Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty
The Novelization by Dark Side Luke
Disclaimer: I do not own the Metal Gear franchise; Konami does. I am only writing this for my entertainment and hopefully for others' as well.
A/N: I have never done anything like this before, so please be kind in your reviews. If you think it's terrible, then try to say so in the nicest possible manner. Please enjoy and always review.
"The Hudson River, two years ago. We had classified intelligence that a new Metal Gear was ready for transport. The whole thing stank…But our noses had been out in the cold too long."
~ Solid Snake
George Washington Bridge, New York
Thunder boomed and lightning flickered across a thick blanket of clouds. Rain fell by the bucket, splashing the cars on the long bridge below. Cars, their bright lights illuminating the road ahead of them, sped by, leaving trails of red lights and exhaust fumes. Many of the cars contained people heading home from a long day's work, or perhaps to a tavern where they could relax and unwind.
A man wearing a waterproof cloak walked along the side of the bridge, his hood pulled over his face, the only visible features from within the shadows were his intense green eyes, the tip of his strong nose and his jaw, which was clenched determinedly. A cigarette hung out of his mouth with smoke trailing off of its tip. He pulled one gloved hand out of the pocket of his cloak and grabbed the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Casually, as if he had not a care in the world, he flicked the cigarette into oncoming traffic.
The man's eyes darted around, looking into the traffic, at the faces behind the windshields. None of the people driving by gave him so much as a glance. Satisfied, he started running, leaning forward slightly as if that action would give him more speed, would help him reach his destination faster.
He reached a pool of shadows and ran slightly faster. As he stepped into the darker regions of the shadow, he shrugged off his cloak, letting it fly away, floating away on the wind, into the traffic.
The man, however, disappeared.
All that was left of the man was a ghostly outline, running along the side of the bridge. He may not have been seen but he could be heard: his boots splashed into puddles and he was breathing quite loudly out of his mouth. The rain fell on him, outlining him, so only the observant could see him. Unexpectedly, with a grunt, he jumped off the bridge, a bungee cord attached to his belt. He sailed through the air gracefully, as if he were flying free.
He began to fall, quite rapidly. Below him, he could see an oil tanker plow through the water. As he drew closer and closer to the tanker, his bungee cord grew taut and pulled him back up slightly. For the briefest of moments, he was visible to anyone who might be looking in that direction. He hoped no one was, since that would make him fail his mission before it even began. In the blink of an eye, he was invisible again.
He swung towards the upper deck of the tanker, the USS Discovery by name. His booted feet landed firmly on the deck's railing and he pushed himself away, rappelling down to the lower deck. Before his bungee cord grew taut again, pulling him back up towards the bridge, he released it, executing a backflip in one smooth maneuver.
He hit the deck hard, bending his knees to absorb to impact, falling forward slightly. His hands, on the deck, stopped him from falling on his face. Electricity shot out of his invisible body, snaking across the deck and up the walls, discharging energy, crackling loudly. Slowly, bit by bit, the man's body emerged into a solid form again, for the world to see. He wore a tight gray and black suit, which accentuated the muscles in his arms, legs and stomach. His hair, dark brown with some streaks of blonde poking through the dyed color was somewhat longer in the back than it was in the front, held back by a bandanna. The first stages of a beard were beginning to grow on the man's face, evidence that he cared little of his self-image. A silenced pistol was holstered on his right leg, above the knee. Pouches encircled his waist, with a few clinging to his chest.
He sat on the deck for a long moment, resting, letting the rain pour down on him, soaking and chilling him to the bone. He was Solid Snake, the hero of Shadow Moses, destroyer or Metal Gears – destructive, deadly, walking battle tanks.
In the distance, high above the tanker and Snake, a helicopter flew by, the sound of its rotors disguised by the booming thunder. Inside, a man with white hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing combat fatigues, looked through a pair of binoculars, down on Snake. He held a revolver – a Colt Single Action Army – that he twirled on his finger, spinning it through the air with grace deceiving for such a deadly weapon. A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips.
"Our boy," he said in a soft, slightly accented voice, "is right on schedule." He lowered the binoculars and nodded to himself. With a flourish, he holstered the revolver. "He'll know soon enough."
Snake rested on the deck for a moment longer before standing slowly. He looked up at the flickering lightning, letting the rain fall in cold drops upon his face. It felt refreshing, cleansing even.
Snake heard the small sound of footsteps nearby and he rushed for cover behind a huge winch. When he reached it, making sure the coast was clear, he tapped the side of his neck, looking down at his wrist. A small, waterproof LCD screen was attached to the back of his wrist and it displayed a green line drawing of his surroundings, which he was receiving from satellites in the heavens above. The radar even gave him the locations of the personnel wandering the ship. Beside the radar screen, a young man's face appeared. He had long hair, glasses that covered blue eyes, supported by a smallish nose. He smiled when he saw Snake's image, which was sent to him via a small camera on Snake's wrist.
"This is Snake," Snake said in his deep, rumbling voice. He didn't need to speak very loudly, since the microphone for his Codec – the communication device he was using – was planted directly into his lip. The entire Codec system – the batteries, the transmitter, the activation switch and even the speakers – were implanted in his body, in his bloodstream. "Do you read me, Otacon?"
The image of Hal Emmerich – also known as "Otacon" – nodded satisfactorily. "Loud and clear Snake," he said, pushing his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose.
"Kept you waiting, huh?" Snake said, smirking slightly. "I'm at the 'sneak point.'"
"Everything's going okay?"
"The stealth camo's busted," Snake said, removing a chip, the size of his hand, from his belt. A crack ran down the center, splitting the silicon near in two. He tossed it on the deck with a clatter that was lost in a clap of thunder. "Landing impact," he added.
"We must have overused it," Otacon mused. "Sorry, but you're going to have to deal with it. You're not in the military anymore."
"Right. I didn't plan on relying on that gadget anyway." He glared at the broken chip, lying on the deck. He was too good to need stealth technology anyway, or so he figured.
"The private sector's not so bad, is it?" Otacon said. "Privacy guaranteed…"
"I'm happy as long as no one gives me any more unwanted gifts," Snake muttered, almost to himself.
"You mean that thing with Naomi?"
"And I can't say I miss the chattering nanny."
Otacon chuckled slightly. "Mei Ling's not so bad," he said. "That reminds me, I need to get in touch with her again about that new Natik flashware."
Snake rolled his eyes. "Diverting toys from the SSCEN again? Give her a message from me: someone will find out sooner or later. She's better off assuming it's sooner and quit while she's safe."
Otacon nodded knowingly, as if he had faced that same predicament once or twice in his life. He probably has, Snake thought. "Too true," Otacon said. "Okay, Snake, let's get to work. You know the technical specs of Metal Gear were sold on the black market after Shadow Moses?" he asked.
Snake growled deep in his throat. "All Ocelot's doing…" he muttered.
Otacon nodded again. "Exactly. And now every state, group and dotcom has its own version of Metal Gear."
Snake shook his head, tossing droplets of rain from his hair and the tails of his bandanna. He had grown used to the cold, having lived in Alaska, so the wind did not bother him in the slightest. Being wet, however, did little to excite him. "Not exactly a classified weapon for today's nuclear powers," he said trying to ignore the small river of rainwater running down his back. He shifted his position slightly and the river began to flow over his shoulder.
"This new one seems to have been designed to wipe the floor with all the other models," Otacon said. "The only consistent description is that it's an amphibious, anti-Metal Gear vehicle."
Snake frowned slightly. Amphibious…? he thought. "I guess that explains why this one is under Marine Corps jurisdiction."
Otacon didn't comment. "The mission objective to make visual confirmation of the new Metal Gear being transported by that tanker and bring back photographic evidence. But, I want you to go to the top level of the infrastructure, to the bridge. We need to find out where the tanker is headed."
Snake peeked around the winch he was hiding behind and looked up at the bridge, which loomed high above him. He could see the dim silhouettes of men walking around the upper deck, flashlights in their hands. They looked like Will o' the Wisps. Snake smiled. "A little reconnaissance, huh?" he asked.
"There's too much we don't know about this new prototype," Otacon said. "Capabilities, deployment method…" he trailed off, looking at something offscreen. He shook his head sadly. "We don't even know how close it is to completion. If we know where the testing arena is, I can start to draw some reasonable conclusions."
"All right," Snake said. "I'll head up to the bridge, ASAP."
"Try to avoid confrontations," Otacon warned. "Our goal is to collect evidence on Metal Gear development and expose it to the world. It would be best if you could get out of there without alerting anyone."
"Don't worry," Snake assured his friend. "I know the drill – we're not terrorists."
"Very good," Otacon said, sounding like a teacher praising a student. Snake's eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't you forget that you're a part of 'Philanthropy' now, an anti-Metal Gear organization and officially recognized by the UN."
Snake smile sardonically. "Recognized, but still fringe, Otacon."
Otacon shook his head slowly, sighing. "All right," he said, trying to get back on the subject at hand. "Let's take a look at your gear." Snake nodded in agreement, drawing the silenced pistol from its sturdy plastic holster. He hadn't had a chance to inspect it before he went to the George Washington bridge to hop down on the tanker. He took the opportunity to do so now.
"Your weapon is a tranquilizer gun converted from a Beretta M92F," Otacon informed him.
"M9," Snake mused to himself, turning the gun over in his hands.
Otacon shrugged apologetically. "It's a little hard to work with because you have to reload after each shot since the slid locks."
"It's okay," Snake assured him. "It's better than scavenging on the mission site." He looked down at the silencer. "Good suppressor too."
"The chemical stun will take affect in a few seconds and last for hours. You can take down an elephant with that thing," Otacon said proudly. "Check out the laser sighting too."
Snake peeked around the winch to make sure no one was nearby. Satisfied, he turned away from the winch and aimed the M9 at the nearby wall. A small red laser pointer, attached under the gun's barrel, pointed whichever way the gun went. Snake aimed at a nearby light and squeezed the gun's trigger and shattered the glass, darkening a section of the wall. Glass tinkled onto the deck musically. Snake inspected the gun again and saw that, indeed, the slide was locked. He pulled back on it slightly and it came free, returning to its original position.
"The effects of the anaesthetic rounds will vary depending on what target the body hits," Otacon was saying. "We're talking about a difference of tens of seconds between hitting the enemy's chest or head."
Snake nodded and holstered the pistol again. He reached into one of the pouches at his belt and removed a small square cardboard box, painted red and white. The word "Marlboro" was stenciled on the front.
"As for the equipment..." Otacon said than stopped, squinting at the screen ahead of him. Snake realized, too late, that he had been holding the box in front of the camera on his wrist. "Hey Snake, cigarettes? What's wrong with you?"
Snake smiled sheepishly. "It's kind of a lucky charm."
Otacon tsked, looking like a mother who had caught her son smoking, instead of a grown man. "You haven't read the Surgeon General's warning, have you?"
Snake rolled his eyes, deciding it would be better to put the cigarettes away than risk lighting one up while Otacon watched. He slid the box of smokes back into its pouch and pulled out a small, rectangular digital camera. He held the camera up for Otacon to see.
"That's the digital camera," Otacon informed him. Snake rolled his eyes again, since Otacon was stating the obvious. "It works the almost the same as your old one."
Yeah, since you broke it, Snake thought, remembering the time Otacon had taken it apart to "fix" it. He reached into the pouch again and produced a wire. He slid one of the wire's ends into a plug on the side of his radar screen and the other end he slid into the camera. He put the camera against his face, looking through the small eyehole. The camera focused automatically. Snake pointed the camera towards one of the faraway Marines, zooming in until the man, wearing a raincoat and carrying a flashlight, could be seen quite clearly. The Marine looked quite bored as he wandered the upper deck.
"They don't look armed," Snake murmured, more to himself.
"Hey, Earth to Snake," Otacon said. "These are nice, upstanding Marines, not terrorists. Don't get caught," he warned, "you're in stealth mode here."
"Sure," Snake replied. "And if it comes to that, a little beauty sleep never hurt anyone." Snake hesitated before asking his next question. "By the way, Otacon, are you sure of this intelligence?"
"Absolutely. Hacked it out of the Pentagon's classified files myself."
Snake bit his lower lip. He hated computers. He had been a warrior his whole life – he didn't know anything else – and now wars were being fought digitally, over computer cables and modems. Not only that, but with one bad keystroke, the attacker could be traced right into his home. "No traces?" he asked, slightly worried.
"Oh please," Otacon said, rolling his eyes. "I'm too good for that."
I wonder… Snake thought. "But this might be a trap. Remember, there's a price on our heads."
"You're just being paranoid."
"I hope so." Snake tried to shake off the worried feeling, concentrating on the mission ahead of him. He looked back to the Marine wandering the deck above. "Those men," he said, changing the subject, "you wouldn't think they were anything but civilians from here."
"With all the ships passing on the river and in the harbor, putting uniformed Marines on the deck would be a bad idea," Otacon replied. "People can get a clear view of the water from Riverside too."
Snake looked over the railing, into the water. He frowned slightly, cocking his head to one side, thinking. "The waterline is too high…According to the navigational plans, this ship should've discharged its cargo upriver."
"It's in there," Otacon said. "No doubt about it."
"The military trains you to watch for threats on the stern of a boat. That's SOP for Marine counter-terror ops too. Security should be tighter."
"You worry too much." Otacon sighed.
Snake ignored him. "Where's the target?"
"Satellite surveillance is a major pastime these days." Snake arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "I'd say the cargo holds, safely below the deck. Can you see the entrance to the holds?"
Snake peeked around the winch again. He craned his neck and was finally able to see a watertight bulkhead next to a set of stairs. He looked up and could see another one on the upper deck. "Looks like there are few entries into the crew's quarters," he said. He opened his mouth to say more, but a sudden sound, overhead, stopped him and he listened intently.
"A chopper?" he said. "Wha – ?"
Snake looked up at the Marine wandering the above deck through the digital camera, zooming in until he could see every detail on the man. Nearby, behind the Marine, a shadow detached itself from the wall in the form of a man wearing brown combat fatigues and a black balaclava, wielding a knife. Snake blinked in sudden surprise as the newly arrived terrorist grabbed the Marine from behind and slid his knife across his throat. Blood leapt through the air, mingling with the falling rain. The Marine fell, twitching, to the cold deck.
Snake saw movement in the corner of his eye and swiveled the camera in that direction, where another Marine, just around the corner from his fallen friend, heard the sound of the body hit the deck. He cocked his head to one side and moved forward to investigate when another terrorist moved behind him stealthy. The terrorist kicked the Marine in the back of the leg, bringing him down to his knees. The terrorist then stabbed the Marine in the side of the neck, viciously twisting the knife before drawing it out of the body. Blood stained the front of the terrorist's uniform. Nearby, a small group of terrorists watched the murder, their eyes glowing red from the light of infrared goggles.
The terrorists dragged the two corpses – along with a few others – to the railing, kicking open a gate and tossing the bodies into the river. Wordlessly, the terrorists signaled to each other, covered each other, taking over the tanker. Snake sighed in frustration, blowing a rain-drenched strand of hair away from his eyes.
"Looks like we're not the only ones after Metal Gear tonight," he said.
"Is that a chopper I just heard?" Otacon asked.
"Affirmative. Probably another cavalry." Snake sighed again and shook his head. "What's their game? Hijack?" He looked down at the screen on his wrist, waiting for Otacon's answer.
Otacon looked at something offscreen, then shrugged helplessly. "They're probably after the ship's controls."
"Otacon, how many men do you need to take over a tanker of this size?"
Again, Otacon looked offscreen and Snake heard the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. "The ship is run by a computer, so…I'd say about eighteen people."
Computers, Snake mused, rolling his eyes. How he loathed them. He looked through the digital camera again, inspecting the terrorists clothing and weapons. He couldn't tell where they were from, but their weapons were familiar.
"AKS-74u?" Snake mumbled, zooming in on one of the men's rifles. He did not wish to be going against men armed with those. He moved the camera towards a group of terrorists, who seemed to be guarding someone talking on a radio. The man was large, in his late fifties and had gray hair, as well as a bristling mustache. He finished talking into the radio and handed it to a nearby soldier, who turned and walked away.
"Russians?" Snake wondered aloud.
"Are you sure?" Otacon asked.
"No Marine barber touched that head of hair."
The man reached behind him and produced a fur hat, which he pulled onto his head. He looked up into the rain, looking quite dignified. Quickly, Snake snapped a photo, sending it through the cable on the camera to Otacon.
"I'm transmitting a photo," Snake informed his partner. "Let's get an ID on him ASAP."
"I'm on it," Otacon assured him, tapping on the unseen keyboard.
Snake leaned against the winch, drenched and wet. Slowly, he stood and looked over his shoulder at the bridge on the upper deck. As he turned his head, he caught the sound of the helicopter again. He squinted, sorting through his memory banks, trying to distinguish that sound from hundreds of others he had collected over the years. After no more than a moment or two, he had it.
"KA-60, Kasatka," he said.
"Kasatka?" Otacon repeated. "Kamov chopper, right? 'Killer Whale'…" he mused.
"We need to get a fix on who they are."
"Judging by their transport, aren't they some kind of military commandos?"
"Not necessarily," Snake said. "It could be the KA-62, the civil model."
"Look, Snake," Otacon said, trying to steer the conversation back to the original topic. "All we need is photographic evidence of Metal Gear. As long as we have those, we can put it online and blow the whole thing wide open. So no pyrotechnics, okay?"
Snake smiled. "All right," he said, "I'll do my best."
"This isn't like Shadow Moses," Otacon continued. "Reach me if anything happens. The frequency is 141.12."
"Got it," Snake said, nodding.
"I'll be waiting just past the Verrazano Bridge. You need to be off that ship by then."
"I'll be in touch." Snake cut the transmission by tapping the Codec's activation switch on his neck. Otacon's image on the LCD screen disappeared. Snake stood, peering through the rain to see if any of the terrorists were patrolling nearby. As an afterthought, he looked down at his radar and saw that there were no dots near his position.
He darted through the rain to the wall where he had shot out the light. He kept close to the wall, so that none of the terrorists above could easily see him if they looked down from the upper deck. When he reached the corner of the wall, he peeked around and saw a short flight of stairs leading to the upper deck. There was no one around, so he slipped around the corner, hiding behind the stairs.
Snake was about to turn the next corner – which would lead him to the closed bulkhead – when he saw light gleaming against the wet deck, shimmering in the falling rain. Snake pressed himself against the cold wall, hoping the guard would not continue and see him.
Much to Snake's pleasure, the terrorist stopped at the corner, his AKS-74u – which had a flashlight equipped under the barrel – pointed just beyond the wall so Snake could see it clearly. The gun moved left, right and then disappeared. Snake sighed in relief and stalked around the corner.
The terrorist guard had his back turned to Snake and was walking away. Snake drew his silenced tranquilizer gun and trained the laser on the back of the guard's head. He squeezed the trigger and a small dart thudded into the back of the man's balaclava. The guard quickly turned in surprise, catching a glimpse of Snake before sleep overcame him and he fell backwards with a groan. He hit the deck hard and soon began snoring contentedly.
Snake holstered the pistol and checked the guard's pulse. The first test of his M9 proved successful – the guard was asleep. Quickly, Snake glanced around, making sure there were no other guards about. Satisfied, he picked up the guard by the legs and began dragging him out of sight.
Snake dragged the poor guard under the catwalk of the upper deck, where the rain couldn't reach him, before he saw a small gate in the railing. Acting quickly, before the guard's radio could begin asking about him or another terrorist happened upon him, Snake opened the gate.
"Sorry, buddy," Snake muttered to the dozing terrorist. "But you shouldn't be sleeping on the job." With that, he threw the guard overboard. Snake closed the gate, latching it securely.
Snake walked back to the closed bulkhead and grabbed the wheel firmly with two hands. With a high-pitched squeak, the wheel turned and unlocked. Snake pushed it open and quickly looked in the ship. There didn't seem to be any guards, so he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Just as he closed the door, he heard a voice with a thick Russian accent call through the wind and rain. "Borris?" the voice asked. "Why aren't you on patrol?"
Snake locked the door tight.