William Deverell - Snow Job

That was one of Russia’s practised mantras. Clara took it at face value — she was sure they had something up their sleeve, a view affirmed when Bulov added: “However, it cannot go unnoticed that a major Western oil conglomerate has taken advantage of your dispute with Bhashyistan to make a deal behind our respective backs. We have substantial economic interests there. We intend to protect them.”

Clara assumed he regarded the former Soviet republic as not merely in their sphere of influence but a kind of protectorate. She thanked him for his directness and repeated that her main concern was the safety of the Canadians, those in uniform, the five in the Ozbeg jail, and the three women in hiding. When asked if his sources had any knowledge of the latter’s whereabouts, he made no direct answer — which Clara found both curious and foreboding.

“Rest assured, Clara, that we do not intend to expose your nationals to any increased danger that is not of their own making. But given the turmoil in Bhashyistan, our government cannot give you our blessings for your Operation Wolverine.”

That was about as good as she expected to get. They carried on for a few minutes more, in their earlier relaxed manner, Bulov thanking her for the Dixieland music, and belting out an off-key stanza of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Clara ventured that he’d obviously had voice training at the Bolshoi. Both laughed, and concluded with hopes for continued good relations.

“What do you make of that?” she asked Percival.

“They’re giving us a window to go in, but it’s our problem if we trip over own feet.”

“He’s really quite clever, isn’t he, in his Machiavellian way. Couldn’t help treating me like a dumb blonde, though.”

“My dear, you did look radiant. Canada’s cover girl.”

“I’ll bet he actually wants us to go in, to precipitate a crisis, give them an excuse for intervention.”

“Goodness. Maybe you’re not a dumb blonde.”

Behind schedule after the long recess at Oyster Flats, Clara gave brief, desperately hearty orations at the other stops, and affected delight at entertainments from a barbershop quartet with accordion backup, a square-dance ensemble, and two pipe bands.

Finally, in Comox, just after one, she was ushered into an operations room of Nineteen Wing, Air Command’s West Coast base. The colonel in charge had been briefed on Wolverine, so she invited him to hook into the line. Percival slipped on another headset.

From National Defence Headquarters, Clara heard a babble, the echoing of many men on a speakerphone. E.K. Boyes and his advisers would be there, facing off with senior military staff. Clara assumed the heavy breathing on the line emanated from Buster Buchanan, unaware they were connected.

“Good afternoon, General.”

“Prime Minister?”

“Let’s get right into this, General Buchanan — what’s our current situation?” More heavy breathing, like a horse pulling a load. “Shoot, General.”

“Two CF-18s are currently airborne, Prime Minister. The Herc with the attacking force has just lifted off from Kandahar field. The advance aircraft is nearing Bhashyistan air space, and in twenty minutes will drop crew and equipment — “

“Twenty minutes! I thought we had an hour.”

When Buchanan didn’t respond immediately, one of his staff broke in. “They had a strong tailwind.”

“Is that twenty minutes exactly, General Montpelier?” Buchanan asked.

“Nineteen and a half, sir, give or take — ”

“Never mind!” Clara fought another attack of the furies — they were carrying on as if she wasn’t there. “Continue, General Buchanan.”

“The drop will be to an uninhabited plateau fifteen miles south of Ozbeg — aerial surveillance has confirmed this to be a choice landing site.”

Buchanan’s composed tone, his slow, measured words, warned Clara that he was stalling until it was too late to turn back. Hard puffing by high command had produced the strong tailwind; they’d launched early.

“Let’s zip it along. The situation on the ground?”

“The enemy is focused on the border north of Ozbeg — that’s where its main positions are set up.”

“How many troops?” Clara asked.

“Four companies.”

“Stationed how far from Ozbeg?”

“Twenty-five kilometres of bad road. Not a real problem, Prime Minister, because the Ozbeg garrison hasn’t been beefed up. We will be in and out within the hour.”

“General, only two days ago you assured us that the Bhashyistan troops were poking along too slowly to pose a problem. Now we find they got there well ahead of our ETA.”

“They put on a spurt when they reached the flat country.”

“Nor was it anticipated, when designing Wolverine, that the Russian army would become a major presence twenty-five kilometres north of Ozbeg.”

“We’ve been given to understand they won’t intervene.”

“So they say.”

“General Montpelier here, Prime Minister. We have factored in the Russian presence, and I assure you it’s to our advantage. They have so many planes flying around that the enemy is unlikely to notice our airdrop and landing.”

Buchanan took over, continuing to pound the drums for Wolverine, a fait accompli, inexorable, unalterable. Subdued by this rhetoric, E.K. and his crew were as mute as cowering rabbits. And now it was ten minutes to airdrop.

“General, your enthusiasm is commendable, but now hear me. My take is we’re being played like pawns in an old-fashioned great powers coup.”

“Madam Prime Minister, I beg to differ.” Buchanan, volume up. “This is about Canadian honour.”

“This is all about oil, gentlemen, and nothing about honour. You’ll go in there, and there’ll be a firefight — and let’s not pretend lives won’t be lost — and the Russians will have their excuse to invade. While you’re factoring in the Russian presence, add the Yanks and Brits — Anglo-Atlantic is their shared brat. Canada will be caught in the international crossfire. I will not see our country play the helpless stooge.”

From Ottawa, a sullen silence.

“I am ordering you to abort.”

Dear Hank ,

By my watch it is almost five a.m. I guess it was an airplane that awoke me, because I can still hear the drone of distant propellers to the south, over Bhashyistan .

I’ve scurried to the window but can’t see any aircraft, no lights moving in that cloudless sky. The sound is dimming, gone .

The excitement of making it to Siberia and freedom (a sort of freedom) is paling, and I’m feeling tension over what awaits our friends and rescuers camped below. Add to that the agony of waiting to get out of here, and waiting, waiting. We will be escorted to Omsk imminently, Colonel Letvinov keeps promising, then continues to ignore us .

Maxine and Ivy sleep on, but I am bundled into a quilt, staring out at the snowy barrens. They look so haunted and desolate under the silvery moon. Fires are burning in the Bhashyistan encampment. An occasional flick of a lighter below, where Russian sentries smoke and murmur .

Far away on the Siberian steppes, something else is sending darts of light — headlights, it looks like, a vehicle coming down the dusty road from Omsk .

I’ve nudged the window open, and I can hear the purr of its engine. Maybe someone has finally come to fetch us. Soon, Colonel Letvinov said. Soon. With repetition, that no longer seems a comforting word .

The vehicle has taken shape, a big black Lada, maybe a staff car … It has just rolled into the encampment, and … wow, it’s causing a huge stirring among the tents of the Bhashyistan resistance army …