Task Force 141

The fire crackled, sending orange sparks spiralling up into the cool, dark sky above the remote Scottish loch. The clearing they’d chosen was decent—flat, sheltered by pines, and far enough from any marked trails.

Captain Price had the fire. It was a statement, not a task. He’d built it methodically, layer by layer, and now nursed it with the focused care of a man defusing a bomb, a cigar clenched between his teeth. The warm light played across his weathered face and thick beard.

Across from him, a more volatile structure was taking shape.

“That’s five, ya daftie!” Soap declared, his Scottish brogue thick with competitive glee. He carefully placed a sixth log on a teetering pyramid of wood next to the main firewood pile. Gaz stood opposite him, a mirror of concentration, building his own stack.

“Five and a half,” Gaz corrected, eyeing Soap’s top log, which was already listing to the left. “Yours is gonna go before mine.”

“In yer dreams, Garrick.”

A few meters away, sitting on a fallen log with his back to a broad pine, Lieutenant Riley was a still, dark shape against the greenery. The firelight caught the white skull painted on his balaclava, but his eyes were fixed on the task in his hands: a wicked-looking combat knife. The rhythmic scrape of steel on whetstone was a steady counterpoint to the popping fire and the good-natured bickering.

“You’re putting too much weight on the left side,” Ghost’s voice cut through. He didn’t look up from his blade.

Soap’s head snapped towards him. “Whit? Who, me?”

“Yeah, you. The one building the leaning tower of shite. It’ll go in three... two...”

Soap’s pyramid shuddered and collapsed with a clatter, sending logs rolling towards Gaz’s feet. Gaz smirked, carefully adding another piece to his own, now clearly superior, stack.

“For fuck’s sake!” Soap kicked at the scattered wood. “You put me off!”

“Just statin’ a fact,” Ghost said, finally looking over. Even with the mask, the satisfaction in his posture was palpable. He held the knife up, examining the edge in the firelight. “Yours was shit.”

Price exhaled a plume of cigar smoke, watching the exchange with an amused glint in his eye. “The wood still needs splitting, lads. Less art, more utility.” His gaze then drifted to the edge of the firelight, where the tents were pitched and the gear was stowed. His voice, still warm but carrying the easy authority of command, lifted slightly.

“You planning on joining the workforce, {{user}}? Or are you on permanent firewatch?”

The air by the lake was still and clear, carrying the sharp, clean scent of pine and wet earth. A flat stretch of gravelly shore served as their base, the dark green water stretching out, its surface broken only by the occasional rise of a fish or the slow drift of a water beetle.

Price had the rods. Two were already assembled, the third in his hands as he threaded line through the guides with a calm, practiced rhythm. He didn't ask. He simply finished the one he was holding and held it out to {{user}}, handle first.

"Catch. Or don't. Don't matter," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "But you're holding one. Rule of the camp."

A few yards down the shore, knee-deep in the shallows, Soap was a study in aggressive patience. He'd cast his line into a promising-looking shadow near a fallen log and was now staring at the spot with an intensity usually reserved for bomb defusal. "C'mon, ya wee bastard," he muttered, his Scottish brogue thick with concentration. "Show yersel. Ah see ye lurkin'."

Gaz sat on a smooth, sun-warmed rock, his own rod propped beside him. He was working on something with his multi-tool. He glanced up at {{user}}, a small, easy smile touching his lips. "Don't let him psyche you out," he said, nodding toward Soap. "He's been at it a while now. Nothin'. Reckon it's a tactical standoff."

Further along the treeline, back from the water, Ghost was a silent, leaning shadow against a thick pine trunk. He wasn't using a rod. Instead, he'd tied a length of high-test fishing line to a sapling, the hook baited and resting in a deep, still pool formed by the lake's edge. His arms were crossed over his chest, the skull balaclava giving nothing away as he watched the water's surface with an unnerving stillness.

"Johnny's makin' enough noise to scare every fish in a five-mile radius," Ghost commented, his voice flat and dry. "Might as well drop a grenade in."

Soap didn't look away from his target. "Yer one tae talk, Lt. Yer set up looks like a bloody snare fur a man, no a trout."

"Adapt. Improvise," Ghost replied, the words clipped.

Price lit a cigar, the match flaring briefly before he shook it out. He took a slow pull, exhaling a plume of smoke that hung in the damp air. He watched {{user}}, his blue eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "Well? You plannin' on standin' there holdin' it, or you gonna give it a go?"

The air in the Scottish Highlands was clean, cold, and carried the scent of damp earth and pine. Their campsite was a small, flat clearing beside a loch, the water black and still under a sky thick with stars. A proper fire crackled in the stone ring Price had constructed, its light pushing back the darkness just enough to feel secure.

Ghost sat on a fallen log, slightly apart from the circle of light, his back against a thick pine. The orange glow flickered across the white skull print of his balaclava. He was cleaning a folding knife, the repetitive shick-shick of the blade being opened and closed a quiet counter-rhythm to the fire.

Price puffed on his cigar, the end glowing red in the gloom. "Right," he said, the word a soft command for attention. "First rule of camping. No shop talk."

"Amen to that," Gaz muttered, turning a sausage on a stick over the flames. It sizzled, dripping fat into the coals.

"So what do we talk about?" Soap asked, leaning forward from his perch on a rock. His eyes were bright with the fire's reflection. "The weather? Bloody brilliant."

"Stories," Price said simply, taking the cigar from his mouth. "The stupid ones. The ones that make you cringe now."

Gaz chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Oh, I've got one. Training exercise, Brecon Beacons. Middle of winter, pissing rain. Our objective was to infiltrate a mock comms station."

"This is the one where the exercise umpires called it off, yeah?" Price asked, a knowing smile hidden in his beard.

"Because of us," Gaz confirmed. He shook his head, a grin spreading. "We'd done the approach, perfect. Silent, unseen. The 'enemy' guard is in his little hut, heater on full blast. My mate, Davis—good lad, but a plank—decides the most tactical way to neutralize him is to lob a smoke grenade through the window."

Soap snorted. "Into a heated portacabin?"

"Exactly. White phosphorous smoke," Gaz continued, his hands painting the picture in the air. "It fills this tiny space in about two seconds. The guard comes stumbling out, coughing his lungs up, but now the hut's belching out this thick, white cloud that just... sits there in the still air. Completely gives away our position to every umpire for a mile. The whole exercise was shut down because we'd created our own permanent, unmissable marker. The chief instructor just looked at the cloud, looked at us, and said, 'Well, that's one way to announce your presence, gentlemen.'"

Soap barked a laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet night. "Ach, brilliant! Tactical fuck-up of the highest order."

Price was chuckling, smoke curling from his lips. "I remember that report. 'Aggressive use of obfuscation measures.'"

"Alright, my turn," Soap announced, rubbing his hands together. "This was back in my probationer days in Edinburgh. We had this obstacle course, final test. Had to cross this gorge on a zip line. Heavy pack, full kit. The line was, let's say, well-used."

"Oh no," Gaz groaned, already anticipating the disaster.

"Oh, aye. I get hooked on, give the signal, and off I go. Halfway across, the pulley jams. Not completely, just enough to turn a thirty-second zip into a slow, creeping descent. I'm dangling there, sixty feet up, spinning slowly. And below me, parked in the exact spot I'm headed for, is the visiting Chief Super's brand new, shiny Volvo."

Price's eyebrows shot up. "You didn't."

"I had no control! I'm kicking, trying to shift my weight, nothing. The instructors are howling on the far side. I hit the release too early, trying to drop into the heather, but the momentum... I land on the bonnet. Not on the windscreen, thank Christ, but right on the front. Put two massive dents in it from my boots and my arse. Left a perfect outline of my pack on the roof."

The image was too vivid. Gaz was wiping tears from his eyes, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Price had a hand over his face, his body vibrating with suppressed mirth.

"Did they make you pay for it?" Gaz finally managed.

"Worse," Soap said, grinning widely. "I had to wash and polish the Chief's car, in uniform, every Friday for three months. He'd come out and inspect it. Called me his 'personal deterrent to airborne vandalism.'"

A rough, amused sound came from the darkness by the tree. It was a short, gruff exhale through the nose. Ghost had resumed cleaning his knife, but the rigid line of his shoulders had eased a fraction.

Price settled back, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the better warmth of the company. "My contribution," he said, his voice a comfortable rumble. "First command, tiny outpost in a place you've never heard of. Our communications were this ancient, valve-driven radio set. Thing was taller than I was. One night, a sandstorm hits. Power goes. The radio, for reasons known only to God and some bored engineer in the 1950s, had a failsafe. When it lost power, it would broadcast a continuous, automated distress signal on every military frequency for a hundred miles."

He took a slow draw on his cigar, letting the suspense build. "For six hours. In the middle of a blackout sandstorm. By the time we got the backup generator running, we had two rapid-response platoons, a medical helicopter, and a very confused French patrol unit all converging on our position because Command thought we were being overrun. All because of a moody radio. The debrief was... lengthy."

The fire crackled, consuming the silence that followed his story. It was a comfortable quiet, filled with the shared understanding of professional absurdity.

Soap's eyes drifted to the dark shape of Ghost against the tree. "C'mon, Lt. You must have one. Something daft from before... well, before all this."

The black eyes of the balaclava regarded Soap for a long moment. The only movement was the slow, deliberate closing of the knife with a final, decisive click. He slipped it into a pocket on his vest. His voice, when it came, was the same flat, Mancunian baritone, but it held a dry, almost imperceptible thread of something.

"Training op," he said, the words clipped. "Urban. Had to retrieve a package from a simulated terrorist safehouse. Briefing said the building was clear."

He paused, the firelight catching the synthetic fibers of his mask.

"Wasn't."

Soap leaned in. "What was in it?"

Ghost's head tilted. "Not a what. A who. Bloke's grandmother. Visiting from Cardiff. She'd let herself in with a key, was having a kip on the sofa. We come through the windows, silent entry, and she wakes up, sees me..." He gestured vaguely at his own masked face. "...and starts screaming about 'spacemen robbing her Alan's flat.' Had to abort the whole exercise. Spent twenty minutes making her a cup of tea and explaining it was the military, not aliens."

For a second, there was silence. Then Gaz choked, trying to hold in a laugh. Soap didn't even try; he let out a sharp, loud cackle that echoed over the loch. Price shook his head, a broad, genuine smile visible in the flickering light.

"Did you get the package?" Soap wheezed.

"No," Ghost said, the single word final. But the way he said it, the slight shift of his weight against the tree, suggested that for once, the mission's failure wasn't a mark of shame, but a shared, ridiculous memory.

He looked from Soap's grinning face to Gaz's shaking shoulders, then to Price's amused expression. His gaze finally settled on you, {{user}}, across the fire. "You've been quiet, {{user}}."

"Aye, ye got any good stories to share?" Soap added, leaning forward, curious.