Chapter 1
National Assembly of Quebec
Quebec City
1 December
André Gauvan, Quebec’s fiery premier, toyed with the leather-bound folder lying in the center of his desk. He looked around the Assembly and waited. It was full this morning, with all meetings postponed for this one announcement.
“Monsieur le Premier,” the president of the Assembly called.
Gauvan stood. “Monsieur le Président. As it is close to the noon hour, I will not waste our honorable members’ time with unnecessary preamble. On April first, Quebec will conduct a referendum regarding our secession from Canada and the forming of a sovereign Quebec.”
Before he was fully seated, the Opposition was on their feet, screaming in protest. The president leaned to his page and whispered. Within minutes, police and security guards entered the Assembly to head off what was fast becoming a riot. With no other option available, the president called for the noon-hour recess.
Nobody heard him.
Former Republic of Yugoslavia
Canadian Military Compound
1 December, 2030 Hours
Captain James “Dusty” Morgan shuddered. Bile burned the back of his throat as he looked at the small crease in the turret of the armored personnel carrier. A bit to the right, he thought, and the Bosnian sniper would have got him. Even now, hours later, the taste of fear was palpable.
He pulled the collar of the parka tight around his neck as he walked through the compound toward the cafeteria and recreation hall. Morgan was the operations officer, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry (PPCLI). His yearly fitness reports placed him in the top three percent of captains armywide, and a promotion to major was practically guaranteed next year—if he didn’t get court-martialed first. His superiors thought it was a toss-up which would happen first.
Morgan opened the cafeteria door and stepped inside. Even at his size, six foot three and 240 pounds, it was a struggle to close it as the wind fought to rip it from his grasp. Finally, the latch clicked and the wind was left to howl alone. He blew warm air into his hand and looked at the men standing around the pool tables at the back of the room. His dark hair, mustache, and eyebrows framed a pair of bright blue eyes, and he nodded as one of the men motioned him over. Morgan walked to one of the dinner tables. “How’s that corporal of yours doing, Steve?”
The young lieutenant looked up from his reports, his eyes bloodshot and tired. “Hey, Cap. He’ll be fine. Idiot thought he was John Wayne and fired from the hip. Shrapnel went into his leg and not his head.”
Morgan thought about the weapons failures. This was the fifth rifle to backfire since their tour began, and luckily, it was the only serious injury so far. Several weapons were returned to the manufacturer for testing, but the results had been within acceptable ranges.
“If you don’t mind, I gotta turn in these reports. Maybe one of those Frogs over there will blow his head off soon.”
Morgan looked at the group of Quebec soldiers by the TV. “I think you meant to say you hope it’s just a run of bad luck.”
“Whatever you say, Cap.”
“Lieutenant, I suggest you stick that attitude back in a deep, dark place and never bring it up again.”
“For Christ’s sake, sir. How many of our people have to go down before someone sees the pattern? It’s only us. Not the Frogs.”
“I’ve seen the pattern,” Morgan snapped. “I’ve also seen the metallurgy tests. Everything checks out. Everything, that is, except your attitude. Report to my office in the morning and we’ll figure out a way to keep your mouth shut before you start a war you can’t win.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Maybe I do, but if I do my job right, you’ll never find out for sure.”
The young man met Morgan’s stare. “Sir. Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”
Morgan stood up, slowly, and walked away without another word. His soldiers were still standing around the pool table, waiting—watching. A loud cheer went up from the section of the hall housing the televisions. He looked over. Several soldiers from Quebec were cheering and dancing in their seats. One man, Morgan’s driver, walked back to the poolroom shaking his head. “Problem, Master Corporal?”
He stopped beside Morgan and looked up. “Sonofabitch just announced another referendum and those Frogs are cheering.”
“What?” He heard what the man said—and the cheering from several of the Quebec-based soldiers confirmed it—but comprehension was somewhat slow.
“What I said, sir, was that Quebec is going to hold another referendum. Those bloody Frogs are going to try and walk away from Canada again.”
Morgan was about to correct him, but stopped. Sure, it was racist to call them frogs, but he agreed with the characterizations. He just wished he could say it, too.
“Looks like you could use one of these, Dusty,” Corporal Frank Emerson said, using Morgan’s nickname. Very few people were allowed to use it, and those who did so without the official “Morgan okeydokey” didn’t make the mistake a second time.
Morgan looked at his gunner and reached for the steaming cup of coffee. “Thank you, Corporal, but your efficiency report has already been signed.”
“Ah hell, Dusty, everyone knows you love me and would never do anything to hurt my career.”
Morgan chuckled. “Whoever said that—”
“Whom, sir.”
“Whom what?”
“Whomever said that, sir. Not whoever.”
“Fine, Corporal. Whomever said that are idiots and so is you.”
Emerson shrugged. “Must have been some fine university you went to, Captain. How about some of that brain babble you doctors of psychology like to spout off to impress us mere mortals.”
Morgan sighed. “Emerson, it still amazes me that you managed to progress past the rank of civilian. I have a bachelors degree in political science with a minor in psychology, as you well know. You, Corporal, are a cretin. A certifiable cretin with gross delusions of adequacy.”
Emerson wiped away an imaginary tear. “I knew you loved me bestest.”
James looked at the table. “Whose turn is it?”
“We were waiting for you—seeing as you get all pissy and stuff when you don’t get to break.”
Morgan chuckled. It was a good-natured banter borne of respect from working together for three years. James walked over to the pool tables and took aim.
Two tables away, several French-Canadian soldiers milled about, watching their own game. Although James didn’t speak French, he understood two of the words just spoken. He also understood what it meant when a guy grabbed his crotch like that.
“I don’t think those boys know what that gesture means outside of Quebec, do you, Dusty?” Emerson asked, and stared at the French captain. “It’s been a while since I kicked some separatist butt.”
Morgan chuckled. “Easy there, Corporal. Separatist scum or not, he’s still a commissioned officer and I’ll have to throw your sorry ass in jail if you hit him. Besides,” he said, raising his voice, “other than being disgusting, I don’t think there’s a rule against a Frenchman playing with himself.”
“No, no, no, Private,” he heard the French captain say. “The proper word is ‘pissant’.” James drew the stick back and hit the cue ball as hard as he could. It skipped off the table, bounced off the wall, and rolled across the room.
“Temper, temper, Dusty,” Emerson chided.
“Shit.”