A CAT AND A TRAITOR

When they stepped out of the complex, Snake opened his mouth to tell Sokolov to keep quiet . . . and then he felt the cold ring of a rifle barrel sock against his temple. "Freeze!"

Five soldiers were standing around the entrance, all of them with their weapons pointed at the two men. Snake chanced a glance up, saw a sixth standing on a low roof of a nearby building. He closed his eyes and swore. If only The Boss were here . . .

"Step aside!"

The rifle barrel pressed against his head vanished. And Snake looked up as the soldiers stepped back, confused. Another man was striding towards him. He was young, clean-cut, boyish-looking despite his angular face and icy glare. His hair was light, cropped close to his skull. A maroon beret was cocked almost jauntily on his head. He wore an immaculate black uniform, with the insignia of a GRU major on his lapel. Snake was surprised. This man-this boy-looked barely old enough to even be in the Russian military, much less an officer of distinction.

The officer's gloved hands were full of gun. Twin Makarov PMs, the standard sidearm for Soviet soldiers. Except the youth was twirling them, spinning them, like a desperado out of the Old West. The guns moved so fast you could scarcely make them out as anything but steel-colored blurs.

The major strutted up to Snake. "So this is the legendary Boss," he mused. "We meet at last!"

One of the KGB soldiers stared at the youth. "You! You're from the OCELOT unit of Spetsnaz!"

"What's a GRU soldier doing here?" another soldier wanted to know.

The youth glared. "Soldier?"

Another trooper's eyes widened. "He's the OCELOT commander!"

The young man rounded on the one who had spoken, pointing his gloved finger at the man's chest. "That's Major Ocelot to you. And don't you forget it."

The first soldier jabbed the barrel of his rifle at the major's chest. "Sokolov is ours," he said. "Now get out of here."

The man called Ocelot smiled. "An ocelot never lets his prey escape."

The soldiers exchanged puzzled glances. "Wha-"

Ocelot's hands suddenly became red blurs, and the air erupted with gunfire. The first soldier flew back, a new hole in his throat. The two standing behind him dropped like dominoes a second later. Ocelot spun around, twisting his elbows and firing the Makarovs into the two KGB troops standing bewildered behind him. Ocelot then turned, watching as the soldier on the roof ducked for cover. He sneered, and fired a shot. The bullet ricocheted, glancing off a metal beam, and Snake heard a scream abruptly cut short.

The kid's got style, I gotta give him that.

Ocelot adjusted his maroon beret, as coolly as if he'd just gone for a short walk rather than gunning down six armed KGB soldiers. "I can't say it feels good to kill a comrade," he said, his voice tinged with lament. Then he shrugged. "Even if it is for the GRU."

Snake readied his pistol, glancing at Sokolov. The scientist was quavering with fear. "Sokolov, take cover," he hissed.

Ocelot turned and ambled over, twirling the pistols in either hand again. His brow furrowed. "You aren't The Boss, are you?"

Before Snake could say anything, Ocelot opened his mouth and let out a loud yowling sound. It reminded Snake of an angry cat. A moment later, several black-garbed soldiers seemed to materialize from all around him, wielding rifles and red berets. Sokolov moaned in horror.

"GRU operatives . . ."

Ocelot, meanwhile, had taken an interest in something else. He looked Snake up and down. "What is that stance?" he said, his sneer deepening. "That gun?"

He started to laugh, a loud, boisterous sound, like a kid trying to impress his friends. The other soldiers started to laugh as well. Snake kept his eye on Ocelot, and the guns he twirled. He had a feeling-

Ocelot's laughter silenced and his voice turned icy. "If you're not The Boss," he said, "then die!"

He raised one of the pistols and squeezed the trigger.

Misfire.

Ocelot's eyes widened as Snake's fist connected with his jaw. Ocelot flew back as Snake planted a boot on the young man's chest, knocking him to the ground. Sokolov shrieked with horror and took off, running into the jungle.

One of the GRU soldiers saw him run and raised his rifle. He triggered a burst, but Sokolov had already disappeared in the jungle.

"You idiot!" Ocelot gasped. "Shoot the other one!"

Snake sprang into action. He seized one of Ocelot's pistols and lobbed it at one of the soldiers, shattering the man's nose. He grabbed the man's rifle and swung it in a hard arc, smashing the barrel against another soldier's skull. The other soldiers had barely raised their own weapons before Snake threw himself back, opening fire. The three soldiers went down. He threw the rifle away and walked back over to their stricken commander, who was flailing for his other pistol.

Ocelot closed his fingers around the Makarov, swinging it to bear on the American spy. Snake saw it coming. He seized Ocelot by the wrist and planted his other hand on the young commander's breastbone, shoving him to the ground hard enough to rattle the Russian's teeth in his head. The gun fell from Ocelot's nerveless fingers. When it did, the jammed round spent itself from the cartridge with a loud clack.

Ocelot lay on the ground, stunned. He blinked at Snake, unable to believe what had just happened. It just . . . it was . . . "Impossible!" he blurted, as though stating it would have changed things.

"You ejected the first bullet by hand, didn't you?" Snake nodded in approval. "I see what you were trying to do. But testing a technique you've only heard about in the middle of battle? That wasn't very smart. You were asking to have your gun jam on you."

Ocelot stared at the American soldier. How dare he presume to lecture him, here on the battlefield of all places! He straightened his arm, felt the knife he kept up his sleeve slide into his palm.

Snake smiled. "Besides," he said, kicking the gun out of Ocelot's reach, "I don't think you're cut out for an automatic in the first place. You tend to twist your elbow to absorb the recoil." He demonstrated with his own arm. "That's more of a revolver technique."

Ocelot looked up, anger flickering across his face. He lifted the knife-

"You filthy American dog!"

-and thrust the blade forward, but Snake easily sidestepped the attack, seizing the young man's arm and twisting it, then shoving the youth face-first into the dirt. Ocelot grunted as his chin smacked the earth hard.

Ocelot moaned, rolling on his back. Snake stepped back. "But that was some fancy shooting," he said. "You're pretty good."

Ocelot blinked dazedly. "Pretty good," he repeated. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

Snake stepped back. The young major was tough; he'd wake up with one hell of a headache in a few minutes. By then, he wanted to be as far away from Rassvet as possible. He turned and started off in the direction Sokolov had gone. Along the way, he tapped his ear.

"Major Tom, do you read me?"

"I read you. Snake, are you all right?"

"I've run into a few snags," he reported. "These guys were after Sokolov as well. Apparently, they were taking orders from a GRU colonel named Volgin."

"A GRU colonel?" Major Tom sounded confused.

"Yeah. Part of an internal Soviet power struggle, according to Sokolov. Something between the KGB and the GRU, between Khrushchev's supporters and Volgin's."

Major Tom seemed to mull that over. "Sokolov was being guarded by the KGB and hunted by the GRU? Snake, it sounds like this could be even hotter than Cuba."

"I don't like it," Snake said. "Something about this whole thing stinks."

"I agree. You'd better hurry. We're counting on you."

Snake turned around to make sure he wasn't being followed, and continued on. He figured Sokolov would be waiting at the rope bridge, waiting for either the GRU commander or for his American savior. He hoped the scientist would have sense to hide in case the troops he'd tranquilized there had roused from their sleep.

When he broke through the jungle at the canyon, he saw Sokolov leaning against a tree, panting with exertion. His head kept darting about, like a dog who has sensed a storm coming. When Snake emerged into view, Sokolov tensed, then relaxed.

"Are you okay?" Snake asked.

The scientist's face was shining with sweat. "Those men were from the OCELOT unit!" he babbled.

"Spetsnaz?"

"Yes. The very best that GRU has to offer." His eyes scanned the jungle around them anxiously, as though expecting the young major and his forces to spring out at them again. "They're coming for me. I'm finished!"

"Calm down," Snake grunted. He placed a hand on the Russian scientist's shoulder to relax him. "I'll get you out of here, I promise."

"I've heard that before," Sokolov muttered.

"We've got some of the best backup we could ask for."

Sokolov opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden rush of thunder engulfed the air, echoing across the river canyon. Snake looked up at the ominous sky, but Sokolov's eyes raked the high bluffs of the nearby mountain range. "There!"

Snake looked where the scientist was pointing. The high bluffs were a few miles to the east, but he could see a large shape jutting from one of them. A wisp of smoke obscured it. Snake fished out his field glasses, raising the binoculars to his eyes.

It was a massive tank-like vehicle of sorts, with a large cylindrical shaft that was unmistakably a volley gun. Snake couldn't see much of it, as most of it was obscured by the smoke and the rock outcropping, but it looked like bad news.

"Is that what they were making you build?"

Sokolov nodded, his face grim. "Yes. It is the Shagohod."

"Shagohod?"

"Yes. The Treading Behemoth. It is a tank capable of launching nuclear IRBMs."

Snake was astonished. He had just noticed that the Shagohod's perch was rather precarious, buttressed right on the edge of the bluff, smoke wafting from its titanic barrel. "It can launch nuclear missiles from that kind of terrain?"

"Oh yes." Now Sokolov's voice was tinged with pride. "And without support from friendly units."

A nuclear-equipped tank capable of operating solo. Snake shuddered at the thought of what that would mean for the Cold War. "Is that thing finished?"

"No," the scientist replied, and Snake felt a little better. "This is only the end of Phase One. It won't be truly finished until we complete Phase Two."

"Phase Two?" Snake repeated.

Sokolov nodded. His face darkened. "The weapon's true form. If it is completed, and Volgin gets his hands on it . . ." He trailed off, then shuddered. "It will mean the end of the Cold War. Then the age of fear will truly begin."

Snake knew the result. "A new world war."

Sokolov nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I had no choice but to cooperate," he said desperately. "I didn't want to die. I wanted to see my wife and child again in America."

He seized Snake's arm. "Please! Take me to America quickly." He nodded toward the ridge. "They cannot complete it without my help."

Snake looked at the scientist. "Better get a move on, then."

The mist rising from the roaring river was growing in intensity, so much that he could barely make out the other side of the bridge. He nudged Sokolov, and the scientist followed him, meekly moaning as the two cautiously made their way over the bridge.

The first thing Snake noticed was that the bodies of the men he'd knocked out were no longer on the bridge. He wondered if perhaps they'd followed their comrades into the drink, but better to assume they were somewhere close, alive and waiting. And-

And someone was coming.

He saw the silhouette through the mist, a shape that was coming closer towards them on the bridge. He drew the MK-22 and leveled it at the shape's chest, waiting for a clean shot. Then the fog seemed to slip away for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to show Snake who it was, and the surprise hit him like a freight train.

"Boss?"

She wore a white HALO jumpsuit, of a similar design to the one he himself wore. Her fine blonde hair was pulled back by a headband, as was her fashion. Her sphinx-like poise, fascinating and fluid. He had seen the woman charge headlong into battle without so much as flinching. Her eyes like a cat's, lowered in a gaze that smoldered as well as chilled.

She carried two stainless-steel cylinders, one in either hand. The cylinders looked heavy, maybe a couple hundred pounds apiece. Yet The Boss somehow carried them with no effort at all.

The Boss dropped one of the cases on the bridge. It buckled a little, swaying unsteadily. Snake seized at the rope for purchase as the bridge listed sharply, but The Boss remained unmoved. She set down the other case, and the bridge abruptly leveled out. Behind him, Sokolov moaned in horror.

"Good work, Jack," The Boss said.

Snake was puzzled. He lowered the pistol. "What are you doing here?"

Those hooded ice-water eyes flickered over Snake's shoulder at the quivering scientist. "Sokolov comes with me."

Snake opened his mouth to speak, but found that words had failed him. His mind spun. What was going on? Did Zero not trust him to extract Sokolov, instead entrusting his safety to his former mentor? He was at a loss, and he didn't even notice the low hum, familiar but somehow louder, heavier, until his ears filled with the drone.

Hornets.

Not just the ones he'd riled up before; they closed in on the trio in a great wave. They were huge, slow-moving things, an inch long. He swatted at them, desperate to keep them off his bare skin. But whenever he would brush them away, more would come. He sank to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut, only to realize he didn't feel the hot stab of pain from them. He looked up and saw The Boss standing there, not even flinching. Instead she gave a curt nod.

There was a shriek, and Snake turned just in time to see something yank Sokolov bodily into the air. Through the buzzing haze of hornets, Snake could see a frightening-looking figure had closed around the scientist like a spider-a figure with a sharp, pale face and a shark's grin. The figure had ascended into the air with the scientist kicking and screaming, and Snake could dimly make out a rope hoisting Sokolov and his abductor into the air. And then he caught it, another sound blended with the thrum, a deeper rumble that built and emerged until it was clear: the rhythmic thumping of a helicopter. And there it was. A big-bellied gunship, with the red star of the Red Army emblazoned on the side, hovering fifty feet or so overhead.

There was a sudden white crack of lightning, and everything flared bright. It that flash he saw Sokolov dragged into the helicopter. In addition to Sokolov's captor, he saw the briefest glimpse of at least two other shapes.

He turned his gaze back to The Boss, who was staring up at the chopper. "My friends," she said, her voice strangely amplified by the hornets' droning. "Let us fight together again!"

He could scarcely believe it, but a voice replied, a hissing voice that prickled the hairs on the nape of Snake's neck. "I have waited long for this day."

The thunder crashed, deafeningly loud and very close. Another voice seemed to respond, this one rough and guttural, almost choking: "We will fight with you once more."

And then one final rejoinder, in a voice that was frail and sounded like whispering leaves. "Welcome back, Boss."

Snake saw a smile flicker across The Boss's face. "Now that all five of us are together, it's time we go to the depths of Hell itself."

Snake felt a bolt of realization strike him. Those voices must have belonged to the men The Boss fought with during the war, the ones that had become myths alongside her. The Boss had never spoken of them during their time together, though he'd often asked.

The Cobra Unit.

The first drops of rain started to fall, and he saw The Boss's body tense. His mind, which was already blitzed by confusion, reeled even more. The Boss had fought in all sorts of weather, and yet the rain here seemed to bring with it something else.

She held up a hand to her face, staring at it with a look that Snake had never seen on her face before. Was it . . . tenderness?

"It's raining blood," she whispered. She looked back up at the sky. "Is he crying?"

Snake felt a sudden chill when lightning flared up in jagged brightness and he saw something flicker over The Boss's shoulder. It was gone, and he doubted that what he had seen had really been there, but for a moment he thought he'd seen a face behind The Boss-a grinning, ethereal face under a dark hood. The Boss spun around, as though she'd sensed the apparition, but she saw nothing there.

There was a sharp crack of thunder, and then Snake saw something appear on the other end of the bridge. A figure that seemed to move ponderously, like a great wall on legs. The bridge sagged a bit further as the man approached. He easily stood six feet, eight inches tall. Even though he wore a heavy gray trenchcoat, which looked blanket-sized to him, Snake could tell he was broad in the shoulders and deep through the chest, laced over with all kinds of muscle. It was a wonder he didn't snap the planks under his feet as he walked. Snake wondered if they even would dare to break. He was bald, his skin an almost corpse-like color. Bunched scars ran down one side of his jaw, like something had seared him. His mouth was a grinning rictus that was almost obscene.

What drew Snake's attention from that horrid smile was the man's slab-like fists. He wore bright blood-colored gloves, and as he approached he flexed them, cracking the knuckles. Snake saw blue fire seem to glow between the man's fingers, little sparks of electricity that hummed. There was a smell about him, too-it reminded him of an overheated transformer, or the air after a lightning storm.

"Kuwabara, kuwabara," the man chanted. His voice was a deep and quiet rumble. Snake realized who this man was even before he reached them. If there was anyone else deserving of the moniker "Thunderbolt," Snake couldn't imagine him.

Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin stopped just behind The Boss. She barely came up to his water-barrel of a chest; she looked like a little girl next to a bear. His grin grew wider, exposing all of his teeth and most of his gums. "What a joyful scene."

The Boss nodded curtly. "Colonel Volgin."

Volgin's head dipped a bit in respect, and he threw his arms out in good humor. "Welcome to my country, Voyevoda," he said. "And to my unit."

Snake finally found his voice. "Boss? What is this?"

The Boss turned back to him. "I'm defecting to the Soviet Union," she said, as breezily as if she were saying the sun would set in the west.

Snake stared at her, aghast.

"Sokolov is a gift for my new hosts," The Boss added.

Volgin stooped down. Each hand found one of the stainless-steel cylinders The Boss had set down. "Recoilless nuclear warheads?" He lifted them up as effortlessly as if they were cardboard, tucking one over each shoulder. "These will make a fine gift for me."

This can't be happening, Snake thought crazily. It can't.

Volgin's eyes fell on the young soldier for the first time. "Who is he?" he demanded. His eyes narrowed. "Another one of your disciples?"

The Boss said nothing. Volgin sidled past her, still studying Snake as though he were an interesting breed of insect. "Are we taking him with us?"

The Boss shook her head. "No. This one is still just a child. Too pure for us Cobras." Her cat's eyes swept over Snake with a sort of glacial contempt. "He still hasn't found an emotion to carry into battle."

That stare galvanized Snake. He raised the pistol again, pointing the barrel at his old mentor. "What are you talking about?" he growled.

The Boss stepped closer serenely, her gaze never wavering. "Think you can pull the trigger?"

Before Snake could react, she seized the gun with one hand and shoved her elbow into Snake's chest. He grunted and toppled backward as The Boss pulled back on the MK-22's recoil mechanism, snapping it away from the weapon and flinging it into the river below. It happened in the blink of an eye.

Snake recovered quickly, rising back to his feet into the fighting stance The Boss had drilled into him mercilessly. He lashed out, but The Boss was ready. She grasped his fist and twisted it, knocking Snake off-balance. His arm was twisted behind his back, held there by The Boss. Before he could recover, The Boss brought her elbow down hard onto his. He heard it snap. The pain was instantaneous and huge. He yelled. The Boss released. He sank to his knees, his arm hanging uselessly at his side.

Dislocated, maybe even broken.

Volgin set the cylinders down on the other end of the bridge. Now he turned and began to walk back. "He's seen my face. We can't let him live." Through the haze of pain, Snake looked up. Sparks were flying from between Volgin's knuckles. Volgin was no longer smiling. "If Khrushchev finds out about this, we're finished. He must die."

He moved to grab the wounded soldier, but a hand blocked him. The Boss stood there, her steely gaze meeting Volgin's. "Wait," she said.

Volgin lowered his hand, and The Boss turned to look at the man she'd all but immobilized with agony. Snake looked up at her, tears of pain stinging his eyes. She seemed to waver, shimmer to him.

"He's my apprentice," she said. "I'll take care of him."

Volgin crossed his arms over his chest and grumbled. He was renowned and feared among the troops he commanded for the pleasure he took in doling out punishment. Had anyone else intervened, he might very well have ignored them . . . but he didn't want to cross his new ally. "Very well. But make it quick."

The Boss looked down at Snake. "Jack," she said, her voice firm and even. "You can't come with us."

She reached out. Snake stared at the hand for a moment, then took it. She squeezed it once, and for the briefest of instants Snake forgot the pain in his arm. It was replaced by the pain in his heart, his soul.

"Boss . . ."

Then the agony returned in a sharp rush, and The Boss suddenly yanked him to his feet. As she did, she threw her weight to one side, and Snake was lifted from the bridge. Snake lashed out desperately, wildly, with his good arm, and he felt his fingers close over something. He held it tightly as The Boss flung him off the bridge.

He hung there in the void for a frozen moment of horror, staring stupidly out at the jungle that fell sharply into the river. And then he fell.

He screamed once, only once, before he hit the river.