"The mission is simple. Our client wants the UAE's airfield destroyed, and their aircraft eliminated. Note, they didn't specify how the aircraft should be eliminated." Miller told Snake over the codec. Snake meanwhile checked over his weapons one last time. His usual MRS had been replaced with an FNC due to rifle shortages, but his Burkov with Tranq rounds remained. Nagant accompanied him, examining her Renov quietly.
"What kind of planes are we looking at?" Snake asked him, as he opened the helicopter's door.
"F-16s, if the reports on these are correct."
"How many?" Snake asked.
"Should be fourteen of them on the airfield," Miller answered, as Snake looked out the helicopter's doors. He could see the airfield from here, along with the jets on the runway. They must be getting ready for drills. Good, it left everything out in the open. The helicopter neared the ground, and Snake jumped out. Nagant landed beside him, and they made their approach. They stuck low to the desert sands, coming up to the airfield.
Nagant stayed back then, finding a vantage point on a dune. Snake, meanwhile, climbed over a fence blocking the way. Now inside, he surveyed the area in front of him. Pilots walked around, preparing to take off, with crewmen going over the final checks. He wasn't noticed yet, so Snake moved quickly. He crawled on the ground, sneaking over to a vacant patch of the runway.
Once there, he double-checked his surroundings before pulling out the C4. In a precise way, he placed the bricks equally. The C4 set up, he began crawling away to a secluded area. Once far enough away, he found the jets beginning to take off. Snake used the detonator, blowing a crater-sized hole into the runway. Seeing this the jets stopped. The crew on the field scrambled to figure out what had happened.
Snake amidst the chaos, crawled back out. Unnoticed he placed more C4 on the other half of the runway. Then like the first, he crawled away and activated the charges. A second hole appeared, ruining the once-flat airfield. The crewmen were soon replaced with guards, as they swarmed into the area. Looking out, he found the jets now stuck on the open runway, trapped between the craters.
Wasting no time, Snake approached the first jet carefully. He stuck off to the sides, ensuring neither the pilot nor any guards spotted him. Once there he placed the first electric mine of the jet. It shorted out the F-16s systems and shocked the pilot unconscious. The first jet now done; he walked up to the second jet. Nagant meanwhile, kept the guards distracted. To lure them away from the airfield, she tranquilized one of them.
The others saw their compatriot pass out and went to check on him. Then a second was tranquilized, and a third. At that moment the guards realized what was happening and took cover. She could see them scouting the area, looking for where she might have been. She understood why Snake had made her ditch the hero costume now though. The desert camouflage she had been given hid her perfectly.
She pulled the trigger on her Renov, as a guard foolishly stuck their head out. He fell to the ground in an instant, his buddies pulling his body away. Watching as the guards scrambled, Nagant activated her codec.
"We good over there?" she asked.
"Almost, I just extracted the eighth jet," Snake replied as he pulled the unconscious pilot out of a jet.
She noticed another guard approaching the airfield. He hadn't spotted Snake, but he was getting too close for comfort. She pulled the trigger again, taking him out quickly.
"I suggest you hurry, reinforcements appear to be arriving," she told him, before shooting another guard. Snake, noticing the uptick in guards, extracted the last jet. With the airfield clear, he started crawling back to the fence. He snuck past the dozens of unconscious guards, before finding where he entered. He climbed back over the fence and ran the rest of the way. Now out he met up with Nagant and called in Pequod.
Miller stared down the Broker, as the list was held in his hands. MSF needed equipment as always, but this was a little different.
"I can get you three E-3 AWACs for eight hundred and ten million," The Broker started, taking a quick drink from a nearby glass.
"Two for five forty," Miller countered, taking a drink from his own.
"Two, and a surplus of parts, for six-fifty," The Broker replied.
"Deal," Miller told him.
"Alright, let's see. Four C-17s for one point seven billion."
"Three for one billion."
"Three and surplus parts?"
"Three, no parts."
"Three no parts then."
MSF didn't need more tanks, IFVs, APCs, or other fighting vehicles at the moment. No, they didn't have enough logistical vehicles. That is what they needed. They needed more tankers to fuel their aircraft. AWACs for aerial support and some planes equipped for electronic warfare. In simple terms, they needed more back-line equipment. Things that didn't see combat.
"For a cheaper option, I have some C-5s available. Should cost less than the Globemasters." The Broker told him as he poured himself another glass.
"Any major differences I should know about?" Miller asked him, getting his glass refilled.
"C-5 can carry more stuff, about a hundred thousand pounds more than the C-17. The C-17 however can land on shorter runways and in more secluded and less developed areas."
That might help considering MSF's areas of operation. It'd help to have something that could land in the middle of nowhere, even if only barely. The rest was simpler stuff they might need. Patrol boats for rivers, LCACs for coastal landings, and some bigger helicopters like Sea Dragons, Chinooks, and Super Stallions. The Broker had tried to offer up an Arleigh Burke destroyer, but Miller wasn't going through that debacle a second time.
"The last thing I have for you is some M9 Ace engineering vehicles. At the moment I have twenty but come back later and I can give you forty." The Broker told him, going over the last of Miller's list.
"How much?" Miller asked. Reconstruction efforts in Venezuela had proven more than MSF was capable. They badly needed these vehicles because of it, but it also brought forth a new business venture Miller was looking to exploit. That of rebuilding warzones, once the conflict died down.
"Thirty-five million for twenty."
"Bullshit. One of these is at least seven hundred thousand. That means twenty-eight million at the bare minimum." Miller countered, taking a quick swig from his glass.
"Hey, I need to make some kind of profit on this. Be glad it's on these rather than the big items." The Broker replied. Miller couldn't help but agree with him on that, the C-17s in particular were expensive enough.
"Fine, but I'll be back for the other twenty."
"I would expect so. Now, is there anything else or are we done for the day?" The Broker asked him, as he handed the list back to Miller.
"You have anything on Night Owl?" Miller asked in return.
"Anything for free? No. For another two million, maybe." The Broker replied, taking yet another drink from his glass.
"Two million it is then."
"Well, I've gotten word on a few of his purchases." The Broker began.
"Yeah, a bunch of weapons and whatnot, we already know." Miller interrupted.
"Do you, because the equipment itself paints a message. It's all outdated Soviet crap, going back decades in terms of quality. But there's a lot of it in the area. Now that I think about it, that's the reason he's not buying from me. I don't have the amount of equipment he's looking for."
"So, you saying he's after it because it's cheap and plentiful? That would mean he's trying to get equipment as quickly as possible." Miller noted aloud.
"Bingo. It's the same reason all the more modern Western stuff is so expensive. It takes time to steal and buy it from warehouses and weapon depots. But down there you can walk in empty-handed and leave with a T-55 and some Kalashnikovs. So, if you want something now, you go there." The Broker told him, kicking his feet up on the desk. It left Miller to ponder for a moment. Whatever Night Owl was doing, it was clear he was making an army. But was it for himself, or the HPSC?
Even then why would he be old equipment? Was time the biggest issue he faced? What would he even need the army for, with the HPSC he effectively had the world under his control. It only brought more questions to Miller's mind, especially as he signed the last contract.
Being a spy was nothing like how it was in the movies. And none knew this better than Ocelot. It was less sleeping with beautiful women and drinking martinis, and more kissing ass and doing chores. Occasionally it was an inspection into some offshore HPSC facility, a facility Ocelot would notify MSF of. Other times it was checking in on local hero agencies, and which ones needed to be eliminated.
But today was the weirdest task Ocelot would face. The President was having trouble with some high school's principal. The principal had convinced the UN to consider his school as international territory, and Ocelot had to respect that. The political maneuvers and backstabbing it had to have taken for that are nothing but astonishing. And now he wondered if it was possible to do something like it himself.
As he approached the school itself, he couldn't help but wonder why the door was so damn tall. All the other buildings had doors at normal heights, yet the front door here was a good twenty feet taller. He had seen some tall HPSC agents simply crouch under a door to go somewhere, and here one was, perfect for their height. It made no sense. But he kept going forward, spinning his revolvers as always.
Just as his pinky toe crossed an invisible line, a massive wall shot up in front of him. He took him off guard for a second as he examined it. Did they know he was coming at all? It didn't seem likely as a massive screen appeared on the exterior of the gate. The screen lit up and the face of something appeared. He couldn't tell if it was a stoat or a dog. Maybe a combination of both.
"I believe you must be the HPSC rep the President sent over." the… stoat stated.
"I am," Ocelot replied. The thing chuckled for a moment as if it knew something Ocelot didn't.
"My apologies," it said, "allow me to lower the gate, I'll be waiting for you in my office."
Slowly the gate lowered in front of him, showing off the area of heroes that stood on the other side. Ocelot simply greeted them with a smirk, all the while doing tricks with his revolvers. They stood down as the stoat seemed to radio information to them, allowing Ocelot to enter the building. The hallways were just as tall as the gate, with there being some rather large students.
He found a hobo seemingly waiting for him, a long scarf wrapped around his neck.
"The rats waiting for you upstairs." he motioned, his eyes uncaring for the situation at hand. He led Ocelot the rest of the way there. As he went some students would stop and stare at him for a moment. He assumed it was the attire, especially after some wondered if he was a hero. Oh, how wrong they were. Halfway to the "rat's" office, they were intercepted by another… Ocelot wasn't sure if hero was the right term here.
"Well," the woman before him began in a low sultry voice, "who might this strapping cowboy be?"
"The HPSC rep." the hobo replied uncaringly.
"If this is what a rep looks like, then they can send as many as they like." the woman said, looking Ocelot up and down. He couldn't have been happier to have his revolvers with him.
"Nemuri Kayama, Midnight, at your service," she introduced, subtly pushing her chest forward.
"Revolver…" he spun his guns around then, flipping them around, "Ocelot,"
"Well cowboy, you can take me for a ride-"
"Afraid not mam, business before pleasure and all that." Ocelot interrupted, holstering his revolvers then. The woman sputtered silently for a moment there, and he could swear the hobo gave a small smirk.
"A shame, but I'll be waiting when business ends," she told him, the facade returning swiftly. She walked away then, doing her best to seduce Ocelot. He could swear she was worse than Eva. But they went back on their way, with Ocelot trying to forget what had happened. The office was in sight then, and Ocelot's guide slumped against the wall.
"He's right in there." the hobo told him, before pulling a sleeping bag from somewhere. In a matter of seconds, he was asleep, leaving Ocelot to enter the room. A large desk sat in front of him, with the stoat sitting in an office chair. It sat there, taking a sip from a small teacup, as its eyes studied him.
"Revolver Ocelot, I presume? I must say I've heard a lot about you. Mysteriously appearing and gaining employment with the HPSC. Rapidly rising through the ranks. Genuinely intriguing."
"I aim to please," Ocelot replied all the while examining the rest of the room "And you are?"
"I could be a mouse, or a bear, or a dog. But most importantly, I'm Nezu, the Principal of UA." Nezu replied, before taking a sip of tea.
"One for the eccentrics I see," Ocelot commented.
"If I may ask, why are you here?" Nezu asked him, looking him dead in the eye.
"The President sent me down to try and convince you to drop your international status," Ocelot replied before taking a seat across the desk.
The stoat simply chuckled, "I know what your orders are, I meant why you, in particular, are here."
"Heh, part orders, part respect. I can respect a man or…" Ocelot paused, trying to think of what the thing in front of him was.
"Chimera."
"Chimera that can pull off this sort of political maneuvers. For that, I had to see you myself." Ocelot told him, taking out his revolver for a trick.
"Well, as you said, I aim to please," Nezu told him, before taking another sip from his cup. They remained silent after that, thinking out their next move. For one Ocelot had no real intention of following through with the President's orders. He would pretend to make a big fuss over it, and be able to claim he tried, but he wouldn't actually. He didn't know what the chimera was planning though.
"You are not the only one who has me intrigued." Nezu began before screens on the walls suddenly turned on.
"I've had my eye on you and your cohorts for some time now. Impeccable work by the way."
The MSF was now on the screen. Photos of soldiers fighting cartel members down in Venezuela. Of clashes between the MSF and the Israeli heroes. Dozens of their actions as present in front of him. It increased Ocelot's respect for the chimera immensely, but it also made him wary.
"How?" Ocelot asked him, pulling out his second revolver. Better safe than sorry.
"Try as the HPSC might, but they can't censor everything." Nezu told him, before looking back at him calmly, "There is no need to worry, however. I am no friend of the President."
"I wouldn't be here if you were."
"But back to the topic at hand, I truly am impressed. Destroying the cartel in Venezuela, robbing oil dictators in the Middle East, not to mention the first escape Tartarus has had in the last fifty years. Truly, I am impressed."
"Do tell," Ocelot commented as he looked back over to Nezu, "There something you want out of this?"
"Only one thing. I want to meet this, legendary Big Boss, the underworld has been up in arms over."
The Tyrant looked over the field and saw nothing but blood. And he saw that it was good. For this field, which was once owned by his rival, was now his. The rivers ran with blood, as his men piled the bodies into large mass graves. And he saw that it was good. Tanks and helicopters leaked unburnt gasoline into the soil and grass. And only a few miles away, he could see the shelled-out village, the white phosphorus clouds still resting over it. And he saw that it was good.
The corpses of men, women, and children littered the ground. Their clothes were torn and their bodies violated. And he saw that it was good. And as he ripped the bible out of the hands of a dead chaplain, he truly could confirm, that it was good.
"You think I could get my hands on some of that?" Night Owl asked him, pointing over to the gas clouds above the village.
"Why not, it should be in your price range." The Tyrant told him.
"And how hot does it get?"
"About one thousand, four hundred degrees."
Night Owl let out a low whistle at the answer, as he turned back over to the small village.
"I wonder if it could cook a steak." Night Owl commented, picking up a pair of binoculars.
"Maybe, I'd assume you'd need a very precise timer though." the Tyrant replied.
"Could use some tin foil, what would it taste like though? Oh, there's a straggler by the way." Night Owl motioned to the open field ahead of them. A heavily burnt individual crawls away from the village. The burns made him unsure if they were a woman or a man. He couldn't even tell if it was a child.
"If we burn it too thoroughly," the Tyrant began, grabbing a nearby sniper rifle, "it'd probably taste like charcoal. That reminds me, have you ever had rhino?"
He pulled the trigger, the bullet lodging itself into the individual's shoulder. The individual writhed in agony, the pain halting their slow crawl. Blood crawled down their body, irritating their charred skin.
"Can't say I have, though it sounds delicious now that you mention it." Night Owl replied, now considering the idea.
"You should try it, it has a truly robust taste you have to get used to like deer, but it's good."
He pulled the trigger again, hitting the other shoulder. The individual squirmed in pain, a silent yell reaching their throat.
"You good?"
"I think I'm getting rusty… wait no, I forgot to adjust the scope."
He fired a third time, the bullet hitting the center of the individual's head. Their body slumped onto the ground, landing with a sickly thud. The Tyrant, satisfied, looked back up, noticing the swarm of vultures in the air. It hadn't taken them long to arrive, the smell of blood reaching them quickly.