Metal Gear Solid: Guns of the Patriot (3 page)

The world envisioned by Big Boss was one in a constant state of war—a world where soldiers were needed in every nation; a world whose peoples killed each other endlessly.

It was time for Campbell to say what he had come to say. “He must be stopped—before it’s too late.”

Snake didn’t say anything. Instead, he gazed out the window of the helicopter at the passing scenery below. I looked at his face, and in his eyes I saw such deep resolve and such strong will that I was nearly moved to tears.

Even now his body continued its slow, relentless deterioration. My friend was dying. His hypertrophic heart, enlarged like a piece of old, stretched-out rubber, hadn’t the strength to send blood circulating through his body. His lungs, stiffened by pulmonary fibrosis, could no longer absorb enough oxygen.

But even with his body tortured by those and countless other afflictions, Snake continued to fight—to set right his curse, one not of his choice but rather placed upon him before he had been granted life in this world.

The helicopter tilted forward, and through the windows I saw
Nomad
, a large military transport plane with a capacity that put the USAF’s Globemaster to shame, parked on an airport runway below. Its cargo bay could hold our helicopter with room to spare.

We landed on the tarmac, climbed out of the chopper, and ran to
Nomad
.

As we closed the distance, Campbell said, “Do you understand, Snake? Any means necessary. Just stop Liquid’s insurrection. Even if it means—”

The colonel fell silent and stopped in place. We all did, and Snake stared right at Campbell, who looked away with a tortured expression.

“Killing him?” Snake spoke with no emotion in his voice. “You want Liquid dead. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”

Campbell closed his eyes, cursing himself for asking the friend he’d been with through so many battles to perform what was essentially a murder.

“I’m sorry. I know … this isn’t justice. It’s a covert assignment—a hired hit. A wetworks op targeting the head of a major multinational corporation.”

I shook my head. We’d been through a lot together, the three of us—the destruction of secret weaponry, the rescue of a kidnapped scientist, the prevention of a nuclear attack. And I’m not implying that we didn’t have blood on our hands. But this would be the first time the mission was simply to kill.

Our last mission together would be to kill a man because we wanted him dead.

A cool, pleasant breeze blew across the open runway in open defiance of our solemn mood. The sky was clear and blue.

Snake looked up at the sun and then started to run toward
Nomad
. We followed.

“Why me?” Snake asked.

“Because of the military might of the PMCs and the effect they have on the economy. War is to the twenty-first century what oil was to the twentieth—the pillar that supports the global economy. The global community is concerned, but they’re all too afraid of the war economy collapsing to do anything about it. The UN too.”

“And any intervention through official channels would damage the economic system. America can’t step in, and neither can the UN. So it falls to us outcasts to do something about it. Is that it, Colonel?”

“America has now turned war into a form of economic activity. Analysts are calling it the ‘war economy,’ in that it’s picking up the slack for the downward-sloping oil market.”

“Sounds pretty self-serving to me.”

“Snake, this mission isn’t an order from Washington—not like the old days. And it’s not something the UN can officially sanction either. But we can’t just look the other way while Liquid plots this insurrection. If we fail to act, he’ll become the greatest threat the world has ever faced.”

We’d reached
Nomad
. The hatch at the rear of the transport yawned open, revealing the massive, empty cargo bay. I lent Campbell my arm as we climbed up the ramp.

Once inside, Campbell stopped and looked into Snake’s eyes.

“Snake, you’re the only man I can trust.”

Snake returned the colonel’s stare.

We’d arrived at our final destiny.

Kill Liquid. Sure, we could run. Sure, we could close our eyes. But in the end, we wouldn’t be able to escape our fate.

“Fine,” Snake said. “Let’s hear it.”

Snake pointed to a set of chairs in the temporary command center the colonel and I had established in the fore of the cargo bay. Even though the mission was urgent, the flight would be long, and
Nomad
was suitably equipped. There was a workstation complete with multiple LCD monitors connected to
Nomad
’s supercomputer, Gaudi. Equipment useful for military applications, including a medical bed, were readily available. A gangway led to upper-level living quarters complete with a bed, a shower, a kitchen, and a bathroom.

Campbell sat on a backless folding chair. “Our intelligence on Liquid’s uprising originally comes via reports from US Special Forces, who were mobilized after we at the UN reported our findings. They’re tracking Liquid’s movements. About eighteen hours ago, he was spotted in the Middle East.”

The colonel shifted his posture, unable to find a comfortable way to sit. “There’s a rebel army there made up of ethnic minorities waging civil war against the regime in power. The core of that regime’s army is provided by one of the PMCs under Liquid’s control.”

“What about the rebels?” Snake asked.

“The local militias have hired small numbers of operators as trainers and field commanders. And of course, they’ve got help from the local PMCs.”

“Right,” I added. “A proxy war between hired guns.”

PMC versus PMC. A quagmire of war. All-too-typical victims of the new world economy.

Snake pulled out another cigarette. As he searched his pockets for a lighter, Sunny bounded down the gangway and snatched the unlit cigarette from his lips.

“S-Snake,” the little girl said, “th-this is a non-smoking flight …”

Snake gave her a chagrined smile and scratched his head.

A dumbstruck Campbell watched the child go back upstairs and said, “She’s … ?”

“Olga’s daughter,” I said.

With a look of understanding, the colonel said, “The woman from the Manhattan Incident? The one with the daughter kidnapped by the Patriots to extort her cooperation?”

“Yes, that’s her. Raiden rescued Sunny from the Patriots, and we took her in.”

“Where’s Raiden now?”

“I don’t know. After he saved Sunny, we lost all trace of him.”

Raiden.

When the president was kidnapped in a marine decontamination facility thirty kilometers from Manhattan, Raiden had been at first an unwitting pawn of the Patriots. But he joined us in that fight against Solidus Snake, the third “son” and clone of Big Boss—although the events ended in violence.

Truthfully, Solidus—and Liquid—were only struggling for freedom. They put their very existences on the line, resisting the secret organization, the Patriots, who attempted to control all reality. Looking back now, in the context of the Patriots, that shadow network that manipulated America and the world, I couldn’t label Liquid and Solidus as simply evil.

“She seems to have some trouble speaking,” Campbell said.

I nodded. “Sunny’s stutter bothers her. After she was born, she lived under unusual conditions. She carries many burdens, and the stutter is their manifestation.”

Snake added, “And I thought living with us was unusual enough.”

He’d been getting at me to let her out of
Nomad
, to show her more of the world. But as long as the Patriots were watching, he couldn’t convince me that letting her roam freely outside was the right thing to do.

“She’s a child prodigy,” I added. “She’s different from other children. It’s just how she is.”

“She’s a prodigy?” Campbell asked.

I pointed at the supercomputer rack against one of the cargo bay walls. “She’s amazing at anything technological. She can comprehend the most complicated source code in an instant. She even has a substantial understanding of mechanical engineering. Take this, for example.”

I stood and retrieved a robot from the rear of the cargo bay. The machine had an LCD screen, two legs, and a body just small enough to fit my arms around.

“Allow me to introduce Metal Gear Mk. II. It’s a Metal Gear, just like REX. But this Gear’s not a weapon. It’s a remote mobile terminal designed to provide Snake with operational support.”

“But what does that have to do with Sunny?” the colonel asked.

“She designed it with me. She had her hand in much of the code, from the auto-balance system to the image recognition routines.”

I lowered the Mk. II to the floor and turned it on from my terminal. The robot booted up and deftly coasted across the cargo bay, rolling on two wheels on the ends of its feet.

“But she can’t be older than seven or eight! That is impressive.”

“She’s a product of the next generation. I’m already obsolete.”

“Obsolete or not,” Snake said, “there’s still much you have to do. We can’t pass on our sins to Sunny’s generation.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s what we’ve been fighting for all this time.”

Campbell nodded in agreement, then leaned forward, ready to return to the matter at hand.

“Snake, you’ll be sneaking into the conflict zone via transport truck, disguised as one of the rebel army’s hired operators. Your first objective is to make contact with our informants, Rat Patrol 01, shorthand RAT PT 01. They’ll be expecting you.”

“Rat Patrol, huh. They sound sneaky.”

“They’re a special forces team assigned to the army’s PMC investigation unit, CID.”

The Criminal Investigation Command (formerly the Criminal Investigation Division, and still referred to as “CID” for continuity) was a law enforcement agency within the army—basically, the army’s police. They investigated all crimes within the army’s jurisdiction, from crimes on the battlefield and occupied territory—such as mass murder of civilians or cruelty to prisoners—all the way down to simple misdemeanors on base.

Snake chuckled. “So they’re the rats of the army.”

Whether you deemed them necessary or not, those who sniffed around among your comrades weren’t going to be popular.

Campbell shook his head. “No, I can vouch for them personally.”

“Friends of yours?”

“You could say that.”

Snake looked at Campbell with narrowed eyes, but the colonel ignored the look and went on.

“Transportation to the area will be provided under cover of a UN humanitarian aid mission with support from the US military. From there on, though, you’ll get no protection—and no guarantees—from anyone.” He paused for emphasis. “And you must not leave behind any evidence of your involvement in that area, let alone that of the UN. If word of this ever leaked out, it would spark a global firestorm.”

“The same as always,” Snake said. “Same as Zanzibar Land and Shadow Moses. It’s like in
Mission: Impossible
—if you’re caught or killed, we’ll disavow any knowledge of your actions.”

“Will you do this for me? Will you terminate Liquid?”

Now Campbell looked at me.

I nodded. We had to finish this.

Before Snake’s life went up in smoke.

“Thank you,” Campbell said, his words filling every corner of the cargo bay.

The words carried appreciation not only for the fight we now faced, but for all of Snake’s battles and the painful weight with which they burdened him.

That is the man whose story I tell.

His code name was Solid Snake, but as well known as the moniker is now, it’s hardly a code. Say the name Snake to anyone, and they’ll say something like, “Oh, the legend.” The hero of Shadow Moses. The mighty champion who crushed Outer Heaven and brought down Zanzibar Land. The man who made the impossible possible, the man who destroyed the devil’s weapon, Metal Gear, again and again.

The legend.