To Blane Wilson, leaning laconically against the railing of the security tower, the open cast cobalt mine looked like Dante's image of hell. A huge spiral-like fissure wound itself down into the depths of the earth following the rich seams of the rare earth mineral that was so vital to the green revolution taking place in the west.
The mine was massive. A mile wide at least and half as deep, it dominated the landscape as much as it decimated it. For miles around, the lush jungle of the Congo had been cleared back. It had made way for the ore extractor plant, the refinery and the airfield that flew the refined cobalt out of this African hell hole. To the south, sprawled the worker shanty that had sprung up, as locals rushed to the area with the promise of good wages. In Blane's opinion, no payment was worth the level of human misery that he saw in front of him.
Thousands of people; men, women and children, toiled in the sweltering heat. Hacking and cutting at the stubborn red earth, packing it into wicker baskets and carrying it by hand up shaking ladders to dump it onto the conveyor belts before returning to continue the cycle. The sad reason for so much misery was the tight financial limits the company had placed on the site coordinator. The board back in Italy had not authorised the deployment of heavy mining equipment when so much human capital was freely available in the war-torn country. After all, why spend money shipping valuable material to the middle of the Congo that could get stolen by one of the many armed groups operating in the area. So much easier to use the expendable locals.
Thank fuck it was almost the end of his shift operating the sentry tower. In a few minutes, his replacement would be here. He could head back to the contractor compound for a shower and a cold beer before video calling his kids, who tolerated him, and his ex-wife who hated him. It wasn't that the sentry tower was uncomfortable; on the contrary, the company had spared no expense to secure their claim in this volatile area. The tower was an automated miracle. A thirty-foot-high, 3D printed cylinder built on-site using local materials. It bristled with automatic sentry guns, security cameras and drone aircraft that patrolled the surrounding area. Anyone without a biometric security bracelet was tagged and an alert sent to him as the human operator to make a life-or-death decision. Thankfully this shift had been as dull as the others before, and Wilson was counting down the days until his six-month contract was up and he could get back to civilisation. Not that civilisation was all that great. Wilson had always struggled to find a place in the modern world. He was a fighter, a trouble maker and above all a soldier. Things that didn't fit well with today's "me too", green revolution world.
Originally from the Republic of Ireland, he had crossed the border and joined the British Army after struggling to find work that wasn't criminal. He had served in Iraq twice with the Army and once as a contractor. The first during the 2003 invasion, the second in 2007 and the third in the sectarian carnage of the 2020 civil war. He had fought in the close quarters and IED littered pressure cooker of Helmand Province. Then as a contractor in the French counter-terrorism operation in Mali and the mess that was the UN intervention in Yemen in 2022. He had tried his hand at a "normal" life but just couldn't fit in. He was too angry, too quick to use violence to resolve matters. He had lost job after job, eventually turning to drink to compensate. That had finally cost him his second marriage and the respect of his two kids, both of whom were now at university.
At 41, Wilson was feeling every one of his years. His back ached, his knees hurt and he was not as fit as he once had been, but he was a soldier and fighter at heart, and it was that attitude that had drawn him to the world of private security. It was the only thing that made sense to him anymore. It paid him enough to support his kids, and the company was paying for the new gene therapy treatments that were all the rage at the moment. By the time this tour was over, the cartilage in his knees should have regrown, his eyesight would be back to 20/20, and he would be as fit as he was when he had first joined the Army. If he didn't grow a second head, that was. The treatments were experimental after all, so fuck knows what would happen.
YOU ARE READING
Contractor
Science FictionAn ageing soldier, a simple contract in Africa, one last job before retirement. But as the Green Wars heat up, he finds himself fighting for his life and the lives of his friends.
