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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 1
Date: 9 August 2004, 4:36 PM

MINUTEMEN: THE BATTLE OF BOSTON
Chap. 1
This is my first submission to Halo fan fiction. I hope you all enjoy it, this is the first part of many. Please let me know what you think, I've read a lot of helljumper's stuff and I tried to stay loyal to his style. No ODSTs, though. I don't know much about 'em and that wouldn't be fair to those who know much more than I do. Anway, enjoy.

      In a moment, it was too late. Bright blue plasma fire crashed into what used to be an apartment building as the squad scurried from the main entrance. Rubble crashed down on antique cars and warthogs alike.
      "Parsons, move your ass!" Captain Jack O'Shea yelled as the youngest member of the squad hustled out of the structure. The shaggy blond Sniper specialist from Massachusetts ran as fast as his weary legs could propel him, stumbling and dragging his hefty sniper rifle along with him. The last few steps were more like a prolonged fall as Parsons pitched head first into cover. From behind him, concrete and steel smashed, bounced, and twisted into unrecognizable heaps as the young sniper settled into what little cover he could find. The rest of the 53rd Massachusetts' Militia (Minutemen) crouched in a huddle by an upturned warthog, smoke wafting out from the undercarriage.
      "One day, just one goddamn day," Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds yelled, "I'd like to have someone in the militia give a warning before the f'ing covies fire." Reynolds slapped a fresh magazine into his assault rifle with a beefy, weathered hand.
      "Seriously, sir," Corporal Ron Parsons muttered over the radio as he picked dried blood off his hands, "I have about two weeks' rations and I don't know how many rounds in that building-turned-parking lot back there."
      "Stow it, Corporal." O'Shea shot back. Jack O'Shea was 42 and showing his age despite his better-than-average physical condition. The guerilla war with the Covenant invaders, the evacuation of Boston, the loss of hundreds of thousands of Marines, National Guardsmen and Militia, many close friends and relatives; the ever increasing list made a combat death look appetizing as opposed to the post-trauma disorders that awaited the squad after battle. The gray was creeping through O'Shea dark brown hair as he uncharacteristically removed his helmet and ran a hand through his hair.
      "Permission to speak freely, sir?" A latino medic said from the other side of the huddle.
      "Granted," O'Shea replied, replacing the helmet.
      "That was the best insult you could come up with?" Medical Officer Harold Ibanez asked. The wide grin showed bright white teeth contrasting sharply with a dirt-smudged face.
      The squad laughed in spite of themselves as heavy plasma fire continued for six more minutes, decimating the former apartment building to half its' size.
      "F'ing Covenant." Reynolds said again as the plasma subsided.
      "All kidding aside," 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi said, "what do we have for weapons and ammo? The covies are gonna be sending in mop-ups sooner rather than later."
      "Right on, Tonsi. Status reports, everyone." O'Shea ordered.
      "Snipers are about 75-80 percent." Parsons called out.
      "Assault is at 50 percent ammo, and McHale is MIA," Reynolds added.
      "Medical is 100 percent, jacked up and good to go." Ibanez finished, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the medic next to him.
      "OK," O'Shea said, nodding his head and pointing out positions, "Parsons, go salvage what you can from the building. Take McManus with you and then get yourselves set up for incoming enemy infantry. Stay high and out of sight. Tell us if you run into McHale."
      "Roger that, sir." Parsons confirmed and waved a hand signal across the street to Tim McManus telling him to move out. Parsons slinked off into the smoke and rubble.
      "Assault, you all right?"
      "Huah, sir," came a chorus of voices over the radio.
      "Good," O'Shea said. O'Shea looked up and down the street. Commonwealth Avenue was ending at the decimated apartment building, forming a cul-de-sac at the end of the street. On both sides of the street were medium-sized structures that afforded excellent cover. The dead end would be a good spot for an ambush. "Split up the squad into two, one to each side of the street. If the Covies are coming in here, we'll let them move past us down the street and let the building trap them in. Wait 'til my signal, and then we'll let 'em have it."
      "On the way, sir," Reynolds replied. As one, the seasoned assault group got up from prone positions into crouches. The gray, black, and stone colored warriors peeked down the street and hustled into craters and heaps of rubble.
      "On a side note, sir," Tonsi said, "the brothers say they can build a pretty effective car bomb with one of these dead warthogs, copy?"
      "You can take the soldiers out of Ireland," Ibanez quipped, "but you can't take the-"
      "Stick it, Ibanez," Tonsi's voice crackled from the radio. Ibanez looked down the street and saw a tan hand sticking up from behind a charred warthog. The extended middle finger was quite visible.
      "This is a guerilla war, and I intend to use every resource," O'Shea said. "Do it."

      Parsons and McManus had been luckier than they had anticipated. Even with the structural integrity of the building failing rapidly, Parsons had managed to sneak into his old sniper nest and grab all his rounds and a week's rations. Halfway across the room Tim McManus, Worchester, MA, started to hear the creaking and snapping that indicated the floor didn't have much life left.
      "Tell ya what, Parsons," McManus called out. Throw me the rations and hustle out. It'll be less weight."
      "Good idea, McMan," Parsons replied, tip-toeing across the floor, "and how 'bout you get a spoon and eat my ass? If I die, I'm taking the food with me." Parsons laughed and threw the sniper rounds in his tactical pack. He secured the cord and heaved it to McManus before the floor gave one last anguished sigh and began to buckle.
      "Fucking A, Parsons." McManus said, and immediately reached for his rapel cord. The floor gave out in the middle of the room, turning the sniper nest into a giant funnel with a generous fall at the bottom. Parsons threw what he could of the rations in McManus' direction and promptly lost his footing, sliding feet first toward the ever-widening hole. McManus ignored the MRE's flying past his head into the hallway as he whipped his cord at Parsons, the carabeener leading the flight. The metal clip hit Parsons in the chest as his feet went into empty space. With what little time Parsons had, he clipped the carabeener onto his waist harness. The Mass. Militia snipers were renowned climbers, famous for scaling buildings in urban environments. As a rule, they always carried basic climbing equipment. As Parsons fell, McManus supported his weight in the doorframe with both legs and braced for the sudden stop. McManus hoped Parsons kept his waist harness tight. The sudden jerk might break his hip.

      "Car bomb armed and ready, Captain," crackled the radio.
      "Roger that, Demo." O'Shea confirmed. "Ibanez, split up your team. The Covies will be here any minute."
      "The Covies are gonna be cryin' for my help more than our boys, you know that, sir." Ibanez laughed as he took a quick look over his warthog.
      "Weapon?" O'Shea asked.
      "Please, sir," Ibanez moaned as he reached for his SMG. "You think the Covenant cares if I have a red cross on my helmet? Besides, last I checked, I had more confirmed kills than Tonsi the camel jockey."
      "One freakin' grenade that I gave him, and he runs his mouth," O'Shea heard Tonsi's gruff comeback from across the street, "I should get an assist or something. Oh, and Ibanez, you make one more Arab comment and I detonate that car bomb right next to your wise-crackin' mouth."
      "Apologies, mujahadeen." Ibanez mocked. "See if I save your life any time soon."
      "It won't be my life that needs saving." Tonsi said.
      "Hey, ladies, quit your yappin'." Reynolds broke in. "Captain, I can hear 'em, Sir. Covenant are inbound. We can't see a thing, though."
      "Clear these goddamn channels," O'Shea ordered. "I need them open for intel. Where the hell are those snipers?"

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 2
Date: 12 August 2004, 10:25 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 2
Big ups to Nick Kang, Conrad Lauf, and Helljumper especially. Thanks for the specs. More action today.

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Commonwealth Avenue,evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth


      Ron Parsons jerked to a sudden stop ten feet from the ground. He bounced for a few seconds and swore loudly. Thankfully, the old habit of keeping the waist harness tight had paid off. Parsons didn't want to think about what could have happened if he didn't. It was also a good thing his helmet was with his partner, Tim McManus, several stories above him. It would have been crushed on impact. "Hey, McManus!" Parsons called out, swinging in the air. "How 'bout pulling me up sometime this campaign?"
      "Shove it, Parsons," Tim McManus shouted, his voice echoing in the skeleton of the abandoned structure. "Don't blame me 'cuz you pulled a Caboose. Now shut up and try to help me out here."
      "No thanks, I'll just hang out." Parsons called back.
      McManus slowly extended his legs, still braced on the doorframe, and pulled on the heavy-duty rope. Each time McManus was pulling on the rope by flexing his legs and picking up slack, keeping his body perpendicular to the doorframe. McManus' long brown hair was starting to get in his eyes as sweat started to drip down his face. The Minutemen had no regulations on hair length or facial hair, so the looks of the squad were all over the place.
      "Parsons, for a skinny guy, you are a heavy mother-"
      "Shut your mouth." Parsons countered. Slowly and surely Parsons ascended back into the funnel and started to grip debris sticking through the floor. With ten feet to McManus, both snipers heard the sounds of stress on the doorframe. As the doorframe started to splinter, McManus locked eyes with Parsons.
      "I think you're just bad luck for me, seriously." McManus said.
      "Well," Parsons said, scrambling to find some kind of hold on the severe incline of the floor, "on the bright side, you'll get to keep the food. Let go of the rope."
      "Fuck that, like I'm gonna let the Captain ream me out for your dumb-ass death." McManus scowled at Parsons. Parsons laughed. They were both about to fall a very long way.
      The doorframe gave way faster and faster as McManus' right foot crashed through his support, then the left. Parsons' weight dragged McManus to the beginning of the funnel as Parsons began his fall through thin air once more. At the threshold of the funnel, McManus could see down what had once been floor and several stories farther down. The view did not last long. A heavy weight fell and clasped onto the back of McManus' collar, dragging him back from the funnel and toward the door.
      "For the love of-!" McManus cried out.
      "For the love of McHale, you freaking idiots." Lance Corporal Harry McHale frowned, the deep creases of his dirt-smudged face showing a disappointed look, like fathers give to unruly sons. Using his whole dust-caked body, McHale laboriously dragged the two linked snipers to the safety of the hallway.

      Gus Reynolds could hear the high whine of Covenant Ghosts. The Ghosts always gave off an eerie sound, but in the close quarters of decimated, bombed-out buildings, the whine echoed in strange tones and mutated into different but equally haunting sounds.
      "Those things creep me out, for real," said a shaky voice said behind Reynolds. There were eight assault Minutemen on either side of the street, their ages ranged from 16 to 50. Eighteen assault, five demo guys, three medics, two snipers, and the Captain, Reynolds thought, and I get stuck with the rookie. This one Minuteman was lacking in the experience catagory.
      "You haven't been in enough combat to be creeped out, Stick." Reynolds hissed over his shoulder. By the age of 34, Reynolds had more or less seen it all. Reynolds had a head full of premature gray hair, but his frame and body type was grade-A UNSC Marine. After all, that was what Gus Reynolds had been. Reynolds had served in combat for the UNSC right from 18, following his four older brothers, and had been off-planet for the majority of his service. After reaching the rank of Master Gunnery Sergeant, Gus Reynolds was called to return home. His four brothers had all been lost on Harvest, and Reynolds had to head to South Boston to keep his mourning family together. In the meantime, Reynolds had signed on to the Massachusetts militia and monitored the Convenant's irresitable march through Earth's colonies. To Reynolds, it was only a matter of time.
      All in all, Reynolds was proud of his men. The Assault teams of the Minutemen were the cream of the militia crop. While the flyboys where driving Longswords and the ODSTs were falling through the sky, the Mass. Militia Minutemen were in already evacuated areas crawling with Covenant, extracting those who refused to leave. In addition, the Minutemen had salvaged hundreds of tons of military equipment from flash-evacuated areas and stolen covenant arms from transports, ammo dumps, and the occasional dead Elite. That which the Minutemen did not need were then passed along to the UNSC for whatever it was they did. Because of the last-ditch efforts of the Minutemen, many of their actions and operations pushed the envelope on what was considered legal. Whenever the Minutemen ran into UNSC and were questioned about their methods, the reply was always the same, "They invaded first."
      Last Reynolds had heard, the spacemen were looking for the Covenant homeworld. It didn't make sense to him. Why look for the enemy's base when we should be defending ours? All the same, Gus had heard all the stories from places like Harvest, Reach, and Tectron. Large forces didn't seem to be any kind of advantage for humanity. Maybe taking the fight to the Covenant doorstep would keep a few Ghosts out of Boston. Reynolds shook his head and laughed at himself.
      Reynolds heard someone approaching from behind. The whispered "Captain" and "Sir"s made it abundantly clear that O'Shea was joining him for this little rendesvous. "Welcome to Easy Street, sir," Reynolds said as O'Shea crouched next to him.
      O'Shea chuckled. "Well," he remarked, "This town has certainly gone to Hell." O'Shea had been saying that for the last two years. For some reason, it never got old. The pair listened to the whine of Covenant Ghosts. "Hey," O'Shea said, breaking the silence. Reynolds looked over. "Did I see you talking to Sandra last night at the bar?" Reynolds shook his head in disbelief at the Captain.
      "If I may say so, sir," Gus Reynolds replied, "I was very drunk."
      "Yeah, you must've," O'Shea said, peering out from his cover, "because she is much too good looking for you."
      "Well, Captain, you know what they say, 'Girls are like Covenant: You leave the good ones to the good soldiers..."
      "... 'And let the greenhorns take the uglies.'" O'Shea finished the joke. "There's something to be said for pulling rank."
      The two old soldiers had been friends from the beginning of the conflict, and while both complained about "Being too old for this shit," the two always had the other's back. Reynolds had lost count how many times O'Shea had pulled his ass from the fire. Both had lost friends and family, but they swore they wouldn't let each other die. At times, it was a tough promise to keep.
      The radio chirped and a familiar voice sounded in the squad's headsets. "Parsons, here. Standby for intel."

      Harry McHale had been in the top floor of the 2000 Commonwealth Ave. apartment building when he saw the first of the big blue comets heading right for his floor. Without hesitation, McHale reached for his shotgun and blasted out the window that had afforded him a scenic view. McHale followed the breaching round with his body, diving out into space. The fall lasted one story, taking him to the next floor's balcony. As the screech of the incoming plasma became deafening, McHale swung himself off the balcony so he hung down from the balcony's railing, making the next drop much less life-threatening. He was able to repeat this twice, but any kind of freefall from his height would be fatal. The impact of the plasma shot brought an avalanche of debris down on his position. McHale was able to make it back indoors to relative safety as the falling chunks of building sealed him in.
      It was a miracle that the entire building didn't collapse right away. The Covenant were concentrating fire on the higher floors, which made sense. After all, Parsons and McManus had been racking up kill after long distance kill from that position. McHale hoped they got out in time. Losing those snipers would be a big setback. It was hard enough to find recruits that the UNSC and ONI weren't picking up. That, and all the recruits were dying before being able to volunteer.
      McHale had managed to break out of his makeshift tomb with a few lucky breaching rounds from his trusty shotgun. Harry McHale wasn't the kind of guy who wielded a shotgun. He was about 5'5, but his self-consciousness about his height led him to the weight room almost every day. McHale could bench press twice as much as any Minuteman, which came in handy when toting a large gun like the M90 shotgun. The Minutemen had managed to steal away some unique shotgun rounds, called "Hippo shot." Whether or not the round could take down a Hippopotamus, it did quite a number on the walls of the building. As McHale emerged from the room, he walked down a crumbling hallway and followed the sounds of Parsons and McManus' bickering.
      Now McHale was halfway down the building, lowered by McManus' climbing gear. It had struck McHale as odd that two snipers from Massachusetts would be such accomplished climbers, but the former state of New Hampshire was known for mountains, so perhaps the two had spent time in the northern parts. As soon as his feet touched ground, McHale disengaged the rope and sent his harness up with it. McHale switched on his radio and called for instructions. It was time to get to work.

      Parsons tried to feel at ease with his position. McManus was an excellent spotter, but the terrain just wasn't as high as it used to be. Parsons liked to be very high up with good lines of sight. McManus was more of the down-and-dirty ghillie suit stalker style, which was why it was Parsons keeping his blonde hair back with a militia-issue sweatband and aiming the considerable barrel of his S2 AM sniper rifle down Commonwealth Avenue, scanning for hostiles. Both the snipers had their faces painted the color of dust, concrete, and stone. McManus was sweeping the area as well, performing an overwatch of the designated area. O'Shea called for an update.
      "Still scanning, sir." Parsons replied.
      "Contact," McManus whispered, though it would be impossible for any Covenant to hear, "Half a click spinward. Call it...four ghosts, elite pilots...infantry support...jackals and grunts. Ghosts advancing fast."
      Parsons shifted his body slightly and moved a stray brick from the barrel's way. "Sights are hot," Parsons confirmed, "I have a Ghost in range, good shot. Standing by for green light, sir."
      "Standby, Parsons." O'Shea ordered.
      "Standing by, roger."
      "Not much in terms of mop-ups," Reynolds noted to the Captain. "Guess they figure we're easy game."
      "Let's make 'em pay for that, then, shall we?" O'Shea asked. "Parsons, green light. Fire at will." O'Shea closed the channel. "Who knows," O'Shea remarked, "we may not even need the car bomb."
      "I have a green light." Parsons confirmed.
      "RangeFinder says 400 meters, closing," McManus noted. "Recommend one click down, but that's all. No wind."
      "Roger that," Parsons said, and took in a breath. He released it halfway, then held his breath. Every muscle in his body relaxed. The sights settled in above the crown of the elite's skull, allowing for gravity to work its' magic. The ActivSight feature on Parsons' rifle glowed red at the crosshairs to indicate the target was acquired, and all other details blurred around the target area. Parsons lightly pulled the trigger, and the gun bucked back into Parson's shoulder. The business end of the sniper rifle made a sharp kr-kack as the blast shattered the crisp autumn air. Through the scope, Parsons saw the alien head snap back and release a satisfying spray of purple liquid and glop as the Elite fell out of the Ghost, the unmanned vehicle plowing into what used to be an electronics shop. There were small explosions and flames as Parsons loaded the next round.
      "That's a confirmed kill." McManus noted with a small amount of satisfaction. Parsons notched another one up on the mental tally. "For those of you keeping score at home, Parsons is still the C.K leader."
      Through the RangeFinder binoculars, McManus could see the Ghost formation spread out from a flying V to more of a very wide upside down U. They had seen the long vapor trail and didn't intend on being easy targets. The three remaining Ghosts activated their Turbo feature and disappeared from Parsons' scope. He had to relocate to sight them all. At this speed and range, it would be impossible to take all the Ghosts out in time. "Take the one on the right," McManus said." McManus opened his channel after Parsons acknowledged. "Captain, be advised. Ghosts are too close and too fast to take out from long range. Recommend you spank 'em."
      "Copy." Crackled O'Shea.

      O'Shea took a quick look down the street and was met with heavy plasma fire. Bright purple, green, and blue streaks raced past the Minutemen's position as the whine grew louder and louder. O'Shea could hear the cracks of Parsons' sniper rifle and the answering booms, screeches, and roars of pain getting closer and closer. The plasma was melting concrete and cars all around the militia. The young ones were looking wide-eyed and jittery. O'Shea opened a squad-wide channel.
      "Demo?" O'Shea asked.
      "Here, Cap," Tonsi answered.
      "Spank 'em."
      "Huah, sir."
      Mahmoud Tonsi was a very long way from home. A member of the UNSC's 31st Mechanized unit, Tonsi had been brought to the United North American Protectorate all the way from his homeland in what used to be called Bahrain. At 21, he had been recruited into the unenviable job of "Tread Jockey": one of four marines to sit on the tread covers of the Scorpion tank and direct fire. While the Scorpion did pack more punch than a Warthog, it lacked mobility, adequate passenger cover, and got targeted first in every engagement. In the fight to take back the Northeast of the UNAP, Tonsi was one of five survivors of the 31st Mechanized. All five had been stranded in New York City as the Covenant rolled through the area. The survivors had taken to retreating to the rally point in Boston, but once a week Covenant patrols would take one of them out until Tonsi was the only one remaining. Tonsi had been recognized as a genius with explosives and demolition, and in a war against aliens, no one bothered to question how Tonsi knew so much at such a young age. When Tonsi was discovered holed up in dowtown Boston, the Covenant also discovered a maze of booby traps, triggering gigantic explosions up and down the block Tonsi was hiding in. Those explosions led the Minutemen to Tonsi's shelter and the extermination of the Covenant death squad hunting him.
      Now the olive-skinned, curly haired Tonsi was teamed up with four stocky redheaded demo experts, simply called the Connor brothers. The four had been with the Minutemen since the beginning of the war, appearing out of nowhere and serving as excellent demolition troopers in every mission. They had admitted to being part of a splinter faction of the now defunct IRA. While the Irish peace process had been completed decades ago, the idle youth of Ireland were still looking for some kind of inclusion. Thankfully, their deadly talents were now much more acceptable in an intergalactic war against the Covenant. The five demo team members created no small amount of improvised devices to make life miserable for the Covenant. The only problem was the four brothers were just as ferocious fighting each other as they were against the Covenant. Tonsi was an excellent father figure for the brothers, who now affectionately called him "Dad, sir."
      Tonsi now turned to four almost comically grinning faces. The Connor brothers had heard the transmission.
      "At last, we get to fuggin' spank tha bastahds, eh Dad?" Seamus Connor, the oldest, asked.
      "Looks like it, lads. Blow the livin' shite out o' 'em. So who gets to do it, Dad?" Gerry Connor asked.
      "Whose turn is it, anyway?" Tonsi asked.
      Silence. The five explosive-happy militiamen looked at each other.
      The youngest, Michael, spoke. "Captain says wait 'til I'm older. Crock o' shite, if ya ask me."
      "I'm gonna wait to be the one to hit the car bomb." Rory Connor declared. He was the second-oldest, and always felt he had something to prove. Rory, the Minutemen had decided, was clinically insane.
      "I shot the last one." Gerry said, looking at the ground and kicking a stone.
      Seamus and Muhammed looked at each other.
      "How 'bout-" Tonsi started.
      "Fuck that! It's my fuggin' turn!" Seamus yelled, smiling. "Besides, I'm blessed, Dad! You're the heathen!"
      These fucking kids and religion, Tonsi thought. Tonsi sighed and pulled out the M19 SSM man portable launcher, with the letters, "SPNKR" on the side. Seamus' face lit up with delight. Tonsi loaded two rockets into the SPNKR loading chambers and slammed the barrels shut. Seamus took the laucher from Tonsi's hands and disengaged the safety. A soft tone told Seamus the target finder was working.
      "All right, you fuggin' covie bastards!" Seamus Connor yelled, wheeling around cover and standing in the middle of the street, "Come get a taste!"

      "Check out Seamus," McManus said. "I swear the boy is divinely protected."
      "Divinely fucking insane, if you ask me." Parsons said, loosing another round into the cranial cavity of a jackal. "If I was God, I'd have given up on him by now." McManus heard another crack from Parsons' rifle, and redirected his RangeFinder from Seamus to the jackal clutching its' neck, watching itself bleed to death.
      "That," McManus laughed through his nose, "was not very nice."
      "I'm not a nice guy." Parsons said, reloading.
      "Roger that."

      Seamus Connor wasn't really scared. After all these battles, skirmishes, evacuations, and missions, scared really wasn't part of his vocabulary. Excited, Seamus decided. Excited was the word. Connor brothers don't get scared. They get rocket launchers. The 2x scope of the SPNKR rocket launcher found the center of one of the last two Ghosts. The trouble with Ghosts, Seamus remembered, was that the bastards would strafe left and right, easily dodging most shots. Seamus would have to let the Ghosts get closer. Good thing he was blessed.
      Purple and blue plasma blasts tried to refute Seamus' claim of divine protection as the searing hot energy blasts shot centered on him. The Elites were trying to "walk" the plasma shots to ensure accuracy, so the plasma was landing well short of Seamus but gaining ground at a scary speed. The pavement was melting at Seamus' feet before he seized his moment. He placed his left foot back away from the melted pavement to steady himself and squeezed the trigger for tube one. The small explosion in the first tube of the M19 SSM man portable launcher made a pwunt and propelled the 102 mm rocket into open air. With a satisfying sfwooosh the SPNKR rocket was in flight; Seamus pivoted to the right, targeted the other Ghost, and let off the last rocket. The plasma was still coming, the Ghosts were still advancing.

      From Gus Reynold's view, the fact Seamus Connor even got the shot off was a miracle. He had heard the braggart's claims of divine protection, but after so many engagements, it seemed almost plausible. Seamus got himself in as much shit as Rory, and even Rory had been injured before. Seamus never seemed to get hit. Reynolds watched as shot after shot missed Seamus, in the dead center of the street. Gus snuck a peek at the Captain and noticed O'Shea's eyes were wide with disbelief. The Ghosts were so close, Reynolds could see the scars on one battle-hardened Elite's face. At this range, someone was about to die.
      "Mother of God..." A young Minuteman breathed.

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 3
Date: 16 August 2004, 8:20 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 3
As always, big ups to Nick Kang, Corad Lauf, and Helljumper. Read their stuff too while you're at it.


53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Commonwealth Avenue, Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
mid-afternoon

      Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds looked behind him in puzzled consternation at the comment of the young, wide eyed Minuteman.

      "Better leave God out of that over there." Reynolds replied, and turned his attention to what should have been Specialist Seamus Connor's grisly death at the hands of Ghost-driving Elites. Gus watched in awe as Connor spun behind and to his right and managed to scurry back to his cover, unscathed by a bevy of plasma fire. The two rocket shots, meanwhile, streaked toward their targets, trailing white smoke the whole way. The first Ghost went head-on in Turbo mode and exploded on impact with the 102 mm rocket. The explosion launched its' pilot forward past the assault team's position. The Elite's shields' sputtered with electricity and phased out in the long slide over the pavement, and at the end of the slide, most of the Elite's skin had been shorn off. A young Minuteman behind Reynolds opened fire into the chest of the obviously dead Elite until O'Shea smacked the greenhorn upside the helmet.

      "I think that one's dead, Stick." Captain Jack O'Shea said.

      "Sorry, sir, just making sure."

      The second rocket, Reynolds noticed, was well right of the target. Before Reynolds got on the horn to sound off on Seamus Connor, he noticed the rocketman's intent: the explosion to the right of the second Ghost caused the Elite to instinctively strafe to its' left, directly into the path of the rocket. The evasive manuever caused the Ghost to dip a knobby wing and crash into the side of an apartment building, partially burrowing itself in the front door. The rocket headed straight for the front door and in an instant pieces of Ghost, brick, concrete and Elite showered across the street, making a line in the pavement that the Covenant infantry was beginning to cross. O'Shea, Reynolds noted, had seen enough. O'Shea's order came out loud and confident: "Ok, assault, let 'em have it!"

      The squad of sixteen Minutemen rose from their cover as one. With an assortment of battle rifles, M90 shotguns, MA5B assault rifles, SMGs, and grenades, the remaining Covenant infantry was cut to shreds. O'Shea squeezed off a shot from his battle rifle that left a baseball-sized exit wound in a grunt's neck. Reynolds looked to his right to see Ibanez laughing and firing, yelling, "Eat it! Fuckin' eat it!" at the retreating Covenant. Lance Corporal Harry McHale landed a jackal officer after tearing the shield arm off with a Hippo round and following up with a well placed grenade to the torso. The jackal's energy shield landed at McHale's feet. Reynolds broke cover and pounded twenty rounds from his assault rifle into a grunt from ten meters. Every round hit home with lethal efficiency. The grunt was still rolling back when the Master Gunnery Sergeant got back to cover. "Subtle," O'Shea noted, firing off a three round burst and catching a genade throwing Grunt in the shoulder. The grenade fell at the grunt's feet and blew it up to a second story balcony.

      "I should say the same for you, Cap," Reynolds countered. Reynolds' ammo counter read 00, and he reached into his vest for a fresh magazine. He slapped it in, pulled back the bolt of the MA5B assault rifle, chambered the first round, and let loose once more. Grunts were flying through the air, jackals were deflecting fire back at the assault squad, Minutmen were yelling for ammo and grenades, Ibanez and the medics were keeping wary eyes on the front lines, but even in the chaos everything was going according to plan. Reynolds paused for a second, looked over at O'Shea, and threw the empty magazine at O'Shea's helmet. It clanked off harmlessly. The Captain was smiling...for once. "Gus, I am gonna kick your ass."

      McHale and another Minuteman were across the street from the Captain and Reynolds, observing the Covenant offensive in lulls of fire. McHale's eyes lit up. He tapped the Minuteman on the head. "On me," he said, and ran in a crouch to a flipped Warthog just ahead of their position. The two hustled to cover as the Covenant were concentrating fire in a last-ditch effort to take down some humans. McHale was going to take his chance. "Captain, keep the Covies busy there for lil' bit."

      "Doesn't look like I have a choice, McHale." O'Shea replied, and closed the channel. After a year of watching McHale fight Covenant in bloody face-to-face battles, the Captain trusted the short Lance Corporal's judgement.

      McHale leaned his body around the side of the Warthog and saw three jackals unloading their weapons on O'Shea's postion. The three bird-like aliens were screeching something to each other, but McHale was not about to let the aliens' plan continue to its' conclusion. He silently advanced, snaking around smoking pieces of the obliterated Ghosts, silencing the dying groans of mortally wounded Covenant. McHale checked his rear. The younger Minuteman was right behind him. This is probably the guy's first up-close encounter with Covenant, McHale thought, and he's doin' OK. Time to land the kid a killer trophy. McHale stopped and raised a fist, keeping it level with his head. The young Minuteman stopped behind McHale. McHale drew a combat knife, and the young Minuteman did the same. Quick learner. Hope he doesn't mind getting his hands purple.

      O'Shea and Reynolds were now pinned down, unable to fire back on the jackals. The lack of suppressing fire from the right had allowed much of the Covenant still on the offensive to advance. O'Shea looked at Reynolds. "This was going so well a few minutes ago," he said. Reynolds was grinning. O'Shea called McHale. "Hey Harry, how 'bout killing some Covies when you get a chance?" O'Shea heard two clicks of the radio. McHale must be pretty close, he thought. O'Shea got in a prone position and embraced the pavement, moving so he just barely poked his head out. He was not seen, but O'Shea could see two urban-camouflaged figures behind the three jackals. O'Shea managed to sneak his battle rifle into a firing position and aimed carefully. This was going to be interesting.

      McHale snuck up behind the middle of the three jackals, his partner stole ground behind the one on the left. A few steps away from the invaders, McHale had shown his partner how to kill silently and properly. In unison, the two Minutemen grabbed the jackals by the feather-like quills of the head, jerked their heads back, and drew their knives across the aliens' necks. The jackal on the far right turned, plasma pistol shaking with overcharged energy, its' face aglow in green malice even in the face of afternoon sunlight. McHale ducked at the sound of a shot and a green ball of plasma fired to the sky as the jackal dropped backwards, the distictive entry wound of a battle rifle round in the jackal's skull. McHale retreated back to his cover and angrily opened a channel. "Goddammit, Cap, you stole my kill!"

      "By the looks of things, Lance Corporal," O'Shea said, "I stole the jackal's kill."

      "Check again, sir." O'Shea looked back at the scene, saw the two slit throats, and then noticed McHale's extra combat knife up to the hilt in the chest of the third jackal. That was why the third jackal had turned. Lance Corporal is way too low a rank for this kid, O'Shea thought. Parsons is gonna be pissed tonight when McHale joins him at Corporal.

      "You're a sick son of a bitch, McHale," O'Shea said.

      "Huah, sir."

      From above, Corporal Ron Parsons was cleaning up on the retreat. By the time Parsons had to reload again, he had racked up eight confirmed kills. Specialist Tim McManus was broadcasting the whole scene play-by play from his spotter's scope:

      "...and Parsons caps another one! I'll tell ya, folks, once that boy gets hot he just does not cool down! Here's Gus Reynolds, the wily veteran, spinning around his cover, he looks like he's got one, here's a grenade to make sure...iiiiiit's...CAUGHT! I don't believe it, the Grunt caught the grenade! Whoops, heh-heh, looks like the Grunt didn't read the play right. Turns out you're supposed to throw the grenade BACK from whence it came. Boy, he'll feel that one in the afterlife. Here's McHale, making a bold move at a Jackal, is that a...yes, folks that's a melee attack from behind. I believe he's gonna get a penalty for that. Unecessary roughing is the call from upstairs. O'Shea racks up another, ooooo, right in the brain box. The Cap's got more headshots than a modelling agent, HI-oh!"

      The Minutemen finally ran out of targets after fifteen minutes of engagement. The battle wrapped up in a stirring victory for the Minutemen. A few new Minutemen, not older than 17, got up from their cover and started walking down the street, rifles pressed against their shoulders, firing at will at the exposed backs of the enemy. "That's right!" One young Private yelled, "Tell your friends! No one fucks with the Minutemen! No one fucks with Boston!"

      O'Shea walked from his position and sat down on the fender of an incapacitated car. He took off his helmet and reached into a chest pocket on his tactical vest. Gus Reynolds sat down next to his old friend as O'Shea pulled out the package of Big League Chew. O'Shea passed the victory pinch of gum to his old militia buddy as they listened to the young Minutemen crowing in the direction of the fleeing Covenant. "No one fucks with Boston!" Another young Minuteman yelled.

      "Looks like they already fucked with Boston," Reynolds noted, gesturing to the battered city, chewing away. It had been two years since the Covenant had invaded Boston, and the Minutemen wondered what the Covenant still wanted with the city. While Boston held more universities and colleges than any other city on Earth, Reynolds doubted the Covenant were after the brain trust of humanity. The Minutemen had been searching for the Covenant's motivation ever since the invasion. All they knew now, though, was that the Covenant were intent on destroying everything. On days the Covenant felt motivated, a fog of destruction, dust, and noise filled every path through Boston. On clear days, though, the jagged outlines of decimated skyscrapers still wafted smoke and dust. Banshees still twirled around the city in dangerous orbit. Reynolds had seen the classic post-apocalyptic movies. They had all grossly underestimated the damage.

      Boston had been a doomed city. In the big picture, small cities like Boston didn't stand a chance of help, reinforcement, or rebuilding. In fact, small cities not unlike Boston were being used as very big bait for Covenant. Reynolds and O'Shea had heard the rumors: the UNSC and ONI were drawing the Covenant to the cities, then nuking the entire location. There was no warning, no way to evacuate. There was no way ONI would give the Covenant time to follow humans out. The war had gotten to the point where massive civilian casualties were acceptable. To ensure the survival of the species, some must be sacrificed. What was the point? What was the goddamn point? Reynolds wondered to himself. In what could be called the only just war ever fought, the tactics and reasoning were so unbearably barbaric that Reynolds wondered at times what was worth protecting. Of course, the cities weren't. His friends and family were. Everybody's gotta die sometime, he thought. I just gotta take out as many as I can so more can survive. That, he concluded, and die before the Captain bites it. I am not explaining his death to his wife. He snapped out of his existential funk to O'Shea leaning back against the car, saying, "Yep, it's a gorgeous day."

      "Few and far between, sir." Gus replied.

      Captain Jack O'Shea playfully slapped Reynolds on his helmet. "One day at a time, Gus, one day at a time." O'Shea reassured Gus. Reynolds' spirits were lifted. As long as men remained to defend and fight for what was right and should be protected, he would be right beside them.

      "Chalk one up for the good guys, old man. Not bad today. Buy you a drink?" Gus asked.

      "I still own the only bar in town, and you got shitty credit there," O'Shea laughed, "Looks like I'm buyin'...again."

      O'Shea looked over to Ibanez and his staff, duitifully patching up two militiamen who caught Ghost shrapnel and pieces of concrete in their arms. Ibanez was letting the two new medics get their hands on some minor action. It wouldn't be long, O'Shea knew, until those two new medics would be arms-deep in some real action, and it wouldn't be pretty. O'Shea had lost exactly 49 men during the invasion: some for heroic reasons, others for stupid errors. Each time was hard. O'Shea didn't bother with letters. He saw every girlfriend, wife, father, and mother when they came home. Gus is right, O'Shea thought. The good days are few and far between.

      O'Shea pulled out a picture of the first squad of Minutemen from the same pocket as the Big League Chew. They were smiling and confident, thirty-odd men from all over the former state, united in a cause bigger than any of them. Each and every one knew what they were fighting for, and that helped. Took us this long to find something that brings us together, O'Shea thought, staring intently at the picture, and now we're dying off like goddamn insects. In the picture, a few dead Covenant bodies were spread out among them like hunting trophies. They were gathered around the near-obliterated statue of John Harvard, a common tourist attraction in the city when aliens weren't running around drilling civilians in the face with plasma. The Covenant had had some fun with plamsa scarring the landmark, O'Shea remembered. The Minutemen, the picture proved, laughed last.

      O'Shea was taken from the memories in the past to the events of the present as he looked up to high-fives and arms around shoulders, soldiers ecstatic in a rare victory. Better to savor the blessings of today. No casualties this time, O'Shea thought. That certainly was rare. Not bad. Not too damn bad at all.

      Reynolds took the picture from O'Shea's hands. "Better leave that one out of sight, Cap," he said, putting it back in O'Shea's vest pocket. "You look like hell in that one." There was humor in the horror, and hope where the destruction was greatest. As long as there were Minutemen to protect her, O'Shea knew, Boston would continue to endure where buildings and monuments had failed.

      The two got up from their rest and walked to the center of the street. "Minutemen!" Captain Jack O'Shea called out over the Com, "On me!" Time to relocate, O'Shea thought with a new sense of purpose. The Militia got up from their position and joined their ranking officers.

      From the top of the old apartment building Parsons and McManus attached secure holds to the top of the building and began to rappel down the facade. Between swinging descents, the two snipers looked out along the street. The building they were rappelling from was the end of a cul-de-sac at the end of Commonwealth Avenue. The scampering grunts and one remaining jackal were specks as they retreated in haste down the road and out of firing range.

      "Figure they'll tell on us?" Parsons asked.

      "Grunts aren't known for their memory, if remember correctly," McManus replied. McManus was smart, everybody knew, incredibly smart. "But that one jackal...he worries me. How come you didn't get that one, ace? Padding your stats with grunts?"

      Parsons took out his combat knife and faked at McManus' rappel cord. McManus shot him a disapproving look. Parsons nodded his head at his partner, jerking his chin up at McManus and smiling out of the corner of his mouth. "Shut the fuck up and tell me the score."

      "Today you were...ummmm...Two Ghosts, three jackals...maybe nine grunts."

      "Maybe?" Parsons asked.

      "They all look the same to me." McManus said. Parsons almost fell to the ground from laughing.

      Harry McHale joined the assault de-brief on the left side of the street. The group was sitting on the front stoop of a house, slapping high fives and showing off items they had taken from the Covenant. Assault team members didn't have the longest life expectancies, so they took as much fun as they could get in between combat. "Yo, McHale, what'd you get?" A new recruit asked. McHale reached into the cargo pocket of his pants and pulled out an odd-looking bracelet.

      "Hey, Harry, I know you enjoy the cross-dressing every now and then, but seriously dude, florescent purple is just so not your color." The assault team dissolved in laughter until Harry put on the bracelet and flexed his arm. Instantly the Jackal's energy shield powered up and flashed to life, covering a square meter and a half in front of McHale. The assault team took a step back.

      "Holy shit, that is AWESOME!" The wise-cracking young Minuteman cried out.

      "Way to make my needler look like shit, McHale." Another Minuteman called, and threw a rock at the shield. It bounced off harmlessly. McHale laughed.

      McManus and Parsons hit pavement one hundred meters from Reynolds and O'Shea. The two snipers sauntered up to the commanding officers with a confident swagger. "Good shooting, Parsons," O'Shea said, returning the snipers' salutes, "McManus, couldn't have done it without you. Good heads up calls over there. You're in line to jump up a few spots."

      "Sir, thank you, sir." The two snipers replied in unison.

      "And thanks for bringing back McHale," Reynolds added.

      "Sir, he saved our asses back there; I think he ought to be recommended for something." McManus replied.

      "I'll recommend him for a drink any day, sir." Parsons said. Parsons knew McHale was due for a promotion, and today was most likely the day. It would take place tonight under a shower of beer and whiskey, and tomorrow the Minutemen would fight hungover. O'Shea owned and operated the only bar in the Boston area, the Last Line of Defense. It was underground, armored, and a hell of a good time. After all, life was short and every day coming home was the best party the Minutemen ever had. The Irish guys loved it. Even Tonsi was known to throw a few back and croon IRA anthems with the Connor brothers. Hanging above the door to the bar was a sign worn from use and many slaps from confident hands on the way out. It read, "Shoot fast. Shoot smart. Good to go in sixty seconds." It hung right next to another sign that read simply, "Covenant Suck."

      "Good job nonetheless," O'Shea said. "See any new homes from up there?"

      Tim McManus had taken notes on the outlying structures as he had prepared to rappel from the building. There were several structures that had been of interest, especially geared to Parsons' style of shooting. One building down the street even had an entire roof. That was a luxury these days.

      "There's a few sir," McManus said, "and we absolutely cannot stay in our old haunt anymore. It's about half as tall now. Had the structure been at full height, sir, there would have been no Covenant survivors."

      "Well," O'Shea said, "if that building was still intact the Covies would never have tried to take this street."

      "True, sir," Parsons said, "but what McManus is trying to say is that we're significantly outnumbered. We're trying to maintain stealth here, we probably stayed too long, and now this whole area is compromised." To illustrate his point, Parsons turned and swept his hand across the dead end section of Commonwealth Avenue as he spoke. As soon as Parsons' sweep was over, the building the two snipers had inhabited exploded with incredible force. A shockwave spread out down the street.

      From the foursome's position in the middle of the street, it looked like the building had been a dormant volcano and had suddenly erupted. What remained of the top of the building shot upwards to the late afternoon sky in a high arc while the middle and lower sections rocketed outward in a shower of concrete and steel. Large sections of the building crushed cars and plowed into sides of facing buildings. Some Minutemen standing next to the building instantly disappeared, buried in rubble. Commonwealth Avenue was no longer a cul-de sac; it was a long narrow road with a minor roadblock, and the Minutemen were exposed on both sides. The blue-tinted explosion left no doubt as to the attack's origin: the Covenant were back to finish the job.

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 4
Date: 2 September 2004, 11:11 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 4

53 Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Boston, MA
Midway through the Covenant Invasion of Earth
Late afternoon


      "TAKE COVER!" Captain Jack O'Shea yelled into his throat mike as huge pieces of the building started to rain down on the Massachusetts Militia Minutemen. O'Shea, Master Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds, Corporal Parsons, and Specialist McManus sprinted down the street away from the explosion, chunks of the former apartment building slamming behind, left, right, and in front of them. There seemed no escape as the four were buffeted with the shock and sound of gigantic pieces of structure impacting with the street. O'Shea took point as the group sprinted to try and find cover. The four Minutemen ran in a tight single-file formation, not willing to fall behind by even half a step.

      At full tilt the four ran with their backs to the former building, now spouting blue flame and exploding outwards as Covenant artillery slammed it from behind. The building was at the end of a cul-de-sac on Boston's Commonwealth Avenue, where a firefight had broken out an hour ago between the Boston militia and Covenant. The Minutemen believed the Covenant force had been defeated. Instead, the Minutemen had been trapped perfectly by the Covenant, launching a surprise attack from behind. Now the Minutemen were caught unaware at the end of this cul-de-sac, running left and right with their backs to the barrage.

      From behind O'Shea, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds slapped the Captain's right shoulder, and the four broke right toward an abandoned townhouse. O'Shea wasted no time with subtlety: he took out his holstered M6D pistol and blasted shots at the hinges of the front door. The semi-explosive rounds did their recquired job on the door, breaking the hinges sufficiently to make O'Shea's next move much more plausible. After emptying his clip and taking three strides up the front steps, O'Shea left his feet in a blind dive at the door, going head and shoulders at the right side of the doorframe. The door gave way as O'Shea slammed the door down with the force of his body. The other three Minutemen followed behind, Specialist Tim McManus getting in last, slamming down on the ground, yelling, "Son of a bitch!"

      1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi and the four Connor brothers had been playing around with the newly made car bomb before the explosion. The car bomb had been built out of an incapacitated Warthog as a last-resort weapon. Before the Covenant assault began, the Warthog was positioned about 100 meters away and to the right of the arpartment building, where the cul-de-sac widened into a small circular ending. With the apparent victory over the Covenant, however, the car bomb had yet to be detonated or dismantled. Gerry and Michael Connor, the two youngest, had just broken into a mock-fistfight about whose grenade killed three Jackals when the attack came. All five of the demolition experts looked up in shock as they realized what was happening. Their trained, slightly deaf ears knew the Covenant artillery had come around to the other side of the building, firing at close range. Now the entire structure was heading right for the Minutemen. "Incoming!" Tonsi screamed as the five tried to get clear of the warthog primed to explode. Amid a chorus of Fuck! Debris! What the Fuck! Shite! and INCOMING!, Tonsi ran away and to the left of the exploding apartment building, down the street toward a small alley not far away. As soon as he turned the corner of the alley, he looked back to see Seamus, the oldest, lugging two SPNKR rocket launchers and most of the explosives toward Tonsi. Just as Seamus turned the corner at Tonsi's position, a huge piece of what had been a steel support beam flew by at lethal speeds right where Seamus had been and split a car in two. Seamus hugged the wall next to Tonsi. He grinned an insance grin, "I told ya, Dad. I'm blessed." The wreckage from the building started to create craters in the pavement.

      Rory, Gerry, and Michael split up. Rory, instead of running from the building, ran towards the explosion. With less than a second to spare, Rory managed to dive and roll under most of the building's projectiles. It was like diving under a wave, so when Rory stopped his roll, the wave was starting to envelope the empty space. He jumped to his feet and ran to his left, avoiding all the pieces that fell straight down from the building. Rory Connor ended up crashing through a pane glass window into a hotel restaurant. He found cover, as he usually did in times of dire need, behind the bar.

      Gerry and Michael broke left and right. Michael went left, but turned a few steps from the Warthog to see how his older brother was going about this. Michael saw Gerry get five meters from the Warthog before a chunk of concrete, flaming hot from the explosion, plowed into his young body. One second, Gerry was there. The next, he was gone. All that was left was his battle rifle. Michael screamed in agony, his mouth open wide and face contorted in despair as he ran toward where his brother had been. As soon as he passed in front of the Warthog, a much smaller piece of steel flew from the building and landed square on the side of Michael's helmet, silencing his wailing. The force was enough to slam Michael's body against the Warthog and knock him unconscious. Michael was now knocked out under an armed and ready car bomb.

       Lance Corporal Harry McHale and the rest of the assault squad gaped in fear at the wall of concrete coming at them. The squad had been lounging on the front stoop of a townhouse when the apartment building they used to hide in evaporated. Three assault Minutemen were right in front of the building. From Harry's view, they simply disappeared. The noise was absolutely deafening. He could hear what had to be massive Covenant artillery powering up its' weapon, then releasing the blast in an ear-grabbing, high frequency burst of noise. A second later, the plasma would hit home, causing destruction across a wide area. Harry grabbed two Minutemen up by their collars and shoved them up the street as the rest scrambled to find any kind of cover. Many ran to the left side of the building trying to find cover in an alley, while two others ran to the right side of the building toward the blast. The two made it into a two-story building, but the sheer amount of debris and velocity of the wreckage collapsed on the two, sealing them in a premature tomb.

      Harry McHale saw providence where others saw disaster. When he was trapped inside the now-obliterated building no more than an hour ago, he emerged to save the lives of the Minutemen's two snipers. Now he took the chance to prove his quality as he activated the deceased Jackal's energy shield and started deflecting smaller pieces of debris, getting assault team members into much safer cover. Most of the team survived the heavy artillery onslaught, getting into much more secure points of cover as piles of debris started to gather on the street. The barrage continued around Harry McHale. Cars were smashed beyond recognition, and flying shards of windshield and glass put deep gashes into more than one appendage for the Minutemen. Luckily, the energy shield was good against that, too. The shield snapped, sparked, and popped with electricity as incoming pieces of construction material wailed against it. Finally, the last of the assault troopers that was still alive made it behind cover. McHale stayed in the middle of the street.

      "Sir, with all due respect," a young Minuteman yelled above the din, "get your fucking ass behind cover!"

      "There's two of our boys trapped back there!" McHale replied, pointing in the direction of the collapsed two-story building.

      "What do you want us to do, sir?"

      "Alert the refugees and tell them to clear out! Get as far away from here as you can! I'm going back to get those tw-"

      The image of Harry McHale's face would never leave the young Private's mind as the dust caked, yelling, concerned face of McHale was replaced with a giant piece of structure. To the young Private, it was as if his commanding officer's piercing blue eyes were still burned into his retinas. Harry McHale was smashed into the ground by one of the last pieces of the top of the building. McHale's left hand stuck out of the impact point as the energy shield attached to it flashed and disappeared, both the shield and bearer destroyed. One Private looked away in disgust. The other, who had just been talking with McHale, slowly walked over to the giant boulder-like piece of steel and cement in a state of shock. As shards of glass and steel flew in deadly trajectories at unwitting humans, the young Private leaned down, took the Lance Corporal's shotgun from the middle of the street, and walked back unharmed to the alleyway. The young Private put his back against the wall and slid down it to sitting position, rocking back and forth, sobbing tears of frustration and despair, hugging the shotgun. Yet another father figure exterminated. Yet another man who deserved a future of love and prosperity wiped out. The young Minuteman banged the back of his helmet against the wall. "What's the fucking point!?" He screamed to no one in particular, the tears running hot and fresh down his dirty face.

      One alleyway behind the scene of McHale's death, six assault Minutemen were secure in cover. One Minuteman, Carl Sohn, wearing Private 1st Class insignias, peeked down the street at the incoming plasma assault. He shook his head in disappointment at the sudden death of the Lance Corporal. Just an hour ago he had joined McHale in a sneak attack against Covenant Jackal officers. He took cover back in the alley. A young Minuteman who had just voluteered stared at his ranking officer. "Sir, we should call in an air strike!"

      "What?" Sohn asked in disbelief.

      "An air strike, sir!"

      "We can't call in a fucking air strike! We don't have any fucking air power!"

      "Sir, the UNSC could smoke that artillery!"

      Sohn took a step toward the greenhorn. "You think the UNS-fucking-C gives a shit about us!? They left us and everyone in this city to the Covenant two fucking years ago! They don't give two shits about this city, or you! Understood, Private?"

      "Sir, that's fucked up, sir!"

      "Huah, Stick. Fuckin' huah."

      Rory Connor had the best view of any surviving Minuteman. Peeking over the sparsely stocked bar, he saw what used to be a sprawling, towering building reduced to what best looked like a giant rock pile that he used to play on as a "wee lad." Now he could hear the low drone of machinery, and the looser pieces of rubble began to shimmy down the decline of the pile, the foreshadowing action of the battle to come. Rory hastily patted himself down looking for the button to open a channel. Tonsi never let him talk on the Comm, so Rory constantly forgot where the transmit button was. Rory thumbed the button to open a channel and called the whole squad. "Rory Connor here. Incoming infantry from the North. Defensive positions, lads. We got flanked on this one."

      Tonsi and Seamus were relieved to hear Rory's voice over the Comm. "Finally, he gets his chance." Seamus said.

      "Yeah, good word choice, too." Tonsi said. "Diction, pronunciation, clear, crisp, to the point. There's hope for him yet."

      "Infantry, Dad?" Seamus changed the subject.

      "Yeah, bet you it's Creeps, a whole mess of Elites, coupla Hunters, maybe even a Phantom or two."

      "Shite, we're earning our way back to the bar, aren't we?"

      "Every day we do, son. Every day we do." Tonsi took a SPNKR rocket launcher from Seamus and loaded two 102 mm rockets into the weapon. It was time to take a stand. The Minutemen had been in some hairy situations, Tonsi recalled, but usually they got to pick their battles. He handed a launcher to Seamus, who loaded the launcher without a second thought, and disengaged the safety. Tonsi was not naive enough to think that everyone survived that attack, and wondered if he would be included on that list when the day was through. Tonsi sighed as he briefly looked down the street. He could see shapes through the dusty afternoon haze coming through Covenant-controlled territory. He too disengaged the safety, hearing the soft tone telling him the target finder was active. Not everyone was coming home today. There were going to be some disappointed wives and girlfriends back in the bunkers.

      Captain Jack O'Shea reloaded his urban-camouflaged battle rifle. Gus Reynolds searched his body for extra magazines and secured them in chest pockets. Two years of guerilla war had taught the Minutemen several things about equipment. First, there were no Longswords or Scorpion tanks or anything resembling heavy UNSC equipment, so the Minutemen picked their battles carefully. Getting in over their heads was a quick way to get dead. Second, less was more. Body armor did next to nothing against plasma, but a good flak vest kept projectiles from explosions out of the important parts. On the same subject, speed and agility was key. It was extremely rare to catch a Minuteman lugging a rucksack and superfluous equipment, but Gus Reynolds always liked to carry more than enough equipment, which was why he was toting extra grenades and tossing a few to O'Shea. Parsons and McManus stole glances up the stairs. O'Shea read their minds.

      "Better find the high ground, fellas." O'Shea said. "No spotter this time. We'll need both your guns."

      "Huah, sir." The two snipers replied. McManus started to assemble his S2 AM sniper rifle. In 40 seconds, the two snipers were starting up the stairs to the roof of the building. Gus looked at O'Shea. "This is going to get interesting," Reynolds said, peeking out a window at the rubble in the street. He looked out into the street with apprehension. The storm of cement and steel was past, but Reynolds couldn't shake the feeling that this was the only the eye of the storm. This shit's about to get hectic, he thought.

      Jack O'Shea analyzed the situation. The immediate danger was past, but far bigger trouble was coming for them. This kind of direct engagement was very new to the Minutemen. They had to take proper precautions in case the worst occurred. "McManus," O'Shea called over the Comm.

      "Here, sir."

      "Call the camps and tell them to clear out. I want every man, woman, and child out of the immediate vicinity. I don't know if the Covies are here for us or are cleaning house again, but let's not take chances."

      "On it, sir." McManus closed the channel.

      The 53rd Massachusetts Militia had been entrusted with a grave charge: protection of the city of Boston. This included the people, structures, military installations, and ammunition depots. As O'Shea looked back on it, sometimes that charge was a little too big for the Minutemen to carry. 95% of human structures were at least heavily damaged. Tens of thousands had been killed. UNSC military intelligence had been compromised in at least one structure. But, O'Shea reminded himself, if the Minutemen hadn't been around, there was no telling how many times those figures would be multiplied by.

      He looked back two years on the first contact with the Covenant: Jack O'Shea had just turned 40, a milestone in many peoples' lives, but to O'Shea was just another year in a happily married life with kids to carry on his line. On Earth, his life was prosperous and filled with joy. However, O'Shea knew that it wouldn't be long until events in space would touch down on his life on Earth. O'Shea had heard the rumors of the Covenant; he had followed the propaganda-laced news reports and heard the true story from UNSC buddies who made it back to Earth on medical leave. At that point, O'Shea was a former Captain in the UNSC Marines, a man who had seen enough of the galaxy and killed enough of humanity's would-be enemies to earn his way home. Like the Roman legionaries of ancient times, he had done his duty and retired to his family, collecting his retirement and helping the UNSC with the secret observation of Earth's orbit. The UNSC knew the Covenant were coming, just not when.

      When the invasion did occur, the UNSC immediately mustered its' forces at the large and important rally sites: New York, New Mombassa, Berlin, Beijing, Sydney, New Palestine, and Rio de Janeiro. Boston was left with token forces to maintain civilian order. O'Shea was a senior administrator. Not long after the first Covenant forces touched down in the major cities, Boston's air space was violated.

      Even in the ruined townhouse he was taking cover in now, O'Shea's stomach turned when he thought of the first sight of the underside of that massive Covenant Carrier, the curving teardrop shape ending in a spear-like head, the purple tint that the ship cast on the streets and buildings. He remembered how quickly he had run into his office and contacted Command. He had almost broke a shin slamming into office furniture. He could hear the dialouge of two years past even in the din of Covenant artillery:

      "Command, this is Captain O'Shea, UNSC Admin Post 53, Boston! We have contact with Covenant!"

      The voice on the other end had been unsettlingly calm. "We know, 53. Calm down."

      "You know!? We just picked them up on our sensors!"

      "Understood, 53. We have them, too."

      O'Shea had fought to say composed. "Command, what are my orders? We need immediate assistance! When will UNSC forces arrive? We're going to need ODSTs."

      "Unable to comply, 53. UNSC forces in that area are engaged."

      "Engaged!? Command, I have over seven million people in this city!"

      "Understood, 53." If O'Shea had heard "Understood, 53," one more time, he was going to shoot the communcations equipment. "...We have issued a flash-evacuation mandate. Maintain civil order through the evacuation. Your orders are to destroy any military intelligence in the city of Boston, gather all available ordnance and weapons you can carry and extract all available troops to New York. We need your help there."

      Two years ago O'Shea looked out a window not unlike the one he was staring out now. He had seen thousands of people take to the streets almost simultaneously. Plasma was already beginning to streak through the air. Civil order, my ass, he had thought. We've just been left for dead.

      "Command," O'Shea had said, pulling off his UNSC pin and reaching for the list of available UNSC personnel, "Unable to comply with orders. My troops are engaged."

      Recruiting the abandoned UNSC troops had been easy. O'Shea had instantly bonded with Gus Reynolds, who was also in constant contact with the Boston office, and all the UNSC troops that had been left behind took to the streets to give the evacuating civilians as much time as possible to clear the city. In that battle that followed, 85% of the UNSC troops in Boston were killed, but many millions escaped the brutal rampage of the Covenant juggernaut. The next day, O'Shea and Gus Reynolds created the 53rd Massachusetts Militia. In O'Shea's study of colonial American history he remembered a segment telling of a time when ordinary men in the former colony of Massachusetts had banded together to combat an occupying force. The militia was small, fast, and agile; striking the superior forces in rapid attacks, rallying together and mobilizing so quickly they were called, "Minute men." In the chaos that followed the invasion and the subsequent destruction and occupation inside the city, the name "Minutemen," was forged. The name was then known among the human survivors as a safe word, a name to be called on when protection was needed and the city of Boston was to be defended.

      The Minutemen had started small, made only of the ten surviving UNSC personnel that had followed O'Shea, but the legend attracted many new soldiers and insurgents from the surrounding areas. Anyone old enough to fire a gun well and live in the secret bunkers of the Minutemen were allowed to volunteer. Now the militia was almost fifty strong, but the maximum number that went out on missions was thirty. That number was only required for missions were hit-and-run attacks that lasted several days. Those who were not in the field performed other duties, such as medical, ammunition storage, civilian administration, and intelligence-gathering. The majority of the Minutemen's duties entailed protecting the large refugee and holdout communities that disregarded the evacuation mandate and stuck it out. The Minutemen identified with these people, and so every community had a direct link to the Militia. When things were going wrong in a particular area or Covenant were headed that way, the holdouts knew about it before the Covies arrived.

      O'Shea looked out onto the cratered and debris-strewn street and sidewalks. He could still hear the screech of plasma and wished for the good old days when he could call in a Longsword squadron and blast that piece of shit to oblivion, but that was no longer an option. While the Minutemen had delivered some surplus arms to the UNSC; that generosity had been for the good of humanity. The Minutemen, O'Shea in particular, never forgot that the UNSC had left Boston behind. They had left O'Shea and his men behind to slip through the cracks. Anger still turned around in his heart as he clenched his fists. It didn't have to be this way. However, he had to make do with what he had.

      "All right." O'Shea replied to Reynolds' questioning looks. "Let's get over to assault."

      Rory was improvising as soon as he saw Creeps moving over the rubble. About 90 percent of the Creeps cleared the rubble, but the lower parts smashed through it, cleaving a wide gap in the middle of the pile. The Creeps halted after clearing the rubble, idling. For what reason, Rory knew not. From Rory's view, he could see every one of the purple personnel carriers, carrying eight Covenant infantry each. The lead vehicle carried seven grunts and a jackal, the four flanking Creeps all carried Elites. This was not going to be an easy day. Rory finished with his improvised weapon: a molotov cocktail. Taking his antique Zippo lighter inherited from back in the days of The Troubles in Ireland, he took shredded parts of his extra t-shirt and stuffed them into large bottles of cheap alcohol. Rory took the battered lighter from his pants pocket and examined it. The scratches and dings in the old metal rimmed an equally battered Irish flag. Rory looked up from his hidden spot and heard the slow-moving Creeps start up. The one on the far right of the formation would have to move past the bar. Behind the five Creeps were infantry on foot, and he could hear the approaching heavy footsteps of Hunters. Rory heard the chatter over the radio. He opened a channel to reply. "I can take the far right," he said. He decided it was time to even the odds for the Minutemen.

      In two strokes, Rory swept the lighter across his fatigue-clad thigh to open the flint, and then stroked back across to light the Butane. The flame leapt to life. Rory brought the flame to his lips to light a cigarette stolen from Seamus' bunk back home. If the fuggin' Covies don't kill me, he thought, Seamus will after he sees this. Rory started to walk to the door as he applied the flame to the cloth hanging from the bottle. When he lit two bottles, he clicked shut the lighter, hopped over the bar, grabbed the two instruments of death, and stared to jog to the door, toward the dying light and the large Covenant structure that was presently blocking it.

      Gus Reynolds craned his head out the door and didn't like what he saw. In the same V formation as the ill-fated Ghosts before, five Creeps were idling at the site of the destroyed apartment high-rise. Above each of the Creeps was a stationary gun, and Gus could swear the grunt manning each Shade could see him. Reynolds looked back at O'Shea and shook his head. Reynolds pointed two fingers to his eyes and then pointed his hand down the street. Reynolds then showed five fingers and made his hand into a "C" shape. O'Shea understood. They'd never make it across the street to the assault team in this state.

Reynolds looked across the street at six assault team members, stacked in single-file formation in an alley. One veteran made the same hand signals to Reynolds that he had made to O'Shea. Reynolds gave the assault member a thumbs-up. Where the hell is McHale? Gus thought. O'Shea called upstairs to the snipers. "Snipers, we got an issue that needs to get cleared up, copy?"

      McManus and Parsons had just reached one of the only intact roofs in the city. The two kept very low and headed for the side of the roof facing the street. Parsons peered over the roof. He could see five Creeps in front of the building, each with a manned Shade on top. All the Minutemen were pinned down. There was no way anyone could cross the street with that kind of firepower blocking the way. Parsons opened a channel. "Standing by for orders, sir."

      "Neutralize the Shades."

      "Huah."

      McManus smiled. " 'With extreme prejudice' I belive is the term." He said.

      The two snipers both sat with their backs against the short rise at the end of the roof. The two screwed sound and flash suppressors on their rifle's barrels. They would take no chances with this. Parsons sat cross-legged at the edge of the roof and unfolded his bipod to make his aim true. Next to the prone position, the cross-legged sitting position was the best for sniping, stability and accuracy. He focused in on his first grunt. McManus moved to Parsons' side and unfolded his bipod. He took aim at the Creep on the left side of the formation; Parsons, the next one over. The two snipers stared through their optic scopes.

      "800 meters." McManus said.

      "Wind 5 to 8," Parsons continued.

      "One click down." McManus called the dope.

      "...And that's an ugly motherfucker." Parsons finished.

      "Targets acquired," McManus breathed into his mike, "sights are hot and we are standing by."

      O'Shea took in a breath to give the fire command, but before he could finish, Reynolds held up a fist, then twirled his index finger around. The Creeps had started up again. It would be about half a minute before the Creeps reached the assault and the demo positions, and then the assault troops would be cut to pieces by the stationary guns. O'Shea knew what the Minutemen would have prepared by this time, and made his orders accordingly. "Demo," O'Shea called.

      "Here, sir," Tonsi replied over radio.

      "Incoming hostile vehicles with Shades."

      "Sighted, sir."

      "Spank 'em."

      "Huah, sir, but we can only take out two of them."

      "Leave the two on the left side of the formation for us," Parsons cut in.

      "I can take the far right," Rory chimed in.

      "Rory?" Tonsi said in shock, but the channel clicked closed. Tonsi didn't realize Rory was so close or had the means to engage a Coveant stationary gun.

      "They're moving," Reynolds reported. "We better do the same."

      Medical officer Harold Ibanez saw the whole attack unfold from the middle of the street. Before Ibanez could find cover during the initial artillery assault, he saw an assault trooper go down, hit in the chest with a piece of building. The medic rushed to where the Minuteman had fallen, face up in a small crater created by a huge section of construction. That had served as adequate cover during the attack. He had seen the deaths of Michael Connor and Harry McHale: he grieved the loss but understood the reality of the battlefield. It would be tough to joke about this later.

      When the Creeps arrived, Ibanez dared not move. He stole peeks from his hide, but never moved from the trooper, who was conscious but badly wounded. Ibanez didn't know where he would go to until he heard all the commotion and orders from O'Shea over the Comm. Once the Creeps started up toward his position, Ibanez got low and observed. The five troop carriers moved in a V, and once the Creep on the far right lumbered past a bombed-out bar, Ibanez saw a Minuteman with a shock of red hair run out from the bar with two bottles aflame. Oh no fucking way... Ibanez thought. He watched as the red haired militiaman stopped, then launched one bottle onto the top railing of the Creep's open space. There was the smash of glass and a burst of light as the weapon dropped flame onto each Elite in the carrier. With roars and Wort wort worts, the eight aliens piled out of the Creep, not before Rory Connor heaved another cocktail up at the grunt manning the Shade. The Stationary gun burst into flame and the grunt jumped off the Creep, screaming in pain and impaling itself on a steel beam, twisted and sticking up in the street. Rory ran back into the bar as the flaming Elites tried to put themselves out, plasma firing everywhere.

      As soon as the flames had hit the Creep, Ibanez saw two streaks of vapor that ended at the two Shades on the far left of the formation. Ibanez never heard the shots, only saw the vapor. Ibanez whipped his head around and saw two shilouettes reloading twin rifles simultaneously. At the receiving end of the vapor trail, two grunts fell to the ground with large holes in their heads. As each dropped, one Elite in each carrier looked over quizzically as the gunner fell from the sky and landed unceremoniously on the ground. Combined with the fire attack, there was confusion.

      Just ahead of Ibanez and on the right side of the street, he saw two figures whip around the corner. One rolled to the left, and both ended up on one knee, SPNKR rockets at the ready. Simultaneously the two launched rockets at the middle Shades, The red-hot projectiles trailing white smoke in the short flight toward their targets. With a Pwooom the impact of each rocket dislodged the Shades from their anchors, slamming the stationary guns to the ground and sending the gunners flying backward in pieces of flame. Now the confusion was panic as the two rocketmen re-targeted and loosed two rockets at the lead vehicles' front. There was a terrific explosion and fragments of the Creeps landed across a wide area as Ibanez shielded the assault team member's body with his own. The two leading Creeps' fronts plowed into the pavement and dragged their noses left and right, blocking the paths of the other three vehicles. Ibanez crossed himself and took both his and the fallen assault trooper's SMGs. He got up from his position and opened fire against the flaming Elites. The counter attack had begun.

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 5
Date: 3 October 2004, 5:49 PM

MINUTEMEN: THE BATTLE OF BOSTON CHAPTER 5
Sorry about the delay in chapters, this is almost finished. Enjoy it, and drop a comment if you feel like it. Big ups to Helljumper for the technical support. Thanks for reading, enjoy.

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Commonwealth Avenue, Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
evening


      With two loud Braaapps issuing forth from the SMGs, Medical Officer Harold Ibanez poured forth wrath from twin "bullet hoses." The recoil forced the bullets increasingly higher, so it was a good thing Ibanez started low. The Elites that had been lit aflame in their Creep transport from Specialist Rory Connor's Molotov cocktail had squirmed and roared in agony. Incredibly, a couple resilient ones went looking for the demolition specialist, now hiding out behind a bar less that seven meters right of the Elite's position. Now Ibanez's volley of automatic fire had gotten their attention and the focus of their wrath. They charged the latino medic at full force. Ibanez had felt fear many times in the last two years, but this was the first time he really wanted to run away and hide in a corner. At the very instant the Elites saw him and charged, Harold Ibanez peed his pants. It wasn't professional, he knew, but in reality not one of the militiamen had ever had an engagement this close and intense. Maybe the Captain Ibanez thought in fear, but I bet even the Cap's never fought flaming Elites. It was going to be tough to explain the stain away if he lived long enough to be embarrassed. This was an image from the medic's nightmares: teammates dead on either side of him, a former hideout in ruins in front of him, and Elites (on fucking fire! Ibanez yelled repeatedly in his mind) charging him at full force. Ibanez tried as best he could to steady his shaking hands by pressing the extended stocks of the SMGs into his shoulders, firing haphazardly at the aliens.

      The Elites' shields, busy with the fire licking at their flesh, dropped occasionally, allowing a bullet or two to enter the battle-hardened bodies, but pressed on. Ibanez kept the fire going as one Elite fell, then two. The other six would not be denied. Plasma fired all around Ibanez as the Elites continued on, starting to tire from being bathed in fire, the accuracy of their plasma rifles suffering almost as badly as their bodies. A third Elite collapsed in death as its' internal organs were cooked, skin grilled and blackened. With five Elites twenty meters away, Ibanez's worst fears were realized.

      Kl-kl-kl-kl-kl-klickClick. The noise from the weapons ceased suddenly into quiet declarations of Ibanez's doom. The medic stared incredulously at the empty SMGs, then back at his attackers. The Elites roared enthusiastically and redoubled their efforts.

      Ibanez, not to be outdone, threw both weapons at the oncoming Elites. The throw was pitifully weak, one submachine gun clanking off the shoulder of a Elite, which replied with a hearty laugh. Ibanez had heard that laugh before. He had heard it in the dead of night after a hail of bullets and plasma fire. He had never heard a human give a rebuttal to that taunting laugh.

      Death was ten meters from Ibanez. Without warning, two vapor trails appeared and entered the chests of two Elites. They spun clockwise and dropped face down on the pavement as if synchronized in death. At the same time, a round from a battle rifle entered the lead Elite's brain and exited in a purple mist. Ibanez stared in disbelief, mouth agape, as five holes appeared in a straight vertical line on the center chest of the another Elite. Both Elites fell backwards as if someone had simply held down their feet and pushed their heads back. One Elite remained. The laughing Elite. This one was stained in human blood and was still smoking as fire urged it forward. The four mandibles strained forward to partake in the kill.

      At nine meters to the Minuteman's ranking medic, the red-armored Elite left its' feet and leaped at the exposed figure of the militiaman. Ibanez cringed as he imagined that he could feel the coming impact, the heavy weight crushing his spine, smashing his helmet in on his skull, his inferior skeleton crushed on the ground below. The blow never came. From Ibanez' right, the loud boom of a shotgun round made Ibanez flinch and duck for cover. The Elite was slammed in the side with the massive "Hippo round". The force of the slug carried the Elite half a meter to Ibanez' left and the Elite died on impact. Ibanez slowly turned to his right. The Hippo round could have came from only one man's shotgun, and Ibanez had witnessed that man's death just mintues ago. A young assault Minuteman, no older than 17, stood there with former Lance Corporal Harry McHale's shotgun shaking in his unsure hands. The young Minuteman looked Ibanez right in the eyes and threw up in front of the medic, white chunks splattering on the pavement. "Yeah, saving someone's life can feel like that," the medic said. Ibanez reached into his hole, pulled a wounded militiaman from the cover, and joined his ill savior. They hustled to the assault team's postion. The three men reached cover safely.

      Ibanez's radio chirped to life. "You all right?," 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi aksed over the Comm. Ibanez answered in the affirmative.

      "So then let me get this straight" Tonsi chuckled, "when you run out of ammo, you throw the fuckin' SMGs at Elites?"

      "Eat shit, camel jockey," Ibanez heaved as he treated a wounded comrade. "I killed at least one of the motherfuckers."

      "Such foul language," Specialist Tim McManus chimed in from a rooftop, "and the snipers don't even get thanked."

      Ibanez finally caught his breath. "Everyone who saved my life," he said, "drinks on me when we get back."

      "I get the greenhorn's booze," Corporal Ron Parsons, the other sniper, declared. "I'm 300 meters from you, and I can plainly see he ain't of age."

      "I dunno, sniper," Ibanez said, his sense of humor returning. "He's carrying McHale's shotgun now. That big ass gun might say different." Ibanez clapped a hand on the young soldier's shoulder. Another bond forged in combat.

      Captain Jack O'Shea and Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds observed their kills silently. They had been in war long enough to know that saving lives by taking them was something that just happened. They both reloaded fresh magazines and sought cover behind a smashed car on the left side of the former cul-de sac. Reynolds flopped into a prone position and pointed the barrel of his MA5B Assault rifle down the street toward the five blocked Creeps. The two lead Creeps were nose-down and billowing smoke, their pilot's cabin crushed inward. The two disabled Creeps pointed out from the center of the street, effectively blocking any advance from the other troop carriers. By the time the veteran soldiers were in place, the Creep drivers had realized that they weren't going anywhere and were given the order to deploy troops. The mass of Covenant forces took position and started firing waves of plasma down the street. Oddly enough, however, the huge mass was not advancing. This fact still hadn't occurred to the ranking officers of the Minutemen, who were trying to formulate a workable plan against such long odds.

      "Rory's still trapped in that bar by the Creep on the left." Reynolds noticed.

      "I know. There are still thirty-two Covenant between us and him, though." The Captain answered. "More infantry support probably behind, if they mean it this time."

      "Just another day..." Reynolds said, pulling back the assault rifle's bolt and chambering the first round. He glaned at his commanding officer and good friend. "For Boston?"

      O'Shea nodded. "For Boston. Parsons, McManus, whaddaya got?"

      Parsons and McManus had been sweeping the area through the optic scopes of their S2AM sniper rifles. The two were dressed head to toe in urban camouflage, their faces painted in blotches of stone, cement, and shadow. Parsons kept his blonde hair out of the way with a black wool cap as he stared into his scope. The plasma fire was steady, the direction continuous down the street. In the failing light, it lit up the street in strage colors like a psychedelic light glowing and flashing down a long, dark hallway. "Cap, I don't know how to say this," Parsons said, "but it appears that the troops are staying by their transports. I have three Creeps full of Elites and one that's mostly grunts, but I don't understand why the hell they're not...oh. I see."

      Parsons heard the answer before he saw it. O'Shea heard it, too. The squad-wide, "New contacts," call from McManus was unnecessary. Every Minuteman could hear the sound they had trained to avoid, every Minuteman could hear it over the plasma barrage. The thundering footfalls, the distinct guttural tones, the clank of the body-encompassing armor, and the blast of fuel rod cannons now joining the streaks of rifle plasma. There were Hunters coming to the party.

      "Sir, I've got...oh God...six pairs of Hunters at 850 meters. Troop strength stands at twnety-four Elites, 12 Hunters, seven grunts, and a jackal. Standing by for orders."

      "Twelve Hunters?" Reynolds asked with faint disbelief in his voice.

      "Confirmed here, sir." McManus said. "I see 'em, too. Twelve Hunters."

      "Nice to know you're respected." O'Shea said. "Tonsi, whaddaya have for me?"

      Tonsi looked at Seamus Connor. They had just fired most of their rockets. The right side of Seamus' face was being lit in sporadic flashes by the incoming fire. The face was not a positive one. They certainly did not have enough for twelve Hunters. "Sir, we can only spank six." Tonsi answered. "We have a lot of explosives, but we'll have to be very lucky to sneak up on these guys and plant anything."

      O'Shea looked at Reynolds. "How's assault?"

      "Assault took all the damage. We're down to twelve assault. We lost McHale, too." He answered.

      O'Shea looked down at the ground and shook his head at the news. "Any chance we can sneak outta here, hump it back to cover?" O'Shea asked.

      "Negative, sir. From up here, I can see we're exposed on both sides. No way to sneak around this one. We could fight a running battle back, but casualties would be high and we might lead them back to the hideouts." Parsons advised.

      O'Shea took another peek over cover. Six rockets for twelve Hunters. Snipers on the roof. Seasoned and green assault troopers. Everyone pinned down by endless plasma fire and fuel rod cannons. How the hell were they recharging the damn things? O'Shea asked himself. At any rate, the result of the equation didn't look good for the Minutemen. O'Shea was about to ask Reynolds a question when the Comm chirped again. O'Shea expected bad news. He was wrong.

      "Hey," Rory Connor said, still hiding behind the bar, "we still got the car bomb, right?" Across the street, Mahmoud Tonsi slapped himself on the forehead. He had forgotten.

      The plan was now drawn in O'Shea's head. He called the shots to all the Minutemen, and they laid in wait for the Covenant to move. As the militia waited, Parsons and McManus kept reporting intel on troop strength and movement. As the afternoon sun finally died, the shadows lengthened into darkness that encompassed the whole of Commonwealth Avenue. The Minutemen held their fire to conserve ammunition while the Covenant continued to fire blindly down the street, hoping to pick off an unlucky human. After almost half an hour of continuous fire, the Covenant ceased. A deafening silence landed on both sides of the conflict.

      "For the love of Christ," Parsons muttered as he switched on his night optics, "I almost wish the fuckers were still firing."

      "I want to hear you say that in about three minutes," McManus said, his sniper rifle slowly panning from left to right.

      "Think this'll work?"

      "The Captain seems to think so."

      "Yeah...but do you think this'll work?"

      "Seven grunts, one Jackal."

      "Yeah."

      "Twenty-four Elites."

      "Yeah..."

      "Twelve Hunters."

      "Yeahhhhh...?"

      McManus paused and looked up from his rifle, staring into space. He shrugged. "...Could work."

      Michael Connor woke up with an incredible headache and no recollection of where the hell he was. As soon as Michael could open his eyes, he lifted his head and banged the front of his helmet against steel. He head dropped back on the pavement and his eyes focused. The distinct undercarrige of an LA31 Warthog was several inches from his head. For a second, the youngest of the Connor brothers wondered what he was doing there. Suddenly his mind opened up and the past two hours of his life flew by in reverse: regaining consciousness, the sounds of plasma and explosions around him, getting hit by shrapnel, witnessing his brother's death, the bombardment of the apartment building, the fistfight, making the car bomb...THE CAR BOMB! Michael's mind yelled in shock and fear. We made the car bomb in a Warthog! We were running from the car bomb! Connor slowly and delicately started to slide himself from under the Warthog, then heard the sounds of Hunters and Elites not far from his position. He was in open area with no cover but the car bomb he was laying under. He was trapped.

      It was time. The lull in firing convinced O'Shea that now was the time to move. O'Shea had been studying Covenant engagement tactics firsthand and had stolen enough UNSC intelligence materials to know that Covenant attacks were more or less north to south. Whether it was open field, artillery, or room clearing, the Covenant attacked head-on with fury and didn't usually retreat. This battle mentality led O'Shea to create one last trap. If O'Shea and Reynolds could get enough troops to the left side of the street and fire on the Covenant, the advance would come right ahead at them, directly in the path of the car bomb. The resulting explosion would cut the Covenant numbers by half, hopefully. It was the only way the Minutemen were getting out of this situation alive. O'Shea looked over at Reynolds. Reynolds held two flares in his hands, looking expectantly at O'Shea. "Waiting on you, sir," Reynolds said. O'Shea nodded and opened a channel.


      From above the two commanding officers' position, Parsons and McManus had settled their sights on two different red-armored Elites. It was O'Shea's theory that without leaders, two Creeps' worth of Elites would blindly charge toward the car bomb and not wait for any backup units. A few Hunters would join in as heavy infantry support, adding to the carnage. It was a theory the two snipers were only too happy to test.

      McManus and Parsons may have differed in rank, but in terms of sniping ability, the two were nearly identical. Both snipers relaxed their bodies as they waited for the order to fire. Parsons started to count slowly in his head to regulate his heart rate. McManus recited the steps to assembling his S2AM sniper rifle. Through the optic sights of the two, the scene was the same: two red-armored Elites, both with an ominous red circle centered above their left eye socket. The Comm chirped to life in the zen-like silence of the moment. Neither sniper stirred. "Green light to fire, on my mark," O'Shea ordered. Both sharpshooters took in a deep breath, released half of it, then held their breath and remained absolutely still. Each finger settled on the middle of the trigger.

      "3..." Private 1st Class Carl Sohn, in the alley across the street, waited with his battle rifle pointed toward the Covenant position, almost all of his weight transferred forward waiting for the signal over the Comm. Behind him, two other Minutemen were nervously eyeing their CO. They were chosen to sprint with Sohn to the Captain's cover and provide their services as bait for the Covenant. Well, one thought, if the Captain's volunteering as bait, it's not so bad if I do, too.

      "2..." Rory Connor had been staring at the car bomb in astonishment that the damn thing hadn't blown up yet. In the past hour the explosives-laden Warthog had survived a head-on Covenant assault, the complete demolishment of an apartment building, and a continuous onslaught of plasma and fuel rod cannon fire. Rory was about to turn his attention to hiding when he saw a dark shape move under the Warthog. In the slight motion of figure, Connor realized that whatever was under the bomb was alive and human. He instantly scrolled down the list of people around the bomb when the attack started, and suddenly felt sick to his stomach as he realized who was most likely under the bomb out of all the Minutemen. This attack couldn't be allowed to continue.

      "1..." Gus Reynolds took the two superflous flares he insisted on carrying every day and put one in each hand. He then slammed each hand on a fatigue-clad thigh and showered sparks across the immediate vicinity. The orange yellow flash made him turn his head away at first, but he then focused his attention downrange. The key was launching the flares close enough to make the Covenant come closer but not so close as revealing the true number on the left side of the street. Like a baseball pitcher, Reynolds gathered all his potential energy as he craned his body backwards and let fly the two firesticks.

      "Mark." On the Covenant side of the street, a red-armored Elite jerked his head up at the blossoming of orange yellow light and the sound of sparks ahead of his position. He was about to issue orders when his body suddenly no longer recieved messages from his brain. There were no words, there was no motion, there was only the brief glimpse of vapor and the vast canvas of stars as the Elite fell backwards, his head slamming against the ground. There was no pain on impact. Then all was blackness. 800 meters away, Parsons reloaded. "I'll confirm yours if you'll confirm mine," he glanced at McManus. Hopefully they'd survive to keep score.

      "Covering Fire!" Sohn yelled to O'Shea and Reynolds. The yelling was more to boost Sohn's courage than actually keep his superiors aware. The Private 1st Class took point, running in a half crouch, his eyes darting back and forth, pivoting his torso so it was facing the street, battle rifle waiting for the chance to to spit hot lead at an Elite's face. The two other Minutemen behind Sohn took off as well, their stances more exposed, their steps more hesitant due to fewer days of training and combat. The two trailing Sohn were less concerned with firing and more concerned with getting to cover as quickly as possible. The erupting flares laying sideways on the pavement made the overturned Warthog across the street visible in an eerie orange yellow glow. The light the flares were giving off made it seem as if the top half of the vehicle was on fire. While the side facing the Covenant was aglow, Sohn could see the facial expressions of his two commanding officers: stobe light images of grim determination and grimaces of duty flashed in front of the young Minuteman's eyes. The three volunteers collapsed behind the cover their superiors were using. "No time for a break, fellas," Sohn gasped, short of breath, "pour it on. Grenades to the left side of the street.

      The Covenant side was briefly caught by surprise. There had been no trace of any human presence on the street until two Elites officers took direct hits to the head, two marking flares were lit and tossed, and the humans opened fire. The lack of leadership made communication near impossible and for a brief time, the Covenant didn't return fire. When one other Elite went down from O'Shea's covering fire, however, the Elites on the left side of the street snapped to attention and laid down blistering return fire. One particular Elite wielded his plasma rifle with such precision that he spotted a human popping up from behind his cover in the middle of a throwing motion. The Elite didn't even hesitate: he let loose three shots, one catching the soldier full in the face. With cold eyes the Elite saw the body leave the ground and flop backwards, The grenade landed harmlessly short.

      "Shit!" O'Shea heard Sohn yell behind him. "Farnan got fucked up!" O'Shea turned around quickly to see Sohn bent over the body, which had been carried back by the force of the plasma bolt. Sohn pulled back to reveal the face, the flesh and muscle burnt off by the searing heat exposing pale white bone to the unforgiving air. O'Shea fought the urge to vomit at the sight. The young Private next to O'Shea didn't have the same control over his body, spewing half-digested solids and liquids onto the street. The plasma was screaming over the group's cover as Sohn stripped the ammunition off the dead Private's body, taking grenades for himself and tossing two to Reynolds. With a nod between the two, Sohn and Reynolds lobbed two long, arching throws at the Covenant position, and were rewarded with the sounds of Elites in agony.

      A little over 800 meters away from the Covenant position and two stories up, Parsons and McManus took careful note of the developing situation. The two had been ordered to hold fire and keep their location secret for as long as possible. From high above the battleground, Parsons' eyes widened. Seven Elites hopped over buckled concrete, followed by another six. The thirteen total Elites now moved quickly in two distinct packs; Parsons recognized the groups' formation: each group from each Creep was sticking together. He made a mental note of the Covenant tactic. From behind the Elites three pairs of Hunters advanced, one pair swatting away an incapacitated Creep with gargantuan swings from their arm-mounted shields. Their integrated fuel-rod cannons glowed green, illuminating the street beneath them. Parsons hastily switched on his microphone. "Captain, the plan's working. Enemy infantry is breaking cover and heading in your direction."

      "Any lateral movement?" The Captain's voice crackled over the Comm.

      "Negative, sir. They're heading right for the bomb."

      "Good. We're going to draw them closer."

      "Sir!" Everyone on the channel looked around in confusion, even though Rory Connor, the voice on the channel, was nowhere around. "We can't detonate the bomb!"

      O'Shea looked on as Sohn popped up and hurled another grenade at the swiftly advancing Elites. "Why the fuck not, Connor?" O'Shea demanded.

      "Because Mike's alive under it!"

      The color left O'Shea's face. Even in the dark of night, Gus Reynolds noted the stark constrast of the dark uniform against O'Shea's pale visage. It looked like someone had just drained all the blood out of the Captain. Reynolds had heard the exchange over the Comm and grabbed O'Shea by the shoulders. "It's what he volunteered to do, Jack!" He yelled.

      O'Shea yelled at his old friend at the top of his lungs, "A child does not sign up to die!"

      "He signed up to fight a war! This has to happen!"

      "Not under my command!"

      Right behind O'Shea's right shoulder, the second Private to make the sprint with Carl Sohn fell back, screaming in agony. Reynolds and O'Shea watched as Sohn fired blindly over cover, then dove to the Minuteman. Sohn slid in on his knees and listened for breathing by taking off his helmet and pressing his ear to the fallen soldier's lips. Sohn's face changed and they could both hear Sohn yelling and gesturing wildly, "Medic! MEDIC!"

      Reynolds pointed with aggression, almost accusingly, at the fallen Private. "You're about to lose your entire squad under your command, sir!"

      "I will not lose another child in this goddamn war!" O'Shea finished, and was instantly transported to two years ago. The memory was repressed, hazy, and fragmented. In his waking nightmare, it was always the same. Home...shattered windows...bloody hands...door...rifle...noammorifle...dizzy...door...Elites?ELITESHERE??...explosion...room...my...room...wifeLaura...kids...grenadekidsgrenade...elite...hidegrenade...plasmapain...no ammo...pain...smoke...fire...burning...Laurablood...where...kids...where are the kids...Laura...where...are...wherearethekids...wherearethekidswherearethekids...

      O'Shea blinked out of the memory and looked into the angry face of his old friend. Duty stared him in the face. The greater good stared him in the face. Death, for the moment, cared to stay in his peripheral vision. "Sir," Gus Reynolds said, looking and talking evenly into O'Shea's face, "if you don't give the order to detonate that bomb, we're all dead."

      O'Shea numbly opened a channel. To his right, Ibanez was trying to sneak his way across the street, but it would be too late. He would get two steps into the street and be forced to dive back from whence he came. Sohn was continuing to yell and trying to provide cover fire, but the street was not a safe place to be at this point. As O'Shea briefly took in a breath to issue his orders, time slowed to a grinding halt. To O'Shea's left, he could see Reynolds' face as he issued forth death from his MA5B Assault Rifle. His old friend had the assault rifle jammed into his right shoulder and the force of the recoil was bouncing his helmet slowly up and down on his head. In staccato flashes of light and soft, slow pings of each round casing falling out, O'Shea could see the tears in Reynolds' eyes. He could sense the anguish in Sohn's voice as he called for a medic that couldn't get there; he felt the anguish in losing someone under direct command. Just as suddenly, O'Shea could hear his voice and all of the world moving in normal time. He heard himself say, "Tonsi, light the blue spider and send it to the Warthog."

      "NO!" Rory Connor's voice was so loud O'Shea flinched.

      "It has to be done." O'Shea replied calmly.

      "I will not lose my brother in front of my own eyes!"

      "I lost a son and daughter in front of mine."

      "Rory," Seamus Connor, the oldest of the brothers, interjected, "it has to be done."

      From below the doomed Warthog, and equally doomed Michael Connor stopped trying to squirm out of harm's way. He could hear the sounds of Elites advancing, and the young boy knew he was about to be overrun. He looked up and to the left and saw a pair of eyes staring into his. He knew the expression on his older brother, Rory's, face. Rory was looking at a dead man. Michael quickly understood his purpose. He took another half of a second to glance behind his position and to the right, and saw the shape of a bright blue ball lighting the alleyway. With a new sense of determination, Michael took his deceased brother, Gerry's, battle rifle and put it to his right shoulder. Using what strength he had left in his tiny frame, he took his own rifle and jammed it into his left shoulder. In one motion, he leveled both rifles in the direction of the approaching Elites and sat up in a sitting position, his legs straight out in front of him. He yelled an anguished yell, a gut-wrenching wail of desperation and fear that, for a moment, gave the Elites pause. When the bullets began to tear into their numbers, the Elites gave in to full assault, leveling their own weapons at the small target and opening unmercilous fire.

      Seamus refused to watch the next phase of the plan after he spoke to Rory. It was just as difficult to know Michael's fate, but the protection of innocents had to be done. It was the agony of duty. Behind Seamus, 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi placed his right hand on Seamus' heaving shoulders, and with his left, took out the "blue spider": one of the only plasma grenades the Minutemen had found.

      "There is one God, Allah, and Muhammed is his Prophet," he said to himself as he activated the plasma grenade. The object immediately turned blue, bathing the alleyway in comforting azure hues as Seamus turned around to face his commanding officer.

      Your duty to Allah is sacred. Allah forbids the killing of women and children, Tonsi gauged the distance to the Warthog and knew he wouldn't leave the throw short. As he was about to throw, he saw Gerry's incredible feat. The dual-rifle wielding Irishman sat up and unleashed hell into the invading aliens. Just as quickly as it started, however, it ended. Tonsi and Seamus both witnessed the wave of plasma fire that impacted square on the body of Michael Connor. The boy was thrown against the Warthog, his dead body still smoking when he slid to the ground.

      Allah guides my hand and watches over all who believe. Tonsi hefted a mighty throw toward the Warthog, the ball trailing a faint afterglow. It missed an Elite's shoulder by a hair and stuck securely to the side of the Warthog. As the internal fuse made its' distinct hisssssss Tonsi saw the Elite turn and yell out a warning in its' revolting tongue. Tonsi imagined he saw its' four mandibles extended in terror.

      "Fire in the hole!" O'Shea yelled aloud and pushed Carl Sohn's helmet to the ground. Without hesitation, Gus Reynolds did the same, pressing both hands to the back of his helmet, his body embracing every inch of pavement he could hide in. The warning started a frantic chain reaction of Minutemen diving wildly for cover and medics falling on top of wounded militia to prevent their exposed bodies from being riddled with shrapnel. The explosion was astounding. Several pounds of antique plastic explosive had been attached to the vehicle, and every compartment, rivet, and piece used in its' construction became a barrage of lethal projectiles. Four wheels rocketed in every direction, smashing bodies in their way and burying themselves several rooms deep in the sides of buildings. The force of the explosion left a deep crater in the street, and two Elites right next to the Warthog simply ceased to exist, their bodies more or less vaporized by the force of the blast. A building next to Rory's hideout collapsed, billowing dust and rubble into the restaurant as Rory continued to huddle behind the bar. Several Hunters were thrown over twenty feet in the air, their bodies impaled with pieces of steel and glass flying at speeds that almost broke the sound barrier. When the hulking bodies landed, their fuel rod cannons exploded, creating secondary blasts that were mistaken around the city for separate battles. Body parts of Elites were scattered around the area, the entire avenue was showered in gore. Ibanez and the medics all got up, covered in purple blood, and tended to unlucky Minutemen who took a stray piece of shrapnel despite their evasive intentions. The entire Covenant force that had attacked was eliminated.

      The Captain peeked above what was left of his cover. Scanning the entire area, he saw the entire militia squad groggily getting up, one by one. Every Minuteman had been buffeted by the force of the bomb. O'Shea looked across the street to the two alleyways that housed the remainder of the assault squad. It seemed each Minuteman was hitting the back of their helmet or shaking their head to clear the fog from their heads. Others blinked, wide-eyed, or rubbed their eyes with dust-caked hands or gloves. O'Shea realized that he too was feeling the affects of the blast, he shook his head vigorously and pressed a hand to his right ear, where he could hear every transmission over the Comm. He opened a channel. "Parsons, how ya feeling up there?" There was a second of uneasy silence until the Comm chirped in reply. Parsons' voice sounded groggy and a bit fatigued. "Good enough...to fuck your mother, sir."

      Above the battlefield, Ron Parsons rolled over onto his stomach. He had taken a beating, lying on his back, clutching his sniper rifle to his chest as parts of the former Warthog had arced out into open air. Right before O'Shea had called, an Elite had landed on the roof two meters from Parsons and McManus, the corpse making a dull thud on collision. The sheer force of the invader landing on the roof almost broke through the structure to the next floor, but instead sent deep cracks spidering out in all directions from the broken body. The alien muttered a tired, "Wraghhhh" as it breathed its' last. McManus hadn't wasted a second. Parsons saw his subordinate draw his M6D pistol in a blur and punch a semi-explosive round into the exposed head, opening the top of the skull for the world to see. Parsons punched his junior partner in the side of the head. "That was not very nice," he had said.

      "I'm not a nice guy," McManus had replied.

      "Roger that," Parsons answered, and then picked up the Captain's call.

      Now Corporal Parsons was back at full operational status and sweeping the field once more. "Captain, I am back and have acquired target. Sights are hot and standing by."

      "Now, sir," McManus said, focusing his sniper rifle on his next victim, "with all due respect, you realize this will probably give our position away."

      "Acknowleged, McManus," O'Shea replied. "It's our only option now. Fire at will."

      "Roger that, fire at will," Parsons confirmed, and pulled the trigger. The fin-stabilized, discarding sabot round flew fast and true toward a focused Hunter, its' arm glowing a bright green and aimed square at a group of assault Minutemen hustling to cover in the middle of the street where Ibanez' crater was. Before the Hunter could fire, it felt searing pain pass through the soft orange flesh beneath impenetrable armor. The round had entered the flesh but did not exit; instead, the round clanged against armor on the other side of the flesh and ricocheted inside the Hunter, scrambling vital internal organs and pitching the Hunter face-first to the ground. On a reflexive spasm, the Hunter fired into the ground, pitching itself a meter into the air and, spinning in wild corkscrews through the air, landed on another Hunter that was aiming for the same shot. The cannon fire flew harmlessly several meters overhead.

      While half the Covenant offensive may have been wiped out, the rest of the force hadn't hesitated to act. The remaining Covenant now spread out, and the Hunters were launching furious cannon fire while the two Creeps-worth of Elites and seven additional grunts fanned out. The grunts hopped up the center of the street, their plasma pistols waving wildly as they struggled to make out targets in the pitch-black night and smoky haze. The flanking Elites wasted little time, keeping their fire focused on the left and right sides of the streets. The Covenant were determined to sweep the humans off this street, and they were leaving the Minutemen with little room to maneuver. From above the left side of the street, a flanking force of Elites saw two vapor trails appear from the roof of a nearby building. While the Elites had been busy with acquiring the location of the snipers, they had diverted their attention from the troops at street level, and therefore they had not realized that O'Shea, Reynolds, and Sohn had popped up from behind their cover and had taken careful aim. The first volley of semi-automatic fire eliminated the leadership, the following strike of grenades had all but eliminated the left flanking force of Elites. Unfortunately, it had also exposed the snipers and O'Shea's group to the Hunters.

      Parsons and McManus were now firing against the clock. Parsons was trying to take his time about it, but through his optic scope, the greens, whites, and pale yellows were blurring back and forth as he brought his wrath on every target he could find. His haste was affecting his accuracy, however. More than one shot missed their lethal charge and only wounded their targets. With the ominous red circle going from target to target, Ron brought his barrel even with the crown of an Elite officer's skull. Parsons pulled the trigger to hear a disappointing click. The Corporal's eyes widened in immediate fear as the Elite's face in his scope looked directly into his own. The Elite brought up its' plasma rifle with superhuman speed, its' warrior senses directing it to the source of fire with almost supernatural accuracy. Parsons immediately hit the deck as a barrage of plasma fire screeched overhead. "Reloading!" The Corporal yelled, ejecting a spent magazine and grabbing another, slamming it in to the piece of precsion equipment, pulling the bolt back to bring in the next round into the firing chamber and pushing it closed again, the greased mechanism sliding effortlessly back and forth.

      "Goddammit!" McManus yelled as easily as he could, "would it kill you to cover my ass!?"

      More plasma fire impacted with the building, narrowly missing the sniper. "As a matter of fact," Parsons yelled back, "it could!"

      McManus steadied himself as he took a mental picture of the battlefield, and rolled onto his back to eject his empty magazine. "Reloading!" He yelled above the din of battle. McManus cursed under his breath and reached for one of his last magazines. His accuracy was failing him in these circumstances, and he could only assume it was the same for his partner. It was getting impossible to set up for a shot. "Yo!" He yelled over to the Corporal, who had tenatively gotten into positon at the rooftop's edge and lined up another shot, "We're gonna have to relocate!"
      "No time!" Parsons replied as the S2 AM sniper rifle jerked back into his shoulder, the vapor trail dissipating in the rising smoke as he slid the bolt back and forth.

      "Then what are we supposed to do?"

      "C'mon, rookie," Parsons yelled as he observed his kill. Ron turned his head to look at Tim McManus. "We're supposed to survive. Call the Captain and complain. See how he likes it."

      The smoke was rising up to the top of the building the snipers inhabited, which was very good news. The additional concealment was just what the two snipers ordered. However, it was a double-edged sword. The sophisticated and complex optic scopes only gave the snipers a slight advantage. As the smoke grew thicker and the fog of war became denser, the hostiles were becoming harder and harder to see. McManus hefted his rifle to the rooftop's edge and tracked a moving source of light. Even through the smoke, Tim could see the distinct bobbing motion of the lime-green light and his experience on the battlefield told him both the weapon type and species carrying it. The Specialist knew what it had to be, and indeed, the sniper had spotted a high value target. He leaned to his left and hit Parsons on the shoulder. As Parsons looked over to McManus, Tim put his fingers to his eyes and gestured while he talked.

      "Trailing a Jackal officer. Charged plasma pistol." McManus declared.

      Parsons immediately pivoted his weapon to the spot McManus has pointed to. "Acquired." The Corporal confirmed.

      "I'll hit him in the shield. You take him one quarter-shot up and to the left. If we tag this son of a bitch, the Grunts will scatter and we'll buy the Cap some time."

      "Agreed." Parsons nodded. Any sniper worth his pay can hit a target up to one thousand yards three times. Those three shots must be grouped so tightly that they can all fit in the space of a quarter. Otherwise, the sniper puts his life in danger. McManus had told his partner to aim above and to the left of the light, and Parsons would not miss. Not today.

      Two seconds after the snipers conferred, Parsons heard the suppressed discharge of McManus' rifle, and the Corporal shot his round at the thup of the silenced weapon. In an instant, both snipers observed the bobbing green light jerk up and to the right, then streak off into the sky as the Jackal's finger closed on the trigger in a death spasm, the result of its' body transmiting one last reflex. Neither sniper moved their eyes from their scopes, but met the other's hand in a victory high-five.

      Below them and across the street, they failed to see the Hunter that had acquired the two jubilant Minutemen on the rooftop. They also failed to see the Hunter charge up its' fuel rod cannon and measure the arc at its' intended target.

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 6
Date: 26 October 2004, 2:48 AM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter Six

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Two years into the invasion of Earth
Night


      Rory Connor, the redheaded Irishman, was not having a good day. Reflecting back on where he was at this particular moment, he should have been happy. He was lying against a sparsely stocked bar, the pub in a state of utter destruction as if a massive bar brawl had just been broken up. Stools were splintered and lying on their sides, smashed bottles littered the ground with glass and sticky residue of pungent alcohol. Unfortunately, right outside the bar wasn't a swarming mass of hooligans, it was invaders. From outer space. Rory laughed to himself in the absurdity of his thoughts. He was now behind enemy lines, but in contrast to the last few hours, it was deathly silent.

      The man many Minutemen had regarded as insane had heard all the commotion, and in the confusion and exchanges of fire, the Covenant had forgotten about him. Rory gritted his teeth and pulled out his standard-issue M6D pistol. Connor reached behind himself and pulled a bottle off the shelf. Not caring to look at the label, the demolitions expert twisted off the cap and took a long pull from the amber-colored liquid and covered his spiky red hair with a standard-issue combat helmet.

      None of the Minutemen had ever encountered Hunters before, but from intelligence stolen from the UNSC, McManus had been able to teach the squad about Covenant weaknesses. Rory could remember the briefing, lazily looking out the window as McManus had lectured on Covenant tactics. "The most obvious weak spot in all the Covenant is in the Hunter. I can't really tell you what it looks like, 'cuz I honestly do not know. But apparently their weak spot is their flesh. It's hidden pretty well, but it appears from these documents that you can recognize it quickly."

      Rory had seen it, all right. From his hidden position, he had seen the awesome power of the Hunters. He had seen one Hunter swat a Creep transport vehicle away with a simple swing of its' shield. Peeking his head above the bar, he had watched the last six Hunters advance, firing on the Minutemen. Even though most of the Covenant attack had been wiped out, the remaining forces were more than the Minutemen could handle. Rory saw Parsons' shot take out one Hunter, but it didn't look like anyone was going to be taking out the rest of the armored killers. Rory looked down on the pistol. In his dirty, bloodied hands, the pistol was gleaming in the night. He rarely used the firearm, preferring far more brutal methods of death for the Covenant. At this point, Rory decided, it would be better to be efficient than brutal.

      In the dark, Rory saw the mass of shapes move past. In a crouch, the Irishman slinked into the open space. The battleground was a scene of urban devastation. On either side, buildings were crumbling and spewing structure fire from deep within their rooms. Concrete was churned up and smoking, deep craters were all around Connor. It was a lunar landscape. In front of him, the Demolition Specialist could see flashes of orange and yellow from around corners and different types of cover. Once in a while, a small dark shape would move from one crater to another, only to be lighted by plasma fire, the human body illuminated in death as so much Covenant fire concentrated on one small target. The Minutemen were pinned down in every sense of the phrase. Different sections of the street glowed green and purple from plasma residue, and every so often as the flames licked in their direction, Rory Connor could see the dead Covenant, their spattered blood taking up massive amounts of space.

      In front of Rory, he could hear a massive retreat coming his way. He could hear heavy, labored breathing from at least six bodies. Rory immediately turned and took in his surroundings. In front of him now were two incapacitated Creep transports that created a small alley in between them. The Irishman quickly hid behind one of them. The Covenant transport vehicle had been disabled in the fire fight, but it was large enough to conceal him safely from whatever it was that was retreating from the battle. From the commotion they were making, the second-oldest Connor brother knew for a fact they had hooves. Grunts. Even though today had been an extraordinarily bad day, a dark smile spread across Rory's face. In Rory's right hand, he held his pistol. With his left hand, Rory extracted his knife, placed it on the ground, and took out his IRA-issue lighter. Those lil' fuggers ain't ever getting back home. Fuck efficiency. Let's get brutal.

      As the first Grunt ran through the alleyway created by the Creeps and passed by the red-haired Irishman, Connor struck the flint on the lighter, dropped it to the ground, and snatched up his knife in an overhand grip. As the lead Grunt passed by, the demolition expert slashed down viciously over the methane tube leading from the Grunt's mask to a tank on his back. The severed tube gave off a soft hisssssssssss and the immediate area reeked of Methane gas. In the same motion, Connor drew the flame of the lighter across the hissing opening of the slashed tube. To Connor's right, he heard a panicked, high-pitched voice yell, "Oh no!" The slashed Grunt's tube lit up quickly as the Methane gas created a small Grunt explosion. In the flash of light and bright blue blood, Rory's hightened senses observed five remaining Grunts, two in the back carrying a wounded comrade. Five combat-effective, he thought as he strafed left, his pistol out and spitting hot lead at assorted limbs of the aliens. One wounded. One down. All they have to hide in are these two Creeps and the open road. This isn't fair. Ahead of the Irishman, he could hear two Grunts scrambling to hide inside a disabled Creep. The two were carelessly giving away their position with their frantic breathing and loud discourse. Christ, Rory thought, they shouldn't even count as kills. This is fuggin' murder. Two Grunts were hiding inside the Creep, thinking they were safe. "I'm with you!" One called out to its' partner. Connor spun inside the Creep in a crouch, his knife out and gleaming in the sparse flames.

      From the scene of the first Grunt's death, one lucky invader snuck over to the mutilated body. It looked up to find the rest of its' squad, and saw two comrades hiding safely in a disabled Creep. All seemed clear until the light of a fire caught a gleaming object directly behind the two supposedly safe Grunts. "Look out! Bad guy!" It yelled at its' two partners, but it was too late. The remaining Grunts that were alerted fired in the direction of the yelping as Rory Connor brought the brunt of his blade to bear on the small aliens. With his left hand, Rory plunged his knife up to the hilt in the top of one Grunt's head. The right hand pressed against the back of the other's head and he fired from point-blank range. As he pulled the trigger, he twisted the knife inside the head and ripped it out with savage efficiency. The two Grunts died instantly, and friendly fire finished the job as Rory doubled back to where had had come from.

      Three combat-effective. Rory turned and returned to the scene of his first attack, where a Grunt was standing over what was left of its' commanding officer. With no remorse, Rory punched three rounds through the Grunt's torso, pushing it head over heels into the darkness. The darkness was lifted for an instant as Rory finished the job, standing over the mortally wounded Grunt and discharging a round directly into the invader's face. Two.

      The two remaining Grunts were in the middle, between the two Creeps Rory had gone back and forth from. They were exposed and scared, talking to the other, but not moving. The discussion between the two was not a dissertation on battlefield tactics, to be sure. "See 'im? See 'im?" One asked. How the Hell did the bastards learn English? Connor wondered to himself as he turned and walked purposefully at the two Grunts. One carefully aimed shot not only disarmed one Grunt, but it also dis-handed it, the fingers travelling a far greater distance than the pistol. As it clutched its' ruined hand in agony, the other was eliminated with a semi-explosive round through the neck. It pitched forward, the plasma pistol ending up skittering to a stop at Connor's feet. The demolition expert picked it up and charged the pistol. He pushed it against the Grunt's neck, the hot plasma scalding the Grunt's neck. "Noooooooo, no morrrrrrrrre..." It whined.

      "Strange," Rory Connor noted, "you didn't give my brothers a chance to plead." The plasma bolt nearly took the head off, the body dropping to the pavement. Connor reloaded his M6D pistol and pushed the knife into the face of the last remaining wounded Grunt. He wiped the florescent blue blood off on one of this thighs, then sheathed the blade. As Connor checked the area for any more hostiles, he noticed an odd silhouette. He paused for a second, then realized the shape of the object: a still functioning Shade stationary gun. The Irishman turned to rejoin his fellow Minutemen when an idea flashed through his head. A plan had suddenly formed.

      Corporal Ron Parsons and Tim McManus were elated at the kill of a Jackal officer below them. What they hadn't realized was a Hunter across the street had witnessed the death and marked the snipers. It was a matter of a few seconds to charge its fuel rod cannon and measure the arc precisely to take out the lower section of the roof and drop the two snipers to their deaths. Across the street and two stories up, Parsons looked away from the victory high five to check Tim McManus' ammo count. As he glanced away from his own optic scope, the ominous pale green glow shone hazily out of the smoke below them and triggered every alarm in Parson's body. For an instant, and an instant only, Parsons froze in fear.

      "Move it, Specialist!" Parsons yelled, seizing his junior partner by the back of his collar and pulling him from the edge of the roof. In a reflex, McManus hugged his urban-camouflaged S2 AM sniper rifle to his chest and allowed his body to be carried backwards by the surprisingly strong Corporal. In the backwards momentum, Tim saw the cannon fire arcing through the air towards the duo. With what ground McManus could get ahold of, he pressed his boots as hard against the roof as he could and pushed with all of his might against the floor. Combined with the forward progress of Parsons, Tim's jump, and the impact of the fuel rod cannon against the building, the two snipers hurtled toward the other end of the roof. For a second, Ron Parsons imagined he and his partner were going to clear the roof. With the same superhuman precision that had allowed him to move toward safety, the sniper Corporal let his rappel cord drop from his body, wrapping around a skinny antique air conditioning unit and jerking the two to a stop mid-air. Both bodies hit the ground hard, bouncing awkwardly as they skidded to a stop, and were pelted with smaller pieces of the roof. The snipers laid face down, hands over their heads to shield themselves briefly. The dust settled and Parsons looked over, his head a groggy mess. His eyes opened in disbelief as he took in the sight of his partner, already lying prone and scanning his new battlefield. Tim McManus returned his commanding officer's look, then stared through the scope in grim determination. Parsons had never seen the boy with that kind of look.

      "Jesus Christ, Corporal," McManus growled, "Are you gonna play dead, or are we gonna hunt that motherfucker?"

      "Good as dead, McManus." Parsons replied, and spun himself 180 degrees on his stomach, now facing the battle.

      Captain Jack O'Shea was in trouble. He was stuck behind a ruined Warthog, and to make matters worse, he had just been told that the only two men with instruments able to take out the Hunters, Tonsi and Seamus Connor, were not going to be coming out of their alley without paying the dearest cost. The strain of battle had caused the Captain to sweat, but the cool night air and the loss of men had chilled him sufficiently. Jack wiped the dangling strands of brown and gray-spotted hair from under his helmet and focused his eyes in the dark. He was about to issue orders when the green streak started to form just meters from his position. O'Shea pulled his old friend, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds, to the ground as the fuel rod cannon fire blasted above his position. "FRC!" The Captain yelled to all nearby as the enemy fire flew by and overhead, the discharge sounding like an animal's growl when threatened.

      Above the Captain's cover, the roof where Parsons and McManus had been shooting from disintegrated, pieces falling to the street, the majority of the roof falling straight down the buidling's facade to block the front entrance. "Debris!" O'Shea pointed out, and the three Minutemen hiding behind the Warthog took similar cover positons, pressing their bodies against the ruined Warthog and covering their helmets with their hands, weapons placed on the ground. Smaller bits of rubble showered the threesome harmlessly as the Captain called the snipers over the Comm. "Parsons! McManus! Reply now! Status!" The Captain clicked off and hung his head, wishing this was some kind of awful bad dream. To awake him from his feelings of helplessness, Parsons voice came across the Comm, groggy and labored: "Parsons here. We're hit, but OK. Soldiering on, sir."

      "Thank God," O'Shea breathed, and recomposed himself. "I need status, snipers. Demo is pinned down, can you assist?"

      The reply came back quickly. "Negative, sir. Tim and I are combat ineffective for assisting demo. Hope you have a backup plan for those guys."

      O'Shea slammed his hand against the Warthog, the force of the blow rocking the vehicle slightly. There was only one option left, and it was a risky one. O'Shea scratched the back of his head for a second, then reloaded his Battle Rifle. "McManus?" O'Shea asked.

      "Yes, sir?" McManus answered.

      "I need you to make a call out."

      "Captain, I already alerted the refugees, and they're safely-"

      "To the boys upstairs."

      Silence.

      "Um...sir..." Came an uneasy reply, "...we've never done that before."

      "I suppose now is as good a time as any, eh Specialist?"

      "Huah, sir."

      Tim McManus had monitored enemy and friendly radio and electronic communication since he first joined the Minutemen. Now he was being ordered to do something he wasn't sure would work, or even be safe. McManus had to order UNSC reinforcements, posing as a fake UNSC unit, trapped behind enemy lines. This, McManus thought to himself, is damn near impossible. Next to McManus, his ranking partner threw in his thoughts.

      "Sir, permission to express reservations." Parson's voice crackled over the airwaves.

      "Granted," O'Shea replied.

      "Even if this works, sir, and that's a big if, we're not just risking our lives, we're risking the whole city!"

      "I know what we're risking, Corporal."

      "But sir, we're putting ourselves directly at risk for Cronin Protocol-"

      "Permission to express reservations denied, Corporal."

      Parsons put his forehead against the cool concrete of the roof. "Understood, Captain. Tim, make the call."

      McManus already had this communications gear set up. Still in a prone position, the resident genius of the Minutemen had a small receiving/transmitting dish set up to his left, pointing towards the black and cloudy night sky. McManus placed both palms against the roof and glanced left toward Parsons. "Be advised, I am eyes-off." He said, and slid backwards to a safer position.

      "Eyes-off, roger."

      McManus didn't like lying. He also never liked talking on any kind of civilian communication equipment. For one thing, intelligence had revealed that any civilian communication broadcast was intercepted and heard by the Covenant. That was worrying enough. McManus also doubted his ability to sell this to the UNSC. Before the war, McManus dreaded the thought of talking to girls in his class. He had always been the smarter one, which led to his loner mentality. No one knew as many languages or technical procedures as he did. He loved science, and on weekends when he wasn't swamped with homework, he loved to hunt. Those days, however, had passed. The girls had started disappearing, killed or evacuated, and that problem had therefore taken care of itself. The girls who remained as refugees were easier to talk to, since they all had surviving as a common interest. McManus started to focus on one particular refugee and how she looked for him every time he and Parsons made it back to camp...No. Focus, McManus. Get back in the game. Make it home alive. He shook his head to clear it and focus.

      McManus had practiced this manuever before, but none of the Minutemen ever really took it seriously. When would the UNSC ever help them? Tim briefly reflected on the morning they had first practiced the transmission, and Rory Connor's observation on the procedure.

      "Aye, with all due respect, Cap'n," the Irishman had said, "we're expectin' the fuggin' UNSC to pull our sorry arses out of the fire? This is like calling a girl I've never met and convincin' the lass to take a night on the town. Right now. And she's payin'!" It was funny then. It wasn't quite as funny now.

      Tim connected the communications equipment to his personal "All-Hands" frequency so the Captain could listen over the Comm. With surprisingly steady hands, he dialed up all UNSC frequencies so he could get as many "hits" as possible. If the young specialist was nervous or looked nervous, his voice didn't betray him. He would have been mistaken for a soldier many times over him in rank.

      "This is Major McManus, UNSC Unit five-three, fire team foxtrot! We are pinned down by five Creeps of Covenant and are losing men quickly, command! I need reinforcements or air support!"

      Static reigned over McManus' and O'Shea's headsets. Suddenly, the communications channel burst to life.

      "Copy that, five-three. Where did you say you were, again?"

      McManus took a breath. "Evacuated city of Boston. We were tracking Covenant arms and got in over our heads, here Command. We really need some help."

      "Five-three, we don't read you on our sensors."

      "Copy that, Command, we're in close proximity to Covenant BattleNet hubs, so our signal was scrambled. I do not, repeat, do not have time to banter back and forth over this, Command. Are reinforcements on the spoke, or aren't they?"

      O'Shea held his breath. They were dead or alive on the UNSC's reply.

      "Enemy troop strength?" the disembodied voice asked.

      "Stands at six Hunters, around seven Elites."

[indenet]"Roger that, Five-three. OK, foxtrot, I've scrambled two Pelican dropships and Marines to your signal, that should serve you to handle the Covies. Hang tight in there, roger?

      "Roger that, Command. Five-three out." McManus noted the frequency then shut the transmission down. The young sniper laid his head down on the roof for the briefest of seconds, then noticed his commanding officer looking at him with wide eyes and one eyebrow raised. Combined with the camouflage paint, Parsons looked ridiculous.

      "What?" Tim asked the curious face.

      "Major McManus?" Parsons asked. The Corporal started laughing

      "Sir, fuck you, sir." McManus replied, crawling back to his bipod-steadied rifle.

      As the channel closed, O'Shea's shoulders sagged in relief. The Captain changed the frequency to his Comm channel and stole a peek down the street, observing the advance of the last group of Elites. The seven remaining Elites advanced slowly down the road, but failed to check the skinny alley that, unfortunately for the aliens, hid Seamus Connor and 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi. As the last two Elites passed the alleyway, two shotguns peeked out of the alley and a fragmentation grenade skipped along the ground in the midst of the Covenant assault squad. In a frenzy of roars and leaps, the Elites attempted to scatter from the blast radius, but instead only made their numbers more manageable for the spread-out Minutemen. Short bursts from Battle Rifles, two quick pops from each shotgun, and another grenade later and the last of the Covenant Elites sent against the Minutemen laid sprawled in different sets of agony. From concealed positions, Minutemen took potshots to end any kind of threat from the Covenant warriors. Even mortally wounded, the Minutemen knew each alien could still be a deadly threat.

      Above O'Shea's head, there was a faint trail of vapor that ended in the neck of the Hunter across the street. It was the same Hunter that had managed to fire at the snipers. O'Shea nodded in satisfaction as the creature pitched forward, it's body relaxing in death, orange blood pooling underneath it. "Excellent work, snipers. Confirmed kill from here."

      "That fucker's staying down, sir." Parsons said.

      "Huah, Corporal. Recommend you and McManus relocate. Reinforcements are on the spoke."

      "Huah."

      O'Shea clapped his hand on Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynold's shoulder. The Captain yelled into his friend's ear over the noise of automatic fire, "We're getting UNSC backup! Clear and mark a drop zone!" Reynolds nodded, still firing, then dropped to a crouch behind the Warthog. O'Shea turned and pointed at the other Minuteman with the two commanding officers. "Clear a drop zone and drop smoke! Follow Gus!" Both Minutemen made haste away from their Captain, moving to secure a drop zone for the Pelican.

      Jack O'Shea took another look over his cover and observed the carnage. The Hunters were overturning cars with their cannon blasts, uncovering Minutemen every now and then. Despite the danger the uncovered Minutemen were in, each individual militiaman made it to safety. The Hunters were hurting without their Elite support. There was a pair on each side of the street, blocking any advance by the Minutemen. Return fire by the Minuteman assault team was sporadic, every bullet clanged off the armor into the night sky. Even in the dead of night, the street was surprisingly well-lit, the smoke and haze dispersing light from fire and plasma and illuminating more of the street than O'Shea would have liked. In the smoky haze, O'Shea noticed something he had never seen before. The five Hunters meant one Covenant was all by itself, it seemed that without a partner, all strategy and tactics went out the window. The lone Hunter skipped back and forth, making blind charges every now and then, but it was leaving itself wide open for attack. O'Shea seized the opportunity.

      "Seamus, Tonsi, see the loner in the middle?"

      "We see it, sir."

      "Spank that motherfu-"

      "Huah, sir. Huah."

      O'Shea fought to keep himself composed. It wasn't like him to lose control of his emotions like this. However, this attack had brought up so many of his experiences since the invasion started that he was losing focus. He worried about losing control of his troops. Some were very young and had little combat experience. They were showing signs of strain: some simply ran out in open space and were gunned down accordingly. It was gut-wrenching to see, so O'Shea waited for a good moment to boost morale. From the overturned Warthog, O'Shea held his breath as Seamus Connor, That crazy Irish bastard..., ran out of the alley with a SPNKR rocket launcher across open ground. O'Shea was about to mourn yet another death when he noticed 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi spin around his corner of the alley and shoot a rocket toward the pair of Hunters closest to Connor. The flight of the rocket seemed to light the smoke on fire as it streaked through the haze in a descent at the Hunters' feet.

      The attack had not gone unnoticed as the pair leaped left and right to avoid the explosion. The diversion worked perfectly. As the lone hunter turned to face the attack on its' brethren, Seamus Connor dropped to one knee and loosed a rocket straight into the lone Hunter's chest from the minimum safe distance. The rocket impacted with a resounding crash of armor and fragmenting metal that sent the Hunter flying into a building on the other side of the street, its' hulking body crashing through a wall. The force of the explosion also blew Seamus Connor backwards, his body tumbling in a somersault, still holding on to the rocket launcher.

      The oldest of the Connor brothers ran back to safety, but not without loosing another projectile at the remaining pair of Hunters. The rocket impacted harmlessly above the aliens, but it achieved the desired purpose: Seamus and Tonsi both got back to cover safely. O'Shea took the swing in momentum and opened a squad-wide channel. "Minutemen," O'Shea declared, "Reinforcements are on the spoke! Pelicans are dropping in troops and taking out the wounded! Pour it on!"

      A resounding chorus of "Huahs" made O'Shea smile for a brief second before he turned his attention to the drop zone. Reynolds and Private 1st Class Carl Sohn were marking the drop zone with red smoke at spots where the Pelicans could put down in relative safety. At this point in the battle, all the Minutemen were hoping for were the 70mm chin guns from the Pelicans to sweep the Hunters off the block and secure the street. O'Shea took his eyes off the skirmish with the Hunters to monitor the drop zone progress. In hazy darkness, O'Shea could barely make out two blotches of black slinking back and forth across the street. In the middle of the street, behind the battle, the two blotches separated and each settled on either side of the street. The Comm channel chirped to life.

      "Captain," Gus Reynolds voice came over the airwaves, "Drop zone secured. The birds can come in at any time now."

      "Copy, Gus. Hang tight."

      "Huah."

      O'Shea turned his body to take in the remainder of the battle. The two pairs of Hunters were being occupied by sporadic fire, but were remaining in their position, firing, but not moving. It was odd to O'Shea, he remembered Hunters to be at least a little more mobile than that. The observation was pushed from his mind as McManus relayed a message from the incoming reinforcements:

      "Fire team Foxtrot, this is Pelican Golf-seven on approach with Pelican X-ray three. We are coming in hot to your position, be advised, we have picked up enemy air power in your vicinity. Please acknowledge."

      O'Shea instinctively looked to the sky, but in the smoke and flickering light, it was impossible to find anything. Enemy air power was no real cause for concern, the Minutemen had dealt with Banshees and Phantoms throughout the invasion. That, Jack thought, could be handled. The Captain opened a channel to reply. "Copy that, Golf. We can't see them here, but we will keep an eye on the sky. We have four Hunters on the ground and would appreciate some of that famous Chin Gun support."

      "Roger, fire team. ETA thirty seconds. Mark the LZ at any time."

      O'Shea put his back to the Warthog and yelled back at Reynolds and Sohn. "Drop smoke and clear out!"

      Without hesitation, the two black blotches emerged from their cover. With a nod between them, the two Minutemen pulled out sleek gray cylinders and rolled them to the curbs of the street. As soon as the canisters were away, they retreated back into the shadows as twin plumes of red smoke began billowing up into the vast canvas of black. The roar of the Pelican engines started to echo down the street and wash over the remaining Minutemen.

      "LZ marked, Pelicans." O'Shea called in.

      "Roger, we see 'em." The Pelican pilot replied. O'Shea was about to call in to the rest of the squad when the other pilot suddenly came on the Comm, his voice full of fear.

      "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?"

      From the crumbling rooftop, high enough to be separated from the din of battle, Parsons and McManus both stared in fear at the same spot in the sky. Mixed with the Pelican's engines, the screaming whine of Covenant Banshees could be clearly heard...multiplied by five.

      "Mother of God..." Parsons breathed as he pulled out night-vision binoculars. As the shape of the Pelicans could be made out, ten trails of vapor from the Banshees could be seen in their zig-zag shape. The Banshees were coming in attack formation. Two Banshees broke off their pursuit of the Pelicans, activated their turbo mode, and accelerated past the dropships. The three remaining covenant air fighters opened fire on the airships. The Pelicans started evasive manuevers as they came closer and closer to the drop zone. The air space became cramped as the buildings trapped the dropships into a lethal narrow corridor. Parsons shook his head as he calculated the Pelicans' chances of survival.

      "Captain, I don't know if they're gonna make it," McManus reported, "Parsons and I are gonna try and be legends, though, if you'll excuse us." Specialist McManus glanced at his commanding officer, and the two snipers both hefted their rifles to their shoulders, pointing their weapons into the sky. "One wing each, OK?" Tim asked. Parsons nodded. Both snipers steadied their hands as the aerial bombardment began.

      Gus Reynolds and Carl Sohn flattened themselves against cover as quickly as they could. As the two Minutemen took cover, blue plasma collided with the pavement, shooting up the concrete in tiny craters, and quickly started advancing down the street behind the Minutemen's positions. The Banshees were walking the fire down the street, trying to cover every inch of Commonwealth Avenue. The skittering attack created a pat-pat-pat-pat-pat sound as each shot hit the street. From Gus' view, he could see the balls of green plasma cannon fire coming down, moving slower than the blue primary blasters. "Incoming!" Gus called out, but for several Minutemen, it was too late. The blue plasma skipped down the street, catching more than one Minuteman in the chest as they turned to acquire the threat. The blue plasma fire continued down the street, even hitting the remaining Hunters, which stumbled backwards, growling in pain. The green cannon fire struck two Warthogs, exploding and sending shrapnel into the limbs of several Minutemen. The situation was grim, to say the least. More militia hit the deck, writhing in pain. The medics got to work.

      From Rory Connor's position, one positive came out of the attack. The two pairs of Hunters succumbed to friendly fire as two green bolts of plasma missed their intended human targets and killed their own brethren. For the time being, the Covenant ground offensive had been destroyed. From the top of the Creep he had seen before, Rory Connor decided to take matters into his own hands. He had been studying the Shade stationary gun's controls for some time, and now he was pretty sure what would do what. This has got to be the most fucked-up thing I've ever thought of doing, he told himself, but after nodding his head to convince himself what he was doing was right, Rory Connor vaulted onto the gun, and opened a squad-wide channel. He was making his stand here, and he wanted to sure up the confidence of his comrades. The clinically insane Irishman's fingers danced across the panel as the turret lifted up, supported by some manner of gravity control. The movement of the gun was fluid, but Connor detected no sign of hydralics or anything else of that nature. Rory fired up the plasma turret, hearing a brief Whirr and aimed it at the incoming Banshees. The fiery Irishman threw off his combat helmet. He knew the odds of his survival. Rory Connor was about to fight fire with fire, taking up his older brother's battle cry, "All right, you fuggin' Covie bastards! Come get a taste!"

Minutemen: Battle of Boston Chap. 7
Date: 2 December 2004, 2:40 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 7
edited by Helljumper

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Night

      Seamus Connor had seen more death this day than he had seen in his whole life. The redheaded Irishman who claimed divine protection had survived several close encounters through the day, including several intense attacks from Covenant ground forces with armored support. The price for victory so far had been unbearable. Two of his three younger brothers had been killed in action, and almost a dozen Minutemen were casualties of the street battle. Their cries for help blended together in a tragic chorus that still played in his mind.

      Both the demolition expert and his squad leader, 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi, were taking cover in a side alley, while two Covenant Banshees were patrolling the sky above the street. The flyers occasionally began laying down suppressing fire on the Minutemen below. Seamus Connor peeked his head out and looked above at the alien aircraft.

      "For Christ's sake, Dad, it's like they're cheating up there. How long can the fuckers fire?" Seamus used the term of endearment for his commanding officer. It would have been ludicrous to think the tall, lanky Middle Eastern officer was in any way related to the short, stocky Irish immigrant.

      "I don't know," the 1SG replied, "but I bet you we can shake 'em." The Connor brother watched as Tonsi reached into his rucksack and pulled out an interesting looking device. Connor's eyes lit up as he took in the ingenious contraption. Seamus was about to devise a plan until he was cut off by a panicked voice on the Minutemen communication channels. "Those Banshees are taking friendly fire!"

      Both demolitions squad members turned around and stared at the pink-purple plasma impacting against the side of a firing, hovering Banshee. While Tonsi stared incredulously at the sight, Connor immediately traced the fire to a lone Shade stationary gun and realized why he had heard his brother, Rory, yelling Seamus' battle cry just a few moments ago. Seamus was out of the alley yelling at his last brother before Tonsi had a chance to say otherwise.

      The Company First Sergeant immediately knew Rory was doomed. The boy was a brutal, efficient fighter and a bane to Covenant all over the city, but this attack was more than foolhardy, it was worthless. It was useless sacrifice, and while Tonsi could do nothing about Rory's choice, he could do his best to save Seamus' hide. As the Banshee that was being fired upon swooped down on Rory Connor's position low to the ground, the second Banshee swiveled around to target the now-exposed Seamus Connor. The second Banshee fought with the winds for just long enough to allow Mahmoud to form an attack.

      With what little time he had, the 1st Sergeant grabbed a remaining M19 SSM man-portable launcher, his last plasma grenade, and a packet of C-7 foaming explosive. The grim determination was imprinted on his face as it always did in dark and high-stress situations, Tonsi didn't need any rockets to do his job. Opening the first firing tube, Tonsi applied the foaming, semi-solid adhesive explosive inside the launcher's firing chamber. In a blur of motion, the former UNSC Marine activated the plasma grenade, dropped it down the first tube, aimed, and set off the small packet of explosive. The grenade launched from the tube before impacting the Banshee. The blue explosion that followed caused the Banshee to explode from the inside, bathing the street in a second or two of blue light, illuminating the way for Seamus to get a better view of Rory Connor's death.

      From the seat of the plasma turret, Rory Connor could see the purple curved hull swoop away, level off, and perform a miraculous barrel roll no more than ten feet off the ground. There was no way in Hell the Minuteman's turret was going to catch up with the Covenant fighter. Rory pushed the turret to its' limit, his spiky red hair bouncing back and forth with the recoil from the weapon. "Bring it on, you fuggin' Covie bastard!" He yelled above the discharges. "Bring it on! Bring it on!!!" In the last seconds of Rory's life, he was able to see the Banshee fire off its' fuel rod cannon and track the glowing green ball all the way towards him.

   

      "Noooooo!" Seamus Connor, the last surviving brother wailed as the street was lit green, the Shade turret flipping twice in the air, his brother's body flying off as the Banshee screamed overhead into the sky.
      Braving exposure to enemy fire, Seamus made his way over to the mutilated corpse body of his brother. Kneeing next to the blackened body, Seamus gave into the rush of emotions as tears flowed down his darkened face. His entire family was dead, leaving him alone in a war torn world. He knew only one optioned remained. He ripped the pistol from his brother's holster and pulled the trigger of the M6D until the barrel wafted smoke and fell from the Irishman's hands, clacking on the ruined pavement.

      Captain Jack O'Shea was watching his salvation get literally blown out of the sky. Both Pelicans were trailing smoke and flame, unable to evade the Banshees in the tight urban quarters. The Captain switched on his radio and tried to get an advantage, any advantage from the transmissions between the Pelicans.

       "Evasive maneuvers, man! I'm lit up!"

       "I can't shake the bastards, X-Ray. Damn it, I just lost my rear boosters and the chin gun's offline. I'm going emergency drop and crashing this bird. All ground personnel, clear the street. Marines, emergency deployment in ten! Tuck and roll, boys!"

      O'Shea watched as Pelican X-Ray climbed in altitude, trying to make some way behind the Banshees. Pelican Golf dipped suddenly, reversing the thrusters in order to slow down the aircraft. It leveled off only a meter above the ground. The area behind Pelican Golf was lit by the aircraft's engines, dimly illuminating twelve UNSC Marines dropping one by one to the pavement, their bodies collapsing and rolling upon impact with the street. Before the last two Marines could jump, the Pelican succumbed to its wounds.

      The nose of the Pelican dipped slightly, but just enough to strike the upturned concrete from one of the craters. The front of the aircraft pitched upward, then slammed down on the ground, throwing the back end of the transport up and spinning it around. Skidding across the concrete streets, it finally came to rest upside down on the side of a building as flames and smoke billowed out. Electricity sparking out from the demolished cockpit marked the end of the Pelican.

      O'Shea watched as Pelican X-Ray was trying to clear the street's airspace but instead drew the wrath of the remaining Banshees. From the rooftop, two vapor trails clipped wing stabilizers on two Banshees, sending the Covenant craft into spinning and cartwheeling descents before impacting with the ground below. "We'll handle the downed Pelican, sir." Parsons voice came over the radio, "you take care of those Marines." O'Shea watched on as the two Banshees that survived concentrated their power on the fleeing Pelican, and with a low boom, the surviving Pelican's wings exploded in flame, and trailed smoke all the way to the ground, crashing out of the Minuteman's sight.

      O'Shea looked down the street as the Marines made their way to the Captain's position. Even after the harrowing ordeal, they appeared calm and professional. With minimal shouting and quick-issued hand signals, the scattered squad located the two Banshees that had taken down their other Pelican. Two Marines lugging rocket launchers sighted and fired, their new man-portable units tracking the enemy craft relentlessly and lighting the sky with subsequent explosions.

       O'Shea watched two black blobs appear out of the darkness and move toward the Marines. After a brief silence, the Marines fell in behind the Minutemen Reynolds and Sohn. The UNSC Marines formed tactical columns with weapons at the ready as they followed the exhausted Minutemen escorts. The detachment arrived in front of O'Shea's position.

      The Marines were wearing the new issue urban camo, and within a few seconds' inspection, Captain Jack O'Shea realized just how out-of-date the Minutemen's own gear was. The squad leader removed his helmet after catching O'Shea's gold Captain bars, and saluted. O'Shea, reluctantly, returned it. That action caused the Marine Gunny Sergeant to pause, and even in the darkness, O'Shea could tell the Marine was now inspecting him.

      "What...?" The Gunny stuttered. "You aren't UNSC!"

       "Correct, Gunnery Sergeant," O'Shea replied. "We're Boston militia. I'm Captain Jack O'Shea, and these are the Minutemen. You boys have been tricked into helping us out. My apologies, but it was our only option. My men, and the people of this city, need your assistance. Stick with us, and we'll get out of this alive. My minutemen have intimate knowledge of the area, but you Marines are fresh bodies. We're going to need both to get out of this jam."

      Carl Sohn stood at the rear of the meeting. He nodded his head in agreement. "Bad ass Marines and crazy Minutemen, maybe we'll survive this after all." He said to Reynolds with a smile. Following that statement, Sohn fell forward, the back of his helmet caved in and steaming from the plasma blast that had just entered his head.

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 8
Date: 17 January 2005, 12:58 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 8

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Night/Early morning

       "Fuck!" Gus Reynolds shouted, sidestepping the falling body, steam still coming from the plasma bolt. The Minutemen's Master Gunnery Sergeant turned and pointed while he brought his assault rifle in the same direction, taking a quick count of the green spots glowing in the dark down the street. "Grunts! Down the street, right side!"

       "Suppressing fire!" The UNSC Gunnery Sergeant commanded, and the ten surviving Marines turned in the direction their commanding officer pointed, the soldiers up front fell into prone positions, getting out of the line of fire. A hail of three round bursts and automatic fire cut into the night, and the green spots dropped to the ground, their owners dispatched with efficiency. Captain Jack O'Shea was impressed with the new Marines.

       "There'll be more coming, sir." Gus said to O'Shea. "We don't have the numbers to take on a second wave." Reynolds pointed toward the center of the street. "There are sewers that'll take us out of the immediate vicinity. It will take some time to get them open, and we'll be exposed, but I don't see another way out of here."

       The Minutemen communication channels opened with a chirp. "He's right, sir." Parsons said. "And there's Covenant marching from both ends of the street. Time to bug out. McManus has patched the Marines comms through our network, so we can all talk together. Time is running out, sir."

      O'Shea looked at the UNSC Marine. "That intel's legit?" The Marine asked.

       "Without question." O'Shea replied. The Marine nodded.

       "Set up a perimeter in the center of this street!" The Gunny commanded, and the remaining UNSC forces followed Gus Reynolds to one of the only manhole covers on Commonwealth Avenue not blocked by debris. The ten Marines encircled the manhole cover, all crouched and slowly scanning their weapons in all directions. Each soldier knew they were exposed, and the sooner they were underground, the better. Gus slung his assault rifle behind his back and searched his body for any kind of tool to pry the cover off. The old Minutemen glanced up to see a young Marine, with barely any kind of stubble on his face, holding a crowbar-like tool in front the Minuteman. The Marine cocked his head to the side and stared quizzically at Reynold's weapon. "They still make those?" The Marine asked. Gus plunged the tool into the street. "Just give me a hand," the Minuteman replied.

      Corporal Ron Parsons jerked to a halt, his feet barely touching the metal of the downed Pelican. He had to use a free hand to adjust his black wool stocking hat from his eyes, and scanned the immediate area for signs of Marine survivors. Neither militia sniper believed there were Marines left. Parsons checked his webbing and secured his stash of grenades. They'd have to frag the cockpit, scramble all the hardware, and then extract with the rest of the Minutemen. The Corporal hoped the Marines hadn't brought any kind of AI. That would just be more time wasted.

       His partner, Tim McManus, slid down to the edge of the Pelican's cargo/troop hold. The Pelican lay dead after a trail of destruction, plowing a deep furrow in the sidewalk from where it had tried to deploy all its Marines. The angle of the ruined ship was such that Parsons doubted he could walk up the steep incline to the cargo bay. Instead, he scanned the area, his interest pointed toward distant spots of light advancing down the street. "Captain," Parsons said over the Comm, "be advised, I have visual on advancing troops. Looks like a bunch. Better hurry."

       "Going as fast as we can, Parsons," O'Shea replied.

       Parsons closed the channel and turned his attention to McManus. The young sniper specialist had just finished the tricky task of holding on to the edge of the cargo hold with one hand and disengaging his cable with the other. Now McManus was hanging his torso over the edge, inspecting the smoke-filled hold, shining a small light into the darkness.

       "Uh...Ron?" Parsons cursed. McManus never used his first name. This was bad news. "Better take a look at this..."

       Holding tightly to his climbing rope, Parsons slowly ascended the incline and came to the edge alongside McManus. He let more of his line go slack so he could bend his body over the edge and peer into the Pelican. "Oh, shit," he breathed. At the bottom of the hold, two Marines lay in a heap, groaning and moving very slowly. "See if you can help'em out," Parsons told McManus dismissively, and switched his Comm back on. "Captain, we have a problem. I have two Marines wounded in the Pelican. Saying again, two Marines wounded in the Pelican. I need a medic to get these guys out. Copy?"

       Parsons was certain he heard the end of a nasty curse word just as O'Shea transmitted. "Copy that, Parsons. Sending Ibanez over. Ibanez!"

       The commanding sniper leaned back over the edge and shouted down the hold. "Medics on the way, guys! Hang in there!" Leaving McManus to play babysitter, Parsons took out his S2AM sniper rifle and pointed it down the street to give his partner cover. Through the scope, Parsons had a better look at the approaching enemy. He swore to himself as he swept the scope from left to right. He opened a channel again.

       "Sir, I have eight squid-heads, about sixteen Fatboys, and ten Jackals. Armor support. Sights are hot. Request permission to thin the numbers."

       "Acknowledged, Parsons. Fire at will, and move out with all speed. We're going to open this manhole and extract via the sewers. The rest of the Marines and Minutemen are here with me, Connor and Tonsi have the rear. Frag and clear that Pelican as soon as the medics get out."

       "Huah, sir."

       "Fucking Jarheads should have worn seatbelts," a voice said below the sniper. Parsons looked down to see Harold Ibanez's bloodstained, swarthy face looking up at him. "I got two more meds behind me," Ibanez gestured, "but I figured we could have quality time while they catch up."

      Parsons did not share the latino medic's confidence. Parsons stared into the scope. Now he only counted nine Jackals. Shit. Shouldn't have looked away. It was just there a second ago...something's wrong here . "Not the time for banter, buddy. Get inside now and let's get the fuck out of here." Ron was no longer interested in listening to Ibanez. He was searching for the missing Jackal. He could hear the medic jumping up and lifting himself above the lip of the cargo hold, struggling with getting his medical supplies inside. Though it had not been trouble for McManus to get inside, the edge of the cargo hold closest to the ground was at least five and a half feet above street level. He heard the clang of the supply pack inside the hold, and took his eyes off the scope. Ibanez was making a scene trying to climb up into the hold. Finally, the medic had climbed in. "For the love of Christ, Ibanez!" He hissed. "Keep it down! Not all the Jackals are accounted fo-"

      The pink streak passed through the medic as he stood upright in the entrance to the cargo hold, the highly charged particle striking the roof of the Pelican's interior with a ping. Without a word, Ibanez fell foward and slid down the steep incline toward the cockpit, dead before he finally came to a stop at the bottom of the hold. Parsons could hear McManus swearing below him, pushing the medic to the side. The Corporal jerked his head up and followed the fading streak as best he could. The Covenant sniper hadn't seen him, or he'd be dead by now. The Corporal immediately disengaged the safety and aligned his weapon with the trajectory of the beam. Luckily, the wafting smoke and dust had made the streak last just a little longer than usual. A fatal consequence. Just as quickly as he had seen the streak of energy through the night, he brought his eye to the scope and found himself staring at the bird-like head of the enemy sniper, its quills fluttering in a breeze. Was it proud of itself? He wondered. Did it know it killed a medic? Parsons decided he didn't care as he pulled the trigger and weapon bucked back into his shoulder, the Jackal's head disappearing from his scope, body falling to its knees then flopping to the ground, beam rifle pitching forward and falling to the street.

      Son of a bitch, I looked away. Parsons thought to himself. That was my fault!

      Ron heard Tim McManus' voice over the Comm. "Sniper! Sniper! Keep your goddamn heads down!"

      My fault!

      The medics would be slowed, now. There was no telling how many of the Jackals had beam rifles, and Parsons did not care to find out. He just wanted to get underground. He wanted to escape this sudden pain that had emerged in his chest, a sudden sweeping feeling of guilt and grief. He wanted to escape a botched mission rescuing the ones who had left everyone in the city to die two years ago. Parsons pushed that thought from his mind. Distraction had alread cost him Ibanez. Keeping his eyes on the scope now, Parsons opened a channel. "I can cover you, medics. Proceed with caution, but hustle." Parsons would not stray from his duty now. Fuck, Ibanez is dead. It is directly my fault. Son of a bitch, he's dead because of me. Son of a bitch...son of a bitch... The Corporal's rifle fired again, dropping a Jackal that was straying from the formation. Parsons would not take any more chances. He began elimnating Jackals one by one. It should have been satisfying, but with each kill, Parsons blamed himself more and more.

      Finally the medics arrived. Parsons did not see them, but he heard their advance over the distant growl of the Wraith tanks and cracks of his rifle. He did not want to see them. He knew all he would see was Ibanez. There were only three Jackals now, but they were becoming harder to find, merging and emerging from the crowd of Covenant infantry. Parsons fired again as the last of the two medics clambered into the Pelican. In the upturned, cavernous space, Ron could hear every echoing word. "What the fuck? They shot a medic?" Parsons heard one of the medics say deep within the ruined transport.

       "What do you have for me, medics?" Parsons asked over the comm.

       "Sir, I've got one Marine that can walk, the other's going to need a stretcher."

      Good luck getting him underground. "Copy that. Send status to the Captain."

       "Huah."

       Parsons pulled the trigger again and waited for the medics to get out. Part of him was so distraught over Ibanez death he wanted to stay and fight every one of those Covenant bastards hand to hand. But the Corporal had stared into the eyes of those elites, and he knew he wouldn't last two seconds. From below, a pair of hands gripped the opening of the Pelican, and Tim McManus pulled himself up and over the edge, pivoting his body in a prone position by Parsons. Tim, the lesser ranked of the two, pulled out his spotter's scope. "I heard nine shots." McManus said."

       "All down." Parsons replied. He pulled the trigger again. Another bullet. Another shot of recoil into a sore shoulder. Another Jackal head snapping back. Another body on the street. No more Jackal snipers.
       "Confirmed kill." McManus muttered. From below they could hear a yell of pain stifled as one of the wounded Marines hit the street, more or less falling out of the Pelican. "You all right, Marine?" McManus called down. McManus got a "Hoorah," in reply. The Marine would never let the Minutemen know he was that badly injured. The cry of pain was smothered by pride. Both Parsons and McManus could hear the stretcher being lowered by the medics, both softly saying to the other, "Eaaaaaasyyy..." As if their words would make the physical task less strenuous. The Comm chirped.

       "Medics are clear."

       "Copy." McManus replied. " Charges placed in the cockpit. We can blow them at any time. Request permission to rejoin the group, Cap."

       "Manhole's nearly secure, snipers. Gus is down there with a squad making sure it's safe, we're a bit delayed. Stand by."

       "Standing by, roger."

       Parsons craned his neck to see the medics making good time down the street. To his credit, the wounded Marine was moving well, even with severe arm and leg wounds. It was harder for the medics. Parsons could see all the craters, the buckled pavement, the spent shells littered on the street, not to mention the bodies. He checked his ammo count and ejected the magazine, sliding in a fresh clip and pulling the bolt back. There was a moment of silence between the two snipers. Parsons, for once, broke it.

       "It's my fau-"

       "It's not your fault. People die. There was nothing you could have done. I didn't see it, either."

       "If we get home, I'll tell Maria."

       Tim nodded silently. Ron was taking this hard. Tim quickly reflected on Ron's last statement: "If we get home." Ron never talked like that. As this running battle was going on, Parsons was losing his confidence. Snipers needed confidence. It was what kept them alive. And in order to McManus to stay alive, he needed his partner to stay alive as well. Tim tried to refocus his commanding officer. "Um, I need a recount on those Grunts, and confirm my tank distances."

       Parsons knew what his junior partner was trying to do. He even cracked a bit of a smile. "Keeping my edges sharp, Tim?" The Corporal asked. He quickly judged the range of the tanks- 700 meters- and began counting Grunts. "Call it...sixteen Fatboys...needlers, hey, even a plasma rifle on that officer...but what's that the ones in the back have..." Both snipers shifted slightly and strained their eyes yet again for telltale shapes or silhouettes. The darkness was just barely lifting, and the new hues in the battlefield were playing off the smoke and dust so that the two sharpshooters were having a hard time.

       "Looks like the Grunts are coming to the front. Tank fire?" McManus noted.

       "No, the armor hasn't powered up yet. Look, the main cannon is still contracted."

       "Then what the hell are they stopping for..." McManus trailed off, his agile mind scrolling down the list of Covenant weaponry. In Tim's mind, he ended up at one conclusion, and one end result. The sudden appearance of brightening green spots in the distance only confirmed the sniper's worst fear. He shoved his scope into his attached tactical pack, rolled to his side, and hit his partner on the shoulder. "FRCs!" He exclaimed, urgency rising in his voice. "We gotta get the fuck out of here!"

       Parsons focused for a second and redailed the scope. The increased zoom put his scope in the face of a Grunt, positioning a weapon on its shoulder and powering it up. Parsons pulled the trigger, knocking the Grunt over and causing it to fire the weapon into the air. Six Grunts were pulling the trigger as Parsons decided to run as fast as he could. "They're live!" Parsons yelled as he tucked the rifle to his chest and flipped over on to his back, easing the tension on his legs. The two snipers slid down the upside-down, overturned Pelican as if it were a giant slide, hitting the underside of the cockpit and running from the scene as six bolts of heavily charged energy collided with the Pelican, the force almost flipping the airship back over. The two snipers ran from the scene and took cover only fifty meters from the crowd of Marines and Minutemen. Parsons' Comm chirped.

       "What the hell was that, Corporal?" Captain Jack O'Shea asked.

       "Sir!" Ron yelled breathlessly. "Fuel Rod Cannons! Get everyone away from that manhole!"

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 9
Date: 25 January 2005, 12:12 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter Nine

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through the Covenant invasion of Earth
near dawn

      For a second, Captain Jack O'Shea forgot about training, leading, fighting...even fear was wiped from his mind. For one second, Jack O'Shea was just tired. Tired of fighting this guerilla war, tired of death, tired of making the wrong decision, tired of coming back to a home that was nothing more than a glorified bunker. The highly charged green bolts of plasma came screaming through the air, lighting the night sky and illuminating the tired, battered faces of the Minutemen and Marines. In that second, Jack O'Shea welcomed the fuel rod cannon fire as a respite from his weary, war torn life.

      But it was only a second.

      "FRCs! Get the hell out of here!" The Captain yelled at the strange contingent of professional soldiers and militia. Needing no further encouragement, the security perimeter disintegrated, spreading out into an assortment of cover: overturned cars, Warthogs, and chunks of pavement disgorged from the battle served as shields for the bodies of weary soldiers. The Covenant fire hit the street where the men had been, making a noise like a growl on impact with the asphalt. The pavement cracked inwards, but to O'Shea's relief, the manhole was intact. They could still escape to safety as soon as everyone had made it back. Staring up the street, O'Shea realized it was going to harder than originally thought. He could see two medics desperately hustling down the street, carrying a Marine on a stretcher between them. Another wounded Marine lagged behind. As the fire began, the medics and walking Marine had to take cover inside a small bombed-out townhouse on the left side of the street. Now they were sealed in as the Covenant were advancing. They would never be able to break cover and make it to the manhole. Next to O'Shea, the Marine in command, a Gunnery Sergeant, saw the same scene. O'Shea sighted on the Covenant with his urban-camouflaged battle rifle. "Covies will be all over those medics if they keep coming this way." O'Shea said.

      "Fuckers." The Gunny agreed. O'Shea felt the Marine look at him, and Jack knew what he was thinking.

      "We don't leave them behind. Not alive."

      "Good." The Marine CO nodded.

      "We'll send a team to get 'em. Three o' yours, three o' mine." O'Shea offered.

      "Agreed. Walsh! Grant! Bowman! Get those medics!" Three Marines broke cover and hustled up the left side of the street in a single-file line, guns pointed at the incoming Covenant. They were happy to get out of the hot zone.

      O'Shea got up from his cover and signalled to two Minutemen. He was not about to order one of his own to do something he would not do himself. The Captain and the two Minutemen quickly caught up with the Marines and moved alongside them, weapons at the ready. O'Shea could feel the four fragmentation grenades bounce along his webbing below his flak jacket. Along with those, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds had given the Captain a red smoke grenade, "just in case," to signal for immediate assistance. The Captain did not want to use it. Each of the Minutemen behind O'Shea wore camouflage facepaint undearneath their helmets, and wore urban camouflage underneath advanced flak jackets.

      Next to the Minuteman Captain, the UNSC Marines all wore the standard Titanium-A battle armor, carrying the bare minimum of accessories so they could get to the medics and back quickly. O'Shea had worn older models of the armor during his tours of duty as a Marine, and he knew it would do next to nothing against the Covenant's plasma weapons. Now was not the time to mention it, however.

      The group moved in a leapfrog fashion: O'Shea and the two Minutemen would establish cover and stop as the Marines would move forward, the last Marine hitting O'Shea on the shoulder on his way past; the Marines would give the same cover to the Minutemen. They had been doing this for fifty meters when they finally reached Corporal Ron Parsons and Specialist Tim McManus. Both snipers were in the dark, prone behind buckled concrete. Ron Parsons S2 AM sniper rifle peeked out from undereath a small arch, indistinguishable from other scattered pieces of metal on the ground. O'Shea slid in beside the snipers. "Whadda we got?" He asked.

      "Sir," Parsons said, his eyes transfixed on the scope, "eight Elites, 300 meters. They're sticking by those tanks on the right side of the street. Fatboys abound, there's about nine of them on the left side. They have one officer carrying a plasma rifle. He wasn't in my line of sight, sir, I didn't have shot."

      "Copy that." O'Shea acknowledged. There was silence among the three militiamen. "How're you two holding up?"

      "Ibanez is dead, sir. It's my fault. I wasn't looking-"

      "I sent him, Corporal. He went. It's a fucking war zone, and people die. You will quit this 'woe is me' bullshit presently and cover your fellow militia, huah?" O'Shea didn't like talking like that to Parsons, but Jack knew what had happened and knew that Ron would respond to a forceful voice at this point, not a shoulder to cry on.

      "Huah, sir. Won't let you down."

      O'Shea nodded in confirmation, and a Marine scurried by, striking the Captain on the shoulder. "Put the fear in 'em, snipers." Jack said, and continued his journey.

      The bombed-out townhouse was 100 meters from the sniper's position and 200 from the Covenant. The facade of the structure was crumbling, and the five stairs on the way to the front door were almost completely blocked by bricks and debris. The windows, three on either side of the door, were blown in, and O'Shea couldn't see if the stairs to the second floor weren't destroyed as well. There was only one way to find out.

      O'Shea got into a small huddle with the other five soldiers on what was left of the street's sidewalk. All six soldiers had their backs to the street, covered completely by large piece of structure that had used to be part of an apartment building. "I'll take point as soon as we raise contact," O'Shea told the group, diagraming on the ground with his finger. "Marines, you clear the other rooms. If there's a second floor, clear that, too. Bring the medics with you and take up firing positions on the second floor if you can, we'll cover the first. There's about eight Elites and sixteen or so Grunts, six with heavy weapons." Everyone nodded along with the plan. O'Shea put his fingers to this throat mike, opening a COM channel. "Gunny, can you hear me?" O'Shea transmitted. The commanding Marine back at the manhole answered in the affirmative.

      "Good, we're going to hide in that townhouse and let the Covenant pass us. As soon as they're past, we'll get 'em from both sides, move to you, and extract before that other group of Covies flanks us." O'Shea cut the transmission.

      As if answering the question in O'Shea's mind, a Marine spoke up. "We can handle the tanks, sir," he said, and the three UNSC soldiers pointed to badges on their right shoulders. Each had a diamond-shaped, yellow and black patch that had what looked like a symbol for a U-turn on it. "We all aced the simulator." He explained. O'Shea's eyebrows arched.

      "Cute stickers. Form up, on me."

      "Hoo-rah," the Marines said in unison.

      Inside the bombed-out townhouse, two medics glanced impatiently out the windows onto the street. In the middle of the room, one Marine lay on a stretcher, an IV in his arm, dripping fluids into his system. The other wounded Marine had passed out from exhaustion, but could be revived easily. The medics were not worried about their charges just yet, though. They feared the unknown outside. They feared the Covenant. The invaders would be on top of them in less than three minutes, and they didn't have the firepower to match the force that was marching down the street. Both medics looked down at their SMGs, then looked at each other. They were woefully ill-equipped. Both flinched when the COM channel opened up with a chirp, but only one answered. His shoulders sagged with relief. It was the Captain.

      "Medics, is that townhouse clear?"

      "Clear as we can tell, sir. It's the parade down the street we're worried about."

      "How're the wounded?"

      "One was able to move, he's combat effective, but not very mobile. It was hard enough for him to run in here."

      "The other?"

      "He needs proper medical attention, sir. Sooner rather than later. He may have internal injuries, but we won't know until we get underground. We have him on the stretcher."

      "Understood, friendlies coming in. Don't fire unless fired upon."

      "Copy."

      Ten seconds after the transmission, Captain Jack O'Shea turned the corner into the townhouse. He came across the doorframe from the right and proceeded to the rooms on the left, battle rifle raised and sweeping across the area. The Marines behind him peeled off to the right, clearing the rooms. O'Shea noted there were only four rooms on the first floor: two facing the street and one set of stairs in between the two back rooms. Each room was crumbling, plaster was hanging off the ceiling, patches of singed wallpaper stubbornly stuck to the walls, many displaying cracks spidering in all directions. Some floorboards were missing, allowing a free look into the earthen foundation. Three of the four rooms were bare, either from looting or evacuation, and the fourth room held a kitchen with a single antique gas stove. O'Shea considered the explosive properties of the townhouse, then decided against it just as quickly. He still remembered the car bomb.

      With memories of the car bomb came memories of the young Connor brothers, all but one lost today. Gerry, Michael, and Rory had all been excellent soldiers since the very beginning of the war. O'Shea identified with the last and oldest brother, Seamus, waiting with the rest of the Minutemen by the manhole. Both he and Seamus had lost just about everything to this war. Jack fought to keep his mind on the mission and not thinking of how much the construction of the house reminded him of his old house, the same house in which he had lost both his children to the Covenant. The images were swirling around his head, and the veteran Captain closed his eyes and willed the swirling to stop. He shook his head, focused on shoving his pain away. Jack was standing in his own city, but at this point, he had never felt farther from home. Just as quickly as all the images and sadness had entered, O'Shea's training rejected the emotions and brought him back to command. Now he was aware of every movement and sound, especially the Marines by the stairway.

      "All clear down low," One Marine called out.

      "Well, it's nice," another Marine said, his battle rifle pointed out a front window while he gazed around the townhouse, "...but how are the schools?"

      "I think the Covenant bombed." One Minuteman replied, crouched by a window.

      "Ha-ha! Good one!" A third unseen Marine replied. They cut the chatter when O'Shea walked in. The Captain was not an overly imposing figure, but his solid frame, battle rifle, and day-old stubble made him look as grizzled as any hard core ODST. Jack O'Shea removed his helmet briefly, revealing short brown hair with gray running through it. Glancing inside the helmet, he could see one picture dimly lit by the imminent dawn. His wife and two children looked back at him. He quickly re-donned the helmet. "Marines, secure upstairs. Coordinate with the snipers. I'm going to talk with the medics. Minutemen, hold the ground floor. When the Covenant get close, we'll relocate to the top."

      "Huah," the two Minutemen replied. The Marines looked quizzically at each other, not understanding the Minutemen's exclamation, then moved upstairs.

      The top floor of the townhouse was nothing more than two large rooms connected by a very short hallway at the top of the stairs. The first two Marines turned left and headed into one room while O'Shea and the other Marine turned right and almost knocked a medic over. Both of the medics looked on-edge and frazzled, and neither would have had their SMGs up in time had O'Shea been an Elite. Probably for the best, O'Shea thought. In their state, I'm surprised they didn't pop us as we came in anyway. O'Shea's COM chirped in his ear. The medics flinched. They really were on edge. O'Shea raised a hand to the medics, indicating to wait, then answered the call. "Sir, floor is secure." One of the other Marines said over the COM.

      "Copy that. Hold position. One of you needs to go on overwatch and coordinate with the snipers."

      "Engagement?" The other Marine asked.

      "Don't fire unless fired upon. We're counting on the Covies to ignore this building."

      "You got it, sir." The COM clicked off. O'Shea turned to the two medics.

      "Any change in either condition?" O'Shea pointed toward a Marine passed out in the corner of the room.

      "He's fine, sir, just exhausted." One of the medics explained. "But this guy," the medic pointed at the stretcher, "he's going to be critical in about half an hour. His condition gets worse as time goes on."

      "How much time until he's out of reach?"

      "One, maybe two hours. I'm assuming we're extracting back to the refugee camps. Ibanez had an impressive field hospital next to the base."

      O'Shea nodded and turned to look out the window. He didn't want to talk about Ibanez right now. The commanding medic had been a wise-ass, but he had saved many Minutemen's lives, even when they seemed out of reach. "All right, listen up," O'Shea said, peering out the window, "we have to let the Covenant go past us; we'd never make it if we left the building now. As soon as I tell you, haul ass to that manhole. Don't stop until you get to the camps. We'll give you all the cover you need."

      "Thank you, sir." A medic said.

      "Don't thank me, son," O'Shea replied on his way out of the room, "just don't fucking die."

      Before he made it out of the room, though, the COM chirped again. "Fatboys on foot, sir," one of the Marines observed. Seven of them, twenty-five meters out. I say again: advance squad. Seven Grunts on foot, inbound at two-five meters."

      "Copy," O'Shea answered, and hustled down the stairs. He turned the corner at the ground floor and met the waiting gaze of his two Minutemen. They were well-trained. Neither militiaman would have moved without the order. O'Shea pointed up the stairs. "Go now," he said, "establish firing positions with good LOS, stay out of sight." O'Shea covered the two Minutemen as they ran up the stairs, and the Captain pivoted and creeped up the stairs just as the contingent of Grunts were clopping by.

      O'Shea was concerned as the sound of Grunt movement ceased. He found himself trying to will the Covenant cannon fodder to continue on their doomed trek down the street. O'Shea distracted himself by quickly checking on his men, peeking into each room. In between every window on the second floor, a human soldier had his back pressed to the wall, weapon at the ready, barely looking out the corner of a window. One medic had crawled over to the sleeping Marine and roused him, keeping a gloved hand over the Marine's mouth when he awoke. Yet for all the attention he had put on trying to track the Grunts, O'Shea didn't know the aliens were right underneath the building until he heard them speak.

      "What? What you see?" A miniature voice asked below the humans. O'Shea clutched a hand to his right ear. How did I hear that? How are they speaking English?

      "Me have bad feeling about this..." Another said.

      "You have bad feeling 'bout everything." An authoritative, yet high-pitched voice replied from the right. The clopping continued on down the street. O'Shea breathed a sigh of relief as the last Grunt passed by, its voice barely audible over the clopping of hooves and exchanges amongst the squad.

      "It look nice...but how are schools?"

      O'Shea looked quickly to the left. The Marine that had said nearly that exact same phrase looked at the street with huge eyes, his face ashen. His buddy hit him on the helmet.

      "McManus," O'Shea hissed as he pressed his fingers to his throat mike, "since when do Grunts know English?"

      "Minor side effect, sir," McManus' voice crackled over the COM. "Looks like the Marines' translating software leaked into our networks when I patched them together. We can understand the Covenant perfectly, now."

      "For better or worse," O'Shea said, and cut the transmission.

      "OK," Jack whispered into each room, "As soon as those tanks go by, do your thing. Medics, wait for my signal, then stay on this side of the street. The snipers will cover you."

      "Sir, be advised," Corporal Parsons voice sounded over the COM. "Tank cannons and turrets up and operational. They'll be on your position in about a minute." That was both a blessing and a curse to O'Shea; it would be easier to destroy the tanks now, but a plasma barrage on the manhole group could keep the Minuteman above ground and in big trouble.

      The Marines moved as one, following a Corporal down the stairs. O'Shea and his Minutemen started out the door but stopped when the previously passed-out Marine in the corner got his attention.

      "Sir," the wounded Marine said with effort, shaking off a medic, "permission...permission to stay behind."

      "Denied, Marine," O'Shea answered quickly. "We came back for you, and you're going to extract with the rest of your men."

      "Sir, with respect, that's bullshit. I won't make it fifteen meters like this. Let me cover 'em. Please, sir, let me cover my buddies. You'd stay behind for your men, wouldn't you?"

      No question, O'Shea answered his mind. But I won't willfully leave a soldier here to die, no matter what he feels. The veteran Captain looked that the UNSC soldier and regarded him closely. The Marine stood at attention, though O'Shea could see the boy was under a lot of pain. Fuck, Jack thought, he's staying here regardless of what I have to say. O'Shea nodded gravely at the Marine. "All right, Marine, permission granted." The commander of the Minutemen looked at the Marine's battle rifle. "How much ammo you got?" He asked.

      "Enough to kill every one of those motherfuckers, sir."

      O'Shea slung his battle rifle and pulled a grenade off his webbing, as well as two extra magazines. He handed them over to the Marine with one hand and patted him on the shoulder with the other. "Kill 'em twice." The Captain replied. The Marine saluted, a smile spreading across his face.

      "Hoo-rah, sir." The Marine's chest swelled with pride, and he limped over to a window, establishing his final firing position. O'Shea signalled to the Minutemen and the medics, and they left the Marine to his fate.

      At the ground floor, O'Shea watched the Marines get ready. The entire force of Covenant had passed, but apparently they weren't far enough yet. The three tank-specialist Marines had two battle rifles and one SMG between them, polished M6C Magnum sidearms strapped to their hips. Each seemed to have a belt full of grenades. No one in the townhouse spoke. Even the approach of the medics with the heavy stretcher made little noise in the creaky, bare, and cold room. The relative calm of the early morning was broken by the approaching Covenant armor. O'Shea peered around a corner of the staircase, listening to the growing din of the Covenant force. Among the gruff orders of Elite officers, O'Shea could hear the unique sound of the gravity propulsion drives. It echoed off the walls of the townhouse and, despite two years of close contact with Covenant forces, chilled Jack to the bone. The three tank-boarding specialists never looked at the street; they stared straight ahead with faces set, one Marine even nodding to himself as if assuring himself of the plan they had just formulated. O'Shea watched the two tanks move past, two small plasma turrets mounted on the front of each, scanning for enemy. They found none as they drifted by the door to the townhouse.

      Without a word, without a signal or warning, the three Marines scooted out the door, low and fast into the coming dawn. For a moment, O'Shea wanted to call out to them as if they were his own deceased children, telling them to come back to safety and wait it out. There was no need for them to jeopardize their lives. Jack would have done it for them. Yet just as quickly as that yearning came to O'Shea, it left. The Captain flicked off the safety on his Battle Rifle, waved quickly to his two Minutemen, and patted the top of his helmet twice.

      "On me," the Captain ordered, and the humans took the fight to the streets once more. In the back of his mind, Jack O'Shea knew he was never getting back to that manhole.

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 10
Date: 2 February 2005, 1:08 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 10

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Early morning

      Captain Jack O'Shea made a tight turn around the doorway and covered the other two Minutemen scooting ahead of him. Jack kept his urban-camouflaged BR55 Battle Rifle pointed in the direction of the Covenant force ahead and to his left, but his sight was fixed on the Marines that had now moved into the open ground in the center of the street. He watched them slink silently behind the Elites and Grunts, the only sound in the damp, frosty air a soft clinking of grenades bouncing on their bodies as they moved. The could hardly be seen, the only indication of the presence was ethereal steam coming out from their mouths as they paused in darkness. One Marine looked across at O'Shea and made a chopping motion, indicating that the Minutemen could move on ahead. Jack nodded and kept low, following his men. The Marines had made a wide arc behind the tanks and now silently crept along, staying directly behind the slow-moving armor. It was excruciating to watch, and O'Shea found himself willing the Covenant to keep their eyes forward, hoping some Grunt didn't drop its Needler and turn around, leaving the Marines exposed.

      It was strange to Jack how he now cared for these kids sneaking around in the dark. Two years ago, their commanders had sentenced the city of Boston to a slow death at the hands of the Covenant, and O'Shea had lost thousands in the resistance. O'Shea realized after a moment that it wasn't the Marines fault. They were putting their lives on the line just the same as he. Yet it went beyond that. This morning, Jack was entrusting soldiers he had barely met to do a job none of his Minutemen could do, or had attempted. Two years before, he had cursed the UNSC and thrown his allegiance away. Now he was putting his team's lives in their hands.

      But at what cost? Jack thought as he scrambled to find another piece of cover. To save my team's life at the cost of those Marines? Trained or not, to a veteran like O'Shea the idea of boarding a Covenant tank, infantry support or no, was suicide. Jack was not comfortable with that fact, even if it was the only way to get off this goddamn street. Who am I to say who lives and dies? Who am I to order these kids to fight a tank? The Captain's thoughts fell on the lives already lost in the past day: McHale, Ibanez, three of four Connor brothers, Sohn, and several other Minutemen. Now he was unconsciously adding the wounded Marine upstairs and the three on the street. Yet once again, just as he was becoming mired in his emotions, he was lifted out of them by his trained detachment, the unconscious pull of duty. His years of sorrow and growing numbness to loss helped him separate himself from his feelings, but his compassion was dying along with his friends. They signed up for this, O'Shea told himself, everyone had a choice. He hated himself every time he thought that.

      "Sir," one of his Minutemen whispered, "they're engaging." O'Shea peeked around cover, nearly even with the Marines, and watched the synchronized, precise maneuver. In unison, two Marines hopped on the knobby back wings of the tank, landing both feet simultaneously, barely rocking the vehicle. Both Marines hugged the cold dark metal closely to steady themselves. The driver must have thought it was something on the street, since the tank never shifted course or speed. The third Marine followed closely behind in a low crouch, eyes ahead, battle rifle ready, spotting for the two Marines. O'Shea watched as each Marine on board the tank held on with one hand while yanking a grenade from their body with the other. Both pulled the pin with their teeth, and moved their steadying hand up to the base of the main cannon. In one motion, they pulled with their top hand and hopped up to throw the grenade down into the tank turret, a deadly slam dunk in the most crucial of games. As soon as the grenades were away, the two riding Marines skipped off and ran away from the tank as soon as they hit the street. The third Marine ran backwards, keeping his eyes ahead. After the Marines got ten meters from the doomed piece of equipment, they spun around, formed in a crouching semicircle, and watched their work for the first time outside the simulator.

      The tank operator must have noticed the sudden entrance of foreign objects, since the Wraith suddenly spun around and accelerated, barely missing a collision with the other tank to its right. A dull explosion sounded, a deep bass sound that spread across the street and shook the loose cover O'Shea was hiding behind. The tank spouted blue flame and lost power, dropping a short distance to the pavement with a crash. Three seconds later, a secondary explosion ripped through the tank, and it hopped up off the pavement before crashing down again. The Covenant force jerked to a halt and turned, staring at the explosion. They had not heard the approaching Marines at all, and were equally oblivious to O'Shea and the two Minutemen waiting on the right sidewalk. Jack took the opportunity to pop up from his cover and sighted on a nearby Grunt officer's head. At this range, a three round burst couldn't take down an Elite, so O'Shea decided to create confusion. The 9.5x44mm bullets dropped the Grunt to the asphalt, a spray of blue mist landing on the other invaders behind it. The surrounding Grunts scattered, weapons in the air, yelling in fear.

      As the Grunts closest to O'Shea separated, the Captain could see the six with fuel rod cannons. Priority fucking targets, the Captain thought with malice. This was not about killing fellow humans for an abstract concept. This was about survival against an alien race. For a second, Jack forgot all about his concern for his human partners. Instead, he focused on a basic concept: until Jack O'Shea learned otherwise, there was no remorse in killing a Grunt. He motioned for his two partners to get up with him. He pointed to his eyes and then pointed across the street. "FRCs!" He said. "Take 'em out with extreme prejudice!" One Minuteman smiled darkly, sighted, and pulled the trigger. O'Shea could have sworn he heard a suppressed laugh.

      Before the Covenant had a chance to regroup, several different guns discharged nearly at once. Ron Parsons punched a discarding-sabot, armor-piercing round through an Elite officer's neck, and the Marine upstairs opened up on the six small arms Grunts by O'Shea's group. The tank-boarding Marines, meanwhile, hustled to the incapacitated Wraith for cover and concentrating their efforts on a single exposed Elite, taking it down after a few seconds of sustained fire, and avoiding the surviving Wraith's dual plasma turrets by a microsecond.

      Then the Covenant regrouped.

      The Grunts armed with plasma pistols and needlers got organized and fired up at the Marine, but at their position, they couldn't get anything in the window the Marine was using. O'Shea was sitting on the pavement, reloading his rifle, when Tim McManus' voice crackled over the COM.

      "Grenade! Center street! It's live!"

      Jack quickly looked over his cover and his brown eyes opened wide. From the middle of the pack of small arms Grunts, an azure blue light glowed brightly in the fading darkness. Without hesitation, the three Minutemen taking cover on the sidewalk opened up on the grenade-wielding Grunt, dropping the alien midway through its throwing motion. The plasma grenade landed on the street in the middle of the pack, and exploded in a flash of neon blue and flying Grunt pieces.

      "Nice shot, sir," One of the Minutemen said, wiping blue blood off his helmet.

      "That Marine may want to be left behind," O'Shea replied, scanning the street, "but that doesn't mean I'm gonna let 'im."

      The immediate threat had been eliminated, allowing the Captain to shift his plans from the short range targets and refocus on finding the ones with big guns. We actually have a fighting chance at this, O'Shea thought to himself. If we can tag those FRCs, that Marine upstairs may just be lucky enough to get awa- Jack derailed his train of thought as he saw the same sight that had chilled his snipers to the bone before. The four remaining Grunts with bulky fuel rod cannons appeared across the street, secure behind the single remaining tank. Their weapons were on and charged, a eerie green light barely pulsing from them. A scarlet-armored Elite pointed with its Carbine at the townhouse window, and Jack could guess at its orders. He frantically activated the COM. O'Shea had to get word to the Parsons. He was the only one with a clear shot, since the tank-boarding Marines were pinned down by the Wraith's plasma turrets and Elite covering fire. Before Jack could get a word to the sniper, however, the wounded Marine performed his overwatch duty by calling out enemy movement and coordinating the street-level attack.

      "Sniper!" O'Shea heard over the COM before he changed his own channel, "Red Elite directing fire behind the tank!"

      "Acquired. Sights hot." Ron Parsons confirmed.

      O'Shea then opened a squad-wide channel. They had to get out of that townhouse now "Marine! Medics! Get out of the house! FRCs!" O'Shea heard the distinctive crack of Parsons sniper rifle and stared at the Elite, praying to see the alien officer on the ground, bleeding, or both. Son of a bitch, Ron! The Captain exclaimed in his head. It was still alive, now crouched and pinning the Marine down inside the townhouse. They wouldn't get a second shot at it.

      "Fuck," A Marine said over the COM. "Those medics are dead meat! I'm gonna go get 'em!" O'Shea could see the Marine get ready to run to his death.

      "No! Hold position!" O'Shea ordered. The Marines had been lucky enough to stay out of fire, he was not about to risk their lives again. Jack could see the Marine slam a free hand against the incapacitated tank, enraged that he would not be allowed to try and save their lives. The Marine had thought that O'Shea had given up; but Jack had not. In his mind, the Captain still held on to the vestige of hope that the wounded Marine might somehow make it down the stairs in time. And I have to give them every chance, O'Shea thought. He pulled the emergency smoke grenade from his body, yanked the pin, and rolled it toward the doorway of the townhouse. The cylindrical device bounced and skipped on its bumpy path to the door, then settled, releasing red-tinted smoke slowly, then billowing out in the early morning breeze. "Medics!" O'Shea yelled, forgoing the COM. "Get out of that house! Smoke deployed! Move it!"

      From across the street, O'Shea heard the four fuel rod cannons being fired. Jack's head snapped around to track the fast moving projectiles from down the street, streaking in to their target on the second floor of the townhouse. To his credit, the Marine in the second floor never stopped firing, even in the moment of his death. Two of the Grunts shots landed well right of their target, breaking off pieces of the house harmlessly, but the other two landed true, entering through the window. A split second after the shots entered the house, the second floor of the townhouse exploded outwards, blowing out through the window and creating a smoking crater in the side of the building. It showered the already wreckage strewn street with more brick, stone, and blood; it spread debris across every angle. O'Shea grabbed one Minuteman's head and pushed it to the ground, shielding the body from fragments of the townhouse. The smoke and dust of the explosion had mixed with the billowing red smoke thrown by O'Shea, covering the flight of the medics. As they exited the building, it collapsed, smoke and dust chasing the two medical officers out the door and sealing the brave second-floor Marine in a hasty tomb.

      The two medics bore a stretcher laden with an unconscious Marine all the way to O'Shea's covered position, and they collapsed from the effort after reaching safety. The two Medics sat with their backs against Jack's cover, removing their red-crossed helmets to dissipate some body heat. O'Shea frowned at the rubble of the townhouse. Another sacrifice on the altar of survival. O'Shea understood the boy's reasons to stay behind, but it doesn't make it easier, Jack thought to himself. I should have made him come with us. No, the Captain shook his head to clear those thoughts from his mind, stop hesitating. It was what he wanted. Stop doubting yourself, Jack. Get home alive. See your wife. Get these kids out of harm's way. You lost a man. Get over it. People die. The medics made it, so let's get the hell out of here with what we have left.

      Despite the Captain's well-conceived plan, O'Shea realized he had hit a snag. He had hoped to be closer to the Minutemen/Marine manhole position and had counted on the heavy weapons Grunts to be dead. Two medics with a stretcher couldn't fire weapons, and couldn't move as fast as the Captain and his men. Making it all the way back to the manhole, O'Shea realized, was shaping up to be impossible. A decision had to be made, and Jack was sure it was not going to go over well. While the two Minutemen he was with fired over their cover, and the medics tended to their severely wounded Marine, the Captain sat on the sidewalk. He leaned his back against the piece of structure stuck in the sidewalk and banged the back of his helmet against it. This better fucking work he thought. He pressed two fingers to this throat mike and activated the COM, one hand over his earpiece to hear the replies.

      "Parsons, McManus!" O'Shea shouted over the sporadic fire of the Covenant and Marines across the street. "Set remaining charges and extract!"

      "Extract where, sir?" McManus asked.

      "The manhole! You're leaving with the rest of the squad!"

      Static reigned over the COM channel as one Minuteman caught a Grunt trying to flank the Marines. "Repeat!" McManus shouted, not believing what he had heard.

      "Set charges to disable that remaining tank, then get back to that manhole and get the fuck out of here!" At the conclusion of Jack's order, a terrific explosion shook the Captain's position. He turned his body and saw the incapacitated tank flipped over, thrown against the buildings that lined the street. The other tank had fired on it, taking out both friendly troops near the tank and the three Marines. O'Shea slammed his hand against the ground, and squeezed his eyes tight, hot tears of frustration pulsing to be let out. Those fuckers took out their own troops to get THREE of mine! They don't value their own lives! How am I supposed to beat them!? Jack's face clenched in a hopeless show of anger. He wanted to storm out from his cover, guns blazing, and shoot every single one of those squid-faced bastards. He wanted to climb into the tank and rip out its operator. He wanted to shove its head toward the remains of his comrades, toward the brave and selfless souls who gave their lives so that he could live. He wanted to show it what it had done. He wanted to kill it. He wanted to kill himself. Wishing he could scream, Jack jerked his head up, chest heaving, frustration and anger wild in his eyes. In front of him, two medics and two assault Minutemen stared at him, the color drained from their faces. An unconscious Marine still lay on the stretcher beside them.

      "Sir," one of the medics said softly, almost afraid to add to the burden, "the Marine, he- he doesn't have much time, sir."

      Over the static, O'Shea could hear Parsons worried voice. "Cap! Cap! You all right sir? That tank took friendly fire. They're moving out. What's your status?"

      The five remaining men knew they would never reach the manhole. They weren't getting back to the group. They were behind enemy lines and cut off from the rest of their allies. O'Shea tried to assuage their fears as he completed his transmission.

      "Our medics can't make it past those forces," he said. "We're extracting away from you. There will be other sewer access ways. The Covies think we're all dead here, it's the only reason they took friendly fire. So get rid of that last tank, snipers, and extract via manhole." Jack realized he would probably have to calm down Ron, too. He added, "Chances are, we'll be ahead of you."

      "Huah, sir." Parsons confirmed over the airwaves. "Setting charges, then bugging out." O'Shea nodded in confirmation even though Parsons couldn't hear him.

      "...and sir?" Parsons voice sounded hesitant to O'Shea.

      "Here, Corporal." Jack replied.

      "Good luck, sir."

      I wish that didn't sound so final, the Captain thought. "Copy that. See you underground," O'Shea finished, and closed the channel. O'Shea saw that color had now returned to the troops faces. At least the others were confident they'd make it home. "Stay close," the Captain said, peeking over cover and watching the Covenant force go in the opposite direction, "we're going home."

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 11
Date: 2 February 2005, 1:14 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 11

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Early morning

      Corporal Ron Parsons had never really worried about time. Over the past weeks and months, he and his partner Specialist Tim McManus had been hiding high above the Covenant positions, taking shots when necessary, eliminating officers by the handful. There had never been any time constraints. Now, with a Covenant assault team and one Wraith tank less than a hundred meters away, Parsons was feeling the heat, and his aim was suffering. As the tank had moved on, Parsons had incapacitated two of the four remaining Cannon Grunts, but he had not been able to kill them. There was still a chance they could get a shot off, though Ron thought it unlikely. All the same, the Corporal was in a hurry to get out of the area, and McManus was taking his sweet time setting his last remaining charges. McManus was connecting wires to a receiver just underneath a loose pile of rubble.

      "For the love of Christ, Timmy!" Parsons shouted, firing off another round, "Sometime this campaign!"

      The cool, calm, and collected voice of McManus only slightly soothed Parsons fears. "With respect, sir; if I mess up these charges, I either blow us up or they don't go off and that tank has a whole morning to take plasma potshots at us and our buddies."

      Parsons paused, reloading, "Well by all means, Timmy, take your time."

      Parsons was now doing something he had never really thought he'd do: he was leaving men behind. Just because they were men under the Captain's command didn't make it easier. Both Parsons and O'Shea knew there could be a lot of ground, and a lot of Covenant, between O'Shea's position and the next available manhole. There was too much uncertainty for Parsons to be comfortable with. It was like leaving his own father behind. The loss of Ibanez earlier had stung and still hurt Parsons internally, but this was a dull ache of unknown, a squeamish mix of anxiety and concern for the man who had shown Parsons and the Minutemen how to survive in a Covenant-infested city. Parsons felt he was leaving him to die, and too many good men had died today. As the tank started to grow ominously close in the sniper's Oracle scope, Parsons heard a loud beep to his right.

      "That's our cue!" Tim McManus yelled. "Hey, boys!" McManus's voice now crackled over the COM as he called back to the manhole, "How 'bout some o' that covering fire, on my mark?"

      Ron felt the slap on the shoulder, and glanced to his right. Tim McManus now had his M6D pistol, complete with scope, up and ready behind cover with one knee on the street. "Better sling that big girl, Ron," McManus gestured at the urban camouflaged S2 AM sniper rifle, "she's only gonna get in your way." The sniper immediately slung the rifle behind his back, the stock pointing up and to the right, barrel pointing down and to the left. Parsons drew his M6D pistol, an older but more deadly model than the M6C the Marines used, and placed a hand on the piece of buckled pavement that separated him from the Covenant. He lifted himself up barely over the piece of street and took a quick mental count of the incoming enemy. A small part of him was trying to make the argument for sneaking past the enemy and joining up with the Captain, but Parsons knew in his heart it would be futile. For the past twenty-four hours the Corporal had been backing up O'Shea, and now he was going eyes-off. Cap is going out there blind. The guilt returned. This is my fault. If Ibanez hadn't died, the medics could have extracted. If the medics could have extracted, the Captain wouldn't have to get them. If the Captain hadn't gone to-

      "Ron? Ron!" Parsons helmet shook side to side and McManus shook the thoughts from Parsons head. Tim grabbed his superior by the shoulders and turned his face to his. "We are extracting now. I cover you, and you cover me. We're going home, Ron. Let's not fuck this up." Tim let the Corporal go and flicked a switch on the receiver. McManus pressed his fingers to his throat mike, then looked at Parsons before he transmitted.

      "And for the record, you're buying the first pint when we get home." Tim pointed at his superior, and turned toward the street. The COM chirped, and McManus gave the order. "Covering fire in five! Direct fire seven-five meters up the street! Fire for effect, baby!"

      The two snipers reached into their flak jacket pockets and pulled out high explosive grenades. They lobbed them at a pair of Elites on the right side of the street and began to run backwards in a crouched position, firing off rounds from their pistols as they went. The cases of each semi-explosive round flew off and to the right as the two snipers moved from cover to cover, sidearms held with both gloved and dirty hands, weary arms up and extended. The covering fire from the combined Minutemen/Marine force at the manhole was extraordinary. Tracer fire from Marine-modified MA5B assault rifles and Battle Rifles laced the air with streaks of light, mixed with the faint trails of grenades, fuses "cooked" and exploding in the air. The hail of bullets and shrapnel only managed to occasionally strike the Elites and Grunts as the larger aliens shields flashed and washed their bodies in amber light.

      The trained eyes of both snipers caught a glimpse of one unlucky blue Elite in the open as its shield dropped, telltale sparks of light flicking off its body. Without hesitation, the two sharpshooters turned their weapons in its direction and fired. Parsons missed high and right, but McManus punched two rounds, one after the other, into the Elite's large chest. The invader clutched a hand to the wounds as it fell backwards. Both snipers hoped the wound was mortal, but they didn't have time to check. Parsons could see the Wraith tank boost forward, heading directly for the demo charges. The Corporal found the largest piece of cover he could find, a large overturned dumpster on the right side of the street. He turned and ran for it, McManus hot on his heels, covering their retreat.

      "Fire in the hole!" McManus yelled as he leaped over cover. "Blow it, Tonsi!"

      From back by the manhole, First Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi flipped a switch and exposed a small button on a wireless transmitter. This one's for you, McHale he thought solemnly, and pressed the button twice. He could hear the explosion and felt a mild concussion from the blast, but he couldn't see the effect. He hoped McManus or Parsons could.

      Ron Parsons felt a large amount of satisfaction as the charges went off underneath the Covenant armor, nearly flipping the tank over onto the Elites and Grunts alongside it. It was like he was blowing up his own self-pity. The Wraith had boosted just before it reached the explosives, and at the moment of detonation, the front right wing of the tank had passed over the charges. Had it been centered on the tank, the explosion might have completely destroyed it, but it only served to provide a large amount of flying debris and put tremendous upward force on the right side of the Covenant armor. The Wraith tank lifted high off the ground and teetered on the brink of flipping upside down. Instead, the Wraith found its center of gravity and righted itself, landing on the street, embedding itself almost two feet into the pavement. The Wraith's gravity propulsion drive had been destroyed, and the behemoth sat stubbornly, mired in the middle of a firefight.

      Several Covenant had been thrown into buildings on either side of the street by the sheer force of the blast, others had been impaled or crushed by nearby debris thrown out by the explosion. The Covenant force had been decimated, and both snipers eliminated the remaining Cannon Grunts in the confusion of the blast. Only a few Elites remained, taking cover behind the tank as the main turret struggled to compensate for the loss in power. Parsons and McManus were close enough to hear the Elites shouting orders amongst themselves, though it was hard to follow the conversation with the COM transmissions going over the airwaves. For a few frantic seconds, Parsons and McManus could hear both sides of the conflict clearly. They were in the middle of organized chaos. The Elites were trying to take back the initiative, and the humans were doing their best to kick the aliens while they were down.

      "Re-route the main power!" A scarlet-colored Elite ordered as it fired off a Carbine.

       "Keep firing on that position! Priority on that red one!" The Marine Gunnery Sergeant was assuming command over by the manhole. Parsons guessed that Tonsi was too far away to pull rank.

      "The tank cannot continue, excellency!"

       "Russ, get up here, on the quick! Spank that tank!"

      "With haste! Get the cannon online!"

       "Keep firing, Godammit! Russ, let me know when you're set."

      "Main cannon operational! I cannot see the enemy, excellency, they are concealed!"

       "In position, sir. Tube locked and hot."

      "Forward! By the rings, we shall draw them out!"

       "Firing! Anti-tank rocket away!"

      "A heavy assault weapon! Osha', leave the tank now!"

      The Corporal turned his head and squinted at the Minuteman/Marine position. From behind an overturned Warthog, a Marine had appeared with a man-portable rocket launcher, and Parsons whipped his head forward to track the fast moving, low flying rocket as it trailed white smoke to the target, almost skimming off the ground. It passed Parsons in an instant; the sniper had trouble tracking it all the way to the Wraith. The rocket rose off from its path just slightly, impacting with the base of the tank's main turret, destroying the tank completely. Explosions burst out of the inside of the tank and only two Elites were able to clear the blast radius. One blue Elite tried to make it to cover, but was cut down in a hail of rifle fire. The final Elite, the scarlet officer that Parsons assumed was in command of the attack, hid behind the tank briefly, then appeared with a plasma sword. It didn't make sense to anyone but Parsons. The mad, roaring, frontal assault the Elite was attempting was not supposed to succeed. It was supposed to lead to his death, a release from the pain of losing his entire force. For a moment, Parsons felt pity for the alien. He recalled how it had called one in the tank by name. They had names, and probably had emotions. Ron thought he knew how it felt. It probably felt guilty, like him. Parsons steadied his shaking hands and put the Elite out of its misery. It fell on its side mid-stride, dead before it hit the ground. In a small way, Parsons wished he was that Elite.

      "Nice shot, Ronnie," McManus teased him, but Parsons didn't laugh. He wanted to delete the translation software, tactical advantage be damned. It had just put gray into his black-and-white war.

      The manhole position had been saved, and the snipers could hear small cheers coming up from fifty meters behind them. Parsons ejected a clip from his sidearm and slid in a new magazine. He slapped it home and flicked on the safety, and then heard something he had not heard all night. Silence. Nothing but the whispering winds going through open caverns of bombed out office buildings and plasma fires crackling from Covenant tanks. No gunfire. No orders. No death. Silence. Parsons shook his head slightly, and felt a hand on his shoulder. His partner, Tim McManus, offered his other hand in a quick, firm handshake.

      "Let's go home, buddy." McManus said, and patted Ron's shoulder. In his eyes, Parsons knew Tim understood. McManus knew how he felt, the guilt and the burdens he carried. McManus carried them with him. He was a good partner.

      Parsons turned to face the manhole. His guilty mood was beginning to lift, and for that he was grateful. " First round on me, eh?" The Corporal asked.

      "And...," McManus attempted, "another person I choose?"

      Parsons looked to his left at the raised eyebrows of his partner. "You've got a girlfriend now, Timmy?" The mood, Parsons was realizing, was rapidly receding. It felt good to banter again.

      The younger of the two snipers lowered his eyes and kicked a rock down the street. "Well, I wouldn't call her a girlfriend, but-"

      "She's hot, female, and alive."

      "Sir, I find all those qualities to be in abundance in this young lady." McManus.

      "Do me a favor, McMan," Parsons said, rubbing the shorter sniper's head roughly, "stop talking smart for about five minutes. You'd probably score a better looking broad."

      "Sure, buddy," Tim replied, "I'll be sure to hang on to the first girl that comes running after I call her a 'broad'. God, and you do actually succeed with the ladies!"

      They both laughed a cathartic laugh; a laugh that can only come after a long time of suffering, when the first humorous moment turns into an uncontrollable moment of joy; an erasure of doubt, guilt, and sorrow. They had earned that laugh.

      "Check it out," McManus noted, nodding above the ruined apartment building that had been the cause of the entire street battle. Now that the building had been reduced to rubble, the two could see the beginning of daybreak, a new day peeking above the ruined roofs of Boston. Pinks and oranges fought hard with the dreary grays of war, and the settling dust and silt filtered the beginnings of light in a comforting way. Parsons stared at what was left of the old apartment building, squinting even in the darkness.

      "Must be windy," Parsons said, pointing, "look, little pieces of rubble have gotten blown down the pile."

      "That can't be," McManus, ever the brain, replied, "cross-breezes aren't strong enough at street level. Besides, wind's going in the other direction."

      "Listen, Timmy, I can see it clearly," Parsons countered. He raised his heavy sniper rifle to his eye. "Yeah, there are two trails of loose rock; wait, now there's four. They're falling down...the...pile..." The Corporal's blood ran cold once more, and the sick feeling he had felt before now doubled in intensity. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair! "Oh God, please God, no. Please, no." The sniper started babbling. Tim McManus, concerned at his partner's behavior, looked at the pile of rubble, and grabbed the sniper rifle from Parsons hands.

      It had been hard to see with the barely rising sun, so Parsons had not been sure. But now Ron Parsons was absolutely sure. He had seen four distinct shimmers of shapes slide down the piles. The light of the sun had played off them in an odd way, the way it did through light-bending active camouflage. It suddenly made sense why the Covenant had taken such a long and obvious route down the street. Everyone, just as yesterday, had focused on one side. No one had watched their backs. Parsons almost choked himself in the action of turning on his throat mike.

      "Tonsi! Connor! Everyone! Special Ops Elites on your six!"

      Before Parsons was finished with his sentence, Mahmoud Tonsi knew that his day had come. It was not that he had resigned himself to his fate, but Tonsi had been hunted by Covenant once before, and he knew one day they would find him. As soon as Parsons desperate message reached the group, Tonsi ran for the alleyway that he had kept his tactical pack of demolition supplies. The curly haired, Middle Eastern demolition expert felt like he was running in slow motion. He felt like he was running in a bad dream where his enemies could run as fast as they wanted, but Tonsi, no matter how hard he willed it, would never be fast enough to evade.

      Mahmoud's senses were heightened from adrenaline and his determination to fulfill his final duty. He could hear the gravel underneath Seamus Connor's boots as the Irishman pivoted, M90 shotgun raised. He could hear the scuffling of boots as all those by the manhole turned to engage their unseen enemy. He could smell the stench of plasma fires upwind. As he ran to the alleyway, he could see every stitch and tear in his tactical pack. He felt the air parting around him as he heard the simultaneous thunderclap of multiple energy swords being engaged. The combined electricity to his right put the hair on the back of his neck on end, and he could smell a vague acidic smell that he had never smelt before, a consequence of the plasma exposed to the air, perhaps.

      As he ran for his tactical pack, Mahmoud Tonsi turned to his left and saw the manhole, open and dark. He knew that was as close as he would ever get. The words entered his mind on instinct:

      "For those who are slain in the cause of Allah, He will admit them to the Paradise He has made known for them."

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 12
Date: 7 February 2005, 1:33 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 12

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Dawn

      First Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi was about to die; there was no doubt in his mind. To the ranking demolition expert of the Minutemen, it seemed inevitable that he would be killed at the hands of the Covenant. As he ran toward an alleyway, Tonsi was no longer on Commonwealth Avenue in the middle of the evacuated city of Boston during the most desperate fire fight in the history of the Minutemen. Instead, he was one and a half years in the past; he was huddled in a lonely corner, dripping and dark, hungry and delusional. It had been like that every day for a week since the blown missions to retake what had been New York city. The twenty-one year-old, middle-eastern UNSC Marine had the unenviable job of "Tread Jockey", directing and providing fire for close-contact tank battles. The job had a 10% survival rate, as Mahmoud had learned later. Somehow, he had walked away unscathed from three destroyed Scorpions and several crashes during his highly decorated career. He had been one of six to survive the Battle of Brooklyn Bridge, and he had followed protocol by getting the hell out of Dodge and retreating to the rally point outside of New York. The only problem with that plan had been the pursuing Covenant. After all the other scattered missions around the city ended in abysmal failure, the Covenant had decided to chase the Marines out of the city, finishing them off at their rally point. When Tonsi arrived late with the five other survivors, they found nothing at their rally point but charred husks of bodies and utterly destroyed vehicles. Somehow the six remaining UNSC personnel had found two operational Warthogs just outside the rally point and had hightailed it to the nearest city they could find. That had led the soldiers to Boston. However, unbeknownst to Tonsi, it also brought a squad of Special Force Elites with them, the aliens intent on making the Battle of Brooklyn Bridge a total victory.

      For an entire day the UNSC soldiers tried to make contact with anyone inside the city, only to find nothing but deserted streets and spoiled food. Had they tried to search underground, they might have stumbled upon the refugee camps and the Minutemen, but they were not allowed the luxury of time. The Covenant kill squad would dictate the humans' plans from now on. By nightfall, the Covenant squad was going hunting. Tonsi never saw the first kill, but he saw the corpse, or rather, what had been left of it. Most of the men recalled seeing the Private turn a corner into an alleyway, then reappearing above them, impaled through a flagpole on the street ahead. Combined with the hasty retreat and complete loss of morale, panic set in right away. By the end of the second night, another Marine was dead, and they had used half their ammo firing into the darkness. Tonsi ordered the Marines to start traveling in pairs, but it didn't matter. They only made it an extra day before the Covenant stuck again. Tonsi and three other Marines were patrolling their block when the lead pair suddenly dropped dead, without a word, sight, or sound. To this day, Mahmoud had no idea how the Elites had done it.

      The Marine First Sergeant and his partner seemed to have been spared, but if it had been up to Tonsi, he would have rather been a mutilated corpse. For the next two days, the two Marines led a ghostlike existence, a waking nightmare, a Hell on Earth. Tonsi and his partner didn't sleep, and during the night they could hear the Elites talking about the death they had in mind for the Marines. The Elites were playing with the humans now, seeing how long it would be before the humans cracked. They didn't have to wait long for their reward.

      For Mahmoud, it was always the same. Every night since he would try to sleep and be forced to dwell on the events of that night one and half years ago. The last surviving Marine with Tonsi was named Alex Jacobs, a fine Marine and heck of a lucky guy. He had survived just about everything: Pelican crashes, plasma bolts, sword Elites...Alex had had more stories than any two Marines combined. In the middle of another rainy, terror-drenched night, his luck finally ran out, and Tonsi had a story he could never tell. Without so much as a warning, Mahmoud had drawn his M6D pistol and put a hollow-point round in the back of Jacobs head.

      Tonsi had never understood why he did it. For over a year he wondered at what point he lost it and why. Did he not want to witness Jacobs death at the hands of the Elites? Was it guilt at the loss of men under his command? Was it hunger? Was it insomnia? Had he just gone completely insane? For two days no one could tell the middle-eastern soldier why but a corpse in the middle of an abandoned clothing store, the cold gray eyes always staring into Mahmoud's soul. It was those questions that brought Mahmoud to the light that very night. In the middle of the darkness, Mahmoud found truth. In his Marine tactical pack, underneath a stash of MREs, was a book, given to him by his father. His Koran.

      The Marine had never been a religious man, despite coming from a deeply pious family that had always tried to get their son to see the light of Islam. It was not that Mahmoud did not believe in God, it was just that he had never seen the point of competing religions, always jockeying for souls. For one night, these arguments were lost on Tonsi as he picked up his copy of the holy text. Mahmoud was sure of death that night, it stared him in the face from the middle of the room, and the UNSC soldier just didn't care anymore. He picked up the book and started reading. The Elites never entered the store that night or the day afterward. To Mahmoud, it was as if Allah was making His point. The next day, the demolition expert had read the book cover to cover and set it down on the floor. He walked over to Jacobs corpse and closed the milky gray eyes. Blessed with a near-perfect memory, Mahmoud turned the body on its back and folded the arms, quoting a passage of the Koran. It was as if Allah had said it specifically for Tonsi:

      "Whoever killed a human being...shall be regarded as having killed all mankind; and whoever saved a human life shall be regarded as having saved all mankind."

      The path was clear to Tonsi. He had committed one of the most mortal sins, but the rest of his life could be spent in redemption, in the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful. First, he had to rid himself of the Covenant presence on his block. In the light of day, Tonsi started setting up explosive booby traps up and down the block. They were nearly undetectable; they were improvised devices created by an inspired genius. Two days later the block was ripped to shreds, the entire Covenant hunting party blown up by the greatest explosives engineer the Minutemen would ever see. The destruction brought the militia's attention on Mahmoud's block in seconds. He could still remember the team as it came in, shocked that someone was still alive in that section of the city. He remembered the Captain, Jack O'Shea, first in the room, Battle Rifle sweeping across the room. They had cleared the room in a perfect stacking formation, and O'Shea and Ibanez were immediately on Tonsi, providing him aid. He was saved; he had been provided a second chance to right his most grievous wrong, but Tonsi knew he would have to pay for them one day. As he was tended to by the Minutemen's ranking medic, Mahmoud finally talked to a live human being for the first time in days. The first words Mahmoud said were from the Koran, "We have given you a glorious victory, so that Allah may forgive your past and future sins!"

      An explosion mixed with Elite and human screams echoed down the alleyway; rubble skittered into tiny gap between houses and settled at the Minuteman's feet. The sudden close-contact battle that raged behind Mahmoud mattered little to him. He knew there was little he could do in combat against those Elites, so he would do what he could to change the circumstances in his favor. The demolition expert slid to his knees and proceeded to rip open his tactical pack. Amongst wires, plastic explosives in watertight bags, switches, tools, and his Koran, there was a vest. It took up much of the bulk of the pack, so when Mahmoud grabbed it out, he spilled the bag's other contents around him in the alley. He looked like a child, hunched over, enthralled with a new toy, other playthings strewn about as he worked. It was a simple contraption; the vest bulged in many areas, but it did not appear to be different from a slimmed-down flak jacket or a standard combat vest. On closer inspection, however, one would note the wire coming down from the vest into a handheld transmitter. The plastic explosives and ball bearings hidden in the vest were almost impossible to detect.

      Mahmoud had to work hard to drown out the confusion on the COM. Amid the hail of gunfire, he could hear bursts of transmissions in his right ear.

       "Contact right! Aim to the right of the sword!"

      "Fuck! Peters, your six!"

      "Watch that crossfire! Shit, Gunny's down! Gunny's down!"

      "Grenade out!"

      "Where'd it go? Oh shi-"

      The explosion of a grenade sounded behind Tonsi; he realized he didn't have much time left. If they were using grenades in the open street... Tonsi's thought trailed off. This is bad. Real bad. The demolition expert quickly shrugged off his flak jacket and tossed it heavily to the ground. He dropped to one knee and slid his arms through the explosive vest, zipping it up quickly and securing the transmitter in his right pocket. He couldn't let it go off before his time, he had to have his sacrifice mean something. Tonsi looked to his right and allowed himself a moment of reflection as he looked at his battered MA5B assault rifle. The firearm had been dinged and scratched many times through its history, but Tonsi kept it well oiled and cleaned every day. It had never failed its master. The foregrip had been exchanged for an E203 grenade launcher, which had proved useful more than once on the battlefield. The added launcher made the rifle rather bulky and heavy to carry, but Mahmoud carried a much heavier burden in his soul. The rifle was a trivial matter. Turning right, he scooped up his tactical helmet, glimpsing his inspiration inside the Kevlar webbing.

      Mahmoud thought about the inspiration the other Minutemen carried within their helmets. The Captain had his wife and kids. Ibanez had kept a picture of his old house. Parsons had...well, Parsons had several photographs. Tonsi had no need for pictures, his inspiration came in text. In Arabic script, Tonsi had written a favorite battlefield verse from the Koran, "Allah loves those who fight for His cause in ranks as firm as a mighty edifice." He fixed the helmet firmly over his dark, curly hair, and turned on his heel to face the battle. The buildings on either side made the alleyway pitch black even in the light of the rising Sun, while the street beyond glowed in a rosy hue of dawn. The alleyway looked like the hallway to Paradise, in truth, it was exactly the opposite.

      As soon as Tonsi could see out of the alley, he knew something was wrong. After the air had been split with death, the war cries of Elites, the firing of rifles and the explosions of grenades, Tonsi heard nothing. Even while staring out the widening sliver of light onto the street, Mahmoud could only see drifting smoke and settling debris. Most disturbing were the COM channels, or rather, the lack thereof. Seconds ago, Mahmoud had been buffeted by desperate instructions and the last words of dying men. Now, his right ear was filled with nothing but the standard spots of static. He slowly crept up the alleyway toward the street, his eyes burned with intensity as he tried to lift the darkness himself. He stalked down the alleyway, rifle shouldered and waiting for an Elite to step into his path. Koranic passages popped into his head as clearly as his own thoughts, comforting him. "Let those who would exchange the life of this world for the hereafter, fight for the cause of Allah. Whether he dies or triumphs, on him we shall bestow a rich recompense." After what seemed like an eternity, Tonsi reached the street, and slowly peeked around the corners. He saw a catastrophe. He saw a slaughter.

      The Minutemen and Marines were in the center of the street, ten meters from the manhole, now completely surrounded. Five sword bearing Elites ringed the small security perimeter, slowly advancing, swords at the ready. In the middle of the human circle, Tonsi could see Marines and Minutemen dragging wounded or dead comrades into the circle of protection. The soldiers still living were staring at their enemy, their weapons fairly shaking from weariness and strain. They backed away slowly, not daring to take their eyes off the large swords the Elites were wielding. Many were wounded. Fallen soldiers were all over the street, some were inside the circle with gaping holes in their bodies, still smoking from their sword wounds; others outside the circle had less noticeable wounds, many from friendly fire. One Marine was badly wounded and obviously in shock, poking at the bullet holes and shrapnel in his armor. His chin rested on this chest, blood trickling from his ears. An advancing Elite severed the Marines head with an easy upward stroke, the body dropped to its side as the head rolled out of view.

      Tonsi gripped his rifle tighter, knuckles turning white with stress. I'm supposed to be in that circle! He cried out in his mind. What good can I do here? Allah, show me a path! Tonsi received no reply, and so he snuck off to his right and hid behind a car, taking in the sight. He could see the red-haired Irishman, Seamus Connor, pointing his black tactical M90 shotgun left and right, not sure which of the Elites to target first. Of all the soldiers, Connor's was the only one to betray no emotion. Seamus face was set in grim determination. The Covenant had taken all of his brothers during the night, and it looked like the Irishman blamed these new Elites personally. The circle continued to contract as the Elites moved in, but neither side would make the first move. Finally, the Elites stopped. No one moved. No one spoke. Even Tonsi found his mouth open wide, but no sound escaped. In one sweeping motion, every human gun pointed toward one Elite, the leader, Tonsi assumed, as it spoke. The Elite was at least seven and a half feet tall in gleaming white armor, streaked with human blood like a gory sash.

      "You humans are hereby taken as prisoners!"

      Tonsi stared in disbelief. Asking his question for him, Seamus Connor replied. "Covenant don't take prisoners!"

      "As I and my brothers would revel in taking your godless lives, our leaders have decreed that you shall be taken as prisoners and provide us with passage to the Beacon!"

      Beacon? Tonsi asked himself. What in Hell are they-

      "What are you talking about?" Connor shouted in confusion, his Irish brogue laying on thick. "You've destroyed every fuggin' paht of dis city! If there was a fuggin' beecon, you've prolly brooken it!"

      This caused the Elites to growl and take a few steps closer. The leader of the Elites pointed its blade directly at Connor. The sword crackled in the morning air. Tonsi noticed that Connor's finger had now settled over the trigger, and his sights were aligned perfectly with the alien. This was it.

      "You, vile human, will not speak such heresy in front of me!" The Elite was getting close, too close, its scarred white armor almost reflecting Seamus image off it. Tonsi could see its mandibles curling in anger, walking straight towards Connor's shotgun. "If you do not relent, we shall rend you limb from-"

      The Irishman's shotgun went off like a cannon, the sound of the 8 gauge shot tearing out of the barrel seemed to ricochet off the buildings lining the street; the force of the blast knocked the huge Elite on its back, a wide gaping hole visible in the center of its chest. From Tonsi's position, the last few seconds of those soldiers' lives seemed to last for hours.

      The entire circle of Minutemen and Marines opened fire on the remaining Elites, the entire area heating up with hot lead flying out of vengeful rifles. Each soldier held his ground, pouring forth wrath at each Elite, the aliens shields deflecting the bullets in every direction. The remaining Special Ops Elites charged forward, swords swinging in vicious arcs, the energy weapons leaving a trail of light as they carried on with incredible speed. For the briefest of seconds, Mahmoud believed that the humans might actually win out, carried only by the element of surprise. Then he saw a single Elite leave its feet in a towering leap, clearing easily six feet over the security perimeter, and land in the center of the circle of protection. Tonsi heard himself scream in despair as the Elite headed right for Seamus Connor, who had followed up his first round with a final shot to the leader's face. As the Irishman pumped his shotgun to chamber the next round, the Elite behind him cocked its elbow back and stabbed forward with incredible force, the electric blue blade rising at the end of the strike.

      Seamus Connor, for the first time in his life, was surprised. He was fairly certain he would die today, but he had always thought the attack would come from the front, when he ran out of ammunition. His vision went white for a second as he felt two things. First, his body temperature rose tremendously as searing pain ripped through his abdomen. Second, he felt weightlessness settle in as his body rose from the street. He slid back a little and looked down at the crackling, electric blue blade that sprouted unexpectedly from his stomach. His shotgun fell from his hands as the blade, just as suddenly as it had arrived, vanished. He felt gravity come to bear on his body as he hit the ground; his legs giving out from under him, his knee pads absorbing the unforgiving concrete.

      His last thoughts were punctuated by each additional blow that his body underwent. As his knees hit the pavement, a thought flashed in his fading mind. I died in battle. He felt disembodied, each action growing more numb as if it were happening to someone else. Seamus couldn't even hear the guns going off beside him. It was as if the world had just been submerged underwater. His head swam as his body pitched forward, the air rushing past his face as the pavement came up to meet him. I died with my brothers. His face collided with the cold, hard street as the rest of his lifeless limbs followed. He might have broken his nose, but that didn't matter. As an afterthought, his feet hit the ground last, and he managed to scrape his face along the pavement as he turned his head to the left. He could see Mahmoud Tonsi behind a car, firing his assault rifle, screaming in anguish. He could see the suicide jacket strapped to his commanding officer's body. He saw Tonsi stop firing and he stared into Connor's eyes. As Connor vomited blood on the streets of Boston, a final thought crept into his mind, sluggish but clear:

      A sacrifice for a just cause. I died well. Then darkness. Nothing.

      "Every soul shall taste death. We will prove you all with evil and good. To Us you shall return." The passage burst into Mahmoud Tonsi's mind as he saw Connor's eyes glaze over. His confidant, his partner, the one he had fought beside every day was gone. He remembered the hazy nights at the bar, going against the Prophet Muhammed's teachings and drinking Irish whiskey with the Connor brothers, singing joyous IRA anthems. He remembered pride and pain, the victories over Covenant, the lives he and Seamus had saved together. He remembered the pain he had shared watching each Connor brother die, and Tonsi couldn't even help him. Couldn't even hold him in his dying moments.

      I COULDN'T EVEN HELP HIM! Tonsi screamed in his mind as he fired his rifle again. He was paying for his sins with every life taken in front of him. The Elites either did not realize he was outside the circle or they did not care; they continued to sever the humans from their lives one by one. Once Connor went down from the Covenant warrior inside the circle, it was over. The Minutemen and Marines were flanked, and they were slaughtered like cattle. Only one other Elite succumbed to its wounds, finally toppling over from the combined fire of three Battle Rifles. Then all three Minutemen had died in one stroke, a hulking Elite drew its powerful blade from right to left and sliced through each body. The street ran red with blood, only slightly tinged with blue. It was over. Silence fell on the street as the last Battle Rifle fired, a death spasm from a skewered Minuteman. It echoed down the street like a funeral bell. Three Elites remained, their white bodies stained with red, blue blood trickling from wounds. One Elite fell to its knees; it had not been willing to show weakness in front of the humans. Tonsi took in the scene as tears ran down his face. He prayed quickly for his Minutemen brothers, then turned his attention to the Marines. He prayed. Allah, the compassionate, the merciful, these men have given their lives in noble sacrifice. Bring them to Your Paradise that You have promised those who believe.

      These men had died so that others could live, but the manhole still remained open. The path was laid bare to the refugee camps, to the Captain, Gus, to Parsons and McManus, wherever they were. One final sacrifice had to be made. Slowly, Mahmoud rose up from behind his car, hands behind his head. The Elites had said they needed prisoners. They would get one at the dearest cost. As soon as he cleared the car, an Elite with its back turned to Tonsi whipped around, eyes staring into Tonsi's soul. Mahmoud was not afraid.

      "Muhammad is God's Apostle. Those who follow him are ruthless to the unbelievers but merciful to one another."

      The Elites all stared at Tonsi, and they made up the gap between them and him quickly. They towered over the human, all of them easily over seven feet tall. One of them struck Mahmoud, knocking him to the street. Tonsi got up, but remained on his knees.

      "His is the judgment, and most swift is His reckoning."

      "Who are you?" An Elite demanded.

      "My name is Captain Mahmoud Tonsi," he lied, staring straight ahead. "These were my men."

      An Elite laughed in contempt. "You command the dead? Why did you not die in glorious battle? You are a coward."

      "The unbelievers shall find none to protect or help them."

      "The fight was over before I could surrender my men." Mahmoud continued, Bile rising in his stomach. "Had you not killed so quickly, you would have gained prisoners."

      "We quelled your underling's heresy. Their swift deaths are further proof of our prowess. You shall be taken prisoner," the Elite lowered its head so it stared Mahmoud in the face, "or your death shall not be as quick. Of that you have our word."

      "The death from which you shrink is sure to overtake you."

      It was time. Mahmoud would not a get a chance like this again, not with all three of the Elites bunched around him, weakened as they were. His personal passage leaped into his mind, and Mahmoud felt his final words coming to his lips. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting dirt and blood. His sacrifice would be swift and sweet, his redemption sweeter still. His lips parted, and his right hand moved, unnoticed, for his vest pocket.

      " 'Whoever killed a human being shall be regarded as having killed all mankind; and whoever saved a human life shall be regarded as having saved all mankind.' " Tonsi said quietly as he stared straight ahead.

      "What? What do you speak of, human?"

      Mahmoud Tonsi looked up at the alien, and smiled. "Allahu Akbar." He said. God is great.

      The Minuteman pressed the single button. He could feel his soul leave his body.

      The sound of the explosion finally washed away. One hundred meters down the street, a blue eye blinked once, then twice. Then a large tear fell from it, streaking the urban camouflage paint as it ran down his cheek, then to his lips. It tasted like sadness. Corporal Ron Parsons closed his eyes behind the Oracle scope of his sniper rifle, and slowly, mournfully, scanned the battlefield. "It's clear," he said in a hoarse whisper.

      "Copy that. They're all down." Specialist Tim McManus lowered his binoculars, having witnessed Mahmoud's final act. All three of the remaining Elites were in different pieces around the point of detonation. There was no doubt it was clear. The tears were coming to McManus eyes as well.

      "We'll secure the area and extract, like the Captain ordered," Ron said, his voice coming out thick with emotion, "We'll replace the manhole and tripwire the sewer on our way out."

      Tim nodded. A solid plan. Neither of them spoke on their quick advance to the manhole. Even though it appeared clear, the Minutemen had thought themselves safe twice in the last twenty-four hours, and each time they were wrong with dire consequences. Both snipers decided they would not repeat the mistake. As they reached the manhole, McManus branched off to put one more round into every Elite while Parsons moved over to the body of Connor.

      Ron knelt down on the ground and removed his black knit cap. His blonde hair fell in front of his face, and he pushed it back with a bloodstained hand. "Hey, buddy," Parsons said. He didn't expect a reply, and continued on.

      "I'm so sorry, man, I'm so sorry. I got one of 'em, but they...they just moved too fast, you know?" Parsons paused as a shot rang out. Tim was being thorough. "You got one, too, I saw that one. You nailed that motherfucker in the face. You scared me a bit, I didn't know you were gonna shoot." Parsons laughed softly through his nose. "I almost shot you. But you held 'em off, bro. You held 'em off. You saved those refugees, Irish. The Covies can't follow us now. They're never gonna find us." The sniper looked off down the street. "You did good."

      Parsons moved his hand over Connor's face, closing the Irishman's eyes. "We're gonna miss you guys so much. It's not fair. It's not fucking-" tears were welling up in Ron's eyes, and he knew he had to cut it out. Tim was done checking the Elites. "We gotta go. If I'm lucky, maybe, maybe I'll see you around. Have fun with your brothers, Irish. You're missed already." Ron crossed himself slowly and rose from his kneeling position. He replaced his hat and looked around. The Marines and Minutemen laid out on the street in dozens of different positions, all of them dead, all who had different stories to tell, different experiences. Parsons would never let their sacrifice be wasted. He turned toward the manhole but paused when he saw something in a nearby alleyway. He jogged over, disappearing into the darkness, then returned a few moments later.

      "Whatcha got there?" McManus asked, saying his silent good-byes to other Minutemen, collecting dog tags from each body.

      "Tonsi's Koran." Parsons said, showing McManus the beat-up cover and well-thumbed pages. It looked like it had been dunked underwater a few times. McManus watched as Parsons opened his own tactical pack and slipped the book in. Parsons threw Tonsi's old, gray pack to his partner and turned for the manhole.

      "Holding on to it?" McManus asked.

      Parsons took another look at the book. "You know, I always thought Tonsi carried some kind of hidden weight with him wherever he went." Parsons said. "I always wondered how he survived that long against a Covenant hunting party."

      The two Minutemen reached the manhole. Parsons stared into the black unknown. "I never asked him about it," he continued, " 'cuz I knew he would never reply, and to be honest, I don't think I wanted to know. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Muslim, but if this book kept him going after that whole ordeal; I'm thinkin' it wouldn't hurt to hold on to it."

      McManus nodded silently and turned on his flashlight. He took a step down into the underground tunnel and looked up at the Corporal.

      "Let's go home, buddy," McManus finally said. "Hopefully the Captain's faring better than we did."

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 13
Date: 13 February 2005, 6:49 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 13

53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through the Covenant invasion of Earth
Morning/Afternoon

      Captain Jack O'Shea had once heard a saying when the insurgency against the Covenant started two years ago. "It is better to light one candle than curse the darkness." Well, O'Shea thought as he sloshed along in Boston's underground sewer system, I've lit my flashlight, and it's not doing a god damn thing. I feel free to curse the darkness. The Captain could see the cone of light coming from his Battle Rifle's attached flashlight, it was as if the darkness itself was suffocating his light, ringing it with blackness. He swept it along the walls of the sewer, bulging tiles and rusting grates showing indications of water damage after two years of neglect. Jack was confident the tunnels would hold, though. The Captain was moving quickly, and he was reasonably sure of how far they had gone, but he had little idea of just how much time had elapsed since he and the four other Minutemen had found a manhole two hundred meters up the street. They had been lucky then. Now O'Shea found himself wondering how long their luck would last.

      Jack found himself being too careful. Checking around corners one too many times. Jack knew where it was coming from; it was coming from doubt. Not the paralyzing doubt that had struck him on the street battle before, but it was a constant reminder every time he ordered his men forward into an area he had not personally checked before. It was holding them back, and there was at least one life depending on him to be efficient with time. Jack had to remind himself there was a wounded Marine behind him, carried via stretcher; and that he had a time limit on his life. O'Shea took a knee as he removed a laminated, waterproof map out of a cargo pocket on his urban camouflaged trousers. The two assault Minutemen behind him moved ahead at either end of a T junction and peeked left and right. The medics crouched behind O'Shea and kept the stretcher aloft over the dirty sewer water. O'Shea looked behind him and motioned to the ranking medic.

      "How we doin'?" He asked quietly.

      The medic looked down at the Marine and frowned. "Could be better, could be worse. Let's not get lost."

      "No shit," O'Shea replied, and turned his attention to the map. The intricate network of sewers would have looked intimidating to the casual observer, but this was O'Shea's city. He prided himself on knowing every bit of it, even the less glorified parts. O'Shea took a small sniff of the air. It wasn't horrible, since the city had not had a working sewage system in two years, and only occasional heavy downpour came through the sewers now. That did not mean, however, that the smell had dissipated entirely. O'Shea resolved to breathing through his mouth, and also noted to clean his boots thoroughly when he got home. He moved up between the two Minutemen, and beckoned them to him.

      "Taking this right," O'Shea said, illuminating the map with a smaller, hand held flashlight. "And following the tunnel dead-on for two-zero meters, then we get to an armored door."

      "Threat level?" The Minuteman to O'Shea's right asked.

      "Minimal, but don't switch off your lights, either." O'Shea said.

      "Sir," the other Minuteman chimed in, "what if there's one of those invisible Elites down this tunnel?"

      O'Shea shook his head. "We've already come far enough. If there's one, lob a grenade so that you don't catch the shrapnel. But," O'Shea added, "I think we've come far enough, and after that explosion ten minutes ago, I'm pretty sure we won't be seeing Covenant on our way home."

      "Music to my ears, sir," The Marine said.

      "On me," O'Shea said to the medic behind them. "I'll take point."

      Ten minutes ago, O'Shea had been stalking along the tomblike sewer system when a resounding boom sent silt and other residue out of the ceiling and shook several tiles free from the sewer walls. The two Minutemen ahead of O'Shea had spun around in all directions and dropped to one knee, uttering exclamations of surprise as softly as they could in the dark environment. The noise faded behind them as the entire team remained perfectly still. Jack had stopped mid-stride and lowered his head. Despite losing COM contact underground, he had a very good idea what had caused that explosion and what had been at stake when it went off. The leader of the Minutemen had seen Tonsi tinkering with his vest before the Minutemen had gone off on missions, and while he had expressed reservations about a ready-made explosive device coming out to battle almost every day, Mahmoud would never let it be otherwise.

      Jack's mind drifted to a scene almost a month ago as the Minutemen started walking to battle, and the Captain had finally put his foot down.

      "Tonsi," O'Shea had said, standing in front of the smaller middle-eastern man, "not today. That's an order."

      "This goes further than you know, sir." Mahmoud had said. "My order for this comes from higher-up in the chain of command."

      At that moment one month ago, Seamus Connor had walked by, M90 shotgun over his shoulder, and slapped Tonsi upside the helmet. "Ah, he ain't gonna fuggin' die on my watch, Cap," the Irishman had said, arching his red, bushy eyebrows. "Trust me, I'm gonna give it me 'All-ah'."

      The Captain and Tonsi had both laughed at the horrible pun. O'Shea recalled how he had put his hand on Mahmoud's shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. "You're never going to have to use that," Jack said seriously, more a father-figure than a commanding officer.

      "Insha Allah, sir," Tonsi had replied, a warm smile on the man's face. God willing.

      As the explosion had faded, The Captain shook his head slightly. His last act Jack had thought. Must have been for a good reason, but dammit, I didn't even get a chance to say good-bye. The Captain's head had hung with regret for a second as he said a silent prayer for his friend. He had looked up, and looked into the eyes of his weary Minutemen. Their eyes showed grit and determination, but they looked to him for hope.

      A distinctive snap of a chemical light being cracked snapped Jack back into the present. The two Minutemen were on either side of a rusted door, and one Minutemen had cracked open the chemical light to get a better look at the large slab of metal. O'Shea blinked in amazement. Had I been that absorbed in my thoughts? Jack thought. He shook his head briefly to clear it, then checked behind him. Both medics were behind O'Shea, safe and secure, but the ominous darkness was too thick for the Captain's liking. He pointed to one of the Minutemen, then gestured to the medics. "You've got rear guard," he ordered. The Minuteman gave a soft "Huah," and sloshed over to the medics, taking a knee and probing his light into the darkness. The Captain pulled out his map again.

      "Here we are," O'Shea said optimistically, stabbing a finger into the map and showing it to the other Minuteman. The other Minuteman cocked his head sideways to see the map and his brow furrowed. He did not share his commanding officer's good feeling.

      "Sir," The Minuteman said uncertainly, "this leads to the subway tunnels."

      "That's correct, Private," O'Shea replied, working on the door latch. A large padlock stood in the Captain's way. He frowned at it, as if the lock would understand his predicament and fall apart under his stern gaze.

      "But sir," the Minuteman continued, "aren't the Drones attracted to the subway tunnels? The Marines say they kinda 'nest' there, and they get awfully angry when you walk in."

      "They used to." Jack said nonchalantly, almost smiling. He knew where this was going.

      "Well what happened, sir?" The Minutemen asked. At the conclusion of his question, O'Shea brought the butt of his weapon to bear on the lock. The flimsy, aging metal broke easily, the metallic jangling echoing down the sewer. The Captain put his hand on the door's substantial handle and turned it. Jack looked at the questioning soldier.

      "We stumbled on a solution, actually." He explained. "The Connor brothers were fooling around, and suggested jokingly that we try a common substance. We employed it, and I actually think the Marines are using it on a much larger scale now."

      "What did they suggest, sir?" The young man asked.

      O'Shea chuckled audibly to himself. "Have you ever heard of 'Raid'?" The Captain asked, and flung open the door.

      Even though Jack was opening the door from one small underground tunnel to another, larger underground tunnel, the shift in lighting was almost blinding to the Minutemen. O'Shea found himself turning away and shielding his eyes briefly before quickly turning left out the door and clearing the immediate vicinity. The closest Minuteman was right behind O'Shea and peeled to the right, weapon at the ready. Even though Jack knew they were only thirty or so meters from home, he knew that you could be killed thirty meters or thirty kilometers from your home; distance did not matter. O'Shea heard a whispered, "Clear" behind him, then beckoned for the medics and remaining Minuteman to come out.

      O'Shea noticed the medics had hurried out the door rather quickly. They were handling the stretcher bearing the wounded Marine much more gently, however. He also read their faces and saw concern etched across their features.

      "A problem?" O'Shea probed.

      The ranking medic nodded. "He's starting to slip, sir. With respect, are we there yet?"

      O'Shea pointed forward into the darkness. "Thirty meters," he replied. "Let's move it. Minutemen," Jack called to the two soldiers bearing weapons, "on the quick! Let's go!"

      The surviving Minutemen did not sprint to the camps, but they went at a very fast jog. O'Shea took point as the other two Minutemen followed on his left and right in a wide tactical wedge, the beams of their flashlights sweeping back and forth, constantly scanning, always alert. Finally, O'Shea glimpsed hope. On the right side of the subway rails, a door appeared. No one but O'Shea would have seen the door, since there was no knob, no handle, nothing to indicate the perfectly smooth tile surface of the tunnel was anything but. O'Shea had recognized the grouting used to fuse the tiles around the edge of the door, specifically, the wider amount of grout separating the tiles from each other. O'Shea halted suddenly, and he could hear the sounds of cloth, loose metal, and boot soles as the two Minutemen came to a quick stop behind him. The Captain quickly traced his hand down the seemingly invisible frame until he came to the bottom tile. While all the other tiles were a variety of whites and dull greens, O'Shea had found the one tile in the entire tunnel that was a muted red. The captain pushed on the top-right corner of the tile and the bottom-left corner flicked out. Jack turned the corner to the right and exposed a small gray switch.

      "This is some covert stuff, Cap," one of the Minutemen said behind O'Shea.

      "Yeah, if you tell anyone, I'll have to kill you." Jack muttered, and flicked the switch.

      Without a sound, a four-foot by six-foot door opened into another smaller tunnel, this one lit by several red lights, looking like a maintenance access way. The Captain stepped back, and waved the Minutemen through. The two hustled in, followed closely by the medics and the stretcher. O'Shea gave a quick scan around the tunnel before replacing the tile over the switch. He went to close the door but took one more moment to take a second look. Nothing moved, only a faint dripping sound indicated the movement of anything in the tunnel. O'Shea, finally certain that they had not been followed, closed the door silently as he took one last look at the light at the end of the tunnel. The end of the day, Jack thought. Finally going home.

      The small tunnel bathed the five Minutemen in red light. The tunnel itself could barely hold two soldiers walking abreast, so O'Shea found it a little inconvenient to wiggle past the stretcher and the other two soldiers, but eventually he made it to another small door. The Captain took off his helmet and leaned his head down next to a stainless steel door with a tiny circular grate and a pulsing red button. The Captain turned his head and got the attention of the group.

      "Don't make a sound," O'Shea instructed. "I've never seen what happens when someone gets the code wrong."

      Jack cleared his throat, and pushed the pulsing red button. A small tone sounded, almost echoing in the deadly silent tunnel, and O'Shea spoke slowly and clearly. "Captain Jack O'Shea," he said, and paused. "Sinn Fein." One of the Minutemen cocked his head to the side, not understanding as the door slid upwards.

      "Shin Fain?" The Minutemen asked, pronouncing the words as he had heard them.

      "A small joke from the Connor brothers," Jack said as he put his combat helmet under his arm and ran a hand through his short hair. "It was a political party in Ireland. It means, 'Ourselves, alone.'" The Captain walked through the doorway and into the artificial light, inhaling a deep breath. It smelled like recycled air, assorted laundry cleaning products, sweat, and a vague hint of Cedar wood from ammunition crates. It smelled glorious.

      The three Minutemen who had been in combat walked slowly out of the tunnel as the medics hustled to Ibanez's field hospital, shouting at refugees to get out of the way. One of the Minutemen who had made the journey with O'Shea sat down on the ground, exhausted. "No place like home," he said. Jack blinked his eyes slowly and rubbed them, his body aching for rest. He watched the medics balancing the stretcher as they entered the large white structure in the middle of the camp. To call it a tent was a bit of a misnomer, in truth, it was more like a giant inflatable cubicle with white plastic walls about seven feet high, but it was still referred to as a "tent." O'Shea watched the medics enter without incident, and a few of the civilians who had volunteered as medical assistants quickly joined to do their part.

      The Captain's team had entered the underground compound from a little-known side door, meant only for emergencies, and had so far gone unnoticed. The underground compound had once been a bustling underground subway station, called "South Station" by Boston residents. It had gone through thousands of renovations in its history, but never one like the Minutemen had masterminded. It had never been designed to hold thousands of refugees, and a fully functioning militia on top of that, but we made the best of a bad situation, O'Shea thought with a small smile of pride. Of course, other branches of the Minutemen were spread along other subway stations in the city, and it had been a miracle of engineering and camouflage to convince the normally thorough Covenant that the structures were abandoned and dangerous to inspect.

      South Station had managed to keep its high ceilings, but the stained glass domes that usually cascaded colorful light on the floor had been blacked out, insulated, and soundproofed to prevent detection. Still, it kept the claustrophobia at bay. The lighting was bright enough to keep people from feeling the symptoms of seasonal depression, and the lights were always extinguished at regular times in the day to keep the civilians on regular sleep cycles. The main station that O'Shea was standing in had two rail lines running through the middle, parallel to each other, the field hospital in between. The double-decker commuter trains served as officer's quarters and Minutemen offices. Jack looked at his longingly, wondering if his wife was at home or performing one of the myriad of duties that the refugees carried out simply to survive. The Captain stood in a corner of the giant square among wooden crates stamped with the mark of the UNSC. The crates were stacked high with ammunition, weaponry, and equipment; bounty of either recovery or scavenging.

      Refugees who had been milling around the camp had just noticed that Minutemen had entered the compound, and had started gathering in groups, gossiping and pointing at the wounded Marine's armor. Jack realized the medics were the first soldiers they had seen in the last few days, and that their team, despite having a greater distance to travel, had arrived first. Not a good sign Jack thought, concerned. O'Shea realized that the survivors of the street battle, if there were any, had not yet gotten home. It disheartened him. He had prepared his heart and mind for the loss of Tonsi, and the death of Seamus seemed like a given with Tonsi's. But Parsons and McManus...Jack threw down his helmet in anger, startling the other two Minutemen.

      "What's the matter, sir?" One of them asked their irate leader.

      "Get to the COM hub, try and raise any of our guys in the field." O'Shea ordered.

      "Huah, sir. Anything you need, sir?"

      "I need to get to the hospital and help the medics."

      "Suit yourself, sir," the Minuteman said, tucking his helmet underneath his arm and saluting the Captain. "We'll find the rest o' our boys."

      Forty-five seconds later, O'Shea was surprised to walk into a hand, palm up in the "halt" signal. A short, balding man in scrubs looked up at the Captain and talked plainly to him. He always did this.

      "Can't let you in, Jack," the man explained, pointing at a curtain drawn across an operating table. The man looked at O'Shea's bloodstained and dirty uniform, urban camouflage paint streaked across the Minuteman's face. "You're not sterile, to say the least."

      O'Shea looked down at the man. He meant well, Jack knew. The tired Minuteman sighed. I don't have time to fuck around, Jack thought wearily. He pushed the medical assistant to the side, saying, "I've walked through the fucking sewer to get this Marine here. I intend to see whether he lives or dies, and there's little you can do to stop me."

      Jack turned back the sheet and took in the small conference over the Marine's body. The Marine lay on his back, blood leaking out of his stomach as the medics worked on a large hole in the man's torso. The two medics had medical aprons over their BDUs, the aprons sprayed with red in random areas. They wore sterile gloves over their bloodstained hands, masks over their mouths, and clear plastic goggles that had tiny spots of blood stuck and slightly streaking down the face of them. Apparently he had missed the dramatic opening act. A heart monitor pulsed over and to the right of the Marine's head, and the two Minutemen medics were manipulating tools with amazing speed and precision as tired as they were. They banter like Parsons and McManus, Jack thought to himself as he listened to them work. Just another old married couple. They seemed to be having a debate about how best to conclude the operation.

      "...yeah, take that parabolic-"

      "Oh you are not going to do that."

      "If you see a better way around the liver, now's the time."

      "Have it your way..."

      "Hold on to that. O.K...suction there. Goddammit, keep that lung inflated, we're going to lose even more blood."

      "He's at one-oh-three. Heart rate accelerating."

      "I know that. Don't you think I know that?"

      "Yes! Isolated the bleeding! Get that artery there!"

      "Where?"

      "Over there! I swear to God-"

      "-Got it. Keep up, man."

      "One more clamp...there! Nurse, patch that, please."

      "Touchdown, big guy. Bet you're proud of yourself."

      "I'd like to thank the Academy."

      "Ahem." O'Shea cleared his throat audibly as the two medics exchanged a high-five. The two immediately turned on their heels and faced the Captain. "Not exactly standard operating procedure, men." O'Shea observed in a serious tone, his helmet under his arm as he returned the medics hasty salute.

      "With respect, sir," One medic said, placing shiny metals tools on a used surgical tray, "you should have been here a few minutes ago. Things got...hectic, sir."

      "What's his condition?" O'Shea asked, making way for the medics as they began taking off their gory outerwear and leaving the post-operating procedure to the nurses. O'Shea traveled a short distance across the field hospital to the cleaning station. O'Shea noted how the medics traveled the entire distance with their hands in the air, not touching anything. They even turned on their sinks with their elbows.

      "He was suffering from some serious internal bleeding, sir," The ranking medic reported matter-of-factly. This was his first report to the Captain, and he wanted to make a good impression. "Broken Tibia right leg, Ulna left arm, both compound fractures. Spleen got pretty banged up, too. Two broken ribs on impact, punctured a lung after the Pelican crashed, looks like. Had we been later by about fifteen minutes, sir, he would have been out of reach. He took up a fair amount of our remaining blood supply, though."

      "We'll organize another drive." The Captain replied. "How long will he be out?"

      "He's a tough kid," the other medic said, shutting off his sink, his hands clean at last, "but he'll be combat ineffective six, seven weeks at least. Out of bed in two weeks...maybe. I'd start training him on the COM center. Low physcial stress, plus we found a lot of mechanical junk on his person. Looks like a tech to me."

      "That's good news," Jack agreed. He clapped each medic on the shoulder. "Well done, men. You guys hung tough out there, and you saved a life. No shit, hell of a good job out there. Get some rest. When you wake up, I want a report of that Marine's status on my desk."

      "Huah, sir," The two medics replied enthusiastically. The Captain noted that they responded well to praise. He noted that in the back of his head for future missions. "You want to be there when the Marine wakes up, sir?"

      O'Shea had just reached the flap of the hospital. He turned to face the two medics. They had read his mind. "He's going to have a lot of questions when he comes to," Jack nodded, "I intend to fill him in personally. He's going to want to know what happened to his fellow Marines."

      The COM center was the central nervous system of what was left of Boston. The center took up an entire car of the converted subway trains, and housed every piece of electronic hardware the Minutemen could scavenge. Small wireless cameras transmitted closed-circuit feeds of well-known Covenant positions to the myriad of screens; there were at least a dozen workstations lining the converted subway car's walls, each giving off sounds of random transmissions, both military and civilian. This was the way the other refugee camps coordinated their efforts and the Minutemen earned their legendary nickname.

      Twenty-four hours a day militia and civilians monitored the COM channels and kept tabs on the enemy, there was even an oblong holograph war table on the second story, which functioned as a makeshift war room for the Minutemen. O'Shea and some of the original Minutemen had recovered that personally from the old Boston UNSC post. The only thing the COM center lacked was a decent AI, and, Jack thought to himself as he entered, any kind of lighting. I can't see a goddamn thing.

      "How're we doing?" He asked the two Minutemen, both working diligently in their workstations. Both Minutemen and the four civilian operators stood and saluted the Captain. The civilians didn't have to, but Jack let them feel included. Made them feel more part of the team, which they were. O'Shea trusted those men with his life.

      "Sir, Master Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds has reported in with five other Minutemen, two wounded, but moving fine. ETA three minutes. He reports no pursuit, sir."

      "Understood," The Captain confirmed. "Call up whatever medical volunteers you can. Make sure they get seen right away. Anyone else?" Jack asked expectantly.

      The young Minuteman dropped his eyes to the floor, he shook his head very slightly, then returned his gaze to his commanding officer, searching his eyes with a desperation the young Minuteman had never seen before.

      "Marines? Snipers? Anyone?" O'Shea could feel his heart rate increasing.

      This isn't fair.

      "...Nothing yet, sir." The young militia soldier replied softly. "We're still scanning channels. They might be too deep underground to reach, Captain." O'Shea knew the men were trying to offer up some kind of hope to their Captain, but Jack saw through the optimistic language.

      "Understood." Jack said evenly. "Keep searching until the Master Gunnery Sergeant arrives, then you two are dismissed for the day. Go see the ones that are looking for you. Put their minds at rest." This isn't fair.

      "Yes, sir." The two replied in unison. One suddenly found the courage to speak after a brief strained silence. "Thank you, sir. Without you, I'd have never gotten back to see my folks, or my girl."

      O'Shea opened the door to leave the subway car. "It's my job," Jack said absent-mindedly, his thoughts dragging behind him as the door slid to a close with a sigh.

      As soon as the Captain of the Minutemen reached the safety of his private quarters, he dissolved. The confident, brave, sometimes crazy leader of all those left behind became nothing but a man who had seen too many of his longtime friends die in front of him. He could feel his strength and endurance fail as the door slid shut behind him, the darkness of the ground level floor closing in on him as the interior lights shone dimly to compensate for the closed blinds. He could hear the voices of all the men he had commanded. He could see the pride in a Marine's face as he volunteered to be left behind, to become nothing but target practice for cannon-wielding Grunts. He could see the murderous precision of the tank-boarding Marines, the selfless acts and booming voice of Harry McHale, the wide smile of Ibanez. All gone. Jack fell against his small kitchen sink, his elbows coming to rest at the edge of the basin, his head coming into his hands. He fell to his knees and turned, sitting with his back against the sink and his head in hands, allowing the guilt and grief to rise out of him. He sobbed like he did when he lost his children. He sobbed until his chest heaved with emotion, and his camouflage paint was smeared on his hands. He sobbed until he heard a noise on the stairs.

      The soft creak announced the only reason he was still alive. Laura was here. He looked up, his face lined vertically with tears, and saw the only look he ever saw on his wife: understanding. Her face, framed with short dark blonde hair to her chin, showed compassion and sorrow. She showed worry and overwhelming relief. Her husband had returned. Jack got up as quickly as he could as she fairly skipped down the remaining stairs, their bodies colliding in an embrace that exploded with a release of tension, all anxiety was pushed from their minds. O'Shea left his grief on the floor. His wife, his joy, his life, was in his arms.

      She pulled away from the embrace, the right side of her face smeared with the blacks and grays of her husband's "war paint". She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with happiness.

      "You're late," she said, fake exasperation choked back with tears.

      "Traffic was a war zone," O'Shea smiled; his doubt, guilt, and grief melting away in the safety and happiness of the moment. He held her tighter, lifting her short, slight frame off the floor. They both laughed for a second before they embraced again, tears of joy running down their faces, their lips pressed against one another's, days of stress, fatigue, and anxiety melting away. No other person could do this, Jack thought to himself. This is what I fight for. This is my victory. After all the hardships the pair had endured together, the strength they needed was in each other, and it was in never-ending supply.

      The Captain picked his wife up, strength suddenly returning to his body. She gave out a surprised scream, laughing happily at the return of her own emotional strength, and playfully slapped O'Shea's shoulders. The Captain dropped her on the counter of their small kitchen, and ran a hand along the side of her face. She kissed his wrist and smiled, looking into his eyes. Jack's mind wandered for a lustful second, admiring how his wife still remained fit after two years of remaining mostly underground, then he looked deep into her eyes. Grief had left. Sorrow had left. Pain, guilt, and anger, all gone. His wife took up his entire world. "Wherever I go," Jack said, whispering in the quiet of their small dark kitchen, "I will always come back to you. Always." He kissed his wife slowly, his faith fully restored. He needed no further proof that this life was worthwhile, but someone wanted to give Jack a little extra.
"
      You know, I've read it's quite healthy for older couples to maintain their...um, intimacy."

      "Naw, Cap ain't old; he's just 'grizzled.'"

      O'Shea turned quickly as two silhouettes covered the narrow space of the subway car. There, standing in the doorway, was Corporal Ron Parsons, leaning against the door to the subway car with his arms across his chest; bright blue eyes and shaggy blonde hair above a wide grin and day-old stubble. Tim McManus, though he spoke first, stood behind his commanding officer, left hand in the pocket of his flak jacket, right hand bringing a bottle of beer to his lips. Tim winked at the Captain, and toasted the couple silently with a point of his bottle. Both snipers looked like they had walked through Hell and back, pistols still holstered at their hips, uniforms still ragged, faces still painted in urban camouflage. Despite their physical appearance, though, both faces were bright and happy at the sight of their Captain alive and well. Parsons looked like he was about to burst with joy.

      Jack and Laura O'Shea laughed out loud, Laura draping her arms over Jack's shoulders. Jack stared at his two snipers and spoke in mock-anger.

      "This a violation of officer's quarters," O'Shea said, barely able to suppress his smile. "I'm going to have you two brought up on charges!"

      "Well, fuck, Captain," Parsons said, matching O'Shea's voice with mock-horror. "I didn't see a 'do not disturb' sign up!"

      "He wouldn't have listened if you had, sir," McManus laughed, punching his partner in the shoulder.

      The Captain turned and took the Corporal's hand in a solid handshake. "Good to see you, Corporal," O'Shea said with pride.

      "Good to see you, sir." Parsons replied, the grin spreading even wider across the Minuteman's face.

      As McManus entered the room, the doors closed and Laura adjusted the lights to fill the room with comforting light. It covered everyone in a healthy glow, and even the battle-hardened Minutemen took on a soft edge in the Captain's quarters. Jack shook hands with McManus and clapped him on the shoulder as Parsons kissed "Mrs. O'Shea" on the cheek. The two pairs separated briefly, and for a moment, Jack took it all in. He felt overwhelmed. His woes had been left on the street, to decay with the bodies of the Covenant. His Minutemen, what were left, had survived to continue to defend the city. They would fight again another day. The Covenant had been dealt a serious blow, and there had been sacrifices made to make sure of that. Yet as Captain Jack O'Shea looked at the scene in front of him, all he saw was triumph.

      "This is what we fight for," he said to the three in the room. "This is victory."

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston (Epilouge)
Date: 2 March 2005, 4:10 PM

Minutemen: The Battle of Boston (Epilouge)

53rd Massachusetts Milita (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Underground, South Station Refugee Camp
Midway through the Covenant invasion of Earth
Night

      Golden liquid flowed freely from a tapered black spout into a cold, clear pint glass; the firm but confident hand manipulated the vessel to capture every drop of the intoxicating beverage. The beer swirled around inside it's container; the carbonated bubbles rising and bursting at the top, a foamy head forming at the brim of the glass as the liquid overflowed, the dry fingers guiding it over the spout to ensure a fine pour. In one smooth motion, the glass came away as the flow of lager was ceased, the glass sliding to a rest near the edge of the finely polished pine bar. With a smile and a kind word shouted over the din, the glass was lifted to the patron's lips. A satisfied nod followed as Tim McManus examined the glass and toasted the Captain. "Helluva pour, Jack," the sniper complimented, then turned his attention to the Captain's right. "For Boston," the sniper saluted, raising his glass in acknowledgment of the dead men who watched the celebration in silent approval.

      Captain Jack O'Shea lifted his own pint from behind the bar and pointed the glass in the same direction. "For Boston," O'Shea echoed, and he took a long pull of the cold brew. To Jack's left, eleven shot glasses sat on the surface of the bar, each empty save a single shiny dog tag inside the tiny glasses. For the entire night the shot glasses had sat there, each a quiet monument to the men who had given the ultimate sacrifice for their city. The Captain was proud to be in their presence, and toasted along with every Minuteman as they got their drinks. Over the Captain's head, forty-nine shot glasses watched over the revelers as the tiny memorials held court over a wide assortment of bottles, the vessels of alcohol gleamed in a wide spectrum of colors from soft lights underneath. Jack turned and lifted his head to see all the former Minutemen he had the honor of fighting beside. He lifted his glass once more and drank again, the homemade brew cooling him in the crowded, humid bar. "Didn't want you guys to think I left you out," O'Shea said to his departed friends. "For Boston."

      The Last Line of Defense was an appropriate term for the pub owned and operated by the highest-ranking soldier in the city. Since the bar was tucked into the corner of the South Station refugee camp/Minutemen HQ, and remained covered by a substantial steel barrier at night, it would seem to be the logical place for Boston's last stand should the Covenant ever make it into the compound. For now, the only reminders the partygoers had of the alien presence were two tin signs that hung over the door to the bar. The first sign hung directly over the door like one of the inspirational sayings on the way out of a championship football team's locker. In orange lettering over a green background, it read, "Shoot fast. Shoot smart. Good to go in sixty seconds." The sign had seen better days, yet it had survived a year and a half of eager hands slapping it on the way out to battle. To its right, another sign hung with purple letters over a white background. It had been dinged from bottles, shot glasses, pint glasses, and other numerous projectiles that had been hurled in its general direction. It simply read, "Covenant suck."

      The only bar left in Boston had been constructed entirely from O'Shea's direction after the rest of the station had been converted to house the majority of Boston's refugees and holdouts. It was reminiscent of the old-style Irish pubs that Jack had frequented while the city was intact and Covenant-free. The fully-stocked bar was nestled in the top-left corner of the rectangular pub. The dark pine surface stretched nearly fifteen feet from end to end, and sported three gold-inlaid taps of homemade brew on either side of the bar. Behind it, three ascending rows of bottles gleamed, skinny metal pourers protruded out of each spout, allowing the bartender a sure pour every time. The shelves behind the bar had all been made of rich cherry wood, separated in the middle by a large mirror that made it seem as if there were another pub right behind it with another identical crowd reveling in victory and the joys of shared company. Above the mirror that backed the bottles was a final compartment that held the most treasured and rare liquors and spirits. It also held the Minutemen's most prized antiques and trophies, each lovingly signed by the donor. Among them was a gold Elite's helmet with a single bullet hole on the left side, signed by Ron Parsons; The old UNSC post's entrance sign; a Jackal's arm shield; numerous plasma weapons; and pieces of Boston landmarks that could not be saved. Above it all were the shot glass memorials, illuminated from below by yet another set of concealed lights.

      Polished oak paneling, light-grained and sturdy, framed each frosted window; photographs of groups of Minutemen and Boston landmarks were hung in the spaces between the windows, other pictures hung behind the bar, including the original Minutemen amongst a pile of Covenant bodies like giddy tourists on an illegal African safari. Another picture displayed the initial construction of the South Station refugee camp next to a framed photograph of the camp as it was now. The bar stools were all made of a dark-grained wood salvaged long ago, they were positioned in front of the bar and also ringed six tables dispersed around the pub. The walls had been painted a dark muted green, but the soft lighting of lanterns bolted to the walls made the room comforting to the eyes. The lighting was dim and the low ceiling made the Last Line of Defense a comfortable and intimate den, a pub filled with joyous relief, tinged with sorrow and thick with longing for those who did not make it back.

      Jack turned to his left and looked down the long bar. Someone had hopped over the pine barrier and had positioned himself under the tap, pouring a free pint. O'Shea, without hesitation, reached for a half lemon and hurled it down the bar, striking the thief in a citrus explosion.

      "Aw, for fuck's sake, Jack!" Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds exclaimed, his tongue already thick and slurring his words slightly, "It's just a pint, a lousy pint! It's not like I pay for them anyway!" Gus gripped the dripping lemon in his dark weathered hand and threw it back, missing Jack by three feet and striking another Minuteman, who was about to protest until he saw where the fruit had originated. He promptly went back to his drink.

      The Captain crossed the bar quickly and clinked glasses with his old friend. They drank together and Reynolds turned to grab a towel from the shelves behind the bar. After wiping his face clean of the stinging juice, he flipped the towel over his shoulder and clapped his commanding officer on the shoulder.

      "For Boston," Gus toasted at the fresh dog tags which still glinted merrily in the celebration. O'Shea immediately followed suit. "Glad to see you made it home, old friend. You had me worried for a bit there." Gus said.

      "Yeah," the Captain replied, "I think we were all worried for ourselves at some point back there."

      "It's always hard getting home, Jack," Gus said as he looked into his friend's eyes, which had shifted toward the shot glasses. "No regrets, now. Saved a lot of good men's lives back there."

      "No regrets." O'Shea said firmly, echoing his old militia buddy's motto. "They'll be missed. But us," he said, wrapping an arm around Gus' shoulder with a large grin, "we fight another day. Wily old bastards who are too old for this shit!"

      "Speak for yourself, old man." Reynolds taunted, downing his pint in exultation. "Me, I'm drinking 'til I'm relieved of my command."

      The two laughed long and loud, then embraced each other in a hug that spoke volumes on their friendship. Even after two years of much loss and few victories, they remained. They would be there until the end. Gus pulled away and wiped down the bar.

      "You wanna do them now?" The Master Gunnery Sergeant asked. They were eager to recognize their fellow Minutemen, but at the same time, the sooner they were done, the sooner the real party could begin.

      Jack nodded in confirmation. "Turn the music off, Gus," he said, "Let's give our men the respect they deserve."

      O'Shea took a moment to look out over the pub as the blaring music was abruptly shut off. Seconds before, there had been swaying, singing, and a couple Minutemen actually trying some awkward dance moves, their courage and coordination obviously affected by the alcohol. The bachelors were all trying to move in on one girl or another, desperately trying to get one last fling before they went out to battle again. In one corner, Parsons and McManus chatted with several young girls, and Jack shook his head in mock disapproval of the camp's most eligible bachelors. He caught the eye of his wife, Laura, talking with other wives, and pointed at the two snipers. Mrs. O'Shea rolled her eyes and laughed, as if to say, Once, mister big-shot-Captain, you were that desperate. Jack chuckled to himself and he thought of every time he told the two to cut their hair, and each time that they had looked at him like some sort of disciplinarian father. It was halfway true, though. O'Shea was the closest thing to a father that Parsons had; both of his parents had died early in the invasion, and McManus' surviving father was injured and unable to leave a camp all the way down by Boston College. Tim rarely had the chance to make it out to see his dad.

      The wives, brothers, sisters, and parents of the recently deceased were laughing and drinking even while sporting tear-stained cheeks. Jack's heart went out to them, he had told many of them that very day that those they cared so deeply for were never coming home. O'Shea knew the loneliness that would envelope them after they left the pub tonight, the emptiness and isolation they would encounter even in the crowded camp, and those who had no one to go home with had been given to other bereaved refugees for a period of time until they could resume their lives. Their lives would never go back to normal, O'Shea knew this from personal experience, but the transition would be made easier for them. As the lack of background music made its heavy presence known, the shouting and laughing died away as each head turned toward the Captain. Jack glanced to his left and saw Gus handing out bottles to many different people in the crowd, then returned to his friend's side. The Captain filled his pint glass and raised it.

      "For Boston," He said, holding his beer high.

      "For Boston!" The pub roared, and each hand lifted a glass to their lips.

      Jack took his time as he stood on the bar and overlooked the entire crowd. It was ceremony, and O'Shea knew it was important that every dog tag, every name on those thin pieces of metal, be recognized. He cleared his throat and spoke loudly and clearly.

      Several hundred miles away, there was no drinking, no revelry, and no sense of victory. Instead of the pungent aroma of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, secrecy and subterfuge hung thick in the air, clouding even the clearest of minds. With a soft swoosh, a blue-green man dressed in late nineteenth-century garb appeared in the darkness.

      "Commander, my mission timer shows the team is five minutes out. You asked to be updated."

      The stern, authoritative voice spoke from the shadows of the office. "And the scans? What are they giving off?"

      "I have been monitoring all UNSC frequencies in the vicinity. They don't have a clue."

      "Good."

      "Tonight we recognize the sacrifice made by good men to protect other good men and women. I salute their sacrifice and mourn their loss equally. They died to serve a purpose higher than ourselves against an enemy that knows not the value of life. They died to ensure our survival. They chose a life of service; and tonight, their service is recognized. I can vouch for all of these men and tell you tales of their valor and strength, but those who would like to share their lives to us, I hope that you would. The bar is open."

      "Commander, the team has landed."

      There are few things more effective than boots on the ground, the man thought upon hearing the news. A worn and weathered hand came up to stubble-covered chin and scratched thoughtfully. "And the drop?" He asked with interest.

      "My scans have shown minimal IR radiation. Nearly perfect, sir. Invisible."

      "The Blackspear was worth every penny." The man commented to himself.

      "Indeed, Commander."

      "Inform the dropship to return to base. After you issue the RTB order, open a secure line to the team. I want to talk to them one last time."

      "Yes, sir."

      One by one, family members, fellow Minutemen, and friends stood on the bar and eulogized the fallen. After each dog tag was placed by a family member or friend on the top shelf of the bar with the other past Minutemen, a toast of "For Boston!" went up, and the crowd drank to their memory. The tears flowed freely and the laughs were long and loud, the loudest of them yet were for Harry Ibanez as his wife told of the medic's bungling marriage proposal six months ago, and the missing ring during the wedding ceremony a month afterwards. Parsons and McManus argued back and forth about Harry McHale's selfless acts of bravery and the creative string of cuss words the Minuteman was able to conjure on command. Finally it was Jack's turn to tell the stories of those still left on the bar.

      Jack took up four shot glasses in his left hand and examined them under the light of the pub lanterns. "Michael, Gerry, Rory, and Seamus Connor," Jack said, "The Connor brothers. Of all the structures they helped to make in this camp, this bar was their very favorite. If I ever let them, I think they would have lived on the bar floor than in the comfort of their tents." Laughs and applause drifted out of the crowd. "If we ever doubted that the four were linked by some kind of telepathic bond, all we had to do was make fun of one of them, and they would all reply at once in the same sentence, no matter where they were." The crowd laughed appreciatively once more. The four Connor brothers had been favorites among the refugees.

      "The only enemy the Connor brothers feared were each other, and I think we can all agree when I say that this pub had more damage done to it by those four Irishmen than any Covenant bombardment of any Boston structure."

      "Yeah! Then there was the time Seamus threw Rory through one o' the front windows after Rory spilled his drink!" A voice sprang up from the back, and the laughter resumed again.

      "They made every one of us laugh without exception," O'Shea continued. "They protected this camp with an iron resolve not to be matched by any for as long as I'm around. The love, loyalty, and devotion they shared with each other should be a lesson to us all. Buildings fall. Cities and streets crumble and disappear. Love," Jack said with a small tear in his eye, "stands the test of time."

      "Recon, do you copy this transmission?"

      "We copy." The voice on the other end was grave, dark, and seasoned. The team had been hand-picked, and the team leader, the man speaking now, was pure ice. It wasn't even fair to call him a man. He conducted himself with the utmost rigors of protocol and duty; the Commander had picked him because in this mission, none could stray from the path. The war depended on it.

      "Recon, this will be the last transmission you receive. You may transmit messages on only two occasions, do you remember them?" A redundant question, he knew, but one that had to be asked just to be absolutely sure.

      "Transmit once we have retrieved the package, and once for extraction."

      "Very good, recon. Keep your eyes open. I know you've heard this before, but this time we actually mean it: success here will define the course of the war. Failure is not an option."

      "Understood. Standing by for mission confirmation."

      The Commander leaned forward, even though there was no microphone in front of him. "Operation: Valiant Reclamation is a go. Password: Gallant Strife. I say again, Gallant Strife."

      "We copy transmission. Operation: Valiant Reclamation is a go."

      It had begun. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

      "For Boston!" The crowd roared as the four shot glasses were placed on the shelf. One final dog tag remained, and this one was distinctive from the rest. The past dog tags had all been metallic and shiny, with no border along the edge. This one was worn and had lost its shine; it was ringed by a thin black rubber band along the edge: an old UNSC dog tag.

      "Mahmoud Tonsi," Jack began, taking the dog tag in his hand and feeling the cold metal touch his soul. "There have been many heroes in the history of this conflict, but I can fairly say that Mahmoud will be recognized as the greatest in the history of the Minutemen. We always say that one man can make a difference, and here we see that most evident. He sacrificed himself to save all of you." O'Shea let that sink in a moment. The circumstances of Minutemen deaths were rarely known to everyone.

      "Without Tonsi's death, the Covenant would have had a clear shot, unopposed, to this camp and we could not have done a damn thing to stop them. Mahmoud's death meant life for this station, for the lives we will go on to lead, for the lives our children will go on to lead." A sniff registered from the back of the crowd, some were visibly crying. "Without our knowledge, we were all given a second chance at life; and if this should mean anything to us, it means we must go on living with more vigor, with more energy each day, for life is short and precious."

      Jack placed the dog tag back in the glass and held it to the light. "It was an honor and highest privilege to serve with you, Mahmoud. May God grant you swift journey to your final home."

      As soon as the glass was placed, the pub shook with a thunderous toast.

      The AI appeared at attention after a very long silence. The Commander had been still for some time, and the AI had wondered whether he had fallen asleep. He had been awake for thirty-six hours and twenty-three minutes. "Are we sure about this site?" The voice asked from the darkness.

      A large holograph appeared in the center of the room, showing a thoroughly decimated city. "My research has narrowed our search to two sites, Commander," the AI explained, "the Colonel's files make seismic and topographical references that match up with these two locations. The simple fact that there were former installations in this city..." a dozen green dots flashed on the rotating, see-through holographic scan, "...as well as the presence of hostiles..." red dots glowed in several locations, "would seem to indicate this location as the most logical choice for the cargo's location."

      "And if it's not?" The Commander asked, fully aware of the answer.

      "If it is not, Commander, then the site would still remain a prime location for the implementation of Cronin Protocol."

      The Commander leaned forward into dim light. His day-old stubble was unprofessional, but none of his subordinates had seen him in two days. His head full of gray hair was slightly unkempt, and his red dress tie was loose over his black uniform. He rubbed his tired eyes in resignation.

      "We'll soon find out, Bismark."

      "Indeed, sir."

      The Captain turned to the adoring public one last time. "Before we open this up and let you leave, we have one last duty to attend to: promotions." A ripple went through the crowd. Deaths happened, but public promotions at Last Line of Defense were camp-wide calls to celebrate. The bar might not close tonight. From his right pocket, Jack pulled a new patch and held it tight in his hand. "Only a few people know about the new promotions, for very specific security purposes." O'Shea said with a wink. The crowd laughed with nervous energy. While it was a privilege and an honor, being promoted in public was never comfortable, as a few soldiers were about to find out.

      "This first Minuteman has been long overdue for a promotion. He has proved himself a valuable resource, and without him our fate would have been uncertain. He's called in reinforcements, taken initiative, kept a cool head, and displayed a tactical brilliance beyond his years. It gives me great pleasure to promote on this day Timothy McManus to the rank of Corporal."

      A cheer went up as multiple pints of beer were upturned over the former Specialist's head. Tim ducked instinctively as the cold, soon to be sticky liquid drenched him to the core. The girls he had been talking to darted away, screaming. One girl in particular had been safely separated, warned beforehand, and Jack had noted Tim taking more and more interest in that one. The Captain noted the connection. That will give him something more to fight for, he thought to himself, but quickly filed the thought away. O'Shea smiled to himself at the sight. Ron Parsons stood over his sniper partner with two empty pints, a huge grin across his face as McManus wheeled around. Ron gave his partner a "Who, me?" face as he put down his glasses and extended his hand for a firm handshake. Tim regarded the outstretched hand for a second before giving his partner a giant bear hug, turning Parsons face of sneaky mirth into confused anger and shock. Both snipers laughed, and Jack found himself laughing with them. He had not felt this good in years. He even caught his wife, Laura, laughing out loud.

      The Captain signaled for the crowd to quiet. He flipped the Corporal patch to McManus after the bar fell silent. "Here you go, son, wipe yourself off." The crowd laughed, drinking with gusto now. "One final promotion tonight," he said, "since I can see some of you are getting sober." Another round of laughs. Everyone was feeling good.

      "Gus and I have realized that we now have two Corporals serving in the same capacity, and if anyone has listened to those two snipers talk to each other, you realize that someone has to be in charge of the other if we hope to get anything done anymore. Therefore, the commanding officers have made a decision."

      A pause fell on the captive audience.

      Jack laughed. "Well, you didn't think we'd fucking demote him, did you? Ron Parsons is hereby promoted to...I never thought I'd say this...Staff Sergeant."

      A cheer came up behind Ron Parsons as four of his friends came up behind him, a pint in each hand. Even McManus grabbed a pint from someone's hands as he poured it over his friend, a shocked look on Ron's face as he, too, became one with the lager. As the beer dripped from his face, he looked at his Captain, as if to say, "Are you sure about this?" Jack nodded seriously, then winked at the young Minuteman sniper. The grin then returned to Ron's face as he shook the beer from him as a wet dog frees itself once inside. The droplets of alcohol fell on nearly everyone in the bar. The crowded bar waited in hushed silence as the final act of the promotion ceremony was performed. Ron Parsons and Tim McManus looked at each other, then punched their right hands to the ceiling. "My life for Boston!"

      The crowd replied in kind. The smile never left Jack O'Shea's face as he hopped back behind the bar. It was time to serve the people.

      Fifty miles away, black boots moved silently through the night, about to entwine their fates with the soldiers underground.

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