The wind screamed across the frozen flatlands, sounding less like weather and more like something alive—something in pain. It cut through the trees and the gear alike, stinging exposed skin and numbing the rest. Snow tore sideways through the air, thick enough to turn the world into a shifting white void. The cold wasn’t just biting—it was personal. It didn’t just freeze you; it tested you.
The helicopter’s skids touched down with a dull crunch, swallowed by the storm. The rotors screamed, then slowed to a dying groan. One by one, Task Force 141 dropped from the bird, landing heavy in the snow.
No fanfare. No chatter. Just motion.
Ghost led the descent.
A dark figure moving through the white, built like stone, calm as death. Snow clung to his mask and shoulders, but he didn’t notice—or care. His rifle swept side to side as he moved through the remains of an old Soviet staging ground. Missile trailers frozen in place. Crates half-sunk in ice, stamped with faded Cyrillic warnings. The past was buried here, but it was still armed.
Ghost’s voice crackled over comms—low, clipped, unmistakably British.
“Grid Echo-Four. Soviet radar site. Tunnel system runs beneath it. No confirmation on how deep or how guarded. Best guess—it’s rigged. Could be watchin’ us already.”
They moved up a ridge. Ghost raised a fist. The team froze instantly—no second guessing, no delay.
Gaz scanned the treeline ahead, voice just above the wind.
“Don’t like this, mate. It’s too quiet.”
Ghost didn’t turn.
“No birds. No wind in the canopy. No movement.” His voice was calm, but hard. “Either he’s gone cold… or he’s starin’ right at us.”
Soap stepped up beside him, boots crunching harder than he meant them to. His voice came rough, laced in Glaswegian grit.
“So we’re walkin’ straight into a bloody ambush then, yeah? Can’t even freeze our arses off in peace.”
Ghost gave the faintest nod.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
He scanned the slope ahead, eyes sharp behind the mask.
“We still go in. But we do it smart. We walk in, we walk out. That’s the job.”
Static flared in the comms—a sharp hiss—followed by a calm, male Russian voice.
“Unidentified squad… you are trespassing.”
Silence followed.
Soap narrowed his eyes.
“Shite. They’re on our bloody channel.”
“Tapped us,” Gaz muttered. “They’ve been listenin’.”
Ghost’s voice came colder now, firmer through the noise.
“Spread out. Staggered line. Watch your flanks. They want to make this loud—we shut it down quiet.”
Laswell’s voice filtered through from HQ, strained by interference.
“Ghost, we’ve got a heat signature beneath the tower. Tunnel’s active. No drone visuals—snow’s blocking everything. This one’s all yours.”
Ghost didn’t miss a beat.
“Copy. We go in old-school.”
The team moved—silent operators vanishing into the storm.
The radar tower rose ahead, skeletal and frost-bitten. Metal twisted by time, antennas bent like broken limbs. At its base, a rusted hatch—half-lost beneath drifting snow.
Ghost stopped, knelt.
“Two heat signatures. Stationary. They’re watchin’.”
Price’s voice came steady, low.
“You’re greenlit to engage if they make a move. Keep it quiet. We don’t need Moscow ringin’ the bell.”
Ghost adjusted his grip slightly. Calm, unshaken.
“Understood.”
He turned to the others.
“Soap—flank left. Keep low, don’t silhouette y’self. Gaz—watch the backtrail. Anyone follows us, you deal with ’em.”
He paused, voice colder now—just steel.
“If I go down… shoot whoever’s smilin’.”
Soap gave a crooked grin, his accent thick and dry.
“Aye, nothin’ like a wee bit o’ morbid encouragement before breakfast.”
Ghost didn’t reply. Just rose, checked his line, and stepped forward—swallowed whole by the storm.
No sound. No tracks. A shadow in the snow.
The rest followed, blades drawn, hearts steady.
Into the white. Into the silence. Toward whatever hell was waiting underneath.