I returned to the training facility the next morning, arriving at 4:30 to make sure I had all my equipment ready. Price arrived only seconds after I did, readying himself as well, and Ghost arrived at 5 am sharp. Price didn't tell him that he was late. Figures.
"You'll start with Ghost doing co-op exercises, then we'll switch to more combatives," Price looked at Ghost and smirked.
I felt a rush of heat up to my face as Ghosts' eyes landed on me, "you're point," he said before shoving an M4 into my hands. His voice was like a stone being thrown directly at me with no time to dodge. Just vocal cords with air being moved through them. I opened my mouth to protest but figured it would do no good.
"There are going to be live enemies, you have chalk bullets in your mag," I pulled out my mag and saw the small balls of chalk, nodding. "So do they, don't get hit."
The buzzer went off and I could hear the sounds of boots moving around the training area out of sight. My heart raced as I began to make my way from room to room, Ghost directly behind me, silent as always. I came to my first breach, remembering what Ghost did the day before, I stood and tucked the gun into my shoulder and leaned against the left wall. Ghost nodded and stood beside me, without a word I felt his hand tap my waist and for the briefest of moments I was dumb-struck and looked up at him. Remembering that was the signal for him telling me he was ready for the breach; I shook my head and threw my weight into the door.
Two men stood at the ready in full body armor, I hit one in the shoulder, but he kept coming at me, so I hit him again, chalk wafting into the air like dust. The other live combatant was already shot in the chest, Ghost's doing. Both of the "enemies" chuckled and walked through the door we had just breached signally that they were "out." I had played paintball before, but this was far more intense, and I knew that those chalk bullets would hurt far more than a paintball. My heart was in my ears, sleep deprivation was gonna be an issue today, so was the lack of a decent meal.
I was frustrated, get out of your fucking head, Jamie! I said to myself. I saw the next room to the right and began to move to it, forgetting to check the back corner. Another live enemy, hidden behind a crate popped up and aimed for my head. Ghost swiftly remedied the assailant "check your bloody six, Ash."
"That's your job, Lieutenant," I said, not meaning for the words to be as disrespectful as they came out. I could feel the rage drench the air behind me, but I wasn't incorrect, as my teammates were supposed to have my back if I was on point. I cleared the next room and then the room after that, my confidence was building. Each breach, Ghost tapped me on either my thigh or waist and each time it felt like an intrusion.
After a few hours of running different strategic plans, Price called out "take a break! Ghost, conference room now!"
He was already up the stairs and falling in stride with Price by the time I had processed what was happening and my body had stopped reeling. Ripping off the tactical vest at the top of the observation deck, bent over, placing my hands on my knees. Breathing was never this hard, why was this so difficult? My body was screaming at me to sit down. The bench next to the observation deck stairs was my haven as the men walked off. I waited for some time before I took it upon myself to head to the shooting range, I wasn't going to wait around for someone to tell me what to do, and I needed to work on my aim.
The sun was nearly setting when the range door burst open and Price entered with Soap and Ghost behind him, "there you are muppet,"
"Sorry, I wanted to get some practice in while I waited, sir," I said, putting your M4 down and standing at attention. Wow, my military instincts really were kicking in again.
"Good initiative," Price said, his next words were directly to the point "Gaz and I will be gone for a few weeks, we have intel on who is moving the missiles Laswell told you about," I took a deep breath, he must trust Laswell a great deal to be briefing me on such things. Soap didn't seem to carry the same sentiment as his face turned sour behind the captain. "Ghost will be taking over your close combatants training until I return, Soap will get you accustomed to the Tac-50 so you can assist with overwatch," he said, this was how he commanded his men. His words were like a warm hug, that would quickly turn into a chokehold.
"Sir, may I ask a question?" I asked.
"Go 'head," he said with polite nod. Both of the boys behind him made themselves busy with the line of guns on the range table.
"I'm a helicopter pilot, I thought that was the reason that Laswell recruited me, why teach me combatives and how to shoot a sniper rifle?" I asked, trying to sound as respectful as possible. Questioning authority wasn't the best way to make any kind of impression on a commanding officer.
Price scratched his beard, "that sounds like a question for Laswell." I nodded and decided against pushing the subject, reminding myself that I was only here to not go to prison, clear my name, and get my father some help. He saw the dampened look on my face "there is a lot more to these operations than getting in and getting out, Hendricks. You'll be expected to know how to be a part of this team, helicopter pilot, guide, overwatch, point, it doesn't matter your role," his words like a match to a flame, not scrutinizing me but reminding me what I was expected to do. I looked at Ghost and Soap at the range table, glaring back at me. "We had been tracking those Russian helicopters we saw at Kootenai for over a week. We need people we can rely on, no matter the mission."
"Understood sir," I confirmed.
"Good," he said before looking down range at the target I had been practicing on, "you're improving."
"Thank you, sir," but he was already on his way back out the way he came. Leaving me with Soap and Ghost in the range. I looked at both of them who exchanged awkward glances at me. Ghost was leaning against the table, arms crossed over the front of his chest like he was going to start throwing punches if he didn't lock his hands away under those enormous biceps. Soap seemed to get increasingly uncomfortable with the awkwardness of the room, finally breaking the silence.
"What's with your tattoos?" Soap asked, pointing to the sleeve of floral designs that covered my right arm. I had gotten several portions of the sleeve done over the years in the Air Force, but I never fully completed it. I had numerous depictions of wildlife between the roses, a deer for my father, a harrier (bird of prey) for Hayes. On the back of my arm, I had the ancient pottery portrayal of Athena, goddess of war and wisdom for my mother. A revolver marked the inside of my bicep, artistic but also a memory of another life that I had almost forgotten. My favorite was on my thigh, which was covered at the moment, it was a skull surrounded by an open pomegranate. 'Death and desire,' Jackie, my co-pilot, had once called it.
"I, uh..." I shook my head, trying to think of the right words to say, "I guess I liked the pain."
"I got some too," Soap said, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a sigil on his forearm. I tried to look interested, but I didn't know the right thing to say. Yesterday this man had called my weak in front of the entire team, now he was showing me his tattoos. "Ghost has a sleeve as well."
I looked up at the man, only to be met with the same disapproving glare he had held on me in the conference room, "right," I said after he didn't move to reveal his artwork. The room fell into an awkward silence again before Soap dismissed himself from the tension, leaving me with the menacing, hulking Ghost.
His stare was deadly, "Don't question me again," he said once the range door closed behind Soap.
"Sir?" I asked, genuinely confused on what he was talking about.
"I told you to watch your six," he stood up from the table and placed his arms at his sides, "You told me that was my job."
I swallowed hard, I hadn't expected him to make a big deal out of the quip but then again, I was talking with a special operations lieutenant, nothing went unnoticed or unpunished with him. "Apologies, lieutenant," I said. I was trying to sound sincere, but the fact that he knew I was right, and he knew that I knew I was right was clawing at the back of my head. "I was-"
"Don't make excuses," he interrupted, "do as you're told."
God, he was scary. I nodded but refused to look away from him, he kept his eyes locked on my own, "Yes, sir," I finally said, feeling my cheeks burn. He walked away without another word, not looking back at me as the range door finally closed and I breathed again.
The mess hall was empty by the time I finally sat down to eat some dinner, it was going on nine at night and I could feel the weight of the past week on my shoulders. The wolf hunt, the hypothermia, traveling to Washington D.C. without even so much as a word to the people I cared for. I could only imagine what they had told David. He had known I was AWOL; I was praying that they had not found out he knew and that he was safe with the rest of his family. His wife, Amy, was probably scared to death by the whole ordeal, his sons were still too young to fully comprehend the whole thing, at least, I hoped they were.
I thought of Grim, up in his fire tower wondering if he would hear from me this week, wondering if he had called me on the satellite phone to see how I was. I had always liked Grim; he was an older man but handsome and flirtatious. He was one of those men I hoped that I would never have to turn down but respected far too much to flirt back. I thought about the other technicians at the station who would be coming to work this week, wondering where I was and why I wasn't at work. I suddenly had no appetite and pushed the food away from me but then I remembered the training that I would be going through in the morning and forced it down anyway, I was going to need the energy.
Everything hurt as I walked back to my dorm room, my ankles cracked, and my back was temporarily slumped over. I needed a good run to loosen things up, but the thought of the icy Washington D.C. night air destroying my lungs was nearly too much to handle. I voted on going to the rec center instead. Wrong decision.
Upon entering the compound, I could hear the roar of men coming from the gym, it was unlike the regular sound of men playing basketball or grunting over workout machinery. The only thing I could compare it to be the sound of bulls running down the street followed by angry cattlemen, my curiosity was sparked. As I entered the gym, I couldn't help but laugh a little in my gut, I remembered nights like when I was stationed in Oklahoma.
There had to be forty or more soldiers gathered around a mat in the middle of the gym, I was relieved to see that there were a few women among them. They weren't dressed in their uniforms, but dressed casually in their civilian clothes, the atmosphere was relaxed. I walked up the circle, trying to not draw too much attention to myself. In the middle I could see two men grappling on the ground, one of them was the delta team leader, Fontoura was his last name I remembered. The other was an unknown man. Both were smiling and grunting as they practiced their fighting holds and escapes. Nights like these were encouraged by superiors, it was good for morale and allowed soldiers to practice their hand-to-hand combat training.
Thinking back to when I did Brazilian jiu jitsu as a pastime, I had found myself enjoying grappling nights like this one. I wasn't bad, but I had to fight hard to be able to maneuver with hardened soldiers. Fontoura put his comrade's arm into an arm lock and twisted, his partner tapped, money was passed around from member to member. I shook my head, typical of the military, at nighttime there was nothing better to do than fight and gamble.
Fontoura stood up, giving his friend a shoulder hug, "are we buying bottles at the club this weekend, Jackson?" I heard him say. His buddy began counting money to the sound of the other men egging him on and cheering. Fontoura swiped some sweat off his brow, "go on, who is next?"
"Alright, let's put this party to bed," I heard a familiar Scottish growl come from the other side of the gym. The room was quiet at first, looking to Sergeant MacTavish, who was closely followed by Ghost. They were both in civilian clothes. Soap was wearing a navy-blue sweatshirt that he ripped off, revealing a black muscle shirt underneath. Ghost was dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a black hoodie, instead of his thick skull mask he now wore a black balaclava. I was surprised to say the least, but I was even more surprised to see the look in his eye, he had crow's feet, he was smiling under that mask of his.
Soap slipped off his boots and threw them to the side, all to the elevating sound of the crowd's excitement. Stepping onto the mat, Fontoura smirked and took his fighting stance, "first to blood, Xavier?" I heard Soap say.
"Sergeant to Sergeant, I can't say no," Fontoura chuckled and held up his hands.
"You fucking Americans..." were the last words Soap said before he practically tackled Fontoura. Both men grunted as they hit the mat, the crowd screamed. Soap stood on his knees and tried to throw a well-aimed punch but that was before Fontoura hooked Soap's arm around the back of his neck and pulled down. I could hear bets being taken around me, someone said Fontoura was a better fighter, but Soap would never tap, others were saying Soap could outright kill anyone with his hands.
"Don't lose your head Johnny!" I heard a very British man say, looked and found Ghost not far from the mat, watching his friends' movements closely. How very like Ghost, always tactical, he even found workplace violence fun. Soap got his knees under him and began to lift the two of them off the ground, sliding one of his free arms between the two bodies. I knew this move, as long as one of them could create separation between the bodies they could break the headlock. And that's just what he did. Fontoura tried his best to keep himself steady but quickly maneuvered to catch one of Soap's ankles. Soap was expecting that, grabbing ahold of his wrist, and using it as leverage to force Fontoura into a submission maneuver. Fontoura growled as his arm twisted little by little, "You got him now Johnny, crank that arm."
"Tap you motherfucker!" Soap huffed, Fontoura pulled one last attempt to escape, forcing one of his knees directly into Johnny's thigh.
"First blood motherfucker!" Fontoura retorted with a laugh, the rest of the crowd laughed. Soap shrieked in pain; the inside of the thigh was highly sensitive. Pressure like that felt like breaking bones, I remembered that feeling well from my air assault schooling. Even though I was a pilot, I needed to know how to defend myself in case of hostiles taking my bird.
Soap broke away from the hold, throwing a punch into the other man's gut. Both men were breathing heavily but continued to grapple around on the floor. Eventually Fontoura locked his legs around Soap, squeezing his thighs. I giggled to myself; I liked that move too. Before I remembered the last time and place, I had used it, was around 'His' waist. I shook my head and closed my eyes, trying to think of anything else.
My eyes settled on Ghost who was now standing with his arms crossed, watching the battle go on in front of him. He had rolled his sleeves up now, revealing the tattoos that Soap had mentioned earlier in the day. Some of the art was visible, there was a knight in a cloud on the top of his forearm, some flames, and a soldier's memorial. I couldn't help but notice the size of his hands and the veins that broke off like branches of a river down his arms. He was built like a bloody lineman. I wondered how many men those hands had killed, how many souls had been pulled from their physical forms due to those muscular hands, the thought was intimidating and haunting. Yet inside I felt a ping of sympathy, thinking of the blood I cleaned off my helicopter after a casualty, how many times had he had to clean off blood from those hands of his?
Soap suddenly screamed as a punch landed on his jaw, spinning him to face me. He smirked and I felt heat rise to my face. Fontoura went for another blow that was dodged by Soap, he threw a punch to his stomach. Doubling over, Fontoura clutched his midsection only to be hit in the face with Soap's knee. There was no crack, but Fontoura hit the ground, blood spilling from his nose, "First blood!" Soap shouted, raising his hands above his head. The money was sent around in circles again.
Reaching down, Soap raised Fontoura from the ground, holding out a bandana to him. Fontoura laughed and rolled Soap's hand from his shoulder. "Alright Soap, you're the winner! You get to pick your next opponent."
He looked around the circle, waiting for someone to step up and take him on, he looked at Ghost, "No fucking way Simon, I'm not doing that again," Soap said, waving off the giant. He finally landed his eyes on me.
"Ohhhhhh, our new phoenix," he said. The rest of the crowd parted, but then fell silent, "Ash, care to step up."
The only thing I care to do is fucking disappear, I said to myself. I looked over to Ghost whose eyes were as blank as printer paper. Setting my bottle on the ground, I spoke with as much fake confidence as I could muster, "bring it on."
Soap was as surprised as I was at my lack of self doubt, not having done this in three years but again, it had to be like riding a bike didn't it? How many times had I thought that now? I glanced once more at Ghost, and he narrowed his eyes at me.
I took my stance, as did Soap and I felt the room turn quiet. There was no betting this time, everyone knew who was going to lose. I was much smaller than him, which meant I could outmaneuver him, but I was no match against his strength. The way to win this was easy, just don't let him catch me. I knew better than to attack first, I needed the upper hand of him being between maneuvers to get this right. He went to grab at my neck, launching his right foot under me, I dodged to the left and swung around him, still not striking.
He laughed a little, "gonna play cat and mouse now, are we?" He said, looking a little frustrated, did he think that things would be over already?
I don't know what came over me in that moment, maybe it was the lack of sleep or the shit situation of my life that had been thrust upon me, but I smirked and turned one of my fists up, slipping him the middle finger. He frowned at the rest of the room 'ooohhh" in excitement.
"Let's have a fight then, yeah?" The Scot was serious now, tucking his head between his fists. He struck again, this time he opened his legs just enough for me to step around the strike and step between his feet. I shoved my buttocks against his hips, grabbed his striking arm bicep and cranked as hard as I could. Soap was heavy as he rolled over my shoulders, landing on the ground with a thud. It was a textbook move, something a seasoned warrior would have predicted.
"Don't let me win now, Sergeant," I heard myself say. God where was that confidence coming from? I felt my adrenaline kick in again, at one time I thrived on nights like these. If I fade to nothing, I let him win, Kate's words rung in your head. I focused back on the fight; Soap was scrambling on the ground. I was too distracted to notice that in his fall to the ground he had grabbed ahold of one of my ankles, tripping me up as I tried to get away. My knee buckled. I heard Soap chuckle as his hand gripped the area behind my knee and pulled out, forcing me to choose between landing on my face or catching myself, leaving my wrist open to be pulled into an armbar. Thankfully, I remembered my old instructor's flirtatious advice to me, "you've got thick thighs, use them."
I decided to roll onto my side, trapping Soaps hand between my thigh and my calf muscle. Using my other knee to press down onto the side of his face, separating the shoulder from the clavicle was nasty and painful, he would tap, I was going to win.
But I forgot about the rest of Johnnys body. Soap used his abs to kick his legs that were unaccounted for, over my head, catching my neck between his own thighs. This was not good. He flung me down, forcing my entire body weight onto my shoulders as I flipped over him. "Holy Fuck!" I heard someone from the crowd exclaimed.
I breathed in as best I could, suddenly I looked up, and Ghost was in front of me. How incredibly embarrassing, I was looking at my superior with my head caught between another man's thighs. He was down on one knee, his eyes didn't seem concerned, but they reminded me of a high school football coach watching a play he gave fall apart, "don't lose your head Ash!" I heard him scream at me. I writhed under Soap's aggressive head lock to no avail.
"What are you doin, mate?!" you heard Soap yell, "I thought you were on my side!"
Ghost's eyes didn't waver from me, "elbows are sharp!" The brit said, I knew exactly what he was saying. I turned my body 90 degrees and shoved one of my elbows directly into Soap's lower stomach. He groaned loudly but didn't release me, I did it again, this time just slightly above his groin. I would never use a low blow to win, that wasn't fair, but it could always be used to intimidate a man. I felt his legs relax just enough for me to escape and stand back up; he was on his haunches when I made the decision to do the move I wanted to do since I started to learn fighting. Using that speed to my advantage I grabbed ahold of his arm and swung my leg up so I was straddling his shoulder when I bent down, using his already unstable weight against him. He fell with ease, allowing me to lock my ankles over his chest and crank my hips towards the sky, locking him into a painful armbar "TAAAAAAPPPPPP!" I heard myself scream through the rush of blood in my ears.
The whole room was going wild around me, but I couldn't hear them. I held on to a few more seconds as Soap writhed under me, trying to break the lock my ankles had on his pectoral muscle," You motherfucking-" I cranked those hips a little harder, and Soap's hand smacked my calf. I released, letting myself fall back onto the floor with a staggered but satisfied breath. Something in me changed in that moment, it was a win, a physical win. My body was my own, I had used it, plentifully.
Someone was standing over me, blocking the light from the ceiling, "steaming Jesus!" I heard him say, with a smile on his face. Soap was above me, offering a hand down. I took it with a smile, I had not felt this good in a long time. Looking around, the soldiers astonished glares at me gave me a sense of pride. But I also felt so unlike myself that it felt like I had seven heads. Ghost was suddenly next to me, offering me a rag.
I tasted blood, holding my hand up to my mouth I could feel the already growing lump on my lip. Worth it, I thought to myself. Tapping the rag to my mouth, I smiled over at Soap who grabbed my wrist and raised it above my head. But I wasted no more time with fighting again, leaving quickly to find a shower to wash off the sweat that had accumulated under my shirt. But first I needed a cigarette first.
On the way back to the barracks, I stopped at the smoking pit. It was little more than a bus station shelter, but it was good enough. Pulling the cig from my back pocket, 'only the essentials' Laswell had said. This was fucking essential. I took a long drag, letting the smoke take effect on my nerves. I had fucking won, something I needed in this week of losses. I chuckled to myself, feeling the triumph build up in my stomach. I genuinely couldn't believe that after three years of hiding away in the mountains of Montana I still had parts of me that flourished under the influence of the military. I knew it was always there, but these memories of the happiness in the military had always been doused by the memories of darker and more panicked moments. Moments that I had yet to release from that prison inside my mind.
I heard the boots walking up to the side of the smoking shelter, causing me to escape where my mind was taking me. "That was hardcore," I heard the grumbled British accent say from behind. I turned to find Ghost standing in the entrance with his balaclava pulled up above his mouth, already lighting a cigarette of his own. I was surprised he smoked, "nasty habit, but it takes the edge off."
I nodded, too intimidated to say anything. The last time I had talked to this man he had all but made me cry at the firing range. I was still holding the rag he gave me, but my mouth had long stopped bleeding. I offered it to him, "thank you," he took it from my hand, brushing my thumb with his pointer and middle finger. Instantly I felt the heat from him, I was so incredibly confused by it that I ripped my hand away from him. "Sorry, I think I might have pulled my finger in there," I lied.
"Is it broken?" His concern was genuine.
"No, just sore," I lied again.
"That's what you get for letting a bird fly in the room," Ghost said emotionless, taking a long drag, letting the smoke filter from his lips. I studied the little bit of his jaw that I could, he had a strong cleft chin and stubble, his lips were puffy like I had imagined them. He cocked his head at me staring at him. Right, he had said something to me.
"I'll apologize to him, that was uncalled for," I said, putting my own cigarette to my lips.
"Don't," he said, his words were toneless, "riling up your opponents is a good strategy to get them to attack."
I wished that my face wasn't so expressive because I knew I was astonished. Ghost had given me fucking compliment, did I hear that right? "Thank you, sir." We were both quiet for a long time, letting the smoke filter out any of the tension in my body. I would occasionally glance at him, then back at my hand where he had touched me. Strange, I could still feel it.
I finished my cigarette and put it out with my boot, I figured he would say nothing more as I began to walk away, "have a good night, Sir," I said not looking back at him. He said nothing, made no sound as my boots trailed off into the distance.
GHOST POV
He was replaying the day's events in his head, as he always did at the end of the day over a smoke. This time his mind seemed to continuously land on the rock of her hips upwards towards the ceiling as she cranked Soap's elbow, it was a textbook, perfect armbar. Ghost wasn't much of a technical fighter, he had height and weight on his side, but he admired the way she had learned how to use her own.
He knew she wasn't here on her own accord, ex-military, hiding in the middle of nowhere close to the border of Canada. There was more to her, more to this story that Laswell wasn't telling the rest of the team. That made her a liability, that made her untrustworthy. He looked down at his fingers, the fingers that had brushed against her thumb. She had snapped away from him, he knew that her finger hurting didn't make any sense. It was another lie.
He stood and put out his cigarette with his boot and pulled his balaclava down over his face. Anger was in his stomach. He didn't like this situation, teammates had to be fluid with their trust in the field. Personal trust was a different story, but he needed to know that he could rely on his comrades. He already knew that he couldn't trust her, just based on the information that Laswell had given the team and the information he had found out about her in her file. Not wanting to do the job because she was being forced to do it would become a problem, orders don't get taken well when you don't have a reason to be taking them.
But then there was the way she had just taken down Soap, the textbook moves, the careless taunting. There was clearly that ex-military bravado that all soldiers seemed to pick up as their time in the force went along. Ghost had picked it up himself at one time, but as his years had passed, he learned that the bravado was a symptom of insecurity and a lack of accountability, something he didn't have the patience for anymore. Soap had the same issue; the only problem was that Soap was good enough to flaunt that confidence. His confidence didn't get into his way. Not her though, she had the confidence that was silent and hidden and she had let it slip when she had told him off during that close quarters combat simulation earlier that day.
He came to the door of his room, opened it, and then slammed it closed. He hated that she had been right, of course. In that very brief moment, it was only a second, he had watched her instead of her six. Forgetting any sense of accountability, he had blamed her, knowing damn well that it was his job. In a real operation situation, a mistake like that could be deadly. He started a blistering hot shower and ripped the balaclava from his head, throwing it onto the ground. The mirror stood only a few feet from him, and he stared into Simon's face, "hello," he said to himself before bending down and bracing himself on the bathroom sink. The steam quickly filled the room, misting over his face in the mirror.
Why had he been distracted? He turned to the shower, undressing himself and stepping under the water. Flipping through the images of the day in his head again, what had he been looking at in that moment?