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Canal Fever	By : LisbetAdair Category: +A through F > Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Views: 2103 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from this work.

Chapter List
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In which further details of Shepherd's cunning plans for Ghost and Roach are revealed, and Ghost has to face up to his feelings.

Chapter Two

The lights were coming on around him as he walked back, bathing the base in their wan yellow glow. He took a deep breath, feeling the chilly edge of the cool autumn air as he inhaled. He felt better outside, walking freely in the quiet. To save time, he struck out over the long grass towards the low buildings that Shepherd had claimed to serve as the Task Force HQ. Rounding the side of the accommodation he heard a familiar Northern drawl. Quickly, Ghost pressed himself into the shadows and began to creep towards the sound.

“...like the idea of something different and people spoke very highly of Shepherd.” said Roach.

“You seem to be fitting in well.” The second voice had a thick, Texan accent which Ghost placed immediately: Pig.

“They're good lads.”

There was silence followed by the sound of a match striking. Ghost crept closer to the edge of the veranda and peered, gingerly, round. Pig was standing with his back to Ghost. The only aspect of him visible over the railing was his pudgy hand, a cigarette clasped between his pudgy fingers in an effeminate fashion.

“Even Ghost?” said Pig.

In the darkness, Ghost's started at the sound of his name. What the hell does he want with me? He wondered. Pig was a quiet, withdrawn man who had been transferred from Delta a few months ago and to whom Ghost had taken an instant dislike: there was something oddly creepy about him. Squat and pudgy, with a round, pink face and fine blonde hair shaved close to his head he was distinctly porcine in appearance. Something about the way his small, dark eyes flitted across Ghost's face when they had to talk made his skin crawl.

Roach laughed. “Yeah. He's alright.”

“Heard you had fun being quite the little housewife, cooking up a fancy meal.”

“Fuck off!” snapped Roach.

“Sounded like quite a cosy setup.”

“Are you insinuating something?” snapped Roach.

“Whatever.” said Pig.

“Why don't you go fuck yourself?” said Roach. “You're going to try to make something out of the fact I can use a cooker without setting myself on fire? What's your fucking problem? And why you're suddenly so interested in Ghost anyway?”

“No reason.” said Pig.

“Well then there's no reason for the twenty-fucking-questions game, is there?” retorted Roach.

“Maybe you just watch yourself, asshole.” Pig's voice was just low enough for Ghost to hear it. The hand disappeared, and Ghost heard the door slam.

Peeking his head round further he could see Roach leaning on the railing of the veranda.

“Fucking weirdo!” said Roach under his breath. He stood up, stretched and started to play with his phone.

Ghost took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and stepped out into the light. Roach started at the movement and then stopped. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other before Roach shook his head, and walked away.

Two days later, the air in the windowless briefing room was close and thick with the competing odour of multiple brands of cologne. Despite MacTavish's expressed territorial pissing, everyone except Ghost was taking the opportunity of the trip to the capital as an excuse to expand or consolidate their casual harems. Ghost knew from previous excursions that MacTavish was already a regular visitor to the bed of the personal assistant to the defence attache, and the post-it note MacTavish surreptitiously slipped from the file into his shirt pocket that suggested she was clearly hungry for more. He caught Ghost watching him and gave a wry smile.

Over the fug of aftershave, Ghost could pick out Roach's scent like a bloodhound. It was inexorably ingrained in his memory, tied to images he was trying hard to forget. Ghost had spent the night after the incident on the veranda moving between anger and rising fear. His head was reeling from Pig's accusation: had people been talking? Did people think he and Roach were... Ghost refused to say the word “lovers” even inside his own head. It made him feel nauseated. Over the last twenty four hours he had been back and forth over every interaction he'd had in the last week, trying to work out if anyone had seemed suspicious. He had tossed and turned, paranoid and increasingly on edge, all through the night. He wished he could talk to Roach, but the image of him turning away burned him: he knew Roach didn't care.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” The face of Shepherd filled the projection screen, jolting him out of his mental storm.

“Good morning, sir.” said MacTavish.

“I'll get to the point. This is not the sort of thing I normally expect you to get involved with, but times are hard. Keeping the world safe does not come cheap, and the latest offensive in Afghanistan is costing us more than Congress would like. Plus, there's the recent developments in South East Asia to consider.”

Ghost recalled the news last week: another US embassy had been targeted with a suicide attack in Jakarta.

“The man we're after is Andrei Ivanovitch Ustinov, forty year old member of the Ultranationalist Front.” An image of a well preserved, but overweight man appeared on the screen. It was a professional photograph, clearly designed to showcase his best features; although Ghost wasn't sure what they were. Around the table were some derisive snorts. Dressed in a particularly lurid chintz shirt, and absurdly faux-tanned he looked like an old pop star gone to seed. “He was an active member of the Ultranationalist resistance, largely acting as a broker for arms sales from the Chinese in exchange for favourable mineral and oil exploration rights. He did well out of it, but fled Russia five years ago because of a right-wing crackdown on homosexuality. He's now living the good life in your Manchester, dabbling in some legitimate and some illegitimate business. We suspect he's brokering deals for his old pal Makarov outside of the Russian Motherland and taking a cut of the proceedings. We suspect some of the equipment found in Jakarta was arranged through him...”

Even though Ghost knew that no one else in the room could possibly know, he suddenly felt very, very worried. When Shepherd said “homosexuality” in a way that suggested everyone involved should be shot and burned alive, his stomach knotted. The air was still as suffocatingly hot as before, but he felt cold. He shot a quick glance at Roach, who was calm, regarding the flagrantly gay Russian arms dealer with a cool stare as if this was perfectly normal. Relax, Simon. He thought to himself. Chill. Breathe. Stay frosty.

“Ustinov could be useful for us, because what he buys and sells is an indication of what Makarov's capabilities are, but we also believe that he still has friends in Makarov's circle. We need to confirm that and we need to find out where the goods are coming from. Sabotaging the hardware before it gets put in use will be costly for Makarov and also humiliating...”

Shepherd continued, but Ghost wasn't paying attention. He knew he looked suspicious, fiddling with the pen in front of him, sweat beginning to bead on his forehad. Chill. Breathe. It's just a coincidence. He wiped his face and breathed out as slowly as possible, trying to concentrate on what Shepherd was saying.

“We need him under surveillance, and we need to get some devices in place to monitor what he's doing. This is where you all fit in. At the moment, the CIA can't spare anyone else to cover this job and it's too much for our local agent on the ground. We need enough manpower to observe Ustinov, get the kit in place in several locations and check functionality, quickly. We think one of Makarov's pals is going to visit in the next few weeks and finalise the small print on a major shipment bought for action in the Middle East. Screwing that up would save a lot of lives.”

“What about British intelligence, is this not more their remit?” said MacTavish.

“Firstly, that's a cost issue. They can't spare anyone for what they consider a low priority job either. They've already got enough shit to deal with, apparently. Secondly, it's political. Since those goddamn hippie Jocks, no offense, blew the cover on our suspect transfers, they've cooled right down on helping us out.”

“None taken.” said MacTavish.

“It was duly suggested that we utilise the resources that we have available. All of you have experience in this sort of operation, and will pass more easily unnoticed in Manchester than our operatives. So, backs to the wall boys, and stay sharp.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” said Ghost, over the giggling “I'm supposed to go clubbing, pretending I'm a fucking shirtlifter?”

“You're not “going clubbing”” growled MacTavish.”Ustinov will be at his club...” he looked at his notes “...the Velvet Stag, where the agent says he is every Friday. In order to make sure he doesn't go near his office, or his apartment in the building, or home, someone has to be in the club, watching him and ideally preventing him, from being in these other places.”

“Preventing him?”

MacTavish sighed. “Ustinov has a predilection for... certain types. He likes local boys, likes the way they talk, but he also likes... Arabs.” There was a very pregnant pause, and then all the pieces clicked together.

“Oh fuck off!” said Roach, incredulous. “You want me to act as bait!?”

“The source says Ustinov has a VIP area in the club, where he invites people he likes the look of. It's an ideal situation to keep him occupied and keep him in visual range.”

“And what if wants more than just being in visual range?”

“Your jealous boyfriend will keep him occupied.” MacTavish looked pointedly at Ghost.

“What?!” squealed Ghost. “Have you gone fucking mental? You want me and him, to get all lovely-dovey in bumming paradise, in Manchester?”

“What wrong with Manchester?” said Roach, affronted.

“I hate Manchester. And I hate fucking poofs!” Ghost folded his arms over his chest, trying to look as aggressive as possible, but inside his stomach was turning loops. He felt sick, and he knew it was obvious that he was sweating. His homophobia had acted as a front for his true feelings for so long that the words out of his mouth were automatic, and he partly believed them. He hated gay bars: hated the display of physical affection and the obvious campness that seemed to suffuse the whole scene. And Manchester. It had to be fucking Manchester...

Fucking. Manchester. A memory swum up through the depths: he was running, his breath ragged, as he flew down the fire escape and out into the bitter night air. Already his legs were feeling like they didn't belong to him as he stumbled the last few steps and crashed into the bins. He fought back and staggered upright, pushing himself along the wall and into the street. Bile rose in his throat and he stumbled again...

“Are you alright, mate?” said Roach.

“ Fuck off!” Ghost snapped, slapping the hand that Roach had placed tentatively on his shoulder, away “I can't go to Manchester!”

“Why the fuck not?” asked MacTavish.

“Someone touch you up in a toilet once?” sneered Archer.

“Shut it!” shouted Ghost. “There was... an incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

“I... stabbed someone.” said Ghost.

“Jesus Christ!” MacTavish flopped back in his chair. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“I was sixteen. I was desperate.”

“Jesus! That's fucking, what? Fifteen years ago? No one's gonna care now! I mean, you didn't kill him, right?”

“I didn't stick around to find out.”

MacTavish exhaled through his nose, his mouth a thin, angry line. “For fuck's sake!” He shouted, “You tell me now you might be wanted for murder! You stupid cunt!” When he paused the silence was suffocating. “What the fuck happened?”

“I don't really..”

“I don't fucking care what you do or don't really want to do! Fucking tell me!”

When he stopped shouting, an oppressive silence settled. Ghost sighed.

“I tried to rob a hotel room. I was really desperate. I didn't want to hurt anyone, but the guy came back and tried to stop me getting away. I didn't want to go to prison and it just sort of happened.”

“It just sort of happened.” MacTavish repeated in a sing-song, sneering voice. “Fucking idiot!”

“Well what would you have done? Because you were so fucking smart when you were a kid!”

They stared at one another, the tension crackling in the air between them. Finally, MacTavish sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and growled. “We'll sort this out later. I can't be fucking bothered with any more of your shite. Shepard put aside money for expenses to get kitted out”. He pulled a roll of notes from the briefing pack and tossed it at Roach. “Me and the brains trust” he nodded at Doc and Archer “will finish the technical stuff and head back. You two,” he pointed at Ghost and Roach “Can fuck off up the gay bars and start learning to look like you're meant to be there.”

Ghost hurried out of the Embassy, desperate to get away. Behind him, he could hear Roach calling his name, but he ignored him and pushed on through the crowds, out into the traffic. Cars screeched to a halt around him; the air was filled with a cacophony of horns and furious shouting. He marched on, and ducked into the park.

Shoving his hands firmly into the pockets of his jeans, he hunched his shoulders and refused to look at anything other than the road in front of him. He wasn't sure what to be more furious about: the mission or the fact that it was in Manchester. And Roach, the whole fucking fiasco of Roach. “For fucks sake!” he yelled aloud, as he kicked a can that had the misfortune to be in his path. He stopped, watching it clatter along and come to rest in the grass. “For fuck's sake.” he repeated, the words barely a whisper. He realised that he was shaking.

“Simon?”

He leapt at the sudden voice behind him. Roach was standing on the grass.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. He realised that Roach had been tracking him, soundlessly, off the path. “What the fuck do you want?” he spat.

“I came to see if you were alright.” He looked down at his boot and rolled his foot back and forth across the heel. “What was all that about in there?”

“What do you care anyway?”

“I-”

“Don't pretend like you give a shit! I am not buying it!”

“I've no-”

“I said: fuck off!”

Roach stepped back a pace. “Fine.” he scowled. “If you want to act like a child, you can do it by yourself. I'm going to get some work done.” And he walked away.
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Canal Fever