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Somewhere over Canada
Day 40 of The Rise
Russell Hughes’ takeoff was smooth and unremarkable. It was the kind of takeoff he had done a thousand times without mishap or consequence. The plane ascended into the night, a bird of metal and lights streaking across the star speckled black curtain. He leveled the plane off at 19,000 feet. Wind streaked over the F-18’s wings in a kind of powdery fog. The nose of the plane was upturned in a petulant smile, mocking the night sky. All was serene and, for a moment, Russell forgot the malignant task he had set out to accomplish.
“This is base camp to Raven One, copy?” Dick Breadman’s voice sounded over F-18’s radio.
“I copy,” Russell replied.
“You all right up there, Lieutenant?”
“Just peachy, sir.”
“Listen, Lieutenant…” Dick started, his voice suddenly quiet and grave, “you’re going to have to go dark soon.”
Russell’s eye twitched, feeling a strange sense of delirium wash over him. Go Dark? That couldn’t be possible, especially for the Canadian Royal Air Force. Of course Russell had heard of such things in the past, but it was all circumstantial and hypothetical. Things like: Going Dark, Code Black, Beacon Hill, were phrases of legend. Not reality. Going Dark meant isolation. It meant he was expendable. Going Dark reminded Russell of old episodes of Mission: Impossible he had seen while visiting his aunt Becky in the States. Bob Johnson had ordered Peter Graves and his team to Go Dark and, if caught, their actions would be disavowed. Mission: Impossible made the frightening concept of Going Dark glorious, even sexy.
“I’m sorry, sir, transmission was jumbled, say again.” Russell’s hands were shaking.
“You’re going to have to go dark,” Dick said again, only this time his voice was commanding and forceful. There was no longer a fatherly tone behind his words.
“Go dark? I’m sorry, sir, I don’t underst—“ Russell started.
“No questions, Lieutenant, just do as you’re told! You understand?” Russell pictured Dick standing in the control tower, a chewed off cigar dangling from his mouth.
“Yes, sir…I understand, over,” Russell replied, almost inaudibly.
“Good. Over and out.” Dick Breadman’s voice disappeared.
That was it? This was it? During his training Russell had studied three instances where soldiers had gone dark—none of them had ever returned. Going Dark was a death sentence. Breadman knew that. Russell knew that. There wasn’t a soldier in the Canadian Air Force that didn’t know that.
Russell flew on at 400 knots without a soul’s whisper to keep him company. He maintained a level altitude, a level speed, and a level pitch. But at 1:35 a.m., half a dozen lights on Russell’s communication switchboard went out. He suddenly felt claustrophobic and helpless, as if the plane was controlling him and he was merely its deranged passenger.
A while back, a few of the other pilots in camp had named Russell’s plane Black Betty on account she looked as black as a crow whenever she landed at night. They claimed they could never fully see the plane until her wheels screeched across the runway.
Betty dipped, catching a sudden air pocket, then steadied. Russell’s stomach jumped. He pulled the oxygen mask over his face and drew in a long, calming breath. His eyes closed and his pulse slowed to a steady da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. He pushed down on the throttle and the F-18 shot forward in a tremendous burst of speed.
It was just after midnight when Betty and Russell crossed into U.S. territory. Some time later (Russell was unsure how long) flying a blipping green dot appeared on Betty’s radar screen. It was a welcome sight and sound for a journey that had been filled with painful silence. Russell swung the joystick to the right and veered toward that wonderful green beacon.
Betty rumbled through the puffy gray clouds, the green dot becoming more pronounced.
Beep! Beep! Beep! The sounds became more consecutive.
Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!
Russell peered through the F-18s windshield, searching the night sky for the jetliner. The green dot was almost on top of him now. He pulled his thrusters back just as Betty whipped past the Boeing C-17 headed in the opposite direction. Russell’s head whirled around and he jerked the joystick left. Betty flipped over in one magnificent motion and Russell spun her around. He felt his stomach lurch again, but the wave of nausea quickly chased itself away. He straightened Betty out and pulled her into the C-17s crosshairs.
The jetliner had made no evasive maneuvers, no speed changes, altitude fluctuations. Russell had gone undetected.
He adjusted the thrusters again, hanging back a mile or so from the jetliner’s tail wing.
230 lives hung in Russell’s wake, dangling there like helpless puppets. And with the simple click of a switch, their lives would be eradicated.
Click! And no more Variants.
But then…
Beep! Beep!
Two more green blips appeared on Russell’s radar. These two, however, were behind him. The dots were moving fast-much too fast for a jetliner or private aircraft. These dots were gaining on him…
So much for “going dark,” Russell thought. The dots—whatever they were—had appeared for a reason. And that reason, Russell believed, was him. The U.S. must have caught me crossing their border, Russell thought, his nerves unraveling.
He pushed down on the throttle and Betty shot forward in another wonderful burst of speed. The C-17 drew closer and Russell dipped altitude. Betty hung a hundred feet below the jetliner, matching the aircraft’s speed in an aerial game of Hide & Seek. Russell hoped the two approaching dots would only detect one radar source.
The two dots grew closer, but he received no missile lock or detection alert. Suddenly the two planes went streaking by in a glorious display of speed. But what Russell saw was not a pair of United States Air Force jets, it was something much more haunting.
He felt his jaw clench and his muscles tighten. His eyes were bulging so hard he thought they might burst. Flying past him Betty were two F-16s. But that was hardly the haunting part. Plastered across their tail wings were decals of the Canadian Royal Air Force emblem. Russell would recognize that thick, blue circle holding the brilliant red leaf even with his eyes closed.
That can’t be, Russell thought.
But it was to be.
And, to Russell, it all became so stunningly clear. The F-16s weren’t there to assist him; they were there to kill him. “Going Dark” was not a badge of honor, it was a death sentence. And his government—a government he had loved and protected and fought for for so long—was responsible for such a sentence.
Complete the mission then get shot out of the sky. It was that crude and it was that explicit.
The F-16s curled across the sky, splitting in front of each other. They cocked their rudders, zeroing in on Russell and Betty.
Russell yanked back on the handbrake, cutting Betty’s speed in half, and the C-17 Globemaster he had been tracking so effectively vanished into the darkness.
The two F-16s tried wildly to maintain control, but Russell’s maneuver was too sudden and too jarring. The planes tumbled through the sky, their wings spinning end over end.
Russell released the handbrake and punched down on the throttle. The afterburners exploded a dazzling orange, rocketing after the Globemaster.
Russell saw the Globemaster’s massive exterior reenter his crosshairs. The beast of a thing had taken evasive maneuvers, but because of the aircraft’s size, the maneuvers were trite and predictable. Russell followed with ease.
It was around this time the first of three missiles ejected from one of the F-16s sped past Betty in a pressurized rush. Russell jerked the joystick and Betty curled over the missile unscathed. Missiles two and three were launched simultaneously; one meant for the Globemaster, the second meant for Betty.
Russell pushed the throttle as far as it would go forward and the plane kicked forward like a bullet train. He neared the Globemaster’s tail and released flares from Betty’s hull. The flares dropped into the air like tiny droplets of fire. The first missile struck the flares and an explosion thundered through the peaceful night, erupting into a whirling inferno.
Russell never witnessed the second missile rip through Betty’s right wing, her engine releasing a guttering belch. Three master alarms sounded and flashing red lights bounced off the cockpit’s walls. The missile, however, failed to explode, continuing north on its journey.
While Russell and Betty plummeted to the ground, the missile lodged in the back of the Globemaster and exploded through the plane’s backside. Passengers began to spill out of the plane’s recently constructed hole, falling to their deaths like sad lemmings.
The F-16s departed at once, the rumbling of their engines fading into the darkness.
The Globemaster lost power in engine two first. Engine one would follow shortly after. It dipped toward the ground, picking up speeds that nearly broke the speedometer. The pilots regained control (as much as they could) around 8,000 feet. But by then it was too late. It leveled off, but was still losing altitude, and when it crashed into Castle Rock Lake, just outside of Friendship, Wisconsin, nearly a third of the passengers would already be dead. Among those fighting for their lives would be Captain Richard Blake, Lara Holliday, and Enrique Vallenzuela. But such a fact would never be realized by the F-16s or Russell Hughes.
Russell would eject shortly after his dear Betty began her frenzied spin toward her imminent death. He would float into Sauk City, just outside of Madison, where three Variants would attack him upon landing, but he would dispose of them with three quick rounds from his sidearm. The Variants’ onslaught would be neither noteworthy nor alarming.
That night Russell would make a fire and stare into its hypnotizing blaze with sad wonder, pondering thoughts that kept him up until the break of dawn. Why had they not trusted him to do the job and return to base? Why had his country betrayed him? And why had they done it with such disregard? Such malice?
The answer—an answer he had not yet discovered—was exceedingly simple: Russell Hughes was a Variant.
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