chapter THREE : ETA

Snake scurried down the main path, stepping lightly along the planks, making sure he was not heard. The three who had been patrolling the docks were still huddled together at the end of the dock, paying no attention to their duties. The wind was turning like strands of hair, twisting through the sky and lifting the half of Snake's bandana high with each gust. The waters were black as before, shining an eerie shade under the spectacle of the spotlights.

The moon was falling rapidly, coming near the horizon in anticipation. With its descent the sun would rise. Snake tried figuring the time as he went on down the dock, stopping time after time behind crates and cargo to check the path. It wasn't until he had neared the ramp, a good walk from the end of the dock, that he had a good idea.

It was late in the year. November 4th. The summer was long gone, along with usual life. The Patriot story had broken into the media flow, and had been circulating for exactly four months, now. World leaders were resigning, admitting or denying their knowledge, and fleeing the media in fear. They had become largely unpopular in the preceding months, and much of the world was in chaos.

But, it relieved Snake to know that he didn't carry the burden any longer. He didn't carry the secret. Now, it was in the world's hands to recover, to survive, and to thrive again. He wasn't going to worry. Not any more. Not with the Patriot or anything like that. He had returned to his work – even though it had been nearly four months since he'd last been on the field – and found himself engulfed in yet another operation. But, this one was hardly what he'd been eager to return to. He was back at the Discovery, the tanker of the Patriot network, showcased in several Patriot-missions in the past but not realized to be a key player until July of the very same year, when Manhattan was seized and nearly destroyed by an anti-Patriot organization calling itself FACtion.

Still, the world had fallen into a rut with the exposure of the Patriot and his network. The stock market dropped, angry protests showed up in the capitals, and violent outcries sprung up all over – radicals seeking revenge for the deaths of their relatives dating as far back as the Civil War. Every problem was being sucked toward the United States, sucked toward Manhattan where it all happened. Where it all went down.

And now, on the four-month anniversary of the city's last attack – of the city's lock down and near destruction – terror was returning. Revolver Ocelot, the former Patriot, had been murdered in confinement in a rural, high-security prison in New Hampshire, and his murderers had taken a scientist hostage and were on their way to The Discovery.

The tanker had all ready been seized by members of an unknown group, and the city of Manhattan was alerted – 200 personnel belonging to either the Police force, FBI, CIA, or special forces, sat anxiously but patiently within the city.

But, Snake couldn't see them – didn't know they were there. He knew nothing of the outside world, nothing as long as Otacon was radio silent. That's when his Codec beeped again.

He was just meters from the ramp, two soldiers in the same blue camouflage watching from its landing on the tanker. Snake ducked down behind a crate to keep hidden during any exchange of conversation, and touched his hand to his ear.

"I'm at the ramp," Snake said. Otacon nodded in acceptance.

"Good," he said. "I just spoke with the director of the FBI. I've been on hold for nearly a half hour."

"What'd he have to say?"

"Well, it seems he has a contact inside the tanker."

"An enemy?"

"No," Otacon said, "one of his men."

"What's the FBI doing inside there?"

"Apparently, they've been investigating the site for the past couple of days, trying to come up with some more information, some more clues as to how deep the Patriot's network goes."

"They'll never know," Snake said, looking off into the cold.

"No," Otacon agreed, "but that doesn't matter. What does matter is that there are almost thirty FBI officers held up in the cargo holds and at least one of them has communication with the outside world."

"Give me the name," Snake requested.

"A Joseph Brant," Otacon said, reading off the scribble on a Post-It note. "Spent two years in the Army – served time in Desert Storm before he went over to Russia and entered into the Special Forces unit, Spetsnaz."

"Spetsnaz?"

"Yea," Otacon nodded, sympathetically. "We don't find a lot of good apples out of that tree, but he served four years on overseas missions before reinstating himself as a U.S. citizen. He went through every special forces unit in the U.S. military before he finally turned himself over to paperwork and analysis."

"Why would he go from combat operations to the investigation's office?"

"Beats me, Snake, but we all have our quirks, right?"

"Yea, you and your 'Japanese cartoons,'" Snake mocked.

"You and your cigarettes," Otacon said. Snake laughed.

"All right, Otacon, what's the plan?"

"Get inside. Move directly to the cargo holds in the lower areas of the tanker, and give me an update on the hostage situation from there."

"Got it."

"And if I hear from Brant, I'll give you a ring."

"Good," Snake said, peering around the side of the crate and watching the two men at the top of the ramp pace back and forth, their eyes following their footsteps and their guns dangling carelessly over their shoulders. "I'm out."

The connection blipped off. Snake got to his feet and peered around the corner of the crate, looking down the main path and then turning his head again to watch the three men coming back onto the path from the far end where they'd been smoking.

A crack of static put Snake back against the crate in alarm. "Discovery?" Snake looked around the crate, up at the men at the top of the ramp. One of them reached his gloved hand up to a receiver pinned by his collar bone. He pressed the side and answered: "Go ahead," he said.

"This is Aerial Team," the other responded. "We're nearing Manhattan. ETA: ten minutes. Begin site lockdown."

"Roger that, Aerial," the man said again, eyeing his partner and waving him down the perimeter of the tanker, toward the bow. "Lockdown sequence is underway. They're clear skies from here on in; can't wait to see ya."

The line broke up and the only man left at the top of the ramp started going down the perimeter of the tanker, toward the stern, clenching the receiver in his hand and tilting his face down as he went along. "Begin Discovery lockdown. All personnel report to positions and standby for landing." And, just before he went out of hearing distance he muttered lightly: "The boss is coming."