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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 2
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 12 August 2004, 10:25 PM
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 2
Big ups to Nick Kang, Conrad Lauf, and Helljumper especially. Thanks for the specs. More action today.
53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Commonwealth Avenue,evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Ron Parsons jerked to a sudden stop ten feet from the ground. He bounced for a few seconds and swore loudly. Thankfully, the old habit of keeping the waist harness tight had paid off. Parsons didn't want to think about what could have happened if he didn't. It was also a good thing his helmet was with his partner, Tim McManus, several stories above him. It would have been crushed on impact. "Hey, McManus!" Parsons called out, swinging in the air. "How 'bout pulling me up sometime this campaign?"
"Shove it, Parsons," Tim McManus shouted, his voice echoing in the skeleton of the abandoned structure. "Don't blame me 'cuz you pulled a Caboose. Now shut up and try to help me out here."
"No thanks, I'll just hang out." Parsons called back.
McManus slowly extended his legs, still braced on the doorframe, and pulled on the heavy-duty rope. Each time McManus was pulling on the rope by flexing his legs and picking up slack, keeping his body perpendicular to the doorframe. McManus' long brown hair was starting to get in his eyes as sweat started to drip down his face. The Minutemen had no regulations on hair length or facial hair, so the looks of the squad were all over the place.
"Parsons, for a skinny guy, you are a heavy mother-"
"Shut your mouth." Parsons countered. Slowly and surely Parsons ascended back into the funnel and started to grip debris sticking through the floor. With ten feet to McManus, both snipers heard the sounds of stress on the doorframe. As the doorframe started to splinter, McManus locked eyes with Parsons.
"I think you're just bad luck for me, seriously." McManus said.
"Well," Parsons said, scrambling to find some kind of hold on the severe incline of the floor, "on the bright side, you'll get to keep the food. Let go of the rope."
"Fuck that, like I'm gonna let the Captain ream me out for your dumb-ass death." McManus scowled at Parsons. Parsons laughed. They were both about to fall a very long way.
The doorframe gave way faster and faster as McManus' right foot crashed through his support, then the left. Parsons' weight dragged McManus to the beginning of the funnel as Parsons began his fall through thin air once more. At the threshold of the funnel, McManus could see down what had once been floor and several stories farther down. The view did not last long. A heavy weight fell and clasped onto the back of McManus' collar, dragging him back from the funnel and toward the door.
"For the love of-!" McManus cried out.
"For the love of McHale, you freaking idiots." Lance Corporal Harry McHale frowned, the deep creases of his dirt-smudged face showing a disappointed look, like fathers give to unruly sons. Using his whole dust-caked body, McHale laboriously dragged the two linked snipers to the safety of the hallway.
Gus Reynolds could hear the high whine of Covenant Ghosts. The Ghosts always gave off an eerie sound, but in the close quarters of decimated, bombed-out buildings, the whine echoed in strange tones and mutated into different but equally haunting sounds.
"Those things creep me out, for real," said a shaky voice said behind Reynolds. There were eight assault Minutemen on either side of the street, their ages ranged from 16 to 50. Eighteen assault, five demo guys, three medics, two snipers, and the Captain, Reynolds thought, and I get stuck with the rookie. This one Minuteman was lacking in the experience catagory.
"You haven't been in enough combat to be creeped out, Stick." Reynolds hissed over his shoulder. By the age of 34, Reynolds had more or less seen it all. Reynolds had a head full of premature gray hair, but his frame and body type was grade-A UNSC Marine. After all, that was what Gus Reynolds had been. Reynolds had served in combat for the UNSC right from 18, following his four older brothers, and had been off-planet for the majority of his service. After reaching the rank of Master Gunnery Sergeant, Gus Reynolds was called to return home. His four brothers had all been lost on Harvest, and Reynolds had to head to South Boston to keep his mourning family together. In the meantime, Reynolds had signed on to the Massachusetts militia and monitored the Convenant's irresitable march through Earth's colonies. To Reynolds, it was only a matter of time.
All in all, Reynolds was proud of his men. The Assault teams of the Minutemen were the cream of the militia crop. While the flyboys where driving Longswords and the ODSTs were falling through the sky, the Mass. Militia Minutemen were in already evacuated areas crawling with Covenant, extracting those who refused to leave. In addition, the Minutemen had salvaged hundreds of tons of military equipment from flash-evacuated areas and stolen covenant arms from transports, ammo dumps, and the occasional dead Elite. That which the Minutemen did not need were then passed along to the UNSC for whatever it was they did. Because of the last-ditch efforts of the Minutemen, many of their actions and operations pushed the envelope on what was considered legal. Whenever the Minutemen ran into UNSC and were questioned about their methods, the reply was always the same, "They invaded first."
Last Reynolds had heard, the spacemen were looking for the Covenant homeworld. It didn't make sense to him. Why look for the enemy's base when we should be defending ours? All the same, Gus had heard all the stories from places like Harvest, Reach, and Tectron. Large forces didn't seem to be any kind of advantage for humanity. Maybe taking the fight to the Covenant doorstep would keep a few Ghosts out of Boston. Reynolds shook his head and laughed at himself.
Reynolds heard someone approaching from behind. The whispered "Captain" and "Sir"s made it abundantly clear that O'Shea was joining him for this little rendesvous. "Welcome to Easy Street, sir," Reynolds said as O'Shea crouched next to him.
O'Shea chuckled. "Well," he remarked, "This town has certainly gone to Hell." O'Shea had been saying that for the last two years. For some reason, it never got old. The pair listened to the whine of Covenant Ghosts. "Hey," O'Shea said, breaking the silence. Reynolds looked over. "Did I see you talking to Sandra last night at the bar?" Reynolds shook his head in disbelief at the Captain.
"If I may say so, sir," Gus Reynolds replied, "I was very drunk."
"Yeah, you must've," O'Shea said, peering out from his cover, "because she is much too good looking for you."
"Well, Captain, you know what they say, 'Girls are like Covenant: You leave the good ones to the good soldiers..."
"... 'And let the greenhorns take the uglies.'" O'Shea finished the joke. "There's something to be said for pulling rank."
The two old soldiers had been friends from the beginning of the conflict, and while both complained about "Being too old for this shit," the two always had the other's back. Reynolds had lost count how many times O'Shea had pulled his ass from the fire. Both had lost friends and family, but they swore they wouldn't let each other die. At times, it was a tough promise to keep.
The radio chirped and a familiar voice sounded in the squad's headsets. "Parsons, here. Standby for intel."
Harry McHale had been in the top floor of the 2000 Commonwealth Ave. apartment building when he saw the first of the big blue comets heading right for his floor. Without hesitation, McHale reached for his shotgun and blasted out the window that had afforded him a scenic view. McHale followed the breaching round with his body, diving out into space. The fall lasted one story, taking him to the next floor's balcony. As the screech of the incoming plasma became deafening, McHale swung himself off the balcony so he hung down from the balcony's railing, making the next drop much less life-threatening. He was able to repeat this twice, but any kind of freefall from his height would be fatal. The impact of the plasma shot brought an avalanche of debris down on his position. McHale was able to make it back indoors to relative safety as the falling chunks of building sealed him in.
It was a miracle that the entire building didn't collapse right away. The Covenant were concentrating fire on the higher floors, which made sense. After all, Parsons and McManus had been racking up kill after long distance kill from that position. McHale hoped they got out in time. Losing those snipers would be a big setback. It was hard enough to find recruits that the UNSC and ONI weren't picking up. That, and all the recruits were dying before being able to volunteer.
McHale had managed to break out of his makeshift tomb with a few lucky breaching rounds from his trusty shotgun. Harry McHale wasn't the kind of guy who wielded a shotgun. He was about 5'5, but his self-consciousness about his height led him to the weight room almost every day. McHale could bench press twice as much as any Minuteman, which came in handy when toting a large gun like the M90 shotgun. The Minutemen had managed to steal away some unique shotgun rounds, called "Hippo shot." Whether or not the round could take down a Hippopotamus, it did quite a number on the walls of the building. As McHale emerged from the room, he walked down a crumbling hallway and followed the sounds of Parsons and McManus' bickering.
Now McHale was halfway down the building, lowered by McManus' climbing gear. It had struck McHale as odd that two snipers from Massachusetts would be such accomplished climbers, but the former state of New Hampshire was known for mountains, so perhaps the two had spent time in the northern parts. As soon as his feet touched ground, McHale disengaged the rope and sent his harness up with it. McHale switched on his radio and called for instructions. It was time to get to work.
Parsons tried to feel at ease with his position. McManus was an excellent spotter, but the terrain just wasn't as high as it used to be. Parsons liked to be very high up with good lines of sight. McManus was more of the down-and-dirty ghillie suit stalker style, which was why it was Parsons keeping his blonde hair back with a militia-issue sweatband and aiming the considerable barrel of his S2 AM sniper rifle down Commonwealth Avenue, scanning for hostiles. Both the snipers had their faces painted the color of dust, concrete, and stone. McManus was sweeping the area as well, performing an overwatch of the designated area. O'Shea called for an update.
"Still scanning, sir." Parsons replied.
"Contact," McManus whispered, though it would be impossible for any Covenant to hear, "Half a click spinward. Call it...four ghosts, elite pilots...infantry support...jackals and grunts. Ghosts advancing fast."
Parsons shifted his body slightly and moved a stray brick from the barrel's way. "Sights are hot," Parsons confirmed, "I have a Ghost in range, good shot. Standing by for green light, sir."
"Standby, Parsons." O'Shea ordered.
"Standing by, roger."
"Not much in terms of mop-ups," Reynolds noted to the Captain. "Guess they figure we're easy game."
"Let's make 'em pay for that, then, shall we?" O'Shea asked. "Parsons, green light. Fire at will." O'Shea closed the channel. "Who knows," O'Shea remarked, "we may not even need the car bomb."
"I have a green light." Parsons confirmed.
"RangeFinder says 400 meters, closing," McManus noted. "Recommend one click down, but that's all. No wind."
"Roger that," Parsons said, and took in a breath. He released it halfway, then held his breath. Every muscle in his body relaxed. The sights settled in above the crown of the elite's skull, allowing for gravity to work its' magic. The ActivSight feature on Parsons' rifle glowed red at the crosshairs to indicate the target was acquired, and all other details blurred around the target area. Parsons lightly pulled the trigger, and the gun bucked back into Parson's shoulder. The business end of the sniper rifle made a sharp kr-kack as the blast shattered the crisp autumn air. Through the scope, Parsons saw the alien head snap back and release a satisfying spray of purple liquid and glop as the Elite fell out of the Ghost, the unmanned vehicle plowing into what used to be an electronics shop. There were small explosions and flames as Parsons loaded the next round.
"That's a confirmed kill." McManus noted with a small amount of satisfaction. Parsons notched another one up on the mental tally. "For those of you keeping score at home, Parsons is still the C.K leader."
Through the RangeFinder binoculars, McManus could see the Ghost formation spread out from a flying V to more of a very wide upside down U. They had seen the long vapor trail and didn't intend on being easy targets. The three remaining Ghosts activated their Turbo feature and disappeared from Parsons' scope. He had to relocate to sight them all. At this speed and range, it would be impossible to take all the Ghosts out in time. "Take the one on the right," McManus said." McManus opened his channel after Parsons acknowledged. "Captain, be advised. Ghosts are too close and too fast to take out from long range. Recommend you spank 'em."
"Copy." Crackled O'Shea.
O'Shea took a quick look down the street and was met with heavy plasma fire. Bright purple, green, and blue streaks raced past the Minutemen's position as the whine grew louder and louder. O'Shea could hear the cracks of Parsons' sniper rifle and the answering booms, screeches, and roars of pain getting closer and closer. The plasma was melting concrete and cars all around the militia. The young ones were looking wide-eyed and jittery. O'Shea opened a squad-wide channel.
"Demo?" O'Shea asked.
"Here, Cap," Tonsi answered.
"Spank 'em."
"Huah, sir."
Mahmoud Tonsi was a very long way from home. A member of the UNSC's 31st Mechanized unit, Tonsi had been brought to the United North American Protectorate all the way from his homeland in what used to be called Bahrain. At 21, he had been recruited into the unenviable job of "Tread Jockey": one of four marines to sit on the tread covers of the Scorpion tank and direct fire. While the Scorpion did pack more punch than a Warthog, it lacked mobility, adequate passenger cover, and got targeted first in every engagement. In the fight to take back the Northeast of the UNAP, Tonsi was one of five survivors of the 31st Mechanized. All five had been stranded in New York City as the Covenant rolled through the area. The survivors had taken to retreating to the rally point in Boston, but once a week Covenant patrols would take one of them out until Tonsi was the only one remaining. Tonsi had been recognized as a genius with explosives and demolition, and in a war against aliens, no one bothered to question how Tonsi knew so much at such a young age. When Tonsi was discovered holed up in dowtown Boston, the Covenant also discovered a maze of booby traps, triggering gigantic explosions up and down the block Tonsi was hiding in. Those explosions led the Minutemen to Tonsi's shelter and the extermination of the Covenant death squad hunting him.
Now the olive-skinned, curly haired Tonsi was teamed up with four stocky redheaded demo experts, simply called the Connor brothers. The four had been with the Minutemen since the beginning of the war, appearing out of nowhere and serving as excellent demolition troopers in every mission. They had admitted to being part of a splinter faction of the now defunct IRA. While the Irish peace process had been completed decades ago, the idle youth of Ireland were still looking for some kind of inclusion. Thankfully, their deadly talents were now much more acceptable in an intergalactic war against the Covenant. The five demo team members created no small amount of improvised devices to make life miserable for the Covenant. The only problem was the four brothers were just as ferocious fighting each other as they were against the Covenant. Tonsi was an excellent father figure for the brothers, who now affectionately called him "Dad, sir."
Tonsi now turned to four almost comically grinning faces. The Connor brothers had heard the transmission.
"At last, we get to fuggin' spank tha bastahds, eh Dad?" Seamus Connor, the oldest, asked.
"Looks like it, lads. Blow the livin' shite out o' 'em. So who gets to do it, Dad?" Gerry Connor asked.
"Whose turn is it, anyway?" Tonsi asked.
Silence. The five explosive-happy militiamen looked at each other.
The youngest, Michael, spoke. "Captain says wait 'til I'm older. Crock o' shite, if ya ask me."
"I'm gonna wait to be the one to hit the car bomb." Rory Connor declared. He was the second-oldest, and always felt he had something to prove. Rory, the Minutemen had decided, was clinically insane.
"I shot the last one." Gerry said, looking at the ground and kicking a stone.
Seamus and Muhammed looked at each other.
"How 'bout-" Tonsi started.
"Fuck that! It's my fuggin' turn!" Seamus yelled, smiling. "Besides, I'm blessed, Dad! You're the heathen!"
These fucking kids and religion, Tonsi thought. Tonsi sighed and pulled out the M19 SSM man portable launcher, with the letters, "SPNKR" on the side. Seamus' face lit up with delight. Tonsi loaded two rockets into the SPNKR loading chambers and slammed the barrels shut. Seamus took the laucher from Tonsi's hands and disengaged the safety. A soft tone told Seamus the target finder was working.
"All right, you fuggin' covie bastards!" Seamus Connor yelled, wheeling around cover and standing in the middle of the street, "Come get a taste!"
"Check out Seamus," McManus said. "I swear the boy is divinely protected."
"Divinely fucking insane, if you ask me." Parsons said, loosing another round into the cranial cavity of a jackal. "If I was God, I'd have given up on him by now." McManus heard another crack from Parsons' rifle, and redirected his RangeFinder from Seamus to the jackal clutching its' neck, watching itself bleed to death.
"That," McManus laughed through his nose, "was not very nice."
"I'm not a nice guy." Parsons said, reloading.
"Roger that."
Seamus Connor wasn't really scared. After all these battles, skirmishes, evacuations, and missions, scared really wasn't part of his vocabulary. Excited, Seamus decided. Excited was the word. Connor brothers don't get scared. They get rocket launchers. The 2x scope of the SPNKR rocket launcher found the center of one of the last two Ghosts. The trouble with Ghosts, Seamus remembered, was that the bastards would strafe left and right, easily dodging most shots. Seamus would have to let the Ghosts get closer. Good thing he was blessed.
Purple and blue plasma blasts tried to refute Seamus' claim of divine protection as the searing hot energy blasts shot centered on him. The Elites were trying to "walk" the plasma shots to ensure accuracy, so the plasma was landing well short of Seamus but gaining ground at a scary speed. The pavement was melting at Seamus' feet before he seized his moment. He placed his left foot back away from the melted pavement to steady himself and squeezed the trigger for tube one. The small explosion in the first tube of the M19 SSM man portable launcher made a pwunt and propelled the 102 mm rocket into open air. With a satisfying sfwooosh the SPNKR rocket was in flight; Seamus pivoted to the right, targeted the other Ghost, and let off the last rocket. The plasma was still coming, the Ghosts were still advancing.
From Gus Reynold's view, the fact Seamus Connor even got the shot off was a miracle. He had heard the braggart's claims of divine protection, but after so many engagements, it seemed almost plausible. Seamus got himself in as much shit as Rory, and even Rory had been injured before. Seamus never seemed to get hit. Reynolds watched as shot after shot missed Seamus, in the dead center of the street. Gus snuck a peek at the Captain and noticed O'Shea's eyes were wide with disbelief. The Ghosts were so close, Reynolds could see the scars on one battle-hardened Elite's face. At this range, someone was about to die.
"Mother of God..." A young Minuteman breathed.
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