Chapter 2: Grob

"Willow Lake Control," came an unexpectedly feminine voice, "this is Tango Delta One Charlie Bravo, approaching from Zero Niner Five at angels three, requesting permission to land."

The controller blinked. Nobody was expected from any vector. The voice was calm and competent-sounding, as if she'd filed a flight plan to land at a heavily restricted and supposedly still-secret airfield. He checked on his computer link with Cold Lake.

The answer came back immediately. Aircraft TD-1CB was the RCAF designation for a Grob 120S-1, one of the new "swarm" type aircraft. Similar to the Grob 120A trainer formerly used when basic pilot training was outsourced to private sector contractors, it had a small electrical engine which drew power from Confederacy-technology batteries. It could fly for hours on a single charge, even if fully laden.

And this Grob was assigned to the Cold Lake Air Cadet squadron. According to the details, it was supposed to be doing circuits north of that base. Being this far north of Cold Lake was spreading the definition of "north of the station" beyond all reason.

Cautiously, the senior duty controller replied, "Tango Delta One Charlie Bravo, this is Willow Lake Control. Please state the purpose of your trip."

"Willow Lake Control, this is Tango Delta One Charlie Bravo, we're on a navigation training mission."

The controller checked his figures – he still had ten minutes before he needed to start doing something about this pest. He picked up the hotline to RCAF Station Cold Lake and asked to be connected to 4 Flying Training School.

"Do you know we have one of your Grobs here?" he demanded of the voice on the other end of the line.

"There's only one Grob in the air right now, the one assigned to the local Air Cadet Squadron," came the obviously annoyed reply. "It's in your airspace?"

"Yes, and requesting permission to land."

"Damn. I know who's on that flight. You may want to get Captain Arsenault."

"Why?" the duty controller demanded.

"Just have him meet the plane," came the laconic reply. "And tell him she's grounded until further notice."

"Roger. When do you want the plane back?"

"Give the pilot forty-eight hours to sweat it out, and then have her fly it back. We won't need it before then."

"OK. I hope you're ready for the consequences."

"We are," the voice assured him. "We'll have two trouble-free days where we can concentrate on the Regular Force pilot trainees. That kind of consequence I can live with. Good luck."

"Thank you," the duty controller said primly.

"You'll need it." And with that, the line went dead.

His eyebrows raised at the abrupt ending of the call, the duty controller turned to his radio. "Tango Delta One Charlie Bravo, this is Willow Lake Control. Winds are out of the south-southwest at nine K, visibility is CAVU. Approach Runway Two-Six, advise when runway in sight."

"Roger, Runway Two-Six. Runway is in sight now."

By this time, Captain William Whitefeather, VC, First Battalion, Royal 22e Régiment, had driven his exhausted squad to the end of the runway and was beginning to double-time them back toward their H-hut. The neophyte Lancaster bomber pilots had just grabbed chow and were heading toward tables in the officers' mess side of the H-shaped dining hall. General Chennault and Major Dupree were conferring in a squadron office in Hangar One.

And Captain Harry Arsenault, who had had a very good morning, was about to have a very bad afternoon.

The voice of the duty controller echoed across RCAF Station Willow Lake: "Alert! Alert! We have one incoming aircraft, repeat one incoming aircraft. Station Security, Station Fire and Captain Arsenault to the flight line immediately. I say again, Station Security, Station Fire and Captain Arsenault to the flight line immediately. This is no drill."

From the station's fire hall, a large Oshkosh airport fire engine roared into life, its power provided by a Confederacy technology mega-battery. The crew rapidly donned silver flame-retardant suits and mounted up. The beast made its way toward its station on one of the few taxiways, its progress made ponderous by its impressive bulk and load of water and fire suppression chemicals.

Captain Arsenault stared down at the untouched pork chop on his lunch tray with dismay. Placing the tray on the table before him, he picked up the apple he'd originally chosen for dessert and raced out of the officers' mess.

Whitefeather chased his squad off the runway and into their huts. He stood amidst the confusion, yelling at them to get changed and form up outside, with their C8 carbines. "Meet me outside in four minutes!"

When the squad arrived, they found their captain already changed into his Temperate Woodland "CADPAT" camouflage uniform, a P-225 pistol holstered to his web belt and a maroon paratrooper beret perched firmly over his crew cut.

"Sir," the squad corporal reported, "we need to draw ammunition for the C8s."

"You have none?" Whitefeather asked.

"Not a single round," the corporal confirmed.

"Good. Don't issue any. They're more likely to shoot each other than any intruder." He turned his face to the north, where a tiny point in the sky had just grown wings. "Besides, we don't have time. Here comes our intruder. Squad!" The squad assumed the At Ease position. "I know we don't have ammunition, if the occupants of that aircraft decide to resist, use your rifles as baseball bats and club them to death." His speech now sped up considerably – he was out of time and needed to be on the runway immediately. "Any questions, no, good, attention, shoulder arms, slope arms, turn to the right in threes, doublllle time, left, right, left, left wheel!" And with that he was off with his barely-trained mob.

Still holding on to the bright-red apple, Arsenault had already arrived at the edge of the apron, staying well back from the runway. Beside him, the general regarded the scene with curiosity. "Why," the general pondered idly, "did they ask for you specifically?"

"If this were Cold Lake, Sir, I'd know, but not here."

With that, the Grob 120S-1 arrived, its as-yet-unknown pilot expertly settling it gently on the tarmac. With a few more rotations, the propeller stopped turning, both doors popped open and two figures in olive green flight overalls emerged. The flight suits were just tight enough to reveal the two figures were both female, both about 17 years old, and both quite physically fit.