NOTE: Map of Cyan Meadow is provided here for reference: http://img163.imageshack.us/img163/8471/cyanmeadow.png
Cyan Meadow, Anolil
The city of Cyan Meadow had been built over itself in the past thirty years, new brick and mortar breathing fresh life into a rather dull little town which had gotten off the ground as a collection of adobe apartments. Tall buildings now dominated the urban landscape, ugly monuments which indicated a recent throwback to the flat, square, styles Anolil's architecture had taken to in the 1960s.
Once a commercial hub for the region, it was now a district unloved by nature and ravaged by war. Bodies lay rotting alongside neglected garbage in the streets, food for the rodents which swarmed desperately over putrid flesh, and militia gangs roamed freely through the rubble, each staking out their own little slice of hell to call their own.
Massive, ornate, towers of granite and iron guarded the only pass by which Cyan Meadow could be accessed, at the eastern end of a valley formed by steep ridges on the north and south. The valley ran for six miles, and the ridgelines were dotted with sandbagged anti-aircraft positions and surface-to-surface, battlefield ranged, missile sites. The western side of the valley was overlooked by a huge rock outcropping that rose four hundred feet into the air, and so nicknamed the "Vulcan's Nest".
The Bronze Guard's sprawling base occupied the shores of Cyan Lake, a formidable compound protected by concrete walls and bristling with machine gun posts. Most of the base facilities were located underground, testimony to the organisation's largely superstitious fears regarding hostile air activity.
It had been many a day since the men who now comprised the leadership of this shrinking militia force had been the rulers of Anolil, Sergeant Malcolm Laming reflected, as he patiently searched the overcast skies.
Once upon a time, before the nation's inevitable degeneration into total anarchy, the Bronze Guard had vowed violence to preserve Anolilian territorial integrity. They were an extremist party, ultra-nationalists to the far right of the political spectrum, who had attempted to seize power in a military coup fifteen years earlier. Rather than resulting in a new regime, however, Anolil had simply buckled under the pressure - a tradition of decentralised authority had overpowered the Bronze Guard's ultimate goal of turning their beloved homeland into a totalitarian state. A shaky alliance cobbled together from various corporations, militias, and political factions had driven them from government, and after three years of bitter civil war they had been expelled to this last holdout, Cyan Meadow, a traditional base of support.
Laming scowled. Anolil was a nation no longer, a failed state which had long since fallen into a morass of petty fiefdoms and warlords. He had been with the Bronze Guard from the beginning, and knew that what they had prophesied had come true - Anolil needed order, or she would be reduced to anarchy - their worst nightmare!
No matter. At least they still controlled Cyan Meadow, capital of a mineral-rich province which had once been responsible for an important local economy. Anolil's natural wealth were still in the hands of responsible men, and it would be from this bolt-hole that they would continue to fight, until this blood-weary nation was finally saved from itself.
The clattering, howling, roar of rotors brought a grim smile back to the sergeant's grizzled face - peering through binoculars, he could see it now, the enemy patrol helicopter, darting around the side of a low hill, racing northwards towards the Bronze Guard's command centre.
For several weeks now, these foreign aircraft had been spotted over Cyan Meadow, and attempts to shoot them down with infantry weapons had been futile. They were painted black, with some sort of insignia nobody had been able to recognize. None of the militias had planes or helicopters - these intruders were serious about what they were doing.
And it was Laming's job to make sure they regretted it.
With an oustretched hand, he gave a silent signal to the two guardsmen standing behind him. One of them tossed aside a tarp and picked up a Mistral, the French-built, man-portable, homing SAM the Bronze Guard had inherited from the now-defunct Armed Affairs, previously Anolil's top privatised military element.
"Under two kilometres."
The other guardsman was speaking now. "This is effective up to four. Should be -"
"I know what it is," Laming growled, taking the launcher himself and surprising the other two. They exchanged glances, but knew better than to question their sergeant.
He had not fired a missile in several years, but was familiar with the procedure. Laming tracked the approaching Duskeye helicopter in his sight, pressed the enabling switch to activate the homer, and waited for confirmation that the Mistral was tracking the target by its heat.
By God, the Bronze Guard was about to teach unwanted intruders what happened if they strayed too close to their territory, on the ground or not.
The Mistral was briefly suspended in the air before its sustainer motor kicked in, and it shot out like a bolt of lightning.
Everyone across Cyan Meadow was rewarded by a most satisfying explosion as the boom was severed from the cabin of the Alouette, sending it on a downward spiral to earth.
There were no survivors.
ION Airfield, Isla Duala
The suits did not look certain of themselves at all as they stood in the shade provided by a single massive hangar on a crude airstrip hacked out from the virgin savannah about it.
"I don't like it, Cappy. I didn't like it then, I don't like it now."
"Please try to be civil about this, Jaap. You ought to understand that I cannot debate this matter with you. The board of directors has already approved it, and as much as I would like to offer my advice on the issue, we really have no choice."
"Involving another major corporation, especially one with such prestigious ties to high finance, does not sit well with me."
"Outsourcing, my boy, outsourcing. We can't do it ourselves, even if ION does do paramilitary work on the side, and paperclip security contracts - but Primary Outcomes doesn't mind. Deniability is the key here. If they fail, its their own operational record they're ruining, not ours. In that unlikely scenario, we can always wash our hands of the matter and forget about Anolilian minerals, or get a better company to do the job. But if we commit our own forces, then God only knows what sort of shitstorm we'll run in to - things are unstable at best ever since the Kalumban arms scandal."
Jaap raised a hand to his face in a vain attempt to shield the harsh sun from his eyes. He scanned the skies as his partner hefted the briefcase and sighed.
"They're due to be flying in today, Jaap. Let's try to be civil with our guests, no matter what our personal opinions about the matter."
