chapter FIVE: Many Thanks

…two years pass…

"Two years ago. He was given the title of Red Shirt," he said. His legs were crossed, one propped up on the other and his jacket lay over the back of his chair.

"Specify the term, would you?" a man asked from the right edge of the table. The man who sat at the end with his legs crossed and with his jacket laid over the back of his chair seemed subtly irritated, but scooted forward in his chair and folded his hands together.

"A Red Shirt is a title given to civilians or government and military agents considered high profile enemies of the Patriot." A single man sat at the opposite end of the table and nodded, a gruff smile of satisfaction playing on his wrinkled face. Five more men sat on either end of the table and watched him intently as he went on.

"Like I said, two years ago he was given the title of Red Shirt…"

~*~

"Right this way," a man said, holding his arms to the side and pointing down a pale-red walled hall. Double white doors were at the end, two yellow lights shining dimly on either side.

"Thank you," another man said, bowing just slightly to the first man, and then going on down the hall. He noted the carpet – its color a dark pastel shade of blue – and took equal notice to a single painting on the right wall at the end of the hall.

The double doors opened before him, steered out of his way by two black-suited men that stood within the unclosed room. He looked at them, smiled, and stepped inside.

"Give us a moment," a man said, waving the two black-suited men out of the room as he looked over a number of papers on his large oak desk. Light was trying exhaustively to break through the tall, cream drapes that covered the windows behind the man – his face shaded and his body resting against the arms of the chair – but with no luck.

The two men left the room and closed the doors. "Mr. Daves," the pale man said, standing up from his desk, "it is nice to have you here." Mr. Daves smiled weakly and put out his hand for the pale man who confronted him. He laid his palm on Daves' shoulder and shook his hand, earnestly. "Come – take a seat."

The two went across the room. The pale man sat behind his desk; rolling up to it in his chair, and Mr. Daves sat before him, taking note of the name plate on the desk: it read "E. Khirshnoff."

~*~

"After the murder at the prison in New Hampshire, he was expected on the tanker. The Discovery, thought to be a codename used regarding the transportation of Metal Gear prototypes throughout history, was high-jacked by a number of unidentified soldiers."

A man who'd been flipping through a legal pad of paper put up his hand. "I see – but what's this about the FBI being on site?"

"The FBI was investigating the site for clues to help them further understand the intentions of the Patriot network. But, they're investigation came to a halt with the sudden offensive."

"Right. Now, you said Solid Snake was expected on the tanker? How did you know this?"

"I gave his contact a tip," the man said.

"His contact?"

"Officially, he goes by Hal Emmerich."

"And unofficially?" A man pursued.

"Otacon."

~*~

"Mr. Daves," Khirshnoff began – the phone to his ear, "could you give me one moment? It's my wife."

"Of course," he replied, and Khirshnoff stood.

"I'll be right back." As quick as he could, after setting down the phone, he waddled to the double doors and stepped through the doorway, leaving Daves alone in the wide room, the sun squinting trough the long, tall drapes, still.

Daves sat for a moment, but only for a moment, inspecting the room with his prying eyes. His neck turned about, paying close attention to every detail of the room, but then he was on his feet. He pushed his chair back and went to the wall, tapped it with his fist and grinned. He went to the door and noted how it seemed to suction to the carpet. He knocked on it – no response from the hall. Then, going around the large oak desk, he pulled out the top drawer.

Looking inside he gave a disconcerting glance, and, with a certain rhythm to his movement, he pulled a heavy black gun from the drawer.

~*~

"Where did Allen come in?" Another man, his only remaining hair combed over the top of his head, streaked with baldness.

"The FBI came across a number of terrorist profiles during the last terror sweep in 2009. The alias 'Charles Ward' was mentioned in one of the profiles and was later connected to several terrorist attacks attempted overseas. The accumulative death toll from each and every terrorist attack he as assumed connected with rose into the thousands, and had occurred all across the Middle East."

"Then this Charles Ward was Mr. Allen?"

"No," the man at the end of the table said, crossing his legs again, "definitely not. Charles Ward was eventually nabbed and thrown in prison. Mr. Allen was the warden at that particular prison and when Ward managed to bust out Mr. Allen was blamed and put out of work."

"But he hadn't just forgotten to lock a cell," one man said, "you think he assisted in Ward's escape?"

"Exactly."

~*~

Daves was sitting back in the seat he'd been sitting before Khirshnoff had left the room. That's when the door opened. "Sorry about that," the large, pale man apologized, a bounce in his step that made him appear as if he was more waddling than walking. "The wife just bickering about some fake diamonds I bought her some time ago. She's got an eye for jewelry – hard to trick the old girl."

Daves smiled, almost laughed, but the big man had all ready taken a seat on the other side of the desk, his hands cuddled and his mouth jabbering about business. "So, Mr. Daves, let's get on to why you're here."

"I've been looking for a nice place to settle down," Daves began.

~*~

"Mr. Allen was picked up by the NSA some time ago, after he'd been given the job at the little prison in New Hampshire and after the former Patriot had been sent there to live out the rest of his days in a cold jail cell. He was let go, but the NSA kept a close eye. Their precautions proved to be worthy of the situation when they caught him consorting with well-known terrorist figures. Unfortunately, the team that was sent in to apprehend Mr. Allen walked into an ambush and was taken out. Allen got away and didn't show up again until that night when the Patriot was found murdered."

"After the tanker had been seized you touched down, right?"

"Right," the man whose legs were crossed admitted. "We'd learned of the situation prior to its engagement, and someone higher in the ranks had managed to break a deal with those involved. I was the man they sent in to nab Solid Snake."

"What'd the higher ranks offer Allen?"

"No idea," the man confessed. "But, they were chased – and conveniently not caught – to a little city in northeast New Hampshire where they took Dr. Donald Kelmar hostage."

"What part did Kelmar play in the deal?" One man asked, puzzled.

"Kelmar was a Red Shirt, just like Solid Snake, and the government suspected his involvement in past Patriot operations. So, they worked him into the plot and once he was in Allen's hands they high-jacked the on-site helicopter. The doctor was picked up in an isolated area by  higher officials and Allen and the rest continued to the tanker."

"So, when they got there, they did their job, rounded up the FBI officers and locked them in the lower compartments? Then set sail?" Someone assumed.

"Right, but before they managed to unhook the tanker, I arrived by helicopter."

"And?"

"I confronted Solid Snake."

~*~

"I was thinking about setting up near 'Trinket,'" Daves said. Khirshnoff seemed appalled, his face twisted up in horror and rage. Then, with a quick jolt of life, he pulled open the top drawer of the desk and reached inside. Hitting the bottom of the drawer with his fist, he heard something click ahead of him.

Looking up, his eyes stinging with fear, he saw Daves standing across from him, a heavy black gun in his hand.

~*~

"Did he learn who you were?" A man asked.

"I doubt it. I kept behind him – he never saw me."

"Did you ever speak?"

There was a moment of hesitation. "No."

"So, after you put him out what happened?"

"We piled back into the helicopter and pulled away before the ship let go of the docks. They hopped off on the northern coast of Russia just north of Noril'sk."

"And that was that?"

"That was that."

~*~

"What do you know about 'Trinket?'" Khirshnoff asked, his voice shaking but angry.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "I want the location. Give me the coordinates."

"Why? Why do you want to go there?"

"There's someone on his way there now – someone I am dying to meet." Daves was looking beyond Khirshnoff now, his eyes focusing on something very distant but very near.

"Well, what if I don't have them?" the large man retorted, his eyes sharp and fierce.

"You do."

~*~

"I'm thankful for the report, but what relevance does this hold to the current situation?" One man wondered, his tone exaggerated and annoying.

"Solid Snake was given the title of Red Shirt after the incident and was held in a government prison for a number of months – for security reasons. After that time, he was cleared of the title and released under one circumstance. He had to rejoin with the newly instated unit, FOX-HOUND, which had disbanded after the Shadow Moses Incident."

"Why was it reinstated?"

"There was a series of reevaluations following the Manhattan incident from two and a half years ago. Eventually, they passed, and Solid Snake was offered a seat in its ranks. He accepted, against his own desire, and was reinstated to FOX-HOUND."

"And that is what brings us to today?"

"Yes. Just three days ago we received satellite images over Russia that showed activity in a location that's been dormant since the Cold War came to a close – images of a Russian weapons technology site, codenamed: 'Trinket.'"

"Is that reason for worry?" Someone asked. The man whose legs were crossed shook his head.

"Not yet. That's where he is right now."

"Who?" the wrinkled man opposite him, asked.

"Who do you think?"

~*~

"Here," Khirshnoff said, hastily, handing Daves a folder filled with geographical reports and statistics regarding 'Trinket', "take this. It's all I have in the office." Daves took the folder and put it under his arm, still aiming the heavy black gun at Khirshnoff who looked at him, silently praying for mercy.

"This room is sound-proofed," Daves said, cruelly. Khirshnoff looked at him in horror, his breath quickening and his heart beating terribly in his chest.

Until a fiery bullet pierced it and sent a stinging up his spine that he would never feel for he had all ready died.

"Many thanks," Daves said, turning away and setting the heavy black gun on the table.  Then, he stepped into the hall and went casually out of the building before anyone knew what he'd done.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: At this point, you might be confused. Please, if so, read it over again. Maybe twice more, maybe three times more. If you intend to follow the story, this chapter is essential. Thanks, and I hope you enjoyed. Oh, and do note, in this chapter Daves' character is not retrieving the information regarding Trinket for the character in the first track of scenes – they are independent occurrences, though they do happen at the same time.