A Clever Combatant

A Clever Combatant

G.C.Webb

Copyright 2018 by G.C.Webb

Smashwords Edition

Written by G.C.Webb

CHAPTER 1

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The nature activists proved an old saying: It’s not wise, or healthy, to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The wrong place was a Douglas fir tree. It had overlooked a forest clearing beside the Pacific Ocean for centuries. The three young people perched in its branches were there for less than a day. Within hours, one was in an intensive care unit. The others in a morgue.

To the northeast of the tree, located in one of Western Canada’s most pristine and protected parks, torrents from melting snow packs thundered down Regina Falls. Although a phalanx of green surrounded the majestic two thousand meter gorge, the forest didn’t mute the din. The cascading water roared like a gigantic troll complaining nearby in the woods.

The high-pitched whine of an engine rose above the noise. Seconds later, an all-terrain vehicle (ATV) appeared. A park warden would not have been amused. It was charging along a hiking trail with a disregard for the sanctity of life, indigenous or otherwise. Tires dug into soft earth as the vehicle braked, and when a man wearing lumberjack apparel dismounted, it rose several centimeters into the air. A broad smile appeared and he retrieved a chainsaw from its rear seat.

I commend those youngsters’ ploy. And courage, remarked a man watching the scene. Unruly hair spilled out from under the observer’s baseball cap. The mane, and thick beard with a touch of gray, gave him the appearance of a six foot wolverine. Corporal Conor Fergus Haddad looked anything but a serving policeman. He added, But they have about five minutes.

Five minutes for what? asked a fit, mid-thirties woman. Judy West was also a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP).

For Fergie to lop off the branches below them, Conor replied. Then, knowing him, he’ll probably cut down the tree. And with them still perched in it.

At that moment, gusts from the Pacific Ocean blasted the branches around the tree people. Conor shivered. He could almost feel the wet rivulets dribbling down their backs in the open shelter.

Meanwhile, Judy looked down and noticed an insect scampering under a pile of rocks. She used the toe of a boot to turn one over. A colony of bugs decamped into the underbrush in search of new lodgings.

Those kids would be wise to do the same as those insects. Depart in a hurry. Conor pulled the brim of his cap down when Fergie fired up the engine.

While doing so, Conor took a moment to analyze the arrival’s personality. Staff Sergeant Major Ian Ferguson, universally known a ‘Fergie’, wasn’t crazy. He acted that way when it suited him. This morning was one such occasion.

The chainsaw eased to idle while he prepared to yell a one-time warning. During the semi-silence, a strange phenomenon occurred. It was September, but the leaves around the crude platform began falling in clusters as they would in a November windstorm. Bark chips joined the red/brown foliage on their downward journey.

A shriek reverberated across the clearing.

Gun! Judy shouted.

She dived into a clump of bushes. Conor followed. Seeking safety, the duo crawled behind a truck-sized rock. At the same time, Fergie dropped the chainsaw and jumped into a natural fissure behind another rock. The saw’s steel teeth noisily chewed up a cluster of ferns, then sputtered for several seconds and stopped.

Weapons with noise suppressors continued to blast the tree. More bark chips showered the forest floor. Suddenly, a person tumbled out of the crude platform. Silent during the fall, the form landed with a sickening thud on a root. It had punched its way through the ground decades earlier.

Conor pulled a service 9mm Smith & Wesson from a clam holster on his belt.

It’s useless, Judy whispered. That firepower behind us is coming from automatic rifles. Probably M16’s. They’re well out of range.

Her trench mate was about to say something but recalled she was proficient with weaponry. Instead he muttered, This is surreal.

Yet more chunks of bark flew off the tree trunk. This time tips of branches joined the brown/green cloud. They plummeted to earth while the shooters continued firing. Another scream followed. A second percher fell. The casualty thudded onto the body of the first one lying at the base of the Douglas fir.

Judy was an advanced paramedic. Aware of an ethical duty to aid those in distress, yet vigilant about personal safety, her mind went into conflicted overdrive. She had attended a Medical Emergency Response Training course at the RCMP Academy in Chilliwack and recalled the priority stressed by her instructor, a sergeant in the Force who was also a Registered Nurse: a gunshot wound (GSW) could be fatal within five to fifteen minutes if a casualty had a serious bleed.

Rounds continued to shred the top half of the tree. A high-pitched shriek signaled a third activist had been struck. The tone of voice indicated it was a female. Moments later, a thin form smacked the forest floor near the other two.

Seconds seemed minutes as Judy mentally reviewed the contents of the GSW kit attached to her hip-holster in a water-tight Pelican case: 2 pairs of Nitrile exam gloves, 1 CPR micro shield, Quickclot bandages, 1st response pouch, 5X9 gauze dressing, 1 roll cloth tape and 1 pair of trauma shears.

As abruptly as it began, the barrage ceased. Silence descended over the forest. It ended when another squall blustered in from the Pacific. Swaying in the wind, the trees sounded as though they were moaning. Descended from French and Irish stock, Judy had inherited the latter race’s superstitious genes. She believed the trees were keening for the activists. Briefly she thought of another person with Celtic roots, Colonel Ian Munro, her boss.

Meanwhile, Fergie used ferns and bushes for cover while making his way back to the ATV. With impressive speed, he assembled a C7A1 Assault Rifle. Like Judy, he was a marksman. If the snipers hadn’t left by the time he’d acquired a target, they’d be food for the insects fleeing in the same direction.

Fergie did a rapid, but thorough, sweep of the area from whence the shots had come. While doing so, the moaning at the base of the tree changed pitch and volume. It became a piercing wail.

That person needs medical help, Judy said. Duty overcame safety and she prepared to break concealment. I can’t wait.

She also used the underbrush for protection while sprinting towards the victims. A fast check of the three casualties determined the first two who had tumbled out of the tree were indeed male. The absence of carotid pulses and other vital signs also indicated they were dead.

As she had suspected, the third victim was a young woman. Unlike her companions, the teenager was still alive. Judy sealed her entry wound with Quickclot bandages. She hoped their volcanic rock derivative would serve its purpose and act as a sponge. It did. Granules began to absorb the fluid molecules of blood. They also formed clots in the chest wound caused by the bullet’s entry. Judy muttered a silent prayer that she could keep this youngster alive until a medical team arrived.

There were no access roads to the area for axel-based vehicles. While planning the operation (op), Colonel Munro had requested assistance from the Royal Canadian Air Force. Stationed at Comox, Number 442 Transport and Rescue Squadron obliged by placing a Cormorant chopper with a medical trauma team on stand-by. Fergie used his Motorola portable radio to contact them.

Medivac is twenty minutes out. No stranger to trauma, he was still appalled by the gore. It’ll be tight. But they’ll be able to land in this clearing.

A legend in the force for zany behaviour, he was also renowned as one of its most experienced investigators as well as a master at functioning under pressure.

In a gesture of reassurance, he placed a hand on Judy’s shoulder. Steady, steady. This is what you’re trained for. And you’re good at it.

Remaining focused, she continued to administer to her patient.

Fergie and Conor rechecked the inert forms at the base of the tree. Both showed head wounds. A gaping bloody hole was where one’s left eye had been. The other was missing a large section of the back of his head.

The Royal Canadian Air Force reacted with efficiency. Seventeen minutes after Fergie’s call to 19 Wing at Canadian Forces Base Comox, the ‘whump whump’ of rotor blades heralded the Cormorant’s arrival.

Judy didn’t look up. She continued tending to her patient. "I think I’ve saved this one.

CHAPTER 2

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Vancouver, British Columbia

Colonel Ian Munro was beginning to wonder if the ‘Bad Rule of Three’ might actually have some credence. Being a many-years spy, he hoped it didn’t. There was enough paranoia and danger in the world of espionage without him musing about the number three superstition and perhaps conjuring up self-fulfilling prophecies.

True or not, number three had been on his mind. For the third time in three years, Ian Munro found himself back on the West Coast of Canada with his Insurgent Review Commission (IRC). This time, they were investigating rumours on ‘the street’ and chatter on the internet. Both were making the nation’s security services and government nervous.

While consuming a third mug of freshly-brewed coffee, Munro decided that his imagination was mythologizing on overdrive. The two previous missions to Vancouver had been successful, even though they were, as the Duke of Wellington remarked after the Battle of Waterloo: ‘A near run thing.’

Best leave the universe to its own agenda, he concluded, and focus on the current mission, including his unique intelligence outfit.

Not only was the Insurgent Review Commission Canada’s smallest spy organization, officially it didn’t exist. During a hastily-called meeting in Ottawa after a terrorist attack two years earlier, Munro mentioned almost absentmindedly that a small, off-the-books, mobile unit could be effective in working with the country’s conventional agencies to locate the perpetrators. The others in the room--the Prime Minister, four high-ranking politicians and Canada’s top soldier—agreed.

Recognizing Munro’s qualifications, he was asked (i.e. ordered) to command it. As the Deputy Director of Operations for the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) and a senior officer in the Army Reserve, plus being a conspirator more devious than Niccolo Machiavelli, Ian Munro was an ideal choice.

Munro was also back in the same building he’d used as a headquarters during past missions. Located in a park adjacent to Burrard Inlet, its not-so-new appearance provided an advantage. Nobody would suspect an ultra-secret intelligence outfit to have a base in such a rustic-looking edifice.

The interior’s décor was also bland. Green/grey coloured walls and ceilings mirrored many of the older military facilities scattered throughout the ten provinces and three territories which make Canada the world’s second largest country.

Perched on a utility desk in his office, Munro’s computer awaited instructions to commence work. Enclosed in its brain was a wealth of esoteric data, including the architectural blueprints of high-priority structures they were tasked to protect.

A Munro aide, who was a computer guru, had carried his boss’s technological marvel during a mock exercise in Ottawa. The ‘target’ had been the Embassy of Serbia and Montenegro. Munro had loaded the floor plans of that diplomatic complex onto his computer and the aide was amazed by their detail and accuracy. He was also dazzled by the laptop’s super high-powered specs, including 16GB Ram, 3TB hard drive and Core i7 processor 3.5 GHz. He dubbed it ‘Corporal Wizard.’

That drill had been prophetic. Four months later, a car bomb exploded in the Embassy’s courtyard and demolished the front of the building. This time a real reaction force, also commanded by Munro, went into action.

Munro ceased ruminating about his electronic companion and strode over to a window. An hour earlier, clouds hovering over the Lions Gate Bridge, the North Shore and the downtown commercial core had disappeared. Residents of, and visitors to, the country’s busiest seaport were being treated to a lovely afternoon.

Recalling his earlier experiences with Vancouver’s weather, Munro suspected that a stout breeze would soon follow the warmish conditions. He was right. Whitecaps were already rising on the surface of Burrard Inlet. At the same time, the tips of several Cedar trees surrounding the office began to sway. They appeared as if waving hello to old friends, the oncoming gusts. The mini-tempests also rattled window panes and hammered the roof. Munro searched the grounds to see if parts of the structure had departed and landed on them.

Briefly, the weather reminded him of the gales that howled like vengeful Banshees across the vales of Northern Ireland, his mother’s homeland.

He placed his left hand on a window ledge and felt more vibrations. This time they were coming from within the building. On the ground floor, The Vancouver Emergency Services Health Club was busy. A lapsed fitness buff, Munro applauded its members who were keeping in shape.

The building’s office space may not have been ultra-modern, but its electronics were. The encrypted phone sitting on the desk beside Corporal Wizard buzzed.

CHAPTER 3

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A voice with the power of an infantry sergeant major announced through the device, connected to Jericho’s secure internal network, that Sergeant Judy West and Corporal Conor Haddad had arrived. They were quickly permitted access and headed for Munro’s office on the third floor. The linoleum protested underfoot as the two stepped along the hallways.

When the two newer members of his command were seated, Munro gave them a quick mental inventory. Both had collaborated with the IRC during recent missions. Aware of their exceptional, disparate skills and his unit’s need for more staff, due to an increasing number of innovative threats from terrorist groups as well as attacks from radicalized loners, he had requested their transfer. It was accomplished quickly and without an iota of the usual inter-agency squabbling.

Conor Haddad, a colourful blend of Lebanese and Irish parentage, had been a drug squad operative. For reasons of personal safety after his final assignment in the murky world of undercover work, he reversed his given names and became Conor instead of Fergus. In the Irish language, it meant hound lover. Fluent in Irish, and an advocate of animal welfare, Colonel Munro thought it appropriate.

A surveillance ace, Judy West had commanded one of the Federal force’s most successful and clandestine units. She was also an enigma, being both marksman and medic.

Haddad placed a pen on the table and its clatter brought his boss back to the present. He asked about the third member of the Vancouver Island operation.

Munro told them Fergie was still on-site, heading up the investigation and had provided a basic post-op report. Not willing to share the rest of their conversation, Munro stopped.

It was Fergie’s idea to wrap up on Vancouver Island while sending the others to Jericho. He’d been in several grisly incidents while training law enforcement personnel in Haiti, Bosnia and Afghanistan. He was concerned about the psychological and emotional well-being of his two colleagues, especially Judy.

She did seem distracted, but Munro knew she couldn’t show symptoms. Any indication of after-action trauma would put her on desk duty.

Fergie informed me that you’d fill in some of the blanks, Munro remarked in a quiet voice.

Judy spoke in what she hoped sounded like an assured tone, but the abrupt sentences seemed somewhat out of character.

Colonel, the shooters were experienced marksmen. Those kids didn’t have a chance. The males expired within seconds. Their brain matter was splattered all over the tree. Gobs of it also covered the ground.

She was silent for a moment while recalling the sight of the injured youth. Munro asked her to continue.

The female was alive. But dreadful, wheezing sounds were coming from a hole in her chest. A medivac chopper flew her to Saint Paul’s Hospital. Finished, she became mute again.

During Judy’s account, Conor seemed preoccupied. He kept rotating a pen between thumb and fingers. A quarter turn to the front, then back. For a second the pen stopped and he muttered to Judy, It was indeed ghastly. They were no older than my sister’s kids.

Munro recognized Judy’s disconnect, bordering on melancholy, and Conor’s discomfort. He thought it might be prudent to speak with them off-the-record about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) if it continued.

Conor had been a member of the Armed Forces before joining the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Like Munro, he retained his link with the military by enlisting in a Reserve Army unit. By habit, he usually addressed his boss as ‘Colonel.’ Over time, the others started doing so as well. Wishing to keep his spy family happy, he didn’t object.

Colonel, your uncle is a surgeon at Saint Paul’s. Fortunately for us, he’s in charge of the Respiratory Wing. Perhaps Doctor Blair might tell you something, Conor said. The pen had stopped its journey from front to back. He now appeared focused. Forensics will have a report within a few days. But any info would now be appreciated. It would help speed up the investigation.

Conor now appeared more settled. He was speaking with clarity.

Munro looked at his watch. His mother’s younger brother prided himself on his Irish credo of consistency and thoroughness. Doctor Blair had not wavered from the same routine for years even when British Anarchists were attempting to kill him and Munro was determined to keep the ‘stubborn old SOB’ from Balleymena alive. Colin Blair hadn’t been annoyed by Munro’s description. He proudly admitted to being one.

Upon entering the office, Munro had immediately filled a twelve-cup coffee maker with cold water and ground beans. He’d instituted an unwritten directive at IRC offices that the caffeine must be fresh or the machine prepped and ready to go. The ‘new brew’ scenario was Munro’s irreverent reaction to the hours-old, stomach-churning concoctions found in the office of General Deveraux, the Chief of Canada’s Defence Staff, and a many-year friend.

Across the room, the machine gurgled, as if reminding the trio it was there. Munro knew an intake of caffeine could jolt memories and improve moods. His earlier three cups were proof.

Let’s take a moment. Then I’d like to know more about the weaponry. Judy can take us through it. She’s our expert.

The machine gurgled again as they helped themselves.

CHAPTER 4

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Minutes later, and comfortable discussing a favourite subject as Munro had hoped, Judy’s demeanour improved

Hands folded around a coffee mug, she became animated. The shooters used AR-15s with noise suppressors. Normally, their 5.56 mm calibered rounds have an effective firing range of 550 meters for point targets. Those guys were well within that distance. Fergie measured it.

Despite the gravity of the subject, Munro almost laughed aloud. He could visualize Fergie, well north of six feet, stalking through the woods dressed like a lumberjack and with the RCMP’s longest tape measure in one hand and a chattering chainsaw clutched in the other.

I’m amazed he didn’t arrest the entire village. And chop down a bunch of trees. Nobody interferes with his operations.

Although he knew the answer, Munro asked about the availability of acquiring such weapons on the open market in order to keep Judy engaged.

Bushmaster AR-15s can be purchased in the United States, but only through a licenced dealer. A Federal Firearms License is also required. However, many are sold at gun shows. Or outside in parking lots. In the latter instance, there are no questions and no paperwork.

Her fingers were now beating a tattoo on the mug. In Canada, they’ve been given a sporting shooting exemption. But you need a Restricted Possession and Acquisition Licence. Plus, the weapon must be used exclusively for that purpose. And only at accredited gun clubs.

So we can conclude those weapons were smuggled into the country. Or purchased here illegally, Munro stated the obvious.

His audience of two nodded. Munro had finished his fourth caffeine fix and pointed at the machine. The others agreed.

Munro was pleased. Judy was now concentrating and using more expansive sentences. She went on, Two small mounds of cartridges were lying at the base of the tree, on either side. That’s how we identified the calibre of the weapons.

They left brass behind? Munro asked, surprised.

Yes. They must have seen us and were in a hurry to get out of there.

The increased focus and newly found sense of purpose indicated that she had recovered. Although no psychologist, Munro suspected that by speaking aloud and externalizing the incident, it helped.

Haddad moved to reclaim the pen, but stopped. Fergie may have mentioned it. But there was something strange.

Munro just finished pouring another coffee. Strange?

There were three sets of boot prints at the base of the tree. But scratched branches indicated only two people had climbed it. They were about a third of the way up.

Judy chimed in, The other one was probably their look-out. He was too low to be a spotter. And, the number of spent shells supported our theory that there were two shooters.

More gusts battered the building. Munro glanced out a window at a tree, expecting a few branches to separate from it.

Just a thought, but is it possible that one of them was a woman? Could we be dealing with a she, not a he?

Conor injected a touch of black police humour. He glanced at Judy. Pardon the chauvinism but if it were a she, then that she had big feet. All the boot prints indicated they were at least size twelve. I measured them. That’s mine.

A fan above them began to squeak. Munro recognized it as the one with an irritating pitch that had interrupted several meetings before. He made a note to replace it. But, before doing so, he’d whack the thing into fragments with a broom.

How did they access the forest? Munro asked, restarting the conversation. There aren’t any public roads.

They arrived and left by boat, Judy replied. A zodiac by the look of the gouges we found in the sand.

Despite a