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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 8
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 28 July 2006, 5:28 am
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 8
South Station
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Afternoon
Since the Covenant invasion of Earth, Captain Jack O'Shea had been shot, burned, broken, and beaten. He had lost friends, lost relatives, lost children, and lost a city. In all of that time, Jack had known sorrow and agony that would have broken lesser men many times over. As time passed, he slowly began to make peace with himself. In the time that had passed the Captain told himself that no matter how hard and dark his life would be as leader of Boston's Minutemen, he would never feel agony like the first days that Boston was lost. Jack was wrong.
There was complete peace in the pristine conditions of the field hospital room. No medical monitor dared disturb the tranquil peace that hung in the sterile air. No intravenous drip would shatter the silence that the man in urban camouflage bore witness to. And no whisper of breath would ever again part the air in front of Laura O'Shea's lips as she lay in the tomb-like quiet deep underground Boston. She lay still, a picture of peace and rest, the color of life having just left her beautiful face.
Laura O'Shea was dead. And Jack's soul followed soon after.
The weathered eyes that had taken in more combat action than any other Minuteman closed tightly with pain and shame. The hands that saved countless lives quivered and slipped as they desperately tried to gain purchase on the bedrails before them. The legs that covered ground more treacherous than many men's worst nightmares could no longer carry strength; they failed their master and gave way to gravity. If not for the chair that had been hastily left for the Captain, he would have been found on the floor.
It was a gripping image to the nurses and workers who passed by the cubicle-like unit, and many had to make conscious efforts to not stand by and watch their leader sink into utter despair. They had seen grief, and each knew that it was a most personal affair, but to those who passed, it was the most heart-breaking process to witness.
In the dimly lit white of the intensive care unit Laura O'Shea lay in eternal slumber, her soft blonde hair gracefully framing her head and shoulders in an almost regal way. To her right the man who stood for courage, composure, and survival was slumped in a heap of fatigue, his advanced flak jacket open, his helmet on the floor, his head completely buried in his hands. There was no strength in this man. It was as if the will to live had been drained from his body, depositing a limp husk on the metal chair. Next to the very embodiment of serenity sat the picture of unimaginable sorrow.
This was the end of Captain O'Shea. All that he had fought for, all that he had sacrificed for, was now gone. He knew that most men under his command fought for something, an ideal, survival, the protection of the city, or their loved ones. Jack had loved the city of Boston, but it was far behind his love for his late wife. She was his anchor, and through his devotion to her he had become a leader of men, a leader of a desperate city clinging to life. No more.
Jack felt a sob begin to build. The last gasps of his duty to the city, his need to be an example, held out. He was ashamed to show weakness. At this moment, he hated his role as head of the Minutemen. He hated the fact that he had survived so much suffering, that he was expected to bear this burden alone. He hated the fact that he was not a man, he was a symbol. Symbols don't break down. They can't see you break down!
What have they done for me? Given me nothing but anger and fear! Taken my only reason to survive! This place took her from me!
The doctor's words had been simple and to the point as Jack stood stock-still beside her resting form, but O'Shea was fighting to remember them now.
"It wasn't a heart attack, Jack. It wasn't any sort of injury. She just...we've seen this once or twice before. The strain is internalized, the stress builds and wears away at the body until...until it can't take it anymore. There wasn't...any...she didn't feel anything, Jack."
Jack's mind screamed words in a fury his lungs could not. I never asked for this!
And then, in an instant, Jack knew he could not be in that room any longer. He could not be in that godforsaken underground station any longer. The Captain's anger ran unchecked as his eyes flew from point to point, searching for an outlet for his rage. For a moment, Jack O'Shea fantasized about destroying the entire camp in one broad stroke. In this room, underground, he saw only death; and he prayed to be a part of it.
As that moment passed, the leader of the Minutemen, the symbol of Boston, turned on his heel and marched out of the room, leaving the love of his life behind. Two attendants, at the wrong place at the wrong time, were thrown to the floor as they accidentally came into O'Shea's warpath. Their instruments clattered to the shiny clean floor and they stared with mouths agape as they realized who had so angrily tossed them aside. Jack hadn't noticed.
South Station
"Lights to one-quarter," the weary voice commanded. The bright overhead lights of the large room dimmed considerably as the large man appeared to brace himself in the door frame. Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds looked around at the lengthened shadows as they obscured his favorite place in the camp. The Last Line of Defense was Boston's only remaining pub, lovingly constructed as the final touch of the South Station camp. It was the only part of the large underground space that had any kind of warm feeling to it, the rich wood and copper giving the Last Line an intimacy and friendly feeling that was missing from the rows of crowded tents, hollowed-out commuter trains, and field hospital that dominated the former train station. Though was tucked away in a corner, it was always pleasing to any passer-by's eye. To Gus' relief, no one had seen him sneak in.
The old Minuteman let out a long sigh that sagged his shoulders and led him into the dark space. This was where the dark-skinned soldier had gone to lose himself in work as the city fell, in constructing the one large room that survivors could come to and forget about the fact that their homes and loved ones lay above in smoking rubble. This was where he had worked countless hours with Captain O'Shea, always after a long day of creating Boston's refugee infrastructure. Finally, after hours upon hours of hard work, they had place they could be proud of. For Reynold's it was where he finally banished the memories of his family, each and every one of them slain in the initial attacks. But as The Last Line of Defense was finally built, those memories returned. With that, Gus found himself coping the only way he had left, through those bottles of fiery amber salvation that made his daughters' voices hazy and finally, nothing but a bad dream followed by a hangover.
Drowning his grief was exactly what Gus was here to do. Exhaustion crept up his legs as tired limbs dragged him across the space, past the high tables ringed with tall chairs, past the counter that ringed the space, past the smiling pictures of Boston in better days, of young men over alien bodies, happiness to be alive written across their features. Today, there was no happiness. There was only a cursory glance through the slits of the shades, a quick flick of the wrist to hide himself from the eyes of the camp, and five strides to get away from this world of death and tragedy.
The bottle of whiskey, dated several decades back, was sloppily poured over ice in the short glass, spilling some precious liquid on the bar. The veteran cursed softly and wiped it away with a sweep of his sleeve, bringing the glass to his lips at the same time. He gulped it down, begging to feel differently, to forget that his best friend's wife had just died, to wipe from his memory the fact that he did not have the courage to tell him.
"Jack...it's Laura. She's in the hospital. She...she...you need to get there right away."
Gus shook his head in disgust. The same man that had faced the Covenant juggernaut and survived was afraid to tell his only living friend the worst news he would ever hear in this life. Fuck me, he thought, I don't deserve to be here. How am I supposed to help these kids when I can't even help my best friend? He stared intently at the bottom of the glass as if the answer to his searching questions could be spelled out in ripples and cubes of frozen water. It was hopeless. Reynolds downed the rest of the glass in one heft of the vessel. Gus could feel the heat of the depressant slosh down to his empty stomach.
Hastily, the Minuteman grabbed for the bottle again and put it near to the finished drink with a hard clash of glass on wood. He plunged his hand briefly into a container of ice, feeling the shock of cold reach up his arm as two more pieces of ice were pitched into the glass. But as he took up the bottle for his second round, the door to the pub opened. Son of a bitch, I forgot to lock it.
The Master Guns tried as hard as he could to disguise what he was truly doing to the intruder. He knew it was impossible to hide the fact he was pouring a drink, but he gave it his best effort to make it seem like he was preparing a glass of water instead of aged whiskey. As he saw who came around the door, however, he knew it was futile. Though the man silhouetted in the filtered light of the outside was more slight than Reynolds, Gus knew the shape well and further deduced he had been observed quietly by afar. With an air of resignation, he brought the bottle back up into view from behind the polished oak. "Don't suppose you want a pull of this, Parsons?"
Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons shook his head sadly and opened his tactical vest, placing it on the bar stool next to him, pulling out a shiny piece of metal, and passing his XO in silence. From behind the bar, the Minuteman's ranking sniper grabbed a shot glass high up above the bar's mirror and placed the gleaming dog tag gently inside of it. Stepping up on a stool, he placed the small memorial next to dozens of others, all dramatically underlit by lights installed within the back wall's shelves. "Russ Chevelle." he said to the clear containers, then glanced at Reynolds, who raised his glass to the rows of dog tags. "I didn't see it happen." Parsons muttered.
"Young kid," Gus remarked as he shook his head. "Good kid. Hard worker. Was always writing about what was going on in the camp." The Master Guns laughed slightly from his nose. "Said all this would make a hell of a story one day." He slid his tumbler down the oak surface to the Staff Sergeant, offering it to him. Ron quickly slid it back and snatched a pint glass, filling it to the brim with water, and went back around to the front of the bar, separating himself from Gus.
"Not just yet, Master Guns." The sniper said, running his hand over his short blond hair with his left hand and drinking with his right. "I prefer to shoot straight while on duty." At the completion of his sentence, Parsons put down his glass and looked right into his superior's flashing hazel eyes. Gus snorted at the masked reprimand.
"Way I see it, Staff Sergeant, I can deal with this shit after we win, or more likely I kick the bucket up there fighting aliens. Personally, I'm more worried about the latter." The bottle poured the intoxicating liquor steadily and finally came to rest between the two soldiers.
"Your life, sir." Parsons said, leaning backwards, his arms extended to stretch his tired muscles. Satisfied, he took the water in his hands and gestured around the bar with it. "But right now, you're in charge of other people's lives. I can understand you're upset about the Cap--"
The sniper never got a chance to finish his sentence. In one powerful stroke, the Master Gunnery Sergeant smashed the pint out of Parsons' hands and reached over the bar, grabbing him by the collar and bringing the shocked young Minuteman close to his face. Ron could smell the whiskey on Gus' breath.
"You think you know real loss, son?" Reynolds' words grated through his set jaw. "You don't know a goddamn thing about losing family. You think because you and McManus wield precision weapons you know responsibility? You've no idea what we go through, what we sacrifice to keep these people alive. And we don't ask for a fucking thing in return!"
The commanding officer released Parsons with force, dropping the man to the floor in a heap. Not finished, Gus got out from behind the bar and walked purposefully to Ron, crouching down to look into his confused face. "You're a smart kid, I'll give you that. Someday you might even be smart enough to run this camp. But until that day, Parsons, you thank whatever God you believe in that you don't have to go through what the Captain's gone through every day...what I go through every day to keep us on the level."
Gus Reynolds stood and looked out the window, shades drawn and only surrendering a partial dull dark green glow. "And now Jack doesn't even have that. He's lost everything today. I don't ever want to remember how that feels. And if it takes a nasty habit to keep those memories out of my head, I choose the fucking habit."
Ron collected himself and grabbed his vest from off the floor. He slipped it over his shoulders once more and secured it over the center of his chest, standing straight and looking directly at the man he had caught more than once in the depths of alcoholism. Everyone had a way of coping with their situation. This, Parsons knew, was Reynolds' way. "Sir," the sniper started, "I don't presume to judge what's right and wrong down here. All I know is there's a camp to protect and I've been told our CO is incapacitated. I hope to God the same isn't true with the XO I see in front of me."
As Gus turned, Parsons continued. "Because I managed to sneak a peek at what looks like two ODSTs in our debriefing room, sir, and I don't imagine they're here on a goodwill tour. Someone told me they got left there by the Captain, and I expect they'll want to see the man in charge. So will you be the man I know you are, sir? Will you lead this city of desperate people who need a leader?"
Gus took one last look at the bottle that stood there, perched as if mocking the Master Guns' weakness. "If you've got a plan," Reynolds' said as he looked toward the bar, "I'll hear it on the way." A few seconds later, the door to the bar opened, and the new leader of the Massachusetts Minutemen stepped out into the camp, ready once again to defend against Boston's enemies.
The debriefing chamber was a drastic departure from the Minutemen's long briefing/conference room. The large oblong table that doubled as a holographic projector was noticeably absent; only a plain rectangle filled the center of the space, ringed by seven black leather chairs, ergonomically designed for long sessions after operations. Gone were the moody, urgent lights hidden in the corners of the ceiling; the debriefing room sported harsh florescent fixtures that made the entire area seem bright and bare. Every speck of dust, each slight imperfection on the body armor of the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers was apparent. The two special operations soldiers were alone in the room, casting wary looks at the three doors to their left, right, and front.
They had been waiting for an hour now. The ODST Sergeant sat at the head of the table, facing the opposite wall that sported a small map of the city of Boston. He silently swore to himself for letting the militia Captain talk him out of handing over his helmet before the Minuteman disappeared into the camp. With his standard issue Helljumper combat helmet, he could have kept a record of the map and put it to much better use. Now all he could do was memorize every minute detail of the large paper map, and he was doing a very good job of it. A few moments later, he asked the question he had been repeating since they ended up in this room. "Status?"
The Lance Corporal held up his slim data pad and stared at it as if it had just said something unintelligible. "No tune, no tone. They're not getting anything I transmit." With a resigned wave, the subordinate walked from his spot on the wall toward his partner and placed the pad down on the table. "I don't like this, sir. At all."
The older soldier grunted at the device, his dark eyes shooting daggers at the equipment that refused to work. "Agreed, but until we get the intel we need, we're groping around deep in the enemy's backyard."
"Sir, with respect, I don't think we're thinking about the real enemy. These 'friendlies' aren't exactly pleased we're here. I've been trained to engage Covenant, sir, but I think the larger threat is here."
The Sergeant put both of his padded elbows on the table, resting his chin on his left hand. His urban camouflage moved seamlessly underneath his solidly built torso armor, but he found himself wondering if perhaps he could get away with removing it. At the moment, he did not feel safe enough. He scratched the back of his UNSC-regulation hair and took in his surroundings yet again. "We've been trained to engage all threats, Lance Corporal, but these people are our best chance at completing this mission. Keep it in line and remember your role."
"Yes, sir." The reply was not hesitant, but resigned. The younger ODST had a bad feeling about his surroundings, his own sense of fear registered with the probing, suspicious looks the locals had given him. I didn't survive this long without knowing when shit didn't smell right, sir, and this...this don't smell right.
The Lance's eyes once again glanced at their two most prized possessions, their custom-modified Battle Rifles, and his heart sank as he recalled having to take the ammunition out of them earlier. Now all they had were their concealed combat knives, and they weren't even supposed to have those. Both soldiers knew that if push came to shove they could wield their devices with deadly efficiency; but here, deep underground in unknown territory, they prayed it would not have to come to that.
Both men immediately turned as the door across the room swung open with a squeak that filled the empty white space. The Sergeant recognized the man who entered as the Master Gunnery Sergeant and second in command behind the Captain. The Minuteman was carrying a folder filled neatly with papers and was still in his fatigues and combat vest. It seemed that they had not been taking a break while the Troopers had sat and waited. The militiaman sat across the table from them and calmly removed a few sheets. If he was intimidated by the elite soldiers' presence, he was not showing it. Once again, the senior ODST felt an extreme disadvantage at not having his personnel scanner on him. Why did I decide to trust these people?
"Sergeant Todd and Lance Corporal Sam, correct?" The Minuteman asked in a neutral tone. "I'm Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds. I've been instructed to give you whatever help we can offer."
"We thank you," Todd replied with a slight nod. "Any help you can give us is greatly appreciated. We'll be out of your way and out of your city as soon as we complete our mission."
"That brings me to my first question, Sergeant," Reynolds said, eyes down and shifting one paper over another, "what exactly is your mission here in Boston? The UNSC has been done with this city for quite some time."
"My apologies, this is a classified mission. There's nothing more I can say on the matter."
The hard eyes of the seasoned Minuteman met the steely intensity of the Obrital Drop Shock Trooper. Both men had been through hardship, and neither would relent. A frown crossed over Gus' weathered brown face.
"Sergeant, I'll be clear with you. Showing up in Boston after leaving us for so long worries me. The fact that you won't play ball in sharing your objectives worries me further. But what worries me most, what worries the rest of the 'evacuated' cities, is the prospect of being wiped off the map by our own species."
"I don't understand."
I bet you understand completely, you son of a bitch. Reynolds fought to keep his emotions in check. "A man named Matthew Cronin initiated a protocol to eliminate Covenant in human cities. After an area has met the satisfactory ratio of Covenant to human, it is deemed an 'acceptable loss' and destroyed by nuclear bombardment. The intelligence gathering for such a strike is usually done by a covert advance team so the hostiles are not alerted to a threat." Gus pushed the papers to the side and leaned over the table, glaring at the imposing soldier. "I'm worried you and your partner are that advance team."
Gus and Ron had argued the whole way to the debriefing room about showing their hands in this way. Reynolds feared it would trigger the ODSTs' survival instincts, Parsons was worried their surprise guests would somehow get a desperation message out and Boston's days would be over. Instead, the normally cool, calm, and collected Helljumpers both betrayed too much emotion. The Lance Corporal shook his head with vigorous anger. The Sergeant looked jabbed a finger in the Reynolds' direction.
"Let's get this straight here, weekend warrior. We've watched men die for causes greater than this graveyard. I've been on missions they don't even let you see the medals for. I don't know a goddamn thing about any fucking admiral bombing Earth cities; all I'm here to do is kill Covenant and preserve humanity. Now you're either part of the solution, or you're part of the problem. You receiving me?
The Master Gunnery Sergeant's eyes never left his opponent's, and his pulse remained constant. Perhaps it was the years of high-stress training, perhaps it was the alcohol coursing through his veins, but Gus did not show any sign of backing down, even as he smoothly depressed a button on the side of the table.
"I receive you, Sergeant, and I'm sure you and your partner are very talented; however," Reynolds stated calmly, eyebrow twitching up slightly, "I never said Cronin was an Admiral."
The Lance, eyes shooting laser beams into the smooth concrete floor, jerked his head up in the direction of the Minuteman. The Sergeant, to his credit, did not realize his mistake until a moment afterward and even then only partially revealed his disappointment. His eyes had been angry downward slants, now they opened more and a long exhale came from his nose. Both their hands were blurs as they reached for the combat knives sheathed behind their backs. The Sergeant shoved away his chair with a swift push of his legs, but he was beat to the draw by the Minutemen reinforcements waiting behind the doors to his left and right.
Two pairs of Minutemen, fully armored save their combat helmets, burst in from either side, M6C Magnums up and pointed directly at each Helljumper.
"Drop the knives!" Each of the four yelled in unison. "Put your hands on the back of your head now!"
As both ODSTs were searched, Ron Parsons walked in with a small device and handed it to Gus, who pushed a small button on the top of it. "I've heard you guys jump into Hell," he said as he leaned back in his chair and studied the two detainees. "I'd rather know why you jumped into Boston. So, let's talk about this 'classified mission'."
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