Massaging the back of his neck, he swivelled around on his chair. Escapades like the ones suggested were waste of manpower, resources and time that could be used in a more productive manner, but his words fell on deaf ears. At least he had the leverage in the fact that Colonel MacMillian was a seasoned veteran that worked with Price and was more than willing to back his suggestions up. Getting up, Soap cracked his neck and nearly moaned at the feeling. He needed a good cup of strong, black coffee before he beasted the next person to piss him off. Grumbling, he set off into the cookhouse.
Task Force 141 had its own, state-of-the-art bases stationed all over the world. Where Shepherd got all the money from - he didn't know. He sure as hell wasn't going to complain about the accommodation though. Fully operational training rooms with brand new DCCT area; billets fit for a 5 star hotel; well equipped gyms; cookhouses that were open 24/7, and even a bloody SPA facility! As he walked by, Archer greeted him with a nod and he reciprocated. Personally, MacTavish thought they didn't need all that fancy stuff, but in foresight, they probably deserved it. After spending weeks on missions(if lucky - the ops could take months and years even) it was good to come back, relax and eat food that didn't taste like dog treats. Shepherd kept them all happy and that's all he cared about.
Strolling into the cookhouse he grabbed an apple, a stirstick and a few napkins, which he unceremoniously stuffed into his pocket. Then, he walked over to the cook.
''A strong black coffee, mate. Cheers.'' said Soap and leaned against the counter, waiting for his precious brew.
''You look like a sack of shit, son.'' a voice beside him stated. Not even bothering to turn his head to look at he speaker, Soap snorted.
''Coming from you, I'll take it as a compliment,'' he rubbed his hand across his face. ''But being your mate sure is pricey.''
''Psh, you're still a muppet after all...'' Price teased. ''Also: your puns are sickening! What the hell got your knickers in a twist, eh?'' Picking up the coffee the young cook passed him, MacTavish finally faced his old mate and took a sip of his brew.
''REMFs, intel and plans of action on Makarov.'' Price almost winced at the exhausted tone of Soaps voice. He couldn't say, however, that he didn't know how the younger man felt. He himself has often dealt with civilians, overly hopeful tacticians, self-righteous pricks and downright moronic commanders. Luckily, since the SAS was an elite force, they didn't get many of those. They were responsible for themselves and due to the nature of their work, were excused from the public. Unlike the regular branches... Hah.
''Look on the bright side, mate. At least you didn't get assigned to do a PR report'' he stated. ''Back in my day-'' he began, before getting cut off by Soap. ''Yeah, yeah old man. Back in your day I was the FNG and you weren't ancient.'' Soap snickered behind his cup at Prices' disgruntled expression.
Price leveled Soap with a serious look. ''All right, you muppet. How did the meeting go? Did we make any moves against he Ultranationalists?'' He questioned. Now, all traces of their previous good mood were gone and instead, both men looked somber. Stealing a look at the preoccupied cook behind the counter, MacTavish jerked his head in the direction of his office. They left the cookhouse and walked in an easy silence. In the meantime, the younger of the two sipped on his coffee, savouring the taste. He fucking loved coffee. Price glanced at Soap. The youngster has grown so much since their first encounter. Seemingly oblivious to Prices' staring, MacTavish bounced the apple he took from the cookhouse in his hand. If Price ever wished for a child, he'd definitely wish for somone like Soap. Said man raised his eyebrow at the older captain. Why the intense scrutiny? Did he really look as shit as Price said he did?
''You know, Price...'' At the sound of his name, the man instantly snapped back to the present. ''You could just take a picture. It'd last longer.'' Realizing he's been caught staring, Price cleared his throat awkwardly. Great. The muppet has even become more observant these days.
''I was just... thinking. You know, Soap-'' He was cut off as Ghost burst out of MacTavishes' office.
''Captain Price, Captain MacTavish.'' The Lieutenant began, his voice clipped, not even bothering to salute his superiors. Rules were lax in the 141, so no-one bothered with formalities. ''We have new intel on Makarov's movements. It's bad. Really fucking bad.''
Both Captains exchanged a knowing look. If Ghost was openly nervous, then shit either already hit the fan; or was about to.
Price narrowed his eyes. ''Alright son, calm down. What the hell is going on?'' Before Ghost could reply, however, MacTavish was in front of him.
''How about we get into the office first, eh? I'm sure Shepherd will appreciate it if we keep classified information classified.'' the trio walked into MacTacishes office and settled down.
Soaps' office was simple, clean and organized. The room itself was painted neutral, with white walls and a black lionelum floor. In the middle of the room was his desk with two metal chairs in front of it and a leather chair behind it. On the desk there were the usual - non-classified files, pens and pencils and a stationary computer. As much as the room was strictly professional, Soap had two pictures on the desk: one of his parents' and him, and one of the TS141. He wasn't a sentimental guy, but he wasn't heartless either. Rather, he liked to keep his life private and away from the prying eyes of his enemies. As elite soldiers, even their relatives and friends were at danger, therefore a lot of the times, the families couldn't even talk to their sons, brothers or husbands. Harsh - yes, but OPSEC was important for the armed forces. Even moreso for the special forces.
Settling back behind his desk, Soap downed the rest of his coffee. God knows he would need the hit. ''What's the SITREP Ghost? Make it quick.'' Nodding, the masked man took out a USB stick and plugged it into the pad he was carrying in his jacket.
''Makarov is underground, but we got a whiff of one of his accomplices.'' With a flick of a finger, a photo of a gaunt man appeared. Save for the tattoos under his eyes, he was an unremarkable man. Brown eyes, short cropped hair and an average face. ''Vladimir Akhremenko. Intel states ex-KGB, but other sources also point towards Spetsnaz.'' Riley shrugged. ''Guy was clearly a hot shot. Ain't gonna be easy, taking him out.''
''KGB and Spetnaz?'' Soap frowned. ''Guys like him are bloody sworn to the government, so just how the hell did Makarov manage to recruit him?'' KGB operated as the main security agency for the Soviet Union, until its collapse in 1991. It's main functions were combating anything remotely anti-Soviet, gathering any foreign intelligence and acting as the secret police. These guys were as pro-government as you get. So, why did a man like Vlad let himself be recruited by Makarov, of all people?
Ghost continued. Price watched. ''From what we've caught out, Akhremenko is pretty independent when it comes to Makarov. Only giving the intel he wants to give. Apart from that, he does a pretty good job supplying Makarov's rebel forces. Doesn't seem like he's scared of his boss, but is complacent. And doesn't seem to have a motive of his own.''
Price's eyebrows shot up. ''Somehow, I just can't believe an ex-KGB and Spetsnaz turned terrorist, has no motive of his own.'' he leant forward. ''Isn't there any background info on our friend?''
''None, sir. That's the problem.'' Soap swivelled on his chair. This was getting complicated.
''Makarov is after a coalition with the Iraqi rebels.'' Riley started, suddenly looking nervous. Price and MacTavish exchanged a confused look. ''And somehow, he managed to get his mitts on WMD's.''