|
Maritime Assault
By: Jim 'Old Guy' Hume Date: 2005-08-01 MARITIME ASSAULT Afternoon, the First Day A government office in Toronto Minister Joker, Chief of Canadian Defense Forces (Naval), Lord of the Ocean Sea, pondered the Prime Minister’s question. At length he shook his head. “It’s another example of American foolishness, sire. They see terrorists everywhere.” He sighed – a ponderous, self-satisfied sort of noise, replete with the sardines he’d had for lunch. The PM gagged and touched a scented hankie to his nose. “But they seem so – so certain, Joker. This trawler went missing from Iceland a week ago. Could it not be off our coast?” “Of course it could!” boomed the rotund Sea Lord. “A band of purported religious zealots COULD have commandeered the vessel and ROWED it to New York by now – a more likely target, I might add, than any seaport of ours.” He waggled a pudgy finger under the PM’s bulbous nose. “The Icelandic authorities assure me that the so-called trawler is, in fact, a garbage scow. Whether lost in some accident, as the Icelandicks – Iceludnores – ah, Icenooks, believe, or stolen by tee-totaling Talmudic terrorists, as the Amis insist, the scow could hardly have survived the weather in the North Atlantic.” “You can’t imagine how relieved I am to hear that, Joker. Dubya was on the phone an hour past, insisting that the ship was approaching the coast even now.” “Amazing! Simply amazing. A regular nervous Nellie. And did he explain how he deduced that this garbage scow was off our coast?” “National technical means. One of those murky Americanisms.” A nattily dressed aide leaned down and whispered in the Sea Lord’s ear. Joker stifled a laugh. “It’s a euphemism for satellite reconnaissance, sir. As if we didn’t have recon satellites of our own.” The aide whispered anew. Joker frowned. “You don’t mean it? None?” “I’m late for my lessons,” muttered the PM, rising from his desk. “Not those hand-wringing, brow-mopping, Sniveling classes, sire?” “No. I finished those last week. Bottom of the class, y’know.” The PM swaggered just a little as he escorted Minister Joker to the door. “Capital! Capital, sire! Bottom of the class.” The Minister frowned. “But what class are you taking now?” He counted on his fingers. “Groveling to Self-proclaimed Minorities; Apologizing for Western Civilization; Blaming America for Everything Wrong with the World; Inflating Mole-hills; and – let’s see – Sniveling for Fun and Profit. What’s next?” “Spinal Flexibility!” crowed the PM, ecstatic at one-upping his most outspoken minister. “And it’s being taught by an American. A Liberal. A Flaming Liberal, if my sources are reliable.” “No! I’m jealous, sire. Think of it. A Flaming Liberal, right here in Toronto. Who is it?” “The master himself. Slick Willie.” “Oh, sire,” moaned Joker. “Too bad the press of duty keeps me at work. I’d give my left – well, I’d give somewhat to be able to attend.” The PM slapped Joker on the shoulder, eliciting a pained grunt. “Never mind, old man. I’ll hold up the honor of Canada.” “Bite your tongue, sire! You’ve fallen into the old way of speech again. Honor, indeed!” “Sorry. Sorry.” The PM made a slight bob with each ‘sorry’. “It’s those dead white male behaviors coming back again. I’ll have to report for a remedial spinal tap.” “Not to worry, sire. Mums the word.” Joker shook his shaggy head. “You should have that old spine out, sire. Then you won’t be tempted with the ancient euphemisms.” “I’m sure you’re right, Joker. I’ll talk to my Social Worker.” The PM eyed the Sea Lord for a moment. “You’re sure about this vagrant garbage scow? It can’t be carrying a load of crazed Marxists toward our shores?” “Religious zealots, sire. You’re mixing up your murdering thugs again. Too much time talking to Dubya, I’ll warrant.” Joker patted his PM and gave him a gentle shove. “Enjoy your class, sire. There are no terrorists heading our way.” Patrol Boat “Cuddles” Fifty kilometers off Cape Harrison Sub-Lieutenant John-Boy Clark braced himself and focused his binoculars on the passing vessel. “It’s of Icelandic registry, Guns. I can’t make out the name.” The afore-mentioned ‘Guns’ noted the contact in the log. Since the tiny patrol boat was armed with nothing more than a shotgun (birdshot rounds, of course) for warding off the occasional amorous sea lion or ravenous polar bear, Petty Officer Buster’s usual duties involved recording infrequent ship sightings in the log. He consulted a shipping list. “Nothing from Iceland listed, sir. What’s the lubber doing here?” “Lost, like us,” lamented Clark. He shouted down the hatchway. “Shep! Any luck with the engine?” An elderly, grease-coated Artificer climbed up from below. He glanced at the distant ship and shrugged. “Not a blip, your honor. There’s fuel in the tank. She turns over like a Seattle whore, but won’t do nothing else. I’ll drain the batteries if I crank any longer.” He spat over the side and lit a cigar. “Who’s the trawler? Can they give us a tow?” “No response from our signal,” said Clark. “I’ve called Daphne Base. Someone will be along in a few days to tow us in.” “Daphne Base!” snarled the mechanic. “I remember when we had proper call signs, like Groper and Deadbeat and Fang. “Just be glad it ain’t Inuit month,” said Buster. “My jaw gets sore on those handles.” Clark scanned the trawler again. “I see a name now. Sorp Skip #12.” The PO ran a finger down the shipping list. “That’s a garbage scow, sir. Reported stolen or lost a week ago. Near Iceland. How did it get here?” Clark shaded his eyes and stared at the scow. “Well, they’re moving slow, but they don’t look lost. On that heading they’ll be in the vicinity of Cartwright by late tomorrow.” Shep snorted. “Cartwright? Who the hell would want to go there?” A hollow boom echoed over the choppy water. “They’re signaling,” said Clark. “Maybe they are lost.” He noted a puff of white smoke forward of the scow’s bridge. It blew away on the wind just as a second boom rolled across the sea. “Signaling, hell!” shouted Buster. “They’re shooting at us!” Clark crouched as a shell struck the water fifty meters to port. Metal whined overhead and a thin sheet of spray covered the patrol boat. He focused on the scow. “Why are they shooting at us? We’re Canadian.” “That proves it, sir,” said Shep. “They’re lost. Think we’re Americans.” He chucked his cigar overboard. “I’ll have another go at the engine.” “I see a camel,” cried the Sub-lieutenant. “Two camels!” “Camels, by God!” exclaimed Buster. “What are they doing?” “Puking over the side, from the looks of it. Gah! Green puke.” John-Boy slumped against a bulkhead, pale-faced and sweating. “Steady, sir.” The PO stepped into the boat’s tiny bridge and returned with a cup of tea. “Try this. It does wonders for tender tummies.” “Thanks, Guns. Better call Daphne Base. Tell them we’ve spotted anarchists making for Cartwright.” “Anarchists?” queried Daphne Base. “have you lads been drinking? You must mean monarchists. Some of those lads may have stolen the Icenook boat.” “I think that’s Icelandic,” said Buster. He spelled the term phonetically. “And these something-ists have fired a mortar at us about ten times. Nothing close. We’ve suffered no worse than a few ricocheting bits of metal and a passing nausea for the Sub.” “Tea’s good for nausea,” said Daphne Base. “Are the scow crew, designated as a probable oppressed minority group, still firing at you?” Buster eyed a sliver of steel protruding through the bridge wall. “Aye, Daphne Base. That last round was close. The bastards are getting lucky! Only thing saving us is that it’s damned hard to fire a mortar from a small ship.” “Now, Cuddles. Be careful of how you refer to your alleged assailants! They can’t help it if their parents weren’t married.” “Right. Sorry, Daphne Base. Shrapnel can make a man lose his bearings, PC-wise.” “But is it really shrapnel, Cuddles?” A shell exploded no more than ten meters to starboard. Clark’s tea cup shattered. Several ugly shards of steel bounced across the deck. “My tea!” cried the Sub. “It’s shrapnel, all right,” replied Buster. He peered at the scow, now less than a 500 meters away and still headed as before. “Daphne Base, I believe these are real terrorists.” “You can’t be sure,” said Daphne Base, primly. “That’s a call for Higher-Higher to make.” “Maybe so. But these lads are dressed in long white gowns and they’re all capering about waving AK-47s. That, taken with the camels, makes me think terrorist with a capital T.” “I’ll pass your observations along to HQ,” said Daphne Base. “If you’re wrong you can count on extended cultural diversity training.” “Aye, Daphne Base. I’ll call when these oppressed lads get out of range. If we survive.” Secret Defense Base 321 Rue Morgue, Montreal (next to Big Jacque’s Pizza) “Sir! Sir!” An excited corporal handed a message flimsy to Brigadier Doug. “Daphne Base reports an attack on patrol boat Cuddles.” Doug laid the flimsy on his desk and smoothed it. “Why do we print important messages on such delicate paper?” he groused. “Tradition, sir,” replied the corporal in a shocked tone. “Without tradition, what would we be?” “Americans, probably.” Doug took out his reading glasses and perused the message. “It says the attackers have been temporarily classified as probable oppressed minority.” “Yes, sir. Standard procedure. That way we can alert the diplomats. They like to practice their hand-wringing and apology scripts in advance of any possible groveling, sir.” “Twenty-plus mortar rounds have been fired at Cuddles. I don’t think these lads are looking for an apology. They want blood.” Doug thought for a moment. “Kick this message up the chain of command, Corporal. Classify it as a warning of a probable terrorist attack.” The corporal paled. “Can you override the oppressed minority designation, sir?” Doug sighed. “I’d have to check the Procedures Procedural Manual of Procedures to be sure, lad, but last time I looked, these gee-gaws on my shoulder boards indicated a command job. I’ll take the chance. Forward the message as I said. Send in the Executive officer.” “Sorry, sir. The Exec is vacationing in Cuba.” “Right. I forgot. Send in his backup. Colonel what’s-his-name. Sulla?” “Yes, sir. Right away.” The corporal tried to retrieve the message flimsy. It puffed into a thousand pieces and drifted toward the return air duct. “Blast! Sorry, sir.” “No matter, corporal. I’ve seen it. The thing was flimsy, after all. Tradition, you know.” Doug lit a cigar and began pacing. He tried to remember what military options might be on hand in the vicinity of Cartwright. Nothing occurred to him. A gray-haired colonel knocked at the open door and stepped in at Doug’s come-in gesture. “You wished to see me, sir?” He was short and thin, with an impressive beak and a general air of a seedy time-server about him. Red blemishes across each cheek indicated a tendency to imbibe in strong spirits. “We’ve got a terrorist attack on our hands, Colonel.” Doug sketched out the situation as he knew it. “What have we got in Labrador? A couple of fighter-bombers would be nice.” Sulla frowned. “No fighters closer than Kosovo, sir.” Sulla walked to a wall map and studied the Maritime coast. “The Liberals sold the rest to some South American government, if I recall correctly.” Seedy time-server or not, the colonel knew his stuff. “Ships?” “In the Persian Gulf, sir. Both of them.” Doug joined Sulla at the map. “Well, what have we got? How can we hit these clowns?” Sulla smiled at Doug’s gaffe. “Careful of your ethnic characterizations, sir. You never know when the Bureau of Prohibited Speech might be listening.” “I had the office swept this morning.” Doug tapped the map. “Do we have anything available?” “Nothing, sir. The lads in Kosovo and Afghanistan are all engineering and humanitarian aid types. We couldn’t get them back in time anyway. What about the Americans?” “We’ll have to ask, I suppose, but my information is that their troops are all deployed, from Chile to Iraq to Taiwan to Korea and everywhere else under the sun. Navy too. I wonder if they have a few fighter-bombers available?” “Probably not, sir. They junked all their bombers, A-10s and AC-130s in order to afford new air superiority fighters. Warthogs and Hercs aren’t pretty enough for the Air Force.” The corporal rapped at the door. “Sir. Patrol boat Cuddles is following the alleged terrorists. They managed to get their engine started. The scow is still on course for Cartwright.” “Thank you, corporal.” Doug sat down. “At least we can keep tabs on the blighters. Any chance the Cuddles is armed?” “Patrol boats are forbidden to carry anything but a shotgun,” replied Sulla. “And nothing but birdshot for ammunition. Their old M-2 machine guns went to the scrap yard long ago. Can’t have peaceful Canadian citizens exposed to the shape of lethal weapons, you know.” Doug stared at the map. “Why Cartwright? What’s there to interest the terrorists?” “Nothing, sir. I think they’re just heading for a place to attack. The Amis have cut off a lot of funding to the various radical groups. This bunch must be on a restricted budget.” “Well, they have a mortar,” mused Doug. “That seems to be more than we have.” “There is one possibility, sir.” Sulla touched the map at Paradise River. “I know of a small group of ex-infantry types who took their mustering-out pay and set up for fishing and hunting guides near Paradise River. They guide when they can, work odd jobs for the Fisheries people and spend a lot of time drinking. I might be able to contact them, sir.” “But what good could they do? They have no weapons.” “Guides can still own and carry rifles, sir. They have to check them at the local RCMP office in the off-season, but they should have them now.” “I’d forgotten that. My question still stands. What can they do?” “A few infantrymen with rifles could be very handy at Cartwright, sir.” “You’re right. See what you can do. Should you and I draw weapons and head for Cartwright?” The Colonel studied the map again. “I’d suggest Corporal Canuck and myself for the expeditionary force, sir. You need to be here – keeping the pols off our backs.” “Yeah. What about Daphne Base? Any troops there?” “No, sir. Two retired school teachers in an old NORAD compound. I think they have a shotgun and a box of rubber bullets for driving off the occasional wolf or polar bear.” “I might have guessed.” Doug reached for the mauve scrambler phone. “I’ll see what Defense has to say. Get things organized, Colonel. Report back before you leave.” “Yes, sir. I wonder if we have any funds budgeted for air travel? We’ll never make it by car.” “Private automobile travel is proscribed anyway,” said Doug. “Regulations require deployment via public transit unless travel by other means is authorized.” He grinned. “Consider such travel authorized. Try not to get arrested along the way.” Sulla saluted. “Once more into the breach. I hope there’s only one boatload of garbage.” “Now who’s abrogating the Public Speech laws?” Doug waved the Colonel on his way. He spoke into the handset. “Get me General Donster. Yes, it’s important enough to interrupt his monthly tiddlywink tournament.” Defense Ministry Damp, smelly underground bunker “I can’t believe it,” moaned Sea Lord Joker. “Can’t believe what?” asked General Donster, Grand Platoon Leader. “I assure you the threat is real. Terrorists are heading for Cartwright.” “Not that. I can’t fathom General Doug’s overriding the oppressed minority status of the alleged attacking force. You can’t imagine the paper work involved in such a thoughtless act!” The Prime Minister read the latest flimsy and shoved back in his chair. “Terrorists! Attacking us on my watch! It isn’t fair. It’s just not fair.” He glared at Minister Joker. “You assured me this was a figment of American paranoia.” “Sire,” said Donster. “Can you contact Dubya? We need help and there’s no time to argue.” “All right. All right. But must we stay in this horrid place? I have a perfectly wretched-looking red phone in my office that connects directly to Dubya. I feel so – so closed in down here.” “It’s an Emergency Bunker,” explained Donster. “We’ve not had funds to maintain it for years.” He chuckled. “However, since the terrorists probably won’t make it to Toronto, I suppose we could adjourn to friendlier surroundings.” Thirty minutes later, ensconced in a comfortable leather chair and sipping a hot toddy, the PM picked up the fabled ugly red phone. He nodded to Joker and Donster and selected ‘speaker’. An operator answered. “Your nickel, start talking.” “Um – this is the Prime Minister of Canada. I’d like to speak to Dub – ah, the President.” “Sure, you an’ every other tinpot dictator wants to talk to him. Well, it’s no use. Sooner or later the Marines will be there to liberate your country. You can whine to them.” “Liberate? This is the Prime Minister of Canada! No tinpot anything! Let me speak to Dubya!” “Canada?” They could hear the operator speaking to someone else. “What about Canada? Is it on the ‘Invade’ list or the other one? Okay. I got it.” The operator came back on the line. “Sorry, sir. Hang on a moment. I’m sure the Prez will speak to you.” The PM stifled an angry response and concentrated on a soothing mantra. Joker sipped his tea and wondered it he’d still have a job tomorrow. General Donster tried to think of where he might have stashed an infantry platoon – or even a squad – during the last budget cutting frenzy. Dubya’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Good afternoon, Mr. – ah, Mr. Prime Minister. What can I do for y’all? Make it quick. I gotta attend a Senate hearing in a few minutes.” “Mr. President. So good to hear from you.” The PM explained the problem vis-à-vis the alleged terrorist attackers and the lack of Canadian military capability. “Jeez, ah, Mr. Prime – er – Mr. Minister. My boys are kinda swamped right now. Stomping on dictators and smashing terrorist cells, y’know. Lemme check my calendar.” “Mr. President, I’d hate to have to tell the Canadian people that America failed us in our hour of need.” The PM still had that old stump speech memorized. He’d always known it would come in handy. “You have to help us.” There was a long silence. Then the President spoke again. “Who is this, really?” Before the PM could respond, the operator came back on the line. “Deposit three dollars for another five minutes.” “But – but this is the Prime Minister of Canada! I’m on the red phone!” “Oh – the red phone. Well, that’s different. Deposit thirty million dollars in US currency, sir. That will bring you up to date for your ‘Oh God! Please Help Us!’ subscription.” “Preposterous!” snarled Joker. He broke the connection even as the PM whined, “I don’t have that kind of money just lying around.” “Forget the Americans!” cried Joker. “Generals Donster and Doug have the situation well in hand!” He turned to Donster. “Don’t you, General?” Donster tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Joker was an accomplished political infighter. His statements were intended to deflect blame onto the soldiers, as usual. “Um – we have some options – ah, to pursue. I’ll contact Doug and see how things are going.” He fled the room. Minister Joker spoke soothingly to the distraught PM. “There – there, sire. The soldiers will figure some sort of strategy. And if they fail, we’ll admonish them severely and make sure the reprimands stay in their permanent files.” (next page) |