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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 13
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 13 February 2005, 6:49 PM
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 13
53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through the Covenant invasion of Earth
Morning/Afternoon
Captain Jack O'Shea had once heard a saying when the insurgency against the Covenant started two years ago. "It is better to light one candle than curse the darkness." Well, O'Shea thought as he sloshed along in Boston's underground sewer system, I've lit my flashlight, and it's not doing a god damn thing. I feel free to curse the darkness. The Captain could see the cone of light coming from his Battle Rifle's attached flashlight, it was as if the darkness itself was suffocating his light, ringing it with blackness. He swept it along the walls of the sewer, bulging tiles and rusting grates showing indications of water damage after two years of neglect. Jack was confident the tunnels would hold, though. The Captain was moving quickly, and he was reasonably sure of how far they had gone, but he had little idea of just how much time had elapsed since he and the four other Minutemen had found a manhole two hundred meters up the street. They had been lucky then. Now O'Shea found himself wondering how long their luck would last.
Jack found himself being too careful. Checking around corners one too many times. Jack knew where it was coming from; it was coming from doubt. Not the paralyzing doubt that had struck him on the street battle before, but it was a constant reminder every time he ordered his men forward into an area he had not personally checked before. It was holding them back, and there was at least one life depending on him to be efficient with time. Jack had to remind himself there was a wounded Marine behind him, carried via stretcher; and that he had a time limit on his life. O'Shea took a knee as he removed a laminated, waterproof map out of a cargo pocket on his urban camouflaged trousers. The two assault Minutemen behind him moved ahead at either end of a T junction and peeked left and right. The medics crouched behind O'Shea and kept the stretcher aloft over the dirty sewer water. O'Shea looked behind him and motioned to the ranking medic.
"How we doin'?" He asked quietly.
The medic looked down at the Marine and frowned. "Could be better, could be worse. Let's not get lost."
"No shit," O'Shea replied, and turned his attention to the map. The intricate network of sewers would have looked intimidating to the casual observer, but this was O'Shea's city. He prided himself on knowing every bit of it, even the less glorified parts. O'Shea took a small sniff of the air. It wasn't horrible, since the city had not had a working sewage system in two years, and only occasional heavy downpour came through the sewers now. That did not mean, however, that the smell had dissipated entirely. O'Shea resolved to breathing through his mouth, and also noted to clean his boots thoroughly when he got home. He moved up between the two Minutemen, and beckoned them to him.
"Taking this right," O'Shea said, illuminating the map with a smaller, hand held flashlight. "And following the tunnel dead-on for two-zero meters, then we get to an armored door."
"Threat level?" The Minuteman to O'Shea's right asked.
"Minimal, but don't switch off your lights, either." O'Shea said.
"Sir," the other Minuteman chimed in, "what if there's one of those invisible Elites down this tunnel?"
O'Shea shook his head. "We've already come far enough. If there's one, lob a grenade so that you don't catch the shrapnel. But," O'Shea added, "I think we've come far enough, and after that explosion ten minutes ago, I'm pretty sure we won't be seeing Covenant on our way home."
"Music to my ears, sir," The Marine said.
"On me," O'Shea said to the medic behind them. "I'll take point."
Ten minutes ago, O'Shea had been stalking along the tomblike sewer system when a resounding boom sent silt and other residue out of the ceiling and shook several tiles free from the sewer walls. The two Minutemen ahead of O'Shea had spun around in all directions and dropped to one knee, uttering exclamations of surprise as softly as they could in the dark environment. The noise faded behind them as the entire team remained perfectly still. Jack had stopped mid-stride and lowered his head. Despite losing COM contact underground, he had a very good idea what had caused that explosion and what had been at stake when it went off. The leader of the Minutemen had seen Tonsi tinkering with his vest before the Minutemen had gone off on missions, and while he had expressed reservations about a ready-made explosive device coming out to battle almost every day, Mahmoud would never let it be otherwise.
Jack's mind drifted to a scene almost a month ago as the Minutemen started walking to battle, and the Captain had finally put his foot down.
"Tonsi," O'Shea had said, standing in front of the smaller middle-eastern man, "not today. That's an order."
"This goes further than you know, sir." Mahmoud had said. "My order for this comes from higher-up in the chain of command."
At that moment one month ago, Seamus Connor had walked by, M90 shotgun over his shoulder, and slapped Tonsi upside the helmet. "Ah, he ain't gonna fuggin' die on my watch, Cap," the Irishman had said, arching his red, bushy eyebrows. "Trust me, I'm gonna give it me 'All-ah'."
The Captain and Tonsi had both laughed at the horrible pun. O'Shea recalled how he had put his hand on Mahmoud's shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. "You're never going to have to use that," Jack said seriously, more a father-figure than a commanding officer.
"Insha Allah, sir," Tonsi had replied, a warm smile on the man's face. God willing.
As the explosion had faded, The Captain shook his head slightly. His last act Jack had thought. Must have been for a good reason, but dammit, I didn't even get a chance to say good-bye. The Captain's head had hung with regret for a second as he said a silent prayer for his friend. He had looked up, and looked into the eyes of his weary Minutemen. Their eyes showed grit and determination, but they looked to him for hope.
A distinctive snap of a chemical light being cracked snapped Jack back into the present. The two Minutemen were on either side of a rusted door, and one Minutemen had cracked open the chemical light to get a better look at the large slab of metal. O'Shea blinked in amazement. Had I been that absorbed in my thoughts? Jack thought. He shook his head briefly to clear it, then checked behind him. Both medics were behind O'Shea, safe and secure, but the ominous darkness was too thick for the Captain's liking. He pointed to one of the Minutemen, then gestured to the medics. "You've got rear guard," he ordered. The Minuteman gave a soft "Huah," and sloshed over to the medics, taking a knee and probing his light into the darkness. The Captain pulled out his map again.
"Here we are," O'Shea said optimistically, stabbing a finger into the map and showing it to the other Minuteman. The other Minuteman cocked his head sideways to see the map and his brow furrowed. He did not share his commanding officer's good feeling.
"Sir," The Minuteman said uncertainly, "this leads to the subway tunnels."
"That's correct, Private," O'Shea replied, working on the door latch. A large padlock stood in the Captain's way. He frowned at it, as if the lock would understand his predicament and fall apart under his stern gaze.
"But sir," the Minuteman continued, "aren't the Drones attracted to the subway tunnels? The Marines say they kinda 'nest' there, and they get awfully angry when you walk in."
"They used to." Jack said nonchalantly, almost smiling. He knew where this was going.
"Well what happened, sir?" The Minutemen asked. At the conclusion of his question, O'Shea brought the butt of his weapon to bear on the lock. The flimsy, aging metal broke easily, the metallic jangling echoing down the sewer. The Captain put his hand on the door's substantial handle and turned it. Jack looked at the questioning soldier.
"We stumbled on a solution, actually." He explained. "The Connor brothers were fooling around, and suggested jokingly that we try a common substance. We employed it, and I actually think the Marines are using it on a much larger scale now."
"What did they suggest, sir?" The young man asked.
O'Shea chuckled audibly to himself. "Have you ever heard of 'Raid'?" The Captain asked, and flung open the door.
Even though Jack was opening the door from one small underground tunnel to another, larger underground tunnel, the shift in lighting was almost blinding to the Minutemen. O'Shea found himself turning away and shielding his eyes briefly before quickly turning left out the door and clearing the immediate vicinity. The closest Minuteman was right behind O'Shea and peeled to the right, weapon at the ready. Even though Jack knew they were only thirty or so meters from home, he knew that you could be killed thirty meters or thirty kilometers from your home; distance did not matter. O'Shea heard a whispered, "Clear" behind him, then beckoned for the medics and remaining Minuteman to come out.
O'Shea noticed the medics had hurried out the door rather quickly. They were handling the stretcher bearing the wounded Marine much more gently, however. He also read their faces and saw concern etched across their features.
"A problem?" O'Shea probed.
The ranking medic nodded. "He's starting to slip, sir. With respect, are we there yet?"
O'Shea pointed forward into the darkness. "Thirty meters," he replied. "Let's move it. Minutemen," Jack called to the two soldiers bearing weapons, "on the quick! Let's go!"
The surviving Minutemen did not sprint to the camps, but they went at a very fast jog. O'Shea took point as the other two Minutemen followed on his left and right in a wide tactical wedge, the beams of their flashlights sweeping back and forth, constantly scanning, always alert. Finally, O'Shea glimpsed hope. On the right side of the subway rails, a door appeared. No one but O'Shea would have seen the door, since there was no knob, no handle, nothing to indicate the perfectly smooth tile surface of the tunnel was anything but. O'Shea had recognized the grouting used to fuse the tiles around the edge of the door, specifically, the wider amount of grout separating the tiles from each other. O'Shea halted suddenly, and he could hear the sounds of cloth, loose metal, and boot soles as the two Minutemen came to a quick stop behind him. The Captain quickly traced his hand down the seemingly invisible frame until he came to the bottom tile. While all the other tiles were a variety of whites and dull greens, O'Shea had found the one tile in the entire tunnel that was a muted red. The captain pushed on the top-right corner of the tile and the bottom-left corner flicked out. Jack turned the corner to the right and exposed a small gray switch.
"This is some covert stuff, Cap," one of the Minutemen said behind O'Shea.
"Yeah, if you tell anyone, I'll have to kill you." Jack muttered, and flicked the switch.
Without a sound, a four-foot by six-foot door opened into another smaller tunnel, this one lit by several red lights, looking like a maintenance access way. The Captain stepped back, and waved the Minutemen through. The two hustled in, followed closely by the medics and the stretcher. O'Shea gave a quick scan around the tunnel before replacing the tile over the switch. He went to close the door but took one more moment to take a second look. Nothing moved, only a faint dripping sound indicated the movement of anything in the tunnel. O'Shea, finally certain that they had not been followed, closed the door silently as he took one last look at the light at the end of the tunnel. The end of the day, Jack thought. Finally going home.
The small tunnel bathed the five Minutemen in red light. The tunnel itself could barely hold two soldiers walking abreast, so O'Shea found it a little inconvenient to wiggle past the stretcher and the other two soldiers, but eventually he made it to another small door. The Captain took off his helmet and leaned his head down next to a stainless steel door with a tiny circular grate and a pulsing red button. The Captain turned his head and got the attention of the group.
"Don't make a sound," O'Shea instructed. "I've never seen what happens when someone gets the code wrong."
Jack cleared his throat, and pushed the pulsing red button. A small tone sounded, almost echoing in the deadly silent tunnel, and O'Shea spoke slowly and clearly. "Captain Jack O'Shea," he said, and paused. "Sinn Fein." One of the Minutemen cocked his head to the side, not understanding as the door slid upwards.
"Shin Fain?" The Minutemen asked, pronouncing the words as he had heard them.
"A small joke from the Connor brothers," Jack said as he put his combat helmet under his arm and ran a hand through his short hair. "It was a political party in Ireland. It means, 'Ourselves, alone.'" The Captain walked through the doorway and into the artificial light, inhaling a deep breath. It smelled like recycled air, assorted laundry cleaning products, sweat, and a vague hint of Cedar wood from ammunition crates. It smelled glorious.
The three Minutemen who had been in combat walked slowly out of the tunnel as the medics hustled to Ibanez's field hospital, shouting at refugees to get out of the way. One of the Minutemen who had made the journey with O'Shea sat down on the ground, exhausted. "No place like home," he said. Jack blinked his eyes slowly and rubbed them, his body aching for rest. He watched the medics balancing the stretcher as they entered the large white structure in the middle of the camp. To call it a tent was a bit of a misnomer, in truth, it was more like a giant inflatable cubicle with white plastic walls about seven feet high, but it was still referred to as a "tent." O'Shea watched the medics enter without incident, and a few of the civilians who had volunteered as medical assistants quickly joined to do their part.
The Captain's team had entered the underground compound from a little-known side door, meant only for emergencies, and had so far gone unnoticed. The underground compound had once been a bustling underground subway station, called "South Station" by Boston residents. It had gone through thousands of renovations in its history, but never one like the Minutemen had masterminded. It had never been designed to hold thousands of refugees, and a fully functioning militia on top of that, but we made the best of a bad situation, O'Shea thought with a small smile of pride. Of course, other branches of the Minutemen were spread along other subway stations in the city, and it had been a miracle of engineering and camouflage to convince the normally thorough Covenant that the structures were abandoned and dangerous to inspect.
South Station had managed to keep its high ceilings, but the stained glass domes that usually cascaded colorful light on the floor had been blacked out, insulated, and soundproofed to prevent detection. Still, it kept the claustrophobia at bay. The lighting was bright enough to keep people from feeling the symptoms of seasonal depression, and the lights were always extinguished at regular times in the day to keep the civilians on regular sleep cycles. The main station that O'Shea was standing in had two rail lines running through the middle, parallel to each other, the field hospital in between. The double-decker commuter trains served as officer's quarters and Minutemen offices. Jack looked at his longingly, wondering if his wife was at home or performing one of the myriad of duties that the refugees carried out simply to survive. The Captain stood in a corner of the giant square among wooden crates stamped with the mark of the UNSC. The crates were stacked high with ammunition, weaponry, and equipment; bounty of either recovery or scavenging.
Refugees who had been milling around the camp had just noticed that Minutemen had entered the compound, and had started gathering in groups, gossiping and pointing at the wounded Marine's armor. Jack realized the medics were the first soldiers they had seen in the last few days, and that their team, despite having a greater distance to travel, had arrived first. Not a good sign Jack thought, concerned. O'Shea realized that the survivors of the street battle, if there were any, had not yet gotten home. It disheartened him. He had prepared his heart and mind for the loss of Tonsi, and the death of Seamus seemed like a given with Tonsi's. But Parsons and McManus...Jack threw down his helmet in anger, startling the other two Minutemen.
"What's the matter, sir?" One of them asked their irate leader.
"Get to the COM hub, try and raise any of our guys in the field." O'Shea ordered.
"Huah, sir. Anything you need, sir?"
"I need to get to the hospital and help the medics."
"Suit yourself, sir," the Minuteman said, tucking his helmet underneath his arm and saluting the Captain. "We'll find the rest o' our boys."
Forty-five seconds later, O'Shea was surprised to walk into a hand, palm up in the "halt" signal. A short, balding man in scrubs looked up at the Captain and talked plainly to him. He always did this.
"Can't let you in, Jack," the man explained, pointing at a curtain drawn across an operating table. The man looked at O'Shea's bloodstained and dirty uniform, urban camouflage paint streaked across the Minuteman's face. "You're not sterile, to say the least."
O'Shea looked down at the man. He meant well, Jack knew. The tired Minuteman sighed. I don't have time to fuck around, Jack thought wearily. He pushed the medical assistant to the side, saying, "I've walked through the fucking sewer to get this Marine here. I intend to see whether he lives or dies, and there's little you can do to stop me."
Jack turned back the sheet and took in the small conference over the Marine's body. The Marine lay on his back, blood leaking out of his stomach as the medics worked on a large hole in the man's torso. The two medics had medical aprons over their BDUs, the aprons sprayed with red in random areas. They wore sterile gloves over their bloodstained hands, masks over their mouths, and clear plastic goggles that had tiny spots of blood stuck and slightly streaking down the face of them. Apparently he had missed the dramatic opening act. A heart monitor pulsed over and to the right of the Marine's head, and the two Minutemen medics were manipulating tools with amazing speed and precision as tired as they were. They banter like Parsons and McManus, Jack thought to himself as he listened to them work. Just another old married couple. They seemed to be having a debate about how best to conclude the operation.
"...yeah, take that parabolic-"
"Oh you are not going to do that."
"If you see a better way around the liver, now's the time."
"Have it your way..."
"Hold on to that. O.K...suction there. Goddammit, keep that lung inflated, we're going to lose even more blood."
"He's at one-oh-three. Heart rate accelerating."
"I know that. Don't you think I know that?"
"Yes! Isolated the bleeding! Get that artery there!"
"Where?"
"Over there! I swear to God-"
"-Got it. Keep up, man."
"One more clamp...there! Nurse, patch that, please."
"Touchdown, big guy. Bet you're proud of yourself."
"I'd like to thank the Academy."
"Ahem." O'Shea cleared his throat audibly as the two medics exchanged a high-five. The two immediately turned on their heels and faced the Captain. "Not exactly standard operating procedure, men." O'Shea observed in a serious tone, his helmet under his arm as he returned the medics hasty salute.
"With respect, sir," One medic said, placing shiny metals tools on a used surgical tray, "you should have been here a few minutes ago. Things got...hectic, sir."
"What's his condition?" O'Shea asked, making way for the medics as they began taking off their gory outerwear and leaving the post-operating procedure to the nurses. O'Shea traveled a short distance across the field hospital to the cleaning station. O'Shea noted how the medics traveled the entire distance with their hands in the air, not touching anything. They even turned on their sinks with their elbows.
"He was suffering from some serious internal bleeding, sir," The ranking medic reported matter-of-factly. This was his first report to the Captain, and he wanted to make a good impression. "Broken Tibia right leg, Ulna left arm, both compound fractures. Spleen got pretty banged up, too. Two broken ribs on impact, punctured a lung after the Pelican crashed, looks like. Had we been later by about fifteen minutes, sir, he would have been out of reach. He took up a fair amount of our remaining blood supply, though."
"We'll organize another drive." The Captain replied. "How long will he be out?"
"He's a tough kid," the other medic said, shutting off his sink, his hands clean at last, "but he'll be combat ineffective six, seven weeks at least. Out of bed in two weeks...maybe. I'd start training him on the COM center. Low physcial stress, plus we found a lot of mechanical junk on his person. Looks like a tech to me."
"That's good news," Jack agreed. He clapped each medic on the shoulder. "Well done, men. You guys hung tough out there, and you saved a life. No shit, hell of a good job out there. Get some rest. When you wake up, I want a report of that Marine's status on my desk."
"Huah, sir," The two medics replied enthusiastically. The Captain noted that they responded well to praise. He noted that in the back of his head for future missions. "You want to be there when the Marine wakes up, sir?"
O'Shea had just reached the flap of the hospital. He turned to face the two medics. They had read his mind. "He's going to have a lot of questions when he comes to," Jack nodded, "I intend to fill him in personally. He's going to want to know what happened to his fellow Marines."
The COM center was the central nervous system of what was left of Boston. The center took up an entire car of the converted subway trains, and housed every piece of electronic hardware the Minutemen could scavenge. Small wireless cameras transmitted closed-circuit feeds of well-known Covenant positions to the myriad of screens; there were at least a dozen workstations lining the converted subway car's walls, each giving off sounds of random transmissions, both military and civilian. This was the way the other refugee camps coordinated their efforts and the Minutemen earned their legendary nickname.
Twenty-four hours a day militia and civilians monitored the COM channels and kept tabs on the enemy, there was even an oblong holograph war table on the second story, which functioned as a makeshift war room for the Minutemen. O'Shea and some of the original Minutemen had recovered that personally from the old Boston UNSC post. The only thing the COM center lacked was a decent AI, and, Jack thought to himself as he entered, any kind of lighting. I can't see a goddamn thing.
"How're we doing?" He asked the two Minutemen, both working diligently in their workstations. Both Minutemen and the four civilian operators stood and saluted the Captain. The civilians didn't have to, but Jack let them feel included. Made them feel more part of the team, which they were. O'Shea trusted those men with his life.
"Sir, Master Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds has reported in with five other Minutemen, two wounded, but moving fine. ETA three minutes. He reports no pursuit, sir."
"Understood," The Captain confirmed. "Call up whatever medical volunteers you can. Make sure they get seen right away. Anyone else?" Jack asked expectantly.
The young Minuteman dropped his eyes to the floor, he shook his head very slightly, then returned his gaze to his commanding officer, searching his eyes with a desperation the young Minuteman had never seen before.
"Marines? Snipers? Anyone?" O'Shea could feel his heart rate increasing.
This isn't fair.
"...Nothing yet, sir." The young militia soldier replied softly. "We're still scanning channels. They might be too deep underground to reach, Captain." O'Shea knew the men were trying to offer up some kind of hope to their Captain, but Jack saw through the optimistic language.
"Understood." Jack said evenly. "Keep searching until the Master Gunnery Sergeant arrives, then you two are dismissed for the day. Go see the ones that are looking for you. Put their minds at rest." This isn't fair.
"Yes, sir." The two replied in unison. One suddenly found the courage to speak after a brief strained silence. "Thank you, sir. Without you, I'd have never gotten back to see my folks, or my girl."
O'Shea opened the door to leave the subway car. "It's my job," Jack said absent-mindedly, his thoughts dragging behind him as the door slid to a close with a sigh.
As soon as the Captain of the Minutemen reached the safety of his private quarters, he dissolved. The confident, brave, sometimes crazy leader of all those left behind became nothing but a man who had seen too many of his longtime friends die in front of him. He could feel his strength and endurance fail as the door slid shut behind him, the darkness of the ground level floor closing in on him as the interior lights shone dimly to compensate for the closed blinds. He could hear the voices of all the men he had commanded. He could see the pride in a Marine's face as he volunteered to be left behind, to become nothing but target practice for cannon-wielding Grunts. He could see the murderous precision of the tank-boarding Marines, the selfless acts and booming voice of Harry McHale, the wide smile of Ibanez. All gone. Jack fell against his small kitchen sink, his elbows coming to rest at the edge of the basin, his head coming into his hands. He fell to his knees and turned, sitting with his back against the sink and his head in hands, allowing the guilt and grief to rise out of him. He sobbed like he did when he lost his children. He sobbed until his chest heaved with emotion, and his camouflage paint was smeared on his hands. He sobbed until he heard a noise on the stairs.
The soft creak announced the only reason he was still alive. Laura was here. He looked up, his face lined vertically with tears, and saw the only look he ever saw on his wife: understanding. Her face, framed with short dark blonde hair to her chin, showed compassion and sorrow. She showed worry and overwhelming relief. Her husband had returned. Jack got up as quickly as he could as she fairly skipped down the remaining stairs, their bodies colliding in an embrace that exploded with a release of tension, all anxiety was pushed from their minds. O'Shea left his grief on the floor. His wife, his joy, his life, was in his arms.
She pulled away from the embrace, the right side of her face smeared with the blacks and grays of her husband's "war paint". She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with happiness.
"You're late," she said, fake exasperation choked back with tears.
"Traffic was a war zone," O'Shea smiled; his doubt, guilt, and grief melting away in the safety and happiness of the moment. He held her tighter, lifting her short, slight frame off the floor. They both laughed for a second before they embraced again, tears of joy running down their faces, their lips pressed against one another's, days of stress, fatigue, and anxiety melting away. No other person could do this, Jack thought to himself. This is what I fight for. This is my victory. After all the hardships the pair had endured together, the strength they needed was in each other, and it was in never-ending supply.
The Captain picked his wife up, strength suddenly returning to his body. She gave out a surprised scream, laughing happily at the return of her own emotional strength, and playfully slapped O'Shea's shoulders. The Captain dropped her on the counter of their small kitchen, and ran a hand along the side of her face. She kissed his wrist and smiled, looking into his eyes. Jack's mind wandered for a lustful second, admiring how his wife still remained fit after two years of remaining mostly underground, then he looked deep into her eyes. Grief had left. Sorrow had left. Pain, guilt, and anger, all gone. His wife took up his entire world. "Wherever I go," Jack said, whispering in the quiet of their small dark kitchen, "I will always come back to you. Always." He kissed his wife slowly, his faith fully restored. He needed no further proof that this life was worthwhile, but someone wanted to give Jack a little extra.
"
You know, I've read it's quite healthy for older couples to maintain their...um, intimacy."
"Naw, Cap ain't old; he's just 'grizzled.'"
O'Shea turned quickly as two silhouettes covered the narrow space of the subway car. There, standing in the doorway, was Corporal Ron Parsons, leaning against the door to the subway car with his arms across his chest; bright blue eyes and shaggy blonde hair above a wide grin and day-old stubble. Tim McManus, though he spoke first, stood behind his commanding officer, left hand in the pocket of his flak jacket, right hand bringing a bottle of beer to his lips. Tim winked at the Captain, and toasted the couple silently with a point of his bottle. Both snipers looked like they had walked through Hell and back, pistols still holstered at their hips, uniforms still ragged, faces still painted in urban camouflage. Despite their physical appearance, though, both faces were bright and happy at the sight of their Captain alive and well. Parsons looked like he was about to burst with joy.
Jack and Laura O'Shea laughed out loud, Laura draping her arms over Jack's shoulders. Jack stared at his two snipers and spoke in mock-anger.
"This a violation of officer's quarters," O'Shea said, barely able to suppress his smile. "I'm going to have you two brought up on charges!"
"Well, fuck, Captain," Parsons said, matching O'Shea's voice with mock-horror. "I didn't see a 'do not disturb' sign up!"
"He wouldn't have listened if you had, sir," McManus laughed, punching his partner in the shoulder.
The Captain turned and took the Corporal's hand in a solid handshake. "Good to see you, Corporal," O'Shea said with pride.
"Good to see you, sir." Parsons replied, the grin spreading even wider across the Minuteman's face.
As McManus entered the room, the doors closed and Laura adjusted the lights to fill the room with comforting light. It covered everyone in a healthy glow, and even the battle-hardened Minutemen took on a soft edge in the Captain's quarters. Jack shook hands with McManus and clapped him on the shoulder as Parsons kissed "Mrs. O'Shea" on the cheek. The two pairs separated briefly, and for a moment, Jack took it all in. He felt overwhelmed. His woes had been left on the street, to decay with the bodies of the Covenant. His Minutemen, what were left, had survived to continue to defend the city. They would fight again another day. The Covenant had been dealt a serious blow, and there had been sacrifices made to make sure of that. Yet as Captain Jack O'Shea looked at the scene in front of him, all he saw was triumph.
"This is what we fight for," he said to the three in the room. "This is victory."
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