Chapter Three

Patrols had been set, and he was tasked to patrol the warehouse. His name was Lieutenant George Harrison. As of now his rank of Lieutenant was ineffectual, but he liked to keep it anyway. He had resigned from the Russian military at that rank several years ago. He had been a Spetsnaz operative and began to develop a dislike and eventual hatred of the Russian government due to the missions he was assigned to. In short he was given all of the government's dirty work, and he found out how the government really handled its business and resented it. So, he resigned and was looking for a place in which he could use the training he had received (which was amongst the best in the world) when it found him.

One day a man came to his apartment and asked if he would like to work for him. The man said his talents would be used as would his hatred. The man disclosed no more information except that and the fact that there would be a handsome monetary reward for accepting. Which he did. Ever since then he had been trained by this group and was prepared – he guessed – for this day. He already had expert training in all the fields he had been trained in by the group: basic soldiering, marksmanship, combat survival, wilderness survival, demolitions, CQB (Close-Quarters-Battle), calling in artillery, naval and air strikes, hostage rescue, HALO and HAHO jumps, and SCUBA diving (in water temperatures ranging from artic to tropical conditions). He was also highly trained with almost every gun he would encounter in the field. Everything form the M14 to the M4, the AK-47 to the AN-94, the MP-5 to the M249. As well as almost every pistol, ranging from the Beretta M9 to the Magnum Research Desert Eagle. However, he favored revolvers to semi-automatic handguns. Namely: the Colt Single Action Army. He was considered by many of his new allies as one of the most highly trained soldiers in the world, and he was, and he knew it. He knew anybody he came across in the field would be at an extreme disadvantage when squaring off against him.

Despite all of his training he had to be retrained in certain aspects. Everything he had been trained for was training for offensive operations. What he was trained for now was defense. Guarding an area from attack rather than attacking. He quickly adapted to the new scenarios and simply thought himself even more expertly trained than before – something he eagerly accepted.

The level of the warehouse he was tasked with guarding was the upper area. It was a two story building with numerous basement levels. He was in the second story. It served as a storage facility for the base. In it everything from food to guns were stored. In addition, ammunition, clothes, and other gear was held – gear such as boots, helmets, vests, body armor and other assorted things. Despite the remote location of the base, it was as completely stocked with military wares as any other military base in the world.

At first he wasn't too sure as to what exactly he was guarding against and then he remembered that the Navy might have gotten word that the base was over run and may attempt to take it back. As a former SEAL, he was fully aware of the potential of the United States' Special Forces. He knew that if there was a retaliatory strike it would be hard, decisive and unmerciful. Although he thought his post trivial he knew that every part of a Special Forces team was as important as any other and that he needed to take every order he received seriously or dire consequences could arise from it. He knew what his employer sought, and based on his wages he knew it was of great import, this only fueled his curiosity and his fear. For if it was so important to the thief, it must be more important to the current owner. And due to the fact that the owner – or rather creator and former owner – was the United States government he knew that they would try to take it back as quickly and covertly as possible.

He pushed the PTT (Push To Talk) button on his radio:

"Warehouse, second floor, reporting." He said into the microphone incorporated into his earpiece in a gruff voice with a combination of Russian and English accents.

"Proceed." Came the voice from the other end.

"All clear. Copy?"

"Roger, carry on."

He continued around the large room that was divided into several rooms with two corridors running vertically and horizontally across it. These corridors divided the floor into 4 rooms. Each containing different supplies. One containing ammunition, another guns, another clothing and gear, and one food. Everything was in lockers, boxes, or cold storage. Guns in lockers, ammunition in magazines inside boxes, clothing in boxes, and food in cold storage. He shared the guard duty of the area with another soldier. Each had two rooms and a corridor to look after. He knew that even if the Navy had gotten word of their incursion it would take a while for them to get there. So, he approached his fellow guard – who he did not know too well – and tried to make conversation.

"Smoke?" Harrison offered as he took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

"Why not? Nothing's going on around here anyway." The guard answered as he took a cigarette which Harrison lit for him.

"So, what's you name?" Harrison asked trying to make small talk.

"Johnny," He answered. "Johnny Newfield."

"George Harrison." Was his response, extending a hand jokingly. "Nice to umm, meet you."

"Same here. So, where are you from?"

"Originally, Russia, but I've moved around a bit." Harrison answered as he looked at his watch and thought to himself '30 seconds.' And then to Newfield: "I sincerely hope you enjoyed that cigarette, because it's going to be the last you'll ever have."

"What...?" Asked Newfield curiously and somewhat scared.

"Well, you see," Started Harrison, thinking '15 seconds.' Then with a smile "It was laced with concentrated cyanide, and as your breathing, your dying. You have about 3 seconds of life."

"What...why?!?" Newfield vainly tried raising his guns but dropped to his knees before he could. He was choking, ad vainly trying to elicit help, but for his case, there was no cure.

"And, just so you know, my name isn't Lieutenant George Harrison." He began, removing his back-pack and taking out a long brown trench coat, which he put on over his brown, orange and black Russian woodland BDU. "My name, is Shalashaska...Revolver Ocelot."

With this Newfield falls to the ground, dead. Ocelot takes off his combat vest, MP5, thigh holster and boonie hat and put them in a locker. He also took off the wig that was on his head, revealing long, silvery-white hair. He then took out of his backpack a waist holster and a holster that went over one shoulder, and then clipped onto the other holster at his waist. These were lined with .45 Long Colt rounds. Lastly, out of the backpack two Colt Single Action Armies, blued steel, 5 inch barrels and ivory grips emerged. These he started spinning. Starting out forwards, then one forwards one backwards, then spinning them while making large circles with them. Then he throws one behind, up and over his shoulder, catches it, spins it extremely fast and throws it into the holster at his waist. As he did this he threw the other one up in the air, from his left hand, and catches it in his right hand and spins it very slowly almost looking as if in slow-motion then picking up speed begins changing the angle of his hand to accentuate the figure-eight he was making in the air. Then at the peak of the eight, he changes direction and brings the gun gently down into the holster at his back, over his kidney.

He then took of the radio that was on his shoulder and discarded it, as he already had nanomachines and a codec working inside of him. Using his codec, as he headed out of the building, he said:

"Everything is set." Then responding to an unheard voice. "Yes, I've infiltrated the base. Of course, they have no idea who I am, despite my renown. Yes, of "