Chapter 11: Joyriding

With the setting of the sun, Air Cadet Sergeants Arsenault and Dunlop emerged from the Sergeants' Mess. They were tired, having completed the last of their high school exams. They were not too tired to realize the significance of what they could see across the runway.

"Twin Otters?" Cynthia asked, more for confirmation than any real doubt.

"Looks like it," Joni confirmed. "Seven of them."

The massive doors of the leftmost hangar opened, and an aircraft tow tractor hauled out yet another diminutive twin-engined aircraft with tricycle landing gear. Like five of its sisters, it was painted in Search and Rescue high-visibility yellow with RCAF roundels. The other two were in white with blue wings and narrow blue, red and yellow stripes down the fuselage, and lacked RCAF roundels. A rather distinctive figure of a horseman decorated the tails of the pair of utility aircraft.

"Eight," Joni corrected herself.

"There were four with that squadron in Yellowknife..." Cynthia mused as she and Joni did the mental math.

"And those white ones are probably from the Mounties..." Joni speculated.

The two girls looked at each other. "So where'd we get two more?" they simultaneously asked each other.

The riddle as to what these aircraft were doing here was swiftly answered. The engines looked nothing like the standard Pratt and Whitney PT6A engines. These were much smaller, although they drove propellers that were standard Twin Otter size.

The second of the four hangers opened its doors, and an aircraft tow tractor pulled out yet a ninth Twin Otter, in Search and Rescue yellow. Swiftly, the tractor retreated to the third hangar, which only opened its doors the fraction required for the machine to enter.

The two air cadets ran to the flight line like a pair of kids racing to the tree on Christmas morning. Fingers danced over their e-readers as they called up the details on the CC-138, the Canadian Forces designation for the Twin Otter. These variants were now referred to as CC-138-S, had a tiny fusion reactor powering the two electric motors running those propellers, updated avionics and the latest communications and radar.

And it appeared that every upgrade given to the CC-138 had been given to the Mounties' aircraft.

"Ahem."

Joni and Cynthia, each leaning into RCMP plane C-FMPL from opposing sides, looked up at each other, and then over Joni's left shoulder. A handsome young black man in a forage cap and dark green jacket with RCMP shoulder flashes stood under the right wing. He was suppressing a smirk with some difficulty.

"I said, 'Ahem'," he repeated calmly.

Joni looked back at Cynthia. "Were we speeding?"

Cynthia shook her head. "Maybe parked in a handicapped zone?"

Joni pretended to look for a handicapped parking sign. "Nooooo ... Unsafe lane change?"

The handsome young police officer rolled his eyes heavenward. "Enough, thank you. Now, just what do you think you're doing?"

"Research," Cynthia pronounced baldly.

"Yeah," Joni added. "After all, if I'm going to maintain these some day-"

"And if I'm going to fly these some day-" Cynthia interrupted.

"-then we just HAVE to check these out," Joni resumed. "Can you take us up?"

"Yeah, like, for a check flight?" Cynthia added.

"Pleeese!" Joni begged, in her best little-girl voice.

The young cop's eyes ping-ponged between the two air cadets as they talked like twins. He then looked over at the hangar. Apparently his boss was there, and was giving him the thumbs-up. "OK, but one at a time."

Joni and Cynthia grinned at each other. Cynthia advised her friend, "You go first," as she hopped down onto the apron. "I'll see you up there! I need to practise night landings anyway."

"OK!"

Joni smiled at the tall black man. "By the way, I'm Joni Dunlop. She's Cynthia Arsenault. What's your name?"

"Marcus Smith. Just call me Mark."

Cynthia walked out of sight as the RCMP pilot walked around to the right seat. As soon as he buckled in, Joni began rattling off the preflight checklist off her e-reader.

Beside them, the fourth hangar opened its doors, and to the young pilot's astonishment, Lima Alfa Foxtrot Lima emerged. Mark had certainly heard that the World War II heavy bomber had been reintroduced to the RCAF inventory, but this was his first chance to view one of the mighty four-engined taildraggers up close. He found the Lancaster intimidatingly large.

He was even more astonished to hear the pilot's voice over the headphones – clearly Cynthia. He shot a questioning look at his passenger.

"Yes," Joni nodded. "It's hers." She scrunched up her nose cutely. "Her daddy buys her the neatest toys."

"Foxtrot Mike Papa Lima," Mark heard the tower controller's voice over the headphones. "Lima Alfa Foxtrot Lima recommends that you proceed first, due her propwash being enough to flip your aircraft over. You are cleared to taxi to the runway, winds out of the north-northwest at two four click."

As Mark took the newly refurbished Twin Otter into the air, he noted Lima Alfa Foxtrot Lima waddle its way to the eastern end of the runway behind him. Joni kept rattling expertly off the post-takeoff checklist – considering she had no experience on the type, she was a quick study.

He found the Otter to be much as he remembered from his flight from Yellowknife, its home base. It was definitely lighter, though, even with his flyweight passenger on board, and the engines more powerful. That made the bird far more responsive than before it went into the shop. It leaped into the air eagerly.

The new avionics were a joy, too, with greater sensitivity and visibility. The growing twilight didn't make them any harder to see, yet at the same time they didn't utterly destroy his night vision.

The two aircraft flew in a graceful aerial pas de deux around RCAF Willow Lake, Cynthia flying wing. Finally, it came time to land. The big Lancaster peeled off first, showing the Otter her belly as she headed for the landing circuit.

Down in California, a state of carefully controlled chaos reigned. Gear was being transferred from the fleet of Lancasters to a fleet of intercity buses. The squadron's next port of call: a hotel located near the Pacific Ocean, for forty-eight hours of well-earned leave. The tab for the hotel was being picked up by the Canadian government, which suited the officers and men of No. 468 Squadron just fine, thank you very much. They were looking forward to scoping out the babes at beaches and the hotel's pool.

Major Dupree pulled Harry and the squadron's senior NCO, Master Warrant Officer Balfour, aside for a quick conference.

"I've been ordered to Ottawa for an urgent conference," their commander advised the two men. "Try to keep the men in line, if it's at all possible. Let's try to avoid a diplomatic incident."

"Yes, Sir," Harry acknowledged calmly.

The buses were now loaded, and the intrepid birdmen began to line up to board their transportation to Hollywood's legendary hot spots. Master Warrant Officer Balfour quickly chivvied the men into three ranks so that Major Dupree could address them.

"I regret I cannot join you this weekend, but duty calls. I will see you again when the Squadron returns to Willow Lake. In the meantime, enjoy your leave, but remember to behave. You must act like gentlemen at all times – the eyes of the world are upon you."

There were a few ill-concealed smiles. A few individuals were eagerly anticipating a carouse without a caretaker. Harry, their temporary caretaker, glowered at them.

Major Dupree quickly turned the parade over to Harry. "Try to ride herd on them. They're in a strange country and half have witnessed the strange goings-on of an extraction, and are considered strange and exotic heroes to some of the locals. Let's keep them heroes. Don't let them get tanked up on beer and go around acting like yahoos. They don't just represent the Squadron, or even the RCAF. They represent all of Canada."

"Understood, Sir," Harry acknowledged. "I won't let you down."

"YOU, I'm sure of." The major rolled his eyes meaningfully at the Dress Blue clad ranks standing At Ease behind Harry.

Buckler added, "Have a good trip to Ottawa, Sir."

Major Dupree returned their salutes and turned on his heel, heading for his plane. As he did, he wondered how many of the men would be up on "drunk and disorderly" charges come the morning. Not that he lacked faith in Captain Arsenault – it was just that he had far too much experience with the typical Canadian serviceman's ability to party hearty.

As the chattering men boarded their buses, the major's plane began to taxi to the runway, ready for its long flight to Canada's capital.

The hotel was one of the classier establishments in Los Angeles, not far from Rodeo Drive. Harry felt distinctly out of place as he stepped off the large bus in front of the gleaming establishment – this was not a place for the Air Force uniform, but for white tie and tux. Paparazzi were already snapping photos of him and his squadron as they lined up.