 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
Concept Art
Halo Bulletins
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
ARG Forum
Links
Admin
Submissions
Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 12
Posted By: Azrael<sherwood.tondorf@gmail.com>
Date: 24 August 2007, 4:21 am
Read/Post Comments
|
Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 12
Landsdowne Street
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Afternoon
Fenway Park was protected by God. In the entire occupation of the city of Boston, through the mass hysteria of the initial evacuation to the sporadic decimation of urban guerilla warfare, Fenway Park had somehow, someway, gone almost completely untouched.
The distinct green paint was more or less intact, the towering left field wall, though jagged from wayward shots and sporting a few gaping holes, was more or less intact. The intimate atmosphere of the limited seating and proximity to the field was made all the more cozy by the orderly rows of temporary Covenant tents and command structures within.
The Boston landmark had seen an eighty-six year dry spell between championships, the Steriods purge of the 2010's, the dynasty decade in 2140, and the addition of the Mars League. Now it bore witness to what might be humanity's last home stand.
"Last camera in place," Corporal Tim McManus whispered into his throat mike. The silence was a little redundant as the Minuteman sniper was several stories above and a couple hundred yards away from the alien fortification, but years of training and a healthy survival instinct kept the young man's habits in check. The miniature camera was securely latched onto the side of a decrepit office building, but at the moment it was not facing towards its intended target. The Minutemen had learned that the Covenant snipers, the Jackals in particular, were excellent at sighting flashes or glints of light; the recon team was taking no chances of having a lucky observer blow their cover, no matter how well hidden the camera was.
"Testing visual feed," McManus breathed again, keeping his entire body below the edge of the rooftop. With one gloved hand, Tim waved it across the camera's field of view and waited.
"Copy that," the disembodied voice of Specialist Hung Lam sounded over the COM. "I have good resolution and a strong signal.Proceed to forward observer position and check in with the Master Guns."
Tim caught himself exhaling hard, almost sighing. He was nervous, but these kind of jitters that sat in the pit of his stomach weren't the usual pre-mission kind. This was affecting his focus, and McManus was angry at himself for that. The young sharpshooter, head covered by a dark gray jeep cap and face painted in a smattering of urban camouflage, looked at his hands and began flexing them an even number of times. After half a minute of regulating his heartbeat and what could best be called light meditation, he rolled over onto his stomach and crawled toward the corner of the building, where Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons was on overwatch alongside an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper, a Sergeant. Both men were hidden under black and gray tarps, the muzzle of the ODST's rifle was balanced over the edge of the abandoned structure. Parsons was spotting targets though a dark gray rangefinder. Tim glanced over his shoulder and spied the ODST Lance Corporal crouched in the middle of the rooftop, hunched over a data pad.
"How's he doing?" McManus asked, pointing subtly at the Lance.
"He's trying to find a hack into Chawla's schematics, find the fastest way into whatever it is we're supposed to find." Parsons replied, muttering through his thick tarp. "Taking his sweet time about it. Everything check out with the cameras?"
"Green across the board. Lam wants us to phone home."
"Mom and dad do have a tendency to worry when we borrow the car," Parsons sighed with mock concern. He changed the channel on his COM unit and lightly pressed the tips of his fingers against his throat mike. His jovial pre-mission voice was instantly replaced by crisp enunciation and an all-business tone.
"Convoy, this forward observer post. All cameras in place and green across the board. What's your status, Master Guns?"
The COM chirped as Master Gunnery Sergeant called back. "FO, this is convoy. Waiting on the Lynx to return to base. Mortar team should be poking their heads up in ten. Prioritize targets and standby to direct fire."
"Copy that. FOs prioritizing and standing by. FOs out."
Just as quickly as Ron's "business voice" came, it melted away as soon as the sniper looked through his scope. The Staff Sergeant began taking a mental count of targets and humming under his breath. "He's making a list, he's checking it twice..."
UNSC Frigate Telemachus
Over United North American Protectorate
The docking of the large, black Pelican dropship was much smoother within Earth's atmosphere than the sometimes tricky maneuvers coming through the airlock systems of UNSC vessels. Various crew of the Telemachus scurried around and made ready for the arrival and departure of additional airships as the Pelican touched down gently in the docking bay. Squads of Marines jogged through down wash and guarded their ears from the screams of Longsword fighter engines. The Telemachus was obviously a busy ship, and for the purposes of this particular Pelican's payload, chaos was a divine blessing.
The ramp dropped from the back of the dropship and disgorged four extremely alert Orbital Drop Shock Troopers carrying BR55 Battle Rifles and gleaming M6C side arms. Their eyes scanned every inch of the docking bay, taking in exits and entrances, years of training teaching them to find the quickest way from point of insertion to their objective. Behind them, two officers from the Office of Naval Intelligence got up from their jump seats and walked calmly down the ramp, placing their black caps on as they left the ship. The XO of the ship, Commander Justin Beaudry, a tall man in his forties with short clipped brown hair and the posture of an officer who had stood over too many holo-maps, walked up to the two officers at a brisk pace. The four ODSTs made two lines and let the three officers meet in between them. Beaudry returned the salute of the taller of the pair, a Lieutenant Commander. The naval officer felt himself being scanned by the man's bright green eyes, but try as he might to avoid looking in the vicinity of the man's gaze, the XO couldn't avoid observing the obvious plasma scars on the right side of the ONI officer's face.
"Commander Beaudry, I'm Lieutenant Commander Ricardo, this is Lieutenant Phillips. Thank you for meeting with us."
Justin frowned. "I won't lie to you, this is short notice and very unexpected. We're not entirely comfortable with it."
"I can appreciate your concern, sir. Trust me; we want this to be resolved as soon as possible."
"Sure. What exactly is this you need resolved?"
The three men began walking quickly out of the docking bay, the four special operations troopers falling in not but five paces from their charges. The Commander was used to ONI's signature cagy style, but the presence of the soldiers was downright disturbing. He tried to keep his head in the game.
"I'm sure you can appreciate our security protocols, sir," Ricardo said, walking straight for the bay exit as if he had done this a hundred times before. "What you and your captain have to hear is for you and you alone."
Landsdowne Street
Evacuated city of Boston
"I swear to God, they almost look bored."
Tim McManus glanced over from the scope of his sniper rifle at the ODST Sergeant. The Helljumper was staring through his own smart-linked scope at the Covenant encampment below them in Fenway Park, and seemed slightly bemused with the scene. McManus saw it differently.
"They're bored because they've had nothing to do. With no reinforcements all we can do is try and hit patrols and small outposts. Hitting an emplacement like this is close to suicide, so they don't see any action here." The resulting silence did not indicate sympathy or disregard, just the empty truth of Boston's hopeless situation. Finally, the Sergeant spoke.
"If you can't drive them out, why do you still fight here?"
"Is there someplace you'd rather have us?" Parsons joined in, marking down target areas in the grid on his data pad. His voice betrayed just a slight bit of venom.
"Just sounds like you're complaining about your situation and not doing too much about it."
"We've survived for two years on nothing. No support, no armor, no air power, no supplies, nothing. We made our lives here." Parsons felt himself getting angrier at yet another UNSC soldier who had no sympathy for the way his superiors had handled the city, but Tim stepped in to abate his partner's rising temper.
"Look, this might seem stupid to you, but when we first started it was to help people survive the invasion and get out of harm's way. There was no way to know that job would still be necessary today."
"Like helping those refugees in the warehouse? The fact those idiots even made it to the city is pure dumb luck. They'll only expose you and get you killed in the end."
McManus tried to look at the special ops soldier, but the face shield kept him from seeing any kind of emotion in the man's face. Tim found himself feeling sorry for the ODST instead of disgust. "I don't have to tell you that protecting people like them is what you signed up to do, right?" The cold silence hung in the air again, abated only by the high whistle of wind over pulverized bricks.
Parsons stared at his data pad in anger for another moment, then turned to give the Sergeant a piece of his mind. Before he could speak, however, the silence was broken by the other Helljumper's exclamation behind them.
"Hey, can someone tell me what this is?"
All three of the men turned around to see the ODST Lance Corporal holding an air conditioning grate in his right hand and rustling around inside the duct with his left. Ron and the Sergeant swiveled around and walked toward the open compartment in the center of the roof, keeping their heads down despite being on the roof.
Inside the air conditioning duct were a half dozen mangled squirrel carcasses, assorted roots, a handful of rotting fruits, and other items none of the soldiers recognized.
"Fuck. Me." Parsons said, eyes closed tight. "McManus!" He whispered harshly, "we got trail mix."
"Fuck me," Tim spat, his body tensing slightly behind his rifle.
"What is this?" The Sergeant asked, his polarized faceshield turned toward the Minuteman sniper.
"It may look less than appealing to you," Ron explained, taking off his jeep cap, "but the Jackals love it. When they set up sniper nests, they usually leave this here for breaks in their shifts. It's like their version of trail mix." Parsons took a sniff inside the duct, recoiled in disgust, and exhaled hard through his nose to clear the stench from his nostrils. "It's pretty fresh, and more than we usually see. At least one squad is using this roof top."
"Is?" The Lance asked pointedly.
"Is." Parsons replied. "They'll be back."
"How soon?" The Sergeant asked, his voice still calm and even.
"Impossible to say, but we gotta get off this roof ASAP." The Staff Sergeant pointed at the shorter of the special operations soldiers. "Finish up that map best you can and cover roof access. Sergeant, find some rope out of my pack and fix us a second exit. We'll coordinate the mortars as soon as they arrive." Parsons stole a look toward the bristling alien defenses and sighed. "We needed to launch this mission fifteen minutes ago."
UNSC Frigate Telemachus
Captain Paul Van Baak opened the door to his office with such force that everyone inside wondered what would have happened if they had been within its swing. The two ONI officers tried to stand up out of the black leather chairs, but the Captain crossed the carpet of his tastefully designed sanctuary so fast that he was past them in seconds.
"Goddammit, I had to scrap two Longsword missions to allow your Pelican a docking vector! We're losing Los Angeles airspace twelve hours after we took it back! Give me impossibly good news now."
The Captain, a tall and moderately built man with stress etched across his face, sat down at his desk and made a show of calling up his holo panel. His displeasure at being called in was more than obvious. Neither of the ONI officers was fazed.
"Captain," Lieutenant Commander Ricardo said calmly and evenly, "we come with orders from ONI High Command."
"No shit. There's no other way I'd let you on my ship like that if you didn't. Do me a favor while you're here, will you? Talk like a human being, not like a manual." Van Baak swiveled in his chair and put a mug under his office replicator. In six seconds the Captain was back to facing the group with a lukewarm cup of coffee. They noticed he did not offer them the same.
Lieutenant Phillips withdrew a data pad from inside his coat and placed it on the Captain's desk; it absorbed the information from the pad and transferred it immediately to the holo panel. Van Baak's eyebrows arched for a brief second as he skimmed the orders.
"Under protocol set forth by former Admiral Matthew Cronin, we require the use of your vessel for one Shiva nuclear missile strike." Ricardo barely got the sentence out before the Captain sighed in exasperation.
"What do you think you're trying to pull? Frigates are forbidden from following Cronin Protocol. Shivas are our last stand. I don't know if you intel pukes have really seen the world outside your desks, but we don't have the armor of destroyers and wisely are ordered not to expend that ordnance!"
The Captain was fuming at this point and so missed the marks on both officers that would suggest they had indeed seen time in the field. Van Baak gulped down the rest of his coffee and immediately put it under the replicator again. "And even if I could, I'd send you packing to find some other Judas to nuke another Earth city."
"Sir, I cannot stress how important it is that this occur. We can re-arm you in—"
"I'm pretty sure I just made myself clear, Lieutenant Commander. The Covenant won't wait for you to re-arm us. They'll attack out of the black and then I'm responsible for the deaths of hundreds of personnel! I will follow the orders of people smarter and higher up than you and deny ONI's request to enact Protocol. Please give ONI my regards."
The Captain took another aggressive sip of his coffee. Five seconds after his statement, Paul Van Baak dropped to the floor dead, coffee spreading around the navy officer like a blood stain. Large chunks of the ceramic mug splayed around the plush blue carpet.
"Nice of him to fit the Office into his last words," Philips noted smugly as he regarded the corpse.
Commander Beaudry rushed to the body of his CO and nearly collapsed next to him, his uniform starting to be stained by the dull brown carpet and the flash sweat appearing along his collar and forehead. The XO's perspiration only increased as he heard the distinctive sound of a M6C's slide being racked, and looked down the barrel of a matte black suppressor.
"Commander Beaudry," Ricardo said, gripping the pistol like a man who knew too well how to kill a man from this position, "you now have the Telemachus."
The entirely flabbergasted Commander could only stammer for a moment, "B-b-but—"
"How?" The slight Germanic accent asked from the Captain's desk. All eyes but Ricardo's turned to the desk where Bismarck, Commander Thomas Young's personal AI, stood in his imperial Prussian uniform. The small purple man walked purposefully from the data pad across the desk surface and looked down its nose at the freshly deceased UNSC officer.
"Six seconds in this ship and I analyzed your Captain's behavioral patterns and leaked lethal amounts of core coolant into his replicator," Bismarck said with more disappointment than disdain, "not only was he hopelessly predictable; he was due to get off the caffeine."
The two ONI spooks lifted Beaudry from under his arms and hoisted him up so he could finally support his weight against the desk. Both black-clad officers regarded the XO with nothing but contempt as the man's arms trembled in shock and fear.
"Mr. Beaudry." Bismarck said, trying to get the now-captain's attention, which was understandably focused on the silenced weapon leveled at his head.
"Mr. Beaudry!" The XO flinched at the surprisingly loud voice of the AI and shakily turned around. "Commander, I note that UNSC chain of command has registered the loss of the Captain and transferred all relevant launch codes of the Telemachus to your neural lace. I'm told it feels like a rather severe but nearly instantaneous headache."
The very slight squint of the khaki-clad hostage's left eye confirmed the AI's assumption.
"Very good. Commander Thomas Young of ONI offers you the chance to save humanity."
Boston Police Garage
Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds spun the firing tubes of the rocket launcher and inspected the firing mechanism for what must have been the thirtieth time. And just like the previous times, he stared at the weapon in his hands and simply said, "Lynx status."
The Warthog driver to his left sighed as subtly as he could and called it in. After a brief pause he stated, "Fifteen minutes."
Gus stewed. "Are they fucking walking?"
"They delivered cargo all the way to Fenway, sir. It's a hike."
Reynolds wanted to comment on the driver's tone, but he did not blame him. Gus knew he was being seen as the substitute teacher. The leader and pillar of strength for the Minutemen, Captain Jack O'Shea, had lost his wife only hours ago and had understandably withdrawn to God knows where. Now Reynolds was at the helm, trying to maintain an incredibly shaky plan to assault a fixed Covenant position in Fenway Park and buy his snipers and ODSTs time to sneak into a hidden UNSC facility underneath the baseball stadium. It was like keeping a sand castle from a tsunami.
Every one of the remaining Minutemen were ready for the go order, those who were not already in the two Warthogs were waiting idly by drums of ammunition and fusion cores, some smoking just to pass the time, trying to hide their shaking fingers. The chirp of Reynolds' COM made him flinch, and he found himself reminding his fingers where the transmit button was as he opened the channel.
"Reynolds."
"Master Guns, this is Parsons."
Fuck, Gus thought, you shouldn't be calling me again. "Go ahead."
"Sir, you need to give the go order, and you needed to give it yesterday."
Panic began to rise in Gus' chest and he started to feel the urge for a drink. "That's impossible right now, Parsons. The Lynx is still RTB, and mortar teams aren't aboveground yet."
"Sir, this rooftop is Jackal owned, I don't know how surveillance missed it. They'll be back any minute. We need to go, and we need to go now, or this mission's a bust."
"This plan won't work if we don't have all our numbers moving at the same time."
"It won't work if the mortar team has no targets to shoot at and no one to keep the Covenant from targeting them, either."
Gus' shoulders sagged for a moment. He knew Parsons was right, and he further knew that the house of cards that had been their battle plan was now tumbling to the ground. It was not that he was upset that the plan was all but scrapped, it was the dreadful certainty that there would be casualties. As a leader, Reynolds had always known death was constantly by his side, but now that he was fully in command of the entire militia, this weighed down on him like the tons of concrete and steel above his head.Gus swore to himself.
"Sir?"
The Master Guns punched the side of his Warthog in a rare display of emotion in front of the men. "Understood. We're en route now. Prep targets and tell mortar teams to fire immediately. Don't wait for my approval. Convoy out." Reynolds snapped off the COM and looked around at the collective group of militia.
"We're moving out!" Gus announced. "Right now! Everyone on the Lynx gets on as soon as it arrives, no refueling, no rearming!" Reynolds felt himself losing control of the mission already, and it sat in his stomach like a cannonball.
South Station Refugee Camp
The communications and operations hub of the Minutemen was filled to bursting with pure focused energy and anxiety. Worried hands glided over keyboards, stabbing keys and keeping channels as open to friendly ears as possible. The room was contained in darkness, save only splotches of colorful screens and holographic displays telling the Minutemen what they already knew: the mission was falling apart before a single shot was fired.
The cohesion of the operation was sliding out from under the Minutemen's feet like a coil of rope attached to a piano and tossed off a building. The men in that gutted train knew they'd be pulled over as they tried to pick up the slack, but that didn't mean they wouldn't pull back with all their might.
In official and efficient tones, they walked navigators through complicated routes and made sure not one second would be spared between the emergence of the mortar team and firing their first rounds. Everyone had several jobs in front of them, but their purpose was clear and their resolve was strong. So it was no surprise when the small door to the hub was opened and light filled the entrance, very few people noticed. When they realized it was Captain Jack O'Shea, however, they knew they would have to take a moment.
The men had all heard the phrase "shadow of his former self," but when they looked at Jack O'Shea, only at that point did they truly realize what it meant. The Minuteman who walked slowly and hesitantly, still needing his eyes to become adjusted to the pressing darkness, was not the man who had killed scores of Covenant, had rescued dozens of comrades from certain death, had given a single small flame of hope to a massacred city.
This was a man who had sacrificed absolutely everything and gotten nothing in return. Hard, dark lines were etched across his face, either from shadow or intense pain, and his posture suffered like he was struggling with a heavy pack on his back. Despite all of this, the presence of the Captain renewed their vigor and inspired them to press on. In the face of death and immeasurable pain, the Captain still walked, still breathed. And at that moment, O'Shea reached the man who could help him.
The Private felt the heavy hand come down on his shoulder and nearly leaped from his chair. He turned and looked into the sad but burning eyes of his commander. "Yes, sir?" Was all he could get out, and it was hardly whispered.
"I need a channel to the Master Gunnery Sergeant." The voice was not one of clear, crisp order. It sounded choked off and forced, as if using it for the first time.
"Yes, sir." A few keystrokes and the Private handed a headset to Jack. "I have Captain O'Shea for Reynolds. Yes, really. Captain—Captain O'Shea."
The young man gave a brief thumbs up to O'Shea. "Good to see you back, sir," he said with reserved happiness, still unsure how to play his part. He gave up his seat and retreated into the dark. Jack sat down and looked at the monitor, pulsing, colorful, chaotic. O'Shea was lost in his thoughts as his best friend's voice came over the COM, the sound of wind rushing by telling Jack that the Minutemen were on the move.
"Sir?"
"I'm here, Master Guns."
"Damn glad to hear your voice, Jack."
"Yours too, old friend." In the momentary silence, O'Shea tried to fall back on being a leader, but ended up falling short. "Do you have everything you need?"
"Shit, sir, when was the last time we had everything we needed?"
There was a pause as both men tried to find the words. Gus wanted to give Jack as much time as he could, and Jack fought to keep his emotions in control around the men.
"Gus?"
"Here."
"There's been enough loss today."
For two friends who had known each other for years and shared more private moments of grief than anyone else in the camp, there didn't need to be any outpouring of emotions or tearful instructions. That one sentence meant more to Reynolds than any number of conversations they could have had.
"Understood."
The COM clicked off and left Jack in full silence. The rest of the room's ambient noise now faded completely away as O'Shea went back within himself. He had spoken with the only friend he had left, and that was enough. As he stood, he felt some, but not all, of the hidden weight fall off his back. His dark lines of grief and stress were not so apparent, though they could be seen. The Captain was not fully himself yet, but he had stepped out of the darkness of his shadow and was ready to be seen again.
"Private," the voice came out much stronger and clearer than before, and the boy that Jack replaced reported quickly.
"Yes sir?"
"Who's in charge of the Lynx load out?"
"Uh, Lance Corporal Jeevaji, sir."
"Tell him I'm on my way to assist the loading. I'll need a list sent to my data pad so I know what materials we need. We don't have any time to spare."
"On it, sir."
Jack stopped at the communications hub door and grabbed a vest and throat mike. He had no intention of using the vest, but at least he could feel the physical weight. He shrugged his shoulders once, fastened the throat mike, and set out for the garage. He left hope behind him.
|
