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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 2
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 2 May 2005, 3:24 PM
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 2
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Morning
Boston still reeked of decay two year's after its death. The streets of the evacuated capital had been bare for years, yet in many ways they still looked as if every inhabitant of the city had just dropped what they were doing and ran out of the condemned metropolis fully expecting to return. Cars, through charred, smashed, and in a general state of destruction, still lined the smaller roads in straight lines. Small stores and shops, though bombed out and bare, still had the odd "open" sign hanging from their doors. Newspapers dating back to Boston's occupation rolled and drifted like tumbleweeds in the desert, sometimes wrapping around a bent or broken lamp post and flapping in a breeze that cooled no human body. Buildings loomed over the buckled and cratered concrete like massive tombstones, their gutted insides causing an unearthly howling and moaning in high winds. The city of Boston was a ghost town, but even ghosts didn't want to live there.
The nearly perpetual silence on one particular street was broken by a patrol of six Grunts as they strolled along at a leisurely pace. While a major battle had just occurred two days ago with massive losses, the Covenant cannon fodder that ambled down the road seemed oblivious to the danger. They were bunched in a tight group, unaware of their surroundings, even unsure of their actual destination. Shiny, new plasma pistols were drawn but hung at their sides as the routine patrol continued on. The clopping of their hooves echoed off the imposing structures on either side, announcing their presence for many meters in front of them. Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons knew this; he had heard them coming for three minutes now.
The Minutemen's ranking sniper stared intently from a small sewer grate in the middle of the street. Parsons held a small monitor in his hands that broadcast the feed from a faraway security camera. He had maximized the zoom of the surveillance device and examined the area the Covenant were approaching. The screen displayed the entire street in high resolution color, he could see his position on the right, twenty-five meters from the approaching Grunts. They were jabbering in their alien tongue, but Ron was too far away to make it out through his newly acquired translation software. He pressed two fingers to his throat mike.
"Hey, Tim, what're they saying?" He whispered as he kept a close eye on the monitor.
Corporal Tim McManus laughed through his nose for an instant, rolling his eyes in feigned disgust. The bright white of his eyes contrasted sharply with the dark facepaint and pitch black of the room he was hiding within. Parsons' partner looked through the scope of his urban camouflaged S2 AM and shook his head slightly. His ghillie suit, made up of dark grays, blacks, and stone, shook with him. While it wasn't absolutely necessary for him to wear the suit, it broke up his human silhouette and made him blend in even further with the darkness. McManus put two fingers to his throat, keeping his right hand on the trigger of the bipod-balanced rifle. The muzzle of the precision weapon barely protruded into the morning air from a broken window. Even though he was three stories up in a bare apartment and twice as far away as Parsons, he had been able to listen to the Grunt conversation through yet another security camera that was closer to the street, though it couldn't actually see the Covenant patrol. "Trust me, buddy," Tim muttered, "it's better you don't know."
"Whaddaya mean?" The hushed question came back in McManus' right ear.
"Let's just say I now know more about Covenant...um, relations, than I would prefer."
Silence reigned for a second. "I'm deleting this software as soon as Cap lets me. It's done me no favors." Parsons grumbled.
"Huah to that," McManus agreed, and regulated his breathing. The image in his scope zoomed in as all other details of the world blurred around his target. A small red circle in the center of the scope settled above the lead Grunt's head, just below the left eye. The red armor of the Covenant foot soldier indicated an officer, and McManus tracked it expertly. He maliciously chuckled inside his head at the Covenant patrol tactic. You stick your patrol leader up front? He mused to himself. What if there's a trap, or an enemy sniper? The faint metal and plastic click of the safety disengaged, barely registered in the room. Or what if there's both? "Target acquired," Tim whispered, "Officer Grunt leading patrol, center street, ten meters from your position. Sights are hot and standing by."
Ron could now see the Grunts for himself. Silently Parsons laid the monitor on a piece of dry concrete and left it unattended in the deserted sewer. He pulled his face up to the opening of the grate that connected the street to the curb. Ron gave silent thanks that he didn't have a manhole to deal with. Those fucking lids were really heavy. The only noise the Staff Sergeant surrendered was the soft rustle of cloth and a slight metallic clinking of a pin striking up against the high explosive fragmentation grenade. Ron felt the weight of the spherical metallic weapon in his hand and gazed intently at the coming Covenant.
For a second, Ron felt a dark joy in the opportunity to kill the unsuspecting enemy; he still thought upon the Jackal sniper that had killed Ibanez, the Elites that slaughtered his friends and family. His grip tightened on the grenade as one thought flooded his mind: vengeance. I'll make every one of these fuckers pay, he thought. Yet at the same time, his clear thinking saw through the murderous pleasure he was experiencing. He was still mourning the deaths of two days ago; he doubted he would ever truly stop. Those had been his only friends, his only family, and these aliens had taken them from him for no good reason. If that isn't motive to kill, his mind told him, then what is?
"One meter," McManus' voice came into Parsons ear. Ron nodded, though he knew Tim couldn't see him, and clicked his radio twice. The clopping was now much louder, and he could hear the high pitched voices of the Grunts clearly now. He could clearly hear the hiss of the Methane masks, he could even discern the bumping of the rebreather "backpacks" that were ill-fit against the laboring spines of the low-ranking invaders. Anticipation welled up inside the sniper. His heart began pounding, his vision focused, the entire world became a little more clear. Parsons forced his heart rate to lower as he prepared the grenade. He readied himself to kill once again, for Boston. For humanity. For himself.
The first two Grunts sauntered by without incident, but after the third passed Ron pulled the pin from the grenade and pushed it through the grate as if he were sliding a letter into a high mailbox. He watched the grenade skitter into the middle of the street, then the sniper dropped quickly to the floor of the sewer. He snatched up the monitor and observed with a dark smile. He could hear the scene plainly, but he wanted to watch.
"What the- grenade!" One Grunt managed to squeal. The grenade exploded right in the middle of the patrol, sending projectiles and bodies flying all over the street. The sharp boom of the device shook silt and dust from the roof of the sewer; and simultaneously, smoke, dirt, and purple blood came through the grate and deflected off the wall on the opposite side. The area briefly stank of methane gas, but the stench blew away in the prevailing winds. As the echo of the explosion died away, Ron heard the wet smack of a bullet entering a body, though no shot could be heard. The Corporal's voice immediately came over the COM.
"Hostile down. Sniper fired after determining POW status negative. Audio output negligible. Sights are cold."
"Using experimental ammunition in the field, Corporal," Ron chided his subordinate, pronouncing each separate word like a disciplinarian father, "is not exactly smiled upon by the Captain."
"But these subsonic armor piercing rounds are optimal in these conditions, sir," McManus' matter-of-face voice stated. Parsons knew when he was getting a masked, "Fuck you," and this was being done brilliantly. "...Especially in tight environments, a SABOT round fired from this rifle would break the sound barrier and the surrounding structures would make this street like an enormous bullhorn, creating-"
"I know, Tim, I know. A loud fucking noise." Parsons rolled his eyes and glanced out of the grate. Despite his proximity to the patrol, Ron could not get a proper view of the damage. He looked for his monitor while Tim made his comeback.
"You always had a way with words, honey." McManus' sentence dripped with sarcastic cuteness.
"That's what Mom used to tell me." Parsons turned his attention to the handheld wireless monitor to appreciate the full scope of the carnage. To his surprise, the screen showed nothing but static. "Weird..." Ron's voice trailed off as he called his partner. "Tim, pick up river camera niner on your monitor.
McManus took his eyes off the scene in the middle of the street and took out his monitor. Three button presses later, his screen showed static as well. "Nothing," Tim responded. "Camera's out."
Parsons' voice crackled over the COM. "It was on two seconds ago. I'll call the office. Maybe they flicked a switch."
"Orders?" McManus asked.
"Form up on me five-zero meters north of my position, grid tango-seven. We'll go on recon to river camera niner's location. Objective rally point at river camera eight if necessary. Captain's orders were to watch the Charles, anyway. Parsons out."
McManus folded the bipod to his rifle, unscrewed the sound and flash suppresser and dismantled the gun in a little over a minute. He turned from his window and took in the large, empty apartment. There was nothing remarkable about the dusty wooden floors or cracked beige paint on the walls, but for a moment, the Corporal was incredibly lonely. When is this going to be over? He asked himself. When can I have a place like this all to myself without having to shoot through the window? Tim thought back to his promotion the night before and the pride he had felt. Yes, he did feel pride at being recognized for his contribution to the insurgency, but on some level it all rang hollow. He questioned what his purpose was.
His father had been crippled by the Covenant in the first few hours of the invasion, and though he was in good condition at Boston College's medical camp, McManus still felt his age and yearned for his father's presence. Captain O'Shea was a good man and a great leader, but Tim saw the way the Captain looked at him and Ron. McManus had heard all the stories, he knew about the losses the Captain had suffered. Tim knew. When O'Shea looked at Ron and Tim, he saw the children he would never see again. McManus, though no fault of his own, felt guilty about that. The Corporal turned at the door to the bare apartment, checking once again to see that he left no trace of his presence. McManus was a ghost in this city. A silent, deadly ghost that left no trace. At least, that was what he kept telling himself.
The Corporal descended the stairs with his sidearm out and ready, sweeping the dark, wide corridors and moving as noiselessly as humanly possible. The rubber soles of his boots created no sound, yet McManus' ears were ringing from the cacophony of thoughts in his head. He tried to think of anything else to take his mind off his own doubts and fears, and found his mind settling on the same image it always did. He saw the short, curly, auburn hair. He could clearly imagine the button nose, the smiling mouth, the gentle face. In the dead silence of the stairway in the middle of a city of destruction, Tim could hear her voice saying soothing words to his soul. For a second, McManus was at peace, thinking of the girl back in the camps. He fought for Boston, but he also fought for Rachel.
The two had a lot in common: separated from their parents by the Covenant's occupation, but still lucky enough to be in contact with them. Both had been in their third year of college, both had their education and lives disrupted by the invasion. In fact, it was by pure bad luck that the two had met. Rachel had traveled the short distance from the campus of Boston College into the city to deliver an exam just before the invasion had begun. She had little choice but to remain, whisked off the streets by O'Shea and the first bands of Minutemen. For Tim, his route had been simpler: the South Station refugee camp was a relatively short distance from Harvard, and the only safe place in the city.
The two college students had been nothing but scared kids back then. Now they were hardened by a desire to survive. Now McManus fought to kill the Covenant, and Rachel fought to keep the refugees alive. She had made good on her study in political science and psychology, and strangely enough was working under Mrs. O'Shea in the camp's day-to-day affairs. Tim and Rachel had become close, and after a year and a half of sacrifices, terrible loss, and few victories, they had a bond that he thought could never be broken. Fighting for your life every day tended to have that effect.
Tim could see the main entrance to the building on the ground floor. He walked toward it, but turned left and headed for a window by a back alley. The door presented too good a target. The Corporal found himself with a few more seconds of darkness in the hallway and briefly allowed himself to think of the future. He was twenty-three now, and he knew plenty of Minutemen younger than him that had gotten hitched during the course of the war.
Why not me? He asked himself. Part of him refused to do it, though. McManus was no fool; he understood the risks he was taking every day. Tim realized full well that he could die at any point to a foolish mistake, a wrong turn, a lucky Jackal that was in the right place at the right time. The Corporal would never let Rachel be subjected to that. But if she asked me, he thought for a playful second, then wiped all those thoughts from his mind. He had reached his alleyway entrance. He climbed out through a small basement hatchway, and left his emotions in the building.
Tim took a minute to make sure the street was completely deserted before leaving the relative safety of the alley. The malfunctioning camera was a straight shot six hundred meters away from Tim's street and positioned on the roof of a large hotel on the banks of the Charles River. Tim took in the remarkable beauty of the day; the streaming morning sunlight made the damaged hotel glow in a cream and rosy hue. It almost looked inviting. McManus took out his pair of tactical binoculars and tried to locate the camera. He scanned the roof, examining each air conditioning unit and ventilation fan for the malfunctioning device, but he soon found his attention shifting to the sections with good lines of sight and proper cover. The Corporal sighed to himself and realized he would never stop thinking like a sniper.
Tim was about to put the binoculars away when a blotch of black suddenly appeared between two ventilation fans, then disappeared. McManus ripped the binoculars from his eyes for an instant, opened his trained eyes wider, then put the binoculars up again. It had looked like-no, he thought, that's impossible. It's just too early, I'm still kinda hungover, I'm imagining things. There's no way that was...no, there's no way. Tim shook his head and stalked along the shadows, hurrying to meet with Parsons. A sense of foreboding crept into his head, but McManus did his best to wipe it from his mind.
A dry, calloused hand dragged itself down a hard and stubbled cheek, pausing at the jawline before it retraced its path back up. In the background, a German accent could be softly heard going on and on about damage spheres and "areas of decimation." The room, dark already, dimmed even further as Commander Thomas Young felt himself losing consciousness. His head suddenly felt heavy, he could feel his neck begin to lose its secure hold on his head. Suddenly, he regained full control and composure, and his head snapped back up.
The room brightened slightly, and on instinct he quickly scanned the room. The rectangular office was as it should be: two chairs in front of his desk, a small round table with five chairs in the far right corner by the door, a long counter that displayed trophies, photographs, and commendations along the left side. Nothing had moved; he was still alone in the room. He cursed the paranoia ONI had put in him and yearned for a cigarette. He spent the next few seconds after his craving berating himself for the moment of weakness. Young realized he had not slept in over thirty hours.
The Commander ran both his hands through his head of full gray hair as he swiveled in his chair, turning away from his desk. He walked to the back wall of his office, where a small wet bar stood stocked with all natures of exotic elixers from Earth and across the galaxy. He took a moment to regard his collection, then shook his head. Another moment of weakness. Get yourself together, man. The war is turning in the next few days. You don't have time for weakness. Young instead moved to the left of the bar to a small sink. He ran cold water over his hands, losing himself in the feeling of his chilled palms and relative calm of the sound of running water. He splashed a small amount of it on his face and patted his face dry with a small white towel next to the bar. Thomas glanced toward the windows of the office. As usual, they were closed.
"Open blinds," Young ordered, surprised at how weak his voice sounded. He needed to get some kind of sleep.
The Bavarian voice paused for a moment as it relented to the mechanical sounds of the blinds opening. Young frowned as he took the short walk to the right wall of his office. The windows revealed the entire operating section of the signals intelligence center, and though the clear matrial in front of him was sound and bulletproof, Thomas could nearly feel the buzz of energy and intrigue that was starting to develop on the floor. The staff seemed to be aware of it now; an operation was in progress, the covert kind, and everyone had to be on their game. In his mind, he could hear every noise. The static transmissions, the random noises of machines, the whispered code words, the swishing sounds of holograms. All of it excited him greatly.
The ONI station chief stood with his legs shoulder-length apart, his hands clasped behind his back. Quickly noting the time, Thomas grunted in disapproval as he noted the duty shift had still not changed. Command had ordered that as long as an operation was going on in his area of responsibility, his staff would be on emergency alert. That meant no monitor would be ignored, but that also meant that his skeleton staff would be spread thin and fatigued, like him. Mistakes were bound to be made. And mistakes, Young reminded himself, could not be made during this operation. There was too much to lose.
The Commander turned to face the opposite wall and looked at the numerous framed photographs that hung in his office. Next to staged shots with dignitaries like the Secretary-General were candid photos of a young, confident man with his other buddies who were young and confident as well. Cocky, Young corrected himself with something like a slight smile. We were all too young and goddamn cocky. They all wore shiny new Marine armor and carried around MA5B assault rifles that even the lowest ranking Marine would be ashamed to use these days. Every one of them looked happy and absolutely sure they would change the galaxy. Young gave a slight snort at his past self, but inside he was proud of where he had ended up. He was the hand guiding the tip of the spear. With any luck, that former cocky Marine would thrust it deep into the heart of the Covenant beast. The Commander allowed himself a moment of reflection on what they were close, so close, to accomplishing. He would be doing his old, cocky buddies proud. The gruff, yet insightful voice behind him broke the still air of reflection.
"Commander, I need your attention." Thomas turned on his heel and faced Bismark, his advanced AI. The holographic representation displayed a man in Imperial Prussian ceremonial dress, and his moustache nearly hid his mouth.
"Listening." Young tersely responded with short nod.
"I've just picked up a communication inside our network. It pertains to intelligence garnered from the area of operation."
Thomas' eyes narrowed. All introspective inclinations were wiped from his mind. Any sort of communication from his team's general location had the potential to be incredibly bad news. The Commander had always tried to think one step ahead of whatever occurred, and rarely did he ask a question he did not know the answer to. However, this particular operation was full of holes and unknowns. It had all the possibilities of being a disaster, but the reward was more than worth the risk. He readjusted his dress tie and listened carefully. "Go on," he said as a hand came to his chin. "They're not dead, are they?"
"No, Commander, Valiant Reclamation is still dark. It seems a different operation has been carried out."
"Different?" The Commander tilted his head slightly. Young doubted that very much. There was nothing going into that city that he did not know about in advance or divert himself. Unless something more covert than his own operation was occurring, Thomas was certain that information was false. He crossed the room as he made his way to the desk. Bismark continued.
"An Ensign, Keith J. Keaveney, will be coming to present his analysis."
"When?" Young snapped.
"In approximately fifteen minutes."
Young turned quickly and looked at his AI with a quizzical, yet angry face. His tone expressed the same. "Why wasn't I told?"
"It appears, Commander, that your advance receptionist is asleep. I have surveillance on site if you would like to see."
Thomas sighed and shook his head. That was the first personnel mishap he had heard of, but he imagined if an Ensign was coming to him with urgent news, then someone at a much higher rank had let one slip. That higher rank employee was going to get chewed out, publicly. While the Commander understood the situation his people were in, he was not about to let that become a weakness. An example would have to be made. The secretary, though, was a trivial matter.
"Let her sleep. We're going to need it." The Commander ran a hand through his short silver strands and straightened his dress uniform. He passed his desk on the way to the back wall, where a large wood and glass box sat to the left of the sink. Within the display case were at least a dozen medals, gleaming impeccably against a black background. There were some gaps between medals, signifying operations that had warranted medals, yet could not be recognized at the present time, possibly ever.
"I want a complete dossier on the Ensign," Young ordered as he looked into a mirror. He looked like hell, but a quick shave would make him look fresh and rested. Thomas imagined the young Ensign was coming off the end of his shift and would not look nearly as presentable. "Give me all records. I want to know if this kid can give me quality analysis." Thomas Young unlocked the case and began fastening his myriad of medals to his dress shirt.
"Done, sir." The AI stated, and the Commander allowed himself a brief confident look into the mirror. Appearance was everything.
Captain Jack O'Shea's face was in a stern scowl. He exhaled slowly through clenched teeth as Parsons' transmission came loud and clear into the war room. His morning meeting with Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds was over, and now the entire Minutemen command crew sat at the holographic projector table and listened to the communication.
"...It's totally severed, sir." The sniper finished.
"And this is-" Jack started to ask again.
"The third camera that's gone offline today, yeah." Ron confirmed. The Staff Sergeant scratched the back of his head as he grit his teeth in consternation. "We thought it was just a problem with the power back at the station, but I wouldn't be surprised if this was the same situation with the other two." Ron peeked around his corner to assess the current condition again. McManus was on the edge of the roof, concealed under his ghillie suit and several other pieces of cover, performing overwatch of the area around the hotel roof.
The city, what was left of it, was spread out in all directions below them. In different circumstances, Parsons would have enjoyed the view. Now, he simply felt exposed. He had his back against a large ventilation fan and held the heavily armored surveillance camera in his hands, the thick black cable severed at one end. Circuitry and all manners of wires still hung limply out of the opening, but it had been a clean cut, more or less. Ron shook his head in confusion and concern.
"Any evidence of plasma scoring?" The Captain's voice came into Parsons' right ear. Ron sighed and looked at the immediate area again.
"No evidence of plasma weaponry, though an energy sword could have made this cut, or any other manner of Covie instruments. But just so we're clear on this, sir, this doesn't look like some Grunt got hungry and started chewin' on it. This is a clean cut. Invasive, but precise."
Jack rubbed his eyes and looked around the table. The big news of the morning had been the IR detection while everyone in the camp had been at the memorial/promotion ceremony last night. Each officer had a short briefing and the details of the detection in front of them. That had been worrying enough. The loss of three surveillance cameras in the same general sector so recently did not appear to be a coincidence. O'Shea took a second to carefully think out his next sentence, but there was no easy way around it. "Is there any evidence," he asked slowly, "of this being...human tech?"
The response was predictable. Just about every head in the war room turned and regarded their commanding officer with incredulous looks. Jack was sure the question had been pondered by more than one officer or NCO in the room, but to hear it from their Captain would seem to be making everyone's worst fear a reality, as if the threat could only be real if Jack were to say it out loud. The Minutemen Captain, at that awkward moment in time, really hated being in charge. O'Shea was relieved to hear Parsons voice, even if it was not what he wanted to hear.
"The cut does not indicate Covenant or human technology. The absence of plasma scoring keeps me from definitively calling this alien, but we don't have any evidence whatsoever of this being done by anything."
"Just that it's cut precisely by something that knew what it was doing to one of our most valuable assessment tools."
"Affirmative. Not ideal, sir."
No shit, Jack thought as he busied himself with shuffling papers. Either way O'Shea looked at this, it was not good. "Thanks for your update, Staff Sergeant. You're on patrol to river camera seven to perform overwatch on the Charles. You're to call out troop movement and anything that merits attention to the COM center. Hold at your position until we call you. Rally points are at your discretion. Acknowledge."
"We copy," Parsons said, "Recon patrolling to river camera seven. Will perform overwatch until your signal. Recon out." The channel closed with a chirp and all eyes were once again on the Captain. The looks were not returned. Jack had his eyes on the current report, and after a second of circling something on the paper, O'Shea spoke without looking up.
"Master guns," Jack said to the table like a teacher calling on a star pupil.
"Yes, sir," Reynolds replied in a serious and prepared tone.
The Captain looked up and locked eyes on his second-in-command. He was sending a message to the room that he wanted to hear what his friend had to say, and that was it. Jack gave a small nod to his old friend. "I want to know what you think."
"With respect, sir, you don't want to know what I think."
Jack looked across the table at the concerned visage of Reynolds. O'Shea knew Reynolds was thinking in worst-case scenario, but in truth, so was the Captain. He put his left hand on the table and laid it on his briefing paper as he draped his right arm over the back of his chair.
"Yeah, Gus, I do."
The Master Gunnery Sergeant took a second. "If they're not finding evidence of plasma on that rooftop, or any other Covenant evidence, then this looks bad either way." Reynolds bit down on his lower lip briefly and stared down at his reports. He shook his head.
"If that's Covenant, then they've figured out that we're watching them and that those cameras probably go back to a central source. At best, they'll order more reinforcements and up their readiness. At worst, they'll purge this city 'til they find us." Jack knew this was not what Reynolds thought. O'Shea abandoned his at-ease body language and shifted in his seat so both elbows were on the table. He pressed his palms together and pointed them across the space at Gus, opening them slightly as if asking for more. The Captain shot Reynolds a look that told him to continue.
"If it's human...then it's real bad, sir. We know what happened to Pittsburgh and Hartford, and if ONI or UNSC run up on Covenant in this city and does the long division...we may be faced with Cronin Protocol."
"Hold on a second," a Second Lieutenant said from the side of the table, "Cronin Protocol? Sir, what the fuck is Cronin Protocol?"
Jack was not surprised some of the officers didn't know about the imminent danger Boston had always been in. The only ones who knew were the officers who monitored the UNSC channels or were trained to communicate with the military, but not give away any location. Therefore, Parsons and McManus knew the risk of calling the UNSC, but other officers may not have known. O'Shea sighed and folded his arms across his chest.
"This conversation did not occur. No details of what you've heard or are about to hear can be shared with anyone. Fellow officers, spouses..." Jack let his words sink in for a second, "No one. In 2552 after the Covenant got a foothold on Earth and began to solidify their invasion, the Navy quickly decided that there could be 'acceptable civilian losses' in this war. Admiral Matthew Cronin, after learning the effectiveness of similar tactics at Cote D'Azure, established the following protocol: in certain circumstances if the Covenant presence is entrenched and the city has an 'accpteable minimum number' of civilians," Jack took a short breath, "nuclear bombardment is acceptable."
The room did not erupt in a frenzy of activity, in fact it felt to Jack as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Some heads fell, their gaze locked on the table; others stared into space as if their own death sentence had been read. O'Shea and Reynolds continued to stare at each other. "But why now, Gus? Why after two years would the military be back in Boston?"
Reynolds looked sadly at his commanding officer. "Remember, Jack?" He said as a resigned look came over his face. "We called them here."
The Pelican pilot had tried to maintain a business-like attitude as he called out the many enemy contacts that seemed to materialize out of nowhere, but any confidence was lost in the confused, scared, and slightly frantic tone that played out over the airwaves. Commander Young looked up from the written transcript that lay on the surface of his workspace. The mid-level analyst stood at attention in front of the desk, his eyes straight ahead, not looking at the Commander. Keaveney didn't have any choice; Young had not yet told him he could move. Keith stood ramrod straight as he listened to the transmission yet again, and sighed inside his mind.
You know what everyone's said. "Commander Young likes to maintain control." Don't show weakness. Don't move. Don't speak 'til spoken to. And whatever you do, Keith, keep it short and sweet. The sooner I impress this spook, the sooner my ass is off the sidelines and in the game. Oh, son of a bitch, he's playing it again?
The transmission played over the speakers once more, down to the final "Mayday," call and the subsequent static. To his credit, the Commander noted to himself, he hasn't moved an inch, and I've played this same transmission over seven times in a row. "All right, Ensign," the Commander finally said, switching off the Pelican's transmission. "I don't think you need to be reminded that this information has been classified." To emphasize his point, Young automatically shut the blinds of his office, sealing the room and turning the already foreboding environment dark reds and greens. "What is your analysis?"
"Sir," Keaveny started, inserting a data pad into a slot on the front of the Commander's desk. A large hologram of the city of Boston marked with green and purple pulsing points of light, appeared in the center of the room. Keith walked backwards from the desk toward the hologram. The city slowly rotated until the Ensign moved his hand, shifting the map. "About two days ago, that transmission was intercepted by our signals intelligence drones in the Northeast sector. After cross referencing the transmission with UNSC deployments over the last week, a match was obtained.
"It seems two Pelicans, call signs Golf Seven-oh-Seven and X-ray Three Thirty-One were sent to reinforce and extract an advance fire team in the evacuated city of Boston. Both Pelicans had full complements of Marines. The mission was standard rescue op: the fire team reportedly ran into a surprisingly overwhelming force of Covenant and needed to get out. I've traced the Pelican homing beacons to two locations, and it would appear as though all Marines were KIA." The Ensign moved his hand slightly, and the city of Boston rotated so the Commander now had a bird's-eye view of the area. The hologram seemingly enlarged, but in reality it was zooming in on a strip of road, labeled "Commonwealth Avenue." Two blue dots glowed with call signs underneath them: the downed Pelicans.
"Yet what is more surprising than the Covenant presence, sir, is this 'Fire Team Foxtrot'. Even with the help of Bismark, sir, I could not access any such record of this team's existence." Keaveney paused. He knew that he probably wouldn't get an answer, but if he did, it would certainly narrow the list of possibilities. He cleared his throat. "If I may ask, sir, are they one of ours?"
Young leaned forward in his chair. Even with the help of the Commander's personal advanced AI, the fire team could not be located. That point stood out in the Commander's mind. The Ensign was asking questions above his rank, but he was impressed by the skilled research and analysis. "I'm afraid I am not privy to any of ONI's operational missions," the Commander lied, "but I'm curious about your conclusions on the fire team. Assuming they're not ours and they're not UNSC, who are they?" Thomas smiled in the dark as the Ensign's body language changed. The youthful ONI recruit had been waiting for his superior to ask that.
"Sir, if they are not UNSC or ONI, I believe we cannot keep the label of 'evacuated' on the city of Boston. It would appear that civilians are not only living in the city, but operating in conventional military capacity against the Covenant."
Young had mixed emotions regarding the seemingly dead-on analysis. It was true; there didn't seem to be any other explanation. The only ONI operatives that were in that city Young had sent there personally. While the Covenant would be occupied by a guerilla war, and those ODSTs were trained to be invisible, the additional human presence created too many variables in the equation. What if they found the ODSTs? Would they co-operate? And what had the militia found so far? It had been two years since the UNSC pulled out of Boston, two years with that city all to themselves. Eventually they would have to stumble on...was it even there? Young asked himself. Covenant were there! How could it be otherwise?
"Sir?" The Ensign broke the Commander out of his thoughts.
"Ensign Keaveny, this is first-rate analysis. You beat a lot of senior ONI to the ball on this one."
The analyst nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Young lifted his right hand slightly from the desk, signaling caution. "However, this is a most delicate and complicated manner. Command is considering initiating Cronin Protocol on Boston. It's been in the works for a few weeks now."
The Ensign almost took a step forward. They can't do that! "But sir! The city is inhabited! We have to revoke the-"
The hand came up once again. Keaveney knew when he was being put in his place. He returned to his normal stance as his commanding officer continued. "I have seen the intelligence, Ensign. As I have said, it is first-rate, and will put you at the front of the line for promotion. It's nothing to scoff at. You're going from 0-1 to 0-3 in one hop, and I think we both know that kind of jump is extremely rare in our line of work, especially at this station. In addition, I see that you've requested to be transferred. I don't blame you; young kid like yourself, wants to see the galaxy, wants to make a difference in this war." You have no idea what you're missing here and now, the Commander thought. Now it was time to buy the boy's silence. This was bigger than them both.
"I will ask you to wait two days to let me muscle this commendation through, but at the end of the day, I think you'll agree it is for the best. For both of us. Understood, son?"
The soon-to-be Lieutenant nodded numbly. He had not seen that coming. He almost forgot about the city he had just selected to be wiped off the map. It's "acceptable losses", Keith, he told himself. Command knows what they're doing. Let them worry about it. With that, the Ensign pushed Boston from his mind. What did he care about some backwater militia, anyway?
"Thank you for your time, Ensign. Leave all intelligence materials on my desk. After that, you are dismissed. Get some rest, you look tired." Young watched as the ONI member laid down all relevant materials on the Commander's desk, saluted, donned his black ONI dress cover, and walked smartly out of the room. As the door shut, a bluish man appeared on the holotank with the soft swoosh sound that accompanied many AI's arrivals.
"Bismark?"
"Hier, mein Kommander." The AI responded.
Thomas Young began to unfasten the medals from his dress shirt. "Wipe those intel materials clean," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Only the slight clicking of metal clasps, followed by the heavy sounds of metal on wood could be heard for several moments. "Done, Commander." The AI stated. "It appears as if my analysis of the city was correct. Covenant occupation would certainly indicate that they are looking for it."
"But can we get it in time?"
"Uncertain, Commander."
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