TWENTY-TWO

THE CESSNA 172 SAT MOTIONLESS at the start of the runway.

Bédard tuned the radio to the required frequency and contacted the control tower.

“Saint-Hubert control, Uniform-Juliette-Oscar waiting on runway six right for clearance to take off.”

“Roger, Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, you are cleared for takeoff on runway six right, go up to 1,000 feet and level off.”

The general opened the throttle, and the single-prop plane shot ahead 1,500 feet and began its ascent. The horizon expanded beneath him: runways, hangars, roads, fields, woods in full colour, the buildings of the base, the flat, fertile fields extending toward the south and the United States. At 1,000 feet the controller’s voice came back on: “Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, do not go higher than 1,600 feet. Make a left turn to leave this sector at Boucherville.”

“Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, no higher than 1,600 feet,” repeated the general.

The cluster of islands spread out beneath the nose of the plane. He levelled off over Boucherville.

“Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, you have left Saint-Hubert sector. Radar contact terminated.”

The former commander-in-chief of the Canadian Armed Forces was a recent retiree at the beginning of October 1970. He could rest on his laurels, he’d had a career that was nothing short of exceptional. His passion for civilian aviation and his “Twenty-Two” (the name painted on the fuselage of his Cessna), based in Saint-Hubert, allowed him to maintain direct contact both with his alma mater (the famous Twenty-Second Regiment) and his own baby, the general headquarters of Mobile Forces. Opportunity making the thief, it wasn’t unusual for him to drop by the officers’ mess for a glass or two after returning from one of his escapades in the Quebec sky. He’d flown as many as three or four times a week that summer and still felt, from the moment he set foot on the base, welcomed as the living legend he in fact was.

He was now crossing the St. Lawrence. Above Charron Island.

“Montreal control,” he spoke into his mike, “this is Cessna one-seven-two Golf-Uniform-Juliette-Oscar joining you. Good morning!”

“Golf-Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, please hold . . .”

The controller gave permission to an Air Canada flight to land before getting back to him.

“Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, identify yourself. What are your intentions?”

Bédard flipped on his transponder. On the radar screen in the Montreal control tower, the blip representing “Twenty-Two” showed up clear and precise.

“Uniform-Juliette-Oscar entering Pont-Tunnel sector to circle Ville-Marie at an altitude of 1,500 feet, if available.”

“Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, approved for 1,500 feet. How many circuits will you make, sir?”

“Just one. And I’d like to go over to Victoria, destination Lake Champlain . . .”

“Very well. Contact us when you cross into Victoria,” concluded the voice in his headset.

The Botanical Gardens in Rosemont . . . the huge island seemed to be sleeping under his plane. He liked having this theatrical overview in which the game would be played out. And soon, too, if one could believe the latest reports . . .

Retired though he was, Bédard, since his departure, had daily conversations with his friend, General Turcotte, who was also a former Twenty-Seconder from the Italian campaign, and his successor as head of Mobile Forces. Turcotte owed much of his irresistible rise in the hierarchy to General Bédard: the present commander of Mobile Forces was, as they say, in his debt. At the beginning of the 1960s, when Bédard ran the Division of Operational Preparedness, Turcotte had even “lent” him his nephew, a private in the Twenty-Second Regiment, whom General Bédard had taken under his wing and initiated into the art of intelligence, and later had him infiltrate into the revolutionaries, putting his personal spy within the FLQ. One of those small guys who push at the edges and heat up meetings and always want to go a little bit farther than the leaders, and manage to get others to follow them . . . To end up being arrested at the wheel of a van full of dynamite. Since his years of spying (although it wasn’t called spying) in Moscow, Bédard had always tried to see trouble coming well in advance, and this time Turcotte was definite: action would begin soon. The thugs were getting ready to take out their knives, Turcotte specified, with a knowing smile. It was already the fourth of October. A week ago, with the approval of his mentor, the head of Mobile Command had placed his troops on alert in Saint-Hubert. CATS was also ready to pounce. All that was left now was to be patient while politics did its job.

Mont-Royal slipped by under his left wing. Outremont. The university. St. Joseph’s Oratory.

The scene was set, the net was in place. Thanks to the army reserves, the commanders could count on the loyalty of many civilians who were, in fact, soldiers in disguise. Journalists and police officers, secretly working for the country’s armed forces in the heart of the general population. The secretary general of the government, the highest civil servant in the province, was a colonel in the reserve, as was the special counsellor to the premier (although it had to be said that Bob Lapierre was something of an unknown quantity. Who did Uncle Bob work for? A good question . . .).

Bédard turned to follow the line of boulevard Décarie, putting Westmount on his left, and before long Victoria Bridge came into view. He wanted to make this little tour take him to Plattsburgh. To frolic a bit over the border and take a look, from a distance, in passing, at the base down there. You never knew what you could learn, in Plattsburgh or in Moscow. And though the general did not know what service Uncle Bob was in, one thing was certain, he really loved the Yanks. Even Bédard, whose loyalty to Canada could not be in doubt, felt safer in the knowledge that if things turned really bad north of the border, their neighbour to the south would send troops rolling up the maritime corridor.

“Uniform-Juliette-Oscar crossing Victoria Bridge, request passage toward Lake Champlain.”

“Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, passage granted. What altitude, sir?”

“Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, I’d like 3,500 feet.”

At 3,500 feet, the headset crackled and he heard:

“Uniform-Juliette-Oscar, this is Montreal control. You are exiting our sector. Radar contact terminated. Would you like a flight plan?”

“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary . . .”