Chapter 9: The Grand Tour

Two officers from Army Camp Kingston met the pair of biodiesel-powered buses pulling in from Camp Petawawa. The exhausted company of North Novas aboard stumbled out, grabbed their kitbags from the luggage compartments under the vehicles, and staggered toward the waiting Via train. After two weeks of field training, the exhausted gentlemen and ladies of the First Company, First Battalion, the Nova Scotia Highlanders were heading back to Truro and to their day jobs.

They'd desperately needed this training. With the recent expansion of the militia due to the incoming Swarm threat, the militia regiment had seen an upsurge in recruitment. Partially it was caused by a desire to offset the region's vicious unemployment rates, partially it was caused by a desire to defend Mother Earth, Canada, Nova Scotia, and their very homes and farms, and partially it was because marching around the old hometown in CADPAT topped by a jaunty Balmoral was a way to make you a little more attractive to members of your preferred gender. For whatever reason each recruit had found to join one of Canada's most storied regiments of "weekend warriors", they needed training – and fast. And under the not-so-gentle tutelage of a Regular Force squad from the Van Doos, that's exactly what they got.

The elder of the two officers, a seasoned militia Major with the Princess of Wales Own Regiment, known colloquially as the "P-Dubs", came up to the militia unit's commanding officer, a colonel. Saluting, he greeted the man, introduced himself, and advised him, "The train is laying on lunch as soon as your men board. Is there anything else you'll need?"

"A great deal of sleep," the Colonel replied. "I don't think we managed more than an hour a night without some sort of interruption. That insane captain the Van Doos sent kept us very busy."

"Insane captain? Not the one responsible for the polo mallet incident with that unit of Lord Strathcona's Horse"

"No, although I understand that the Strathconas named them the Prince of Wales Squadron for that year on the strength of their reaction that incident. No, it was the other one, the Fort Henry mascot incident." Too late the colonel realized what regiment that incident involved.

"Oh ... right." The major's face darkened in remembrance. "Deschenes." After a half a beat in which the colonel could feel the major's teeth grind, the P-Dub shook himself and noticeably changed the subject. "It should be a quiet trip. These new fusion reactor powered train engines don't make that much noise. They've had to sound their horns more frequently in order to alert anyone that a train is even coming. Bon voyage."

At RCAF Willow Lake, No. 468 Squadron "City of Ajax" were preparing to depart for their long-range training flight: Los Angeles International Airport. Two exceptions were not going with them: Cadet Sergeant Cynthia Arsenault and her partner in crime, Cadet Sergeant Joni Dunlop, had a date with a dashing, lanky captain.

Cynthia and Joni stood on the apron, underneath Cynthia's pink-camouflaged Lancaster. Both girls were looking glum: they'd miss out on the trip to Tinseltown. As they waited to learn what their fate was, they were also glancing apprehensively at the two approaching captains, Whitefeather and Arsenault.

As the pair of officers came to a halt in front of the pair, both the girls came to attention and saluted.

"Ladies," Whitefeather addressed them, returning their snappy salute. "You are both scheduled for final Grade 12 exams next month, as you know. And as you also know, you've so far gotten enough marks in your regular term work to get out of most of your final exams. Congratulations."

Both girls gave faint smiles. So far, he hadn't told them anything they didn't already know. So why were they uninvited from this mission?

"What you don't know..." Whitefeather continued.

Both girls actually leaned forward, as if he were whispering, not wanting to miss a single word.

" ... is that General Chennault has arranged for you to be given your final exams here. It's supposed to be a top-secret station, and you're still technically confined to base, and he's taking advantage of the situation. Late this afternoon, one of your teachers will be flying in to spend the weekend proctoring you on those few finals you actually need to take." He smiled evilly. "And the rest of the weekend, your asses are mine."

Cynthia permitted herself a glance at Whitefeather's crotch. "Tempting, Sir..." she ventured.

"Cynthia!" hissed Harry, scandalized.

"You both report to me," the lanky Six Nations warrior glowered at her. "The only part of my own troops that I fuck with is their minds. Got it?"

Cynthia and Joni gave a pair of forlorn replies. "Yes, Sir."

"Now, if the two of you manage to pass, and I say 'IF', then you both have slots waiting for you at the Royal Military College in Kingston, also arranged by General Chennault."

Both gave smiles at that. Even Harry was pleased – not only did going to RMC mean he didn't have to worry about tuition, they'd be paid a salary just for going there. He wouldn't have to fork out a penny for support. Joni's parents would be pleased, as well. That would make family finances much easier to stand.

"So study hard, my little goslings. I'd be proud to have you both at my alma mater. I and my roommate there have left behind quite the reputation for you to live up to."

Harry felt a fillip of fear stab through his vitals. "I'll bet you have," he muttered, wondering what lunacy the Van Doo and his roommate had put the College through back when they were Officer Cadets. He was willing to bet that the roommate had been drummed out for his antics there; he didn't see how Whitefeather had remained at the Canadian Forces' highest school of continuing education, if his behaviour toward the oft-suffering RCAF Regiment was any indication.

Harry's bet would have been quite wrong.

"Both girls are going to be here?" quizzed Lieutenant Solway.

"Yes, Sir," acting Master Corporal Boucherville confirmed. "And Captain Whitefeather. I recommend we go to Bullfrog Alert One. Double the guards, put one squad on perimeter patrol and a second on the usual observation posts. Issue all men with night vision goggles, and prepare for anything."

Solway nodded in approval. "Do it. Lord knows what mischief he'll plan for tonight."

Both men looked over the quiet runway at the massive hangars opposite them. Sitting next to one massive hangar sat the little Grob the girls had arrived in.

The station seemed lonely without the bustle of No. 468 Squadron, who had left before ten hundred hours that morning. The only excitement that occurred in the afternoon was just before supper, when a CH-146 Griffin helicopter from 417 Combat Support Squadron, converted to fusion/electric, settled delicately on the runway and landed Mrs. Edna Thompson, a teacher from the high school at RCAF Station Cold Lake.

Both girls ate a gloomy and lonely supper in the Sergeants' Mess, accompanied only by acting Master Corporal Boucherville and a handful of supply sergeants. Neither Boucherville nor the supply sergeants were fliers, nor were they teenagers, so the girls had precious little in common with them. They especially had little in common with Boucherville, as he was closer to Army in mentality than RCAF. The pair stuck to their books, reviewing for the exams they'd have to write the next day, Saturday.

On the officers' side of the dining hall, Mrs. Thompson dined with the only two officers left on the base: Lieutenant Solway and Captain Whitefeather. Both men, in honour of the occasion, wore their respective full dress mess uniforms – Whitefeather an Army forest green, and Solway an Air Force blue. Whitefeather's uniform boasted paratrooper's wings over the right breast and a row of bright ribbons. Lieutenant Solway was unable to boast any such adornment. Service was from a mess steward resplendent in stiffly starched spotless whites, with a small row of service ribbons and, like Whitefeather, paratrooper wings.

"This is really delicious," Edna complemented the cooks as she swallowed another forkful of tender T-bone. "And this wine? What kind is it?"

"Part of Captain Whitefeather's personal stock," the mess steward advised her, proffering the bottle for her perusal of the label. "It's a Malbac, from the Okanagan Valley."

"Oh," she nodded. "An excellent year, too."

"Your reputation as a connoisseur precedes you," Whitefeather advised her. "I've had..." he searched for exactly the right word, " ... dealings with your husband before."

Solway glanced between the two, mystified. "Sir? Ma'am?"

"Mrs. Thompson is the wife of Colonel Daniel Thompson, currently the commanding officer of the fighter training squadron operating out of Cold Lake," Whitefeather informed him. That made sense to Solway; many spouses and dependants of service personnel found jobs at local establishments in and around their bases, including schools.