Liberators Page 24

  Their last task before igniting the napalm was rupturing the brown rubber fuel bladder so that it, too, would burn. Ray did this with a pocketknife, punching a hole at waist level and then giving it a short slash, sending a torrent of the fuel spurting out to form a rapidly widening puddle on the ground. Meanwhile, Phil walked up to the fifty-five-gallon drums and noted that they were labeled “110LL,” which he knew was aviation gasoline. A crewman had left a bung wrench on top of one of the drums, which prompted Phil to whisper, “How convenient.” He quickly removed the bungs from both drums, and with some effort, he tipped the drums onto their sides. Doing so made more noise than the pistol shots.

  Phil and Stan simultaneously lit pairs of road flares. Ray opted out of this phase of the plan because he had splashed some JP4 on his hand and forearm when he’d slashed the fuel bladder open. Running in sprints with the flares, they quickly set ablaze all eight helicopters and the nearby JP4 fuel bladder.

  They then began what would become a memorable escape. The flames lit up the entire airfield, making them feel exposed until they were through the gap they’d cut in the fence and well into the woods. After two minutes, they started to hear secondary explosions of the 20mm cannon ammunition onboard the Pumas cooking off. A minute later, the flames reached the fifty-five-gallon gas drums. They each exploded with a bright flash and a deep bang in rapid succession. The three men felt both exuberant and terrified. They paused to take off their Nemesis masks and stow them in their packs. These masks badly obscured their vision.

  They alternately jogged, race-walked, and more deliberately walked until just after dawn. They ran due north for the first hour, then cut east for two hours, and then headed southeast. They found a particularly dense stand of timber on a steep side hill inside the Williams Indian Reservation, the nexus of the Secwepemc tribe. They carefully picked their way up the hill, doing their best to not leave any tracks. There was no level ground, but they found a large fallen tree that was lying transverse to the slope, so they sheltered behind it, keeping them from sliding or rolling as they slept. After their breathing got back to a normal cadence and they’d had some water, they donned their Nemesis suits, which were too hot to wear during heavy exertion, at least during summer months. (One of their nicknames was “Sauna Suits.”)

  Despite having been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, they had trouble falling asleep. As they lay prone behind the downed tree, Phil commented quietly, “You know, we didn’t have to go to all the trouble of mixing up and lugging those jugs of napalm all the way there. If we’d only known that there was not just JP4 but also aviation gas there, all we would’ve needed to carry with us was some empty five-gallon buckets. A few buckets of gas thrown into each helicopter and it would have had about the same effect.”

  Ray chuckled and whispered, “We may be amateurs, but at least we’re effective amateurs. You guys get some sleep. I’ll take watch for the first three hours.”

  They were comforted by the lack of sound of any approaching helicopters. Phil suspected that the nearest functioning UNPROFOR helicopter was in Kamloops, 290 kilometers away, or perhaps even in Vancouver, which was 540 kilometers. At midday, they faintly heard what they thought was a drone, but they never caught sight of it.

  The raiders repeated the pattern of taking turns sleeping during the day and traveling quickly at night. They made a point of following small deer trails, or walking up creek beds, with the hope of throwing off any tracking dogs. The second night they walked eleven exhausting hours, changing directions often, eventually zigzagging to the southwest. They stopped for only a few minutes at a time, several times each night, for sips of water from their canteens. Still feeling edgy, they shouldered their rifles and disengaged their safeties whenever they heard a strange sound. This was often just a deer or a startled grouse.

  At dawn they arrived at another hide campsite in deep timber. They were thoroughly exhausted. They took off their sodden boots and wrung out their socks. As usual, this would be a cold camp; they feared even a tiny campfire could be spotted by FLIR sensors. After waking in the afternoon they ate one IMP ration apiece, supplemented by some elk jerky.

  Despite their exhaustion, they couldn’t resist pulling the captured FAMAS F1 bullpup carbines out of their packs. The FAMAS was a curious design. It had a very long loop-top carry handle that resulted in the gun picking up the nickname “the bugle.” FAMAS carbines were quite sturdy and had a good reputation for reliability.

  Oddly, the carbines used a proprietary straight-bodied twenty-five-round magazine, while most other nations had adopted curved thirty-round magazines for their 5.56mm weapons. (Phil mentioned that the later FAMAS G2 model took the NATO standard thirty-round M16 magazines, but these guns were the earlier model, and their magazines did not interchange.)

  The three of them took the time to practice loading and unloading the guns, the manipulation of their safeties, flipping open and closed their integral bipods, and switching the steel rear sights between their standard and low-light settings. Learning how to field strip the guns would have to wait for another day. Because Phil already owned a capable M4 Carbine it was decided by default that the two captured bullpups should go to Ray and Stan.

  At one point they heard a single helicopter far in the distance. It never came within ten miles. A few minutes after the sound of the helicopter had faded away, only the intermittent rustling of a nearby bird could be heard. Ray whispered to the others, “I don’t think the Frogs have a clue about our direction of travel, or which drainage we’re in.”

  The others nodded in agreement. Stan said quietly, “The farther away we get, the larger the radius they need to search. Right now they are probably searching about a forty-mile circle. That’s a lot of territory.” After a pause, he added, “They must be pretty peeved.”

  Ray replied, “That’s putting it mildly. They’re probably swearing like sailors right now.”

  Then, sounding like joshing teenagers, the three men spent a few minutes trying to remember French swear words. They suppressed their laughter after reciting each of them. Somehow, the French soldiers in the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail came up, and they started quoting the heavily French-accented taunts from atop the castle wall. Before he drifted off to sleep, Ray quoted, “Your mother was a hamster, and your father smells of elderberries!”

  The next night they hiked another eleven hours, making slow progress bushwhacking over steep terrain, passing just north of Junction Sheep Range Provincial Park. Ray’s GPS was helpful in choosing paths along contours where they could avoid steep canyons, but the going was still slow since they were avoiding established trails and roads.

  Ray summed up their agreed approach to navigating: “If it’s a trail that is big enough to be on a map, then that’s not for us. That’s just an invitation to get ambushed.”

  They continued through the night, roughly paralleling Highway 20. They had a couple of unnerving surprise encounters with moose crashing through the timber. One moose, uncertain of the direction it should head in the dark, trotted noisily past them, coming within ten feet, its hooves clattering on rocky ground. Phil was surprised how much noise the big animal made in comparison to deer, which were almost silent when they ran.

  Just before dawn, after anxiously crossing the deserted highway in rushes, they reached their prearranged rendezvous point on the edge of the Anahim’s Flat Indian Reserve. There, an elderly member of the Tsilhqot’in tribe named Thomas—a committed resistance fighter—had prepared lodging for two days and nights at a secluded hunting dugout cabin that was well stocked. These traditional earth-bermed cabins were called quiggly cabins, locally. Thomas returned on the second day to tell them that the French forces were hopping mad and had been making reprisals in the town of Williams Lake.

  The following day, Thomas came to tell them that their transport was ready. Before leaving the cabin, they donned the green masks from their Nemesis suits to conceal their faces. Thomas escorted them to an open-ended hay barn
, where they and their gear were loaded into a four-by-four-by-eight-foot wooden crate that was in the center of an eighteen-wheel truck bed. The crate had dozens of one-inch-diameter ventilation holes bored through it, which created odd lighting for the three men once they were closed inside. A tractor then loaded the truck with large square bales. The bales, stacked four high, were strapped down, fully concealing the five exposed sides of the crate. They could just make out the sound of the tribe members, who laughed as they worked.

  Two and a half hours later the truck stopped and they heard voices and another tractor starting up, to unload the hay bales. They were at a 140-ton capacity hay barn at the Squinas Indian Reserve Ranch, a few miles from Anahim Lake.

  One of the Indians who was rolling up the tie-down straps that had just been removed tapped on the crate and asked, “You fellas still breathin’?”

  Ray grunted in reply and swung the door on the crate open. He crawled out, cradling his Inglis Hi-Power and dragging his backpack. Phil and Stan followed him. They had their Nemesis face masks on again. One of the men there asked, “Why the masks? We’re on the same side, you know.”

  Phil answered: “If you don’t know who we are then you can’t slip up, or be tortured into telling anyone, can you? That’s just good operational security.”

  Another one of the men on the hay crew quipped, “Oh yeah. OPSEC. Secret agent stuff.”

  They thanked the hay crew and asked them to keep quiet about what they had just seen. Ray insisted, “Don’t even tell your wives. Loose lips sink ships.”

  One of the tribe members said with a chortle, “They certainly did sink ships at Bella Coola. Blub, blub, blub.”

  The last few miles of their return trip to the McGregor ranch were quiet and uneventful. They walked at their now-accustomed intervals—five meters apart when under timber cover and ten to twelve meters apart when crossing open ground. They paused at the north corral and observed the ranch house with binoculars. There was no gap in the interval of clothes on the laundry lines, and the window curtains were all shut. If either of those had not been as they were, that would have signaled that there was trouble.

  • • •

  Details on the reprisals at Williams Lake reached the McGregor ranch via the rumor network: Two civilian employees at the Williams Lake airport had been tortured and then shot. The mayor had been tortured for two days, and then released without any explanation. Ten people of various ages were plucked off the streets of Williams Lake and interrogated for nineteen hours. They were all threatened with death and coerced by threats to their relatives. After it was apparent that none of them knew who was behind the helicopter sabotage, they were released. Most of them were physically unharmed, but all had undergone severe mental stress. One woman suffered permanent nerve damage in her hands because her handcuffs had been overtightened.

  All eight helicopters were beyond repair. Only a few tail rotors and other tail section parts from three of the helicopters were useful for cannibalization. When replacement helicopters arrived for the squadron a week later—just two Gazelles—they were heavily guarded.

  33

  COLOR OF LAW

  When plunder becomes a way of life for a group of men in a society, over the course of time they create for themselves a legal system that authorizes it and a moral code that glorifies it.

  —Frédéric Bastiat

  The McGregor Ranch, near Anahim Lake, British Columbia—August, the Third Year

  On a Tuesday morning, three weeks after the helicopter sabotage raid, the McGregors were surprised to hear their Dakota Alert driveway alarm go off. A quick scan with binoculars showed Alan that there were at least four vehicles rapidly approaching. The one in the lead was a white RCMP Ford crew cab pickup with the usual red, yellow, white, and blue trim stripes.

  “We have multiple vehicles due in one minute. Decision time!” Alan announced.

  Ray said, “If we were suspects for the Williams Lake thing, then they wouldn’t bother with the RCMP.”

  After just a moment, Ray made a snap decision. “Stealth mode!” he shouted.

  Following their well-rehearsed procedure, Alan’s elk rifle and Ray’s shotgun were both quickly handed to Phil, and he was ushered into the Ten Boom Room closet. Within a few seconds, he was slapping the wedges into place. Claire straightened Phil’s bed covers, and Ray hid Phil’s shaving kit.

  As Ray and his parents walked into the living room, they heard footsteps on the porch. There was a loud knock on the door. A man shouted, “RCMP. We have a writ. Open the door or we will enter by force.”

  Alan opened the door.

  A portly RCMP sergeant with a holstered S&W 5946 and a clipboard said, “I have writ here, from UNPROFOR, formally requisitioning one Ford F-250 pickup, brown in color.”

  Alan said nervously, “I see.”

  “Sorry to put you to this trouble, but you’ll be compensated very generously with nine hundred dollars in LGP currency. Do you have two keys for the vehicle?”

  Alan handed over the keys, acting as if he was miffed. In reality he was greatly relieved, since he had expected to be killed or arrested.

  34

  SUSPICION

  A caged canary is secure; but it is not free. It is easier for free men to resist terrorism from afar than tyranny from within.

  —Pastor Chuck Baldwin

  Bradfordsville, Kentucky—Late September, the Second Year

  Dustin arrived at 3:00 P.M. on September 28, driving an old brown crew cab Chevy pickup with an extra-tall camper shell that Joshua had never seen before. It had CHEM-DRY CARPET CARE OF BOWLING GREEN painted on both sides, and a Chem-Dry logo painted on the back.

  Obviously agitated, Dustin said, “Let’s talk inside.”

  Immediately after the door had been closed, Dustin said, “A little bird told me that some MPs will be arriving in Bradfordsville sometime before noon tomorrow to put the bag on you and haul you to Fort Knox for questioning. Somehow, I don’t know how, you ended up on The List.”

  Joshua, Megan, and Malorie were all wide-eyed.

  As he handed Joshua an oversize Chevrolet logo key with door-lock remote buttons, he said, “I got a pickup from the county impound yard, which has rather lax paperwork. I picked it up during the lunch hour, and I didn’t sign it out. There are no security cameras there. I’d already earmarked this one because it had belonged to some looters who were planted in the Calvary Cemetery, and because there is a signed title in the glove box. Anyway, the tank is nearly full, plus I put ten full Scepter cans of gas in the back end—courtesy of Maynard Hutchings. There is also a skinny unleaded Scepter spout and a lollipop fuel-can lid wrench.”

  Joshua nodded and sighed. “So no good-bye parties for us. We’ll roll out of here before 0200. I’m going to miss you, Dustin.”

  Dustin gave Joshua a hug and said, “I’m going to miss you, too, bro. Give Ken and Terry my regards.”

  “Will do. Thank you for all your help.”

  Dustin bent down to shake hands with Leo and Jean, and said, “You boys are going on a big adventure with your mom, dad, and auntie Mal. Make me proud, and behave yourselves.”

  Leo said gravely, “We will, sir.”

  Dustin gave Malorie and Megan hugs, and then said, “Well, I’d better get back to the station before the shift change. I’ll be praying for you. Don’t blow OPSEC and try to contact me until Maynard Hutchings and his band of fools are in prison, where they belong.”

  As they backed the pickup up to the garage, Joshua said to Megan, “We need to act fast. Sheila’s store closes in less than one hour.”

  Joshua unloaded all of the gas cans into the garage while Megan and Malorie gathered all of the items that they had accumulated in the past seven months that they wouldn’t need or couldn’t carry on their upcoming trip. They loaded everything in the pickup, including a push lawn mower, a hibachi barbecue, a shovel, a hoe, a spading fork, a stiff-tined garden rake, a leaf rake, a wheelbarrow, a pressure canner, three cases of can
ning jars, two bicycles, a wood-splitting maul, some clothes and shoes that Jean had outgrown, two boxes of books, a wooden clothes-drying rack, a washtub, a washboard, and a four-gallon earthenware crock.

  Megan and Joshua went to the store while Malorie stayed at home with the boys and continued to pack. She also pulled the guns, ammo, magazines, and false IDs out of the wall cache.

  Joshua pulled the pickup up in front of the store at 4:52 P.M. They were relieved to see that Sheila had not yet closed the store. When they walked in, she was behind the counter working on her ledger. There was no one else in the store. Megan knew that Sheila was a resistance sympathizer, so she was direct. She said, “We’ve been told that we’re under suspicion, so we’ve got to get out of Dodge City tonight.”

  Sheila nodded.

  Megan asked, “Can we trade our heavier possessions for seeds and other compact, lighter-weight trade goods?”

  “Yes, but it’ll have to be at a discount. You see, by taking trades like that, I’ll be violating one of the cardinal rules of barter, which is, ‘Don’t trade hard for soft.’”

  Megan gave Sheila a puzzled look.

  “Okay, let me explain,” Shelia said. “In barter, if what you’re offering in a trade is a compact, durable item that is in short supply, or something that is otherwise highly valued, then a savvy barterer doesn’t make the mistake of trading it away for items that are less durable or less desirable. That is trading hard for soft. Otherwise, at the end of the day, your counterpart will be going home with the better goods than you. The only exception to this rule would be if your counterpart is willing to trade a much greater quantity of his items and you know that you have a ready market for them. A corollary to this rule is that ‘it’s better to trade your bulky for his compact.’ Or, as one old gun show dealer I met said, ‘Don’t never trade away handguns for rifles or shotguns.’”