In two rooms several thousand miles apart, two men watched the feed being relayed to them from an orbiting satellite, the carnage at Brighton Mine unfolding silently and predictably across their screens. Disgusted, Vincent Chadworth turned away, not even bothering to watch as his air cavalry arrived and began decimating the fleeing prisoners. Charles Chadworth, on the other hand, watched until the end, the mine now silent and empty save for some scattered fires and the still forms of scores of men and Oompa-Loompas alike. Charles reached up with one hand, gently massaging the bridge of his nose as he switched off the satellite feed and returned to the report on his desk. Necessary sacrifices.
The ploy had worked. The uprising at Brighton Mine had been a victory on paper…the facility would be shut down for some months, and a huge number of prisoners had been freed. But it did not feel like a victory; it had come at the cost of two tactical drones, seven operatives, and nearly 40% of the people the operation had been intended to liberate. Among the fallen was Lieutenant Amisi, who had stopped to help an injured slave and had been shot in the back in the process. The African Resistance had misjudged the response time of Chadworth's Security Division, and had paid a dear price for it. But there was no suspicion. Someone did mutter the line "It's almost like they knew we were coming," but it was nothing more than frustration, and no one heard him.
After the necessary security checks and isolation period, the slaves were welcomed into the local Resistance camp. As ever, all efforts were made to locate and reunite family members, and so when several people came forward with information that their families were with General Bucket in Eastern Europe, they were scheduled for accommodation on the next available transport. Among them was a man looking for his brother and two sons, a man with dreadlocks and a heavy Loompanese accent. His name did not match up with any databases, but this was hardly unusual; between the government's sloppiness and the desire by many Oompa-Loompas to conceal their identities, it was no surprise that no trace of this particular individual could be found on the enemy's networks. And though the transport had already reached its quota of passengers, the Resistance officer took pity on the man and managed to free up one more seat. As he left, thanking the officer again and again, Awolowa Mugabe almost felt guilty about abusing the goodwill of others. Almost.