Metal Gear Solid 3
Krasnogorje Mountaintop, Old Ruins…
Izic MacLean looked out toward the noonday sun from the rock cliff, which the ruins' sat on, the glint of the sun's rays gleaming off his blue-tinted sunglasses. While the omni-present breeze that accompanied the mountain pervaded even his own little sanctuary, the long dark-blue duster coat he wore kept out the usual of the chill. The two-thirds shoulder length, blackish-blue hair on his head waved about in the wind, and it was one of his prides that the bluish sheen to his hair was achieved naturally, not with dye or some medical procedure. In front of him, the newly restored Groznyj Grad was bustling with activity. Modified Hind D's flew overhead, a half dozen, whilst the BTR, open topped troop carriers drove to and fro, disgorging personnel, weapons or equipment at dispersed intervals. One of the Hind D's had banked toward Izic, and flew overhead as he noted that the BTR's were now primarily loading troops into their bed's and transporting them toward the main maintenance\construction hangar. The Hind overhead turned, riding with the wind, and then descended, and Izic turned to watch its progress. It slowly fell, it's port door dropping down to reveal a fully uniformed ACTS squad. The Active Combat Tactical Squad, comprised of all twelve of the assigned operatives, were standing around the lowered door, a trio of them standing on the horizontal door itself. They opened Hind dropped behind the ruin's housing Izic's living arrangements, and from what he could make of the sounds reaching him, the troop was dispersing around the area, and a few were coming through the ruins toward the structure at the end. Of which Izic was behind. Sighing, and not wanting his abode to be disturbed on any means, he started for the door. His long coat, its inside straps and pockets and holstered fitted with all manner of weaponry, jingled and clicked as he walked forward, and the FN P90 which he always carried about him appeared in his hand. He started through the building, the metal-canvas cot which he slept on making itself known in the room which he humbly called his sleeping room, and through the next door and down the stairs and through another door, was his living room. Here were his more prideful possessions. A fair-sized television, hooked up to a Satellite Dish that was on the clay-earth roof of the building. There was also an oversized beanbag chair, chosen above over-stuffed luxury furniture due to the rather impoverished surroundings. There was also a miniature fridge, and a small stove, and a healthy collection of insta-foods. He walked through this room, rolled his head on his shoulders before he opened the door. The ACTS soldier was standing less than an inch from the doors yield as Izic exited, and blinked in surprise before cracking a crisp salute. Izic lazily and briefly returned and dropped his own salute, and the ski-masked soldier dropped back to his usual, wary and armed nature.
"Sir, your requested back at Big Steel."
Izic recognized the name of the new fortress built on Groznyj Grad's 'grave', and nodded.
"I suppose I'll be taking the Hind then?"
The man nodded.
"ACTS will be accompanying me?"
The man shook his head.
"No sir. We're stationed elsewhere."
Izic nodded.
"Very well. Just don't touch my stuff." He said, brushing past the ACTS agent and kicking his foot to close the door to his 'home'. The ACTS man didn't respond, only unlimbered his Sig SG550 sniper rifle and took up a prone position on a raised section of earth near the old earthen building. Izic strode forward, the soft crimson-and-black clad figures taking only the smallest notice of him as he walked toward the waiting Hind, stepped on board, and thumped his hand twice, loudly, on the inside wall of the Hind. The door began closing, and Izic took a seat on the opposite bench, dead-center middle invert the door. The door finished closing, and with a pitched whine the helicopter rose, and Izic felt the vehicle stop, hover, turn, and bear for Big Steel. Izic locked the bolt on the P90 back, made sure that the safety was off, and sat back. Likely he wasn't going to need it, but if he was going where he thought he was going, it wouldn't be a bad idea to carry live iron.
13:27, Russian Airspace…
Maxwell Patterson lay in the small, cramped space of the A12 Avenger II's bomb bay. The stealth aircraft, holding the latest in stealth technology, climbed in altitude and ever closer to the objective. Maxwell could feel the chill of the outside air, and realized he had since lost all feeling in his feet. He wanted to key in his mike and ask the pilot when the drop was, but he did not dare let his hand stray from the handle usually appropriated to holding a bomb, should the plane drop him early and have him dropped all twisted and flexed into a few thousands of feet. He could now have named the general locations, to and inch, of every mark on the inside of the bomb bay doors, from the USAF insignia to the scratches from maintenance work and tools.
And then the pilot signaled a drop time of 30 seconds.
"Alright, you got it," Said Maxwell, taking strong advantage of the open channel. He was going to attempt a super HALO jump. The High Opening, Low-Altitude jump was being taken to the extreme limits of safety, from his height now to an opening of 300 feet from the ground. It would have been insane, had the entire thing been meticulously calculated for just such circumstance. Max counted down from thirty, reaching twenty, then fifteen…
The pilot signaled the ten-second mark.
Max sighed, and counted down the dismal seconds. It would be a miserable fall, to say the least, and the landing couldn't possibly be too much better. But still, he looked forward to it. At the last moment, as he counted one, the doors parted. And all hell broke loose. The hair on his head was shipped around, coming loose from its neat bundle on his head, and his flight suit was turned into a sea of olive-drab waves, and then he let go. And he was falling. He heard the hypnotic drone and ferocious whine of the plane's engines, felt the HK-MP5 on his back whip around and catch him in the leftmost shoulder blade, and he made an attempt to hold his breath as he rapidly gained air pressure. His altimeter was dropping sharply, going at a rather uncomfortable speed. He could see the forest greens rising toward him, and his eyes were watering and ears hurting as the mass of green grew larger and larger. He could now make out the lines of rivers and patches of marshland and dirt, and then he had to pull the cord. It was above the 300-foot marker, but not by particularly much. His parachute, designed specifically for raising the wearer based on velocity, jerked at his armpits as he was lifted and then speedily driven along by the air currents. He flew forward, dropping not nearly as quickly but faster than he was comfortable with. He was now only fifty feet from the treetops, and he was troubled at his present speed, or more so by the fact he might hit something sharp at his present velocity. Max gripped the parachute straps tighter, and brought his legs up, just in time to avoid some dead, very sharp branches of a tall, broken tree. And as he cleared another eddy of tree copses, he saw the lake. Probably full of alligators, but he could probably take on of them better than a sharp tree. Shifting one hand to accommodate his release cord, he waited until he was a mere 25 feet from the glistening, seemingly smooth and calm surface of the water, and he pulled the cord. The departure was smooth, the parachute flying away like a cape and while he dropping like a stone. He tucked into a ball, and actually felt himself skip along the surface of the water at his speed, making his legs go numb with pain and cold, before he hit, dragged, and sunk in the water the second time. He opened his eyes to a dark, cold, uninviting world, and then he kicked himself up to the surface, and took a deep breath of pure, clean, rich air as he broke the waters mirror surface. He saw the nearest piece of land, right away, and kicked for the small island in the center of the lake. He felt his feet touch soggy ground faster than he though he would have, and found himself wading through the murky liquid, and onto the muddy dirt beach. And then he was lying against one of the many, seemingly omnipresent large and dead tree's. He checked his equipment. The MP-5 was a Rolls Royce of weaponry, so he merely held it to let the water out and drained the magazine. The VP-70M he wore in hip rigging was a tad less accountable, but he found that it would be serviceable if it were needed. Satisfied his weaponry was clear, he moved on to his other equipment. A USCS12 Range-Finder, unaffected by the water, was what made up his reconnaissance gear, and his SCAB, Special Combat Army Blade, was also unmolested in its shoulder cross-draw sheath, and twenty or so pounds of experimental plastic explosive. Past that, he only had an OSPREY backpack with two days' rations and a medical kit. Other than that, he was naked, in a figurative sense. He reached up, flicked the CODEC earpiece, and then spoke in a hushed tone, his eyes scanning for moving logs or moss or something that looked like a 'gator.
"Mongoose had landed."
The reply was somewhat delayed, but it dropped into focus quickly.
"This is Chickadee. Read you, Mongoose."
Max nodded.
"Going quiet. Landed closer to first objective than expected."
"Noted. Out."
Max nodded, and the connection dropped.
He looked around, taking in the large amount of floating detritus and trees, living and dead, and figured his location.
Chyomyj Prud, and right over there…Bolshaya Past Base is about a klick away.
As his mind made the calculations and his body tensed for the swim, Max began running through his objectives mentally.
And then he dived into the murky deep.
The base was more secure than Izic had imagined. 30-foot guard towers, each manned by three mean, one with a Tavor TAR-21, with another man wielding an RPG-7. The third man, or one of them, was either manning or maintaining an M249, with a shelf of 300 round box magazines in the tower to accompany it. A quiver of warheads for the PRG as well, and a rack of 30-round magazines for the Tavor (which all had, though the RPG use was holding a micro-version) made the miniature fortress complete. A searchlight also was present, on a pivot next to the machine gun nest. On the ground, BTR-40's were set every few hundred meters in groups of six, though that stopped about a hundred meters from the Admin building. Similar Machine Gun nests to the towers were on each corner of the second floor rotunda of that building, and snipers patrolled the roof. An airfield, about three miles long and complete with a half dozen hangars and a few MiG's, made up the rest of the space of the semi-flat cratered summit of the mountain, besides the few accumulated spare acres and the assembly hanger, large storage facility and the R&D laboratories. Hummers with attached Machine Guns and foot patrol's, comprised of three man teams, patrolled the rest of the space. The weapon of choice with the patrols and soldiers abroad seemed to be the Tavor, but every third man to a patrol carried an HK MG36 machine gun, with the Beta C drums, which carried usually a 100 rounds a magazine. All in all, a fair set up. Two Sikorsky helicopters, armed with GAU-8/A machine gun turrets, flew overhead, the surely fuel efficient models patrolling the skies. The BTR in which Izic currently rode was swiftly making way from the Hind, which was now being refueled, and so he had ample time to make and mentally document the details about the setting.
His coat, still weighed in with various firearms and blades, sat on the seat beside him, his usual clothing revealed. The black combat webbing that clasped even more weaponry (from the Czech Skorpion, to the Russian AKSU, and in blades the dignified Ka-Bar to the Wicked Kris) was worn over a forest camouflage-print vest, which in turn was worn over a similar camo-printed T-shirt. His pants shared the pattern, and were adorned with various sheathes and holsters. His feet were encased in Black, steel-toed plated combat boots. He had dropped his shades in favor of showing off his blue tinted eyes (Yet another pride), and was now enjoying the unmodified view. The base was now less active, most guards either patrolling of entering into the construction hangar. The truck began slowing, to the point where the ammunition jingling in the mounted .50 machine gun's box feeds' was heard above the engine itself. Eventually, it stopped around twenty meters from the large, sliding doors of the construction hangar. Two guards, clutching the omnipresent Tavor, stood outside, and inside a large throng of weaponless, uniform clad guards. Just inside the door, a big man, in a trench coat similar to Izic's, stood. Surrounding him were a group of five people. The driver banged three times on the ceiling of the cab, and Izic climbed out, grabbing up his belongings and putting on his coat before jumping from the BTR, his feet touching the ground at the same time the truck began drive away. He landed in a squat, and climbed to his feet. The big man turned to face him. A red scar running from his left brow down to below the eye, and all–white hair topping a strong, angular, not a little scary, stern face. The jaw looked like the man could chew rocks with ease, and Izic hesitated to move before the man's gaze softened, and he spoke.
"Ah, Colonel MacLean. So glad you could join us."
Izic grinned, and settled his glasses, not his sunglasses but his prescription ones, on his nose before continuing forward. The group of people was outside the bustle of the mass of people, so none moved as he walked forward. As Izic entered the hangar, a few feet inside the door but not actually into the group, he brought up a hand in a non-committal wave.
"Hey," he said, eyeing each person in the group. To the left of the hulking, white-haired man, there was another, hulking, bald black man. His head resembled that of a bowling ball, his eyes hard insets into another face that looked as if it could crush rocks. He was muscular, wearing a pair of combat pants and a black muscle shirt. His boots, oddly enough, were the most interesting part of the person who looked able to bend steel. They were made of solid metal, instead of laces there being inset adjusters, like those on ski boots. The man grunted acknowledgement to Izic's presence, and he moved on. A fair haired, tall, thin, fairly attractive woman holding an imposing, scoped rifle was next, her face that of a models', her stature that of a woman who knew how to kick your ass, and was more than happy to do it if you asked for it. Izic moved on from her right away. The next was another female, though this one was more Izic's height and looked nothing like a soldier. She had her arms crossed across her chest, and clasped a personal computer in her hands. She wore a pair of tan shorts, and a white button T-shirt, and beneath her semi-shoulder length hair, which was an enticing mixture of copper, gold and bronze, he saw she was also bespectacled. Noting this, he moved on to the next person, a skinny man with a goatee, close-cropped black hair, and a large assortment of knives, throwing and combat variety, on his clothing, in similar manner to Izic's weapon-laden coat and pants. Izic moved on, noting the man's constant, sinister, observant gaze. The next man was shirtless, bootless, and was hefting an M60. While Izic would have loved to pursue the notion of why the man was so oddly equipped, the big man in the group cleared his throat. The whole detailed glance had lasted only a couple of seconds, Izic tuned in to what he was saying.
"This is the first time you have all been in the same place. While the good Colonel here has been here three days, miss Marx has been here four, and Rock and Smyth have been here two, Catalina and Viktor have only just arrived."
From what Izic could gather, he associated the Computer holding girl to be Marx, Rock and Smyth were between the big black man and the M60-wielding behemoth, and Catalina was the rifle-holding woman. While the White haired man gave no indication as to which the name Viktor might belong to, the Goatee bearded man gave a slight nod, though Izic had already used the process of elimination to get that already.
"As such, I think it only proper to introduce everyone.
"The honorable Canadian Colonel Izic Auric MacLean, trained since a child by GRU, the CIA, the Navy SEALs, and Spetsnaz Forces in southern Russia. For the duration of Project ACE, the reason you are all here, he will serve as both Head of Security, Commander of standard forces, and of course, Weaponry council for the project. Next, Mina Marx, professional hacker for hire: NSA, CIA, G39, RIOT, every organization utilizing high-capacity encryptions, she's beaten them all. She's in charge of digital security and systems council for ACE. First Officers, Jonathan Rock and Gilbert Smyth, in charge of Special Forces and internal security service. While you gentleman will have little to do with ACE itself, you will be in command of its subsidiaries, which are numerous and demand their own attention whilst ACE is underway. I place them on your hands."
The two men nodded.
"Princess Francesca Orlov, middle eastern royalty at large."
To this, the tall woman raised her rifle higher on her shoulder in acknowledgement.
"You are in charge of pest control. I will go into detail on this later."
Another rifle raise.
"And Viktor Abovian, the scourge of Moscow."
Izic had been right in placing the imposing man's name.
"You are in charge of covert assassination. We have many…unwanted personnel sharing land. Your services are to be used in conjunction with the need to see them gone."
Viktor grinned, lowering his satanic face in a very sinister manner.
"Note that as of yet, I have yet to mention the nature of ACE itself, or any of the aforementioned subsidiary projects. Therefore, as of yet, you'd be best to accompany me to the Research and Development Facility. It is both more informative and much less disruptive that here," The big man paused to glance back at the activity behind them, inside the Hangar, "And I do believe I have yet to introduce myself. Brunt Steyr, future world leader."
The first guard was clutching a Tavor TAR-21, and walked like a man who didn't expect to see any action. The second, parked behind a .50 caliber mounted Machine Gun, was leaning back against the dirt pile behind him, smoking. The third man, a sniper on the roof, was crouched on the roof, Dragunov in SVD in hand, but for the length he'd been sitting there, he might as well have been bird watching. There was one of two more guards wondering around, but none were facing Max's position. Two Hind D's, outfitted with an apparently modified arsenal, sat in a clearing to the north-west, though no personnel were around them. The Demolition Explosive Compound, or Semtex4, in subtle mention to the elements of Semtex and C4 in the explosive itself, had been made into a trio of one-and-a-half pound rounded squares, and radio detonators were packed into the clay-textured packages. The detonator was stuck in his left boot. The MP-5 was gripped in one fist, and presently he grasped the fore-grip with his left hand and brought it to his shoulder. Switching from tri-round bursts to single shot, he sighted, through the metal sights, on the sniper. Slowly, the man's ski-masked head becoming the sole occupant of the space in the front-most sight. Squeezing the trigger, Max took a deep breath, let half out, and fired. The shot, exploding from the four-and-a-half silenced barrel, hit squarely against the man's temple, and he dropped from site, the ensuing thud inaudible from where Max was. The Machine Gunner was next, and Max switched to tri-burst again, and raising into a hunched walk, fired again. The bullets took the man in the face, the first coring through his eye, the other two entering through the brow and forehead. The man went down with a small cry, and the third guard turned, mild concern turning into terrible shock right away. He never had a chance. The next tri-burst exploded into his heart, grouping into a ragged line as he was jerked around, spinning into a death lay on the reddening ground. Max rose to his full height, switched to full auto, and grasped the MP-5 one handed. His other hand was cradling the charges. He quickly sprinted to the side of the wooden building, which according to intelligence was still standing from 'Operation Snake Eater', back in the 60's. The Base was in reasonably good shape, a small storehouse next to the radio room\bunk building, and an armory to the far pass, near the rocky tree line, made of wood and steel siding (Except the armory, which was solid concrete.), and had to have been taken care of well to have not, say, fallen in and killed the occupants. The Hind's were new, and as he approached via the wall's shadow, he saw that there was a lone guard, looking very much alert, between them. Assuming the last guard was the last, Max had fired without regard for noise. The death knell gasp had been audible even from Maxwell's far position, and obviously the new Tavor wielding foe had heard too. But he failed to mobilize or take cover. Which made the new 9mm shockers all the easier to absorb. They caught him in the abdomen and in the mid-chest, essentially dropping him there. The next, single shot put him away for good. Max bent, shouldering the MP-5, and placed one of the charges on the right missile pod of the left Hind, and another on the cockpit of the right. That done, he searched to guard. RG-34 grenades, explode on contact, were clipped to the waist. Max unclipped and re-clipped them to his own waist. The four grenades were little weight. Stepping away from the Hind's, he made his way over to the Armory. He moved cautiously, the MP-5 waving like a wand in front of everything in every direction; keeping in mind he was moving through a large, open clearing. When he was under tree-cover, he kicked open the door to the Armory, ascertained no one was in there, and tossed the third charge haphazardly onto the floor. He made the cautious trek back, and faced the building. One room, the one closest to him, had a glass window, and he threw the fourth charge through it. The malleable charge hit with enough force to break through the window, and he ran around to the next wall, around the corner, and placed the last charge on the wall of the Bunkroom. Satisfied, he ran to the far end, near the path to the large crevasse further on. He turned, eyed everything carefully…a fifth guard, another building, something like that. But seeing nothing, he drew the detonator, and depressed the red button. The Hind's were first, a giant ball of fire erupting in the middle, the far-most one losing the front of the fuselage and bursting into flame, the second flipping over, glass, metal and internal liquid cracking, smashing and spurting from the damaged metal beast. The Radio room of the main structure exploded, the roof dissolving and the room and windows flying and disintegrating in the blast. The Bunkroom's wall blew inwards, bringing the structure on that side falling into itself. The Armory emitted a large, harmonic boom, a wumph! That put pressure on the eras. A second later, the entire structure erupted in a geyser of flame. The flipped Hind caught fire, its bled liquids alighting with flame and its gas unit heating up rapidly. Satisfied he had effectively stopped the base's usage, Max turned and ran toward the Crevasse. His contact, if memory served, was to be waiting in the cave…somewhere, anyway. He'd cross that bridge when it came to it. Hurrying on, Max was soon lost to the casual eye in the roving, pungent clouds of chemical smoke and flame.
Izic was astonished. From what he had observed through the tour of the Research facility, all sorts of things were in the works. Schematics for huge tanks, helicopters, other variously amazing war machines hung on walls, and people young and old hurried about, most wearing white coats, the occasional black jacket moving about. The group had settled into a small auditorium, containing two bench tables and a podium at one end. Steyr had taken the podium, behind which a large screen had been set. Once everyone had seated, he dimmed the lights from controls on the podium, and the screen came on. Everyone in the room gave a fairly loud gasp, or other sound of surprise. On the screen, labeled clearly in white block text in the top left, was a picture of a guard tower. Beside it, there was a monster. With a large, flat head, a triangular torso, and rounded, mechanical limbs connected to the chest by pseudo-muscle, it stood at least ten or fifteen feet above the tower, and aside from its obvious, robotic nature, it had a tail and hoofed feet. The entire thing looked so surreal, that the next shot was even more confusing. It was a close up of the cockpit, open, and hosting a metal ninja. Or at least, that was the simple way to put it. The head was a metal oval, with a visor with a strafing, red light in the center. Various lines showed where the armor pieces fit together. Below that, it lost all of its general oddness, but the shining, silver armor below was still confusing. This was too much for Izic.
"What the hell?"
Steyr looked down on him, with smile on his face.
"The machine you are looking at, what you are observing. If ACE. It is a mobile nuclear launch platform capable of delivering a nuclear warhead to any part of the world via a rail driver attached to its back. It can also be used in conventional warfare, due to its various armaments and systems,"
At 'Armaments' and 'Systems', he threw glances at Izic and Mina.
"This is project ACE. This is the system that some of you are working on, working for, protecting, and any other task it may become. We also have a second project, though this one merely requires a competent security force."
At this, he nodded to Rock and Smyth.
The screen flicked from the tall standing ACE to a picture of a beat up old pickup truck carrying AK-47 wielding, bandanna-wearing men and woman.
"These are The Natives. These people, I will no lie, have been forcefully oppressed during ACE's initial works. They have since taken a minor, annoying military action against us. Viktor, you will be in charge of, 'covertly' removing some key members. While we normally would not have placed such a large amount of concern into this, we have reason to believe that an American Agent has been dispatched to attack us, and that The Natives have acquired new weapons' contacts. Whilst the two might not be related incidents, we can't have The Natives distracting us while an American spy runs amok when ACE is so near completion. Therefore, Catalina, I place you in direct charge to stopping the Agent. After this, you will each be dismissed to a new location to begin work immediately. Rock, Smyth, go now to the construction hangar. An ACTS squad has been waiting for dispatch for a while, and they have intelligence for you. Your first mission is to lock down the southern access pass to this base. We know there is Native presence there, and it will be your job to remove it and guard against it. Catalina, our helicopter base has been attacked near the Bolshaya Past. Right now, I need you out there to find out what happened. If it was Natives, I want to be the first to know. If it was that Agent, please, find him and kill him. Izic, Mina, Viktor. All of you please follow the signs outside to the second floor R&D lab. I would like progress to be made on ACE immediately."
Izic nodded, and as everyone but the last three of them moved themselves from the table, and then they themselves, he wondered what, exactly, he had just gotten himself into. And if it was anything that might, just might, be just too much.
Author: Alright, thassit for now. Comments? Criticism? Anything? C'mon people, I need reviews to Live!