Their enemies already knew they were coming.
Snake looked up and saw a Canard Rotor VTOL scouting craft, part helicopter, part jet plane, flying across the yellow sand and over the convoy. The governmental army would no doubt be waiting in the abandoned city ahead, taking up tactically advantageous positions based on the aircraft’s reconnaissance.
The moment the trucks crossed into the ruins, the battle began.
The vehicles stopped, and waves of militiamen leapt from the flatbeds. If even half of them had been really prepared for the fight, things might have gone better. Worse still, the PMC troops hired by the governmental army had indeed known of the militia’s coming and had set up snipers’ nests in buildings a safe distance away.
Militia forces, armed only with AKs more suitable for relatively close-range combat, fell one by one, their heads shattered by the onslaught from two-man cells of snipers and spotters.
But there came a point when a soldier had to trust in his instinct and leap into the fray. One way or another, he’d have to throw his body into the maelstrom of bullets. But if he ventured into the chaos alongside everyone else, maybe the probability of the enemy targeting him would be lower.
Snake waited for his instinct to discern the right moment, then without further hesitation, he spurred his old, tired body and leapt to the ground.
Directly in front of him, a soldier whipped back. Red oozed out the back of the man’s head, and a soft lump of fragmented brain tissue struck Snake’s clothing.
Not that the seasoned warrior let it faze him. The instant Snake touched earth, he was already moving, headed straight for the nearest cover.
The area around the trucks was already piled with corpses.
The PMC snipers on the government’s side expertly dispatched most of their targets with single shots to the head. Those targets unfortunate enough to have the bullets miss their heads or hearts and instead hit their lungs or stomachs lay on the sand twisting in agony. There was no luxury of a battlefield medic here.
Maybe the PMC unit was well aware of that reality. In previous wars, inflicting nonfatal injuries—legs, arms—was the more effective tactic. The downed soldiers’ comrades would have to drag them to safety, tying up two or more combatants with one shot.
But the militia had no system to save the fallen and no techniques to administer aid. Moreover, they hadn’t any medical supplies to use. Any casualties would be left behind. There simply wasn’t any other choice. Without any benefit in simply injuring the militiamen, the PMC was better off shooting to kill.
Snake wound through the scattered bodies and dove into the shadow of a partially destroyed house.
Truck after truck passed through the city gate, spewing forth militiamen. Some soldiers, seeing the hellish battlefield, froze with terror. Others, who had taken the initiative and jumped from the flatbeds first, had their heads blown off before their feet hit the sand. The soldiers’ fear was understandable—this wasn’t a battle but a massacre.
Snake tested the action of his AK by firing three single shots. On the third, his trigger locked. The ejection port was jammed by a chunk of broken metal. Bad ammo. The casing had swollen inside the chamber.
Snake clucked his tongue in frustration and tossed down the useless weapon. The rifle clattered out from the shadows, where it was immediately hit by one of the snipers’ shots. The impact of the shot kicked the jammed gun even farther out of reach.
Snake made a wry smile, appreciating the shooter’s skillful aim despite the realization that the sniper had him cornered.
Just then, a low, angry, bestial bellow rumbled through the sky, the cry some cross between that of a cow and a pig.
The militia fighters looked at one another. The roar seemed a harbinger of a demon’s descent to the battlefield. The cry was that of an animal, though doubtfully like any the militiamen had ever heard.
There. Snake saw them.
Off in the distance, large, unnatural shapes leapt through the spaces between the half-destroyed buildings. They hopped like frogs and quickly closed in on the battleground.
There was a thunderous crash. Snake turned to look at the source of the noise and saw that a military truck had slammed into the city gate. The overturned vehicle’s driver slumped upside down, blood streaming from the bullet hole in his head. The antigovernment forces were now cut off from their reinforcements. And in front of them waited only the ruthless PMC snipers and those approaching beastlike creatures.
Suddenly, silence fell over the battlefield. All the gunfire ceased like a conversation halted by an awkward silence.
“Death approaches,” said one of the militiamen.
It was an oddly dreamlike moment. Several of the men nervously looked about.
Snake stood ready, knowing that the battle was only turning for the worse.
A giant object came down from above.
It was a kind of leg. What else could it be called? Some poor fighter was crushed beneath it, his body cleaved in two.
The creature’s legs had the shape of a bird’s, but bulged like two olive-drab sausage tubes stuffed full of meat. Perched atop the organic legs was a mechanical tank-shaped head. Indeed, the thing seemed to be a miniaturized version of the nuclear-equipped bipedal tank, Metal Gear REX.
Snake recognized the shape immediately. These things were Metal Gears too. Antipersonnel Metal Gears without nuclear warheads.
Unmanned weapons. The lives of soldiers in wealthy countries were worth far more than the lives of impoverished militia. To protect those valuable lives, economically advanced nations and the PMCs hired by them had pursued new combat capabilities. Driven by artificial intelligence, these robots were capable of thinking for themselves and made decisions without the need for human input or control.
The robot was a superb combatant. It swung its legs, each as wide as a tree trunk, and sent militia fighters flying into the stone houses. As the men slammed against the walls, every bone in their bodies shattered. They were dead in an instant.
More Metal Gears were coming. They hopped through the helpless militia forces, scattering the fighters and kicking them into the air like soccer balls. The robots were produced by AT Corp under the code name IRVING, but were commonly known as “Gekko” or “Lizards.” The machines quickly overwhelmed the militia with an adroitness befitting their moniker.
The militia forces dispersed into the ruined city. Perhaps that was the PMC’s goal—to split up their opposition into smaller, weakened units and then pick them off one by one.
Snake realized it was time to go. He wasn’t here to help the militia.
With the snipers’ attention drawn to the scattered soldiers, he began moving away from the area in front of the gate.
Snake hadn’t come to the battle to throw in with either side. History had seen its like in many lands and many times, and more would surely come.
But one point differentiated this war from those known to the past—this was a proxy war, fought by contracted mercenaries and manufactured unmanned weapons, not on behalf of any nation or ideology, and not for the purpose of obtaining resources or advancing the cause of a people. ID-tagged soldiers carried ID-tagged weapons, used ID-tagged gear. Nanomachines inside their bodies enhanced and regulated their abilities.
Genetic control. Information control. Emotion control.
Battlefield control.
Everything was monitored and kept under control.
The PMCs were supervised and controlled. Battlefields, once the embodiment of chaos, were regulated, made routine.
Supervised battlefields. Supervised lives. Not the war to which Snake had become accustomed.
But even if the war had changed, Snake still had a role he must play in it.
His last role. His life’s finale.
To stop his brother’s plan to throw the world into chaos.