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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 3
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 28 July 2005, 5:52 am
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 3
Evacuated City of Boston
Morning
One of the City of Boston's most famous landmarks was Faneuil Hall Marketplace, a broad expanse of shops, open air markets, and famous sites from the era of old American history. The center of the Marketplace, Quincy Market, was an acropolis-style building, long and thin; it's white granite construction made it a sturdy monument to stand the test of time, but the architects had not anticipated plasma warfare in their schematics. The formidable structure now was a shadow of its former self, the sloping roof caved in at multiple locations, several of the imposing granite columns crumbled away and threatening total structural collapse. Thirty meters away a bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin, the early American patriot and intellectual, stood by Boston's old town hall. Only former residents of Boston could have known the statue had been Ben Franklin. The Covenant had fired so many rounds into the statue's face it was unrecognizable. It had been a habit of the Covenant to deface statues, crying "Idolaters" every time they ruined a monument.
Now Quincy Market stood stubbornly among mangled and bombed-out buildings, and though the Market had at least twenty meters of open space before meeting another shop, it appeared to stand like a scarecrow in a wide open field. A striking and frightening figure, haphazardly shaped by circumstance and necessity, warning all wary travelers to stay the hell away. The moving blotches of darkness that approached the Market were not wary. They were Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. Fear was not an impediment, it was an aid to perform in situations any other man would shy from.
Two inconspicuous shapes moved to the very edge of open space before Quincy Market. Both ODSTs checked every sight line and examined every visual clue before they reached a consensus: the coast was clear. They became nothing but streaks of darkness as they traversed the open area, as fleeting as a shadow and about as tangible. The two reached the inside of the crumbling building and made their way to the central room, a circular dining area ringed by tables and a massive spiral staircase to the second floor. The two took position on the second floor and backed into a dark corner, sensors and scans confirming they were not followed. Upon closer inspection, the commanding Trooper, bearing Sergeant stripes, noticed yet another security camera. Staying in the darkness, he moved along the edge of the wall outside the camera's field of view. With the lightning speed he had displayed before, he severed the power cable to the device and watched with satisfaction as the sparks splayed out in the dark and the electricity bled away from the white, armored surveillance tool. He quickly joined his partner in the dark corner and took a knee, taking out his data pad.
"Nothing in sector one," he said, tapping the pad with his finger.
His partner, a Lance Corporal, nodded in confirmation. "Sector two is dark, about what I expected. Thermals show a few underground bunkers, but nothing that matches the facility data. This place is wiped clean."
Both ODSTs crouched in silent contemplation. The Sergeant grunted in a brief and rare show of frustration. The mission was not going well. The insertion had been perfect: a fast and low approach via stealth dropship, one he had never seen before, and a textbook wet drop into the outlying harbor. The swim into the city had almost been enjoyable. After that, the Sergeant thought, everything Command told us had been wiped. They're not even sure the facility is here. Tactical data streamed by the veteran ODSTs eyes and he frowned at it behind his faceshield. He placed his hands on his thighs as he crouched, his agile mind assaulting the task at hand from multiple angles. He finally decided he wanted a second opinion. His partner had been with him for several months now, and the Sergeant valued his subordinate's straightforward, sometimes even blunt opinions, but nearly always absolutely correct. "Assessment." The ranking ODST ordered, his voice sounding grave and a little artificial as it came out of his helmet.
The Lance Corporal looked up from his data pad. Though it was nearly impossible to see through the polarized shatter-resistant faceshields, the Sergeant imagined he could see his partner's face contorted in thought. The kid had always shown too much with his face, the veteran recalled.
"Two problems, sergeant," the Lance Corporal reported. "First, there's a lot more Covenant here than initially reported. Briefing said this place was deserted. We've stalked three patrols so far, and I've picked up at least twice that number on my long-range motion sensors."
"Are you complaining, son?" The Sergeant said, almost joking.
"With respect, sergeant, don't ever 'son' me again. I never complain. Just giving you my assessment."
The Sergeant nodded understandingly. "Continue."
"Number two, the cameras. Someone's here, or used to be. I suspect this city is still inhabited. I ran that explosion earlier today through my audio databank. That was a M-9 High Explosive grenade, sir. Not a mine. Sure, it could have been a rigged grenade, but if it's not...I don't think we're the only humans here, Sarge. And that means that our secondary mission orders may be FUBAR."
The commanding trooper was about to remind his subordinate about the definition of "priorities," when both of their helmets sounded a warning tone. The motion tracker had picked up a signal. The Lance Corporal tapped his faceshield twice and pointed his hand toward the main entrance to Quincy Market. Whatever was registering was making its way along the ground floor, approaching the rotunda that the ODSTs occupied and overlooked. Though it would have been nearly impossible to see the soldiers in the darkness of the second floor's shadows, the pair of warriors slinked back further into the inky darkness, leaving rays of dusty sunshine in front of them that fell past the spiral iron staircases and splayed across the marble floors of the dining area. The black-clad troopers waited patiently, their ears straining to detect the slightest sound. The strain was unnecessary.
"Whoa! Check this place out, Mike!" A voice called out into echoing depths of the obliterated building. The voice bounced around abandoned kiosks and stands, fading out in the distance.
The answering voice seemed jovial, even carefree. "Pretty cool echoes. Kale, go see if there's any food around here.
In the ensuing silence, the Sergeant detected multiple footsteps that seemed to indicate a small group. He glanced at his motion tracker and began to count the separate contacts when a tremendous metallic clanging assaulted his ears. The distinctive commotion of pots and pans striking a hard surface spread out in an acoustic tidal wave, bouncing off the walls and doubling back on itself. A string of curse words and a bashful apology followed shortly after as the noise began to subside. Both Special Forces soldiers exchanged looks with the other. Don't they know this place is crawling with Covenant? Are they trying to get themselves killed?
The group continued on through the market, chatting openly and discussing trivial, non-tactical matters as if they owned the Covenant-occupied city. As they passed through the central circle of the market, they stopped to regard the dome that held resolutely almost thirty feet over their heads, gawking like tourists at the obvious plasma damage. The ODSTs cursed them and wished they would continue on. They were only bringing more risk into the mission.
"Let's move out," a stern, matriarchal voice sounded from the back. With the audible shuffling and hesitant footfalls more appropriate for schoolchildren, the pack seemed to make their way to the other entrance, the only indication of their departure the slamming of a door and a fading laugh from one last disembodied voice. The troopers slowly emerged from their cover and tried to get a handle on the moment.
"Not the inhabitants we're looking for," The Lance Corporal remarked as he shook his head, "but they might have made contact with them."
"Agreed." The Sergreant replied as he pulled back the charging handle of his modified battle rifle. "Let's go ask them."
Hung Lam enjoyed his job. In fact, Lam loved his job. Not only was he protected and fed, but he was protected and fed to do what he enjoyed most: toying around with electronic surveillance systems all day. Before the invasion, the specialist had been an independent military contractor to the UNSC, designing the technology and specifications for the Navy's Clarion spy probes. His company was particularly good at signal interception and direct streaming video feeds to Navy ships that would have been far out of range with older models. Lam had been the proud owner of a picturesque penthouse apartment in Boston's Back Bay area, and had made Boston magazine's "Most Eligible Bachelors," section for the last three years. Lam had been sitting on top of the world, then the Covenant had kicked him off.
To get back at the invaders that had taken his home, his friends, and his city, he volunteered any and all of his services to the Minutemen the moment he arrived in the South Station camp, lugging two large bags of electronic equipment. Lam had prided himself on building the Minutemen's entire COM network, surveillance infrastructure, and signal intelligence from the ground up. It had taken several covert excursions by hand-picked Minutemen teams to infiltrate his opulent penthouse, and several more to raid his research & development labs, but they had done it in a remarkably quick pace. Hung credited Captain O'Shea's astounding leadership skills in getting so many people mobilized under Lam's direction, and even further, to get them to work as a cohesive team. The team, under the Asian technophile's guidance, had arguably become better than UNSC technicians.
But today they were having some problems. Lam rubbed his hands together vigorously as he sat in a leather swivel office chair, clapping them together twice as if to wake his brain up from sleep mode. He sat in front of an imposing bank of closed circuit television monitors, each displaying in dazzling high definition color the scenes their respective cameras pointed to. The Minutemen had rigged up nearly two hundred cameras for safe observation of the city, and since they lacked two hundred television screens, they occasionally "switched channels" to any camera that detected motion. Lam considered this innovation to be one of his more brilliant additions, and couldn't help but allow a smile to creep across his face. However, he was there to solve the problem of three individual screens that showed nothing but static. He had replayed each of the camera's feeds, and each time he saw the same scene: pristine, though obliterated, beauty by the Charles River, an instantaneous blur of black, then a sudden downward jerk of the camera followed by static. Whatever it was that was taking down these cameras was methodical, but quick as hell. Hung called up the footage again and slowed down the feed, his left hand dancing across the tiny blinking buttons while his right hand slowly turned a large gray knob in a clockwise direction.
After ten minutes of trying to isolate the blur, he finally isolated a single frame that allowed him the biggest view of the curiosity. The specialist allowed himself a brief fist punch through the air in acknowledgement of his victory, then went to work enhancing the image. As he bit his lower lip in concentration, one of his subordinates opened the door to the surveillance room, flooding the small space with light. Lam shielded his eyes for a moment as the other technician passed him coffee. Hung took it wordlessly and sipped on the hot liquid in thoughtful focus. It was a well known fact that when the founder of the Minutemen's COM network was working hard, he rarely said a word. This did not deter the subordinate. "How's it lookin', boss?" He asked.
Lam simply gestured to the black blur in the lower left corner of the surveillance room's most imposing screen. The huge, rectangular flatscreen was for analysis and intelligence-gathering purposes only, and as such, the feeds of the cameras could be changed to thermal, infrared, or electromagnetic detection settings when linked on what the Minutemen liked the call, "The Lam's Eye." The Specialist had designed every armored camera with the same optic equipment used in his deep space probes, and as such they were more than capable of visual enhancement. The subordinate grabbed a high-backed swivel chair and pushed the wheeled furniture with a small shove toward his mentor. He loved watching Lam work. It was nothing short of art and science fused together in a flowing ballet of information and aesthetics.
The only sound in the entire room was the light ticking of keys as each was manipulated by their master, the image growing larger and more crisp with each passing second. The technician found himself leaning forward in his chair as though this would make the image on The Lam's Eye come into sharper focus. After what seemed like the briefest of moments, the enhancement stopped. The image on the giant screen now showed what might have been a black shoulder and the slight sloping of a neck, but the subordinate could not be sure. He glanced at Hung for a moment. The electronics genius was staring wordlessly at the image.
"What do you—" The man started to ask, until he was silenced by the immediate resumption of the ticking keys. Now a red box appeared on the screen, centering on middle of what the technician thought could have been a shoulder. After centering on the splotch of black, the image suddenly zoomed forward until nothing could be seen but senseless black. Before the subordinate could protest, small, green, italicized words blinked on the top of the image. Thermal scan in progress...please wait. A moment passed as a thin blue line passed over the image from top to bottom. By the time it had reached the bottom, the clear outline of a comet, complete with trailing tail, could be seen. On a small screen beside The Lam's Eye, a series of symbols flew by, too fast to be discerned individually.
"Just a hunch," Lam said uncharacteristically as the search progressed.
"Sunlight reflecting off the neck, I guessed if the thing's human, it might have something on the lapel. Some military designation. I have no idea what a comet is for, though."
The search finally halted on an identical match: a golden comet with trailing tail. Large, unfriendly red letters flashed on each screen, then continued to blink. Match Found: Designation: Orbital Drop Shock Trooper (Helljumpers).
The sound of the ticking keys had stopped. The only sound that registered was the shattering of a ceramic coffee mug as it fell from Hung Lam's hand. Yet as shocking as that news was, a brief warning tone ripped the incredulous stares of the two technicians away.
"Motion by Fanueil Hall," the subordinate said in a confused tone, his mind still struggling to grasp what the cameras had just picked up. He slid over to a set of keyboards and called up the image on several of the screens in front of the two technicians. "Oh, son of a..." the subordinate's voice trailed off in an exhale of disgust and despair as Lam rolled to the left to scrutinize the camera's feed.
"When it rains," Hung muttered in anger as he jabbed a finger at the screen, "it really freakin' pours." The Specialist snatched up a headset and placed it snugly on his head, his spiky black hair obscuring the microphone before he pulled it down in front of his mouth. "Get me Captain O'Shea, first priority message: we have new refugees wandering Boston." Lam turned quickly as the other technician swore loudly. The younger man had his left hand pressed against his forehead and was now staring at his superior with a look of helplessness and surprise. Hung stared at the screen behind him and knew why the technician had turned a shade lighter than pale. He grabbed the microphone and put the receiver directly in front of his lips as he leaned his entire body over the keyboards and control equipment. "Addition: they're being tracked by Covenant."
The refugees of the South Station Camp had been given specific jobs from the minute they had set foot underground. The jobs ranged from mundane janitorial tasks to food management planning and construction of more elaborate and secure facilities in the subterranean compound. O'Shea and the civilian leadership of Boston had realized early on that a hidden existence every day would take its toll on the morale and psychology of the refugees, so under controlled circumstances, cycles of refugees would get, as the camp government called it, "Recess." However, much of the last two years were spent indoors and underground for any non-Minutemen personnel. Captain Jack O'Shea had chalked that up as one of the reason volunteers were so plentiful in the militia. Therefore, any new kind of excitement or visual stimulation in South Station was a public spectacle and never went unnoticed. So when the Captain had burst out of the command train with Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds in tow, and the two of them were visibly agitated, many civilians were curious, making everyone else curious. Unbeknownst to the two senior Minutemen, talk began to spread rapidly through the camp.
O'Shea quickly crossed the space between the war room car and the main Minutemen ready room/training ground. His right hand was pressed against his ear, listening to Lam back in the surveillance room one last time. "And you're absolutely sure they're not one of ours?"
"Sir, I'm looking at today's work reports, and there's no civilian operations going out today." The Specialist's voice came through clearly to the Captain as he jogged quickly across the open space of the cavernous train station.
"Could they just be unaccounted for?" Jack asked, knowing full well that it would be incredibly unwise and also quite difficult to sneak out of the camp without anyone knowing.
"They're dressed in a civilian and military mix," Hung's voice stated over the COM, "and we don't dress like this. I am completely sure that they're not ours and that this Covenant force is deliberately tracking them."
"Copy," Jack said through grit teeth. "I'm getting a team out now. Call the armory and have them prep equipment for a rescue operation using ten Minutemen.
I'll upload personnel once we get a roster." The Minutemen had a standard daily routine of conducting watch outside the station, but when Minutemen weren't on watch duty or otherwise engaged in operations or administrative duties, they were required to be in the ready room/training area. They could be called on at any point in the day to leave on patrols, ambushes, or in this case, operations.
"Acknowledged. Lam out." The COM snapped off, leaving O'Shea and Reynolds at the door to the ready room. The Master Gunnery Sergeant glanced at his CO as Jack briefly exhaled.
"Master guns," Jack said, his voice authoritative and confident, "call the snipers. Have them create a diversion to keep any Covenant out of the Market area."
"Yes, sir," Reynolds replied. "Meet you at the armory." The broad shouldered veteran turned on his heel and walked away at a brisk pace. Business had to be done, and there wasn't a lot of time to do it.
The Captain put his hand on the door and shifted his weight forward, just about to open it and shatter the illusions of calm and tranquility the militia inside were feeling. He stopped suddenly as he sensed a presence on his left. He jerked his head to the left, his heart already pumping a little harder with anticipation of the coming mission, and he found himself quickly assessing the threat the figure in his view presented. Jack quickly decided his wife was not a threat. Yet.
"Composing yourself before a mission, honey?" Laura O'Shea said, arms crossed and eyes boring holes into her husband. She was carrying a thin black data pad in her right hand, and Jack realized she had taken a break from her camp duties to intercept her husband. "Subtlety has never been your strong point. Half the camp knows something's up."
"Half the camp has nothing better to do than gossip," Jack found himself saying. He relaxed for a second as he realized he talking to the only person in the world he could converse freely and openly with, free of fear or repercussions of public panic. He allowed himself a moment to change his cold demeanor. "We better put another casserole on, kiddo," Jack used his term of endearment to soften his last comment, "the boys are going to pick up some more company. They looked a little lost."
Mrs. O'Shea covered the space between her and the last remaining member of her family quickly, kissing him softly and giving Jack a quick, tight embrace. They always knew every day might be the last time they saw each other. She'd be damned if she was going to forget that and take this moment for granted. "You're coming back to me," Laura said into his ear as she finally let go.
Her husband winked at her. He knew she hated when he feigned bravado. "I always am," he said softly, reassuring the bond between them once more. "Always." With that, Mrs. O'Shea nodded and walked backwards, letting Jack get back to work. O'Shea threw the door open and stormed into the room, inspired and filled with purpose once more.
"Saddle up, Minutemen!" The voice boomed in the room as the scuffling of feet jumping to attention could be heard from outside. "Fine day for a drive!"
The two ODSTs had been stalking the group through the streets for three hundred meters before they suddenly took cover in a small warehouse by the water. The nearly demolished monstrosity looked like an antique, the steel siding didn't have the saline-repellant paint coating, didn't have the automated door systems, in all respects, the dock warehouse was a relic. The ODSTs noted it as soon as they peeked around the doorframe.
"This is perfect!" A voice cried out from deep within the darkness.
"No rats..." Another voice said as there was the loud sound of falling crates.
"And a sea view!" A female piped up from another corner. The Lance Corporal did a quick mental count, and spoke silently through his helmet to his commanding officer through their encrypted COM network.
"I count twelve," he said, his voice crystal clear over their sophisticated connection.
"I confirm," The voice of his Sergeant sounded in his ears. "They appear unarmed. Warehouse is too dark inside. Take a quick threat assessment, keep to the shadows. Activate light amplification."
The Lance Corporal clicked his radio twice to signal that he understood, then blinked in a pattern. The shadows, shades, and pitch black corners of the spacious warehouse then turned to a series of grays and greens, while his HUD displayed each heat signal in the warehouse as a red shape. The threat indicator on his faceshield, detecting the metal and hardened plastic of two pistols, highlighted the weapons in an orange trim. The weapons remained clipped to the belts of two men in the group that seemed to be preoccupied with exploring the seaside warehouse.
"Threat." The Lance Corporal announced. "Two pistols, M6C. Designate priority."
"Copy," The Sergeant replied. "I'm on the right, you stay on the left. Flash and clear. This room is too big for it to hurt them permanently, and until we're sure they're friendly, we've got a mission to complete. Deploy flash on my mark." The lower ranking ODST immediately yanked a cylindrical, sleek gray flash-bang grenade from a pouch on this chest and held it in both hands. He risked a peek around the large doorway and sighted on the two pistol bearing men. His partner was on the opposite side of the doorway, taking in the same scene.
"Mark." The Lance Corporal ripped the pin away from the device and hurled the grenade in a half sidearm, half overhead toss that bounced the grenade three meters from the targets with weapons.
"Hey, what the fuck--?" A man cried out, and a tremendous bang sounded as the room was briefly awash with light. The two ODSTs came flying around their corners, Battle Rifles up and threat indicators scanning for new dangers. On their faceshields, the slightly blurry red shapes moved about in frenzied confusion, some bumping into each other in their disoriented status. Both troopers covered the twenty meter distance a little less than three and a half seconds. With force, both troopers snuck behind the men and expertly kicked out at the back of their knees with adrenaline-aided force. The pistol-wielding refugees fell to the ground in a heap, both crying out in surprise and immediate pain. As the effect of the grenade began to wear off, the grimy civilians focused their eyes to try and take back the advantage. They would find no advantage, only the gleaming, polished, black barrel of an ODST's Battle Rifle.
"Oh God, oh G-God!" One of the men stammered. The two pistols were yanked from the men and were underfoot in seconds.
"Freeze!" The Sergeant barked, sweeping his weapon across the warehouse as the Lance Corporal covered him. "On the ground, now!" The Lance Corporal loved his partner's "Intimidation voice." The other men in their squad had joked that it could domesticate a wolf in under thirty seconds, and make even the most confident of foes literally piss themselves.
Works like a fuckin' charm, the Lance Corporal chuckled in his mind. The other ten people, dressed in a wide assortment of patched and dirty clothes, both civilian and military, were on their knees with their hands behind their heads.
"I think they've heard this before." The Lance mused via COM.
"I intend to ask why."
The ten Minutemen raced through the underground tunnels as fast as they could, passing red lights that served as the only in the tube-like, claustrophobic access way. The intricate network of sewer tunnels, maintenance access ways, and improvised underground pathways could have led the team to the
Quincy dock area, but they simply didn't have enough time. Therefore, Captain Jack O'Shea had decided on a course of action that they had not done is a very, very long time. Jack could sense the excitement of the younger with him; young soldiers who had never encountered the thrill of speed and danger they were about to embark on. He could almost hear the thought of the Private First Class running alongside him, thinking We're really gonna do it, we're really gonna do it...
O'Shea didn't have time to try guess the young man's thoughts, however. His mind was occupied trying to make out the latest intelligence from the surveillance room. Lam's voice was beginning to succumb to static as the squad moved deeper and deeper into the bowels of Boston.
"...Strangest thing, sir...-ovies have backed of-...like they sense a thr-" the COM was losing strength, and fast. Jack pushed the receiver deeper into his ear and stopped his advance for a minute, straining to understand the words one more time before he lost the link for good.
"Repeat that one more time, Lam. As few words as possible." He ordered. The COM crackled and fizzled, then Jack could discern a final few seconds of clarity. Hung was talking fast.
"Hunting party giving space, like they're spooked, or saw something." That was the last O'Shea was going to hear from South Station for some time. He jerked his head forward in delivering a quick curse word, then ran the short distance to catch up with the fading footfalls of the squad.
They skid to a collective stop in front of a gleaming stainless steel door. O'Shea glanced behind him to see that all nine Minutemen were accounted for, and he took a brief look down the concrete tunnel that was lit intermittently by the shielded red lights. Some were beginning to falter, creating a disturbing strobe-like effect in the long darkness, but that was least of his concerns right now. Jack looked around the group. "We ready?" He asked with authority.
"Yes, sir!" The group replied in unison.
"Huah," The Captain answered, and placed his hand on a sleek rectangular pad by the door. A blue light glowed brightly for two seconds, then disappeared as the stainless steel door separated down the middle and parted for the squad, moving on greased and silent tracks. As the Minutemen looked past the oblong doorway, all they could see was blackness, as if another solid wall stood beyond the first door. They stared at an infinite expanse of pitch black until they heard the gentle of humming of a generator and the satisfying sounds of many large overhead florescent lights switching on. One by one the gigantic lights flashed on, one after another in a long row, illuminating a large cavernous garage. Before the Minutemen were three rows of wheeled vehicles, Warthogs, ATVs, and civilian automobiles. O'Shea could have sworn he heard a small gasp from the young man beside him.
"This," the Private First Class breathed, "is the sexiest thing I've ever seen."
"Note to the PFC:" Gus Reynolds noted as he visually inspected the garage, "get laid."
"What is this place, Captain?" Another young voice inquired.
"Used to be the main garage for Boston Police." Jack stated as he took the first steps into the motor pool. "We added a couple 'Hogs and managed to pinch a Lynx from the old UNSC post; we couldn't salvage the whole mechanized supply, though. So we make do with what we have."
"We always do," Gus Reynolds confirmed with a nod, "and we do it well. Hustle up, ladies! These crates ain't gonna drive themselves."
The squad now hustled down a small iron staircase to the garage level, where all nine Minutemen made for the row of gleaming, pristine Warthogs. Though they hadn't been driven in nearly a year, refugees with special clearance had earned the job of maintaining the minuscule mechanized infantry. They had not disappointed their protectors. The chain guns that pointed down at the decks of the Warthogs gleamed with a malicious polish, and behind them in neatly stacked crates were drums of ammunition.
Beside two Warthogs was the slightly larger and higher M858A Lynx Light Transport Vehicle. The cockpit of the armored personnel carrier sat three operators, a driver, weapons system officer, and a commander in the center of the cockpit. A large, 20mm autocannon sat perched above and slightly behind the cockpit, where it could be controlled by the weapons system officer or manually handled by a gunner in the rear troop bay. The rear 12.7 mm machine gun had been stripped to add speed to the Lynx, and had been placed back in the South Station camp as part of a fixed defensive position. The troop bay held sixteen, perfect for the upcoming mission, and all three of the light vehicles were painted in drab grays and blacks like the Minutemen uniforms.
The militia had been broken up into three teams while on the way to the garage, and the two passenger-seat navigators stuck by O'Shea's side as the gunners ran with the drivers to load the 12.7 mm armor piercing rounds into the intimidating Warthog guns. Gus Reynolds and the Lynx's weapons officer retrieved large drums of the 20mm autocannon ammunition for the larger ground transport. There were a few shouted commands which echoed harmlessly off the heavily armored and insulated garage walls, and the clinking of ammo belts could be heard being threaded through well-oiled chain guns. The militia, while never actually having used the vehicles' weapons before, had trained in preparation drills on loading the sizeable guns.
Jack meanwhile took the two navigators and unfolded a large map on the hood of the Lynx. As his right hand traced a route from the garage to the docks, his left began inputting points into a data pad. O'Shea looked up for one second as he noted how quickly and efficiently his boys were moving. He smiled to himself for a brief second. The organized chaos was comforting, in a way.
"Move it, I want to be peeling out in two mikes!" He shouted as his voice echoed in the garage, and a chorus of "huahs" came in reply. The Captain finally finished inputting the points into his data pad and displayed it to the other two navigators. They produced their thin black devices and held them in the general vicinity of the Captain's. Two button presses later, O'Shea's device had transmitted all relevant material to the other two via wireless connection. The two Minutemen then ran to their Warthogs and jumped in the passenger seats, one yelling, "Shotgun!" as he jumped in.
O'Shea threw open the front left door and slid into the uncomfortable center seat behind the weapons officer, who was starting up his weapons diagnostics and testing the fourteen smoke grenade launchers that bristled from the sides of the carrier. "Autocannon online," O'Shea heard the WSO announce. "The big girl's all yours, master guns, sir. Switching to manual now."
"How we doin', Gus?" Jack asked into his COM.
"I am now behind the controls of a very large autocannon, Captain, the very nature of which device is to put twenty millimeters of anti-alien at the rate of four hundred and twenty rounds a minute into as many of the enemy as I can sustain," came a gruff, yet joyful voice. "You may record my mood as 'very motherfucking optimistic'."
Jack nodded in satisfaction at the laughs that came from around the garage. Reynolds had opened his COM to the whole team, it seemed. The Captain mentally approved of the motivational tactic. On his command display, he saw acknowledgement lights winking from all members of the team. O'Shea would be in charge the fast-moving rescue operation, and he intended to bring each soldier those lights represented back home alive. He opened a squad-wide channel. "All right, listen up, Minutemen." He said in his most serious voice. "No fucking around here. We haul ass to the waypoint and grab those refugees, willing or no. You all have four restraints with your gear. If these refugees give you shit, do not, I repeat, do not hesitate to restrain them and throw them in the Lynx. The longer we stick around, the better chance we get dead. In and out. That is all, I am calling this mission a go. Can I get a 'huah'?"
Jack wished he had taken out his earpiece before he said that. The resounding, adrenaline-pumped response left his right ear ringing. The Minutemen response was followed with the roar and subsequent rumbling of engines being activated. The garage immediately smelled of gasoline fumes and the faint tingle of ionized air from power cores being spun up.
"Russ, you've got point, designate your Warthog Whiskey-one. Suppressing fire once we reach the docks." An acknowledgement light winked blue on the screen by Jack's left hand. "Sam, you've got the rear guard. Designate your Warthog Whiskey-two. Cover the extraction, then you're on point back to base. Designate my Lynx Lima-one." Another blinking light. Both navigators understood.
"Fire 'em up, Minutemen!" Gus Reynolds yelled over the din as he fastened protective goggles over his eyes. "For Boston!"
A large titanium garage door lowered down into the floor as the three vehicles sped out into the morning. As they left, the door went back into the ceiling and the lights all clicked off, one by one. Only the vague hint of gasoline fumes indicated that anything had been there at all.
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