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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 9
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 4 August 2006, 5:15 am
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 9
South Station Refugee Camp
Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Coveneant invasion of Earth
Afternoon
Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds could not remember the last time he killed a human being, but at this moment he was certainly willing to make a new memory. The two men who sat across from him were the pinnacle of military training, and with that intense training came a completely maddening ability to keep absolutely calm when being interrogated at gunpoint. I gotta give them credit, Reynolds thought, I always thought it was faceshields that made 'em look emotionless. These guys are fuckin' statues.
The Minutemen's now-ranking officer looked quickly at two sheets of paper, then set them down forcefully on the table. It was clear to him that the IR pick up from the night before had been their insertion, and it was a known fact that the two Helljumpers were responsible for disabling many surveillance cameras around the city. And to top it all off, the bastards were more than likely sent by ONI to choose the optimal location for a nuclear bombardment to begin...in my city! It took all of the Master Guns' control to not leave the room and come back with his own sidearm to make sure the coordinates were never sent. Instead, he turned his back to the special operations soldiers and waved at a large map of Boston.
"We know what you're here for," he said with obvious disdain in his voice, "and I won't let you do it. You took out our surveillance cameras, you beat and interrogated innocent refugees, and now you're trying to make us believe you give a flying fuck about the safety of these civilians. The Captain might have bought into it, but you and I both know it's bullshit." Reynolds was fighting hard not to slur his words, his quick whiskey fix back at the pub had put more into him than he thought. Today, however, was more important than most days. Today was his responsibility.
Gus was not going to waste his energy on stupid theatrical tricks, so he refrained from throwing his folder of papers or banging the table with more force than he had to. Besides, it would not have done any good on the silent, black-clad Troopers sitting motionless next to each other. A long, hard journey through a Covenant held city, and their posture was still pretty flawless. Even as rage coursed through Reynolds' body, he had respect for what the UNSC was capable of putting out into the galaxy. The unforgiving florescent lighting cast small, stark shadows across each man's face, but there was hardly a spare blink from the ODSTs.
Reynolds had had enough. He was truly at an impasse; as an interrogator he was no good. There was simply nothing he could say or do to goad them into speaking. There was nothing he could possibly offer the two men he was sure were in Boston to destroy the former capital.
As he strolled to the far door that led to a one-way mirror he stopped and looked over his shoulder at the rigid stares that met him. "You know," Gus said, a frown creeping along his mouth, "you boys signed up to fall through the atmosphere and make a difference. You keep this up, you won't matter at all. You will be forgotten...just like me." The door closed, and the covert operators were left with a large map of Boston and a mirror to further confirm the four other Minutemen in the room with guns would never let them go without proper orders. In each of their heads, they let out a simultaneous sigh and tried to steel their minds for what might occur next. Everyone breaks eventually.
The door gave a slight hydraulic hiss and then clicked shut, leaving Reynolds in a poorly lit observation room, boasting only a table, two chairs, another door into a hallway, and a large thermos. Reynolds walked to the center of the glass, where Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons gazed intently at his two marks, his arms crossed over his chest, black watch cap covering his short blond hair. As Gus came closer, Parsons silently motioned toward the large dark green thermos, where the older militiaman took a slug of hot coffee to combat the alcoholic effects the Master Gunnery Sergeant was feeling. "Thanks," he said in his deep voice as he placed it back on the table, "open to suggestions on our two stone action figures."
Ron grunted and his eyes narrowed in malicious thought. "They may be the UNSC's wonder boys, but if we put enough pressure on them, they'll tell us what they're up to."
Gus let the hot caffeinated liquid slide down to this stomach before he replied. "Doubtful. Even if we wanted to torture them, it probably wouldn't help. Any man will eventually say something to save his hide." Gus put the coffee back on the table and picked up a fresh stack of charts. Printed on the sheets were former UNSC military installations drawn up by their resident surveillance expert. Reynolds put them in Parsons' hands and stepped to the side while he continued. "But we'd have to torture them pretty hard before they talked, and there'd be no way to validate any of it in time. Nope, right now they've got to talk. Unfortunately at this point in time...we can't kill them."
"Yet." Ron said after a beat, his fists clenched hard.
"Yet."
"So what's there to talk about?"
Gus almost shrugged his shoulders. "I brought up a list of the UNSC military installations in Boston. Smaller list than I remember. Oh well, we've only explored about ten percent of them, most are ruined. See if they've hid anything in them: any kind of transmission device, anything that could be used as a target. While it's very unlikely, they might also have another team with them. We'll see if they cough that up."
Parsons was starting to lose sight of the interrogation. It was a good idea to disarm and detain the elite soldiers, but the Staff Sergeant's mind was racing to figure out how they could be of further use. Hostages? No, the moment we tell the UNSC we've got 'em, they'll pinpoint the transmission and drop on that. What's two more men in a city of thousands? Bait? For what? A platoon of Covenant that will be reinforced in hours? We could us their transponders to re-target the barrage. Yeah, but they're already way deep inside the city. They might have already dropped targeting markers...or...no. Well, what if? What if implementing the Protocol is a secon-- "--dary objective?" Ron was surprised to hear his own thoughts come out of his mouth.
"What was that?" Reynolds shot a look over his shoulder to the younger militiaman, curious about the half sentence outburst.
Ron, while still unsure of his question, gave it extra enthusiasm. It was beginning to gain traction in his mind. "I've researched the other times they've used Protocol. The teams always do it from outside the city to escape the blast, but they're in the middle of Boston. What if the Protocol is a secondary objective?"
Gus gave Parsons a stern look. "Even if wiping Boston off the map is their secondary, or even fucking last, objective; it's number one with a bullet for me."
The Staff Sergeant turned to his right to face this commanding officer, poking at the folder in his hands to emphasize his point. "This could be leverage, sir! If we can figure out what's more important to them than destroying the city, then we might be able to stall, or even eliminate that threat."
"It's flimsy."
"Sir, I'll take flimsy over nothing."
Reynolds sighed, the sobering effects of the last two hours bringing him into what could best be called a depressed sense of duty. Suddenly the whirlwind events following their return home caught up with the de facto leader of the Minutemen. It was too much. What had seemed manageable and clear just a few seconds ago was now convoluted and vague. What were they supposed to do? What action could they possibly take? How am I supposed to do this on my own? What would--
"Sir."
Reynolds' head came up quickly, and he caught himself leaning heavily against a counter on the side of the room. Gus immediately stood up and tried to keep his head from spinning. He looked blankly at the sniper, who stared back at him with a prompting expression. Try as he might, Gus could not speak.
"Sir?"
The Master Guns swallowed hard. Finally, in a weak voice that was all he could muster, he got out, "Do what you have to do." His weight inexplicably took him toward the door to the hallway outside. He felt powerless to stop himself. This is not how a commanding officer acts! Stand your ground, man! But this was not a battle the Minuteman would win.
"Huah," Ron replied sadly. He knew exactly where Gus was going, and to a small degree, it broke his heart. The man he had hoped would lead this city out of crisis was going back to his old habits. Parsons was sure at one point the large soldier had been brave and powerful, now the XO seemed a shadow of his former self. The Staff Sergeant turned toward the door to the debriefing room. Now alone in the anteroom, Parsons collected himself for a moment, took a breath, and let it out easily. "Here goes nothing," he muttered, and walked in toward the pair of Helljumpers.
Scalding hot water washed down the scarred but muscled back, it swept away the grime of decaying city streets and sweat. As Captain Jack O'Shea lifted his head, the spray hit his face with force, dripping down his chin and clearing his features of bits of camouflage and tears. Then, just as he thought the worst was over, it hit again. The rough convulsing started high in his chest and spread up and down, bringing Jack's head out of the shower's path and down into his body, sobbing as he had only minutes ago. He had been able to control it, then. Now there was no stopping it.
O'Shea collapsed on the tile of his large shower, the bathroom door open into the freshly made bed his wife had fixed only hours ago. He kept his back against the cold ceramic surface as fresh tears mixed with the steam and water. As the water started to become cold, Jack sniffed away his final tears. With effort, he stood. There was nothing you could do, Jack, he told himself. There was nothing you could do. This is the life you had to lead. He continued to repeat that in his mind as he wrapped a towel around himself and walked into the bedroom. As he entered the room, he stopped at the foot of the bed. To get to his closet, to fresh clothes and a slight feeling of renewing himself, he had to walk past his wife's side of the bed.
There, on the night-stand beside it, was a picture of the two in Boston's brighter days, both of them skating on the city's famous Frog pond. Amongst the items were a pair of earrings, a book well-thumbed, and her husband's dog tags. He knew she kept them with her whenever she felt alone, as if holding the slim pieces of shiny metal would make him close to her. This was my life, and it killed her.
How does a soldier deal with grief? Jack's mind flashed to every time he watched another Minuteman mourn, and each one was truly different. Their situation was truly the most desperate. Not only had their homes been ripped from their grasp, but each additional loss was one more tragedy for individuals who were beyond the breaking point.
For some, like Gus, O'Shea knew his old friend drank too much. His former comrade Mahmoud Tonsi coped with religion. Others put up large defensive walls, fortified by a sense of humor. Jack didn't want to drink, and he certainly did not want to laugh. In three quick strides he picked up the night-stand and threw it across the room, shattering the mirror on the other side; his image fell from view in dozens of separate pieces. The Captain reached into the closet and ripped clothing out one by one, flinging them in rage and screaming until he no longer had breath.
Then, as his strength became depleted. he looked around the destruction in his bedroom, his one place of sanctuary. It looked exactly how he wanted the camp to look: broken, chaotic, and full of miserable sorrow. Jack felt his hands coming up to his head as he fell to his knees, grabbing his hair and burying his face in the deep sheets of the bed his wife had salvaged. He breathed in hard and smelled her scent, and in that moment he begged for ONI to deliver a large yield nuclear weapon directly on him.
After a few minutes that felt like invasive surgery on his stomach and chest, O'Shea lifted his head and looked at the uniform that had been viciously thrown onto the bed. He rose slowly and picked it up. What did I fight for? What did I sacrifice for? A better life for Laura. Jack knew he had only been interested in saving his family as Boston fell, though he lost his children in the process. The days since had been spent keeping Laura and those his men had found from harm, and though O'Shea was cognizant of it, that protection for his wife had eventually spread to caring for an entire city. A city that demanded so much of me that the strain killed the only love I had left. What did I do wrong? Why do I have to suffer?
Jack knew he would not have the answers to those questions yet. He was still reeling from the shock of Laura's death, and it would be some time before he would be able to pull himself up from the figurative canvas. The soldier still left inside O'Shea recalled a moment from basic training as he reached for the BDUs.
"At some point in this war you will experience loss," the drill instructor barked with remarkable compassion, "that is tough shit. A Marine will kill or he will be killed. When you break it down like a motherfucking fraction, all you will have left when the shit hits the fan is the other Marine next to you. You will not have your fucking girlfriend, you will not have your fucking dog, and you certainly will not have your fucking mommy! You will only have the Marines! Am I understood?"
"Oorah." The Captain breathed, letting himself fall back into the mental vacancy of his training as he finished putting on his uniform. O'Shea was not going back to work; he was going to see the only other Marine he knew at the last rally point they had left.
"I used to get your flyers. You know, 'First to rise. Last to fall.' It was cute. So, what's your primary objective?"
The question was direct and spoken quickly. The two ODSTs looked at the Minuteman in front of them with vaguely quizzical expressions. Ron Parsons rolled his eyes and sighed. He asked again.
"What's your primary objective?"
The Sergeant spoke up. "That's--"
"Classified." Ron cut him off, pointing with the manilla folder. "You've said that already. I get it. But seriously, what is it?" Both soldiers stared back at him, their faces changed from quizzical to stone once more.
"All right, here's the deal. My Captain thinks you guys were here on a legitimate mission. My other commanding officer thinks you're here to wipe us off the map. No shit, he wants to fucking kill you, just bang! Bang!" Ron pointed his fingers at each of the men to emphasize the end of his sentence.
[indent"You get me? So I'm in the middle here, trying to make sure you guys don't get clipped, 'cause I think you're maybe here for something else." The sniper opened the folder and slid identical sheets toward both men. "So prove me right, or I have to join the pool that says the taller of you bleeds more."
Nothing but deafening silence filled the room as both soldiers stared at the printed paper in front of them. Then, as if on cue, both Troopers used their cuffed hands to slide the lists back to the Minuteman.
The sniper pulled off his black knit watch cap and placed it on the table. With a slight huff, he sat down in a simple metal chair and rubbed his eyes briefly. "Ok, I'm impressed. You don't back down to threats or direct questioning. I suppose my only option from here on out is to hurt you. A lot. But I really don't want to do that."
Parsons got up and looked at the large map of Boston hanging on the wall of the sparse room. "I live underground and fight Covenant every day so that hopefully one morning I can get out of my tent and start rebuilding my home." He could hear the even breathing of the ODSTs as the Staff Sergeant made his final push.
"We both fight for the same cause. You know there are people here, people who have fought and died to defend this place. We're doing a fucking good job of it, too! If you can help us and keep to your mission of protecting humanity, what's the problem? Right now, you two assholes are too busy being the best the UNSC can be at keeping your traps shut. That silence has us convinced you're here to destroy what we hold most sacred. Plain and simple, we won't let you do that. You want to complete your mission? Ball's in your court. Until then, you won't see one more second aboveground."
Ron stalked off, fuming at the continuous mutes seated across from him. Maybe Master Guns was right. Maybe it's better if we just shoot--
"The installation's not on this sheet."
His form darkened the entrance to one of his favorite buildings once more. Each time before had been with happiness and seeking revelry, but on this occasion his visit was anything but. Jack slipped into the Last Line of Defense with his keys in hand, not surprised to find that he was not alone in the pub. There, sitting in front of the bar, was Gus; he held a short glass filled with clear liquid and wordlessly motioned toward an identical tumbler filled with a darker concoction.
O'Shea walked slowly toward the softly lit scene; only a few lights had been switched on, and they had been dimmed to convey the appropriate mood. Jack led his hands over the smooth surface and finally brought them together in front of him, sitting beside his oldest and best friend in Boston at the pub they had built together. It was a tragic, but touching, scene.
"Whaddaya havin', Gus?" The Captain asked, gesturing slightly towards the Master Gunnery Sergeant.
"Sir," came the subordinate's reply, "if you have to ask that question, you haven't been paying great attention for the last couple years. That in front of you, I will add, is most definitely not apple juice."
The slightly smaller, but no less tough, Minuteman took a pull of the whiskey. "Seriously, old friend--"
"It's vodka, it's a habit, and I'm dealing." Reynolds cut him off. " I have to. Didn't you hear? I've got a city to run now."
Jack avoided eye contact and looked toward the shaded windows. "I wish the fucking place would burn to the ground."
The new man in charge put a hand on his war buddy's shoulder. "You mean that now. You won't later." O'Shea looked up to see kindness and compassion in Gus' eyes, a broken heart that understood the bottomless pit the Captain felt himself falling into. "I know the hurt, Jack. I know the rage. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair. This sacrifice keeps others alive. You told me that. Don't forget it."
The once-proud commander of the city of Boston felt the pressure welling up again. This was not anger, though. He was in the private company of a friend who had shared his greatest victories and most bitter loses together. Now, the emotion O'Shea was feeling was guilt. All the anger that he had projected on those he protected now became an outburst of apologies to a woman who no longer lived. Once again, his arms did not provide strength. All Jack's weight was on the oak surface and the shoulder of his comrade as he cried for his late wife.
"Oh, my God!" He sobbed. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
As each had done for one another more times than they cared to count, Gus put an arm around his Captain's shoulders and let the man pour forth grief into a mourning room. Above them, a happy black and white picture of the original Minutemen smiled down on the pair. Gus held his brother-in-arms and looked up at the old photograph. "I can't do this without you, Cap," he said quietly.
I'm so sorry, Laura.
Parsons turned sharply and faced the other end of the room. The Helljumper Sergeant was examining the paper, his two cuffed hands scrolling quickly down the sheet. "The installation's not on this sheet." The Lance Corporal nodded in affirmation.
"You're going to have to explain that." The interrogating Minuteman said, crossing his arms.
The Sergeant spoke first. "Primary mission objective is to locate and capture a missing object in a military facility, either UNSC or ONI. That facility isn't listed here."
"What does the object look like?" Ron asked.
"We don't know."
"Where's the facility?"
"We don't know."
"You know," Ron said, anger rising in his voice, "This relationship is starting to look very one-sided."
The Lance Corporal nearly stood, pointing with one finger while the other hand hung limply by its side. "Look Blondie, all we get is a facility name, a city name, and instructions not to die."
"Sounds like a bad briefing to me," Parsons muttered. "How do you know what you're looking for? How do you keep from taking something worthless?"
"Our briefing only got as specific as the facility name and a vague description of the object's properties." The Sergeant stated. "The facility was called 'Chawla,' and as for the objective...all our commander could say was that we would definitely know it when we encountered it. It...behaves strangely. Apparently it defies some basic laws."
Ron shook his head. "I don't have time for this." Facilities that don't exist when we've known the city for years, weird indefinite objects that defy 'basic laws,' what the fuck is a basic law anyway? Parsons walked straight out of the room and threw the folder onto the dark table of the anteroom. His eyes shifted toward his throat mic. I can't believe I'm even thinking about buying into this bullshit. Gus was right. They're just buying time until we're all ash. Ron angrily activated the COM and called down to the Minutemen's surveillance room, where Specialist Hung Lam kept a constant vigil on the city.
"Lam, Parsons."
"Lam here." Ron waited a second as he was sure Hung was taking yet another slug of his ubiquitous coffee. "What can I do for you, sir?"
The Minuteman's ranking sniper put a hand on his forehead. "This is going to sound odd, but...have you registered anything...I don't know...weird, recently?"
"I would not categorize anything that occurs in this city as normal, Parsons."
"I mean very out of the ordinary. Like signals coming out of nowhere, explosions, high unexplained enemy casualty rates..."
"Well...now that you mention it..."
Ron could feel his heart stop for an instant, and then beat all the faster.
Five minutes later, he nearly kicked the door down into the debriefing room, carrying a map and two data pads. He spread them out on the table and looked across at one of the Minutemen guarding the ODSTs. " Go to the Last Line and find Gus Reynolds now. Bring me every ranking officer you can find." As the militiaman exited, he pointed at the two soldiers, who now had a very different look on their faces. Even bound and uncomfortable from sitting still in their battle armor, they looked eager to get back into business.
"We need to talk." Parsons stated.
"We do." The Sergeant answered back, a slight smile creeping across his face.
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