by L. Z. Hunter
Powell wondered why he hadn’t been allowed to say the word mercenary. There was no denying this was a paramilitary outfit.
“Jennings! We found such a perfect place to hole up for the night, we overslept this morning. Got off to a bit of a late start,” Marksman said. He made introductions. “Follow me. We’ll get you set up, and then I’ll show you around and introduce you to the other members of my team.”
“How many others are there?” Claire asked.
“There’s Stacy Jennings, who you just met, and four others.”
Powell wondered where the mining operation was. They were still in the midst of a jungle. The canopy blocked sunlight, and if it was raining, he couldn’t tell. It seemed like water dripped off leaves overhead nonstop since they started on the way that morning.
He walked, following behind Claire and Marksman. Stacy Jennings remained where she was, a perimeter post he assumed. His legs were like jelly. His workouts at the gym every other day hadn’t prepared his body for this kind of exertion. Worse, the boots he’d purchased kept his feet protected from everything, but because they were new, tore up his feet. He knew he’d need band aids, or ointments. He left them on last night. He worried about what might happen when he took them off. Would his feet swell up?
He looked at Claire’s feet.
She wore brand new boots, as well. Figuring she couldn’t be any better off, he kept his mouth shut. She hadn’t complained about the conditions once. He hadn’t either, but the temptation was there. He was here because of money. Enough had been set in front of him by Brunson that he couldn’t afford to walk away.
And yet, now he wondered if any of this was worth a raise?
Three months. Ninety days. He could do this. He’d have stories worth telling in bars. “Back when I was in the Congo…”
He smiled.
Missing the simple things from home already gnawed at him. Shitting in the woods was crazy. He’d held it as long as he could. When they made camp for the night, he continued holding it. He wasn’t venturing off in the dark. He supposed if Claire hadn’t been there, he’d have had no issue with the act. First thing that morning, he practically had to run between trees while pulling his pants down. He didn’t like the vulnerable exposure. His junk wasn’t much, but it worked and it was his. Having it dangle out in the open was uncomfortable. It wasn’t snakes and spiders worrying him. He didn’t want his pecker bit by a huge mosquito. And the thing he feared most was contracting malaria from an insect sucking blood out of his dick. He’d pooped as fast as possible and hoped things would be more modern once they made it to camp.
They reached a clearing. Trees and stumps were cleared away from a sizeable piece of land. Had to be at least 175 sq. feet. There was a backhoe parked on one side, and a flat dirt road led into the parcel, a ramp for driving in and out. The earth was dug up pretty good. It reminded Powell of a gravel pit. It wasn’t as deep, maybe only from six to ten feet down, or so. The depth progressed from one end to the other like an in-ground swimming pool.
Their home and place of work for the next three months was a hundred times better than Powell anticipated. It still looked rough, and third-world, but there were four walls and a makeshift roof. “This isn’t too bad.”
Marksman pointed to the building. “It’s mud and stick walls. Requires extra attention. We worked with the Congolese, tying strips of bamboo to the support poles of the wall. Making mud isn’t an issue. It rains all the freaking time. We press it into mud balls and put them in between the slotted bamboo walls, which lends to the solid look of the place. The roof is just layer and layer of palm fronds. There is no electricity, no running water, and the latrine is a small hut behind this one. Heavy rain or storms, and we’re holed up inside like the three little pigs, if you know what I mean?”
Powell changed his mind. The place was awful. He could not imagine sleeping in a place with mud for walls. “It doesn’t look like mud and sticks and bamboo,” he said.
Marksman laughed and clapped him on the back. “It’s wood, son. Wood, and a tin roof. We still slapped the palm fronds on top though, over the tin. It helps with noise reduction. Rain pinging on a tin roof all night, and none of us would get any rest.”
Powell exhaled a sigh of relief. “Seriously? That’s great. I’m so relieved to hear it. I can’t even tell ya. You had me worried there. Okay, so there’s a bathroom inside then?”
Marksman’s smile vanished, and he shook his head. “Nope. Latrine is out back. No kitchen either. We cook outside. Tried it once or twice when the weather was bad. Place fills with smoke too fast. Can’t even breathe. Could have cut a hole in the roof for ventilation, but I’d rather cook outside than have a hole in the roof.”
# # #
Introductions with the remainder of Marksman team went quick. Powell felt like he was on a Black Ops mission in some Tom Clancy film. Only thing missing on the mercenaries was the black and green makeup stripes painted on their faces. They were each Marksman’s mirrored image. Muscle, dressed in black, and heavily armed.
They were all inside the cabin—how Marksman referred to the dwelling—eight cots lined the walls. There were three tables with chairs in the center, and a bookcase with books and board games against the back wall. Crude and rudimentary. There was no privacy. No walls. It was just one big open floor plan, but there was a floor. Plywood. It was better than plain earth. There were large rectangular windows. Powell walked up to one and tapped on it with a knuckle. Plexiglass.
Marksman had his team standing and lined up behind him. Powell and Claire sat at the first table, across from one another.
“You met Stacy outside,” John Marksman said. She nodded a second, silent, hello. He moved on to the next person in line, standing at attention. “This is Ian Ross. He’s from England. Say hello, Ian.”
“‘Ello.”
Marksman laughed. “Love that accent. Ian was with the United Kingdom Special Forces, and involved with counterterrorism, unconventional warfare, as well as special and covert reconnaissance missions. Took some shrapnel in the thigh during a mission that went wrong and was released to early medical retirement. Anyone want to see the scar on his leg? No? Okay then.
“This here is Rebecca Robinson. Becky. Like Stacy and I, she was a U.S. Marine. The three of us were deployed on countless Black Ops missions. We’ve performed clandestine search and rescue missions in Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, and Vietnam. We each served consecutive tours, and for our own personal reasons decided not to re-up any longer,” Marksman said. “Becky, say hello.”
“Hello,” she said.
“No accent. Still as cute as Ian, if you ask me,” he said.
Powell wondered if the marines made connections during their service, and realized the money was there to be made for doing the same job, just for an employer other than the United States of America? He didn’t ask, because he did not feel the question would be well received.
The next man was black. His skin was nearly as dark as his clothing. “Charlie Erb,” Marksman said. “He comes to us from the Special Operations Command from down under. He’s been assigned to task groups involved with the world’s global fight against terrorism. He’s spent nearly five years in Afghanistan, and a few years in places he won’t reveal even to us. Files are sealed up tight, too. So I just take him at his word when he tells me the confidential assignments were dangerous. Isn’t that right, Charlie?”
“That’s right,” Erb said.
“Say hello to our colleagues from Circuitz,” Marksman said, and Erb did. “Last, but certainly not least, is Jack Shelton. He was an NYPD sergeant, and a member of the elite Special Weapons and Tactics unit, or S.W.A.T. Knowing this man was born, raised and served his twenty years in the Big Apple, you might think he is out of place in the rain forest? You’d be wrong. The man belongs in the jungle. Right at home in the Congo, aren’t ya, Shelton?”
“It’s home,” he said.
“Hear that? Home,” Marksman said. “Any questions anyone?”
Powell felt like he should raise his hand. He refrained. “We’re not the first two…corporate types sent to this location from Circuitz, are we?”
Marksman shook his head. “You are not the first project manager, no.”
“How long has this dig been going on?”
“Nearly five years,” Marksman said. He stood with his hands laced together behind his back, feet shoulder width apart.
“So what happened to the others?” Powell couldn’t recall anyone he worked with leaving for the Congo, nor even hearing about anyone from the corporation going.
“They spend their three months here and leave. Same as you.” Marksman shifted his weight, and brought his hands around. “Just a few rules. Use the latrine before bed. There’s no going out in the middle of the night. If you absolutely can’t hold it until morning, wake me. You make a mess, you clean it up. We aren’t servants, we’re a security detail. We do the cooking, however. Fish from the nearby river, meat from whatever we kill. There is no menu. You want something different to eat, catch it, kill it, and cook it yourself. There are no left overs. Ever. Whatever isn’t consumed is removed from our area. We don’t want animals sniffing around at night looking for food. It’s dangerous enough when they are nearby out of curiosity. However you manage the locals for the dig is up to you. We won’t interfere. On the site, you call the shots. So far we’ve had minimal issues with the natives. They show up each morning to work, and they leave an hour or two before dusk. They walk to and from, and don’t want to be in the forest at night either. If you have an employee giving you problems, see anyone of us. We’ll get it straightened out. It’s best if you don’t get involved with any discipline. Other than that, I think we’ve covered everything. Any questions?”
Claire raised her hand.
“You don’t need to do that. This isn’t school,” Marksman said. “What?”
“What about showers?”
“There aren’t any. Every couple of days, we’ll head down to the river to bathe. That’s another thing you don’t want to do alone. It’s not just what might be in the water that makes it dangerous. We clear?”
Stacy said, “A good rain works, too. Stand out in it and wash. Modesty will only leave you smelling rancid and raw. If you stink too badly, we’ll strip you ourselves and scrub you. We’ve only had to do it once before. Once.”
Claire’s smile resembled more of a grimace. “Got it,” she said.
Chapter 6
Breakfast consisted of nuts, fruits and vegetables. Coffee was brewed on a pan over an open fire. Powell slept like shit. The mattress on the cot was two inches thick. Tossing and turning made up most of the night. Sitting in the latrine, since the coffee was strong and like an instant enema, he tried looking on the bright side: eighty-nine days to go.
He’d brought his cell phone, along with five battery packs. There were no outlets. He left it in his bag under his cot. The idea of being cut off from the rest of the world for a quarter of the year made him apprehensive. He already missed the stupid things like Facebook and Twitter, email and Instagram. He tried thinking this could be a good thing. The cell phone dictated his life. Here was an opportunity to regain control.
Claire was by the dig. She somehow looked fresh and ready for the day.
“How’d you sleep?” he said, standing next to her.
“Would have been good, if someone didn’t toss and turn the whole time,” she said.
“You mean me?”
“Why? Was someone else restless last night?” She laughed.
People walked toward them. The well-worn path was still covered in overgrown everything. They carried cloth bags with knots tying them off at the top. “Those must be the miners?”
“You ever done this before?”
“Mined for coltan? No. I searched it on the internet. It’s done the same way we dug for gold back during the gold rush,” he said.
“Yeah, I wasn’t alive then,” she said. “I looked it up as well. I read the descriptions, watched some videos. Doesn’t seem too difficult. Looks like we’re just actually digging here. Chipping away at the earth piece by piece. Pulling out the hunks found.”
“Easy, right?” Powell counted three males and two females. Best guess, not one of them was over twenty. One looked about she might be twelve, thirteen at the most. “They’re kids.”
“No labor laws here? It’s kind of like a sweatshop, but outside?” Claire said.
“Better not be. I’m not going to mistreat these people,” Powell said.
The mercenaries surrounded the pit perimeter. They looked vigilant with hands on the assault rifles, ready for the unexpected. They’ve been out here years. Maybe everything they were prepared for was now expected. He hoped so. Surprises could be cool, like for a birthday party or something. Out here in the Congo, he wasn’t in the mood for surprises. Plain, ordinary, boring days would be ideal. Time might drag, but at least at the end of the stay he’d go home.
“Know what’s crazy?”
“Tell me,” she said.
“We’ve been gone a couple of days, and already all I can think about is grabbing a burger and fries.”
“It’s morning. You just woke up,” she said.
“A sundae. Chocolate and vanilla ice cream, a sliced-up banana, and hot fudge.”
“Now you have my attention.”
More people came down the path. They smiled walking by Powell and Claire. They each set their cloth wrapped belongings down beside a tree, and then walked down the dirt road into the pit. Below, they retrieved pickaxes and shovels, and began hacking away at the ground.
“I don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing here, not really,” Powell said.
“Aren’t you a geologist?”
He laughed. “No. I minored in geology in college.”
“Minored?”
“That’s it.” Held both hands up, as if admitting guilt. “What about you? How did you get to be my assistant?”
Claire said, “My boss retired last year. They’ve been farming me out to different departments like a temp. Cindy was on maternity. Gloria had that gastric bypass surgery. Wherever there was an opening, I was sent to fill it. Hated that. When they brought this up to me as a three month assignment, I jumped on it. And, the best part, they promised a permanent spot when I return.”
“Not a bad deal, then,” Powell said. “I suggest we head into the pit, introduce ourselves.”
“Good call, boss. I agree.”
They walked toward the dirt road by the backhoe. “Have you ever seen coltan?”
“I haven’t.”
“Me either. I suppose we should give mining for it a shot. See what the job is like. That make sense?” he suggested. It was going to be a humid day. When it rained, and from what he’d learned about the Congo it rained a lot, the pit must be like a gigantic swimming pool filled with mud.
“Mining might be a great way to pass the time. And, since I’m not a member at any of the local gyms, I welcome the chance to exercise,” she said, smiling.
Ian Ross nodded a hello. “Going into the pit?”
“We thought we’d introduce ourselves. Give mining a shot. Check things out.”
“Good deal. Good deal. You speak their language?” Ian said.
“French? No. They all speak French?” Powell hadn’t given much thought to a language barrier before this moment. He supposed he knew it existed, but hadn’t thought about how they’d all communicate without Marksman around for interpretation purposes.
“Them? I have no idea what they speak. Sometimes it sounds like French, other times it just comes off like gibberish.” Ian didn’t sound cruel when he slammed the native language. It was more like he was doing his best at explaining what was what.
Powell noticed an earpiece in Ian’s ear. “Can you hear and talk to the others on your team from here, Mr. Ross?”
Ian frowned. “Don’t Mr. Ross me. You do that, and you’re going to make me feel like I have to call you Mist
er-whatever-your-last-name was, or boss, or sir, and guess what? I don’t do that shit no more. I’m Ian. Ian is what you call me.”
“Fine. Sure. I’m Louis.”
“Louis, I remember. And Claire,” Ian said.
“The earpiece, you guys are all connected?” Powell said, pointing at the white coil that led from his shirt collar up to his ear.
“Of course. We are in constant communication with each other,” he said.
“How do you charge the equipment? I thought there wasn’t electricity out here?” Powell said.
“There isn’t electricity. In the hut behind the cabin, there’s a small generator room. We keep industrial batteries in there,” Ian said.
“Like for cell phones?”
“Not for cell phones,” Ian said, “but yeah. Cell phones.”
Powell grinned. He knew he had to look idiotic. He wanted to connect his phone now. Was already anxious to use it. Burgers. Fries. Facebook. How was he going to make it in the jungle for three months? He hoped Claire and Ian didn’t recognize his anxiety. He needed to play it cool. “Marksman didn’t mention that on our one room tour. He must have forgotten. Good though. That’s good to know.”
# # #
Powell felt immediately uncomfortable once down in the pit. The ground was soft. His boots sank a little after each step. Those mining chanced a look over their shoulder at him, apparently curious. He did his best at smiling and waving hello. He wanted to look friendly. He figured he just looked out of place.
They stopped by a large man with a pickaxe. Claire kept her hands folded in front of her.
The man eyed them.
Powell pressed his hand to his chest, as if about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. “Louis.” Claire did the same, and said her name: “Claire.”