The last question Clay had that night, before breaking for dinner and meeting his driver for the ride back to the hotel, was, “Will I have anyone working with me…another undercover officer?”
Tom shook his head, placed a smoldering cigarette into a full ashtray, and said, “At this point, you’re running solo. Maybe, if you pick up something, we’ll put some additional people in. But, that’s up to the Director.”
“So, no Marshalls, no ATF, NSA, DIA or any other acronyms you know of?”
“No.” Tom shook his head and in a fatherly voice, said to Clay, “I am fully aware how you feel about the CIA, and we have a law that prevents them from working inside our borders. But you’re on your own up there… except for your surveillance team. No one will contact you unless it’s to pull you out on an emergency basis and then that team will have either Tom’s or my name to give you for verification, along with a code word. They will not move in for any other reason then we order it, or if you’re about to be shot… something like that.”
“If it wasn’t for this building here, I’d think I was being recruited by the Russians to spy on the capabilities of the Alaska Defense Force. Sort of gives me the willies.”
Tom nodded his head in understanding. “Clay, I get that way all the time. I really hate having to use that so-called Patriot Act to investigate American citizens, to see if I have any terrorists hiding out in some American neighborhood.” Tom took a sip of his coffee and then let out a deep sigh.
“How’d you do in military history in your ROTC classes?” Brad asked.
“I was top in my class and ranking ROTC officer in my senior year,” Clay replied and then added. “Isn’t that in my records.”
“Easier to ask…You’ll recall after Pearl Harbor how we locked up all the Japanese Americans and held them in camps in some of the worst land America had to offer. But they stayed loyal to America and their sons enlisted in the military to make up the highest decorated unit in the European Theater; the 442nd Division.
“Now the same thing has happened here with the fall of the towers on 9/11. Our laws have changed, and people’s rights are routinely violated and mostly out of fear. Only time has a way of healing these wounds, that and the non-reoccurrences of such tragedies.”
Clay gathered up his papers and gave them to Tom to secure for the night, but prior to leaving he turned to the two men and said, “We hear a lot about what happened to the Japanese Americans being forced into those camps, but seldom do you hear a word of the Aleut People and how they were forced out of their homes by US Soldiers on the Aleutian Chain. These people were taken to Southeast Alaska to live in camps, and in climates they were unused too, to eat food, their body systems were not prepared for. Many perished from sickness and not a word is printed in the history books of this tragedy. Only in the state do our students hear of this tragedy.
“When the Aleut People went back to their islands, their homes were stripped. All their family mementos and even furniture was gone. Everything was stolen by US Military Personnel, and it was the officers who had lived in these homes. Their ancient handmade ceremonial masks were taken. Whale hunting seal-fur suits and carving tools over two hundred years old were stolen and all manner of scrimshaw and carved ivory were all gone!”
“You got me there, Clay. I never heard of this either. But I do recall reading of the Japanese attack on those islands, so I guess the people were evacuated for their own good.”
Clay could only shake his head and then reply, “Try to remember those words when someone comes to your door and says they're taking you from your home for your own good and you can only carry one suitcase, no weapons, and no food. Imagine how you’ll feel and especially when they don’t tell you where you’re going, you’re retired and that gold FBI shield is gone and your wife is scared out of her wits. Loaded into buses, you’re transported to desert countryside, possibly an abandoned military base. Maybe then you’ll know how those people might’ve felt.” Clay opened the door, “Do we have a name for this operation of mine?”
“Yes, I was going to share that little tidbit with you tomorrow. The people upstairs got a little cute and recalled an old movie about Alaska…they named this Operation Ice Palace,” Tom said.
“Yeah, I saw the movie with my Grandfather. We walked out about a third of the way through.” Clay waved good night.
Tom stood there with a handful of classified documents in his hands and a look of disgust in his weary eyes. There were times like this; he was actually ashamed of his country and the action it had taken. He also knew what had taken place down in New Orleans, when the police went door to door and seized weapons from law-abiding citizens without warrants, and he knew some of those same weapons were never returned, and all under the covering of the Patriot Act’s Emergency Powers. Operation Ice Palace! I’d like to find the joker who thought that one up and knock his block off.
3 - FREEDOM FOR ALASKA MILITIA
SILAS WICKERSHAM’S HUNTING CABIN
MILE 52 CHENA HOT SPRINGS ROAD
TANANA VALLEY, ALASKA, SEPTEMBER 23RD
Even though it was after 7 p.m., the sun still sat above the horizon, and the night air was just now cooling off. The screens on the two-story cabin’s front and back doors and several windows were covered in mosquitoes; each one fighting to find an opening and feed on one of the three humans inside. But bloodthirsty and pester-some bugs came with Alaska, just as moose, caribou, and bears did. This was one of the reasons this cabin was built right here; nearly a mile off the Chena Hot Springs Highway and alongside a large creek. The owner, his family, and friends used it for hunting spring bear and every fall for the elusive moose. There was also the occasional grizzly bear hunt, but those bears tended to have nasty tempers and could only be taken, by special permit, every three years. When not hunting, the cabin was used as a getaway spot and often loaned out to friends in need of a weekend away to help their marriage with alone time or provide some valuable family time away from the hustle and bustle of city life.
It had taken two years to build the cabin, with the help of family members and good friends. The bottom level, made with 10” and 12” thick spruce logs, provided a 10’ by 12’ living room, heated by a large Franklin wood stove. There was an open kitchen, filled with a 60-year old wood cooking stove and an electric refrigerator operating off an outside generator. This huge generator also handled all the lights and the assorted plug-ins on both levels. It was only turned on when the cabin was occupied, and extra fuel was always brought out by the guests. Upstairs had three bedrooms; two smaller rooms with bunk beds and one large master bedroom with a king size bed. For toilet needs, one needed to walk outside 50 feet to the Birch log outhouse.
Besides a pint of blood and gallons of sweat, construction was made up of spruce and birch trees and some plywood sheets from the local lumber mill. But last year, due to the heavy snowfall, a metal roof was added to the cabin. Vehicles could be driven down a rough single land dirt road off the highway for a ¼ mile, passing other driveways to three other residences. The road then ended at a metal gateway, secured by a heavy chain and lock. Once opened, the road went for another 1/8 mile, and a parking area was provided for 5 to 6 vehicles; depending on their size. From that point, people were required to walk the rest of the way and carry whatever they needed. A wheelbarrow for no-snow days or pull-sled for snow days was usually there to assist in the hauling. There was also a large woodpile outside the cabin, and anyone using the place was requested to replenish the pile with what they used, and this included the kindling they needed to get the fire started. The forest area surrounding the cabin was full of standing dead spruce and birch, plus the cabin came with two chain saws, a splitting maul and a minimum of three axes.
This evening, retired US Army Colonel Silas Wickersham set back in a brown leather chair of some age and wear and ran a cleaning rod down the rifle barrel of his .308 Winchester. His feet, currently nestled in a pair of handmade sheep hide and fox fur slippers, rested ato
p a brown leather footstool, covered in the dark hide of a wolf. He was stripped down to an aged navy blue T-shirt with a silk-screen photo of John Wayne on it from his “Green Beret” movie, and he was also wearing camouflaged woodland pants. This was his cabin, a hunter’s getaway, but his wife of 32 years, Wendy Sue, had made it her place too with various girly items; such as summertime wildflowers in all the rooms, paintings of hummingbirds scattered about and pastel-colored bedding and even colorful coasters for the coffee table. Silas wanted bears, moose or wolf coasters, but she won, and he ended up with “Wild Birds of Alaska.” Silas was at the point of agreeing to nail up hummingbird feeders outside just so he had something to shoot at when he was out here by himself.
Also in the cabin tonight were Allen Peterson and Norm Johnson, longtime friends and his hunting partners. Both had been to this cabin a hundred times over the years, and it was moose season now. But tonight they weren’t thinking of hunting moose in the early morning, they had other things to talk about, and the first item on the agenda was dinner.
All three men were senior officers in the Alaska Defense Force Militia. In fact, Silas Wickersham was currently Second-in-Command of the statewide militia. But Silas was also commander of another unit; the secret organization inside the militia known as the Freedom for Alaska Militia or FFAM. This unit was the militant offspring of the Alaska Independent Political Party. It was this party’s cause, to bring sovereignty to Alaska and the FFAM was the party’s strong right arm to assist in making it possible.
Militia Colonel Silas Wickersham was 66-years old, retired from the US Army as an Airborne/Infantry Regimental Commander. Born in Seattle, he has lived in Alaska for 35 years. He had met Wendy Sue when they ran into each other at a University of Alaska-Fairbanks mixer. Silas was wrapping up his Master’s Degree, and Wendy Sue was a Professor. They hit it right off and were married within 6 months. Though of a stocky build, he walked with a slight stoop having suffered some minor spinal injury from over 100 parachute jumps. Wendy Sue referred to him as her great big bear and probably because he was only 5’10”, had wide shoulders and a barrel chest. With his gray hair worn extremely short and though bloodshot, his blue eyes were always alert and his face a map of wrinkles, with a growing number of reddish age spots. Wendy Sue thought he could pass for an aged Grizzly and when his temper flared, she thought he roared like one too.
A graduate of the ROTC Program at Texas A&M University, Silas was awarded his commission and the gold bars of a 2nd lieutenant and was on his way to Viet Nam. Back then, a 2nd lieutenant’s life span in combat was about 8-minutes. But serving as an assistant platoon commander, he had survived and earned himself several decorations along the way. During Operation Desert Storm Lt. Colonel Wickersham served as a staff member for General Powell. But Silas knew because of certain political views he held, he would never see his general’s star and opted to retire. During his career, he was awarded a Silver Star, Legion of Merit, and two Bronze Stars for Valor, a Bronze Star for Merit, two Purple Hearts, his coveted Combat Infantry Badge, and Jump Wings. He’d also been awarded Jump Wings from Viet Nam, Korea, and Thailand.
It was Colonel Wickersham’s idea to put together the FFAM, and he personally selected the senior officers for his staff from members of the Alaska Defense Force. Men and women who were of a similar mindset; to see Alaska free of the United States of America and hopefully without the spilling of any blood. He had seen enough good men fall already, but now his cause was for the freedom of Alaska and away from political games of Washington DC.
Lying draped across an aged leather couch, Major Allen Peterson reviewed some of the paperwork the Colonel had asked him to check over. Peterson had retired for the night and was in his thick brown terry-robe, over faded gray sweat pants, bare feet, and a Seattle Seahawk’s NFL red t-shirt. A retired 64-year old US Air Force Major and Colonel Wickersham’s Executive Officer for the FFAM, Peterson was a former C-130 pilot. He was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska and the dependent brat of a Lt. Colonel. He had flown 27-missions during Desert Storm. During his time with the service, he’d been assigned in Germany, Japan, California, and Arizona, and was married to Alicia Lee (Rogers), who has been with him for just over 40-years. Resembling the dimensions of the Iron Giant, Peterson has long rail-thin arms, which ended in unusually big hands, long fence post looking legs that ended in huge size 14 4E feet and a bald head. He could easily grasp a regulation basketball or a triple-decker all meat sandwich in one hand, even with all the veggies thrown in. He also had a large scar on his left shoulder from a childhood incident and still refused to talk about what had happened to him back then. They had one son who was now a Navy Lt. Commander and an F-14 pilot aboard the USS Enterprise. Their 34-year old daughter was unmarried and a teacher at Delta Junction, Alaska. Upon retirement, Allen was awarded the Legion of Merit, but he’d also earned seven Air Medals, his Senior Aviator Wings and was known to be extremely intelligent. But sadly enough, after Desert Storm, he had suffered a problem with booze and took retirement when offered by a caring commander, but he had sobered up afterward to save his marriage and had recently earned his 5-year reward with the AA.
Major Norm Johnson came out of the kitchen with a metal tray stacked high with ham and turkey sandwiches and three glasses of iced tea. A big smile on his face, he set the tray down on the coffee table and made sure each man had a coaster for his iced tea. Norm loved moose season, and the happy expression on his face showed it. Even if no one bagged a moose, he enjoyed the time out here with his two best friends. Only thing he hated was his nightly mad dash for the outhouse in hopes the mosquitoes wouldn’t carry him off, and he didn’t find a bear waiting for him inside; which had happened one time before to another guest. Norm was 63 years old and retired from the Alaska Air National Guard as a Chief Master Sergeant in Law Enforcement/K-9 qualified. He set down on a dumpster dive special love seat. The blue cushions came from two other disposed of love seats and the main part of the furniture piece, which was crème colored, had to be vacuumed several times before the Colonel’s wife would allow it in the cabin. But he liked it, and everyone thought it was comfortable. Wendy added extra pillows and finally accepted it.
Major Johnson was the Operations Officer for FFAM. He was born in Dillingham, Alaska. Being of half Eskimo and half Aleut blood, he was one tough little fellow, and from the get-go, he had to prove himself on both sides of the family and in school. From all this scrapping, he was bound to become a Marine. Resembling a city fireplug, with not much of a neck and currently weighing in at a chubby, but no one would say it to his face, 214 lbs Johnson had served with the 9th Marines in Viet Nam. One of his two Purple Hearts was for a bayonet wound across his right cheek. He was also awarded a Bronze Star for Valor from that operation. Since he retired from the US Air National Guard, he’d put on another 14-pounds and Silas had had a few sterns words with him about his pudgy look.
Norm wore his favorite light blue and dark blue patchwork long-sleeved wool shirt and faded blue jeans with knee patches. He walked about in thick blue wool socks after leaving his green insulated hunting boots by the back door. He grabbed a sandwich and a glass of iced tea, took a big bite, and then set back to wait for his commander to begin the meeting. Tonight it was FFAM business and tomorrow they were off moose hunting. The standing rule was no matter whom got the moose they all shared in the carrying, butchering, and eating. Two years ago they all got a moose and were busy for a week in getting the meat carried out, ready for hanging and even had to shoot an overly curious black bear to keep it away from their kill. They tried to warn it off several times, but it just wouldn’t leave and was now a rug mount at ADF Headquarters in Anchorage.
As they consumed their sandwiches, Silas finished cleaning his rifle, loaded it, and placed it by the back door. He wanted to keep it ready in the event a bear got nosey and tried to break into the cabin. It had happened a few times over the years, but they’d been able to chase them off with a couple shots. Each of the men carried the
cabin’s Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun out to the outhouse for added security but had never had to use it. But there were a few times Silas threatened to cut loose on a swarm of mosquitoes in hopes of bagging a few big ones and mounting them.
“You’ve looked at the numbers all evening, Al,” Silas said between sips of iced tea. “Do we have the numbers for the operation or not?”
Allen thought about it for a moment before answering and then said, “No, Colonel. We do not. As of now, we’re a good 15 troops short. We need additional ground troops; people with combat experience if this operation is to be successful.” Allen made sure he used the coaster for his ice tea, not wanting to face Wendy’s wrath for leaving stains on the wooden coffee table. “Norm and I worked over this operation for a month or better, Sir, and we first saw the need for 150 troops. But per your request, we’ve cut it down to 120 personnel. But those numbers are shy by 15, and we need to have that number by February to begin training for the operation or cancel it altogether.”
“No!” Silas exclaimed, and he shot up out of his chair. He glared at both men for a moment and then walked over to the stove to toss another chunk of dried spruce into the fire. “We will not cancel the operation. We’ll step up our recruiting. I know there are a lot of men and women coming home, getting out, and some are deciding to remain here in Alaska. Some of these troops are Alaskans. We’ve got to reach out, squeeze the ADF dry of possible applicants, but we will move forward even if our numbers are shy of the mark.”
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