Chapter 4: Once More Unto the Breach

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; / Or close the wall up with our English dead.

Henry V, Act III, Scene i, line 1092

The morning routine at 24 Sussex Drive was whenever at all possible exactly the same every day: at half past five, Prime Minister Louis Durand would awaken to the buzzing sound of his alarm clock, give his wife a “good morning” kiss on the cheek, and as she rolled over to try to catch another half-hour’s shuteye, rise to do his morning ablutions. After dressing, he’d then proceed to breakfast, invariably no later than six-fifteen, where over his poached egg, slice of toast and three crisp rashers of bacon, he would peruse first the overnight e-mails, then the morning headlines, and finally his daily schedule. At seven in the morning, he’d then be taken by limousine (battery-powered electric, as befitted his environmental sensibilities as well as the Swarm era fuel scarcity still being felt across the globe) first across the street to Rideau Hall to pick up Governor-General Phyllis Rioux and then to ride with her to their offices on Parliament Hill, as they discussed together in deepest confidentiality the issues of state of the day. He would review overnight reports from the departments from 7:30 to 9:00, when his first appointment of the day would be scheduled.

This Wednesday morning started out no differently. At six-twenty, he was sitting in his shirt and tie at a bistro table in the sunroom, coffee and orange juice in front of him, ready to start reviewing his morning e-mails. He never got to them.

“Telephone, Mr. Prime Minister,” advised his butler, holding a red cordless handset with a scrambler attachment.

“Thank you, Jung,” Durand nodded at the tall blond man, taking the handset.

“Durand here.” There followed a pause, as whoever was on the other end of the line screamed their complaint.

“What? No, I did NOT authorize that ... Exercise WHAT? Never heard of it.” The other person, still not mollified, screamed yet more. “I will have to look into it and get back to you as soon as possible. Until then, you’ll just have to deal with it. Yes, as soon as I can. Expect a call within an hour, perhaps less.”

He clicked the “disconnect call” button and swiftly dialled another set. When the receiving party to this second call picked up the line, Durand dispensed with the usual pleasantries. “Do you know anything about a big exercise at Camp Petawawa? No? You’d better find out immediately, if not sooner. All Hell is breaking loose this morning. I just got a very irate call from the Chairman of Air Canada himself. I’ll pick you up on the way to the office.”

The third call was to Rideau Hall to advise the Governor General that he would be around to pick her up early this morning. Handing the phone back to his ever-patient butler with instructions to call his driver immediately, Durand turned to his wife.

“It looks like it will be a very ... interesting day,” he advised her. “I will probably be very late today. If I’m not back by eight, go ahead and have dinner without me. I’ll grab something when I get home.”

His wife Marguerite looked at him with a pained expression. “Nothing serious, I hope, Louis?”

“Let us pray not, my dear.” He gave her an affectionate buss on the lips and headed for the front door.

Major Hopson arrived at work sharp at oh-eight-hundred hours. He’d already had a full day: jogging for a mile and a half, followed by a shower, breakfast and, for the past three quarters of an hour, reading the morning paper over coffee in the cafeteria in the basement of NDHQ.

He now hung his dress jacket from a hanger on the back of his office door, unlocked the file cabinet that carried the files he needed for the day, and began working.

Outside in the main area of the office a stir disturbed the usual early-morning calm, but he was concentrating on the file open on his desk so diligently that it didn’t enter his conscious that anything was occurring. Making notes on his electronic notepad, he continued to consider the case in front of him.

His clerk knocked on the door. “Good morning, Sir.”

“Good morning, Corporal.”

The man hesitated for a second before adding, “Admiral Cleveland would like to see you as soon as convenient, Sir.”

“Very well. Thank you, Corporal.”

‘As soon as convenient’ was a polite way among the military to say ‘right fucking now’. The major took only as long as he needed to lock the files back away and don his tan dress jacket and CF green beret. His electronic notepad under his arm, he marched into the office of his boss, the Judge Advocate General, Rear-Admiral Maureen Cleveland.

When he entered, he came to attention, wondering what was happening. Admiral Cleveland’s guests consisted of Prime Minister the Right Honourable Louis Durand, the Minister of National Defence the Honourable Walter Hockley, and the Chief of the Defence Staff, General Polk. Nobody was seated. The admiral’s countenance was a wall of worry, while the three men wore grim, worried looks. The two aides-de-camp standing stiffly at At Ease kept their faces stiffly blank.

Rear-Admiral Cleveland addressed Major Hopson, handing him a sheet of paper. “Did you send this message?” she demanded.

“‘Obtain by whatever means necessary pennant currently in possession of Advanced Reserve Officer Combined Tactics Course currently on your base... ‘ Yes, Ma’am. Their training officer has, er, ‘acquired’ a pennant, and the rightful owners want it back as soon as possible. As per standing orders with these situations, I’m trying to do so discreetly, involving civilian authorities as little as possible.”

Three sets of Very Important Eyeballs swivelled to the Admiral at this point. She winced, realizing just what – or rather whom – exactly he meant by ‘these situations’. “Please tell me it’s not Captain Michael Deschenes.”

“No, Ma’am.” The Admiral looked relieved until Hopson added, “It’s the other one. ‘The Convent’.” She then closed her eyes in complete despair.

General Polk interrupted at this point. “Well, it looks like we’re in the presence of the one man responsible for closing Macdonald-Cartier International Airport. Congratulations, Major.” This was the major airport servicing the nation’s capital. Everyone in the room was painfully aware that closing that airport would throw Ottawa and environs into complete chaos, delaying flights from Halifax to Vancouver, and disrupting air travel around the globe.

Major Hopson could only stand there, thunderstruck. “Ma’am? Sir? I did WHAT?”

“Major, are you familiar with the phrase, ‘capture the flag’?” General Polk enquired gently.

“Sir, no, Sir.” The major was puzzled.

“Captain?” General Polk turned to Hockley’s heretofore silent aide-de-camp, whose cap badge and black beret identified him as belonging to the 12e Régiment blindé du Canada – a largely French-Canadian armoured regiment. “What would you do with an order like this?”

The man reflected carefully before replying in a thick French accent. “De only heading on da message is dat it’s from NDHQ, not from da Judge Advocate General’s Office. Any officer in any Combat Arms trade would use dis as an excuse to go on manoeuvres, Sir.”

Polk turned back to Hopson. “You’ve never been in Combat Arms, have you, Major?” The voice was still deadly quiet and even.

Hopson wasn’t sure he’d prefer the General to start yelling or not. Tension had been rising rapidly within him. He feared he was sweating profusely. “N-no, Sir.”

Polk sighed. “You’ve given carte blanche to Colonel Cowan to stage the largest war games he can create.”

“Can’t we stop this, Sir? I can send out a revised message,” Hopson offered.

“A bit late for that,” Polk rejoined. “The two NATO AWACS planes are already at Ottawa Airport...”

“NATO? AWACS?” Hopson muttered, by now dazed at what he’d inadvertently set in motion.

“ ... as are a squadron each of Harriers and Raptors from the Yanks, two squadrons of Lancasters, a heavy fixed-wing tactical transport squadron, a squadron of Lightning II’s and two squadrons of Thunderbolts, with a third on the way. We’ve got every type of helicopter in the RCAF inventory already either at Petawawa or at the airport here...”

As Polk read off the rather extensive list of Canadian Army regiments and Royal Canadian Air Force squadrons involved, Hopson turned to his boss in despair.

“Oh, by the way, the name of this little operation, do you understand the significance? ‘Exercise Purloined Pachyderm’?” Polk cocked his head inquisitively.

Yes, Hopson could. To him, it was painfully obvious. As he embarrassedly explained exactly what kind of pennant it was and where it came from to the now-smirking officers, he had one thought burning itself into his brain: ‘I’m going to get that motherfucking Van Doo, if it’s the LAST thing I do!’

The controller in the tower at Ottawa’s Macdonald-Cartier International Airport had had a hard night, and even now, at 08:30, it hadn’t ended yet. His shift should have ended half an hour ago.

It had been a quiet, normal Wednesday until about 02:00, when the phone rang from Nav Canada regional headquarters – cease all air operations immediately. All outgoing aircraft that they could get out of there in 15 minutes were to go, but everything inbound was redirected to Montreal and Toronto. Anything outbound intended for Kingston was also redirected to either provincial capital, as its regional airport was suddenly unavailable. They scrambled to launch all available planes and guide the already-airborne birds out of the area. If it had a pilot and fuel, or a pilot and one of those new scoop-jet engines that didn’t need jet fuel, it was to take off.