A Richard Rohmer Omnibus, page 23
Into the microphone in his right hand, de Gaspé said, still with a cool unbroken voice, “Reception leader to all Blueforce aircraft. I repeat, you are not to disembark any troops, and all aircraft still airborne are to land. Aircraft on the ground are to keep rolling toward the parking ramps at Terminals One and Two. Follow the ‘Follow Me’ vehicle in front of you, Blueforce leader. You will be marshalled by ground personnel when you get there.”
The American leader did not acknowledge de Gaspé. Instead his agitated voice was heard calling, “Blueforce leader to all helicopters – turn back, turn back.”
Toronto radar’s voice again. “I’m tracking one aircraft about three miles south doing a 180 degree turn toward the lake.”
De Gaspé rushed to the south window and tried to find the turning aircraft, but couldn’t. Back to his communications microphone, he barked, “Shepherd, one of them is doing a 180 toward the lake. He should be just to the south of you.”
Shepherd was back immediately. “I’ve got him, sir.”
“Then fire! Fire!”
“Firing, sir! Firing!” Shepherd acknowledged.
Walnek protested. “Shouldn’t you have given them another warning?”
Hercules
Starlifter
De Gaspé shook his head. “No way. They’ve had their warning. Things are moving too fast.”
Again de Gaspé was back to the American leader. “Blue-leader, this is Reception leader. Will you please give me the frequency your fighter squadrons are on? We’ve been trying to pick it up and can’t.”
At that instant – just as the words “They’re on emergency radar frequency 121.5” came back – the darkening sky to the south of the airport lit up like instant sunlight as the massive warhead of Shepherd’s Rapier missile detonated on contact with the inboard port engine of the enormous fuel-, man-, and equipment-laden Hercules. The explosives in the warhead, coupled with the thousands of gallons of jetfuel ignited by the blast, created an enormous orange meteor of flame, spreading a trail of engines, bodies, and pieces of the aircraft as it disintegrated in the centre core of the inferno.
Walnek watched with disbelief, shaking his head from side to side. But de Gaspé was concentrating on his next critical move.
“Mr. Walnek, give me 121.5 as quickly as you can.”
Walnek reached out to the selector switch on his panel, turned to the 121.5 frequency and gave de Gaspé a quick thumbs-up signal.
De Gaspé looked out the control tower windows through 360 degrees, looking hard for the fighter squadrons. He said tersely to Walnek, “I’m going to talk to the fighters. While I’m doing that, ask radar to tell you where they are. I can’t see them.”
Then he spoke into his tower microphone. “USAF fighter squadron leaders, this is the Canadian military commander at Toronto International – Reception leader. I will not ask you to acknowledge until I am finished. All of your transport aircraft assigned to Toronto International have landed or are in the process of landing. As at this moment, they are not yet prisoners of war and are still open to attack by my forces in the event they commit any further hostile actions contrary to my instructions.
F4 Phantom
“I have already been forced to destroy two of them. I do not know what your instructions are about strafing or bombing in support of your troops or transport aircraft, but I will tell you this … the moment you commence an attack on any one of my ground positions, I will immediately order my missile people to destroy you and every one of your transport aircraft, whether in the air or on the ground.”
Walnek had shoved a sketch in front of him showing the location of the four fighter squadrons – about forty-eight aircraft. The diagram hastily drawn by Walnek showed that the four squadrons had apparently made a rendezvous at the Kleinberg VOR* station fifteen miles north of the Toronto International Airport, and the lead squadron had just left that location headed directly for the airport, with the second, third, and fourth squadrons following with two-mile intervals between them. It was obvious to de Gaspé that this formation was set up for strafing and bombing so that the first squadron could make its attack and clear before the next wave came in. Another minute and a half and the first wave would be on top of them.
Back to the microphone. “Reception leader to the lead USAF fighter squadron commander. Have you copied my message?”
The response was immediate. The voice coming through the loudspeaker was angry and venomous, “Yes, I have, you blackmailing bastard.”
De Gaspé half shouted into his microphone, “My instructions to you are to break off immediately and to return to your bases. I give you ten seconds to acknowledge in the affirmative and to commence your break-off by a turn to the starboard.”
De Gaspé barked into his command communications microphone in his left hand, still pressing the switch on his tower transmitter so the fighters could hear, “All missile commanders, standby, standby! There are four fighter squadrons approaching from the north at low level. If the fighter squadrons do not break off in ten seconds, I will give the order to fire on all aircraft on the ground and in the air. All Rapiers track the fighters. Standby one!”
De Gaspé’s eyes went to the huge second sweeping clock in the control tower as he measured the last five seconds of the response time he had given the lead American squadron commander.
On the ninth second, it came. “Number one squadron is breaking off and returning to base. Turning starboard now.”
Then a new voice. “Number two squadron following.”
Then another. “Number three squadron following.”
And the final. “Number four squadron following.”
Radar’s voice came through strong and clear. “All squadrons are turning west, turning west.”
De Gaspé could see them now, very low, as the lead squadron was part way through its turn to the west. It was no more than half a mile to the north of the Toronto International Airport, just beyond Malton, the swept back wings of its twelve F4 Phantom aircraft glitteringly etched against the crimson sky and the sun just disappearing below the horizon.
De Gaspé’s shoulders seemed to sag slightly as the high pressure of that moment of tension was eased.
‘Reception leader to missile commanders. The fighter squadrons have broken off. Maintain watch on all aircraft on the ground and inbound.”
Walnek turned to him and said, “We have thirty-eight aircraft on the ground, two destroyed, and radar informs we’ve got another twenty inbound.”
De Gaspé looked at his watch. “Could you split them and bring half in on Runway 5 Right and the other half on Runway 5 Left? If you could do that we could speed up the landing time considerably.”
Walnek checked the wind direction and speed, and replied. “Yeah. The wind is now zero three zero at about twelve, so these big birds should have no problem.”
Into his microphone Walnek said, “The three USAF aircraft on final for 32 below seventeen hundred feet indicated are to continue on final for 32 and land. The remaining aircraft above seventeen hundred feet indicated will turn port downwind for landings on Runway 5 Right and Runway 5 Left. The number one aircraft will take 5 Left, the number two aircraft 5 Right, and the remaining aircraft will alternate accordingly. It is not necessary to acknowledge this transmission except if you have any questions or difficulty.”
Silence followed Walnek’s instructions, and de Gaspé could see the fourth aircraft in the landing line begin a slow turn to its left toward the west. The landing lights of the aircraft following it began the westward turn almost in unison.
Walnek nodded affirmatively. “They’ve got it.”
De Gaspé paused for a moment to take a look at the incredible sight spread out in front of him. At the far eastern end of the Terminal Two ramp, he could see the flashing navigation lights of Blueforce leader’s aircraft becoming brighter as darkness descended. He could still see the aircraft clearly as it was being led to its parking position by the ground control vehicle, the red signal light on its roof flashing insistently.
Strung out behind the leader in an unending line from Terminal Two westerly around the Terminal One ramp, and north along Taxiway Romeo to the exit points from the northerly end of 32, stretched the long line of the huge Star-lifters and Hercules moved slowly. Their green and red navigation lights and flashing white strobes looked to de Gaspé like a string of Christmas lights as they passed by the darkened Terminal One. He wondered whether the crews on board the American transports could see the muzzles of the guns and missiles trained on them from the parking levels above the terminal.
“Reception leader to Blueforce leader.”
“Blueforce leader, go,” came the American General’s response.
“When you have been marshalled and parked, sir, and this applies to all Blueforce aircraft, you are to remain inside your aircraft. No one, I repeat, no one, is to open a door, lower a ramp, or in any way attempt to disembark from any of your aircraft. When you have shut down, you will continue to monitor Toronto Tower for further instructions.”
Blueforce leader repeated the instructions de Gaspé had given him, and then proceeded to get a copy check from all his aircraft by asking them to acknowledge by their numbers in sequence. He knew that the Canadian military commander’s instructions were crucial for the safety of each aircraft and its crew and passengers, so no chance could be taken that one of the crews had missed the instructions.
While this check was going on, Colonel de Gaspé reported to the commander at Mobile Command at the operations room at St. Hubert.
General Christie was delighted. “Excellent, Pierre, excellent. We’ve got them at Downsview, and here at St. Hubert, and at Dorval and right across the country, but yours is the only place that had to take a shot at them. American troops and vehicles started to move across the bridges along the Great Lakes system, so we blew sections of them as planned. That stopped them right in their tracks. They didn’t try to come through the tunnel at Windsor though. Guess they knew that if it was blown, it would be a real deathtrap.
“So we’ve stopped them for the moment in the East. Reception Party has worked right across the board. Winnipeg, Edmonton, Calgary, Vancouver, Cold Lake, everywhere. They made their landings simultaneously almost to the minute. If they had staggered their timing, then the first ones in could have warned the others across the country, but they didn’t plan it that way. Strange.”
De Gaspé asked, “What about their ground movements in the West, sir?”
“I haven’t got a reading on that yet. They should be hitting our roadblocks starting in about twenty minutes. The air landings began twenty-four minutes ago, so it will be pretty close to an hour before they reach our people in Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta. Intelligence informs us they’re on the move there, but apparently no attempt has been made to move in by land into British Columbia.”
Christie broke off, “Sorry. Must go, Pierre. The CDS wants me to give him my report so he can brief the Prime Minister. Keep up the good work.”
* VOR – VHF omni-directional Range.
Washington
Tuesday, October 6, 1980, 7:12 P.M.
The atmosphere in the Oval Office of the White House was tense. The President, white hair dishevelled, suit-coat off, tie unloosened at the neck, sat at his desk. He was reading a report which had just been brought to him and at the same time keeping his ear tuned to the television set, listening to the news reports and commentary on his speech and the progress of the annexation of Canada.
Sitting on the edge of the couch to the right of the President’s desk was Irving Wolf, his Secretary of State, the man whose advice and strategies had brought him to this moment of confrontation with the Canadians. Wolf had drafted the original ultimatum and had convinced the reluctant President of its value. Wolf sat now, head down, gaze on the floor, his nose between his two index fingers, as he listened to the television announcer.
Pacing back and forth, but out of the President’s and Wolf’s line of sight, was the Secretary of Defence, J. William Crisp, a round man of medium height and age. Crisp had been a naval hero during the Korean War, and had caught the President’s eye many years ago. The financial support he had provided had greatly helped the President during his campaign.
As an industrialist from the Midwest, Crisp knew nothing at all about Canada, except that it lay to the north of the United States and had a lot of oil and natural gas – gas that was desperately needed by the United States. Mostly it was American money that had discovered it. The country, so far as he knew, was still run by England and the Queen. It had no defence force except a Regular Force of 50,000, of which maybe 5,000 at the outside might be combat trained, and a nondescript Reserve Force of about 30,000, most of whom were militia troops, with about 1,200 Air Reservists made up of eight squadrons, flying – and Crisp wouldn’t believe it when he was briefed – single-engine Otters, an antique light transport aircraft produced in Canada in the 1950’s, and a handful of Second World War DC3s.
When Crisp had received the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for Operation Northland, he was forced by his own ignorance of Canada to rely totally on the battle plan they submitted. Unfortunately for Crisp, while the Joint Chiefs of Staff and their immediate staff had the military and logistic statistics on Canada, their general attitude toward Canada and their knowledge of the country, its people, its government, and its background were similar to those of Crisp himself.
Operation Northland had been based on the thesis that the Canadians had no real defence force and that, in any event, Canada would welcome the Americans and capitulate immediately without a fight.
Since the President was right in the middle of a heavy campaign for re-election, he was also concerned about the reaction of American multi-national corporations to any destruction of their Canadian investments. This factor weighed heavily on Crisp’s thinking when he approved the walk-ride-fly-in approach submitted by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and rejected their proposal for an all-out paratroop and “Heliborne” assault for openers.
So, if Operation Northland failed, J. William Crisp, as Secretary of Defence, would be the first one to carry the can and be fired, but it would be the President, the Commander-in-Chief of all United States forces, who would take the responsibility.
By 7:12, the three men in the Oval Office of the White House knew they had failed, that the Canadians had been totally misjudged, and that all 228 Starlifters and Hercules and the over 15,000 men on board this great air armada were at this moment trapped in their aircraft on airfields all across Canada.
News of their capture had not yet reached the media and had not come across in the television bulletins, but the President and the two men in the room with him knew, and they knew it was total disaster for them.
The conversations between the military commanders at all Canadian commercial and military bases and the air commander assigned to each had been fully monitored by the U.S. Federal Aeronautics Authority and military controllers. The sequence of the landing actions had been reported by the commanders of the covering fighter squadrons. All of them had been ordered not to strafe, bomb, or use their missiles except in the event of Canadian attack on the transport aircraft, which was the situation at Toronto.
Using these monitored reports, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) had kept the President informed on open line from the Pentagon. A final call from the JCS Chairman confirmed the worst. All aircraft and airtroops had been captured. Only the following helicopters had been able to turn back before they came into missile range. The bridges on the Great Lakes system had been blown. The only possible hope was that the tank and armoured car columns which had crossed the western U.S./Canadian border east of the Rockies might achieve their objectives and take the major Canadian cities there.
As he listened to the chairman of the JCS certifying the Canadian coup, the President shook his head in disbelief.
“General, how in God’s name could you have misread the situation so badly?” With that he transfixed Crisp with a look that stopped him right in his tracks. “Do you realize we’ll be the laughing stock of the world? Now listen to this one carefully, General. I want the answer in ten minutes, and it had better be good. The question is simple. What do we do next?” He slammed on the phone, and looked again at Crisp.
The President shouted a fast resumé of the disastrous news from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. His voice rising, he shouted even louder.
“For Christ sake, how could you people have been so stupid? Sure, the Canadians have a small force. It’s next to nothing. Sure, our forefathers all got off the same boat. Sure, we speak the same language, and sure, the United States owns most of the country. But those people have a fighting record in the First World War and the Second World War like you wouldn’t believe. Crisp, why the hell didn’t you have our fighters clean out the airfields with bombs and rockets before transports went in? And what happened to our intelligence people? Didn’t they report any troop movements? And how in God’s name did we fail to track the RAF transport aircraft bringing the commandos and paratroopers across? Your people in the Pentagon are stupid beyond belief!”
The President turned in his chair and stabbed his left hand toward a map of Canada that had been hastily draped over a briefing board brought into the office. “And what about our troops moving across the border into the Canadian West?” he shouted, “I know what’s going to happen to them and I know what’s going to happen to us. The Canadians are going to stop us cold. Not by troops, not by weapons, but by the Prime Minister calling me on that goddamn phone, that red phone right there. Look at it! He’s going to call me, and he’s going to say, if your tanks, armoured vehicles, personnel carriers, anything – if they go beyond point X, you can kiss your troops sitting in their metal capsules at airports all across Canada GOODBYE!” The President pounded the desk with his fist in total anger.
