Metal Gear Solid: Guns of the Patriot

by Project Itoh

  “I still have things left to do besides smoke.”

  Snake moved as if to toss his cigarette into the ocean. He returned my disapproving look with a grin and took out his portable ashtray and used it. I hadn’t made a face at his littering, but rather at why this man had to shoulder the sins of mankind, and at why he would be leaving us.

  He was the same with Frank. Snake hadn’t wanted things to end that way. Irrational fate brought the two men together, and in the end, compelled them to fight. Snake wasn’t to blame for defeating Frank Jaeger, and Snake wasn’t the one who made Frank the experimental subject for the powered exoskeleton project.

  But Snake attracted tragedy. He stewarded the sins of others. At Shadow Moses, he drew Naomi’s hate. And now he was ready to put a conclusion to it all before embracing his death.

  Another coughing fit overcame Snake, and when it passed, he remained bent over, hands on his knees. He looked up at me and said, “What about you, Otacon? Have you thought about just leaving the ship?”

  Snake had always brushed aside any concern offered him. Even in his current shape, he stubbornly pressed ahead to fulfill his duty. But now with Snake worrying about me, I found myself answering as he would. We were two pigheaded men.

  “Stop it,” I said. “I’ve still got things to do myself. And I don’t even smoke.”

  “Snake,” Campbell said, “can you hear me?”

  On my notebook’s screen the colonel’s face appeared stiff. I had called Snake and Meryl back to the vacant briefing room to hear Campbell’s report. Meryl didn’t like having to meet with the man, even across the computer screen, but Snake asked her, and she couldn’t refuse him.

  “Liquid’s warship, Outer Haven,” Campbell said, “is a modified version of an Arsenal Gear model stolen from the Patriots.”

  The first Arsenal-class ship had been secretly constructed in New York Bay. Solidus’s terrorist plot, intended to locate information on the Patriots hidden within GW, resulted in the ship grounding on the island of Manhattan, destroying several buildings.

  The true story was hidden from the public, and the shocking event went down as the largest naval accident in history, attributed as a software error in the Arsenal’s navigation systems—something akin to the divide-by-zero glitch that left a cruiser running Windows NT dead in the water off the coast of Virginia.

  “After the Manhattan ‘accident,’ ” Campbell explained, “public criticism of the military swelled, and between oversight committees and a spate of new laws monitoring safety and operations, the US Armed Forces were paralyzed. PMCs gained prominence, and the war economy pervaded the global marketplace. Looking back on the events, I wouldn’t be surprised if Liquid—or the Patriots—had planned it all.”

  According to Campbell’s information, the Patriots had built several more Arsenal-class ships—even after the original had been so publicly exposed. When Liquid took over Ocelot’s body, he might have gained knowledge of the ships dwelling beneath the seas.

  The colonel continued, “Liquid has the warship crawling with IRVINGs and other unmanned weapons. According to Naomi’s data, Haven is crewed by a battalion of enhanced soldiers, each culled from the best each PMC has to offer, from Praying Mantis to Raven Sword.”

  Through the monitor, Campbell looked at Meryl. She stood some distance behind us, toward the back of the room, yet she became flustered under the gaze of her father and looked away.

  His daughter, his own flesh and blood, was about to embark on a desperate mission, to infiltrate the ship where Liquid’s PMC awaited. Campbell kept his composure as best he could, but I knew gut-wrenching emotion consumed him as he watched his daughter.

  “Please bring her with you to the briefing,” Campbell had asked me.

  Lacking confidence that I could convince her, I ended up leaving it to Snake.

  The colonel had much to say to her—to his unknowing daughter, to whom he had never permitted himself to confess his illegitimate fatherhood.

  But now, as every man and woman aboard the battleship stood ready before the fateful moment, this father and daughter had not been afforded the time to say what they needed to say. With or without the time, the two preserved a measured distance, unable to make themselves tell the tales they needed to tell.

  “If Liquid succeeds in destroying JD,” Campbell said, “and gains control of the Patriots’ System, he’ll make Haven his flagship, and his PMCs will spread like wildfire across the globe.”

  Still, Liquid’s plan to destroy JD was undoubtedly a considerable gamble. The more I thought about it, shooting a railgun nuke at a satellite traveling ten kilometers per second bordered on the outrageous.

  Missile-based antisatellite weapons were developed by both America and the USSR during the Cold War. The early twenty-first century saw China successfully test an antisatellite weapon system, and in 2008, the US Navy shot down a malfunctioning spy satellite with a missile launched from an Aegis cruiser. That satellite was traveling at a little under eight kilometers per second; the missile flew at it head-on at a speed between three and four kilometers per second, making their relative velocity somewhere around eleven kilometers per second.

  But missiles could be controlled after launch. A railgun, however, was essentially a cannon. Once its warhead was fired, the trajectory was largely fixed. With terrestrial targets, stabilizing fins could provide a form of last-moment guidance, but at JD’s orbit, the atmosphere was sparse, and fins meant little.

  Moreover, this cannon floated on the ocean. No matter how large the ship, no matter what kinds of stabilizers were on-board, maintaining perfectly stationary firing conditions would be nigh impossible.

  Liquid had everything riding on one moment. Just as we had everything riding on this one battle.

  “This is our last chance,” Campbell said, “to stop Liquid from global domination.”

  I knew that. Snake and Meryl knew that.

  I couldn’t bear to see Campbell making the same mistake I had made.

  Don’t you have anything more important to say right now?

  In those last moments, I hadn’t been able to call Emma by her name. I hadn’t been able to tell Wolf how I felt. I hadn’t understood Naomi’s dying wish.

  Not like this, Colonel. Time is something people never have. If you two keep up this measured distance, neither of you will ever tell each other anything. Yet still we languish and delay.

  Then, as if in disregard for my exasperation, an alarm rang through the ship, and a voice came over the ship’s speakers.

  “A large object is rapidly surfacing. We can’t verify the object, but measurements are in line with an Arsenal-class vessel. Proceed for visual confirmation.”

  Even behind the closed door to the briefing room, we could hear the footsteps of crew running down passageways to the deck. Amid the suddenly hectic mood, I sighed and shook my head, and looked to Meryl. As the alarm continued its grating clamor, Snake held his eyes on Campbell in silent criticism of his old friend’s cowardice.

  Meryl simply kept staring at the floor, with no indication she would return Campbell’s gaze.

  You have to say something. Now is the time.

  I glared at the father on the other side of the computer screen, trying to spur him to action with my eyes. But Campbell’s mouth was held half open, mute and frozen in search of words.

  Snake jerked his head to beckon me. Liquid’s ship was surfacing, and we had to get moving. Giving up on Campbell, we reluctantly turned our backs to the monitor.

  As Snake and I left the room, we could hear Campbell softly begin to speak.

  “Meryl,” he said, “can you hear me?”

  His was the voice of a father.

  A father taking the first steps toward responsibility to his daughter.

  3

  THE MOUNT RUSHMORE had emerged from the ocean surface. Depicted by Haven’s OctoCamo in the presidential positions, the family of Snakes stared down Missouri head-on.

  Clutching my noteboo
k computer at my chest, I dashed up the ladderways, eventually parting with Snake and Meryl, who headed for the deck, and continuing up toward the bridge.

  I flew into the bridge to hear Mei Ling shouting orders like thunder.

  “Maintain full speed! Prepare for ship-to-ship combat!”

  A young assistant officer echoed her commands. Mei Ling’s voice had already gained the gravitas of a commander. People, when placed in a role, would fill it, whether they wanted to be in the position or not. The circumstances made the person, for better or for worse. The Patriots had used that truth on the Big Shell to put Raiden into Snake’s role.

  I started to say, “The Arsenal’s armament is—”

  Mei Ling, her stare fixed upon the distant Haven, cut in, “—eight hundred VLS missile cells on the upper structure, and countless MLRS batteries. It’s practically a missile field.”

  “And we only have naval guns?”

  “We have four CIWS guns. If one of Haven’s missiles gets too close, the Phalanx system will shoot it down.”

  I opened my notebook and connected to the Mk. III. Snake hugged the diminutive Metal Gear to his chest and sprinted with Meryl toward the catapults. I had given the robot two new upgrades: an antimicrowave coating on the outside, and Sunny’s worm cluster in its internal storage. Now Snake had to bring the machine into Haven’s server room.

  The catapults stood on the wooden deck, thrusting into the sky like the swords of giants. The machines had been invented to rapidly deploy firefighters and antiterrorist squads to the rooftops of burning or captured buildings.

  The compressed-air firing mechanisms would launch the unlucky guinea pig-cum-human cannonballs five stories into the sky—a prime example of a deranged engineering boondoggle unleashed by DARPA on behalf of the American taxpayers.

  Snake, Meryl, and Johnny climbed into the seats of their catapults, facing the launch rails as if sitting on carousel horses. Once the air pressure was released, the seats would lift up and fling the strike team onto Haven’s inner deck. Back in the briefing, Snake hadn’t seemed happy envisioning how ridiculous they would look midair—with arms and legs awkwardly bent like frogs in mid-hop.

  With the strike team seated and defenseless, soldiers gathered around them to protect from possible sniper fire. The giant hulk of the Haven approached. Readying himself for the moment of the launch, Snake stiffened his aged muscles.

  “Prepare to fire the main battery!” Mei Ling ordered.

  Using a rangefinder and gyrocompass that were practically ancient relics, the gun operators began computing the necessary data to fire. Turrets swiveled to point at Haven’s frame.

  We might have been beaten in terms of firepower, but the Arsenal was not agile, and the boat was both immense and close by. I couldn’t believe our cannons would miss that kind of target. That was our solitary hope, at least.

  When Haven surfaced fully, the bridge began to slide open.

  The sight was of a titan rending open its stomach to reveal its guts to the daylight. Behind Haven, slashes of sunlight cut through the cloudy steel-blue sky, and as the colossal structure opened, the scene felt almost mythical.

  Inside, the railgun’s tip slowly rose, revealing itself from within the city of boxy structures.

  Mei Ling stared through her binoculars, transfixed by Liquid’s last gamble. “There it is,” she whispered, “the naked nuke.”

  “Captain,” said the young assistant officer, his voice trembling, “tiny hatches are opening all across Haven’s deck. They could be exposing VLS launchers. There’s too many to count!”

  Mei Ling needed to remain composed. She gathered herself, then steadily, decisively ordered the advance. “Maintain full speed. The CIWS will take care of the hostile missiles.”

  The officer shouted, “The enemy missiles are launching!”

  Threads of smoke rose from Haven. The smoke climbed straight up, U-turned back down until just kissing the water’s surface, then cut straight for Missouri.

  “Fire!” Mei Ling roared, and the three-gun turrets spit fire. The crew members on deck had covered their ears, so no eardrums were broken, but the severity of the blast and intensity of the powder smoke left more than a few coughing—Snake included.

  The fifty-caliber shells flew through the cloud of oncoming missiles straight for Haven. A few connected with missiles, exploding the warheads instantly and catching several more in a chain reaction.

  The shells struck Haven’s bridge. But the gently sloping exterior masterfully repelled the projectiles. The barrage left visible but minor dents; nothing that could really be called damage. While in motion, the Arsenal-class vessel looked like a gently rolling hill gliding atop the waves. No matter which angle Missouri’s guns fired from, the projectiles would hit at a shallow angle.

  Mei Ling clicked her tongue.

  The bridge crew were on hand to provide rapid-fire reports on the battle.

  “Even when we hit the target,” said one of the young men, “there’s only light damage.”

  Another added, “Missiles incoming!”

  One missile that had survived the chain explosions grazed Missouri’s starboard hull, right where the kamikaze Zero had struck, and exploded at the water’s surface. The rest either blew up near the battleship or were destroyed by the CIWS.

  The sea burst and poured over the wooden decks, but Missouri didn’t slow, her prow barreling straight toward Haven.

  Mei Ling switched her microphone to broadcast through the entire ship and said, “All hands, prepare for impact. Brace yourselves.”

  I managed to wrap my arm around a handrail just as Missouri’s nose collided with Haven’s belly. The bridge shook like a drying machine, and even Mei Ling was knocked off her feet. My arm felt like it was being pulled from its socket, and I gritted my teeth in pain.

  The two ships had met at a slight angle. Missouri cut toward the starboard side, and the two ships scraped past each other with the dreadful, deafening screech of metal on metal.

  Even sent to the floor, Mei Ling held on to her microphone. She had something to do before climbing back to her feet. If she missed her timing, everything would be over.

  “Now!”

  The tightly compressed gas was let free, and the piston lifted Snake’s seat. Fierce g-forces assaulted him, threatening to shatter his hip bone into pieces. The old man bore not only his own weight, but that of the Mk. III, and as the chair heaved him skyward, the muscles and trace amounts of fat in his backside felt like they would crush his pelvis.

  But the sensation was brief. The next thing Snake knew, his body was tracing a parabola, and he could see the decks of Haven and Missouri below. Meryl launched next and seemed to be chasing his posterior through the air. Snake’s hunch had been right—they did look ridiculous.

  Just then, Haven rocked to the side and slammed into Missouri. The larger ship’s mass bore down on Missouri and jarred the old battleship.

  Unfortunately, Akiba’s catapult launched at that moment.

  His trajectory sent askew, Akiba flew in a direction far from Snake and Meryl. He didn’t have much time to lament the turn of events beyond his control—by the time he knew what had happened, Solid Snake’s titanic countenance occupied his field of view.

  Johnny Akiba’s screams silenced when he struck Mount Snakemore.

  Meryl called out to him and looked over her shoulder to see Johnny, unlucky as ever, kiss Snake’s lower lip, then tumble down Haven’s hull and into the sea.

  Meanwhile, the real Snake had crossed into Haven’s exposed inner bow. In the moments before he struck the deck, he attempted to maneuver into a landing stance. Snake possessed some experience—when he had infiltrated the tanker where Metal Gear RAY was held, he’d bungee-jumped to the ship from the George Washington Bridge.

  Snake thought he had the landing down, but his aged body wasn’t able to keep up. He attempted a three-point landing with both knees and his right arm, but he couldn’t absorb the inertia of his fall and tumble
d to the ground, rolling a few yards down the deck.

  Snake had done his best to roll out of the landing, but his body smashed against the inside of his sneaking suit. Of course, he didn’t have time to lay on the ground. He put his hand on the deck to push himself to his feet, and the muscles in his shoulder and arm cried out in pain. Beneath the OctoCamo and power assist systems, his skin was battered and bloodied.

  Gritting through the pain, Snake searched for a place to hide. He had to retreat before Liquid’s soldiers came running. Snake swiftly took notice of his surroundings. Within Haven’s hull, the ship’s bow was as it had appeared from afar: a labyrinthine city of rectangular, windowless structures some three or four stories high.

  Snake saw no signs of Meryl or Johnny amid the sprawling blocks—but since his visibility was limited by the irregular and perplexing layout of the deck, the two might yet be close. Just as Snake began to worry about Meryl, the ring of an incoming call over the codec vibrated the bones of his inner ear.

  “Snake,” Meryl whispered. From the sound of her voice, she too was fighting pain. “I hurt my right ankle.”

  “Can you walk?” Snake asked.

  Meryl tried to stand, but her sprained ankle buckled under the weight.

  When Snake asked if she was all right, she laughed drily and said, “Hurts a hell of a lot more without SOP.”

  Before, the SOP would have quickly detected any injuries she sustained that were severe enough to impede combat performance and subdue the pain through sensory deprivation or increased endorphin output. Under the System, she had still felt pain, but only as a virtual sensation—a phantom pain in place of the real one, just strong enough to provide awareness of the injury without dulling her reflexes.

  Now, for the first time in a long time, Meryl experienced the real thing.

  Snake said, “Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?”

  Long-forgotten sensations disoriented soldiers freed from the SOP’s control.

  Sensations imposed by flesh and brain were often unpleasant. Over their long evolutional history, vertebrates acquired the ability to feel as a fundamental function for survival. Of course, such perceptions, however unpleasant, were a part of keeping alive, and since nobody could find someone else to experience the sensations for them, most people were content to take the bad with the good.