Читать книгу On Guard For Thee - Murray Snow - Страница 2

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.” James laid the cue on the table and walked across the room. The French captain walked over and stopped the ball with his foot. “Thank you,” James said, and bent down.

“If it isn’t the famous Captain Morgan.” His accent was thick, almost unintelligible. “Defender of the freedom.”

James sighed, but didn’t look up. “You can get your foot off the ball now, Captain. I’ve got it.”

“English dog.”

James straightened and looked at the man’s name tag. “Captain Legault. Something tells me that you are a separatist.” James loomed over him, their faces mere inches apart.

“You are correct.”

“Then maybe you can answer a question for me?”

“Certainement.”

“How does a slime-encrusted piece of shit like you get to wear the Canadian uniform? Hmmm? Why would something as repugnant and foul-smelling as you put a Canadian flag on your shoulder and swear allegiance to a queen and country you don’t believe in?”

Legault shook his head. His smile tightened. “You would never understand. You do not know how it feels to be subject to English rules designed to suppress the Quebec people and eradicate our culture and language.”

James laughed and leaned back against the closest table. “My God! Do you people ever listen to yourselves? How paranoid you sound? We live under the same Constitution, Captain. One Bill of Rights and all that stuff. You’re no more special than any other province.”

“We have a separate language—a separate culture—which makes us unique. You will never take that away from us.” Legault was shouting now, his face bright red as self-righteous indignation bubbled to the surface.

“Different language and culture? French isn’t even the most common language in Quebec anymore. Besides, have you ever tried to understand a Newfoundlander?” He shook his head and chuckled. “Now that’s a foreign language!”

“You racist dog. We will never submit to English rule.”

James shook his head. “Does the year 1759 ring a bell? The Plains of Abraham?” He bent down. “In case you forgot, you boys got your asses kicked by the British. You lost. Now get your goddamned foot off the ball.”

“Anglais! Tabernac!”Legault snapped, and spat on Morgan’s back.

“That’s it.” James’s fist drove into the man’s crotch. Legault fell hard on his side, curled up into a ball, and squeaked—repeatedly. James reached for the cue ball and stood up. He looked at the Quebec soldiers. They were in shock, frozen to the spot. “It’s time for you children to go,” James said. Two of the men moved forward, helped Legault up, and carried him out the front door.

“Well, Dusty,” Emerson said, “looks like you started that war after all.”

“Frank, that war started over two hundred years ago, and it’ll probably go for two hundred more. I just happened to bring it inside these walls. Here,” he said, and tossed the ball to Emerson, “I think I should talk to the boss before this gets blown out of proportion.”

Emerson looked at the ground. “He’s right, you know, sir.”

“Who is?”

“The young lieutenant. It’s just us. It’s not them.”

“Shut up, Corporal,” Morgan said, and walked away.

“By the way, if you’re not going to try, you really shouldn’t bother hitting people.”

“Pardon me?”

“Both eyes didn’t quite bulge out of his head when you bagged him.”

“Good evening, Corporal,” Morgan said, and reached for his coat. “Goddamned separatists,” he mumbled, as he walked into the cold night air. He headed for the headquarters building, running the scene through in his mind. He would never understand how separatists could join the Canadian Forces when the only thing they wanted was the destruction of Canada and the formation of their own little country.

He walked into the headquarters complex and saw the colonel leaning over the map table. “Sir,” Morgan said, “I think we need to have a little talk.”

The colonel looked up, and as their eyes met, James was sure he saw a hint of fear.

Ship’s Office

Canadian Forces Base Esquimalt

Victoria, British Columbia

2 December, 0854 Hours

Leeanne struggled through the mound of paper that covered her desk. The sheer volume boggled her mind. How could one office generate so much paperwork when everyone who could generate it was away for the weekend?, she thought silently.

She read and signed off on another order. There were an unusually large number of personnel transfers coming in, and the fact that they were outside the normal posting season piqued her curiosity. Holding on to the paper, she looked at the small stack of transfers and then the larger stacks of what still awaited her attention. With a sigh, she pushed her natural curiosity aside and placed the sheet on her right. Any thought of looking into it would have to wait.

She picked up the next stack of papers. “Sovereign Night?” Leeanne frowned as she tried to place the name of the exercise. Nothing came to mind, and she tacked it on to the messages that needed to be passed to the higher-ups.

The phone rang as she read another transfer. “Sub-Lieutenant Morgan,” she said, and looked at the exercise orders one last time, a nagging doubt creeping forward in her mind.

“Hello, honey.”

“Hi, Dad. What’s up?”

Brigadier-General Harold Hanson’s voice came from the speaker. As the commanding officer of the PPCLI, it had presented him with a sticky situation when James started dating his daughter. Difficult, that is, until James told him he didn’t care if he were a general or the Queen of Hearts. “I love your daughter. If we ever break up, you can always court-martial me.”

“Morgan,” Hanson had said, “a court-martial will be the least of your worries.”

“I just got a call from James. He said he’d call you tonight. Everyone finally came back from that last patrol. A few people got lost and gave the others a scare, but in the end, there were no real problems.”

“That’s good.”

“I guess there were some delays getting organized while the convoy commander decided what direction they were going.”

“Uh-huh. And how many people did my patient little warrior kill?” She knew James wasn’t one to put up with people wasting his time.

“Well, as I understand it, he made his feelings quite plain. He’ll be lucky if he gets out of this with less than ten ‘extras,’” he said, referring to the tradition of assigning extra duty when “unofficial” punishment was required. Ten extras were James’s normal penance—five for the initial infraction, and five for telling the person what he or she could do with their ‘extras’.

“Serves him right. Have you got room for one more at dinner tonight?”

“Always. I’ll pull another steak out when I get home.”

“Bye, Dad. Love you.” It took another hour to finish the first run-through of the message file. With a heavy sigh, she stood up and walked out of the office. Enough was enough, and at times like this, a cup of tea normally helped keep her going.

She could feel a pair of eyes on her as she walked to the coffee machine across the room. She didn’t dare turn around. So far, it had all been innocent and she hadn’t caught anyone looking. Her dark blue uniform skirt came to her knees, and her black pumps accentuated her long, shapely legs. Leeanne returned to her desk, opened the bottom drawer, and put her feet up.

As she took a sip of her tea, her eyes drifted to the picture of James on the corner of her desk. She smiled, and her fingers touched the glass as her eyes looked into his. “Two months, honey. Two months.”

“How long?” Lieutenant-Commander Gilles Pétin, the Base Administration Officer, said from the door. He was a short, stocky man, and although he was in his mid-fifties, there still weren’t many in the gym that could lift more weight.

Leeanne looked up and stared. “Good morning, sir. Probably another hour or so.”

“If you didn’t take so many damned breaks, you might already have it done.”

Leeanne smiled sweetly. “Would you prefer I just come into your office and bend over, or do you want to keep pretending nobody notices you staring?” Pétin’s face turned a ruddy red and he stormed out. “Asshole,” she said under her breath.

It wasn’t much past her estimate when she finished the last of the messages, and although her tea was cold, she didn’t dare leave her office until the morning task was done. Pétin was on the warpath, and she could only stand so much ogling in one day.

She opened her office door, looked at the female petty officer, and sighed. Silvia Gratton smiled and crossed her fingers. Everyone knew to stay out of Pétin’s way when he was like this, but the hazards of the job sometimes forced people into impossible situations.

Leeanne knocked before entering. “Commander,” she said, trying to sound somewhat cheerful, “here are the morning’s messages. I put the posting messages in a separate folder. There are quite a few of them today.”

Pétin looked up and their eyes met. “For Christ’s sake. Just once, Morgan, could you please drop off the mail and not prove how goddamned nosy you are.”

Leeanne turned and walked away, but stopped at the door. “Is there any chance, Commander, that you could succeed in performing a sexual act upon yourself that is physically impossible?” She walked toward the captain’s office leaving Pétin looking highly confused and the people who overheard the comment struggling to stifle their laughter.

Captain Marc Leroche, the Navy’s senior administrator on the west coast, looked up as she knocked on the doorjamb. “What did you tell him to do this time?” he asked casually.

Leeanne glared. “Sir, the conditions in this office are fast approaching intolerable. Everyone is at their wits’ end with that man.”

“He’s on his retirement posting, Leeanne. He’s got four months left and he’s out.”

“Sir, if you don’t do something to control that vile creature, I will.”

“Now, now. There’s no need for threats, Sub-Lieutenant Morgan.”

She smiled. “That wasn’t a threat, sir. That was a promise.”

Leroche chuckled. “You sound more like your husband every day. What’s that?”

Leeanne finally smiled and relaxed. She respected Captain Leroche, even liked him as a person, and had known him most of her life through his friendship with her father. “Mostly routine messages, sir, except for the last one. What’s Sovereign Night?”

Leroche looked through the papers and shrugged. “Just some exercise the Americans want our help with. Nothing too important at this stage. Anything else?”

“No, sir.” Leeanne came to attention, and then walked out.

Leroche closed his eyes. He was suddenly very tired. He reached into his desk drawer and retrieved a message pad.

TO: CO, Royal 22e Regiment

FROM: ADM O, MARPAC

SUBJ: Missing Generator.

Nil Rtn.

End

He looked at his watch and walked into Pétin’s office. “Commander,” he said, as he closed the door. “Send this message for me. When you’re done, go home. Go home before that woman kills you.”

Pétin bristled. “She can’t—”

Leroche held up his hand and cut him off. “Yes, Commander, she can. You know it as well as I do. Go home and calm down. You can still lose your pension if you piss her off too much, and there’s only so much I can and will do to protect you.”

Pétin snatched the message and turned away. “Bitch,” he mumbled as Leroche closed the door and left him alone.

U.S. Army Command, Germany

4 December, 0245 Hours

She rolled over on the regulation army-issue twin bed and looked at the phone as it rang. The dim red numbers of the alarm clock showed 2:45. Shit. She sat up, pushed her feet into her slippers, and picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Good morning,” the voice said. The woman’s eyes shut and her hand began to tremble. “I need something that will work slowly, permanently, and is untraceable.”

“I said I never wanted to hear from you again.”

“Life is full of unpleasant little surprises. Have it to me within a week.”

The line went dead and she lay down again, her mind racing with options, fear, and the memories of a life she thought was far behind her.