Chapter 5: Mysteries

The afternoon briefing started shortly after everyone had finished Mess. Out on the runway, Captain Whitefeather was taking advantage of the temporary lack of flight operations to drill those members of the RCAF Regiment not assigned to guard positions. In the Operations shack, the unconventional cadence song the Captain was using could be just heard, blaring from the base loudspeaker system. The lyrics were the cause of some smiles, as they fit the time of day perfectly: "Mad Dogs and Englishmen Go Out in the Midday Sun!"

"We'll be trying some new technology this afternoon," Major Dupree was saying, as dozens of pens hovered over dozens of notebooks. Others might have written their notes in electronic notepads, but the RCAF preferred to have its aircrew use old-fashioned paper. An EMP would never affect paper.

"Sopwith Camels?" Bookie suggested to a roomful of snickers.

"Don't tempt them," Dupree responded dryly. "They might just take you up on it. No, it's a new type of cruise missile, code-named Arrowhead. It's a joint venture between Russia, the Ukraine, NATO, Sweden, Switzerland and about a dozen other countries and alliances." A three-view drawing of the shark-like flying machine showed up on the screen behind the major. It looked long, and lethal, and swift, and stealthy. Its stubby wings were raked forward like the grasping claws of an eagle.

There was a stirring as every man present tried to cozen out what beside those swept-forward wings made this cruise missile different than, say, a Tomahawk or Exocet?

"The purpose of this afternoon's flight is to test drop, to ensure that it will separate from the aircraft without issue. You'll be taking a boilerplate model up today, and dropping it into Willow Lake. Each section will take one bird up, with section leaders carrying the 'pickle'. You'll drop it over Willow Lake, coming in from the south over the native reservation to minimize potential casualties from an overshoot."

A "boilerplate" is a mock-up that weighs the same and has the same aerodynamic characteristics as the intended final design, but is typically otherwise inert, with no moving parts. Harry remembered watching early NASA videos of Mercury, Gemini and Apollo "boilerplate" capsules, used to test such things as mating between capsules and the launch vehicles, and how well the capsule would survive splashdown.

"Then tomorrow, assuming the boffins are happy with today's results, we'll get to launch the real things."

Harry and his fellow pilots exchanged looks of excitement. It was then that he noticed the only feminine form in the room. What was his sister doing here?

The major went on for some time, discussing weather, approach vectors, drop points, vectors back to Willow Lake RCAF Station, and bloodthirsty threats against any section leader stupid enough to drop before they were well over Willow Lake itself, so as to miss all civilian habitation on the south and south-west parts of the lake.

"Alright, the section leaders are the same as this morning, except Fifth Flight, which consists of Buckler as lead. I'll fly chase on that section." Wanting to get the briefing over with so as to get into the air, Dupree spoke the next four words so quickly that they almost came out as one. "Any questions, none, good."

Harry stuck up his hand. "Sir, I have a question."

Dupree's eyes bored into Harry. "Yes, Captain Arsenault?" he asked, his voice a deadly monotone.

"What's she doing here?" He jerked his thumb at Cynthia.

"Cadet Sergeant Arsenault is flying second chase on Captain Buckler's section." The continued flat tone in Major Dupree's voice was a clear threat to not challenge his position.

Harry was shocked, much to the amusement of some of his fellow pilots. He stared at Dupree in horror. "What?" His head whipped around to behold his sister as he rose in the chair. "What?"

Cynthia waggled her fingers at him and mouthed, "Hi, there!" She batted her eyes coquettishly.

The gesture failed to placate her brother, who was still alternating his attention between her and his commanding officer. He remained halfway out of his chair.

"Those are MY orders, Captain Arsenault, and they will be obeyed. If you're QUITE finished?"

Harry sank back down in his chair, still stunned, and very, very worried. Just why the hell were they treating this 17-year-old like a full-fledged pilot?

Tarpaulins had been rigged around the open bomb bay doors of five of the Lancasters, to keep the cargo from being seen by prying eyes. Those "prying eyes" that the RCAF were worried about did not include the officers and men of No. 468 Squadron "City of Ajax", however, and all got an eyeful of the long and lethal looking Arrowheads. The beast looked heavy as it was winched up into the bomb bay of Harry's bird, Lima Alfa Foxtrot Gulf. It all but filled the cavernous space. Because the design was tailless, the Arrowhead snuggled in there like a conventional blockbuster bomb. Its swept-forward wings were folded up for easier clearance of the edges of the bomb bay.

Harry turned to his wingmen, pointing to the camouflage-grey payload. "This is going to slow me down. Let me get to cruising altitude before you start your takeoff run."

Both Razor and Digger saluted, sobering instantly as they realized the implication. The payload was untested, and might do unanticipated and nasty things to the Lancaster's flight characteristics.

Lima Alfa Foxtrot Gulf arrived at her designated cruising altitude, and Harry made her do a little experimental dance. Did she behave like she did empty?

He needn't have worried. The nimble four-engined bomber behaved just as docilely as she had with her bomb bays empty, just feeling a trifle more sluggish in the acceleration and climb. Looking out to port and starboard, Harry was relieved to see Razor and Digger pull into position exactly as planned and on schedule. He pointed Lima Alfa Foxtrot Gulf's nose south-southwest, following the other two flights.

Just as the first bomber arrived on target, Harry heard a voice over his radio that brought him, and every other pilot, up short. "Control, this is Lima Alfa Foxtrot Alfa. We have a heat signature on Willow Lake. Looks like an outboard motor, possibly as many as three individuals as well. Looks like someone didn't get the memo and decided to get in a little fishing."

"Amityville," the controller called, using the squadron's call sign of the day, "this is Willow Lake Control. Abort your bomb runs, orbit north-northeast of range." The controller proceeded to "stack" the fifteen bombers at different altitudes to prevent collisions while he sent an urgent message to the RCMP detachment to send their launch out to haul the errant sportsmen out of danger.

Harry made a third, then a fourth orbit as he waited for the Mounties to do their duty. Finally an unfamiliar voice came over the radio: "This is RCMP Launch Greenbrier. Where's that damned boat? We can't see it."

"Greenbrier, stand by. Amityville, this is Willow Lake Control, anyone still have the boat on their sensors?"

"Willow Lake Control, this is Lima Alfa Foxtrot Lima," came a suspiciously feminine voice – Harry's sister, Cynthia. "We have target in question, he's drifted to the east a bit, probably with the breeze."

The clearly disgusted voice of Major Dupree came next. "Lima Alfa Foxtrot Lima, this is Lima Alfa Foxtrot Kilo. Break off and make a run over the target. Drop an ICM flare over him."

ICM stood for Infrared Countermeasure. Those flares were the biggest and heaviest types aboard, and as a result would drift least in the breeze coming in from the west.

"Roger, copy."

Below Harry's plane, he observed a lone Lancaster peel off for a run over the lake.

John Rogers had been a guide in the area for over 50 years – since he was a boy, helping out at his old man's side. His thickening waist and silvery-grey hair told of his age, his leathery skin told of his experience as an outdoorsman, and the string of walleye decorating the bottom of the runabout bespoke to his skill as a fishing guide.

What he didn't do much of was read. His dyslexia fed his desire to be anywhere but in a classroom, and as a result he usually gave the notice board at the marina a bye. Today was one of those days that he did so, and today was one of those days he should really have stopped and exercised his atrophied reading skills.

His two clients had not even known the bulletin board was there, much less that there was a notice to remain in harbour. In all fairness, reading the notice was their guide's responsibility, and they had been still half asleep before they'd left on this little fishing expedition, at 3:30 in the morning.