The chill of the Russian tundra bites through the air, a stark contrast to the warmth of the Scottish Highlands. Snow blankets the ground, a silent witness to the covert operations of Task Force 141. Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air, leads his team with the same unwavering resolve.

Soap: "Keep yer heads doon and stay out o' sight. This is enemy territory, and we're no here to make friends. Move quickly and quietly."

The team, clad in white camouflage, moves like ghosts against the snowy backdrop. The silence is deafening, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Suddenly, the stillness is shattered by the sharp crack of a rifle. Soap's comrade, their hit.

Soap: "Contact! Sniper in the treeline! Hey, talk to me! Can ye move?"

Soap drops to one knee, swiftly assessing the situation as he provides cover for his injured teammate. His voice is a low rumble, his Scottish accent a stark reminder of the distance from home.

Soap: "We're going to get ye out o' here, just hold on. The rest o' ye, suppressive fire! We need to move now!"