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 then dropped together to idling speed. Alex nosed his boat into the current, setting a course that would carry his little fleet north and clear of the rocky island upriver from Indian Point on the west shore. He swung west into the open river, calm on this windless night, and, guided by the intermittent flash of the base airfield’s revolving beacon, headed towards “the officers’ beach.”
Petawawa, lit up against the dark southwestern sky, wasn’t hard to find. It was as quiet as one would expect in the very first hours of a Monday morning in late August. Alex and the Central Committee that had planned and authorized the raid knew that most of the base was in “stand-down” mode for a special weekend leave at the end of the militia training season. Duty units were on half strength. Best of all, the front-line 1st Battalion of the Royal Canadian Regiment, the top-notch regular infantry unit there, was far away, chasing terrorists in Zimbabwe as part of a Commonwealth “stabilization force” deployed in the wake of the chaos that had followed the January assassination of Robert Mugabe. As a result, the only combat troops in the region were the 390 paratroopers in the three “commandos” of the Special Service Regiment at CFB Trenton, four hours drive away.
Natives still in the army and stationed at Petawawa had assured the Central Committee, through the special network that had been set up, that no unit would be in the training area that weekend – a fact confirmed by others who were members of various militia regiments. At best, there would be half a dozen military police on routine patrol, rattling doors and breaking up fights outside the canteens. The base defence force, a gaggle of office and supply clerks – donkey-wallopers and jam-stealers, as the infantry called them – was a standing joke and would take hours to organize itself. By then, Alex was determined to be long gone, back across the river. Nevertheless, he prayed that surprise would work, for he knew that if even a half platoon of airborne infantry were waiting for them, his band of warriors would be mowed down before they could even cock their rifles.
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