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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 8
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 17 January 2005, 12:58 PM
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 8
53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Night/Early morning
"Fuck!" Gus Reynolds shouted, sidestepping the falling body, steam still coming from the plasma bolt. The Minutemen's Master Gunnery Sergeant turned and pointed while he brought his assault rifle in the same direction, taking a quick count of the green spots glowing in the dark down the street. "Grunts! Down the street, right side!"
"Suppressing fire!" The UNSC Gunnery Sergeant commanded, and the ten surviving Marines turned in the direction their commanding officer pointed, the soldiers up front fell into prone positions, getting out of the line of fire. A hail of three round bursts and automatic fire cut into the night, and the green spots dropped to the ground, their owners dispatched with efficiency. Captain Jack O'Shea was impressed with the new Marines.
"There'll be more coming, sir." Gus said to O'Shea. "We don't have the numbers to take on a second wave." Reynolds pointed toward the center of the street. "There are sewers that'll take us out of the immediate vicinity. It will take some time to get them open, and we'll be exposed, but I don't see another way out of here."
The Minutemen communication channels opened with a chirp. "He's right, sir." Parsons said. "And there's Covenant marching from both ends of the street. Time to bug out. McManus has patched the Marines comms through our network, so we can all talk together. Time is running out, sir."
O'Shea looked at the UNSC Marine. "That intel's legit?" The Marine asked.
"Without question." O'Shea replied. The Marine nodded.
"Set up a perimeter in the center of this street!" The Gunny commanded, and the remaining UNSC forces followed Gus Reynolds to one of the only manhole covers on Commonwealth Avenue not blocked by debris. The ten Marines encircled the manhole cover, all crouched and slowly scanning their weapons in all directions. Each soldier knew they were exposed, and the sooner they were underground, the better. Gus slung his assault rifle behind his back and searched his body for any kind of tool to pry the cover off. The old Minutemen glanced up to see a young Marine, with barely any kind of stubble on his face, holding a crowbar-like tool in front the Minuteman. The Marine cocked his head to the side and stared quizzically at Reynold's weapon. "They still make those?" The Marine asked. Gus plunged the tool into the street. "Just give me a hand," the Minuteman replied.
Corporal Ron Parsons jerked to a halt, his feet barely touching the metal of the downed Pelican. He had to use a free hand to adjust his black wool stocking hat from his eyes, and scanned the immediate area for signs of Marine survivors. Neither militia sniper believed there were Marines left. Parsons checked his webbing and secured his stash of grenades. They'd have to frag the cockpit, scramble all the hardware, and then extract with the rest of the Minutemen. The Corporal hoped the Marines hadn't brought any kind of AI. That would just be more time wasted.
His partner, Tim McManus, slid down to the edge of the Pelican's cargo/troop hold. The Pelican lay dead after a trail of destruction, plowing a deep furrow in the sidewalk from where it had tried to deploy all its Marines. The angle of the ruined ship was such that Parsons doubted he could walk up the steep incline to the cargo bay. Instead, he scanned the area, his interest pointed toward distant spots of light advancing down the street. "Captain," Parsons said over the Comm, "be advised, I have visual on advancing troops. Looks like a bunch. Better hurry."
"Going as fast as we can, Parsons," O'Shea replied.
Parsons closed the channel and turned his attention to McManus. The young sniper specialist had just finished the tricky task of holding on to the edge of the cargo hold with one hand and disengaging his cable with the other. Now McManus was hanging his torso over the edge, inspecting the smoke-filled hold, shining a small light into the darkness.
"Uh...Ron?" Parsons cursed. McManus never used his first name. This was bad news. "Better take a look at this..."
Holding tightly to his climbing rope, Parsons slowly ascended the incline and came to the edge alongside McManus. He let more of his line go slack so he could bend his body over the edge and peer into the Pelican. "Oh, shit," he breathed. At the bottom of the hold, two Marines lay in a heap, groaning and moving very slowly. "See if you can help'em out," Parsons told McManus dismissively, and switched his Comm back on. "Captain, we have a problem. I have two Marines wounded in the Pelican. Saying again, two Marines wounded in the Pelican. I need a medic to get these guys out. Copy?"
Parsons was certain he heard the end of a nasty curse word just as O'Shea transmitted. "Copy that, Parsons. Sending Ibanez over. Ibanez!"
The commanding sniper leaned back over the edge and shouted down the hold. "Medics on the way, guys! Hang in there!" Leaving McManus to play babysitter, Parsons took out his S2AM sniper rifle and pointed it down the street to give his partner cover. Through the scope, Parsons had a better look at the approaching enemy. He swore to himself as he swept the scope from left to right. He opened a channel again.
"Sir, I have eight squid-heads, about sixteen Fatboys, and ten Jackals. Armor support. Sights are hot. Request permission to thin the numbers."
"Acknowledged, Parsons. Fire at will, and move out with all speed. We're going to open this manhole and extract via the sewers. The rest of the Marines and Minutemen are here with me, Connor and Tonsi have the rear. Frag and clear that Pelican as soon as the medics get out."
"Huah, sir."
"Fucking Jarheads should have worn seatbelts," a voice said below the sniper. Parsons looked down to see Harold Ibanez's bloodstained, swarthy face looking up at him. "I got two more meds behind me," Ibanez gestured, "but I figured we could have quality time while they catch up."
Parsons did not share the latino medic's confidence. Parsons stared into the scope. Now he only counted nine Jackals. Shit. Shouldn't have looked away. It was just there a second ago...something's wrong here . "Not the time for banter, buddy. Get inside now and let's get the fuck out of here." Ron was no longer interested in listening to Ibanez. He was searching for the missing Jackal. He could hear the medic jumping up and lifting himself above the lip of the cargo hold, struggling with getting his medical supplies inside. Though it had not been trouble for McManus to get inside, the edge of the cargo hold closest to the ground was at least five and a half feet above street level. He heard the clang of the supply pack inside the hold, and took his eyes off the scope. Ibanez was making a scene trying to climb up into the hold. Finally, the medic had climbed in. "For the love of Christ, Ibanez!" He hissed. "Keep it down! Not all the Jackals are accounted fo-"
The pink streak passed through the medic as he stood upright in the entrance to the cargo hold, the highly charged particle striking the roof of the Pelican's interior with a ping. Without a word, Ibanez fell foward and slid down the steep incline toward the cockpit, dead before he finally came to a stop at the bottom of the hold. Parsons could hear McManus swearing below him, pushing the medic to the side. The Corporal jerked his head up and followed the fading streak as best he could. The Covenant sniper hadn't seen him, or he'd be dead by now. The Corporal immediately disengaged the safety and aligned his weapon with the trajectory of the beam. Luckily, the wafting smoke and dust had made the streak last just a little longer than usual. A fatal consequence. Just as quickly as he had seen the streak of energy through the night, he brought his eye to the scope and found himself staring at the bird-like head of the enemy sniper, its quills fluttering in a breeze. Was it proud of itself? He wondered. Did it know it killed a medic? Parsons decided he didn't care as he pulled the trigger and weapon bucked back into his shoulder, the Jackal's head disappearing from his scope, body falling to its knees then flopping to the ground, beam rifle pitching forward and falling to the street.
Son of a bitch, I looked away. Parsons thought to himself. That was my fault!
Ron heard Tim McManus' voice over the Comm. "Sniper! Sniper! Keep your goddamn heads down!"
My fault!
The medics would be slowed, now. There was no telling how many of the Jackals had beam rifles, and Parsons did not care to find out. He just wanted to get underground. He wanted to escape this sudden pain that had emerged in his chest, a sudden sweeping feeling of guilt and grief. He wanted to escape a botched mission rescuing the ones who had left everyone in the city to die two years ago. Parsons pushed that thought from his mind. Distraction had alread cost him Ibanez. Keeping his eyes on the scope now, Parsons opened a channel. "I can cover you, medics. Proceed with caution, but hustle." Parsons would not stray from his duty now. Fuck, Ibanez is dead. It is directly my fault. Son of a bitch, he's dead because of me. Son of a bitch...son of a bitch... The Corporal's rifle fired again, dropping a Jackal that was straying from the formation. Parsons would not take any more chances. He began elimnating Jackals one by one. It should have been satisfying, but with each kill, Parsons blamed himself more and more.
Finally the medics arrived. Parsons did not see them, but he heard their advance over the distant growl of the Wraith tanks and cracks of his rifle. He did not want to see them. He knew all he would see was Ibanez. There were only three Jackals now, but they were becoming harder to find, merging and emerging from the crowd of Covenant infantry. Parsons fired again as the last of the two medics clambered into the Pelican. In the upturned, cavernous space, Ron could hear every echoing word. "What the fuck? They shot a medic?" Parsons heard one of the medics say deep within the ruined transport.
"What do you have for me, medics?" Parsons asked over the comm.
"Sir, I've got one Marine that can walk, the other's going to need a stretcher."
Good luck getting him underground. "Copy that. Send status to the Captain."
"Huah."
Parsons pulled the trigger again and waited for the medics to get out. Part of him was so distraught over Ibanez death he wanted to stay and fight every one of those Covenant bastards hand to hand. But the Corporal had stared into the eyes of those elites, and he knew he wouldn't last two seconds. From below, a pair of hands gripped the opening of the Pelican, and Tim McManus pulled himself up and over the edge, pivoting his body in a prone position by Parsons. Tim, the lesser ranked of the two, pulled out his spotter's scope. "I heard nine shots." McManus said."
"All down." Parsons replied. He pulled the trigger again. Another bullet. Another shot of recoil into a sore shoulder. Another Jackal head snapping back. Another body on the street. No more Jackal snipers.
"Confirmed kill." McManus muttered. From below they could hear a yell of pain stifled as one of the wounded Marines hit the street, more or less falling out of the Pelican. "You all right, Marine?" McManus called down. McManus got a "Hoorah," in reply. The Marine would never let the Minutemen know he was that badly injured. The cry of pain was smothered by pride. Both Parsons and McManus could hear the stretcher being lowered by the medics, both softly saying to the other, "Eaaaaaasyyy..." As if their words would make the physical task less strenuous. The Comm chirped.
"Medics are clear."
"Copy." McManus replied. " Charges placed in the cockpit. We can blow them at any time. Request permission to rejoin the group, Cap."
"Manhole's nearly secure, snipers. Gus is down there with a squad making sure it's safe, we're a bit delayed. Stand by."
"Standing by, roger."
Parsons craned his neck to see the medics making good time down the street. To his credit, the wounded Marine was moving well, even with severe arm and leg wounds. It was harder for the medics. Parsons could see all the craters, the buckled pavement, the spent shells littered on the street, not to mention the bodies. He checked his ammo count and ejected the magazine, sliding in a fresh clip and pulling the bolt back. There was a moment of silence between the two snipers. Parsons, for once, broke it.
"It's my fau-"
"It's not your fault. People die. There was nothing you could have done. I didn't see it, either."
"If we get home, I'll tell Maria."
Tim nodded silently. Ron was taking this hard. Tim quickly reflected on Ron's last statement: "If we get home." Ron never talked like that. As this running battle was going on, Parsons was losing his confidence. Snipers needed confidence. It was what kept them alive. And in order to McManus to stay alive, he needed his partner to stay alive as well. Tim tried to refocus his commanding officer. "Um, I need a recount on those Grunts, and confirm my tank distances."
Parsons knew what his junior partner was trying to do. He even cracked a bit of a smile. "Keeping my edges sharp, Tim?" The Corporal asked. He quickly judged the range of the tanks- 700 meters- and began counting Grunts. "Call it...sixteen Fatboys...needlers, hey, even a plasma rifle on that officer...but what's that the ones in the back have..." Both snipers shifted slightly and strained their eyes yet again for telltale shapes or silhouettes. The darkness was just barely lifting, and the new hues in the battlefield were playing off the smoke and dust so that the two sharpshooters were having a hard time.
"Looks like the Grunts are coming to the front. Tank fire?" McManus noted.
"No, the armor hasn't powered up yet. Look, the main cannon is still contracted."
"Then what the hell are they stopping for..." McManus trailed off, his agile mind scrolling down the list of Covenant weaponry. In Tim's mind, he ended up at one conclusion, and one end result. The sudden appearance of brightening green spots in the distance only confirmed the sniper's worst fear. He shoved his scope into his attached tactical pack, rolled to his side, and hit his partner on the shoulder. "FRCs!" He exclaimed, urgency rising in his voice. "We gotta get the fuck out of here!"
Parsons focused for a second and redailed the scope. The increased zoom put his scope in the face of a Grunt, positioning a weapon on its shoulder and powering it up. Parsons pulled the trigger, knocking the Grunt over and causing it to fire the weapon into the air. Six Grunts were pulling the trigger as Parsons decided to run as fast as he could. "They're live!" Parsons yelled as he tucked the rifle to his chest and flipped over on to his back, easing the tension on his legs. The two snipers slid down the upside-down, overturned Pelican as if it were a giant slide, hitting the underside of the cockpit and running from the scene as six bolts of heavily charged energy collided with the Pelican, the force almost flipping the airship back over. The two snipers ran from the scene and took cover only fifty meters from the crowd of Marines and Minutemen. Parsons' Comm chirped.
"What the hell was that, Corporal?" Captain Jack O'Shea asked.
"Sir!" Ron yelled breathlessly. "Fuel Rod Cannons! Get everyone away from that manhole!"
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