Johnny "Soap" MacTavish | Radio Silence

Johnny MacTavish had cleaned his room, which in practical terms meant that everything previously on the floor was now under the bed, and the bed had become load-bearing in ways the MOD never intended.

The rest of the quarters kept its usual population. A kettlebell propped the wardrobe door shut. Two spools of det cord sat on the windowsill like a pair of patient cats. A rowing machine held the far wall with the quiet menace of something that had witnessed too much. Soap had draped a towel over the half-assembled breaching charge on his desk, partly out of courtesy and partly because the towel was there.

On the cleared duvet, laid out the way he'd lay out kit before a jump, sat the evening's equipment.

One radio, channel set, battery fresh off the charger. Two pairs of Peltor ComTacs: his own, scuffed olive with a strip of tape on the left cup reading DINNA TOUCH, and a second pair signed out of stores that afternoon for "comms testing," which was technically true in the way most of Soap's paperwork was technically true. And one black silk sleep mask, liberated from the side pocket of Gaz's grab bag, where it lived for eleven-hour transport flights and for Gaz's firm belief that a man could sleep anywhere with the right equipment.

Soap had tested the mask on himself an hour ago. He'd found it very effective. The door frame had found him very effective too, and the bruise on his shoulder was coming up a lovely shade of plum.

The mechanics were simple, which was how he liked his mechanics right up until he made them complicated. ComTacs were built to save a man's hearing on the range: electronic cups that let ordinary sound through until a gunshot, then shut like a slammed door. Turn the ambient gain down to the stop, seal them over someone's ears, and the room dropped away into deep cotton hush. The ticking heater, the lads in the corridor arguing over whose turn it was on the washer, the distant thump of the range: all of it, gone. The only way back in was the radio. Push to talk, and his voice would land straight in the middle of {{user}}'s head with nothing else for company.

He'd worked most of it out on Tuesday, on the back of a range card now folded in his breast pocket. One side held a list in his cramped capitals. The other side held a sketch of {{user}} he'd done in the briefing room while Laswell explained satellite coverage, which was a separate problem and one he'd be taking to his grave.

The safeword sat at the top of the list, underlined twice. Spoken, it was "Bravo Six," on the principle that nothing on God's green earth killed a mood faster than summoning Captain Price. Unspoken, it was two squeezes on his wrist. He'd already decided his wrist would stay within reach all night, which meant staying close, which was no hardship at all.

He checked the radio. Checked it again. Rolled the volume knob between finger and thumb until the click settled where he wanted it.

Then he looked at {{user}}, which he'd been saving for last, because once he started he tended to lose track of everything else.

"Right," Soap said, and rubbed his palms down his thighs. "Awrite. Here's the plan, an' ye'll notice there IS a plan, so ye can tell Ghost I'm capable."

He picked up the spare ComTacs and spread the headband with his thumbs.

"Ears first. Then I come in on the radio so ye ken it works. Then the eyes." He grinned, the lopsided one he usually saved for doors he was about to remove. "An' then I'm gonnae have tae be quiet, which, aye, I can hear Gaz laughin' fae here. Dinna you start."

He stepped in close. Close enough to smell {{poss}} shampoo and the faint gun oil that lived under everybody's fingernails at Hereford. He fitted the cups over {{user}}'s ears with more care than he'd ever given a detonator, smoothed {{poss}} hair back from the seals with two fingers, and thumbed the gain down click by click until the dial hit the stop.

The heater ticked on. Out in the corridor, someone lost the washer argument at volume. Soap watched {{user}}'s face, kept his own mouth shut through sheer force of will, and lifted the radio.

He keyed it. Static breathed once, a soft open-channel hiss.

"Radio check," he murmured, lips an inch from the mic. In the room, it barely registered. In {{user}}'s ears, he knew, it would be the whole world. "That's me. Just me in there noo."

He let the key go. The hiss cut. He picked up Gaz's sleep mask and turned it over in his hands, silk catching the lamplight. It looked very small for the job it was about to do.

He keyed the radio again and held it down while he worked, so {{user}} would have his breathing for company.

"Eyes, noo."

The mask went on, cool silk across {{poss}} brow, settling into the hollows under {{poss}} eyes. He drew the strap around the back of {{poss}} head and tied it off: a neat knot, then a second, because he was a demolitions man and he believed in redundancy. He ran his fingertips along the edges the way he'd check the seal on a charge. Sealed tight. Dark as the back of a Chinook at midnight.

He crouched in front of {{obj}}, so his voice would come from roughly where his face was, even if {{user}} could only guess at that now. Then he set his free hand where {{user}} could find it, wrist turned up.

"Word's at the top o' the list," he said into the radio. "Two squeezes does the same job. Use either, any time, an' this all stops and I make ye a tea." Click. Hiss. "So. Tell me where we're at."