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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 5
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 21 June 2006, 3:03 am
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter Five
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Late Morning
Fear was a tool, panic was a death sentence. At present Captain Jack O'Shea, the leader of the Minutemen, Boston's underground militia, was standing in an abandoned warehouse. While he tried to piece together the present, his thoughts immediately went back to his UNSC training on Reach years ago. He remembered his instructors had taken their time hammering lessons into his open mind one expletive at a time. "Are you receiving me, boy? Obtain the advantage! Assess the situation! You will fucking capitalize on it every fucking time! If you do not, you will be fucked! Your squad will be fucked! And I will personally be disgusted to write a fucking letter of condolence to your fucking wife and fucking kids, provided your maggot self lives that long! Now answer me, private! Will you allow yourself to be fucked?"
O'Shea, as well as his Minutemen teammates, were exactly that.
"I will say this one more time: put your weapons on the deck or you will be fired upon!" The wind moved with a quick swish and the light rustle of nylon fabric as four rifles shifted toward the bodiless voice's new point of origin. The steely sound of authority came from the darkness above and across from the Captain and the three other militia members. There was no way to see the threatening figure in the giant cavernous space of the dockside warehouse. O'Shea doubted it was only one man, as the voice came from more than one location, and even though he could not see his enemy, Jack knew this foe could not possibly move from end to end that fast. A metal catwalk ringed the floor over twenty feet above the militia and captive refugees. There was nowhere the Minutemen could take cover.
The Captain found his mind divided, and he could not stand it. To open fire across empty space toward a target they could not see was futile, but to do as their enemy commanded was probably suicide. And the refugees they sought to protect would probably be next. Jack had seconds, what he wanted was hours. These were the times the Captain hated being in command.
"Cap," Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds said under his breath to get his commanding officer's attention. In his head, O'Shea berated his old friend and fellow officer for even thinking that Jack was not completely dialed into the situation. Jack took stock of his surroundings one more time. In front of him were nearly a dozen civilians, bound with tape and shreds of their own clothing. Without a doubt, they were refugees, and it was a duty of the Minutemen to take in those looking for shelter and aid. Jack's rescue mission was even more important when the Boston militia realized the refugees were being hunted by Covenant. Now, inexplicably, Jack's small team was trapped in an ambush by an unknown hostile force. Not just any hostile force, O'Shea told himself, a really freaking good one. The Captain wondered how much help two Warthogs and a Lynx transport would be against their opponents.
O'Shea let the information from the last few minutes filter for another half second, then made up his mind. Buy time, Jack calmly instructed himself. Slowly he took his hands off of his BR-55 Battle Rifle. Jack could feel the eyes of his small team boring into the side of his helmet. With a very short, stern nod, Jack silently commanded his squad to follow suit. Slowly, the three other militiamen did the same, taking their hands off their weapons, unslinging them, and placing them on the floor.
"Secondary weapons as well." the voice commanded, now coming from a completely different position.
"Multiple hostiles," a young Minuteman whispered as he knelt down to put his sidearm on the floor.
"No shit," another soldier replied as he removed the pistol from his thigh holster, "I'll make sure they put that on your tombstone."
"Identify yourselves." The cold, hard, grim noise came again, each syllable enunciated clearly with a touch of malice. Jack turned to face the voice as best he could, putting all his authority into his next statement.
"My name is Captain Jack O'Shea. I command this group, which also includes heavy support outside this warehouse. If your intentions are hostile, you won't leave this dock alive."
"I sincerely doubt that." The Minutemen were shocked to realize the voice was now coming from the ground floor, no more than thirty feet into the shadows. It took all of their discipline not to retreat a step backwards as the enemy finally revealed himself, easily six feet tall, his black helmet and faceshield reflecting their images back at them. A clean black Battle Rifle, immaculately kept, was pressed against his right shoulder, sights aligned, O'Shea guessed, to put a three-round burst right below Jack's left eye.
Jack quickly observed from the uniform that the soldier was a Sergeant. The man in front of the Captain was a living, breathing, rifle-toting recruitment poster. In the pinnacle of physical shape, this soldier was everything the UNSC wanted. The soldier was an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. As the Helljumper took slow, deliberate steps forward, it dawned on O'Shea that he was now a target of humanity's very best. For the first time in years, Jack fought back the urge to gulp in fear.
Gus Reynolds found beads of cold sweat forming under his helmet. His mind raced, and even though he knew he should have been concentrating on how to get out of the warehouse alive, he found his thoughts racing but focusing on the city. A Helljumper in Boston. They're sent for a reason. They know people are here. They know Covenant are here. This city is going to be an irradiated parking lot in a few days.
Reynolds recalled the briefing his Captain had given him earlier in the day. How an old Admiral named Matthew Cronin had given authority to the UNSC to use nuclear bombardment of a human city if it was Covenant controlled. Even if significant numbers of civilians were still inside. Boston had survived because the UNSC did not know about the mass of Covenant that had been swarming within the once-bustling seaport. Now the cream of the UNSC's crop had all the intel they needed. In Gus' mind, the Minutemen and the city they had sworn to protect was a giant, pulsing bulls-eye. The Orbital Drop Shock Trooper's voice derailed Reynolds' train of thought.
"How many men are outside?" The Trooper asked.
"Enough to surround the compound." O'Shea replied evenly.
"Unlikely. Give me a number."
"I can't do that." Jack shook his head to emphasize his point, but it was not well received.
"Yes, you can. And yes, you will." A second Helljumper, a Lance Corporal, was now diagonally across Jack's left side, weapon pointed at the back of a refugee's head. The pair of special operations soldiers were playing an expert game: they knew which of the Minutemen's buttons to press and when to press them. O'Shea was uncomfortable with putting his team at risk, but he knew he could not bear being responsible for the death of a refugee. The Captain was frantically looking for any kind of escape, and he nearly missed it when the opportunity presented itself.
What Jack saw was the Lance Corporal allowing his gaze to shift from the present mission at hand to the sunshine of the outside world. Jack guessed that the quick look outside was one of concern. Special operations soldiers did not last this long without knowing their surroundings. They had to know the Covenant were in the area and closing in. O'Shea, out of options by now, was ready to bet his life on it.
"We can assist," Jack said, making sure his eyes, tone, and body language all remaining neutral, nearly passive. "But we need to get these refugees out of harm's way. There are enemies hunting them that you will not see until it's far too late." O'Shea was certain the ODSTs had seen some of the Covenant presence in the city, but there was no way of knowing if they were aware of the hunting party that was tracking the refugees.
As O'Shea finished his statement, a sharp tone sounded in his right ear. After a short squak and burst of static, the voice of a Warthog gunner came over the COM. "Proximity warning. Covenant on long-range sensors."
"Covenant are inbound on this position." O'Shea said, gesturing toward the city.
"We've got them on ours, too." The Sergeant's voice was eerie coming out of his helmet with no discernable expression behind it. Jack wondered exactly how long the ODSTs had known the Covenant were approaching.
"We've got to get the refugees out of here." Gus Reynolds piped up from behind O'Shea.
"Negative," The Sergeant replied. "They're not part of our objectives."
"Saving humanity is part of your fucking objectives!" A refugee said, duct tape dangling from one corner of his bleeding mouth. The ODST Lance Corporal responded with the butt of his rifle, smashing it into the side of the man's head. The refugee, on his knees already, did not have far to fall, violently jerking to the floor, left shoulder crashing to the ground and followed closely by his head. O'Shea fought the urge to pick up a weapon.
"Touch another one of those innocent civilians and you won't leave this building," Jack said. "We will help you to the best of our abilities, but if you don't respect our mission, we won't respect yours." Jack was about to continue before a curious tone sounded in his right ear. It was unlike any of the COM transmissions he had received, this one was a rising tone that lasted a full second. O'Shea did not have to take time to recognize the voice that followed. The ODST Sergeant had somehow established what appeared to be a private link.
"Out of expediency you will provide transport out, and we will provide assistance in the refugee extraction. However, if you try to fuck with myself or my team, I will fuck you worse and harder. Nod if you understand."
Jack looked into the large soldier's reflective faceshield and nodded once. The nod in return was imperceptible to anyone not in on the private communication.
"Stand down, Lance Corporal." The Sergeant's helmet moved slightly toward his partner as expert hands flicked off the safety and squeezed the polished black Battle Rifle into his right shoulder. "Take point while the militia handles those refugees. Wheels moving in one mike."
Jack grabbed his weapon off the brine-encrusted floor and was on his way to the refugees before the Lance could finish his "Yes, sir." He ran in a fast trot to the circle of refugees, turning on this throat mic as well. "All units, this is O'Shea. Prep for immediate evac. I want detailed holographic in my vehicle before our wheels start spinning. Lima-one, prep for twelve passengers."
Moving the weary bones of the ragged travelers was harder than O'Shea remembered. The four Minutemen made long gaps all the way to the waiting gray Lynx Transport vehicle, passing each hobbling, discombobulated refugee along until all were loaded. By the entrance to the warehouse, the two ODSTs crouched with one knee on the ground, weapons pointed to the right of the wide steel doors and focused down the long line of piers to the main Boston inroads. Jack grabbed the last refugee by the back of the collar and half-carried the man to the back of the large transport vehicle that was idling between two Warthogs. The other three Minutemen ran out of the building as if a bomb were about to explode.
As the last two militiamen cleared the building, the urban-camouflaged troopers took notice and flanked the running Minutemen. As the Minutemen broke left and took up station in the driver's and passenger's seats in the trailing 'Hog, the ODSTs leaped into the back carrier compartment of the Lynx. The fusion engines whined to life as the convoy nearly squealed out of the warehouses toward Boston. The ODSTs trained their weapons out of the open rear of the Lynx, the longer, heavier vehicle rocking slightly as it gained speed.
Gus Reynolds squinted into the distance from behind the Lynx's Autocannon. He was the only exposed Minuteman in the vehicle, but while he was wary of his own personal peril, he cared more about the three light-armored transports being ambushed. He listened in over the COM as the Minutemen's central command gave instructions.
"Covenant troop movement advancing too quickly for main road extraction." The cool, calm, and collected voice instructed from deep within Boston. "Recommend secondary evasion. Use the alleyways, convoy."
"Have you ever tried to drive a Lynx through a fucking alley?" The Lynx driver asked over the COM. "Sir, we've never tried that before...not even in simulation!" The outburst was only met with O'Shea's response to command.
"How long until the Covenant are on our location?" Jack asked as he studied the holographic map in front of him. The Captain ignored the driver's incredulous look from the front left of the Lynx and the Weapons Officer's head shaking from the front right.
"About one minute." O'Shea wished he could grow wings.
"If we don't get to the alleys in time," Gus yelled over the din of rushing air into his COM, "the Covies will be all over this convoy!"
"Then we better break some traffic laws!" Jack yelled back, trying to mask his fear with bravado. His palms had already become sweaty and he found himself wiping them on his trousers to calm himself. Old rubber skid across older pavement as the armored vehicles took a sharp right, bringing giant, smoking, shattered buildings into view. To Jack O'Shea, they were gargantuan tombstones, memorials to millions who had been lost in the invasion. The Captain once again found himself removing his helmet and running a hand through his short brown and gray hair. For a moment, his eyes fell upon a small photograph of his wife, beautiful blonde hair radiant in a Boston sunset. He angrily pushed the thought from his mind and focused on keeping his men alive. Another moment of distraction like that would keep them from their homes forever.
Laura O'Shea was paralyzed. Many of the women who were wives and girlfriends of the Minutemen were used to bouts of grief and anxiety which only added to the stress of living underground for nearly all hours of the day. This was different. Laura could not move. Not one finger would answer the orders of her brain. The only message relayed back to her was one of dread and despair.
He is going to die.
He is going to die and you will be left alone.
Beads of sweat formed and quickly fell down her forehead, moist reminders that she could not taste at the moment. The only sense that obeyed was sight, and her eyes could see her co-worker, Rachel Lynch, running her side.
"Laura, are you all right?"
He is going to die. You know he is going to die.
"Laura?"
Blackness crept across the edge Laura's vision. Laura O'Shea had always held a quiet air of bravery and courage as the Minutemen Captain's wife, a pillar of strength and resolve. That pillar was now made of sand and crumbling against ocean waves.
"Laura, answer me!"
O'Shea now experienced a new sensation. She felt air rushing past her face; she saw the ground coming up to greet her. Both were welcome respites from the premonitions she knew were true. A scream, a single word was all she heard.
"Laura!"
He is going to die and there is nothing you can do to stop it.
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