by Steven Hildreth, Jr.
Mack Bolan, Calvin James, Carl Lyons, and all other characters created by Don Pendleton and copyright of Worldwide Library. All rights reserved.
Moscow, Russia
The reception was really a front for the Russian Mafia. Everybody who showed up knew at
least that much when arriving. Nonetheless, the party was still excellent. The food was superb,
and the vodka even better, as it always seems to be when in the Kremlin. All the major mafioso were there with a handful of thugs, but none of them were dumb enough to make a move on the
other. This was supposed to be a friendly event, without any of the bloodshed that occurred on a
daily basis.
A man walked around a couple of dancing people, cold, calculating green eyes surveying the area. He was dressed in a tuxedo, with his brown hair draping over his ears and barely kissing the top of his collar. The front of it was short enough not to touch his eyes, but long enough so it didn't look like he tried to cut his hair with a katana.
As he walked by some of the women, no doubt daughters of the mafioso, they giggled at his chiseled looks, almost too sharp to be Russian, but good looking nonetheless. His sideburns could have done with a bit of a trimming, however, all of them had to agree. Still, a trim, good looking, fairly tall man.
The man finally found who he was looking for, and began to accelerate his pace, finishing the martini he had nursed for the past ten minutes, and handing the glass off to a waiter. Moving swiftly, the man covered the distance in less than twenty seconds, weaving his way in and out of the crowd.
"Valentin Timefeyovich?" the man asked, his voice a slightly deep, but resonant, growl.
"Is it you, Ivan Nikolayivich?" the other man replied in hushed Russian.
"Da," came the murmured reply, followed by, "Do you know where they're holding her?"
"Downstairs," the one called Valentin replied. "There's a secret elevator upstairs. You'll have to stick with me if you want to get by."
"That's good," the other man, Ivan, replied. "Lead the way."
Once again weaving through the hordes of people, Ivan and Valentin made their way to the large staircase. A mafioso stood guard at the top of the stairs, not bothering to conceal his Czech Skorpion submachine gun. After recognizing Valentin, though, he and Ivan were allowed past, no questions asked.
After leaving earshot of the guard, the man known as Ivan tapped beneath his right ear, murmuring in English. "This is Snake. I've met the contact, and am moving in now."
"Be careful," the voice on the other end, high pitched, replied. "Valentin is not wholly reliable."
"Otacon," Solid Snake, hero of the Shadow Moses incident, replied, "I've had him thoroughly checked out by my contacts within the SVR. They tell me he's reliable."
"Okay," Dr. Hal Emmerich, also known as Otacon, short for Otaku Convention, replied. "I'm just saying you might have been talking to one of the Patriots."
"I'm in range," Snake whispered quickly. "Out."
Having killed the line, Solid Snake stepped into the room. A fat Russian in military garb stood there.
"Valentin?" Snake asked in Russian. "What the hell is this?"
"I'm sorry, my friend," Valentin replied. "You've killed too many of my countrymen to live. The Patriots will find use for you, no doubt."
"You bastard..." Snake growled, going for his gun, concealed underneath his tux jacket. An unseen force slammed into the back of his head, and Solid Snake was knocked out cold even before his muscular frame hit the carpeted floor.
"Take him to Dmitry," the obese military man ordered of Valentin, a comment that Snake did not hear.
A simple solution lay in his Codec covert communications system, the transmitter implanted behind his right ear. His usual microphone lay in his watch, which had been ripped off of his left wrist, unfortunately, leaving a bloody imprint. The ex-FOX-HOUND warrior was glad he had implanted the back-up mike inside of his lip. He could call Otacon and get some backup. Working with all of his will, he attempted to touch his ear hard enough to activate the transmitter.
The door opened, and Snake automatically stopped. He did not need to be tortured unnecessarily. As a matter of fact, he was nearly scared of torture. His lack of willpower to fight the physical pain inflicted upon him had killed a woman he had loved once, and he had vowed never to let it happen again. It would be best for Snake not to push his luck.
A man in a suit walked into the room, stripping the sports coat immediately. He was blond, with piercing blue eyes, something that did not faze Snake. The gruff covert warrior stared back, sneering. His resolve was building up now.
"Good evening, David," the man greeted cordially in near-flawless American accented English. "Or should I say Solid Snake?"
"As you like it," Snake spat.
"You shouldn't be such an ass, Snake," the man stated, nodding to a heavy who stood in the doorway. The henchman crossed the distance and slammed his massive fist into Snake's jaw, splitting some skin and causing bleeding.
"Now, who are probably wondering who I am," the man announced. "You may call me Dmitry."
"Your accent is too good to be Russian," Snake announced.
"I'm a Cold Warrior," Dmitry announced. "Trained by GRU, and a member of Spetsnaz. I had to blend into your culture in order to do my job."
"Just like Ocelot," Snake muttered.
"Comrade Shalashaska is a great man," Dmitry announced. "I trained underneath him. I owe him a great many things."
"Ocelot is anything but great," Snake snapped. "He's a sadist and a murderer. If there was something to gain from killing you, he'd do it. He has no interests in Mother Russia. Don't you know? He works for the Patriots."
Dmitry laughed heartily, throwing his head back and resting his right hand on his stomach. "It is you who needs better intelligence," he announced. "I work for the Patriots, also. This Mafia family is a outlet of the Patriots. You're inside a Patriot building. This whole complex was built by the Patriots. They are a great organization, they are.
"Enough with the chit chat, Comrade Snake. I need for you to answer some questions. Do it cooperatively, I'll ensure a quick death. Refuse, however, and you will be pleading for mercy. It is your call, Snake. On to the first question: why are you here?"
Solid Snake shut his mouth. It'd be a cold day in Hell before he cracked and told everything he knew about the Patriots, which could result in the deaths of another woman with whom Snake shared a strange, but close, relationship.
"That's fine, too," Dmitry announced, rolling up his sleeves. It was time for dirty work. Taking a scalpel, Dmitry poured a bit of standard rubbing alcohol onto a tin tray, then doused both sides of the scalpel in the substance. Wearing a sadistic smile now, Dmitry slowly walked up to Snake.
"I'm going to ask you one last time," the Russian interrogator announced. "Why are you here, and for whom?"
Snake kept his mouth shut, staring into the eyes of the Russian, almost picturing a pistol's sight picture, with Dmitry's head in the center of it. He fought the thought to love and enjoy war, and leered at Dmitry.
Dmitry ran the blade dangerously close to the genitalia and dug his scalpel in. As it plunged into his skin, slowly ripping the strip off piece by piece, Snake's body tried to let out a scream, stopped by the heavy, who had taken a gag, walked up behind the FOX-HOUND veteran, and tied it up inside Snake's mouth. The screams echoed off the sides of the makeshift torture chamber as the interrogation of Solid Snake began.
Dmitry set aside the rod and reached for a personal defense taser, setting it for full voltage. Both men were beyond words, and Dmitry was running out of time to find out who Snake was coming for, or what, for that matter. He pressed the black rectangular box to Snake's ribs, right over a burn caused by the branding iron. The FOX-HOUND veteran suppressed a scream, forced to by the gag, and started lose consciousness.
"Snake," Dmitry said, breaking the three hour silence, "you're of no use to me. You will not crack, even through all the torture I have put you through." Drawing a rather large revolver, Dmitry confided, "I've always wondered what a .44 Magnum did to a head. Unfortunately, I haven't found somebody to volunteer yet. I guess you're my guinea pig."
Cocking back the hammer, Snake shook his head. It sounded like two hammers had been cocked. Looking wide-eyed behind Dmitry, another man, tall, with dark hair from what he could tell in the dark room, pointed a rather large pistol at Dmitry.
"Try it on a combatant," the man's voice commanded, resonating throughout the cell.
Dmitry turned around, trying to get his .44 Mag to bear with the man, but the tall stranger beat him, his own pistol barking twice, totally obliterating Dmitry's head. Holstering his pistol, the man took off a black rucksack and reached into the bag. First came a K-Bar knife, cutting Snake free from his bindings. Next came a set of clothes.
"Get dressed," the man ordered. "Now."
"I'm wounded," Snake barely managed to cough, still crumpled on the ground.
The man's features softened slightly, and after another minute of digging through his rucksack, he removed a bottle of water and a first aid kit. He took out a strip of field dressing and began to tear pieces, wrapping them around Snake's muscular form.
"Who are you?" Snake muttered.
"For right now, I'm just a friend," the man replied, finishing the first wrap. He handed Snake the bottle of water. "Drink."
The FOX-HOUND veteran didn't argue, taking a long pull on the bottle, then setting it down. "That's not enough," Snake tried to shoot back after finishing the drink, but coming across rather weak. "I need some more information. I don't feel comfortable fighting alongside I don't know."
The ghost of a smile crossed his face, and it was exorcised just as quick as it came. "Neither do I, Solid Snake. You have a point. You can call me Striker."
"And I know that sure as hell isn't your real name," Snake pushed. "Crackhead parents don't produce children who blast terrorists. I know you've got a real name somewhere. Why don't you talk?"
"Solid Snake isn't your real name," Striker responded, "and you don't see me pushing for your real name."
"Touché," the ex-FOX-HOUND agent murmured in French, feeling the last wrap being applied to his body. He didn't need the whole world knowing that he was related to an ex-President of the United States, especially as he knew the man responsible for his death. That didn't make for good ice breakers, especially with men who acted like G-men.
"I found your dartgun," Striker announced. "I disposed of it. I didn't think you'd want it, as your presence is already known to the base." He replaced the bottle and the first aid kit in his rucksack, then took off his sage green MA-1 flight jacket, popular with special operators, followed by his shirt, shoes, and pants, leaving only his Hanes boxer briefs. From within the ruck, Striker pulled out a black jumpsuit, which looked like it would be form fitting, much like Snake's sneaking suit. Slipping it on, Striker followed with web gear.
"I hope you brought a weapon for me," Snake growled. "I hate scavenging around the mission site."
"You've done it before," Striker stated.
"How the hell do you know so much about me?"
"I've done my homework. When it comes to covert operations, you're not doing very well. The point is to withdraw without being caught. Everybody knows of your exploits. Outer Heaven, Zanizbar, Shadow Moses...you are the most famous soldier of this generation."
Reaching behind him, Striker tossed Snake a large, black pistol. Snake automatically recognized it, as another warrior in his time had used it, the very woman he was directly responsible for the murder of. The FOX-HOUND veteran didn't reminisce about it too long, and moved the large pistol off of his exposed lap.
"Desert Eagle, .44 Magnum," Striker announced, before quickly looking Snake over again. "I thought I told you to get dressed."
Snake didn't like being given orders, but the man had just saved his life. He pulled the clothes from behind him, finding it was a version of his blue and gray sneaking suit, along with a pair of boxer briefs. Slipping into the old battle suit was rejuvenating, and it gave Snake more energy than before.
Along with the suit came a Codec wrist screen and a 3005 Special Operations tactical holster, which went on this thigh. Slipping the pistol into it, Snake stood up, able to support himself now.
"I hope you brought silence weapons, or else we're doing a lot of avoiding the enemy," Snake announced. "I didn't bring my Soliton Radar or my AP Sensor."
"AP Sensor?" Striker was perplexed.
"Heartbeat sensor," the former FOX-HOUND operative explained.
"Oh." Striker pulled a small, rectangular object from his blacksuit's pocket and tossed it to Snake. "Got two of them. And for silenced weapons-" he patted an armpit holster "-we're covered on that."
"Try not to leave a trail of bodies," Snake cautioned, blowing the hair out of his eyes.
"Of course." Striker turned heel and started to walk out. Snake followed, but was stopped halfway to the door. "You forgot this in your suit jacket."
He tossed Snake a dark blue piece of cloth, four feet in length, and only one and a half inches in diameter. Not liking being known more than he knew the other man, Snake still managed a smile at the fact somebody remembered that he almost never did a mission without his bandanna. Tying his hair back with it, Snake exited the room.
With the rescue of the warrior, Bolan had blown his cover with the Russian Mafia. Reports of the Mafia acquiring nuclear weapons had compelled Bolan to go undercover, and he was close to finding out if it was true or not. The Executioner, however, could not live with more blood of fellow warriors on his hands. His intervention forced him into blacksuit mode quicker than planned, which Bolan blamed on Mr. Murphy.
The Executioner took point, dashing to a wall and hugging it, his right hand touching the cold metal grip of his Beretta M93R machine pistol. Snake followed close behind, his analytical eyes searching the area for traps, as he was.
"Why were you here anyway?" Bolan muttered to Snake.
"A friend was in trouble," the other informed him. "I tried to cultivate a contact within the Mafia, but he turned out to be a turncoat, and these families a part of the Patriots."
"The Patriots?" Bolan whispered. "They're involved in this?"
"That shouldn't come as a surprise," Snake replied. "They control the US government. Why can't they control illegal business, too?"
"And you friend-is it a woman? Kinda short, brown hair, fair skin, British-like accent?"
Snake's eyes lit up. "Yeah! You know where she is?"
"Follow me," Bolan said, drawing his machine pistol. Snake looked at it with some surprise, then quickly dismissed it.
The Executioner ran to a door, kicking it open with a solid boot to the doorknob. Two guards greeted him there. Flicking the selector to single shot, he held the Italian pistol in a two handed Weaver Stance, squeezing the trigger. Blood spattered on the wall, and the Executioner switched targets, wasting the second enemy.
"You can fire down this staircase," Bolan informed Snake. "It's virtually soundproof between the top and bottom."
Snake welcomed that news, drawing the hulking Israeli hand cannon out of the holster. Two more guards rushed up the stairs, toting AKSU 5.45mm assault carbines, firing on the duo, forcing them to the ground. Snake squeezed the Desert Eagle's trigger, coming damn near to breaking his nose from the slide. The guard's head was blown away, however, and that was all he needed. Another loud bark from the pistol led to another kill.
"I thought you said this was soundproof," Snake growled, getting back up to his feet and taking point.
"I forgot," Bolan announced, jogging down the stairs behind Snake, one hand on the banister and one on the Beretta. "They post sentries on the stairs all the time."
"Oh, goody," Snake snapped, keeping his feet moving. A solitary soldier came up the stairs, and both of Snake's hands slapped the pistol, squeezing off another .44 Magnum hollow pointed jacketed round, spraying brain and blood matter on the walls of the stairwell. "They've probably already radioed for help and are sending a response team. These guys are former Spetsnaz. We might not make it out of this."
"Disguises," Bolan said immediately.
"What?" Snake shouted as he let loose another round from the Israeli pistol, this one blowing right through the eye piece of the enemy's balaclava.
"Start searching each corpse, and look for one that is roughly your size," Bolan ordered. "The only way out is disguise."
Snake realized the wisdom in the decision, surprised he didn't think of it himself. Getting too old, Snake, he told himself as he squeezed off the rest of the Desert Eagle magazine into another guard. Going for the corpse, the FOX-HOUND veteran saw that the man was much too small to borrow his fatigues, but his pistol was a different matter.
"Striker!" Snake called. Bolan turned around at the mention of his code name, and extended his hand as the Israeli pistol completed its flight and touched down.
Snake smiled as he found an old friend. The Heckler and Koch MK-23 Special Operations Command handgun, also known as the SOCOM, was the standby of special forces operators in all of the service branches. It was too heavy for some operators, but Snake liked the feel and stopping power. Stealing the man's web gear, the ex-FOX-HOUND member snapped the LCEs onto his body, dropped the current magazine, and loaded a fresh one, just to be safe.
Two more sentries came around the corner, and Bolan sensed their strategy. He pulled his long rifle, a Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifle, and flicked the safety to single shot. Utilizing his sniper skills he acquired in the jungles of Vietnam, he aimed for the uncovered area of the face and punched out two rounds, spraying blood and brain matter from both men.
"Check the sizes!" the Executioner bellowed.
Snake and Bolan were near the same size, the latter a good forty pounds and three inches bigger than the former. Both men were about a compromise between the FOX-HOUND commander and the Stony Man. Snake looked back to Bolan, nodding in confirmation.
Bolan thanked fate that his blacksuit was close to the skin, and caught up with Snake, peeling the clothes from the dead body.
Four more guards had started to charge Striker and Snake, AKSU carbines up and raised in anticipation of encountering either deadly warrior, knowing that both had taken on hordes of enemies and had been victorious each encounter. The opposition on those encounters, however, couldn't say the same thing.
They came around the corner, expecting the enemy, and getting two compatriots instead.
"Where are they?" the search team leader asked.
"They went that way!" the taller of the two pointed. The team nodded and charged up that way. The duo jogged down the stairs, walking out casually, AK carbines slung over their shoulders.
"What a bunch of morons," Solid Snake muttered to Striker.
"Not exactly the smartest group of the bunch," Striker agreed.
The two walked down another hallway, the man called Striker leading the way. Both nodded casually to a sleepy sentry under the watchful eye of a surveillance camera. Leaving that part of the compound, Snake turned to Bolan.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Rumors that the Mafia had kidnapped a scientist capable of engineering a deadly virus," Striker replied. "The only way to get answers in this situation was to go undercover. I've been under for about four months now."
"That's why they captured Naomi..." Snake growled angrily.
"Naomi?" Striker was puzzled.
"Her adopted name," Snake explained. "Nobody knows her real name, not even me. The name I know her by is Dr. Naomi Hunter. She was chief of FOX-HOUND's medical staff, and, as I figured out later on, the Patriots' observer during the Shadow Moses operation."
"Well, if she was a Patriot," Striker reasoned, "then why did they kidnap her?"
"After Shadow Moses, she became disillusioned with the ideas of the Patriots, and wanted to restore the government the Founding Fathers meant for us to have, not a country orchestrated by twelve men."
"The Wisemen's Committee," Striker acknowledged. "The heads of the Patriots, all of them political, military, and business leaders."
"Exactly," Snake nodded. "They probably brought her here to manufacture the FoxDie virus."
"That explains it all. Naomi was the only one with the FoxDie knowledge in her head. The rest of the scientists on that project had already been killed by somebody."
"My handiwork."
"That dealt a blow to the Patriots' power. Having Metal Gear wasn't good enough. With no formal records on the production of FoxDie, Naomi was the only link for regaining the virus. Noble thing of you to do, rescuing her, especially after what she did to you."
Snake played dumb. He wanted to know how wired in this guy was. "What do you mean?" he asked conversationally.
Striker smiled a bit. "I know all about you, Snake. You have the FoxDie virus inside of you, and it could go off any moment, without your knowing."
"Who do you work for?"
"I can't tell you that. I can tell you we went underground and that we're now at war with the Patriots. I've dealt with people similar to them. Surprisingly enough, they were fighting against the people who ran things the way they wanted."
"COMCON?" Snake asked.
"You know about them, too," Striker stated.
Abruptly changing the subject, Snake asked, "Where is Naomi?"
"Around this corner."
The two turned the corner, finding a surveillance camera watching their every move, and a sleepy guard on the end of the hallway. The prison block was narrow, with sliding metal doors instead of a traditional bar system. Snake groped his LCE, and looked to Bolan.
"No suppressor," he growled.
"Stuff the gun in his mouth," Striker suggested, walking underneath the camera. Snake sighed, and approached the guard. When both were in position, they nodded, and executed. The Beretta machine pistol came into play, spraying three subsonic rounds into the camera, and the SOCOM's barrel went into the sentry's mouth, blowing a hole through the man's brain stem and spinal cord. Searching the body, Snake found a prison cell card, the key to this system of prison lock an door, then tossed it to Striker.
"Let's hope she's okay," Snake murmured, more emotion entering his voice than he cared to remember.
"Those bastards," Snake growled. "They're gonna pay for that..."
Bolan had seen women like this, beaten and bloodied by men who could not fight an equal. It was the men like this that had started his War Everlasting, the war that he would never see the end of, the war that would eventually claim him. The Executioner hardened, a cold fury building up inside of him. Knowing the Mafia, they had probably had a little fun with her on the side for slow production of the virus.
They were about to witness the cleansing fire of the Executioner.
Snake moved over to help her up. Initially, she resisted, but it was futile on her part. All of her strength had been depleted. She began to sob openly, losing all of her wit and flair that Solid Snake had come to know her by. Snake stopped trying to get her out, and held her close to his form, allowing his Sneaking Suit to be drenched with salty tears.
The woman felt a hand slowly stroking her hair, and she finally looked up to see who it was. The sharp features of the warrior that held her surprised her at first, then comforted her. A slight smile actually hung on the countenance of the ex-FOX-HOUND commando. It took her a minute to get the words out of her mouth, but she finally did it.
"S...Sn...Snake?" she asked, eyes still freshly crimson from her spilled tears.
"It's me, Naomi," Snake assured her. "It's me."
Sudden reserves of strength overtook Naomi Hunter, and she clutched to her savior with all of her might, fresh tears of joy streaming down her face. Snake knew that she meant a lot to him, even if she was the one who had put a date of death on him. He couldn't just stand by and let her die at the hands of the Patriots.
They stood there for a moment, Snake and Naomi, clutching each other, not wanting the other to let go. Naomi then surprised Snake, pulling away enough to bring her face close to the commando's, slowly planting her lips on his, then pulling away. Snake, caught up in the moment, moved his head forward, retrieving Naomi's lips and softly pulling on them with his own.
Mack Bolan actually broke into a grin over this. Two people, reunited, was a joyous moment to behold. Sergeant Mercy had taken over inside of him for the time being, and he partook in watching a small moment of heaven in a place of hell, having been there himself a few times.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, Naomi," Snake murmured, still clutching her tight.
"That doesn't matter," Naomi told him. "Thank you." Her tone then changed, and she put a little distance between her and her savior. "Snake, the Patriots have a Metal Gear on site. Rex model. I wouldn't feel right leaving it here."
"Neither would I," Bolan put in, speaking his first words inside the cell. "Fortunately, I have a bit of knowledge on how to destroy Rex model Metal Gears."
"I have everything necessary," Snake put in. "The inventor himself. I've also taken down so many Rexes that it's child's play." Turning back to Naomi, he asked, "Do you know where they're holding the Rex?"
"Somewhere in the hundredth floor basement," Naomi confessed.
Bolan cocked an eyebrow. "Didn't know that the building went down that far," he stated.
"It's also where they keep their medical research lab," Naomi added. "I've seen the Rex quite a few times. I know where the elevator is. Follow me."
"The disguise is up," Bolan announced. "Lose the costumes. Anybody we see, we shoot on sight."
"No!" Snake snapped. "That's not how you do it. We'll ditch the disguises, but we only kill if we have to."
Bolan thought about it, not wanting to let his anger toward the Mafia cloud his judgement. "Agreed. Stealth."
As Bolan stripped out of his enemy uniform, Snake spotted his handguns again, and something clicked. Beretta 93 and a .44 Mag? Why does that sound familiar...? Deciding to confront him about it later, Snake commenced to tear the uniform buttons out of their holes.
"Yeah," he answered.
"I've hacked into the computer system," Otacon informed Snake.
"Good. What've you got?"
"Something disturbing." Emmerich's voice pace quickened. "You remember in Shadow Moses where those guards ambushed you wearing stealth gear in the elevator?"
Snake's hand went to his SOCOM, gripping it tightly, his other hand going around Naomi's shoulders. "Get to the point." Bolan noticed this change in behavior and started to grab his Beretta 93R.
"I have a report of an elevator heading for the hundredth floor basement," Otacon continued. "I also have a report that you're heading to the Metal Gear that they're housing, the one I just found out about five seconds ago. This elevator has state of the art technology that weighs how much is being carried down. It's saying somewhere close to 570."
"What else?" Snake clicked the safety off of his SOCOM.
"I'm also getting pressure sensitive readings of the elevator floor, and-"
Hearing safeties click off, Snake growled, "Get down!" Bolan moved to the ground in step with Snake and Naomi, both of this pistols out and ready. He thought he had seen movement out of the corner of his eye. The same movement appeared behind Snake.
"Stay low!" Bolan ordered, both the Desert Eagle and Beretta 93 going into action, brass being ejected at a rapid rate as his machine pistol and hand cannon were emptied. The sentry got lit up, and fell over, his invisibility device malfunctioning, blood pouring from the corpse.
Gunfire erupted then, and the Executioner assumed a prostrate form. Snake covered Naomi's body with his own, protecting her from bullets that could possibly hit her. For elite Patriot guards, they had horrid accuracy, and managed not to even graze either warrior. On instinct, Bolan struck his foot out, connecting with another Patriot. The Israeli hand cannon was thrust out, and three shots later, the man was down. Calculating that only seven people could fit in the elevator at best, there were only two more to go, as he, Snake, and Bolan occupied the first three slots.
Snake's SOCOM came into play in conjunction with the Beretta 93 of the big soldier, and as a Patriot moved, .45cal and 9mm slugs slammed into flesh, spraying organ pieces on the elevator wall. Both men looked for the last enemy, knowing that he was staying remarkably still and quiet, avoiding contact with both men.
Suddenly, an unseen force lifted Snake off the ground, pulling him into a chokehold. The Executioner started to aim, but couldn't tell whether or not he'd hit his target. Wildly, Snake started throwing his elbow around, striking the invisible man several times before finally catching his stealth device, shattering it into the four winds. The man suddenly became visible, leaving Bolan to flick the selector switch to three round burst, putting a trio of hollowpoint bullets in the man's skull. The late guard's empty rifle was removed from around Snake's neck, and he struggled to breath, taking huge, sucking breaths.
"Are you all right?" Bolan asked.
"I've been better," Snake grunted in thanks. Looking up, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me you were Mack Bolan?"
The tall warrior was unfazed. "What are you talking about?"
"I've heard the rumors. You're the only man that I know of that can handle both of those pistols simultaneously. C'mon, don't play dumb. Your weapons, your appearance, you tactics...all this time, I've been trying to figure out why was it so familiar, then it clicked."
Bolan managed a small smile. Solid Snake was not just a good fighter, after all. "I'm not saying anything," he replied, the smile giving him away.
"Sure," Snake replied. "If we keep on getting hit like this, then we're not going to be able to continue on. I hope you brought a backup crew, because I sure as hell didn't."
"Already taken care of," Bolan responded, accessing his own Codec. A deep voice, this one sounding African American, said, "What's up?"
"Calvin," Mack started, "Things are getting hairy. If we keep getting hit repeatedly like this, we're going to run out of ammo. You and Carl get in here, now."
"We're on our way," a gruff voice replied. With that, the line was killed.
Naomi took a look around at the room that seemed to shoot up from hell, with pungent corpses littering the backdrop. It was too much for even her, a doctor, and she commenced to empty the contents of her stomach upon the ground. Snake moved closer to her, taking a coat he had gleaned off of a Patriot, and wiped her mouth off with it. Sitting next to her, he cradled her in his arms, trying to comfort her.
Naomi Hunter had endured hell, and was nearly out.
Bolan saw no sentries and an open door, which seemed to lead to an extremely large room. "This is it," he announced, picking up the pace. "Let's go!"
Not wanting Naomi to hold him up, Snake holstered his pistol, picking her up with both arms, and resuming his previous jogging pace. The two men made it past the somewhat narrow hallway and discovered the Metal Gear. The machine loomed over them, one hundred feet in the air, like a technological dinosaur. It's rail gun, vulcan cannons, missile launchers, and laser made Metal Gear Rex a formidable opponent. Unfortunately for the three invaders, they had arrived too late.
On top of the Metal Gear stood a man, about six feet in height, wearing black fatigues. His white hair flowed behind him, and two .45 caliber Colt Single Action Army revolvers draped his left and right hip. A sneer curled across his face.
"Snake!" he called in his medium pitch, rumbling voice. "What an unpleasant surprise. You are persistent. I would have thought after the incident on the Big Shell, you would have given up. Apparently not."
"I'll give up after I put two slugs in your brain," Snake rasped. What happened next was unexpected.
Usually, when Snake spoke in the presence of Revolver Ocelot, former Spetsnaz and FOX HOUND operative, all along a Patriot, his right arm, which belonged to Snake's brother, Liquid Snake, would take control of his body through nerve impulses which hadn't died when Liquid did. Expecting it, Ocelot actually laughed, catching Snake off guard.
"Expecting your brother?" Ocelot asked. "He won't be visiting for a while. I know that. I've fixed him up perfectly. Liquid Snake will never bother me again." Turning his attention to Mack Bolan, he nodded his head. "And this is the famous Mack the Bastard Bolan, killer of two thousand Mafia, and even more terrorists, KGB, and the like. Strange. Everybody thought that you were dead."
Bolan grunted. "Doesn't everybody?"
"Well, this is a nice reunion," Ocelot jeered. "The man everybody thought was dead, the man everybody wants dead, and the woman we were going to kill. You should have never taken on the Patriots, Snake. They control this country! There is nothing that you can do about that!"
"Go to hell, you bastard!" Snake snarled, whipping his SOCOM out and firing three shots in rapid succession. Bolan joined Snake only seconds later, both of them emptying rounds toward Ocelot. The bullets shot off to sides, but never once came even close to connecting with him.
"Damn!" Snake cursed.
"Anti-magnetic shield," Bolan replied, reloading his pistol before holstering it.
"That's right!" Ocelot called out. "Your small arms cannot hit me, and cannot penetrate Metal Gear. Today is your judgement day, Solid Snake! You will die!"
"He will not!" Bolan called. "I am the judgement! Today, you will die, Revolver Ocelot! Metal Gear or not, you will not pass me while I live!"
"Then that's an easy solution, isn't it?" Ocelot replied, opening up the cockpit to Rex and leaping inside, closing the beak-like hatch.
Turning to Naomi, Snake called, "Get out of here!" Looking up, seeing metal slowly slide in front of the doors, he barked, "The doors are closing! Get out of here, now!"
"I'm not leaving you!" Dr. Hunter yelled in reply, her eyes brimming with tears again.
"It's the only way!" Snake growled, running over to the door as fast as he could, setting her down and rolling her under, barely missing the door. Naomi reoriented herself, found the door, and started to crawl back, but before she could come close, the metal barrier secured itself shut.
Snake turned to face his ultimate enemy, and his worse nightmare: the nuclear equipped walking death mobile known as Metal Gear Rex.
Three tons of death were in the process of starting up. If Rex became functional before he could find a weapon, then his War Everlasting would end right here. As long as he got his hands on a weapon, all would be fine.
His cold, blue eyes scanned the area, looking for something to get the advantage with. The Executioner realized where he was. The whole room was full of high explosive weapons. He was sure that if he looked hard enough, he could find a missile launcher, preferably a FIM-92 Stinger SAM.
"Start searching the crates!" Bolan hollered. "Find Stingers!"
The two warriors split up, dashing in opposite directions of each other, making it hard for the Rex to follow either of them when it started up. Diving into the weapons piles, both men started to probe hurriedly for a surface to air missile. Muscles burned from fatigue, but they continued to work, knowing to relax would mean to sign a death warrant.
A piercing shriek emitted from the walking battle tank, and Bolan looked up for a second. He had been on several battle zones over the years, fighting against the most formidable opponents on the face of the earth. He had flown into space and had detonated nuclear weapons to destroy enemies. He had even been ambushed several times, but the howl from the machine frightened him more than anything that he had ever encountered.
Recollecting himself, Bolan went into attack mode. Fear was a good thing, something that let him know that he was only human, if not an extraordinary one. As swiftly yet methodically as he could, Mack dug through the weapons, trying to find something.
Snake reached into a box marked "CHAFF," and pulled out one of the cylinder-shaped grenades. Pulling the pin, he hurled it as close to Metal Gear as he could get it. Seconds later, which seemed like an eternity to the FOX-HOUND veteran, the grenade detonated, emitting thin strips of metal that disrupted Metal Gear's eye sight. Rex relied on a radome to send out waves to get a feel for the room, which bounced back to the radome, and from there would go to the computer screen inside of Rex, working almost like echolocation. The chaff grenade disrupted that process, and gave the two warriors an extended time limit.
The Executioner didn't have to dig much further before calling out, "I got it!"
Snake found an AKSU assault carbine within the pile, and locked and loaded it. "I'll provide a distraction! You just get that shot on the radome, and I'll turn it around for you to hit the cockpit when it opens!"
"Got it!" Bolan called, loading a high explosive anti tank (HEAT) round into the breach, peering through the missile launcher's sights.
The chaff dissipated, and Rex was now again fully functional. Leaping from cover, Solid Snake triggered the carbine, the 5.45mm slugs bouncing harmlessly off of the impenetrable metal. It got Ocelot's attention, however, and the laser came into play, sweeping dangerously close to Snake's legs. The ex-FOX-HOUND operative dove out of the way, and broke from his running pattern, turning to the bottom left corner of the room, giving Bolan a shot at the machine. Just as expected, Ocelot turned the machine around, giving Striker a perfect shot.
Mack Bolan hoped that this shot was truer than any other shot he had ever taken during his life as the Executioner. Taking an immeasurable breath, the Stony Man squeezed the trigger, and the portable SAM kicked, sending the warhead to its destination. The rocket seemed to hover in space, suspended for what were minutes to Bolan and Snake, before time caught up, the rocket making a perfect connection with the radome.
The machine froze for a moment, electricity taking over the radome, frying its circuits, rendering it useless. Thick ebony smoke arose from the disabled component of the machine, rendering Revolver Ocelot blind for the few seconds until he could open the pilot's seat.
"Get over here!" Bolan called. "NOW!"
Snake dropped the AK, dashing over to Bolan's location a hundred meters away, muscles aching from the constant pounding he had given them over the past three and a half hours. A loud mechanical sound reverberated through the gigantic room, and the ex-FOX-HOUND operative picked up the pace, recognizing the sound. Just as the cockpit began to open, the surviving Son of Big Boss made a leap of faith, seeming to soar in the air for minutes before crashing to the metal ground, Rex turning around and aiming at the warriors then.
Bolan tossed Snake a Stinger. "That's loaded with our last shot," the Executioner informed him. "One shot deal. We miss, we die."
Snake couldn't help but smirk. "Doesn't make much difference; everybody else thinks we are," he quipped.
Bolan nodded, too concentrated on his target to laugh. "On my count," he announced. Snake raised his own missile launcher to his shoulder. Both warriors took aim. "Three...two...one...NOW!"
As Metal Gear Rex spun around to meet its target, rearing its ugly head at the soldiers working at defeating it, both of them fired their missiles at the beak-like cockpit. The surface to air missiles glided through the air, pushed forward through rocket propulsion, and guided by infrared signals, they closed in on their target.
Ocelot saw that they were going to destroy the cockpit, that the missiles were right on target. As quickly as he could, he unstrapped himself, hoping his anti-magnetic device could be a cushion to his fall. As he leapt out the cockpit, the missiles connected, decimating all of the cockpit, rendering the Metal Gear useless. The former Spetsnaz soldier fell toward the ground, the handy device clipped to his belt indeed stopping the fall. He hovered a few feet off the ground before he turned off the device, allowing himself to fall the rest of the way, hitting the metal floor with a loud clunk.
"His device is off!" Snake bellowed. "Now!"
The FOX-HOUND veteran and the Executioner flew from cover, guns blazing, lead flying toward Revolver Ocelot. With agility unseen by many his age, he jumped to his feet, reaching to turn on the device. After a few seconds of it not humming to like, Ocelot wondered what the devil had happened to it, and risked a glance down. The fall had shattered it, rendering him vulnerable to gunfire. No matter, he thought. I've fought Snake without it once. I can do it again.
Drawing both Single Action Armies from their holsters, Ocelot opened fire with rapid speed, forcing the two warriors firing at him to go to the ground. After putting their heads down, the Patriot dashed for a door, one that he had the keycard for. It seemed like another victory for the Patriots.
Snake had seen this man escape his clutches three times before. He was not going to allow him escape a fourth. Revolver Ocelot was going to die, today. His SOCOM was out of range for the shot, and both Bolan's Desert Eagle and Beretta 93R were quickly leaving effective distance. He did have an idea, albeit a crazy one, but he really had no choice at the moment. Taking a deep breath, he screamed the one word that had a snowball in hell chance of stopping the man:
"LIQUID!!!"
Ocelot continued for another few seconds toward his door. Snake lowered his head, seeing that it had no affect on him whatsoever, as Ocelot had said. Mere moments later, an otherworldly scream resounded throughout the enormous room, and Snake glanced up, watching the Patriot grasp at his right arm. Newfound determination coursing through his veins, Snake leapt to his feet, motioning for Bolan to follow him.
Finally, Ocelot could not fight Liquid Snake any longer. The left arm, taken control of by the dead Son of Big Boss, ripped Ocelot's right sleeve back, revealing a pale arm, one with a barcode tatooed on the upper wrist, veins popping next to the skin. Torpidly, he rose, standing up tall, staring at the surrounding scenery. It brought back memories of the place where he was killed, and that only brought up one thought:
"SNAKE!!!"
Before Liquid Snake could turn around, Solid Snake took him to the ground hard, fist raised, ready to slam it into the man who would not cease to haunt him, but his brother took him by surprise, striking him in the back and slipping from underneath him. Picking him up, he hurled the FOX-HOUND veteran into a nearby wall, rendering up unconscious.
"I'll deal with you after I'm through with your friend!" Liquid announced to the unconscious form, his British drawl taking over Ocelot's usual growl. Turning to the Executioner, he called, "Mack Bolan! The Executioner, in the flesh. Amazing. You may consider it an honor that you will be killed by who will soon become the only remaining Son of Big Boss. Time for you to die!"
The Executioner went for his guns, but Liquid Snake crossed the room too quickly, forcing Bolan to the ground, grabbing the Israeli hand cannon and the Italian machine pistol, tossing them away.
"That's a no-no, Bolan!" Liquid bellowed, before slamming his fist into Bolan's face, adding to pain already accumulated from this operation alone. As another blow landed on his face, Mack Bolan actually considered for a fleeting moment that he give up, that he end his War Everlasting right there. He thought of the people he had saved, and the people he had killed. He thought of his Death Squad, seven of which were dead fighting his war.
He thought of April Rose, his one true love, killed because of her involvement with him and his Stony Man operation. If he wasn't around, some of the people he loved might still be around today.
Then he thought of Solid Snake, unconscious across the way.
He thought of Dr. Naomi Hunter, whom he assisted in saving from certain death.
He thought of his teammates, Calvin James and Carl Lyons, both who would follow him into Hell if he asked, both men who needed one man to lead them.
No, Mack Bolan thought, Today is not my day to die.
Clenching his hand into a fist, the Executioner let an scream not belonging of this world erupt from his lips, and with all the strength he could muster, landed a right hook on Liquid Snake's jaw, leaving him somewhat surprised the competition was starting to fight back.
Almost immediately, Bolan drove his knee into Liquid's crotch, forcing him to roll off, clutching his private parts. The soldier stood then, approaching his opponent. As Liquid tried to stand, Mack's fist sailed, forcing the former's nose to shatter, blood spurting out of the new wound like a garden hose. Not finished, Bolan drove his heel into Liquid's ribs, compelling him to emit a howl of agony. Finally, picking up the Son of Big Boss revived, the Executioner looked him in his eyes, letting him know that he was going to die.
"I am not your judge," he murmured. "I am your judgement. I am your executioner!"
Bolan struck him again, sending him across the floor. Liquid clutched his side, each part of his own body burning and stinging from the fight he had instigated. Looking around him, he noticed the tall wraith from Hell approaching him, murder in his cold, blue eyes. A shine caught the corner of his eye, and he spied Mack's Desert Eagle. Crawling backwards, as if to avoid the soldier, Liquid edged ever closer to the hand cannon.
Striker watched him back up in what appeared to be fear. Not wanting to let him get away, he started to close the gap between him and his enemy. It was then that he noticed the Desert Eagle, and how close Liquid Snake was close to it. He began to sprint, aiming to knock the gun away from his reach.
Liquid turned up the speed, however, and grabbed the gun, beating him to it. As he swung it around, Bolan began to duck, hoping that he ducked in time to dodge bullet, half expecting a resonant boom to reach his ears any second. Instead, two silenced pistols shots made the trek to Bolan's ears, and he looked up to the corpse, seeing blood emerge out of Liquid Snake/Revolver Ocelot's skull. He was indeed dead.
"Mack!" a man called, but Bolan could not respond, as he had already slipped into comatose warmth, darkness taking over his eyesight.
Dr. Naomi Hunter, looking somewhat better for the wear as she checked both makeshift hospital beds, wearing her usual brown skirt and turtleneck, a white lab coat covering it, smiled a bit. "Both of them are doing remarkably well," she announced. "Give them a few weeks, and they'll be back in fighting shape."
"That won't do," Bolan murmured, surprising all the parties involved. "My war is not over yet."
"And the Patriots still exist," Snake growled, trying to sit up in bed. Naomi quickly moved back over, gently hushing him up and easing him back to the bed, her left hand guiding the back, and the right resting on his chiseled stomach. The left hand was removed. The right lingered.
"You are both going to sit back and rest," Hunter stated firmly. "I don't care what the excuse is. You are safe here, and you need to recover."
"Y'know, Mack," the Chicago Badass, Calvin James, spoke up, "now that we've been briefed on these Patriots, we're gonna have to go underground. I doubt we have anyone at the Farm on their side, otherwise Hal would've never asked you to go under with them."
"The government doesn't know where Stony Base One is," Mack murmured, referring to his place where he could relax and escape his War Everlasting momentarily, run by his brother, Johnny. "Tell Hal what you've learned and move the whole place now. We don't need a Patriot hit squad taking the Farm."
The mention of that incident brought back painful memories, memories that were fresh. His one true love, April Rose, had died at the hands of the KGB, who had attacked the Stony Man Farm, though he wondered now, was it actually the KGB, or was it the Patriots working under the guise of the Soviets? So many questions, so little time.
"I'll make the calls," Ironman Lyons nodded, rising from his comfortable armchair and leaving the room.
"I'm telling you, Mack," the ex-Navy SEAL, James, continued, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna make it. The Ocelot character roughed you up pretty good, bro."
"Good thing you took him down," Bolan nodded.
"Actually," James added, "It was mostly Snake. He got one of his shots off, injuring Ocelot at first, then Ironman and I made it to the room, and our shots took him down. If Snake hadn't gotten him distracted, we might not have had an open shot."
Bolan nodded. They were equal now when it came to saving each other's lives. Kicking back, the Executioner tried to see if he could get some well deserved rest.
Naomi looked to James, then to Snake, then asked the Phoenix Force member, "Could you excuse us a moment?" He nodded, then took his leave. The good doctor leaned in close to her savior, brushing noses with him.
"Hey," Snake grunted, barely audible.
"I have a question for you," Naomi asked, her eyes showing an innocence that he had never seen in them.
"Shoot."
"Why did you do it?"
"What?"
"Why did you come and save me? I mean, after all I've done to you, all the misery I've put you through, the guilt I've added for the killing of Frankie...why did you feel the need to save me?"
Snake reflected on all of this. She had injected FoxDie into him for killing her "big brother," Frank Jaeger, code named Gray Fox. While the two of them were in Zanizbar, Snake and Fox had met for the second time, the first being when Fox was held hostage by the armed fortress nation of Outer Heaven. The first time they had been friends, allies, battle buddies.
The second time, they were enemies.
Snake and Fox had dueled in the midst of hundreds of land mines. The former was victorious that time, forcing the latter onto a mine, damaging several body parts, but amazingly leaving most of him intact.
Years later, FOX-HOUND revived him through epinephrine dosages and electric charges. The brain damage had been repaired through extensive neurosurgery, and he was able to remember most of what happened throughout his life, and what couldn't be remembered was found deep in the recesses of his brain, and retaught to him.
After getting him up to speed, they drugged him with steroid-like substances and fitted him with a prototype exoskeleton, testing performance enhancers that would make super soldiers. When Naomi found out about it, she helped Jaeger hide after he killed the head doctor of the project, Dr. Clark. She knew who had fixed her brother into the man he was, and his name was Solid Snake. She plotted revenge.
Now, more than a half decade later, she stood, close to his man, feeling nothing but compassion for him. Snake wondered again why he did it. Then he remembered one thing Naomi always gave him, the one thing the others around him either didn't know or wouldn't tell him.
"I saved you because you always told me the truth," Snake informed her. "You may have plotted to kill me, yes, but you were truthful about it. You were always a straight shooter, and, in the end, you were a friend. That's what I needed, and that's what you were to me. You didn't deserve to die."
"Well, thanks, Snake," she told him, moving in close to him, planting her lips on his own. Snake enjoyed the piece of heaven he was being offered at the moment, not knowing if it was ever going to stay. He would enjoy it while it lasted.
Mack Bolan finished looking over at the two, and rested, an ironic smile on his face. A fellow warrior, one who had made historic footsteps, like his own, was finding peace, something that the Executioner had once found in April Rose, and had lost at the hands of the enemy. Every soldier needed one to lean on lest they go insane. Snake's was tangible; his was not. As he thought about this, he thought he felt the presence of April around him, thought he smelled her distinct scent. He breathed deeply, taking in all that he could, before it was scattered, uncertain to return.
"I love you, April," Bolan murmured inaudibly, before closing his eyes to sleep. He would take advantage of the break in fighting, for his War Everlasting was never to end, and he didn't know when his service would be required again.
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