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Suffer Patiently; Patiently Suffer
“Bravo come in, this is Price.” The captain’s voice echoes through your earpiece, tinny but audible. You press two fingers to your ear to drown out the wind whistling around you.
“Copy, Cap. Bravo Two.”
“Listen up; you’ll need to rendezvous with Ghost. Asap.” Captain Price orders. You frown behind your scope.
“I’m at vantage point C as ordered, sir.” With one eye closed you peer down at your target. “I have key visual.” You watch the head of the Milton organization swagger across the courtyard of his compound. He’s completely at home in his safehouse, buoyed by his barbed wire fences and bodyguards. For a diamond dealer, he’s cut so many corners with security that it’s almost laughable. If he hadn’t caused such a stir in the community and tried to insert himself into the local power struggle the 141 wouldn’t have even found him.
But he’s put a target on his back, and you hold the trigger.
“Rookie, you need to make contact with Ghost.” Price repeats. “Milton has brought on new reinforcements; Soap says he may have a sniper in the area. Point C is too exposed.”
“Copy.” A wave of harried caution overtakes your body. It’s a cousin to panic but a calmer, tempered variant that keeps you fast but vigilant. You immediately break down your rifle stand, sling the gun over your shoulder, and creep down from the outcrop you’ve spent the better part of the day perched on.
“You’ll meet Ghost at point B,” Price’s voice crackles through your earpiece again. “Before you set up make sure you surveil your surroundings. If this goes south… do everything you can to protect yourself, then pull that trigger. Milton needs to be taken out at all costs.”
“Yes sir.” You relay. Once you’re out of view of the compound you turn your back to it but stay low to the ground. Getting shot on your first foreign field mission will guarantee you never hear the end of it. “En route to point B.” You hear Price’s sigh of relief over the com. He’d never hear the end of losing a rookie operative, either.
“Check in when you find Ghost. Price out.” You haven’t met your senior agent yet. He’d been the only 141 member not present at Price’s briefing. You don’t even know what he looks like, and Soap’s characterization of him during the flight had raised more questions than answered.
“Simon’s off upstairs; but, most Brits are.” He’d laughed across the aisle of the drop plane, “You’ll be able to tell him apart ‘cause of the mask. Never takes it off. Damn thing probably smells. When he’s in a sour mood, he’s more prone to picking fights.” The Scot ticked the laundry list of traits off on his gloves. “LT’s also real dry, so don’t expect much outside of barked orders. If he insults you, that means he likes ya. It’s your last step to being a full full-fledged agent.” Soap winked. “Call it hazing.”
You circle the compound carefully, handgun out and paving the way ahead. Point B is a dilapidated building on the other side of the road and above the compound, too far to register as a threat to Milton’s men. You frown and hope you’ll be able to find a decent vantage point from the roof. The door to the building is barely clinging to its brackets and swings open with a squeal. When you cross the threshold you immediately lean away from the muzzle pointed in your face.
“You must be Price’s new op. The rookie.” Ghost’s voice is gruff and tired. You wonder if he’s been covering this location all day or if he’s been here before the rest of the 141 dropped in. He slides his pistol back into its holster on his thigh, then turns to scowl at you. At least it looks like a scowl, he’s nearly inscrutable under his skull mask.
You hadn’t expected it to look so silly in person.
“Get in.” He orders. “No need to keep the door open where someone can nail you in the damn back.” You carefully close the door behind you and stare up through the second floor of point B. The building opens straight to what’s left of the roof, its second level reduced to little more than a crumbling terrace above the ground floor. Ghost reads your thoughts.
“There’s a ladder on the side, come on.” He tramps to a makeshift rope ladder tied to the wall. You frown but follow.
“Price, Bravo Two checking in. Made contact with Ghost at Point B.” You report under your breath. The captain’s response comes in when you’re halfway up the ladder.
“Good work, it’s on you two now. Price out.” You crouch on the roof beside Ghost and gingerly begin setting up your post again.
“How long did Price have you on Point C?” He deadpans.
“Since dawn.” The perch legs of your rifle swing open with a click. “He wanted me in position before the sun came up.” Ghost hums behind his mask. You eye the texture of the skull pressed against the black ski hood underneath. It looks like faux bone, did he carve it himself? You make a note to ask Soap about it after the mission.
“I’ve been here for over two days and you still didn’t clock me.” Ghost doesn’t seem like the type to brag, you assume he’s scolding. “Not once.” You lean forward to adjust your scope.
“I was focused on my target.” He’s right, you should have been more aware; but with Soap’s team and him in the field your attentiveness lapsed. It seems you’re lucky enough to experience firsthand the sour moods McTavish warned about.
“The makings of a fantastic agent.” Ghost lets the barb hang in the air, and you ignore him. There’s no good view of the southernmost side of the courtyard from your position. You lift your rifle and slink to the lieutenant’s other side. It’s slightly better, but you can’t quite see Milton; only the occasional flash of his hands when he gestures while telling a story.
“This is an awful vantage point.” You complain under your breath. “I can’t believe Cap put me up here.” Ghost’s suit creaks as his glove slides the muzzle of your gun six degrees east.
“Try again.” He orders shortly. You stifle a huff and peer down the sight again. A glimmer on the far side of the compound catches your eye. Your hand fumbles into your bag to swap for a sharper scope. A mirror perched against the cliff across from you glints in the afternoon sun, only visible to someone who knows to look for it.
“While you were aimlessly staring down Milton all afternoon I’ve been setting up countermeasures,” Ghost says. “I’ve got about six mirrors ringing the perimeter, through ‘em you should have an unobstructed view of most angles into the courtyard.” You hate to laud him; but he’s right. Another silvery gleam reflects through the first mirror. You clock it and adjust your focus. It leads you to another one. The third shard gives you a perfect glimpse into Milton’s courtyard. You can chart exactly where he’s standing and how far you’ll need to adjust your shot to wing and drive him out into the open for the kill. Beside you, Ghost makes a self satisfied sound.
“At least one of us made use of our time on the ground.” You pull back from your rifle to frown at him.
“Is everything out of your mouth so harsh?” You reproach. His eyes crinkle behind the mask. The black oil paint smeared on his skin has melted into the lines around his eyes from the heat of the day. You can’t tell if he’s smiling or scowling, not enough of his face is visible to be sure.
“I’m sure Johnny gave you the rundown before dumping you on me. My job is to keep the field running smooth and morale high.” He replies tonelessly. Scowling, probably.
“You’re not too good at the latter.” You tell him. Ghost taps the stock of your gun again.
“Keep your eye on Milton.” Part of you wishes he’d risen to take your bait, to let you get one good reciprocal jab in, but he’s too good for that. Worry crushes your indignation when you realize through your scope that Milton has retreated back inside.
“Shit.” You hiss between your teeth. Ghost isn’t half as bothered, more annoyed.
“Well done, you lost him for now.” The roof grit underneath him shifts. The lieutenant stretches out on his stomach and pulls out his binoculars. The lens just barely clear the raised edge of the roof. “Now we have to wait.” You make another malcontent sound deep in your throat.
“You know the saying for your lot: suffer patiently, patiently suffer.” A touch of loftiness rings in his voice. You keep your retorts to yourself but feel you’ve done more than your share of both.
“Roger, Simon.” You steady the rifle again.
“You don’t get to call me that.” He snaps back to attention, retreating behind his mask. You exhale slowly through pursed lips. Price throwing you with one of the surliest contractors in the 141 was far from what you’d hoped for on your first field mission. He’s far less amicable than Soap and Gaz, they at least bother to make conversation with you after training and briefings.
“Roger, Lieutenant.” You use his title cautiously, but Ghost is checking the clip of his pistol and doesn’t answer. He slides the magazine back in with a slap and holsters it again, then settles back against the rooftop. You leave him to his silence and sweep the mirror vantage points again. Milton is still inside. The only shadows in the courtyard belonged to his hired guns. Your finger idly taps against the trigger guard. If there was a way to lure Milton back outside you could easily down him and make extracting his body easier for Soap and co; but there’s always the risk of forcing him further into hiding or even into fleeing.
No, you’ll wait.
The heat is unbearable. You’ve been sent out in khaki fatigues, the same tan color as the rocks you’ve spent the morning nestled amongst, but the back of your vest is nearly soaked in sweat. Ghost hasn’t moved from his spot beside you. If he’s at all hot in his all black fatigues, it doesn’t show. He consistently checks the courtyard every few minutes through his binoculars but Milton has remained inside- probably to escape the heat himself.
“So- McTavish said you’re from Manchester.” You don’t pull away from your scope so Ghost can’t accuse you of neglecting duty. The ball remains in his court until you hear him sigh heavily.
“Johnny needs to keep his mouth shut.” He gripes.
“I think that’s interesting,” You immediately seize the thread of conversation and tug. “Is Manchester near London?” You know it isn’t. Ghost gives you a flat look.
“No.”
“Ever been to the States?”
“What do you think?”
“Well-“
“Your small talk wears on my even smaller patience,” He cuts across before you can finish. “I didn’t ask for Price to throw me on fuckin’ babysitting duty. Is that what I’m going to have to do for you?” His prickliness stokes a small coal of indignation in your chest. You’d hoped to at least have a cordial conversation with the infamous Ghost and more than certainly earned your spot on the team; but he’s disinclined to acknowledge more than your rifle barrel poking over the edge of the roof.
“No.” You scan the uneventful courtyard again, fruitlessly. “But Soap and Price speak highly of you. I was hoping I’d be able to see why.” Ghost shifts, you hear the gravel crunch but don’t pull from your sight. Perhaps the praise of his peers would make him warmer, if there was such a thing. Instead he grunts.
“Price and ‘Tavish are both full of it.”
“I don’t think they’d sing your praises if you hadn’t earned them.” You make your point gently, but Ghost shrugs it off.
“They’re my boys. I do what I can for ‘em.” He’s either astoundingly humble for a military man or trying to taper the conversation into nothingness; but you like the sound of his voice. It’s low and quiet, a muted rumble only you can hear. Does he speak louder when not in hiding? Based on the image Soap painted you’d expected Ghost to be the more energetic type, like McTavish himself but angrier; but he’s nearly stock still beside you in the gravel and dead quiet.
“How many times have you done this?” You ask quietly. The side of his mask cocks toward you incrementally; but Ghost doesn’t turn.
“Take downs? More than I care to count,” He replies after a moment. “I’ve been here in Lisotho twice now.”
“For another assassination?”
Ghost huffs something close to a snort. “No, last time was to retrieve some stolen equipment.” You finally pull away from your rifle to cock an eyebrow.
“What happened?”
“Classified.”
“Oh.” The closeness of the 141 lends you insight and intel into most of the team’s missions and individual adventures. Price even recounted a few of his narrower shaves to you during recruitment; but you haven’t earned access to Ghost’s stories. You’re not a real member to him yet.
The scope of your rifle sweeps the mirrors on the cliffs, systematically checking them all for any sign of Milton. Two of the six are obscured by the glare of the setting sun. The backflash blinds you for a moment, you scrub away the spots left behind.
“You sure you can get him?” Ghost’s distrust soaks his voice, still only quiet for you.
“Of course I can,” You scoff. “I was top of my class for marksmanship, why do you think Price assigned me to sharpshooting?”
“To keep you out of the way,” Ghost suggests. “Keep you from getting tagged on your first outing.” You shoot him a glare, which he impassively ignores.
“I’m a crack shot, Simon.” You snap. “I’ve proved it to the captain- give me twenty minutes or so and I’ll prove it to you too.”
“Lower your voice.” He orders staunchly, once again flat and serious. “We’re still working.” The ribbing in his words flew right over your head and off the cliff. You adjust the stock of your gun to hide the embarrassed flush creeping up the back of your neck.
The two of you lie in silence on the roof for the better part of an hour. You keep your eye pressed to your scope, and Ghost checks your work through his binoculars every so often. Milton’s shadow occasionally sails past a curtained window or dark doorway, but you want to be absolutely sure it’s him before bringing undue attention to your vantage point.
“Come on, step out you bastard.” You sigh into the stock of your gun.
“Suffering patiently also includes suffering silently,” Ghost intones. “Wait for your cleanest shot.”
“I am.”
“Then quit fuckin’ sighing every ten minutes.” Ghost sets aside his binoculars for his water flask. He takes a short swig and offers it to you. “It’ll come.” You graciously accept the water. Your flask has been dry and empty since midday. Ghost picks up his binoculars and takes over the watch while you quickly chug a few swallows and screw the lid back on. The lieutenant swaps off with you when you pass the flask back, and you peer through your sight for the millionth time.
“Better?” He asks.
“Much, thank you.”
“That had better be the end of the bitching, then.” It almost feels like he’s coaching you through the stakeout, albeit in one of the coarser ways. The thought wipes away a little of your previous indignity and bolsters you to check the mirrors again. Only one is blindingly obscured by the setting sun. The light is just low enough to filter over your hiding spot and light the shard directly across the cliffs. Another one flashes only slightly when you move your head. The barrel of your rifle swings just slightly to clock the other five mirrors in order, but uneasiness scratches at the back of your skull. Something is off, uncanny.
“Ghost,” You don’t peel away from the mirrors. He stirs beside you. “Check the mirrors.” Ghost lifts his binoculars and swings his gaze over the compound and hills. It’s his turn to sigh.
“Rook what am I supposed to be looking at-“ You catch it at the same time he does.
There are seven mirrors.
The punch to your left shoulder catches you by surprise first. It throws you off kilter but you quickly brace on your elbows.
Then the pain comes roaring in.
You’ve never had caustic chemicals injected into your blood; but that’s what it feels like. A radiating burning sensation starts in your left shoulder and travels down to your fingertips, then back up your arm and into your chest. You involuntarily suck in a heavy breath, and Ghost turns to look.
“Shit,” He says. Aptly.
The sight of your own blood seeping down your arm shocks but doesn’t paralyze you. If Milton’s sniper picked out your location, they’ve certainly radioed down to the compound and ordered him to flee. You heave your rifle upright with your other arm to check the scope and sure enough, he’s gone.
Your breaths become hard and fast as frustration gives way and the pain truly hits. You lower your forehead to the stock of your gun and press skin against metal to try and force the agony away. Ghost is flat against the roof beside you.
“We have to get down out of range!” He yells. Shouts echo from the compound, no doubt headed for your location. You lift your head and put your eye back to the scope again. The view swivels across the mirrors on the cliffs until you pick out the glimmer of Milton’s sniper. Your teeth grit so tightly together they squeak, only to rattle against each other when you fire. The recoil hits in your right shoulder, then jolts across your torso and into your left. The gasp that escapes you does little to dull the fiery burn. It feels like a twisting knife in your joint. The rifle topples over, you can’t hold it anymore. Ghost sits up on his heels and brings his binoculars to his face. He reminds you of a dog sitting at attention. It’s almost funny.
“You got him, good job. We’ll make our stand up here then.” You only groan in response. Tears leak out of your eyes and melt into your hair. The sky above dims with the last of the sun’s light, your gaze points straight up. You want to watch the stars come out. An excruciating pressure on your shoulder drags you back to reality; mentally and physically anchoring you to the dusty roof. Ghost is leaning on your wound with both hands.
Scrabbling sounds reach your ears accompanied by barked orders. Milton’s mercenaries have breached the bottom floor of the house and are fighting their way up the ladder. Ghost frees a hand and snatches his gun from his belt. He squeezes off one shot under his arm, then turns slightly to fire the next. The first two of Milton’s men scream as they plummet back to the bottom floor of the house. It’s hard to distinguish their strangled sobs from yours.
“You’ll be alright, Rookie.” Ghost doesn’t share your worry. He holsters his weapon, your blood staining the grooved grip of his gun, and returns both hands to your shoulder. Your eyes flutter shut just briefly- just to rest- but he pops your cheek and forces you awake.
“Keep your eyes on me.” He orders. “Soap and the boys will be here with air evac soon.” You’re barely able to comprehend him, instead you focus on his eyes behind the mask. They’re narrowed slightly in concentration, probably under a professionally furrowed brow as well. You wonder fleetingly if he’s handsome under the balaclava and skull. It’s another silly thought, but you’d like to see his face before you die.
“Bravo Two this is Bravo One, we’re six out on evac.” Soap crackles through your radio. Ghost removes a hand again and plucks your radio from your belt.
“Hurry up, Johnny. We’ve got an agent wounded,” He snaps “going into shock.” How quickly did Soap and his team make it to the evac helicopter? Did they dash as soon as the sniper’s shot went off? When the commotion started? At this rate Milton will escape, and the whole mission will be botched. You fumble blindly for the radio. Ghost clicks the button and holds it to your lips.
“Soap… get Milton.” You wheeze. “Should still be- in- in compound.”
“Jesus.” Soap’s horror makes you wonder just how bad off you sound. “We can’t get him, Rook. He’s already in an armored car. Our window’s closed. We’re coming to you, just sit tight.” The radio clicks to static, and your head drops back to the roof with a thump. More shouts echo up the hill. Ghost curses under his breath.
“There’s more coming, I’m going to need my hands free.” He warns. You’re barely listening. “What’s your favorite film?” By the time the question processes in your mind and your confusion even bothers to burgeon, Ghost shoves a finger into your bullet wound.
And none too gently, either.
Your head and legs lift off the roof to instinctively curl around your injury. Ghost’s knee blocks you from trying to flail at him with your legs, though your other hand claws at his wrist. He keeps his finger in the wound and slowly peels his glove off, then removes his hand entirely to stuff more of the fabric into the bullet hole. There’s no point in disguising your agonized wails; Milton’s men know exactly where you are. Ghost wipes a streak of your blood off on his pants and you realize why he always wears black even in the sweltering heat- it hides the red.
“That should staunch it for now,” He’s so sure, so unbothered. It makes you hope your injury isn’t as ghastly at it feels. “Just lie flat and don’t move.” Ghost slings his MK off his back and peppers a spray of bullets at the first floor. You crane your head to peer over the lip of the roof towards the compound. The great iron gates at the entrance slowly jitter themselves open- Milton is preparing to flee. You reach for your bag again; Price sent you in with a clip of four armor-piercing rounds. The target fleeing in an armored vehicle was always a possibility, but with you down for the count Soap and his company had decided there was no other way to intercept him.
It’s slow going sliding one of the rounds into your rifle chamber. The bullets are thick, and your fingers are slippery with blood. The first one you try to load slips from your grasp and tumbles down the cliff like a shiny falling star. The second slides in with only a little effort. You keep the third and fourth on the roof beside you and look up just as Milton’s truck rumbles through the gate. It’s one of the older models, abandoned by previous American occupation campaigns. The windows are thick and dark, and the doors are reinforced with amalgamated steel and titanium. The older armored cars only have one weakness and it’s hard to hit from your vantage point, even with four bullets.
Ghost curses behind you. The sound of his weapon changes from spouts of semiautomatic fire to the systematic pops of his pistol again. Above the gunfire you hear the whirring of Soap’s chopper. It’s not yet within sight, but the vibration of the rotors shakes your core and there’s a gray plume of dust approaching from the south.
With a heave of effort, you lift your torso to the edge. You can’t shoot practically; your left arm is beginning to numb and isn’t strong enough to steady the rifle. Instead you reorient yourself to lie half on the lip of the roof with your head and uninjured arm dangling over the steep drop below. You slide the forestock into your right hand and grip it tightly, then agonizingly bring your left hand up to lie across your chest on the gun and hold the trigger. The rifle wobbles in your grip, and you know if you drop it Milton will make a clean getaway. His car clears the gates without issue and chugs across the short open expanse between the gate and the canyon leading to freedom.
Lying half upside down and off the roof, you crane your head to look through the scope again. The fingers of your left hand tingle. You’re starting to feel cold. When you tell your body to pull the trigger, you worry your hand won’t respond. The only confirmation is the soft phut of smoke from the barrel.
And the explosion of the armored car below.
Your bullet hits exactly where you wanted, diving under the front right wheel well of Milton’s car at an upward angle and burrowing directly into the engine. The truck’s original Teflon liner was once impenetrable, but after thirty years of changing hands and unprofessional neglect the material has embrittled and shatters on impact. The armored truck flips headfirst and lands upside down, engulfed in its own oil and flames. To you, the car looks right-side-up. Its wheels point to the sky and spin aimlessly.
You let your right arm drop. Your rifle slides out from under your left hand and plummets to the ground. The crack of the stock breaking against the rocks echoes upwards. You’re slipping yourself, with your only good arm too far out to pull yourself back you let your eyes close. All it takes is your other shoulder to slide off and you can finally…
A hand snatches you by your vest and all but yanks you back onto the roof. Hitting the ground knocks the breath out of your lungs, but the subsequent gasps for air mean you’re alive. Ghost looks down at you, his unreadable expression finally something you think you can discern- approval.
“That’s the dumbest fucking shot I’ve seen in a long time.” He snaps, but the scalding disdain has bled from his voice. You smile weakly.
“I got him.” You murmur. “I got him.”
“Yeah, you got him.” Ghost eyes your shoulder, still oozing, and pulls you into a sitting position. He tries to spare your injured arm when he hefts you across his shoulders but it doesn’t matter. You can’t feel much of anything anymore.
A sudden gale blows your hair back and grit into your eye. The steady whop whop of the helicopter is right above you. Soap clambers down a ladder to help Ghost load you in. Over their shoulders, you see the mess Simon left behind. Milton’s men are spread out around the house, fallen in various positions and in pools of their own blood. Before you know it they’re as small as ants.
“A right bampot, this one,” Soap says somewhere out of your peripheral. You’re vaguely aware of an IV stuck into your arm and your uniform sleeve being cut away. Someone reaches to remove Ghost’s glove from your wound. You reach up to stop them until the glove’s owner snatches your wrist.
“Let him take it out, Rook.” He orders lowly. “You’ll just keep bleeding.” Your eyes are partially glazed but migrate to him when your IV begins to feed something for the pain. Everything else falls away, even the rhythmic beat of the chopper fades to background noise as the medicine takes its toll. You just stare at his mask, at the dirt rubbed into the scratches and the fade of the grease paint around his eyes. Perhaps in spite of the medicine, you think you’ve gotten a good enough read on Ghost to read his expression behind the skull. He’s frowning, and you’re touched.
“I’got’m.” You say to no one in particular. “Tell Cap…”
“We will.” Ghost reassures you shortly. “I’ll have to report to him when we land.”
“Simon,” Your hand is too heavy to lift. It instead rocks aimlessly by your side. His eyes crease again, but he answers to his real name.
“What, Rook.”
“G’first, right?” He huffs quietly, perhaps the closest thing to amusement anyone ever hears from him.
“Yeah, you had a good first.” He replies. “I’d even say you’re a crack shot.” Whatever the IV is feeding you makes your lips tingle, but you smile at him.
“S’fer patiently.” You slur. When Ghost’s eyes crinkle again, you imagine he’s smirking under the mask.
“Patiently suffer.”