chapter TWO: The Situation

There was a beep, one that had become more familiar to him than the ring of a telephone or the waning of a siren. Water was all around him, his face stinging against the icy waves and his arms beginning to ache from the two-mile swim across the harbor. He'd been sitting on a northern dock before, watching a helicopter hovering over a distant tanker, its hull strapped tightly to the southern points of the Manhattan harbor. But now, he paddled to keep himself afloat in the faint shadow of the giant tanker's stern, its body a great blackness that welcomed no one.

Hearing that beep again he turned his gaze about the area, but when the eye of a spotlight fell over the water before him he slipped eerily beneath the subtle waves and slithered up toward that great blackness before rising up again and flattening his back against the hull of the tanker. The spotlight couldn't reach him there. There was no way.

Watching the docks a mere thirty meters off, he saw men moving under lampposts, a sense of urgency and alertness in their walk. Beyond what he could see, though, were several Police cruisers and SWAT vehicles, their members all hidden far from the site. There was a threat, now, and the people involved who were aboard the giant tanker were not to be hassled. They were in control. They had the Doctor and whatever else was unknown.

The beeping again; the man ignored it this time. He was watching the spotlight now, surveying its path and its pattern through the waters. It was moving through a sequence, checking here and there time after time, but never touched on the docks. This was good. This made things a bit easier, but there were still men patrolling the docks. He had seen them under the lampposts.

Beep. He swam along the hull of the tanker, moving away from its stern now and going up the side. He stayed close, making sure he was not vulnerable to the enemy. But, once he had moved to the side of the tanker he didn't see any spotlights. Moving out into the waters, his arms slipping through the waves without trouble and his eyes resting above them, scanning the docks, he realized that there were only two spotlights. One was positioned at the stern, while the other watched over the bow. Men were keeping surveillance over the docks.

Beep…beep. He swam further away from the tanker, paying no attention to the spotlights any longer, but keeping heavy watch over the docks as he neared them, his strides subtle and long to keep from disrupting the waters. When he was near enough to see even in the darkness he made out three men passing over the rickety docks, dressed in camouflage sporting various shades of blue and carrying packs on their backs, slung over their shoulders along with the straps of their AK's – as the man noticed them to be.

He waded in one area for a time, paying close attention to the routes the men took on the docks; when they stopped in one spot, for how long, and when they turned and went to another. From what he could tell, they didn't have a very sequenced patrol. They went randomly from place to place, watching their feet or lighting a cigarette – more for warmth than for flavor. Their disorganization left a large lapse of time when one point went unnoticed – the very end of the nearest dock that jutted into the waters.

Waiting a moment for the nearest man to stop and then turn away, he checked along the dock and then dove under the waters, waving through the darkness and slithering up toward the surface again having seen the supports through the cloudy dark.

Breaking through the surface, there was a small splash of water. Looking quickly around, he grappled at the edge of the dock and hoisted his body upward, pulling at the wood and then twisting skillfully over the edge into a roll before kneeling and watching the nearest man turn back onto the main path of the docks.

There was an overgrowth of foliage sprouting from the tall concrete wall along the docks that looked full enough for cover, and as soon as the coast was clear he ran stealthily for them, slipping behind the green plants and leaning his back against the concrete wall.

The beep returned again, and finally he went down on his knee and touched his hand to his ear.

"Snake? You there?" The voice he heard was even more familiar than the beep of the Codec.

"Yea, yea, I'm here, Otacon. Sorry about the wait, but it took me a while to find some cover."

"It's all right, Snake. How's the water there?"

Snake didn't need long to reply. "Cold."

"You need a cut, Snake. That hair is frightening."

Snake frowned, running his hands through his mullet. "I like it," he said matter-of-factly. "It's been this way for a while now. You've never brought it up before."

"Nevermind then," Otacon sighed, rolling his eyes. Snake did the same from behind the foliage, then decided to throw the conversation askew.

"So, what's the situation?"

Otacon didn't take long to answer. This part always excited him. "About two hours ago a rural, high-security prison was infiltrated by three enemy personnel. One of them goes by John Allen - the security advisor of the prison that was jacked. The two others haven't been identified."

"So, they just waltz right in?" Snake asked.

"Apparently," Otacon answered. "The guards noticed Mr. Allen and must have let him through. About fifteen minutes later, the three were on their way out. I guess something must have clicked, then, because that's when the alarm was pulled. The Feds were all over it, almost immediately."

"And that's when they found Ocelot?" Snake asked, talking slow.

"Right," Otacon said, uncomfortably almost. "They rushed him off to a hospital, but he was dead when thy got there."

Snake's head drooped. 'All these years and three rookies take him out.' "What was the cause?"

Otacon paused, like he was looking through notes or surveying records. "They reported some cuts along the arms and legs, but nothing else. He must have lost too much blood." Snake didn't answer, and Otacon took that as a sign to continue.

"Allen and his handymen made it to a small, government-funded science complex just outside of Connor, N.H. no later than 7:10, and just minutes later commandeered the facility's helicopter and used it to escape to Manhattan with a Dr. Donald Kelmar on board. And, that's where you are at…8:06 – now."

"So, the guys who killed Ocelot are in here," Snake muttered. Otacon gave him a silence that said yes. "Is the Doctor you spoke about a hostage or an accomplice?"

"No idea," Otacon confessed.

"Any idea as to his importance?"

"Yea," Otacon said, "he's a Red Shirt."

"Red Shirt?" Snake asked.

"During the A: Objective of the Cold War, and forever since, those who were considered primary targets of the Patriot and his supporters were given new identities, moved around, hidden. They were considered too valuable to be lost and were kept masked to the Patriot. Donald Kelmar is a Red Shirt."

"How would you know if his identity has been altered?"

"Well," Otacon began, wearily. "I got a tip."

"Anonymous?" Snake asked with a heavy sigh.

"Not exactly"

"So? Who is it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Not sure? So, it is anonymous?"

"Not really – just don't worry about it," Otacon reassured him. "Trust me. It's covered."

"That leaves a few more holes," Snake said. "More than I like." Hearing a guard pass, moments later turning back, Snake parted the tall plants before him and looked out onto the main path. All three men had gathered at the edge of the dock and were huddled close, three wisps of smoke rising up between them. Snake touched his waist, a box of cigarettes hidden under the wet suit that he wore. Frowning slightly, he pulled back into the foliage. "How about our guys?" he asked. "Do we have any inside personnel?"

"No," Otacon said. "You're on your own. Just like the old days."

"What about Jack?"

"On vacation with Charlie," Otacon said, smiling. Charlie was Jack's son, somewhere around two years old now. "He made a point of covering up his tracks so that we couldn't reach him. Did a good job, too."

"Well, that's a relief," Snake grunted. Otacon laughed, knowing that Snake was lying. Sure, he didn't like outside help, but Jack was beginning to grow on him. He wasn't the rookie anymore. He was a real soldier. Well, getting there, at least. Snake would never admit it, even if it were true.

"Okay, Otacon," Snake said, looking out from the foliage again and noting that the three soldiers were still perched on the dock's end, smoking away the cold, "I'm getting on the tanker."

Otacon hesitated, a look of sympathy and sadness in his eyes. "Be careful, Snake."

"You too, buddy." And the conversation ended with that.