UNPROFOR soon took over the Williams Lake campus of Thompson Rivers University (TRU) on Western Avenue to use as their regional headquarters. This base covered the administrative region that stretched from the 100 Mile House to the south, Quesnel to the north, and Bella Coola to the west. The main building of the junior college—a brick structure with a graceful arched front and five pillars—had been completed in 2007. Because of the cold climate, nearly all of the college functions were integrated into that one building, with a gymnasium at the west end; offices, classrooms, labs, and a library in the center; and a cafeteria, computer lab, and trades class shops in the east end. Because it was a commuter campus, there were no dormitories.
Once the French army took over the TRU campus, there was a lot more garbage to haul. Several of the classrooms were converted into barracks rooms, and some of the faculty offices became bedrooms for officers. The cafeteria got a pair of large cooking ranges, and there were several new refrigerators and freezers installed. These appliances had been torn out of the Culinary Arts building at the TRU Kamloops campus. Trash pickups were scheduled for Tuesdays and Fridays instead of just once a week, and there were now four Dumpsters instead of two.
Terrence’s brother, John, was a fishing buddy of Stan Leaman. Before the Crunch, they often fished the Upper Dean River together. They were happy to get together and just fish with traditional spin-casting gear—without all the fancy equipment and snootiness of the local fly fishermen. Stan liked the Secwepemc (also known as the Shuswap) people. They were honest and unpretentious. And a lot of them, like John, were great fishermen and hunters.
When John and Stan were doing some ice fishing on Anahim Lake in early February, John mentioned to Stan that Terrence was looking for a way to get even with the French. So while denying any involvement of his own, Stan very discreetly replied that he had a friend who was with the resistance who was “a privacy freak,” and that he would be willing to meet Terrence only if he could wear a mask to the meeting. Through John, Stan scheduled a meeting with Terrence the following Saturday near Chilanko Forks, at a trailhead.
The trailhead was less than a quarter mile from the Chilanko Forks General Store. When Terrence arrived at the trail junction, he was fifteen minutes early. He sat down on a large cedar stump and rolled a cigarette. Just as he was about to light it, he heard a voice from close behind him. “State your name.”
Startled, Terrence jumped up and turned around. He said, “I’m Terrence. Are you the guy?”
A voice that seemed quite close answered, “Yes, I’m the man you’re supposed to meet.”
Terrence Billy was confused because he couldn’t determine where the voice was coming from. Then the bush fifteen feet in front of him started to move.
Ray McGregor emerged. He was wearing a shredded burlap ghillie suit, which he had borrowed from Phil.
Terrence laughed and said, “I guess I should call you ‘Mr. Tree.’”
“That name will work just fine, sir.”
As he walked forward, Ray said, “Weyt-k,” the Secwepemc word for hello.
“Weyt-k,” Terrence echoed back.
They now stood just two paces apart. Terrence couldn’t see Ray’s face through the ghillie suit’s green-mottled face net. Ray said, “I’m not of the First Nations. In fact I’m of Scots-Irish extraction, but I have respect for your people. I understand that you don’t like the French and their evil deeds.”
“You understand correctly. Fact is, you could say that I hate their guts. I want to make war on them.”
“I heard about your cousin Katie. The UNPROFOR soldiers are world-class sicko bastards.”
After a pause, Ray asked, “Are you willing to use a dump truck to deliver an explosive device somewhere? You’d set a timer and walk away.”
“Skookum. Sign me up.”
“Now, wait. You have to realize that this will be a very big device, so there could be collateral damage, and that after you do this, you definitely won’t be able to show your face in town. You may have to hide out for years, or perhaps go into exile down in the States. So do you have someplace to go, and a good network with your band that can keep you supplied?”
“Yeah. My uncle has a cabin way back in the woods, outside of Dugan Lake, that he lets me use. It’s a ‘hike-in’ cabin. You take a trail in off Horsefly Road. That cabin was grandfather-claused when the provincial forest service got set up. But a few years back, they made my uncle mad when they told him that he couldn’t build a road to it. They had a hearing at the Forest Headquarters office. He told them, ‘I’m an old man and getting crippled, and you tell me I can’t build a road to my own cabin. You are disgraceful persons.’ Anyway, he promised me the cabin after he dies. I can stay there, and I have lots of cousins that can bring me grub.”
“Then I guess we can work together. But you are never to know my name—except as ‘Mr. Tree’—or see my face.”
Terrence laughed again, and said, “You NLR guys sure have a flair for drama.”
Ray snorted and said, “Pardon my elaborate precautions. Oh, and by the way, you can call yourself NLR now, too. We are the resistance.”
The truck was a 2012 Peterbilt New Way front-end loader Dumpster rig, with a forty-yard capacity. It was painted white with Central Cariboo logos on the sides. It had a Cummins 320 horsepower engine and a hauling capacity of fifteen tons, with a twenty-ton front axle and forty-six-ton tandem rear axles. The Mammoth brand front-end loader had been factory installed. Since the truck was fairly new, the forks were the only part of the truck that looked rusty and well-worn.
To gain the use of the truck, all that Terrence had to do was loosen a hydraulic line coupling slightly, just before he finished his route on Friday. The tremendous pressure generated by the hydraulic pump quickly made a mess of that side of the truck, spraying red hydraulic fluid around copiously behind the cab. When he got back to the transfer station, Terrence pointed to the truck and told his manager: “We got a leaky hose, just like the off truck used to get. I can drop it off at Haynes Machinery tonight, and they’ll have someone drop me back here so I can get my car. They can fabricate a new hose for it since they’re open on Saturdays. Do we have an account with them?”
“Yeah, we’ve got an open account,” his manager replied.
Terrence gave an exaggerated nod. “Okay, no sweat, boss. I’ll handle everything and head out from their shop directly to my route on Monday morning. And don’t worry, I won’t try to log overtime.”
His manager snorted. “What overtime? The UN contract says no overtime will be paid, period.”
Terrence parked the truck at a prearranged position, a quarter mile short of Haynes Machinery, and left the key under the floor mat. Before he walked away, he used a wrench to retighten the loose hydraulic line.
The truck never went to Haynes Machinery. Instead, at eleven o’clock that night, wearing a ski mask, Phil Adams climbed into the truck and drove it to a large shop with an RV door near the end of Western Avenue. The property had been abandoned after the owners had driven their diesel pusher RV to Montana, just as the Crunch began. Once the truck had been backed into the cavernous shop, they rolled down the door and got to work.