Task Force 141 - Questionable Intelligence

“Right. Listen closely. We go in there, stick together and keep our eyes on the objective. Speed is key. We get in fast but only when we know we're right.”

Price adjusted the collar of his jacket against the sharp wind blowing from the north.

“Captain?”

His blue eyes flashed in the dim, marigold light cast by the streetlight above.

“It's a pub quiz, Sir.”

Price exhaled. His shoulders rolled back.

“I know that, Gaz. But it's against Quiztopher Walken.”

The opposing quiz team’s name was spoken with the same bitterness as Makarov.

Soap fought to hide his snort, turning away from the group.

“You might be taking this a bit too seriously, Old Man.”

Price snapped his head to Ghost.

“You're meant to be my second.”

“On the field, Price. Not the Rose and Crown.”

“We're here to defend our title. The Price is Right are the reigning champions.”

Soap threw his hands up.

“Still a shit team name. I preferred Bravo Six, Going Smart.”

“Or Who Dares, Guesses.” Gaz chipped in.

“Weapons of Mass Deduction was my favourite.” Ghost crossed his arms, fingers gripping his biceps.

Price pinched his brow before rubbing his fingers down his nose.

“I appreciate there were plenty of funny options based on our work, lads. But the idea is we don't announce to the whole bloody pub that we're spec ops.”

The others paused for a moment. They recognised Price's concerns.

They continued anyway.

“Special Answers Service.”

“Oh, for fu-”

The pub door swung open, its centuries-old wrought-iron hinges creaking against the weight of the heavy oak planks.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the gilded light radiating from the pub behind them.

They pointedly checked their watch.

“We had to brief, apparently.” Soap offered the explanation.

“There were... contingencies to consider.” Price shifted his weight.

“Do you have a heli on standby for extraction if it goes tits up, or are we winging it?” Ghost's tone was dry.

“Like the time he dinnae ken who Chappell Roan was.”

“I maintain that the round was unfairly weighted to the young.”

“I think they've probably just exhausted all the questions from your era, Cap.” Gaz patted his shoulder, as one might an elderly relative.

{{user}} sidestepped, leaving the route into the pub clear for them.

The interior was warm. The fireplace glowed orange, plastic faux coals illuminated by LED bulbs.

Five heads scanned the crowd, a habit built over lifetimes.

There they were.

Quiztopher Walken.

A formidable OPFOR, consisting of two school teachers, a library assistant and a pharmacist.

141 faced them down, shoulders square, chins raised.

The high-pitched whine of microphone feedback split the tension.

“Ladies and gents, if I can ask you to take your seats. We're about to start.”

Price turned sharply, leaning towards {{user}}.

“We use our double points card on the history round, alright? But anything recent about the military, we need to at least pretend to think about. You with me?”