Robert Gendron, the Minister for External Affairs, broke in, “Prime Minister, despite the relatively short time you have held office, I know I can assure you that every one of your colleagues here has the utmost faith in you and will stand behind whatever response you see fit to make.” There were immediate cries of “Hear, hear!”
As Gendron was speaking, John Thomas had entered the room. He whispered to the Prime Minister, “The President has agreed to speak with you, but it must be very brief because he is attempting to put the finishing touches to what he is going to say on television. If you come with me now, everything is set up.”
Air Force One / 11:50 a.m., EDT
The President made his way from the cockpit of the 747 to the circular stairs which took him down to the office in the forward cabin of the aircraft.
When it was built, Air Force One had been designed to make it possible for the President to carry on the nation’s business almost as easily from the aircraft as from the White House. At the front, normally the first-class area, the President had his private office. In the midsection was a complex of offices housing the secretarial staff and communications centres for telex and telephone links to the ground, as well as a sophisticated system of computers, radar, ground and satellite communication which linked Air Force One with the military surveillance and communication network. Here, too, was the small, sound-insulated TV studio from which the President would broadcast to the nation. At the rear of the aircraft were the President’s sleeping quarters and accommodation for the staff.
As he came down the stairs, the President could see Irving Wolf and Al Johnston sitting opposite each other at a desk on the port side of the aircraft. These were his two top advisers. Through them the President maintained his contact with the world. From them came the ideas, analyses, considerations and judgments upon which the man in the world’s top position of power had to rely.
Wolf got up and moved towards him, breaking off an animated discussion with Johnston. He was clutching a sheaf of papers. “We’ve been having an argument on one or two points, Mr. President.”
The President smiled. “I can certainly see that, Irving.”
Wolf looked slightly embarrassed. “I guess you can, but this is an important statement we’re putting together, and we just aren’t seeing eye to eye on it.”
The President reached for the papers in Wolf’s hand and said, “If you two didn’t have different opinions, neither one of you would be worth a damn to me. Let’s see what it’s all about.”
Suddenly there was a startled shout from Al Johnston. “For God’s sake, look at that! What the hell do they think they’re doing?” He was looking out the window on the port side, just a little ahead of where the President and Wolf were standing by the staircase. The President went immediately to the window.
A fighter aircraft was there, its wing-tip fitted closely under the wing of the 747. He recognized the plane immediately. It was a Canadian CF5 fighter, one of the American-designed, Canadian-built aircraft that had come down the production line in the early 70’s. The fighter pilot, whoever he was, certainly knew how to fly. The CF5 was tucked in solid as a rock, just as if it was tied to the 747. The plane gleamed silver in the sunlight, its maple leaf markings boldly defined, and a blazing white vapour trail stretched out behind it. To the President it was a spectacular sight.
Suddenly a thought struck him. He went quickly over to the starboard side of the aircraft and looked out toward the wing-tip. Johnston followed. Sure enough, there was another CF5 in exactly the same position. The President was almost beside himself with admiration and envy. Without taking his eyes off the CF5 he said, “Al, that’s one of the most beautiful sights in the world. Look at the way that boy’s flying that airplane!”
Johnston, who was not an airman, could only say, “How the hell can we get those bastards away from us? They’re going to kill us for sure.”
The President patted his right shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t you fuss, Al. The boy in that plane knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m going to try to talk to him.” He walked forward to a telephone sitting on the desk and punched the button marked “Captain.” When Wypich responded he said, “Mike, I want to talk to those two boys sitting on your wing-tips.”
“What two boys?”
“Haven’t you seen them? We’ve got two of the neatest, shiniest CF5’s you’ve ever seen, one on each wing-tip. I guess they’re a bit far back for you to spot.”
There was a pause. “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess those are the two aircraft that Boston Control reported to us about three minutes ago, just as you were leaving the flight deck, Mr. President.”
“Must be, Mike. It looks as if the Canadians are telling us we’re over their real estate. Try to make contact, will you?”
“Yes, sir. Stand by one.”
The President could hear the captain talking to his copilot. “What’s the serial number of the aircraft on the starboard side?”
“It’s 411.”
Then the captain transmitted, “Canforce 411, this is Air Force One on 117.8. Do you read me?”
Immediately a voice came back. “Air Force One, this is Canforce 411. Good morning. We’re instructed to welcome you and your distinguished passenger to Canada. My wing man and I will fly with you for the next half hour, then you’ll be picked up by two other aircraft from my base. We will have someone with you all the way to Resolute, purely as a matter of courtesy, you understand, Colonel Wypich.”
The President, listening to the conversation, grinned broadly when the fighter pilot casually let it be known that he knew the name of the captain of the 747. He spoke into his telephone, “Mike, can I transmit using this telephone?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Just push the button on the top right-hand corner.”
The President pushed the button, and looking out the window at the sleek fighter said, “Canforce 411, good morning. This is the President speaking. Give me your ident, please.”
“Good morning, sir. I’m Colonel Jack Prince. I command the Canadian forces base at Bagotville, Quebec. I was instructed by Ottawa to take charge of this escort operation. On the port wing-tip is Lieutenant Colonel Jean Belisle. He commands 433 squadron at Bagotville.”
Belisle broke in. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, son. We’re sure glad to have you boys along. We’re going from here across to Churchill. First I want to take a look at the big new deep-water port you people are building up there. Then I’m going straight north to Resolute.”
Colonel Prince’s voice came back. “Sorry we won’t be going all the way, sir. We’ll be with you for the next half hour, then you’ll be picked up by another team.”
“Fine, Colonel, fine,” responded the President. “But now I’d be obliged if you’d do me a favour. My staff on this big bird aren’t really used to seeing airplanes fly so close and they’re getting a little uptight about it. It doesn’t bother me one bit, but I’d appreciate it if you’d park your aircraft about two hundred yards out in battle formation. It would make everybody here just a little more comfortable.”
“Wilco, sir,” said the Colonel, and passed the word to his wing man. “Battle formation, Jean. Go!”