Call of Duty: Ghosts
Chapter Two: Hot Extract
Pain. A dull, constant rhythm of pain. That's what Ghost was feeling then, as he limped towards the tree line, his ACR raised and sweeping for targets. This was his element, in a hostile warzone, surrounded by enemies. It was where he belonged. The Texan was doing admirably with carrying Roach, and keeping a steady grip on his 1911 as well. He heard gunfire up ahead, the low, staccato rhythm of a 7.62mm machine gun, punctuated by the higher pitched cracks of assault rifles. He signalled for the Texan to stop, and crouched on his better knee. He raised his ACR's sights to his eye, and gave the surrounding landscape slowly. He saw nothing up ahead, so signalled to keep moving.
This continued for several minutes, as they slowly advanced towards the large safe house, sure to be the centre of the battleground between Makarov's men and Shadow Company. Ghost's radio crackled to life.
"Ghost, this is Archer, we've got eyes on you now, keep going straight for another fifty metres, over." The sniper's whisper gave him comfort over the radio.
"Copy that Archer, any hostiles ahead?" He asked, while slowing his limp as he scanned the terrain.
"Two, Shadow Company by the looks of them. Both armed with automatic rifles, looking the opposite way. Do it quietly, over." Archer's response was confirmed by the sound of American voices up ahead. Ghost turned to the Texan.
"Alright, there are two guards up ahead, stay here while I take them out." The Shadow Company soldier nodded, and lay down Roach so he could fix the field dressings that he put on. Ghost crouched down and carried on moving towards the two unsuspecting soldiers. He pulled out his sidearm, a Glock 21, .45 calibre, and screwed on a silencer. The two American voices were clearer now. They were talking about which celebrity singer they wanted to fuck, or something perverse like that. He lowered himself down, onto his belly, and crawled the last ten metres towards them. They had their backs turned to him, and Ghost positioned himself so he could stand up easily.
He counted in his head, one, two, three, four. When he reached eight, his lucky number, he sprang up, ignoring his leg's protest, and performed the Mozambique Drill on the two Shadow Company soldiers, putting two rounds in their centre mass, and one in each of their heads. He felt his Glock kick back six times, heard six thumps in the air, and six shell casings land on the floor. He first saw the drill in action during a Michael Mann film aged fifteen, when he took out a girl to see it at the cinema. The two soldiers slumped forward, the backs of their heads missing, and two ragged holes in each of their bodies. Smooth, Ghost thought, and then limped back off to find the Texan.
Ghost found him tending to Roach, reapplying the bandages that he had put on around the wounded man's legs.
"We need to move." Ghost said simply. The Texan looked up and nodded, picking up Roach in the same manner he had before. The two soldiers then continued on their march.
"Ghost, this is Archer. Looks like there's someone still standing in the safe house, might want to check it out, over." Ghost's radio crackled to life. Good and bad, he thought, one more person to rescue, but one more man to have watching my six.
"Copy that Archer; give me covering fire when I'm in the open, over." He ordered his two snipers. Ghost and the Texan were nearly on a ridgeline, and Ghost signalled to stop.
"Wait here with Roach. Try and get any more of your buddies on our side if you can, but if not, two in the head. Understood?" He asked the Shadow Company soldier. Said soldier nodded in reply, placing down Roach and un-slinging his M4 carbine from his back. Ghost then checked the load on his ACR, using the meter on his P-Mag, then crawled up onto the ridgeline to see what was happening.
The sight he saw was utter chaos. Nearest to him were five Shadow Company soldiers, two with M240B's and the rest with assault rifles of different make, providing suppressing fire to the rest of Shadow Company as they moved up. Around a hundred metres east from the safe house was a group of a dozen Ultranationalists, making a last stand against the far superior numbers of Shadow Company. Another group were in a similar predicament in the safe house itself, as Shadow Company assault teams cleared the rooms one by one. Scarecrow's in there, Ghost thought. But I need to deal with those MG's over there.
He unclipped a frag grenade from his tactical vest. He estimated the Shadow Company fire support were twenty yards away, easily in his throwing range. He pulled out the firing pin of the grenade. He waited two seconds, before lobbing the grenade at them. The grenade arced gracefully through the air before landing in the middle of the group. It exploded with a loud bang, sending shrapnel everywhere, tearing the five Shadow Company soldiers apart.
But Ghost didn't see this. By the time the grenade had exploded, he was halfway between where he threw the grenade and the safe house. It was only a fifty metre sprint, if he wasn't injured, he'd do it quicker. He reached the safe house and stood against the wall, checking the area behind him for contact. He was still in the clear. He risked a peek out at the battlefield. The fighting was still intense, and the Ultranationalists were slowly being overrun, but they were giving it as good as they got. He moved low and fast, stock in his shoulder, sights up, as he moved towards the basement entrance to the safe house.
He waited for a second at the door. He picked up a pebble from the ground, and threw it in. The pebble bounced around noisily, but still quiet compared to the gunfire above. Ghost heard nothing. So the ex-SAS soldier swerved round into the room, clearing it in three seconds flat. The room was in chaos. Someone had clearly thrown a grenade in there, and there were two corpses, lying in pools of blood. One Russian, one Shadow Company. He didn't need to check pulses, there was so much blood. So far, so good.
Ghost walked silently towards the stairs leading upwards, keeping his rifle raised, despite the strain on his injured shoulder. He reached the foot of the stairs, and spun round, so he was facing the way he came in, still with his sights to his eye. He took a careful step backwards, his foot touching the first step. He took another, and another, and another. Soon he was halfway up the stairs, and in front of him now was the kitchen. His heart was thumping like a parade drum. No one thought he had even heard of the word fear, but he was bloody terrified then. A Victoria Cross and a Distinguished Service Cross didn't make you fearless. Ghost lowered his rifle, comforting his throbbing shoulder, and stood against the wall. He heard voices upstairs in the kitchen.
"So when do you think help will come?" A familiar American voice asked. So it was Scarecrow that was still alive.
"No idea, but it better be soon, да?" A Russian accent answered, sounding nervous.
"It doesn't matter Karzov," Another man, speaking in Russian said, "We'll hold, and help will come, and we'll get out of here. Don't worry so much, friend." This man was clearly a leader. As Scarecrow had decided they were his allies, so would Ghost. Any help was better than none now.
"Scarecrow, this is Ghost. That you, mate?" He shouted, still standing behind the wall. He heard four weapons swing towards the sound of his voice.
"Ghost! Jesus man, thought you were dead. Fucking good to see you." The American 141 soldier sounded relieved, then said in Russian. "Don't worry. This man is my commander, and a good fighter. Lower your weapons." Ghost didn't hear any such lowering, apart from Scarecrow. The Russians weren't going to budge.
"Look, I'm going to put my weapons down on the floor now, and then I'm going to step out. I need to know that no one will shoot me, okay?" Ghost shouted, speaking in Russian. All 141 soldiers learnt the most common languages in the world, including Arabic, French, English, Spanish, Russian and German; mainly so they could blend in anywhere.
"You do that, comrade; just don't come out with guns blazing. You'll end up like the other Americans." It was then that Ghost noticed the three dead Shadow Company near where he was standing. They were riddled with bullets, all their fancy body armour and helmets useless against 7.62mm AK's up close. Ghost carefully put his rifle on the nearest stair, and then his Glock. His heart was pounding like mad now, sweat dripping off his fabric covered brow, despite the chills of Russian autumn. Fuck it, he thought, I'll either die today, or another day, no point in being scared about it.
He stepped out into the open.
A/N: Aaaand that's a cliffhanger for you folks! Sorry about the long update, it's just I'd written most of this chapter then my laptop spazzed out and lost it, then broke so I had to get a new one (which is so much better!), plus all my hobbies and sports (all 6 days of them) plus school and exams, and I'm so busy at the moment writing has had to take a lower priority. But no more, some of my hobbies have ended for summer, exams are over now, and it's summer! So I'll be writing loads more now. Thank you SO much for all the reviews by the way. 8 freaking reviews! That's a massive amount for one chapter for me, and I'd like to thank you for the support. By the way, this is in no way COD: Ghosts, as if any of you have seen the trailer (if you haven't, check it out on YouTube) its a completely new story, which should be pretty cool. By the way, I have some exiting news: I'm writing a book! I will finish it too. Check Amazon Kindle over the next year (or two) and look out for it. If it get's published, I'll share the title of it with you guys first, the ones who inspire me to write. Anyway, it's late, and I need sleep. Night all!
Bradykins out.
PS: I'd like you spare a moment for Drummer Lee Rigby, the British soldier killed in the brutal Woolwich attack. The bastards (pardon my french) deserve to hang for it. This story is dedicated to Drummer Rigby, and the hope that no more families will have to endure that kind of suffering, and that one day we can all live peacefully, and cooperate together for a better tomorrow.
RIP Lee Rigby, and all those who are victims of terrorism.