The events that day, while many years ago, were also present in the mind of Vladimir Makarov himself as he stepped out onto a small tarmac runway in an airfield just north of Istanbul. Klossovsky had spent that day trying to convince him to board a plane without telling him exactly where the destination was going to be. It was a proposition so suspicious that it bordered on ridiculous, and had anyone else asked him it, he would have laugh at how thinly veiled the trap was. Yet Makarov's curiosity got the better of him when the words were uttered by Klossovsky's mouth. The former President was a desperate man, with his own troops now under another man's command, fighting a civil war of which there would be no victor.

This time it mattered not whether the Ultranationalists or the Loyalists came out on top on the field of battle. The Americans were going to invade no matter whom it was that ended up in the Kremlin. Even if Klossovsky did double-cross Makarov right now and deliver him to them himself, it would change very little, as Vladimir had merely been a catalyst, and removing him would not remove the plain facts that Vorshevsky had reacted to his attack by invading America, all but destroying major cities and spilling endless blood. Killing Makarov would do nothing except add yet another statistic to the hundreds of thousands who had fallen already. War was inevitable unless somebody took far more drastic action.

"Now we are here, Vladimir, I can tell you of my little idea." Klossovsky announced. "In the hangar to your left is a small private jet registered to a good friend of mine, who just so happens to be quite the higher up in the current Russian government. That, my friend, is our easy ticket back to Russia."

"Why the hell do you want to go back to Russia?" Makarov asked, his arms folded and his gaze still untrusting. "Into the lion's den? We won't last five minutes. Everybody there will know our faces."

"I want to go to Russia because something I cannot obtain anywhere else is waiting for us there." Klossovsky answered. "As I have said before, I have something you need if you want to win the war before it starts. Something to not only remove your old friend Vorshevsky from the seat of power, but to also shock the Americans into cancelling the invasion."

"I'm listening. When we met in Morocco, Klossovsky, you spoke of removing Moscow from the map. I'd like to know how on earth you plan on achieving that."

"I'm sure you do." Klossovsky shot a fiendish grin back at Makarov. "I have given it much thought myself. There are so many ways of doing such a thing, but personally, I would rather see my beautiful city still stand in more or less one piece. It's not like Moscow can help it if the rancid, diseased rats that call themselves the government inhabit them, but I can. When your old associates ousted me from power, they couldn't stop me from collecting a few…mementos, as an insurance policy to dissuade them from traipsing around the word trying to finish me off. I, my friend, have access to something that can wipe the slate absolutely clean."

"Oh. And what might that be, then?"

Klossovsky denied Vladimir anything further with a shake of the head. "Look Makarov, I take it as a matter of principal that you do not trust me. I assure you the feeling is most definitely mutual. Mentioning any more is an unnecessary risk to my personal safety, but you will discover more once we reach Murmansk."

Murmansk. Makarov played around with the word for a while in his head, knowing full well that Klossovsky knew he would become hooked purely by the mention of the name. Murmansk was a port for the Northern fleet of the Russian Navy, and a place he had visited many times both as a Soviet soldier and as an right hand man to Zakhaev, as the Ultranationalist leader rampaged around the country on a quest for his prized spent fuel rods. The reason for this was that Murmansk was a nuclear graveyard, a place where ships and submarines went to die, and in Russia, they died slowly and messily, leaking their poison into the surrounding seas. Now Makarov was very interested, and against his better judgment, nothing was going to stop him getting on that plane.

As Klossovsky confidently marched onward to the hangar, Makarov looked back one last time. His mismatched eyes saw the distant city in all its glory, the ships and fishing boats waltzing in the topaz harbor as the faint sounds of the call to prayer echoed around the lofty, ornate minarets of the stunningly elegant mosques. It was a bizarrely tranquil scene to depart Istanbul to, and most likely it would be one of the last images of peace this man of violence would ever get the chance to see. As he turned back he discovered Viktor and Anatoly, who both carried looks of considerable anxiety, had been standing still and waiting for him.

"Much as I wish to dissuade you from this venture, sir." Viktor said, sounding uncharacteristically on edge. "I can tell you have already made up your mind."

"Indeed I have, Viktor." Makarov breathed. "Gentlemen, I would understand perfectly if this is where you would wish for us to go our separate ways. You have done me a great service, and I will not forget the sacrifices you have made for the true Ultranationalist Party. Our good comrade Rojas is already long gone, and it is perfectly understandable that you too would not wish to board this flight."

"You're joking, right?" Anatoly smiled. "We've made our decision too. Like it or not, Makarov, we are standing with you."

"So be it, then. Let's go."

"Klossovsky is a complex man." Kamarov told Archer and Bishop. "But is he a good man. No matter what he is planning with Makarov, he is using his trust to our advantage, and I am sure the outcome is in our own interests."

"Sure." Archer said, his arms crossed and his tone carrying more than a little cynicism. "You hope."

"Look, Archer. I'm not ordering you to start believing me just because I told you exactly what happened in Beirut. I'm not even asking you to trust me, I'm just trying to help you understand the bigger picture."

"Sorry mate." A still highly skeptical Archer shrugged. "And with all due respect, I do trust you, Kamarov. But as far as Klossovsky's concerned, I think I see the picture clearly enough already."

"Look here, guys." Trooper Bishop took the moment to play diplomat before things got any more tense. "We can't assume anything yet, it's too early."

"I know that, Bishop." Archer said. "All I'm saying is-"

"ARCHER!" The interrupting shout came from Ozone, who had just made an appearance in the nearest doorway. Judging by jut how fast the Canadian was breathing and how much he was perspiring; he had been sprinting throughout the length of breadth of the entire aircraft carrier in an attempt to find him. "Why the hell didn't you have your radio on?"

"What is it, Ozone?"

"Captain Price wants to see you on the flight deck, right now." He told him. "The Americans just got back from some op in Russia. Apparently they've retrieved some very important information."

"What kind?"

"I don't know." Ozone answered hastily, eager for Archer to follow him. "I was merely ordered to find you, so I guess we'll find out when we get there. Kamarov, it would probably be best if you came with me as well."

"Very well." The Russian said. "After you, then."

"Yeah, alright." Archer added, turning back to Bishop. "You stay here for now, Trooper. If Mercer or Steyn come around today, I want them to see at least one person they recognize. If I don't see you again, good luck with whatever they have got in store for you at Credenhill."

"Yes sir." Bishop replied, saluting. "Been an honor, sir."

As Archer, Ozone and Kamarov reached the flight deck, the primarily dominating sight to them was an aircraft primarily designed for inserting and withdrawing Special Forces personnel deep behind enemy lines, the Sikorsky MH-60G Pave Hawk helicopter. Based on the damage and the amount of bullet holes that peppered the fuselage, the Pave Hawk had undoubtedly just carried out such a mission.

Surrounding the helicopter were a group of Americans, a few of which Archer recognized as men from Toad's old Marine unit, as well as a few others he had not seen before which were the Rangers. None of them wore military gear or insignia, and each looked wretched, in agony and beaten half-to-death. These were incredibly tough men even by Task Force standards, with even the most inexperienced of them having lived through battles in the Washington suburbs, along the Potomac and into the Capital City itself, so to see them so destroyed by what they had just endured in Russia quite the shock to the system.

Captain Price and MacTavish were already deep in conversation about what these men had experienced with the American team leader, Lieutenant Michael Carver. Behind Carver, another member of his team was consoling Toad, who was visibly upset at the news his comrade had brought him.

"Goddamn, looks like we've been missing out, eh?" Ozone said under his breath. "Apparently they volunteered for it, too."

"Well, good for them." Archer replied, waiting to continue as another Navy fighter jet screamed past. "Difficult as it is to believe, Ozone, we're not the only ones doing the fighting around here."

"I know that. Never said it was a bad thing, either."

As Archer approached, Price ushered the fellow SAS man over to join him.

"Good to see you, Leftenant." The Captain said. "Archer, I would like you to meet Lieutenant Carver, of the United States Marines."

Archer looked over at the weary Carver. "Yes, I know who you are, mate. Toad has already told me all about you and your team."

"I've heard plenty about you lot, too." Carver replied, his New York accent a little more than a gravelly rasp but still showing traces of his usual confidence. "Not like the reputations of you and your Task Force don't precede you already or anything. It's great to finally meet you. I mean that."

"Much appreciated, Lieutenant. So, what the bloody hell happened to you and your boys over there then?"

"The Marines and the Rangers have been running a series of clandestine operations for the Agency." Price butted in with the answer before Carver had the chance to retort. "They were sent to assist the Loyalists with their uprising in St. Petersburg."

"Yea-Yeah, that." The Marine continued. "And it was going along just great until we encountered this army of one Russkie motherfucker dug in hard at an old apartment complex. By some miracle he hadn't killed any of us before we'd captured him, but unfortunately for us, that was just the start. These Special Forces types in natty sky blue uniforms showed up in force soon after, looking for him, but finding us."

"Ah, so you acquainted yourself with the local police force then?" Kamarov added, his Russian accent immediately gaining Carver's attention. "How lovely."

The mixed expression Carver's face carried told of a man who, while he had fought alongside Loyalists in St Petersberg, was understandably going to take some time trusting anybody with a Russian accent, no matter how much they hated the Ultranationalists.

"Yeah. Unfortunately not all Russians are as downright pleasant as you Loyalist lot." His voice hardened. "We were heavily outnumbered. Our situation got seriously fucked up, and not all of us made it back."

"What about the Russian asset?" Archer asked. "Was he of any use? Did you bring him back?"

Carver lamented, shaking his head. "We did our best, given the circumstances. Our Corpsman, McKaye, did his damndest, but the asset's wounds were too much. Damn shame, that, but we still managed to get at least a bit of information. He was one of Klossovsky's men, and he was headed for some kind of meeting with the man himself when OMON got to him."

"So, where was he headed before he got trapped?"

"He was told to board a civilian helicopter bound for the city of Murmansk. Only the pilot got spooked, presumably by all the fighting in the city, and left early."

"Murmansk." Archer wondered aloud. "Sounds familiar."

"That's because it's home to Severomorsk Naval Base." Captain MacTavish informed. "Home to the Northern Fleet of Russia's Navy."

"It was." Price continued. "Until the Admiral over there got caught out by good old Directive Collateral. What Vorshevsky hadn't been expecting, however, was for most under his command to follow suit. Those true Ultranationalists that remain leave it pretty much unguarded. Which is not good news considering Makarov will be involved."

"Indeed, sir." Archer agreed. "I guess we'll have to pay it a visit, then. In the meantime, sir, would you give me a moment to speak with Toad?"

"Yes, sure. I don't see why not."

Archer nodded. "Thank you, sir."

In only the short time Archer had taken to converse with the others, Toad had almost managed to completely compose himself. Corporal Rick Janis had been a great friend to him back in his days in the Corps, which was only a matter of month's ago now. While he looked upon the simpler days he had spent in Afghanistan somewhat wistfully, they were very far from easy. The men he fought against over there were some of the toughest on earth, a highly potent cocktail of guerrilla tactics mixed in with hard-line religious and political extremism, all on some of the most inhospitable terrain on earth. They were not the type to consider surrender or retreat, and it was old-school, no-nonsense Devil Dogs like Rick whom had both helped keep him alive, with his skilled marksmanship paired with years of experience, and sane, with his dark, acerbic wit on that hellish battlefield.

Now Corporal Janis was just yet another friend killed while Toad was away doing his own thing in Task Force 141, completely unable to step in and intervene from afar. But Toad himself had enough on his plate already with his newer set of comrades, and as he watched Archer make his way over the flight deck, he was thankful that there were at least some of them he could truly trust on the upcoming mission.

Hard as he tried to put his confidence in Captain Price, the prospect of the man on a mission to a Naval base possibly containing poorly guarded nuclear submarines sickened Toad to the core with anxiety, and rightly so given the events of that one day at Petropavlovsk,. He couldn't afford to show his emotions, as he was already well aware of Price knowing of his mistrust, even if the officer hadn't said. He also couldn't let his feelings known to Raptor, as in his eyes the mysterious American seemed to idolize the veteran as a hero, just like everybody else.

He didn't deny Price's earlier heroics in any way, but following his release from the gulag he had not been the man his Special Air Service friends had told him so many stories about. While Price may have been the only one to make that sacrifice, step up and take that seemingly impossible choice to launch the missile and prevent Vorshevsky's victory, Toad just couldn't find it in his heart to forgive a man that in the process had killed more American servicemen than Makarov himself.

Now all he could do is pray that his commanding officer would not try to pull off such an insane act again, hoping to ensure a swift overall allied victory. This time, Vorshevsky would not show surprising restraint and pass it off as a test-fire gone wrong. This time it would be mutually assured destruction all the way.

Toad tried deeply to persuade his doubts that Price would have realized this all himself by now. If he hadn't, God help him.