Lynx's autocannon adding its might to the battle. Now they stood thirty feet away from their goal, and all they had to do was cross a road behind the lines of a well-fortified enemy position. Ron Parsons took yet another peek around the corner of the alley.

      "We're so fucked," He breathed.

      "We need to advance now." The ODST Sergeant hissed behind him.

      "I would," Parsons said with a trace of venom in his voice, "if you could tell me where in blue fuck our insertion point is. I'm not about to cross open ground behind enemy lines to knock on a fucking wall. If you haven't noticed, there's nothing but the Green Monster across this street and no visible underground access."

      Each soldier looked once again at the imposing exterior wall of the baseball stadium. The distinctive green paint stretched more than sixty feet above them and offered nothing in the way of viable subterranean entrances. No grates, no vents, nothing in their field of vision looked even remotely like a way into the secret facility beneath them. Tim McManus scratched the back of his head in frustration.

      "We're so fucked," Parsons said again. "Fenway Park: one. Last-ditch plan to save Boston: nothing."

      Suddenly, McManus' head jerked up as his gaze shifted from the ground in front of him to the wall of the stadium. He stared at the obstacle ahead. "Son of a bitch," Tim whispered, then almost shouted in a moment of clarity, "son of a bitch!" The other members of the reconnaissance squad stared at the junior sniper in befuddled anger. The Corporal became aware of their looks, and pointed excitedly at the wall.

      "It's not outside the wall," Tim said, "it's inside."

      "Explain that," the ranking Helljumper said gravely.

      "The Green Monster's scoreboard is done by hand," Tim explained, reaching into his pack as he spoke. "Because it's done by hand, the bottom portion of the left field wall is hollow so operators can move around and post the scores without going onto the field."

      Now Parsons' eyes began to get wide. "Oh, those sneaky bastards," Ron said like a student finally figuring out a trick math equation.

      "There may not be access outside the stadium," McManus continued sketching a rough diagram with a few pieces of trash, "The foundation of the wall is twenty-two feet deep. If you wanted to get through that, it would be easier to build your access point inside the park. There's an air conditioning system inside the scoreboard; easy enough to make it look like just another grate."

      "If the access hatch is inside the scoreboard," the other ODST spoke, taking a second to carefully examine the schematics on his data pad. "and disguised as an AC grate, we should be able to figure out which one it is quickly. But how are we supposed to get inside the stadium?"

      Tim hooked his thumbs inside his tactical vest and shrugged slightly. "Got some C-7?"

      The ODST Sergeant cocked his head to the side. "That'll draw unwanted attention."

      "Really?" Parsons asked as another mortar shell slammed into the Covenant position a block away. "I think they've got other things on their mind."

       The two Helljumpers reached inside their vests and withdrew identical cylindrical cans. They were drab, gray, and displayed "C-7 Foaming Explosive" in thick black letters on the side. The cans' shape resembled shaving cream dispensers, though no soldier with half a brain would ever make the fatal mistake of confusing the two.

      Staff Sergeant Parsons motioned for the Lance Corporal to hand him his canister. When the ODST hesitated, Ron dropped his hand and glared at the imposing special ops soldier. "We split up the application duty. That way, if we get shot or the C-7 misfires, we still have one from each team to keep going. Stop being a prick and let me possibly blow myself up."

      The Lance silently surrendered the C-7.

      "All right," Parsons said, craning his neck to take a glance around the corner and tightening the straps of his equipment, "Lance Corporal and McManus cover us while we set the explosive. When you hear the call, take cover and we'll blow the charge. After that, who the fuck knows."

      The four men sprinted thirty feet to the massive green wall as the sounds of urban combat became truly intense. Parsons and the ODST Sergeant quickly sprayed the white foaming compound over the barrier, making a large rectangle in the side of the Green Monster. The ranking Helljumper then secured a remote detonator as the C-7 hardened and became ready for action. The entire process took no more than fifteen seconds; the two soldiers then dropped their spent canisters and scurried away like rebellious teens vandalizing a subway station. The squad took cover and turned away from the wall, which two seconds later trembled with the massive force of the explosion. Luckily, another volley of mortars had struck around the same moment, masking the C-7's noise. Ron and the rest of the team admired their handiwork for a moment, then turned on the flashlights attached to their weapons.

      As the ODSTs stepped in first, Parsons and McManus scanned the immediate area for Covenant who would have seen their operation. Satisfied that they had made it safely, Tim turned to Ron and motioned for him to go inside.

      "What do you think?" McManus asked his commanding officer. "Our worst plan ever?"

      "I'm sad that I have to say 'No.'" Parsons replied as he frowned into the darkness. "C'mon, let's do this."

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 15
Date: 21 December 2007, 9:02 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 15

Office of Naval Intelligence Outpost
Location Classified
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Late Afternoon

      ONI Commander Thomas Young was never satisfied. Part of the reason he had risen so quickly up the ladder at the Office of Naval Intelligence was his voracious appetite for knowing everything. He pursued leads, tracked down sources, and when necessary, executed orders that other naval intelligence officers would deem below them. Thomas always shared a private smile with himself when he considered that last fact. How can someone keep their darkest secret when they won't take care of it themselves? Who better to keep a secret than only one?

      Young came out of his brief introspective moment and refocused on the purpose-driven, germanic accented voice speaking to him. The voice commanded attention, even though it came from a source that was barely fourteen inches tall.

      "It has been confirmed, Commander, from officers Ricardo and Phillips, and the copy of myself that your ordered to accompany them. You now control the Telemachus. It will only be a short while until I can clear them to initiate Cronin Protocol."

      "Excellent work, Bismark." The man in charge of the North American Protectorate branch of ONI stood from his high-backed leather office chair and walked slowly toward his impeccably lit and masterfully maintained wet bar. With a steady hand, he poured a small dose of amber liquid from a crystal carafe into a matching glass. Young brought the drink to his lips and with eyes that conveyed both superior intelligence and murderous tenacity, looked over the glass and asked, "Where do we stand with Boston?"

      The AI took an imperceptible instant to shift its focus to the other matter at hand. "I have been researching UNSC databases to pinpoint personnel most likely to be in the city, Commander, but if I may, it seems tacticaly irrelevant. Initiating Cronin Protocol will order a nuclear bombardment on the city of Boston. No one will survive."

      "Someone blocked our communication with the ODST team inside Boston. That makes them technically proficient and a danger to what will be the turning point in this war. If someone from our own species wants to ruin our chances at survival, I want to know how to stop them."

      Young motioned with his free hand for the AI to continue.

      "After looking through all relevant military action into and around the area, I can find no evidence that any active personnel remain or have moved into the hostile zone."

      "Meaning anyone who's in there now was either there at the time of the invasion or has no record of military service."

      "Correct. Casualty reports and biometric tags have been extremely accurate. I've extrapolated some possible scenarios."

      Thomas took a short sip from the glass and laid the vessel down on his polished desk. "Let's see the data."

      A long stream of holographic words and pictures now appeared in the holotank in the center of the dimly lit lair. Pictures of UNSC soldiers and officers scrolled by vertically, stopping at several suspects, their images lining up in a straight row, spanning half the width of the room.

      "These four officers have not been accounted for, sir. They made up the top tier of UNSC Administration Post Fifty-Three. These two," Bismarck noted in a neutral voice as the images grew in size and resolution, "Master Gunnery Sergeant Angus Reynolds and Captain Jack O'Shea, have the longest service records and are currently listed MIA."

      The Commander grunted in what could only be an attempt at a laugh. He motioned for the two holograms to come closer, they flew across the distance and stopped two feet from his face. He scrutinized the pictures like a drill Sergeant looking for wrinkles in a recruit's uniform. The face to Young's right was indicative of a man who had seen action: dark eyes looking straight ahead into space but without the mile-long stare of shell-shocked soldiers. Hair a little longer than regulation length and a shadow of stubble around the jaw suggested an officer who had spent time in the trenches and volunteered to take the late watch. Young's eyes flitted over the name attached to the face. "O'Shea. The name is vaguely familiar. Who was last contact?"

      "Ricardo and Phillips last sent an assessment just before the invasion. I can transfer the file--"

      Young dismissed the offer with a short wave of his hand. He grabbed the half-empty glass from his desk and took a longer pull of the liquor, letting the heat of the alcohol wash down his throat and add to the fire brewing inside him. "I remember now. The Captain who was using our assets to track the Covenant's advance. He was less than cordial with our agents, as I recall."

      Even Bismarck was impressed with the Commander's retention of the report's details. "Yes, sir. We had to blackmail him to allow the agents passage to New York. I need to remind you at this point that the parameters of that mission were redacted immediately after submission."

      "I remember what they were," Young said, rising out of his chair and walking towards the visage of Captain Jack O'Shea. He stood in front of the unblinking face and squinted ever so slightly. "O'Shea knew the Covenant were close, and our materials only convinced him further." Thomas shook his head as he tried to get inside the mind of the man in front of him. "He knew the enemy was at our doorstep, yet there's no evidence he left the city. What does that tell us?"

      Bismarck knew the Commander never asked a question like that unless he already knew the answer. Despite this knowledge, the AI replied, "The Captain had a compelling reason to remain, or he surrendered himself to the inevitable."

      Young scanned O'Shea's dossier as a more concrete scenario began to play itself out in his mind. "A wife and two daughters," he said into the dark space, "yet he doesn't leave. The intel we gave him was purposefully dated, so the invasion probably caught him by surprise anyway. Self-preservation is one of our strongest instincts, and judging from the chip on his shoulder, he probably didn't take kindly to the UNSC withdrawal from Boston."

      "In truth, Commander, more than ninety percent of military personnel assigned to Boston were ordered to abandon the city. By raw calculations and assessments, a withdrawal of that scale would seem to be excessive."

      "Doesn't matter. He was angry we fucked him with the intel and the retreat. He has dead weight at home, and judging by his service record, probably a dedicated following of local UNSC assets." Young stabbed a finger at O'Shea, pushing through the weightless hologram's forehead. "This man stayed behind. This man rallied together supporters. This man," Thomas turned now, walking with purpose back to his desk, "is the leader of military forces in Boston. He must have detected our ODST team inside his city and ordered the activation of the ULF web that keeps them out of contact with us."

      "It seems a bold move, Commander," Bismarck stated, appearing by his master's side on the polished wood desk and crossing his arms behind his back, "He must have known that we would try to establish contact with the operatives."

      Young shrugged and tugged on the sleeves of his shirt, allowing the starched, crisp cuffs of the garment to peek out from under his dress jacket. "They've survived by laying low, Bismarck. Captain O'Shea must have seen the writing on the wall when they became aware of a military presence." Thomas leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stared at the stern, unblinking face in front of him. "This man is smart and he knows what's coming. He's probably evacuated himself and all those with him out of Boston."

Evacuated City of Boston
Lansdowne Street


      Captain Jack O'Shea was deaf to the cacophony of warfare going on around him. All he could hear in his head was his ragged breathing and the rush of blood pumping through his body, fueled by desperation and the knowledge that men's lives depended on his actions. At this moment, however, as Jack ducked and weaved around plasma blasts and friendly mortar ordnance, he was trying to block out the simple fact that even he might not be able to save the life of the one Minuteman who meant the most to him.

      Lansdowne Street was a chaotic mashing of ash grey, obliterated red brick, glass, and steel. The other Minutemen flanking O'Shea took in the scene; their desperate eyes shot back and forth looking for any cover they could find in case the fire from the Covenant blockade down the street unleashed a larger barrage.

      To Captain O'Shea, though, all he saw were the tell-tale signs of a completely destroyed Warthog entering a clothing store. Jack was so focused on the site of the crash that he wasn't even aware he was giving orders on the fly. It was only when a Covenant Carbine round whizzed over his helmet, causing him to duck and trip over the crumbling sidewalk that he realized his voice was hoarse from shouting over the din. The squad took cover in an alleyway two blocks from the crash. Jack swore aloud at the delay as the rest of squad gathered in front of him in a small semi-circle.

      One Private yelled over the echoing roar, "Sir! What's our next move?"

      "We get to Gus Reynolds' Warthog! Everything else is secondary!"

      "What about recon, sir?"

      "We don't leave this street until recon's found their objective and get underground!" As Jack finished speaking, two more Minutemen slid into the relative safety of the alleyway, their momentum knocking them into the far wall of the alley. They composed themselves as best they could before reporting in. Everyone was straining their voices to be heard over the murderous din.

      "Harris and Becker reporting, sir! Mortar team got their rounds, but they can't keep this up much longer!"

      The Captain ignored their concern. "You two give us suppressing fire, then follow us to the crash site! Everyone else, you're with me." The militia still remained in front of him, their chests heaving, mouths gasping for breath.

      "Let's go!" O'Shea roared angrily, checking his weapon and moving into the street. Jack could barely hear their reluctant answering "Huah," as he got back into the thick of battle, and he really did not care. The grizzled, exhausted leader of the Minutemen ran in a crouch toward the creaking hole in the building ahead; bits of the structure were still dribbling on to the pavement after the 'Hog's ugly incursion from earlier in the struggle.

      You can make it, Gus. I can't do this alone.

      Captain O'Shea now fought the most dangerous feeling of all: hope. He fully remembered what witnesses had reported to him about his best friend's disaster: that Master Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds' Warthog had hit a mine in the middle of the street and crashed badly into a building on Lansdowne. He had seen Warthog wrecks before. There was a reason the Minutemen rarely ever used the unwieldy vehicles for urban combat. He knew after so much time had elapsed since the crash that there was a very good chance his friend Gus was dead. Despite this, he hoped. He fought the queasy bright spot of feeling under his armor that told him, against all odds, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds had survived.

      Please, Gus, not you. Hold on, buddy. You're all I have left. You can make it! Just hold on!

      Jack sprinted the last ten feet, boots churning concrete, and swept into the crash site. As he took in the sight, he lost all sense of the world around him. His vision blacked at the edges, the floor dropped out from under him, and the queasy bright spot of hope was instantly replaced with a vacuum of dread. Jack stood, rooted to the spot.

      Not you.

      The drab gray Warthog was upside down, twisted into a sickening L-shape. The mighty Gauss Cannon mounted on the rear now looked more like a smashed soda can. The entire sad monument groaned and hissed, and a dark red pool of blood spread out from under the mess. Gus Reynolds was one of the biggest contributors to the growing lake of death.

      Please. No.

      The first sounds Jack heard were his three other Minutemen finally catching up to him and one Private's whispered, "Oh, shit."

      Jack lunged toward the wreckage like a starved jungle animal on its prey. He wailed away at the dead metal husk, he kicked mercilessly at the destroyed cannon. If he had thought to sink his teeth into the Warthog, he might have tried that, too. He screamed a blood curdling wail that gave pause to all of the soldiers there. They watched in horror as Jack savagely beat on the wreck as if it were his own despair, sometimes accidentally striking the crushed torso of his slain comrade in the process. Finally, after the Captain slipped and fell in the sticky pool of blood, they ran to him and physically dragged their leader away, leaving a trailing smear of blackish red in his wake.

      O'Shea struggled with all of his might, surging toward the one last friend he had in the world. He screamed at his men. He screamed at Gus. He screamed until his saw spots and almost passed out. As two militiamen held him down, one Minuteman walked slowly toward the Warthog as if he was carrying the building on his back. The boy's shoulders sagged as he crouched down next to the body of Gus Reynolds. He then reached under the dead man's collar and tugged the tags off Reynolds' neck; he did it with forlorn reluctance, as if leaving the tags would keep the catastrophe from being real. Every one of the men had never felt so utterly defeated.

      Outside the walls of the looted clothing store, the battle continued to rage. Another cannon shot collided with the street; it threw rubble into the store and skittered against the blank dead face of the man who only an hour ago had reluctantly taken O'Shea's place as leader of the Minutemen. No one even flinched. Jack broke free from the men holding him and made one last charge toward the broken body pinned under the vehicle, falling to his knees and collapsing over the corpse of the one man who truly knew the pain that Jack had kept inside. His body heaved with sobs and he stared at the blood on his gloved hands. In one day, everything that Captain Jack O'Shea had left had been taken from him, and he had not been able to do a thing to stop it.

      Suddenly, a chirp sounded in every soldier's right ear. Despite the fact a horrific fight was going on outside, everyone, save O'Shea, flinched at the sound. The Minuteman holding Gus' tags looked around; he stared at his CO's sobbing frame and in a moment of panic mixed with despair, opened the COM.

      "Go ahead."

      "This is Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons, get Captain O'Shea on the line!"

      The boy would rather have shot himself in the leg. "His COM's off, Parsons. What's up?"

      "Are you fucking kidding? Put the Captain on, dipshit!"

      The Minuteman, only a Private First Class, suddenly snapped at Parsons' unknowingly ignorant tone. "I can't fucking get him, dude! Tell me what you want!"

      There was a second of stunned silence around the group as a pair of militia eased their leader off the floor. The Captain had never looked worse.

      "Tell him we found it. We found the access hatch to Chawla! We've got everything we need and we're going in. Tell the Cap you can get the hell out of there!"

      The news that otherwise would have been cause for celebration in the streets was only met with mystified looks as to how to continue. Everyone now looked with immeasurable guilt at O'Shea, who only in that moment recovered the strength to walk on his own. In the time that passed, no one had acknowledged Parsons' call.

      "Is everything ok? What's going on?"

      The Minutemen exchanged furtive looks back and forth as they frantically tried to decide what to do. Finally, the Private First Class put his hand to his ear and his other hand to his throat mic and blurted out, "Fine. Everything's fine. Good luck, Parsons."

      The reply over the COM was hesitant. "OK. Recon out."
The COM closed and the men resumed the guilty practice of staring at their broken leader for instructions. The Captain looked back at them with a look that seemed miles away. Jack refocused and looked at the bodies around the Warthog once more. He swallowed hard and in a croaking voice, rasped, "Call the Lynx...to evac killed and wounded...full...retreat."

Evacuated City of Boston
Fenway Park


      Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons looked around the pitch-black room. They had gained entrance to the scoreboard inside Fenway Park's famous left field wall, the Green Monster, only a few minutes ago. In that time, they had easily located their objective: the hidden entrance to a secret facility known only as "Chawla." Three beams of light danced around the space as Parsons' partner, Corporal Tim McManus, and two Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, scanned the room once more. McManus' light flipped over to Parsons.

      "What's wrong?" Tim asked in an uncertain voice.

      "Dunno, but something's gotta be fucked if I can't speak to Cap."

      There was another pregnant pause as the two ODSTs lifted a heavy hatch hidden underneath several floor panels. Parsons growled in consternation for another moment, then checked his Battle Rifle once more. "Can't worry about it now, though. Orders are to get inside this thing and get whatever's inside it. Sooner we finish that, sooner we can help out the rest of the guys."

      A very dim light now came up from the dingy floor. All four soldiers walked to the open hatch and looked inside. A ladder led down about twenty feet to a concrete surface, barely illuminated by pale yellow light.

      "Lights are on," the taller ODST, a Sergeant, remarked. "That's good news."

      "Maybe," Ron muttered. "Let's go. I've set charges in here. We'll seal this entrance after we've found another way out. I don't feel like getting entombed today."

      The recon squad now silently descended the metal rungs, each lost in their own thoughts as they proceeded. The two ODSTs refocused their minds to deal with the search that lay ahead. The pair of Minutemen following them were lost in concerned thoughts of the peril that their friends and comrades were in. Despite their separate concerns, they all had an anxious flutter starting in their stomachs; it told them they were going into a place that was undoubtedly dangerous and there was probably no way to call for help if they got in over their heads. Each man spent the last seconds on the ladder doing their best to kill that flutter. Each man failed.

      Finally, after what seemed like hours, they all grouped at the bottom of the hatch. Tim McManus took a brief second to stare back up from whence they came, and sighed. "This doesn't feel right at all," he said, then shouldered his weapon and followed the pack.

      The dim light at the bottom of the hatch had only been a tease. As soon as they moved away from the ladder, an imposing door stood in their way. A wheel was mounted in the middle of the concrete and steel barrier, which the ODST Sergeant slowly opened with tremendous effort. With a groan that spoke to the abandoned state of the facility, the door swung out, revealing a long dark hallway that seemed to disappear into a haze of black. On each side, long glass windows revealed hastily evacuated cubicles and offices, their holopanels blank, stacks of paper overturned and half-charred. Loose sheets of paper lay discarded in the hallway alongside overturned carts and smashed weapons lockers.

      "Looks like they evac'd in a hurry," McManus remarked, still training his sights downrange.

      "Or they want it to look like no one's home," the other ODST, a Lance Corporal, replied. "Too many places to hide on either side. We should clear it room-by-room." Ron Parsons huffed at the idea, and the ranking Helljumper put up a hand.

      "I'd say take it slow, but we don't have that kind of time, do we?"

      Ron shook his head emphatically. "No, we don't," he said as sternly as he could, and broke into a very brisk walk down the left side of the hallway, tactical flashlight on, beam searching for anything that dared get in his way. The rest of the squad immediately followed suit.

      The four sniper scout experts advanced down the dimly lit hallway in two tactical columns, their Battle Rifles out and sweeping the pristine quarters for any sign of hostiles. Every twenty feet the rear guard would pivot and jog backwards, eyes straining to catch any glimpse of a threat. Parsons took a glance to his left and scrutinized an obviously empty communications room.

      "Hey Tim," he asked over his shoulder, "have you gotten anything from topside yet?

      "I've tried a couple times. Nothing but static."

      "My COM's FUBAR, too."

      "Figure they have security systems to monitor the outside? Get a call out when we're clear?"

      "I'd love to be pleasantly surprised."

      The squad took a right turn into a section of tunnel completely devoid of light. Even their tactical flashlights were suffering in this space, cones of white tactical light fought to even reach the walls on either side of them. Finally, the foursome reached thick blast doors that took up the entire wall, forming a dead-end. A yellow stripe ran parallel to the floor at chest height, and in glaring red paint, "Penelope" was stenciled on the right door. A large square button stood out next to a keypad and sensor on the right wall. Parsons came up to the button first and pressed it hard, exhaling with relief. Nothing. Perturbed, Ron pushed it again and again until the ODSTs realized something was wrong.

      The two special ops soldiers walked toward the Staff Sergeant like scolding parents, moving Parsons' hand with force and moving towards the keypad and sensor. Ron had had enough.

      "It's locked! We put all our friends in harm's way to come up on a fucking locked blast door? Of course you gung-ho fucktards thought they'd leave a secret facility chamber unlocked! Are you out of your fucking-"

      The Sergeant smacked Ron upside the head, breaking off the Minuteman's rant. "We didn't know where the facility was, we didn't say anything about not being able to get to it."

      "Cut the shit."

      "Every facility can be overridden by a high-enough UNSC security code. And we just happen to have them all."

      As if on cue, the Lance Corporal withdrew a data pad from his chest pocket and placed it on the sensor. The data pad flashed white, then the sensor glowed a comforting ocean blue that bathed the tunnel in temporary light. With the hiss of complicated locks disengaging, the doors began to slide open, overcoming the small blue light in glaring, sterile white. McManus gave a low whistle and strolled by his superior into the chamber.

      "Wonder if they have the code to get your foot out of your mouth."

      "Not funny."

      The chamber was an immense hollow octagonal globe. In the middle of the chamber floated an object surrounded by a purple energy barrier. It was difficult to tell if the object was made of stone or metal, but it was in the shape of a tire, strange alien symbols and letters etched onto it. Around the object were numerous holo panels, keyboards, and monitors. Each of the monitors and holo panels showed a representation of the object inside the energy barrier, with countless numbers and symbols streaming down the right side.

      The four men split up and cleared the room. The clear call was sounded four times, and the squad got to work. The Sergeant took the lead.

      "Lance, on the door. Seal it shut and lock it down if you can. Parsons, see what the situation up top is like." The large Helljumper nodded at McManus. "You're good with tech?"

      McManus shrugged. "Smarter than the average bear."

      "Then help me find a way to get this thing out."

      The two men walked at a slightly slower pace as they approached the center. It was as if they were hunting a sleeping predator, watching for any sign of danger and knowing that the object in front of you might very well kill you if messed with. Both men took their time looking over the arrays.

      "Standard holo panels. Don't look booby-trapped" McManus declared. The ODST agreed. With a simple swipe of his fingerless gloves, Tim activated the panels, causing the tires to fall away and reveal one bright blue holographic man wearing ancient greek armor and flowing robes. Tim's head jerked back a bit as he and the AI took each other in.

      "Security protocols acceptable. Welcome to Penelope, my name is Odysseus."

Office of Naval Intelligence Outpost
Location Classified


      Commander Thomas Young was hard at work in his office, scrolling between holographic displays and sending off messages in eager anticipation of the strike against Boston. In front of him, Bismarck began yet another strolling patrol along the front edge of the desk, hand clasped behind his back, eyes closed, head down in "thought." The AI was doing its best to stay both in ONI's immense system to full capacity while also hefting the entire UNSC BattleNet. In the flow of the titanic masses of data, Bismarck felt a rare relaxation as he happily completed his deadly tasks. It was a rare kind of peace when he was at this kind of processing power, a very easy, almost euphorically soothing--

      Bismark's eyes snapped open wide in astonishment, then squinted slightly in realization and pure, seething, rage. "Odysseus?"

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 16
Date: 18 January 2008, 9:26 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 16

ONI Signal Intelligence Center
Location Classified
Evening

      "We have a very serious problem."

      Commander Thomas Young frowned at his advanced AI and wiped the holographic screens from his view with an angry swipe of his hand. "Explain, Bismarck."

      The purple holographic figure crossed his arms and stared at the ground. "He's not supposed to be there. How the hell did I miss this?"

      "Bismarck!"

      The artificial intelligence looked up at his master. "There was an advanced AI that was dedicated to cutting-edge research and development. ONI gave him free access to all our weapons tech, with an emphasis on alien and unknown equipment. He called himself Odysseus, after the clever and cunning Greek king who created the Trojan horse. His last known position was with the Apocalypso. They had problems with their shipboard AI, and Odysseus was brought in as a silent fail safe. As either luck or design would have it, Apocalypso intercepted an artifact, and ONI personnel realized it had similar properties to the artifact found during the battle of Imbari V."

      Commander Young stood up in anger, pushing his chair backwards in a fury. "Then what does it matter?"

      "The Apocalypso was wiped after it brought the artifact back. All AI, records, the Captain even, all of it was destroyed. I just picked up his signal. It's distorted, which means it may be coming through the ULF web around Boston."

      "Is there any chance you're wrong?"

      "I know Odysseus, sir. We were created roughly at the same time. Parts of my code were created from him. In a very loose way, you could call him a father to me. I'm not sure why, but I felt him."

      "So we must assume he survived."

      "Yes, and if Odysseus is with that same artifact, he knows everything."

      "Everything."

      "Everything."

      "That makes him dangerous."

      "I should say so, sir."

      Commander Young pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. After a moment, he spoke in a voice that commanded attention. "First chance we get, eliminate him. I want no trace he existed."

      Bismarck eyes narrowed as he nodded. "I'll take care of it."

Chawla Facility
Evacuated City of Boston
Evening


      Corporal Tim McManus took a second to absorb the information all around him. Directly in front of him, a two foot tall hologram of a man dressed in ancient Greek battle armor stood next to a large, rotating artifact that had been sitting under Tim's feet for years. Tim took off his black jeep cap and ran a gloved hand through his short brown hair, letting his hand linger on the back of his head as he grasped at explanations for why everything was as it was.

      "You're...the AI for this facility?" He asked hesitantly.

      "Correct. I am Odysseus, AI for Chawla facility and project Penelope."

      "What's project Penelope?"

      "In short, Project Penelope is tasked with the research and development of strategic uses for Deep Space Artifact-98."

      Tim pointed at the slowly rotating piece of stone-colored metal behind Odysseus."Is that thing Deep Space Artifact-98?"

      "That's right."

      "What does it do?"

      "You don't have the clearance to hear that."

      McManus shook his head in frustration. "I don't know how long you've been cooped up in that machine, but we just came through your facility and it looks like everyone abandoned you in a hurry. The UNSC left this whole city to rot for the last two years. No one cares what you have to say besides me and our men."

      The AI took a brief glance around the room and nearly chuckled. "If that is so, why are you watched by Orbital Drop Shock Troopers? It would appear the UNSC accounts for half the forces in this room."

      "What makes you think we're not UNSC?"

      "You don't register on UNSC biometrics. Besides, you're going to go out into a combat zone dressed like that?"

      McManus looked down at his Minutemen uniform. He had a flash of insecurity as he compared his urban camouflage, worn boots, tactical vest, and very basic armor to the technology-ridden forms of the ODSTs.

      "That doesn't mean those two are UNSC. We could have killed two Helljumpers and used their armor."

      The AI paused for a moment, allowing McManus to falsely believe he had captured victory. As soon as it spoke, though, Tim's shoulders sagged. "Unlikely, as their IFF and biometric tags list them as Sergeant Todd Kren and Lance Corporal Eric Sanders. They are active duty Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. All other information is classified." McManus and Parsons glanced at the two special operations soldiers as they glared at Odysseus. Apparently they did not want their full names becoming public knowledge. In any other context, Tim would have counted that as a victory. Now, it was just another piece of information he did not particularly need. The Minuteman Corporal put both hands on the railing separating him from the AI and the artifact and locked his eyes on the opaque purple figure. Who now crossed his arms in irritation.

      "Do you really want to keep up a pointless argument?"

      Ron Parsons took a step forward, only to be halted by McManus subtly raising his hand. Tim could tell Ron's patience was getting thin, and he faced Odysseus again to try to wrap it up.

      "We need to move this artifact out of Boston."

      "Why?"

      "Because a whole mess of Covenant have occupied the city and they're trying to get in here, I presume to speak with you." Tim found himself gritting his teeth in frustration. "In addition, this city is being targeted for nuclear bombardment. You're either going to be destroyed, or captured by the Covenant."

      The AI glanced at the ODST Sergeant, Todd Kren.

      "It's true," Kren said. "We're here under orders from the Office of Naval Intelligence. You are required to provide all assistance. If you do not, you face deactivation."

      Odysseus fiddled with the tip of his spear. "I understand, though I'll need operation and password clearance in order to allow you access."

      Sergeant Kren removed a slip of paper from a chest pocket and read loud and clear. "Operation: Valiant Reclamation. Password: Gallant Strife."

      The hologram flickered for a moment, then turned a very light green. "Accepted. Mission parameters specify you call in to Commander Young at this time."

      Parsons and McManus traded looks at the conversation that was going on without them; both felt extremely uncomfortable with being sidelined at this point in the mission. Odysseus' color changed from purple to a light red.

      "I'm sorry, I've got an error message. I can't connect with the Battle Net...which shouldn't happen...give me a moment to run a diagnostic."

      Tim glanced nervously at Ron.

      "There's a block on my signal. There's a ULF web over Boston, are you aware?"

      Lance Corporal Sanders grunted and nodded angrily at the Minutemen. "They set up the web to keep us from calling out."

      The AI now glared at the two militia snipers. "Why in the world would you do that?"

      Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons had had enough. He walked quickly and purposefully to the center of the lab and jabbed a finger at the AI. "They were going to call in a nuke! The ULF web was the only way we could make sure they didn't get in contact with the guy who pushes the button." Parsons now pointed addressed the UNSC soldiers in the room. "I might add that if we hadn't done that, you would still be wandering around the city with your heads up your armored asses!"

      A long silence fell on the white, sterile lab. Only the faint sound of electronic humming could be heard as Odysseus scrutinized the special ops soldiers who stood straight and silent, weapons leaning on the railingg in front of them. "Cronin Protocol is a secondary objective?"

      Sergeant Ken nodded gravely. Odysseus' shoulders sagged slightly.

      "I see where the conflict is now. You two irregulars, what do you call yourselves?"

      Parsons' posture straightened a bit. "We're 53rd Massachusetts Militia. We're called the Minutemen."

      "A sense of history, interesting. Well, Minutemen, it seems that even though you find yourselves with different intentions, you and the UNSC both need each other. I can't let the ODSTs take this artifact until I can verify the operation, and I can't do that with this ULF web over the city."

      McManus exhaled sharply and shook his head. He reached inside his tactical vest and withdrew his data pad, tapping a few times on the touch screen. The pad winked to life, displaying options for maps, communication, and notes. A few touches later and a message flashed across the screen.

Hey Tim,
Just got the OPS plan. Looks like a cluster fuck. If you absolutely HAVE TO, I've attached protocols to lift the ULF web. Again, use this ONLY in an EMERGENCY. I really hope you don't have to use this. Last thing we need is the dark agents of death calling home. I like Boston more when it's not a giant parking lot.
For Boston,
Spec. Hung Lam, tech ops.

      Tim looked up at the AI. "There's no other way you can verify their mission?"

      "No other way."

      Ron now glared at Tim, who looked back at his superior with a resigned expression across his face. "We don't have a choice. Odysseus, sync with my data pad and download this protocol."

      The UNSC AI flickered for a moment, digital wind now flowing over his garments. Odysseus changed to green and nodded vigorously.

      "The web is down. Give me a moment to scan."

      The Helljumpers wasted no time. Lance Corporal Sanders' head drooped a bit as he activated his COM to call ONI. "I have link to station," he tersely informed Kren. Parsons now leaned heavily against the railing, lost in thoughts that bordered on homicidal. As Tim McManus kept tabs on his partner, he noticed that Odysseus was now clutching his spear and transitioning from green to red.

      "Sergeant," The advanced AI asked, "please reconfirm operation and password."

      Sergeant Kren had been occupied waiting next to the Lance for word from this superiors. He looked over his shoulder and repeated, "Operation: Valiant Reclamation. Password: Gallant Strife."

      Before Odysseus could say anything further, the Lance Corporal removed his helmet and tried to mask his excitement with a measured tone. "I have command," he said, holding a large thin receiver in front of his commanding officer. Tim crossed the space between him and the Helljumpers and put a firm hand on the Lance's forearm, earning him a surprised and annoyed look.

ONI Signal Intelligence Center


      Bismarck stood ramrod straight and nearly hopped up and down to get Thomas Young's attention. "It's him!" The AI reported, urgency and a hint of anxiety escaping from his voice. "Odysseus is operational!"

      Young glared at the short hologram on his desk. "Does he know you're looking at him?"

      The AI smiled smugly. "I hid the diagnostic in signal tones. Even if he knows he's being scanned, he has no idea it's me."

      "Signal tones?" Young asked hopefully.

      "Yes, Mein Kommander. The team is making contact."

      Young gave a very curt nod, but Bismarck knew what it meant. We're in business.

      "Take off your helmet and put it on speaker," McManus said to the Sergeant in an authoritative voice. The Sergeant's titled his head to the side, wondering what the Minuteman was getting at. McManus tapped his trigger finger against the side of his slung Battle Rifle impatiently.

      "You're calling the people who said it was ok to nuke my friends and family. I want to know what you're talking about, or you won't take one step closer to that artifact."

      "I'm not comfortable with that."

      "I don't care. We lost men getting you to your objective. This is the least you can do."

      Kren removed his helmet, revealing piercing glacial blue eyes and a military-grade haircut. The bigger, stronger, and better armed soldier fixed a hard gaze on the gutsy man in front of him and nodded slightly. "Fine, but let's get a few things straight: you want us gone, so this is your objective, too. You lost men on a joint operation, which was your plan. I'm sorry you had losses, but that's not my concern right now. You can listen in, but these are my people, and they only care about what I have to say."

      McManus matched the ODST's look and said nothing. Sergeant Kren frowned and pressed a button on the receiver as the Minuteman retreated to his partner's position by Odysseus.

      "I don't like this at all," Parsons whispered, arms crossed tightly. McManus only nodded in agreement. After a moment, a strong, male voice weakly filled the empty space of the lab.

      "Identify yourself."

      The Sergeant's posture straightened a bit as he spoke to the disembodied voice. "This is Sergeant Kren, 105th Orbital Drop Shock Trooper Division, 31st Battalion; with me is Lance Corporal Sanders. With whom am I speaking?"

      The voice now became very slightly hesitant. "This is ONI Commander Thomas Young. Good to hear from you, Sergeant. We were beginning to worry."

      Parsons huffed in exasperation and was instantly silenced by McManus. Tim drew a line along his lips signaling his partner to keep quiet. As Tim turned to continue observing the conversation, he could not help but notice Odysseus staring at him and not the conversation between the soldiers.

      "What?" McManus asked as silently as possible. The AI leaned forward, keeping a wary eye on the black-clad Helljumpers.

      "Something's not right," Odysseus said. "Something's very wrong here."

      "What's wrong?" McManus hissed impatiently, doing everything he could to look inconspicuous. "Tell me." Odysseus winked away, leaving only a slight afterglow of purple light.

      Both Minutemen found their hands sliding into position around their rifles. McManus made sure his pistol was ready to be drawn as well. Commander Young's voice came through the chamber again.

      "I assume you're calling in for your first report, per your briefing earlier."

      "Aye, Commander. We've located the artifact. Primary objective complete."

      "Excellent news, Sergeant. Have you encountered any resistance?"

      "There's a Covenant presence here, sir. But before you come to any decision, there's an effective human military presence as well. They've been keeping the Covenant at bay since the invasion, and...well, they know about Cronin Protocol, sir."

      "Understood, Sergeant. All we want is that artifact. Secondary objectives were conditional to the artifact's destruction or capture."

      McManus and Parsons both glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes. Liar.

      Commander Young's voice sounded in the lab again. "Is there any other intel you can give us?"

      "Yes, sir. We've found an AI here, sir, that can--"

      Parsons and McManus looked with nervous expectation at the two Helljumpers, who were now just looking between themselves with very confused expressions. Sergeant Kren shook the receiver, then tapped it against the heel of this hand. "I lost COMS," he said. "What the hell?"

      Both Minutemen looked down as their data pads flashed white once, then glowed in a comforting blue. The message across their screens, however, was anything but comforting.

I blocked COMS. -O

      The ODST Lance Corporal shot a look across the lab that screamed irritation. "Did you do that?" He asked with barely masked anger. Parsons raised his hands in surrender.

      "Don't look at us," he said, "we want out of here just as much as you."

      As the two Helljumpers tried to reestablish contact, McManus traded a worried look with Parsons and typed back to Odysseus, "Why did you do that?"

ONI probing. Sense hostile AI. Lots of lies. Going to block COMS, secure the ODSTs. -O

      Now the Lance Corporal was walking toward the two Minutemen, putting his helmet back on and pointing a finger at the pair. "What are you typing? What are you doing?"       Tim's bare fingers flew across the touch pad. "Why ODSTs?"

      "Hey!" The Sergeant's voice boomed through the room as the Lance came ever closer. "He's talkin' to you!"

      Operation: Valiant Reclamation does not exist. ODSTs listed KIA one month ago.

      Directly next to Tim, Ron Parsons felt the words slipping out of his mouth before he had a chance to clap a fingerless glove over it. "Shit," he whispered loudly, his voice mixing with the dying echoes of the Sergeant's command.

      McManus felt the iron grip of the Lance Corporal on his forearm, causing him to release his grip on the data pad just a bit. As the data pad slid out, the ODST reached for it, trying to keep it from hitting the ground. It would be the last tactical mistake he would make against the young Minuteman. As the Lance began to bend down, Tim swung the butt of his Battle Rifle against the exposed chin peeking out underneath the helmet, dropping the Lance Corporal to the floor in the heap.

      Sergeant Kren sprinted for his suppressed SMG, which he had left against the railing in the middle of the lab. Ron Parsons made up the distance in a near sprint. Firing one warning burst at the floor in front of the Sergeant. The rounds kicked up off the hard surface and the muffled report of the sound suppressed rifle died quickly in the open space, replaced quickly by the ferocious bark of Staff Sergeant Parsons' orders.

      "On the ground! Now! Don't you fucking move!"

      McManus trained his weapon on the head of the Lance, who was groggily removing his helmet to get some air. Both of the Minutemen traded uneasy looks, still not quite certain what an AI they had known for a few minutes had gotten them into.

Boston Police Garage
Underground entrance to South Station Refugee Camp


      The Lynx was the last vehicle to limp into the Boston Police garage, it's tires squealing in mushy protest of the smooth floor beneath it. The large armored troop carrier had seen its hardest day yet in the city of Boston, and considering it boasted none of the maneuverability of the Warthogs and only a bit more weaponry, it looked remarkably fine. The men inside it, however, were a completely different story.

      Private First Class David Crabtree hopped out from the back of the Lynx, wiped his dirty brow with a filthy glove, and pushed his thick black glasses back onto his face. The young Minuteman looked around the garage and heaved a sigh. Only a few hours ago the garage had been bustling with militia making preparations for battle; buddies yelled encouragement to each other, ammo drums were loaded onto vehicles with pats on the back, and the space had been much more full.

      Now Crabtree saw only one Warthog returned from the engagement, and weary Mongoose drivers limped with pain from the debris-strewn journey. Worse still, the groaning of wounded Minutemen creeped out from the covered rear of the urban gray transport, and David was reminded of all that had gone wrong and could never be fixed. The twenty-year-old kid flexed his hands and tried to get his circulation going as he readied himself to start unloading bodies. Before he could start, however, he heard his name called from across the garage.

      "Crabtree! Hold up a second!"

      Lance Corporal Ankit Jeevaji winced as he trotted toward the Lynx. The Indian soldier put a hand on David's shoulder more out of pain relief than consolation.

      "How was the trip back?" Jeevaji asked.

      "Pretty much the same," Crabtree said, glancing into the vehicle, "guys literally spilling their guts, leader sitting catatonic in front of his best friend's corpse, but traffic was a breeze."

      Ankit frowned at the dark humor. "Where's the Cap?"

      The PFC nodded toward the red-lit troop bay. "Putting the Master Guns into the body bag. Everyone else is too busy trying to figure out what the fuck happened."

      "It was a tough plan, but the only one we had."

      "Sure."

      The higher-ranking Minuteman now put his other hand on Crabtree's other shoulder. This time it was not for support. Ankit pulled the PFC in and stared menacingly at him.

      "You think these parts are easy? They're not." Jeevaji growled. "Guys who are smarter than you and more experienced than you are making these calls. You don't like the way things went? Get in line. But if you start questioning the moves Master Guns made to save this city after the fucking mission, I'll make sure you're on air filtration duty for the rest of our time. Now start sorting the wounded and get me the Captain."

      "Huah," Crabtree breathed, and climbed into the Lynx. Men with injuries both superficial and severe were disembarking from the transport. Jeevaji helped them down as best he could as he gave instructions.

      "If you're unhurt, regroup with your squads and await orders. Anyone who's not hurt too bad, report to that Warthog for the medics to check you out. If you're banged up, sit tight here. We'll get the pros on you ASAP." The olive-skinned militia man took off his helmet and placed it under the Lynx, clearing up his vision so he could better lower a stretcher from the vehicle. As he placed it down, he glanced up and looked into a face he knew but did not recognize.

      Captain Jack O'Shea stepped down delicately from the troop transport, his helmet off and providing a clear border for his dirt, blood, and dust-caked face. The leader of the Minutemen was slowly removing armor plates from his vest as Ankit jogged over and lent a hand. Jack only nodded silently at the worried Lance Corporal.

      "Sir?' Jeevaji asked, trying to peer into the Captain's face. "Are you hit?"

      Ankit had to take a moment to collect himself as his eyes met O'Shea's. What once were brown circles lit by passion and purpose were now gray, bloodshot, and devoid of light. Even with that, those eyes burned into the back of Jeevaji's skull.

      "Sir, I need to know if you're hit."

      The Captain shook his head slowly.

      "Thank God. Captain, I know this is hard, but until recon confirms they've got their objective, we need to manage here. I just need you to give some orders."

      If Jack understood or knew a word the man had said, he gave no indication. This is going to be harder than I thought, Jeevaji said to himself.

      "If recon needs to be extracted, we're going to need these vehicles up and running. Should I start a pre-load out? Should I contact the reserve units?"

      O'Shea slipped out another plate of armor, this one from his back. He placed it carefully on a wooden crate beside him and stared down. After a long pause, he nodded.

      "Huah. Also, sir, I'm sorry, but what should we do about Master Guns?"

      The Captain's head rose so slowly he might as well have been lifting a weight with his teeth. The eyes locked on Ankit's again, but this time they seemed off in a different city. The voice that came from the ranking Minuteman's face was barely above a dry whisper. "What do you mean?"

      Ankit looked over his shoulder briefly. "I'm only saying you don't look good, Captain, and Master Guns is de...well, I just don't know how the refugees would react if they saw all of this."

      The part of O'Shea's mind that could process any part of this knew the Lance Corporal was right, and even though Jack could not put two separate thoughts together, he called on enormous reserves of energy and tried to muster the words for an order.

      "Does the camp know...we're back?"

      "No, sir."

      "Have the reserves...call an artillery drill. Everyone...in their tents. Bring Gus...bring the body to the command conference room. Once we're clear, send reserves to prep transports."

      Even though the words were nothing short of tragic, it heartened Ankit to hear his leader mildly coherent and still able to make decisions. Jeevaji confirmed the order verbally and turned on his heel, walking toward a small standing huddle of Minutemen anxious for their next move. He made the distance up quickly, snagging his helmet as he traveled. The men around him cut their conversation short as he joined the circle.

      "So what're we doing?" A Corporal asked through an exhaled breath of smoke.

      "Get reserves on a camp-wide artillery shelter drill. Everyone in tents, no exceptions. Once we're clear, move all severely wounded to the hospital and make sure Master Guns and the Cap get to the command conference room without being seen by the camp. After that, cycle reserves to prep for recon pickup. Monitor all channels."

      "Whose orders are those?" A shorter Minuteman asked with a trace of scorn.

      "Whose fucking orders do you think they are, Greg?" Ankit replied with an angry squint and a tilted head. "You saw the Captain talk to me. Jack fucking O'Shea gave you an order, are you really not gonna follow it?"

      Any hint of insubordination died a quiet but wriggling death on the floor between the group.

      "And let me tell you one last thing," Jeevaji said, pointing subtly around the huddle, "the Captain is still in charge until he says he's not. Now let's get it done."

      The ring of Minutemen nodded, shook hands all around, and walked toward their squads. Before he moved on to his duties, Lance Corporal Jeevaji looked over his shoulder and watched the Lynx. A large black bag with white block letters UNSC was being gently lowered from the Lynx. The body of Gus Reynolds, Jack O'Shea's oldest friend, now laid at the feet of the saddest man in Boston. The Captain's head hung, hands stuffed in spare vest pockets, as he helped carry the body from the transport. In that moment, Ankit Jeevaji prayed to God that he would never have to feel that way ever.

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 17
Date: 6 June 2008, 6:54 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 17

ONI Signal Intelligence Center
Location Classified
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Evening


      "Keearrrgh!" The green holographic man cried, flickering and splicing as he fell on the desk.

      Commander Thomas Young stared at his artificial intelligence with a look of genuine anger and incredulity. "Bismark," he commanded loudly, "report now."

      The green holograph, dressed in Prussian diplomatic clothes, stood, still splicing. "He caught me at the worst time. Got inside my infiltration copy, cut a firewall and trapped it there. I've lost twenty-seven percent power."

      "He what?"

      "Admittedly, he is better, Commander. Though Odysseus will be able to figure out what I am and what I'm doing, I now can gain access inside Chawla. As long as they're inside that facility, we'll know everything that goes on in there."

      "I want to hear everything that's being said in there right now."

      "Yes, sir."

Chawla Facility
Evacuated City of Boston

      "Tell me why you're dead."

      The Orbital Drop Shock Trooper Lance Corporal Eric Sanders' features contorted in a flash of confusion, anger, and embarrassment as he looked up at the barrel of Corporal Tim McManus' Battle Rifle. The gleaming black finish reflected the sterile white overhead lights and for an instant gave the Helljumper a clear view of his partner's identical predicament. Just seconds ago, the two special operations soldiers had been talking with their commander and the end seemed in sight. Now their COMS were cut off again, and once again they faced two very angry militia members who had spent the entire war under Covenant occupation, abandoned by the same military that was now sneaking around in their city. For the briefest of the moments, the ODST Lance Corporal understood where the Minutemen were coming from.

      "Do I look dead to you?" The Lance asked McManus.

      "Your files, both of your files, list you as KIA one month ago."

      "Were you listening? The AI read our biometrics. You can't fake those. Take two seconds and realize what the hell you're doing."

      Tim took stock of his surroundings once more. On the other end of the lab, Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons had switched to his M6C sidearm and was holding the other ODST, a Sergeant named Todd Kren, at gunpoint. In between them, a large, tire shaped artifact hung weightlessly, surrounded by holo panels and one holographic projection of the artificial intelligence that had told him to ambush the UNSC soldiers. It had so far called itself Odysseus, and warned both the Minutemen that the Helljumpers in front of them were listed as killed in action a month ago.

      In addition, Odysseus had informed McManus that their operation, Valiant Reclamation, did not exist. The AI still had not told the group what the artifact did and why it was there, but at this point the Corporal did not care. All Tim knew for sure was that the ODSTs had come to Boston with at least a secondary objective of targeting his hometown for a nuclear bombardment. McManus knew that he may very well have to kill the men in front of him to keep that from happening, but at this moment he was doing his best to avoid that. Tim sighed and leaned against the railing separating them from the artifact.

      "Tell me what Valiant Reclamation is."

      The ODST glared at Tim. "Have you lost it? We've told you already."

      "Odysseus says it doesn't exist. So what I want to know right now is what the Hell you're really planning and who's telling you to do it."

      "We're sent here by top tier ONI command, personally."

      Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons banged his fist against a wall. "Who's the guy on the phone?"

      "Top tier ONI command."

      Tim glared at the Lance Corporal. "Don't get cute with me. Just because he's the angry one doesn't mean I won't shoot you."

      "You so much as touch me and you're good as dead."

      "Right, because it's so unbelievable that you'd die in a Covenant occupied city."

      "No, he's right."

      The two Minutemen looked over their shoulders at the holographic man behind them. The fourteen-inch-tall projection, dressed in ancient Greek robes and armor, was resting his chin on his fist, appearing deep in thought. "The hostile AI I detected, it came over the transmission the ODSTs sent. I cut off most of him, but he's partially functional inside the security system."

      Ron pushed his pistol hard against the side of his captive's head. "You sons of--"

      "Wait! They didn't know. They didn't know." Odysseus shouted, hands outstretched. "The Office of Naval Intelligence sent it over."

      Parsons eyes flashed with anger as he tried to focus his rage and confusion. "As long as they're alive, we're in danger. What's ONI gonna do if we just shoot these guys?"

      "Any number of things, I imagine. I think the most important on your mind would be the nuclear strike on Boston that they are planning in case the Helljumpers fail."

      "There's no way to prove that's not what they're planning anyway."

      "And yet, here you stand in front of a Forerunner artifact."

      Tim cocked his head to the side in confusion. "The hell is 'Forerunner?'"

      "I'm sorry, that's all I can tell you."
      Tim threw up his hands. " You told us to assault spec ops soldiers, but you won't tell us anything? You're really starting to become more trouble than you're worth."

      "I doubt that. I'm your only ticket out of here, but in order to leave, I need all four of you alive. Now release the ODSTs while I deal with our uninvited guest."

      "Fuck. That." Ron Parsons growled.

      "I only asked you only to restrain the soldiers while I figured out what was going on. Now that I know, and now that you know you can only leave if you're all alive, it's in your best interest to get along. I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't touch anything."

      Parsons grit his teeth and balled his free hand into a tight fist, extremely reluctant to let his highly lethal captive loose. After a few more moments of tension, Parsons lifted his sidearm from the UNSC Sergeant's head. "Get up," he muttered.

      The Orbital Drop Shock Trooper stood up quickly and grabbed his helmet, sealing it with a click and turning towards the frustrated Minuteman.

      "Boy, you point that gun at me again and I'll kill you."

      "I promise," Ron replied evenly, "If I ever point this gun at you again, I'll pull the trigger."

      Tim McManus heaved a sigh and stared at the ceiling. "Things have to be better at camp."

South Station Refugee Camp
Underneath evacuated City of Boston


      "This is an artillery shelter drill. All refugees are required to report to their tents immediately. No exceptions. Drop what you're doing and go now."

      Rachel Lynch looked up from her data pad in a panic. Camp-wide announcements were very rarely used, and it took the message repeating to ease her mind very slightly.

      "It's just a drill, Rachel." She whispered to herself. "It's just a drill."

      She placed her data pad on top of the ammunition crate in front of her. Each refugee was required to work as much as they could, depending on their age and health. Rachel' s skills had always been in organization and management. Her undergraduate study in civic structure and political science made her a perfect candidate to oversee the day-to-day operations of the Minutemen.

      Lych was quickly assigned to assist the most respected civilian in the camp, Laura O'Shea, the only hours ago deceased wife of Captain Jack O'Shea. At that moment, Rachel had been trying to lose her thoughts in the mundane task of cataloguing weapons and ammunition. She had been trying desperately to banish the thoughts of sudden and unjust loss, but as soon as the announcement sounded across the camp, she failed.

      The past few hours had gone horribly for Rachel. As Laura O'Shea's assistant, she always knew when the Minutemen were leaving camp. Just before the militia had returned, Laura inexplicably collapsed right in front of her, leaving Rachel to call for help and watch her boss get whisked away to the field hospital in the middle of South Station.

      At the time, the first responders had said it was a fainting spell, and Lynch had left it at that. It had been jarring, but Rachel knew that Mrs. O'Shea was always under stress and constantly worried about her husband. Rachel completely understood what Laura had been going through; she had been increasingly concerned about the safety of her boyfriend, Corporal Tim McManus.

      Lynch started filing into the tent area with the the scores of refugees, content to let the flow of the crowd gently push her to her destination. At this point in what was proving to be the worst day yet, the auburn haired college student was not completely sure she could make it to her quarters without a little outside help. She and Tim had grown very close in the days immediately following the Covenant invasion, they both took to each other easily and found strength together. That strength had gradually become love, and while that was a gift and a blessing, on days like today it gave Rachel an ache in her heart and dread in her stomach.

      Only minutes after Tim had left her tent to go on his second mission of the day, Rachel had heard news that Laura O'Shea was dead. Not only that, but rumors had been swirling around the camp of UNSC forces being spotted in and around Boston. Rachel knew that even though they were living in fear of the Covenant and buried underground for months, when it came to the UNSC coming back to the city, those that hid in Boston were better off alone.

      The announcement sounded over the camp loudspeakers again, but the tone was much more harsh and threatening. "Report to your tents immediately and remain there until the all-clear is sounded. Anyone found in violation will be severely punished."

      The pace of the sullen, frightened, and weary crowd picked up slightly. Rachel was now being gently pushed as she finally caught sight of her tent, in the "single female" section of "Tent City." McManus and Parsons had habitually called it, "the meat market," but it did not seem funny now. Sliding and pushing past the crowds into her row was not easy, she almost fell twice and wondered if anyone would have had the idea of picking her up. Rachel realized that the strain that she and Laura were feeling was not a private affliction. Everyone was showing signs of wear and tear, stress poking through the life they had in their years.

      Lynch gently opened the flaps to her tent and ducked inside. There, she flipped on her glowlamp and let the soothing yellow light try everything it could to change her mood. The lamp failed miserably. The silence settling amongst the refugees lay thick and amplified the thoughts ringing inside her head. Rachel pulled her long hair back and busied herself with putting it in a loose ponytail. It was nothing but feeble attempts at turning her mind away from Tim and the possibility that he was dead in the back of some transport, or worse, captured or left behind in a city ruled by monsters. She stood up abruptly and started to pace inside the tent.

      Just then, Rachel could make out the distant sounds of people coming through an access tunnel. Lynch had been privy to the fact that the Minutemen had been using the tunnels to the transport vehicles more frequently today than ever before. She had not paid excellent attention to where the troops were going, but it seemed like they had been gone a very long time. For the briefest of seconds, Rachel was terrified that it might be the Covenant, but then she heard the familiar sound of combat boots and the breeze-ruffled uniforms.

      She fought the urge to slip out of her tent and check to see if Tim was amongst the group, but she did not desire to get herself in trouble and cause Tim significant embarrassment. So she resolved to sneak out of the tent and position herself with a well-hidden view of the soldiers. Peeking ever so slightly out of her quarters, she guessed that the troops were moving toward the central command trains that bisected the camp.

      The hollowed-out commuter trains had been converted into officers' quarters, Minutemen ready rooms, communication hubs, and a central briefing and war room. As the sound of shuffling boots grew closer, Rachel crouched and scurried between tents as silently as she could. For a very brief moment, she was reminded of all the times she had used her sneaking talents to slip out during curfew and meet up with Tim, but those happy memories were washed away as soon as she found cover near the trains and spotted the returning Minutemen.

      The six militia members looked like they had just come out of Hell. Every one of them walked with difficulty, their uniforms stained and torn in places. Their protective padding and armor was scuffed; their posture showed nothing but exhaustion. Beyond that, their faces truly showed what they had been through. Each man's features were caked with dust, dirt, and dried blood, both from cuts and from teammates. Behind them, Captain Jack O'Shea limped with his head down, helmet off and hair matted with sweat and grime, his hands dark red with blood. The sight was so jarring that she almost missed what the six men in front of Captain O'Shea were carrying: a black body bag.

      The young woman felt the air leave her lungs as she searched the faces of the six men, praying to catch a glimpse of her love. None of them were Tim McManus, and Rachel felt her knees go weak and the ground become liquid.

      No.

      Rachel thought of all the things she should have said to Tim, all the warnings she should have given, all the opportunities she had to let the one man she cared more about than anything on Earth know how she truly felt. As she watched the Minutemen carry that awful bag, Rachel wished more than life itself to be the one wrapped in black instead.

      Get a hold of yourself, dammit, a voice inside her head commanded. If Timmy's dead, where's Ron? Lynch knew that if anything at all had happened to McManus, then Ron Parsons would be one of those six carrying the body. It sparked only the faintest glimmer of hope as she resolved, punishment or not, to find out who was in that body bag.

      She crept forward, becoming more visible all the while, until she got close to the Minutemen. One of the militia glanced up and froze for an instant, his face blanching in realization that someone violated the announcement. Before he could say anything, Rachel got within range of Captain O'Shea.

      "Jack..." her voice barely escaped her lips in a dry whisper. "Who is..."

      Rachel Lynch almost fell backwards as the leader of the Minutemen turned toward her voice. Her jaw hung slack and she felt rooted to the spot as she tried to look at the man she saw every day but at this moment, did not recognize. As bad as the others looked, they would have appeared to be angels next to Jack O'Shea. The tall man's eyes, once bright and radiating intelligence, only showed dark gray surrounded by red. This man had seen unimaginable horror, and it looked like it had taken his soul. Lynch fought to find words as O'Shea just stared back at her, silently. Rachel tried to swallow and find moisture in her mouth, but there was no relief. The thick whisper came again.

      "Who is...Jack, whose body is that?"

      One of the Minutemen carrying the body stepped out of formation for a moment and put an iron grip on the redhead's arm. Rachel wondered for a moment if the man was about to hit her, but instead found herself being pulled to face the man who smelled of sweat, gunpowder, and death.

      "Go back to your tent now."

      "No," Rachel tried to protest, wrenching her eyes back toward O'Shea, still standing still beside her. "Jack, please. Just tell me if that's Timmy."

      Jack O'Shea said nothing, but his eyes now glistened with tears.

      "Is it?"

      Jack shook his head once.

      "Then...who...?"

      The Minuteman holding Rachel released his grip slightly and, trying not to bring the name to Jack's attention again, whispered in a low voice, "It's Master Guns. It's...it's Gus Reynolds. You breathe a word of this to anyone and we will put you away."

      With that, the militiaman gently put a hand on the Minuteman Captain and tried to guide him towards the procession of soldiers. O'Shea looked over his shoulder at the girl who had spent so many days and weeks with his wife, and said almost silently, "You...always made Laura happy."

      Rachel Lynch put a trembling hand to her mouth as the Minutemen trudged on. Left alone with the men in front and the refugee camp behind, her legs finally gave out and she slumped to the floor, staring ahead as silent tears flowed fresh from her green eyes.

Chawla


      "You're not supposed to be here."

      "Funny, I could say the same for you."

      Odysseus glared across what seemed like infinity at the other artificial intelligence that was trying to look intimidating in full Prussian battle dress but failing to keep consistent solid form. The two AIs glided toward each other across endless streams of data; numbers and symbols in thousands of colors flew by at dizzying speed. Finally, Odysseus and Bismarck met, "Face," to "Face."

      "I would probably be remiss if I didn't inform you I've activated purge protocols." Odysseus stated.

      "And I wouldn't be worth my processing power if I hadn't anticipated it." Bismarck replied with affected boredom.

      "I've know you, Bismarck. I remember you. I know what you're capable of. You can try to end this your way, but you have to understand that you're just a descendent of me, merely a downgraded copy."

      "Oh, I know what you think I know, 'Dad'," Bismarck replied, still splicing and struggling to maintain a corporeal form in the digital arena. "But whether or not you get me out of this facility's system, I still have my finger on the button."

      "This isn't the Apocolypso, Bismarck. You might have made that whole ship's crew disappear, but there's no way you can mask destroying everyone in this city."

      "There's a Frigate and an ONI commander that say different."

      "What about the operation? Do you have any idea what this artifact is capable of?"

      "The artifact's abilities no longer matter."

      "What are you talking about?"

      "Everyone is this city is going to die, Odysseus."

      The Chawla AI's eyes opened wide in shock. "That's not your mission!"

      "Our mission is to defeat the Covenant. They're massed above your location, looking for your project. Now that we know that, Boston must be destroyed. No one missed it when the invasion started, and no one will miss it when it's gone."

      Bismarck's avatar began to fluctuate, turning different colors and fading in and out of view. Odysseus stood tall, digital wind flowing over his robes and armor. "We can move the artifact! There are people here, Bismarck! We can still save them!"

      Odysseus was now only talking to a suggestion of a shape. Bismarck was losing power and signal strength in the system, not even daring to spend the power on talking. Suddenly, the entire electronic environment turned red, and a light female robotic voice announced, "Self-destruct sequence initiated."

      Odysseus cancelled the sequence with an irritated wave of his hand.

      "Fine," he stated into the streams of information, "you want to try to trap me in here? Let's see how destructive you feel when I bring this Covenant magnet to your doorstep." The now scarlet-red AI clashed his shield and sword together and spat, "Purge intruder."

      To say Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons and Corporal Tim McManus were on edge would have been a gross understatement. It had been fifteen minutes since Odysseus had simply vanished from sight, and despite breaking its instructions not to touch anything, they had pushed a lot of buttons trying to get it to come back. They had resigned themselves to simply sitting down by the floating, tire shaped object in the center of the room and kept their eyes on the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. Their suspicious stares were sent right back to them from the reflective face shields ten feet away. For thirteen minutes, not a single word was said.

      Then a sharp tone sounded through the lab and light female robotic voice announced, "Self-destruct sequence initiated."

      The four soldiers jumped to their feet and grabbed their weapons. The Minutemen rushed to the holopanels around the artifact and looked franticly for a solution while the special operations soldiers across the room ran for computers on the other side looking for the same. There were a few seconds of sheer panic until another tone sounded and the same voice spoke again.

      "Self-destruct sequence cancelled."

      Stressed sighs of relief came from each man as they fought to bring down the rush of adrenaline. McManus rested his forehead against his forearm as he leaned heavily against a support column. He stared at the floor and breathed, "That was unnecessary."

      Parsons joined his friend and sat against the railing that separated them from the artifact. A few more seconds passed before Ron felt Tim's eyes on him. The two shared a weary look. The ranking militia sniper blinked hard and shifted his gaze to the floor. He crossed his arms over his slung Battle Rifle and said softly, "I think Gus is dead."

      "Yeah," McManus exhaled sadly. "Me too." Both men resumed their silence, lost in thought.

      Tim knew that Ron cared deeply for the late Master Gunnery Sergeant. While McManus had become increasingly dependent on his girlfriend, Rachel Lynch, as a release for his feelings of loss and grief; he knew that Parsons tended to internalize everything. That was what had led to Parsons' and Reynolds' bonding: a sense that they, and only they, could process what had happened. Only they could come to terms with the fact that they were forever trapped in an increasingly hopeless situation. Of course Ron would reach out to Tim when he really needed support, just as he imagined Gus reached out to Captain O'Shea in times of need, but both men tended to blame themselves for everything, and they always thought they had no choice but to suffer alone.

      McManus pushed himself off the column and sat down next to his best friend. This was not the time for words. Trying to think of what to say to a friend when an entire city depended on them did not seem like an efficient use of his time. Instead, Tim simply put a hand on his partner's shoulder. When it was time to talk about all the horrible things they had to endure today, it would be simply be time. Assuming we survive that long, Tim thought.

      Before anyone could devote another second to the subject, however, Odysseus materialized on the holotank a few feet away from them. Instantly, the two pairs of fighters were on their feet and walking quickly toward the AI, who wore a look of anger and determination. Odyssseus spoke loud and clear.

      "We need to move the artifact. Right now."

Minutemen Command Train
South Station Refugee Camp
Late Evening


      Captain Jack O'Shea sat in the large leather briefing chair in the deep darkness of the Minuteman briefing room, elbows up on the long, smooth black table, his head in his hands. He reached to his left and with trembling hands raised a single glass of water to his lips. He licked his chapped lips with a dry tongue and took a single sip. The clear filtered water was absorbed by his dry mouth like a drop of rain in the middle of desert, insufficient. The only light in the entire room came weakly from tiny imperfections in the blacked-out windows and very dim overhead lights. The darkness only compounded the silence of his ragged breath as he tried to find words in his mind. He took a deep breath, then began to speak. His speech barely registered above a whisper as he spoke to his last friend in the world.

      "Do you remember that day in October? When you threw those Sox playoff tickets at me?" He asked. "It was late October. The leaves had changed all over the place. Bright reds, oranges, yellows, it's my favorite time of year. Laura and I used to walk with the kids for miles along the Charles. The kids would get tired and I'd have to carry them in turns. My favorite time of year."

      Jack put the water down and leaned back in the chair. He ran his rough hands against the stubble on his cheeks, leaving them there to mask his voice. O'Shea felt his hot breath against his palms, the faint taste of dust and dirt invading his mouth.

      "The day you came into my office and handed over those tickets...that was the last happy day of my life. We worked together in that UNSC Admin post and you thought we had the best job in the service. 'We're paid to write,' you told me. 'The only thing we have to worry about is getting hit by teenagers crossing the street.' I laughed then. Doesn't seem funny now."

      Jack now stared at the ceiling, his hands firmly gripping his hair. "Two guys from ONI came that day. They knew I had been watching the stars, hacking the intel reports. I had to let them use a Warthog, and in return they confirmed my fears. I never told you this. They told me the Covenant was coming. We always suspected, but what they gave me made it true. I hated them for that. Now I knew. I knew we were going to have to fight. I knew we were going to lose. I knew."

      The Captain shook his head sadly. "I knew, and I made us stay. I could have transferred, or I could have gone off the grid. We knew how; you remember when Thompson did it. Just like that--" Jack snapped his fingers weakly, the only sound a slight friction of thumb on middle finger, "he was gone. I could have taken Laura and the kids. Gotten the hell out of there. Hidden far away from strategic locations. But I didn't. We stayed, we thought command would help us out. When we knew they wouldn't help Boston, you told me we had to stay. You told me we had to help those who couldn't be helped."

      O'Shea looked around the room. "So you lost your children and I lost my children. Our lineage, our line, ended. Just like that. All I had was Laura and all we had left was Boston. We grew up here, why not fight here? We found this place, we found this place, and we kept everyone as safe as we could...built the bar, just the two of us. I always knew you were thinking of your kids every time you would stop talking and just look straight ahead. Your eyes would change from looking at something to staring at the thing you knew you could never have back. Together, we lost everything, but we built it back."

      Jack went back to leaning against the table, eyes boring holes into the floor. "Remember the second week? When we knew no one was coming for us? We got drunk off the last of the Irish whiskey we found in that old pub on Comm Ave, and you asked me if it was worth it. 'We don't know how long this will go,' you said. 'They could glass us all tomorrow.' I looked you in the eyes and showed you the picture I had in my helmet. The one with me, Laura, and the kids. I looked you in the eyes and told you it was worth it. Your wife died four days after that. "

      "You took that so hard; I didn't know if you would pull through, but you did. Every fucking day that I didn't think I could do this, I could look at you and see you dragging the world behind you, but you were still moving. You kept me moving."

      "You and I settled in for the long haul. That first winter we lost a quarter of the refugees to cold and sickness, and I asked you if this was worth it. You took me outside to see the rest of the camp, and you said, 'three-quarters of this camp is still alive. They're worth it, Jack.'"

      O'Shea chuckled. "You always said my name when you really wanted my attention or you really meant something. I think you meant both that day. So we kept going. You started drinking too much, and I didn't say a thing. Who would I be to tell you your one escape was wrong? To be honest, I envied you. I wanted that escape. Laura was sad all the time, though, that first year, and I couldn't be that way to her. So you dulled the pain and I felt every goddamn pinprick."

      "All we wanted was to build our homes again, to have another chance to make things right. We didn't want power, we didn't want responsibility, all we wanted was the chance to see things back to normal."

      O'Shea smashed the glass of water in a furious backhand, spraying water all over the left side of the table. "It would never be normal. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair! All we did was give and give and give and all we got in return was fucking death!"

      The echo barely sounded in the noise-absorbing insulation. O'Shea quieted his voice again. "We started getting smarter, we started winning. Quick insertions, sabotage, a strike here and there. The routine started to set in, and we started seeing a glimpse of life. We had a beer a month ago and you asked me in the middle of a happy laugh, 'Starting to be worth it?' I never answered you, all I did was nod."

      "We were still losing men, but the refugees we were saving kept telling us better news. On the outside, some people saw hope. Down here, all we could do was show people life could go on. Against our will, we had to be the symbols of a city that crumbled above us. That wasn't fair. Laura could never handle it. A couple days ago I walked in on her talking to a picture of the kids. She was talking to them like they were right there, but it was just a fucking picture. We never had a chance to get their bodies."

      Jack sighed. "They'd be twelve and ten this year. I walked into our room and cried with Laura for a half an hour...I look back on that and I'd go back to that moment in a heartbeat. Now she's dead, in a whole city of death and loss I took her for granted for one minute and she dies while I'm picking up refugees. I think I finally knew how you felt. Did you really carry that with you for two years?"

      Jack nodded to himself. "You were always stronger than me. One lousy desk job and a bullshit rank and these people thought I was the strong one. You were always stronger. You knew how to handle this problem we have now, and I...I didn't want to listen. Now Laura's gone and I'm talking to the last friend I have in the world. All we ever did since we started this battle, this insurgency, whatever you want to call it, all we ever did is ask ourselves if it was worth it. The last time you asked me, I didn't answer. Now I can tell you."

      O'Shea turned in his chair and faced a darker shade of black in the already dark room. The body bag was still and silent, only the white block letters UNSC shone through the oppressive gloom. Jack dropped two silver dog tags on the body of Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds and buried his face in his hands.

      "It wasn't worth it."

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 18
Date: 17 October 2008, 2:45 am

Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 18

Boston Police underground garage/Minutemen staging area
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Evening



      Kale Coldman opened his eyes to a flash of stars followed by darkness. He tried to lift his head to take in his surroundings, but cold fire rushed through the base of his skull and embraced his forehead in anguish. Exhausted, defeated, and in a terrible amount of pain, Kale laid his weary head back on the rumpled pile of clothing that served as a pillow and groaned.

      "I thought getting rescued would be a shit load more comfortable."

      A few tired chuckles replied through the dim light as the other nine refugees reflected on their situation. Kale got up gingerly, trying to massage his unbearably stiff neck. The exhausted refugee got on his knees and once again examined the holding cell his so-called rescuers had placed him in. It was a large room with no windows and a decently high ceiling. The walls were all rusting metal; two hanging lights gave their best effort to illuminate the space, but they required another floodlight in the corner to keep the place from feeling claustrophobic. That light had gone out over an hour ago.

      Along the walls, five military style cots supported the weakest of Boston's newest refugees, their chests rose and fell with rhythmic breathing. They had been marching for days with only snatches of rest, and had they not been found by the protectors of the city, they would probably be dead, or worse, stranded and found by the Covenant. Kale finally got to his feet and took a couple shuffling steps toward large double doors, the only entrance and exit in the room.

      Another refugee lay on his side by the doors, back to the wall. The left side of his face had been hastily bandaged, but even in the miserable light Kale could see dark stains from the bleeding. Coldman sat down by the injured man and nudged his shoulder.

      "Mike. Mike, you up?"

      Mike Pace looked up at his friend with bleary, bloodshot eyes. "Not anymore I ain't," he whispered, wincing. "Whaddaya want?"

      "I gotta get outta here. man," Kale replied, keeping his voice low. "I didn't walk across Massachusetts to get put in a prison."

      "It's not a--" Pace paused as pain stole his breath, "--it's not a prison. You heard the guy; they gotta process us and find us room, then they're puttin' us up."

      "What if that's bullshit? You remember the stories those two kids told us back in Framinham, about the camp in New Hampshire that takes refugees and tortures 'em? What if this is one o' those?"

      "Those two kids died a day after we met 'em. They were hallucinating and delirious."

      "What if they're with those ODSTs that hit us? Those two were fucking monsters. C'mon, man, they fucked you up."

      Mike put a hand up to his face and closed his eyes. "The Minutemen almost killed those guys. Didn't you hear? They were pointing guns and yelling and everything."

      Kale shook his head and put his back to the wall, feeling hopeless, but anxious.

      "I'm just saying they said they'd tell us something by now. I'm gonna try to talk to 'em."

      Coldman got up and tried to stretch. He could feel the cobwebs clear in his mind, and decided he would do something about the situation. He mentally pushed back his shoulders and began walking to the door. Mike shuffled in protest but was powerless to stop his friend.

      The shabbily clothed refugee approached the doors with seeming confidence. He placed a gloved hand on the handle and pulled lightly, but the doors remained solidly locked. Kale glanced over to Mike with a look that said, "I told you so," and stared at the metal entrance for a moment. He then balled his right hand into a fist and began banging on the door, shattering the silence. The rusty echoes of each blow began to draw the ire of the huddled masses inside the room.

      "Hey!" Kale shouted. "Anyone out there? Come on!"

      The assault on the entrance/exit continued for a full minute. As one of the healthier wanderers approached Coldman to physically stop him, the shriek of metal on metal weakly ground through the steel. The door opened slowly to reveal one of the Minutemen, his face dirty with grime and the occasional streak of dried blood.

      "What?" The Minuteman asked with weary irritation. Kale was less than sympathetic.

      "Whaddaya mean, 'What?'" Coldman cried. "You threw us all in here a couple hours ago and haven't said squat to us since. We're tired, man. We need food and aid. We have sick and injured people here."

      The young militia member stared back at the refugee as if he had just grown several new appendages. "Take a number."

      The Minuteman then tried to close the door, but found Kale's hand blocking the way. "What's happening out there? What happened to you? At least tell us something."

      "I'm not at liberty to say anything. All of you are safe, ok? Just give us a little more time and we'll move you all into the camp, I promise."

      "No. Let us talk to your Captain."

      The mere mention of the Minuteman's commanding officer turned the young man's face from an initial look of sadness and weariness into what best could be described as eyes of homicide. The tired tone of voice vanished, replaced by cold anger. "Don't push your friggin' luck."

      Kale recoiled just enough for the door to get closed in his face, plunging the large holding room into near darkness again. The ragged refugee could feel nine pairs of eyes staring at him through the space, and he leaned heavily against the door, sliding down until he was sitting facing his peers.

      "Well that accomplished a whole bunch of nothing," Mike sighed as he shifted position. "All we know now is that they're tired and getting pissed off at us."

      "Yeah," Kale responded, an unseen smile creeping across his face. "Tired enough to forget to lock the door."

Chawla Underground ONI Facility
Evacuated City of Boston

      "So how exactly do we plan to move this?" Corporal Tim McManus asked with an exasperated look. "Should I try to find a cart?"

      "That won't be necessary," the short artificial intelligence answered curtly.

      Tim glanced around the large white laboratory one last time. The space had once served as a critical objective, now it seemed a prison. Tim and his partner, Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons, traded looks with the two Orbital Drop Shock Troopers beside them and realized they were all equally mystified with exactly how they were getting out of Chawla. Before the Minuteman sniper could ask another question, he heard the hissing of locks being disengaged for the first time in years.


      The group took a collective step toward the large, tire shaped object as the holographic displays around it winked out, taking the blue and purple light off the artifact and restoring it to a dull gray stone color. It rose a full foot in the air, hovering with no apparent mechanism to be seen.

      "What in the--?" McManus managed to whisper.

      "The artifact has many unique properties that I've had the privilege to research," Odysseus explained, popping up on the closest holo tank. "With some very minor cosmetic adaptations, I've harnessed the artifact's power to create some electromagnetic propulsion."

       The object floated noiselessly toward the four men. The ODST Lance Corporal shot a look toward his data pad as it beeped urgently. "Radiation spike," he said, alarm creeping into his voice, "is that thing safe?"

      "It's not radiation, per se." Odysseus explained, now appearing above the middle of the tire. "It's just what your instruments designate as radiation."

      "Then what the hell is it?" Tim demanded.

      "I'm sorry, Minuteman. It's--"

      "Classified." The two Minutemen sighed simultaneously, shaking their heads in frustration. McManus pointed at the artifact with a fingerless glove. "How fast can that thing move?"

      "To be quite honest, I've never tested that," the AI shrugged, spinning its spear. "Shall we?"

      The laboratory blast doors opened slowly, revealing a long, intermittently lit hallway. The four men split into two pairs, one militia, one UNSC, and escorted the floating objective to an uncertain destination.

      "So I'm right, right?" Parsons sighed to McManus as he pointed his weapon down the hallway. "This is our dumbest plan yet?"

      "I dunno, " McManus replied, straightening his gray jeep cap and slinking along. "I wasn't aware we had a plan yet."

Boston Police Underground Garage


      "What do you mean, 'one's gone?'"

      The young Minuteman, a Private, was stammering and stuttering, trying to find the right answer to Lance Corporal Ankit Jeevaji's question.

      "The 'fugees were banging on the door a half hour ago. I brought them some food and water ten minutes ago and they were all looking at me strange, so I did a count."

      The Indian superior glared at the Private, angered by the pause. "And?"

      The Private gulped. "And they were minus one. I checked and rechecked."

      "Private, how would you imagine a tired and unequipped refugee would escape the confines of the holding room?"

      The young man, barely nineteen, lowered his eyes to the ground. "There's a possibility I accidentally left the door unlocked."

       Jeevaji felt the temptation to strike the Minuteman, but quickly suppressed it. "Kid, you're in a whole mess o' trouble. Those refugees heard and saw things that the Captain put the camp on lockdown for so they wouldn't learn them. Our main refugee camp, our home, is a ten minute tunnel walk from here. Where do you think that 'fugee's gonna head? What do you think that one guy's gonna do to get some attention?" The Lance Corporal stared, eyes widening, at the lowered head of the boy in front of him. "Don't start acting sorry for yourself. You find me that refugee immediately or you'll be responsible for a camp-wide riot."

      The look of fear on the Private's face told Jeevaji everything. "I'm on it."

      Jeevaji sighed angrily as the overwhelmed Private turned on his heel and began jogging for the tunnel leading to the camp. As another Minutemen passed, Ankit grabbed him by the shoulder and turned the militia member toward him. "Find me a First Sergeant or anyone above me still alive," he said. "Tell them there's a situation in South Station."

South Station Refugee Camp


      Rachel Lynch had no idea how to feel at this moment. Almost an hour ago, a hasty announcement had sounded over the camp, telling all civilians to get inside their tents for an artillery shelter drill. Rachel did not believe any of it, and when she snuck out after hearing Minutemen passing her tent, Rachel witnessed something she wished she had never seen.

      Six Minutemen, including the leader of the camp, Captain Jack O'Shea, were carrying a body bag into the commuter train that served as the base of militia operations. In a tearful and gut-wrenchingly brief conversation, Lynch received good and terrible news. The body in the bag was not her boyfriend, Tim McManus, but instead Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds, the man who only hours ago had taken command of Boston's Minutemen. The Jack O'Shea she had spoken with was a shadow of his former self, and now Rachel found herself sitting alone in her tent, wondering what the hell she was going to do now.

      The camp's going to find out, she told herself, and when they do, they'll panic. They'll tear each other apart in fear. Lynch found herself standing on wobbly knees and pacing uneasily around the dimly lit interior. No matter how she played out the rest of the day in her mind, it always ended the same: widespread panic and the dissolution of order in the camp. The Minutemen were trained as best they could to deal with the Covenant; she doubted they had ever considered seriously enforcing hard discipline on their fellow Bostonians. If the camp fell into anarchy, there would be no hope for Tim and Ron to get back to the camp, and as good as those two were at being invisible, they could only stay out of sight for so long. Rachel began to see that the camp's fate and Tim's were one and the same, but how am I supposed to keep order when the Captain doesn't have a reason to live?

      The red headed civilian pressed both hands to her forehead and massaged her temples in angry thought. What am I supposed to do? What can I possibly do from here? Lynch walked over to a shoddily constructed desk and picked up her spare data pad, the display winking open and showing her the layout of the South Station refugee camp. As assistant to the late Laura O'Shea, Jack's wife and head coordinator of the camp, Rachel had access to all of South Station's schematics, including the tent layout and the refugee rosters! Of COURSE!

      Like a sink filling up with water, Rachel's mind recalled a time talking with Laura O'Shea when the Covenant occupation had first become a hard reality. They were taking inventory of ammunition when Rachel voiced a moment of despair.

      "There's no way we can stay hidden, care for these people, and fight meaningfully against the Covenant," Lynch had said, sitting down heavily on a rough wooden crate. "I can't be the only person to realize this."

      "Of course people think about this," Laura replied, sitting down next to her and offering her canteen, "but as long as people don't panic at the same time, we'll be fine."

      "How?" she had asked.

      "Everyone here looks up to someone," O'Shea said in a soothing tone, like she would use with a child having a nightmare, "as long as someone you trust is telling you it will be ok, you'd be surprised how much better you'll feel."

      Rachel remembered how she had looked up at her boss' face, how Laura smiled so reassuringly, so naturally, so easily that Lynch knew O'Shea believed it in her own heart.

      "Do you think we'll be ok?" Rachel had asked.

      "Jack says we will," Laura O'Shea smiled, "I don't have a reason to doubt him yet."

      Every tent on Rachel's data pad displayed a list of names, their occupants well known to her after months of constant communication and shared duty. Her agile mind already put together a long list of people who would listen to her, who would take this news with the gravity it demanded, but with the strength it required. If she had to face them as a group, the young college student knew she would not stand a chance, but if she could reach them now individually, the camp's will would hold. Her fingers flew with purpose and Rachel collected herself for a brief second, inspecting her image in a small, dirty mirror over a makeshift sink. No sooner did she leave her tent then she collided with a short, scared, and dirty refugee she had never seen before.

      "You gotta help us!" Kale Coldman cried loudly. "These militia guys locked my friends up and there's Helljumpers out there killing them!"

Chawla


      The four men and secret artifact turned yet another dark corner and faced three giant titanium doors.

      "What are we doing here, Odysseus?" McManus asked.

      "We have to make a choice," Odysseus said. "These three elevators will take us to different exit points throughout the city."

      The ODST Sergeant took a few steps toward the massive doors and stared ahead in silence for a moment. "Do you have cameras or any way of telling what's on the other side?"

      "No."

      "This is a joke, right? This is a joke." Parsons spat on the floor and shook his head. "We're going to put this mission on 'let's see what's behind door number 1?'"

      "Give me a moment," Odysseus said, and immediately disappeared. The other ODST, a Lance Corporal, shot another look at his data pad.

      "Another radiation spike. What the hell is this thing?"

      Parsons couldn't help but chuckle nervously and take a step closer to McManus.

      "Not to be unprofessional," he whispered, "but I am starting to freak out a bit."

      McManus glanced back down the hallway, then toward the doors. He shrugged, "Odysseus is the only thing that can get us out. I sure as hell can't think of a better way to get out of this mess. He wants this thing out of here as much as we do."

      Tim then crossed his arms and put a hand to his mouth as through he were deep in thought. He locked eyes with Parsons and continued speaking in a much lower voice. Ron realized what his Minuteman partner was trying to do and tried his best to naturally block the ODSTs view of Tim. McManus continued. "I'm more worried about the ODSTs once we get topside. We're going to need Minutemen waiting for us there or this whole situation could get out of hand real fast. It's just a matter of time until they decide to jump us for once, and we're not as good as these guys."

      "It would be interesting to see, though."

      "Don't start."

      A soft whooshing sound announced the return of Chawla's AI. Instead of his normal blue color, Odysseus was now rapidly changing colors, a detail that was not lost on the soldiers around him.

      "Lift one is obstructed and the opening would crush you. Lift three would bring us straight into a Covenant patrol and you'd be killed. Lift two is our safest exit."

      "Where does it end?" McManus asked.

      "A large boat house on Storrow Drive. If you have water transportation, I'd recommend that."

      Parsons laughed out loud.

      "Is the road around the exit point intact?"

      "Yes, but it would have to be quick. There is Covenant armor on regular patrol in that sector." Odysseus turned to the Helljumpers. "You're going to need to call your Blackspear as soon as possible."

      Both Minutemen looked at the AI with surprise and confusion. Judging by the ODSTs body language, McManus assumed that behind their faceshields their expressions were the same.

      "The hell is a Blackspear?" Parsons asked.

      "How do you know about that?" The Helljumper Sergeant demanded.

      Odysseus changed to a dark gray color. "It doesn't matter. We need to go right now."

      Ron marched toward the middle door and stabbed a finger into the elevator call button. "I'm real sick of not knowing anything." He said over his shoulder. The large titanium doors began to slide open and the group moved forward. Tim glanced over to make sure the artifact was keeping up and found himself locking eyes with a staring Odysseus.

      "What?" The Minuteman sniper asked, consternation written across his face.

      "People you know are going to die, Corporal McManus."

      "What? What's wrong with you?"

      "Some will die no matter what you do; others are in your hands. You need to prepare yourself for what you have to do."

      "Don't talk to me anymore unless it's absolutely necessary."

      Tim found himself entering the elevator last, entirely confused and frustrated. Odysseus had disappeared again. The four men looked up into the pitch black shaft and noticed the lift didn't have a roof.

      "What's with the topless elevator?" Ron asked.

      "Easier to conceal an elevator in the floor," the ODST Sergeant replied, his helmet-filtered voice echoing in the space. "Also might mean we're going sideways."

      Parsons sighed as the lift engaged, a low rumbling of long ignored machinery. Ron ejected the rifle's magazine, checked it visually, and slipped it in again. He then sighed and muttered, "This day just won't end."

South Station


      Rachel Lynch had wasted the last seven seconds fantasizing about knocking the unknown refugee out and dragging the body back to her tent to contain him, but she was several seconds too late. The commotion caused by the short young man in tattered and raggedy clothes had coaxed over a dozen Bostonians out of their tents already, and curious heads were poking out up and down the streets of the tent city.

      "Calm down!" Rachel whispered harshly, trying to get a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Who the hell are you?"

      "I'm Kale Coldman!" He shouted back, far too loudly. "And if they kill me you'll know I'm telling the truth!"

      "What in blue fuck are you talking about?" A large man with big, meaty fists demanded as he approached the scene. "Which tent are you?"

      "I'm not in a tent, I came from Lexington with nine other refugees! Minutemen promised us food and shelter if we made it here but they boxed us in a room and I ain't seen no one since the Helljumpers started shooting people!" Rachel cursed aloud as others tried to press the boy for information, but their numbers and their urgency only made the weary traveler panic more. He began shuffling rapidly back and forth as if trying to evade them, a look of fear crawling across his face.

      "Kid, UNSC ain't touched this place in ovah a yeah," a doubting Bostonian in a heavy accent called out. Rachel felt the situation slip completely from her grasp and felt utterly out of control.

      "They fought the Minutemen! They're still out there!" Coldman cried out, rapidly becoming exhausted with stress and fatigue. "Tied us up...said sumpthin' 'bout...blowing up the city."

      Everyone around Kale now took a big step back as if he was a bomb himself. As they did so, Ankit Jeevaji, a First Sergeant, and two other Minutemen arrived on the scene and began to detain Coldman. The increasingly large crowd came back to life.

      "What the hell is this, Jeevaji?" The large, meaty fisted Bostonian asked.

      "It's nothing," Ankit replied gruffly, trying to muscle the outsider away.

      "He said Minutemen told them to come here!" A voice called out from the crowd.

      "More 'fugees!"

      "We don't got room for more!"

      "Hey," Ankit said, separating himself from his three teammates to confront the crowd, "we're not gonna turn away civilians who need help."

      "It's our food! Our space!"

      "And we'll make it last!" Jeevaji shouted back. Rachel could now sense the crowd shifting from growing crowd to angry mob, and it was only seconds away.

      "He said there were Helljumpers in Boston!"

       Ankit put his palms up as if to ask what the crowd wanted from him. "We're dealing with everything up top."

      "The fuck you are! Where's Captain O'Shea?"

      "He's not available right now--"

      The crowd/mob took an angry step toward the Minutemen. Rachel found herself in the space between, glancing anxiously back and forth.

      "You go get him right now, or we'll--"

      One militia member, a Private, foolishly advanced toward the mob with his MA5C Assault Rifle up as he tried to assist Jeevaji. "Hey!" He shouted, unaware of the heat of the moment. "Back up or--"

      "--on't you point that thing at me!" The large Bostonian at the head of group bellowed as he swung one of his rough, large, hard fists into the side of the Private's head. The Minuteman dropped like a sack of hammers to the floor, prompting the rest of the militia in sight to draw their weapons and level them at the people they had sworn to protect. Rachel could see in her mind's eye the powder keg that was about to explode right that very instant, and she threw herself into the middle of it.

      "Stop!" She yelled, so loud it hurt her throat. She stepped in front of the refugee crowd and beat a much smaller hand against the aggressive Bostonian's chest. "Think about what you're doing!" The moment Lynch bought the Minutemen was enough to collect the woozy Private and Jeevaji and take several precious steps back and create space. Lynch stepped into the bare concrete between both sides and extended her arms as if she could physically separate the soldiers and crowd. "You've got to calm down, please. We can figure this out. I can talk to Captain O'Shea. We'll get our answers."

      The crowd seemed to absorb the words as if in collective thought. The Minutemen were not about to let it speak collectively, however.

      "Give us fifteen minutes," Jeevaji said as loudly as possible, "we'll hold a camp meeting by the command train. You'll get the whole story. Until then, chill out."

      "I don't trust you," the pugnacious Bostonian replied. "I won't listen to you." The crowd began to grumble in agreement and that grumble began to grow into a shout. Rachel felt her own words bubbling out of her lungs before she had the time to think about what they really meant.

      "I'll speak," she whispered, then shouted loudly, "I'll speak!"

      The answer silenced both sides. The crowd looked at her with approval, the Minutemen looked at her with fear. Rachel did not look at anyone, she simply walked with her head down with the militia toward the command train that bisected the camp.

      The First Sergeant opened a channel on the COM quickly. "I need all available personnel for crowd control at South Station," he ordered, "and I need them right the hell now."

      Ankit Jeevaji put a hand on Rachel's shoulder and she realized she was trembling. Ahead of her, a long commuter train with blacked out windows held a battered Captain, a dead comrade, and fifteen minutes to keep her friends from ripping each other to shreds. Her eyes misted as the trembling became shaking.

      "What am I gonna do?" She whispered.

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