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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 3
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 16 August 2004, 8:20 PM
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 3
As always, big ups to Nick Kang, Corad Lauf, and Helljumper. Read their stuff too while you're at it.
53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Commonwealth Avenue, Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
mid-afternoon
Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds looked behind him in puzzled consternation at the comment of the young, wide eyed Minuteman.
"Better leave God out of that over there." Reynolds replied, and turned his attention to what should have been Specialist Seamus Connor's grisly death at the hands of Ghost-driving Elites. Gus watched in awe as Connor spun behind and to his right and managed to scurry back to his cover, unscathed by a bevy of plasma fire. The two rocket shots, meanwhile, streaked toward their targets, trailing white smoke the whole way. The first Ghost went head-on in Turbo mode and exploded on impact with the 102 mm rocket. The explosion launched its' pilot forward past the assault team's position. The Elite's shields' sputtered with electricity and phased out in the long slide over the pavement, and at the end of the slide, most of the Elite's skin had been shorn off. A young Minuteman behind Reynolds opened fire into the chest of the obviously dead Elite until O'Shea smacked the greenhorn upside the helmet.
"I think that one's dead, Stick." Captain Jack O'Shea said.
"Sorry, sir, just making sure."
The second rocket, Reynolds noticed, was well right of the target. Before Reynolds got on the horn to sound off on Seamus Connor, he noticed the rocketman's intent: the explosion to the right of the second Ghost caused the Elite to instinctively strafe to its' left, directly into the path of the rocket. The evasive manuever caused the Ghost to dip a knobby wing and crash into the side of an apartment building, partially burrowing itself in the front door. The rocket headed straight for the front door and in an instant pieces of Ghost, brick, concrete and Elite showered across the street, making a line in the pavement that the Covenant infantry was beginning to cross. O'Shea, Reynolds noted, had seen enough. O'Shea's order came out loud and confident: "Ok, assault, let 'em have it!"
The squad of sixteen Minutemen rose from their cover as one. With an assortment of battle rifles, M90 shotguns, MA5B assault rifles, SMGs, and grenades, the remaining Covenant infantry was cut to shreds. O'Shea squeezed off a shot from his battle rifle that left a baseball-sized exit wound in a grunt's neck. Reynolds looked to his right to see Ibanez laughing and firing, yelling, "Eat it! Fuckin' eat it!" at the retreating Covenant. Lance Corporal Harry McHale landed a jackal officer after tearing the shield arm off with a Hippo round and following up with a well placed grenade to the torso. The jackal's energy shield landed at McHale's feet. Reynolds broke cover and pounded twenty rounds from his assault rifle into a grunt from ten meters. Every round hit home with lethal efficiency. The grunt was still rolling back when the Master Gunnery Sergeant got back to cover. "Subtle," O'Shea noted, firing off a three round burst and catching a genade throwing Grunt in the shoulder. The grenade fell at the grunt's feet and blew it up to a second story balcony.
"I should say the same for you, Cap," Reynolds countered. Reynolds' ammo counter read 00, and he reached into his vest for a fresh magazine. He slapped it in, pulled back the bolt of the MA5B assault rifle, chambered the first round, and let loose once more. Grunts were flying through the air, jackals were deflecting fire back at the assault squad, Minutmen were yelling for ammo and grenades, Ibanez and the medics were keeping wary eyes on the front lines, but even in the chaos everything was going according to plan. Reynolds paused for a second, looked over at O'Shea, and threw the empty magazine at O'Shea's helmet. It clanked off harmlessly. The Captain was smiling...for once. "Gus, I am gonna kick your ass."
McHale and another Minuteman were across the street from the Captain and Reynolds, observing the Covenant offensive in lulls of fire. McHale's eyes lit up. He tapped the Minuteman on the head. "On me," he said, and ran in a crouch to a flipped Warthog just ahead of their position. The two hustled to cover as the Covenant were concentrating fire in a last-ditch effort to take down some humans. McHale was going to take his chance. "Captain, keep the Covies busy there for lil' bit."
"Doesn't look like I have a choice, McHale." O'Shea replied, and closed the channel. After a year of watching McHale fight Covenant in bloody face-to-face battles, the Captain trusted the short Lance Corporal's judgement.
McHale leaned his body around the side of the Warthog and saw three jackals unloading their weapons on O'Shea's postion. The three bird-like aliens were screeching something to each other, but McHale was not about to let the aliens' plan continue to its' conclusion. He silently advanced, snaking around smoking pieces of the obliterated Ghosts, silencing the dying groans of mortally wounded Covenant. McHale checked his rear. The younger Minuteman was right behind him. This is probably the guy's first up-close encounter with Covenant, McHale thought, and he's doin' OK. Time to land the kid a killer trophy. McHale stopped and raised a fist, keeping it level with his head. The young Minuteman stopped behind McHale. McHale drew a combat knife, and the young Minuteman did the same. Quick learner. Hope he doesn't mind getting his hands purple.
O'Shea and Reynolds were now pinned down, unable to fire back on the jackals. The lack of suppressing fire from the right had allowed much of the Covenant still on the offensive to advance. O'Shea looked at Reynolds. "This was going so well a few minutes ago," he said. Reynolds was grinning. O'Shea called McHale. "Hey Harry, how 'bout killing some Covies when you get a chance?" O'Shea heard two clicks of the radio. McHale must be pretty close, he thought. O'Shea got in a prone position and embraced the pavement, moving so he just barely poked his head out. He was not seen, but O'Shea could see two urban-camouflaged figures behind the three jackals. O'Shea managed to sneak his battle rifle into a firing position and aimed carefully. This was going to be interesting.
McHale snuck up behind the middle of the three jackals, his partner stole ground behind the one on the left. A few steps away from the invaders, McHale had shown his partner how to kill silently and properly. In unison, the two Minutemen grabbed the jackals by the feather-like quills of the head, jerked their heads back, and drew their knives across the aliens' necks. The jackal on the far right turned, plasma pistol shaking with overcharged energy, its' face aglow in green malice even in the face of afternoon sunlight. McHale ducked at the sound of a shot and a green ball of plasma fired to the sky as the jackal dropped backwards, the distictive entry wound of a battle rifle round in the jackal's skull. McHale retreated back to his cover and angrily opened a channel. "Goddammit, Cap, you stole my kill!"
"By the looks of things, Lance Corporal," O'Shea said, "I stole the jackal's kill."
"Check again, sir." O'Shea looked back at the scene, saw the two slit throats, and then noticed McHale's extra combat knife up to the hilt in the chest of the third jackal. That was why the third jackal had turned. Lance Corporal is way too low a rank for this kid, O'Shea thought. Parsons is gonna be pissed tonight when McHale joins him at Corporal.
"You're a sick son of a bitch, McHale," O'Shea said.
"Huah, sir."
From above, Corporal Ron Parsons was cleaning up on the retreat. By the time Parsons had to reload again, he had racked up eight confirmed kills. Specialist Tim McManus was broadcasting the whole scene play-by play from his spotter's scope:
"...and Parsons caps another one! I'll tell ya, folks, once that boy gets hot he just does not cool down! Here's Gus Reynolds, the wily veteran, spinning around his cover, he looks like he's got one, here's a grenade to make sure...iiiiiit's...CAUGHT! I don't believe it, the Grunt caught the grenade! Whoops, heh-heh, looks like the Grunt didn't read the play right. Turns out you're supposed to throw the grenade BACK from whence it came. Boy, he'll feel that one in the afterlife. Here's McHale, making a bold move at a Jackal, is that a...yes, folks that's a melee attack from behind. I believe he's gonna get a penalty for that. Unecessary roughing is the call from upstairs. O'Shea racks up another, ooooo, right in the brain box. The Cap's got more headshots than a modelling agent, HI-oh!"
The Minutemen finally ran out of targets after fifteen minutes of engagement. The battle wrapped up in a stirring victory for the Minutemen. A few new Minutemen, not older than 17, got up from their cover and started walking down the street, rifles pressed against their shoulders, firing at will at the exposed backs of the enemy. "That's right!" One young Private yelled, "Tell your friends! No one fucks with the Minutemen! No one fucks with Boston!"
O'Shea walked from his position and sat down on the fender of an incapacitated car. He took off his helmet and reached into a chest pocket on his tactical vest. Gus Reynolds sat down next to his old friend as O'Shea pulled out the package of Big League Chew. O'Shea passed the victory pinch of gum to his old militia buddy as they listened to the young Minutemen crowing in the direction of the fleeing Covenant. "No one fucks with Boston!" Another young Minuteman yelled.
"Looks like they already fucked with Boston," Reynolds noted, gesturing to the battered city, chewing away. It had been two years since the Covenant had invaded Boston, and the Minutemen wondered what the Covenant still wanted with the city. While Boston held more universities and colleges than any other city on Earth, Reynolds doubted the Covenant were after the brain trust of humanity. The Minutemen had been searching for the Covenant's motivation ever since the invasion. All they knew now, though, was that the Covenant were intent on destroying everything. On days the Covenant felt motivated, a fog of destruction, dust, and noise filled every path through Boston. On clear days, though, the jagged outlines of decimated skyscrapers still wafted smoke and dust. Banshees still twirled around the city in dangerous orbit. Reynolds had seen the classic post-apocalyptic movies. They had all grossly underestimated the damage.
Boston had been a doomed city. In the big picture, small cities like Boston didn't stand a chance of help, reinforcement, or rebuilding. In fact, small cities not unlike Boston were being used as very big bait for Covenant. Reynolds and O'Shea had heard the rumors: the UNSC and ONI were drawing the Covenant to the cities, then nuking the entire location. There was no warning, no way to evacuate. There was no way ONI would give the Covenant time to follow humans out. The war had gotten to the point where massive civilian casualties were acceptable. To ensure the survival of the species, some must be sacrificed. What was the point? What was the goddamn point? Reynolds wondered to himself. In what could be called the only just war ever fought, the tactics and reasoning were so unbearably barbaric that Reynolds wondered at times what was worth protecting. Of course, the cities weren't. His friends and family were. Everybody's gotta die sometime, he thought. I just gotta take out as many as I can so more can survive. That, he concluded, and die before the Captain bites it. I am not explaining his death to his wife. He snapped out of his existential funk to O'Shea leaning back against the car, saying, "Yep, it's a gorgeous day."
"Few and far between, sir." Gus replied.
Captain Jack O'Shea playfully slapped Reynolds on his helmet. "One day at a time, Gus, one day at a time." O'Shea reassured Gus. Reynolds' spirits were lifted. As long as men remained to defend and fight for what was right and should be protected, he would be right beside them.
"Chalk one up for the good guys, old man. Not bad today. Buy you a drink?" Gus asked.
"I still own the only bar in town, and you got shitty credit there," O'Shea laughed, "Looks like I'm buyin'...again."
O'Shea looked over to Ibanez and his staff, duitifully patching up two militiamen who caught Ghost shrapnel and pieces of concrete in their arms. Ibanez was letting the two new medics get their hands on some minor action. It wouldn't be long, O'Shea knew, until those two new medics would be arms-deep in some real action, and it wouldn't be pretty. O'Shea had lost exactly 49 men during the invasion: some for heroic reasons, others for stupid errors. Each time was hard. O'Shea didn't bother with letters. He saw every girlfriend, wife, father, and mother when they came home. Gus is right, O'Shea thought. The good days are few and far between.
O'Shea pulled out a picture of the first squad of Minutemen from the same pocket as the Big League Chew. They were smiling and confident, thirty-odd men from all over the former state, united in a cause bigger than any of them. Each and every one knew what they were fighting for, and that helped. Took us this long to find something that brings us together, O'Shea thought, staring intently at the picture, and now we're dying off like goddamn insects. In the picture, a few dead Covenant bodies were spread out among them like hunting trophies. They were gathered around the near-obliterated statue of John Harvard, a common tourist attraction in the city when aliens weren't running around drilling civilians in the face with plasma. The Covenant had had some fun with plamsa scarring the landmark, O'Shea remembered. The Minutemen, the picture proved, laughed last.
O'Shea was taken from the memories in the past to the events of the present as he looked up to high-fives and arms around shoulders, soldiers ecstatic in a rare victory. Better to savor the blessings of today. No casualties this time, O'Shea thought. That certainly was rare. Not bad. Not too damn bad at all.
Reynolds took the picture from O'Shea's hands. "Better leave that one out of sight, Cap," he said, putting it back in O'Shea's vest pocket. "You look like hell in that one." There was humor in the horror, and hope where the destruction was greatest. As long as there were Minutemen to protect her, O'Shea knew, Boston would continue to endure where buildings and monuments had failed.
The two got up from their rest and walked to the center of the street. "Minutemen!" Captain Jack O'Shea called out over the Com, "On me!" Time to relocate, O'Shea thought with a new sense of purpose. The Militia got up from their position and joined their ranking officers.
From the top of the old apartment building Parsons and McManus attached secure holds to the top of the building and began to rappel down the facade. Between swinging descents, the two snipers looked out along the street. The building they were rappelling from was the end of a cul-de-sac at the end of Commonwealth Avenue. The scampering grunts and one remaining jackal were specks as they retreated in haste down the road and out of firing range.
"Figure they'll tell on us?" Parsons asked.
"Grunts aren't known for their memory, if remember correctly," McManus replied. McManus was smart, everybody knew, incredibly smart. "But that one jackal...he worries me. How come you didn't get that one, ace? Padding your stats with grunts?"
Parsons took out his combat knife and faked at McManus' rappel cord. McManus shot him a disapproving look. Parsons nodded his head at his partner, jerking his chin up at McManus and smiling out of the corner of his mouth. "Shut the fuck up and tell me the score."
"Today you were...ummmm...Two Ghosts, three jackals...maybe nine grunts."
"Maybe?" Parsons asked.
"They all look the same to me." McManus said. Parsons almost fell to the ground from laughing.
Harry McHale joined the assault de-brief on the left side of the street. The group was sitting on the front stoop of a house, slapping high fives and showing off items they had taken from the Covenant. Assault team members didn't have the longest life expectancies, so they took as much fun as they could get in between combat. "Yo, McHale, what'd you get?" A new recruit asked. McHale reached into the cargo pocket of his pants and pulled out an odd-looking bracelet.
"Hey, Harry, I know you enjoy the cross-dressing every now and then, but seriously dude, florescent purple is just so not your color." The assault team dissolved in laughter until Harry put on the bracelet and flexed his arm. Instantly the Jackal's energy shield powered up and flashed to life, covering a square meter and a half in front of McHale. The assault team took a step back.
"Holy shit, that is AWESOME!" The wise-cracking young Minuteman cried out.
"Way to make my needler look like shit, McHale." Another Minuteman called, and threw a rock at the shield. It bounced off harmlessly. McHale laughed.
McManus and Parsons hit pavement one hundred meters from Reynolds and O'Shea. The two snipers sauntered up to the commanding officers with a confident swagger. "Good shooting, Parsons," O'Shea said, returning the snipers' salutes, "McManus, couldn't have done it without you. Good heads up calls over there. You're in line to jump up a few spots."
"Sir, thank you, sir." The two snipers replied in unison.
"And thanks for bringing back McHale," Reynolds added.
"Sir, he saved our asses back there; I think he ought to be recommended for something." McManus replied.
"I'll recommend him for a drink any day, sir." Parsons said. Parsons knew McHale was due for a promotion, and today was most likely the day. It would take place tonight under a shower of beer and whiskey, and tomorrow the Minutemen would fight hungover. O'Shea owned and operated the only bar in the Boston area, the Last Line of Defense. It was underground, armored, and a hell of a good time. After all, life was short and every day coming home was the best party the Minutemen ever had. The Irish guys loved it. Even Tonsi was known to throw a few back and croon IRA anthems with the Connor brothers. Hanging above the door to the bar was a sign worn from use and many slaps from confident hands on the way out. It read, "Shoot fast. Shoot smart. Good to go in sixty seconds." It hung right next to another sign that read simply, "Covenant Suck."
"Good job nonetheless," O'Shea said. "See any new homes from up there?"
Tim McManus had taken notes on the outlying structures as he had prepared to rappel from the building. There were several structures that had been of interest, especially geared to Parsons' style of shooting. One building down the street even had an entire roof. That was a luxury these days.
"There's a few sir," McManus said, "and we absolutely cannot stay in our old haunt anymore. It's about half as tall now. Had the structure been at full height, sir, there would have been no Covenant survivors."
"Well," O'Shea said, "if that building was still intact the Covies would never have tried to take this street."
"True, sir," Parsons said, "but what McManus is trying to say is that we're significantly outnumbered. We're trying to maintain stealth here, we probably stayed too long, and now this whole area is compromised." To illustrate his point, Parsons turned and swept his hand across the dead end section of Commonwealth Avenue as he spoke. As soon as Parsons' sweep was over, the building the two snipers had inhabited exploded with incredible force. A shockwave spread out down the street.
From the foursome's position in the middle of the street, it looked like the building had been a dormant volcano and had suddenly erupted. What remained of the top of the building shot upwards to the late afternoon sky in a high arc while the middle and lower sections rocketed outward in a shower of concrete and steel. Large sections of the building crushed cars and plowed into sides of facing buildings. Some Minutemen standing next to the building instantly disappeared, buried in rubble. Commonwealth Avenue was no longer a cul-de sac; it was a long narrow road with a minor roadblock, and the Minutemen were exposed on both sides. The blue-tinted explosion left no doubt as to the attack's origin: the Covenant were back to finish the job.
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