Bering Straight

SAS Helicopter, 22nd SAS Regiment

October 2011, Day 1

A storm raged above the churning sea, lightning and thunder claps echoing throughout the helicopter. Soap Mactavish sat in the back, jittery and anticipating the moment to come. His first real operation with the 22nd Regiment had become, and the men were solomn, most keeping to their own thoughts. Among them were Price, Gaz, Wallcroft, Griffin, and Mitchell. Two pilots sat quietly in the front, focused on the task at hand. Price spoke over the roaring waves and rain.

"The package is aboard a medium freighter. Estonian registration number 52775. There is a small crew and a security detail on board."

Gaz instantly perked up, ready with the question that everyone had been pondering since early that morning.

"Rules of engagement sir?"

"Crew expendable."

Price flicked open his lighter, quickly lighting a cigar. He smoked it contently, closing his eyes for a moment, before a new voice rang through all their earpieces.

"Hammer Two-Four, we have visual on the target, ETA sixty seconds."

"Copy Two-Four."

The pilots had announced it, and sure enough, it was there. Looming in the ocean, an abstract, industrial ship, foreign and bright. Spotlights shone from it, huge cargo crates stacked high across its deck. Price leaned out the window, taking in the sight. It was magnificent, and deadly. In about fifteen seconds, they would be carving through the ship in a live fire operation, engaging Ultranationalists in a firefight. Soap's heart was beating hard, and his stomach lurched as the chopper leveled into position. Price flung his cigar out into the storm, a small trail of sparks evaporating into the night. He pulled down and fastened his breathing apparatus, and Soap quickly followed his example. Flicking the safety off his MP5, he stood.

"Lock and load," Price's voice came through smoothly on their secured radio channel.

"Go, go, go!" Hammer Two-Four, the chopper's pilot's callsign, rang directly after.

The rope fell to the deck below, and they dropped.

"Weapons free," Price said calmly.

Soap took only a second to recognize enemy uniforms behind the windows of the bridge. In unison, the SAS raised their weapons and opened fire, silenced rounds piercing the windows. The men dropped, blood spraying as they fell. Price was quick to command them towards the door, then kicking open the metal door with ease.

"Bridge secure. Gaz, stay in the bird till' we secure the deck, over."

"Roger that."

"Squad, on me!"

Soap followed the Captain closely, a feeling of security washing over him as he knew he would be following this veteran soldier. They worked their way downstairs, and Soap rounded the corner. A man stumbled around the corner, clutching a bottle of liquor. He slurred drunkly in Russian.

"Drop him!" Price hissed, and Soap put three rounds into the soldier's chest.

"Last call," Price said.

Soap entered the room of the drunkard, finding two men asleep in their bunks. Knowing they would only be a danger if awakened, he quickly unsheathed his knife, driving it into each of their throats, silent kills.

"Good night," Mitchell said, satisfied at Soap's performance.

Soap felt glad he could impress the men, but a little woozy at the thought of stabbing the sleeping men.

"Forward deck is clear, green light on Alpha, go!" Hammer said, and the men rushed out into the raging storm.

XxXxXxXxXx

London, England

Kirkland Residence, Arthur Kirkland

October 2011, Day 1

England poured a cup of tea, biting his nails in worry. He knew it was a nasty habit, something that America would do, but he couldn't help it. He was worried. The radio on his counter echoed commands and hushed voices, the 22nd SAS Regiment voicing their mission. Of course, Baseplate had given him the radio channel.

"Fan out, three meters spread."

England glanced at the radio as the rough British voice of John Price played from it. Normally, he would fight alongside his men on important operations, but America, for some reason, had insisted he stay home. It had almost sounded protective of him, if that was possible. Though England regretted his choice to stay home, he still felt the need to keep close to his own people, especially when nuclear devices were concerned.

"Got two on the platform."

"I see them."

England bit his nails, awaiting the results.

"Tango down."

He breathed a sigh of relief, and dribbled a bit of honey into his tea, stirring it gently with his spoon. He took a sip and closed his eyes, leaning back in his dining room chair. A loud knock at the door made him jump, spilling a bit of tea down his front. He cursed loudly, then went to the door, wiping away the burning liquid as best as he could. The knocks repeated, and England grumbled, a bit annoyed. It was eleven at night, after all. To his surprise, France stood on his doorstep when he opened it. France was smiling that annoying, carefree smile, and England's expression darkened.

"Go away, I'm doing something important," he said, already shutting the door.

It met resistance as France blocked it with his foot, then eased his way into the manor.

"Angelterre, I had no idea you were into that kind of thing. Of course, if I were to join..."

"Bloody perverted frog, that is not what I meant! Why are you here?"

France smiled innocently.

"Just dropping by. My flight isn't for another few hours, and I wanted to see if you were alright. You seemed stressed at the conference, and I know the war is worrying you," he said, placing a hand on England's shoulder.

He ducked away and smacked the Frenchman's hand, before grumpilly replying.

"Why do you care so much? This conflict doesn't even involve you. Besides, I'm fine, it's America you should be worried about. He's sending in fifty Marines tomorrow afternoon, it could be dangerous..." England trailed off, a look of worry crossing his face.

"You're worried about him?" France questioned, a bit surprised.

"No! I just don't want to be dragged into something bigger because of him, that's all," England was quick to reply.

France's expression softened.

"He's tracking down Al Asad. He told me so himself, on his way out. Apparently he's going with them."

England gasped. America would be fighting alongside his troops tomorrow? Of course, they always fought with their men, though not for this kind of conflict. It was just a small operation, to secure a small coastal town. Why would America go with the marines?

Just then, a loud crackle erupted from the radio, the distinct sound of machine gun fire. England's eyes widened and he sprinted to the kitchen, leaving France and listening intently to the radio.

"Hammer Two-Four, we've got tango's on the second floor." It was Price.

"Copy, engaging."

The crackle of gunfire was completely drowned out by a loud buzzing, the sound of clanging metal, and distant shouts.

"Bravo six, Hammer is at bingo fuel, were buggin' out. Big Bird will be on station for evac in ten."

"Copy Hammer. Wallcroft, Griffen, cover our six. The rest of you, on me."

"Roger that."

France realised what 'something important' was now.

"Angelterre, you need to relax. Your SAS is the best, they will be fine."

England was surprised. France, complimenting him? Comforting him? Maybe this Ultranationalist War was bigger than he thought.

"Come on, sit. Have any coffee?"

XxXxXxXxXx

Bering Straight

Ultranationalist Freighter, 22nd SAS Regiment

October 2011, Day 1

Soap fell into position quickly, watching in amusement at the small conversation that took place before him. Gaz, decked out in a full stealth suit, slung his MP5 on his hip, and fluently pulled a shotgun from his back, pumping it.

"I like to keep this for close encounters," he said, aiming at the door in front of him.

"Too right mate," Corporal Mitchell said, nodding.

"On my mark... go!" Price said, opening the door.

Price warned them to check their corners, moving carefully through the close hallways.

"Check those corners!" Price said harshly as Mitchell carelessly rounded a corner without a second thought.

They moved down the metal stairs, when footsteps and voices met their ears. Soap turned, catching movement in the corner of his eye.

"Movement right."

The moment the warning was given, a bullet panged off the wall next to Soap's left shoulder. He spun and ducked behind the railing, then swiftly raised his weapon. When he caught the movement through his sights, he fired three round bursts, confirming his kill as a spray of red filled the air at the end of the hallway. The others of the 22nd fired as well, taking down their targets swiftly.

"Tango down."

"Hallway, clear!" Price said, as they moved along the dark corridor.

Soap stepped over a body, grimacing at the sight of bullet wounds in the man's chest, a look of slight surprise permanently etched into his face. A sickening splatter of blood coated the wall, a single bullet hole at its center.

"Standby, on my go," Price said.

Gaz peered around the corner of the next door, and a line of bullets shot up. He whipped his head back, cursing quietly.

"Flashbang out, go," Price said, tossing the concussive grenade.

A bright light was visible from around the corner, and the spray of deadly bullets stopped. Soap rounded the corner, quickly taking in his surroundings. They were in a large room with many cargo crates, with two high catwalks on either side. They stood on the left catwalk, looking down on three men. They shielded their eyes, and one stumbled, grasping for something to hold on to. Soap fired again, and the stumbling man dropped. The others were greeted with a few well placed shots by Gaz and Price.

"Squad, on me," Price said, moving down the stairs, not even glancing at the bodies.

"Forward area clear."

"No tangos in sight, move up," Mitchell said.

The only path was a small one, around a tight corner of stacked crates. Soap had a constricting feeling in his chest. It was the perfect spot for an ambush.

"Keep it tight," Price warned.

Soap crouched slightly, then moved. Almost instantly, a loud battle cry echoed through the ship, and an Ultranationalist flung himself around the corner, a gleaming, silver pistol aimed right at Soap. Soap charged him, shoving him to the ground and ramming his knife into the man's heart, the pistol banging against the floor and sending off a deafening shot. Blood was rushing in Soap's ears, and he resheathed his knife, cursing. Gaz patted his back, and Soap nodded at the reasurrance.

"Gaz, right side," Price ordered.

"I'm on it."

They moved in formation to the next door.

"Stack up," Price said, and they prepared for another fight, reloading and checking their bullet counts.

Gaz kicked the door in, and they quickly moved up the stairs to their left.

"Movement right."

More tangos were running across a far catwalk. The room was very similar to the first. It was a bit of a longer shot, but they kept moving, avoiding the many bullets sent their way. They returned fire quickly, and the enemy fell, silence taking over once again. Soap could feel his heart pounding. They quickly moved, catching sight of an open door, the last room directly ahead.

"One ready," Gaz said.

"Two ready," Mitchell spoke.

"Three ready," Soap said, preparing himself, as bullets had already begun to fly from the doorway.

"On my mark-go!"

XxXxXxXxXx

London, England

Kirkland Residence, Arthur Kirkland

October 2011, Day 1

England hadn't realised that his knuckles were white as he clutched the table, listening to the tell-tale sounds of battle. Distant gunshots and even the loud crack of a grenade could be heard through the radio. France sat at his side, his hand resting on England's. He didn't even bother to remove it. A million thought's ran through his head. If the 22nd found a nuclear device on board, this whole conflict could turn into a whole new thing. With nukes in the picture... the war may not end well.

"They will be alright mon lapin. Don't fret," France said, but was quickly shushed by England.

A particularly loud gunshot vibrated through the radio, and England gulped.

"Tango down. Report, all clear?"

"Roger that."

England relaxed a bit, until he heard a small, repetative clicking noise in the radio.

"I'm getting a strong reading sir. You might want to take a look at this," a young man was speaking, though England wasn't sure who it was.

He heard a metal door swing open, and the clicking grew louder.

"Hmm. It's in Arabic." The familiar voice of Captain Price was there now.

"Baseplate, this is Bravo Six. We've found it. Ready to secure package for transport."

England eased back in his chair, deeply relieved by the victorious report. France stood.

"I'd better go. Will you be-"

"No time Bravo Six. Two bogies, headed your way, fast. Grab what you can and get the hell out of there."

England shot up in his seat, his head suddenly very focused.

"Fast movers. Probably MIGs, we'd better go."

"Soap, grab the manifest in the container, move!"

England's stomach sunk. He couldn't lose the 22nd, they were the best he had. If the Ultranationalists were going to bomb their own ship to stop the SAS, then this war was getting out of hand, fast.

"Alright, everyone topside, double time!"

Price was hurrying them. England had met the man once, and had never imagined he could get worried. But he sounded it right now.

"Wallcroft, Griffin, what's your status?"

"Already in the helicopter sir! Enemy aircraft, inbound! Shit-"

With that, a loud bang literally shook England's radio, and he shot up and shouted, "NO!"

XxXxXxXxXx

Bering Straight

Ultranationalist Freighter, 22nd SAS Regiment

October 2011, Day 1

"Bravo six? Bravo six, come in, what's your status?" The panicked voice of Big Bird was pounding in Soap's ears.

One moment, there had been a huge crash, and the men were thrown to the ground, a large explosion tearing through the ship, and the next, they were laying in a foot of sea water. Soap had hit his head on the metal floor, and his ears were ringing. His headgear had taken most of the impact, but it still dazed him.

"Shit! What the hell happened?"

"The ship's sinking, we've got to go, now!" Gaz shouted, scrambling to his feet.

Soap tried to hoist himself up, but the water just made him slip. He saw Captain Price stumble towards him, yelling into his microphone.

"Big Bird, this is Bravo Six, were on our way out. On your feet soldier, we are leaving!" Price shouted, grabbing Soap's arm and pulling him up.

They ran, up the stairs. Water was pouring in through the walls and the ship was listing horribly to the left. It was sinking fast. The entire freighter was falling apart, chunks of metal and cargo crates slamming loudly into the far wall. A section of wall burst open and the ship lurched violently, throwing the men to their knees.

"Back on your feet, move!" Price roared.

Soap stumbled through the waterfall of ocean water, spitting out the salty spray. The catwalk vibrated under his feet, and another huge bang sent them to their knees again. Soap quickly pushed himself forward, as the catwalk began to rise.

"It's breaking away!" Gaz shouted.

"Let's go, come on, come on!"

They ran fast, slipping and stumbling on loose metal and water.

"Watch the pipe!"

A large pipe burst open and collapsed near Soap, who moved his head just in time.

"Talk to me Bravo Six, where the hell are you?"

"Standby, were almost there!

"Which way's the helicopter?"

"To the right, to the right!"

Soap narrowly dodged an air conditioning unit that was sliding across the hallway floor, as the ship was now leaning in the opposite direction. They ran out onto the deck, rainwater pouring down, thunder and lightning seemingly more vicious than ever.

"Keep moving!"

"Where the hell is it?"

Soap could feel himself slowing down. He urged himself to run, but his legs were on fire, and the rainwater didn't help either. Then, it was there, the helicopter hovering so valiantly at the crest of the sloping deck. He saw his teammates, one by one, stepping into its safe clutches. But the freighter was tipping, and so was Soap. The back of the chopper was a foot away, then three, then five.

"JUMP FOR IT!"

Soap lept, soaring through the air. The world seemed to stop around him, and his chest slammed into the slippery metal. He grasped the chopper, but his legs were hanging out, and he was sliding backwards. He yelled for help, desperately trying to gain hold of the soaked surface. Just as he was sure he would fall into the relentless, deadly ocean, a hand grasped his wrist tightly. He looked up to see Captain Price.

"Gotcha!" he said, pulling Soap into the chopper.

"Were all aboard, go!"

"Roger that, were out of here. Baseplate, this is Big Bird. Package secured, returning to base, out."

Soap just lay there, breathing heavily, staring out at the sinking ship. That was one hell of a first operation.

XxXxXxXxXx

London, England

Kirkland Residence, Arthur Kirkland

October 2011, Day 1

England sat back, dumbstruck. Moments ago, he had nearly lost an entire squad, and the Ultranationalists were transporting nuclear weapons. The news was likely to piss off America beyond belief, and only make him want to take down Al Asad faster.

"France, I think America and Germany should know about this. Could you pass me my phone?" he said.

"Oui, mon ami, here you go," France said, a bit concerned at England's tone.

"On second thought, could you grab me some aspirin while you're up? Third cupboard, left side," England said.

"Oui, take these and call them. What's your next move?"

England held up a finger, and shushed him.

"Yes, I need Baseplate, right away. Thank you."

There was a pause.

"Ah, hello, this is Kirkland. Thank you. I need a status update on our Russian informant."

"You have a Russian informant?" France asked, quite intrigued.

England shushed him, and a look of horror crossed his face.

"Wait, slow down! What the bloody hell is wrong with Saudi Arabia? Hospitalized, what- I understand, get the 22nd on the phone right now. They're going to Russia."

England hung up, then turned to France with bloodshot eyes.

"What's wrong mon ami?" France asked, worried now.

"They killed Al Fulani."

A/n: Exactly one week! I plan to update every Friday, though if I am in a creative mood I will go faster :) You can all be sure to see our good friend from the Modern Warfare series in the next chapter, and the war only grows more deadly! Also, should I add an OC of Saudi Arabia? Any pointers? Review and you can hug Soap!