Chapter 8: Meet Public

It was late on Parliament Hill, some two time zones to the east of Yellowknife. The click-click sound of shoes on marble echoed down the corridors of the historic West Block as two pair of oxford-clad feet strode purposefully down the hall. The leading pair of oxfords clad the feet of a tall, cadaverous older man in a blue business suit, his thinning grey hair combed over. The following pair of oxfords were standard Canadian Forces issue, and the man who wore them was considerably younger, his Canadian Army full dress uniform bearing the stripes of a Captain and, on his left shoulder, an aiguillette indicating his position as a non-regal Aide-de-Camp. The Captain clutched a portfolio type envelope under his left arm.

They stopped at the largest and most ornate office door on the floor, and the civilian gave two rapid taps. Not bothering to wait for a reply, he pushed the door opened and the two men proceeded through to the large chamber beyond.

The inner office had been designed both by previous occupants and by previous architects to impress. The cavernous sanctum was furnished in a High Victorian style. Stained-glass windows (reinforced against terrorist attack) allowed sunlight to dapple across the richly carpeted floor during the day and the garden's lights to reflect a riot of primary colours on the ceiling at night. The columns were topped by miniature gargoyles. A portly, short man sat behind the ornate desk, a stack of papers to his right. The cadaverous visitor bowed slightly and addressed him. "Mr. Prime Minister."

"Yes, Walt," the Prime Minister, Louis Durand, greeted his Minister of National Defence, Walter Hockley. His voice betrayed just the slightest sign of his French-Canadian heritage.

"We have a situation, Sir," Walt responded.

The captain removed a memory chip from the portfolio and inserted it into a slot in the bottom of the large flat-screen monitor occupying a large stretch of wall beside the door. The picture that had occupied the screen, Robert Harris' famous 1884 painting "Fathers of Confederation", vanished, replaced by a recording of the cute blond CBC reporter's futile attempt to interview Bookie. In the background, the Lancaster's silhouette was unmistakable.

As Bookie advised, "It was available," the Prime Minister permitted himself a snort of amused admiration. "That's how to handle the press. Now, how do we handle this? How bad is it, Walt?"

The captain handed Hockley a tablet computer, which the Minister placed on the ornate desk, oriented to be upright to Durand's eyes. The picture was a side-on view of the big bomber landing at Yellowknife, its wheels lowered and flaps extended. "It has only been on a quick news preview a few times so far, Mr. Prime Minister," the Defence Minister advised Durand, "but it's already all over the Internet. It's been identified for the Lancaster that it is, and the aircraft history buffs have noted that it's not one of the previous two known survivors." He tapped the fuselage in the picture. "This aircraft is coded LAFE, and has modern RCAF roundels. The Battle of Britain flight version has HWR on her sides, and the Hamilton version has VRA. Both have the World War II Royal Air Force roundels. Plus, this is camouflaged in shades of grey, while the original planes were black, green and tan. Some posters are even pointing out that the engines don't look correct for a World War II Lancaster. Questions about this hitherto unknown version, in flying condition, are being asked."

"The squadron's finished with the Arrowhead test mission?" Durand quizzed. "We'll commit to returning the patient by return RCAF aircraft. That'll ease everyone's mind about how the family returns. Get that goddamn plane out of there, before the local press can ask them any more awkward questions."

Hockley nodded. "Very good, Sir. And about the information that's been so thoroughly leaked?"

Durand considered his options grimly. "We'll call a special session of the House of Commons, and announce it then. We don't have a choice, do we?" He sighed. "And first thing in the morning, get that squadron – what squadron is that? - back to their home base."

"Yes, Sir," Hockley responded evenly. "That would be No. 468 Squadron 'City of Ajax', Sir. Temporarily assigned to RCAF Station Willow Lake."

"Willow Lake ... say, isn't that mad captain there? The banana in the tailpipe?"

"No, Sir, you're thinking of the other one," Hockley advised his boss. "He's leading his battalion in manoeuvres against the North Novas at Camp Petawawa." He paused to find the right memory trigger, and then suggested, "The trout in the glove compartment?"

"Oh, right. Whitefeather ... and that incredible smell," Durand muttered, scowling. Looking up, he added, "You'd better get on those orders right away."

"Yes, Sir. By your leave, Sir." And with a stiff nod, Hockley and his aide-de-camp left the Prime Minister's office, closing the door behind them.

The next set of orders came not from Major Dupree up in Paulatuk or from General Chennault at RCAF Headquarters in Trenton, Ontario, but directly from the Minister of National Defence, the Honourable Walter Hockley, MP, at the National Defence Headquarters in Ottawa. They were brief: rejoin the rest of No. 468 Squadron at Nora Aliqatchialuk Ruben Airport as soon as possible. The orders came both from the local squadron commander and from the local tower, indicating that the message was very urgent indeed. Obediently, Bookie and his crew reboarded the Lancaster and lifted off into the darkening twilight for a well-earned night of rest with their squadron mates at the northern hamlet.

Things were quiet at RCAF Station Willow Lake that night, as the Squadron was off in the Yukon. Acting Master Corporal Charles Boucherville, making a routine inspection of the Station's perimeter at about a quarter after three in the morning, felt it was too quiet. What was that nutbar Whitefeather up to tonight? He reached for his radio.

"Theodore Main, this is Theodore Zero Two," he called softly into the handset. "All positions look alert for Bullfrog activity. All stations acknowledge, over." "Bullfrog Major" was the unofficial call-sign the platoon had settled on for Captain William Whitefeather, Royal 22e Régiment, bane of the platoon's existence. Young Cynthia Arsenault didn't know it, but they'd bestowed an unofficial call-sign on her, too, because of her complicity in the captain's training activities: "Bullfrog Minor". Boucherville was warning his sentries to expect another training drill. As the guard posts reported back over the radio, he slipped into the shadows and made his way toward the RCAF Regiment's barracks.

Just as he was approaching their quarters, every light in the H-hut snapped on. Boucherville winced – he was too late, something was already up.

"ALL HANDS TO LIFEBOAT STATIONS! WE'VE STRUCK AN ICEBERG! ALL HANDS TO LIFEBOAT STATIONS! WE'VE STRUCK AN ICEBERG!" The order continued to repeat itself several more times, echoing through the camp's loudspeakers as it roused the sleeping men inside.

"Tabernac!" Boucherville swore, as the off-duty men of his platoon began swarming out the door in panic.

Up in a guard tower, the two privates on duty there looked down on their comrades in amazement. "Iceberg?" said one in a wondering voice. His gaze swept the starlit tree-filled horizon. Aside from the single access road, the station was completely surrounded by pine forest.

"Iceberg," his companion confirmed, nodding calmly. "At least he's entertaining."

"Arrêt lor!" shouted Boucherville in angry frustration. Some of the men came to a halt. Boucherville swore loudly in French. "You idiots! Where ARE you going?"

"Ah, lifeboats?" suggested one sleep-deprived private.

Under moments of high stress, Boucherville's French accent came to the fore, and it did so now. "Did you suddenly join da Royal Newfenese Navy? Where is dere an iceberg around here? A lifeboat? It's dat mudderfuckin' Van Doo again, messin' wit' your minds. Get back ta bed."

Turning away from his men in a mixture of fury and disgust, he found himself staring at a large sign that hadn't been there at sunset. The legend, in both of Canada's official languages, announced the location to be "Lifeboat Station # 13". Beyond the sign sat a LAV III light armoured vehicle, its rear hatch open invitingly. The side of the beast announced it to be "HMCS Willow Lake", and a large Canadian Navy ensign fluttered from a flagpole stuck in the turret.

"When da hell we get one of dose?" Boucherville wondered of the personnel carrier, then spat viciously, "Mudderfuckin' Van Doo." He turned to bellow at the nearest available private. "Ranier! Get rid of dat goddamn sign!"

The next morning saw those aircrew of No. 468 Squadron "City of Ajax" who had bivouacked beside the lone gravel runway of Nora Aliqatchialuk Ruben Airport in Paulatuk being roused by the last shift on fire picquet duty, emerging from bell tents to stretch, scratch and greet the new day. Immersion heaters were fired up in corrugated metal trash cans, warming water for washing and shaving while pumping the smell of burning naphtha into the air. The chemical toilets on board the Lancasters did a brisk business. As the earliest men to wake stood around cooking the breakfasts left over from the IMP's they'd opened the evening before, they chatted and gossipped over steaming mugs of instant coffee, their breath visible in the chill air.

Their commanding officer had stayed in town, however. To smirks and silent accusations, Major Dupree arrived from his evening's abode in the tiny town, chauffeured by its flirtatious mayor, Sally James. The look on Sally's face commingled satisfaction and regret.

Dupree realized exactly how the situation looked to his men, and decided to give them something else to think about besides speculating about his off-duty activities. "Captain Teperman!" he called as he exited the four-by-four.

"Sir!" Bookie called, straightening up.

Dupree returned the pilot's salute. "Word from the hospital in Yellowknife. They operated last night successfully, just in time. Child and parents are doing fine." Bookie smiled in relief as Dupree added, "Hospital and family both send deep thanks to you and your crew."

Bookie's eyes glowed with happiness as he saluted again. "Thank you, SIR!" Around him, officers and men high-fived each other, clapping and raising cheers. Suddenly the instant coffee actually tasted almost decent.

"Everyone, as soon we've finished breakfast, we'll pack up and get ready to return. The rest of the squadron will be here in about three hours, and when they arrive we'll take off and join them for the trip home. Let's go." He walked over to his bomber's crew. "What's for breakfast?"

Captain Harry Arsenault and his fellow squadron mates at the Cape Perry Cruise Missile Test Range enjoyed luxuries that their compatriots at Paulatuk could only dream of. They had slept in snug barracks with clean sheets and warm blankets, their slumbers uninterrupted by any need to stand picquet duty – that onerous chore was handled by the airmen and soldiers stationed at the Range. They'd been wakened in time to enjoy hot showers and a clean change of uniform. They were now breakfasting in an actual mess (albeit an all-ranks mess) with real brewed coffee rather than the ersatz version being slopped down mere miles away, and real cooks, and food replicators providing literally any imaginable meal desired.

The mess even had television, tuned to an all-news national satellite TV channel. As a result, the boys were now taking in a live shot from Ottawa, as a senior reporter, his hair greying at the temples, stood in front of Parliament Hill and addressed the camera.

"Reports are coming out about a Royal Canadian Air Force mercy flight," he told every civilian across the country and the detachment of 468 Squadron fliers at Cape Perry. Melamine coffee mugs hovered inches from their mouths as all attention focused on the large flat screen TV's mounted around the mess. "That is not so unusual, as the Canadian Armed Forces have a long and honourable history of providing emergency assistance. However, this seems unusual in one important respect: the aircraft used. Reports are confused, but it seems that the RCAF has somehow managed to get its hands on at least one old World War I bomber."