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Chapter 2
Ghost Town
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Captain John Price, 22nd Regiment, SAS Mountain Troop.
Unknown Town, Southern Russia.
June 16th, 2016.

Captain Price looked through the small helicopter window, taking in the scenery; or rather, the lack of it. They were flying over a mountainous area, so there was little to see from the chopper.
Suddenly, the rocky terrain they were flying over dropped away, revealing a vast expanse of foggy grayness. Nikolai expertly dropped the helicopter into the fog, flying using only the instrument panel to discern his altitude and direction. The Shadow Company Pave Low was equipped with a sonar system, originally designed for landing in rocky areas without damaging the fuselage or landing gear. The Russian pilot now used it to fly blindly through fog too thick to see one's own hand through.

Captain Price jumped slightly as the helicopter dropped violently, an alarm going off in the cockpit. "Nikolai! What's going on up there?"
"We have a problem, Captain Price. We are running out of fuel, and we do not have enough reserve to land safely. Hold on tightly; we are almost above the town."
Price strapped Soap into one of the seats, being careful not to disturb his wound. He then sat down himself, trying to stay calm and collected. Something was gnawing away at his nerves, however. Nothing felt right about this place; the fog, the helicopter running out of fuel, the churning feeling in his gut as their descent speed increased steadily.

"Shit! We are out of gas!" Nikolai yelled, pounding his fists on the dash.

Price grit his teeth and clenched his hands tightly onto the cold metal seat's edge. The entire helicopter shook as the fuselage slammed into the asphalt, smashing the landing gear, and breaking parts off the aircraft's body. Once it skidded to a halt, the rear cargo door opened slowly, and Price heard disturbing laughter emanate from the front of the chopper.

"Haha! We did it, Price! We are still alive! We didn't crash!" Nikolai shouted.

Was Nikolai drunk? The bearded SAS captain hoped not. He didn't want to be mistaken for a tango and shot by a Russian. Captain Price grabbed an M4A1 SOPMOD carbine with holographic sight and suppressor off the wall of the chopper, and checked the ammo on his M1911 .45 handgun. He slung an AUG HBAR with scope over Soap's shoulder, and tossed Nikolai his AK-74u with red-dot sight and heartbeat sensor.

"Let's move. If Shadow Company's troops haven't noticed us before, then they almost certainly have now," Price growled.
"Hey, Price, this heartbeat sensor isn't working." Nikolai complained.
"Toss it and grab something else! Move!" The captain snapped.
Nikolai slid the heartbeat sensor off the side attachment rail, and installed an under-barrel shotgun. By now, Price was attempting to lift up Soap, who was groaning in severe pain.
"Nikolai, come on! Help me move Soap! We need to get him to a hospital!" Price yelled, slinging one of MacTavish's arms over his shoulder.
"Da, I know! It is not too far! Half a kilo to the north," Nikolai responded, helping lift MacTavish with Price.
"Half a kilometer. Soap, can you handle that?" Price questioned. The Scottish captain nodded and tried to smile slightly through his morphine-induced stupor.
"All right, good." Price replied, nodding in approval.

The trio struggled off, Soap half limping, half being carried. Eventually, they reached the hospital. It was a fairly large building with a bland gray concrete exterior and glass sliding doors on the entrance. Due to the power outage, they were locked tight. The bearded SAS captain laid Soap on the ground a few meters away from the door. Nikolai looked at Price in surprise, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm going to bash the door in," Price muttered.
"Ah." Nikolai nodded in understanding.
The captain sprinted at the glass and metal door, smashing his left shoulder into it with full force. The glass didn't budge; it was a tough material. Price panted, dropped to one knee, and rummaged through his pack for a breach charge. He had none. The next best thing was C4 or Semtex. But he didn't have any, and he knew Soap wasn't carrying any. He began struggling with the metal door frame and glass windows, bashing it with his carbine's stock, kicking at it, attempting to pry it open with his combat knife.
Nothing worked; it remained sealed shut.

In frustration, the captain pulled out his M1911, and fired off a few rounds at the glass, which barely chipped at the thick, shatter-resistant material. It wasn't of much use, but it gave him an idea. He'd seen a grenade launcher attachment back in the Pave Low; it would almost certainly come in handy here. "Nikolai...I'm going back to the chopper; there's a grenade launcher in there I could use to blast this door open."

The Russian shrugged. "Da. I will stay with Soap."

Price jogged back to the helicopter, which was almost entirely enveloped in a thick, damp mist. He ducked into the cargo compartment, and picked up the grenade launcher attachment, sliding it onto the under-barrel attachment rail. He also picked up an M21 EBR Thermal Suppressed, slinging it over his back. The SAS captain never quite felt comfortable without a good sniper rifle close at hand.
He also grabbed a few heartbeat sensors, in the hope that one of them might work sooner or later.

Oddly, all of the heartbeat sensors had static instead of their normally clear radar display. He'd have to ask Soap about that when he got better; he was the technology expert of the three. He dismissed it as interference for now, and returned to the two.

Nikolai was crouching next to Soap, who seemed to be barely on the brink of consciousness.
"Nikolai! How's Soap holding up?" he barked.
"Not too well, my friend. He needs water, and medical attention." Nikolai responded, shaking his head. Price tossed Nikolai his canteen. The Russian held the bottle to the Scot's lips, allowing him to quench his thirst.
"I'm going to blast the door open with a grenade launcher. Get yourself and Soap clear." Price growled.
"Yes, Captain Price."
The SAS captain took a few steps back once Nikolai and Soap were clear. The blast radius was a bit larger than Price estimated.

The bearded man shielded his face from the intense heat of the explosion; these were apparently high-explosive flammable grenades, rather than standard fragmentary rounds. They'd have to exercise extreme caution when using them indoors.
The door had been blasted clean open, and the area around it was lit ablaze because of the incendiary agents in the grenade. He ducked through the flames surrounding the entrance, rolling afterwards to snuff out any flames that might have caught onto his clothing. The bearded soldier picked up a fire extinguisher from behind the reception area desk, and blasted the entrance with the freezing-cold foam, suppressing the flames. Once the flames were suppressed, he exited the building and rejoined with Soap and Nikolai.
Nikolai and Price hefted Soap, carrying him through the new entrance and a few dark hallways to the first recovery room they could find. It had a hospital bed, and some medical equipment and monitors. None of it was working, thanks to the fact that the power was out in the entire building, if not the entire city.
Price checked Soap's wound once more. Much to the Englishman's relief, it wasn't infected, but the bandages needed to be changed. He got a fresh dressing, removed the old one, and disinfected the wound, applying the fresh gauze and wrapping it tightly over the Scotsman's chest.

He sighed and plopped down into one of the chairs after he'd finished dressing Soap's wound and washing his hands. Nikolai had already taken a seat on the countertop, his legs dangling from the steel surface's edge.

"What are we going to do next, Price?"

"I was just thinking about that. Can the helicopter be repaired?"

Nikolai shook his head sadly.

"No...We do not have the resources. The fuselage is banged up, the landing gear is broken, and we have no aviation fuel. And even if we leave, the entire world is looking for us. No place is safer than here."

"Alright then. We need to find food and water here, as well as figure out some way to take down Makarov. Have you heard from Kamarov recently, Nikolai?"

"No, not since the war began. He might be dead or in prison; he was never very good with the ultranationalists," Nikolai answered, furrowing his brow.

"We could use his help. If we could ally ourselves with someone who has some power and then expose Shepherd for the traitor he was, we'll be able to clear our names."

"Da, it sounds like good idea. But the Americans will never believe you," Nikolai mumbled, rubbing his temples and sighing.

"Not if one of them was with us."

"You are talking about Sanderson?"

Price sighed and wiped a hand over his face and beard.

"Yes. Roach. God damn it...our FNG. Damn Shepherd. Damn him to hell. He killed both of 'em, Ghost and Roach. The bastard," he spat hoarsely.

Nikolai placed his hand on Price's shoulder firmly. "You have to be strong, da? I know they were your men, but everybody dies someday."

"Yes. You're right. I'll go get some supplies, and you watch over Soap. Radio me if you need anything."

"Bring me some vodka, da?"

"No way, Nikolai. I can't have you getting drunk...we can't afford to have two men out of action."

"But..."

"No."

"Fine...jerky, then..." The Russian mumbled in resignation.

"Okay, I'll see if I can scrounge you up some of that. I'll see you in half an hour. Stay sharp, Nikolai."

"Goodbye, Captain Price. And good luck," Nikolai said respectfully as Price turned his back and left the cramped hospital room.