style="font-size:15px;"> Even so, Alex liked military life and found he was good at it. After graduation, he advanced quickly from lieutenant to captain. Captain Alex Gabriel was marked by his superiors and peers as “a bright star” and a “streamer,” a fast-rising infantry officer. His outstanding record won him a position in the new Special Service Regiment when it was established as part of the elite Canadian Special Operations Force Command.
Others had noted his rise also, and Alex could still remember the meeting when he had begun to see that the promising career the army seemed to be offering him might not be what he really wanted. It had happened a year or so after he had joined his unit. Alex arrived home on leave to find his grandfather waiting for him in his small cottage. To his surprise, three middle-aged men, all natives, were sitting quietly around the wooden table in his kitchen. Alex recognized one of them, a local chief from a nation across the Ottawa River.
“These elders would like to speak with you, Alex,” said his grandfather. “I’m going fishing, so you can talk and I’ll see you for supper. You’re a good boy, Alex. You do what you think is best for the people.” He turned and walked out the door before Alex could answer.
Without introduction, the chief beckoned Alex to a chair at the table. “Alex,” he began, “I’ll be brief. We represent a nation-wide first nations organization which I am sure you’ve never heard of before today. We’re not from those guys who sit around Ottawa talking and not acting. Alex, we believe that the aboriginal people in Canada are a nation, not many nations, but one nation. We’re not Canadians and we don’t want to be Canadians. We don’t want to be partners with people who stole our land and broke every treaty our ancestors made with them.
“If we want to be a nation, Alex, we have to start acting like a nation. That means we have to build the parts, the structure, of a real, modern nation. Otherwise, we’ll remain a simple gathering, an ineffective assembly of nations. One of the most important parts of this new nation is its army.
“I won’t go into detail this afternoon, Alex, but we wanted to let you know that we have been reaching out to our brothers and sisters in the Canadian army, and will continue to do so, to let them know that there is another way, a way to serve the people.” He pushed a small envelope across the table to Alex. “Inside the envelope you’ll find a contact number, and the address for a website. If you want to talk, just follow the signs.
“We don’t expect any commitment from you now or even soon, but we may be in touch someday in the future. You’re a proven leader, Alex, and a trained officer. The people are going to need you some day. Things can’t continue as they are – a disorganized leadership without any long-term aims and our young folk falling under the influence of gangs and criminals. Only independence, real independence, not BS rhetoric from the Ottawa Indians, will get the people their land and rightful inheritance. You think about it, Alex. Think hard about who you are and who you should be. Then, when the day comes, Alex, you’ll know what to do, and your choice will be clear and obvious.”
Without another word, the men stood up, walked out the door to their truck, and drove away. Alex did think about it. And though he tried to dismiss the chief and the meeting, he knew from that day on, from deep inside his spirit, that one day he would have to a make a choice between his attachment to his people and the army life he loved.
That day rushed at Alex after what the government called “an unfortunate incident,” a sloppily violent police reaction to the June Days of Protest across the country.
An incident involving pushing and shoving along some train tracks in southern Manitoba turned nasty, and caused a riot between enraged natives and an outnumbered, frightened, and poorly trained RCMP detachment. Constables Thomas Scott and Susan Lachapelle had panicked, and in a flash four native “warriors” and two teenagers they were using as shields were dead. When on-site CBC reports, inaccurately as it turned out, suggested government complicity in the police shooting, riots and violent incidents erupted elsewhere. In several locations in the East and West, informal native leaders, who elected officials of the aboriginal community described as “hot-headed radicals,” used the events as an excuse to attack transportation and infrastructure facilities across the country. Thus began the spontaneous, and now infamous, August Week of Protests, the worst civil unrest in Canadian history.
The escalating native protests that followed were brutally attacked by local police and army militia units. But when the Special Service Regiment was called up in mid-July, “in aid of the civil powers,” to maintain good order on the railway system between Toronto and Montreal, it was clear to Alex from his commanding officer’s orders that the army was “headed for a final showdown with native protesters and whether they were armed or unarmed didn’t matter.” Alex knew then that he had no choices left. Reluctantly, he searched through his letters and papers and dug out the envelope the chiefs had left him at the end of the meeting in his grandfather’s cabin. One day soon afterwards, he simply drove out the front gate at Base Petawawa and went home, taking his kit and weapons with him.
Now he was here. Returning to the base on a very different mission than the army had trained him for.
Sunday, August 29, 2345 hours
Canadian Forces Base Halifax
Inside the little guard’s hut at the Canadian Forces Base Halifax ammunition compound, Fred McTavish leafed eagerly through his sports fisherman’s catalogue. Page after page of sleek, shiny, aluminum boats, and on page twenty-two, the one he wanted: padded bow seats, whisper-quiet, four-stroke, fifteen-horsepower outboard motor, trailer, and everything. Oh sure, it would cost a bundle. But a man’s entitled. Hadn’t he worked hard all his life, done his tour of duty, worked in the shipyards, found other work when the yards shut down, paid his taxes, brought his paycheque home, and raised two honest kids?
“You bet I’m entitled,” he told himself. “Three more months, just three more months, and I’ll be hitting the lake in that shiny beauty.”
His boys had moved away two years ago to go to university in Toronto and Calgary, but when Dennis was home last winter during reading week, he had told him, “Dad, you buy that boat. I’ll be back in the summer and we’ll go fishing every day for a week.” That’ll be nice, Fred thought.
The sudden roar of fast motors from two pickup trucks startled Fred. “What the hell are those jerks doing speeding up to the depot gate on a Sunday at this time of night? Must be lost.” He reached for his flashlight and stepped out the door. Peering into the darkness, he watched the two pickup trucks coming down the road towards the gate. They were driving way too fast. “Stupid bastards!” Fred told himself. He flicked on his flashlight to wave them down. The lead truck slowed, then veered toward him and suddenly accelerated again. The collision crushed Fred’s rib-cage and sent him flying backward into the doorway, rocking the table inside the guardhouse. The boat catalogue fluttered to the floor. Fred died, slumped sideways, half-sitting against the wall outside the little hut.
Sunday, August 29, 2359 hours
On the Ottawa River, west of Petawawa
Annie Connor, the helmsman and commander of the boats once the teams landed on the beach, nudged Alex Gabriel’s arm. “We’re ready,” she whispered. She wasn’t the chatty type and Alex liked that. She was twenty-three, quick-witted, and assertive; a natural leader. If the warriors hadn’t elected her third-in-command, he would have put her into that position himself.
Alex fumbled briefly, reached over the side, cupped his hands, and splashed cold water onto his face. He checked his watch, then turned towards the invisible faces he knew were waiting for his order to go.
One red flash, a pause, then another flash. The motors raced briefly
