Chapter Text
[MEET-CUTE]
“Got told ye might like this,” a new voice called down, right before one of Ghost’s balaclavas - a proper one, with the skull plate, not just paint - got dumped on his head from above. Ghost tipped his head forward so it fell onto his lap rather than into the murky water lapping at his ankles. Above him, his overly cheerful new companion was clattering away, and Ghost breathed in and out, in and out. Not alone now. Slightly better odds. Maybe. Depended on if they found him someone good at their job or not. If he wasn’t, at least that meant Ghost would take him with him when he went.
103.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph’s fuckin’ bawbag, tell me they untied ye? I told them they could - did they nae give ye a knife, if they were too chicken shit to get in with you? Y’need better coworkers, Lieutenant.”
“I think there was a bit more concern about potentially bringing the building down with them in it. You’re the ordinance disposal specialist, I take it. Took your sweet time,” Ghost replied, forcing the nightmares under his skin to settle. The pit he was in - his beautiful nine by six or so feet of grave, nice and spacious this time around - lit up brighter than it had been, and the shifting light combined with the bubble of heat directly above Ghost’s head disappearing made him fairly certain that the man had removed the obnoxious fucking light someone had left directly above him. It had been blocking any view out of the manhole; the change would be nice if it meant he could look at literally anything other than construction debris, fuel barrels, a heart monitor, and way too many fucking wires.
“Aye, that I am. Sergeant John MacTavish, sir. Call me Soap. And I took a grand total of fuck all time, I’ll have ye know. Only got the call two hours ago and the rest has been transit time.”
“Ghost. Can’t say it’s a pleasure, given the circumstances.”
“Aye, ah ken. Been some fine threats made to my person if I don’t get ye out alive. You got people who really give a damn, Lt. Even if they didn’t untie you.”
“I ordered them out when I realised it was a bomb.”
“Smart man, in that case. Still could have freed your hands up.”
More scuffling from above, Sergeant John MacTavish, call me Soap bashing and crashing. Setting up, Ghost gathered, and making a right fucking racket while he did. Ghost craned his head back, eyes slit in case he’d guessed wrong and Soap had decided to take the lead of the last idiot and limit his vision. He hadn’t - MacTavish had been smart enough to angle his lights to face opposing ends of the room, giving enough light to see clearly and Ghost the ability to observe him. Not that he could see much beyond his own fucked up everything in the reflection of the bomb suit, Soap looking down at him. He looked away.
“Soap to command… Aye, ma’am, when you’re ready. Aye. The bomb suit is nae gon’ fit. I told the tosser. A right faff about - a waste of time, sir… Yes sir… Ahm no’ a cat, sir, I cannae just magic myself in there - ah ken, tell him. I know. With due respect, sir,” Soap said, without a single ounce of respect in his voice, “None of ye have even assessed it properly, and I cannae make an assessment about what I can do if I don’t know anything more than ‘it’s a bomb, it’s not timed, and it’s strapped to our bonnie wee Lieutenant’. I - you’re the fucking liaison, Rutherford, you can translate it for that fuckin’ prick word for word if ye like, ma’am. Aye, that as well. He can talk to my CO if he dinnae like it. Good luck to him if he tries, man’s as much a numpty as this twit. Ma’am.”
There was a lull, seconds ticking by in the wake of Soap’s audacity. “Aye, sir. Confirming what we’re working with isn’t going to kill me, unless I do something I damn well deserve to die from. Ahm well certain of that. Aye. Yes, ma’am. Soap, out.”
Ghost was treated to some rather irate, barely-English grumbling. He couldn’t help his smirk, oddly charmed by the complete irreverence and the easy confidence it was delivered with. And more quietly, he was reassured, just a little bit, by the fact that there was a whole team up there still, waiting to see what became of him, not just walking away while they could. Not yet, at least.
“Sounds like just as much fun up there as I’m having down here.”
“Better company down here, Lt. It’s a right fuckin’ mess up there.”
“Yeah?”
“Aye. The paperwork is going to be a fuckin’ nightmare, but dinnae fash yersel.”
Ghost blinked.
“English, MacTavish.”
“Aye, English, greatest language around, all that gobshite. I said not to worry about the paperwork yet. I’ve already signed more shit tonight than we’d both sign in a month, but the less I think about all the rest they’ll want us to do when I get ye out, the better off I am.”
“Only just got here and they’re already giving you trouble. You’re in for a good time,” Ghost grinned. It split his lip, he could taste the blood. Alive, for now. With a mouthy Scot as his potential rescuer. Well, at least he might get the chance to laugh at some point, before he died. If Soap was actually worth all that paperwork he’d had to do just to get in here.
97.
“With you, Lt? Aye, no doubt. But with the glaikit that told me the hole you’d been shoved in was tighter than a fuckin’ duck’s arse, but then still insisted on me wearing this shit? Less so. Give me five, Lt, gotta get undressed.”
“Already? Haven’t bought you dinner yet.”
A bit of banter, to test the waters. A little bit flirty, because Ghost was, at his core, a stress-flirter, and no doubt that if that would cause issues, he needed to know now so he could mitigate it ahead of the real rodeo. Ghost waited to see if Soap would balk, or if he’d clap back with that mouth of his; play it off, or keep it going, or be one of those nasty bastards who reacted badly to even a suggestion of homosexuality in their vicinity. He didn’t need to know Ghost actually was gay. If Soap was going to have a problem with Ghost’s particular blend of suggestive banter, shitty humour, and occasionally vicious bite, then he needed to be careful with his mouth to prevent turning his hopefully-rescue into a case of two bulls in a China shop.
Ghost would bite his tongue if Soap didn’t want to chat - or couldn’t, while working. Ghost could handle the quiet a lot better, he reckoned, if there was another person there with him. And if this was going to be a long job, maybe Soap could get him a line to Price and Gaz, or even a book or some shit. But if MacTavish could take Ghost’s banter, his shitty humour, his propensity to flirt when he needs to keep his head on straight, then it could give them both a much, much better chance of survival. The seconds ticked by.
101.
“Who needs dinner when ye’ve already got me such a wonderful present, Lt?” Soap replied, voice clear now that the suit was off. Ghost looked back up at him with a slow smirk, Soap hovering bent over the manhole, giving Ghost an opportunity to properly take in the specialist that they had scrounged up to save Ghost’s life (or die trying). Mohawk, short enough to not lose too much shape under the gear but still definitely against regs; bright blue eyes, casual as anything, and the kind of careless, happy-go-lucky grin that was easy to mislead. He’d look like a FNG, not a specialist, if not for his age and all the nicks and scrapes Ghost could see on his arms and face. Scars like that only happened to people who got good enough that they outlived what should have killed them. He had the kind of muscle in his shoulders and arms that said he’d have a mean amount of strength in a fistfight, built dense like a boxer; durable and enduring. Not bad to look at in general.
And his eyes were roving over Ghost’s middle, eager, excited, almost predatory, like he wanted the bomb more than he wanted to save Ghost’s life. Well. One of those sorts, then. MacTavish was making it abundantly clear with that look that he liked explosives in the kind of way that either got you killed early on, or landed you with a lifelong reputation of being exactly the kind of crazy you want on your team when something needed to go boom. Or when it didn’t, in this case. Ghost could work with that. Assuming, of course, that MacTavish was already well on his way to notoriety and not still in the danger zone of a self-imposed early grave, Ghost along for the ride. MacTavish had been the closest EOD-qualified specialist, they’d told Ghost, when they’d confirmed he was en route, giving him fuck all else before disappearing again. That didn’t make him good at his job by default.
95.
Ghost was distracted from his musings by Soap letting him know he was inbound, heading into the pit legs-first, nearly kicking Ghost in the face, then kicking the bomb, then nearly impaling his foot on rebar. Ghost was pretty sure he’d never seen a more graceless entry, and also fairly certain that he was fucked if this was going to set the tone for his rescue. If he was feeling charitable enough to give the guy some credit, then he could acknowledge that Soap hadn’t actually made contact with any of it yet, and he had avoided every single one of the jumbled mess of wires running from the bomb, to the monitor, along the walls, to the fuel barrels, all over the chair - leading to Ghost, and the lump of fuck knows what imbedded in his chest. If he was feeling uncharitable, which he absolutely was, Ghost would acknowledge that the idiot still needed to stick the fucking landing and could end it all here and now if he didn’t.
106.
“Easy, that’s a bomb you’re trying to play footsies with,” Ghost snapped, willing himself to breathe, to settle, to force the number back down. It stopped climbing, at least, once Soap stilled, held in a position that would absolutely ache if he held it for long, ribs and up still outside the hole held there by upper body strength alone, legs dangling. He was shorter than Ghost had expected him to be, based on how much space he took up with his presence. Good - last thing he needed was the pit to be even more cramped than what was absolutely necessary.
“That’s what ye call it, Lt? Dinnae need worry, I’d be a poor date if I bruised the jewels before we even got to the fun bit.”
The casual, unworried tone, the ease with which he cracked the joke, how uncaring he was about potentially kicking the bomb, the way Soap was grinning down, trying to flatten his ribcage against the manhole enough to get a proper look at where he was trying to go, completely calm, completely unflappable… Either Ghost was absolutely done for, or he was going to be okay. About the same odds as before, but Soap’s ease had Ghost favouring the better outcome just a little bit more. He huffed out a painful laugh, tension releasing. Scars like that - the same kind of scars Ghost had - would have come from him being good at his job. As an explosive and ordinance disposal technician, regardless of where he was serving, if he had been bad at his job, he would be dead. Ghost forced that into his mind, a kind of mantra to stop him from ripping into the guy before he’d even started.
Ghost lifted one of his knees, ignoring the ache in his gut, using it to knock open Soap’s feet and guide them where they needed to be so he wouldn’t land on anything delicate. It meant that when he finally got his feet flat on the ground, he was straddling Ghost’s legs, abs clenched and hands still on the rim of the manhole, waiting to be absolutely secure in his footing before he moved so he didn’t end up sprawled all over Ghost and the bomb. Ghost couldn’t do much more beyond keep his knees in and watch as Soap, all dense muscle and a suddenly apparent laser focus, released with one hand, using the other to brace as he twisted his upper body around to check his clearances, his first ground-view of the space.
It didn’t take long for him to be in motion again, Soap doing a half-pull up with just one hand, core and thighs tensing and legs dragging against Ghost’s own as he hopped up, anchoring himself in a hover with one hand while the other reached for something from up above. When he lowered himself back down, he was carrying a duffle bag, which he tossed onto a barrel without a single care, as if he couldn’t also smell the stench of fuel that indicated it was full and a possible explosion risk of its own. Then he paused to grab Ghost’s balaclava and secure that, returning to stand in the middle of the small amount of open space, gaze critical again.
“Alright, Lt. Let’s get a proper look at what I’m… work...ing… with,” Soap trailed off, each word becoming increasingly strained as he pivoted around, able to put together the full extent of the bomber’s work at last. His eyes widened, and Ghost wasn’t entirely certain as to whether Soap was horrified, awed, or about to pop a hard on. His eyes skittered from the lump in Ghost’s chest, on the left side at the midway point between shoulder and nipple, wires extending out from between the crude stitches to join the mess of them trailing throughout the room, clipped in messy bundles to the walls and going by way of the fuel barrels, doubling back to connect to the bomb anchored to Ghost’s stomach, and lastly, tying Ghost and the thing in his chest to the heart monitor just out of Ghost’s reach against the right wall.
At the top of the monitor, on the discoloured plastic casing, someone had written in red marker. Simple, clear instructions, really, didn’t get better than that.
BPM -60/+120 = followed by a crudely drawn fiery ball with flecks representing debris coming off it.
The reading indicated Ghost was currently at 98 BPM. It flickered around a lot, but Ghost had been doing his damnedest to keep it locked around 80 to 95. Heartbeats could give you away pretty easily, though; hard to keep it down when you were scared, even if you could keep your face still, your breathing mostly steady. Ghost was good at making it hard to tell if he was afraid, no matter what circumstances he was in. Right now? He was fucking terrified, and if he didn’t keep that locked down, keep his heart under control, then it was going to be abundantly fucking obvious to everyone in the vicinity how scared he was when he exploded as a result.
“Tell me they’re dead,” Soap pleaded, pivoting once again to look from piece to horrifying piece of Ghost’s execution.
“Mission was a success. Couldn’t tell you more than that. No one’s told me more than that.”
“It’s too early ta tell whether they’re a fucking numpty or not. I reckon not. If they’re dead, good for them. Otherwise I cannae imagine they’re in for a pleasant fuckin’ time once I get you out.”
“You sound confident. I figured I’d be a write off.”
“Aye, would be smart to give up while ahead, with a trigger mechanism as fucked as this. You’re lucky, though - Price nearly took Jansen’s head off - the acting EOD commander - when he said I was nae to go in here and we needed to call it. The liaison - I was talking to her before, she’s the unlucky translator - backed Price up. Two to one, I got to at least take a look.”
104.
Soap stared at the monitor for a minute, trailing forwards and backwards between the wires. Ghost watched the numbers, ticking down again after he strangled his anxiety in the wake of what amounted to they called a vote on whether or not to let you die.
“They intended to torture ye,” Soap said, watching as Ghost’s heartbeat ticked down, down, back to the low 90s before Ghost felt safe enough to look away again. Faster than his normal resting heartrate, but between the physical trauma, the situation, and the fact that the bomb would trigger if he dropped to the low end just as easily as it would at the high end, Ghost was glad it was running fast without manual intervention.
“Eventually blood loss, infection, or exhaustion would drop me down below 60, or I’d panic enough to go over 120. It’s a good way to make sure someone suffers right up until they stop breathing, without needing to even be in the same room.”
“Ye almost sound impressed.”
“You aren’t? Looks like you’re making eyes at the thing.”
“Aye. I make eyes at any sufficiently pretty explosive. Especially when they’re strapped to a sufficiently pretty person. Right braw, fur a lad scunnered as ye ought to be.”
Ghost blinked at him. Soap did not deign to elaborate on whatever the fuck he just said, instead cracking open his duffle bag and pulling out, much to Ghost’s relief, a comm unit, setting it down safely. He pulled a knife from his thigh holster, and shuffled back around to face Ghost. He didn’t know, Ghost realised. He wouldn’t have been able to see it, from the manhole, and hadn’t expected how the bomb was attached up close yet.
“Not strapped.”
Soap paused, head tilting as he looked at the bomb.
“Not… strapped?”
“Come see for yourself, Sergeant.”
Soap’s silence, when Ghost shifted around so that he could see how the bomb had been attached, might as well have been the funeral bell, eulogy, and dirge all in one. He put the knife away, moving around to get different angles, looking at the bomb itself - unimpressive, sealed tight in what looked like a repurposed file safe, bit more than an A4 sheet and maybe a bit under ten centimetres thick, the black plastic hiding its contents bar cut outs that the wires emerged from on either side. They were twisted together on Ghost’s left, wrapped into a tube bound in electrical tape, exiting one side of the housing, entering Ghost’s torso, causing the skin to distend around the foreign body where he had been sliced open then glued and neatly stitched shut overtop it. The other end of the wires emerged on the right side of his abdomen and branching into three - some returned to the housing, some went to the thing in his chest, and some went to the heart monitor.
Soap finally spoke, if the angry and violent stream of Scots, intermingled with English, could really be classified as speech and not some sort of ritual to summon divine wrath. The man sounded incensed, some of the English covering some rather impressively creative and horrifically ultraviolent threats against the bomber that made it and any of their accomplices. It probably would have been hotter, listening to someone being so angry over Ghost that they were threatening to tear throats out with their teeth, but given that the response came because of the bomb Ghost had embedded in him, anxiety trumped it.
107. Breathe, you son of a bitch, Ghost told himself, forcing himself to settle again. He needed to know first, and if it was bad news, then he needed to wait until Soap was clear. Then he could freak out, and this could be over. Just a few minutes more, and it could be over. He needed to breathe.
“Mouthy, aren’t you?” Ghost grinned, reaching for distraction, for comfort in the back and forth of banter while he tried to keep his heartrate down.
“Ye don’t know the half of it, sir. You’ll find out, though.”
Ghost’s breath was shuddery. You’ll find out sounded like a promise. “By that reaction I would have guessed I’m not making it out.”
Soap had implied a lot of things, most importantly that he was going to try this, try to get Ghost out. If he didn’t, though, couldn’t - was ordered not to, by whoever the hell was in charge up there, or realised it was beyond him… Ghost wanted his mask. He’d ask Soap to free up his hands, put it on so he can feel like himself when he thanks Soap for being willing to at least attempt it.
“Dinnae insult me like that ever again,” Soap scoffed, settling back to draw his knife again, seemingly no more worried than he had been before he realised the state of Ghost's stomach. “I’ll get you out, I’m just a lot less happy about it than I was five minutes ago. C’mon, let’s get your comms up and your mask on, princess. Might help with that heartbeat, eh?”
“No troubles without it so far,” he lied, but Ghost was alive, wasn’t he? “And watch it with the princess.”
“Ach, dinnae tell me yer masculinity is that fragile, Lt.”
“No. But if I’m the princess, that makes you my knight, and I don’t want you making promises like that unless you’re intending to carry me out of here yourself like in all the fairytales.”
“I’ll give it my damndest, if that’ll win yer hand, princess. Gonna get nice and snug for a second, Lt, make sure your hands are clear of anything important before I cut the ties, aye?”
“Copy that, Sergeant.”
Soap did as promised, getting up close and personal with one leg either side of Ghost’s, bracing his shoulder against the wall, twisting until he was only half standing, curved around Ghost’s shoulder but over the barrels behind him that prevented him from accessing his hands cleanly. The position was awkward, but effective, keeping him away from the bomb and the wires around Ghost that led, jumbled and messy, around the room. Ghost shifted his leg slightly, bracing against Soap so he could take some of the man’s weight, giving him some extra leverage to get further around without overbalancing.
Soap’s hand ran down the length of his arm, painfully gentle, down to what felt to Ghost like large cable ties and a bit of rope as well, fingers picking at joins and digging at the space between Ghost’s skin and the ties. Ghost didn’t want to admit, even to himself, just how nice a friendly touch was right now. And Soap was warm - the pit wasn’t freezing, exactly, and Ghost’s face was still sweaty from that obnoxious light from before. But Soap was the kind of warm that sunk into your bones. It was nice, however brief. Soap found enough space to slide his finger tips between, right against Ghost’s pulse point. He shifted slightly, passing his knife from his free hand to the one that had been exploring.
“Hold still for me, Lt, I dinnae want to cut ye,” Soap instructed, voice as warm as his body. Ghost couldn’t have gone far, but he was grateful for the warning all the same when he felt the knife slide against his wrist, blade angled away in the tiny pocket of space Soap had found. The ties on that wrist popped, separating it from the other. Ghost kept his hands still, in the position they’d been tied, while Soap started to shift back. He braced his leg more, giving Soap the chance to lock his knees and leverage himself back up with his core.
“Smart man, keeping still, but ye dinnae need to worry. If movement, arms included, would set it off, ye’d’ve been long gone by now. Pass me that other wrist of yours, I’ll get the rest of this shit off.”
“Good to know. And I’d rather do it myself,” Ghost said, letting his hands come back to rest by his side, feeling the protest in his shoulders from how long they’d been tied, and the significantly worse ache in his stomach from the shit fest under his skin.
“With due respect, Ghost, yer hands are shaking something fierce, and that side was tighter. Ye nick a vein and we’re both as dead as any other option. Your call, aye, but don’t discount my twenty cents,” Soap answered. Soap actually sounded like there was a fraction of respect, this time. Impressive, truly. Ghost wavered.
101.
He caved, holding the wrist out. Soap was almost obnoxiously gentle with it, but Ghost didn’t feel patronised, surprisingly. Just sat still and let Soap anchor his hand with one of his own, the other doing that same careful investigation, looking for loose spots, checking if his skin had worn through anywhere. It had. Ghost had been trying to break them right up until he realised how much even carefully trying was fucking with his heartbeat. Soap found a patch with enough give, and he slipped the knife between again, cutting Ghost out of the last of it and disappearing his knife back into its holster before the cut ties even hit the water. And before Ghost could go for the knife, if he had decided he wanted it. He wasn’t that dumb, but Soap’s quickness implied that someone else once had been.
Soap shuffled back, fidgeting with his watch and then heading for his kit. It gave Ghost a minute to breathe while he fiddled with something in his bag, letting him force his heartbeat down as he watched Soap potter about. He was grateful for it, and for when his heartbeat settled in the low nineties again. Soap went for the comms and Ghost’s mask, giving Ghost a heads up that his breather was over before he finally turned back towards him.
Ghost took the offerings, and was once again surprised - and grateful - for the fact that MacTavish, while mouthy, insubordinate, and loud, had a good people sense, knowing when to push and when to give. As soon as Ghost had his hand around his mask, Soap had made himself busy, looking at the bomb and the wires again and how it all connected again.
Ghost was in the balaclava when Soap looked back, feeling calmer, steadier, less exposed and more in control than he had been since he woke up. Soap appraised it, appraised Ghost, for a moment, before nodding and heading back towards his kit.
“No comment?” Ghost asked, curious at the distinct non-reaction.
“Nah, Lt. Suits you. And we all got our things that make us feel like we can handle whatever dogshite we’re in. It’s spooky, though. Would shit masel if I came across ye in the field.”
“That’s the idea.”
Soap laughed, crossing the great distance of three tight steps between them again, this time bearing more items. Completely unperturbed by the mask - as casual as he had been the whole time. Soap was steady. Promising, maybe.
87. A good fucking number to see.
“Back to cuddle again so soon, Sergeant?”
“Nary a lad who wouldnae fancy a coorie wae ye anyday, but dinnae fret. Am nae gallus enough to have more’n a keek at a crabbit like ye, sir.”
“English, MacTavish.”
“Dinnae worry, sir, just havering. Talking shit, sir.” Soap was grinning, smug as can be. Great. Ghost could think of worse things than being laughed at in a different language while his life was maybe-saved, though. “Now, I’ll check those arms of yours, get ‘em disinfected, check everything still has feeling. I got water and this wonder paste that the medics said is gonna be nice and gentle on your stomach, too. Dinnae know if ye really want to be eating, wae all that, but ye gotta be dehydrated as fuck. So bottom’s up, Lt. ”
It would take a bit of getting used to, the way Soap would switch mid-sentence from a joke to handing out instructions with the expectation they would be followed. He had a pretty clear tell - when he was issuing instructions, being serious, he flattened out his accent, chose words more distinctly English than whatever Scots variant he spoke. Useful to help Ghost figure out what he needed to pay attention to, but it had a double benefit. The ease and casual bantering sliding into equally casual here’s how to not die with a bomb in your stomach instructions helped Ghost trick himself into calm as well, like this whole thing was a training exercise they could laugh during, low stakes, nothing to really fear. Not like Soap wasn’t currently at equal risk of dying - dying because of Ghost.
92.
He sipped on the water, when Soap was finished with his wrists. Soap was right, Ghost was dehydrated as hell. He moderated how much he drank, though, not wanting to risk spewing, all things considered. Both because of the obvious, what with the bomb, but also because anything that came out of his body went straight into the foul water pooling ankle-deep in the pit, and Ghost really did not want to add anything more to the mire than what was absolutely necessary at a rate of only when absolutely necessary. He’d see how the water went, and the nutrient sludge could come later if it sat well.
Ghost watched Soap. He’d pulled what Ghost was fairly certain was a waterproof notebook, leaning back against the wall opposite Ghost and starting to jot things down in it, glancing from bomb element to bomb element. Soap didn’t share what he was doing, and Ghost elected not to ask. If Soap distracted easily - which Ghost could very readily see being a fact - then the last thing he wanted was to make the EOD specialist forget something about the bomb mid-working.
The radio in Ghost’s ear crackled to life, and Ghost had to do his best to choke down the wave of hysteria that followed, to strangle the laughter that was triggered by hearing such a familiar, safe sound after being without a voice in his ear for so fucking long. Half an hour ago and he was fairly certain - waiting, after everyone was recalled, no radio, no way to communicate - that he had been abandoned. Had been fairly certain he would never hear Price’s voice again. The fact that he was - even if Price sounded anxious and a little irate, the steadiness a front - felt like a victory in itself.
“Sergeant MacTavish, do you copy?”
“Mind taking that, Lt? Noticed something - little locked in,” Soap said, not looking up from where he was frantically putting something down on his page. Ghost watched as Soap looked up and stilled, staring at the wiring clipped along the wall on Ghost’s right, leading from the bomb to the monitor. Absentmindedly, as if he wasn’t even noticing he was doing it, Soap put the marker down, reaching to dig a cross on a chain out from under his shirt, shoving it in his mouth before going back for the marker. He picked the marker up, then put it down, then picked it up again. Started drawing while looking at the wires and not the page. Looked like a nutter, but there was something intense, important, about the process. Something worth keeping an eye on, Ghost noted.
“Price. This is Ghost.”
“Ghost. Thank Christ. How copy, Lieutenant?”
“I’ve had worse days. Not many, but some.”
“Any reason I’m hearing from you and not MacTavish, given he hasn’t checked in again like he was supposed to when he got in with you?”
“He’s a bit busy writing in his diary. Quite the budding poet, if you count notes on bomb design as poetry. And I’d guess he forgot to check in, like any good soldier."
Soap flipped him off, then spotted something else with a frown, stepping closer to Ghost and then crouching, trying to follow a stream of wires from under the chair. Based on the way he yelped and shot back up, cursing, he didn’t stop to consider the pool of icy dirt-coloured water. Ghost laughed - he couldn’t help it.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it off, Lt, ya right prick. Here I am trying to save ye and ye laugh when I dook the goods. Watter’s fuckin’ cauld, ya bastard.” Soap went for it again, this time much slower, taking a minute to brace his leg properly so that he wasn’t dipping balls-first into the cold.
“Ghost?”
“Soap’s proving to be quite the entertainer. And in his defence, I’ve been talking just as much shit. Second we stopped, he got into it, and that’s when you flagged.”
“MacTavish, how copy.”
“Right as rain, sir. Checking the rig out now. Ghost’s fucked up, by the way. But he’s keeping water down and is in good spirits, all things considered. He’ll be alright.”
“How bad is fucked up, MacTavish?”
“You’re gonna want a fully equipped med team on standby.”
“I thought your job was to get him out in one piece.”
“Aye, sir. But you told me there was a bomb, no’ a fuckin’ Saw trap. It’s connected to his heart. A modified pacemaker, I think? Looks the right shape and position for one. An advanced medical team is a necessity.”
There was a heavy silence, before Price finally said, “Will you be able to get him out, Sergeant?”
Soap paused, lips pursed, frowning as he scanned Ghost and all the many branches of the bomb rig.
“I can handle the bomb, of that I have no doubt.”
Handle the bomb, yes, not necessarily making promises about Ghost. Soap looked like he wasn’t having nearly as much fun now.
“Good. You’re cleared to do whatever you need, Sergeant. Field hospital will be prepped immediately. We’re on standby to fetch and carry additional supplies. Get him out, MacTavish.”
“Copy that, sir.”
Ghost clicked his mic off, and when Soap had done the same, Ghost caught his attention.
“You don’t want to do this, do you?” Ghost said.
“No. I don’t.”
103. Climbing, but slowly enough Ghost could focus on breathing and drag it back down. He was okay. It wasn’t over yet. Not yet.
“Sit-rep, Sergeant.”
“This shit… it’s done by a professional. We’re talking my level professional - this person has worked in ordinance and made a fucking living with IEDs.”
“You sound confident about that.”
“Aye, sir. They’re a fucking monster, sure, but the bomb itself, from the housing to every part of the rig, is clean. The mess in here is intentional, deliberate. It’s designed to mislead. I daresay ninety-nine percent of these wires are dummies, but some of the dummies will be holding a charge, an extra layer of misleading, and… The bomb is the easy part, Ghost. I’ve no doubt when I crack it open I’ll see the exact same layout I would have chosen, identical down to the same payload type and quantity. But this shit?” Soap said, waving to the heart monitor, “The bomb is the easy bit, this isn’t.”
Ghost didn’t know how he felt about the fact that Soap would have done exactly this, if he felt so inclined as to murder someone so brutally. Or the fact that he was confident about everything except the trigger.
“How bad?”
“It’s sadistic, sir. And there’s no easy way around it. Cutting the bomb out of ye won’t do shite, just make it go off when the thing in your chest is disconnected, or it’s disconnected from the monitor. If ye get too stressed or too sleepy an’ ahm nae watching close enough, it’ll go off. Cannae get ye out of the hole even if I find a way to move the whole rig safely, because with the housing, ye’re too broad for the manhole. I cannae get the housing open to bypass the monitor entirely while it’s in you, because of the positioning, and I cannae disarm it without opening it. But I cannae cut it out of you and so - you get it.”
“Rock and a hard place.”
“Aye. It’s fucking brilliant, this thing. It’s one of the best planned rigs I’ve seen. Ye must’ve pissed them off bad for this. And unless they had an IED specialist in their regular crew, they may have even outsourced for this. I’ll have to check for a maker’s mark when I get it open, I cannae imagine someone building this deathtrap and then nae wanting to be known for it. Brilliant, but fucked.”
So Ghost was dead. That’s what it came down to. Soap was still talking like he was going to save him, actually get to the part where he dismantled the bomb - the easy bit, he said, after saying he didn’t want to do it. But his explanation had been pretty fucking clear - this was designed to be unsolveable, a puzzle rigged from the start, and Ghost… Ghost wasn’t meant to go home. This wasn’t life-and-death where there was always a decent chance of survival, no 50/50 odds. This wasn’t a hostage situation designed to prompt great feats of heroism, for everyone to go home with shiny new medals after. This was an execution, and Ghost was sitting in his grave. Sharing it with Soap, right now.
110. He was supposed to die alone. Ghost breathed, in and out, in and out. This was Ghost’s grave. His alone. He would not bring Soap with him
“If I’m going to die, MacTavish, it’s alright. You can walk away. No hard feelings. No reason for you to die down here too.”
Ghost didn’t want to say it, but it was necessary. It was his fuck up that had landed him here, and the last thing he needed was to bring someone else - a subordinate that wasn’t even his - down with him, EOD specialist or otherwise. Soap, for his part, looked irate, as if Ghost had grown a second head exclusively to insult the man’s mother with.
“I thought I told ye not to ever insult me like that again, ye fuckin’ dunderheid. Am nae going to leave ye down here. I’m not dying, and ye aren’t either, if I’ve a say in it.”
“I won’t blame you, MacTavish.”
Soap scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned back to his notes, jotting something down as if he’d spent the whole conversation with the bomb and how to pick it apart running in the background of his mind, noticing and computing details even while they talked. Ghost wasn’t entirely sure what he muttered to himself, but he heard lucky and bonnie and what was definitely an insult based on tone alone.
“It’s a matter of professional pride at this point, ye right bawbag. Steamin’ Jesus, can ye imagine what they’ll say about me if I walk away from this?”
“That you’re a smart man, for not dying this stupidly.”
“Away ‘n bile yer heid, ye daft git. Am nae having ye die on me, ye ken?”
“English, MacTavish.”
“What I’m saying, Lieutenant, is that I don’t have my callsign for nothing.”
“What, for the number of times your CO has had to wash your mouth out? I might not know what the words mean, but it’s pretty easy to tell when you’re saying something foul.”
“Ha, ha. I’m called Soap because cleaning up is what I do best. Sweep and clears, bomb disposals, salvaging a mission that’s gone FUBAR. Doesn’t matter. Point me at a mess and I’ll sort it. This sort of thing is where I thrive.”
Ghost looked at Soap, really looked. Marker and notepad in hand, standing relaxed, easy, expression returned to one of focus, not concern, as he eyed the bomb and its many parts. The concern, the anxiety, came about Ghost’s life - not the bomb. Soap looked perfectly at home in the death trap. Perfectly at home in a situation with fucked stakes, with a bomb from hell, with Ghost glaring at him. Maybe Soap was just an overconfident idiot. But maybe…
“Alright, then, MacTavish. What’s your plan?”
“Clean up the fuckin’ mess of wires, find the dummies, isolate the ones that will cause us trouble and get the rest out. Then I’ll start on the monitor. Gonna see if I can find a way to bypass the pacemaker and keep the monitor thinking it’s reading a safely beating heart. Then the bomb, and finally, we both go home.”
“Copy that, Sergeant. Let’s get on with it, then.”
“Yes, sir. Your heartbeat is a lil' high - is now a bad time to tell ye I’m about to get on my knees for ye?”
Cheeky bastard, grinning like that. Breaking the tension, easing the stress, with a joking bit of flirtation. Good at that, he was - stripping back what was really going on to make everything feel light and simple. Ghost grinned back at him. He didn’t want to hope. But maybe he dreaded a little bit less.