Guides-R-Us Business Office
Paradise River Bar & Grill
Ex-sergeant Archie joined Spectre and Zhukov at their usual corner table. “It’s just the three of us, lads. All the rest are out with clients.”
“Or drunk,” said Zhukov, nodding toward the rookie, Whizkid, lying in a sodden heap against the back wall. “He ain’t crawled out of the bottle since they cashiered the lot of us.”
O’ Leary shrugged. “Hard lines, mates. But we can’t wait for him to sober up.” He explained the situation regarding the apparent terrorist strike at Cartwright. “Colonel Sulla and one corporal are on their way, but that’s all there is – save us. He wants us to load up and go down there. If we leave within the next few hours we can be there easily before morning. Last ETA on the garbage scow was noon tomorrow.”
“How much ammo we got?” asked Spectre.
“About four boxes between us,” replied Zhukov. “That ain’t much to repel an invasion.”
“It ain’t an invasion,” said Archie. “It’s a hit against an easy target, eh? The ragheads must be planning on a suicide mission.”
Zhukov glanced around. “Watch what you say, mate.” The Bureau of Prohibited Speech (BPS) was known to have a long reach. Zhukov assumed the Bureau had monitors in the Paradise River Bar & Grill.
“Bollocks!” snarled Archie. “Let’s get our gear and mount up.” He punched Spectre lightly. “Make sure that rig of yours has a full tank.”
“Jeez, sarge. It’s only about 60 kilometers to Cartwright.”
“Fill it anyway. No telling where we’ll end up, eh? Them terror boys might land somewhere else along the coast.”
There were inevitable delays as the lads worked in the late evening Sub-Arctic twilight, not the least of which was the BPS officer who turned up with a warrant for Archie. “You was recorded making deleterious comments about a certain ethnic group, Archie. I’m to arrest you for Public Disparagement of a Recognized Minority Group.”
The ex-sergeant waved the muzzle of his custom ‘ought-six under the agent’s nose. “No you ain’t, bub. I’ll be back in a couple days and you can arrest me then.”
“Dang it, Archie!” blubbered the agent. “You ruined my first arrest. I was gonna let you off with an admonishment. It would look good on my record.” BPS officers were granted sweeping powers of arrest, judgment and punishment in the belief that swift justice, even if misguided, was better than incurring the expense of manufacturing evidence for jury trials.
“Well, log the arrest and write up your damned admonishment! Drop it in my mailbox. I’ll read it when I get back, eh? Now git!”
“Thanks,” murmured the agent, wiping his eyes. “I shoulda thought of that myself. I’ll remember your cooperation the next time you besmirch a recognized minority under the protection of the BPS. I owe you one, eh?” The still-sniveling agent wandered off into the night.
“What does ‘besmirch’ mean?” asked Spectre.
“How the hell should I know!” snapped Archie. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He stomped into his cabin to pack an extra set of CADPAT.
Zhukov nudged Spectre. “He knows. It has to do with sex and polar bears.”
“But what’s that got to do with minorities?”
“Many men claim to have had sex with polar bears. Once they tell the tale the bears hunt them down and kill them. The few survivors are a recognized minority.”
Spectre nodded. “How does that relate to ‘besmirch’?”
“If you kiss and tell, that’s besmirchment. Female polar bears don’t like being talked about in bars and such. They besmirch the tale-teller’s butt.” Zhukov chuckled and began tossing gear in the back of the truck.
“But . . .” Spectre shook his head and mumbled, “Got me again, you bastard.”
“Careful, mate. I could be part of a minority.”
“You was once in the Army. Does that count?”
“Probably. But it don’t matter, eh? I’m pretty sure my parents was married.”
Sunrise, the Second Day
Patrol Boat ‘Cuddles’
Forty Kilometers NW of Packs Harbor
“Ring up Daphne Base,” said Sub-Lieutenant Clark. “This lot is still on course for Cartwright.”
“Roger that,” said PO Buster. “Same speed?”
“Same speed. ETA Cartwright about noon. We got any troopies in position there yet?”
“I dunno. I’ll ask.”
Artificer Shep crawled up out of his hole. “Fuel’s gonna be tight, skipper. Every time I figure it we either run out about ten kilometers off shore or we barely make it to the dock.”
“We’ll know when we get there, I guess. I wish we had a decent weapon aboard.”
Shep lit a cigar. “I keep a box of double-ought buck handy – just in case. But that ain’t gonna be enough to tackle the scow.”
John-Boy nodded. “You better break out the buckshot. It might be needed.”
“Too true.” Shep grinned. “Maybe if we run alongside and show them your Fisheries badge and a nice smile they’ll give up.”
Clark laughed. “They’d sink us with a couple RPGs before they ever saw the badge.”
“If Higher-Higher is classifying these lads as an offended minority they might have a company of professional hand-wringers on hand as greeters. It ought to confuse them, at the least.”
“That’s ‘oppressed’ minority – not offended minority.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me, sir. How do you tell the difference?”
“Well . . .” The Sub became serious. “Oppressed peoples suffered at the hands of imperialists in the past. You know – like the Irish. They was oppressed by the English and – oh, everyone.”
“That’s funny. I don’t feel oppressed. What are the symptoms?”
Before Clark could fabricate an answer, Buster returned. “Daphne Base says there are two groups of soldiers headed for Cartwright. One might be there already.”
Clark blew a long sigh of relief. “How many troops?”
Buster snorted. “Three followed by two more. A squad.”
Even Shep, that oppressed Irishman, was appalled. “Five men all told?”
“Five. Three are ex-infantry from Paradise River. They’ll have hunting arms only. Some colonel named Sulla is flying in with a corporal. Word is those two will bring an M-60 and an old M-14 out of Surplus Stores.”
“Nothing wrong with an M-60,” said Shep. “But a few anti-tank rounds would be more to the point. One could even wish for an artillery piece or two.”
“Artillery?” lamented Clark. “All traded off for a few German limos, from what I hear.”
Buster shook his head. “Limos? I thought those were scout cars.”
The Sub-Lieutenant’s laugh was bitter. “They are. The pols use them for scouting out hookers.”
Air Newfie Flight 103
Near Black Tickle
Colonel Sulla huddled in his seat and tried to ignore the baleful glances of the other five passengers in the ancient Dakota. He knew it was a Dakota, the military version of the Douglas DC-3, because several layers of interior paint had worn away to reveal US Army Air Corps lettering at various places. Corporal Canuck sat nearby, cradling his M-60. Sulla was laden with an M-14 and several bandoliers of ammo. Both men had additional boxes of ammunition close at hand. Judging from the other passenger’s reactions, none had ever seen an armed soldier before. All huddled at the front of the cabin, well away from the two men.
“Will this thing get to Cartwright?” asked Canuck, shouting to be heard over the engine noise.
The Colonel shrugged. “It’s been making it to a destination longer than we’ve been alive.”
Canuck’s reply was a weak smile. He didn’t appear to be convinced. Sulla closed his eyes and tried to relax. They’d been on the move since the previous afternoon, first via an ancient CF helo, which managed to get them to Quebec before a series of failures threatened to become terminal. From there they cadged a lift from the ex-CF pilot of a small provincial carrier, which took them to Red Bay. The local Air Newfie agent agreed to let them on board flight 103 to Cartwright via Mary’s Harbour, William’s Harbour and Black Tickle. So far Sulla had avoided telling anyone about the pending terrorist attack. He didn’t want to end up in the custody of mental health professionals.
The brief night had come and gone while they waited at Red Bay. Sulla checked his watch. Unless he’d missed a time zone, it would be about 10:00am when they arrived in Cartwright. The airline maintained a schedule but it was a work of fiction.
“What do we do when we get there, sir?”
“Repel boarders. Get overrun. Find out it’s a false alarm and go home.” The Colonel shrugged. “Something we don’t expect, I imagine.”
“Yeah.” Canuck settled into the seat and closed his eyes. “That’s the Army way, sir.”
Cartwright Harbour
Not far from the crab factory
Archie jumped down from the truck and saluted. Sulla returned the highball and extended his hand in greeting. “You’re not in the CF anymore. No need saluting.”
The ex-sergeant shook his head. “Begging your pardon, sir, but most of our little force is civilian and they need to see us as professionals.” He indicated the gaggle of men and women surrounding the truck. Some carried hunting rifles. Illegal rifles.
Sulla waved at the waiting group and walked down off the road toward the harbor proper. Archie followed. “You’re right, sergeant. Archie is it? Tell me what you’ve done here.”
“Archie it is, sir. I’ve got Zhukov and Spectre with me – both ex-corporals.” He stopped and pointed out the rough road paralleling the shore. “I’ve had the locals rig five trucks with sandbags on the cab floors, steel plates to protect the drivers and sandbags in the beds. Sort of rolling bunkers – only with no overhead cover.”
“Capital, Sergeant! So we can react to the terrorists, no matter where they land?”
“That was my intention, sir. If the bastards land across the inlet or very far down the coast we’ll be left high and dry. But it was the best I could come up with. Will we get reinforcements?”
“No. Our closest reinforcements are in Kosovo or in the States, more likely. Last I heard, the Americans didn’t have any real combat soldiers available on short notice.”
“I’d take cooks and bakers, sir. If we set up proper with the right weapons, the bad guys don’t stand a chance.”
Sulla nodded toward the sandbagged truck and motley group. “Does this look like anything set up proper? It’s up to us, I’m afraid.”
Archie focused his field glasses on the harbor mouth. “Tide’s on the make, sir. They should be in at high water. We’ve been in touch with the patrol boat. They can contribute a shotgun to our arsenal. The scow is armed with a mortar and RPGs, along with automatic weapons, so our lads can’t even get close enough to ram.”
The Colonel used his own glasses to examine the bay. “Lots of ice floes out there. Maybe they’ll run into one and sink themselves.”
Archie chuckled. “Not likely, sir. Even they wouldn’t be that dumb.”
“True. Let’s go finish setting up our defense force, Sergeant. We can put Canuck in one truck with his M-60. I’ve got an M-14. Should we put a single soldier in each truck or maybe concentrate a few in one vehicle?”
“I say one to each, sir. Even with the M-60, we lack the firepower to hit them head on. I had planned on more hit and run.”
“I think you’re right. Let’s set it up that way and see what happens. Do we have any comm?”
“The locals have simple walkie-talkies, sir. Did you bring anything?”
“We have a single satcom unit. I should report in to HQ. Anything you want me to tell them?”
“Have them send in that Quick Reaction Force we’ve all heard about, sir.”
“A paper force, I’m afraid, Sergeant. Budget restrictions, you know.”
“Is that anything like constipation, sir?”
“Exactly. Constipation of the imagination. A blockage called ‘It can never happen here’.”
“Tell them to get ready, sir. Once we get rolled over, the bad guys will keep going until they’re killed. Someone has to be ready to do the killing.”
“I’ll mention it, Sergeant, but I don’t think blood and killing is a normal part of their day.”
“True, sir. When did our War Ministry become a Defense Ministry?”
“I don’t know. Is all this a failure of semantics?”
“I don’t know that word, sir. But things are really f*cked up, eh?”
Secret Defense Base
In the office of Brigadier Doug
Doug huddled in his chair, phone pressed to one ear. “Right. Right. I’ll see what I can do. A couple things are moving, but nothing will happen until long after the terrorists reach you. Okay. Good luck, Colonel.” He dropped the phone into its cradle, then uttered a string of vile words.
“Sir.” A middle-aged woman spoke from the doorway. “I can’t continue in this assignment if you insist on speaking in such filthy terms.” She was from the temp agency. Canuck’s replacement.
“Sorry. I’m a little upset. Terrorists are going to strike a Canadian town and all I have to defend it are five poorly armed soldiers.”
“What town is that, sir?”
“Cartwright. On the Labrador coast. Do you know it?”
“No. Never heard of it.” The woman shrugged. “Labrador is a long way from here isn’t it?”
“Yes. A long way.”
She nodded. “I don’t know anyone in Labrador. Watch your language or I’ll go home.”
“Right.” Doug rubbed his tired eyes. “Get me General Donster on the phone.”
He briefed Donster on the current situation. “Any chance of some air support, General?”
“None. The Americans won’t answer the PM’s fancy red phone. The operator keeps braying about an access fee or something. I think their fighters are dropping smart bombs on terrorist cells in every corner of the world, except here.”
Doug’s head began to ache. “That’s dumb. Surely they’ve kept some home.”
“That’s what I thought, but – well, you know how impetuous the Ami can be.”
“We better start planning for the next skirmish. Our lads in Cartwright are going to go under.”
“I’ve alerted a couple of Reserve units, but getting them off home base will take a week.”
“A week? The terrorists could be in Toronto by then!”
“Don’t be such an alarmist, Doug. Once they get to Montreal you know they’ll ask for immigrant status and settle down to train terror cells right here.”
“True.” Doug stared at his wall map. “So what do we do?”
“Try to organize some forces. Hope for a miracle.”
“Hope for a miracle? Is that a recognized tactical plan?”
“It’s doctrine.”
Last Dance
Cartwright Harbor
Sulla watched as the garbage scow rounded a distant island and headed into the bay. He picked up a miniature walkie-talkie. “They’re here. Maybe thirty-forty minutes out.”
Archie responded. “We’re ready. Ready as we can be.”
The satcom buzzed. “Colonel Sulla here.”
“This is the good ship Cuddles, Sub-Lieutenant Clark speaking.”
“Good to hear from you Cuddles. Are you still trailing the scow?”
“Affirmative, sir. Sorry we can’t be of more assistance. We’ll stand by. It might keep a few of the blighters off you. I’ll move in if we see an opening. Otherwise . . .”
“Yeah. Otherwise just report the disaster.”
“Sorry, sir. If we only had a decent weapon. Hello – what’s this?”
Sulla stood up and trained his glasses on the scow. “What’s up Cuddles?”
“I don’t know, sir. Some of the terrorists jumped overboard!”
“Calm down, son. What happened just before that? Is there a fire? A weapons accident?”
“Ah – no – no accident. They brushed past a large slab of ice, but I can’t see any damage. Wait! There goes a camel! We’re moving closer, sir. People are running all over the scow!”
“Careful, Cuddles. They may be trying to lure you in.”
“I don’t think so, sir. Some of the men in the water are crawling out onto ice slabs. This is amazing! More men just jumped in the water!”
Archie’s truck stopped alongside Sulla’s. “What do you make of it, sir?”
“I’m in the dark as much as you, Sergeant. Why would they abandon ship like that?”
“Fire. Flooding. Gas fumes.” Archie focused his binoculars on the scow. “Jeezus Jones! A polar bear!” He grinned at the Colonel. “There must have been one on that ice slab they brushed past. A few float down on ice floes every year.”
“Polar bear?” The Colonel examined the terrorist ship again. “Good God! I see it!” He picked up the satcom. “Cuddles, there’s a polar bear running amok on the scow!”
“I see it, sir! It just knocked a man over the side! It’s after the other camel! Oh! It’s got it! The bear has cleared the decks! What shall I do, sir?”
Sulla paused to accept a cigar from Archie. “Start picking up prisoners, son. We’ll launch boats from here to do the same. Don’t pick up more than you can handle.”
“But, what about the bear, sir?”
“Leave him alone. We’ll see about getting him a medal later, eh?”
