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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 14
Posted By: Azrael<sherwood.tondorf@gmail.com>
Date: 2 November 2007, 6:40 am
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 14
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant Invasion of Earth
Late afternoon
Boston Police Garage
Outside South Station refugee camp
Lance Corporal Ankit Jeevaji had seen many good men die in stupid ways. On his first operation as a Minuteman, he watched in horror as two of his comrades were taken down by a plasma grenade. One of the militia gunners had been stuck by a lucky throw and his buddy was blown up trying to pry the sticky explosive off the gunner's arm; both men ceased to exist in an instant flash of azure and heat. That was the first time he had every felt another man's blood on him, and at that moment he realized death was part of the job, but needless death was more than avoidable. That was why Jeevaji was clamping a stern hand on Captain Jack O'Shea's shoulder as O'Shea prepared to take his place in the Lynx Personnel Carrier.
"You really think this is a good idea, sir?" Ankit said, trying to sound like he was telling rather than asking.
He was answered by the coldest look he had ever seen from anyone. The Captain's glare hit the Lance Corporal between the eyes and made the usually stoic soldier flinch. As O'Shea turned on him, Jeevaji wondered for a moment if his commanding officer was about to beat him to the ground.
"Jeevaji, the day you lose everything, you'll get to ask me that question." Jack then wheeled back around and pointed at a young Minuteman getting in the back of the Lynx. "Find extra shells for the mortar team! They've got to sustain that barrage!"
Ankit found the moment he was looking for. As O'Shea tossed in his pack and secured his custom Battle Rifle inside the cab of the Lynx, Jeevaji stood at the door and spoke directly to the Captain. "Sir," he said, doing his best to show he was not directly challenging the leader of the Minutemen, "listen to yourself. I know you've lost a lot today, sir, I do; but ask yourself if you're really doing what's smart. These men, myself included, would do anything for you, sir, but look at convoy's SITREP. Master Gunnery Sergeant's 'Hog is FUBAR, recon's walking into a Covenant base on foot, and mortar team's in the red for ammo. Are you asking us to die for nothing?"
The Captain looked hard at Jeevaji as the rest of the Minutemen pitched themselves inside. "I'm telling you if we don't do this, everyone in this city will die. You want to make yourself useful? Get out of my way, power up our Mongooses, and find some extra rocket launchers. We need heavy weapons on the roofs or we're asking for quick deaths."
Jack let his statement hang in the air for exactly one second, then slammed the door. How dare that little twerp question my judgement.
"Sir?" O'Shea turned to his left to face the Lynx driver, who was gesturing to a holomap in between them. "What're your orders?"
"Fast as possible to Fenway," Jack said with a slight nod, "buy the assault some time. Recon must get below ground and in that facility."
"What about the convoy, sir?"
Jack stared at the flashing quadrants of red on either side of a thin yellow line that led to Fenway Park. He felt shivers of sadness and guilt creep along his shoulders. "If they're alive, we'll get them after."
Lansdowne Street
Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons' boots hit the ground with the soft touch of an experienced climber, his powerful legs absorbed the impact silently and flexed to ease himself onto the street. As soon as he touched down, he disengaged his climbing gear and ran to an overturned dumpster across the alley. Behind that dumpster were two Orbital Drop Shock Troopers and his Minuteman partner, Corporal Tim McManus. No sooner did Ron get halfway across the narrow, canyon-like alley then the ranking Helljumper, a Sergeant, slapped his partner, a Lance Corporal, on the shoulder and yelled, "Hit it!"
The Lance Corporal quickly squeezed his hand twice and took cover as the rooftop they had all just fought from exploded outwards in a shower of bricks, mortar, and Jackal pieces. Ron's entire body flinched as he covered his head, stumbled, and fell in the middle of the alley.
"What the fuck!" He shouted over the sound of small bits of rubble showering down. He scrambled to his feet and tossed himself headlong into the group, noting no one else seemed surprised about the explosion. The Staff Sergeant was livid, and stabbed a finger angrily at the ODST Sergeant. "You blow your goddamn booby traps when I'm fucking clear, asshole!"
The silence that followed and the blank faceshield looking back at Ron made him so angry he wanted to rip the helmet right off him, and that's precisely what he did.
Ron now looked into eyes of rage. He had interrogated the soldier not but a few hours ago, but that time and place seemed like a memory from a distant planet. No longer was he sure of several armed Minutemen just waiting to jump in at the first sign of trouble, now he was directly threatening an armed special forces trooper in a hostile war zone. Ron was not surprised to receive the first punch directly to his face, followed by two more lightning-fast jabs. Parsons got his wits about him immediately after the third blow and countered with a vicious right hook that staggered the taller man.
The two soldiers were surprisingly even-matched. What the ODST Sergeant had in strength and training, Ron had in pure grit and anger. The men pummeled each other for a few seconds, pushing each other into the dumpster and the brick wall of the alley, until their respective partners separated them with force usually reserved for large animals.
Corporal Tim McManus shoved his superior into the wall and grabbed him by the collar of his armor, pulling him two inches from Tim's face. "The fuck do you think you're doing!" He shouted over the blasts of mortar fire. "You pout about Master Guns all you want, but fuck you if you're gonna get me killed doing it!" The shorter Corporal began slamming Parsons against the charred bricks to emphasize his points, nearly ending in a scream. "You wanna act like a fucking child, fine! Do it in the street and get your goddamn head blown off, you fucking lunatic!"
He finally let the Staff Sergeant go, grabbing Ron's discarded jeep cap off the ground and hurling it at him with more anger than Parsons had ever seen from him. McManus turned on his heel and jabbed a finger at the ODST Lance Corporal, who was following Tim's lead with his superior.
"Is he going to be a problem?" McManus asked pointedly.
"Is yours?" The Lance Corporal asked back in the same tone.
Parsons shook his head silently. Tim looked at the ODSTs with a demanding look.
"Mine neither," the black-clad Trooper said finally, handing his commanding officer his helmet. The group got squared away quickly and silently, the only noise echoing along the corridor was the high whine of wind and vehicle-borne anti-infantry guns. They moved fast, in pairs, along either side of the alley, weapons up and ready for threats. Ahead of them by two hundred yards was Fenway Park, and on both of the Minutemen's data pads they could see the orange nav point indicating their insertion point. Before they could make their final move toward the objective, a chirp sounded in each man's receiver. Parsons put a hand to his ear and tried his best to listen to the incoming transmission.
"Recon, this is Captain O'Shea. What's your status?"
Ron signaled for the group to take cover. Each soldier was skilled in scouting and becoming one with the environment, and they all melted into shadows for cover. Even Parsons had a hard time seeing them.
"Cap, we're two hundred meters from the objective. Looks like a clear shot, but we're being cautious."
"Convoy status?"
The Staff Sergeant closed his eyes and tried to identify every sound he could, as muffled, echoing, and distorted as it was. "Can't see anything from where we are, sir, but with Master Guns' Gauss out of it, I think I can hear a Shade turret firing. Convoy sounds like it's getting hit hard."
"Did you get a look at the Master Guns' vehicle? Do you have a status?"
Parsons grit his teeth. "Negative. Don't have a status on Whiskey-one."
"We're still a few minutes out. Can you tag and prep for medevac?"
Before Ron could answer, Tim McManus' head emerged from the shadows and locked eyes with the senior sniper. McManus shook his head ever so slightly. Don't even think about it.
"Negative, Cap. I can link to TACMAP with my best guess, though."
"I'll take it."
Parsons slipped out his data pad and took a brief look at the mission's progress. He could see markers for the remaining convoy, his own IFF tag, and the mortar team's tag. The mortar and convoy markers were blinking yellow, indicating they were in combat action. The Captain's and recon's tags were green. Parsons did not see Whiskey-one's marker, and he considered that to be very bad. He took his best guess and tapped the screen twice. An orange square, marked "Search and Rescue - MEDEVAC" appeared on the satellite image. Parsons put his fingers to this throat mic and opened a channel.
"This is recon. Whiskey-one tag sent. Acknowledge."
"Recon, we copy. Tag's on our TACMAP. Any chance you got a look at friendly rooftops? I have rockets en route."
Ron's brow furrowed as he tried to recall the lay of the land above the streets. Finally, he tapped two points on his map. Small green squares popped up and Parsons stowed his data pad. "Best assessment on your TACMAP, but stay on alert. Jackals nearly caught us back at our last position."
"I'll take it under advisement."
"Good luck, Captain."
"You too, Parsons."
The Staff Sergeant closed the channel and motioned for the group to move out. Like objects coming quickly into focus, the three other soldiers emerged from behind rubble, dropped down from a low ledge, and slipped out from behind a crevice. Ron put his modified Battle Rifle hard against his right shoulder and moved, low and fast, toward his objective. The reconnaissance squad got two more blocks before a clutch of Grunts suddenly turned into the alley.
Two of the squat aliens were dragging an injured comrade away from the battle and had no idea they had put themselves in the way of two of humanity's best trained soldiers and two of Boston's greatest guerilla fighters. The very second the Grunts emerged in the alley, the four men became only suggestions of shapes, hugging every piece of terrain that would keep them from being discovered. Parsons immediately began screwing a sound and flash suppressor on his Battle Rifle.
"I count five Grunts." The ODST Sergeant's voice come through in Ron's right ear.
The Minuteman sniper did his best to bring his heart rate down and stole a brief glance down the alley. "I count five, too," he responded. "We can't go around them. Can you go quiet?"
"Suppressed SMGs. Iffy at this range."
"Agreed. I've got a silenced BR, move up. I'm good for one on the right, maybe two, before they get wise. Think you can mop up the rest between the two of you?" Parsons waited for a reply, then looked across the alley where the Helljumpers had just been. Nothing but bare brick stood in the spot where the elite Troopers had taken position. Ron swore as he wondered where the hell they had gone, but then caught a hint of urban camouflage and black body armor in his peripheral vision. The two special operations soldiers were already moving up, unheard and unseen, on the Grunt group, which seemed to be arguing over what to do with their wounded comrade.
"Damn, they're fast," Tim whispered in the dark.
"Yeah," Ron muttered, getting low to the ground and moving behind a pile of discarded mattresses and trash. His sights settled over the only officer he could see, a frantic-looking alien gesturing around with an intimidating Needler. He relaxed his body and allowed the sights to settle in the center of the Covenant soldier's head, knowing that the three-round burst would leave no chance for survival. The COM chirped once more.
"In position. Standing by."
Parsons inhaled and held his breath, exhaling only to whisper, "Firing."
The report of each round was negligible in the dull roar of war. Each bullet easily penetrated the Grunt's armor and fragile frames, dropping them in heavy wet heaps in the middle of the alley. The one wounded Grunt struggled mightily to get up and escape, his claws digging into the unforgiving pavement, scratching and clutching faster and faster as it realized death was looking right at it. Parsons knew they couldn't have a straggler calling in their position. A slight pull of the trigger and the entire alley was still. The squad advanced hastily on the fallen hostiles and relieved them of their plasma pistols, grenades, and Needler. With silent nods exchanged amongst them, they slipped along the sides of the narrow street, getting ever closer to their target.
The ride in the Lynx was bumpy, noisy, and tense; but inside the cabin and troop bay, there was strained silence. Captain O'Shea knew what it was like to ride in the back of one of these transports; the battlefield zipping by in blurs of gray, the dim red lights inside the vehicle, the horrible echoes of approaching war mixed with the scent of sweat and hot breath. Each man would have their private thoughts, but in the back of their minds Jack knew they were all wondering the same thing: how the hell am I getting home alive?
The long, urban camouflaged troop carrier bowled over stray debris as it approached Lansdowne Street. O'Shea took turns glancing at the holomap and the real world outside the Lynx's windshield, staring into the city and clenching his fists, begging the vehicle to go faster. As it finally made its way to the final intersection, Jack fought the faint voice in his head telling him that no matter what they did and no matter how hard they fought, this was a losing battle. The cold fingers of fear crept up his back as the Lynx skidded to a stop a block from their objective. O'Shea turned in his seat and faced the Minutemen sitting in the troop bay.
"Harris! Becker! Get those spare shells to the mortar team, on the hop! Watch our six when you're done!"
"Huah!" Shouted the men with gusto. They grabbed a pair of sacks each and jumped into the afternoon light, running as fast as they could to cover and the needy mortar team beyond. As the two men left, three Mongoose Ultra-Light All Terrain Vehicles pulled alongside the much larger Lynx. O'Shea glanced to his right and caught sight of Lance Corporal Jeevaji riding behind his Mongoose driver. It did not look like it had been a comfortable journey. The indian militiaman carried the large M41 SSR MAV/AW Rocket Launcher on his shoulder, and two extra rocket tubes were lashed to the passenger seat, forcing Jeevaji to stand the entire trip. The two Minutemen nodded at one another.
"TACMAP says we have a couple firing positions!" Jeevaji shouted over the booming blast of another mortar strike. "Give us some smoke and we'll spank the bastards!"
"Move fast, deploy quick, and watch your backs! Jackals are all over this area!" O'Shea called back, cupping his hands around his mouth. With that, the three all-terrain vehicles zipped off and fishtailed right, followed closely by the lurching Lynx Transport. As the carrier made the turn, Jack felt his jaw go slack.
The wide street was a mess of twisted concrete, black billowing smoke, alien bodies, and crumbling buildings. The acrid smoke made visibility terrible, but O'Shea could make out through the holomap and his eyes combined, a pair of mangled Warthogs, still driving and operational, but barely. Occasionally a mortar would impact the enemy fortification and throw up another quick shower of earth, cement, and flesh; its quick punch of bass registered in the teeth of every Minuteman as the sound wave careened down the avenue of destruction.
The two surviving Warthogs were doing their best to approach the Covenant blockade, strafe past in a wide fishtail, retreat, and then try again. They were alternating attack patterns, desperately trying to disrupt the enemy's balance, but with only two vehicles and no other ground support, it was only a matter of time.
One Warthog, whiskey-two, made a wide turn fifty yards from the barricade. As it finished its fishtail, three Grunts sprang up from behind cover and fired their fuel rod cannons. The green blobs of energy streaked toward the unlucky vehicle and collided ferociously against its side. The sheer force of impact lifted the 'Hog off the ground, sending it tumbling across the street and narrowly missing the other attacking Warthog, whiskey-three. The doomed transport smashed into the front windows of a deserted restaurant, sending glass, twisted metal, and furniture into the war zone. O'Shea tried to keep himself together as he watched the entire operation fall to pieces. Tongues of flame began to appear from the wreckage as the COM burst to deafening life.
"Whiskey-two is hit!"
"Mark MEDEVAC and keep firing!"
"You insane? We are going to die! We are going to fucking die!"
Jack slammed a fist against the dashboard in frustration. "All units, this is Captain Jack O'Shea. Keep up the pressure on that blockade! No one quits until recon's underground!"
O'Shea shouted over this shoulder to the weapons officer sitting behind him to his left. Stray spiker rounds began to ping off the Lynx as the troop carrier barreled toward the barricade. "Pop smoke, full cover! Get that autocannon online now! Target those FRCs!"
Within moments, the Lynx shuddered as seven of the fourteen grenade launchers bristling from the vehicle fired. Thick white smoke arced toward the Covenant forces, masking the Lynx's approach as O'Shea closed on Whiskey-two's wreckage. Within seconds, the APC braked to a hard stop outside the obliterated facade of the restaurant. Jack threw his door open and jumped into the fray before the Minutemen in the back even made a move to join him. Pulse racing and breathing heavy in the dense smoke, the Captain brought his Battle Rifle up and aimed as best he could at the last spot the cannon Grunts had appeared. Sure enough, his sights lit up as they registered the faint green glow of the weapons.
Please, God, let me kill them, O'Shea thought as he let three bursts fly in the enemy's direction. He did not have time to wait and see if the shots were accurate; Jack was already running in front of the Lynx, sprinting toward the burning Warthog inside the building to his left.
Four other militia piled out and followed their leader, shouting instructions to each other as they desperately tried to reach their comrades in time. To O'Shea's relief, the Lynx's autocannon began to fire, heavy thumps of large caliber rounds being shot echoed off the metal and brick of the surrounding buildings. Each man ducked reflexively as the slugs tore through the air, smashing against targets too far ahead to see. Jack's eyes burned in the combat environment, his eyes began to water and he blinked hard to clear his vision as he neared the ruined Warthog.
Whiskey-two lay on its side in the large, expensive-looking eatery. O'Shea could already see one Minuteman, the driver, lying face down ten feet from the vehicle. He ran to the body and slid across the floor on his knees as he got close. The Captain gave the body a thorough inspection, his features contorted in a show of frustration and anger as he regarded the burned skin and mortal wounds to the brave soldier's head and chest.
"Driver's gone!" O'Shea yelled at top of his lungs, his voice nearly drowned out in the blast of another mortar shell. The other Minutemen scoured the site, swearing aloud and doing their best to keep themselves together.
"Passenger's here!" A young voice cried out in the relative darkness.
"And here!" Another Minuteman, a Private, called from the smashed entrance. "Kid was torn apart! This is fucked!"
"Hey! I got a live one here! Medic! Medic!" Every head in the rescue squad now snapped towards the voice deep within the restaurant. They ran as fast as they could to the two men; one Minuteman was doing his best to treat the egregious wounds on the Warthog's gunner, blood leaking from the injured man's arms and chest. O'Shea grabbed a canister of biofoam from his vest as the stricken militiaman coughed up dark red blood.
"Looks internal!" Jack shouted over his shoulder. "Medic!"
The medic, a pale-faced Specialist no older than twenty-three, came as fast as he could, taking his scanner from his chest pocket and swiping it quickly over the wounded man.
"Collapsed lung, ruptured spleen to start. Massive trauma, I can't treat him here. He's gotta be evac'd now." The medic stated with as much gravity as he could. O'Shea shook his head vigorously.
"We can't spare the Lynx," Jack said over the din. "Can you move him on Mongoose?"
"If you want him to die in transit!" The medic said incredulously. "Sir, are you serious? This man's going to die."
"As soon as recon's reached their insertion point, we bug out." The Captain stated, looking straight into the field medic's eyes. "Stabilize him best you can until then."
"Then he's KIA, sir!" Jack could see the soldier's eyes open wide in flickering light of the Warthog's fire. The medic was giving up. O'Shea grabbed the smaller Minuteman by the collar of his combat vest and shook him once hard.
"He is not the mission!" The Captain roared. "Recon's gotta get underground, and without our support they don't stand a chance! They're going to make it, and so is he! Now get it together and save him."
"Yes, sir!" The Specialist replied, realizing Jack's tone. He pointed at the Minuteman that was cradling his incapacitated comrade. "Keep his head up and do not move him unless I say so."
O'Shea got up quickly and led the rest of the squad to the waiting Lynx. They dragged and carried their dead out of the restaurant, never wanting to give the Covenant bodies to crow over. As Jack crossed out of Whiskey-Two's final resting place and into the open air of the street, he watched two rockets streak from a rooftop across the road, the explosives trailing thin contrails of smoke as they careened toward their targets. Through the haze, twin flashes of blue and orange light erupted, followed by a call on the COM channel, "Jeevaji here! Shades hit! That should buy us some time, Cap!"
Jack reached deep within the troop bay and slid out a stretcher; he and another Minuteman ran past the destroyed Warthog to the medic's position. They hopped over splintered chairs and tables and weaved around collapsed sections of the roof, but eventually made it safely to the grim procedure being performed. The stench of sweat, burning metal, and human entrails filled each man's nostrils, but they shoved it out of their minds as they laid down the stretcher for the medic to place the wounded gunner on. Satisfied that the job was being done properly, O'Shea clapped a hand on the medic's shoulder and shouted into his ear over the bedlam, "Prep him for evac! I want him ready to load the moment we get the all-clear!" The medic nodded silently, keeping his eyes trained on the gunner's body. Jack might as well have been talking to him from the Moon. The Captain stood up and pointed at the rest of the militia gathered in front of him.
"We split up from here. First squad's with me; we've got to secure Whiskey-one's crash site while we still can. Everyone else, suppress the blockade, take some pressure off our vehicles."
Before O'Shea could continue, two more shots from Fuel Rod Cannons hit the middle of the street, blasting debris inside the restaurant. The whole group took cover for a moment as the dust quickly settled. Jack shook the soot off himself for a second before finishing up. "Low and fast, Minutemen! Let's get it done."
The group yelled "Huah" as hard as they could, trying to rally themselves to the task ahead, then swiftly moved out, back into the street fight. Jack's squad emerged from the building and into the relative glare of hazy sunlight. The Captain took one last glance back at the bristling barricade, then glanced at his data pad, where one last orange square stood out, sixty yards from his position.
Hang in there, Gus, O'Shea pleaded desperately in his head. I have nothing left.
The rest of recon's trek to Fenway Park had been uneventful, though they had paused for a moment to recognize the sound of the Lynx's autocannon adding its might to the battle. Now they stood thirty feet away from their goal, and all they had to do was cross a road behind the lines of a well-fortified enemy position. Ron Parsons took yet another peek around the corner of the alley.
"We're so fucked," He breathed.
"We need to advance now." The ODST Sergeant hissed behind him.
"I would," Parsons said with a trace of venom in his voice, "if you could tell me where in blue fuck our insertion point is. I'm not about to cross open ground behind enemy lines to knock on a fucking wall. If you haven't noticed, there's nothing but the Green Monster across this street and no visible underground access."
Each soldier looked once again at the imposing exterior wall of the baseball stadium. The distinctive green paint stretched more than sixty feet above them and offered nothing in the way of viable subterranean entrances. No grates, no vents, nothing in their field of vision looked even remotely like a way into the secret facility beneath them. Tim McManus scratched the back of his head in frustration.
"We're so fucked," Parsons said again. "Fenway Park: one. Last-ditch plan to save Boston: nothing."
Suddenly, McManus' head jerked up as his gaze shifted from the ground in front of him to the wall of the stadium. He stared at the obstacle ahead. "Son of a bitch," Tim whispered, then almost shouted in a moment of clarity, "son of a bitch!" The other members of the reconnaissance squad stared at the junior sniper in befuddled anger. The Corporal became aware of their looks, and pointed excitedly at the wall.
"It's not outside the wall," Tim said, "it's inside."
"Explain that," the ranking Helljumper said gravely.
"The Green Monster's scoreboard is done by hand," Tim explained, reaching into his pack as he spoke. "Because it's done by hand, the bottom portion of the left field wall is hollow so operators can move around and post the scores without going onto the field."
Now Parsons' eyes began to get wide. "Oh, those sneaky bastards," Ron said like a student finally figuring out a trick math equation.
"There may not be access outside the stadium," McManus continued sketching a rough diagram with a few pieces of trash, "The foundation of the wall is twenty-two feet deep. If you wanted to get through that, it would be easier to build your access point inside the park. There's an air conditioning system inside the scoreboard; easy enough to make it look like just another grate."
"If the access hatch is inside the scoreboard," the other ODST spoke, taking a second to carefully examine the schematics on his data pad. "and disguised as an AC grate, we should be able to figure out which one it is quickly. But how are we supposed to get inside the stadium?"
Tim hooked his thumbs inside his tactical vest and shrugged slightly. "Got some C-7?"
The ODST Sergeant cocked his head to the side. "That'll draw unwanted attention."
"Really?" Parsons asked as another mortar shell slammed into the Covenant position a block away. "I think they've got other things on their mind."
The two Helljumpers reached inside their vests and withdrew identical cylindrical cans. They were drab, gray, and displayed "C-7 Foaming Explosive" in thick black letters on the side. The cans' shape resembled shaving cream dispensers, though no soldier with half a brain would ever make the fatal mistake of confusing the two.
Staff Sergeant Parsons motioned for the Lance Corporal to hand him his canister. When the ODST hesitated, Ron dropped his hand and glared at the imposing special ops soldier. "We split up the application duty. That way, if we get shot or the C-7 misfires, we still have one from each team to keep going. Stop being a prick and let me possibly blow myself up."
The Lance silently surrendered the C-7.
"All right," Parsons said, craning his neck to take a glance around the corner and tightening the straps of his equipment, "Lance Corporal and McManus cover us while we set the explosive. When you hear the call, take cover and we'll blow the charge. After that, who the fuck knows."
The four men sprinted thirty feet to the massive green wall as the sounds of urban combat became truly intense. Parsons and the ODST Sergeant quickly sprayed the white foaming compound over the barrier, making a large rectangle in the side of the Green Monster. The ranking Helljumper then secured a remote detonator as the C-7 hardened and became ready for action. The entire process took no more than fifteen seconds; the two soldiers then dropped their spent canisters and scurried away like rebellious teens vandalizing a subway station. The squad took cover and turned away from the wall, which two seconds later trembled with the massive force of the explosion. Luckily, another volley of mortars had struck around the same moment, masking the C-7's noise. Ron and the rest of the team admired their handiwork for a moment, then turned on the flashlights attached to their weapons.
As the ODSTs stepped in first, Parsons and McManus scanned the immediate area for Covenant who would have seen their operation. Satisfied that they had made it safely, Tim turned to Ron and motioned for him to go inside.
"What do you think?" McManus asked his commanding officer. "Our worst plan ever?"
"I'm sad that I have to say 'No.'" Parsons replied as he frowned into the darkness. "C'mon, let's do this."
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