A/N: Did you know that there are three kinds of fanfic writers? Those who reiterate the pre-established plot, those who fill out their story in the world beyond what has already been portrayed, and those who take the faintest of details and make up a brand-new storyline wholesale. Those third ones are sick and twisted bastards who should not be trusted. And I'm one of them.
Chapter 1: Conflict Resolution
Logoliya Bay, West African Concordat
The convoy made its way through the interstate along the coastline. A caravan of MRAPs escorting the odd limousine took up all the freeway as local authorities held off traffic to allow them through. The resort was one of a network of sprawling network of amenities available to a wide variety of elite and wealthy clientele. And the shareholders wanted to make a good impression on the locals, as every credit spent would grease the contracts further. All Dylan knew was that he was spending someone else's money.
The MRAP sat six contractors, not counting the driver and extra security upfront. Four pilots and two soldiers. Looking onto the shoulder of one of the heavily-kitted troopers, one would see a patch with an Ancient Greek style helmet from the side, framed by the words "Ares Security and Development" an organization that was a much a consultation firm in the same vein that a mafia was an insurance group, if certain critics were to be believed. What was indisputable, however, was who was footing the bill for the company's stay and tenure; the West African Concordat itself. Since the formation of the new world order after Calamity, each nation had its own periphery to manage, and the Concordat had its eyes eastwards ever since. Officially, it was to bring the perks and comforts of civilization to an area well-renowned for its lawlessness. And surely the prospective Cordium veins were only a side bonus, Dylan thought derisively.
He sighed as he settled back into his seat, looking at his squadron-mates. Most images of what one would regard as a mercenary were likely adventurous or even romantic, soldiers of fortune risking life and limb for riches and fame. A stark contrast, then, to the kind of people who surrounded him at this moment. Arthur Renauld was the squadron leader, a former pilot of the United Kerneuropa Alliance who was poached by a generous benefits package and a lifetime career of disappointment over the Cold War with the Pacific Federation never going hot. Patrick Mayer was his wingman and number two of the squadron, a rather laid-back individual in contrast with his flight lead. The third member, Nadja Karan, was an icy, professional, and skilled pilot, who Dylan served as her wingman while on air patrol.
As Dylan looked around, sometimes he felt that the only thing that united them was the signature on their checks every week. Unlike his time in the Creole Republic Air National Guard, it didn't seem like camaraderie had ever been a strong priority for his unit, or the company as a whole. Nothing but stock options and retirement plans. He figured that was probably what separated his unit from the popular concept of a mercenary. Real mercenaries were concerned with getting money, but security contractors like Dylan Gravier were more concerned with actually living to spend it. So he would gladly put up with his colleagues who he did not really know, help with a project he did not really understand, for a country he had no real loyalty towards. At least he could get some flight hours in.
A sharp kick to his boot knocked him from his thoughts. Looking across from him, Nadja motioned with her head that the MRAP had finally arrived at its destination. The five-star resort was reserved for the company CEO, shareholders, project managers, and other C-suite staff. The actual staff, the grunts and staff enabling the project, those who were not on a base or on-site at this moment, were based on the outskirts in less luxurious accommodations but were, at the very least, closer to the air bases and logistics hubs. As Arthur and Patrick disembarked, Dylan grabbed his suitcase and stepped outside to the modest and quaint motel waiting for them.
"…Six figures a year, and this is the best we can do," Nadja muttered as she stepped out behind her wingman.
"This ain't no vacation," Dylan countered. "Sides, I ain't staying here longer than I have to. Airbase is three clicks inland, right?"
Nadja turned to look at her partner. "Rook, we just touched down an hour ago, and you already want to punch in?"
"Got to make sure it's our staff looking after our stuff, unless you trust these local boys enough to make sure your plane is fit to fly in?"
Nadja's expression didn't change, though she did not immediately reply. "Suit yourself," she finally did as she hoisted her duffle bag over her shoulder and walked to the motel.
"Should I inform Renauld and Mayer?" Dylan asked as his wingman left him on his own.
"Do what you want. I'm going to bed," Nadja replied.
Dylan watched as she walked off, sighing as he looked back to the MRAP, noticing the two guards looking at him. "Don't let the Ice Queen get to you, champ," one of the guards snickered.
"Not that kind of relationship," Dylan replied, flatly. "I don't date coworkers."
"Who said anything about dating?" the other piped up. "She knows what she wants, and that isn't you."
"Fine by me," Dylan replied, undeterred. This squadron had been assembled two weeks ago, at the behest of likely some accountant trying to maximize their on-paper efficiency. These people only understood data and numbers, and Dylan and people like him had to figure out how best to keep the higher-ups happy. Then again, Dylan was paid by the hour when you got down to it. All he had to do was get in, get paid, and go home. Anyone who wanted to make this more complicated than it had to be was more than welcome to find someone higher up the chain of command to deal with.
Aiko Nishihara lifted her glasses as she rubbed her eyes. It seemed like she'd been staring at the monitor for the past nine hours, subsisting of little more than energy drinks and power bars. So far, there were no vulnerabilities from what she could find. No disaffected security guards, no gossipy staffers, not even the mayor's twenty-two-year-old mistress had any knowledge on how to get inside. As she stared at the Ares Security and Development logo, her frustration began to mount,
The door to her hotel room opened and her partner unconsciously flipped on the lights, blinding Aiko as her eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, glaring at her co-worker. "Anyone ever teach you bogans how to knock?"
Clint Willis chuckled as he walked past his partner towards the mini-fridge. "Feels like a sauna in here. You do remember you're supposed to be warm-blooded, right?"
Aiko scoffed at him before returning her eyes back to the monitor. Out of the corner of her ear, she could hear the minifridge open, the tab on top of a can snap, and then felt the intrusive presence over her shoulder. "No luck on your ghost hunting, huh?"
"Three miles away from the party, and I'm just as blind as I would have been on the other side of the planet," Aiko complained.
"It's your own damn fault, you know," Clint replied as he took a sip. "They've had it out for you, specifically, since that shareholder drama."
Aiko took some measure of comfort in knowing that her efforts three years prior had reinstated a fear within these large and mostly unaccountable NGOs of the press, but since then her actions hindered her every time she tried to follow up on this lede. She had made the Ares Security and Development her white whale, and its CEO, Everett Maxwell, her nemesis, ever since her reporting had upended his ability to buy out a rival PMC that was currently somewhere on the North American continent. There was no lost love between the two of them, and Aiko secretly suspected (hoped) that Maxwell's agitation against her would lead to him making an attempt on her life. That would make her career.
Clint looked at the progress Aiko had made with her article. Almost three whole paragraphs. Doubling her progress since they had arrived two days ago. "…Do you need some help?" Clint teased her.
"I need some space and quiet," Aiko snapped, almost whipping the last can of her energy drink towards him.
"And maybe a shower and an actual meal," Clint added on as he ducked away. "C'mon, Maxwell doesn't like surprises and he'll be keeping to himself and his shareholders while the project managers and directors iron out the important details. Besides, didn't you say you wanted to get more fieldwork in?"
Aiko turned towards her partner, dressed in a dirty tank top and panties. "…And miss this whole cozy office vibe I've been culminating?
"Sorry, but I don't think being covered in crisp dust and reeking of soda is going to prompt people to take you seriously. And we need all the help we can get, being freelance and all," Clint chided her. "After all, presentation is seventy percent of our job."
"That's why I stick with writing," Aiko yawned. "Last thing I need is editorial subtly implying I need to surgically enhance my figure to get some viewers."
"Yeah, I can really see International Matters telling us to up the sex appeal," the doughy young Oceanian giggled.
"Us?" Aiko formed a half smile.
"Hey, when I was in college, I could rock one hell of a speedo," Clint grinned.
"I'm sure you could," Aiko replied as she finally got out of her chair and stretched. "Want to get some takeout for dinner?"
"Got a couple phone calls I'm waiting on," Clint replied. "And since they're coming from the Free States, it could be a while."
The Peripheral Free States of Africa was an eclectic collection of pseudo-nation-states who were united solely on their ability to avoid being absorbed into the West African Concordat. Considered tribal nations by some, and bands of warlords by others, the territory of the Free States was largely regarded as a lawless, unsanctioned, and "uncivilized" stretch of territory that stretched over a vast swath of the continent.
While most regarded the Concordat with a cool sense of suspicion, the Free States were as liable to instigate conflicts with one another before ever uniting against any outside factors. It was this that the Concordat was likely banking on, hence its hiring of the ASD to set up infrastructure to the neighboring territories and likely "pacify" any elements that still sought out a direct conflict with the superpower's desires for the area.
"This is shaping up to be a steamroller," Aiko lamented. "None of the Free States have the means or material to push back if a conflict breaks out."
"…Not by themselves," Clint muttered to themselves. "One Free State, no, but if enough of them can form some kind of united coalition, well, with the right sponsors…"
"They've been fighting one another for the last century, give or take," Aiko pushed back. "Any chance of that happening died with General Bassari thirty years ago."
Clint raised his eyebrows. "Look at you. I thought history was my forte."
Aiko smiled. "Well, I only listened to you record your damn podcast about two hundred times so far."
"Hey, everyone needs a side gig," Clint shrugged. "Besides, don't pretend you aren't a fangirl."
"And don't pretend you don't enjoy actually having a female listener," Aiko shot back. Aiko and Clint had been partners for about four years, upon Aiko graduating from college and Clint quitting what had been a lucrative career as a defense contractor, united by a desire to inform the public at large about what happened when the kindling of the military-industrial complex finally hit a spark. Currently, however, the public consciousness had been captured by the recent developments on the North American continent, as the Cascadian Uprising had seen the country's capital fall to the Pacific Federation. Compared to that, this potential brewing conflict was fixing to be a sideshow that it seemed only Aiko and Clint were dumb enough to witness, as the rest of their compatriots were currently either in Cascadia or Magadan. No, both of them had worked together long enough to know that they were both going to take the less beaten path. They simply had no idea where their commitment would take them.
Mugaska Island
Yusef stood atop the cliff face as he looked out onto the sea. The freighter was flanked by two destroyer escorts. From his binoculars, he could see the logos of Icarus Armories on several of the containers mounted atop the vessel. Around him, the rest of his men prepared to launch their drones while below his meager fleet readied to strike. Piracy was not something Yusef had ever envisioned himself partaking in. Rather, he specialized in banditry on land, raiding villages and rival strongholds and aid camps. A far cry from the scared and starving refugee boy he had been when he first arrived on the eastern half of this continent. Back then, stealing was just something he did to survive. Turns out he excelled at that particular talent.
Bringing the radio to his lips, he ordered the drones to launch en masse. While most were decoys, a handful of the few dozen or so mechanisms were loaded with either a grenade or C4 charge. While the damage to the ships would be minuscule, it would occupy the escorts and marines aboard them while the nimble PT and inflatable speedboats closed in on their target. Then, several dozen heavily armed and angry men would storm the ship and capture the cargo. Or be slaughtered to the last man and force Yusef to abandon his base with his men once again fight ceaselessly in territory that they could never hold for long. Truly, it had been divine fate that him and his brotherhood had located this ancient facility on the island.
As the rockets fired around him, he turned back to the bunker that oversaw the water, where inside a shifty-looking individual in a tracksuit and beanie spoke on a blocky and almost antiquated phone in a language Yusef could barely understand. This man was Anatoly Navarez, a smuggler and criminal lowlife who Yusef owed a considerable amount of debt to. Anatoly had been brought in by Yusef's superior to handle certain tasks that Yusef himself had little interest in. Mostly financial matters, running guns, drugs, Cordium, and counterfeit material were enough to keep Yusef's brotherhood afloat. In turn, Anatoly ended up using the funds to supply and equip the small army of rebels and extremists that answered under Yusef, as well as the broader network on the mainland run by their superior. In truth, Yusef was well aware of how indispensable someone like Anatoly was to his organization. It did little to salve how much he despised the man.
Anatoly put down his device as he glanced out the open air slit to gaze upon the fracas outside. Tracer rounds lit up as the drones were intercepted as the streams of the small boats inched ever closer to the ships
"…Could have done with an attack helicopter or two," Anatoly muttered to himself.
"What vile obscenities do you utter in my presence, swindler?" Yusef asked as he approached the smuggler, the severe Middle Eastern man slinging his rifle over his shoulder as he glared at his "partner."
"Oh, just ruminating on how this adorable little cell you command is going to topple a UKA escort fleet," Anatoly replied.
"My men are warriors. They don't fear the enemy and, Dust Mother above, they won't fear death," Yusef replied.
A blast from one of the destroyers' cannons impacted the water, capsizing two of the speedboats as the rest scattered while the patrol craft opened fire to try and suppress the escort ships' surface weapons. It was apparent to any observers that Yusef's cell did not specialize in maritime situations, focusing on using whatever equipment they had to throw at their colonizer adversaries. Though the insurgents did not lack for bravery, their effectiveness left a lot to be desired.
"I always love seeing a pack of angry idiots throw themselves at a problem," Anatoly grinned as one of the destroyers turned into the enemy flotilla, forcing the boats to separate as the freighter made a break for it.
"Well, maybe if you supplied my men with adequate gear we wouldn't have to make do with a two-bit scavengers hand-me-downs," Yusef growled.
"Not my fault that the Boss takes the lion's share of the good stuff. What kind of craftsman blames his tools, anyway?" Anatoly shot back.
Yusef had unslung his rifle while Anatoly reached for his magnum. The sentries and staff around them all screamed out in their disparate tongues for the two to not resort to violence or to finally have their bickering permanently resolved. That was when a shrill whistle stole the attention of all in attendance.
The newcomer approached with an unusual gait, one long stride followed by a metallic *thud* before it repeated. As the man approached, they saw that the origin of the sound was thanks to a crowbar affixed to the stump of the leg of the man. Going up, the man wore a tattered long coat, the kind that had spent too long outside, even for its intended purpose. Above it was the rugged, battered face of a grizzled old warrior, though he was hardly even in his fifties, and his lone eye looked out at the bickering partners before him.
"…Almighty above, this is what he sends me to oversee?" the man grumbled as he took off his slouch hat and wiped his brow.
"GUARDS! Who let this intruder into our headquarters?!" Yusef snarled.
"Can it, Sefi, I invited him," Anatoly replied as he approached to shake the man's hand. The man just ignored the smuggler as he brushed past both of them and walked to the edge of the bunker so he could look out onto the sea.
"…Yusef, was it? Have your men pull back about a click away from the freighter," the man announced as he checked a stopwatch. "You have… three minutes and counting."
"Who are you to give me orders?!" Yusef snarled.
The man turned to look at him dispassionately. "…The man who was sent to turn this rabble into a meaningful army. Two minutes fifty seconds."
As the temptation to shoot crossed his face, Yusef's arm was grabbed by Anatoly as the smuggler got between the warlord and the stranger. "Let me go, you lowlife!" Yusef growled.
"…That man is Gotz Ironleg," Anatoly quietly whispered to the warlord.
Yusef locked eyes with Anatoly. "…Two minutes thirty seconds."
"…All units, disengage from the vessels and retreat," Yusef relented.
During the Oceanian War fifteen years ago, a collection of Mercenary Lords attempted to start their own nation as a safe haven for soldiers of fortune. Threatened by this, the Pacific Federation mustered its forces together and launched a bloody conquest against the Mercenary Cabal. In the end, three fates awaited those who called themselves Mercenary Lords upon the defeat of their forces; they either got killed, got caught, or got away. Gotz Ironleg apparently was one of the latter, rumors of his death during the waning months of the conflict apparently aiding his escape.
"…Adequate distance," Gotz replied as he watched the smaller craft withdraw before looking back at his watch. "…And five… four… three…"
A deafening boom rattled the entire bunker as a blur flew over the island, causing everyone in the bunker to duck save for Ironleg. A smile appeared on Gotz's face. "Aren't we eager today," he muttered to himself as everyone in the bunker tried to get their hearing to return.
The survivors on the destroyers would later report that they witnessed a fast-moving aircraft speeding just above the top of the water, kicking up a wake behind it as the point defense tried fruitlessly to intercept the newcomer. What few images of the craft that had been captured would later be assessed that the airframe resembled that of the ACG-01 Chimera, albeit with certain modifications around the engine at the rear. This knowledge would do little upon the barrage of rockets slamming into the hull of the rear destroyer, crippling the ship's systems as the aircraft blazed above its canopy, rounding towards the other destroyer. As the surviving destroyer shot a SAM at the attacker, the aircraft darted into the trajectory of the missile, the weapon missing the frame by a few feet as another volley of rockets pounded into the other destroyer, crippling it. Keeping its turn, the aircraft swung itself to the freighter, seemingly dumbstruck at seeing a single plane destroy both its escorts, right before its bridge was bracketed by autocannon fire.
The plane circled around once more to confirm its hits before unceremoniously hitting the afterburners and launching itself back into the sky as the rebel flotilla, awestruck by what it had witnessed, recommitted to their assault on the now crippled and helpless freighter as the destroyers began to burn. The entire duration of the jet plane's assault could not have been more than twenty seconds.
"…Gentlemen," Gotz finally spoke as he turned to look at the motley rabble before him. "Your commander has sought me out to provide and advisory role and support for your organization. Regarding the chain of command, you are not required to follow any orders I may give, but understand that I report solely to Prince Bassari. Any obstruction on your part against me will be considered a hostile act against the Prince. My men will be arriving shortly, and we will make use of whatever facilities we can gather. Anatoly, I hope you got some paper on you because I need you to do some shopping."
"…Who was that man in the plane?" Yusef brought himself to ask.
The one thing Mercenary Lords prided themselves on was their best and most capable fighters, each one standing to represent the power and credibility of their sworn commander. The more recognized and feared the warrior, the more respect the Lord was owed.
"…That pilot goes by the callsign "Bodach," and he answers only to me. Your prince offered the both of us a hefty sum for our services. So be good boys, mind your manners, and leave us to our business. Because we're going to win you all a war."