intent on taking major and special weapons, including anti-aircraft missiles, anti-tank missiles, some anti-tank mines from Petawawa, mortar bombs, plastic explosives, small arms ammunition, radios, and other lesser equipment. The staff is still calculating the losses.
“The raiders were almost certainly members of various native people’s organizations. Although we have no clear intelligence to confirm this assumption, the tape leaves little doubt that’s what’s going on.”
Gervais flipped through his slides. “The raids were conducted from various approaches. For instance, the Halifax attack was mounted on heavy-duty pickup trucks which rammed through the gates in the early hours this morning, then made off into the local area. That raid, unfortunately, resulted in the death of a civilian guard, who it seems was run over trying to stop the raiders at the gate. In Petawawa, the attack seems to have come from across the Ottawa River, a rather daring idea that, ah, unfortunately, may be something our summer exercises in 2008 suggested to the native soldiers who were part of the scenario. In that scenario, Petawawa was raided from across the river by a ‘rebel force’ of, ah, factious aboriginal militants.”
Carl Gervais, who had argued loudly against the exercise, couldn’t resist a pointed extemporaneous observation. “You may remember that exercise, minister. I recall you praised the, ah, ‘display of multiculturalism in action’ involved in treating aboriginal grievances seriously.”
Gratified to see the minister look away and reach for his glass of water, the DCDS returned to Dobson’s notes. “We’re still trying to reconstruct each of these incidents. In Petawawa, the raiders were interrupted by a female military police officer. She was captured by the raiders, but not harmed. A search party found her an hour ago, tied up in her patrol car hidden in the back of the compound. She is still being debriefed, but she told her commanding officer that one individual, whom she thought was the leader, was referred to by the others as ‘sir,’ and that while giving the others distinctly military-style orders, he called one of the others ‘sergeant.’ Her account of their language and discipline alike indicates not merely a high level of organization but the probable presence of several trained soldiers.
“Unfortunately, other raids caused a number of casualties. As I said a moment ago, in Halifax, a civilian guard, a commissionaire, was killed. As well, a brief firefight erupted when a military police patrol responded to a silent alarm in Valcartier, but they were overwhelmed by the raiders’ weapons. Thankfully, the military police escaped without fatalities, but the two MPs were injured – not badly – and their vehicle was destroyed.
“Minister, CDS,” Gervais continued, “we have put Canadian Forces bases on alert, launched searches, and mounted guard units around ammunition compounds and vital points at bases and militia locations. These precautions have been as unobtrusive as possible, so as not to alarm the local populations – we are advertising these raids as the actions of criminals looking for weapons to sell on the black market, and downplaying both the precision and success.”
“Chief,” the minister said, turning to Andy Bishop, “that message can’t hold given the tape. I think the cabinet will have to – the prime minister – will have to make a public statement confirming briefly what we know and what we’re doing about it. And he is going to have to do it today.”
“I agree, minister. And so does the clerk of the Privy Council; she’s scheduled a meeting in one hour with me, the commissioner of the RCMP, the chief of the Security Communications Establishment, the deputy minister of the public safety department, the prime minister’s principal secretary, and others to thrash out a response along precisely those lines.”
Jim Riley pushed back his chair and stood up. “Thank you, General Bishop, and the rest of you as well. I’ve things to do too. General Bishop, after your PCO meeting, I’ll meet you in the prime minister’s office. I’ll let you know the exact time.”
Monday, August 30, 0915 hours
Chisasibi, on James Bay
Will Boucanier looked out the small window as the Air Creebec Dash 8 made its long, slow approach into Chisasibi, an unattractive Cree village of some 3,000 souls on the La Grande Rivière, six kilometres from James Bay and about 100 kilometres from Radisson and the main James Bay hydroelectric generating plant. But it was home to Will – a soldier home from the wars and on his way to a new one.
Long ago, at age eighteen, Will had left the village and the band, travelled to Montreal, walked the streets, homesick yet incredibly happy to be away. The big city had been totally unfamiliar to him, weird, baffling, and threatening, but Will had never felt so safe. In Chisasibi, he had spent every night of his young life afraid, terrified, that Dad would come rolling in the door drunk, and, as Mom would say, “in a mood.”
Fear and noise all night. Not in his room, but menacingly close, out there, down the dark hallway. He would lie in bed, whimpering, “Go away!” His thoughts made no difference.
“Get out. Leave me alone.”
“Bitch!” A cry of pain, then scuffling, and in the morning, bruises, scrapes, and sullen silence.
Demons in his house and in his dreams. His younger brother, Jimmy, crying himself to sleep at night.
Morning. Dad sleeping it off, and Will and his brother slouching about the house, exhausted, hating going to school, but afraid to stay home. Will feeling guilty leaving Mom alone with her abuser, but he was just a kid. What could he do?
Mom, worn out, tangled hair, face swollen from tears, fists, and lack of sleep, wandering the kitchen in a floppy pink track suit. “Now, boys, don’t wake your dad. Get yourselves ready for school. Will, make some porridge for your brother. Hurry now!”
Every day hoping to come home and find Dad had run off. Relieved when his “ways,” as Mom called them, got him another thirty days in jail, and guilty for feeling it. The shame of the “drunken Indian” followed Will all his days on the outside. “Are we natives,” he asked himself repeatedly and without answer, “doomed to be our fathers’ sons?” Will had never had a drink of alcohol in his life. He’d never dared to.
“Sunday, we’ll go to church,” Mom said as if it would help. But the only good the priest ever did for him, Will recalled, was to keep him in school and send him running from the village.
Three weeks after leaving Chisasibi, Will had wandered off the street into the army recruiting office on Sherbrooke Street in Montreal and signed up. That decision he had never regretted, and he served for fifteen years with distinction. Right from the start he was recognized as a first-class recruit. Coming from his background, fieldcraft was as natural as walking, and weapons were second nature. His peers, mostly city boys, admired their “crafty redskin” comrade. Leather-tough, he was impervious to weather, long marches, heavy loads, and the purposeful harassment of his instructors; once he’d left home, no insult from outside could touch him on the inside. But what really set him apart – a natural gift for leadership, for being in front, for commanding – wasn’t truly evident until he was promoted to infantry corporal, then, in just five years, to sergeant, and warrant officer in five more.
Warrant Officer Will Boucanier: stone cold, emotionless, dedicated to the army no matter the mission. He could look at the battlefield with a dry eye, as great captains must. He just focused on the job and got it done, and expected the same of those under him. In command, he took no back talk, no malingering, accepted no excuses and gave none. His “people” – though the word carried a profound ambiguity to his native ear – he treated with the utmost care. Everyone equal, everyone his prized responsibility. But he followed the rule: mission first, men second, myself last. He was never nasty, but never soft. That was his code, and the pride
