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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 11
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 2 February 2005, 1:14 PM
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 11
53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Early morning
Corporal Ron Parsons had never really worried about time. Over the past weeks and months, he and his partner Specialist Tim McManus had been hiding high above the Covenant positions, taking shots when necessary, eliminating officers by the handful. There had never been any time constraints. Now, with a Covenant assault team and one Wraith tank less than a hundred meters away, Parsons was feeling the heat, and his aim was suffering. As the tank had moved on, Parsons had incapacitated two of the four remaining Cannon Grunts, but he had not been able to kill them. There was still a chance they could get a shot off, though Ron thought it unlikely. All the same, the Corporal was in a hurry to get out of the area, and McManus was taking his sweet time setting his last remaining charges. McManus was connecting wires to a receiver just underneath a loose pile of rubble.
"For the love of Christ, Timmy!" Parsons shouted, firing off another round, "Sometime this campaign!"
The cool, calm, and collected voice of McManus only slightly soothed Parsons fears. "With respect, sir; if I mess up these charges, I either blow us up or they don't go off and that tank has a whole morning to take plasma potshots at us and our buddies."
Parsons paused, reloading, "Well by all means, Timmy, take your time."
Parsons was now doing something he had never really thought he'd do: he was leaving men behind. Just because they were men under the Captain's command didn't make it easier. Both Parsons and O'Shea knew there could be a lot of ground, and a lot of Covenant, between O'Shea's position and the next available manhole. There was too much uncertainty for Parsons to be comfortable with. It was like leaving his own father behind. The loss of Ibanez earlier had stung and still hurt Parsons internally, but this was a dull ache of unknown, a squeamish mix of anxiety and concern for the man who had shown Parsons and the Minutemen how to survive in a Covenant-infested city. Parsons felt he was leaving him to die, and too many good men had died today. As the tank started to grow ominously close in the sniper's Oracle scope, Parsons heard a loud beep to his right.
"That's our cue!" Tim McManus yelled. "Hey, boys!" McManus's voice now crackled over the COM as he called back to the manhole, "How 'bout some o' that covering fire, on my mark?"
Ron felt the slap on the shoulder, and glanced to his right. Tim McManus now had his M6D pistol, complete with scope, up and ready behind cover with one knee on the street. "Better sling that big girl, Ron," McManus gestured at the urban camouflaged S2 AM sniper rifle, "she's only gonna get in your way." The sniper immediately slung the rifle behind his back, the stock pointing up and to the right, barrel pointing down and to the left. Parsons drew his M6D pistol, an older but more deadly model than the M6C the Marines used, and placed a hand on the piece of buckled pavement that separated him from the Covenant. He lifted himself up barely over the piece of street and took a quick mental count of the incoming enemy. A small part of him was trying to make the argument for sneaking past the enemy and joining up with the Captain, but Parsons knew in his heart it would be futile. For the past twenty-four hours the Corporal had been backing up O'Shea, and now he was going eyes-off. Cap is going out there blind. The guilt returned. This is my fault. If Ibanez hadn't died, the medics could have extracted. If the medics could have extracted, the Captain wouldn't have to get them. If the Captain hadn't gone to-
"Ron? Ron!" Parsons helmet shook side to side and McManus shook the thoughts from Parsons head. Tim grabbed his superior by the shoulders and turned his face to his. "We are extracting now. I cover you, and you cover me. We're going home, Ron. Let's not fuck this up." Tim let the Corporal go and flicked a switch on the receiver. McManus pressed his fingers to his throat mike, then looked at Parsons before he transmitted.
"And for the record, you're buying the first pint when we get home." Tim pointed at his superior, and turned toward the street. The COM chirped, and McManus gave the order. "Covering fire in five! Direct fire seven-five meters up the street! Fire for effect, baby!"
The two snipers reached into their flak jacket pockets and pulled out high explosive grenades. They lobbed them at a pair of Elites on the right side of the street and began to run backwards in a crouched position, firing off rounds from their pistols as they went. The cases of each semi-explosive round flew off and to the right as the two snipers moved from cover to cover, sidearms held with both gloved and dirty hands, weary arms up and extended. The covering fire from the combined Minutemen/Marine force at the manhole was extraordinary. Tracer fire from Marine-modified MA5B assault rifles and Battle Rifles laced the air with streaks of light, mixed with the faint trails of grenades, fuses "cooked" and exploding in the air. The hail of bullets and shrapnel only managed to occasionally strike the Elites and Grunts as the larger aliens shields flashed and washed their bodies in amber light.
The trained eyes of both snipers caught a glimpse of one unlucky blue Elite in the open as its shield dropped, telltale sparks of light flicking off its body. Without hesitation, the two sharpshooters turned their weapons in its direction and fired. Parsons missed high and right, but McManus punched two rounds, one after the other, into the Elite's large chest. The invader clutched a hand to the wounds as it fell backwards. Both snipers hoped the wound was mortal, but they didn't have time to check. Parsons could see the Wraith tank boost forward, heading directly for the demo charges. The Corporal found the largest piece of cover he could find, a large overturned dumpster on the right side of the street. He turned and ran for it, McManus hot on his heels, covering their retreat.
"Fire in the hole!" McManus yelled as he leaped over cover. "Blow it, Tonsi!"
From back by the manhole, First Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi flipped a switch and exposed a small button on a wireless transmitter. This one's for you, McHale he thought solemnly, and pressed the button twice. He could hear the explosion and felt a mild concussion from the blast, but he couldn't see the effect. He hoped McManus or Parsons could.
Ron Parsons felt a large amount of satisfaction as the charges went off underneath the Covenant armor, nearly flipping the tank over onto the Elites and Grunts alongside it. It was like he was blowing up his own self-pity. The Wraith had boosted just before it reached the explosives, and at the moment of detonation, the front right wing of the tank had passed over the charges. Had it been centered on the tank, the explosion might have completely destroyed it, but it only served to provide a large amount of flying debris and put tremendous upward force on the right side of the Covenant armor. The Wraith tank lifted high off the ground and teetered on the brink of flipping upside down. Instead, the Wraith found its center of gravity and righted itself, landing on the street, embedding itself almost two feet into the pavement. The Wraith's gravity propulsion drive had been destroyed, and the behemoth sat stubbornly, mired in the middle of a firefight.
Several Covenant had been thrown into buildings on either side of the street by the sheer force of the blast, others had been impaled or crushed by nearby debris thrown out by the explosion. The Covenant force had been decimated, and both snipers eliminated the remaining Cannon Grunts in the confusion of the blast. Only a few Elites remained, taking cover behind the tank as the main turret struggled to compensate for the loss in power. Parsons and McManus were close enough to hear the Elites shouting orders amongst themselves, though it was hard to follow the conversation with the COM transmissions going over the airwaves. For a few frantic seconds, Parsons and McManus could hear both sides of the conflict clearly. They were in the middle of organized chaos. The Elites were trying to take back the initiative, and the humans were doing their best to kick the aliens while they were down.
"Re-route the main power!" A scarlet-colored Elite ordered as it fired off a Carbine.
"Keep firing on that position! Priority on that red one!" The Marine Gunnery Sergeant was assuming command over by the manhole. Parsons guessed that Tonsi was too far away to pull rank.
"The tank cannot continue, excellency!"
"Russ, get up here, on the quick! Spank that tank!"
"With haste! Get the cannon online!"
"Keep firing, Godammit! Russ, let me know when you're set."
"Main cannon operational! I cannot see the enemy, excellency, they are concealed!"
"In position, sir. Tube locked and hot."
"Forward! By the rings, we shall draw them out!"
"Firing! Anti-tank rocket away!"
"A heavy assault weapon! Osha', leave the tank now!"
The Corporal turned his head and squinted at the Minuteman/Marine position. From behind an overturned Warthog, a Marine had appeared with a man-portable rocket launcher, and Parsons whipped his head forward to track the fast moving, low flying rocket as it trailed white smoke to the target, almost skimming off the ground. It passed Parsons in an instant; the sniper had trouble tracking it all the way to the Wraith. The rocket rose off from its path just slightly, impacting with the base of the tank's main turret, destroying the tank completely. Explosions burst out of the inside of the tank and only two Elites were able to clear the blast radius. One blue Elite tried to make it to cover, but was cut down in a hail of rifle fire. The final Elite, the scarlet officer that Parsons assumed was in command of the attack, hid behind the tank briefly, then appeared with a plasma sword. It didn't make sense to anyone but Parsons. The mad, roaring, frontal assault the Elite was attempting was not supposed to succeed. It was supposed to lead to his death, a release from the pain of losing his entire force. For a moment, Parsons felt pity for the alien. He recalled how it had called one in the tank by name. They had names, and probably had emotions. Ron thought he knew how it felt. It probably felt guilty, like him. Parsons steadied his shaking hands and put the Elite out of its misery. It fell on its side mid-stride, dead before it hit the ground. In a small way, Parsons wished he was that Elite.
"Nice shot, Ronnie," McManus teased him, but Parsons didn't laugh. He wanted to delete the translation software, tactical advantage be damned. It had just put gray into his black-and-white war.
The manhole position had been saved, and the snipers could hear small cheers coming up from fifty meters behind them. Parsons ejected a clip from his sidearm and slid in a new magazine. He slapped it home and flicked on the safety, and then heard something he had not heard all night. Silence. Nothing but the whispering winds going through open caverns of bombed out office buildings and plasma fires crackling from Covenant tanks. No gunfire. No orders. No death. Silence. Parsons shook his head slightly, and felt a hand on his shoulder. His partner, Tim McManus, offered his other hand in a quick, firm handshake.
"Let's go home, buddy." McManus said, and patted Ron's shoulder. In his eyes, Parsons knew Tim understood. McManus knew how he felt, the guilt and the burdens he carried. McManus carried them with him. He was a good partner.
Parsons turned to face the manhole. His guilty mood was beginning to lift, and for that he was grateful. " First round on me, eh?" The Corporal asked.
"And...," McManus attempted, "another person I choose?"
Parsons looked to his left at the raised eyebrows of his partner. "You've got a girlfriend now, Timmy?" The mood, Parsons was realizing, was rapidly receding. It felt good to banter again.
The younger of the two snipers lowered his eyes and kicked a rock down the street. "Well, I wouldn't call her a girlfriend, but-"
"She's hot, female, and alive."
"Sir, I find all those qualities to be in abundance in this young lady." McManus.
"Do me a favor, McMan," Parsons said, rubbing the shorter sniper's head roughly, "stop talking smart for about five minutes. You'd probably score a better looking broad."
"Sure, buddy," Tim replied, "I'll be sure to hang on to the first girl that comes running after I call her a 'broad'. God, and you do actually succeed with the ladies!"
They both laughed a cathartic laugh; a laugh that can only come after a long time of suffering, when the first humorous moment turns into an uncontrollable moment of joy; an erasure of doubt, guilt, and sorrow. They had earned that laugh.
"Check it out," McManus noted, nodding above the ruined apartment building that had been the cause of the entire street battle. Now that the building had been reduced to rubble, the two could see the beginning of daybreak, a new day peeking above the ruined roofs of Boston. Pinks and oranges fought hard with the dreary grays of war, and the settling dust and silt filtered the beginnings of light in a comforting way. Parsons stared at what was left of the old apartment building, squinting even in the darkness.
"Must be windy," Parsons said, pointing, "look, little pieces of rubble have gotten blown down the pile."
"That can't be," McManus, ever the brain, replied, "cross-breezes aren't strong enough at street level. Besides, wind's going in the other direction."
"Listen, Timmy, I can see it clearly," Parsons countered. He raised his heavy sniper rifle to his eye. "Yeah, there are two trails of loose rock; wait, now there's four. They're falling down...the...pile..." The Corporal's blood ran cold once more, and the sick feeling he had felt before now doubled in intensity. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair! "Oh God, please God, no. Please, no." The sniper started babbling. Tim McManus, concerned at his partner's behavior, looked at the pile of rubble, and grabbed the sniper rifle from Parsons hands.
It had been hard to see with the barely rising sun, so Parsons had not been sure. But now Ron Parsons was absolutely sure. He had seen four distinct shimmers of shapes slide down the piles. The light of the sun had played off them in an odd way, the way it did through light-bending active camouflage. It suddenly made sense why the Covenant had taken such a long and obvious route down the street. Everyone, just as yesterday, had focused on one side. No one had watched their backs. Parsons almost choked himself in the action of turning on his throat mike.
"Tonsi! Connor! Everyone! Special Ops Elites on your six!"
Before Parsons was finished with his sentence, Mahmoud Tonsi knew that his day had come. It was not that he had resigned himself to his fate, but Tonsi had been hunted by Covenant once before, and he knew one day they would find him. As soon as Parsons desperate message reached the group, Tonsi ran for the alleyway that he had kept his tactical pack of demolition supplies. The curly haired, Middle Eastern demolition expert felt like he was running in slow motion. He felt like he was running in a bad dream where his enemies could run as fast as they wanted, but Tonsi, no matter how hard he willed it, would never be fast enough to evade.
Mahmoud's senses were heightened from adrenaline and his determination to fulfill his final duty. He could hear the gravel underneath Seamus Connor's boots as the Irishman pivoted, M90 shotgun raised. He could hear the scuffling of boots as all those by the manhole turned to engage their unseen enemy. He could smell the stench of plasma fires upwind. As he ran to the alleyway, he could see every stitch and tear in his tactical pack. He felt the air parting around him as he heard the simultaneous thunderclap of multiple energy swords being engaged. The combined electricity to his right put the hair on the back of his neck on end, and he could smell a vague acidic smell that he had never smelt before, a consequence of the plasma exposed to the air, perhaps.
As he ran for his tactical pack, Mahmoud Tonsi turned to his left and saw the manhole, open and dark. He knew that was as close as he would ever get. The words entered his mind on instinct:
"For those who are slain in the cause of Allah, He will admit them to the Paradise He has made known for them."
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