Interlude: Resurrection
Rain fell onto Arlington National Cemetery in sheets, curtains of rain muddying ground dug up too many times over the years, until it seemed the bodies of the dead were trying to dig up through the dirt sealing them into their graves to exact revenge on their mortal enemies.
Robert E. Lee's Arlington mansion towered over the grounds, a grumpy old structure that seemed to disapprove of what had been to its ground by conquering Yankees over a hundred fifty years ago. The cemetery was mostly empty; a few people wandered through the rows of tombstones, placing soaked flowers at the graves of friends and family members, or someone they'd seen in the paper or on TV.
One man strode through the Cemetery with a purpose; his Russian features and the clearly viewable six-shooter he wore—was that really one of the legendary Colt Single Action Armies? They wondered—drew more than his fair share of odd looks. The cold war might have ended almost twenty years ago, but a general distrust of Russians still permeated American society, especially after the release of In the Darkness of Shadow Moses: The Unofficial Truth, by Nastasha Romanenko, almost four years before. It was still on the New York Times Bestseller list; it had debuted at No. 1 and stayed there for a record 134 weeks, and now still was riding high at No. 9, boosted by international sales over the years.
The man stopped in front of a grave in one of the dark corners of the cemetery, one rarely seen by visitors. The man knew that soldiers buried here had been killed in "black ops," or missions the U.S. government did not officially recognize when one of them blew up in its face. He knelt before one grave, the stone marker implanted on the ground reading: "Killed in terrorist take-over of Shadow Moses Island, 2004." Several others just like it were nearby.
The man stood. "Liquid," he said. "Mantis. Raven. Wolf. You didn't have to die."
The man's right arm twitched, and he fell to his knees as pain so immense it filled his vision with a bright white light filled his body. "Dammit, Liquid," he yelled, clutching the arm, "get back where you belong! We'll save you as soon as we can!" The arm began to spasm, and the man felt light- headed, as if he were floating away. "Get out of my mind!" he roared. If anyone was nearby, the crashing peals of thunder and driving rain concealed him well enough.
The spasms began to stop, and the man stood. "Stay out of my head," he muttered. "If you know what's good for you." The arm twitched again, and the sound of laughing filled his head. "I'm warning you, Liquid," he said. "There are plenty of other arms out there I can get. You're lucky I arranged to have your body specially preserved, like I did Mantis' and that fool Gray Fox."
The arm settled down. The man knew how odd he looked, with his brown trench coat, decidedly Old West outfit, and the Colt Single Action Armies he had in holsters all over him. It was getting harder and harder to smuggle them into places like airports and government buildings nowadays, not that he didn't have the ultimate security clearance…
The taxi ride to the Pentagon wasn't unpleasant, although the capital looked downright glum in the storm. Not to mention the fact that the man had felt the urge to pull out one of his six-shooters and blow the taxi driver's head off several times during the ride. "So you work for the military?" the driver said. At the man's nod, he went on, "you? In what? The Wild West Department?"
"I'm not at liberty to speak about it," the man said, memorizing the driver's name, car number and cab company. The rest of the ride went on in stony silence until they pulled up to Pentagon. "Here we are," the driver said, as the man paid him. "Have a good day at… whatever it is that you do."
"I'm sure that I will," the man said, and he got out of the car and walked purposefully through the downpour into the Pentagon. The cab driver blinked his eyes and rubbed them as he watched the man go; it appeared that none of the rain was hitting him.
A week later, the driver was dead, victim of a random mugging gone wrong.
Never let it be said that Revolver Ocelot is unlike an elephant in regards to memory.
* * *
Ocelot presented his ID to the guard at the door and quickly entered the Pentagon before the man could even acknowledge his presence. After the encounter with the idiotic cab driver, he really didn't have any more patience for useless lackeys. If he didn't get some sleep, he was definitely going to blow someone's head off.
Moving quickly below the Pentagon, to the secret warrens where the real decisions were made concerning the future of the country. Let them fly a hundred planes into this place, Ocelot thought. They'll never get within a hundred feet of the important rooms. He'd been in one of those rooms on September 11th. It had been a most annoying day; he'd gotten barely any work done at all. He'd also been sent off to "negotiate" deals with the major terrorist groups to please stop, you're delaying some really important work in Washington. And they wondered why they never found bin Laden or Mullah Omar, Ocelot thought with a smile. I'd taken care of them weeks before the first fighter rolled off the carrier deck.
Displaying his ID again, Ocelot made his way into one of the "secret" areas, the entrance to which was of all things, one of the many officers' lavatories. Putting a guard in a restroom, Ocelot thought. What will they come up with next...
Heading down a flight of stairs, Ocelot nodded to several of the men passing him on their way up. Richardson, Jackson, that egotistical idiot Ames… at least Jackson knew his place. His Dead Cell idea was intriguing. That was better than the ideas Ames was coming up with. Honestly, a massive sea-based fortress he called "Arsenal Gear?" What was he smoking when he'd thought that one up? What was worse was that some of the higher-ups, the men who made the real decisions, loved it. He'd even heard the Wisemen's Committee had liked the idea… something like that would never have even gotten off the ground in the Spetznaz, Ocelot thought. Nothing is ever the same…
"Revolver," Ames said, stopping on the stairs and basically holding everyone up. I'd expect him to do something like that, Ocelot thought, sighing and letting one hand stray towards one of his six shooters before saying, "what is it, Major Ames?"
Jackson and Richardson looked at him like he was insane. You didn't talk to Richard Ames if you wanted to, you talked to Richard Ames if you had to. "Ocelot, I was thinking that using Metal Gears as part of the defense system for Arsenal would be a great idea, but obviously the TX-55 REX model would not do well in an aquatic environment. The Marines are planning to create an amphibious Metal Gear, SHARK or RAY or something like that. Why don't you come to my office later and we can discuss it?"
Ocelot and the others looked at him in faint horror. The stairwell wasn't secure. It was the only part of the underground warrens that wasn't. You didn't talk there. "It sounds… fascinating," Ocelot managed to say. I'll stop by later today or tomorrow at the latest," he said. Ames grinned. "Excellent," he said. "I'll see you later." He made his way up to the top of the steps and disappeared into the lav. "What an idiot," Jackson breathed as soon as he was gone.
"I agree, but also, don't talk here either and be as idiotic as he is," Ocelot said. "I have a meeting with the President. I'll talk to you later." Jackson and Richardson nodded and left, finally letting Ocelot get down the steps. Americans, he thought. They're all the same. It's all talk talk talk and no caring whatsoever about where they are talking and whom they are talking to, as long as they can open their mouths. How the hell did we lose the Cold War?
Reaching the end of the stairs, Ocelot took a left, heading down a dimly lit corridor. On either side were open rooms filled with rows of computers, all occupied by technicians who did nothing but sat twelve hours a day and gave orders, keeping the military at some modicum of efficiency. Ocelot wondered what they were getting paid to ruin their lives sitting in front of a monitor all day.
Turning another corner, Ocelot saw that President Sears was waiting for him. As the President saw him, he rose and started briskly walking towards Ocelot, and the former Spetznaz could see he was furious. "What happened out there, Ocelot?" he hissed. "I'm going to have to resign over this, and you know what happened to Nixon!"
"Richard Nixon lived a full life after the la-li-lu-le-lo forced him to resign," Ocelot replied. "The same is not true for you. You publicly embarrassed them. My office. Now, Mr. President. You don't have much time." He brushed past Sears and went into his office.
Sears followed him, fuming. "What the hell happened out there, Ivan?" he yelled once the door was closed. "Everything went fine until Ames let Romanenko escape! The previews of that book have damned me in the eyes of the Patriots! How did it happen, Ocelot?"
"Calm down, Solidus," Ocelot snapped, his voice like a cold wind as it escaped his lips. "Don't worry. We'll get you underground. But before you go… I want you to start reviving Liquid's remains in his grave." The arm twitched. "As you can see, he's getting more restless. Those idiots in Laon had no idea what they were doing."
"I wouldn't say that," Solidus said. "We already have a program in place for Mantis and Gray Fox. If you want to include Liquid… and you want him to be kept in his grave?"
"Snake is still out there… if he comes looking, I want him to find what he's looking for," Ocelot said. He extended his arm. "Can you set the program in motion before you're forced to resign?"
Solidus sighed. "Of course I can," he said. "It'll be done by the evening." He rose and shook Ocelot's hand. "What do you think of Ames' Arsenal Gear idea?" he asked. "I think it's ridiculous," Ocelot said. "But the Wisemen's Committee likes it."
"Not only likes it, they endorsed it an hour ago," Solidus said. "If Ames doesn't know yet… how the hell did he get involved with this anyway? He's too stupid to be a Patriot."
"I don't know," Ocelot said. "I have business to attend to," he said, a not- so-subtle invitation to leave.
Solidus, though, got the hint. "I have business of my own to attend to, as well," he said, turning to leave. He said, "don't let me down, Ocelot, or I'll take care of you before they take care of me."
"I understand, Mr. President," Ocelot said; the door was open. "Farewell."
As soon as Solidus was gone, a voice rang in Ocelot's ear. [We heard it all.]
"I know you did," he said calmly. "Get Liquid's body exhumed and a replacement put in, if you don't mind."
[Of course.]
"What about Solidus? Should I let him escape?"
[Yes.]
Ocelot sighed. "Very well. What about this Arsenal Gear?"
[Let it be built. It will be gone before we act thanks to the Patriots anyway.]
"Alright. Over and out, Boss."
[Over and out.]
Ocelot stood and left. As he walked through the mall, he wondered where Saladin would choose for Outer Heaven. It would be completed soon. So soon.
Rain fell onto Arlington National Cemetery in sheets, curtains of rain muddying ground dug up too many times over the years, until it seemed the bodies of the dead were trying to dig up through the dirt sealing them into their graves to exact revenge on their mortal enemies.
Robert E. Lee's Arlington mansion towered over the grounds, a grumpy old structure that seemed to disapprove of what had been to its ground by conquering Yankees over a hundred fifty years ago. The cemetery was mostly empty; a few people wandered through the rows of tombstones, placing soaked flowers at the graves of friends and family members, or someone they'd seen in the paper or on TV.
One man strode through the Cemetery with a purpose; his Russian features and the clearly viewable six-shooter he wore—was that really one of the legendary Colt Single Action Armies? They wondered—drew more than his fair share of odd looks. The cold war might have ended almost twenty years ago, but a general distrust of Russians still permeated American society, especially after the release of In the Darkness of Shadow Moses: The Unofficial Truth, by Nastasha Romanenko, almost four years before. It was still on the New York Times Bestseller list; it had debuted at No. 1 and stayed there for a record 134 weeks, and now still was riding high at No. 9, boosted by international sales over the years.
The man stopped in front of a grave in one of the dark corners of the cemetery, one rarely seen by visitors. The man knew that soldiers buried here had been killed in "black ops," or missions the U.S. government did not officially recognize when one of them blew up in its face. He knelt before one grave, the stone marker implanted on the ground reading: "Killed in terrorist take-over of Shadow Moses Island, 2004." Several others just like it were nearby.
The man stood. "Liquid," he said. "Mantis. Raven. Wolf. You didn't have to die."
The man's right arm twitched, and he fell to his knees as pain so immense it filled his vision with a bright white light filled his body. "Dammit, Liquid," he yelled, clutching the arm, "get back where you belong! We'll save you as soon as we can!" The arm began to spasm, and the man felt light- headed, as if he were floating away. "Get out of my mind!" he roared. If anyone was nearby, the crashing peals of thunder and driving rain concealed him well enough.
The spasms began to stop, and the man stood. "Stay out of my head," he muttered. "If you know what's good for you." The arm twitched again, and the sound of laughing filled his head. "I'm warning you, Liquid," he said. "There are plenty of other arms out there I can get. You're lucky I arranged to have your body specially preserved, like I did Mantis' and that fool Gray Fox."
The arm settled down. The man knew how odd he looked, with his brown trench coat, decidedly Old West outfit, and the Colt Single Action Armies he had in holsters all over him. It was getting harder and harder to smuggle them into places like airports and government buildings nowadays, not that he didn't have the ultimate security clearance…
The taxi ride to the Pentagon wasn't unpleasant, although the capital looked downright glum in the storm. Not to mention the fact that the man had felt the urge to pull out one of his six-shooters and blow the taxi driver's head off several times during the ride. "So you work for the military?" the driver said. At the man's nod, he went on, "you? In what? The Wild West Department?"
"I'm not at liberty to speak about it," the man said, memorizing the driver's name, car number and cab company. The rest of the ride went on in stony silence until they pulled up to Pentagon. "Here we are," the driver said, as the man paid him. "Have a good day at… whatever it is that you do."
"I'm sure that I will," the man said, and he got out of the car and walked purposefully through the downpour into the Pentagon. The cab driver blinked his eyes and rubbed them as he watched the man go; it appeared that none of the rain was hitting him.
A week later, the driver was dead, victim of a random mugging gone wrong.
Never let it be said that Revolver Ocelot is unlike an elephant in regards to memory.
* * *
Ocelot presented his ID to the guard at the door and quickly entered the Pentagon before the man could even acknowledge his presence. After the encounter with the idiotic cab driver, he really didn't have any more patience for useless lackeys. If he didn't get some sleep, he was definitely going to blow someone's head off.
Moving quickly below the Pentagon, to the secret warrens where the real decisions were made concerning the future of the country. Let them fly a hundred planes into this place, Ocelot thought. They'll never get within a hundred feet of the important rooms. He'd been in one of those rooms on September 11th. It had been a most annoying day; he'd gotten barely any work done at all. He'd also been sent off to "negotiate" deals with the major terrorist groups to please stop, you're delaying some really important work in Washington. And they wondered why they never found bin Laden or Mullah Omar, Ocelot thought with a smile. I'd taken care of them weeks before the first fighter rolled off the carrier deck.
Displaying his ID again, Ocelot made his way into one of the "secret" areas, the entrance to which was of all things, one of the many officers' lavatories. Putting a guard in a restroom, Ocelot thought. What will they come up with next...
Heading down a flight of stairs, Ocelot nodded to several of the men passing him on their way up. Richardson, Jackson, that egotistical idiot Ames… at least Jackson knew his place. His Dead Cell idea was intriguing. That was better than the ideas Ames was coming up with. Honestly, a massive sea-based fortress he called "Arsenal Gear?" What was he smoking when he'd thought that one up? What was worse was that some of the higher-ups, the men who made the real decisions, loved it. He'd even heard the Wisemen's Committee had liked the idea… something like that would never have even gotten off the ground in the Spetznaz, Ocelot thought. Nothing is ever the same…
"Revolver," Ames said, stopping on the stairs and basically holding everyone up. I'd expect him to do something like that, Ocelot thought, sighing and letting one hand stray towards one of his six shooters before saying, "what is it, Major Ames?"
Jackson and Richardson looked at him like he was insane. You didn't talk to Richard Ames if you wanted to, you talked to Richard Ames if you had to. "Ocelot, I was thinking that using Metal Gears as part of the defense system for Arsenal would be a great idea, but obviously the TX-55 REX model would not do well in an aquatic environment. The Marines are planning to create an amphibious Metal Gear, SHARK or RAY or something like that. Why don't you come to my office later and we can discuss it?"
Ocelot and the others looked at him in faint horror. The stairwell wasn't secure. It was the only part of the underground warrens that wasn't. You didn't talk there. "It sounds… fascinating," Ocelot managed to say. I'll stop by later today or tomorrow at the latest," he said. Ames grinned. "Excellent," he said. "I'll see you later." He made his way up to the top of the steps and disappeared into the lav. "What an idiot," Jackson breathed as soon as he was gone.
"I agree, but also, don't talk here either and be as idiotic as he is," Ocelot said. "I have a meeting with the President. I'll talk to you later." Jackson and Richardson nodded and left, finally letting Ocelot get down the steps. Americans, he thought. They're all the same. It's all talk talk talk and no caring whatsoever about where they are talking and whom they are talking to, as long as they can open their mouths. How the hell did we lose the Cold War?
Reaching the end of the stairs, Ocelot took a left, heading down a dimly lit corridor. On either side were open rooms filled with rows of computers, all occupied by technicians who did nothing but sat twelve hours a day and gave orders, keeping the military at some modicum of efficiency. Ocelot wondered what they were getting paid to ruin their lives sitting in front of a monitor all day.
Turning another corner, Ocelot saw that President Sears was waiting for him. As the President saw him, he rose and started briskly walking towards Ocelot, and the former Spetznaz could see he was furious. "What happened out there, Ocelot?" he hissed. "I'm going to have to resign over this, and you know what happened to Nixon!"
"Richard Nixon lived a full life after the la-li-lu-le-lo forced him to resign," Ocelot replied. "The same is not true for you. You publicly embarrassed them. My office. Now, Mr. President. You don't have much time." He brushed past Sears and went into his office.
Sears followed him, fuming. "What the hell happened out there, Ivan?" he yelled once the door was closed. "Everything went fine until Ames let Romanenko escape! The previews of that book have damned me in the eyes of the Patriots! How did it happen, Ocelot?"
"Calm down, Solidus," Ocelot snapped, his voice like a cold wind as it escaped his lips. "Don't worry. We'll get you underground. But before you go… I want you to start reviving Liquid's remains in his grave." The arm twitched. "As you can see, he's getting more restless. Those idiots in Laon had no idea what they were doing."
"I wouldn't say that," Solidus said. "We already have a program in place for Mantis and Gray Fox. If you want to include Liquid… and you want him to be kept in his grave?"
"Snake is still out there… if he comes looking, I want him to find what he's looking for," Ocelot said. He extended his arm. "Can you set the program in motion before you're forced to resign?"
Solidus sighed. "Of course I can," he said. "It'll be done by the evening." He rose and shook Ocelot's hand. "What do you think of Ames' Arsenal Gear idea?" he asked. "I think it's ridiculous," Ocelot said. "But the Wisemen's Committee likes it."
"Not only likes it, they endorsed it an hour ago," Solidus said. "If Ames doesn't know yet… how the hell did he get involved with this anyway? He's too stupid to be a Patriot."
"I don't know," Ocelot said. "I have business to attend to," he said, a not- so-subtle invitation to leave.
Solidus, though, got the hint. "I have business of my own to attend to, as well," he said, turning to leave. He said, "don't let me down, Ocelot, or I'll take care of you before they take care of me."
"I understand, Mr. President," Ocelot said; the door was open. "Farewell."
As soon as Solidus was gone, a voice rang in Ocelot's ear. [We heard it all.]
"I know you did," he said calmly. "Get Liquid's body exhumed and a replacement put in, if you don't mind."
[Of course.]
"What about Solidus? Should I let him escape?"
[Yes.]
Ocelot sighed. "Very well. What about this Arsenal Gear?"
[Let it be built. It will be gone before we act thanks to the Patriots anyway.]
"Alright. Over and out, Boss."
[Over and out.]
Ocelot stood and left. As he walked through the mall, he wondered where Saladin would choose for Outer Heaven. It would be completed soon. So soon.