LEGAL DISCLAIMER: MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games.
This story is an AU. MacMillian is dead; Operation Kingfish never happened.
Contains graphic language and violence. Apologies for any military or Russian language mistakes
*Original post 10/11/2012; updated 9/30/2016*
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Price wheezed, trying to keep up with Kamarov, his pain fading into the familiar background of fight-or-flight. Sergei, Bogdan and a couple of other Loyalists had joined them, AKs in hand. The alarm continued to blare. Red lights flashed along the ceiling, bright dots connecting the thick line of ductwork and fluorescent lighting that formed a spine for the curved steel beams of the corridor. Now, as their boots pounded the gray concrete, the wall's evenly spaced warning signs seem to flash at them with increasing urgency as they passed:
ВНИМАНИЕ…ВНИМАНИЕ…ВНИМАНИЕ…
When they all burst into the operations room, Price wasn't sure what was more disconcerting: the Predator feed on the video screens, or the fleeting glances he caught from a couple of the shaggy Delta operators gathered around them – just before a look from Buzz caused them to turn their backs again.
"What do we have?" said Kamarov, between breaths.
Except for a few desk lamps, the room was dark. The wash of electronic light from the screens deepened the lines and shadows of their grim faces. "Apparently that terrain isn't quite so impassible after all," said Rev.
"They're coming from out of nowhere," said Buzz. All traces of his usual humor were absent, his eyes appearing gray in the spectral glow.
Onscreen, tiny white figures continued to materialize atop the steep black hillsides surrounding the bunker's HLZ, the one that Price and Soap had arrived from. Kamarov gave him a bitter half-smile. "Why do you think we call them ghosts?"
A sudden white flash in the corner of the screens curved in a lazy spiral, growing to fill them all…
Static.
"Oh look – they have Stingers," Bogdan mumbled sarcastically.
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
The black cage of the lift slammed to a stop just as Price and the others reached the top of the stairs. As soon as the door banged open, a few Russians began hefting out green trunk-sized ammo crates. Everyone had divided into three teams, one for each of the bunker's entrances. Price's group was the largest. Now prepared for battle in an eclectic assortment of clothing and kit, they jogged down the angled hall toward the twin blast doors of the northern entrance. He was still winded from their dash to the ops room. Now, between their run up the steel staircase and the heavy ceramic plates in his vest, Price felt like the life would get squeezed out of him before he even made enemy contact.
He didn't have to wait long for a distraction. Angry Russian shouting filled his headset and he heard the two Loyalist heavy machine guns open up outside, sending echoes of thumping chatter rocketing through the small valley.
Leading the pack, Kamarov suddenly halted just before the open doorway, almost causing a pileup. "We've got two men down – snipers on the ridgeline!" He threw up a clenched fist. "No - Stop!" Bursts of concrete dust marched across the floor in front of them. Everyone took a step back.
"Sounds like they've got a DshK up on that ridge too, ready to cancel our asses as soon as we pop our heads out," said Hagar. "They've got us buttoned up nicely." He looked at Sergei. "You said some of their dead had NVGs yesterday?"
Sergei nodded – everyone present had a pair of night vision goggles mounted to his helmet.
"You know, they say sunlight is the best disinfectant." Hagar pulled a flash grenade from his vest. "Close enough." He lifted his chin at the sandy-haired, bearded Delta sniper next to him. "Kurt?"
"You got it, boss," Kurt said, gripping his own flashbang in a black-gloved hand.
"So it is." Kamarov spoke some quick Russian into the radio, amid nods of approval. Men crouched against the wall, checking and charging their weapons in a flurry of clicks.
"All right gentlemen," said Hagar. "On my count, we're going to throw these nine-bangers and we're all going to hit the deck outside. We'll stay to the left. Kamarov – your boys got that?"
"Affirmative."
"Just say the word."
"Do it."
Hagar's grip tightened on the flash grenade, tribal tattoos rippling on the Delta leader's muscular forearm. He hunkered down against the wall behind him, his head craned forward and rifle ready, leg muscles tensed in preparation. His eyes flickered over the group before refocusing on the door, noticing the Americans' patches. On their shoulders they wore one depicting a flaming skull with dice, crossed pistols and four aces. A small one across the back of Hagar's helmet simply said DILLIGAF.
"Three, two, flash out!" Hagar and Kurt flung them out the doors as far as they could and ducked back behind cover.
It was like the finale in a fireworks show. The concussions pounded in Price's chest; brilliant white light strobed through the open doorway, illuminating the downturned faces of the men shielding their eyes. Then he was swept up in a stampede of boots, bodies and rattling gear, outstretched hands groping blindly forward, knocking the wind out of himself when he slammed to a stop against the jagged wall of Hesco barriers and sandbags.
Everyone quickly took up positions and began to return fire. Price pulled his NVGs into place; the world turned lime green. From the jagged heights of the ridge before them, distant muzzle flashes sparkled like fireflies, rock and steel around them sparking in response. Now that they'd managed to get outside without being shot, they had to press themselves close up against the barriers to avoid the lethal barrage pouring down them from above. Something brushed past him – the limp hand of a body being carried back to the bunker, its head misshapen, a dark trail zigzagging beneath it.
Though Kamarov's face was obscured by his own goggles, Price saw him bare his teeth, his words inciting howls of righteous bloodlust from his men before he switched to English.
"Make them hurt!"
Incoming rounds snapped overhead and thudded into the barrier in front of Price, rejoined by the roar of the enemy DshK, its gunner recovered from his temporary blindness. A rifle cracked somewhere to his left, and the DshK fell silent.
"Shitload of bad guys in thermal," yelled Kurt, his thick rifle scope to his eye. "A bunch crouching behind rocks, not moving…other guys on the ridgeline covering them."
Crack, crack – a second sniper rifle found more targets, men running to retake the DshK. "Oh no you don't," said Kurt's spotter, Jake.
Like everyone else, Price was forced to shout over the noise. "Kamarov – is this the first time they've stopped playing tag in favor of a full-on assault?"
Kamarov's voice was as cold and impersonal as the black lenses that stared back at Price. "It will be their last."
Ten meters from the bunker doors on either side and connected by the barrier wall stood two elevated plywood sangars, nestled back into natural crevices of the mountain face. Surrounded by sandbags, with a roof of canvas and camo netting, each housed a 12.7mm machine gun – the old DshK on the left, a Kord on the right. Both spouted brilliant blooms of deadly flame, raining spent brass and link in a growing pile.
Light streaked across the field to the far left corner, where a hulking shadow sat draped in camo netting. It erupted into a fireball; everyone ducked just in time for jagged pieces of rotor blade to scythe above their heads. The Little Bird was now engulfed in flames. "Bollocks," Price muttered. There goes our ride.
"Contact right!" Sergei shouted, firing. "Enemies in the open!"
Price popped up over the barrier. In some places, the hillside to their right was almost a sheer drop, yet it was crawling with movement. Dark figures - a lot more than they'd thought - dashed between cover, advancing. He acquired one of them in his sights, leading him slightly, and squeezed the trigger. Gravel sprayed his face from a near miss; he ducked back down as the man fell.
"Shit - they're down in the draw!" shouted Kurt.
Already. Price's eyes narrowed behind his goggles; he flicked his AK's fire selector switch up to full auto. The level ground on the LZ's right side fell off into a rocky depression, which terminated in a ditch within 25 meters of the Kord - good for both cover and advancement. And the men whom Buzz had so dismissively referred to as 'the Flintstones' now had them outnumbered by at least three to one.
"They know what they're doing," said Price, his voice low. His rifle tight in his shoulder, he concentrated on controlling his breathing while he scanned for targets at the edge of the ditch.
"Kurt, Jake – we'll worry about them. I need eyes on that ridgeline," said Hagar.
"Copy that," said Jake. In his next breath he dropped the sniper that had almost shot Price.
This could go tits-up in a hurry. "Air support?"
"ETA twenty minutes," said Kamarov.
The Soviet-era bunker appeared well kept. Price hoped it wasn't just cosmetic. "Are those blast doors original?" Though Price kept his eyes down his sights, he felt the robotic stare trained on him once again.
Kamarov's tone and slow, deliberate words indicated that he didn't appreciate what Price was implying. "They were replaced." Scattered bursts of gunfire punctuated his momentary silence. "I'll be damned before I let this scum chase us underground," he said. "We taught them a few lessons before, and what we have here are a lot of slow learners. By the time the gunships arrive, there will be nothing left for them." He spoke some Russian into the radio, possibly a translation – it resulted in more bloodthirsty shouts from the Loyalists.
Tangos burst from their hiding places and hopped down the slope to join the others. Price marveled at their agility. Like bloody mountain goats, they are. A few went limp and tumbled down the rest of the way, followed a split second later by the sound of the Delta snipers' shots. Then he saw what he'd been waiting for: a head popped up. The man flew backward, his rifle firing wildly into the air. Gotcha.
Price's jaw dropped; enemy fighters were swarming out of the draw.
"Light 'em the fuck up!" Hagar bellowed.
Red tracers streaked like lasers across the field. Between the echoed crack of small arms fire and the mechanical rattle of the heavy guns, Price heard the faster bursts of light machine guns, including Delta's SAW gunner, 'Mailman' Mike.
BRRT…BRRRT…BRRRRT. The onrushing horde writhed in a gruesome dance, their bodies literally torn apart in the fusillade, yet still more came.
In his entire career Price had never seen anything like it. Terrible understanding rippled through him. This was what had sent the Soviets – and the British – packing. Straight out of fucking Kipling. We have the watches, but they have the time.
Kamarov's shouting filled the radio in a heated Russian exchange, the other man's tone growing desperate. The heavy machine gun fire was now one continuous, jangling roar.
An RPG whooshed past them, blowing the Loyalist DshK and its gunners out of the sangar. The body of a nearby Delta operator hurtled through the air, landing in a heap. Price and the others were showered with hot shrapnel and gore.
"Suki!" Sergei screamed. Bogdan's GP-30 spat out a 40mm grenade and returned the favor.
Kurt scrambled to reach the American lying facedown in the dirt. The man's tattered desert camo fatigues were stained with blood, arms and legs splayed out in the unnatural sprawl of sudden unconsciousness. "Jake? We've got an eagle down!" He reached out to jostle him; Jake's helmeted head wobbled, but that was all. "Jake – come on!" He looked up, his shout faltering when he saw Delta's medic already at his side. "Terry - "
Laying a hand on Kurt's shoulder, Terry dropped his pack. "Careful!" He leaned over Jake, checking his pulse and breathing, and looked back up at Kurt. "We need a backboard!" Their yelling could barely be heard over the nonstop noise of the remaining machine gun.
Enemy dead and wounded littered the field. But for every one that fell, another took his place. They continued to rush the Kord's position, leaping over the torn bodies of their comrades.
The Kord's barrel began to glow a faint red in the dark.
"We're gonna get overrun!" Hagar reared back and threw a frag. "Keep those fuckers away from that gun before they turn it on us! Mustang two-one – how about that air support, over?"
Buzz's terse voice came back over the radio. "Working on it. Out."
For the first time, Price noticed how cold it was outside in the dead of night. Working on it? What the fuck happened to twenty minutes?
They were close enough now that Price could hear their cries when the grenade found its mark. Underslung grenade launchers - Delta's GLMs and the Russian GP-30s - sent out an even greater explosive welcome, shredding still more enemy fighters to pieces. He was able to get a good look at them now. These were young dark-haired, bearded men in baggy dark clothing with turbans and pakols to match. Some had camouflage jackets, most had chest rigs.
Past the bright white flame pouring out the front of the sangar, Price could make out the green figure of the Kord's assistant gunner, who sprayed his PKP's fire back and forth at the ditch while shouting into his headset, his mic keyed on. The man's voice was frantic. The PKP gobbled up its ammo belt and stopped. The man dropped it, drew his pistol and kept firing. His body twitched spasmodically in several directions and collapsed.
The Kord clunked to a halt.
There was a heartbeat of silence before the screaming started. It stopped just as abruptly.
"Get on that gun – davai, davai!" Kamarov shouted. His men raced to regain control of the abandoned Kord as emboldened hostiles flooded forward. Price spat out a grenade's pin. "Frag out!" Limbs flew in a dark whirlwind.
A Loyalist, Andrei, leapt into the sangar and grabbed the gun. He popped its top open to clear the malfunction while Price and the others continued to lay down a wall of suppressing fire.
Something struck Price's helmet, driving him to his knees. Blinking, he tried to shake off the dizziness, his vision hampered by the green tunnel of his NVGs as his eyes darted in search of the object, which bounced and rolled in front of him.
Something dark…oval.
"Granata! Price!" Sergei hit the ground behind him.
Time slowed down as Price dove forward to grab it. He felt it ticking in his hand. The faster he tried to move, the slower he seemed to go, and though he flung it with all the force he could muster, it took forever to leave the end of his arm. Incredulous, he watched it hurtle lazily over the barriers until someone shoved him from behind. He tasted dirt.
With a blinding THUD, a wall of dust blasted out of the Hescos.
Time was speeding back up again. He coughed and sputtered, each spasm bringing a stabbing pain in his side. A face coalesced in the green blur - Sergei's. Lips formed exaggerated words: Get. Up.
Frowning, Price gave a curt nod, turned his head and spat. His breath left him in a woof, thanks to an affectionate cuff on the back from Bogdan, who hauled him up by his vest. "Davai, starik."
Sergei's manic expression melted away. Price brought his rifle up with a snarl. The machine gun was manned once again - by the enemy.
The black-clad stranger's face lit up as he swung the Kord in their direction. He could now mow them all down with ridiculous ease. He propped one off-brand hi top on the body lying beneath him – Andrei's. Blood dripped from the edge of the wooden platform.
The end of a thin black line stood between Price's eye and the grinning face. Two AKs barked. Hot steel stung his cheek and bounced off the side of his helmet. The man toppled forward, half his head gone. His body draped over the gun for a few seconds before spilling out of the sangar to the ground. The Kord's barrel drooped, as if in disappointment.
Price allowed himself to breathe again. Acrid smoke curled into his face from the AK's open breech; it had been his last shot.
Sergei looked at him in disbelief. "Did you get him or did I?"
"Changing!" Price tilted a fresh magazine into place and yanked the AK's charging handle. "As long as that arsehole's been slotted, makes no diff - " He paused midsentence, surprised that he had a chance to form one. "You hear that?"
Beside him, Bogdan backed away from the barrier, apparently sharing Price's unease at the lull in the gunfire. His rifle at low ready, he stepped toward the small crowd of Loyalists defending the sangar.
Something flashed in Price's peripheral vision. "RPG!" He was already halfway to the ground when the explosion's heat and pressure rolled over him. Soil and debris rained down, forcing him to retreat back to the shelter of his folded arms a split second after he'd begun to lift his head.
The Kord, along with most of the sangar, was gone. Flames leapt up the splintered wood. Dazed men crawled along the ground; others lay unmoving.
"Fuuuuck! Fuck!" One of the Americans clawed at his face and flung away a piece of smoking metal, shaking his hand, his glove smoldering. Seeing a fallen Delta man, he rushed to his side. "Rerun – y'all right?"
Rerun struggled to sit up, the dark stubble of his face streaked with blood and dirt. "Goddamn it, Mike," he grunted. "We're getting chewed up out here."
Price slid a hand backward through the rubble, levering himself up with a grimace. Bogdan lay next to him, curled up on his side.
"Bodya!" Sergei was there in two pounding steps, easing him over onto his back. Bodgan's eyes were clamped shut, lips pressed together in a tight line, some of his groans escaping between shallow gasps. He was peppered with blast injuries, his ragged clothing spotted with blood. One arm was wrapped protectively around himself, just below the edge of his vest; a dark stain was spreading across the front of his shirt beneath. Sergei pried his arm out of the way. Bogdan's fingers trembled around a shard of lumber protruding from his abdomen.
Price slung his rifle behind him and moved to help, but Kamarov had already taken hold of Bogdan's opposite shoulder. "Get his legs," he said.
When Price crouched in front of him, Bogdan stiffened, his face contorted with rage. He snatched up his AK and swung it one-handed toward Price.
Price shrank away from the muzzle flashes blazing past his shoulder and whirled around to see another man in black fall, his rifle tumbling out of his hands. Bracing himself against the Hescos, he brought his own AK up and fired. One threat was gone, and three more were climbing over the ruins of the sangar.
One had an RPG over his shoulder. He was close enough for Price to see his finger jerk the trigger before he pitched forward. Close enough to see the button-like tip of the warhead flying directly at them.
A whispered "No!" was the last thing Price thought he'd ever say. But the rocket malfunctioned, veering off course. With a flash of searing heat, it corkscrewed over their heads to impact harmlessly against the mountainside, sending a shower of rocks across the bunker entrance. His nose wrinkled at the smell of burning hair – his own.
He turned back to see the man's body hanging headfirst over the barrier, propped up by the empty RPG tube like a human sign pointing to chaos. The air was thick with smoke, accompanied by an orchestra of gunfire, yelling in several languages, and screams of pain. Injured men were all around him, some being dragged to safety, while others staggered back under their own power. Those still fit to do so opened fire on a fresh wave of enemies.
"It's like a goddamned clown car! How fuckin' many of them are there?" Mike's SAW felled half a dozen, creating a tangle of bodies.
"We're not going to last much longer out here," said Hagar, dropping several others with bursts from his HK416.
Price's AK added more bodies to the pile. "Let it go, Kamarov." What a load of bollocks that must have sounded like, coming from him. The black tubes of Kamarov's NVGs regarded him again – it seemed to agree, and begged a silent question: can you?
Sergei's goggled, helmeted attention swiveled between Price and his commanding officer, then back down to the wounded friend lying in his arms.
Kamarov's mouth twisted in some inner struggle, until he turned back to his men. "Fall back to the bunker!" He twirled a hand in a circular gesture. "Fall back!"
"Thought you'd never ask. Popping smoke." Kurt tossed the hissing canister toward the sangar, leaving a plume of red smoke in its wake. He took a knee to steady himself and brought his rifle to his shoulder, ready to take full advantage of his thermal sight. He fired twice, three times.
Bogdan clutched at the impaled object in his belly, pedaling on unsteady legs as Kamarov and Sergei dragged him backwards. He continued to fire one-handed bursts until his AK clicked empty and he sagged into their arms, his rifle clattering to the ground. Another Loyalist ran to pick up his feet, and all three rushed him inside.
More rockets shot through the smoke but didn't hit anything; they had been fired blindly. Kurt sent a few rounds back at them – not as blindly. No one else could see them fall, but they could hear their screams.
"Let's go, let's go!" Hagar waved at the men who had paused to fire while others continued to retreat.
A buzzer sounded behind Price, followed by a hydraulic hiss. Light flashed on the ground around him; shadows leapt and shrank. It was the rotating ceiling light just inside the entrance - the blast doors were closing.
Kurt swung his rifle up and ran for the doors. Mike's SAW covered them with a burst as the rest of the wounded were taken inside, then he followed.
Price threw another grenade. The explosion looked like lightning in the clouds, briefly exposing shadowy outlines of men in the smoke.
Kamarov was somewhere behind him, screaming his name. "Price! Come on!"
He looked up to see a man crouched atop a Hesco, towering over him. A fold of his black turban was wrapped around his nose and mouth, exposing only the set of fierce dark eyes that stared down at Price over the barrel of an AK-47.
"Price!"
A hole appeared between the two eyes, then a trickle of blood. The dead man's blank face loomed in his as Price was yanked backward and ushered through the narrow opening between the doors. Kurt stepped out of his way, his smoking rifle in his hands.
Kamarov was right behind him, squeezing his bulk sideways to get in. Price flipped up his NVGs, returning to a world of full color. Now that everyone had raced inside, the huge red steel and concrete doors were closing with agonizing slowness. That, the rotating red light overhead and the yellow-and-black hazard stripes framing the doorway gave Price a sense of déjà vu. He remembered Gaz's words to him about a very similar set of blast doors, the cockney accent clear in his head: You can pull on them, sir, if it makes you feel better.
This was a hell of a time for a stroll down memory lane. Price almost smiled – even in death, Gaz was still being a cheeky bastard.
The space between the doors was no longer wide enough to admit a man. Kamarov stood in the doorway, sending 7.62 rounds and Russian obscenities through the shrinking gap, bullet strikes sparking around him. Empty casings rolled and bounced at his feet. The wide-eyed phalanx behind him lowered their weapons, barely able to catch a glimpse of the gathering enemy presence outside, much less do anything about it.
A bullet snapped past Price's head; concrete chips stung his face. Kamarov jerked backward as if being driven by an invisible hammer, his arms flying up. Another unseen blow spun him violently around, his face frozen in silent agony. He crumpled, and as Price leapt forward to catch him, the others were peeling away in a dead run. Kamarov's falling body revealed a man outside with an RPG.
A bright flash, heat and deafness; tiny red-hot needles. The floor slammed into him.
The red light went out. The bunker's audible alarms had been silenced, and the noise coming from outside – the rattle of AKs being fired into the air, the victorious shouts of their enemies - was cut off when the two doors finally met.
BOOM.
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ВНИМАНИЕ (vnee-MAN-ya) - ATTENTION
Davaĭ [Давай] – let's go/come on
DILLIGAF – Do I Look Like I Give A Fuck
Hesco – Name of the manufacturer, Hesco Bastion, and synonymous with its product, the Hesco concertainer. A folding wire mesh cube lined with plastic fabric that is filled with dirt and used to stop things like flood waters – and bullets.
Suki [суки]– bitches
Starik [старик] – old man
The inspiration for Delta's shoulder patch is the 'Dealer of Death' helmet sticker from the Australian biker site Bikerbits.
Price's Kipling reference is to the poem The Young British Soldier. Most Americans, including myself until recently, have never heard of it. Then again, before CoD4 most of us never heard of the SAS. ;-)
Original A/N: This chapter is quite overdue, I'm afraid, despite the fact that I've probably spent more time writing over the past few months than ever before. I wrote the story's ending, now the trick is to actually get there. Those upcoming challenges I mentioned? This was one of them. Its subject matter made it the most difficult to write, hands down. Though I do try to do my research, a healthy suspension of disbelief is still recommended - a bit of dramatic license is present. Apologies for any (unintentional) military or Russian language mistakes…and for famous last words about chapters arriving sooner. :-/
Much love to my busy, bestest beta, Sassy Satsuma. When I'm dipping my toe in unfamiliar cultural waters with Price, she makes sure I don't get in over my head. I'm most grateful for that, and for the delightful conversations re: plot and our headcanons.