Chapter 2: Developing Situations
Logoliya Bay Air Base
In the darkened conference hall, illuminated only by the light of the projector, the director of local operations stood in front and lectured to all attendees about their roles going forward. The lion's share of the discussion was reserved for the engineers and developers, as their presence was the crux of the whole operation, interconnecting local sympathizers on the African frontier to the infrastructure of the West African Concordat. Building local towers to install an internet connection, mostly, with some discussions for water treatment and medical facilities. Offsetting this rather noble endeavor, however, was the necessity to navigate around several regional warlords, hence the security.
Captain Renauld sat dutifully and at attention, even though the discussion had gone into its second hour without even the briefest mention of the security forces. Director Linda Pierce was a civilian contractor in the purest sense of the term, a woman with more experience in a boardroom than a battlefield, though she was at least cognizant enough to surround herself with "advisors" for emergency situations. The navy-blue body armor made for poor camo, but it would make them distinct and easy to identify should air cover be considered necessary. No one was paying them to be discreet. Dylan Gravier sat beside his commanding officer, noticing that Patrick and Nadja had not returned from the bathroom in the last forty-five minutes.
"…Should I go look for them, sir?" Dylan whispered to his commander.
"Pat's having a smoke and Nadja is probably dealing with some personal issues back home," Arthur replied, his louder tone not picked up by the Director as she continued her spiel with the engineers about project efficiency.
"…Well, shouldn't they be here?" Dylan asked.
"You really are the new guy, aren't you?" Arthur slightly smirked.
"Air Wing," Linda announced. "You'll be flying combat patrol tomorrow and identifying potential hotspots. Talk with the securities coordinator for more intel. Thank you, Captain, you are dismissed."
Arthur stood, nodded, and made an about-face towards the exit while a confused Dylan followed him.
"…Two hours for that?!" Dylan finally welched as he finally shut the door behind him.
"Gotta love bureaucrats. Just remember that we were paid for the meeting, regardless of how many of us showed up," Arthur grinned.
"…Why is it that we're always treated like an afterthought?" Dylan asked.
"To Pat, that's the best part of the job. To me, well, maybe I just want to pad out my bank account before I hang up the flight suit for good," Renauld yawned.
"Still, when I became a pilot, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind," Dylan muttered.
"Still looking for some glory, kid? Can't blame you," Renauld chuckled. "I signed on because of all the footage I saw of the Oceanian War. I saw mangled wrecks of machines with their occupants surely in a similar state and I thought "I want in on that!" like the dumbass teenager I was. Thankfully, a mediocre career humbled me enough to understand how the world works," Renauld explained.
"That why you became a mercenary?" Dylan asked.
Renauld wheeled towards the younger pilot. "Let's get one thing straight; we are contractors, not mercenaries."
"What's the difference?" Dylan asked, rhetorically.
"A mercenary chooses which side he fights for, a contractor lets their bosses do it. We're paid by the company that makes those decisions on who we offer our services to. Basically, I consider us more like specialists than warriors-for-hire," Renauld explained.
"…I think my grandma called that a "distinction without a difference," Dylan replied.
Renauld betrayed a smile. "My point is that mercenaries choose which battles to fight, and a soldier goes where they are told. We're soldiers; we only work for a corporation on behalf of a government. Mercenaries, though… how much do you Creole kids know your history?"
"I went to a vocational school," Dylan replied.
"No patience for the arts, then? Mercenaries have a habit of escalating conflicts, and during the Oceanian War, they nearly cornered the market for instigating them until the Federation dropped the hammer down on the Mercenary Lords. And before that, there's the old local legend of General Bassari."
Renauld turned to look at Gravier and expected the briefest glimpse of recognition to cross the face of the swamp rat. "…You can't be serious. How screwed is the Appalachia's education system?"
"I'm from the Creole Republic, man, I know how to fix up a car and fry up gumbo and that's pretty much it," Dylan explained, apologetically.
"…General Bassari used to be a soldier in the West African Concordat. He was often sent out to fight against the Periphery, where his reputation began to grow," Renauld explained to Dylan. "Before too long, he began assembling his own army from the Peripheral tribes and aiding the WAC's enemies. This made him something of a warlord, but that's like calling a hornet a housefly. He was the single greatest threat the WAC ever fought, militarily. Defeated them on the field of battle numerous times, and his continued success threatened to start a revolt. Do you follow?" Renauld asked the younger flyboy, his voice dripping in condensation. Dylan nodded, seemingly oblivious. "What happened?" he asked.
"Someone in his inner circle turned against him and had him assassinated," Renauld replied. "This was thirty years ago. These petty warlords that the bosses are concerned with are basically shadows of the real deal. At best, we can expect a handful of barely maintained MG-21's from a shoddy airfield piloted by folks struggling to keep airborne. As I said, this gig is a cakewalk, Crawdad.
"…That's my TAC name?!" Dylan balked.
"Pat picked out the moniker while you were at the airbase, yesterday," Renauld explained, smiling.
"I SPECIFICALLY SAID I WANTED RAVEN!" Dylan whined.
"You are not the first to request that one. I swear I've met a dozen Ravens during my service," Renauld snickered. As the discussion continued, the securities office was notified of a jeep parked just outside the perimeter of the base. Assembling several escort vehicles, the staff stormed across the runway while, in the distance, Clint reactivated the engine and sped away, ignoring Aiko's screams as she kept snapping her camera.
"WE JUST LOOK LIKE SOME NOSY TOURISTS!" Aiko screamed as Clint barreled over a bump in the road. As they sped by the chain link fence, she missed the poster of her face plastered against the metal, urging local staff to report her to security should she be witnessed anywhere on the premises.
The coastal city of Challani was one of a network of interconnected settlements, designated as a "special economic zone" following a refugee crisis that led to millions of disparate people to relocate. Aside from the local natives, a good portion of these immigrating refugees were from the Bharati continent, Arabiya, and recently the Luzon Archipelago following a supermassive tropical storm that forced the hand of the Pacific Federation to round displace the citizens of its protectorate across the globe.
The politics of the situation escaped Makisig's mind as he kept beating on the engine of the small fishing trawl, using brute force after all attempts at technique and subtly failed. Grabbing the sledgehammer, Makisig was about to swing for the fences when the machine, obviously realizing what was in store for it for continuing to refuse to work, sprung back to life. "We're good!" Makisig hollered up to the deck as Captain Bart steamed back towards the docks.
As the trawler neared, the crowd was already gathered by the pier. A bunch of shifty-looking customers standing around some pickup trucks with machine guns mounted on the beds. Militants of the Grey Falcons, a coalition of "freedom fighters" who had come from all over the Periphery, united under one banner as of late to oppose the Three Powers of the UKA, WAC, and PF.
Makisig and the crew began their unloading. Assault rifles, grenades, RPGs, ammunition, and the like were offloaded from the boat onto the technicals. A dozen smuggling rings had been established following the Grey Falcons' presence in the city, following the arrival of that foreign criminal from no one knew where. As Captain Bart chatted with the cell leader, the second mate handed out the pay to all members of the crew. Makisig never liked arms-dealing, but the wad of cash at the end of the trip usually alleviated what moral conundrums he felt within. Honestly, he had signed on to be a fisherman, it wasn't his fault Captain Bart saw more money in guns than guppies.
Upon his dismissal from the dock, Makisig decided that the night wasn't late enough for him to catch a drink and an eyeful at his favorite spot. Making his way up the dilapidated and packed boardwalk, he noticed a lot more people were carrying weapons. Challani had never been a peaceful town, but for once it looked as if the local disputes had been brought to a halt. As he passed by a tavern, Makisig took notice of the graffiti on the side of the walls. "Bassari Lives." The locals loved their folk heroes, Makisig figured as he put his hands in his pocket, keeping his palm atop his pay wad.
As he rounded a corner, Makisig immediately leaped out of the way of a small convoy of black-armored Humvees. The boy cussed them out as they passed, the armored soldiers atop paying him or the rest of the citizenry little mind as they continued their patrol. These soldiers had been a recent arrival, newcomers who had disrupted the typical social ecosystem of this community. These were mercenaries of the Independent Strategic Combat Group, the ISCG, a collection of various operators who had been popping up throughout the Periphery in the last few years, working for a variety of clients and accumulating reputations and power. These factors didn't account for much to Makisig, who merely thought that the whole lot of them were pricks.
He had finally reached the deck of the tavern and saw the two girls working the bar. Shea and Shanni were two of the most popular hostesses working on the coast. Having two striking women serving drinks made this one of the more popular establishments in the city, among other reasons. It was a double-edged sword for Makisig because while he always had a seat and a place to stay above it, his feelings for the place were rather…complicated.
He took a stool by the end of the bar while Shanni approached him. The sunny and stunning Bharati woman flashed him a smile. "The usual, Maki?" she asked.
"Can I have a beer this time?" Makisig asked.
"Your sister will kill me if I'm caught serving you, little boy," Shanni smiled as she pulled out a soda bottle from under the bar. "On the house, though, so no need to thank me," she grinned.
"Thanks, Shan," Makisig took the bottle graciously, joining most of the bar's patrons to watch her as she turned around to leave. Shanni just had one of those figures that you could appreciate at any angle, a fact that likely helped with her never having to worry about rent. The fact that she had two working roommates, though, likely didn't hurt.
"Hey, kid, stop staring at my coworker's ass!" Shea called out as she approached the boy.
"Bite me, Shea," Makisig growled as he fished out his pay. He pulled out a few bills and placed it on the table. "There's my share," Makisig announced as Shea picked it up and counted out the bills. "…Great, you might actually make rent for once," Shea muttered as she pocketed the money and went back to her rounds. "Love you too, sis," Makisig seethed. The two siblings had never been close, but being uprooted from their home and shipped to the other side of the world had strained their relationship further. If they hadn't shared the flat above the bar together, it was likely that they would never have seen each other again and gone their separate ways, but with expenses being what they were, they had to stick together with their roommate Shanni, who often serves as a peacemaker for both of them.
As Makisig took a sip, he began noticing that the man sitting next to him was asleep, his face planted atop the bar counter. The man was filthy and wore a tattered flight jacket, shredded trousers, and seemingly no shoes. Shea made her approach to the man. "…Sir," she began, neutrally. "This counter is for paying customers only. I'm going to have to ask you to leave or else buy something or-" she stopped as the man, without moving any other muscle in in body, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of crusty 100-dollar bills, placing it before her. Shea took the money and reluctantly counted it out, her eyes someone never leaving the sleeping stranger. Upon completing her count, he pocketed the money, reached under the bar counter, and grabbed a towel that she proceeded to roll up before gently lifting the sleeping man's head and pressing it back down onto the impromptu pillow.
"…This guy is a VIP, Mak. Make sure he doesn't die or something," Shea replied offhandedly as she recounted her modest windfall.
"I don't work for-" Makisig stopped as he looked over at the bum. His face was covered in dirt and hair, and his eyes were just slightly opened and staring at the kid, blankly. Makisig waved his hand in front of the stranger's face, and didn't seem to register any response. Figuring the guy had passed out, Makisig returned to his drink.
As the night wore on and the customers left, one of the newcomers to the town had returned to the bar. As Shea and Shanni cleaned, they both glanced at the guy before whispering a hushed conversation with one another. Makisig just looked at the guy while reaching into his pocket and gripping his switchblade. The guest made his way to the bar counter, and the girls agreed that Shanni would talk to him.
"…I'm sorry sir, but we're closed for the evening," Shanni stated as Shea began hyper-focusing on her cleaning.
"Oh, I'm not here for a drink," Anatoly grinned. "I've just been working so hard and am wondering where I can find someone who can help me relax?"
Shanni looked to Shea before returning her attention to the man. "Sir, I'm afraid this place doesn't offer what you're looking for."
"Oh, I'm not talking about the place. I'm talking about…" Anatoly paused as his eyes darted between the two girls, "…what you could offer me."
"I'm not interested," Shanni sniffed as she turned away, Anatoly not breaking his line of sight. "Not a lot of principles survive poverty," Anatoly called after her as he reached into his coat and pulled out a thick stack of bills.
"…I make enough," Shanni said as her eyes were drawn to the money.
"For yourself, I don't doubt. But you… you're Bharati, right? Just because you're doing well enough for yourself doesn't mean you have the means to support your family back home. I imagine that's where most of your pay goes, anyway?" Anatoly looked at her.
Makisig felt his grip tighten on his knife. This Anatoly guy had been an ever-frequent visitor of this place, rarely ordering a drink but his eyes never left those of the girls. He was wealthy, Makisig realized that much, and the guy clearly believed he could purchase anything, and anyone, he wanted. The horrible truth was that he couldn't be challenged on that these days, as all three of them were hard up for money and needed every cent they could save.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. "…I think you need to take our friend home, Mak," Shea whispered into his ear, motioning towards the passed-out drunk.
"Shea, that guy…" Makisig began to protest.
"Shanni is a big girl," Shea whispered. "She can look after herself. But I'm supposed to look after you, and no good can come from keeping you here. So, go on, get him up and out of here," she pressed her brother.
Reluctantly, Makisig took the man's arm around his shoulder and pulled him off the stool. "…You got somewhere to be, old-timer?" Makisig asked.
"… get me to the hanger…" the old man muttered.
"The airfield? Ok, I'll just leave you at the gates and-" Makisig was about to leave the deck when he looked back and saw Shea taking Shanni's place, the other girl rushing to the back while his older sister giggled as Anatoly began stroking her face. Makisig turned forward and buried everything as he dragged the old man away from the restaurant.
Yusef was pacing, his agitation growing as Gotz stood still and at ease while his men unloaded everything they had brought with them. Gotz looked from his good eye at Yusef's irritation and fought back a chuckle. "…So much ambition, only to find yourself sharing power when everything is said and done," Gotz grinned.
Yusef had spent years fighting, negotiating, and absorbing other militant groups into his organization. It wasn't difficult finding people on the Periphery who resented the superpowers. The real challenge was training, equipping, and organizing them into a coherent fighting force, and even then there was only so much he and his could do on their own. When he was approached to join this new organization, Yusef did so reluctantly and after much consideration.
"You are bad enough, mercenary," Yusef relented. "But sharing power with Navarez is especially grueling. What is he doing, anyway?"
Gotz exhaled in what could be interpreted as annoyance. "Rewarding himself. That man is more than just a free smuggling network, he's our connection to every pirate gang from here to Magadan. The only flyboys worth a damn outside of the academies come from the Corsairs, and, well, fodder isn't just for the ground," Gotz grinned.
Yusef drew closer and loomed over the crippled warlord. "Do not be so flippant with the lives of my warriors. We possess the means and firepower to destroy your pet freelancers before they have a chance to receive their pay or run."
Gotz didn't budge. "Leaving you without the most competent force in this new venture. You can answer to the Prince about how you jeopardized his plans to sate your ego, I've never forgotten what I'm here to do."
"…Mad dog," Yusef spat as he walked away.
"A well-trained one, at least," Gotz smiled as his second in command approached him. The burly soldier wore a tactical vest with his muscular arms exposed, a submachine gun hanging from his waist as a black beret rested atop his crew-cut blond hair.
"No sign from my men about your pet basehead," the soldier-for-hire sneered.
"He isn't a basehead, Strydom, just… unconventional," Gotz offered.
Major Strydom snorted. "He needs to be replaced. He's already old enough to retire, why not replace him with someone who stays on base when he's on call?"
Gotz slammed his cane down before him. "A Lord never abandons his Signature!" Gotz snapped, uncharacteristically.
The gates nearby opened up, and the guards nearby were thrown in a frenzy. Gotz rose to his feet while Strydom approached to see his men swarming around a young boy carrying a familiar waster over his shoulders.
"BOY! DROP HIM AND WALK AWAY!" Strydom barked as he raised his weapon.
"I just came here to drop him off!" Makisig protested. One of the guards came up behind Makisig and grabbed him by the back of his shirt, yanking him out from under the drunkard's arm as he was forced to the ground with a boot to his head. The drunkard, unsteady on his feet, wobbled for a few brief moments before reaching into his vest and pulling out a magnum revolver, pointing it at the guard who apprehended the boy. The rest of the guards balked and protested, urging the drunk not to do anything rash while Strydom stewed in anger, which was not at all alleviated by the laughter of his CO.
The guard slowly stepped away from Makisig, his eyes not leaving the barrel of the revolver that has holding much more steady than he anticipated. Makisig stood back up, rubbing the back of his neck as the drunkard drew his piece back inside his jacket. "…get me inside…" he asked as he held out his hand, sounding like he was close to puking. Makisig rushed back to get the drunk's arm over his shoulder as he dragged the man through the airbase, the guards watching intently as the cripple kept laughing. "I see you were out making friends, Kincaid," Gotz teased as the door to one of the hangers creaked slightly ajar.
A Latino mechanic peaked his head out and saw Makisig and the drunk, groaned in agitation, and beckoned both to come closer. "Get that idiot inside," the mechanic seethed as he ducked his head back into the hanger. Makisig followed the request, squeezing himself and his charge through the door. Inside the mostly dark hanger was a small light at the back corner of the facility, with what looked like a small rec area with some couches, some crates as makeshift tables, and a small kitchenette, where the young mechanic was furiously cracking an egg and using the shells to separate the yolk from the albumen as he cursed under his breath. He briefly looked up, glaring at Makisig while roughly motioning to the couch with his head.
Makisig dragged Kincaid over to the couch, gently rolling him onto the furniture as the mechanic dug around for extra ingredients. "…they don't pay me enough to babysit, always some excuse for why I can't get any extra funding…" the mechanic muttered. As Makisig turned around to ask about what he should do, his eyes finally drew upon the single aircraft resting in the hanger.
"…Whoa," Makisig's eyes widened in amazement. "…That's a Chimera."
"Manticore," the drunk hiccupped. "Custom-made. Nothin but the best for Oceania's finest…zzz."
Makisig felt a hand grab him by the arm. "Now get the hell out of here, kid," the mechanic snarled.
The drunk sputtered awake. "TIP HIM!" he called out before passing out on the couch.
The mechanic looked at his pilot in disgust before sighing and approaching a duffel bag at the foot of the couch. Unzipping it, he reached in and pulled out a roll of bills.
"Sir, that is way too much!" Makisig protested as he saw the amount of money.
"I completely agree," the mechanic seethed through gritted teeth. "So shut up, take the money, and get the HELL OUT OF HERE!"
Makisig was then escorted out of the base, the roll of bills in his hand weighing down on him. Makisig figured, based solely on the weight, that his roll of bills was more than he could possibly hope to make in six months working with Captain Bart. He looked back at the base, as the black-armored soldiers and all their unfriendly faces. And he thought of the old man, the complete stranger who somehow stood up for him even when he had no reason to. The boy knew he couldn't forget this night no matter how much he wanted to. He was always so damn curious; his sister always told him. He'd be back, somehow or someway.
