Alex slid into the ditch beside his second-in-command. “Ready, Steve?”
“Yeah, guard’s out. All quiet. Typical weekend night in Petawawa.”
“Okay, let’s go.” Alex waved the first section into action.
The warriors, crouching, sprinted to the front gate, a high wire barrier topped with razor wire, no obstacle really – except to honest people. Alex was pleased to see Pierre Léger, following the drill, step forward, quickly cut the padlock, and push open the gate. He was less pleased to hear it swing open with a loud squeal, perhaps protesting the unexpected disturbance. Léger’s section jogged through past the first bunker, down the lane to their assigned bunker. Up came his bolt cutters, snip snip, and the metal door was open. As the others wrestled off their backboards and packs, Léger scanned the interior with his flashlight, looking for the supplies on his list.
The other two sections moved into the compound, breaking into smaller squads as they too headed to their assigned bunkers. This raid was no random scavenger hunt. Each section and squad had received detailed orders to collect specific weapons and munitions. Though they had never been in the compound before, or even seen it up close, they recognized their targets from the maps and photos Alex had shown them over and over again, and from the scale model he and Christmas had built in the training camp.
The raiding party had a complete description of what was stored in each bunker, thanks to supply officers, military clerks, and civilian employees loyal to the Movement and the cause who were stationed in Petawawa and in the National Defence Headquarters in Ottawa. But they also had a carefully considered shopping list. The priority items were linked to the “grand strategy”: anti-aircraft and anti-tank weapons; explosives (C4, plastic explosives, detonating cord, and primers and fuses); fragmentation and smoke grenades; small-calibre automatic weapons and ammunition; and, if the team had carrying space, a few anti-tank mines.
The ammo compound at Base Petawawa held supplies for most of Eastern Canada and for overseas deployments – everything the army needed: rifles, grenades, explosives, every calibre of ammunition, M72 and Carl Gustav anti-tank rocket launchers and ammo; and of special interest, Blowpipe anti-aircraft missiles. Many of the Canadian Forces’ best weapons were outdated by the fast-moving standards of modern warfare, but they would certainly provide the Movement with a vast edge over any police opponents.
A hiss from Christmas’s radio broke the silence. “Headlights approaching,” whispered Villeneuve.
“How many … what speed?”
“Looks like a single, a car, I think. Not very fast – slow actually. Hey, it just pulled in front of the old building down the road, shining a light around.”
Steve turned to Alex. “Company coming, single car. An MP, I think …checking buildings. Not too alert by the looks of it … just the routine meathead patrol.”
“Right! Close the gate. Put the lock and chain back on. Pass the word – lights out. They know the drill.” At least I hope they do, he thought.
Alex watched the nearest patrol anxiously as it stopped collecting its load and scattered into the shadows of the bunkers. Christmas, crouching, dashed outside the gate and dropped into the shallow ditch beside his leader. “Set.”
Alex watched the approaching car. “Okay. We can’t take a chance that the MPs might see something and then, after we let the car go, raise an alarm. We’ll take them down. Okay, as we rehearsed the other night – once the car halts at the gate, I’ll take the driver’s side … you take the partner.”
“Got it.” Christmas crossed the lane and dropped into the ditch. Just like the ambush outside the camp in eastern Afghanistan, he thought as he struggled to flatten his large frame into the low grass. But this time, no inquiry.
Villeneuve warned, “Passing me now.” He dropped into his backup position, hoping that the car would not try to reverse towards him if something went wrong.
The car pulled into the entrance lane as expected. Joan Newman shone a spotlight across the gate then casually over the compound as she had done on too many night shifts. “Boring, boring, boring,” she told herself, “the usual Sunday night bullshit. I’ve got to get myself a life – maybe even that jerk, Jack.”
The door flew open. Joan felt someone grab her collar and lift her sideways and backwards out of the car. She fell hard on the road, the impact taking her breath away. A dark shape loomed over her, pistol in hand, and stepped hard on her right arm. “Be quiet, don’t do anything stupid, and you’ll be okay.”
The other front door was already open. She heard someone switch off the engine. Feet ran towards her. Joan caught her breath and growled, “If you guys are frigg’n’ militia on an exercise, you’re in big trouble. Let me up.” She moved to sit up but was knocked roughly back down.
“Shut up, stay down. This is no exercise,” Alex barked. He turned to the warriors. “You two, stay with me. The rest get back to the job. Sergeant, any commotion on the radio?”
“No.” He glanced at the body on the ground. “Nice job, sir.”
He meant it. One reason people followed Alex, in the army and now on this raid, was that he always led from the front. A simple concept, and not exactly stamped Top Secret, but a lot of officers never seemed to get it: leading means being in front. How else can you know what’s going on? Call it “operational problem solving” or “dealing with the unexpected 101,” just like bloody “Foxhole U,” army staff college. You will have problems, like this one. Stay on top of them.
Alex hadn’t wanted to get stuck with any prisoners, but of course he’d considered that it might happen. So what to do? Taking her along was out of the question. But he had a more immediate worry. The dispatcher would get suspicious and raise an alarm if she didn’t report in soon. Buy some time and get things moving, he ordered himself.
And sure enough, the car radio crackled. “Three-two, this is three, what’s your location?” the dispatcher droned over the MP radio net. “Three two, come on, Newman. If you stopped for a leak, wipe it and call in. Out.”
Alex grabbed Newman. “Listen,” he said, jamming his face into hers, “you get on that radio and tell them you’re on your way, nothing to report, and if it’s okay, you’re stopping for coffee at the base coffee shop. I’ll make a deal: you play the game and you go free – screw up and you’re coming with us … at least part way. It won’t make any difference to the base commander if you’re a hero, prisoner, or corpse. You decide.”
Newman looked into his eyes briefly, then reached into the car for the radio. “Three, this is three-two. Addy, I ought to report you to the CO, but he’s worse than you are. I’m done for now and going for a coffee. Over.”
“Three, yeah. You scare the crap out of me, Newman. Call in after your doughnut. Out.”
“Good choice,” said Alex. “Sounds like a swell unit.”
He turned to Christmas. “Take the car into the back of the compound and hide it. Put her in it, tie her up, gently, and leave off the mouth tape.”
He took a quick glance at his captive’s name tag. “Have a good night, Corporal Newman, and just relax. They’ll find you by morning.” He nodded to Sergeant Christmas, who pushed the MP onto the floor in the back of the car. Alex left to check the section leaders. Best to move things along.
The sections returned to work, a bit more subdued. This minor incident drove home that this was no game. Leroy mumbled to no one in particular as he struggled to hoist a backboard loaded with M72s onto his shoulders. “That bitch had a gun and