Bolshaya Past

Mission Time: Day 2

1024 Hours

The marshy earth had given way to more rocky terrain as Snake blazed quickly and quietly north. His entire energy had been focused on taking step after step, proceeding deeper into the jungle, making sure that every movement and sound was noted, categorized, filed away . . .

Then he stopped. Something glinted to his right—something metal. Snake couldn't be certain, but he thought it might have been the tin roof of a building.

Sweaty and exhausted, Snake sprang forward with renewed energy, as if he had been jumpstarted. He spread ferns aside and caught his breath as he looked out at a small assortment of sheds and huts. Gray clouds hung in the sky, casting the site in a cool gloom. In the center of the site, he saw a fat-bellied helicopter, its rotors winking in the intermittent sunlight. Snake suspected it was one of the choppers that had ferried the Shagohod the week before.

There were about seven soldiers, all Spetsnaz and all armed, patrolling the area. The whole perimeter was ringed with a fence that Snake judged was electrified. A maze of trenches zigzagged behind them. Snake craned his neck, and saw a machine-gun emplacement set up on the far left, the barrel pointed at the jungle. He realized with a sickening start that he'd been lucky: had he not seen the flash of sunlight on tin, he would've walked right into the gunner's sights.

Snake shrank back, his mind whirling. At first glance, the place looked like some kind of a supply depot. Had EVA known about this place? She'd have had to. Was she luring him into a trap?

Only one way to find out.

Snake keyed the codec. "EVA."

"What is it, Snake?"

"Some sort of facility," Snake murmured, careful now to keep his voice at a hushed whisper. "Looks like a supply depot."

"That would be Bolshaya Past Base."

"Past what?"

"No, Snake. That area is known as Bolshaya Past. It's Russian for 'great cavity.' The crevasse is about a mile north of it."

"You didn't think to warn me about it first?"

"I had faith you'd spot it," EVA said smartly.

Snake grumbled. His earlier question seemed to be swinging in favor of throats.

"You should get a move on, Snake," EVA hissed, switching off her signal.

Snake crouched where he was for a moment, thinking. If this were a supply depot, it might prove to be a major hassle down the road. The huts probably had stores of guns, ammunition, and all sorts of supplies. Snake wondered if it would be worth the risk to lob a few grenades and blow them to kingdom come.

He was still weighing his options when the codec sounded in his ear, followed by the major's voice. "Snake, get a move on."

"How'd you know I stopped?"

"We're keeping track of your movements," Para-Medic chimed in. "Through your codec."

"And you need to get moving," Zero said.

With a weary sigh, Snake crept away from the encampment, making sure to keep out of sight of the machine-gun nest.

Snake reached the crevasse of Bolshaya Past just as the sun hit high noon. It was a desolate bare patch in the jungle, all basalt outcroppings and baked hardpan. Only a few stunted trees and hardy lichens splattered the scene around the chasm, which was a good twenty feet or so at its widest point.

But Snake took no notice of it. He was too busy looking at the man standing on the opposite side of the chasm—the slender, pale-skinned major in the red beret.

Ocelot tapped his aquiline nose. "Ah, you're here at last."

Snake moved for his pistol, but the steel-eyed youth thumbed back the hammer of the revolver, training the barrel directly between Snake's eyes. The major grinned lazily, like a cat playing with a trapped mouse.

"Looks like The Boss's info was right," he mused.

"Aren't you tired of getting your ass kicked yet, kid?" Snake grunted.

Ocelot's eyes narrowed. "Twice now you've made me taste bitter defeat."

He opened his mouth and let out a strange yowling sound, something that sounded like a caterwaul. A second later, Snake heard the unmistakable snap of rifles being loaded around him. He flashed a glance and saw the black-garbed commandos had surrounded him, pointing their weapons at him.

I've got to stop letting them get the drop on me like that.

Their commander cocked a grin. "Holster up," he said.

Snake didn't move.

"Holster up," Ocelot repeated, "or I put a bullet in your eye."

Snake scowled and slid the .45 into its holster, expecting the Russian major to gun him down anyway.

But he didn't. Ocelot slowly held up his gun and pointed the barrel upward, indicating he wasn't going to shoot. "I hate to disappoint the Cobras," he said, "but you're mine now." He glanced at the other soldiers. "All of you! Leave us!"

The Spetsnaz troops exchanged glances, lowered their weapons and stepped back. Snake's brow furrowed. This guy's really serious about this.

Ocelot twirled the pistol around his finger with the flourish of John Wayne and then thrust the barrel into the holster at its side.

"It's just you and me," he said. "No one to get in our way. Ocelots are proud creatures. They prefer to hunt alone." He tapped the butts of the two revolvers at his side. "Twelve shots. This time, I've got twelve shots."

The two men faced each other, their gun hands preparing for the quick draw. Snake slowly inched to his right, in hopes of throwing Ocelot's aim off at the last second. But Ocelot mirrored the steps.

Over the years of Snake's career, he'd never dueled another man face-to-face like this. He felt a trickle of sweat beneath his bandana. His fingertips trembled, danced over the butt of the .45.

Ocelot's eyes squinted to slits. "Ready . . ."

The wind blew. The tree branches creaked. Snake even saw a tumbleweed bounce dryly behind Ocelot.

Ocelot's eyes glinted.

"Draw."

Both men seized their guns.

Both men drew.

Both men opened fire.

Ocelot's first shot ripped the air where Snake's head had been a split-second before. Snake's first three shots beat three loud reports before he hit the ground, and as he rolled he saw dirt kick up near Ocelot's left boot. The Russian jerked backward, firing twice more, and Snake felt a furrow of blood rip open in hot pain as a bullet grazed his left cheek.

He lurched to his feet again, blasting two more shots as he sprinted for the fallen log. Ocelot opened fire, backing up towards a gnarled stump. Snake lunged forward, hitting the hardpan behind the log just as another bullet bounced off the wood with a loud ricochet. Bits of debris showered Snake, but he took no notice of it.

One of the Spetsnaz commandos stepped out of the brush, his rifle raised, preparing to open fire. Ocelot saw him, swung one of his revolvers towards him, and shot. The bullet smashed into the commando's wrist, and he dropped the rifle with a squawk. The other commandos exchanged anxious glances.

He's serious about this, Snake thought.

He raised his own pistol over the log and fired. But Ocelot had ducked behind the stump.

"I've never felt so alive!" Ocelot's voice announced. "It's so different from simply changing a clip. To reload in the middle of a battle-it's exhilarating!"

Snake heard the rattle of the revolver's cylinder snap shut. He heard Ocelot then spin it.

He reached for his waist, and unclipped the grenade he'd considered using on the supply depot. He clutched the pineapple tightly and pried the pin loose. He counted to three and then rose up and pitched the grenade towards the stump.

As though he'd sensed it, Ocelot whirled from around the stump. He saw the grenade tumbling through the air towards him. His left hand blurred, a gunshot rang out, and the grenade detonated a split-second later, knocking the Russian major to the ground. He lay there, stunned but alive, a shrapnel cut over one eyebrow.

"You filthy cheat . . ."

Snake was ready. He rose to his feet, his pistol pointed at Ocelot. The Russian struggled to his feet, blood trickling down his cheek. His revolvers lay in the dust. He bent for one, but as his fingers closed on the barrel Snake squeezed the trigger.

CLICK!

Ocelot cringed, expecting a bullet to tear through his vitals. But the dry click alerted him that Snake's Colt was empty.

"You're a dead man now," he said, slowly raising the revolver and thumbing back the hammer. Then he paused.

Something had lighted on the revolver's sight. It crawled along the barrel, buzzing intermittently.

"Damn," he muttered, coldly furious. "He found us, the son of a bitch . . ."

Snake took no notice of it. Behind him, he heard one of the Ocelot commandos let out a cry. Then another. Then he heard an agonized cacophony of screams. He whirled around, and saw the black-garbed soldiers pitching their weapons away as if they were white-hot, and they began to scream and writhe, clawing at their bodies as though they'd been doused in acid.

What the hell is going on?

And then he heard it: a droning sound that cut through the shrieks like a hot knife through butter, a droning sound he recognized at once. Bees.

No, not bees. Hornets.

The commando Ocelot had shot had forgotten all about his shattered wrist. He sank to his knees, scrabbling with one hand at his balaclava, ripping it away while howling in pain. When he did, Snake saw a horrific sight he'd never forget till the end of his days: the man's face was swelling, puffing in painful welts. His screams grew weaker, and he fell forward, mercifully facedown.

More of the commandos were doing the same. They were dying, dropping like flies-and then the first stab of pain needled the right side of Snake's throat, just below the hairline. Another sting flared up his right arm above the elbow. Screaming, in a total panic, he staggered back. One of them stung the back of his neck; another stung the small of his back, above the waistband of his trousers.

Ocelot staggered backwards. Already the hornets were starting to descend on him. He snatched up his other revolver and started to twirl them about like twin propellers, knocking dozens of the little bastards out of the air as they dive-bombed him. He looked at his men, the last of whom already letting out their final death rattles, and at the American, who was being consumed by The Pain's pets.

Shame.

Ocelot turned and ran.

Snake threw an arm over his eyes, feeling dozens of red-hot darts of pain all over his body. He had to get out of here, had to get out of here, had to-

Get moving, asshole.

Only one way to go.

He threw himself forward, blundering through the buzzing swarm . . . and then his boots violently hit open air and suddenly his balance was gone.

"Oh shit!" he cried, grabbing for purchase but finding nothing. He fell through darkness, tumbling. His foot struck something, his right leg bent at a painful angle as he fell. He snatched at rock, scratched three fingernails off. He fell through darkness, tumbling. He screamed in pain and surprise and he hit the ground on his shoulder with such a tooth-rattling force, and then he was gone.