[ WP ] You are part of an Elite Bodyguard team hired to protect a wealthy business mogul from an assassination . But the longer you listen this person business practices and plans for the future you find yourself wanting to help with with the assassination rather than prevent it .

My first assignment with The Company was almost thirty years ago, now; I was new to contractor work and I remember being excited just to be in the field with a rifle. Excited to be part of a team of mean-looking dudes in multicam load-bearing gear, body armor, face masks. I was freshly back from overseas -- I ’ d been a REMF -- and wanted to feel like a badass. 
 
 We were assigned to protect a mining claim in northern Wisconsin. This was of course well before the first Water War in the southwest, and the idea of heavily armed private security at a remote mineral extraction site shocked a lot of people. I remember being on the news. Between my tricked-out M4 and padded gloves and the skull facemask, I made newspapers nationwide. Above the fold. Even though the other guys teased me for letting one of the activists take my picture, I remember thinking at the time that the whole thing was fucking awesome. Who were these enviro-weenies who thought they had the right to interfere with a private mining interest on private property? 
 
 In the end we ’ d only faced off with a few local protesters. Mostly hippies and Indians as I recall. We didn ’ t even carry any ammo in those days. But for a wannabe trigger-puller it was a fun summer. I did indeed feel like a badass all kitted up, walking the property perimeter with the team, some of whom were actual combat vets. 
 
 Something else stuck with me from that summer. One evening I was off-duty and went for a hike along a stream near the mine site. I remember watching a particular stretch of water as the sun set, how the light seemed to climb up out of the trees and how the fish were rising, rhythmically, eating bugs that were on the water and flying around, blinking in and out of the sunbeams. It was silent, peaceful. Like they ’ d been doing it for a million years. Probably had been. 
 
 It didn ’ t register then, but that stream was right downhill from the mine site. A mine site that would eventually be mothballed due to water usage restrictions, be sold off by The Company. Ten years later the neglected tailings dam would fail and dump a million tons of acidic mine waste sludge into the stream, and into Lake Superior. 
 
 I did see some action with the crew during the first Water War, the southwestern one, but it was mostly defending tanker trucks heading to the frack sites from ambush -- pretty easy stuff, really. Those yahoos had no training and no arms to speak of and we just wiped them out. Didn ’ t even slow the trucks down, usually. Left them lying in the dust. They were slow, unorganized, predictable. Easy to hit. Wrapped up in cloth from head to foot, just like the hadjis overseas had been. Of course by that time Oklahoma was in full dust-bowl mode, aquifers bone dry, so such dress was practical. But as a child of the War on Terror period I ’ d be lying if I said it didn ’ t make pulling the trigger easier. 
 
 All they had was desperation and desperation is not enough to make a successful guerrilla movement. But they didn ’ t have to be desperate. They could have moved to the cities or the camps with everyone else and had their water ration. Sure, the ration system was imperfect. If they hated it that much they could have just bought water from The Company. If they could afford it. Any of these would be better than bleeding out in the dust on the side of an empty highway. The Company owned the rights to that water, legal and fair. Who were they to try to take it, based on some romantic ideal of public property? 
 
 But that was the first war. Not much of a war. Some minor civil unrest. The leeway that the Feds granted The Company as “ Critical Infrastructure ” meant that they could solve such problems as they saw fit. Fitness, to them, came from the muzzle of a mercenary ’ s rifle. Like mine. It also meant that I had a full hydration bladder at all times and a hot shower waiting for me in the barracks. I wasn ’ t complaining. 
 
 Things settled down for a while. But when the second crisis developed, the fouling of the Lakes due to widespread catastrophic mine failures, we were back at work overnight. The Company had wells up in the Great Lakes sand country and, being the last sources of clean water, they were prime targets for thirsty locals. A couple had already been hit by local guerillas, the crews wiped out, thousands of gallons stolen or spilled. It had been costly to retake them, so the Company sent us up to Michigan to guard this big one until they could bring equipment in to harden it. They told us this well had at one time filled tens of millions of 16-ounce bottles of drinking water, shipped around the country to be sold for a buck a pop. The young guys thought they were joking. 
 
 But I remember it. I drank those bottles, probably from this very well, in Afghanistan and in Wisconsin. Amazing to think there was ever a time when we ’ d buy bottled drinking water just because it tasted better than tap water, or was more convenient than carrying a refillable canteen. People didn ’ t know what thirst was back then. 
 
 This big well -- a pumping station, parking for a half-dozen tanker trucks, and a few outbuildings, no fence -- was way back in a jackpine forest, amid a network of sandy two-track roads; a hard place to defend, especially without the technical equipment we ’ d grown used to. Battery shortages meant our drone support and NVGs had been reallocated to the Personal Detail team. What we did have, at least, was lots of ammo. 
 
 When the attack came it was quick and violent and in broad daylight. A quiet summer afternoon that detonated in sudden rifle fire. We weren ’ t ready. Owens caught two rounds right off the bat -- he and I were standing off to one side of a tanker truck. Both rounds punched right through his soft armor in the middle of his chest and he fell straight down, heavy, with a wheeze. I scrambled behind the front wheel of the truck. I recognized panic flashing at the edges of my mind -- this was happening too fast. Owens writhed in the pine needles for a few seconds before lying still, face down, his slung rifle muzzle-down, propping up one arm weirdly. Sand stuck to his open eye. Recenter. Breathe. I press-checked my rifle -- shine of brass in the chamber. Okay. Extra mags oriented correctly in their pouches. Okay. *Think. Move. * 
 
 Bullets were hitting the back of the wheel. The tire deflated -- sand and sparks flying -- deafening -- they knew where I was and were pinning me. I knew that they ’ d be coming around the truck, one side or the other. I guessed right and when a figure stepped out from behind the end of the trailer I put three rounds into him. I immediately ran that direction and stepped over him -- young, maybe twenty, bearded. Stone dead but his eyes wide and watery with tears, his face still flushed with excitement and health. Wearing hunting camouflage, Teva sandals, and carrying an old bolt-action Remington. No wonder Owens had gone down so hard. Our soft armor is no good against 150-grain.30-06. Our ceramic plates, too, had been reallocated to Personal Detail. *Shit. * 
 
 Small arms fire was now general and I couldn ’ t get a fix on how the attack was playing out. The air was filled with hisses and pops and cracks which meant it was filled with lead. I could hear Miller on the 249 firing long bursts -- too long -- and decided to head his direction. At least it was somewhere other than here. But it was too far and I was too slow. Or there were too many of them or they could shoot too well. I remember being hit, a hard punch, no pain, a little high on the left shoulder. I spun partway around and my left arm swung limply but it did not hurt and I did not fall. I did vomit as I ran. A second round cracked beside my ear but then I was in the trees. I kept running. 
 
 I don ’ t remember when I stopped running but I remember being seated on a streambank among the jack pines, clamping my ruined shoulder with my right hand. Rifle next to me in the sand. Twenty-four rounds left in the magazine and one in the chamber. I ’ d only fired the three. I could still hear gunfire, but it was randomly-spaced single shots. *Someone is mopping up. * I carefully unclenched my right hand and withdrew it -- blood oozed from the wound, but did not spurt. I could feel it trickle down my back and chest, under my empty plate carrier. Something cold was also trickling down my back. My water. My Camelback must have been nicked. *Shit. * 
 
 Stuck to my bloody right hand were a few frighteningly large bone chips and a lot of sand and pine needles. My shoulder started to hurt as blood returned to the torn flesh I ’ d been squeezing. That soft-point hunting bullet had fucked my shoulder. Bad. I leaned back on a tree. Could feel shock settling in. 
 
 I thought about the man I ’ d killed. The boy. Less than half my age. Grew up hearing of the Water War to the south, thinking he and his family were safe up here, with Lake Michigan and Lake Huron and plentiful sandy aquifers. Not any more. It ’ s too valuable to leave in the ground or in the Lakes, [ NAME REDACTED ], CEO of The Company would tell us. They ’ re just working to move it to where it ’ s needed most. And making a shitload of money doing it. And protecting it with a private army. With my rifle. *Shit. * 
 
 The sun was setting through the pines, the beams split by treetrunks and starkly defined in the dusty air. The stream below was dry, its aquifer long since drained to fill our tanker trucks. No fish rising, no insects. I could still see the way the water had moved in the shape of the sand and gravel bed. I couldn ’ t stay there; I had no water with me. My only chance was to return to the well and hope for the best. I stood up very heavily, picked up my rifle and began the walk back through the pines. My ears rang loudly but the sound of a helicopter was unmistakeable. Automatic cannonfire soon took its place. The Company was retaking its well. 
 
 Continued in comment -- >
