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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 6
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 13 July 2006, 3:24 pm
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter Six
Harvard University
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Noon
Raglap did not want to die. Unfortunately, at this exact moment he felt his fate was out of his control. The junior-grade Grunt was late with yet another status report, this one detailing the equipment losses for the catastrophic engagement the day before. It was due at least three cycles ago, and Raglap knew that Gra 'Talsamee, his Sangheli leader, would not be merciful again. This was the third time he was late with a report. Rarely did an Unggoy live past one mistake.
Small, short legs propelled the Grunt with all speed through the open space of the wretched human University. The young soldier had not been one of the first to take the city, but he remembered that the school had been designated as one of the primary sites to control. The short, stout alien had not been there when the human city fell. Rarely did an Unggoy fight through a lengthy battle and survive. Of course, some officers were both very skilled and very lucky, and they were treated with the highest respect by their peers. Raglap reminded himself once again that the Sangheli were not his peers.
His unit had been charged with holding the human learning centers since their capture, and such a relatively easy assignment had been sweet music to the junior Grunt's tiny ears. He relished menial tasks and stayed away from combat as much as he could; a far cry from his Elite leaders' desire to wade waist-deep into "glorious" battle. Raglap had seen battle, and there was nothing glorious about it. With a methane-recycled sigh, the analyst Grunt slowly remembered that, combat or not, 'Talsamee would most likely execute him as a public display of discipline.
The steady, regulated hiss of his Methane rebreather was calming as possible as he counted off each row of Sangheil tents. Each white dome structure was collapsible and thin, but it was surprisingly effective against the elements. With another few seconds to reflect on his condition, Raglap wondered why his exalted leaders got such wonderful housing and his comrades were forced to sleep outside night after weather-filled night.
There, He thought with a suppressed sigh. Gra's dwelling. Plasma pistol drawn and field intelligence report pad in hand, Raglap debated the merits of ending his own existence to rob his commander of the chance. Just as soon as the thought entered his simple mind, the Grunt took another breath of the sublime life-giving Methane and the suicidal thoughts left his brain.
Only a few feet from the tent, the yellow-armored foot soldier glanced once more at the intelligence report and thought of the one he was still working on: how a patrol group was missing as of this morning in an area that had been growing more treacherous over time. The command group's leaders had been mapping the "Human rhombus" region for some time, and the area of operation was growing more definite by the day. Perhaps if the good news were delivered with the bad, it would save him from death.
But it was not an Elite officer that would end the Grunt's life.
Raglap had always thought that he would hear the approach of a human mortar. He had listened to tales around the food nipple, and each small soldier was certain one could hear a high noise fade into a low boom and scurry to safety in time. No such luck.
All that registered in the terrified Grunt's mind was a streak of gray that intersected directly with the top of Gra 'Talsamee's tent. The white structure was never designed to repel anything harder than hail, so the entire tent collapsed inside itself as the mortar round pierced the shell, exploding with ferocious energy.
The force of the high explosive ordnance propelled jagged bits of Elite armor, body parts, and soggy chunks of turf over a wide range. The last things Raglap saw before he bled out over the quad of Harvard University were two more successful impacts on an Elite tent and a Shade gun turret, throwing the once sleepy temporary camp into utter Covenant chaos.
Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons pumped a black gloved fist from behind his tactical binoculars. "Target," he announced over the COM, allowing himself to convey some professional enthusiasm. "Fire for effect, over."
The reply over the COM was crisp and equally enthusiastic. "Fire for effect, out."
Upon the completion of the sentence another volley of gray mortar rounds arced high over the scout snipers' heads. To Parsons' right, his partner Corporal Tim McManus stared through the sights of his modified S2-AM sniper rifle. The ghillie suited sniper began searching out stragglers that looked as if they might survive the initial assault. The sharp brown eyes of McManus flitted ever so slightly over the landscape, eventually settling on a mark outside of Harvard University's famous gated yard.
"Contact," The Corporal stated, left hand reaching away from his bipod-steadied rifle to operate this throat mike, "Elite red officer operating device, forty yards north to target. Appears to be Covenant mortar tracking device. Request permission to fire."
The scout/sniper Minuteman team had been designed to work seamlessly with the Minuteman Mortar Team as efficient forward operators. As the stealthy eyes ahead of the mortars, the snipers had two important duties. The first was to provide accurate and fast intelligence on mortar attacks, and the second was keep the mortar team from being discovered for as long as possible.
As the Minutemen had been using more and more mortar attacks on the Covenant, and escaping into the urban jungle, they had noticed that Covenant officers were getting better and better at setting up accurate trackers of the distinctive sound signatures and trajectories of the human's mobile "pocket artillery."
Parsons did not hesitate. "We picked this location for a reason, buddy. Hold fire, wait for my command."
The sniper team had positioned itself perfectly for the operation. Not only did Parsons have a straight line of sight into the yard, but in the event McManus had to fire, the round would pass by at least five buildings that would have been excellent firing positions as well. The sound of the round would be masked by the conflicting echoes smashing up against each other, and the partners were well hidden. McManus was concealed underneath an urban ghillie suit and Ron was safely tucked underneath a black tarp and behind strategically placed bricks. The observing Staff Sergeant took his time and waited as the mortar team launched their next wave.
"Shot over," came the call over the COM. Parsons could feel McManus' body relax as he anticipated the next report. The team had just reported their incoming volley. It was a matter of seconds now.
"Splash over," The Mortar officer reported. Five seconds to target.
"Splash out." Parsons responded. Two seconds passed, and the Staff Sergeant immediately gave the fire count to the Corporal. In a slow, steady voice, Ron spoke every second. "Fire. Fire. Fire..."
The shot ripped out of the powerful rifle and immediately broke the sound barrier, making a tremendous amount of noise. At the same instant, a high-explosive shell collided with the ground hundreds of yards away, masking the bullet's announcement effectively enough that when chunks of the Elite officer's head landed on the pavement, the Covenant around the body had no earthly idea how it had happened. Tim McManus only blinked twice to clear his vision as Parsons recorded the kill.
"Recon, Mortar team Alpha. Tubes are dry, leaving the area."
The blond haired observer nodded as he brought his binoculars from his eyes and rolled onto his back. "Mortar team, Recon. Copy tubes are dry, we're gone as well. See you back at the ranch."
"Homeward bound. Buy you a beer, Staff Sergeant."
"It's gonna be two tonight, Kellogg." Parsons statement was met by a short exclamation of a laugh and the chirp of the COM closing. Silently the two sharpshooters attached climbing cables and readied themselves to extract without a trace. Ron keyed his COM and called into the Boston militia's central command as his partner was disassembling the rifle in a cross-legged position. "Command, Recon. Mortar strike a success, heading back to camp now. Hope that was enough distraction for the Cap."
Copley Square
Evacuated City of Boston
Noon
Captain Jack O'Shea could feel his eyes straining in their sockets, yearning to catch his unseen enemy so his convoy might have one more precious second to escape intact. O'Shea was a patient man, but his current station between two Warthogs and quickly coming up to skinny city alleys made him claustrophobic. Adrenaline pumped through his veins with every new beat of his powerful heart, heightening his senses to the point where he could smell each sweaty refugee crammed in behind him in the Lynx's troop bay. Each frightened sniffle, every last creak on the sturdy plastic and metal seats, the last wisps of sea air, these minute details lasted an eternity in Jack's mind.
O'Shea cursed aloud at the miserable view he had ahead of him. The lead Warthog was doing its best, swerving only so slightly, the young gunner pivoting left to right and constantly scanning the rooftops of abandoned townhouses and brownstones. Jack hastily opened a channel to the lead 'Hog and reprimanded the gunner for losing focus.
"Private, keep your eyes on the street. Master Guns has your top cover, you just keep us from being lit up by IEDs and FRCs."
The Captain mentally rebuked himself after the lead gunner gave a stammering "Yes, sir." Come on, Jack, O'Shea told himself, how is that kid supposed to stay sharp when I'm on his ass?
Each of the three vehicles in the convoy made smart right turns as they entered Boston's urban sprawl. Before the militia had been ambushed by ODSTs and realized the Covenant were hot on their tail, the mood had been nearly carefree. Now as the bright sunshine of Boston's main port warmed their backs the gloomy shade of the city fell over them like a tidal wave of despair crashing to the pavement.
Each Minuteman could feel themselves tense up. The constant commotion of the sea gave way to the haunting sounds of a city's dying breaths. The militia that prided itself on stealth was now having a parade in the center of a Covenant occupied city. And the worst part, Jack knew, is that we don't have a fucking choice.
None of the Minutemen had said a free word in the time they had loaded up into the transports, and the stress was beginning to make the air thick with dread. O'Shea looked down and found that the data pad he was using was shaking slightly due to his hand gripping it so hard. He forced himself to separate the device from himself and went back to boring holes into the windshield with his eyes. Nothing. Still nothing. Please, dear God, keep it that way.
The mood in the back of the Lynx was no less tense, but the two black-clad Orbital Drop Shock Troopers were more than used to deathly silence. It was a part of their mystery, part of their legend. How could mortal men show no emotion and act with such professionalism and composure as their comrades were cut down all around them? The Sergeant quietly thanked his reflective faceshield. Not being able to see an ODST's face made all the difference.
At the moment, however, the Sergeant's face was not showing the wide eyes of fear; his brow was furrowed, consternation and concentration broadcast only for him to know. With a slight flick of his left wrist, he opened up a private channel with his partner, a Lance Corporal.
"Lance Corporal, I want you to prepare for transmission to the Office of Naval Intelligence."
His partner's reply from the other side of the Lynx's troop carrier bay was quick and quizzical. "Sir?"
"ASAP, son."
"Sir, with respect, we are only supposed to transmit upon obtaining the objective and for extraction."
"There's a substantial hostile presence in this area, along with militia irregulars fighting those hostiles. I think our superiors will see this wrinkle as substantial enough to report, don't you?"
The reply was slightly hesitant and briefly drew the CO's irate curiosity. "Aye...sir."
The ODSTs brought with them the very best military training the UNSC had to give the human race. State of the art body armor, fully upgraded weapons, constant real-time battlefield intelligence, and private security channels ensured that they would be the premier fighting force and their communication would always be secure.
What they could not cover, though, was the subtle body language every human gave away when communicating precious secrets to another. The intimate act always closed the distance between two, either literally, figuratively, or both, and this slight joining movement drew Jack O'Shea's eye even as his convoy was heading into mortal danger.
The Captain knew when he took the responsibility of protecting the population of Boston that he would be spread thin and hard pressed in many occasions. But this time, O'Shea was terrified that losing his focus would either lose him the city or his and convoy's life. He had no doubt that the pair of elite soldiers were on a sensitive mission from the highest ranks, and the thought of what they might be there for was chilling.
Jack knew the danger Boston had always been in. Anytime the UNSC saw fit, if they suspected there was a large enough Covenant presence in the city, Boston would be reduced to irradiated rubble along with its sizable refugee population. The only thing that had saved their hides was the military's write-off of the city. O'Shea's former employers thought the city was absolutely deserted, a worthless and evacuated region.
A few days ago two units of Marines had discovered the truth, but they and their Pelicans had been destroyed by the Covenant, save one Marine in the Minutemen's ICU. It was hard to imagine Orbital Drop Shock Troopers would suffer the same fate. Jack was no fool; no one was foolish enough to get in over their heads with the occupying aliens, but if there was any group that could survive the current predicament, it was those two silent men in the back of his Lynx.
With as much speed as he could muster, Jack dashed off a message to the center of the South Station refugee camp, where his technical expert would be the city's only chance at keeping their secret from the outside world...at least for a while longer.
CONVOY: Lam. O'Shea. Suppress all outgoing UNSC transmissions.
Specialist Hung Lam squinted at the message curiously for a moment, then sipped his coffee with a little more vigor. His dark surroundings melted around him as he focused on one particular bright screen where the message blinked below a feed showing the convoy's progress. He set down the ceramic mug and his hands flew across the keyboard.
STATION: DIFFICULT.
CONVOY: Explain.
STATION: UNSC Transmits on Ultra-Low Frequency (ULF). Cannot suppress. Possible to delay and reroute.
CONVOY: Result?
STATION: Destination of transmission will never receive.
CONVOY: Acceptable. Make it so.
STATION: Copy. Heads up Cap. you're entering Newbury Street.
The Captain closed the messaging window of the data pad and glanced up. He could tell simply by looking at the stone-set images of determination that his convoy had started in on Newbury Street. On both sides, rows of boutiques and high-end shops stretched for blocks. Those same shops that boasted wares in pristine and glittering displays of every color now looked like horribly abused pinatas, their walls disfigured and contents ruined over months of harsh sunlight.
In the old days, Boston's Newbury Street had been the destination of the city's upper classes to shop; to be see and be seen. In Boston's days of glory and sunshine, exposure was the key to success. These days, the only way to succeed was to have the consistency of vapor.
"Picking up movement," the Lynx weapons officer announced warily, his voice trying valiantly to stay steady and strong. The Warthog at the head of the convoy announced the same.
"Short range sensors giving off a bad tone, sir," The lead 'Hog passenger said. "Still negative for FRCs."
O'Shea was about to respond with instructions when the air was shattered with the rhythmic beat of a 12.7 millimeter chain gun.
"Contact. Contact!" Jack looked down at the communications display to see that it was the gunner of the lead Warthog that had transmitted the call. Stress lines, already deeply creasing the Captain's face, etched even deeper into the flesh as he lifted his head to take in the sight. The gunner's helmet was shaking back and forth ever so slightly as streaks of tracer rounds flew toward an alley ahead of the convoy. Phosphorescent blood spouted and sprayed across the street as a large clutch of Grunts tried to take position in the street and fire.
The bodies only succeeded in becoming speed bumps as they stumbled to their deaths, still bleeding as the humans ran over their bodies at ever-increasing speed. Any kind of order that O'Shea thought was maintained was going down the tubes. At this point, all he or any of the Minutemen could do was rely on training and instinct.
Another hail of gunfire opened up, this time from the Lynx. "Contact high! Lima-one engaging!" Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds bellowed, trying to be heard over the sound of his center-mounted autocannon. "Whiskey-one! Keep fire low! Whiskey-two, cover my ass!" From the sides of of the Lynx, six of the fourteen grenade launchers controlled by the weapons officers belched forth smoke grenades, trying desperately to mask their passage through the dangerous throughway.
Private First Class Russ Chevelle was sweating as he tried to see through the acrid smoke. Plumes of gray made curtains on each side of the street, keeping him hidden from his enemies but also robbing him a solid visual as well. At the end of Newbury he knew they could easily evade the Covenant by splitting up and taking any number of alleyways that snaked through the city. Some had secret garages that could engulf a vehicle without so much as a sound. In a few seconds, the car and its occupants would be another piece of the city.
Chevelle tightened his grip around the trigger of his 12.7mm chain gun and tried to keep focused. As the gunner of the last Warthog in the convoy, it was his job to "mop up" all Covenant resistance that the Master Guns or lead Warthog left, or to cover them if they had too many targets to engage. For the young Minuteman, it was too much for him to bear.
How the fuck am I supposed to do this? The Private First Class thought, his frightened eyes twitching at every movement ahead. From his position, he could see into the Lynx's open troop bay, where the two ODSTs were sitting on the last seats, weapons at the ready, staring into the space behind him. Or perhaps they were staring at him, and were only pointing their weapons to distract him. As Russ' terrified mind tried to get over the intense pressure and intimidation he felt, he forgot to follow his most basic gunner training. He forgot to constantly scan the road. The momentary mistake, born of an instant's distraction and rookie nerves, cost the Private First Class his life.
A shrill tone sounded in Chevelle's ear as his threat radar sprang to life. Oh no. In his immediate vicinity, the distinctive energy signature of a Fuel Rod Cannon had been detected, and to his horror, the Minuteman could not find out where. Then, in one second, it was clear. As the Captain's Lynx transport vehicle, the middle transport in the convoy, passed a single alleyway, two Grunts hopped from out of the smoke. They looked confused, but at the sight of the humans, they suddenly snapped to and took aim at Russ' Warthog.
The driver, to his credit, must have heard the same tone as the three-passenger machine swerved to the right to evade the fire. All Russ could manage to do was reflexively clutch his hand around the trigger as if it were a rope bridge that kept him from plunging to his doom. As the heavy rounds escaped the barrels of the gun and impacted harmlessly short of their target, two words escaped the militiaman's lips.
"C-Contact! FRC!"
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