Uprising. Douglas L. Bland
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carefully. “Yes, minister. It’s a relatively simple cyberspace technical procedure with the right equipment and the right people. In modern cybernetic warfare, even a secure network can be quite vulnerable. We have to assume that the natives have sophisticated systems and the people to run them.”
The chief looked to Gervais. “Let’s see the tape, Carl.”
The DCDS nodded at an apparently blank wall and the staff monitoring proceedings from the projection room hit “Play.”
The scene that appeared had an al-Qaeda ambiance, despite the mixture of modern camouflage gear and traditional native costumes and the giant Warriors’ Brotherhood flag backdrop. A woman, simply masked, flanked by two men dressed in traditional native costume but carrying M16 rifles, sat at a desk. She glanced down occasionally at a handful of papers as she spoke quickly and forcefully.
The native people of North America were violated more than 400 years ago by European slave traders and invaders. Since that time, we have been assaulted by racists bearing weapons of mass destruction, germ warfare, and firearms. They poisoned our people with their drugs and alcohol and religions. Genocide from coast to coast has been visited on our nations across the Western hemisphere. Our forefathers tried to negotiate peace and understanding with the whites, but they simply played into the hands of the invaders. We remained “les sauvages,” and nowhere were we so humiliated and cheated than in what you call Quebec – it is our native land, not theirs.
The lap-dog leaders of the First Nations, “white Indians” all of them, are totally discredited. They fill their pockets with bribes and tokens. They negotiate without our authority to give the whites our lands and future. We, the People of the Land, the true First Nations, will not negotiate. We already have what we need, sovereignty and liberty, and now we will use them. We will take what belongs to us from the ruling cliques in Quebec and, supported by the brave warriors of the Native People’s Army, we will restore to our people their rightful heritage. Remember the genocide of the villain Champlain and the heroic defence of our land by the Iroquois Confederacy. Remember all our heroes and early resisters and today the brothers and sisters killed and wounded in the same fight for our land. A new day has arisen and the native people in the occupied lands you call Quebec will rise with it.
The tape ended abruptly and static filled the screen. The monitor went blank. While Gervais returned to his notes, the principals sat still and silent, except for the minister who shifted about in his chair, reached for a pencil, then changed his mind and tossed it irritably onto the table.
The DCDS resumed his presentation. “Last night, a series of obviously coordinated raids were launched against several military installations in Eastern Canada, apparently in support of this attack on Quebec. In each case, the targets were ammunition storage facilities and weapons lock-ups. The raiders were well organized and apparently had prior knowledge of just where various types of munitions were stored within the compounds and armouries.” On cue a black-and-white map with red X’s appeared on the monitor. “As this slide illustrates, raids were made at Halifax, CFB Valcartier, CFB St. Jean, two armouries in Montreal, and, the largest one, at CFB Petawawa. There were no incidents at any other installations across the country.
“The raiders seemed intent on taking major and special weapons, including anti-aircraft missiles, anti-tank missiles, some anti-tank mines from Petawawa, mortar bombs, plastic explosives, small arms ammunition, radios, and other lesser equipment. The staff is still calculating the losses.
“The raiders were almost certainly members of various native people’s organizations. Although we have no clear intelligence to confirm this assumption, the tape leaves little doubt that’s what’s going on.”
Gervais flipped through his slides. “The raids were conducted from various approaches. For instance, the Halifax attack was mounted on heavy-duty pickup trucks which rammed through the gates in the early hours this morning, then made off into the local area. That raid, unfortunately, resulted in the death of a civilian guard, who it seems was run over trying to stop the raiders at the gate. In Petawawa, the attack seems to have come from across the Ottawa River, a rather daring idea that, ah, unfortunately, may be something our summer exercises in 2008 suggested to the native soldiers who were part of the scenario. In that scenario, Petawawa was raided from across the river by a ‘rebel force’ of, ah, factious aboriginal militants.”
Carl Gervais, who had argued loudly against the exercise, couldn’t resist a pointed extemporaneous observation. “You may remember that exercise, minister. I recall you praised the, ah, ‘display of multiculturalism in action’ involved in treating aboriginal grievances seriously.”
Gratified to see the minister look away and reach for his glass of water, the DCDS returned to Dobson’s notes. “We’re still trying to reconstruct each of these incidents. In Petawawa, the raiders were interrupted by a female military police officer. She was captured by the raiders, but not harmed. A search party found her an hour ago, tied up in her patrol car hidden in the back of the compound. She is still being debriefed, but she told her commanding officer that one individual, whom she thought was the leader, was referred to by the others as ‘sir,’ and that while giving the others distinctly military-style orders, he called one of the others ‘sergeant.’ Her account of their language and discipline alike indicates not merely a high level of organization but the probable presence of several trained soldiers.
“Unfortunately, other raids caused a number of casualties. As I said a moment ago, in Halifax, a civilian guard, a commissionaire, was killed. As well, a brief firefight erupted when a military police patrol responded to a silent alarm in Valcartier, but they were overwhelmed by the raiders’ weapons. Thankfully, the military police escaped without fatalities, but the two MPs were injured – not badly – and their vehicle was destroyed.
“Minister, CDS,” Gervais continued, “we have put Canadian Forces bases on alert, launched searches, and mounted guard units around ammunition compounds and vital points at bases and militia locations. These precautions have been as unobtrusive as possible, so as not to alarm the local populations – we are advertising these raids as the actions of criminals looking for weapons to sell on the black market, and downplaying both the precision and success.”
“Chief,” the minister said, turning to Andy Bishop, “that message can’t hold given the tape. I think the cabinet will have to – the prime minister – will have to make a public statement confirming briefly what we know and what we’re doing about it. And he is going to have to do it today.”
“I agree, minister. And so does the clerk of the Privy Council; she’s scheduled a meeting in one hour with me, the commissioner of the RCMP, the chief of the Security Communications Establishment, the deputy minister of the public safety department, the prime minister’s principal secretary, and others to thrash out a response along precisely those lines.”
Jim Riley pushed back his chair and stood up. “Thank you, General Bishop, and the rest of you as well. I’ve things to do too. General Bishop, after your PCO meeting, I’ll meet you in the prime minister’s office. I’ll let you know the exact time.”
Monday, August 30, 0915 hours
Chisasibi, on James Bay
Will Boucanier looked out the small window as the Air Creebec Dash 8 made its long, slow approach into Chisasibi, an unattractive Cree village of some 3,000 souls on the La Grande Rivière, six kilometres from James Bay and about 100 kilometres from Radisson and the main James Bay hydroelectric generating plant. But it was home to Will – a soldier home from the wars and on his way to a new one.
Long ago, at age eighteen, Will had left the village and the band, travelled to Montreal, walked the streets, homesick yet incredibly happy to be away. The big city had been totally unfamiliar to him, weird, baffling, and threatening, but Will had never felt so safe. In Chisasibi, he had spent every night of his young life afraid, terrified, that Dad would come rolling in the door drunk, and, as Mom would say, “in a mood.”
Fear and noise all night. Not in his room, but menacingly close, out there, down the dark hallway. He would lie in bed, whimpering, “Go away!” His thoughts made no difference.
“Get