True Patriots

by Russell Fralich

  She’d been given a little wiggle room to deal with the threat. And she intended to use all of it. It was time to implement the plan that she had been working out in her head since they had left port. If it worked, she’d get both the smugglers and the mole.

  FORTY-FOUR

  THE FAINT GLOW from a fat crescent moon bathed the landscape beyond their van’s headlights in a soft grey tinge. It was close to three in the morning, and they were the only people on the two-lane road a dozen or so kilometres from the turnoff on the Trans-Canada Highway. They’d passed a few scattered houses, all dark.

  Gus slowed the van until the headlights pointed to a dirt road that led to a blackness that must be the ocean. “Are you sure this is the place, Zeke?”

  Zeke checked the directions on his phone once again. “Think so. Didn’t Ash say it was a place that no one would notice?” He pulled out a wrinkled provincial road map, one of several stuffed in the side pocket on the door. Another paper map, this one of his home province of Alberta, tumbled to the floor. He shoved it under his seat. Then he compared the image on his phone with the paper map and nodded.

  Gus stepped on the gas and heard snow crunch under the tires as they bobbed over well-worn ruts that led to the coastline. The path rose over a small ridge, and then they saw in the fan of their high beams a neat bay with a thin beach protected by a thick layer of trees and the ridge. It was a perfect low-visibility spot for transiting shipments from boats to trucks. He checked his watch: 3:06. Ten minutes to kill before the boat arrived, and then the hard work would begin.

  Gus yanked the phone from Zeke and dialed the familiar number. It rang only once.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve arrived at the destination.”

  There was a short pause before the low, raspy voice on the line continued, “Describe it.”

  “Well, it’s a small bay. There’s a beach, trees. Snow. There’s no one else around.”

  “Look at the sea. What do you see off the coast?”

  Gus grabbed the binoculars and scanned the black void ahead. The black morphed to a lighter grey at one spot directly ahead.

  “There’s a small island.”

  “Right. Stay there. Shipment will be there soon.”

  “Will there be any trouble?”

  “It’s been taken care of.”

  Gus heard the click on the other end and gave the phone back to Zeke.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Zeke.

  “We wait.”

  Two minutes later, the phone buzzed, jolting Zeke and Gus from their seats.

  “Change of plans. You’ll meet the boat at another location.”

  “What happened?”

  “They think they might have been followed. It’ll be safer to unload farther along the shore. I’m sending you the directions.”

  Gus was an Alberta boy and tides meant little. There was no chance that the prairie would ever heave up and down on a daily basis. But he had heard that the tides here in the Bay of Fundy were special. And in the beam of his flashlight, he could see why. In the short time they had been waiting, he noticed the beach was bigger, the water now a foot lower than when they had arrived.

  “We’re leaving,” he said.

  “Where we going?” Zeke scrunched his eyebrows as his phone beeped with the new directions from Ash.

  “Farther into the bay. The boat will unload over there.”

  Zeke had trouble describing the route Ash had sent. Five minutes into the drive, the map on his phone pointed to a lonely road that went off to the right. Gus turned the truck and drove until it ended with a small “Dead End” sign, mostly hidden with snow-covered branches that drooped from tall trees nearby. The headlights didn’t expose any other part of the route. Gus cut the engine. They spent a minute staring at the silent blackness outside until their eyes adapted to the darkness and the surroundings materialized into view.

  With his watch flashing 3:17 a.m., Gus knew the boat they were supposed to meet would arrive in a few minutes.

  Zeke looked at Gus. “What do we do now?”

  “We wait.”

  Zeke clicked the door open. The interior light flicked on, nearly blinding them.

  Gus squinted. “Stay in the van. We don’t want to attract attention.”

  Zeke closed the door and the darkness returned. He began to fidget, shaking his knee, then tapping his fingers. He’s not good at containing his feelings, Gus thought. Not for the first time. Such a weakness could be dangerous in their line of work.

  “Do you really think we’re going to get our own country on Monday?”

  Gus stared at Zeke in disbelief. Zeke had never before expressed any interest in their cause. He hadn’t shown any evidence of commitment beyond signing up as an AIM recruit two months ago. He recalled the rally the week before, when Mr. Haynes, who had stepped down as AIM leader when he joined the government, had spoken to all of the senior military staff. Haynes was well respected and was now the premier’s trusted lieutenant. He explained their objective, and how each of their jobs would contribute to victory. Gus knew that victory required their mission to be a success. Many people in the organization depended on him to finish the job. He didn’t need to know more. “Yes, I do. And we need to be prepared.”

  “So you think it’s right, then?”

  Gus sighed. “Independence? Why not?”

  “But there hasn’t been much action. I signed up for action. And so far, there ain’t been much.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, kid. Action is not fun. In fact, it’s grim.”

  “You’ve been in a fight?”

  “Yeah, lots.”

  “But nothing’s happened so far.”

  “Before all this. Bosnia. Afghanistan.”

  “You were in the army?”

  “Three tours of duty.”

  “What did you do in the army?”

  “I was a platoon leader. I retired as a sergeant.”

  Zeke’s eyes grew wide. “Wow. You kill anyone?”

  He’s such a kid. “Next question.”

  Zeke was about to ask the question again but thought twice about it and changed the topic. “So why did you join?”

  Gus turned away and stared at the night sky and its countless points of light. “I’ve seen too much pointless death.”

  “You could’ve joined private groups. You could be rich.”

  “I didn’t want to be a mercenary.”

  “You’d be rich, though.”

  “I don’t fight or kill for money.”

  “We’re getting paid for this job.”

  “Yeah, but there’s much more to it.”

  “Our own country?”

  “Our own country. We have to win.”

  “Didn’t we already win?”

  “Win what?”

  “Didn’t we stop those bad guys in Bosnia? Who were they again?”

  “The Bosnian Serbs, you mean?”

  “I guess.”

  “If you don’t know who the bad guys were, then we didn’t win, did we? Look up Srebrenica sometime.”

  “And Afghanistan? We won that one?”

  “No. More like a draw. We stayed, they went away. We left, and they came back. We left the government in charge and crossed our fingers.”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re oh, one, and one then?”

  Gus looked at him.

  Zeke continued, “No wins, one draw, one loss.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way but, yeah, I guess I’m looking for a win before I retire from this job.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  GUS POINTED ON THE MAP that glowed from Zeke’s phone. “It’s time. Get the gear. We’ll go to the beach and wait there.”

  Zeke hopped up and opened two small boxes from the back of the van. He gathered two encrypted walkie-talkie VHF radios, a pair of Celestron 10x70 binoculars, a flashlight, and two Glock handguns, each with extra ammunition clips.

  Gus scuttled down the shallow embankment that separated
the end of the dirt road from the beach, while Zeke walked awkwardly cradling the gear in both hands. Gus scanned the horizon to the west and south in search of the boat, but all he saw were two shades of black with a fuzzy horizontal line separating sky from sea. Zeke handed him the binoculars, a radio that he stuffed into his pocket, and a pistol, which he jammed into the rear waistband of his pants.

  Gus looked up. A pair of red-green navigation lights appeared next to the leftmost cliff. The boat was coming and it was on time. Maybe this job would be easier than he thought. All he had to do now was wait, load the cargo into the truck, and drive very, very carefully back to Airdrie. Redemption was now a distinct possibility.

  He handed the binoculars back to Zeke. “They’re coming. Gimme the flashlight.”

  Zeke tossed the light over, and Gus aimed it directly at the incoming boat. He turned the beam on and off several times. One long flash followed by two short and a long. The letter X in Morse code. A similar on-off flash, long, short, long, long — Y — was quickly returned from the boat now only a hundred metres or so away and approaching fast.

  A moment later they heard the growing whine of a small outboard engine; soon, a short bald man appeared in a small dinghy. He jumped out and dragged the craft onto the beach. He did not approach but instead put his hand into his right pocket and said coolly, “Who sent you?”

  “Ash,” Gus replied.

  “Right,” he said, more relaxed. “Here’s the first part of the shipment. There are two others. We don’t have much time. We’re being followed.”

  Gus motioned for Zeke to begin unloading the wooden crates, each about the size of a small refrigerator. Zeke took the first one and was surprised at its weight. He dragged it, straining with effort, swearing with each step until it lay in front of the open van. Gus grabbed the second one. As the crate passed through his flashlight beam, he noticed the markings on the box: Property of the U.S. Army.

  He loaded several similar crates into the van. As Zeke walked back to fetch the next crate, he stopped and looked out to sea, where another set of lights had appeared. He turned to Gus. “There’s another boat out there. And it’s coming this way.”

  Lieutenant Commander Claire Marcoux clutched the rope that held her within the bucking RHIB as it knifed through wave after angry wave. Its twin engines roared, shattering the silence of the night. Wrapped within her heavy Kevlar armour and helmet, she felt the buzz that accompanied impending action.

  Her orders were that the Kingston could not confront the smugglers. But they said nothing about sending out their motorized Zodiac, the rigid-hulled inflatable boat. She knew she was taking a risk in interpreting her orders creatively, but she didn’t want to waste the opportunity to stop the smugglers now that they were in her sights.

  Directly ahead, the shoreline glowed pale green through her night vision goggles, with flickers of white light from three tiny people who scurried between a small boat and the bush.

  She looked at the other three sailors with her in the boat. The massive bulks of Petty Officer First Class Steven Burns and Petty Officer Second Class Maddie Kershaw squatted at the front, each clutching black Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine guns, while Leading Seaman Ferguson steered and controlled the throttle from the back of the boat. All were in full battle gear. Claire felt her heart rate increase and the sharp intake of air with every breath. She wanted answers. She’d left the XO in command of the ship.

  Fifty metres, she estimated.

  “Okay, everyone,” Claire screamed into the mike over the roar of the engines, “safeties off. Remember, I want them alive.”

  She flicked the safety off her SIG Sauer 9 mm pistol and clutched it tightly in her right hand.

  “Roger, ma’am,” said Burns.

  Twenty metres.

  Time to start the show. Claire raised the bullhorn with her left hand and said, “Stop where you are. Drop your weapons!”

  “This is the Royal Canadian Navy,” boomed the voice from the sea.

  “The navy? Are you fucking kidding?” Gus barked to Zeke.

  Gus pulled out his Glock and twisted behind the tree nearest the beach. But Zeke froze in terror. Zeke had never been in combat. If Zeke wasn’t going to fight for their noble cause, he would get captured. Then he would spill his guts and expose their plan. Zeke couldn’t be allowed to jeopardize the plan. Gus shifted his aim from the Zodiac crashing onto the beach and aimed at Zeke, just as Zeke suddenly awoke from his stupor and darted toward another tree. They now had some cover, but it was different for the man at the dinghy.

  The RHIB slammed to a stop ten metres or so to the left of the dinghy. Claire saw two figures hide behind trees, but the third ducked behind the dinghy on shore and opened fire. She could see one, two, three muzzle flashes. But she had no idea how close the bullets flew because of the engine noise and her helmet. She assumed they had been close. Burns stayed crouched in the boat and returned fire with two short, controlled bursts, flame belching from his MP5, a few tracer bullets streaking toward the dinghy. The man jerked awkwardly backward and crumpled on the sand.

  Kershaw and Burns sprang onto the beach and ran for the nearest tree. Once there, they fired a few rounds toward the presumed location of the other two men, as Claire pivoted off the side of the RHIB, thumped onto the beach, and dove behind a tree near where Kershaw crouched.

  At least two targets were still out there. Probably armed.

  Ferguson slid onto the sand directly behind Claire. She turned toward the dinghy and saw a heavy-set man in a checkered jacket run from behind a tree and deeper into the forest. Kershaw fired a rapid one, two, three, four shots from her MP5, an orange tracer darting into the night.

  Claire wheezed heavily, weighed down by her Kevlar armour and her helmet with its night vision system. She held her SIG Sauer, as she knelt on the sand and scanned the glowing green scene ahead. Trees, rocks, beach, and abandoned boat as expected. The dark forest began only metres from shore. The targets were hiding in there somewhere. The rest of the team spread out to her left maybe ten metres apart, slowly approaching the forest edge.

  A blur at the far edge of the view. “Movement at eleven o’ clock. Fifty metres,” she said into her commlink.

  “Roger,” two of her team replied. She ran to the line between beach and forest, slammed against the first tree she encountered, and peered cautiously around it. She saw a second figure running away, farther into the trees.

  “Suspect moving, two o’ clock. Fifty metres,” Kershaw said.

  “Roger,” Claire replied. “Proceed with caution.”

  She took five steps and ran to the next tree, only a few metres ahead. Two flashes from the forest were followed by two whizzes as bullets narrowly missed her. She slammed onto the ground and held her pistol toward where she thought the flashes had been. With no clear target, she didn’t fire.

  “Two targets, twenty metres. Kershaw, I’m on their left. You take the right,” Burns said.

  “Roger. There in ten seconds,” Kershaw replied.

  “Ma’am. Come up straight ahead,” Burns added.

  “Copy. I want them alive,” said Claire.

  “Understood.”

  Claire saw Kershaw approach low, taking advantage of the forest cover. She took one, two slow steps at a time. Claire sprinted to the next tree and waited, peering quickly around. When she saw no movement, she ran to the next tree ahead, closing the distance toward the two targets. With their night vision goggles, Claire and her team had the advantage. They formed a triangle that would soon strangle any potential escape route for the doomed pair of smugglers foolish enough to mess with the navy.

  One figure broke cover behind a tree not ten metres away, then ran amazingly fast away from Claire. He slipped past both Kershaw and Burns and out of range of her goggles.

  There was one left. They had to get him alive.

  Claire heard Burns’s voice both live and, with a fraction of a second delay, over her commlink. “Do not move. Do not fuckin’
move. Royal Canadian Navy. There are two machine guns pointed at you. You move, you die.”

  “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.” The figure was on his knees, both hands in the air. His shaking hands were empty.

  Claire approached cautiously, one step, then another, her pistol rigid, straight out, aimed at the man. “Where’s the gun? Point to it.”

  The man gestured to his left.

  “Found it.” Kershaw held up a pistol in one hand.

  “Name. What’s your name?” Claire ordered. It was good that he was alive, although the one who escaped worried her. First things first.

  No answer.

  “Who’s your friend? And the one at the boat?”

  No answer.

  Ferguson’s voice on the radio. “I’m by the boat. Found one male, deceased. It’s one of the suspects, ma’am.”

  Claire holstered her pistol and spoke into her radio headset. “Roger.” She turned her head away and walked a few steps. “This is Marcoux. Calling the Kingston. Over.”

  A voice crackled in her ear. “This is the Kingston, ma’am. Over.”

  “Inform the RCMP that we have one person of interest in custody. One deceased. And one missing.” She turned to face the prisoner on his knees. “We’ve called the RCMP. They’re on their way and will be picking you up for questioning. You should know that smuggling military weapons is an act of terrorism.”

  Burns approached the man from behind, cuffs in his hand.

  Zeke couldn’t stop shaking. I’m no terrorist. What am I going to do? I have to escape. The soldiers terrified him. Gus was right. Action was grim. One of the soldiers looked smaller than the others. It was his chance.

  The man on his knees suddenly bolted up. He curled his fist and launched it right at Claire’s face. She guessed he was about six foot one and two hundred pounds. Huge compared to her relatively measly five foot nine. The man probably calculated that in order to escape, he only had to incapacitate the smallest and most vulnerable target.

  Zeke launched an uppercut punch toward Claire. With his massive bulk, his punch was clearly aimed at crushing her jaw by striking under her helmet. But she had seen his upper lip begin to tense along with his shoulders, and her head had already moved the few centimetres necessary to avoid contact. And, as Zeke realized that his punch was about to miss, he felt a throbbing pain in his right elbow as she locked it with a short, sharp hold. He fell over on his right side and realized that his right arm was hyperextended in the wrong direction. Moving in any direction produced searing stabs of pain. He flailed his other arm but it was pointless. Her knee was at the back of his neck. His stomach pressed into the ice and dirt.