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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 16
Posted By: Azrael<sherwood.tondorf@gmail.com>
Date: 18 January 2008, 9:26 am
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 16
ONI Signal Intelligence Center
Location Classified
Evening
"We have a very serious problem."
Commander Thomas Young frowned at his advanced AI and wiped the holographic screens from his view with an angry swipe of his hand. "Explain, Bismarck."
The purple holographic figure crossed his arms and stared at the ground. "He's not supposed to be there. How the hell did I miss this?"
"Bismarck!"
The artificial intelligence looked up at his master. "There was an advanced AI that was dedicated to cutting-edge research and development. ONI gave him free access to all our weapons tech, with an emphasis on alien and unknown equipment. He called himself Odysseus, after the clever and cunning Greek king who created the Trojan horse. His last known position was with the Apocalypso. They had problems with their shipboard AI, and Odysseus was brought in as a silent fail safe. As either luck or design would have it, Apocalypso intercepted an artifact, and ONI personnel realized it had similar properties to the artifact found during the battle of Imbari V."
Commander Young stood up in anger, pushing his chair backwards in a fury. "Then what does it matter?"
"The Apocalypso was wiped after it brought the artifact back. All AI, records, the Captain even, all of it was destroyed. I just picked up his signal. It's distorted, which means it may be coming through the ULF web around Boston."
"Is there any chance you're wrong?"
"I know Odysseus, sir. We were created roughly at the same time. Parts of my code were created from him. In a very loose way, you could call him a father to me. I'm not sure why, but I felt him."
"So we must assume he survived."
"Yes, and if Odysseus is with that same artifact, he knows everything."
"Everything."
"Everything."
"That makes him dangerous."
"I should say so, sir."
Commander Young pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. After a moment, he spoke in a voice that commanded attention. "First chance we get, eliminate him. I want no trace he existed."
Bismarck eyes narrowed as he nodded. "I'll take care of it."
Chawla Facility
Evacuated City of Boston
Evening
Corporal Tim McManus took a second to absorb the information all around him. Directly in front of him, a two foot tall hologram of a man dressed in ancient Greek battle armor stood next to a large, rotating artifact that had been sitting under Tim's feet for years. Tim took off his black jeep cap and ran a gloved hand through his short brown hair, letting his hand linger on the back of his head as he grasped at explanations for why everything was as it was.
"You're...the AI for this facility?" He asked hesitantly.
"Correct. I am Odysseus, AI for Chawla facility and project Penelope."
"What's project Penelope?"
"In short, Project Penelope is tasked with the research and development of strategic uses for Deep Space Artifact-98."
Tim pointed at the slowly rotating piece of stone-colored metal behind Odysseus."Is that thing Deep Space Artifact-98?"
"That's right."
"What does it do?"
"You don't have the clearance to hear that."
McManus shook his head in frustration. "I don't know how long you've been cooped up in that machine, but we just came through your facility and it looks like everyone abandoned you in a hurry. The UNSC left this whole city to rot for the last two years. No one cares what you have to say besides me and our men."
The AI took a brief glance around the room and nearly chuckled. "If that is so, why are you watched by Orbital Drop Shock Troopers? It would appear the UNSC accounts for half the forces in this room."
"What makes you think we're not UNSC?"
"You don't register on UNSC biometrics. Besides, you're going to go out into a combat zone dressed like that?"
McManus looked down at his Minutemen uniform. He had a flash of insecurity as he compared his urban camouflage, worn boots, tactical vest, and very basic armor to the technology-ridden forms of the ODSTs.
"That doesn't mean those two are UNSC. We could have killed two Helljumpers and used their armor."
The AI paused for a moment, allowing McManus to falsely believe he had captured victory. As soon as it spoke, though, Tim's shoulders sagged. "Unlikely, as their IFF and biometric tags list them as Sergeant Todd Kren and Lance Corporal Eric Sanders. They are active duty Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. All other information is classified." McManus and Parsons glanced at the two special operations soldiers as they glared at Odysseus. Apparently they did not want their full names becoming public knowledge. In any other context, Tim would have counted that as a victory. Now, it was just another piece of information he did not particularly need. The Minuteman Corporal put both hands on the railing separating him from the AI and the artifact and locked his eyes on the opaque purple figure. Who now crossed his arms in irritation.
"Do you really want to keep up a pointless argument?"
Ron Parsons took a step forward, only to be halted by McManus subtly raising his hand. Tim could tell Ron's patience was getting thin, and he faced Odysseus again to try to wrap it up.
"We need to move this artifact out of Boston."
"Why?"
"Because a whole mess of Covenant have occupied the city and they're trying to get in here, I presume to speak with you." Tim found himself gritting his teeth in frustration. "In addition, this city is being targeted for nuclear bombardment. You're either going to be destroyed, or captured by the Covenant."
The AI glanced at the ODST Sergeant, Todd Kren.
"It's true," Kren said. "We're here under orders from the Office of Naval Intelligence. You are required to provide all assistance. If you do not, you face deactivation."
Odysseus fiddled with the tip of his spear. "I understand, though I'll need operation and password clearance in order to allow you access."
Sergeant Kren removed a slip of paper from a chest pocket and read loud and clear. "Operation: Valiant Reclamation. Password: Gallant Strife."
The hologram flickered for a moment, then turned a very light green. "Accepted. Mission parameters specify you call in to Commander Young at this time."
Parsons and McManus traded looks at the conversation that was going on without them; both felt extremely uncomfortable with being sidelined at this point in the mission. Odysseus' color changed from purple to a light red.
"I'm sorry, I've got an error message. I can't connect with the Battle Net...which shouldn't happen...give me a moment to run a diagnostic."
Tim glanced nervously at Ron.
"There's a block on my signal. There's a ULF web over Boston, are you aware?"
Lance Corporal Sanders grunted and nodded angrily at the Minutemen. "They set up the web to keep us from calling out."
The AI now glared at the two militia snipers. "Why in the world would you do that?"
Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons had had enough. He walked quickly and purposefully to the center of the lab and jabbed a finger at the AI. "They were going to call in a nuke! The ULF web was the only way we could make sure they didn't get in contact with the guy who pushes the button." Parsons now pointed addressed the UNSC soldiers in the room. "I might add that if we hadn't done that, you would still be wandering around the city with your heads up your armored asses!"
A long silence fell on the white, sterile lab. Only the faint sound of electronic humming could be heard as Odysseus scrutinized the special ops soldiers who stood straight and silent, weapons leaning on the railingg in front of them. "Cronin Protocol is a secondary objective?"
Sergeant Ken nodded gravely. Odysseus' shoulders sagged slightly.
"I see where the conflict is now. You two irregulars, what do you call yourselves?"
Parsons' posture straightened a bit. "We're 53rd Massachusetts Militia. We're called the Minutemen."
"A sense of history, interesting. Well, Minutemen, it seems that even though you find yourselves with different intentions, you and the UNSC both need each other. I can't let the ODSTs take this artifact until I can verify the operation, and I can't do that with this ULF web over the city."
McManus exhaled sharply and shook his head. He reached inside his tactical vest and withdrew his data pad, tapping a few times on the touch screen. The pad winked to life, displaying options for maps, communication, and notes. A few touches later and a message flashed across the screen.
Hey Tim,
Just got the OPS plan. Looks like a cluster fuck. If you absolutely HAVE TO, I've attached protocols to lift the ULF web. Again, use this ONLY in an EMERGENCY. I really hope you don't have to use this. Last thing we need is the dark agents of death calling home. I like Boston more when it's not a giant parking lot.
For Boston,
Spec. Hung Lam, tech ops.
Tim looked up at the AI. "There's no other way you can verify their mission?"
"No other way."
Ron now glared at Tim, who looked back at his superior with a resigned expression across his face. "We don't have a choice. Odysseus, sync with my data pad and download this protocol."
The UNSC AI flickered for a moment, digital wind now flowing over his garments. Odysseus changed to green and nodded vigorously.
"The web is down. Give me a moment to scan."
The Helljumpers wasted no time. Lance Corporal Sanders' head drooped a bit as he activated his COM to call ONI. "I have link to station," he tersely informed Kren. Parsons now leaned heavily against the railing, lost in thoughts that bordered on homicidal. As Tim McManus kept tabs on his partner, he noticed that Odysseus was now clutching his spear and transitioning from green to red.
"Sergeant," The advanced AI asked, "please reconfirm operation and password."
Sergeant Kren had been occupied waiting next to the Lance for word from this superiors. He looked over his shoulder and repeated, "Operation: Valiant Reclamation. Password: Gallant Strife."
Before Odysseus could say anything further, the Lance Corporal removed his helmet and tried to mask his excitement with a measured tone. "I have command," he said, holding a large thin receiver in front of his commanding officer. Tim crossed the space between him and the Helljumpers and put a firm hand on the Lance's forearm, earning him a surprised and annoyed look.
ONI Signal Intelligence Center
Bismarck stood ramrod straight and nearly hopped up and down to get Thomas Young's attention. "It's him!" The AI reported, urgency and a hint of anxiety escaping from his voice. "Odysseus is operational!"
Young glared at the short hologram on his desk. "Does he know you're looking at him?"
The AI smiled smugly. "I hid the diagnostic in signal tones. Even if he knows he's being scanned, he has no idea it's me."
"Signal tones?" Young asked hopefully.
"Yes, Mein Kommander. The team is making contact."
Young gave a very curt nod, but Bismarck knew what it meant. We're in business.
"Take off your helmet and put it on speaker," McManus said to the Sergeant in an authoritative voice. The Sergeant's titled his head to the side, wondering what the Minuteman was getting at. McManus tapped his trigger finger against the side of his slung Battle Rifle impatiently.
"You're calling the people who said it was ok to nuke my friends and family. I want to know what you're talking about, or you won't take one step closer to that artifact."
"I'm not comfortable with that."
"I don't care. We lost men getting you to your objective. This is the least you can do."
Kren removed his helmet, revealing piercing glacial blue eyes and a military-grade haircut. The bigger, stronger, and better armed soldier fixed a hard gaze on the gutsy man in front of him and nodded slightly. "Fine, but let's get a few things straight: you want us gone, so this is your objective, too. You lost men on a joint operation, which was your plan. I'm sorry you had losses, but that's not my concern right now. You can listen in, but these are my people, and they only care about what I have to say."
McManus matched the ODST's look and said nothing. Sergeant Kren frowned and pressed a button on the receiver as the Minuteman retreated to his partner's position by Odysseus.
"I don't like this at all," Parsons whispered, arms crossed tightly. McManus only nodded in agreement. After a moment, a strong, male voice weakly filled the empty space of the lab.
"Identify yourself."
The Sergeant's posture straightened a bit as he spoke to the disembodied voice. "This is Sergeant Kren, 105th Orbital Drop Shock Trooper Division, 31st Battalion; with me is Lance Corporal Sanders. With whom am I speaking?"
The voice now became very slightly hesitant. "This is ONI Commander Thomas Young. Good to hear from you, Sergeant. We were beginning to worry."
Parsons huffed in exasperation and was instantly silenced by McManus. Tim drew a line along his lips signaling his partner to keep quiet. As Tim turned to continue observing the conversation, he could not help but notice Odysseus staring at him and not the conversation between the soldiers.
"What?" McManus asked as silently as possible. The AI leaned forward, keeping a wary eye on the black-clad Helljumpers.
"Something's not right," Odysseus said. "Something's very wrong here."
"What's wrong?" McManus hissed impatiently, doing everything he could to look inconspicuous. "Tell me." Odysseus winked away, leaving only a slight afterglow of purple light.
Both Minutemen found their hands sliding into position around their rifles. McManus made sure his pistol was ready to be drawn as well. Commander Young's voice came through the chamber again.
"I assume you're calling in for your first report, per your briefing earlier."
"Aye, Commander. We've located the artifact. Primary objective complete."
"Excellent news, Sergeant. Have you encountered any resistance?"
"There's a Covenant presence here, sir. But before you come to any decision, there's an effective human military presence as well. They've been keeping the Covenant at bay since the invasion, and...well, they know about Cronin Protocol, sir."
"Understood, Sergeant. All we want is that artifact. Secondary objectives were conditional to the artifact's destruction or capture."
McManus and Parsons both glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes. Liar.
Commander Young's voice sounded in the lab again. "Is there any other intel you can give us?"
"Yes, sir. We've found an AI here, sir, that can--"
Parsons and McManus looked with nervous expectation at the two Helljumpers, who were now just looking between themselves with very confused expressions. Sergeant Kren shook the receiver, then tapped it against the heel of this hand. "I lost COMS," he said. "What the hell?"
Both Minutemen looked down as their data pads flashed white once, then glowed in a comforting blue. The message across their screens, however, was anything but comforting.
I blocked COMS. -O
The ODST Lance Corporal shot a look across the lab that screamed irritation. "Did you do that?" He asked with barely masked anger. Parsons raised his hands in surrender.
"Don't look at us," he said, "we want out of here just as much as you."
As the two Helljumpers tried to reestablish contact, McManus traded a worried look with Parsons and typed back to Odysseus, "Why did you do that?"
ONI probing. Sense hostile AI. Lots of lies. Going to block COMS, secure the ODSTs. -O
Now the Lance Corporal was walking toward the two Minutemen, putting his helmet back on and pointing a finger at the pair. "What are you typing? What are you doing?" Tim's bare fingers flew across the touch pad. "Why ODSTs?"
"Hey!" The Sergeant's voice boomed through the room as the Lance came ever closer. "He's talkin' to you!"
Operation: Valiant Reclamation does not exist. ODSTs listed KIA one month ago.
Directly next to Tim, Ron Parsons felt the words slipping out of his mouth before he had a chance to clap a fingerless glove over it. "Shit," he whispered loudly, his voice mixing with the dying echoes of the Sergeant's command.
McManus felt the iron grip of the Lance Corporal on his forearm, causing him to release his grip on the data pad just a bit. As the data pad slid out, the ODST reached for it, trying to keep it from hitting the ground. It would be the last tactical mistake he would make against the young Minuteman. As the Lance began to bend down, Tim swung the butt of his Battle Rifle against the exposed chin peeking out underneath the helmet, dropping the Lance Corporal to the floor in the heap.
Sergeant Kren sprinted for his suppressed SMG, which he had left against the railing in the middle of the lab. Ron Parsons made up the distance in a near sprint. Firing one warning burst at the floor in front of the Sergeant. The rounds kicked up off the hard surface and the muffled report of the sound suppressed rifle died quickly in the open space, replaced quickly by the ferocious bark of Staff Sergeant Parsons' orders.
"On the ground! Now! Don't you fucking move!"
McManus trained his weapon on the head of the Lance, who was groggily removing his helmet to get some air. Both of the Minutemen traded uneasy looks, still not quite certain what an AI they had known for a few minutes had gotten them into.
Boston Police Garage
Underground entrance to South Station Refugee Camp
The Lynx was the last vehicle to limp into the Boston Police garage, it's tires squealing in mushy protest of the smooth floor beneath it. The large armored troop carrier had seen its hardest day yet in the city of Boston, and considering it boasted none of the maneuverability of the Warthogs and only a bit more weaponry, it looked remarkably fine. The men inside it, however, were a completely different story.
Private First Class David Crabtree hopped out from the back of the Lynx, wiped his dirty brow with a filthy glove, and pushed his thick black glasses back onto his face. The young Minuteman looked around the garage and heaved a sigh. Only a few hours ago the garage had been bustling with militia making preparations for battle; buddies yelled encouragement to each other, ammo drums were loaded onto vehicles with pats on the back, and the space had been much more full.
Now Crabtree saw only one Warthog returned from the engagement, and weary Mongoose drivers limped with pain from the debris-strewn journey. Worse still, the groaning of wounded Minutemen creeped out from the covered rear of the urban gray transport, and David was reminded of all that had gone wrong and could never be fixed. The twenty-year-old kid flexed his hands and tried to get his circulation going as he readied himself to start unloading bodies. Before he could start, however, he heard his name called from across the garage.
"Crabtree! Hold up a second!"
Lance Corporal Ankit Jeevaji winced as he trotted toward the Lynx. The Indian soldier put a hand on David's shoulder more out of pain relief than consolation.
"How was the trip back?" Jeevaji asked.
"Pretty much the same," Crabtree said, glancing into the vehicle, "guys literally spilling their guts, leader sitting catatonic in front of his best friend's corpse, but traffic was a breeze."
Ankit frowned at the dark humor. "Where's the Cap?"
The PFC nodded toward the red-lit troop bay. "Putting the Master Guns into the body bag. Everyone else is too busy trying to figure out what the fuck happened."
"It was a tough plan, but the only one we had."
"Sure."
The higher-ranking Minuteman now put his other hand on Crabtree's other shoulder. This time it was not for support. Ankit pulled the PFC in and stared menacingly at him.
"You think these parts are easy? They're not." Jeevaji growled. "Guys who are smarter than you and more experienced than you are making these calls. You don't like the way things went? Get in line. But if you start questioning the moves Master Guns made to save this city after the fucking mission, I'll make sure you're on air filtration duty for the rest of our time. Now start sorting the wounded and get me the Captain."
"Huah," Crabtree breathed, and climbed into the Lynx. Men with injuries both superficial and severe were disembarking from the transport. Jeevaji helped them down as best he could as he gave instructions.
"If you're unhurt, regroup with your squads and await orders. Anyone who's not hurt too bad, report to that Warthog for the medics to check you out. If you're banged up, sit tight here. We'll get the pros on you ASAP." The olive-skinned militia man took off his helmet and placed it under the Lynx, clearing up his vision so he could better lower a stretcher from the vehicle. As he placed it down, he glanced up and looked into a face he knew but did not recognize.
Captain Jack O'Shea stepped down delicately from the troop transport, his helmet off and providing a clear border for his dirt, blood, and dust-caked face. The leader of the Minutemen was slowly removing armor plates from his vest as Ankit jogged over and lent a hand. Jack only nodded silently at the worried Lance Corporal.
"Sir?' Jeevaji asked, trying to peer into the Captain's face. "Are you hit?"
Ankit had to take a moment to collect himself as his eyes met O'Shea's. What once were brown circles lit by passion and purpose were now gray, bloodshot, and devoid of light. Even with that, those eyes burned into the back of Jeevaji's skull.
"Sir, I need to know if you're hit."
The Captain shook his head slowly.
"Thank God. Captain, I know this is hard, but until recon confirms they've got their objective, we need to manage here. I just need you to give some orders."
If Jack understood or knew a word the man had said, he gave no indication. This is going to be harder than I thought, Jeevaji said to himself.
"If recon needs to be extracted, we're going to need these vehicles up and running. Should I start a pre-load out? Should I contact the reserve units?"
O'Shea slipped out another plate of armor, this one from his back. He placed it carefully on a wooden crate beside him and stared down. After a long pause, he nodded.
"Huah. Also, sir, I'm sorry, but what should we do about Master Guns?"
The Captain's head rose so slowly he might as well have been lifting a weight with his teeth. The eyes locked on Ankit's again, but this time they seemed off in a different city. The voice that came from the ranking Minuteman's face was barely above a dry whisper. "What do you mean?"
Ankit looked over his shoulder briefly. "I'm only saying you don't look good, Captain, and Master Guns is de...well, I just don't know how the refugees would react if they saw all of this."
The part of O'Shea's mind that could process any part of this knew the Lance Corporal was right, and even though Jack could not put two separate thoughts together, he called on enormous reserves of energy and tried to muster the words for an order.
"Does the camp know...we're back?"
"No, sir."
"Have the reserves...call an artillery drill. Everyone...in their tents. Bring Gus...bring the body to the command conference room. Once we're clear, send reserves to prep transports."
Even though the words were nothing short of tragic, it heartened Ankit to hear his leader mildly coherent and still able to make decisions. Jeevaji confirmed the order verbally and turned on his heel, walking toward a small standing huddle of Minutemen anxious for their next move. He made the distance up quickly, snagging his helmet as he traveled. The men around him cut their conversation short as he joined the circle.
"So what're we doing?" A Corporal asked through an exhaled breath of smoke.
"Get reserves on a camp-wide artillery shelter drill. Everyone in tents, no exceptions. Once we're clear, move all severely wounded to the hospital and make sure Master Guns and the Cap get to the command conference room without being seen by the camp. After that, cycle reserves to prep for recon pickup. Monitor all channels."
"Whose orders are those?" A shorter Minuteman asked with a trace of scorn.
"Whose fucking orders do you think they are, Greg?" Ankit replied with an angry squint and a tilted head. "You saw the Captain talk to me. Jack fucking O'Shea gave you an order, are you really not gonna follow it?"
Any hint of insubordination died a quiet but wriggling death on the floor between the group.
"And let me tell you one last thing," Jeevaji said, pointing subtly around the huddle, "the Captain is still in charge until he says he's not. Now let's get it done."
The ring of Minutemen nodded, shook hands all around, and walked toward their squads. Before he moved on to his duties, Lance Corporal Jeevaji looked over his shoulder and watched the Lynx. A large black bag with white block letters UNSC was being gently lowered from the Lynx. The body of Gus Reynolds, Jack O'Shea's oldest friend, now laid at the feet of the saddest man in Boston. The Captain's head hung, hands stuffed in spare vest pockets, as he helped carry the body from the transport. In that moment, Ankit Jeevaji prayed to God that he would never have to feel that way ever.
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