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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston (Epilouge)
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 2 March 2005, 4:10 PM
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston (Epilouge)
53rd Massachusetts Milita (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Underground, South Station Refugee Camp
Midway through the Covenant invasion of Earth
Night
Golden liquid flowed freely from a tapered black spout into a cold, clear pint glass; the firm but confident hand manipulated the vessel to capture every drop of the intoxicating beverage. The beer swirled around inside it's container; the carbonated bubbles rising and bursting at the top, a foamy head forming at the brim of the glass as the liquid overflowed, the dry fingers guiding it over the spout to ensure a fine pour. In one smooth motion, the glass came away as the flow of lager was ceased, the glass sliding to a rest near the edge of the finely polished pine bar. With a smile and a kind word shouted over the din, the glass was lifted to the patron's lips. A satisfied nod followed as Tim McManus examined the glass and toasted the Captain. "Helluva pour, Jack," the sniper complimented, then turned his attention to the Captain's right. "For Boston," the sniper saluted, raising his glass in acknowledgment of the dead men who watched the celebration in silent approval.
Captain Jack O'Shea lifted his own pint from behind the bar and pointed the glass in the same direction. "For Boston," O'Shea echoed, and he took a long pull of the cold brew. To Jack's left, eleven shot glasses sat on the surface of the bar, each empty save a single shiny dog tag inside the tiny glasses. For the entire night the shot glasses had sat there, each a quiet monument to the men who had given the ultimate sacrifice for their city. The Captain was proud to be in their presence, and toasted along with every Minuteman as they got their drinks. Over the Captain's head, forty-nine shot glasses watched over the revelers as the tiny memorials held court over a wide assortment of bottles, the vessels of alcohol gleamed in a wide spectrum of colors from soft lights underneath. Jack turned and lifted his head to see all the former Minutemen he had the honor of fighting beside. He lifted his glass once more and drank again, the homemade brew cooling him in the crowded, humid bar. "Didn't want you guys to think I left you out," O'Shea said to his departed friends. "For Boston."
The Last Line of Defense was an appropriate term for the pub owned and operated by the highest-ranking soldier in the city. Since the bar was tucked into the corner of the South Station refugee camp/Minutemen HQ, and remained covered by a substantial steel barrier at night, it would seem to be the logical place for Boston's last stand should the Covenant ever make it into the compound. For now, the only reminders the partygoers had of the alien presence were two tin signs that hung over the door to the bar. The first sign hung directly over the door like one of the inspirational sayings on the way out of a championship football team's locker. In orange lettering over a green background, it read, "Shoot fast. Shoot smart. Good to go in sixty seconds." The sign had seen better days, yet it had survived a year and a half of eager hands slapping it on the way out to battle. To its right, another sign hung with purple letters over a white background. It had been dinged from bottles, shot glasses, pint glasses, and other numerous projectiles that had been hurled in its general direction. It simply read, "Covenant suck."
The only bar left in Boston had been constructed entirely from O'Shea's direction after the rest of the station had been converted to house the majority of Boston's refugees and holdouts. It was reminiscent of the old-style Irish pubs that Jack had frequented while the city was intact and Covenant-free. The fully-stocked bar was nestled in the top-left corner of the rectangular pub. The dark pine surface stretched nearly fifteen feet from end to end, and sported three gold-inlaid taps of homemade brew on either side of the bar. Behind it, three ascending rows of bottles gleamed, skinny metal pourers protruded out of each spout, allowing the bartender a sure pour every time. The shelves behind the bar had all been made of rich cherry wood, separated in the middle by a large mirror that made it seem as if there were another pub right behind it with another identical crowd reveling in victory and the joys of shared company. Above the mirror that backed the bottles was a final compartment that held the most treasured and rare liquors and spirits. It also held the Minutemen's most prized antiques and trophies, each lovingly signed by the donor. Among them was a gold Elite's helmet with a single bullet hole on the left side, signed by Ron Parsons; The old UNSC post's entrance sign; a Jackal's arm shield; numerous plasma weapons; and pieces of Boston landmarks that could not be saved. Above it all were the shot glass memorials, illuminated from below by yet another set of concealed lights.
Polished oak paneling, light-grained and sturdy, framed each frosted window; photographs of groups of Minutemen and Boston landmarks were hung in the spaces between the windows, other pictures hung behind the bar, including the original Minutemen amongst a pile of Covenant bodies like giddy tourists on an illegal African safari. Another picture displayed the initial construction of the South Station refugee camp next to a framed photograph of the camp as it was now. The bar stools were all made of a dark-grained wood salvaged long ago, they were positioned in front of the bar and also ringed six tables dispersed around the pub. The walls had been painted a dark muted green, but the soft lighting of lanterns bolted to the walls made the room comforting to the eyes. The lighting was dim and the low ceiling made the Last Line of Defense a comfortable and intimate den, a pub filled with joyous relief, tinged with sorrow and thick with longing for those who did not make it back.
Jack turned to his left and looked down the long bar. Someone had hopped over the pine barrier and had positioned himself under the tap, pouring a free pint. O'Shea, without hesitation, reached for a half lemon and hurled it down the bar, striking the thief in a citrus explosion.
"Aw, for fuck's sake, Jack!" Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds exclaimed, his tongue already thick and slurring his words slightly, "It's just a pint, a lousy pint! It's not like I pay for them anyway!" Gus gripped the dripping lemon in his dark weathered hand and threw it back, missing Jack by three feet and striking another Minuteman, who was about to protest until he saw where the fruit had originated. He promptly went back to his drink.
The Captain crossed the bar quickly and clinked glasses with his old friend. They drank together and Reynolds turned to grab a towel from the shelves behind the bar. After wiping his face clean of the stinging juice, he flipped the towel over his shoulder and clapped his commanding officer on the shoulder.
"For Boston," Gus toasted at the fresh dog tags which still glinted merrily in the celebration. O'Shea immediately followed suit. "Glad to see you made it home, old friend. You had me worried for a bit there." Gus said.
"Yeah," the Captain replied, "I think we were all worried for ourselves at some point back there."
"It's always hard getting home, Jack," Gus said as he looked into his friend's eyes, which had shifted toward the shot glasses. "No regrets, now. Saved a lot of good men's lives back there."
"No regrets." O'Shea said firmly, echoing his old militia buddy's motto. "They'll be missed. But us," he said, wrapping an arm around Gus' shoulder with a large grin, "we fight another day. Wily old bastards who are too old for this shit!"
"Speak for yourself, old man." Reynolds taunted, downing his pint in exultation. "Me, I'm drinking 'til I'm relieved of my command."
The two laughed long and loud, then embraced each other in a hug that spoke volumes on their friendship. Even after two years of much loss and few victories, they remained. They would be there until the end. Gus pulled away and wiped down the bar.
"You wanna do them now?" The Master Gunnery Sergeant asked. They were eager to recognize their fellow Minutemen, but at the same time, the sooner they were done, the sooner the real party could begin.
Jack nodded in confirmation. "Turn the music off, Gus," he said, "Let's give our men the respect they deserve."
O'Shea took a moment to look out over the pub as the blaring music was abruptly shut off. Seconds before, there had been swaying, singing, and a couple Minutemen actually trying some awkward dance moves, their courage and coordination obviously affected by the alcohol. The bachelors were all trying to move in on one girl or another, desperately trying to get one last fling before they went out to battle again. In one corner, Parsons and McManus chatted with several young girls, and Jack shook his head in mock disapproval of the camp's most eligible bachelors. He caught the eye of his wife, Laura, talking with other wives, and pointed at the two snipers. Mrs. O'Shea rolled her eyes and laughed, as if to say, Once, mister big-shot-Captain, you were that desperate. Jack chuckled to himself and he thought of every time he told the two to cut their hair, and each time that they had looked at him like some sort of disciplinarian father. It was halfway true, though. O'Shea was the closest thing to a father that Parsons had; both of his parents had died early in the invasion, and McManus' surviving father was injured and unable to leave a camp all the way down by Boston College. Tim rarely had the chance to make it out to see his dad.
The wives, brothers, sisters, and parents of the recently deceased were laughing and drinking even while sporting tear-stained cheeks. Jack's heart went out to them, he had told many of them that very day that those they cared so deeply for were never coming home. O'Shea knew the loneliness that would envelope them after they left the pub tonight, the emptiness and isolation they would encounter even in the crowded camp, and those who had no one to go home with had been given to other bereaved refugees for a period of time until they could resume their lives. Their lives would never go back to normal, O'Shea knew this from personal experience, but the transition would be made easier for them. As the lack of background music made its heavy presence known, the shouting and laughing died away as each head turned toward the Captain. Jack glanced to his left and saw Gus handing out bottles to many different people in the crowd, then returned to his friend's side. The Captain filled his pint glass and raised it.
"For Boston," He said, holding his beer high.
"For Boston!" The pub roared, and each hand lifted a glass to their lips.
Jack took his time as he stood on the bar and overlooked the entire crowd. It was ceremony, and O'Shea knew it was important that every dog tag, every name on those thin pieces of metal, be recognized. He cleared his throat and spoke loudly and clearly.
Several hundred miles away, there was no drinking, no revelry, and no sense of victory. Instead of the pungent aroma of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, secrecy and subterfuge hung thick in the air, clouding even the clearest of minds. With a soft swoosh, a blue-green man dressed in late nineteenth-century garb appeared in the darkness.
"Commander, my mission timer shows the team is five minutes out. You asked to be updated."
The stern, authoritative voice spoke from the shadows of the office. "And the scans? What are they giving off?"
"I have been monitoring all UNSC frequencies in the vicinity. They don't have a clue."
"Good."
"Tonight we recognize the sacrifice made by good men to protect other good men and women. I salute their sacrifice and mourn their loss equally. They died to serve a purpose higher than ourselves against an enemy that knows not the value of life. They died to ensure our survival. They chose a life of service; and tonight, their service is recognized. I can vouch for all of these men and tell you tales of their valor and strength, but those who would like to share their lives to us, I hope that you would. The bar is open."
"Commander, the team has landed."
There are few things more effective than boots on the ground, the man thought upon hearing the news. A worn and weathered hand came up to stubble-covered chin and scratched thoughtfully. "And the drop?" He asked with interest.
"My scans have shown minimal IR radiation. Nearly perfect, sir. Invisible."
"The Blackspear was worth every penny." The man commented to himself.
"Indeed, Commander."
"Inform the dropship to return to base. After you issue the RTB order, open a secure line to the team. I want to talk to them one last time."
"Yes, sir."
One by one, family members, fellow Minutemen, and friends stood on the bar and eulogized the fallen. After each dog tag was placed by a family member or friend on the top shelf of the bar with the other past Minutemen, a toast of "For Boston!" went up, and the crowd drank to their memory. The tears flowed freely and the laughs were long and loud, the loudest of them yet were for Harry Ibanez as his wife told of the medic's bungling marriage proposal six months ago, and the missing ring during the wedding ceremony a month afterwards. Parsons and McManus argued back and forth about Harry McHale's selfless acts of bravery and the creative string of cuss words the Minuteman was able to conjure on command. Finally it was Jack's turn to tell the stories of those still left on the bar.
Jack took up four shot glasses in his left hand and examined them under the light of the pub lanterns. "Michael, Gerry, Rory, and Seamus Connor," Jack said, "The Connor brothers. Of all the structures they helped to make in this camp, this bar was their very favorite. If I ever let them, I think they would have lived on the bar floor than in the comfort of their tents." Laughs and applause drifted out of the crowd. "If we ever doubted that the four were linked by some kind of telepathic bond, all we had to do was make fun of one of them, and they would all reply at once in the same sentence, no matter where they were." The crowd laughed appreciatively once more. The four Connor brothers had been favorites among the refugees.
"The only enemy the Connor brothers feared were each other, and I think we can all agree when I say that this pub had more damage done to it by those four Irishmen than any Covenant bombardment of any Boston structure."
"Yeah! Then there was the time Seamus threw Rory through one o' the front windows after Rory spilled his drink!" A voice sprang up from the back, and the laughter resumed again.
"They made every one of us laugh without exception," O'Shea continued. "They protected this camp with an iron resolve not to be matched by any for as long as I'm around. The love, loyalty, and devotion they shared with each other should be a lesson to us all. Buildings fall. Cities and streets crumble and disappear. Love," Jack said with a small tear in his eye, "stands the test of time."
"Recon, do you copy this transmission?"
"We copy." The voice on the other end was grave, dark, and seasoned. The team had been hand-picked, and the team leader, the man speaking now, was pure ice. It wasn't even fair to call him a man. He conducted himself with the utmost rigors of protocol and duty; the Commander had picked him because in this mission, none could stray from the path. The war depended on it.
"Recon, this will be the last transmission you receive. You may transmit messages on only two occasions, do you remember them?" A redundant question, he knew, but one that had to be asked just to be absolutely sure.
"Transmit once we have retrieved the package, and once for extraction."
"Very good, recon. Keep your eyes open. I know you've heard this before, but this time we actually mean it: success here will define the course of the war. Failure is not an option."
"Understood. Standing by for mission confirmation."
The Commander leaned forward, even though there was no microphone in front of him. "Operation: Valiant Reclamation is a go. Password: Gallant Strife. I say again, Gallant Strife."
"We copy transmission. Operation: Valiant Reclamation is a go."
It had begun. Not with a bang, but a whimper.
"For Boston!" The crowd roared as the four shot glasses were placed on the shelf. One final dog tag remained, and this one was distinctive from the rest. The past dog tags had all been metallic and shiny, with no border along the edge. This one was worn and had lost its shine; it was ringed by a thin black rubber band along the edge: an old UNSC dog tag.
"Mahmoud Tonsi," Jack began, taking the dog tag in his hand and feeling the cold metal touch his soul. "There have been many heroes in the history of this conflict, but I can fairly say that Mahmoud will be recognized as the greatest in the history of the Minutemen. We always say that one man can make a difference, and here we see that most evident. He sacrificed himself to save all of you." O'Shea let that sink in a moment. The circumstances of Minutemen deaths were rarely known to everyone.
"Without Tonsi's death, the Covenant would have had a clear shot, unopposed, to this camp and we could not have done a damn thing to stop them. Mahmoud's death meant life for this station, for the lives we will go on to lead, for the lives our children will go on to lead." A sniff registered from the back of the crowd, some were visibly crying. "Without our knowledge, we were all given a second chance at life; and if this should mean anything to us, it means we must go on living with more vigor, with more energy each day, for life is short and precious."
Jack placed the dog tag back in the glass and held it to the light. "It was an honor and highest privilege to serve with you, Mahmoud. May God grant you swift journey to your final home."
As soon as the glass was placed, the pub shook with a thunderous toast.
The AI appeared at attention after a very long silence. The Commander had been still for some time, and the AI had wondered whether he had fallen asleep. He had been awake for thirty-six hours and twenty-three minutes. "Are we sure about this site?" The voice asked from the darkness.
A large holograph appeared in the center of the room, showing a thoroughly decimated city. "My research has narrowed our search to two sites, Commander," the AI explained, "the Colonel's files make seismic and topographical references that match up with these two locations. The simple fact that there were former installations in this city..." a dozen green dots flashed on the rotating, see-through holographic scan, "...as well as the presence of hostiles..." red dots glowed in several locations, "would seem to indicate this location as the most logical choice for the cargo's location."
"And if it's not?" The Commander asked, fully aware of the answer.
"If it is not, Commander, then the site would still remain a prime location for the implementation of Cronin Protocol."
The Commander leaned forward into dim light. His day-old stubble was unprofessional, but none of his subordinates had seen him in two days. His head full of gray hair was slightly unkempt, and his red dress tie was loose over his black uniform. He rubbed his tired eyes in resignation.
"We'll soon find out, Bismark."
"Indeed, sir."
The Captain turned to the adoring public one last time. "Before we open this up and let you leave, we have one last duty to attend to: promotions." A ripple went through the crowd. Deaths happened, but public promotions at Last Line of Defense were camp-wide calls to celebrate. The bar might not close tonight. From his right pocket, Jack pulled a new patch and held it tight in his hand. "Only a few people know about the new promotions, for very specific security purposes." O'Shea said with a wink. The crowd laughed with nervous energy. While it was a privilege and an honor, being promoted in public was never comfortable, as a few soldiers were about to find out.
"This first Minuteman has been long overdue for a promotion. He has proved himself a valuable resource, and without him our fate would have been uncertain. He's called in reinforcements, taken initiative, kept a cool head, and displayed a tactical brilliance beyond his years. It gives me great pleasure to promote on this day Timothy McManus to the rank of Corporal."
A cheer went up as multiple pints of beer were upturned over the former Specialist's head. Tim ducked instinctively as the cold, soon to be sticky liquid drenched him to the core. The girls he had been talking to darted away, screaming. One girl in particular had been safely separated, warned beforehand, and Jack had noted Tim taking more and more interest in that one. The Captain noted the connection. That will give him something more to fight for, he thought to himself, but quickly filed the thought away. O'Shea smiled to himself at the sight. Ron Parsons stood over his sniper partner with two empty pints, a huge grin across his face as McManus wheeled around. Ron gave his partner a "Who, me?" face as he put down his glasses and extended his hand for a firm handshake. Tim regarded the outstretched hand for a second before giving his partner a giant bear hug, turning Parsons face of sneaky mirth into confused anger and shock. Both snipers laughed, and Jack found himself laughing with them. He had not felt this good in years. He even caught his wife, Laura, laughing out loud.
The Captain signaled for the crowd to quiet. He flipped the Corporal patch to McManus after the bar fell silent. "Here you go, son, wipe yourself off." The crowd laughed, drinking with gusto now. "One final promotion tonight," he said, "since I can see some of you are getting sober." Another round of laughs. Everyone was feeling good.
"Gus and I have realized that we now have two Corporals serving in the same capacity, and if anyone has listened to those two snipers talk to each other, you realize that someone has to be in charge of the other if we hope to get anything done anymore. Therefore, the commanding officers have made a decision."
A pause fell on the captive audience.
Jack laughed. "Well, you didn't think we'd fucking demote him, did you? Ron Parsons is hereby promoted to...I never thought I'd say this...Staff Sergeant."
A cheer came up behind Ron Parsons as four of his friends came up behind him, a pint in each hand. Even McManus grabbed a pint from someone's hands as he poured it over his friend, a shocked look on Ron's face as he, too, became one with the lager. As the beer dripped from his face, he looked at his Captain, as if to say, "Are you sure about this?" Jack nodded seriously, then winked at the young Minuteman sniper. The grin then returned to Ron's face as he shook the beer from him as a wet dog frees itself once inside. The droplets of alcohol fell on nearly everyone in the bar. The crowded bar waited in hushed silence as the final act of the promotion ceremony was performed. Ron Parsons and Tim McManus looked at each other, then punched their right hands to the ceiling. "My life for Boston!"
The crowd replied in kind. The smile never left Jack O'Shea's face as he hopped back behind the bar. It was time to serve the people.
Fifty miles away, black boots moved silently through the night, about to entwine their fates with the soldiers underground.
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