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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 13
Posted By: Azrael<sherwood.tondorf@gmail.com>
Date: 21 September 2007, 4:16 am
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 13
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant Invasion of Earth
Late afternoon
The child's outstretched hand grasped in vain for the skittering leaf that blew toward his hand. Every flutter of the dead piece of foliage was a flirtation, a skipping and sliding journey toward the forever patient fingers of the little boy. Had the boy been alive, he might have been able to grasp autumn's bounty and feel the crisp crunch inside his hand. Instead, the pale bones offered token resistance as the golden leaf flitted by, flipping over the tiny white digits and continuing on towards a thin alley. Ten feet later, it was crushed underfoot by the careful steps of a very alive Minuteman.
"This has to be the most depressing shit ever," the young militiaman remarked as he regarded the body of the child. "Why do we have to set up here, Kellogg?"
The COM chirped as Lance Corporal Brian Kellogg responded. "Let's play a game. Let's pretend I'm in charge of the mortar team, and you're under my command. Let's pretend I've been doing this longer than you and want this go off without a hitch. Let's further pretend you don't question my orders."
"A simple, 'Shut up, fall in' could've done."
"Shut up, fall in."
The Minuteman Mortar Team slipped through the basement window of a bombed-out townhouse facing the Charles River. As the group emerged into daylight, they turned right and regarded the fenced-in playground that they intended to attack from. At this time of day, the current was moving swiftly and throwing cold, crisp wind at them that moved the swing sets and seesaws as if the ghosts of Boston's young were playing silently among the men. Kellogg put on a knit cap and shivered despite his urban camouflage jacket.
"Fuck me, it is creepy."
The ten members of the mortar team finished wiggling out of the window and extracted their gear with speed and stealth. Because the mortar squad depended on infiltrating and extracting quickly and quietly, they carried only the basics when it came to tactical gear. No man carried any weapon larger than a submachine gun, and their most robust armor was their helmets, which only a few bothered wearing. Despite operating deeper inside Boston than they had ever dared, their load out was no different.
Two Minutemen took the lead and peeked around corners to make sure the small playground was completely clear. After giving the all clear, the team scaled the fence and prepared to launch their desperately needed assault. Four tubes, base plates, and D & E mechanisms were all in place as fast as their hands could assemble them. As the organized chaos unfolded, Kellogg called in.
"FOs, this is mortar team alpha. Setting up shop and should be up in two. What's your status, Parsons?"
Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons' voice was strained with stress, as if he had been waiting for hours instead of minutes. Kellogg imagined he was speaking through grit teeth."Status is we might not have two minutes. This place crawls with Covenant. If you don't launch posthaste, the Master Gunnery Sergeant and the rest of that convoy is FUBAR. Call when you have real news."
Kellogg grunted in frustration as the COM clicked off. He tapped his second-in-command, a Private First Class, who was preparing a small pile of high explosive rounds for an assistant gunner.
"How's threat radar?"
The PFC looked down at his data pad. "Clean sweeps so far. Townhouses have us covered from every side 'cept the Charles River. We can shoot over the buildings and still have range to Fenway."
"Check security anyway." The Minuteman looked up at Kellogg for a second, then nodded quickly and carefully laid down the mortar round. He jogged to the fence, scaled it with the ease of a troubled youth evading police, and snuck out of view.
This better work, Brian thought, and vigorously rubbed his stubbled-covered chin, trying to relax his clenched jaw. He visually inspected the line of shining, constantly cared for weapons and scoured his data pad for the hundredth time, memorizing every bit of the targeting grid. The crew looked ready, if not completely anxious. Kellogg crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and tried to look at ease. It was not working. "I need good news, guys," he said impatiently.
"Mortar one ready," a gunner announced, taking a quick step back and giving his weapon one last look-over. An instant later, the other members of the mortar team finished as well. The Lance Corporal, who had the build of a cyclist rather than a warrior, pumped his fist quickly and opened a channel to the snipers.
"FOs, this is mortar team alpha. Tubes are hot and in position."
"About fucking time. Adjust fire, over."
"FOs, this is mortar team, adjust fire out."
"Grid...sixty-seven four four niner. Covenant command bunker, lightly fortified. Heavy traffic leaving and entering, over."
"Grid sixty-seven four four niner. Let's punch 'em in the head. Out."
"Fire on my command, over."
The COM chirped in each militiaman's ear, indicating Parsons was alerting everyone about the opening salvo. Despite months of hard fighting and uncountable amounts of combat experience, everyone felt a twinge of fear, adrenaline, and anxiety. Everyone's vision became just a bit clearer.
"Convoy, convoy, this is forward observer. We're gonna make it rain out there. Master Guns, you better be close."
The gruff voice of Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds came through in everyone's right year. "FOs, this is convoy. Whiskey-one and three just linked up with Whiskey-two. Turning onto Lansdowne now. Let 'er rip."
In that moment, Kellogg felt the relative lull of travel and preparation pull away from him like a rip tide current. The world caught up and passed him; time hurtled by at breakneck speeds, and every new moment seemed to blend together in one rush. The faint, but certainly audible sound of wheels on decimated city streets grew into a growling rush of rubber on pavement as the Warthog convoy approached the mortar positions. None of the Minutemen, save the Private First Class on the security sweep, could actually see the convoy. Regardless, they knew now was the time for action. Everyone was ready for the sniper's next transmitted word.
"Fire."
Gus Reynolds was no stranger to mortar fire. The crack of the "pocket artillery" was as welcome to him as the sound of clinking beer bottles, but when he heard the simultaneous discharge of two mortars followed by a third and fourth a millisecond later, it was the most joyous thing his ears had ever heard.
"Well, at least the mortars work!" The driver shouted over the fading echoes of the attack, his white knuckles over the steering wheel betraying any attempt at a positive tone. The young man's face was fixed in a look of concentration as he scrutinized the sky for any sign of the high explosive rounds.
"Hold fire until we get target confirmation from the FOs!" Reynolds shouted over his shoulder to the gunner. Ahead of the three Warthog convoy was the point of no return; an intersection several blocks up that would put them in full view of the Covenant upon taking a right turn. Gus could feel cold fear creeping up his stomach.
"Splash over." Kellogg was telling the snipers impact was in five seconds.
"Splash out," Parsons responded on the COM. Reynolds wondered for an instant if the same trepidation was in the snipers as well. The intersection loomed like a precipice as the convoy strained to hear something, anything, from Fenway Park or the COM.
A series of muffled explosions could be heard ricocheting off the dilapidated building walls. Ron's voice came loud and clear over the COM, "Target hit! Fire mortars one and two for effect and stand by for new targets for tubes three and four." Gus noticed the driver pounding the steering wheel in excitement as the Minutemen received their first good news of the day. The Master Guns opened a channel to the convoy.
"We're in business!" Reynolds yelled. "We're approaching the encampment! Convoy, right turn ahead, Whiskey two and three, form up on my left and right, respectively. I want eyes on target and rockets hot! Greenstein, how's that Gauss?"
The COM chirped, and Reynolds' gunner called back, "M68 shows green and slug tube open. Gauss Cannon ready to kick out the jams."
"Turrets are first priority. Cycle down from there."
"Huah."
With a block to go until the point of no return, Gus dropped in on the channel between the mortar team and the snipers.
"—Grid sixty seven four five seven, emplaced Covenant guns and roadblocks, reinforcements inbound, over.
"This is mortar team. Grid sixty seven four five seven, out.
"Fire when ready."
"Firing! Suck on this, baby!"
The rushing wind whistled in Gus' helmet and obscured the graveyard silence of Boston, but he could still hear the fading announcement of the mortar fire from behind him. His eyes snapped up to the sky as he tried to track the incoming rounds, but instead decided to follow his survival instincts and scan for enemies in high cover. The buildings were all in different stages of collapse and obliteration, but there was still the odd rooftop that survived and would be a tempting place to stage precision fire. Reynolds began to worry again, but focused anew as he felt the pull of the Warthog tightly turning right.
Behind him, Whiskey-two accelerated with a roar and began skidding into its turn, centering itself just in time to avoid smashing into the far side of the street. Whiskey-three's rear came dangerously close to striking Gus' side of the vehicle, but made its turn intact as well. The vehicle-bound Minutemen would have breathed sighs of relief if they weren't swearing aloud at the sight half a mile ahead of them.
Three manned Shade plasma turrets sat inside armored nests; their operators well shielded behind plasma barriers. Several groups of Covenant warriors stood, armed and waiting, behind fixed fortifications. Gus spotted the glow of fuel rod cannons, their Grunt gunners hustling to get to the front lines. The only way through the checkpoint was through a gate only big enough for one Warthog to squeeze through at a time. The Master Gunnery Sergeant had to mentally remind himself to set his jaw so the men did not see it hanging agape in awe and fear.
"Are you fucking kidding!" Reynolds' gunner yelled from behind his Guass cannon. "We don't stand a goddamn chance!"
No sooner had the panicked young man finished speaking than the turret on the far left side of the street ferociously exploded in splinters of metal and concrete and black billowing smoke. A clutch of Grunts running towards the turret were hit an instant later, their bodies tossed in all directions and flopping down on the dirty street.
"Target!" Parsons voice came over the COM triumphant and slightly surprised. "Fire for effect! Fuck yeah!" Reynolds could see the building the snipers and Helljumpers were hiding in six blocks ahead. When he strained his eyes, he could see the muzzles of their weapons and occasional glimpses of their heads.
"Convoy, prioritize targets and fire at will!" Gus shouted with as much gusto as he could.
Less than a second after the order, two more mortar shells landed behind Covenant lines and gave incoming reinforcements second thoughts about their approach to the roadblock. At the same time, the rocket operators on either side of Gus' Warthog fired, white smoke trailing splotches of gray as they streaked toward their targets. From above the de facto leader of the Minutemen, the imposing Gauss cannon fired, it's twenty-five millimeter depleted Uranium slug streaking at impossible speeds toward the middle turret. The round punched clear through the metal shield, the controls of the weapon, and the Grunt operator. It ended up embedded in another stocky Grunt, flinging the cannon fodder a full hundred feet from the point of impact and pinning it to the baseball stadium's wall.
Reynolds steadied his hands and put his eye to the launcher's scope. He could hear the radar trying to get a steady lock, the soft tone in his ear increasing about as fast as his heart rate. Finally he heard the steady whine of a solid lock and squeezed the trigger with satisfaction. Fuck you. In other circumstances, Reynolds would have tracked the rocket all the way to the enemy, but he was more interested in creating as much confusion as possible. It was the only way the convoy and the recon team would make it to their objectives alive. The tubes spun and locked into firing position.
"Convoy, this is recon. Be advised, we still have reinforcements inbound. They've got FRCs. Sights are hot, request permission to break rules of engagement."
Reynolds instinctively looked to the rooftop where Parsons, McManus, and two ODSTs were stationed. They had jump-started the mission when they discovered their position was an inexplicably empty Jackal sniper nest, and it was only a matter of time until the previous tenants came back for it. They're wasting enough luck as it is, Gus thought, rein 'em in before—
Several top-floor windows on the recon team's building exploded outwards with tremendous force, throwing dust, glass shards, and bricks into the street. Debris clanked against the helmets and body of the leftmost 'Hog as its occupants barely shielded themselves.
"—Jackals! They tripped my booby trap!" Reynolds recognized the voice on the COM as the ODST Lance Corporal, who he guessed was watching recon's back. "Multiple contacts! Throwing frag!" Another explosion bathed the top floor in light and a mist of purple blood sprayed into the open air.
Gus wasted no time opening a channel. "Recon, disengage and move on to position two!"
Staff Sergeant Parsons voice came through immediately. "Recon copies. Bugging out. God damn it!" The COM closed abruptly. Reynolds squeezed his left fist tightly and reached down for rocket ammo. Settle down, son, he thought, we all have targets on our foreheads and if we don't—
The shrill shriek of the threat indicator sounded painfully in Gus' ear. His head snapped up and he immediately scanned the ground, knowing that the Warthog's sensors would only sound the tone if it sensed a fuel rod cannon right next to it or—Oh no. The gunner beat Reynolds to it.
"Mines! Twelve o'clock lo—!"
Gus watched helplessly as the plasma mine, concealed underneath a few pieces of rubble, passed underneath the front bumper of the vehicle. For an instant, the Master Gunnery Sergeant thought they might have miraculously passed over the device, but as he felt the back right corner of the gray and black 'Hog lift up into the air he knew that he was dead wrong. There was no sound.
Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons was hastily activating the last targeting camera, his fingers refusing to work as fast as his mind demanded. Fighting to control the shaking brought on by his skyrocketing heart rate, he finally pressed the last transmission button and pointed his pistol at the roof access hatch. A Jackal made the mistake of poking its head into the afternoon light and was promptly dropped with three rounds from an ODST Battle Rifle. Parsons glanced toward the opposite side of the roof, where the two Helljumpers and his partner, Tim McManus, were about to rappel off the roof. Ron took a single step toward them before he heard the gunner's call over the COM.
"Mines! Twelve o'clock lo--!"
The Staff Sergeant had just enough time to run to the street side of the building and watch the middle Warthog lift into the air as if a giant hand had thrown it from the right rear bumper. The piercing sound of the explosion was only equaled by the cry of pain ripping through Parsons' lungs.
He watched as the Warthog flew through the air in a flat counter-clockwise spin, terminating out of view, but shaking the building with its unseen impact. Ron stood, rooted to the spot, his urban camouflaged face hiding the fact that all the blood had left his features. This can't be happening.
"Staff Sergeant!" Tim McManus' voice could barely be heard over the continuing mortar strikes. Parsons didn't move.
"Ron!" The sudden sound of a Battle Rifle being fired snapped Parsons back into reality. He turned and stared at the roof access hatch and then at the three soldiers waiting for him. McManus yelled again, pain and a hint of anger in his voice, "now!"
Parsons jogged as fast as his lead-weight legs could take him, swallowing hard to ease his suddenly dry throat. "Command, recon! Convoy is hit! Whiskey-one is down! I say again, Whiskey-one is down!" The Minuteman sniper felt hot tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. "Master Guns is hit! Please advise!"
Boston Police Station
Minutemen Vehicle Garage
Trembling fingers reached for the thin black plastic of the throat mike. Light flooded the stubbled, rough face of the officer as the garage doors opened and a Lynx transport rolled into the cavernous garage. The man's eyes blinked once, then twice, trying to avoid every man's stare while trying to find something to fix onto, to hold onto. The officer swallowed once before opening the channel.
"This is Captain O'Shea. We're on our way."
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