Metal Gear Solid: Guns of the Patriot

by Project Itoh

  Viruses could be thought of as machines built from molecules of DNA or RNA—machines possessing the ability to utilize the cells of living organisms to reproduce. A man-made virus was, in essence, a nanomachine, and a virus found in nature might be said to be a natural nanomachine.

  There was a loud noise on the recording, and Naomi turned. Sweat beaded down her forehead.

  “Please rescue me.” She was visibly distressed. “Liquid’s found a loophole he can use to get into the System. Preparations for his insurrection are nearly complete. There’s no time to waste. Snake, hurry!”

  The video ended.

  Snake covered his mouth in thought. Meryl had told him that Liquid’s PMCs would be unable to stand up against the world governments—even if he was Liquid, the System couldn’t be beaten by military force.

  But if the SOP could be hacked, the PMCs would be freed from the System’s control, and they could proceed to make war however they wished. The leaders of the war economy, now more powerful than the US military, could bare their fangs against the world that had used the war economy for its own benefit.

  “This is bad,” Snake said.

  I nodded. “Naomi created the technology. Given enough time, I’m sure she could do anything.”

  The screen flashed CALL. I checked the encrypted ID tag and told Snake, “It’s Campbell.”

  The line connected, and Campbell’s office appeared on the screen. The colonel sat with his arms resting on his oak desk.

  “Snake,” he said, “as you’ll recall, following the Shadow Moses Incident nine years ago, Naomi was detained by the authorities. But someone arranged for her escape.”

  Snake and I knew all about that. We had, after all, been official suspects. As fugitives, we kept a close eye on all of the charges against us—including the false ones. Snake and I have shared more than a few beers together while laughing at our names on the tops of the FBI website’s wanted lists for crimes we certainly didn’t remember having anything to do with.

  Snake laughed sarcastically and said, “Yeah, I hear they added that to my rap sheet too.”

  “I suspect it was actually Liquid. He must have taken her prisoner and forced her to do research at his facility in South America.”

  I said, “Naomi sent her location data in a separate file. It was encrypted, but Sunny decoded it for us.”

  Campbell nodded, and then his expression turned even graver. “Chances are the location she gave us is the site of Liquid’s main base.”

  As he searched his pockets for a smoke, Snake asked, “But is there any actual proof?”

  “Yes,” said Campbell. “There’s an ongoing skirmish between a new regime put into power by PMCs and a rebel army formed by remnants of the old one. The rebels have hired a small-scale local PMC of their own to stir things up. It’s the quintessential example of the war economy market. The new regime is still in shambles, so it’s really Pieuvre Armement—one of the PMCs under Outer Heaven control—that’s calling the shots. You might say it’s a perfect place for Liquid to make his haven.”

  “Or it could be a trap.”

  “True. But even if it was, we’d have much to gain.”

  “I had Sunny trace the origin of Naomi’s mail,” I said. “The address was fake, but Sunny was able to track the message back through its proxies based on time stamps and data transfer volumes. Apparently, the message originated from a server in South America. I wouldn’t exactly call it one hundred percent credible though.”

  Out of gratitude for her help, I didn’t tell Snake that she had hidden his cigarettes—just a modest trade to help ensure our continued stay on Nomad would remain a pleasant one.

  Campbell said, “I’ve secured you landing clearance at El Dorado International Airport. You’ll be acting as UN inspectors.”

  “South America …” I said. “That’s about twenty hours from here. What happens when we get there?”

  “I’ll arrange for them to get you a four-by-four. The location Naomi gave us—the PMC’s base—is in a mountainous region surrounded by forests. Use the four-by-four to get as close as possible to the PMC’s security perimeter. From there on, Snake, it’ll be a solo sneaking mission. The rebels are still pitched in battle against the PMCs. The commotion should help you slip into the facility unnoticed.”

  Snake changed the subject. “Colonel, how deeply are they involved in this?”

  I looked at him and asked, “The Patriots, you mean?”

  Even in the Middle East, we couldn’t help but keep watchful for any sign of the Patriots’ involvement. After the battle with Solidus over the Arsenal Gear in Manhattan, their AI had loudly proclaimed that they would regulate and control everything.

  Snake nodded. “The data we got from Arsenal Gear was a load of crap. Twelve founders who’ve all been dead for a hundred years. Give me a break. We know they exist today. If the purpose of this battlefield control system is to control IDs, it fits in with their plans perfectly.”

  “Seizing control of the world’s ID systems,” Campbell said, “and then using them to manipulate the economy and the worldwide flow of information—for the Patriots, that’s the ultimate prize. You might say that the Patriots are the embodiment of the war economy.”

  “Everything that Solidus feared five years ago,” Snake said solemnly, “has come to pass.”

  The former president had turned to terrorism out of his desire to build a world free of the Patriots’ control. Freedom. Human rights. Opportunity. These were the fundamental ideas that burned inside each and every American’s heart in those glorious first days of their independence. But somewhere in the young nation’s short history, those ideals were warped and twisted, and the Patriots’ horrifying System was born.

  It wasn’t because any one person had been driven by a thirst for power, or that someone had desired control. America’s commerce, economy, lifestyle—even the very essence of the nation itself—had given birth to the structure of the Patriots.

  “Now with the media and global opinion under complete control,” Campbell said, “not even the UN can stand up to them.”

  Snake asked, “Then Liquid’s insurrection is against the Patriots?”

  “Exactly. It would seem as though Liquid has taken up Big Boss’s cause. An age of persistent, universal warfare for mercenaries freed from domination. In a sense, the ‘Outer Heaven’ Big Boss envisioned is already a living reality.”

  “You mean the PMCs and their war business.”

  “Right now,” Campbell said, “Liquid is a slave to the Patriots, forced to fight their proxy wars for them.”

  “He must be dying to break free of their spell.”

  “Beneath the surface, a new cold war is brewing between Liquid and the Patriots over who will survive.”

  Snake turned away from the screen and looked up at the ceiling with a distant gaze. “And no matter who wins, the world will have no future. Until we stop Liquid and destroy the System, we’ll never be free.”

  Isn’t that what Solidus had wanted? He had been terrified of not leaving any legacy behind. Solid, Liquid, Solidus—the sons of Big Boss—had been born stripped of the ability to create offspring. They were just reproductions of Big Boss’s genetic code.

  But Solidus had wanted to achieve something. He wanted to prove he was more than a simple carbon copy of Big Boss’s DNA. He wanted to prove he was free. He wanted the world to hear his silent cries—I am free. I am me.

  I am free. And you are free.

  “Snake,” Campbell stated plainly, “what we call ‘peace’ is an equilibrium kept in check by the war economy. Destroying the System means wiping out the information society—the end of modern civilization. Like it or not, we may have no choice but to protect the System.”

  Solidus had tried to destroy the System, but it defeated him. As ironic as it might seem, Snake and I—and Raiden—believed our actions had saved the world. If we now took down the Patriots like Solidus had tried to do, only an endless chaos would await us. />
  But still, could you say that Solidus was entirely wrong? I didn’t think I could.

  “Got it,” Snake said, rubbing at his shoulder, stiff from lying unconscious for an entire day. “We’ve got twenty hours until we land. I’ll have a look at the documents. And I’d like to have a smoke while I have the chance. Otacon, have you seen where mine went?”

  “Sorry Snake, I can’t tell you.”

  I shrugged. He eyed me with suspicion but didn’t press.

  Since I didn’t know where Sunny had hidden them, I wasn’t exactly telling a lie.

  2

  AFTER FLIGHT CLEARANCE was granted by the local air force, Nomad touched down at El Dorado. Sunny pressed the button to lower the hatch. The thinness of the outside air startled her.

  The air was thin. El Dorado International Airport was over eight thousand feet above sea level—an elevation high enough for air pressure to significantly affect the boiling point of water. I wondered if that would affect the taste of her eggs. Could it possibly be for the worse?

  You might have inferred this already, because air traffic control was being performed by the military, but the El Dorado Airport was jointly a civilian and a military airport. The air force was in full presence, with old C-130s scattered everywhere. America had probably sold them off decades ago.

  “I think those are PMC transport craft,” Campbell said from the screen.

  Emblazoned on the sides of the planes was Pieuvre Armement’s ominous logo—eight tentacles poking out the eyes, nose, and mouth of a skull. Pieuvre being French for octopus. I’ve heard that people in southern France sometimes eat octopus, but whoever designed that fearsome image couldn’t have been a fan of the dish.

  As Snake performed one last inspection of his gear, Campbell decided to use the time to introduce Snake to his psychological counselor for the mission. He called her over next to his desk to get her in the video feed. She was young and attractive, with straight black hair.

  “This is Rosemary,” he said.

  Snake and I looked at each other at the same time. But not just in reaction to her beauty. This young woman had been Jack’s lover, and during the Big Shell Incident had carried his child. Rose would later tell me about how Jack returned from the Big Shell unable to put away his memories as a child soldier. He’d get drunk, and some nights he returned covered in injuries. Eventually, she had a miscarriage, and he disappeared.

  When I first learned all of that, I had trouble accepting it. How could that have happened? For a brief moment, I even thought, Why couldn’t she have come to Snake or me? But I know that neither of us could really have done anything for her.

  But when her face appeared on the screen inside the cargo bay, I was suddenly reminded of something else I’d heard. I looked at Snake. He seemed to simultaneously come to the same realization, and it wasn’t a pleasant one.

  “Colonel,” Snake said, “the woman you married, the one that Meryl was talking about …”

  “Is Rosemary, yes. Didn’t I tell you before?”

  Snake and I sighed in unison.

  “What were you thinking?” Snake asked. “She’s young enough to be your daughter.”

  Campbell’s response was only more depressing. “Yeah. Lucky me, huh?”

  I nearly laughed at the absurdity. Snake, disgusted, said, “Now I see why Meryl won’t have anything to do with you.”

  “Meryl said something about me?” The flippant tone had left the colonel’s voice, replaced by deep pain. But neither Snake nor I were in the mood to feel sorry for him.

  Snake flatly replied, “Yeah, I believe her words were, ‘I’ll never forgive that womanizing piece of shit.’ ”

  “I see.”

  With none of us having any desire to linger on the aggravating and bizarre revelation, we instead sought refuge in our various battle preparations. I tested Snake’s OctoCamo and calibrated the power assist on his Sneaking Suit. Then I ran the Mk. II’s system tests and went through Nomad’s inspection checklist to prepare for our eventual departure.

  When the time came for Snake to leave, Sunny stood at the edge of the cargo bay, waved goodbye, and called out, “S-see you, Snake!”

  Snake returned a smile. He would be gone for at least several days—several days without having to endure her fried eggs. I looked at Sunny, watching Snake reach the edge of the tarmac, and I thought, We’re something like a family, aren’t we.

  We weren’t really a family, of course, but at that moment, I felt at peace.

  If only everything could have stayed like that.

  I shook my head. What was I thinking at a time like this? Snake was about to enter another battlefield.

  Using an ID Campbell had provided, Snake passed through customs and immigration. He climbed in the four-by-four and headed up into the mountainous region on the other side of the border. Just a few years ago, the high altitude wouldn’t have been a problem for Snake, but with his aged lungs Snake was having trouble adjusting to the low oxygen.

  Fortunately, he’d have time to adjust—the mountains were quite far. But as the elevation increased, Snake only seemed to become worse off. He rarely spoke, and the occasional bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.

  “Snake,” I asked over the codec, “how are you holding up?”

  Snake, as reluctant as ever to discuss his body, simply asked, “What’s our current situation?”

  I sighed. “Rebel guerrilla units are advancing on the base of the government PMC troops. The building appears to be Liquid’s safe house. According to Naomi’s data, she’s being held prisoner inside the compound.”

  I sent a satellite image of the compound through the Solid Eye.

  “That’s where she is?” he asked.

  “Assuming Naomi’s data are correct. According to satellite imagery procured by Mei Ling, the facility where Naomi is being held is to the north, along a mountain road. I’m sending the location to your map.”

  Snake hadn’t heard that name in a while. “Mei Ling?”

  “Yeah.”

  Along with Colonel Campbell, Mei Ling was part of Snake’s wireless support team during the Shadow Moses Incident. Back then, she was still a teenager, but now, nine years had passed, and she was a grown woman.

  She’d become the captain of the USS Missouri, a battleship from the time when giant turrets were still the backbone of naval power. Missouri had a long and storied history (including serving as the setting for a Steven Seagal movie), but with the advent of carrier fleets, the expensive and inflexible battleship-class vessels became obsolete. Although cannon power attacks on coastal areas remained in sporadic use through the Gulf War, Missouri was retired as an aged soldier, no longer of use to the modern era, in the following year, ’92. The rest of the battleships would meet the same fate by the mid-nineties.

  Now the seas were dominated by frigate-class ships and cruisers powered by the mighty Aegis system.

  After its decommissioning, Missouri was sent to Hawaii to live out the rest of its years as a tourist attraction, but after its museum contract expired the ship was recommissioned and used for virtual training. Rather than actual combat training, the goal seemed to be getting the sailors acclimated to seamanship aboard an analog vessel.

  In short, everyone involved with the Shadow Moses incident had either become fugitives or had been sidelined into nonessential dead-end appointments. The same had happened to Meryl. She was wasting away in some desk job when Campbell pulled some connections in the army to place her within the PMC inspection unit—an assignment considered extremely dangerous even for the CID.

  “Otacon,” Snake said, “I just saw a PMC armored truck. I think I’m not far from Pieuvre Armement patrols. I even saw some giant billboard advertisements for them. ‘Arms of the Octopus, Arms for Your War!’ ”

  “That might sound appealing if you were desperate. But in the fog of war, even eight arms aren’t enough.”

  Even some nonsense name like Octopus Armaments takes on an elegantly feminine qual
ity when said in French. Pieuvre Armement. Personally, I found all this ebullience over the booming war economy distasteful.

  I confirmed Snake’s positional data on the GPS, then said, “You’d better ditch your car. That area’s a veritable hornet’s nest of PMC patrols.”

  Snake voiced his acknowledgment. He left the four-by-four hidden in a thicket of trees and lowered the Mk. II from the back. He adjusted the OctoCamo and took slow, even breaths to condition his breathing to the thin atmosphere. He studied his environment and attuned his senses and his intuition to the South American highlands.

  The smell of the grass.

  The smell of bugs.

  The smell of the earth.

  Crawling on the ground, the smells were unavoidable—and to Snake, they were an essential component of his senses.

  When others were or had recently been nearby, they left ripples in what Snake liked to think of as a baseline. The forest and the earth were a delicate system within which Snake could pick out the traces of human disturbance. By attuning his senses to the ripples in the baseline, his situational awareness surpassed what most would consider possible.

  Even with some of his attention dedicated to keeping track of PMC forces, Snake soon reached the path. Nestled in a dell at its mouth was a village with several houses, a barn, and a PMC armored truck.

  The battlefront had arrived ahead of Snake.

  Defeated rebel soldiers were gathered together on their knees. A number of battle-scarred corpses were scattered around the village, all of them antigovernment forces. The rebels had no uniforms and carried mismatched sets of whatever equipment they were able to scavenge or improvise. The PMC soldiers, of course, wore combat chest harnesses and Protec helmets, their equipment on par with that of the US Army.

  Flames spewed from one of the houses. Likely, this village had been a rebel hideout. By blurring the line between the battlefield and civilian life, guerrillas could evade the attacks of conventional armies.