True Patriots

by Russell Fralich

  “Relax,” Claire said. “One more move like that and I’ll snap your arm in two. Got it?”

  Zeke screamed in pain and nodded as someone grabbed his wrists from behind and cuffed them using plastic straps. His right arm still throbbed, but remained reassuringly intact.

  The other soldier, another woman who had just appeared from the darkness beyond, leaned over Zeke and said matter-of-factly, “Don’t fuck with the captain.”

  Claire flipped him over.

  Burns seemed a bit surprised. Claire could sense a new-found respect from the two petty officers. They had never seen this side of her. Yes, she was smart, determined, and ambitious. But she was also strong and fierce, even in the face of a very fit and aggressive two- hundred-pound man. He wasn’t going anywhere until the RCMP arrived.

  Gus sprinted through the shadowless forest cast in a pale glow by the crescent moon directly overhead. He circled back to where they had left the van. In the moonlight, he saw a lone sailor holding a machine gun, standing on guard beside the dinghy the assault team had arrived in. How many had there been in the assault team? At least four. The van was at least thirty metres away. Could he sneak into the van without attracting the sailor’s attention, or should he just shoot him now?

  The experience of being hunted at night drew him back to the trauma of Afghanistan. Helmand province. But now, instead of the Taliban, it was his own navy wanting to capture or kill him. This was so fucking messed up. He could accept being hunted by the police, but it hurt knowing that people he may have served honourably with in the armed forces were now pointing weapons at him. He resolved to only shoot the sailor if there were no other choice. He would do his best to escape undetected. He wasn’t like Zeke, killing indiscriminately. He had principles.

  He knew what he would do in a similar ground situation: outflank, encircle, and contain. Time was critical. He had to break out before the trap was set. He crawled back to the van, one arm ahead of the other, his face in the snow and mud, and his pistol in his right hand. He cleared the forest cover and continued. He could easily be seen if the sailor turned to face him. But the sailor kept his focus on the forest far to the left, one ear tuned to his radio, no doubt. There was a body at his feet on the sand.

  Gus crept forward, arms and legs burning with effort, until he touched the front tire. He stuffed his pistol into his belt until he felt it dig into his back. He hoisted himself onto his knees, opened the driver door, looked back toward the sailor, and froze.

  He hadn’t been noticed. The rear door was closed. He had no idea how much of the cargo was inside. They had been surprised early. He hopped into the driver’s seat and glanced back to see at least a half-dozen crates in the hold. Good enough. He took a second to catch his breath and try to close the passenger door that swung lifelessly as a gust of wind blew into the cab. Zeke had been caught and would likely spill the beans. He’s such a kid.

  So success of the mission relied on him escaping, switching vans, and getting the weapons back home on time. He clicked the door shut, flicked the key, and the van roared to life. It would immediately attract the attention of the navy. He had to escape before they encircled him. He floored the accelerator. The rear wheels whined in protest, coughing up mud, snow, and rocks, as the van darted forward along the rutted path they had followed to get here. Freedom was only a few minutes away.

  “Ferguson,” Claire yelled into the commlink, “we have one prisoner. Check out the van.”

  Claire paced in front of the prisoner and thought out loud, “You guys steam undercover from the Boston area, close to the coast where no one would notice. You carry a shitload of weapons. And it’s a repeat attempt at smuggling, I assume.” She turned to Zeke. “Who are you working for? Who ordered the weapons? Where were you going?”

  He stayed silent.

  “Ma’am,” Ferguson radioed back, “the other suspect just took off with the van.”

  Claire swore silently. She pushed her commlink button. “Kingston, this is Charlie Oscar, come in.”

  Wiseman’s voice crackled. “Kingston, acknowledged. Over.”

  “One suspect is fleeing in the van along the shoreline. Track and prepare to pursue. Inform the RCMP.”

  “Aye aye, ma’am.”

  “We’ll clean up here and return to the Kingston in a moment. Out.”

  Ferguson called on the same channel. “Ma’am. You should have a look at this.”

  Claire motioned for Kershaw and Burns to follow her back to the beach and to bring the prisoner. They walked a few paces behind as she raced back to the beachhead where Ferguson pointed to two crates that had busted open, spilling their contents onto the snow and sand. One had long wooden boxes marked “U.S. Army”; the other was packed with machine guns and pistols.

  “RPGs?” Claire said, pointing to the first open crate.

  “Yes, ma’am. Two dozen of them. Two crates of Claymores. And five boxes of C-4 sticks, too.”

  “Who would want that?” Ferguson said.

  “Someone equipping an army, I suppose,” said Claire. She turned toward Kershaw and Burns and pointed to Zeke. “Bring him over here.”

  Kershaw tried to pull the prisoner up and shove him over to the van. He continued looking at the ground. Burns ordered him to move, but he barely registered the command. Claire thought he was in shock. He stayed seated.

  Claire walked up to the prisoner. He stared at her, trying to look cool and intimidating. His shaking betrayed his fear. He’s not the leader, she thought. “Who are these for? Who’s your customer?”

  He said nothing.

  “Found some more, ma’am.”

  Claire walked back. Four more crates, all ripped open to reveal their shocking contents. Machine guns, grenades, sniper rifles, land mines, countless boxes of ammunitions, and Stinger surface-to-air missiles. She nodded. Enough to equip a small army.

  “Where were you taking them?”

  “Ma’am,” Ferguson called out again, “I think I know where they were going.”

  Claire approached near where the driver’s side door had been. A few maps lay in a loose pile in the mud. Ferguson retrieved the top one, a well-worn hiking map of Fundy National Park.

  “They used this map to find this location.” He dug out the other ones: tourist maps of Quebec, Ontario, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta, each with a yellow trace over a route taken. There was no map of B.C. “I think they were taking this shipment to somewhere in Alberta,” Ferguson said.

  Claire turned to gauge the prisoner’s reaction. He began to squirm and look down at the snow in the moonlight. Ferguson was on to something.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  He flipped the map, brushed off the loose earth, and carefully noted every hand-drawn line, circle, and scribble. The yellow trace line ended just north of Calgary. There were numbers on the right edge of the official provincial map of Alberta. A seven-digit number was circled.

  “I think here.” He pointed to the end of the yellow trace.

  “Airdrie?”

  The prisoner turned away. At least until Kershaw, who stood behind, guarding him, shoved his face hard onto the ground.

  “Yes, ma’am. Look here. There’s lots of notes around Airdrie and see these? Phone numbers, right?”

  “I think you’re correct.” Claire called into her commlink, “Kingston, we’re on our way back. Prepare to pursue the van.”

  Gus didn’t let up on the accelerator. He powered past the darkened ghosts of tree after tree until he broke through onto a gravel road. He felt for the map on the passenger seat, but he couldn’t find it. And Zeke’s phone had the map and the directions. Which way to go? He turned left and silently prayed it wouldn’t prove to be a fatal mistake. A few minutes later, he realized he had driven right back to the navy. He whizzed by a parked police cruiser. Jesus, RCMP, too? In the headlights, he saw figures and shadows, and one of them was Zeke, slouching, handcuffed. He would spill the beans for sure. Gus had to be sure that Zeke wouldn’t
compromise their mission. Whatever it took.

  He braked hard, veered to the left side of the path, and spun the wheel to the right. The van screeched as it pivoted in the narrow path, walled in with ominous forest on both sides. He opened his door, pulled out his pistol, aimed, and fired.

  Claire stormed back onto the Kingston’s bridge.

  “Captain on the bridge,” said Barry. Claire dropped into her chair. She tossed one of the sailors her helmet, slimed with sweat and salt, and her flak jacket.

  “Status?” Her pulsed raced. She gulped air.

  Wiseman stood and faced her. “Petty Officer Kershaw is holding the prisoner on shore. She’s waiting for pickup by the RCMP. Anchor retracted. All personnel accounted for. Ready to get underway. Sounding depth five metres fifty.”

  “Ma’am,” said Sullivan, “RCMP confirms they’ve arrived on scene.”

  The radio hissed and popped. “We found the other one. Under fire.”

  Claire grabbed the mike. “Kershaw. Report.”

  The voice was out of breath. “Ma’am. RCMP arrived. They were taking the prisoner when the other suspect just showed up” — the voice cut out for a moment — “and we’re now in pursuit.”

  “Kershaw, do you need assistance?”

  “Uh, I think we found him —” The radio cut off. Sounds of gunshots echoed from the speaker on the bridge. She counted four sharp cracks.

  “Kershaw. Report.” Claire barked into the micro-phone.

  No sound came from the speaker for what seemed like minutes. Claire scanned the black horizon with her night vision binoculars, looking for movement. She saw small, sporadic flashes trace vectors to the right of the landing zone on shore. A gunfight between Kershaw and the RCMP on one side, the suspect on the other.

  She put her binoculars down for a moment just as the shore was lit up by a bigger, brighter blaze. She whipped the binoculars up to see the outline of a police cruiser in the dying flare.

  She heard muffled sounds on the radio speaker. “Kershaw here, ma’am. Officer down. Officer down. Call an ambulance.”

  “Copy.” Claire looked at Sullivan He picked up his cellphone and dialed.

  Kershaw came back on. “Suspect escaped. Driving a dark van to the east. I cannot pursue. He is armed and very dangerous.”

  “And the officer down?”

  “I’m staying with him. He’s hit in the chest. There’s a lot of blood.”

  “Copy. And the prisoner?”

  “Unhurt and still in custody. I parked him. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Copy that. We’re sending a RHIB to pick you up.” Claire shot a glance at the XO. Wiseman spun around, pointed to two petty officers and together they flew out from the bridge. “RHIB ETA five minutes.”

  Sullivan said, “Ambulance on its way. ETA eight minutes.”

  Claire relayed the message to Kershaw.

  “Copy, ma’am.”

  Claire sat back in her chair and digested the new situation. The suspect, the probable leader of the group, had escaped and was carrying military weapons in his van. He had come back to rescue his comrade. He had shot and injured at least one RCMP officer, and fired upon a member of her crew. She wanted the prisoner alive to compare stories with their first prisoner and to explain what was going on. But now, loose with an armoury of military-grade weaponry, he posed a grave threat to the local community. She had to alert the RCMP.

  “Navigator, what’s the nearest community?”

  The young officer scoured the map on the small navigation table. “Alma. Three kilometres east.”

  Claire pulled the microphone from its hook on the ceiling and was about to speak when someone yelled, “Incoming fire. Incoming fire. Port side from shore.” She turned toward the black shore they had just left and saw a white-orange flame streak toward them and whiz by.

  “Action stations!” she ordered, and the klaxon alerted the crew to the imminent danger. The missing smuggler was firing at them now. He doesn’t want us to follow. Another RPG could easily cause a crippling fire or sink her ship. “M2, can you see a target?”

  “No. All dark,” said a sailor manning the M2 0.50-calibre machine gun and peering into the forest with night vision goggles.

  “Gun crew, close up.” The crew used the Bofors 40 mm gun. It was different than trying to hit a floating piece of metal in the bay during target practice exercises. They knew she required approval from the brass at HQ before it could be used. “RO, get me Maritime Command.”

  “Aye aye, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am, there’s movement.” A leading seaman with binoculars pointed into the distance. She grabbed her own binoculars and saw red tail lights moving, flickering through the black. It looked like a truck at moderate speed trying to navigate its way through the forest. The one who fired at them. He was trying to get away. She couldn’t let him succeed.

  “Steer oh nine oh. All ahead flank. We can’t lose him,” she ordered.

  “Aye aye. Steering oh nine oh. All ahead flank,” replied the seaman at the helm.

  The navigator said, “Sounding depth. Four metres seventy.”

  The twin diesel engines roared into life with a deep, throaty growl. The sudden jolt of power threw Claire back into her seat as the nose of the ship tilted up and veered sharply to the right.

  “Gun crew. Track the lights.”

  She watched as the lights suddenly stopped. She saw movement but couldn’t make it out. Until she saw another flash of orange and white come straight at them.

  “Evasive manoeuvres!” she ordered.

  The helmsman swung the wheel right multiple times, and the ship groaned starboard, making an extreme arc in the water. The RPG zipped past, missing the bridge by a few metres.

  “M2 crew. Aim and target.”

  The machine gun crew tried their best to find the location the RPG had been fired from, but facing a wall of black on shore, they had nothing to aim at. She couldn’t fire blind. This close to a community, there could be innocent people on shore. “No target, ma’am.”

  This isn’t working. “M2 crew. Stand down. Stand down.”

  “Sounding four metres fifty,” the navigator said. “At current rate of decrease, minimum clearance in ten minutes.”

  She was running out of water. The Fundy tides were sucking most of the water out of the bay at an astounding rate. Only a few minutes remaining until there wasn’t enough water to float the ship. But she couldn’t let the suspect escape. There was too much at stake.

  The RO piped up, “Ma’am. Captain Hall on the satphone.”

  She grabbed the handset near the base of her chair. “Lieutenant Commander Marcoux, sir.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Sir, we’re in pursuit of one of the smuggling suspects. We had one in custody. He shot an RCMP officer. We’re in pursuit. Police reinforcements are on their way. We’ve been fired upon twice. Permission to use the Bofors, sir.”

  “I told you not to engage the suspects.”

  “They engaged us, sir. I don’t see any other way to stop the second suspect. We have physical evidence that he’s in possession of a large amount of military weaponry brought in from the States. We don’t want that loose among civilians.”

  “And the local police?”

  “On their way, sir. But they’ll be too late. I have the suspect and cargo sighted and we’re following them, but I don’t know for how much longer, though.” The speaker crackled.

  “Sounding. Three metres forty. Minimum clearance in four minutes,” said the navigator.

  “Incoming. Incoming. Port side. Fore. From the shore,” screamed the spotter.

  Another flash.

  Then the ship quaked as a blinding burst of light from the rear of the ship filled the sky. An eerie silence followed.

  Time slowed. The bridge tilted to an extreme angle. Objects slid to the right. Claire grabbed onto the rail to stay in her chair.

  Then the bridge slapped back level with a loud thud.

 
The crew stood still, in shock.

  “Report!” she barked. She turned aft to see fire, sparks, and smoke. The RPG must have hit the RHIB launcher at least. Dangerously close to the fuel tanks, too. And the XO and two petty officers were on their way back there.

  “Ma’am,” the XO’s voice came in on the commlink, “direct hit on the RHIB launcher. Aft quarter on fire. Fire suppression team on their way. Fuel tanks undamaged. Recommend we move out of RPG range.”

  Claire took a deep breath as the crew returned to their duties, worry etched on their faces. They were under attack with an inexperienced captain.

  Claire glowered. Now she was having more doubts about the XO. “We’re not going anywhere. Casualties?”

  “Still waiting for report.”

  “Can we manoeuvre?” She looked at the helmsman, who shifted his nervous gaze to the rear door as Wiseman burst through. He was covered in charcoal. His face was tinged orange from the fire behind them.

  “Fire suppression team active,” he choked.

  Claire looked at him with concern. “Can we manoeuvre?”

  Wiseman scanned the displays in front of the helmsman. “Yes, ma’am. Engines unaffected. We should move out of range.”

  “You have a problem, X?”

  “We have what we need. We don’t need to engage them. We should retreat and let the police handle the remaining suspect.”

  She spun around in her chair as Wiseman stumbled onto the bridge. “We need to have a talk after, X.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He stared at his blackened hands.

  “Weapons?” Her weapons were on the front of the ship, far from the fire.