Chapter 7: Mercy Mission

Paulatuk's grandly named Nora Aliqatchialuk Ruben Airport was tiny. Its single gravel-covered runway and small air terminal were only intended to handle no more than a couple at a time of the smaller propeller-driven passenger/cargo planes that were the workhorses of arctic aviation. The single runway at Cape Perry was much smaller even than that of Paulatuk, had been abandoned for decades, and when reactivated was merely patched rather than lengthened. Neither could comfortably take all fifteen Lancasters; for the fractionally larger civilian airfield, ten would be a squeeze.

The Lancaster bombers followed their hypersonic charges northwest to the Beaufort Sea at a far more leisurely speed. Several hours later, No. 468 Squadron "City of Ajax" reached Paulatuk, the chase planes settling down one by one on its narrow, short runway. Harry and his four fellow pilots with room for an Arrowhead in their bomb bays carried on to Cape Perry.

The chase pilots found themselves surrounded by dark-eyed, dark-haired children excitedly looking at the remarkable sight of the deceptively ancient-looking Lancasters. Everyone seemed to be chattering away in Inuvialuktun, which none of the 468 could speak. Fortunately, most residents also spoke at least passable English, and so the Squadron's aircrew were able to make themselves understood, and tried to make friends among the locals.

As soon as Major Dupree emerged from his Lancaster, he was met by a forty-something widow with greying hair. Her dark eyes seemed to pierce right through him.

"Major? I'm Hamlet Mayor Sally James. Welcome to our little outpost." She shook his hand energetically, almost crushing his fingers with the force of her grip. This was a woman who was used to physical labour in harsh conditions.

"Mayor," the major responded pleasantly through the pain. "I hope we don't cause too much disruption to your little village."

"Even though you've brought what, a hundred men and we're not even 350 people, I think we can handle it. We're friendly, we don't bite." She chuckled at her own joke.

"Not to worry. Aside from just being 70 men, we'll be on our way first thing in the morning. Besides, we don't bite either, and we've had our shots." He smiled as reassuringly as he could.

"Overnight?" Sally pondered the implications for a moment. "We have only one hotel in town, and that has just 10 rooms..."

"We were forewarned, and forewarned is forearmed," Dupree responded, pointing to where the crews had opened the bomb bay of a nearby Lancaster. From a space beside the sensor package, the crews were removing duffel bags, bell tents with single long centre posts, electric heaters that could draw off each plane's fusion reactor, arctic sleeping bags, and IMP's - Individual Meal Packs.

IMP's were the standard Canadian Forces field rations, introduced in the 1980's and continually refined ever since. One paper bag contained 3,600 calories of food in one of a number of standard meal plans, lacking only in calcium and folic acid from Canada's nutritional requirements. Versions were available for kosher, halal or vegetarian diets. Any food that could be warmed up was packaged as "boil in a bag", to minimize garbage disposal and weight issues. To provide the missing nutritional elements, the cooks back at Willow Lake Station had added a case of fortified orange drinks to each plane's supplies.

With the assistance of eager and excited Paulatuk residents, it only took about twice as long as it should have to set up the bell tents behind the hangar building, hook up the heaters, lay out the sleeping bags and pads, and stow the IMP's.

And the novelty of a female RCAF pilot was one to be fussed over by one and all – the girls of the village sticking close to this phenomenon that was Cynthia Arsenault in a clear case of hero-worship. Female pilots were far from unknown in the RCAF, flying everything from fighters to helicopters to the largest transports, but not many RCAF planes ever landed at Paulatuk, and never before one piloted by a girl.

One family in town was not celebrating. The two nurse practitioners at the town's tiny medical clinic fretted and fussed over a young girl, suffering from stomach pains and a high fever. As the mother and father sat in the tiny waiting room, the medical staff debated whether to call for medical evacuation.

Harry Arsenault and his fellow aircrew at Cape Perry Cruise Missile Test Range enjoyed far more civilized accommodations. When the former DEW Line station had been reactivated, the engineers had ripped down the few structures that had remained and replaced them with brand-new ones. It now boasted weather-tight barracks, storage sheds, a hangar, a single mess hall, a command-and-control centre and other ancillary structures. It wasn't as big as RCAF Station Willow Lake with its five hangars and large quartermaster's stores section, but it came close enough.

It also boasted a small city's worth of technicians, engineers and scientists. Amid all the lab and shop coats were uniforms from what seemed to be half the world's air forces, ranging from gaudy to drab, and most hiding under standard-issue Canadian Army white parkas. Two parka-clad forms especially caught Harry's eye as he and his fellow aircrew trailed a BV 206S tracked carrier to their quarters: an obviously feminine figure in an all-black outfit with an American-style kepi and black boots, and a giant of a man dressed in an identically styled green uniform and brown boots. While they obviously came from different branches of the same nation, for the life of him Harry couldn't identify the country of origin of those uniforms. The height of the man in green, though, was triggering a disturbingly vague memory.

The BV dropped them off in front of their barracks, a simple I-shaped affair with washrooms and shower in the back. An officer with a strong Portuguese accent and "Brazil" on his shoulder tabs was yelling at them to "Grab your gear from the BV, choose a bunk, and get to that building!" - pointing to a hut right beside the sole hangar, the only structure in the place with a flagpole out front. A tattered and faded Canadian Maple Leaf flag fluttered from the top of the tall pole.

When they entered the low building's front door, they found themselves in a large briefing room. A U.S. Air Force flight sergeant welcomed them and directed them to be seated.

A door beside the podium at the far end of the room opened to admit the tall, broad-shouldered man and the petite woman that Harry had noticed earlier. The woman strode up to the lectern purposefully, the giant standing behind her almost protectively. The noise level in the room died out.

"The purpose of this meeting is to debrief everyone on the first test firing of the new Arrowhead cruise missiles," the woman announced, her accent betraying her Dutch roots. "For those of you who do not know who I am, I'm Admiral Geertruda Dijkstra of the Confederacy Navy, Chief of Testing, Research and Development. I report directly to the Chief of Naval Operations. This gentleman," she added, indicating the giant standing stiffly in the At Ease position behind her, "is General Arkadiusz Malinowski, the Confederacy Marine Corps representative to the Bureau of Testing, Research and Development, and not incidentally my Number Two."

The Lancaster pilots all stirred alertly at that. Obviously, with the Confederacy involved on top of all of the different countries, this project was bigger than they'd first thought.

Back at Paulatuk, the chase plane crews were finally enjoying a delayed lunch, cooked using the stoves that kept their bell tents warm. Razor Sharpe glanced over at Bookie Teperman, whose attention was inevitably split between his dinner and his e-reader. The RCAF had started issuing the e-readers a number of years previous, so that all pilots would have a comprehensive guide for every single airport and airfield around the planet. "Hey, Bookie, whatcha readin' this time?" he demanded, strolling over to the knot of airmen relaxing under Lima Alfa Foxtrot Echo's port wing.

Bookie swallowed a bite of food and flipped the book so that Razor could take in the cover. "Technical manual for the Arrowhead's engine."

"Scintillating," Razor commented dryly. "Can't you stick to porn like a normal person?"

"This is interesting," Bookie insisted. "The engine? No moving parts. No fuel, either."

That got everyone's attention quickly.

Bookie pointed to the schema of the engine. "It's using Confederacy technology. It takes in the air, super heats it using this heater core, and spits it out as a plasma. The energy comes from a battery aboard the Arrowhead – or if on an aircraft, a fusion reactor."

Razor blinked in surprise. "So, the issue with shortages of petroleum basically goes away? What about these antiques?" He pointed to the Lancaster above their heads with his thumb.

Bookie shook his head. "Damned if I know if they're keeping them or not. But the idea seems to be to use the Arrowhead cruise missile program to develop the engine. Only when they know it won't blow up on them, then they'll feel confident enough to hang it off of or stuff it inside of existing jet airframes. Until then, we get to pretend we're actors in a World War II movie."