Over Tselinoyarsk, Soviet Territory
0546 Hours
He fell through void and space and sky like a meteor, his body angled towards the ground, a living bullet fired toward terra firma. The wind tore at his frame like hooked knives. Miles tore past in what felt like moments.
When he broke through the last of the clouds, he saw what looked like a rolling green ocean beneath, a vast jungle sprawling out endlessly in all directions. There was a razor's ridge of mountains in the distance, high ranges and plateaus that rose two thousand feet or so above the dense and verdant sea of jungle.
He streaked towards the ground, reaching terminal velocity. He could see his entire field of vision being swallowed by the jungle. That was his cue.
He closed his eyes, and pulled the break cord fixed to his chest. The parachute canopy unfurled with a loud snap, inflated all at once by the blast of air, and he felt a terrific shock as the chute jerked him upright.
He looked down, watching as he drifted down to earth. The jungle seemed vast, oppressive, almost hungry. He briefly observed the curiosity of a jungle this large existing in the heart of Russia. It was an unusual thing.
He put it out of his mind almost immediately. The jungle was here, and it was real. The jungle was the enemy, an obstacle, an object to be defeated-and the soldier had no doubt he would succeed in conquering it. That was his mission, and that was what he would do.
He saw his target underfoot: one of the green-carpeted plateaus that jutted up like the Rock of Gibraltar. He braced himself, closing his eyes as his feet skimmed the treetops, and then he crashed through the trees. Branches snapped across his chest, ripped at his fatigues, knocked the breath out of his lungs. He felt one of the straps on his pack give way, then felt it torn away raggedly as he dropped. He hit the ground and rolled, skidding through mud and undergrowth. His landing was curtailed by a fallen log, which mercifully stopped him from tumbling over the lip of the plateau and into open air.
The young man lay there for a moment. He knew that his torso would soon be a roadmap of bruises and scratches, but for now he couldn't dwell on that. He reached into his boot and drew his knife, cut across the bonds that fastened the chute to his body. It fell away like a dark shroud. He gathered it up, bunched it together. It wouldn't be used again, but he didn't want it to be spotted by any curious Soviet soldiers who might be around. By the time they found it, if they ever did, he planned to be long gone.
He knelt down, scanning the jungle warily. It was still, and yet alive with movement, creatures slipping around him with imperfect silence. He scrutinized the jungle, sniffed the humid air. Then he pressed his fingertips to his ear.
There was a brief hiss, and then he heard the major's voice, as loud and clear as though he were standing beside him. "Do you copy?"
"Roger that," the young man murmured.
"Good. You're already in enemy territory, and somebody might be listening in. From here on out, we'll be using code-names to refer to each other. Your code-name for this mission will be Naked Snake. I'll be referring to you as 'Snake' from now on. You are not to mention your real name."
"Snake?" The young man grunted.
"You don't like snakes?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've eaten one before, haven't you?"
The young man shrugged. "In survival training."
"I'm glad to hear that."
"I don't know if I'd ever order one in a restaurant, though . . ."
"Be careful," the major said sharply. "You might not have a choice."
"What about you, Major?" Snake-even now, he was thinking of himself by his code-name, as his training dictated-asked. "What should I call you?"
There was a pause, and Snake heard the major mull it over. "Let's see . . . I'll be . . . I'll be Tom. Call me Major Tom."
Major Tom, huh? The name sounded slightly ridiculous, but then again, so did his own.
"This will be a sneaking mission, Snake," the major went on. "You must not be seen by the enemy. You must leave no trace of your presence. Is that clear? This kind of infiltration is the FOX unit's specialty. In other words, weapons and equipment are procured on-site." He paused, then said. "That goes for food as well. You are completely naked, just as your name implies."
"Great," Snake muttered. "Now I see why you asked me if I liked snakes. I suppose calling me 'Snake' was your idea of a joke, too?"
"No." Now Zero's voice-or Major Tom's voice, rather-sounded stern. "There's a good reason for that. I'll tell you later, when the time is right."
"Gotcha." Snake looked around the area he had landed. A thick swath of forest loomed around him. He had pulled ops in similar terrain once or twice, but there was something rather otherworldly about where he'd landed. It didn't seem to be anything he'd expected to find nestled in the heart of Russia. He'd expected tundra, or some barren fields. Nothing like this. "Getting back to the subject, how am I supposed to feed myself?"
"You've been issued a knife and a tranquilizer gun," Major Tom told him. "Use them to hunt for food if you need to."
Snake felt the cold weight of the combat knife sheathed on his calf. The MK-22 tranquilizer gun, called the "Hush Puppy" by those who used it, was tucked in his suit. It was a Navy-modified S&W pistol, which had been the weapon of choice for all SEAL units. He pulled it out now, felt the weight of it in his hands. A silencer was tucked in one of his pockets; he pulled it out and screwed it to the muzzle.
"You'll also find some medical supplies in your backpack," the major said.
Snake grimaced. He glanced in the direction he'd come down in. He saw where the backpack was, hanging from the thatch of branches he'd crashed through. He sighed sourly. Climbing trees didn't bother him, but he wasn't too fond of the terrain as it was.
"I'll be monitoring your progress over the radio," Major Tom told him. "We can't risk violating Soviet airspace, but I'll be in the gunship. My frequency is 140.85."
"Right." Snake headed in the direction of the tree his pack was snagged in. "Give me a second."
He had landed on a shallow rise, and he slid down the slope as he made his way to the tree. It was a massive one, maybe five feet through the trunk. The pack was about twenty feet over his head. He sighed, then dug his fingers into the bark and started to climb.
It didn't take long to get to the branch. Snake held fast to the trunk, and reached for the pack. His fingers closed on a strap; he tugged at it and it fell from the branch, landing in the grass below. He slid down the trunk after it, and scooped it up.
The codec chirped. "Snake, do you still read?"
"I read, Major," he whispered, checking the contents of the pack. There was a medical kit, just as he'd been told. Bandages, sutures, styptic and even burn ointment. There were a couple more things tucked in the pack, rations maybe. He looked for anything he could use as a weapon besides what was on his person, but saw nothing. He knew why. Solo covert actions were standard FOX operating procedure. He couldn't leave any trace of his presence here. No weapons, equipment, footprints or even bodily fluids-the same went for bullets and cartridges, too. He was already in violation of at least a dozen international treaties and warfare conventions just by being here. FOX wouldn't want to be the cause of an international incident.
"You can't let the enemy know you're there," the major reminded him. "This is a stealth mission. You're a ghost, Snake, in every sense of the word. There'll be no rescue if you're captured. The military and the U.S. government will deny any involvement in the affair."
"Then I'll just have to take care of myself."
"Correct. The mission rests entirely in your hands."
"A real one-man army," Snake said bleakly.
"Relax," Major Tom said. "There's a support team ready to back you up over the radio."
"Who?"
"I'll introduce them to you," the major replied. "This time, survival is of the utmost importance. The first member of the support team will be in charge of monitoring your physical condition-acting a medic, so to speak. She's a member of FOX as well, and she's here on the gunship with me."
Snake cupped his ear tighter. "'She'?"
The codec chirped, and then he heard another voice: "Hello, Snake." It was a girl's voice-no, a woman's voice. High, bright, chipper-sounding. It startled Snake a little. "I'm Para-Medic. Nice to meet you."
"Para . . . Medic?"
"As in a medic who comes in by parachute," the girl clarified.
"Aren't you going to tell me your real name?"
"Are you gonna tell me yours, Mr. Snake?" Para-Medic asked knowingly.
My name, huh? Snake thought a bit, then said, "It's John Doe."
"And they call you Jack for short?" Para-Medic chuckled. "You're a regular Captain Nemo."
"A name means nothing on the battlefield," Snake said into the codec. "After a week, no one has a name. What about you? What's yours?"
"Jane Doe."
"Very funny," Snake said dryly.
"I wasn't joking," Para-Medic said, "but I'll tell you my name only if you manage to make it back alive."
"Good to know," Snake said with a small grin.
The codec squeaked again, and Major Tom was back on the line. "There's one more person I want to introduce you to, Snake."
"Yeah? Who?"
There was a pause, and then: "Hello, Jack."
Snake was very rarely surprised in the field, but the voice startled him. It was a woman's voice as well, but it was older. Soft, husky, almost feline-like. It made the hairs on the back of Snake's neck stand up. He knew the voice immediately-and why shouldn't he? He'd heard it every day for almost a decade, and even though it had been nearly half that time since he'd heard it, he would never forget the voice of-
"Boss?"
His head swirled. He almost didn't hear Major Tom say, "Actually, it was The Boss that got the DCI's authorization in the first place. She's going to be serving as FOX's mission advisor. She also helped me plan this mission. She and I were at SAS together."
The Boss's voice came back: "How many years has it been, Jack?"
Snake had to brace himself against a nearby tree. His mouth felt dry, like ashes. He could picture her as she looked the last time he had seen her:
"Talk to me," she said, sensing his distress. "Let me hear your voice."
"It's been five years, seventy-two days and eighteen hours," Snake said dully.
"You've lost weight."
"You can tell that from the sound of my voice?" Snake asked numbly.
"Of course I can. I know all about you."
Snake composed himself quickly despite his fluxing emotions. "Really? Well, I don't know anything about you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean," Snake said, trying to control his voice, "why did you disappear on me all of a sudden."
"I was on a top-secret mission," The Boss said promptly, as if it were the simplest answer in the world. Because it was. "You didn't need me anymore."
"But . . . but there were still so many things I wanted you to teach me."
"No," The Boss said sharply. "I taught you everything you needed to know about fighting techniques. I taught you all you could. The rest you needed to learn on your own."
Snake hesitated. He felt like a child again, back before the Green Berets, when the only human contact he'd had was The Boss. "Techniques, sure. But what about how to think like a soldier?"
The Boss almost laughed. "How to think like a soldier? I can't teach you that. A soldier needs to be strong in spirit, body, and technique-and the only thing you can learn from someone else is technique. In fact, technique doesn't even matter. What's most important is spirit. Spirit and body are like two sides of a single coin. They're the same thing. I can't teach you how to think. You'll just have to figure it out for yourself.
"Listen to me, Jack. Just because soldiers are on the same side right now doesn't mean they always will be. Having personal feelings about your comrades is one the worst sins you can commit. Politics determine who you face on the battlefield. And politics are a living thing. They change along with the times. Yesterday's good might be tomorrow's evil."
Snake steeled himself. "Is that why you abandoned me?"
"No," The Boss said. "It had nothing to do with you. I already told you, Jack. I was on a top-secret mission. A soldier has to follow whatever orders he's given. It's not his place to question why. But you're looking for a reason to fight. You're a born fighter, but you're not quite a soldier. A soldier is a political tool, nothing more. That's doubly true if he's a career soldier. Right and wrong have no place in his mission. He has no enemies and no friends. Only the mission. You follow the orders you're given. That's what being a soldier is all about."
"I do whatever I have to do to get the job done," Snake said. "I don't think about politics."
"That's not the same thing," The Boss said. "Sooner or later, your conscience is going to bother you. In the end, you have to choose whether you're going to live as a soldier, or just another man with a gun." She paused. "There's a saying in the Orient: 'Loyalty to the end.' Do you know what it means?"
Snake thought about it. "Being . . . patriotic?"
"It means devoting yourself to your country."
"I follow the President and the top brass," Snake replied. "I'm ready to die for them if necessary."
The Boss snorted. "The President and the top brass won't be there forever," she said. "Once their terms are up, others will take their place."
"I follow the will of the leader. No matter who's in charge."
"People aren't the ones who dictate the missions," The Boss said.
"Then who does?"
"The times." The Boss sighed. "People's values change over time. And so do the leaders of a country. So there's no such thing as an enemy in absolute terms. The enemies we fight are only in relative terms, constantly changing with the times."
Snake listened, crouched next to the huge tree. He wasn't sure what to say.
"As long as we have loyalty to the end," The Boss went on, "there's no point in believing in anything." She paused, as though debating whether to say what came next. "Even in those we love."
"And that's the way a soldier is supposed to think?"
"The only thing we can believe in with absolute certainty is the mission, Jack."
Snake grunted. "All right. But do me a favor."
"What is it?"
"Call me Snake."
"Snake?" The Boss sounded confused, but only for the briefest of moments. "Oh, right. Your code-name is 'Snake.' It suits you well."
"That's right." It was Major Tom. "The legendary unit that The Boss put together during World War II was a snake. The Cobra Unit-a group of heroes that brought the war to an end and saved the world. As long as you've got a legendary hero backing you up, you'll be fine. Isn't that right, Snake?"
Snake had to agree. "One more thing, Boss."
The Boss's voice returned. "Yes?"
Snake smiled, despite himself. "It's good to hear your voice again."
"Same here. After all, who knows if either of us will make it out alive . . ." She trailed off, then recovered. "Snake, you were always best at urban warfare and infiltrating buildings. But this is the jungle. Survival is going to be key. Those CQC techniques I taught you are sure to come in handy."
CQC-close-quarters combat. Snake wasn't too certain of his skills. He'd been in the Green Berets for the last few years, and hadn't had cause to use the techniques The Boss had drilled him in, time and time again, during his apprenticeship. "I'm probably pretty rusty," he admitted.
"Not to worry," The Boss said smoothly. "I'll be here to help you remember. After all, this is your first actual survival mission. I'll be supporting you over the radio."
"Where are you, Boss?" He hadn't seen her on the plane. "Are you with the Major?"
The codec squelched, and Major Tom spoke. "The Boss is communicating with us by radio from aboard a Permit-class submarine in the Arctic Ocean. You need her help, her frequency is 141.80."
"Gotcha."
"Your mission," the major said, "is to retrieve Dr. Sokolov. Sokolov is being held in an abandoned factory located to the north of your current position. Avoid heavy combat, and don't let anyone see you. Don't forget: this is a stealth mission."
Snake rose to his feet. He braced the handle of the knife against the butt of the MK-22, just as The Boss had taught him years ago. That stance always had a relaxing effect on him.
"Commencing Virtuous Mission . . . now."