Ice Break

By Kim Kinrade

20th Anniversary Edition

This exciting, edge-of-your-seat action-adventure deals with environmental extremists, animal rights activists and international fishing rights in the always troubled waters of the Canadian Grand Banks.

ICE BREAK is the account of the CCGS "Canadian," a large, Russian-built icebreaker purchased by Canada, that's equipped with a secret navigation and weapons-control system. The highly anticipated maiden voyage of the CCGS Canadian turns into a dangerous crisis as environmental terrorists hijack the ship and use it to destroy European fishing boats.

An international crisis brews involving Canada, France, Russia, and the United States. Canadian Prime Minister Jay Carruthers, a former United Nations commander, comes up with a diabolical plan to stop the carnage, rescue the ship and avoid war with a new, ultra-nationalistic French government.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Kinrade
• Release date: Mar 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9780978427313

Kim Kinrade

Bestselling author Kim Kinrade was born and raised in Kimberley, British Columbia, on the B.C. side of the Canadian Rockies. He put himself through the University of British Columbia - where he received a degrees in Political Science - by playing guitar and singing in lounges. During this time he recorded his first single and an album.After graduation Kim went into music professionally, touring Canada with a showband band. During the 1980′s Kim became one of the busiest pub performers in western Canada and also did a stint in Australia. Besides getting married and becoming a partner in a British pub he recorded two more singles and produced a video that aired on the Jerry Lewis Telethon.Moving to Halifax, Nova Scotia in the early 1990′s Kim continued to perform professionally at night while looking after a young daughter and infant son during the day. It was during this time that he rekindled a past-time that had been put on hold while studying at U.B.C. – writing short stories. An Honourable Mention award in the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia-sponsored writing contest spurred him on to write another short story focusing on his grandfather's exploits in World War I. This was expanded into his first manuscript, "The Salient."As well as having a long stint at one of Nova Scotia’s premier resorts Kim has played in Europe, Great Britain and the United States making new fans with his unique brand of entertainment.On the writing side Kim has penned 8 novels of which 6 have been published. He is a member of the Writing Council of Nova Scotia and has been a judge in national writing competitions.

Book preview

Ice Break

by

Kim Kinrade

ICE BREAK

Other Titles

by

Kim Kinrade

Ice Break

Beneath the Plain so Abraham

The Millennium Man

Rockets of the Reich

Road Food

Brian Jones’ Diary

The Polar Track

The Salient: A Novel of the Great War

The Dog Soldier

Ice Break

1st Printing in 1997: Commonwealth Publications

eBook Published in 2011

2nd Printing in 2023

2nd eBook Published in 2011

Copyright 1995 by Kim Kinrade

Website: https:/www.kinrade.ca

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This work is a novel and any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

25th Anniversary Prologue

Note From Author

Foreword

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Books by Kim Kinrade

25th Anniversary Note

When Ice Break was released in March 1997 it became an instant bestseller. I would like to thank all the bookstores across Canada and the US that picked up the book, as well the libraries in both countries. In addition I would like to thank the book buyers and reviewers who also contributed to its success.

Since the internet wasn’t popular when I was researching the book, living in Halifax was a boon because of the libraries and museums being very close at hand. As well, because Nova Scotia has great representation from all branches of the armed forces, I could pick a lot of brains for military and Coast Guard information.

As for me, this novel was just the beginning as I have just finished my ninth book. I have links at the end to take you to these books.

Many thanks, and have fun reading!

Kim Kinrade

April 23, 2023

Note From the Author

Ice Break was published in 1997 and climbed to bestseller status that year. Unfortunately the publisher went out of business less than a year later and so a revised 2nd Edition was not released. Originally, the rough manuscript copy was sent to the publisher for acceptance but it was released before the fact checking or editing was completed. The publisher had its editorial staff edit the book for obvious typos and then quickly printed it. Thus many of the changes in technical information and Canadian military designations were left out of the premier edition. I would like to thank my readers in the military for not tearing a strip off of me for this!

The concept for Ice Break came about in 1993 while I was in a lounge called Salty’s on the Halifax waterfront. A ship belonging to Paul Watson’s Sea Shepherd environmental movement was at Halifax Shipyards for repairs and a few of their members were sitting in the lounge. They were Americans and related to the bar tender and me how they were recently in the South Pacific taking up illegal drift nets which, in their words, were floating mine fields for sea creatures. One young woman related a story about how their ship had rammed a couple of Chinese junks who were illegally fishing there and sank one. When the bartender asked if anyone on the junks was hurt the young woman answered, Who cares, they were killing sea creatures. Her vocal tone and facial expression were truly chilling.

In 1993 the internet was not widely known and so I kept the story geared to the technical developments of the time and invented a few of my own. In addition to the original foreword I would like to add the fine people at Survival Systems in Dartmouth who helped me with some of the technical aspects of helicopter ditching in the ocean and Major-General Lewis Mackenzie (retired) who had me featured on CBC’s Canada Reads.

Unfortunately the icebreakers have left Nova Scotia for a new base in Newfoundland and so Dartmouth is left with the memories of a fantastic era in Canadian history.

Kim Kinrade

March 4, 2011

Foreword

The following story is strictly a work of fiction and not intended to be an accurate portrayal of the Canadian military, the Canadian Coast Guard and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, nor the governments of Canada, the U.S, France and the province of Nova Scotia. In writing this book I wanted to capture some of the spirit and dedication that is demonstrated daily off both Canadian coasts and the Arctic Archipelago by men and women of the Canadian Armed Forces and Canadian Coast Guard, as well as the skills employed while providing surveillance and maintaining rescue services over a vast area in some of the world's worst weather conditions.

I would like to thank the following people whose information and dedication made this work possible: Paul Wrench and Guy Paproski were invaluable guides through the maze of military technology and protocol; the Halifax Public Library, Dartmouth Regional Library and King's College Library, a wealth of information on almost every topic that I needed to research; officers and crew of the Canadian Coast Guard, Dartmouth Base, for their input; Jane Buss and the gang at the Writers' Federation of Nova Scotia who fielded my endless editorial questions with decorum; and last, but not least, Joan and Eileen at Author Author Literary Agency.

Kim Kinrade

August 15th, 1995

Dedication

For Heather, Sam, and Tony

*

"Westward from the Davis Strait

'Tis there 'twas said to lie,

A sea-route to the Orient

For which so many died,

Seeking gold and glory

Leaving weathered, broken bones,

And a long, forgotten,

Lonely cairn of stones."

- Stan Rogers

1981 Fogarty's Cove Music

Prologue

1.

October 19, 1993

Murmansk, Russia

Bracing themselves against another gust of freezing wind off the Arctic Ocean three figures stared in awe at the shadowy, monstrous shape that lorded over the dimly lit dock facility. In the next instant the frigid blast subsided. In its wake a swarm of minute ice crystals billowed around them, a swirling mist stained dirty-brown against hundreds of filthy, bare light bulbs that swayed back and forth on long, tight-roped tethers from the brick buildings along the pier. Owing to the latest spate of power outages the strings of ancient bulbs were the only source of illumination in the shipyard.

If this is to be the last one built I'm glad that it is worthy of our heritage.

The old man dragged out the last syllable as clouds of vapor poured from his mouth into the dark, frosty night. In grudging admiration he pondered the meaning of his words. As his younger associates stared up at the huge ship the old man shoved the vodka bottle to his lips once again and drank more of the biting liquid. His huge fur mittens, extending to the elbows of his woolen greatcoat, exaggerated the sweeping motion as the small bottle was raised and then lowered again. They were like flippers and, along with his short, stocky build, white beard and heavily wrinkled face, gave him the appearance of a walrus without tusks. A satisfied belch followed and he shoved the bottle toward the other men as if the motion were triggered by his long burp.

Are you sure you don't want any? The old man's large white eyebrows raised inquisitively, two wire brushes polishing the rim of his cozy, fur hat. The visitors shook their heads once more as if tiring of the charade. They were not here to drink.

Quite a vessel, huh comrade? the old man went on, tucking the bottle in one of the large mittens.

The smaller, younger man gave him a puzzled look.

Uh, sorry, my young friend, he shrugged, I guess that venerable name has been stricken by the ‘New Order.’

Instinctively, the ancient sailor, Igor Anatoli Larenko, felt a brief tingle of fear run up his spine. If it was difficult for an old political officer to accept the demise of the Party it was even harder to dispel the fear of saying too much. This had been ingrained in him since he was a young man and persisted even though the new KGB no longer had the right to persecute citizens for speech offences.

As he relaxed again, the old naval zampolit sighed. It was the sigh of nostalgia. In fact he almost longed for the days when people were fearful of the State and could be arrested without pretense. Back then people knew their respective places in society and that they would be cared for when old age finally caught up with them. They may have complained about waiting in long queues for their commodities but people in the old Soviet system never had to worry about digging around in the garbage for food or living in cardboard boxes. That is, those who weren't first imprisoned or sent eastward to the gulags for anti-revolutionary offences.

Thank you again for the fine gift, Larenko went on, glancing back at the cases of vodka stacked up in the snow. It allows an old patriot to warm himself on such nights as this.

This raised a smile from the other visitor, the man built like Hercules. He and his younger accomplice seemed captivated by the gargantuan ship, a behemoth that seemed to move in a macabre dance with its shadows as the wind played with the dim strings of illumination.

Shall we go? the big man asked as the spell of the moment disappeared. His black leather trench coat groaned as he adjusted his hands in the fur-lined pockets.

Larenko nodded, clumsily depositing the liquor bottle into a large pocket in his greatcoat. It had been many weeks since this young compatriot had contacted him. How many weeks he could not recall as his increased consumption of vodka, an elixir that eased the pain of his arthritis, had also eroded his capacity to remember many details.

But he was very proud that one of his students had come back to help him, even if it was for a favor. At least one of all those young men he had boosted up to better lives had remembered him.

Before Mikhail Gorbachev, a man of Larenko's stature, honored as a Hero of the Great Patriotic War and good party member, would not have to indulge in such a clandestine operation. He had made a very comfortable living as Director of the Murmansk Shipyard, a position that included a large apartment and a car, as well as a driver who took him to and from work and chauffeured his family around. And they never had to join the queues for food or, for that matter, anything. Everything was the best: meat, fresh fruit, caviar; and lots of wine and vodka.

A man of Larenko's position enjoyed other perks including the privilege of being poached every morning in the best health club in Murmansk. Yes, despite having to live in a city that begged for the sun half the year, life had been grand under Leonid Brezhnev, Larenko's old friend and the man who had overseen his good fortune.

But the times changed and they changed very quickly. When Boris Yeltsin assumed power Larenko was not sacked. He was allowed to remain the manager of the Murmansk Shipyard and keep his apartment. However, the new Russia was insolvent from years of military overspending and Larenko's standard of living was soon lowered to that of a glorified security guard. This was because the once-thriving Murmansk Shipyard, a facility that used to bustle around the clock to meet the demands of the once-powerful Soviet navy, was now a mere shadow of its former glory.

The economic situation was so bad that the Russian government could not even provide enough fuel to keep a token number of the mighty ships of the Northern Fleet at sea let alone build more. And the rest of the navy was rotting away in the Black Sea, a political pawn caught between two formerly-allied regions, Russia and the Ukraine. Stalin must be spinning in his grave, Larenko mused bitterly.

Because of the deep snow it took the trio more than ten minutes to trudge the three hundred yards to the rear access of the shipbuilding compound. As they approached the gate a nervous watch officer strode out of an adjoining blockhouse and trudged through the snow toward them. Instead of challenging them the man, a captain, produced a key from his pocket and flipped open a metal box attached to the thick, metal gate post. Seemingly uninterested in the three men the captain quickly tapped in his code on the keypad of the box. With a half-hearted salute he plowed back to the guardhouse through the knee-high drifts. Scanning the area briefly he disappeared back into the concrete shelter.

Larenko approached the keypad and, removing one of his cumbersome mitts, punched in his own set of numbers. There was a metallic, clanking sound and then the heavy, steel gate swung open with a tortured groan.

The inner fence of the compound consisted of heavy, deadly razor wire strung with three rows of. The coiled, stainless-steel strands bristled with thousands of tiny knives that shivered and hissed as the howling wind battered the fence.

Between the two tall barricades was a thirty-foot space where, up until Yeltsin took power, armed guards with dogs would diligently patrol in the never-ending hunt for capitalist saboteurs.

Now there was nothing but an empty corridor. Who would want to break in and attack a bunch of Canadian ship fabricators who were sleeping in their warm confines?

The outer-most, chain-link fence was no longer electrified, another casualty of the energy shortage, but its barbed-wire topping was still a formidable barrier to human intruders. And beyond that set of defenses were acres of snow-dusted, diagonally juxtaposed, concrete dragon's-teeth. Like the maw of an enormous creature the white obstacles, in curving rows and glistening in the moonlight, jutted outward to face a land foe that threatened from another era.

Larenko chuckled as he stared up at the shipyard's contribution to the Cold War. Now the compound was guarded against the thievery of organized gangs who would clean out what was left of the facility - including the last project that was being built here - if the place were left unguarded. But so far, those thugs had neither the wherewithal nor the inside information to try.

As the outer gate popped open a gasoline engine sputtered to life. This was followed by another, and then two more. Soon the dark shapes of medium-sized trucks could be made out as they lumbered along the snow-covered road toward the warehousing area.

In a few minutes the first truck in the convoy was stopped in front of them. Larenko's two associates lifted up the canvas flap on the last truck and climbed into the back. Once aboard they pulled the old man up after them and the vehicle started off again with the others in tow.

The convoy came to a stop beside one of the dozens of nondescript warehouses in the shipyard. A door suddenly opened shooting a dim sliver of light on the snow. As if on cue dark figures emerged from the trucks and began off-loading the contents of the vehicles through the portal and into large shed. Within twenty minutes the trucks left as mysteriously as they came taking Larenko's two guests with them.

With a big sweep of one of his mittened hand Larenko waved goodbye. With the other he reached for the vodka bottle and tipped it up. He sighed as the warmth of the liquor seeped through his chest. Fifty thousand dollars in American currency would keep a seventy-three-year-old sailor in vodka and steaks for a long time.

Ah, Larenko remarked as the hum of the engines died away, it is good when some people remembered an old man.

*

Bouncing in the cab of the Mercedes truck the two departing men bathed in the delicious flow from the heat vent. As the tall, husky one in the leather coat rubbed his hands under the duct, he moaned in pleasure.

I'm getting soft, Alesandr, he said. Since I left the ‘real service,’ not so many years ago, I'm not used to such frigid temperatures anymore.

The younger partner chuckled as he piloted the truck along the snaking path through the new snowdrifts that had collected on the narrow road during the evening. He kept his eyes glued to the red tail-lights directly in front, devilish eyes that acted as beacons in the blinding swirls of snow that the sea winds were creating.

Do you think that the old man might say something, the driver asked. I mean, he does drink a lot and his tongue might wag too much to the wrong person.

The big man, young-looking for his forty-odd years, shook his head. Unlike his young associate, he did not have Slavic features. In fact he looked more Germanic with his blue eyes and blonde hair, most of which was tucked up under his dark toque.

No Alesandr, he won't talk. Right about now the old man should be snoozing in his office. Then, tomorrow morning, when the duty officer comes in to wake him up he will find that Admiral Igor Anatoli Larenko, a glorious hero of the once-great Soviet Union, had passed away peacefully in his sleep.

Startled, Alesandr took his eyes off the road and looked over for an instant. Do you mean you poisoned him? Won't some doctor figure it out?

The passenger's smile, ghoulish under the dash lights, sent a shiver up Alesandr's back. This was one man, thought the youngster, that no sane person crossed.

No, not at his age, the big man answered, rubbing his hands over the warm currents of air that kept the windscreen clear of frost. He will be just another old veteran who died from the effects of too much vodka.

The big man's mouth was stretching wide into a yawn during the last sentence and it took a keen ear on the part of the driver to decipher the last of the big man's words. His face remained in that position, contorted and motionless, for almost a minute before returning to normal. Then suddenly, he exhaled.

The sad part is, he deadpanned, Larenko won't get the large state funeral that all his old friends received, the ones that are entombed in the Kremlin wall. Modern Russia hasn't a budget for that sort of thing anymore.

When the man's face relaxed, Alexandr noticed that his passenger almost appeared childlike, the look of a youngster who was truly sorry for breaking a friend's toy.

But, he added, I will make sure he gets a funeral befitting a war hero. After all, he was my mentor. My friends will take care of it for me while I'm in Canada.

In Canada? Alexandr blurted, a puzzled inflection pushing his voice higher than normal. But . . .

The large man's stony glance interrupted him. New Russia or not, the driver thought, too much knowledge was never healthy. And no one would ever find him out here in the frozen drifts.

2

January 3, 1994

Bosnia-Herzegovina (in the former-Yugoslavia)

Get down from the tank!

The words in halting English were loud and nasal, sounding somewhat like the impish dialogue from an old Pink Panther movie. In fact the speaker could have even been a lighter-haired version of Inspector Clouseau.

The image of the comedic French policeman flashed briefly through the mind of Captain Tom Dorey, the commander of the United Nations aid convoy, a collection of eight trucks that were stopped in a line behind Dorey's vehicle. However, despite the tense words the Canadian officer wisely kept his imagination leashed. For this speaker was heavily-armed and was probably not alone. Because in Bosnia-Herzegovina, especially on lonely, snow-covered roads like this one in the mountainous center of the former-Yugoslavia, humor came in short bursts, like the firing of automatic weapons.

Get down, now!

It was difficult for Dorey to tell if the shouting man was a Serb, Croat or Muslim. He appeared to be dressed in Soviet-style winter fatigues, a camouflage pattern giving his torso the appearance of a white tiger from the famous Las Vegas show, Siegfried and Roy. However, the similarity ended there. For when the man moved, his legs appeared skinny and bowed under the flapping of the baggy fatigues held tightly at the calves by large, black-rubber boots.

Judging by the man's dress and demeanor Dorey knew he was a former Yugoslavian army officer, and a Serbian member. This he knew because the TDF - Muslim forces - checkpoint was twenty miles back and this was too far into Bosnia for the Croatians, even the most persistent ones.

Strutting like a tom turkey the man moved to within ten feet of Dorey's vehicle, a white, United Nations M113 armored personnel carrier. Dorey never flinched at the aggressive moves and just stared down at him from the upper hatch of the APC as if the Serb was an interesting rodent on the side of the road.

In the hatch below and to the left of Dorey was the driver, Corporal Eddie Anderson, who appeared only as a nervous head that moved back and forth between the armed man and his commander up in the hatch. Knowing their small force was not geared up for a sustained firefight he was betting on Dorey's poker instincts to get them out of this situation.

However, Anderson's hopes of a rational discussion between the two men dimmed when the Serb suddenly brought up the barrel of his assault rifle and pointed it at Dorey's head. Waving theatrically with his left arm like a camouflaged mime he began his tirade again.

You must throw down your weapons and come down from the tank!

Dorey never responded. Instead, he shot another glance down at his helmeted driver. Eddie, he whispered, speaking out of the side of his mouth. Slowly ease inside and then on my signal, pop the hatch and get everyone out."

Without a moment's notice Anderson's head popped down into the body of the M113 like a gopher down a prairie hole.

This motion startled the ambusher. Where is he? the Serb bleated, waving his Kalashnikov rifle erratically toward the place where Anderson had vacated. Get him out, now!

Remaining cool Dorey acted as if he hadn't heard the man's outrage. We are Canadians, he related calmly, saying his country's name slowly. "We are leading a United Nations aid convoy with food and medicine.

"Uyedinenih Natsiyah! Dorey said United Nations again, only in Serbian, so the other man with the speaker could hear him. He hoped that the pronounced, verbal confirmation would somehow prevent the escalation of tensions. Then he shifted his body so that the United Nations flag on the antenna was in plain view. We are on an errand of mercy--"

Your words and your flag mean nothing! the gunman barked, ignoring Dorey's proclamation. You are not welcome and you will soon leave. Get down, now!

A moment later the Canadian commander found out the reason for the arrogance of the man and silently cursed himself for not just running the guy over and deploying a firing perimeter. Because bathed in the last weak rays of the winter afternoon, snow-encrusted figures began appearing from behind the snowy trees on the surrounding cliffs. Over half-a-dozen in number, they carefully negotiated the ditches running alongside the road. They were a motley bunch in a deadly sort of way, with a mixture of civilian and military apparel that contrasted with their leader's crisp, new uniform. Dorey thought they looked like street people he had seen in Toronto or Chicago except that the faces of these men looked far more desperate than any people he had ever witnessed staring out from behind an old shopping cart.

Dorey's eyes flashed at the .50 caliber machine gun beside him and instantly put any thoughts of firing it out of his head. It was loaded but UN regulations, which seemed to change daily, forbade peacekeepers from any aggression unless fired upon. Besides, the vehicle manufacturers, obviously not military engineers, had mounted it to the side of the hatch, just out of his reach, not in front where it would do the most harm on bad guys. Like a limp dick, Dorey sighed in disgust.

As each militiaman joined the growing entourage on the road, more automatic weapons were raised to threaten the white vehicle and its occupants. Upon reaching the level surface of the road one of them kneeled in the ankle-deep snow and pointed an unwieldy-looking APG - armor piercing grenade launcher - at the vehicle.

There were seven bad guys and Dorey knew that the big weapon aimed at them was capable of ripping apart the thirteen tons of aluminum that made up the M113. That was enough devastation to roast him and the other three Canadian peacekeepers in a diesel brazier.

Surveying the mob for the umpteenth time Dorey felt the familiar rush of blood to his temples. He had been in the soldiering business a long time and within his mind there seemed to be a familiar pattern of engagement in any situation: study, negotiation, compromise and action. This was Dorey's paradigm both in battle and, to his superiors' chagrin, his everyday army life.

The Canadian suddenly brought his fist up to his mouth in a feigned cough. Okay, now Andy, he said between two coughs before bringing his arm down. Down below him, inside the APC, the corporal touched Dorey's leg in understanding.

His eyes perusing the small assault force Dorey carefully stood up in the hatch and swung his legs over the hatch. Slowly slinging his C7 assault rifle - a Canadian version of the 5.56mm American M16 - to his shoulder and was ready for unexpected action. Jumping down off the vehicle Dorey landed on the snowy road with an audible crunch, his C7 at ready.

The move startled the nearest Serb who instinctively backed off a few feet. At six-feet and broad shouldered Dorey was an imposing figure whose every motion exuded the experience of a veteran soldier. This aura was not lost on the armed men who were little more than street fighters.

A sudden motor sound broke the silent standoff and the rear hatch of the APC began to open slowly, like a large, white beetle about to give birth. In other circumstances the threat of armed men ready to fight would have intimidated a mob like this but this Serb leader was no amateur. Instead of backing off, as Dorey had hoped, the leader coolly signaled with his right arm and two of his men scrambled toward the opening door. The instant the four Canadian soldiers stepped onto the snowy road, they found themselves in the gunsights of two armed men.

Like their commander, the peacekeepers in were dressed in dull-green, combat fatigues covered with light-blue, Kevlar flak jackets. If this had been a military operation, and not a humanitarian one, they would have been outfitted in their white, Arctic gear. Either way, their kit made them appear larger and, with their grim, expressionless faces, more than a bit intimidating to the militiamen. These were professional soldiers, a foe the nervous men before them had never faced before. For the next few seconds the two bewildered Serbs searched each other’s eyes for signs of courage. It looked for an instant that they might back off.

Weapons ready, the Canadian soldiers shifted their attention toward Dorey. As they had been trained to do in their airborne regiment each of the four Canadians would take out two targets each tacitly dictated by their proximity to the enemy. Anderson was focused on the guy with the APG and, although the Canadian's rifle was in a relaxed position, in a split second the attacker could expect a well-aimed burst in his chest. It appeared as though the dynamics had shifted and all Anderson and his friends needed was the signal. But Dorey's resigned look caught them off guard.

Lower your weapons, Dorey said firmly. For a moment Anderson and the rest never moved. Do it, guys.

Their eyes pinned on Dorey's face, one by one they dropped the muzzles of their weapons. Elite troops like the Canadian Parachute regiment did not just lay down their arms, especially to amateurs. And they knew Tom Dorey never backed away from a fight. So they were still poised for his next command.

With this move by the Canadians the Serb leader knew he had won. It was an unanticipated bloodless victory and he was unable to suppress a grin. The United Nations' soldiers had flinched and the momentum was his.

Now drop your weapons on the ground! the Serb shouted with a renewed vigor.

Dorey's C7 was the first to hit the snowy road and four other weapons followed. The threat gone one of the braver of the two closest militiamen stepped forward and shoved one of Dorey's men with his weapon. Although there was contempt in his eyes the Canadian just stepped back. This was empowering to the man and he shoved the Canadian again.

You are just like chickens! the stubble-faced militiaman chuckled in English, repeating the remark in his own language and producing whoops of laughter from the rest. They began dancing and emulating barnyard fowl with loud clucking noises.

"To je dovoljno!" The rebuke form their leader stopped the badgering.

"Pretraživanje vozila!" His next command made the militiamen spring into action and their co-ordination surprised Dorey. With four riflemen watching the peacekeepers two more joined the jokester and his companion in searching the APC. Unlike many others he had encountered these country bumpkins had been trained.

When they were satisfied that no one remained inside the Serb commander turned back to the Dorey. You can go. Leave, now! Walk down the road!

Dorey never answered. Instead, he held the Serb's stare for a few seconds and then started to walk toward him. Slowly and methodically he trudged, the frozen surface crunching and squeaking underfoot. As he had predicted, the nervous Serb militiamen turned away from his men. Slamming bolts and clicking safety catches signaled him that his movements were not welcome.

However, the threatening moves seemed not to faze him. Because instead of backing off, Dorey continued, slowly closing the fifteen-foot gap that separated him from the leader.

Ne snimanja! The Serb leader ordered, afraid they might accidentally shoot Dorey. His eyes shifted back to the man moving toward him and the closer he got the higher the Serb's gun rose.

Stop now! squawked the Serb leader, both puzzled and dismayed by Dorey's action. The fact that the barrel of the AK-47 rifle was now pointed as Dorey's chest never stopped him.

When Dorey was within ten feet the Serbian could make out the Canadian's badges: captain's bars and maple leaves, denoting the peacekeepers' nationality. But it was not the insignia that held his attention it was Dorey's light-brown eyes. Though soft in color, they had a hard edge to them, the impenetrable sheen of one who has seen a few battles.

I will shoot you! the Serb bawled, sighting his eye down the barrel of Kalashnikov. Dorey continued as if he were deaf.

The other peacekeepers were far from helpless. Knowing that the militiamen were distracted by Dorey's walk they held their breath and tensed for action, each one mentally picking out his target. If each of them could grab each one of the attackers, their hand-to-hand skills could easily dispatch them. Or they could disarm them and use them as shields to get their weapons. But no signal came from Dorey.

Finally, at three-feet away the Canadian stopped and locked onto the Serb’s eyes if his metallic stare was enough to blow the man off the snowy road. The silence was unnerving to the surprised militiamen whose eyes shot back and forth between Dorey and to their leader. The Serb leader's rifle was less than a foot from Dorey's chest.

Suddenly Dorey's shoulders relaxed and eyes softened into merry, mahogany orbs. A smile came to his face. Although his men could not see his face from where they were standing they knew by Dorey's posture that the game was on again.

Carefully Dorey raised his right hand and motioned to a pocket in his flak jacket. May I?

The Serb nodded, unsure of what he was up to. But his experience had taught him that peacekeepers were negotiators, not tricksters. Although his eyes were not sighted down the gun barrel anymore the loaded rifle stayed pointed at Dorey's chest.

In a slow, deliberate movement Dorey pulled out a package of Export A cigarettes. Flipping open the top with one motion he reached out with the cigarettes to the Serb.

Slowly the Serb dropped his rifle barrel and reached out with his left hand to accept one. Dorey took one for himself and stuffed the package back into his pocket.

His light-colored eyebrows raised again as he pointed to another pocket. Again his captor nodded and Dorey pulled out an old Zippo lighter. Snapping it open to expose a wavering blue flame, he cupped it with his hands to ward off the breeze reached out with it.

Cautiously, the Serb eased the cigarette in mouth face toward the flame, his eyes watching for any movement from the Canadian. Once the cigarette was lit, he drew back puffing, watching carefully as Dorey lit his own. Soon the air around them was stained with a bluish haze.

Thank you, Captain, said the Serb relishing the smoke. I love Canadian cigarettes. Better than that Turkish shit.

Dorey nodded as he sucked long and then blew out a long blue stream of smoke. It was like a timeout at a hockey game and he used it to relax.

The Serb took another drag and after exhaling said. Captain, there is nothing to be gained by a confrontation. Canadians are fine people and we do not want to harm any of you. There was a moderate change in the smaller man's tone but his resolve was unshakeable. He had a mission and these Canadians were in the way.

Now please, he continued, there is little time. Take your men down the road.

Dorey's cinnamon eyes scanned the mottled forms that were the tense, Serbian militiamen, memorizing any specifics for later debriefing. Not long ago, he surmised, a few of these men and teenaged boys had probably been shopkeepers and farm workers, maybe even teachers. But others were most likely thugs, criminals who hid behind a cause to pad their pockets and exact their