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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 10
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 2 February 2005, 1:08 PM
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 10
53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Early morning
Captain Jack O'Shea made a tight turn around the doorway and covered the other two Minutemen scooting ahead of him. Jack kept his urban-camouflaged BR55 Battle Rifle pointed in the direction of the Covenant force ahead and to his left, but his sight was fixed on the Marines that had now moved into the open ground in the center of the street. He watched them slink silently behind the Elites and Grunts, the only sound in the damp, frosty air a soft clinking of grenades bouncing on their bodies as they moved. The could hardly be seen, the only indication of the presence was ethereal steam coming out from their mouths as they paused in darkness. One Marine looked across at O'Shea and made a chopping motion, indicating that the Minutemen could move on ahead. Jack nodded and kept low, following his men. The Marines had made a wide arc behind the tanks and now silently crept along, staying directly behind the slow-moving armor. It was excruciating to watch, and O'Shea found himself willing the Covenant to keep their eyes forward, hoping some Grunt didn't drop its Needler and turn around, leaving the Marines exposed.
It was strange to Jack how he now cared for these kids sneaking around in the dark. Two years ago, their commanders had sentenced the city of Boston to a slow death at the hands of the Covenant, and O'Shea had lost thousands in the resistance. O'Shea realized after a moment that it wasn't the Marines fault. They were putting their lives on the line just the same as he. Yet it went beyond that. This morning, Jack was entrusting soldiers he had barely met to do a job none of his Minutemen could do, or had attempted. Two years before, he had cursed the UNSC and thrown his allegiance away. Now he was putting his team's lives in their hands.
But at what cost? Jack thought as he scrambled to find another piece of cover. To save my team's life at the cost of those Marines? Trained or not, to a veteran like O'Shea the idea of boarding a Covenant tank, infantry support or no, was suicide. Jack was not comfortable with that fact, even if it was the only way to get off this goddamn street. Who am I to say who lives and dies? Who am I to order these kids to fight a tank? The Captain's thoughts fell on the lives already lost in the past day: McHale, Ibanez, three of four Connor brothers, Sohn, and several other Minutemen. Now he was unconsciously adding the wounded Marine upstairs and the three on the street. Yet once again, just as he was becoming mired in his emotions, he was lifted out of them by his trained detachment, the unconscious pull of duty. His years of sorrow and growing numbness to loss helped him separate himself from his feelings, but his compassion was dying along with his friends. They signed up for this, O'Shea told himself, everyone had a choice. He hated himself every time he thought that.
"Sir," one of his Minutemen whispered, "they're engaging." O'Shea peeked around cover, nearly even with the Marines, and watched the synchronized, precise maneuver. In unison, two Marines hopped on the knobby back wings of the tank, landing both feet simultaneously, barely rocking the vehicle. Both Marines hugged the cold dark metal closely to steady themselves. The driver must have thought it was something on the street, since the tank never shifted course or speed. The third Marine followed closely behind in a low crouch, eyes ahead, battle rifle ready, spotting for the two Marines. O'Shea watched as each Marine on board the tank held on with one hand while yanking a grenade from their body with the other. Both pulled the pin with their teeth, and moved their steadying hand up to the base of the main cannon. In one motion, they pulled with their top hand and hopped up to throw the grenade down into the tank turret, a deadly slam dunk in the most crucial of games. As soon as the grenades were away, the two riding Marines skipped off and ran away from the tank as soon as they hit the street. The third Marine ran backwards, keeping his eyes ahead. After the Marines got ten meters from the doomed piece of equipment, they spun around, formed in a crouching semicircle, and watched their work for the first time outside the simulator.
The tank operator must have noticed the sudden entrance of foreign objects, since the Wraith suddenly spun around and accelerated, barely missing a collision with the other tank to its right. A dull explosion sounded, a deep bass sound that spread across the street and shook the loose cover O'Shea was hiding behind. The tank spouted blue flame and lost power, dropping a short distance to the pavement with a crash. Three seconds later, a secondary explosion ripped through the tank, and it hopped up off the pavement before crashing down again. The Covenant force jerked to a halt and turned, staring at the explosion. They had not heard the approaching Marines at all, and were equally oblivious to O'Shea and the two Minutemen waiting on the right sidewalk. Jack took the opportunity to pop up from his cover and sighted on a nearby Grunt officer's head. At this range, a three round burst couldn't take down an Elite, so O'Shea decided to create confusion. The 9.5x44mm bullets dropped the Grunt to the asphalt, a spray of blue mist landing on the other invaders behind it. The surrounding Grunts scattered, weapons in the air, yelling in fear.
As the Grunts closest to O'Shea separated, the Captain could see the six with fuel rod cannons. Priority fucking targets, the Captain thought with malice. This was not about killing fellow humans for an abstract concept. This was about survival against an alien race. For a second, Jack forgot all about his concern for his human partners. Instead, he focused on a basic concept: until Jack O'Shea learned otherwise, there was no remorse in killing a Grunt. He motioned for his two partners to get up with him. He pointed to his eyes and then pointed across the street. "FRCs!" He said. "Take 'em out with extreme prejudice!" One Minuteman smiled darkly, sighted, and pulled the trigger. O'Shea could have sworn he heard a suppressed laugh.
Before the Covenant had a chance to regroup, several different guns discharged nearly at once. Ron Parsons punched a discarding-sabot, armor-piercing round through an Elite officer's neck, and the Marine upstairs opened up on the six small arms Grunts by O'Shea's group. The tank-boarding Marines, meanwhile, hustled to the incapacitated Wraith for cover and concentrating their efforts on a single exposed Elite, taking it down after a few seconds of sustained fire, and avoiding the surviving Wraith's dual plasma turrets by a microsecond.
Then the Covenant regrouped.
The Grunts armed with plasma pistols and needlers got organized and fired up at the Marine, but at their position, they couldn't get anything in the window the Marine was using. O'Shea was sitting on the pavement, reloading his rifle, when Tim McManus' voice crackled over the COM.
"Grenade! Center street! It's live!"
Jack quickly looked over his cover and his brown eyes opened wide. From the middle of the pack of small arms Grunts, an azure blue light glowed brightly in the fading darkness. Without hesitation, the three Minutemen taking cover on the sidewalk opened up on the grenade-wielding Grunt, dropping the alien midway through its throwing motion. The plasma grenade landed on the street in the middle of the pack, and exploded in a flash of neon blue and flying Grunt pieces.
"Nice shot, sir," One of the Minutemen said, wiping blue blood off his helmet.
"That Marine may want to be left behind," O'Shea replied, scanning the street, "but that doesn't mean I'm gonna let 'im."
The immediate threat had been eliminated, allowing the Captain to shift his plans from the short range targets and refocus on finding the ones with big guns. We actually have a fighting chance at this, O'Shea thought to himself. If we can tag those FRCs, that Marine upstairs may just be lucky enough to get awa- Jack derailed his train of thought as he saw the same sight that had chilled his snipers to the bone before. The four remaining Grunts with bulky fuel rod cannons appeared across the street, secure behind the single remaining tank. Their weapons were on and charged, a eerie green light barely pulsing from them. A scarlet-armored Elite pointed with its Carbine at the townhouse window, and Jack could guess at its orders. He frantically activated the COM. O'Shea had to get word to the Parsons. He was the only one with a clear shot, since the tank-boarding Marines were pinned down by the Wraith's plasma turrets and Elite covering fire. Before Jack could get a word to the sniper, however, the wounded Marine performed his overwatch duty by calling out enemy movement and coordinating the street-level attack.
"Sniper!" O'Shea heard over the COM before he changed his own channel, "Red Elite directing fire behind the tank!"
"Acquired. Sights hot." Ron Parsons confirmed.
O'Shea then opened a squad-wide channel. They had to get out of that townhouse now "Marine! Medics! Get out of the house! FRCs!" O'Shea heard the distinctive crack of Parsons sniper rifle and stared at the Elite, praying to see the alien officer on the ground, bleeding, or both. Son of a bitch, Ron! The Captain exclaimed in his head. It was still alive, now crouched and pinning the Marine down inside the townhouse. They wouldn't get a second shot at it.
"Fuck," A Marine said over the COM. "Those medics are dead meat! I'm gonna go get 'em!" O'Shea could see the Marine get ready to run to his death.
"No! Hold position!" O'Shea ordered. The Marines had been lucky enough to stay out of fire, he was not about to risk their lives again. Jack could see the Marine slam a free hand against the incapacitated tank, enraged that he would not be allowed to try and save their lives. The Marine had thought that O'Shea had given up; but Jack had not. In his mind, the Captain still held on to the vestige of hope that the wounded Marine might somehow make it down the stairs in time. And I have to give them every chance, O'Shea thought. He pulled the emergency smoke grenade from his body, yanked the pin, and rolled it toward the doorway of the townhouse. The cylindrical device bounced and skipped on its bumpy path to the door, then settled, releasing red-tinted smoke slowly, then billowing out in the early morning breeze. "Medics!" O'Shea yelled, forgoing the COM. "Get out of that house! Smoke deployed! Move it!"
From across the street, O'Shea heard the four fuel rod cannons being fired. Jack's head snapped around to track the fast moving projectiles from down the street, streaking in to their target on the second floor of the townhouse. To his credit, the Marine in the second floor never stopped firing, even in the moment of his death. Two of the Grunts shots landed well right of their target, breaking off pieces of the house harmlessly, but the other two landed true, entering through the window. A split second after the shots entered the house, the second floor of the townhouse exploded outwards, blowing out through the window and creating a smoking crater in the side of the building. It showered the already wreckage strewn street with more brick, stone, and blood; it spread debris across every angle. O'Shea grabbed one Minuteman's head and pushed it to the ground, shielding the body from fragments of the townhouse. The smoke and dust of the explosion had mixed with the billowing red smoke thrown by O'Shea, covering the flight of the medics. As they exited the building, it collapsed, smoke and dust chasing the two medical officers out the door and sealing the brave second-floor Marine in a hasty tomb.
The two medics bore a stretcher laden with an unconscious Marine all the way to O'Shea's covered position, and they collapsed from the effort after reaching safety. The two Medics sat with their backs against Jack's cover, removing their red-crossed helmets to dissipate some body heat. O'Shea frowned at the rubble of the townhouse. Another sacrifice on the altar of survival. O'Shea understood the boy's reasons to stay behind, but it doesn't make it easier, Jack thought to himself. I should have made him come with us. No, the Captain shook his head to clear those thoughts from his mind, stop hesitating. It was what he wanted. Stop doubting yourself, Jack. Get home alive. See your wife. Get these kids out of harm's way. You lost a man. Get over it. People die. The medics made it, so let's get the hell out of here with what we have left.
Despite the Captain's well-conceived plan, O'Shea realized he had hit a snag. He had hoped to be closer to the Minutemen/Marine manhole position and had counted on the heavy weapons Grunts to be dead. Two medics with a stretcher couldn't fire weapons, and couldn't move as fast as the Captain and his men. Making it all the way back to the manhole, O'Shea realized, was shaping up to be impossible. A decision had to be made, and Jack was sure it was not going to go over well. While the two Minutemen he was with fired over their cover, and the medics tended to their severely wounded Marine, the Captain sat on the sidewalk. He leaned his back against the piece of structure stuck in the sidewalk and banged the back of his helmet against it. This better fucking work he thought. He pressed two fingers to this throat mike and activated the COM, one hand over his earpiece to hear the replies.
"Parsons, McManus!" O'Shea shouted over the sporadic fire of the Covenant and Marines across the street. "Set remaining charges and extract!"
"Extract where, sir?" McManus asked.
"The manhole! You're leaving with the rest of the squad!"
Static reigned over the COM channel as one Minuteman caught a Grunt trying to flank the Marines. "Repeat!" McManus shouted, not believing what he had heard.
"Set charges to disable that remaining tank, then get back to that manhole and get the fuck out of here!" At the conclusion of Jack's order, a terrific explosion shook the Captain's position. He turned his body and saw the incapacitated tank flipped over, thrown against the buildings that lined the street. The other tank had fired on it, taking out both friendly troops near the tank and the three Marines. O'Shea slammed his hand against the ground, and squeezed his eyes tight, hot tears of frustration pulsing to be let out. Those fuckers took out their own troops to get THREE of mine! They don't value their own lives! How am I supposed to beat them!? Jack's face clenched in a hopeless show of anger. He wanted to storm out from his cover, guns blazing, and shoot every single one of those squid-faced bastards. He wanted to climb into the tank and rip out its operator. He wanted to shove its head toward the remains of his comrades, toward the brave and selfless souls who gave their lives so that he could live. He wanted to show it what it had done. He wanted to kill it. He wanted to kill himself. Wishing he could scream, Jack jerked his head up, chest heaving, frustration and anger wild in his eyes. In front of him, two medics and two assault Minutemen stared at him, the color drained from their faces. An unconscious Marine still lay on the stretcher beside them.
"Sir," one of the medics said softly, almost afraid to add to the burden, "the Marine, he- he doesn't have much time, sir."
Over the static, O'Shea could hear Parsons worried voice. "Cap! Cap! You all right sir? That tank took friendly fire. They're moving out. What's your status?"
The five remaining men knew they would never reach the manhole. They weren't getting back to the group. They were behind enemy lines and cut off from the rest of their allies. O'Shea tried to assuage their fears as he completed his transmission.
"Our medics can't make it past those forces," he said. "We're extracting away from you. There will be other sewer access ways. The Covies think we're all dead here, it's the only reason they took friendly fire. So get rid of that last tank, snipers, and extract via manhole." Jack realized he would probably have to calm down Ron, too. He added, "Chances are, we'll be ahead of you."
"Huah, sir." Parsons confirmed over the airwaves. "Setting charges, then bugging out." O'Shea nodded in confirmation even though Parsons couldn't hear him.
"...and sir?" Parsons voice sounded hesitant to O'Shea.
"Here, Corporal." Jack replied.
"Good luck, sir."
I wish that didn't sound so final, the Captain thought. "Copy that. See you underground," O'Shea finished, and closed the channel. O'Shea saw that color had now returned to the troops faces. At least the others were confident they'd make it home. "Stay close," the Captain said, peeking over cover and watching the Covenant force go in the opposite direction, "we're going home."
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