Forces officers close to the program around the James and Hudson Bay regions watched the development of what they reported as “dangerous trends.” They sent their misgivings to their superiors in Ottawa and explained that the Inuit weren’t a problem, yet, but no one there took much notice. Some officers were even reprimanded for their “alarmist and insensitive” reports. Officers with long experience in the North who persisted in raising alarms or tried to redirect the program in the field were soon posted, often at the insistence of native leaders in the patrols, to desk jobs by officers who rarely left Ottawa.
* * *
When he enrolled, Neetha participated in a ten-day Basic Ranger Qualification Course in Mistissini. Like the other Rangers, he was given a uniform – flash-red Ranger sweatshirt, T-shirt, ball cap, brassard, vest, and toque – and also a Lee Enfield rifle and ammunition. He was taught basic drill, rifle training, general military knowledge, navigation with map, compass and GPS, first-aid techniques, search-and-rescue procedures, and formal radio communications techniques. Like many of the Rangers, his unit was also provided with snowmobiles and boats.
All of that material and training was given to him by the Canadian Forces. However, since his patrol operated in a “politically sensitive area,” it also had some very modern military equipment, obtained for it not by the Canadian Forces but by the NPA. This equipment was stored well out of sight of the Canadian Forces officers who weren’t part of the Movement.
The Canadian Forces sent Joe on “patrol sustainment training,” which involved additional weapons and live-firing exercises, operational planning, and search-and-rescue drills. Outside these government-provided courses, Joe had joined other recruits in non-CF exercises designed to teach setting and reacting to ambushes, offensive patrolling, advanced map reading, and the care and use of grenades and explosives – all given by long-standing members of the patrols and by outsiders flown into the area by the NPA.
Joe had taken to the life easily. It was, after all, just another form of hunting. But he was noticed by his peers and Canadian Forces commanders as a leader, and that distinction marked him for advanced training beyond the regular Ranger schedule. Members of the NPA noticed as well. Joe soon found himself on new, exciting training at Canadian Forces bases in the south, at Gagetown, for instance, where his operational planning, patrolling, and leadership skills increased considerably. But the NPA had plans for him too.
Joe, under the cover of visiting distant relatives in the United States, began to train at American native reserves. There he learned how to handle sophisticated weapons and how to plan and conduct sabotage operations involving several units. He also received large doses of propaganda, which reinforced the grievances he had come to accept as the true history of the Cree, and in fact of all the native people in North America: the story of the natives as victims of the “genocidal invasion” of their land by marauding Europeans.
As a Ranger, under close direction of regular forces officers, Joe practised the routine duties of “providing a military presence in support of Canadian sovereignty” by collecting local data of significance needed for military operations, and conducting surveillance/sovereignty patrols. His Ranger patrol, like the others, assisted Canadian Forces activities by providing local expertise, guidance, and advice; conducting Northern Warning System patrols; helping local search-and-rescue activities; and reporting unidentified vessels sailing along the coast. Joe had five years of Ranger work behind him, and each year he became a more proficient and dedicated soldier standing on guard. Just not for Canada.
* * *
Joe met Will outside the airport terminal, loaded his kit into an old Ford pickup, and together they drove the dusty hundred kilometres into Radisson. They picked up a police tail somewhere just outside of town, Will noted without surprise. At least the police communications system was functional, he thought. At the Chisasibi airport he’d seen the local cop eyeing him carefully as he picked up his luggage. Naturally enough, the local band police were always suspicious of natives they didn’t recognize and who seemed out of place. If you weren’t a familiar face or a Hydro worker returning for another three-week shift, you were “a person of interest,” perhaps a drug-runner or an unemployed drifter home from the city. And after fifteen years on the outside, Will Boucanier expected to be noticed. Fine; he had a cover story ready.
Radisson was a typical resource industry company town – boring, small, low-slung, a place for surviving until you could leave. About 2,000 people – workers and natives – existed in this town of one school, one hospital, and many bars. Will reminisced idly as the truck bounced over the once-familiar terrain and finally stopped in front of L’Auberge Radisson, a forty-room hotel of less than Holiday Inn standard.
Will and Joe walked together into the hotel and up to the front counter. “Boucanier,” Will announced. “Will Boucanier.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Boucanier. Hope you had a good flight, a bit gusty and maybe bouncy, I bet.” The short, slim, white clerk beamed and prattled on without waiting for an answer. “And I think you’re staying for four days, is that right, sir?”
“I may be longer, a week in fact; it depends on the business.” Will looked around the small lobby, just in time to see the local cop, a respectable-looking Cree, wander in and pretend to scan yesterday’s newspapers, which were piled in disorder on the table near the door. “I might be opening a hunting and fishing outfit, bring in some tourists, you know. Got me a development grant.”
“Fine, sir, you can let us know. A credit card for an imprint, please.” Hotel clerks are the same everywhere, thought Will. Please and thank you, without looking into your eyes.
“There you go, sir. Just fill in the card and sign at the X. You’re in room 312. Do you need someone to carry your bags?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got this savage here to do that.”
The clerk started.
Joe only grunted, then leaned his large frame over the counter and growled, “Who is the savage in the room, do you think, sonny?”
“Sonny” had no answer. But the remark wasn’t aimed at him. It was for the cop loitering near the door, who glanced coldly at Joe, then back at the newspapers. Joe picked up one of Will’s bags and headed for the stairs.
After they were out of sight, the policeman sauntered over to the desk. “Let’s see the card.” The clerk handed it over with a worried glance toward the staircase. “Trouble, Bob?”
Bob Ignace ignored the question. “Did you ask him why he was here like I told you to?”
“Yeah. He said ‘business.’ Setting up a hunting and fishing camp with his new partner. Says he’s got a government grant.”
“Sure. We’ve all got government grants. But that’s Will Boucanier from Chisasibi. He was a hero in the army. The only thing he’s been hunting in fifteen years is people. So what’s he doing here, with that big-mouth troublemaker, Neetha?”
The clerk flushed. “Well, he left a business card, so he must be serious.”
“Boy, you’re a regular Sam Spade,” Ignace replied. “Let me see it.” He read it without interest, then said, “Make me a copy. If they leave, call the station. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut. And don’t go telling stories to impress that fat-ass squaw you’re trying to screw, understand?”
The little clerk blushed crimson and pushed the card into the photocopier. “Sure, got it.”
“Thanks,” said Ignace. As he left, he tossed over his shoulder,
