LEGAL DISCLAIMER: MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from Call of Duty 4:Modern Warfare and Modern Warfare 2 are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision – not mine. A big thank you to everyone who brought those games and characters to us, and for letting me take them on a joyride.
A/N: As always, thanks so much for your reviews – they mean a lot. A big shout-out to my beta Sassy Satsuma for dialogue help and for so cheerfully putting up with me! Also, thanks to my son for his explanations of cigar smoking and cigars in general. I wouldn't know; they all smell like ... uh ... they all smell the same to me. ;-)
Updated 9/8/2013
They stepped into a large room with rows of long tables, which were full of men chatting, laughing and tucking into platefuls of food. Price's ears perked when he heard that some of the chatter was in English. This was especially interesting coming from some of the shaggy-haired, bearded men dressed as Afghans. A few quieted at the sight of the British stranger and began muttering among themselves, stealing glances at Price. Others took no notice, and Price pretended to do the same as Nikolai led him over to a particularly boisterous table.
It seemed they were having a pretty good story, because it was punctuated by loud Russian speech and bursts of laughter. The distinctive odor of clove cigarettes hung around the group. The men quieted and began to disperse with Price's arrival, to reveal the storyteller and a familiar face: a burly, ginger-haired, bearded man wearing jeans and a blue half-zip fleece pullover.
Kamarov – should have known. Like a bad penny.
Along with his attire, Kamarov's grooming no longer complied with any sort of military regulations. His beard was not so neatly trimmed as it had been in the past, and his hair had grown thick and wavy, the curls just brushing his collar.
He always was a lucky bastard.
Nikolai gave Price a knowing look as he clapped a hand on his arm. With a nod and the beginnings of a smile, he took his leave to join the group of Russians who had been calling him from across the room. They welcomed him with bear hugs and slaps on the back, and fell into loud animated conversation.
Kamarov's face fell when he saw who was standing next to him. "Price!" He rose from the table he had been sitting on. "How are you?" he asked softly, his expression earnest as he greeted his old acquaintance.
"Been worse. Why is everyone looking at me like that?"
"You've been worse," said Kamarov with a wry shake of his head. "But you've looked better."
Seven shades better. "Don't remind me."
Kamarov gestured toward the table. "Please – you must be hungry. Sit down and have something to eat."
That sounded pretty damn good to him. He was ravenous, and couldn't remember the last time he ate. As he settled himself into a chair, a groan escaped him.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'll be fine. Just a broken rib or two. Nothing to do but be miserable for a while."
Kamarov shot him a penetrating look, but switched gears with a short laugh. "You mean ... more miserable than usual?" He proceeded to cheerfully shout across the room in Russian.
After a few minutes of sipping of his now-cold coffee, a dish of hot stew and a slab of flat bread was set down in front of Price. Kamarov's face cracked into a grin as he watched Price tear into his meal.
"You eat like a starving dog, man ... or a -" his smile faltered as he caught himself.
"A prisoner?" Price asked pointedly around a mouthful of food, ignoring the sting of his split lip.
"Da," Kamarov replied after a moment.
Some of the nearby men grew a sudden interest in other things, and Price watched them attempt to look casual as they moved away from the scene. Kamarov sat beside him, sipping his own cup of tea as he continued to watch Price gobble his food.
After he'd finished, the Russian pulled a cigar from the front pocket of his pullover, and with eyebrows raised, offered it.
With an appreciative grunt, Price accepted, his reply automatic. "Spasibo." Imprisonment had been an effective teacher, though his Russian vocabulary never got far past elementary phrases and some very basic swearing. If Kamarov was surprised by it, he showed no sign. He produced a cutter, clipped off the cigar's cap for Price and waited patiently for his slow rise from the chair.
They walked past the group of sentries, some armed with RPKs, others with AK variants. Their clothing was an amalgam of Russian combat boots and gear, tactical vests, and the baggy Afghan shalwar kameez. The men nodded as they passed. Once they were outside the entrance to the compound, Kamarov waved to the nearest machine gunner, who was leaning on sandbags next to a DShK. The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a thin stream of smoke as he waved back.
Noticing Price's reaction, Kamarov grinned and said, "It might be old, but not too old where it counts."
That got a brief smile out of Price. "Heh - aren't we all."
The sun was setting, deepening the shadows in the rocky mountainsides. A star twinkled in the purple dusk. Though the air was still warm, the breeze held the promise of an evening chill.
Taking out one of his clove cigarettes, Kamarov snapped open a lighter and lit it, then lit Price's cigar. They both took a drag, and exhaled slowly, watching a hawk wheel high above them as their smoke was stolen by the wind.
"A base like this has few secrets, but it's even worse than I thought," said Price. He used the act of smoking to mask his dismay, trying to shrug off the specter of humiliation clawing its way to the surface.
Kamarov's tone was apologetic. "Your escape from Petropavlovsk was remarkable, my friend. Few men make it out of there," he paused. " ...intact." His eyes hardened as he followed the hawk's flight. "A great many of us were sent there to rot. You remember Kolya, Anatoly ... did you see any of my men?"
Price caught the flicker of hope in Kamarov's eyes, and lowered his own to the ground as he spoke. "No. They were sure to keep me isolated. I rarely saw anyone else." A white lie. Though they had kept him separated from the general population, he had caught glimpses of some of the Loyalist prisoners, whom, since their arrival, had been rendered somewhat less recognizable. Kamarov was better off not knowing about it.
"The reputation of that place is well-deserved." The tip of the cigarette glowed, reflecting momentary embers in Kamarov's stony gaze.
Price blew out a mouthful of smoke. "Committed to the tower to await Makarov's pleasure," he said sarcastically. "The last day I was there, I thought it was my last day on Earth. The prodigal son himself was about to arrive, and when he did, they'd be sure to take their time. You know I couldn't allow that to happen."
Kamarov's eyes were drawn to Price's fingertips gripping his cigar; some of the fingernails were still growing in.
"No," he said. "But here you are. I saw you come back from the dead once already. Now you've escaped death again. Seems you still have some unfinished business with the living."
"Yes, I do at that," Price replied, his voice almost a whisper. He took a pull on the cigar and let the spicy smoke curl from his lips. The hawk dove to earth and rebounded, the body of a rodent twisting raglike in its talons.
For years Kamarov had very much been one of the 'friends like these', to the point where it had become a running joke in the Regiment. The fateful day five years ago had changed that.
"I'd thought I was standing over your body," said Kamarov. "You were pale as a ghost, not moving at all except when Kolya pounded on your chest. 8:35 am — that's when he and Anatoly almost gave up on you — almost. It took all their skills to keep you alive aboard the helicopter, and even after that… " He studied his cigarette for a moment. "Doctors said it was a miracle." A small smile. "They don't know you like I do … and your friend's almost as bullheaded as you are. When we loaded him onto the stretcher, I told him he would be all right, but truthfully?" Kamarov shook his head. "He was barely breathing when we found him. So much blood on his face, could hardly tell who he was. Thought for sure he'd lose that eye." He took another drag. "How is MacTavish?"
Price was more than happy to change the subject. "Doped up to the gills at the moment, but we'll see how he does when some of that has worn off."
They stood for a few minutes, smoking in silence, until Price could no longer contain the questions that consumed him. "So how is it that a group of Russians can hole up in Afghanistan, surrounded by neighbors that would just as soon kill you in your sleep? And don't tell me that they just think you're Chechens."
The corner of Kamarov's mouth tugged upward, and he nodded. "Ah," he began, taking a breath but stopping midstream. It was getting cold, and Price was shivering in his thin shirt. "It's something of long story. But come," he stubbed out his cigarette. "Let's get you some warmer clothes, then I'll show you to your quarters and we can can talk about it. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to remain in the infirmary?"
"Thanks, but no thanks. Soap will be all right, and I've had quite enough of those places. Just set me up with a bottle of painkillers – or a bottle of whiskey – preferably both and I'll be fine."
Kamarov chuckled. "That's what I thought you'd say."
They stopped by the infirmary to pick up Price's belongings and look in on Soap. Fast asleep in his nest of blankets, tubing and wires, he was completely oblivious to the medics examining him and the surrounding equipment.
Enjoy it while it lasts, mate.