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Udder terror: Riding with Pasteur Patrol |
Udder terror: Riding with Pasteur Patrol
Dec. 1, 2006. 01:00 AM
LINWOOD BARCLAY
As I write this, I have been embedded for three days with one of this country's most elite law enforcement agencies, so elite, in fact, that many Ontarians were unaware, until recently, of its existence. Comprised of top officers and agents from such organizations as the RCMP, CSIS, the OPP, and the printers of the Milk calendar, this agency works relentlessly to bring to justice those who would dare to traffic in unpasteurized milk.
There are about 20 of us, parked in a dozen or so unmarked cars at 3 in the morning along a gravel township road somewhere in rural Ontario. (Security rules prevent me from telling you I'm 6.2 kilometres southwest of Markdale.)
I'm riding shotgun in a car with the leader of the Pasteur Patrol task force, known to me only as Louis.
"Call me Lou," he says, first time we meet.
That was three days ago. Now we're sitting here in the dark, waiting for the raid to go down.
"This
is the toughest part of this job," Lou says. "These farmers get up so
early, you've got to get in position even earlier so they won't see you
coming. It was a lot easier doing raids on drug dealers. At least those
guys slept in."
While we wait, Lou tells me not just anyone can
get on the Pasteur Patrol. All applicants are carefully screened. "We
had this one guy, he seemed perfect for the job, former Navy Seal, did
some time in Afghanistan, good attitude, an expert in explosives. Then
we come across this bit of video, off a cellphone, of him doubled over
in cramps after he and some buds went out for milkshakes. Turns out the
guy was lactose intolerant."
"No," I say.
"That was it. We didn't need someone like that on this team, giving everyone a bad name."
They're
a close-knit bunch, Lou says, and boosting each other's morale is
always a priority. For example, each day, Lou rigs one car in the
fleet, at random, so that when the door opens, it moos. That driver
gets a prize, usually a Milky Way or Malted Milk candy bar.
Lou
tells me the place we're about to raid is selling unpasteurized milk to
at last half a dozen families in the region. "Some of these people,
they're absolutely hooked on the raw stuff." Lou gets out his infrared
binoculars, focusing on a barn I can't make out at all. He picks up his
radio, presses a button, says. "Let's roll."
He slides a CD into
the dashboard stereo and music fills the car. "Oh, I know this one," I
say, trying to place it. "What is it again?"
"`Ride of the
Valkyries'," Lou says. He glances over at me. "Do you know there are no
songs about pasteurization? Not a one." He shakes his head in disgust.
Our
car and the others are screaming up the farm's driveway, lights
flashing, sirens wailing. Suddenly, a man coming out of the barn
carrying two aluminum pails is caught in the headlights. Lou slams on
the brakes, open his door and throws himself out, rolls on the ground,
then points a special gun that fires Milk Duds instead of bullets at
the farmer and shouts: "Put the pails down!"
The farmer immediately complies.
"Now back away from the pails!" Lou commands as other officers move in to subdue the man.
Once
the scene is secure, a remote control robot is sent in to pour the milk
from the pails into lead containers, which a couple of Pasteur Patrol
team members in Hazmat suits load into a Brinks-type truck.
Lou
sighs tiredly and says to me, "We're only making a dent, you know. In
the city, you can find half an apartment building with this going on."
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