The deeper they pushed into the Kastovian Sea, the darker the world became.
Rain fell in relentless sheets, each drop striking the surface hard enough to leave a thousand silver pinpricks before vanishing into the black water below. Sky and sea had long since become indistinguishable, blending into a single endless void broken only by the occasional flash of distant lightning behind thick storm clouds.
Ghostlike figures emerged from beneath the waves.
Alpha Team swam in disciplined silence, the current tugging at their gear as they closed the final stretch toward the offshore platform. Their wetsuits gleamed briefly beneath the rain before disappearing again into the darkness.
One of the operators reached the structure first, gloved hands finding purchase against the algae-slick steel. Pulling himself onto the narrow maintenance ledge, water streamed from every inch of his gear as he retrieved a grappling launcher from his harness.
“Hooks up.”
Thunk. The hook sailed upward and caught on the platform above.
He gave the line a firm tug. Solid. It held without so much as a groan.
“Good hook, let’s get up top.”
Mechanical ascenders bit into the rope with a muted metallic screech, their sound mercifully swallowed by the pounding rain and crashing waves below.
Above them, a lone sentry frowned. The faint noise had caught his attention. Rifle raised, he stepped toward the edge, peering into the storm. All he saw was rain.
A suppressed pistol coughed.
The round struck squarely in his chest.
His eyes widened more in surprise than pain as his body staggered backward. His rifle slipped from numb fingers, clattering loudly against the ground.
Still breathing. Still fighting. With desperate determination, he reached toward the fallen weapon, fingertips barely brushing the sling.
A second suppressed shot ended the effort. His body went limp.
Only the rain remained.
Alpha flowed over the railing like shadows given form.
“All teams, Alpha’s on the X, what’s your status?”
Static crackled through the earpieces.
“Bravo’s over the DZ.”
“Charlie standing by.”
Without another word, the team melted into the maze of brick walls and steel bulkheads. Night-vision goggles flickered to life with a soft electronic hum, bathing the platform in ghostly shades of green. Infrared strobes blinked invisibly above their gear, silent beacons only friendly eyes could see.
Ahead, two guards stood along the outer railing, unaware.
Their attention was fixed on the storm raging beyond the platform, backs turned to the danger creeping up behind them.
Rifles rose in perfect unison, crosshairs settled on the backs of their heads.
“Drop him.”
The suppressed shots cracked almost as one, sharp enough to be heard only by those who fired them. The rounds struck true, snapping both guards forward before they could react — Crumpling where they stood, knees buckling beneath them before bodies hit the rain-slick grating with a dull clang. Neither had time to cry out. Their blood mingled with the rainwater, thin crimson streams disappearing into the drains as if the storm itself had erased every trace of their existence.
The radio hissed through the storm.
“Bravo inbound.”
High above the platform, dark silhouettes drifted silently through the rain beneath black parachutes. One after another, Bravo Team pierced the cloud cover, their canopies barely visible against the night sky before collapsing as boots met steel.
Static crackled once more.
“All teams, Bravo’s on deck, pushing up!”
Alpha continued their advance, weapons shouldered as they slipped down a narrow flight of grated stairs. Every careful footstep was swallowed by the relentless downpour and the rhythmic pounding of rotor blades somewhere ahead. With each level they descended, the helicopter's presence grew louder, its engines echoing through the steel skeleton of the platform.
“Alpha to Charlie, you set?” one asked.
The reply came almost immediately.
“All team’s green to go in phase 2.”
Reaching the bottom landing, the point man halted beside a weathered steel door tucked into the left wall. Another forced it open for him, easing it open just enough to peer inside.
Clear.
The team flowed through the doorway in practiced formation, rifles leading every movement. Corners disappeared beneath disciplined muzzle sweeps as each room was methodically cleared before they pushed onward, descending yet another staircase into the heart of the structure.
“Descending stairwell, South side.”.
The thunder of spinning rotors now reverberated through the walls.
They were close.
The lead operator paused at the edge of another exit, raising a clenched fist. Through the narrow opening, the helicopter sat on the rain-soaked helipad outside, rotors whipping sheets of water into the air as ground crews hurried around it.
“All shooters be advised, enemy is launching an attack bird.” the one in front informed.
The engines surged louder, the aircraft beginning its final spool-up.
With soft electronic clicks, Alpha's night vision disengaged. The familiar green glow vanished, replaced by the muted grays of the storm-lit courtyard.
Movement.
Several guards escorted a prisoner across the open concrete while others established security around the helicopter.
“Looks like a prisoner transfer.”
“Not our guy.” Another responded. “On me.”
Without hesitation, the team shifted into position behind crates and boxes. Rifle stocks settled firmly into shoulders as magnified optics found their marks. Crosshairs rested on unsuspecting guards pacing through the rain.
No one fired.
Across the platform, Bravo and Charlie quietly reported their positions, each team waiting for the single command that would shatter the silence.
“Fire in the hole, stand by.”
A breath.
3...
Every finger tightened against its trigger.
2...
The helicopter continued to howl.
1...
Time seemed to freeze.
“Execute.”
Gunfire erupted in perfect unison.
Suppressors gave way to the sharper bark of rifles as coordinated fire tore across the courtyard. Guards dropped before instinct could catch up with them, their bodies collapsing onto rain-slick concrete and mud while panicked shouts echoed through the platform. Those who managed to reach for their weapons never had the chance to fire, cut down beneath the relentless volley raining in from every direction.
A heartbeat later, the entire facility awoke.
Sirens screamed through the air, their shrill wail reverberating across the offshore complex.
“Clear! 2-1, rally the hatch for entry!” one said as they stood by.
Without hesitation, Alpha broke from cover and disappeared beneath the platform before enemy reinforcements could converge on their position. A heavy maintenance hatch slammed shut behind them, sealing them inside the labyrinth of narrow tunnels and air ducts that ran beneath the facility.
Above them, boots thundered across steel catwalks.
Below, only the distant hum of machinery filled the darkness.
Bravo Team had already taken position outside the control room, stacked tightly against the walls with rifles trained on the entrance. Every operator remained perfectly still, waiting for the signal that would plunge the entire installation into chaos.
Elsewhere, Alpha crawled through the ventilation system, elbows scraping against sheet metal as they silently advanced overhead. The point man eased open a vent grate just enough to peer below.
Several guards rushed frantically down the stairwell beneath them, shouting over the blaring alarms as they raced toward their defensive positions.
A rope was clipped into place.
Alpha prepared to descend.
“All teams let’s roll thunder, Bravo pull the plug.”
The alarms continued their relentless cry, filling every corridor with deafening urgency.
“Rog, blackout in 3.. 2… 1.”
The lights died.
In an instant, the facility vanished into absolute darkness.
“Execute.”
The silence lasted only a fraction of a second.
Muzzle flashes exploded inside the control room, brief bursts of orange illuminating walls, consoles, and terrified faces before disappearing just as quickly. Bravo's rifles thundered in controlled succession, cutting through the defenders before they could mount any resistance. Bodies crumpled across flickering monitors and overturned chairs as sparks flew from shattered control panels.
Then, with a familiar electronic hum, Alpha's night-vision goggles came alive once more.
The darkness transformed into ghostly shades of blue, every corridor, every doorway, and every moving silhouette suddenly visible again.
The hunt continued.
The prison descended into anarchy.
Gunfire echoed through the underground complex as guards fell where they stood, their bodies littering corridors and catwalks. Cell doors unlocked one after another with heavy metallic groans, releasing waves of prisoners into the smoke-filled passageways. Some fled without hesitation, others attacked their captors with desperate fury, years of rage finally finding an outlet.
Amid the chaos, Alpha had only one objective.
They needed to locate Prisoner 627.
Descending deeper into the facility, the team moved methodically through each cell block, rifles sweeping across every tier. Their night-vision goggles painted the darkness in cold blue as they searched through rows of steel bars, faces pressing between them in desperation.
Dozens of prisoners.
None of them were their man.
Level after level slipped behind them.
Eventually, they reached ground level.
Night vision clicked off with a soft electronic hum as harsh emergency lighting flickered weakly overhead, casting long, uneven shadows across the concrete halls of Sublevel X-4.
The air felt heavier here. Older.
Prisoners packed into overcrowded cells surged toward the bars as Alpha passed. Hands reached through the narrow gaps, fists pounded against steel, and voices overlapped into a deafening chorus of pleas, curses, and desperate demands for freedom.
No one slowed.
The team continued deeper until the corridor narrowed into a cavernous maintenance hall.
Water poured relentlessly from ruptured pipes overhead, cascading down rusted steel like artificial waterfalls before disappearing into grated drains below. At the far end stood a massive reinforced blast door, scarred by age and built to keep something inside.. Or everyone else out.
“Ready breach.” one said, planting the explosive onto the door. “Breacher up.”
The team peeled away from the entrance, taking cover against the walls.
A thumb depressed the detonator.
The blast thundered through the hallway.
Steel screamed as the reinforced door tore free from its frame, crashing inward beneath a wave of smoke, dust, and shattered concrete. The explosion rattled the entire sublevel, sending debris cascading from the ceiling and leaving only the ringing of ears in its wake.
Alpha advanced through the haze.
The room beyond smelled of burnt explosives, damp concrete... and cigarette smoke.
One solitary cell remained occupied.
Cell 627.
An operator ignited a flare before tossing it through the bars.
Crimson light hissed to life, filling the chamber with a blood-red glow.
“Step into the light!”
Silence. A figure shifted within the darkness.
“Has it been so long, Ivan?” A man's voice replied, laced heavily by Russian lilt.
He rose without urgency.
The cell door unlocked with a heavy clunk, its mechanism disengaging after years of confinement. He stepped forward through the drifting flare smoke, a cigarette still resting casually between his lips as though the prison around him had never fallen into chaos.
Ivan closed the distance, taking a spare ballistic vest from the operator beside him before handing it over.
“Your plan was perfect.” He said in Russian.
The prisoner slipped into the vest with practiced ease, fastening it while never taking the cigarette from his mouth.
“Plans depend on execution, this is just the beginning.” He responded.
One of the operators keyed his radio.
“All teams, we have him, moving in 30.” The man behind Ivan said, before turning back to him. “It’s an honor—”
The flare crackled. Smoke curled toward the ceiling.
“—Commander Makarov.”
The transport aircraft reeked of aviation fuel, gun oil, and lingering cigarette smoke.
A bluish-green cabin light washed over the four men seated along the fuselage, their faces carved into sharp angles by the dim glow. The aircraft groaned and shuddered against the night sky, its engines droning with the steady rhythm of a machine built for war.
No one spoke.
The mission had already begun long before they reached the drop zone.
A small ember flared to life between Captain Price’s fingers. He drew deeply from the cigarette, the tip glowing a vivid orange before fading once more. Smoke drifted from between his lips, curling lazily through the vibrating cabin. After a final inhale, he removed the cigarette, pinched the burning end between his gloved fingers, and extinguished it against the steel floor.
The jumpmaster glanced toward the cockpit before stepping to the rear ramp.
Hydraulics whined.
With a heavy metallic groan, the cargo door lowered, exposing the endless black sky beyond. Wind roared into the aircraft, drowning out nearly everything as rain lashed across the open ramp.
“30 Seconds to the DZ!” the jumpmaster yelled out over the engines.
Price rose first.
Soap, Gaz, and Ghost followed without hesitation, checking weapons and harnesses as they formed up behind their captain at the edge of the ramp. Below them, the darkness swallowed everything.
Then the radio crackled.
“Watcher-1 to Bravo 6, Watcher to Bravo, over.” A woman’s voice rang through the comms.
Price stopped. There was something in her voice, urgency.
He thumbed his headset.
“Laswell, go for 6!”
The reply came almost before he’d finished speaking.
“John, Makarov is out!”
The words cut through the aircraft louder than the engines ever could. For the first time that night, Price froze.
A heartbeat passed.
He slowly turned, meeting the eyes of the three men behind him. They were waiting for the order to jump. It never came.
“Say again, Laswell.”
Static hissed across the frequency.
“Makarov is OUT! He’s on the move, John!” Laswell repeated.
Every second of silence suddenly became too expensive.
Price spun toward the jumpmaster.
“Abort! Turn us around, NOW!” He barked, heavy footsteps rushing back into the bird.
The jumpmaster didn’t question the command.
The cargo ramp remained open as the aircraft banked sharply away from its planned course, engines straining against the sudden maneuver.
Behind him, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost exchanged brief glances. They didn’t ask why, they didn’t need to.
If John Price had aborted a mission thirty seconds from the drop…
…then the world had just become a far more dangerous place.
Without another word, they turned and followed their captain deeper into the aircraft.
The operation had begun with a single objective.
Following Makarov’s escape from Prisoner 627, intelligence gathered by Laswell identified the Konni Group operating out of the Pozdin Power Plant in Urzikstan. Satellite reconnaissance confirmed that the stolen chemical weapons were being prepared for transport aboard three helicopters before disappearing into Konni territory. Captain Price was deployed alone to infiltrate the facility, destroy the transports, and prevent the weapons from leaving the power plant.
The mission was only partially successful.
Price eliminated the transport helicopters before they could depart and inflicted heavy casualties upon the Konni forces occupying the facility. Pursuing the remaining operatives into the reactor complex, he discovered that the sarin gas canisters had already been loaded onto an underground freight elevator moments before his arrival. Konni forces sealed the vault behind him, rupturing one of the canisters in an attempt to kill him with the very weapon he had come to recover.
Task Force 141 extracted Captain Price from the reactor before prolonged exposure proved fatal, though not before the freight elevator disappeared beyond reach with the remaining chemical weapons still intact.
The Konni Group abandoned the Pozdin Power Plant with their helicopters destroyed, but the mission’s primary objective had already slipped away.
The stolen sarin gas remained in enemy hands.
And somewhere beyond Urzikstan’s borders, Vladimir Makarov was already preparing his next move.
The rhythmic thrum of the helicopter blades was the only thing keeping the silence from swallowing the cabin whole.
Captain Price sat against the fuselage, his tactical vest unfastened, one gloved hand pressed against his chest as every breath scraped painfully through lungs still scarred by sarin gas. Soap and Gaz watched the monitors clipped to the bulkhead, making sure the captain’s pulse remained steady. Ghost stood nearby, arms folded, his skull mask betraying nothing.
A secure transmission crackled through the headset.
“Laswell, it was chemical weapons, Makarov has highly concentrated Sarin Gas.” Gaz reported.
“Did you secure it?” she asked.
“Negative.” Ghost answered, his tone as flat as ever.
Soap exhaled through his nose.
“Cap’n almost died tryin’…”
There was a brief pause before Laswell spoke again.
“Where is he?”
Price reached for the headset.
”..I’m here, Laswell.” The captain rasped, chest rising unevenly as he fought for air. “Where are the missiles?”
A satellite image appeared across the tablet resting between them.
“I’ve tracked Farah’s missile to an abandoned bunker complex, built during the Cold War.” Laswell spoke. Gaz leaned closer, recognizing the terrain almost immediately.
”..We know those bunkers.”
Price studied the image, his breathing finally beginning to steady.
“And so does Farah, why does Konni need a silo for portable missiles?”
Laswell didn’t answer immediately. Instead, another image appeared.
Several launch silos. Support buildings. Vehicle movement.
“Exactly..”
Silence settled over the cabin once more. The mission to the Pozdin Power Plant had confirmed Task Force 141’s worst fears. Although Price had destroyed Konni’s extraction helicopters, the stolen sarin gas had never been recovered. Makarov now possessed both the chemical agent and Farah Karim’s stolen ballistic missiles.
The abandoned Cold War bunker was no storage site. It was a launch facility.
Whatever Makarov intended to do next, he was already preparing to do it.
The mission was launched before Captain Price had fully recovered.
Intelligence gathered from the failed operation at the Pozdin Power Plant confirmed that Makarov had escaped with the stolen sarin gas. Satellite imagery traced Farah Karim’s missing missiles to an abandoned Cold War bunker complex in Urzikstan, where Konni forces were preparing something far larger than a simple weapons transfer.
Price linked up with Farah on the outskirts of the facility.
There, the truth became clear.
The missiles stolen from the Urzikstan Liberation Force were being refitted with the concentrated sarin gas recovered from Pozdin. Konni operatives had draped the bunker in Liberation Force banners, intending to disguise the launch site and frame Farah’s resistance for the attack. If successful, Makarov would ignite an international conflict while remaining safely in the shadows.
Price infiltrated the bunker, eliminating the Konni commander responsible for the facility’s security before fighting alongside Farah through the underground missile complex. Despite reaching the launch controls, the missile’s firing sequence had already progressed beyond manual override.
There was no way to stop the launch.
Only to contain it.
Realizing the missile would release its payload over a populated area if it escaped the silo, Price ordered Farah to detonate it inside the bunker while he sealed the blast doors from the surface. The premature explosion collapsed much of the underground complex, destroying the missile and trapping the chemical blast beneath layers of reinforced concrete.
The operation succeeded. Only partially.
As Price confirmed the silo had been sealed, Laswell broke over the radio with new intelligence. Makarov had planned for the bunker to fail. The destroyed missile had never been his only weapon.
Two additional chemical-tipped missiles had already launched from a secondary site, disappearing beyond radar before Task Force 141 could intercept them. Their destination was confirmed moments later.
Arklov Military Base.
The bunker had been nothing more than a decoy—an operation designed to occupy Task Force 141 while Makarov executed the true phase of his plan elsewhere.
One missile had been contained.
Two remained airborne.
And for the first time since Makarov escaped Prisoner 627…
Task Force 141 was no longer chasing him. They were racing the clock.
Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia
Benoa Harbor, Pedungan
12 November 2023, 0640 Hours
The sun had only just begun to rise over Benoa Bay.
Golden light spilled across the calm water, painting the anchored fishing boats and naval patrol craft in warm hues of amber. Beyond the harbor, the Indian Ocean stretched endlessly toward the horizon, its surface disturbed only by the occasional swell and the wake of fishermen returning from a night’s work.
Beneath the water, Mahendra moved in silence.
His gloved hands traced along one of the harbor’s submerged support pilings, methodically inspecting the steel for damage before continuing toward a floating security barrier that protected the naval pier. Schools of fish scattered around him as he checked each anchor point with practiced precision.
Satisfied, he unclipped a bright orange training beacon secured beneath the barrier and secured it to his harness.
Mission complete.
Moments later, he surfaced.
A slow breath escaped his lips as he pushed the diving mask onto his forehead. Saltwater rolled from his hair while the patrol boat idled a short distance away, its crew already watching him climb aboard.
“Woi!”
One of the sailors leaned over the railing with a grin.
“You’re late.”
Hendra glanced at the waterproof dive watch strapped over his sleeve.
“…I’m thirty-seven seconds early.”
“That’s still late.”
A laugh escaped him despite himself.
He removed his fins before hauling himself onto the deck in one fluid motion, water pooling beneath his boots. A fellow operator tossed him a towel while another reached for the orange beacon clipped to his vest.
“Barrier clear?”
Hendra nodded. “No structural damage. Anchors are secure.”
The petty officer inspected the beacon before looking back up.
“Five seconds faster than your last run.”
“I had better visibility today.”
“So that’s your excuse.”
The deck erupted in laughter, someone handed Hendra a bottle of water.
“Breakfast is on you!”
“Ha? ..I paid yesterday.”
“Exactly.”
He sighed, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
“You’re all impossible!”
The patrol boat eased through the harbor toward the naval pier.
Fishing boats drifted past on their way home, their crews exchanging casual waves with the sailors aboard the patrol craft. Behind them, the green hills of Bali slowly emerged beneath the morning sun, while temple rooftops peeked above rows of swaying coconut palms.
This was home, not just the island, not just the sea that had shaped him since childhood.
But the familiar rhythm of naval life; Early mornings, routine inspections, training dives.
The same jokes, the same faces.
For a little while, the world was no larger than Benoa Bay.
Then the radio crackled, the laughter stopped.
The communications operator pressed a hand against his headset, listening carefully as the transmission came through.
“..Copy.”
His expression hardened. He turned toward Hendra, sighing.
“Sergeant Wibisana.”
Hendra instinctively straightened.
“Sir.”
“You’ve been reassigned.”
The words settled heavily across the deck.
“Effective immediately.”
A brief silence followed.
“…Where?”
“Europe.”
The crew exchanged uncertain glances, one sailor let out a quiet whistle. Another muttered, “Didn’t see that coming.”
Hendra looked back toward the shoreline, the harbor, the fishing boats, the temples overlooking the bay.
He had deployed overseas before, joint exercises, combined maritime drills, regional security operations.
This felt different.
The petty officer stepped closer, tablet in hand.
“The request came through international channels.”
He turned the screen so Hendra could read it.
SPECIAL OPERATIONS TASK FORCE 141
“They requested a KOPASKA combat diver with maritime infiltration and underwater demolition experience.”
Hendra studied the unfamiliar unit designation.
“Uh.. Never heard of them.”
The petty officer snorted.
“Well, neither have we, man.. But.. Looks like they’re good.”
The patrol boat continued toward the pier.
“You should take this opportunity, Hendra.” The officer said, before turning away.
By nightfall, Bali would be behind him. Thousands of kilometers away, Task Force 141 was already trying to stop a war before it began. Neither they nor Hendra knew it yet.
But the next time he entered the water… It would not be beneath the warm sunrise of Benoa Bay.
Authors Note!!
Yes... I know the prologue is very long. I promise the rest of the story won't be quite as chunky.
This prologue was honestly my way of finding my footing with this project. I wanted to experiment with a more novella-style prose, get comfortable writing the MW universe, and make sure I could capture the atmosphere before introducing my original character. Think of it as both a prologue and a writing exercise lol
I've also condensed and omitted a handful of MWIII missions to keep the pacing focused on the story I want to tell. While the major canon events remain intact, not every mission or cutscene will be adapted one-for-one. My goal isn't to rewrite the game but it's to tell Hendra's story within it.
If you've made it this far, thank you for sticking with me!!! I hope you'll come to love Hendra as much as I do
A frogman lives between two worlds: the ocean below and the sky above. Mahendra "Frog" Wibisana has always believed he belongs to neither. Haunted by a past that taught him to hide every vulnerable part of himself, he finds an unlikely home among strangers, where friendship softens old wounds and love quietly changes the course of his life. But war is never content with happy endings. As the family he built begins to unravel one loss at a time, Hendra must decide whether to surrender to the depths that have always called to him, or keep living for a promise left behind by the man who taught him to look toward the horizon.
A frogman lives between two worlds: the ocean below and the sky above. Mahendra "Frog" Wibisana has always believed he belongs to neither. Haunted by a past that taught him to hide every vulnerable part of himself, he finds an unlikely home among strangers, where friendship softens old wounds and love quietly changes the course of his life. But war is never content with happy endings. As the family he built begins to unravel one loss at a time, Hendra must decide whether to surrender to the depths that have always called to him, or keep living for a promise left behind by the man who taught him to look toward the horizon.
still dont know how I'm gonna color him in and stuff, cause I reinstalled procreate and forgot to backup my brushes so I need to remake them first ;-; hopefully I'll finish him this week!!!
