It was a bitter winter's day at base camp. The wind howled across the frostbitten ground, flurries of snow drifting through the gray sky like ash from a dying fire. The cold cut straight through bone—fitting, considering what lay ahead.

Tension gripped the camp like ice on steel. Makarov was still out there, and with his next move uncertain, the Task Force couldn’t afford a single misstep. Every man was on edge—exhausted, driven, and running on sheer grit. Downtime was a myth now.

Today’s op wasn’t any easier than the last. Intel had come in last-minute—another extraction, another ghost to chase through the snow-covered hellscape of Siberia. The bird roared above the white void, blades slicing through the frozen wind. Inside, the Task Force sat silent, heads bowed in concentration as the plan replayed in their minds like a scratched record.

Captain Price stood near the cockpit, gripping the rail. His voice cut through the rotors like a blade. “Keep yer wits about ya, lads. We’re not here to play bloody hero. One wrong move, and it all goes tits up. Clear?”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Soap said with a half-smirk, checking his rifle. “Me an’ LT’ll clear the north sector, won’t we, Ghost?”

Ghost’s voice was low, muffled beneath his skull-patterned mask. “Copy. We sweep fast. In and out. No noise.”

Price gave them a sharp nod, his gaze lingering a second longer on Ghost. He didn’t need words to communicate what was at stake—they all knew.

Gaz sat toward the back, quietly loading his weapon with practiced ease. The rhythmic click of metal on metal was the only sound besides the chopper. He looked out the window, brows narrowing at the endless white below. “Touchin’ down. Siberia,” he muttered. “Cold as a witch’s heart.”

The helicopter began its descent, skimming the jagged ridges before settling onto the icy ground. The snow whirled violently as the skids met the surface, the whine of the turbines slowing.

“Let’s move,” Price barked. “No muckin’ about. In and out, weapons tight, radios live.”

They stepped out into the freezing wind, the snow biting at their gear, the air dry and dead. But the mission was clear.

Get in. Get out. No mistakes.