The Stone Harvest - Chapter Four
A view east from the Warren farm
Buy it on Amazon!
In anticipation of the upcoming release of my first novel, and perhaps with a hint of shameless self-promotion, I’m trying something new. I’ve already released the first four chapters of the book, The Stone Harvest, as a preview on Amazon, and as a follow-up, I’d like to share each of those four chapters with a bit of commentary on my personal attachment to them.
Go read Chapter One and its commentary!
Go read Chapter Two and its commentary!
Go read Chapter Three and its commentary!
This book began as a way for me to parse through the memories of my past life as a soldier and police officer to divide fact from fiction. My time in those fields provided me plenty of opportunities to see and experience the bad things that humans do to each other. Writing it was at times a tough journey as I had to wade through all that mental filth but I don’t regret it for an instant.
So many of my fellow Vets live the remainder of their lives never knowing or acknowledging how much their past experiences have affected them and their personal lives. Me, well, it took me several years and several failed relationships for me to figure out that PTSD had taken a toll on the quality of my life.
The Stone Harvest has been my way of bringing light and sunshine to the dark past. After the chapter below, I’ll share my thoughts and a bit of the history that I brought into that chapter.
Dan
4 - 24 miles west of St Rupert, British Columbia
Vasyl Marchuk was almost home. He and his men had been in the Gulf of Alaska for nearly two weeks, and as much as he loved the sea, he was ready to be on land again, to be with his wife and close to the bars. Their hold was full of herring and had been for almost two days already. He was ready to return home when he got the call on the radio to pick up just one more load. This one wasn’t more fish, though. Vasyl wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew better than to ask. The voice on the radio was one he didn’t know, but again, he would be paid well enough that he wasn’t going to ask.
The voice gave him a set of specific coordinates nearly forty miles west of Baranof Island where he was to await further instructions. After waiting for twenty-eight hours, the next call sent him to another set of coordinates where a buoy was waiting. Attached to it would be a big, sealed bundle that if he knew what was good for him, he’d treat like a sack of newborn babies swimming in mother’s milk. This was his fourth trip like this, so he and his crew knew what was expected. Do everything as asked and get paid lots of money. Fail, and his wife would be hurt and he’d be killed. Simple as that. The Ukrainian “family” that helped him get his fishing boat had certain expectations of him, and he understood. Vasyl suspected the delay was because of the weather. When he got the first call, the tail head of a high-pressure system was passing through the eastern part of the gulf and was making the chop more than any skipper would like. By the time the second call came, sending him south, the sea was as close to glass as it was going to get.
Using the expensive and accurate navigation gear that the “family” provided, he headed towards the second destination and slowed his boat, The Odessa Princess. He came alongside the bright orange buoy and had one of his deckhands use a gaff pole to grab the float by its rope. Getting the package on board was tough but no more so than a net full of herring. As long as the damn thing was in and he didn’t lose any men or fingers, he was happy.
His hold was full, the package was on board, his men were safe, and they were headed back home. An easy transfer awaited them, and he was free of his obligation until the next time.
In the Fall of 1994, I was dispatched from my base at Ft. Richardson, Alaska north to a tiny dot on the map on the US/Canada border. This dot, Poker Creek, sat on the Top of the World Highway and was certainly not a popular border crossing station. It was remote as one can imagine and absent of staff or residents. It was just our team of four Military Police troops assigned to this border surveillance mission.
The mission, as far as we knew it, was to watch for any vehicles coming over the crossing in either direction and radio in the vehicle’s plate number, description, and direction. That’s all. As there were only one or two cars a day, we passed the time hiking or hunting Willow Ptarmigan. They were in season, and there were plenty of them. When a vehicle came, we’d see it miles away and have plenty of time to be in place to scope the car. Our orders were to not interfere for any reason. Just observe.
What we didn’t know until later is that we were a tiny part of a mission assigned to Joint Task Force Five, a multi-service organization working on drug interdiction. In the week following our mission, the news brought several announcements regarding significant drug arrests in both Alaska and Canada. Some arrests had to do with the transfer of an illicit product, and others had to do with the manufacturing of it. Either way, there were lots of bad guys in prison.
There was no way that we could ever confirm what happened to the data that we transmitted or what results came of it, but I can’t help but think that we were a tiny cog in a vast operation that kept harmful drugs out of North America. Many of the folks arrested were members of various ethnic mobs that had taken over the distribution aspects of the drug trade. So, we get Vasyl Marchuk and The Odessa Princess.