Chapter Text
The unfortunate sound of the shrill ringing of his alarm assaulted his ears for the third time this morning before Soap sighed and resigned himself to actually having to do something today, dragging the quilt off of himself solemnly.
As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, a chill ran down the back of his neck, hairs standing on end...weird. Something in the air felt off- a tension that hadn't been there the night before, the same kind that he felt when he got in a situation where it's all gone to shit.
But it was quiet. No life threatening decision to make, no teammate bleeding to death in the open. Just the hum of the shitty air conditioning unit and shouting as unruly rookies were herded out of bed for early morning 'training' (read: punishment) after yesterday's inincident.
Shrugging the odd feeling off, the Scot let out a deep sigh as he had to bear the arduous pain of waking up at a respectable time for a meeting he was very much needed at.
"Soap! You up yet? Mess'll run out of food at this rate, mate!"
Soap flinched at the sound of one Kyle Garrick who was way too loud for 05:38 in the morning.
"I'm comin'! Dinnae get your knickers in a twist"
He shouted back, hopping, to get his jeans on.
"Yeah, yeah- today Tav!"
The aforementioned man rolled his eyes as he pulled a shirt from over the back of his pathetic desk chair that was held together by hopes, prayers and a wad of duct tape. Sniffing it, he shrugged and pulled it over his head, before slipping his shoes on and heading out.
—------
It took an incredibly resilient man to stomach the mess disguised as food that was served on base. Going home at Christmas to his mam's cooking - and inhaling an ungodly amount of neeps and tatties - was one of the reasons Soap had not bashed his head into the nearest wall he could find over the sheer blandness of the food.
"Ey, cheer up, Tavvy. 'Couple more weeks and we'll have another shipment of those biscuits your mum sends."
Gaz grinned in between bites of his particularly sad-looking omelette.
"That woman does God's work. Swear down."
Soap sighed, stabbing his own omelette with the same disdain he reserved for two things: bad omelettes, and terrorists.
"She probably won't send more for a while - Freya and her husband are down visiting some friends in Hull, so Mams got the weans for a bit. Hands are full."
Gaz let out a quite frankly pathetic whine for a man of his age and rank, head thunking against the table.
"The biscuits..."
Snorting, the Scot snatched the other man's remaining overly cooked piece of toast, shoving it in his own mouth in an extremely childish display of triumph. Before mumbling around the bite.
"..’was my fuckin' shortbread anyway"
—------
“Hey, L.T, Ghost, mate, you got a minute?”
Soap jogged up to the man, having parted ways with Gaz shortly after finishing up breakfast. He'd made it his mission to locate the slippery Lieutenant. While hard, it had gotten marginally easier in the months since Las Almas- enough that Soap could now track him down without needing a ouija board.
Soap was hoping, maybe, that meant Ghost would maybe consider socialising like an actual human being instead of brooding in the corner of the pub with a bourbon and making recruits shit themselves when feeling the phantoms stare at the back of their necks.
He wasn't really sure if Ghost did it because he enjoyed messing with people, or because he just zoned out and the poor sod in his line of sight managed to get caught in it. Either way, he understood why rumours of Ghost being an actual spectre spread around the base - along with other ridiculous things.
But..he never was one to listen to people. Not putting much stock in gossip, he preferred to get a proper read on people himself.
…Unfortunately this was proving..slightly difficult, considering his L.T had a literal mask hiding his expressions and an uncanny ability to vanish much like his namesake.
“Johnny.”
Ghost deadpanned, stopping to turn and face the sergeant. Catching up, Soap flashed a wide, cheesy grin.
“Are you heading to the briefing? I'm meetin’ Gaz there - he had to grab something from the offices.”
Ghost hummed, turning back towards the hallway and resuming his stalk-like walk, though at a noticeably slower pace to allow Soap to match his freakishly large gait.
“Price said we'll be catching a cargo ship over the drop point,” Ghost began, “so I reckon we'll be sharing with the yanks flying back to the states”
Soap nodded, but the words felt wrong. There it was again - that awful wave of dread that engulfed his gut like smoke. He tried to shake it, but it clung heavy, to the very marrow of his bones.
Jumping from planes wasn’t what scared him. He liked that kind of thing. The danger. The adrenaline. Hell, it was one of the reasons he joined the Army in the first place.
No, it wasn’t the jump.
It was this plane.
Something about the air felt heavier. Like every step he took toward that plane was another letter in the signature of his death warrant.
—------
The team began trickling into the briefing room, slowly, granted it was another ten minutes before it was scheduled to start.
Soap was starting to get bored, unscrewing his pen and fiddling with the tiny spring inside before screwing it back together again.
He only stopped when Ghost kicked him under the table, a sharp jab to the shin that had him wincing and shooting the unbothered phantom a glare, after the spring accidentally launched across the room before producing a comical plonk as it dropped straight into Corporal Lees’ coffee.
“Sarge!”
A warm hand landed on his shoulder, looking up Soap grinned at Corporal Atherton - Tall, broad shouldered, and impeccably groomed. Most would take one look at the man and think grizzly bear, big, intimidating, and not afraid to tear a man in half. But Atherton? The only type of bear this man here was akin to, however, was a teddy bear.
“Jamie! Haven't seen you for months, mate- how'd Venice go?”
Atherton smiled warmly, lowering himself down ever so gracefully into the creaky desk chair next to him.
“Not too bad,” he said, shrugging off his heavy pack. “ ‘part from Andrew eating a full can of beans in the safe house- stunk up the place for three bloody days”
Soap snorted ungraciously, setting the pen down. He pointedly looked at Ghost, who merely rolled his eyes and went back to reading through whatever paperwork officers were always buried under.
“Fuckin’ hell, that's roughhh”
“Yeah, well- at least I've got seeing Elle and the sprogs to look forward to after this. Little uns have been climbing the walls trying to get me to take them to some pop-up fair that's on down the road”
Soap's smile softened. It was good seeing Jamie like this. After crossing paths on a few rough assignments in the past, he'd been glad when Atherton got stationed closer to home. Since being able to see his girls more, he'd definitely brightened up- more chatty than ever on pub nights, overall lighter on his feet.
“Aye, well” Soap grinned, nudging the man with his elbow. “You'd better make it back in one piece, then”
Atherton huffed, crossing his arms.
“This assignment? We'll be back for tea time, mate.”
—------
Glad to be free from boredom, Soap practically sprung to his feet when the briefing was over. Of course, he'd listened—he wasn't that unprofessional, he took his job seriously; it was literally life or death.
Prive glowered but waved him off to the armoury to gear up and check over the parachutes, so he grinned and planted a hand on Jamie's head, ruffling his hair as he passed.
“Oi Mactavish! i spent twenty minutes this morning making my hair look this good”
Soap let out an uncivilised snort, letting the Corporal’s grumbles fade into the background as the door clicked shut behind him.
—------
The journey to the armoury gave soap time to wander, mentally, of course. If he was late because of a spontaneous saunter across base, Price would personally skelp him and ship him back to his mother to give him a proper kick up the arse.
The looming feeling that something just wasn't right had followed Soap all day, and it was only getting worse. As a soldier you're taught to hone in on your senses, to trust your gut when nothing makes any sense. But… this feeling, there was no reason, no evidence, or intel to pour over that would prove that anything bad could or would happen. Just a growing sense of doom.
Even if he went to anyone about it, they would just wave him off and tell him to ‘rest up while he can’. Hell- even Ghost would just level him with an unimpressed stare and say ‘Johnny.’ in that tired, deadpan Mancunian drawl.
But…it didn't just feel off.
It felt like a death sentence.
But what was he supposed to do about it?
—------
He tried to shrug off the feeling as he opened the door to the armoury, pausing to hold it open for a Private to rush out, holding training supplies.
“Sorry Sergeant- thank you Sergeant!”
Soap snickered, still chuckling to himself as he made his way inside and to his gear locker, mumbling.
“No problem, kid”
Gearing up was a familiar process that soothed his unusual nerves, the practiced ease of re-assembling and cleaning his rifle, grabbing the throwing knives that Ghost had insisted on Soap having.
”You never know when ammo could be an amenity you can't afford, Johnny,”
Ghost had said, patting the sergeant’s chest as Soap marvelled at the fact *Ghost* had just gifted him something, even if it was army-issued equipment.
“Don't let death get her way”
Clipping them onto his gear and swinging the heavy vest over his shoulders, he noticed Rees scuttling into the room and talking to whoever was on duty.
Slowly as more people drifted in to gear up, as well as the handful of Americans getting shipped back to the US with them, the armoury began to fill with low chatter and familiar clunks and clicks of weapons being fiddled with.
“Hey, Sergeant?”
Soap turned at the quiet enquiry of Private Samuel Rees, who was geared up, shifting foot to foot.
“Rees,” he greeted warmly. “What can I do for you, lad?”
Nearly eight years his senior, Soap was very much reminded of his twenty years old self looking at the young lad. Although at his age Soap had already completed basic and gone for SAS training, as courtesy of lying about his age several times, before being allowed to join straight from secondary.
Still, Rees was young, a mere twenty years of age, baby-faced and green, with the air of someone who had not yet had to bear the plight of active combat. He held himself with a nervous type of energy, with a grin on his lips and spark in his eyes that had yet to be beaten out of him by the horrors of war.
He was struggling with a fiddly clasp on his vest, brows furrowed in frustration.
“Can't get the bloody strap to clasp, sir.”
Reaching over with a practiced sort of ease, Soap righted the strap, checking and pulling all of the other straps tight, before clasping a hand on Rees’ shoulder.
“Better?”
“Yeah, yeah, cheers..sorry probably me just being a bit thick, but these new ones are a bit of a change”
Soap grinned, turning back to close his locker.
“No worries, these come with a bit more protection.”
He knocked on the solid plate on the Privates chest.
Sam chuckled, resting his hand on his vest as he scratched the back of his neck.
“Missus ‘ll be glad at that, said she'd kill me if I got shot.”
“Aye?” Soap smiled warmly, “What's her name?”
“Alice,” he beamed “We got together in secondary, she said I have to come back - help her raise our son.”
He chuckled, opening his locker a few places down from Soap's, before handing him a picture, selfie of himself, his girlfriend, and a small, fluffy looking dog.
“Toy poodle. He's called Jason.”
—------
Soap sighed, wincing at the strength of the sun's rays, which were unusually harsh for this time of the year in ever so sunny England. He hitched his duffel higher up on his shoulder and continued to plod on, trying to ignore the unfortunate combination of heavy gear and a Parachute deployment bag in a sweltering twenty six degrees Celsius heat. (That's hot for England, okay??).
“Meltin’ out here. ‘S too hot for this shit.”
Atherton complained, while voicing what everyone was at least thinking, decided to forgo subtlety in his misery, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Always the vocal one, alongside Soap himself. Chatter and complaints mainly came from themselves. Of course, Gaz chimed in every now and then with a comment, But Ghost, Rees and the Captain soldiered on as if they were on a mission. (They are).
“It's a ten minute walk, Jamie. You'll live.”
Gaz chuckled, and he wasn't wrong - they were heading to an adjoined airfield with the base that currently held the American Cargo plane they would be hitching a ride on, a C-130 Hercules.
“It's also about the same temperature in Ireland,”
Soap added, squinting at the bright surroundings.
“At least there'll be a breeze on the way down, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever”
He mumbled, and although Soap was walking just behind him, he could hear the eye roll.
—------
It was a big, gorgeous piece of machinery.
Soap was always one for planes, from playing with toy figures in his Nan's sitting room while she danced about the front garden, to seriously considering joining the Air Force for a while. Although that changed quickly after a visit to his cousin in the twenty-third regiment, as he soon aspired to be a part of the Special Air Service.
Either way, he could still appreciate a good looking aircraft.
Usually.
That familiar creeping dread had latched onto his ankles and refused to let go, dragging behind him like a dead weight, accumulating in a pit in his stomach as he eyed the plane.
“C'mon, Tav,”
Gaz said, shocking Soap out of his spiraling thoughts with a clap to the shoulder,
“We are trying to get on the plane today, right?”
“Yeah, sorry. Dinnae what that was.”
Soap grinned, despite it coming out as more of a grimace with his thoughts taking the back burner, but still heavily planted in his brain.
—------
“Strap that cargo in, we're on a tight timeline, boys!”
There was a bustling atmosphere as a mix of American and British accents flew about, urgent in keeping this flight on time. It'd be close, even getting the American Captain to consider taking a detour over Ireland to drop them off was rough going. Price had to call in a few favours and the Captain had only agreed begrudgingly.
Despite this mission being somewhat of a milk run, it could give them some essential intel in getting one step closer to wasting Makarov.
As Soap trudged into the hangar, he paused.
A couple feet off to the side, by the plane's foremost left engine, some maintenance techs were standing. One was elbow deep in some wiring, clearly bickering with a second tech with a tight grip on a clipboard about something in the open panel. A third stood further off to the side, muttering about time needed for diagnostics, arms folded, expression sharp with quiet frustration as he observed.
Nothing to worry about.
Of course.
Soap worried anyway, glancing around before ambling over, trying for a somewhat casual pre-tense.
“Problem?”
The clipboard man looked up, looking startled at his sudden appearance before smoothing his face into a tight smile that screamed not now. Already looking as done with Soap from the mere six seconds of interaction as he was with the problem itself.
“Just some minor line issues. Nothing to worry about, Sergeant"
The other tech emerged from the panel and nodded as he wiped oil off his hands with a rag.
“Just fixing her up and running a few recalibrations, sir”
Soap raised a brow, skeptical eyes flickering from the exposed wiring and the tech's calm face.
“All on schedule then, lads?”
“Yeah,” The third decided to pipe up, still scanning the engine with furrowed brows, “ ‘S all signed off already, just some last-minute tweaks. Shouldn't be a problem.”
He finally met Soap's eyes for the first time, not being distracted by the machine.
“You lot‘ll be in the air in no time”
Soap gave a slow nod, not exactly convinced, but he was no aircraft expert, and their demeanor betrayed no alarm. Just trying to stay on schedule like the rest of them.
“Right,”
He smiled.
Convincingly?
Maybe not, but whatever.
“Well, I'll leave yous to it then. Try keeping us in one piece in the air, aye?”
The tech who was back half-inside the panel, now, let out a half-laugh.
“We'll do our best.”
—-------
As he made his way up the ramp and onto the plane, Soap saw most of the fold-down seats occupied by the Americans - the left hand side packed with soldiers, while the right was mostly filled with well-secured cargo.
He spotted his team in scattered seats down the aisle, grabbing Gaz's hand in greeting as he passed on the way to the front.
To his quiet satisfaction, he was glad to find Ghost had kept up their little tradition towards the front of the plane, sitting in the corner. His duffel occupied the seat to his right instead of under his legs as most other people had done.
Catching his eye, Soap grinned smugly.
Ghost answered with a predictably exaggerated eye roll, before removing the bag and shoving it between his feet.
“L.T,”
He said, patting the seat to make sure it was fully locked in before ungraciously planting his arse.
“You saved a seat for me”
“That's what you assumed,” Ghost huffed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe I just wanted a comfy place for my duffel.”
Soap hummed, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest.
“Sure you did, Ghosty”
Ghost looked at him thoughtfully.
“Maybe get some shut eye, Johnny. Might be a while before we set off anyway”
“Yeah,”
Soap sighed, glancing back to the mechanics and other soldiers still rushing about, scrambling to meet the schedule.
“Maybe.”
----------
“Johnny.”
A nudge to the shoulder, gentle, but enough to stir him from his dreamless doze.
Soap blinked awake, seeing Ghost's mask only slightly visible in the dim lighting as the ramp closed and the low interior lights flickered on.
“We're about to take off”
Soap nodded wearily, wincing at the volume of the loud clunking of the plane locking together.
There was rumbling as the plane picked up speed and a jolt as the wheels left the ground.
Soap hadn't even noticed he was grasping Ghost's forearm until a gloved hand wrapped around his.
“Johnny?”
Soap unclenched his hand, watching as Ghost removed his own.
“..Sorry”
Ghost's eyes roamed over his sergeant, almost worried from what Soap could read from the creases of his eyes.
“No worries.”
As the engine's sounds settled into a comfortable, dull, background noise, Soap's nerves lessened. It honestly felt a little bit silly to be so tense over something he'd done hundreds of times. He was also slightly embarrassed to have clung to Ghost like a wee bairn clutching their mammy, however he chose to view that as irrelevant.
It isn't long before his previous worries come back and hit him full force, an all encompassing feeling of impending doom settled over him as the plane hit a little turbulence.
Then settled.
Then it got worse.
“Something's wrong.”
Soap murmured, barely audible over the humming of the engines and the creak of metal under pressure. His eyes scanned the cabin, sharp and assessing, as if he could see the threat. Of what exactly?
Around them, mumbling began to ripple throughout, soldiers shifting in their seats and glancing at each other uneasily
“It's okay, Johnny”
Ghost's voice was calm, steady, thigh pressing closer to Soap's in a subtle show of support, grounding.
“ ‘S just some turbulence.”
“No,” he breathed, hands curling into fists so tight his knuckles began to turn white. He could feel his heart beating in his throat, “No, it's worse than that.”
Then came a sound.
A worryingly high-pitched whirring to their right. Almost like his crappy alarm. It got louder, quick. A shrinking, grinding metal against metal. A sound so wrong- then a boom. So loud it felt like his ear drums burst.
Then, chaos.
Now they were alarmed.
The plane veered to the right, throwing Soap and every other soldier on their row forward against their harnesses. Cargo broke free, slamming down the length of the hull like deadly battering rams. Alarms wailed. Shouts echoed in the darkness as the lights flickered -on, off, on- before they died completely.
A sudden spark lit up the cabin like a firework, an overwhelming heat punched into him as flames erupted at the top of the cabin to his right.
“Ghost-”
He grit out, voice raw. A vice-like grip clamped down on his arm, Ghost.
Across the cabin Gaz turned, abandoning his attempt to calm an ashen Rees beside him.
He met Soap's eyes, wide and terrified, just before a second explosion tore through the fuselage.
The entire plane jolted, every man flung like ragdolls as the plane shuddered around them, trembling violently.
“John-”
Gaz mouth formed his name, horrified and soundless, right as a chunk of the plane was ripped away behind them.
Boxes of cargo vanished into the void, sucked out effortlessly.
The row across from Soap turned in alarm, eyes wide. Scrambling. Desperate hands fumbled at harnesses. Some tried to climb, others tried to hold on.
“NO-!”
Soap screamed as a handful of American soldiers were yanked out, screaming bloody murder, their wails dissolving into the roar of wind and metal. Fingernails clawed uselessly at steel, gouging permanent marks of anguish into the floor as they lost the battle with gravity and G-force.
Then- Rees.
God. No.
The kid howled as he was dragged out, Gaz grabbed his wrist, face twisted in panicked agony, another arm hooked tight around a seat's leg.
But it just wasn't enough, the force tearing them both away.
“GAZ!”
Soap cried, lungs ablaze - just as arms surrounded him.
Ghost.
Then fire.
Then, nothing. An agonising wall of heat hit him, nerves screaming as they were burnt to a crisp, skin crawling.
Then there was no pain. No sound. No anything.
—------
Everything smashed back into him.
It wasn't like waking up.
It wasn't a dream.
It was a force he had never felt before, like his very being was ripped from his body and shoved back in.
It felt like being reborn, but not the warm and fuzzy feeling babies get, surrounded by love as they take their first breaths, no.
It was like he'd been dead for eons, his lungs disintegrated to ash, only to have air forced into them again. As a hand reached into his chest and squeezed, pumped his heart so fast he thought it'd implode.
Soap gasped.
His hand flew to his chest, his neck- his face.
Trembling as they explored skin he'd felt burn away.
Felt his nerves screaming as they were scorched.
“Johnny?”
The voice was muffled. Distant. Like it was coming from behind a locked door.
He blinked. Screwed his eyes shut and opened them with new clarity.
His chest burned.
How?
How the hell was he alive?
He'd just died.
Not a nightmare, Not an ‘oh no im scared of dying’ dream.
No.
No, he had physically died, that was real. It didn't just feel real that was real.
And it wasn't just him. He'd seen Rees. Gaz.
Saw them get sucked out, heard their screams echoing around his skull.
He'd remembered- Ghost's arms wrapping around him.
In those final moments, Ghost reached for him. Had shielded him, even if they were both going to die.
He whipped his head around.
The movement made his stomach lurch.
They were still on the plane.
The ramp was still open.
Cargo handlers frozen mid-task. Soldiers halfway through strapping in stared at him.
And they stared like he'd lost it.
“Johnny,”
Ghost again. Firmer now. Closer.
“Breathe.”
He was kneeling in front of him. When had he unbuckled himself? Moved to kneel between Soap's legs?
A gloved hand took his, pressed it to Ghost's chest, solid and steady. Guiding his breaths with his own timed inhales.
But Soap couldn't.
He was breathing. And that was the issue. Because he didn't know how.
It didn't make sense.
He yanked his hand away.
His fingers clawed at the harness, unbuckling and pulling, ripping it off with sheer desperation as he surged to his feet, stumbling. Ghost reeled back to make room for him.
“We have to get off, now”
“What?”
Price's commanding voice, sharp and confused, broke through the murmurs Soap hadn't even realised we're there.
The captain approached quickly, tone steady but edging towards pulling rank.
“John, son,” He began, reaching out a calming hand, “We can't just get off. We need this lift, what's gotten in to yo-”
“No!”
He flinched away. His breaths came in ragged, unreliable bursts.
“No- This plane is gonnae fuckin’ blow and we all need to get the hell off now!”
He turned to Ghost, desperation written all over his face.
“I saw it. All of it. We all died- me, you, Rees, Gaz-”
Ghost's eyes narrowed, concern etched into his furrowed brow.
Soap whirled to grasp Price's arm, “Sir, you need to listen to me! We can't stay on this fucking plane!”
“What the hell are you talking about, Sergeant?”
The American Captain, Captain Monroe, growled sternly, his voice rough and harsh with authority.
“You think you can just board my plane,” he said, stepping forward. The narrow aisle between the folding seats, especially those occupied, felt claustrophobic with how many bodies were crammed into the middle.
Monroe crowded right into Soap's space, jabbing an accusing finger into his chest.
“Fly among my men, and come on here screaming that my goddamn aircraft is going to blow?”
“You don't understand-”
“I understand perfectly.” The captain snapped, turning to Price, face schooled into somewhat professional fury.
“Get yourself and your band of lunatics off my plane, Price”
“Monroe, I called in shit for this, you can't just-”
Price didn't back down, although his eyes flickered to Soap, silently fuming.
“I can.” Monroe seethed, stepping right into Price's face. “Get off now or so help me god I will get you fucking blacklisted!”
Price didn't flinch, lip curled in disgust.
“This isn't the end of this, Captain.”
Price spat, gesturing to their team, who had all left their seats by then.
“Oh i’m sure it won't be, Captain”
Price glared, turning on his heel.
“On me, boys.”
He looked back.
“Soap.”
—----------
“What,” Price fumed, grabbing Soap by the collar and getting in his face, “in the ever-loving fuck, was that Mactavish?”
“Sir-” Gaz tried, voice low as he dropped his duffel at his feet.
“No.”
Price didn't even glance his way. He shoved Soap back, releasing his collar.
Soap stumbled, only staying upright thanks to Ghost's hands steadying him from behind.
“You embarrassed me, John. In front of those men, in front of Monroe,” Price seethed, before his expression turned more tired, “I pulled every bloody string to get us on that bird- and you got us thrown off, for what, some Nightmare?"
“I-”
“You're better than this, son. You owe me an explana-”
“Leiutenant Moore! You decide to stretch your legs right as we take off?”
They all turned toward the ramp. Lieutenant Moore stood there, an imposing figure even among hardened soldiers. Almost Ghost level tall, broad and calm. Not the type of calm that bred from arrogance, but the type born from surviving the worst the world had to offer.
He strolled down the ramp at a leisurely pace, cupping a hand around the cigarette hanging from his lips as he lit it.
When he reached the bottom, he took a long drag, exhaling slowly.
“I'll be stayin’, sir.”
His voice was rough, raspy like he'd swallowed gravel, touched with a worn Texan drawl that sounded more tired than intimidating as it usually did.
“What do you mean you're staying?”
The Captain asked, well, more so demanded as he marched down, standing before Moore, eyes ablaze.
“I trust him, sir,” Moore replied simply, “ Ain't never seen no fool actin’ like that, that didn't die about five minutes after.”
“This is blatant insubordination, Lieutenant,”
Monroe barked, voice shaking with rage.
"I could have you court-martialled for this.”
Moore shrugged, taking another drag of his cig.
“Then do what you gotta do, sir”
Monroe was red-faced by now, an expression similar to that of a snarling, rabid dog. But instead of firing back, he turned, walking back up the ramp, muttering.
“Christ..”
“Get ready to go!”
It was silent as the ramp slowly rose.
And for once Soap didn't have anything to fill the silence with. He felt insane, It felt real, too real. But what if he was just being paranoid? What if he had just ruined their efforts in getting more intel, good intel, on Makarov?
What if he'd let them all down?
By over reacting and getting them booted off.
“Fuckkkk”
Gaz sighed, long and drawn out as he dropped onto his arse, legs stretched out as he lent back, supporting his body with his arms.
They all watched the plane roll off, further into position on the runway before speeding up.
“He would've taken any chance he could have found to kick us off anyway.”
Atherton mumbled, breaking the tense silence only populated by the plane's jets as it took off.
“He's a hardass like that,” Moore replied smoothly, “we've had soldiers mid PTSD episode before on flights, he just didn't like ya'll.”
“Figured as much,” Rees sighed, dropping down next to Gaz Cross legged, “bloke sat next to me didn't even know Wales was a country.”
Soap looked at both of them, calm and joking, as if Soap hadn't watched them torn harshly from the plane, likely ripped to shreds in the following blast-
Ghost let out a low chuckle from behind him, a warm hand still clasping his shoulder.
Soap stayed quiet, not really sure what to do with himself as he began to calm down, seeing the plane begin to reach altitude just fine.
Price sighed, dragged a hand down his face and turned to soap.
“It's not massively time sensitive, I'll find another ride”
“I'm sorry, sir.”
His voice was cracked, ragged as he realised he'd had a panic attack over a little nightmare, then thrown away a good shot they had at gaining solid intel on a known terrorist. Great.
“I wanted to believe you, John,” Price soothed as he calmed down, “But I need a little more than a dream to be the reason we throw away an op.”
Soap nodded, sighing as he breathed deeply for the first time in what felt like years.
“Holy fuckin’ shit.”
Atherton Gasped, and Soap, as well as the others followed his line of sight.
The plane was trembling, one engine smoking.
“No bloody way.” Gaz murmured, scrambling to his feet.
There was a deafening boom as the plane's engine exploded, it veered to the side as flames licked up it's side, followed closely by another explosion on its right side, cargo and people alike spilling out.
Soap's knuckles turned white with the force he clenched his fists. He wasn't crazy.
He did not feel vindication, nor the urge to scream ‘I told you so!’.
No, all he felt was that crawling, grasping dread work it's way back to the surface tenfold, it was only cemented with the final blow.