Chapter TWENTY-FIVE: Back on the Job
"With the whole of the government waiting for the Vice President's commands, Snake and his company are finding themselves out of the frying pan and into the fire. They knew it wasn't over, but they never would have guessed what was coming next...who would betray them, who would help them, and who would show his face just as they thought they could handle no more."
~*~
They parked the truck out of sight from the road and quickly got out. Looking up only briefly, Brant saw that the sky was beginning to cloud over – dark gray storm clouds rolling over the sun and sending a wide shadow over the lot and, slowly, over all of Charleston, as if consuming it block by block. Fox led the way to the back door, through which he and Brant passed before coming to an elevator. Fox pressed the 'Up' button and watched it glow orange, a muffled ding sounding as the cart descended from whatever floor it had remained idle. Brant and Fox both stood before the closed elevator doors, nothing but silence passing between them, even as their minds raced wildly. Why was the elevator taking so damned long? Of course, it wasn't taking any longer than usual, but it sure did seem that way – with the NSA on their trail.
The muffled ding came again and the elevator doors slid too-slowly open. Brant hurried in and pressed the number eight on the board before Fox had even entered the cart. When the doors shut behind him, Fox, still staring straight ahead, said: "I sure hope it takes that long when they try coming up." Brant smiled, but said nothing in return. Just waited for the doors to peel open. And when they finally did, he and Fox started around the balcony until they were standing before the brass numbers '812.' Fox knocked lightly, Brant peaking over the balcony railing to look for Beck and his men – they were no where in sight – and the door unlocked and opened.
Norman Keys was standing there, a grin on his face, shades on his nose. "Back so soon?" he asked. Fox nodded calmly, but Brant bustled past him, heading straight to the next room where Keys' computers all sat upon their desks, monitors shining bright. He didn't know why he'd gone in, but he felt it was better than standing on the balcony any longer – that much was for sure.
Keys looked at Brant and laughed, then turned to Fox who'd walked into the room. Keys shut the door behind him. "Anything new to work with?" He noticed Brant had taken a seat in a busted armchair – stuffing shooting out of every seam – and was closely examining his six-shooter.
"The Feds are giving us trouble," Fox said, going to one of the windows and peering through the drawn shades – no signs. "Is that really news?" Keys joked, but Fox no longer seemed in the mood. "We need to hide out here. They'll find us eventually, but it should give us long enough to think about this." Keys nodded, eyes still on Brant who was tapping the end of his six-shooter on the arm of the chair.
"What is it that you need? Anything in particular?" Keys asked. Fox didn't answer, just stood watching the wall. After a short time Brant looked up, the silence sparking him to life. Before he could suggest anything, though, the phone began ringing – two different tones sounding at once. One, more of a beep. The other, more of a ding. Keys put up his index finger and sighed. "Hold on." Turning around, he went out of the room and out of sight – the ringing stopped and his voice came muffled and dim through the walls, his speech unintelligible.
Brant looked over at one of the desks and next to a laptop was a phone, power light on. He wondered why Keys hadn't just answered it instead of leaving the room. After a moment Fox seemed to notice this as well, his eyes wandering over the desktops and catching sight of the phone. His eyebrow bent strangely and he walked over to one of the computers, eyeing the monitor - then he went to the next – and the next, checking all of them until he heard Keys step back into the room behind him.
"Norman – " Fox started, but when he looked up and saw Keys there, he couldn't quite believe it. Pointing in his face was the barrel of a Glock 18C, equipped with 33 rounds of semi-automatic fire. Keys was smiling brightly, another gun – one Fox could not discern – was pointed at Brant, who was sitting back in the armchair, six-shooter raised back at Keys.
"What are you doing?" Fox finished and Keys went on smiling.
"To think that you trusted me all this time," he said, trying to hold back a laugh. "I have to say 'thanks.' I've never had such a loyal friend." It was obvious to Fox, now, that he was joking. It made him sick with rage. "But, I'll be honest. I would have gone along with you if the Boss wasn't so persuasive." He was rubbing his fingers together – money was it, the reason he'd cheated out Fox. "I am surprised you never saw it, though…I've kept in touch with the Boss for years. I even helped him back during the FACtion incident. And the government…they work a lot like him. The Vice President in particular – he accommodated me nicely even before I decided to go along. Why else would the director of the NSA be in South Carolina? He was here because you were here, and once they realized our connection they knew you'd come in contact. How right they were."
"You know what I can do," Fox said, looking briefly to his side, the edge of his blade dangling beside his leg, the hilt attached along his back. Keys was nodding.
"Yes…presentation was always your high-point. But, I'd encourage you not to pull anything." Slipping the other gun under his belt, eyes on Brant so as to make sure he didn't try anything crazy, he pulled another device from his pocket and pressed down on the button on its top. There was a faint beep and he smiled, thumb still pressed firmly over the button. "It's wonderful – the kind of things you can get when you're in the circle. Right here is a trigger. My thumb leaves this button and the whole place comes crashing down! Floor by floor – top to bottom." He was smiling that smile still. "Now, wouldn't that be a shame?"
Fox nodded slowly, looked over at Brant, and then grinned wide. "Yes, Norman…yes it would." And then, it was a blur. Fox sprung sideways, Keys trying to follow him with the Glock, but his movements far too slow. Swinging the blade off his back, he righted himself, Keys' aim still awkward, and pressed the tip of the sword through Keys' chest, shock overtaking his face and his eyes bugging out.
"Bastard," he choked, sunglasses falling off his face and clattering to the floor. Fox cocked his head sideways, finding the statement slightly ironic, and turned swiftly to Brant – just as Keys' eyes rolled upward, the trigger falling loose from his grip and something loud clicking off above them.
Sprinting now, Fox grabbed Brant off the chair, everything moving like it was in slow motion. The path to the door was not obstructed. Fox fit his sword back along his spine and, Brant's wrist still clenched in his fingers, pulled his shoulder to the front of him and bounded forward. The door buckled, splintered, and busted – in one piece – off of its hinges, flipping onto the floor of the balcony. And, without hesitating any longer, Fox climbed over the railing and rolled stylishly over the edge, Brant still beside him, the sky falling all around them.
Twisting in midair, levels of the building blowing out above them, Fox moved Brant overtop of him – almost on his back – and as the ground came nearer he held his hand forward. And then, they both froze there, a foot from the surface of the lot, Fox's hand seemingly holding them there. And, pushing off with his extended arm and spinning sideways, he and Brant landed gracefully on their feet.
And all of that happened in under fifteen seconds.
~*~
The President was sitting in a reclining chair before his desk, turning slowly in it, eyes wandering over his desk as he moved back and forth. His fingers were poised at his lips, his whole body stuck in some meditative state – but not really. He was merely experiencing what he experienced every day of his life. Tough situations lay some thousands of feet below and he had no idea how to address them. Of course, this wasn't particularly unusual, as the dealings of a President were never confined to simple decisions. The fate of the United States – the world, even – often rested in his hands. Just as it did now.
There was a knock at the door, all ready left ajar. The President nodded absently and the man wearing the suit and tie from the compartment before, the man who'd advised him to contact the Russian president, slipped inside the room and stopped to close the door behind him. Continuing into the center of the room, he stood idly and folded his hands over his front.
"Mr. President," he started, and at this the President stopped, facing him, in his chair. His eyes left the desktop and sat worriedly on the man who'd entered. "You spoke on the Red Line?" The President nodded. "How did he respond?"
The President pondered this for a moment, but eventually, eyes no longer focused on the man before him, but instead the wall over his shoulder, he opened his mouth. "I'm not quite sure," he muttered. The other man looked at him, confused. "He said he was taking care of it now…bullshitting me."
"You didn't believe him?" the other man pursued.
"He's never been the house-warming sort, you know that. He wasn't being truthful, though. He got the last word – got it in quick and hung up right away." He paused. "But, he didn't seem to care about hiding anything. He was an ass, straight out."
"What do you suggest, Mr. President?" The President took this as an implication. What the man really meant was 'Do you still want to go through with the signing?' But, the President knew that wouldn't look right. Calling off START 3 would be political suicide, and it would only lead to worse things. The whole world would know something had gone wrong. The media would be frenzied, spread the news to anyone and everyone. It would speculate until the government snapped, until it couldn't hide the truth any longer. And then, all the President saw was war. And right now, that wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what anyone wanted.
"Mr. President? What is it that you suggest, sir?" the man asked again and the President, eyes returning to him, finally nodded and answered.
"Get Alex on the phone."
~*~
The room was silent apart from hushed whispers. Snake still lay on the bed, eyes scanning the characters around him. Tintern and May were sitting side by side, eyes shut and legs crossed Indian-style on the eroding tile floor. KING and Sears were sitting against the wall, Red sitting across from them, her gun held level at their chests. They were exchanging unfriendly smiles to pass the time. Daves looked confused, not sure, now, just who he was supposed to be buying from, lying on his back, legs crossed, one foot bobbing in the air, hands under the back of his head. Raiden wasn't frightened, but angry. He couldn't do anything. Snake knew how he felt. Dr. Kelmar was watching them all out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to inspect his equipment for the tenth time in the last two minutes.
"Does anyone have a smoke?" KING asked, flipping open his Zippo and sparking a tall flame time after time. Snake felt along his suit and scrounged in one of his vest pockets until he felt three cigarettes at the tips of his fingers. Pulling out two, he tossed one at KING who caught it in air and nodded. "Well, how kind," he said sarcastically before lighting it and touching it to his lips.
"How about the light?" Snake asked, and KING looked at his Zippo sadly. "Not this one," he said. "It's my favorite." And then, returning it to one of his pockets, he pulled another forth – a red plastic one with the cheap fluid case that always broke and ruined it altogether. He lobbed it at Snake, who caught it and looked at it, shaking his head in disappointment before lighting the end of his cigarette and puffing it once.
He threw the lighter back. Didn't say thanks.
"So…when do we leave here?" Daves asked coolly, still staring up at the ceiling as he lay there on his back. "Why don't you go check it out?" Raiden asked, mockingly.
"Yes," KING smiled, "go see how our intruder friend is doing. Why don't you go 'bust a cap in his ass,' cowboy?" He blew a trail of smoke from his mouth and laughed lightly. Snake found it funny, but didn't get past a faint grin. Red wasn't watching KING or Sears very closely any longer, but her gun was still on them.
"This is boring as shit," Daves said again. "I'm getting out of here." He sat forward and made to stand, but Crais pressed the silencer of his gun into the back of his head.
"Crais, you should help him out. We don't want him getting away from us now, do we?" KING smiled again. He was having too much fun, and no one could deny – besides maybe Tintern, May, and Crais – that he was actually pretty funny. Raiden and Snake weren't about to let it show, though.
"I don't take orders from you," Crais growled. "And you," he pressed the silencer more firmly against Daves' head, "will stay right where you are or I'll put a bullet in your brain." Daves rolled his eyes and laid back again.
"Who'd buy Metal Gear then?" Daves said cockily, and just then someone moved out of the darkest corner of the room. Phil Harte stood and stepped forward, a look of anger painted on his face. "What does that mean?" he said fiercely. Big Boss looked up at him and sighed. "Present Future has rights to Metal Gear. I'll be the one to take it home."
"Actually," Big Boss said, wishing he could use his gun now, "no one is going to get her at this rate." Harte seemed furious now, but KING looked at him like he was a fool. "There is a gun pointed at my chest, Phillip! What the hell do you expect me to do?" Slowly, Harte recoiled, walking back to the corner to join the Japanese man who waited in the shadows as well.
And then, Tintern's phone hummed on his hip again. Eyes still shut, and the whole room going quiet (aside from KING who laughed and said "She's a popular one"), Tintern opened the phone and lifted it to her ear. "Yes?"
"We're landing now. Where are you positioned?"
"West wing. Check your map – it should be the old kitchen." Snake looked around and finally noticed the resemblance to a kitchen. Hanging cupboards, a stove and other tables on which the doctor's equipment was spread. "Get here quickly…we're all growing restless."
"We'll be there as quickly as possible, ma'am." And the line was cut again.
Tintern closed the phone and attached it to her hip as Sears looked sideways at her and grimaced. "So," he said, "whose the visitor?" Her eyes opened then, her face still very clear of emotion, and with a stillness she said: "Be patient."
~*~
Fox and Brant had sprinted away from the building as soon as they'd landed, the final floors blowing apart and crumbling around them, and a vast cloud of smoke and dust enveloping them. Looking around as it cleared, their bodies layered with soot, they saw the pale yellow truck pinned beneath a slab of cement, the hood busted in and two of the tires deflated. Their ride was gone. Fox noticed that the sight made Brant a little sad.
"Keys was with the Vice," Fox muttered. "The NSA is with the Vice. The whole damn country is with the Vice!" Fox started walking away and as he went his temper cooled. Brant hurried after him, matching his pace as they walked out of the lot and onto the sidewalk in search of a side street to blend into. Leaving a leveled building was never good for publicity. "They'll think we're dead." Fox said, trying to free his mind, trying to wipe away any worries.
Brant's jacket was torn, his face scared and stained with blood and dirt. He was having the worst day of his life, as many others were as well, but he was finding it hard to care any longer. They'd just escaped a building as it was being blown to shreds. What was there to fear?
They turned left onto a side street, police sirens going off in the distance and cruisers speeding by toward the site of the explosions. Fox and Brant ignored them. Just kept on walking until Brant's phone began ringing in his pocket again. He picked it out of his jacket and raised it to his ear. "Hello?"
"Brant, it's Desperado. I've found a place for you to hide out. I met a few friends here in the capital and they recommended some people." Brant looked at Fox and mouthed 'Desperado.' Fox nodded and Brant continued. "Go on," as he looked around the street, tearing a poster for a missing dog off one of the shop windows. Digging in his pocket, he found a pen and started scratching down the street address and directions as Desperado gave them out.
"All right," he said, when he was done. "What are you doing now?"
"Rounding up some people who might be able to help – a few supporters of the President," Desperado answered. "Do you know about the Vice yet?" Brant nodded. "We know he was dabbling with a guy who just about got us killed. And he's got the rest of the departments on his side."
"Yea," Desperado said. "So, get to that place. They'll help you out if you mention the name Dennis." Brant smiled.
"Finally, some good news. Do you want to talk with Fox?" Brant asked.
"I can't now. I'm making a stop, but tell him 'howdy' for me." Desperado laughed.
"Will do," Brant said, and he closed the phone. Fox looked at him.
"What'd he say?" he asked.
"We have to get here," Brant passed on the directions and put his hands in his pockets. "And he told me to tell you 'howdy.'" Fox smiled and nodded. "We go right here, then?" He pointed to the street sign at the intersection ahead and Brant agreed. They would go right.
~*~
Two helicopters set down on the roof of the building, snow blowing violently every which way, the wind fierce and turbulent. The routers were still turning as the doors slid open and as a number of heavily equipped Russian Spetsnaz units hopped out onto the roof, scanning the area with their AKs. They could hardly see more than ten feet ahead of them, but they took Tintern's word and counted on there being no more than one unfriendly in the area.
From the second helicopter came another swarm of Spetsnaz, their formation more defined. They seemed to be encircling someone, all walking in unison to make sure he was guarded from all sides. When the first team had searched the rooftop, they waved the second toward a small brick shack, through which a set of doors would take them to the main floor of the west wing. The first team, its many units scurrying about at their own accord, shut off the helicopters and waited for the second team to go slowly down the stairwell, the strong winds disappearing, but the temperature remaining much the same – merely a few degrees warmer.
At the foot of the stairs, the man being guarded stopped, three Spetsnaz pushing ahead of him and scouting a few yards ahead. The lights were on, glowing overhead, but they were dim and unstable, blinking back and forth. After being sure that nothing was in the immediate area, the three men waved on the rest and the remains of the second team kept the circle tight around the other man, the lights shining down over him but not lighting his face.
Their footsteps were mostly silent, aside from one pair that seemed to clap every time they touched to the cement floor, but as they went through the halls, slowing rapidly, they found hordes of bodies shot up and slouched against the walls. Blood peaked from holes in their chests, their faces, their necks, and legs. They were pouring their insides across the cold floor, eyes stuck in terror. The head three units pulled down their heat goggles and waited for them to click on before continuing.
They turned right, and then left, the first team separating behind them and going off to explore the depths of the facility. Each unit went with another, determined not to be caught off guard if the apparently invisible intruder snuck up on them.
And then, they stopped. The three leading looked around in subtle fear, corpses surrounding the walls of a single room – bullet-holes piercing every part of their bodies and blood covering the floors like a complete coat of crimson paint. It was terrible. But the man they guarded could be caught smiling, if not out of admiration out of amazement, as one of the Spetsnaz clicked on a flashlight to highlight a map that he held in his hands. Looking up, he nodded, and the leading three proceeded toward the room, around which the bodies were littered, and leaned against the door, knocking lightly and whispering something.
The man being guarded jerked his head to the left, a sound lighting his interest somewhere down the next hall. Two Spetsnaz noted his reaction and called on their radios to have a couple of team one's search the halls leading toward the east wing. Then, the door to the center room opening wide, Tintern stepping back, the leading three waved the rest forward.
Slowly and dramatically, the man stepped through the remains of human bodies, still surrounded, and stopped by the door to grin. And then, he turned inside, the leading three parting and entering the room, weapons at alert. The whole room was silent – in shock. Standing there, quickly accompanied by more Spetsnaz, the man lifted his head from the floor, the overhead lights shining down his front. Snake went numb.
Revolver Ocelot.
"I must say," he began, eyes focused on Snake, and grinning wider than ever: "It sure is good to be back on the job."