Carter's Recourse - 18. Chapter 18

"No," Will stated firmly, turning his back and continuing to stare at the wall map. He was being stubborn and he knew it; Lisa was trying to convince him to go home, to take a break and get something to eat. They'd been cramped up in the police station for most of the day waiting for news, news that was frustratingly slow in coming.

Lisa was tempering her worry for Peter with her worry for Will. He was more than a boss to her; he was her best friend and had been for many years. She loved him dearly and knew that he was suffering.

"Look, come home with me, try not to dwell on it..." she tried again.

Will turned back to her removing his glasses. "I need to be here," he said firmly. "You go, take care of your son. I'll be okay here by myself for a bit."

In all honesty he was becoming tired of people trying to do his thinking for him. Telling him not to worry, trying to direct him through this. He wasn't a child; he was a Member of Parliament for god sakes. He wasn't going to break, Peter needed him to be strong and by god he was going to be exactly that.

Lisa looked at him a final time before she gave up; having a quiet word with the duty officer to call her if there was any news she let herself out.

Will let his shoulders sag a little--now that he was finally alone he missed her company. He realized he was a mess of emotions looking for an outlet. The frustration of not being able to do anything was beginning to take its toll on him. He wished they would just call and make their demands clear, at least then he would have some idea what they wanted from him.

He felt guilty, glancing over to where Mrs. McCormick was sitting crying on her other son's shoulder. It was his fault; Peter had been grabbed because of his closeness to him, because someone wanted to hurt him and... and what?

He unclenched his fist walking to the window and looking down at the street, watching the cars sweep by. It was early evening on a Saturday; there would be tons of people making their weekend pilgrimage downtown to fill up the bars and clubs, partying and celebrating, spending money and enjoying themselves.

Will closed his eyes and swore under his breath as he realized it wasn't just one boy he was worried about. Marc, for all his thoughts, played heavily on Will's mind as well. If they could grab Peter, what was to stop them from grabbing Marc as well? It was an irrational worry, but he didn't know what to think at that moment.

He reached up a hand to rub his forehead, he needed to get a grip. Conflicted he wouldn't think straight. Marc was safe and would stay that way, Will needed to focus on Peter, his sprog needed him.

He pulled out his cell phone and made a call to be certain, waiting patiently for Marc to pick up but closed the phone when all he got was Marc's answering machine. He felt his heart sink as he rested his head against the glass and just watched the cars drive by.

* * *

VOX IDENT, the computer screen read: SUBJECT: JOHNSON, SAM INIT CALL TO UNKNOWN RECIP FRQ 889.980MHZ CALL INIT 2058Z INTERCEPT IDENT 381.

The beeping from the computer caused old Mrs. Boudreau to slip on her headphones and listen as her 'husband' switched on the tape recorder.

* * *

Johnson sighed as he waited for one of his men to pick up the phone. There was a click and he knew the man was listening.

"Give me a report," he requested, sitting upright in bed and grabbing a map from his briefcase.

"We're about an hour out from Nav point Sierra," the voice replied, the sound of the truck very evident in the background.

"Good," Johnson said, making a small notation on the map and clicking the phone off. Things were right on schedule, given a little luck the operation should go off without a hitch.

* * *

"What do we have?" old Mister Boudreau asked, leaning over her shoulder to stare at the laptop screen.

"Not much," she replied as she rewound the recording and began to run it through some filters. "They're in a truck, probably a transport..." She listened closely, "I think I hear a train whistle, but it's faint..."

He was over at his computer, cross-referencing with the rail schedules; he glanced up, "And you're in luck, only one train outbound to Toronto... it's... here." He got up and showed her on a map they had spread out on the bed.

She looked and ran her hands over the map looking at the various different highways around the rail tracks. "He said he was an hour away from a navigation point...." She traced her hands down to the border and tapped it, "I'm guessing they're going to try for the border here."

Her partner was already on his phone.

* * *

Andrew was closing on the police station when Jane fielded the call; she covered the mouthpiece and looked over at him. "They think they've found the kids," she said tensely.

"Where?" Andrew demanded.

"They're going to be trying for the border," Jane said listening again to her phone. "The director is dispatching a recovery team."

Andrew nodded tightly, "And Johnson?"

She asked, covering the phone again, "They're going to be picking him up once we confirm the kids are recovered."

Andrew chewed on his lip, sweeping the car around the front of the police station and turning back the way they had come.

"What are you doing?" Jane asked, craning her head back to look at the station as Andrew accelerated away from it.

"I want to be there when they get the son of a bitch," Andrew bit off tightly.

Jane shook her head as she relaxed back into her seat, "Sure, let's just ignore the Director's orders and go running off to do our own thing."

Andrew pointedly ignored her as he drove.

* * *

From the window Will watched Andrew's car pull in and then speed off again, and he frowned wondering what had prompted that. He sighed again heavily and straightened up, adjusting his tie and wandering back over to the board.

It was then that a couple of police officers hurried into the room to advise the officers on duty. There was a bustle as a couple of the inspectors got up and began to issue orders. It wasn't a rush of activity, but Will knew when something was going on.

He circled the room, pushing his hair back from his eyes and walking closer to the Police Inspector in charge. The officer glanced up at him and tensed.

"What's going on?" Will asked in a low tone.

The Inspector sighed, as she looked over to where Hesston and his group were sitting and then back at Will. "We think we have found the children," she said quietly. "But," she said in warning, "we don't want to get anyone's hopes up."

By that she really meant she didn't want to disappoint Hesston if they made a mistake. Will could see the logic behind it, even if it was keeping everyone in the dark until the lead could be confirmed. He shifted uncomfortably.

She gave him an appraising look, discreetly gathering her papers. "Come with me," she said in a low tone, indicating with her head towards the door.

Will followed her out into the hall, noting how carefully everyone at the station was going so as not to attract attention. She tucked her papers under her arm and fished out a card ID which she swiped at a door leading him into a darkened operations room filled with banks of computer stations and a large set of boards on the wall. It was like stepping into a small mission control, and Will glanced over at the Inspector as she gestured to an empty seat.

"Please sit quietly," she insisted; she was taking a big risk by having him in there, but she couldn't take the bigger risk of leaving him out there to tell the others that there was something going on.

He felt the tension in the darkened room, the whispers as the Inspector approached the police chief and exchanged words. And Will glanced around the Emergency Control Center as he took his seat, looking up at the boards wondering what on earth was happening.

* * *

They'd been in the air for about twenty minutes. The CH-146 Griffon tactical helicopter was similar to an American Huey and was used by the Canadian military for tactical airlifts, reconnaissance and a wide array of other purposes. It was actually commissioned to replace the Huey in service in the Canadian military; the only key visual difference was the additional pair of rotor blades that gave the craft extra lift.

There was a joke made by the engineers of the Canadian-made Griffons--the tough work horses that were manned by the best crews could definitely "Stand on guard for thee" unlike the aging Seakings that could barely stand period.

Captain Richardson of JTF-2 was glad of the ride; they were dispatching from Dwyer Hill just outside of Ottawa, and had easily covered the distance separating them from the target, a transport truck heading for the border.

He glanced back at his eight-man section all dressed in black SWAT kit and carrying MP5's except for two--Corporal Gautier with his C8 carbine and Private Peltier carrying a Remington Tactical shotgun. His sniper and breacher respectively.

The helicopter was shadowing their target; there were a few trucks on the road heading for the border-crossing and Captain Richardson had strict orders to find his target and intercept it before it could run the border checkpoint. From this vantage he could see the red and blue lights of the border police and RCMP setting up to block the border-crossing ahead of them.

His men were well trained, the best the Canadian military had to offer. There were some that whispered they were nothing more than a Canadianized SAS, but anyone that served in the unit knew better, they were better.

The mission of JTF 2 was to provide a force capable of rendering armed assistance in the resolution of an incident that is affecting, or has the potential to affect, the national interest. At least that's what it read on the official documentation. JTF-2 had a multitude of roles; it wasn't limited or hamstrung, it did what it was asked to do, and it did it the best way possible, because there was no room for mistakes.

"Entry Team, by the book," Captain Richardson ordered into his headset, each of his men giving him the 'seen' response to his orders to confirm they heard him. They were well trained, they knew exactly what he meant, and they weren't about to question him on it.

JTF-2's selection process was amongst the most rigorous in the world, putting the men through a grueling series of unguided navigation operations over some of the most diverse and brutal terrain on the planet. Those that made it, and impressed the assessing officers, were selected, those that didn't were still sent back to their regular assignments knowing they were good enough to get a shot.

The transport would be cresting a rise soon and it would have a clear view of the border checkpoint. That would be the decision point, the moment where the driver would have to decide if he wanted to risk running the police roadblock or stop.

The amount of firepower at the roadblock would deter even the sturdiest of souls.

He gave a signal to the pilot, who swept the chopper around again and brought it down to the treeline, coming up behind the truck, watching it as it cleared the top of the hill and could see down the long road.

The truck ground to a halt, a loud rush of airbrakes slowing the heavy transport to a stop as its driver considered his options.

Captain Richardson wasn't about to give him the luxury of time to think. He thumbed again and the chopper swept to the deck, his men already up and on the ground fanning out and approaching the truck the way they had been trained to.

He was playing it by the book, though his troops had the authorization to use whatever force was deemed necessary. It was made clear to them they were dealing with highly trained individuals, not the usual terrorists; that meant surrender was unlikely. Captain Richardson didn't like it, but he knew his job.

Richardson touched his tac mike, "Entry Team, prepare to move." He counted to five, "Move now."

He pointed to the entry team and nodded pointing to the rear of the transport, The team used the rear of the truck as cover as they approached, keeping low to the ground in case someone from the front of the truck came out firing. Their weapons were at the ready as Corporal Gautier kept a careful eye on them with his carbine and scope.

"Three, contact: single armed hostile, cab of truck," Gautier called out seconds before the first shot came from the truck. Someone trying to offer resistance jumped down from the cab and wielding a pistol, fired a couple of wild shots that were more to offer cover fire than to hit anything.

Richardson didn't hesitate "One, take him three."

Gautier's rifle barked once and the hostile collapsed to the ground. JTF-2 were trained to use lethal force. Richardson knew the enemy was dead even before the bullet hit home.

"Three, tango neutralized," Gautier reported dutifully.

They weren't police officers; they weren't bound by the same set of civil laws governing how they carried out their duty. They were trained to do the job and get it done.

There was sporadic gunfire coming from the front of the truck now, as the driver began to exchange fire. Richardson surveyed it; seeing that his sergeant had it well under control he turned his attention to the rear doors of the truck as his entry team reached it.

Private Peltier was affixing the breaching charge to the doors--a small quantity of C4 that would blow the locks on the doors and make it easier for them to get inside. He stepped clear as the charge blew, one of the other men flipping open the door enough to throw in a flashbang grenade. A bright light and a loud bang followed a few seconds later, and the team was entering the back of the truck.

At the front the driver's shots were silenced as the sergeant fired off a series of well-placed rounds, ending the resistance. As they approached the front of the vehicle the sergeant called off "Two, cab of truck is clear."

Richardson returned his attention to the rear of the truck as carefully his entry team called in their own clear, helping a couple of kids still bound and blindfolded down from the back of the truck.

Peltier thumbed his radio, "Five, Truck trailer is clear."

Richardson chewed on his lip as he watched his team get the kids clear and move to secure the rest of the area. "One," he stated congratulating his men, "it went by the book, that's what we train for, and ideally, they should all go like this one did."