“We’re going to clog the streets with as much debris as we can, as deep as we can.” There was a return of determination in his eyes. “It will slow them down big time. We’re not going to make it easy for them, Tom.”
“Have we heard from the train station?” Tom remembered they were cut off, even more so now with the retreat, “How about the RCMP?”
“Actually, there is good news there.” His face was somber but his eyes did brighten slightly. “It’s been a lot quieter there because no trains are coming in. Looks like all the noise going on around here is taking the heat off.”
“Good to hear,” Tom replied in a whisper. “Their evacuation will be easy.”
“So,” Clay leaned forward and looked calmly at Tom. “Who talks to the PM?”
“I will.”
Clay found Roberts a shirt that was in the ball park of his size. His suit turned out to be much cleaner than he had expected. As for wearing a tie, an open collar would have to do. Tom walked down the carpeted, silent hallways. He was suddenly struck how these chambers of the Parliament buildings had the feel of a funeral home. Perhaps that was just the mood right now.
The Prime Minister’s secretary was a woman of forty with neat, professional hair drawn out to a bob. Her business suit was grey and she wore a rose in her lapel. She had always been a fan of Trudeau and wasn’t afraid to show it. Even in these Conservative surroundings. Her thin, bony face rarely smiled. These days, she had the added stress of being in a cul-de-sac. Her eyes fidgeted toward the intercom when Tom walked in.
“He will see you now,” she said in a whisper. “Go right in.
“Thank you.” Tom nodded and headed for the PM’s office. As he walked past her desk, Tom couldn’t help but notice she had a Bible open in her lap. Whatever comforts you these days, he thought as he knocked politely and entered.
Tom had always been impressed with the wall-to-ceiling wood paneling, a rich, dark oak color. It set the tone for the office with the PM’s desk in the center. It was a large oak fixture of dining room table proportions. It completely lacked any drawers or adjoining file cabinets. Perhaps this was a statement that this government was transparent and had no need to hide things. Transparency was one of those words that was used a lot on the Hill lately, Roberts thought as he
took in the office and its atmosphere. Transparency in government was like a new year’s resolution. Often talked about but rarely acted upon.
Prime Minister Harris had his back to him, looking out the window with his hands in his pockets. His thinning hair rarely had a single follicle out of place. Now, it was clear that other things occupied his mind than the constant use of a comb.
“Take a seat, Tom,” the Prime Minister said distantly, looking at the darkened Ottawa skyline through the half-open shutters.
Tom settled into one of the three carved oak chairs that surrounded the desk. The only stuffing was covered by green leather in the seat and back. It had been flawlessly carved but was basic at the same time. He leaned back and decided to let the Prime Minister dictate the pace of the proceedings. A flash illuminated the room for a second followed by thunder. A second one closer by seemed to flare up to the west. Clay’s engineers were hard at work.
“I never wanted this job.” His voice was like gravel. “They talked me into it.”
“Yes, sir,” Tom crossed his legs and replied. “They can be very persuasive.”
“Yes, they can.” He was clearly elsewhere in his thoughts. His voice was almost a distant echo in the room. “I remember when all this started. I thought it was anything but what people were telling me it was.”
“It is a very hard thing to believe, sir.” Tom followed along.
“I just don’t know what to do anymore.” Harris turned away from the window and sat down slowly at his desk. Against the wall facing him was a dark leather sofa that was one of the newer pieces of furniture in the room, on the wall, a huge painting of Canada’s first Prime Minister, John A. Macdonald. Like most paintings of that time, the eyes seemed to follow you about the room. Harris avoided looking at the painting and its accusing glare.
“This country needs a government, sir,” Tom observed.
“You too,” He looked up and made eye contact. “You think we should leave as well?”
“Mr. Prime Minister, I have been out there and have seen the situation.” Tom’s voice was conversational but steady.
“…And?”
“Sir, we need to leave so that this country can have a government.” Tom kept his tone respectable but clearly wanted an answer. “Right now, men and woman are dying while we struggle to make a decision.”
The Prime Minister looked at him deeply for a moment and then became lost in thought. His elbows rested on his desk, his fingers crossed supporting his chin, another flash and low thunderous roar, closer this time.
“How would it look if I left while they remained?” The PM’s voice broke as he looked at Tom in despair. “How would it look?”
“Sir, we have some new tactics we can try out.” Tom leaned forward to convince the man. “We just have to make the decision.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we can evacuate troops and civilians but we have to make the decision now.” Tom’s eyes grew wide and as he leaned forward, hands gesturing, trying to pull action out a man who had already surrendered himself to the gods of fate.
“I was thinking that you could evacuate Henriette and Francois.” Harris nodded slowly while speaking in a voice that was clearly desolate. “I will stay here.”
“Sir, we can evacuate everyone, your wife, your son and you.” Tom always knew the PM was a bit of a tragedy figure by the plays he wanted to see on his trips to Stratford. “We can get the troops out as well.” His voice raised a little. “We just need to start leaving now.”
Another flash lit up the room and thunder rattled the windows. It was a slow procession getting closer and closer to the hill, as unstoppable as time itself. Maybe this is where it all ends, Tom was beginning to think. What had that corporal called it? An extinction event....
He tried a new ploy. “Sir, we have evacuated our capital in other wars. We have returned later. This is not a retreat. This is not the end. But it is a new beginning for us. It’s a tactical withdrawal to fight another day.”
“If I did that,” The PM’s eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. ‘What would people say of me?”
“That you were the man who made the tough decisions,” Tom said without thinking. “You kept this country going in its darkest hour. Like Churchill in World War II.”
“I’ve always liked Churchill,” Harris said reflectively after a long moment of silence. “All right, what’s next?”
“This is Operation Starburst, sir.” Tom handed over a thin folder. “It has a two-fold objective. To evacuate the city and delay hostile activity.”
As they discussed it briefly, the Prime Minister’s awareness seemed to return. He made five phone calls one after the other before finishing with a longer phone call to his wife. Tom watched the activity silently as he made his own mental notes on the next few hours list of duties. Twice, he stepped out of the room to make calls on his Blackberry.
“Just one thing,” The PM handed the file back. “I want to call the operation Dunkirk.”
Tom accepted the folder from the PM and noticed with surprise his hands were not shaking anymore. “Dunkirk it is, Mister Prime Minister.”
*
General Clay Davidson opened up his office door and closed it quickly. He had no secretary and no oak paneling in his work space. In fact, it wasn’t even his. It was on loan from a senior senator who had cleared out months ago so that he could “serve his constituents.” The paint on the wall was an off white with wood trim. A desk stood in front of a Victorian book shelf. A large leather chair was positioned in the semi-darkened room behind the desk. It was occupied by a shadow.
“How did the meeting go with Roberts?” The voice aske
d smoothly.
“Good.” Clay was startled by the man’s presence but didn’t show it. He didn’t look up at the voice. Davidson busied himself with putting his briefcase down and sitting in a chair in a conversation pit across the room. “I’m out,” he announced.
“You must know you can’t do that with this sort of thing.” The voice seemed almost emotionless.
“You don’t tell me what to do, man.” His voice dropped an octave as he stared across the room at the shadow man.
“You can’t leave,” the voice explained. “We’ve come too far.”
“I’m out,” he repeated.
“Why the change of heart?” The shadow man hadn’t moved since Clay had entered the room.
“You never said you were going try and kill him.” Clay wanted to walk over and turn on the desk lamp just to scare the guy. “That was a bullshit move.”
“Look…” shadow man tried to explain.
“I just saw the casualty figures from Pearson.” He felt anger rise up inside of him like a temperature gauge. It circulated through his body, forcing his hands to become fists. “Ten thousand soldiers and civilians is not a bloodless coup like you promised.”
“These sort of things happen sometimes.” Suddenly, the voice seemed almost cavalier. “You are stuck with us. You can’t leave and you know it.”
“I’m out,” he repeated again.
“Shouldn’t you discuss this with your family?” Shadow man tossed out the threat with a voice of velvet. “We both know how this could affect them.”
“No.” Clay decided he would stay calm. “I am discussing it with you because it affects you more than anyone.”
A slight cocking of the head was his only reply.
“You must know I have left enough notes and letters scattered around with people in case something happens.” A smile crept across Clay’s face as he played his cards. “You touch me. You will be exposed. It’s that simple.”
“Really….?”
“You touch my family,” Clay stood up slowly and pointed at the shadow man. “Your sorry ass being exposed will be the least of your worries.”
“I’m supposed to accept this deal?” The shadow man seemed unimpressed by the threats.
“You have no choice.” Suddenly Clay chuckled. “You really think you are the smartest guy in the room, don’t you?”
The shadow man was motionless. Like a statue of stone.
“If a Corporal on the containment line in Toronto can figure out what’s going on, how long do you think you have before CSIS comes breaking down your door?” His eyes tried burning through the darkness at the shadow man. He felt ashamed he had ever been associated with them. They had promised better. Instead, they were more of the same, the pursuit of power for power’s sake.
“This isn’t the end. You must know that,” the voice fired back.
“Yes it is,” the big man replied. “If you know what’s good for you.”
“General…” The shadow man suddenly sounded angry.
“If I were you I’d cut the crap and start packing my bags.” Clay began to leave the room. “I think we might be evacuating soon. “
“You can’t just….” Shadow man tried to explain.
“Because,” He raised his voice sharply and interrupted the shadow man. “If you give me half a chance, I will make sure they leave you behind with those things.”
He shut off the only light in the room and closed the door.
*
The activity on Parliament Hill was like an injection of hope. The chance to do something, anything was far more appealing than waiting for the inevitable. Quartermasters scoured the armories for smoke grenades and shells. Helicopters moved material into place. It wasn’t a hive of activity but the Hill no longer felt like a tomb filled with doomed souls awaiting their final judgment.
Tom quickly checked his Blackberry for the next event on his agenda. The PM had made his choice of the destination of the new capital. So be it. He opened the door of Harris’ office and found his secretary packing files and personal items into a large-mouthed travel bag.
“Have the Prime Minister’s jet be ready for a departure at two am,” he informed her in a hushed tone.
“Yes, sir,” She nodded, “The destination?”
“London,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.” Also, have the Commander of the base deploy two platoons to the airport for his protection.”
“Very good, sir,” She nodded and made a few notes. From her vantage point, she could not see the flashes of the explosives bringing down buildings but the rumbles sounded like approaching freight trains that were getting louder with each passing hour. She pretended not to notice. Every roar brought back nightmares from five years ago of her neighbors being torn apart on her front lawn in Bayshore and feasted on by hordes of those things. Her frantic calls to 911 had been met by a busy signal. Her husband on a business trip he would never return from made her more of a mother than ever. She had taken her two children, locked the bathroom door and slept with them all curled up on the cold linoleum. In the morning, she had peeked out from the bathroom and saw what was left of her neighbors now prowling the streets, clawing at windows and doors.
She opened her Bible again, reading slowly to calm her nerves. Thankfully the children were safe with the military in Nepean.
*
“London Control, This is flight 001 standing by for landing instructions.”
“Roger, Flight 001. Welcome to London, Ontario.” The voice was calm and precise, “Standard approach, runway one.”
“Standard approach, runway one, roger that.”
The Prime Minister’s Bombardier Challenger 604 was always used for flights within Canada and short hops to the United States. A larger Airbus A310 was used for international flights. For the evacuation that would be used by what was left of his staff and their families, two more C150 Polaris were standing by to take care of the rest of the Hill’s personnel. All three planes were fueling and loading now with an ETA of just three more hours.
The Challenger banked slowly toward the now glittering runway lights with a smooth, professional turn. The landing gear unfolded into place and the plane positioned itself for final approach. Airports were strange hubs of inactivity these days. Travel and tourism were non-existent in this bunker mentality world. Travel for business was rare. Jets occasionally ferried critical supplies and troops but that was the bulk of air travel, a forgotten wonder in a fading world slowly winding itself down.
The landing lights sparkled on the jet’s wings as the plane began to slow itself down for a precise landing on the tarmac. Clearly visible from the cockpit were the illuminated runway, glittering lights of London and streetlights of the carless avenues.
*
At trigger pull, the Star Streak missile quickly hit its top speed as it followed the invisible beam to its target. A few seconds before impact, the missile released three high-explosive darts, greatly improving the chances of a hit. At this distance, the slow-moving target was a sitting duck for the Star Streak’s firepower and intelligent guidance system.
All three darts made contact and the midair explosion disintegrated the Challenger. Several octane fueled eruptions grew and melded into one rising fireball as sections of the cockpit, landing gear and wings peppered the runway and shattered the glass of the air traffic control tower.
“Oh my God,” someone whispered from the tower.
*
Tom felt the stairs give slightly as he walked down them. He was stunned and sick in the pit of his stomach. He wondered how and what he would say. He knew his face was pale. Henriette should be the first to know. Roberts nodded to the two RCMP officers by the door and prepared
to knock. From inside the room, he could hear the joyful sounds of a young child and mother sharing a special moment, singing,
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines Ding ding dong, ding ding dong.
<
br /> He tapped on the door lightly and the singing stopped. The door opened and there was Henriette. She was twenty years younger than the Prime Minister. When they had married, the Conservatives had braced for scandal, an old man marrying a much younger woman. But Henriette had breezed into the role of Prime Minister’s wife with panache, unique francophone flair and the wonderful tact of knowing what to say at the right moment. Tom and others had sworn up and down that she had won the election for him. Well, at the very least she had carried Quebec. Tom knew that for sure.
She was a brunette with shoulder-length hair. Childbirth had been kind to her and her slim stylish figure had quickly returned. She had dazzling and intelligent green eyes with just a hint of mature worry lines. At first she smiled. “Hello Tom, How are you?”
“Madame Harris, I…”
“Don’t tell me any bad news.” She held a finger to her lips. “Francois can always sense it. It would make him very sad.”
“Yes, ma’am…but…” He tried to begin again.
“Who is it, mama?” A tiny figure squeezed through the space between her left leg and the door. He had a shock of beautiful curly brown locks on his head and an impish smile. His eyes were a laughing brown color. He was dressed in pajamas that had super heroes on them. He grinned at Tom.
“This is Tom,” Henriette announced. “He has come to tell us about our next adventure.”
“Yes, ma’am,” He picked up his cue. “This boat will take us up the Ottawa River to Moulin Industrial Park. A train will be waiting.”
“Is our boat a pirate ship?” Francois asked.
“They’re good pirates,” Tom assured the boy.
“They don’t look like pirates,” Francois reasoned in the logic of a five-year-old.
“That’s because you’ve never seen good pirates,” Henriette assured him. “But next, we get to sleep over on a train.” She was all bright eyes and excitement for him.
“Yay!” the little voice cheered.
5 Years After Page 13