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Day 39 of The Rise
CFB Cold Lake Canadian Air Force Base
Cold Lake, Alberta, Canada
A snoring Lieutenant Russell Hughes was the solo occupant of the barracks when the alarm sounded. The other soldiers were in different locations across the base, pacing around the quad, smoking feverishly in the common room, listening to their radios in the men’s stalls, cleaning their cockpits, testing their instruments, the mundane list of things solders do when they are nervous. But not Russell. Russell liked his sleep. And if it was bedtime and the world was burning, he’d strip off his shirt, climb into the nearest cot, and pull the sheets across his eyes.
However, on this particular day, as the alarm sounded, Russell’s feet hit the floor before his discarded sheets did.
“Russell Hughes, report to your station,” a droning voice instructed over the base speakers. “Russell Hughes, report to your station immediately!”
CFB Cold Lake Base was—and is—the busiest Air Force Base in all of Canada. Following the Variance situation in the United States, all resources were consolidated to Cold Lake while the other ten Canadian bases were promptly shut down. In its nearly sixty years in existence Cold Lake has seen some of the finest and most courageous fighter pilots the world has ever seen. Sven Polly (1963), Simon Little (1977), Michael Budman (1985), Nick Northfor (1988), Kyle Olney (1999), and Ken Thornhill (2003). While their flying styles and skills were unrivaled at their respective times, they paled in comparison to Russell Hughes.
And even though the situation was contained along U.S. and Canadian border, Russell knew it was only a matter of time before the Variants broke through and hell spread to Canada. After Canada, maybe Europe, then Africa, then Russia, the far East, the islands…
…And so on, and so on…
The untied laces on Russell’s shoes bounced against the shiny leather with little pitter-patters of abandonment. He was running so fast he thought he’d fly right out of his shoes. But there was a Variant breach threatening Canada and his country was calling on him to right the wrong.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee, the words danced in Russell’s head like some sick brainwashing trick. And he believed every word. God keep our land glorious and free!
“Hughes! Get over here!” Russell heard his commanding officer, Dick Breadman, bark.
Dick was a burly man. He had meaty, calloused hands that made him look more like a farmer than a military man. His chest seemed to go on forever and his shoulders looked like two anchors propped upon his torso. His neck had a constant web of veins that pulsated with his every breath. Dick liked to talk with his mouth full, usually of donuts or some type of pastry. The remnants of his breakfast, lunch, or dinner had sprayed on Russell’s face on more than one occasion. But, tonight, there was no food in Dick’s hands, and his ghostly skin and grave eyes made Russell shiver.
“Yes, sir?” Russell said.
Dick noticed the untied boots and Russell felt his Adam’s apple bob strenuously against his throat.
“Lace up those boots, son, and follow me,” Dick said, his words coarse and direct. He turned and headed toward the hangar. Russell haphazardly tied his laces and double timed it after him, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“What’s going on, sir?” Russell asked. The uneasiness he saw in Breadman’s eyes left him cold and troubled.
“We have a situation, Hughes.” Dick held his hands behind his back as he walked, shoulders pulled back, taut and rigid.
“I’ve gathered that, sir.”
“I’m going to be frank,” Dick said, stopping. “We have an inbound aircraft on its way to Winnipeg from Sweetwater Creek State Park, just outside Lithia Springs, Georgia.”
“What’s the problem, sir?”
“It left an American military base with military personnel and civilians. They took off shortly after a Variant breach…” Dick’s words hung in the air. He looked longingly at Russell as if he hoped he would finish his thought. But Russell only stared back at him with vacant eyes and Dick let out a long, full-bodied sigh. “Are you understanding what I’m saying, Hughes?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. What does an American aircraft have to do with us.”
“Intelligence suggests the aircraft carries at least one of these…Variants. And if there’s one, there could be two, and if there are two, there’s no telling where this could stop. The Canadian military has done a damn fine job containing the problem. We’ve worked too long and too hard to let the Americans curse us now. Are you understanding me, Hughes?”
“I think so, sir.” Russell gulped down saliva in an anxious jerk, but dry air clogged his throat and he nearly burst out into a coughing fit. “May I ask where the other officers are, sir?”
“This comes directly from the Prime Minister and, needless to say, is highly classified.” Dick placed a fatherly hand on Russell's shoulder and Russell felt a surge of warmth rush to his cheeks. Dick had yelled at him, had ordered him around, had inadvertently spit toast and bacon in his face, but he had never touched him. But there they were, on the brink of war, and his tenderness was a welcome change. “You’re our top pilot, Hughes, everybody knows it. You’re more gifted than any soldier I’ve instructed and it has been an honor watching you grow. I’m as proud as any commanding officer could be, and that’s why we need you now. This is a delicate situation that needs to be handled with the utmost discretion. There won’t be any record of the mission nor any flight log recorded. This is completely off the books.” He took his hand off Russell’s shoulder and dropped his voice to a low, raspy whisper. “We need you to shoot that plane down, Russell.” His words were stunning. “We need you to shoot it down before it crosses the border. If you don’t, this God-forsaken thing will become an epidemic nobody will be able to control.”
“But how do you know there are Variants on board, sir?”
“Do your job, Hughes, do you understand me?” Dick pushed a finger toward Russell’s face and those fatherly intents suddenly vanquished. “I need to know you understand.”
“Yes, sir. Of course. I understand.”
Dick lowered his head and nodded. It was as if he didn’t believe what Russell was doing was right. But Russell had his orders.
And Dick Breadman had his.
And Dick’s commanding officer had his.
And so on and so on and so on…
It was a never ending cycle that Dick Breadman would never fully understand, not even on the day he would die (which would be exactly three weeks later).
“Godspeed, Hughes.” Dick saluted him. It occurred to Russell this had been the first time his commanding officer saluted first, and it took Russell a jarring moment to clap his feet together, right his back, and flick his wrist. Their eyes met, both possessing a hint of sadness. It was as if they knew they would never see each other again. It was an enigmatic truth that they both understood, but neither knew why.
“It has been an honor serving for you, sir,” Russell told him.
“The honor has been mine, Lieutenant Hughes.”
Russell placed his hands behind his back and hurried toward the hangar.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise, the True North strong and free, Russell thought, the words repeating over and over in melancholic rhythm.
* * *
Russell climbed into his neat, organized cockpit. Long after the other pilots stowed away their jackets and reattached their seat buckles, Russell could be found wiping down the glass, dusting the controls, and polishing the board with such meticulous style he had often stopped and marveled at his own obsessiveness. But soon Russell would cross out of the blue and into the black.
“Y’all right, Lieutenant?” he heard a meek voice ask.
Russell’s thoughtful eyes left the dash and landed on a pale, sickly soldier named Bobby Brodeaur. Bobby stood on the ladder next to the F-18 staring at Russell with a tremendous fondness, as if Russell was a celebrity he had idolized for years. Bobby was one of those hypochondriacs who had miraculously found his way into the service. His skin was an ashen gray and his eye sockets were practically hollow. He was a good kid, Russell knew that, he was just afraid Brodeaur’s meager body would crumble to dust if handled the wrong way.
“Yeah, Bobby, just fine,” Russell said, his deep, calming voice having a visible affect on him.
“Y’all set?” he asked.
Russell drew in a breath and exhaled in a solemn consistency. “All set.”
Bobby smiled. He placed his foot on the aircraft and reached toward Russell. There were three metal fasteners that he pulled down over him. One of the fasteners caught Russell at the side of his eye, causing him to flinch. Bobby’s eyes grew and his mouth curved into a funny “O” shape.
“I’m sorry, Russell, I just—“
“’S’all right.” Russell patted the side of Bobby’s face with his massive brown hand.
Bobby smiled again, reassured. He fastened the three straps across Russell’s chest and yanked on the shiny polyvinylidene strap just above his waist. Russell felt the strap go taut and then slacken as he let out a long breath. Bobby handed Russell a hard, gray helmet with a sticker of the Canadian flag encircled by a thick blue ring. The red leaf looked ablaze atop the dull gray exterior.
“Good luck, sir.” Bobby offered him a salute.
“Thank you, soldier. See ya on the other side, yeah?”
Bobby nodded, though he didn’t know why. He descended the ladder and rolled it away from the plane.
Russell pressed a few buttons and the Plexiglass dome lurched forward, sealing him in. The aircraft whirred to life with a gradual, yet thundering spur.
Two faceless soldiers pulled open the hangar door and Russell pushed down on the throttle. The plane jerked as the wheels gripped the concrete and rolled forward.
Russell’s eyes dropped to Bobby once more, who watched, transfixed, as the F-18 crept by him like a monumental float on the 4th of July.
It would be the last time he would ever see Bobby Brodeaur alive.
Though it would be much disputed, Bobby Brodeaur would be the first recorded Variant to set foot on Canadian soil. After Brodeur’s attack, a slew of Variants would soon follow. Bobby would be shot and killed outside his barracks moments after tearing Dick Breadman’s tongue from his mouth. Breadman would die in the hospital four hours later, the final of Brodeur’s 12 victims. How and why Bobby Brodeur became a Variant would forever go unsolved.
As for Lieutenant Hughes, he would not have the misfortune of seeing the madness unfold in the country he loved so much, as he would never again cross the border back into Canada. Russell Hughes’ journey within the wasteland that was now America was set to begin.
God keep our land glorious and free, O Canada, we stand on guard for thee…O Canada we stand on guard for thee, stand on guard for thee, guard for thee, for thee…
And the record stopped.
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