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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 11
Posted By: Azrael<sherwood.tondorf@gmail.com>
Date: 15 December 2006, 5:36 am
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 11
Office of Naval Intelligence Outpost
Location Classified
Midway through Coveneant invasion of Earth
Afternoon
"We have lost this war." Commander Thomas Young looked around the room for a moment, letting his words sink into walls that were built to keep any and all kinds of noise within. A dozen pairs of eyes watched the ONI officer; each set trying to keep visual contact but never actually meeting Young's gaze. Thomas was used to that.
"The Covenant have cut through our defenses without hesitation. They have glassed our outer worlds and slaughtered billions. All of us have lost friends, family, and comrades to their genocidal butchery. And they remain on Earth, on our point of origin, awaiting the moment that they will turn this planet to ash. With that, we will exist no more."
The Commander stood with his hands behind his back. Now, with a subtle gesture toward the center conference table, a wireframe map of the city of Boston sprung to life, illustrating a city decimated and decaying. None of the Office of Naval Intelligence technicians gave it a second thought.
"If any of you believe what I have just said, leave this room immediately. Because today we have the strongest chance of dealing our enemies a massive blow. I know I've run you ragged and our crews have been thin. For that I apologize, but you must look upon all our past action as training for this moment, this moment when you would summon your inner reserves and finally drive the Covenant from our home." Young was now standing at the head of the conference table, his posture perfect, every hair and medal carefully positioned to convey absolute confidence and authority. His audience of new officers and technicians were nearly at the end of their collective ropes, and Thomas knew it would be a challenge to reach them all.
Commander Young's station was a shadow of its former self. One by one, his officers had been reassigned to other posts until it was generous to say the ONI outpost was manned by a skeleton crew. Yet Thomas had never worked them harder. The constant strain was showing. It was showing through hard creases and bristling stubble on weary cheeks and chins. It was showing in the far off look in weary eyes; it was showing in missed signal intelligence that caused Young and his staff to be moving several days late on crucial ground information.
"We cannot afford mistakes." The Commander's voice was stern and forceful, but he could tell it didn't register. Thomas sighed inwardly. He hated overdone theatrical gestures, but now seemed like an appropriate time. With force, Young swung a fist against the table, rattling cups of coffee and precious data pads. Everyone in the room straightened with fear and a healthy shot of adrenaline.
"Don't you get it?" The Commander yelled to no one in particular. "This is our last option! Our only shot at survival! Fuck this up, agents," Thomas began to control his heart rate and ease the harsh red creeping across his face, "and we won't have a tomorrow."
"What's the plan, Commander?" One solitary voice piped up from the end of the table. Each head turned as one toward the junior technician. The techie looked like he had not slept in at least two days; his uniform was wrinkled, his tie was stained in two spots, and dark half moons hung below his bloodshot eyes. This was a man too weary for so much hot air. Thomas understood it was time to get to the plan.
"Simply put, we're initiating Cronin Protocol on the city of Boston." The men were simply too exhausted to coordinate an united vocal protest, and the Commander was satisfied to go on. "As Protocol mandates, intelligence assets are on the ground..."
"How many?"
"Classified. Suffice to say they have confirmed Boston's 'evacuated' status and we are approved to go ahead."
Commander Young could already see the junior technician's head beginning to lean to the side. He could nearly hear the inner workings of the man's brain begin to process what he had just heard. "If you have all the assets in place," the tech said slowly, "you only need half this staff to launch on the city. Why are the rest of us here?"
Son of a bitch must have caught a nap, The ONI officer thought, I hoped I could avoid this for another few minutes. "The reason I doubled our numbers for this operation," Thomas said to the drowsy room, "is for the staggered launch of a second missile on the same location in Boston."
In the dead silence of the command bunker's war room, Young could hear the breathing of every agent stop for one entire second. There was no sound of every eye in the room focusing with renewed shock and vigor on the impeccable black uniform, but Thomas could feel the pressure of their gaze on him. They're not dead after all.
"This is the body blow followed by an uppercut, ladies and gentlemen. Use any and all means necessary to launch a warhead of equal or greater power on the same location as our first strike. Bismark and I will aid in any way we can. All your other operations and missions have just become secondary. Operation: Urgent Hope is now across-the-board primary."
There was an instant of hesitation and then "Aye, sir," was murmured simultaneously around the table.
"Very good. All further inquiries should be sent toward Bismark. You are all ordered to get two hours rest and then report back to your stations. All passes are cancelled until the end of the operation. Dismissed."
The technicians and analysts groggily rose from their seats and saluted their Commander. Thomas smartly returned the salute and waited until the sleep-deprived workers cleared the room. Now left with an empty chamber, Young's advanced AI, Bismark, appeared on the central holo panel. "Should I assume that your priorities have shifted as well, mein Kommander?"
Young picked up his hat and briefly examined the interior, absent-mindedly running a finger along the lining. "Indeed, Bismark. I want Operation: Valiant Reclamation scrubbed. It never happened. Bury all assets involved but keep all relevant intelligence." Thomas quickly placed the cover on his head and lightly pulled down the brim so his bloodshot eyes would be masked from all inquiring looks. He turned on his heel and headed out of the room.
"And the two ODSTs, sir?"
Young paused at the door for a moment. He never looked back. "They're KIA, Bismark. A month ago."
South Station Refugee Camp
Evacuated City of Boston
"It's a shitty plan."
Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons looked up as he buckled in one last compartment on his combat vest. He cocked his head slightly to the left as he regarded his partner, Corporal Tim McManus. "That's a pretty bold statement coming from the guy who came up with this 'shitty plan' and got it unanimously approved by the command staff."
"Come on, Ron," McManus said, inspecting the ejector on his BR55 Battle Rifle and then sliding it shut again, "it's fucking awful. I only threw it out there to get our heads thinking in the right direction."
Parsons picked up an empty S2 AM Sniper Rifle cartridge and began inserting rounds, emphasizing each point as he slid the bullets in. "A sustained mortar strike on their command and control structure followed by a hit-and-run armored infantry attack, all for the purpose of getting us and the UNSC silent action figures into the secret ONI facility's back door. If we had more troops, it'd be a knockout plan."
"But we don't have more troops."
"And I don't have a villa on Tectron staffed by dozens of beautiful university coeds, but somehow I get by, Timmy." Ron stopped himself from going on and looked at his partner. "What's really bothering you?"
McManus angrily shouldered his tactical pack and began fastening his three point sling for his Battle Rifle. After half a minute of silence, the young Minuteman stopped and stared at the floor. "This is the first big op I've gone on without him," he muttered.
Ron instantly understood. Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds made it very clear to the men gathered at the debriefing room that Captain Jack O'Shea would not be coming with them. Rumors had spread quickly around the refugee camp that the Minuteman leader had just recently lost his wife and suffered a complete mental breakdown. While Parsons knew the first half of the rumor was tragically correct, he doubted with every fiber of his being that the man who had come so far and shown such strength in crisis had suddenly lost his marbles. The Staff Sergeant grabbed his own bag and put it down on the table in front of McManus.
"Hey," Ron said, getting Tim's attention, "the Cap lost his wife. I'm just glad his mind's intact. Be thankful for what we have now. You've got that redheaded minx back at camp. Focus on getting back to that."
Tim handed the Staff Sergeant disassembled parts of his sniper rifle. "That's part of the problem." He said.
Ron carefully placed each component into the tactical pack, then stopped suddenly as he realized what the Corporal was saying. "Don't you even say the 'M' word. I was trying to keep your mind off big ugly Elites, but Timmy..."
"I'm just saying it makes sense. Minutemen who get hitched get more time in--"
"--the camp?" Parsons' suddenly yelled at McManus. "You want to spend more time in the fucking camp, Tim?" Ron shoved the last piece of the rifle in the pack and turned his back on his friend, marching directly toward the just-cleaned Battle Rifle on the other side of the room. As soon as it was in his hands, Ron wheeled around and pointed a steady finger at the other sharpshooter. "The Captain loved his wife more than anything in this city and he never missed an operation that needed him unless he couldn't fucking walk! Last time I checked, you shoot better than the average bear, and the other last time I checked, this fucking militia ain't gettin' fucking bigger!" Parsons slapped home a magazine into the modified rifle and stalked past McManus, the younger Minuteman's mouth agape.
Ron shoved open the snipers' armory and artificial sunlight silhouetted him for an instant. The Staff Sergeant faced a cavernous space of hollowed-out commuter trains and an improvised tent city; the sniper's head hung for the briefest of moments. Tim could tell his superior officer was tremendously disappointed in him. "Someone out there wants this city destroyed, Corporal." Ron said gravely. "They sent two special ops soldiers to do it. You proposed a plan that puts a lot of guys our age, hitched or not, at risk; and all you can think about is asking some broad to marry you." Ron turned and leveled a look at Tim that he had never seen before. "You get your damn head straight, Corporal," Parsons said through gritted teeth, "before you kill us all."
Boston Police Garage
"It's a shitty plan and you know it, sir."
Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds shot a look at the Minuteman officer that could have punched a hole through steel. "Permission to speak freely denied, Master Sergeant." Reynolds finished unloading the ammo drum into the back of the Warthog and hopped off, wiping his hands with an oily towel. The Master Sergeant, shorter and younger, but no less ferocious than the old UNSC veteran, continued to press his case.
"Sir, we're being too forward about this. There's too much risk to our troops."
Gus grabbed his tactical pack and MA5B Assault Rifle from a stack of crates. "It's a war, Forte. There's always risk to our troops."
Master Sergeant Forte tried to put a data pad in his CO's hands. It was to no avail. "We've never left our mortar team exposed for this long." He said, nearly pleading.
"They're rarely above ground for more than five minutes. This is merely ten."
"Our forward observers will be out of the game after the first strike."
"Parsons and McManus are going with the ODSTs to make sure they don't slit our throats, Forte." Gus was beginning to lose his patience with the man who had hours ago nodded along with Tim McManus' strategy.
"And you're going into the teeth of a fortified Covenant position with three Warthogs and no other support."
The Master Guns looked up at the ceiling of the former Boston Police garage. He disliked showing any emotion other than confidence and positivity before a mission, but then again, he had never been in charge of the entire city of Boston before. "I don't know if you read through the operation completely, Forte, but the point of the hit and run is the running. We have the advantage inside the city, especially toward Copley and Government Center."
"We don't have the troops."
"And I don't have the villa on Charybdis IX with a dozen supermodel maids, but I survive, Forte!" The background noise of Warthog maintenance, equipment checks, and radio chatter suddenly came to a halt. Reynolds leaned down until his eyes were locked with the Minuteman NCO's. "You signed on to this plan, Master Sergeant. I don't care if it's not perfect. No plan is. Get your fire team prepped and wheels spinning in ten minutes or I promise you will not see daylight until the city is liberated."
The man had been put in his place for the time being. Forte, realizing that it would be better to live and argue another day, saluted the Master Gunnery Sergeant and walked briskly to his group. Gus nodded to himself and felt a brief wave of nausea wash over him. Son of a bitch, I could use a drink. Reynolds found himself feeling around his vest for his emergency flask as he approached the wild cards in the operation, a pair of Orbital Drop Shock Troopers.
The two men were silently cleaning their weapons. The Sergeant was being slow and methodical as he cleaned and oiled his Battle Rifle, while the Lance Corporal was working the slide of his M6C sidearm and smoking a cigarette. As Gus approached, the Lance twirled the sidearm expertly and holstered the pistol against his right thigh. The Sergeant, Todd, looked up and examined Reynolds with glacier blue eyes.
"Is there anything you need?" Gus asked, arms folded across his chest to show he'd be unwilling to give anything.
The Sergeant examined the inside of his helmet for moment and tightened several straps around his Titanium-A leg armor. "We could use a couple suppressed SMGs, to be honest."
Reynolds grunted. "We're tight on supplies already."
"We're going into a tight underground bunker directly behind a fortified enemy position to acquire an object they're obviously after," the Lance Corporal said, exhaling smoke. "If you'd like us to succeed, I suggest you give us every available resource."
"If I can get SMGs for all of you, you got it," Gus said. "I still don't have a reason to trust you."
"Yeah," the Lance said, slipping on his helmet, "that's going around."
It was a full hour until the convoy was fully up and ready to move. Every Minuteman involved in the mission huddled in a semicircle in front of the Master Gunnery Sergeant and a holographic projection of the city of Boston. Behind all of them, the clean surface and bright lights of the Boston Police garage awaited their footsteps toward battle. But before the militiamen and UNSC soldiers departed, Reynolds wanted a few words.
"This is a precisely timed and coordinated operation, so stay on your schedules and don't get sidetracked. The Lynx will deposit our FOs and ODSTs to direct fire for the mortar team. Mortars, you've only got one time for one call to adjust fire. After that, you're sustaining your barrage for nine minutes and displacing. Huah?"
The Minuteman mortar team gave an enthusiastic "huah" back. They rarely got to see action twice in one day. After they calmed down, the green wireframe image enlarged and rotated so the Covenant position was clearly marked and detailed. Several dots of various colors popped up to mark troop strength and movement.
"FOs and ODSTs will then begin to swing around what remains of Lansdowne Street and Fenway Park. Lam's already got a nav point on the best insertion zone. To cover your progress, myself and four other Warthogs, designated Whiskey-one through four, will hit the Covenant fortifications here," Gus gestured toward a large red dot, "and here."
Reynolds continued to go on about the fast-moving attack's path, but Parsons and McManus weren't paying attention. Both their capable minds were occupied with the second part of their mission: going in with the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers to the ONI facility to extract whatever object the Covenant were after. None of their related thoughts were happy ones.
Tim McManus risked a glance to his right at Ron. The Staff Sergeant stood stone faced, holding onto battle armor just below his collarbone. Parsons rocked back and forth ever so slightly. McManus knew he only did that when he was anxious, angry, or both. It only seemed like the natural time to make up.
"Hey," Tim whispered, leaning slightly to his right, "I'm sorry. I'm dialed in and you know it."
Ron continued to stare straight ahead.
"Cut me a fucking break, man." McManus said with a tad more venom. "We've been partners since this thing started. I need you out there. You got my back?"
Parsons cleared his throat and spit on the ground. Tim gritted his teeth in frustration and took in the end of the briefing.
"I will be commanding this operation, but any intelligence or battlefield updates will be handled by Specialist Lam back in South Station."
The Lance Corporal turned to his Sergeant in near-shock. "They don't have a battlefield AI?"
An eavesdropping Minuteman, no older than nineteen, leaned toward the imposing figure. "Does that impress you or scare the fuck out of you?" The boy asked with a smile. He was instantly shut up with a combined glare from the Troopers.
Gus Reynolds finished the briefing and switched off the holograph, the green wireframe falling away like grains of emerald sand. "Any questions?" The Master Guns asked the room. The look in every soldier's eye yelled for him to give the order. Gus nodded. "All right then. Saddle up, we're movin' out!"
Everyone who had been sitting in chairs or on the floor now jumped up and grabbed their packs. Minutemen who had been standing against pillars, crates, and vehicles smiled giant grins fueled by bravado. They exchanged handshakes and shouted words of encouragement. Tim and Ron simply slung their tactical packs over one shoulder and wordlessly walked past the revelry of setting out into an impossible war.
"Toss me that lighter, Rodriguez!"
"Hey Murphy! Three beers says I get back to camp before you."
"I'll see that and raise you a pack of smokes."
"Only you're the one gettin' smoked!"
The two snipers walked with long purposeful strides toward the idling Lynx. Their nostrils tingled with the ionized air of fusion fuel cores being spun up, every sense heightened and flying through their bodies on the wings of adrenaline. The two UNSC special operations soldiers followed silently behind. The four were professionals. Cocky words did nothing to steel their nerves; they knew behind so many shouted syllables were a load of scared shitless kids. The faster they completed their mission, the less danger they would be in.
Ron and Tim both pitched their packs inside the enclosed troop carrier of the Lynx and started to climb in.
"I'm only mad 'cause I'm losing a drinking buddy."
McManus stared at Parsons, the older sniper smoothing his close-cropped blonde hair with fingerless gloves. Ron then looked to his left and met eyes with his partner. "I keep losing ass clowns like you to sweet pieces of ass, who am I going to keep hanging out with?"
The Corporal's dark green eyes narrowed. "I'm not fucking around with you, Ron."
"I know these guys come first for you. I know you have my back. I always got yours, regardless. We shoot together or we die alone."
"That's some real shit."
"Fucking right."
The two old friends put their fists together and let them linger for a moment as the black-clad Helljumpers got into the vehicle. Parsons patted the Minuteman in the passenger seat on the shoulder. "We're all here," he said. "Let's roll." The Lynx drove forward into the dying afternoon light of the doomed coast city.
"Besides," Parsons said in a deadpan voice, "she's busted."
"You're a real prick."
"So's my mom."
The lead militia transport slithered out of the concealed underground garage, sneaking between skyscraping tombstones and pulverized dreams.
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