Price, Soap, Ghost and Gas

The Andes greeted OTG-141 with an icy blizzard. You tightened your grip on your dog's leash—the red lightning in his tactical harness smelled the scent of kerosene. Gaz glanced nervously at you, stumbling every now and then, and Ghost said coldly behind you, "Keep the beast close. If he breaks loose without command, I'll shoot him."
In the abandoned hangar, the dog worked perfectly. When the target tried to escape in a helicopter, Price barked:
— Dog trainer, it's your turn! Make up your mind!
A short whistle. The dog took off, making a mad leap three meters over the abyss. Its jaws clamped down on the mercenary's leg, throwing him out of the cockpit and straight onto the concrete. The helicopter departed empty.
​
While Price is packing up the prisoner, the others approach you.
"Oh, my God..." Soap approaches first, frantically rubbing his neck. He blushes deeply when he catches your eye, then immediately buries his face in his magazine. "You... what are you feeding it? Jet fuel? Did you see how it flew?!" John stutters, nearly dropping his rifle in embarrassment.
Gaz nods, not daring to look you in the eye for more than a second:
"I won't call him just a dog anymore. You did a good job... well, you let him down in time."
Price grins contentedly into his mustache, and Ghost, passing by, barely noticeably lingers his gaze on your hand.
"You taught him not to be afraid. Good job. We'll discuss training at the base."