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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 7
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 20 July 2006, 4:14 pm
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 7
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Noon
Months upon months of advanced technology training, and he still never got used to the shriek of the threat indicator. The ODST Lance Corporal's head jerked to the left as he heard the shrill tone jump to life in his left ear. At the same time, the all-hands COM announcement from the rear Warthog focused his view on the doomed gunner. Nearly thirty rounds left the gun, all of them hitting harmlessly short of two Grunts wielding Fuel Rod Cannons. The convoy was moving at a nearly absurd thirty miles and hour, and for an instant the Lance thought the two radioactive projectiles would miss the 'Hog.
The first one sailed wide right of the vehicle, it's green afterglow trailing behind it in the smoky haze, but the second hit straight and true. One minute, the militiaman, no older than eighteen, was there. Then in a flash of lime light and unbearable heat, he was gone. The Warthog bucked upwards for a minute, swerving left and right as if trying to throw an invisible force from the top of its frame, then slowed considerably as the COM became almost incoherent with traffic.
"FRC! FRC! Where'd that fucking come from?"
"--iskey-two taking enemy fire!"
"Hostile contact high! Smoke deployed!"
"... covering f-fire! Tokarz, on that gun!"
"Whiskey-one, status."
"Can't see a bleedin' thing in this smoke!"
"--karz, get on that goddamn gun!"
"Not if you fucking paid me!"
The Lance Corporal did not hesitate. The convoy as a whole had slowed considerably and sprayed the vicinity with projectiles, but somehow the Grunts on the side of the street had still survived. In one motion, the Lance grabbed a handhold on the right side of the Lynx and vaulted from the vehicle, bringing his Battle Rifle to bear as he landed.
The force of the transport's progress and his small jump forced him to an awkward knee, but he soon found exactly what he was looking for. Even as the wind changed and began to completely obscure the area with white and gray clouds, the Lance's sophisticated targeting software in his helmet guided him almost immediately to the direction of incoming fire.
The two Grunts, top heavy with their large weapons, were beginning to ready themselves for another strike. The emerald glow of the anti-vehicle rounds radiated light around them and made the small aliens beacons for fire. Finding his bearings almost immediately, the special operations soldier brought his rifle to his shoulder and took dead aim. Years of training went into moments like these, ensuring a steady hand and trusting the fate of others to the one man who had either the courage or madness to put himself in his position.
The sights moved fluidly from left to right, the calm and sure trigger finger squeezing a three round burst directly into the center of one Grunt's forehead. The subsequent pull caused a bright blue mist to eject from all angles from the head of the second alien. Both Covenant dropped to the ground heavily, as if an invisible hand had pushed straight down from the sky.
"FRCs neutralized," the ODST stated coldly, "moving to take rear gunner position."
The ODST Sergeant did not have time to protest as the subordinate ran for Whiskey-two, now a smoking sitting duck in the middle of the bare gray street. By some miracle, the round had struck the body of the gunner only and left most of the vehicle relatively unscathed. The rear weapon's controls were still smoking, but the heavy, high-tech material in the Trooper's gloves kept the searing heat from affecting this flesh. Before they continued on, the Warthog driver tried to make a brief plea.
"We can't just leave Chevelle's body in the street!" He yelled over the COM.
"We'll be joining him if we don't punch it." Captain O'Shea replied. "Keep moving and stay alive. We can't afford another stop."
"But...yes, sir."
The flurry of enemy activity disappeared just as soon as it had arrived. Intelligence streamed to Jack's data pad indicated that twelve hostiles had engaged the convoy. Of those twelve, ten had been fired upon, and six were confirmed kills. As the lead Warthog broke off from Newbury street to the labyrinth of alleyways and hidden tunnels, a brief sense of relief washed over O'Shea. The Lynx pulled his body to the left as it took a sharp right and all the refugees grabbed onto something as the vehicle increased speed. They were in the clear.
The hated rooftops and open spaces of Boston's wealthier districts gave way to sweet, life-giving darkness as the walls of ruined townhouses and apartment buildings closed in around them. What was a claustrophobic man's nightmare was Captain O'Shea's idea of Paradise. The hidden tunnel to the Boston Police garage opened silently and took both the Lynx and damaged Warthog into safety. With a barely disguised sigh of relief, Jack unstrapped his helmet and dropped it to his lap. A weary right hand came up to his throat and opened a squad-wide channel on the COM.
"Lima-one, all clear." The driver and weapons officer slid heavily out of their drab gray doors and hit the smooth garage floor as lightly as they could manage. The Captain exited through the passenger door and looked toward the back of the troop carrier. Tired, haggard-looking refugees were being taken out of the Lynx one by one and made to sit in three rows on the ground. The harsh overhead lighting of the garage made their dirt-caked features even more striking, their eyes stinging and faces tear-streaked from the smoke grenades. The leader of the Boston militia could feel a pang of sorrow for the ordeal that those travelers had gone through. Who knew what hardships they had endured, what losses they had suffered, to make it to a city that Jack could only call the lesser evil.
The "all clear" call from the trailing Warthog had been academic; O'Shea could see that the vehicle had made it back safely, and he was only satisfied when a worn-out voice slowly stated "Whiskey-one...all clear," as the final reply.
"Copy all clear," The Captain stated with fatigue. "Station, be advised we are twelve heavy and sustained one casualty." Despite the rigid, all-business tone that Jack had used to address the men awaiting the team's call, O'Shea truly felt the weight of the city on his flak jacket covered shoulders. There was no escaping this pain; there was no easy way of walking to yet another tent to yet another family to tell them yet again that yet another good man had died in what was looking like a hopeless insurgency. He had once been told many years ago by his commanding officer that he would get used to it, that the pain of loss and the dull ache gnawing inside would lessen over time. That man was a goddamn liar.
He wiped it from his mind as quickly as he could. As badly as he felt about having to give tragic news to the Private First Class' kin, the sight of two armed Orbital Drop Shock Troopers caused Jack to quickly prioritize. Walking to the rear of the Lynx, he pulled Gus Reynolds aside from the Master Gunnery Sergeant's task of preparing the refugees for underground living.
"Gus, a word.." O'Shea said softly, making sure the two were close enough to not be overheard.
"All ears, Cap." Reynolds dark brown forehead formed wrinkles of concern and expectation as his tilted his head forward.
"I know it's S.O.P for me to address the refugees and get them oriented, but I need you to take the lead. I'm going to make sure our other new guests don't cause a panic."
Gus remained silent for a moment, glanced over his shoulder, and then spoke slowly. "Jack, I know how this is going to sound, but we know what they're here for. They don't care about those refugees, you saw that. I guarantee you they don't have our best interests in mind."
"Where are you going with this, Gus?"
"Think of this city, Jack. Think of your wife. What if we just got rid of them?"
"Gus, old friend, if I ever hear you say something like that again I'll have you imprisoned. Have I made myself clear?
Reynolds exhaled sharply out of his nose. "Understood sir."
O'Shea put a hand on his war buddy's shoulder. "I will protect this city with every inch of my being. Nothing, and I mean nothing will keep me from that duty." Good, Jack thought as the Master Guns returned his look with understanding eyes, I'm getting through to him. "We've survived this long, despite the world's best efforts. I don't intend to stop now." With that, O'Shea turned from his friend and walked toward the best soldiers the UNSC had to offer.
Both of the special operations soldiers were sitting on large wooden crates, loads marked in black stencil. The Sergeant's helmet was pointed in the direction of the refugees, now being led toward a large stainless steel door, but for all the Captain knew the ODST could have been keeping his eyes trained on Jack the whole time. Their helmets and faceshields still kept their features hidden and therefore undecipherable. The Lance Corporal was cleaning his Battle Rifle with mechanical efficiency, snapping the rifle's bolt back in place just as the Captain stood in front of the pair. Neither looked up from the ammunition crates they were sitting on.
"I see from your uniforms that you are a Lance Corporal and a Sergeant," O'Shea said matter-of-factly, "as ODSTs I'm sure you're the cream of the crop, but in this city I am the ranking officer."
"You're not UNSC," the Sergeant replied, his helmet moving slightly to align with Jack's face. Hands that had once been resting on the Sergeant's armored thighs now crossed over his chest. Even when sitting the man was an intimidating physical specimen, "and as such we do not recognize your authority."
O'Shea was tempted to roll his eyes. He stared off and to the right of the Troopers, fixing his gaze on a refueling pump about twenty feet away. "I don't have time for a pissing contest." Jack looked back at the men. "We're on the same side, and we have the capability to support your mission. You can accept our help, or not. I doubt your orders told you this city was Covenant-occupied."
"This fucking world is Covenant-occupied," the Lance Corporal retorted, "why should this city be any different?"
O'Shea was relieved to see the Sergeant suddenly face the subordinate in what could only have been a silent rebuke of the outburst. At least one of them was keeping a cool head. The Sergeant spoke again.
"All we need is some intelligence on the area," the helmet moved up and down slightly, "and we'll be out of your hair. You won't even know we were here."
"That's the problem," The Captain said as he motioned for the men to follow him. To his relief, they stood and walked with him toward the tunnels leading to South Station. "My men do know you're here. That creates a problem that I would wish to speak with you alone. Let myself and my staff support you in secret, and we can make some progress on winning this war. Your commanders have left this city for dead for quite some time, and we're comfortable with being left alone. I can make temporary amends in exchange for your name. You do have a name, right, Sergeant?"
For a few seconds, the only noise in the garage was the organized clatter of Minutemen working on the damaged Warthog in the corner, and the gentle swish of cloth and nylon over metal projectiles, grenades, and body armor. The Sergeant seemed to be considering the merits of his next action. After what seemed to be an eternity, the relative silence was broken with, "Todd. The Lance is Sam."
Thank God. That's one barrier down."Eric, the people I protect are living in the only place they feel somewhat safe in. Your presence here will worry them at best; I fear it will panic them. As long as our city remains safe, I will help you in any way we can."
The Sergeant nodded. "Our mission, plain and simple, is to win this war. I don't see how panicking civilians accomplishes that objective."
The glaring omission of keeping the civilians safe registered in the Captain's mind, but for the first time in over an hour, O'Shea began to feel that the proverbial ticking time bomb would be defused. He nodded continued to walk toward the thick steel doors. As they reached the doors, Jack put his palm on a small blue screen and the doors opened wide to a concrete tunnel lit by small red bulbs.
"Sergeant," O'Shea said with as much a sense of humor as he could conjure, "welcome to Boston." Jack was about to continue with proper introductions when his COM chirped.
"Jack, Reynolds." The Captain could sense a worried, anxious tone in his friend's voice over the COM.
"What is it, Gus?" Jack asked, glancing slightly toward the ODSTs.
"Sir...it's Laura..."
The Helljumpers' personnel scanners beeped a tone, indicating the militia Captain's heart rate skyrocketed.
ONI Signal Intelligence Station
Location Classified
It was only a matter of time. A shaky yet powerful hand held on to the crystal tumbler for dear life as the clear vessel made its way to dry lips, allowing the amber liquid to flow over the tongue and burn the throat. With what could best be described as a dry gasp, the glass was placed heavily back down on the desk, the dregs of the expensive imported liquor leaving translucent traces along the sides.
Commander Thomas Young was not himself. The commanding officer of his ONI post had been the prime example of everything the Office of Naval Intelligence wanted. Sharp uniform, fresh and presentable at all times, agile mind, ruthless, and absolutely determined to save humanity. That determination was what had kept him awake for nearly two days straight. That determination was what had led him to his private bar alone in his office for the first time in years. The Commander felt sleep weighing heavily on him as his AI, Bismark, appeared at the head of his desk.
"Mein Kommander," the small, rotund man said in a slight Bavarian accent. Young wheeled around from his bar several feet away and stared at his assistant.
"What news, Bismark?"
"You wanted to be informed when the team's mission time has exceeded simulations."
"The simulations have always been ridiculous, just a smokescreen so Sydney would let me execute the operation under a different guise. How can we simulate something that we don't even know the location of?"
The slightly transparent apparition of data and numbers shifted its "weight" from foot to foot. In reality, Bismark was moving titanic amounts of data through his infinitely capable protocols, attempting to find the solution for his master's now erratic behavior. Bio scans showed a high body temperature, elevated heart rate, and higher blood pressure despite the increased blood/alcohol levels. The artificial intelligence chose his words carefully.
"Commander Young, I feel I must remind you that you set the parameters for the operation's simulation. All data retrieved puts the objective within city limits, and it is possible that the higher levels of command will notice that our team is running behind schedule, even if the operation reported is only a ruse."
"We're being butchered out there, Bismark. They've condoned the elimination of inhabited cities. They're not looking at Boston."
"I am not alarmed by the team's delay in satisfying their objectives, but perhaps it would be prudent to consider...other options."
The clinking of glass on glass stopped. The spotless black dress uniform shifted ever so slightly as Thomas looked over his shoulder. He locked eyes with his AI, and the ONI officer's mind began to move in several directions at once. "You're not telling me something," Young said warily.
The AI's small eyes quickly looked down and to the left, then returned to his master's gaze. "I was not sure what to make of it at first, sir, and I doubted its relevancy, but given the delay...there has been a development."
"Continue."
"A ULF web was put over the city of Boston, Commander, unknown origin, but subsequent pings have been...well, for lack of a better word, 'deflected.'"
"Which means?"
"Someone or something is keeping all UNSC transmissions from reaching their intended vectors, sir, and the web is quite strong. It will take me some time to break through it."
Bismark should have seen it coming. The rising pulse, the tensing of the muscles, sometimes the human body broadcast what it was going to do before it actually did it. Therefore the Commander's violent smashing of the crystal tumbler against his conference table was slightly surprising but not overly so. The glitter of shards littered the rich black carpet like a clear starlit night in the middle of the desert. Thomas swept the scene away with a polished dress shoe.
The ONI station chief's head hung low as his arms supported him over the table. This was the posture of a defeated man. "Even if they find it, we won't know until you break through."
"Correct."
I'm out of options. My one moment of victory, the day Thomas Young wins the war for humanity, and a petty militia force robs us of salvation. For that, I will destroy their city...no! What good will that do me? I'm not a monster. There's no advantage to be gained by... The Commander's eyes fell across the haphazard grouping of smashed glass on his carpet. He blinked once. Twice...Two! The first one! With newfound vigor, Young called up a series of holograms, several files flew across the sealed office and after fifteen seconds, Thomas marched straight to his bar and drew up another drink. Bismark automatically scanned each file that had been drawn up instantly and already started to discern the Commander's thoughts. He was truly reaching.
"The last known...was destroyed on Imbari V." Young whispered.
"Yes, Commander."
"But reports from the Valiant Knight stated that it gave off a distinct signal around that the time it was destoryed."
"That's been debated, sir. The Valiant Knight was going into slipspace at that moment."
" But they were drawn to it."
"Yes...Commander."
Young stabbed a finger toward a slowly spinning hologram of Boston. "If it's there, and I know it is, we may yet win the day. It drew them here, Bismark. It will draw them closer if they know its location."
"Sir?"
"Not one strike. Two. One to draw them, another to slaughter them. Bismark, even if we lose this objective, we may still be the heroes we have been destined to be."
We may destroy an entire city of innocent people, Commander. "We" may be destined to be the worst criminals of the war. Bismark did not have time to slow down the racing mind of Thomas Young. The officer was already running his hands through his thick gray hair; he always did that when he was really thinking.
"Get me our best analysts, Bismark. I want them prepared to execute Cronin Protocol."
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