CARIBBEAN SEA - SONS' SEABASE BRAVO
9:37AM EST
"Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ," Brandley muttered, again, for the third time, as he slid the manila-foldered briefing across the table, out of easy arm's reach. His gaze lingered on it for a few seconds more, and then he washed away the sour thoughts it'd given him with a swig of lukewarm coffee. He set his mug aside, not too far off from the offending stack of documents, leaned back in his chair, and raised an expectant, open hand, as if to say 'well, what now?'. It was a small gesture, but it conveyed his frustration to his staff more than adequately. To be fair, they were all a little frustrated with the news too. World War 5, right on it's way, across all the headlines as plain as day.
Brandley lowered his indignant hand back to rest, flat against the table, gave the folder across from him a nasty glance, and then turned his gaze to those present. His best and brightest. The first mates of his unwieldy, forty or so years old ship, the Sons of Liberty. "Each passing day," he started, grinning bitterly, "I get a little bit more cynical about my fellow man. A bunch of Imperial Serbs and some goddamn Nazis decide that the best course of action, immediately following World War Four is to invade the rest of the world. Carve it right up."
"In all honesty, sir," one of his staff piped up, a younger man, son of an old admiral. A boy who had grown up in the insurgency, been indoctrinated into its mission. In any other situation, Brandley might call such an upbringing morally questionable, but the circumstances were different here, at least in his opinion. And, regardless of the ethics of it, and the young lieutenant's life story, he had input. " ... This is all talk for now. And maybe it'll only be talk. I'd like to see the Nazis try to secure control of Russia. Fat chance."
Brandley nodded. He figured as much himself, but that didn't make the situation any better, and he said as much. "It's still happening. It's still their intent. This is the global community now. These are the world's leaders. They make twenties America look like an angel, and what can we do about it, tied up like we are in the north? Not a damn thing."
He rose to his feet and walked a circle around his chair to the map that had been posted on the wall behind him. A map that was now woefully out of date. Someone heaved a morose sigh behind him. Another coughed. He pressed his hand against the continent of Eurasia and squinted. His fingers curled, and he yanked the map from the wall and crumpled it up. He turned back to his subordinates. His presidential cabinet, in effect, and he held his balled world map up in a stern grip. "The whole world is turning all fuckin' Orwellian and all we can do is nip at Emperor Washington's heels. You'd think someone with the sense to get himself into office over there would also have the sense to learn from the mistakes of his predecessors. Jesus H. Fucking Christ. Nazis! Nazis and Yugoslavians! Why don't we just go get ISIS going again too? Maybe Stalinist Russia?! They'd be in damn good company."
He had almost started shouting, but just as quick as the rant began, it was over. He let out a bitter little chuckle and returned to his seat. "Alright, now listen. Jameson, get triple-S on the line, I've got to conference call about our ... friends across the pond. Martinez, your orders stand. Jericho moves forward as planned. We need to make headway against the Emperor and his mooks now more than ever. Same goes to the rest of you. No change in plans, but just be aware of the new circumstances we operate under. The world needs an America now more than ever, so ... let's not keep them waiting. Hop to."
In short order the conference room was empty again, save for a crumpled up map.
SOUTH AMERICAN POPULAR UNION - RIO DE JANEIRO - SOVEREIGN SECURITY SOLUTIONS DISTRICT OFFICE AND COMPOUND
1:09PM DST
"Monica, I'm not going to say it again. This is where we thrive. This is our sunshine and our water and our fertilizer. War. Jockeying for power. You know the way I see Eurasia? I see it like the prospectors saw California. It is an opportunity unlike any other. Three superstates, two at one's throat. If they're going to point any fingers, it's going to be at each other," the side-combed fifty-something man said, fingering the triple S pin on his lapel.
"Jonas, I didn't come here to talk realist foreign policy with you," the woman sitting across from him, also a fifty-something, dressed formally, said, "You decided, without the board's approval, to mobilize almost a tenth of the company's assets without even sending the board a memo!"
"And I apologized, didn't I? We're talking in circles. This is an opportunity I had to jump on, and besides, even if we lose all the assets I'm readying up we're still making a profit, aren't we? And," he jabbed upwards with a finger,"we've taken the necessary steps to ensure our tracks are covered. If anyone's helping poor little Cameroon it's the British and the Commonwealth."
She rolled her eyes. "Sure you apologized. Sure, you covered every base, but you do -not- run this company on your own."
"Now you're just arguing out of principle. Because you feel excluded. Or am I wrong? Because I can't think of a single thing I actually did to endanger our profit margins," he said. He looked back over his shoulder and said, "Blinds, dim to seventy five percent."
At his word, the elegant futurist suite that looked out at the Rio skyline dimmed as the window panes polarized. She was glowering at him the entire time.
"Take a moment to not be a dick. Pretend you're talking to a reporter, if that helps."
He gave her a pained sigh and clasped his hands together on his desk. "The Federales insisted we move, Monica. Half the world is poised to be set under siege. Deliberation has no place here. By tomorrow we'll be operating in Cameroon. If all goes well, we'll be sending aid to Mogadishu. At least that was the proposed outline I was given. Are you happy? It's not my fault. My hand was forced. Would you like a letter of apology?"
She gave him a flat smile and shook her head. "No, James, that'll be fine. Just keep us in the loop next time, will you? It'd be a shame if we had to pull the rug out from under you."
And, with that, she stood and walked out.
James Traxus decided now would be a good time for a drink.
NEW REPUBLIC OF CAMEROON - YAOUNDE OUTSKIRTS
2:31AM WAT
The cool, soothing voice of a woman eased Isaac Brown out of the stupor of pre-mission dozing. He didn't quite catch what she said, but he knew she would repeat herself. It was his ASTOR's onboard computer system, IFA, or Infantry Field Assistant, urging full awareness back to his faculties. He wanted to tell the machine he needed five more minutes, but of course that wasn't exactly a luxury that his mobile infantry frame provided. It was custom to sleep prior to long-distance deployments such as these, despite the cramping that being locked up in his suit guaranteed. It was like flying economy class. On a Fourth Reich commercial airliner.
"Ten minutes until drop. Ten minutes until drop. Armor systems initializing. Arming and refueling in five minutes. Pilot: Isaac Brown, Sovereign Security Solutions Deniable Ops Lance Five, please prepare for drop."
He rolled his neck left and right, eliciting a few cracks, gave a few earnest blinks to clear his vision, and curled and uncurled his fingers. He was going to feel this ride when he got back to base, he knew that much.
"Ifa, activate suit optics," he murmured sleepily.
His suit's display screen flickered to life and followed his eye movements. Left, right. Up, down. Everything was in order. He could see the CS160's cargo bay, gray, cold, and gutted of all obstructions to make room for his and his Lance Partner, Mendez's, ASTOR suits. The hunched form of her war machine sat directly in front of his, nearly balled up to fit in the back of the aircraft, just as his was. The flamboyant Aragon red and yellow stripes her ASTOR was so well known for were gone, replaced by a dull gray and a Cameroon flag. Necessary, and temporary, all for their current op, but he couldn't help but chafe mentally every time he looked at it. It reminded him of his now missing jolly roger.
"Pilot: Isaac Brown, be advised. Combat stims are now being administered. This may sting."
It did sting, but, at the risk of sounding like a junky, this was the best part, Isaac thought to himself. First there was the prick of needles in the right arm, and then the rush. Enhanced reaction time. Cold, beautiful euphoria. The frustration and stress of combat were nothing to an ASTOR-37a pilot. There was just the fight. Well, no. It was the physics. The maneuvers. The acrobatics. It was all a slow, sweet ambrosian blur of flawlessly executed wetwork. He could probably make some historical allusion, but he would just come off as unoriginal. Everyone else likened themselves to hashashin. To nordic berserkers. To the old Chinese genemod commandos. In some respects they were similar, but then Isaac Brown couldn't forget he was just fighting for a paycheck, not Odin or Premier Liu Qindu.
His thoughts kept spiraling. Hundreds of years of pondering in the blink of an eye. He wasn't even deployed and he'd gone from considering the romance of being a drug-fueled killing machine to reliving the moments of his mother's death in that car crash back home in Florida. And the self-realization of his spiraling thought process brought him to considering the combat stims themselves. He could recite the chemical cocktail by heart. The means of delivery. Where it was stored in his suit. Where it was produced in Peru. The national animal of Peru.
There he went again. Not enough stimuli, audible or visual, to keep his racing mind focused. That'd change not too long from now.
He inhaled deeply as the warning klaxons, signalling an impending drop, illuminated the cargo bay. He could see the red hue of Angelina Mendez's optics coming on line. He ground his teeth together and then opened the squad line to her.
"You ready?"
He could hear her rapid shallow breaths on the line. "Yeah. Yeah. Never changes, does it?"
"Not once," he muttered.
Their voices were irregular. Trembling tones. Irregular pronunciation. They were caught up in the act of speaking. Too focused on their own voices, on trying to sound normal despite the rush of artificial hormones and endorphins. It leveled out by the time they made landfall. Usually.
"One minute until drop," Ifa stated, matter-of-factually.
Lance Commander Lagi's voice crackled through, "Alright. This is possibly going to be an extended op. Your suits have been outfitted accordingly. I've seen to it you've been supplied extra ammunition and stims. Our mission is to halt Yugoslavia's advance, as per our employer's wishes. Local forces have proven ineffective. Cameroon isn't exactly a military superpower, after all. That's where we come in. We halt their advance before Yaounde. The capital does not fall. We'll cut in and out. Remember your training. Do not present a front for them to fight against. Mobile. Hostile. Hit them where it hurts. Lance Four is on standby in the city center with a strategic artillery ARCO2, Lance Three is being deployed from the north to cut into Yugoslavian reinforcements and logistics. If we're lucky, we'll just encircle and destroy."
A chorus of 'yes sir's' echoed through the squad radio line, and Ifa joined in by announcing that the drop was imminent.
The Godhand's bay doors opened wide and Mendez's ASTOR shot out, propelled by in-bay pneumatic catapults and her sputtering VTOL pack. It was good to slow her descent, and not only that, but also gave her limited flight capabilities on the field.
Isaac closed his eyes and embraced the sickening rush of gravity as he was catapulted out right behind her.
The dark of the African night embraced him, and he was jerked upwards by his own VTOL pack roaring to life. He watched from up on high, adjusting course as needed to keep in line with his lance. The city was dark. The people had fled or gone into hiding. All that remained now was Cameroon's desperate national military, barricading itself inside its jewel city for a last stand. But Cameroon had friends in high places. It was one country, at least, that wouldn't be squashed under the heel of autocracy just yet, if this multinational corporation had anything to say about it.