A failure is not always a mistake. It may simply be the best one can do under the circumstances. The real mistake is to stop trying.
~B.F. Skinner
["No Fighting In The War Room"]
[Day 36 - 15:34:28]
[Restrictive Door, Altay Mountains, Russia]
[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]
[22nd SAS Regiment]
"Can't this open any faster Gaz?"
Price asked their man, as they stood dawdling outside the door, which was opening at a snail's pace. It was made of thick metal, probably built to survive a bomb blast. And it probably was in all honesty: if the Russian's wanted to blow the ever-loving shit out of a country, they wouldn't want to be interrupted mid nuke order.
The doors were defensible, and you would need a heavy-duty explosive to even hope of making a dent. Regular C4 wouldn't make the cut: wouldn't even make much of a dent in it.
No sir. But you can pull on it if it makes you feel better.
Price rolled his eyes, staring at the door, rifle draped across his body. Echo was eyeing the corridor in front of them warily, in case some hostiles approached them. They'd littered it- at Echo's suggestion- with claymores and various other traps, in case they had to make a hasty exit.
They'd shot out the lights- the few that had survived the initial gunfight anyway- and had hidden the traps the best they could. Speaking of Echo, the man was solemn almost. Every step was hesitant, instead of the steadfast sure-footedness that they could be associated with him. There was cool confidence surrounding the man, and even when he'd been injured during the clusterfuck of a mission, he'd never acted like this.
It was as if his confidence had been knocked down several pegs, of which he was showing as clear as white on a black canvas. Well. Maybe it wasn't quite that obvious. There was no bouncing from foot to foot, or nervous tremors or anything. But he'd gone from an already observant person to one who was even more observant, wary to where he would scan the floor three times over before making a step.
It wasn't that Soap couldn't understand the man's unease- warheads towards any country was enough to make someone increasingly nervous. It didn't have to be their home country to cause alarm. And considering that Echo was a lieutenant, relatively new to the high-stakes nature of the missions: well, then if Soap was in his boots, he'd be absolutely shitting himself. Granted, Soap wasn't exactly relaxing in a beer garden in the back of dodgy Glasgow pub either, which only went on to further the statement that you could never get used to SAS work, could never get complacent.
"Cheeky bastard."
The door was going slowly, which only served to ramp up the nerves in the room. For every inch the door opened, five seconds went by. And those five seconds added up quickly considering the width of the door. They didn't need the door fully opened, just enough for the three of them to slide through: and the minute that there was a large enough gap for that, they did, quickly folding to the wall to avoid the spray of bullets that soon followed.
Soap pulled down his NV goggles, his surroundings flaring with a bright green colour, allowing him to see easier. The hostiles shone brightly, furiously, easy targets for even the worst shooters. Bullets were flying crazily, metal clanging, ricochets happening left right and centre. Consoles with glowing orange lights were pulsing throughout the room, a reminder that if they damaged one that happened to be the centre console… well, that wouldn't turn out good for them.
They continued to push forwards, trying to get to the control centre through the spaghetti junction of corridors and pathways, the only difference being the number of hostiles in each route. Bullets and grenades were growing thin on both sides, each trying to defend/attack their respective sides. Come on… I don't want to know what's going to happen if the warheads hit.
["No Fighting In The War Room"]
[Day 36 - 15:36:09]
[Restrictive Door, Altay Mountains, Russia]
[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]
[22nd SAS Regiment]
"Soap, upload the abort codes! Echo, watch our backs!"
Soap hastily took his position at their target, sweat pouring down his face at the realisation that they indeed had very little time to stop this missile launch. Specifically, they had three minutes to get the damn things uploaded, before half of the USA was wiped away. The keyboard wasn't like the standard keyboard, making it fairly confusing to understand: he could read it, but muscle memory kept fighting him on what key was where.
Still, they scrambled for their positions, as Soap took a second to analyse the keyboard, before quickly typing in the abort codes that had to be correct goddammit. The sirens blared around them to their own chorus, alarming and sharp, driving drills into the tense men. Above the keyboard, there was a nautical map, showing the world, along with various coordinates. Soap was no privateer or anything like that, but he knew a map and locations when he saw one- it helped that they were helpfully marked with bright markers, subtitled in Russian.
The United Kingdom. The United States of America. Canada. European Union. Large scale, small scale. The population of- and it trailed a large number of the presumable populations, of which some reached into the millions. Not that it mattered- any loss of life was unacceptable.
"Codes uploaded."
He confirmed, resting his hands on the centrepiece for the briefest of moments, before feeling empty and returning his grip to his gun, which had been on his back, lying abandoned and unused. There was an itching of impatience as Price and Soap alike stared down the map as if they could intimidate it into stopping the missiles. Which wasn't how life worked, but one could hope.
Confirming, confirming. Stand by.
It's difficult to standby you dipshit when countries are at risk of being honest people might day. Of course, Soap knew better than to verbalise this out loud, but inside his conscience where nobody could hear him, it didn't matter necessarily, unless he chose to act it out. Which he would never because it went against what it meant to be a SAS officer- or whatever you wanted to call it.
Even Price was getting slightly antsy, curling his fists around the mag as if it had personally seen to the demise of the UK. Echo seemed distracted almost and carrying on his previously observed behaviour, it was easy to see that his heart wasn't completely in the game. If one could call it a game. Don't misunderstand Soap, Echo was paying attention. But it was the kind of attention that one would pay to a teacher: observant for some of the time, and tuning out the rest.
That was a dangerous thought, for one of two reasons: one, it could lead to himself or someone else getting shot, or killed, or worse, and two, it was even more out of character for him to be paying attention to something else other than the mission itself. Yet right now, it was no place to be asking if he was okay- in fact, it was one of the worst places to ask that question. He couldn't afford to sow distrust amongst Bravo Team, and he couldn't afford to potentially unsettle the man even further.
It was as if he was gearing up for a one-man war, one that nobody knew about, and one that he wouldn't have support on. Like a black ops mission, few of which they actually knew about.
Bravo Six. All warheads are confirmed destroyed. Repeat, the warheads have been destroyed in flight. We have a tonne of debris and electronics, but most of it is landing in the ocean.
Bravo Six, this is Kilo Four Foxtrot. Zakhaev is leaving the base via helicopter. Confirmed visual, being uploaded now.
And sure enough, Zakhaev was getting on a helicopter, the rotor-blades spinning furiously as the helicopter prepared to leap into the air. Just what we need- the bastard getting away after all this. This time, he's going to go so deep underground that we won't find him. From one disaster to another, if we let him get away, he's going to do worse: if that's even possible.
"We've got company!"
Echo called out, as he audibly gritted his teeth. They pushed to where Echo was, by the door frame, and Soap narrowed his eyes. There was the briefest hesitation before they ducked behind the doorframe, the sounds of Russian yelling echoing down the corridor. There was a hesitation before one of them spoke, in heavily accented English.
"You're boxed in- surrender, and we will be merciful."
Price gave the hand signal to hold and hold they did. Itchy trigger fingers aside, they hadn't forgotten about their little trap, and there was the sound of two hauntingly quiet footsteps trailing down the corridor. Two more, followed by a very rude Russian curse, and then the party started. Explosions like a symphony erupted, and reverberated around the narrow tunnel, along with the smacks and yells, splats of blood and the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh.
Another hand signal- this one for caution and care- was given, and the three of them carefully paced down the corridor in a triangle shape, checking their corners and putting down any unlucky survivors of the blast. The green hue of the NV goggles washed out any other colour, making the world a very dull place while they were on.
They also placed some amount of strain on a person's eyes, and it wasn't uncommon that you could get headaches from them. After some amount of fighting, they made it to the elevator, meeting up with Gaz and Griggs along the way, who looked as stony-faced as the rest of them.
"I want this bastard dead."
Echo murmured hollowly, with a cold, dead voice. The rest of them looked to face him, perhaps thinking along the lines that "he needs to see a psychiatrist", before Gaz pressed the button to shut the cage. Price narrowed his eyes, scrutinising Echo, before answering with a stubborn tone, staking his claim on the man.
"Get in line."
[Game Over]
[Day 36 - 15:55:17]
[Restrictive Door, Altay Mountains, Russia]
[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]
[22nd SAS Regiment]
They'd ended up hijacking a vehicle. A jeep-like car, which had an open back. The road was untarmacked and rough, bumps jostling them every which way despite the attempts to counter correct. He and Echo were in the back, rifles nestled against the bars, taking shots at their following entourage.
It was difficult to shoot, to say the least, but their saving grace was that the entourage was only coming in bursts of two or three. Although, they had all been reminded that Gaz's driving was atrocious- even if it didn't look like Price, Griggs, and a couple of other SAS soldiers were having much fun either.
"Aim for the tires if you don't have a clean shot!"
Soap yelled at Echo, who stiffly nodded, pressing the trigger of his rifle, the bullet ricocheting off of the metal chassis of the car. There was the briefest grimace and beginnings of a yell before Gaz called out for them to hold on. Soap lunged to the side, gripping onto the side of the jeep, ducking in an attempt to shield themselves from the spray of bullets. There was a sudden intake of breath, sharp and harsh, from Echo as he was slammed violently against the wall, an uneasy crack sounding.
Soap's eyes quickly shot towards Echo, as the car settled uneasily, a hasty apology from Gaz from upfront. It's not his fault these roads are dogshit. Narrowing his eyes at Echo's form, there was nothing particularly telltale about any injuries: other than the sound he'd heard when Echo slammed into the side of the car, there wasn't anything else obvious. And the man, like always, kept it hidden, no matter hard he pushed.
"Echo, you alright back there?!"
Gaz shouted, unable to turn around as he navigated the rocky terrain. Soap, keeping down low, looked at the man, but there was no flinch of pain or anything like that. He just looked determined, a glint in his eyes that never normally moved.
"I'm fine."
He told them, springing back up to provide cover fire. The ensuing gunfight, like always, was arduous, exhausting, and Soap just knew there was an injury that the man was hiding. He wanted to check it out, to apply field medicine, but he just knew that he wouldn't be able to do that in the middle of a gunfight.
They entered a narrow tunnel, swerving from side to side, avoiding oncoming cars who blared their horns. Tires screeched, further making it difficult to aim thanks to both the noxious fumes and constant swaying of the vehicle, making it difficult to even hit a target.
Tango on your left! They're going to ram you, keep an eye out!
They skidded to the left side of the truck, before being forced down as a spray of bullets landed where their heads had been a few seconds earlier. Soap popped back up, firing a clean shot at the head of the driver's head, a bloody mist covering the windscreen. The truck promptly lost control as it veered towards them, forcing Gaz to swerve out of the way, trying to avoid being hit. They ducked down again, and braced, closing their eyes, praying that it didn't hit.
"Your driving is shit Gaz!"
Soap snapped at Gaz, as they careened on the road. There was the slightest bit of hesitation, as the man's eyes hyper-focused on the road, having a fight with the steering wheel almost. They fought off some of the following trucks as the light at the end of the tunnel became visible, Gaz finally answering him.
"You try avoiding oncoming traffic and hostiles!"
With the light of the tunnel came not only more space, but relief. But it showed something he hadn't been able to see in the dim light of the tunnel- a pool of blood, running across the metal plating of the back. It was small, but there were no doubts about where it had come from- and the pale, determined face of Echo only served to prove it.
Author's Note
Thank you for all of the support! It means a lot to me!
~Cait