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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 12
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 7 February 2005, 1:33 PM
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 12
53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Dawn
First Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi was about to die; there was no doubt in his mind. To the ranking demolition expert of the Minutemen, it seemed inevitable that he would be killed at the hands of the Covenant. As he ran toward an alleyway, Tonsi was no longer on Commonwealth Avenue in the middle of the evacuated city of Boston during the most desperate fire fight in the history of the Minutemen. Instead, he was one and a half years in the past; he was huddled in a lonely corner, dripping and dark, hungry and delusional. It had been like that every day for a week since the blown missions to retake what had been New York city. The twenty-one year-old, middle-eastern UNSC Marine had the unenviable job of "Tread Jockey", directing and providing fire for close-contact tank battles. The job had a 10% survival rate, as Mahmoud had learned later. Somehow, he had walked away unscathed from three destroyed Scorpions and several crashes during his highly decorated career. He had been one of six to survive the Battle of Brooklyn Bridge, and he had followed protocol by getting the hell out of Dodge and retreating to the rally point outside of New York. The only problem with that plan had been the pursuing Covenant. After all the other scattered missions around the city ended in abysmal failure, the Covenant had decided to chase the Marines out of the city, finishing them off at their rally point. When Tonsi arrived late with the five other survivors, they found nothing at their rally point but charred husks of bodies and utterly destroyed vehicles. Somehow the six remaining UNSC personnel had found two operational Warthogs just outside the rally point and had hightailed it to the nearest city they could find. That had led the soldiers to Boston. However, unbeknownst to Tonsi, it also brought a squad of Special Force Elites with them, the aliens intent on making the Battle of Brooklyn Bridge a total victory.
For an entire day the UNSC soldiers tried to make contact with anyone inside the city, only to find nothing but deserted streets and spoiled food. Had they tried to search underground, they might have stumbled upon the refugee camps and the Minutemen, but they were not allowed the luxury of time. The Covenant kill squad would dictate the humans' plans from now on. By nightfall, the Covenant squad was going hunting. Tonsi never saw the first kill, but he saw the corpse, or rather, what had been left of it. Most of the men recalled seeing the Private turn a corner into an alleyway, then reappearing above them, impaled through a flagpole on the street ahead. Combined with the hasty retreat and complete loss of morale, panic set in right away. By the end of the second night, another Marine was dead, and they had used half their ammo firing into the darkness. Tonsi ordered the Marines to start traveling in pairs, but it didn't matter. They only made it an extra day before the Covenant stuck again. Tonsi and three other Marines were patrolling their block when the lead pair suddenly dropped dead, without a word, sight, or sound. To this day, Mahmoud had no idea how the Elites had done it.
The Marine First Sergeant and his partner seemed to have been spared, but if it had been up to Tonsi, he would have rather been a mutilated corpse. For the next two days, the two Marines led a ghostlike existence, a waking nightmare, a Hell on Earth. Tonsi and his partner didn't sleep, and during the night they could hear the Elites talking about the death they had in mind for the Marines. The Elites were playing with the humans now, seeing how long it would be before the humans cracked. They didn't have to wait long for their reward.
For Mahmoud, it was always the same. Every night since he would try to sleep and be forced to dwell on the events of that night one and half years ago. The last surviving Marine with Tonsi was named Alex Jacobs, a fine Marine and heck of a lucky guy. He had survived just about everything: Pelican crashes, plasma bolts, sword Elites...Alex had had more stories than any two Marines combined. In the middle of another rainy, terror-drenched night, his luck finally ran out, and Tonsi had a story he could never tell. Without so much as a warning, Mahmoud had drawn his M6D pistol and put a hollow-point round in the back of Jacobs head.
Tonsi had never understood why he did it. For over a year he wondered at what point he lost it and why. Did he not want to witness Jacobs death at the hands of the Elites? Was it guilt at the loss of men under his command? Was it hunger? Was it insomnia? Had he just gone completely insane? For two days no one could tell the middle-eastern soldier why but a corpse in the middle of an abandoned clothing store, the cold gray eyes always staring into Mahmoud's soul. It was those questions that brought Mahmoud to the light that very night. In the middle of the darkness, Mahmoud found truth. In his Marine tactical pack, underneath a stash of MREs, was a book, given to him by his father. His Koran.
The Marine had never been a religious man, despite coming from a deeply pious family that had always tried to get their son to see the light of Islam. It was not that Mahmoud did not believe in God, it was just that he had never seen the point of competing religions, always jockeying for souls. For one night, these arguments were lost on Tonsi as he picked up his copy of the holy text. Mahmoud was sure of death that night, it stared him in the face from the middle of the room, and the UNSC soldier just didn't care anymore. He picked up the book and started reading. The Elites never entered the store that night or the day afterward. To Mahmoud, it was as if Allah was making His point. The next day, the demolition expert had read the book cover to cover and set it down on the floor. He walked over to Jacobs corpse and closed the milky gray eyes. Blessed with a near-perfect memory, Mahmoud turned the body on its back and folded the arms, quoting a passage of the Koran. It was as if Allah had said it specifically for Tonsi:
"Whoever killed a human being...shall be regarded as having killed all mankind; and whoever saved a human life shall be regarded as having saved all mankind."
The path was clear to Tonsi. He had committed one of the most mortal sins, but the rest of his life could be spent in redemption, in the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful. First, he had to rid himself of the Covenant presence on his block. In the light of day, Tonsi started setting up explosive booby traps up and down the block. They were nearly undetectable; they were improvised devices created by an inspired genius. Two days later the block was ripped to shreds, the entire Covenant hunting party blown up by the greatest explosives engineer the Minutemen would ever see. The destruction brought the militia's attention on Mahmoud's block in seconds. He could still remember the team as it came in, shocked that someone was still alive in that section of the city. He remembered the Captain, Jack O'Shea, first in the room, Battle Rifle sweeping across the room. They had cleared the room in a perfect stacking formation, and O'Shea and Ibanez were immediately on Tonsi, providing him aid. He was saved; he had been provided a second chance to right his most grievous wrong, but Tonsi knew he would have to pay for them one day. As he was tended to by the Minutemen's ranking medic, Mahmoud finally talked to a live human being for the first time in days. The first words Mahmoud said were from the Koran, "We have given you a glorious victory, so that Allah may forgive your past and future sins!"
An explosion mixed with Elite and human screams echoed down the alleyway; rubble skittered into tiny gap between houses and settled at the Minuteman's feet. The sudden close-contact battle that raged behind Mahmoud mattered little to him. He knew there was little he could do in combat against those Elites, so he would do what he could to change the circumstances in his favor. The demolition expert slid to his knees and proceeded to rip open his tactical pack. Amongst wires, plastic explosives in watertight bags, switches, tools, and his Koran, there was a vest. It took up much of the bulk of the pack, so when Mahmoud grabbed it out, he spilled the bag's other contents around him in the alley. He looked like a child, hunched over, enthralled with a new toy, other playthings strewn about as he worked. It was a simple contraption; the vest bulged in many areas, but it did not appear to be different from a slimmed-down flak jacket or a standard combat vest. On closer inspection, however, one would note the wire coming down from the vest into a handheld transmitter. The plastic explosives and ball bearings hidden in the vest were almost impossible to detect.
Mahmoud had to work hard to drown out the confusion on the COM. Amid the hail of gunfire, he could hear bursts of transmissions in his right ear.
"Contact right! Aim to the right of the sword!"
"Fuck! Peters, your six!"
"Watch that crossfire! Shit, Gunny's down! Gunny's down!"
"Grenade out!"
"Where'd it go? Oh shi-"
The explosion of a grenade sounded behind Tonsi; he realized he didn't have much time left. If they were using grenades in the open street... Tonsi's thought trailed off. This is bad. Real bad. The demolition expert quickly shrugged off his flak jacket and tossed it heavily to the ground. He dropped to one knee and slid his arms through the explosive vest, zipping it up quickly and securing the transmitter in his right pocket. He couldn't let it go off before his time, he had to have his sacrifice mean something. Tonsi looked to his right and allowed himself a moment of reflection as he looked at his battered MA5B assault rifle. The firearm had been dinged and scratched many times through its history, but Tonsi kept it well oiled and cleaned every day. It had never failed its master. The foregrip had been exchanged for an E203 grenade launcher, which had proved useful more than once on the battlefield. The added launcher made the rifle rather bulky and heavy to carry, but Mahmoud carried a much heavier burden in his soul. The rifle was a trivial matter. Turning right, he scooped up his tactical helmet, glimpsing his inspiration inside the Kevlar webbing.
Mahmoud thought about the inspiration the other Minutemen carried within their helmets. The Captain had his wife and kids. Ibanez had kept a picture of his old house. Parsons had...well, Parsons had several photographs. Tonsi had no need for pictures, his inspiration came in text. In Arabic script, Tonsi had written a favorite battlefield verse from the Koran, "Allah loves those who fight for His cause in ranks as firm as a mighty edifice." He fixed the helmet firmly over his dark, curly hair, and turned on his heel to face the battle. The buildings on either side made the alleyway pitch black even in the light of the rising Sun, while the street beyond glowed in a rosy hue of dawn. The alleyway looked like the hallway to Paradise, in truth, it was exactly the opposite.
As soon as Tonsi could see out of the alley, he knew something was wrong. After the air had been split with death, the war cries of Elites, the firing of rifles and the explosions of grenades, Tonsi heard nothing. Even while staring out the widening sliver of light onto the street, Mahmoud could only see drifting smoke and settling debris. Most disturbing were the COM channels, or rather, the lack thereof. Seconds ago, Mahmoud had been buffeted by desperate instructions and the last words of dying men. Now, his right ear was filled with nothing but the standard spots of static. He slowly crept up the alleyway toward the street, his eyes burned with intensity as he tried to lift the darkness himself. He stalked down the alleyway, rifle shouldered and waiting for an Elite to step into his path. Koranic passages popped into his head as clearly as his own thoughts, comforting him. "Let those who would exchange the life of this world for the hereafter, fight for the cause of Allah. Whether he dies or triumphs, on him we shall bestow a rich recompense." After what seemed like an eternity, Tonsi reached the street, and slowly peeked around the corners. He saw a catastrophe. He saw a slaughter.
The Minutemen and Marines were in the center of the street, ten meters from the manhole, now completely surrounded. Five sword bearing Elites ringed the small security perimeter, slowly advancing, swords at the ready. In the middle of the human circle, Tonsi could see Marines and Minutemen dragging wounded or dead comrades into the circle of protection. The soldiers still living were staring at their enemy, their weapons fairly shaking from weariness and strain. They backed away slowly, not daring to take their eyes off the large swords the Elites were wielding. Many were wounded. Fallen soldiers were all over the street, some were inside the circle with gaping holes in their bodies, still smoking from their sword wounds; others outside the circle had less noticeable wounds, many from friendly fire. One Marine was badly wounded and obviously in shock, poking at the bullet holes and shrapnel in his armor. His chin rested on this chest, blood trickling from his ears. An advancing Elite severed the Marines head with an easy upward stroke, the body dropped to its side as the head rolled out of view.
Tonsi gripped his rifle tighter, knuckles turning white with stress. I'm supposed to be in that circle! He cried out in his mind. What good can I do here? Allah, show me a path! Tonsi received no reply, and so he snuck off to his right and hid behind a car, taking in the sight. He could see the red-haired Irishman, Seamus Connor, pointing his black tactical M90 shotgun left and right, not sure which of the Elites to target first. Of all the soldiers, Connor's was the only one to betray no emotion. Seamus face was set in grim determination. The Covenant had taken all of his brothers during the night, and it looked like the Irishman blamed these new Elites personally. The circle continued to contract as the Elites moved in, but neither side would make the first move. Finally, the Elites stopped. No one moved. No one spoke. Even Tonsi found his mouth open wide, but no sound escaped. In one sweeping motion, every human gun pointed toward one Elite, the leader, Tonsi assumed, as it spoke. The Elite was at least seven and a half feet tall in gleaming white armor, streaked with human blood like a gory sash.
"You humans are hereby taken as prisoners!"
Tonsi stared in disbelief. Asking his question for him, Seamus Connor replied. "Covenant don't take prisoners!"
"As I and my brothers would revel in taking your godless lives, our leaders have decreed that you shall be taken as prisoners and provide us with passage to the Beacon!"
Beacon? Tonsi asked himself. What in Hell are they-
"What are you talking about?" Connor shouted in confusion, his Irish brogue laying on thick. "You've destroyed every fuggin' paht of dis city! If there was a fuggin' beecon, you've prolly brooken it!"
This caused the Elites to growl and take a few steps closer. The leader of the Elites pointed its blade directly at Connor. The sword crackled in the morning air. Tonsi noticed that Connor's finger had now settled over the trigger, and his sights were aligned perfectly with the alien. This was it.
"You, vile human, will not speak such heresy in front of me!" The Elite was getting close, too close, its scarred white armor almost reflecting Seamus image off it. Tonsi could see its mandibles curling in anger, walking straight towards Connor's shotgun. "If you do not relent, we shall rend you limb from-"
The Irishman's shotgun went off like a cannon, the sound of the 8 gauge shot tearing out of the barrel seemed to ricochet off the buildings lining the street; the force of the blast knocked the huge Elite on its back, a wide gaping hole visible in the center of its chest. From Tonsi's position, the last few seconds of those soldiers' lives seemed to last for hours.
The entire circle of Minutemen and Marines opened fire on the remaining Elites, the entire area heating up with hot lead flying out of vengeful rifles. Each soldier held his ground, pouring forth wrath at each Elite, the aliens shields deflecting the bullets in every direction. The remaining Special Ops Elites charged forward, swords swinging in vicious arcs, the energy weapons leaving a trail of light as they carried on with incredible speed. For the briefest of seconds, Mahmoud believed that the humans might actually win out, carried only by the element of surprise. Then he saw a single Elite leave its feet in a towering leap, clearing easily six feet over the security perimeter, and land in the center of the circle of protection. Tonsi heard himself scream in despair as the Elite headed right for Seamus Connor, who had followed up his first round with a final shot to the leader's face. As the Irishman pumped his shotgun to chamber the next round, the Elite behind him cocked its elbow back and stabbed forward with incredible force, the electric blue blade rising at the end of the strike.
Seamus Connor, for the first time in his life, was surprised. He was fairly certain he would die today, but he had always thought the attack would come from the front, when he ran out of ammunition. His vision went white for a second as he felt two things. First, his body temperature rose tremendously as searing pain ripped through his abdomen. Second, he felt weightlessness settle in as his body rose from the street. He slid back a little and looked down at the crackling, electric blue blade that sprouted unexpectedly from his stomach. His shotgun fell from his hands as the blade, just as suddenly as it had arrived, vanished. He felt gravity come to bear on his body as he hit the ground; his legs giving out from under him, his knee pads absorbing the unforgiving concrete.
His last thoughts were punctuated by each additional blow that his body underwent. As his knees hit the pavement, a thought flashed in his fading mind. I died in battle. He felt disembodied, each action growing more numb as if it were happening to someone else. Seamus couldn't even hear the guns going off beside him. It was as if the world had just been submerged underwater. His head swam as his body pitched forward, the air rushing past his face as the pavement came up to meet him. I died with my brothers. His face collided with the cold, hard street as the rest of his lifeless limbs followed. He might have broken his nose, but that didn't matter. As an afterthought, his feet hit the ground last, and he managed to scrape his face along the pavement as he turned his head to the left. He could see Mahmoud Tonsi behind a car, firing his assault rifle, screaming in anguish. He could see the suicide jacket strapped to his commanding officer's body. He saw Tonsi stop firing and he stared into Connor's eyes. As Connor vomited blood on the streets of Boston, a final thought crept into his mind, sluggish but clear:
A sacrifice for a just cause. I died well. Then darkness. Nothing.
"Every soul shall taste death. We will prove you all with evil and good. To Us you shall return." The passage burst into Mahmoud Tonsi's mind as he saw Connor's eyes glaze over. His confidant, his partner, the one he had fought beside every day was gone. He remembered the hazy nights at the bar, going against the Prophet Muhammed's teachings and drinking Irish whiskey with the Connor brothers, singing joyous IRA anthems. He remembered pride and pain, the victories over Covenant, the lives he and Seamus had saved together. He remembered the pain he had shared watching each Connor brother die, and Tonsi couldn't even help him. Couldn't even hold him in his dying moments.
I COULDN'T EVEN HELP HIM! Tonsi screamed in his mind as he fired his rifle again. He was paying for his sins with every life taken in front of him. The Elites either did not realize he was outside the circle or they did not care; they continued to sever the humans from their lives one by one. Once Connor went down from the Covenant warrior inside the circle, it was over. The Minutemen and Marines were flanked, and they were slaughtered like cattle. Only one other Elite succumbed to its wounds, finally toppling over from the combined fire of three Battle Rifles. Then all three Minutemen had died in one stroke, a hulking Elite drew its powerful blade from right to left and sliced through each body. The street ran red with blood, only slightly tinged with blue. It was over. Silence fell on the street as the last Battle Rifle fired, a death spasm from a skewered Minuteman. It echoed down the street like a funeral bell. Three Elites remained, their white bodies stained with red, blue blood trickling from wounds. One Elite fell to its knees; it had not been willing to show weakness in front of the humans. Tonsi took in the scene as tears ran down his face. He prayed quickly for his Minutemen brothers, then turned his attention to the Marines. He prayed. Allah, the compassionate, the merciful, these men have given their lives in noble sacrifice. Bring them to Your Paradise that You have promised those who believe.
These men had died so that others could live, but the manhole still remained open. The path was laid bare to the refugee camps, to the Captain, Gus, to Parsons and McManus, wherever they were. One final sacrifice had to be made. Slowly, Mahmoud rose up from behind his car, hands behind his head. The Elites had said they needed prisoners. They would get one at the dearest cost. As soon as he cleared the car, an Elite with its back turned to Tonsi whipped around, eyes staring into Tonsi's soul. Mahmoud was not afraid.
"Muhammad is God's Apostle. Those who follow him are ruthless to the unbelievers but merciful to one another."
The Elites all stared at Tonsi, and they made up the gap between them and him quickly. They towered over the human, all of them easily over seven feet tall. One of them struck Mahmoud, knocking him to the street. Tonsi got up, but remained on his knees.
"His is the judgment, and most swift is His reckoning."
"Who are you?" An Elite demanded.
"My name is Captain Mahmoud Tonsi," he lied, staring straight ahead. "These were my men."
An Elite laughed in contempt. "You command the dead? Why did you not die in glorious battle? You are a coward."
"The unbelievers shall find none to protect or help them."
"The fight was over before I could surrender my men." Mahmoud continued, Bile rising in his stomach. "Had you not killed so quickly, you would have gained prisoners."
"We quelled your underling's heresy. Their swift deaths are further proof of our prowess. You shall be taken prisoner," the Elite lowered its head so it stared Mahmoud in the face, "or your death shall not be as quick. Of that you have our word."
"The death from which you shrink is sure to overtake you."
It was time. Mahmoud would not a get a chance like this again, not with all three of the Elites bunched around him, weakened as they were. His personal passage leaped into his mind, and Mahmoud felt his final words coming to his lips. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting dirt and blood. His sacrifice would be swift and sweet, his redemption sweeter still. His lips parted, and his right hand moved, unnoticed, for his vest pocket.
" 'Whoever killed a human being shall be regarded as having killed all mankind; and whoever saved a human life shall be regarded as having saved all mankind.' " Tonsi said quietly as he stared straight ahead.
"What? What do you speak of, human?"
Mahmoud Tonsi looked up at the alien, and smiled. "Allahu Akbar." He said. God is great.
The Minuteman pressed the single button. He could feel his soul leave his body.
The sound of the explosion finally washed away. One hundred meters down the street, a blue eye blinked once, then twice. Then a large tear fell from it, streaking the urban camouflage paint as it ran down his cheek, then to his lips. It tasted like sadness. Corporal Ron Parsons closed his eyes behind the Oracle scope of his sniper rifle, and slowly, mournfully, scanned the battlefield. "It's clear," he said in a hoarse whisper.
"Copy that. They're all down." Specialist Tim McManus lowered his binoculars, having witnessed Mahmoud's final act. All three of the remaining Elites were in different pieces around the point of detonation. There was no doubt it was clear. The tears were coming to McManus eyes as well.
"We'll secure the area and extract, like the Captain ordered," Ron said, his voice coming out thick with emotion, "We'll replace the manhole and tripwire the sewer on our way out."
Tim nodded. A solid plan. Neither of them spoke on their quick advance to the manhole. Even though it appeared clear, the Minutemen had thought themselves safe twice in the last twenty-four hours, and each time they were wrong with dire consequences. Both snipers decided they would not repeat the mistake. As they reached the manhole, McManus branched off to put one more round into every Elite while Parsons moved over to the body of Connor.
Ron knelt down on the ground and removed his black knit cap. His blonde hair fell in front of his face, and he pushed it back with a bloodstained hand. "Hey, buddy," Parsons said. He didn't expect a reply, and continued on.
"I'm so sorry, man, I'm so sorry. I got one of 'em, but they...they just moved too fast, you know?" Parsons paused as a shot rang out. Tim was being thorough. "You got one, too, I saw that one. You nailed that motherfucker in the face. You scared me a bit, I didn't know you were gonna shoot." Parsons laughed softly through his nose. "I almost shot you. But you held 'em off, bro. You held 'em off. You saved those refugees, Irish. The Covies can't follow us now. They're never gonna find us." The sniper looked off down the street. "You did good."
Parsons moved his hand over Connor's face, closing the Irishman's eyes. "We're gonna miss you guys so much. It's not fair. It's not fucking-" tears were welling up in Ron's eyes, and he knew he had to cut it out. Tim was done checking the Elites. "We gotta go. If I'm lucky, maybe, maybe I'll see you around. Have fun with your brothers, Irish. You're missed already." Ron crossed himself slowly and rose from his kneeling position. He replaced his hat and looked around. The Marines and Minutemen laid out on the street in dozens of different positions, all of them dead, all who had different stories to tell, different experiences. Parsons would never let their sacrifice be wasted. He turned toward the manhole but paused when he saw something in a nearby alleyway. He jogged over, disappearing into the darkness, then returned a few moments later.
"Whatcha got there?" McManus asked, saying his silent good-byes to other Minutemen, collecting dog tags from each body.
"Tonsi's Koran." Parsons said, showing McManus the beat-up cover and well-thumbed pages. It looked like it had been dunked underwater a few times. McManus watched as Parsons opened his own tactical pack and slipped the book in. Parsons threw Tonsi's old, gray pack to his partner and turned for the manhole.
"Holding on to it?" McManus asked.
Parsons took another look at the book. "You know, I always thought Tonsi carried some kind of hidden weight with him wherever he went." Parsons said. "I always wondered how he survived that long against a Covenant hunting party."
The two Minutemen reached the manhole. Parsons stared into the black unknown. "I never asked him about it," he continued, " 'cuz I knew he would never reply, and to be honest, I don't think I wanted to know. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Muslim, but if this book kept him going after that whole ordeal; I'm thinkin' it wouldn't hurt to hold on to it."
McManus nodded silently and turned on his flashlight. He took a step down into the underground tunnel and looked up at the Corporal.
"Let's go home, buddy," McManus finally said. "Hopefully the Captain's faring better than we did."
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