get ready for what’s coming.’”
“A twist of fate,” said Dane. He indicated the newspaper on his desk. It had been folded back to the Life magazine shot of Joe shooting at the Zero.
“Your grandpa fly Spits?”
“Halifax bombers.”
“So he was one of Bomber Harris’s boys?”
“From ’42 on.”
“Where’d he see action?”
“All over the map. In the Battle of the Atlantic, he took part in the Channel Dash and the destruction of the warship Gneisenau. Over the Third Reich, he was in on the Thousand Bomber Raids. Then he was in NorthAfrica in the months leading up to Monty’s victory over the Desert Fox at the Battle of El Alamein.”
“I’d like to meet him,” Joe said.
“He died recently.”
“Sorry to hear. We’re all dying off, us old vets. That, no doubt, is why they asked me to speak at the con.”
“Well, you were in on some pretty big stuff.”
“Dresden?” said Joe. “Did your grandpa fly that raid?”
“No,” replied Dane. “He missed that. Got shot down in the raid on the V-2 missile factory at Peenemünde in August 1943. He spent the rest of the war in a POW camp.”
“He was lucky,” Joe said. “That was overkill. No warrior should have to carry Dresden guilt.”
They were interrupted by the ringing of the phone on Dane’s desk.
“Sergeant Winter,” he answered.
The conversation was brief.
When he hung up, Dane turned to Jackie and said, “Sorry to rain on your parade, but the chief wants us in his office.”
“Red, Dad,” she said, “these are the keys to the car. You’re on your own for a while. I’ll draw you a map of the scenic route to the convention hotel, and I’ll explain how to get around Point Grey to the airport if you want to check out the plane.”
“Plane?” said Dane.
“The fireworks. Tomorrow night.”
“Right,” he said. “I forgot. Tomorrow’s Halloween.”
Hung along the left-hand wall of the wide staircase that angled up to the chief’s office were paintings and photographs that depicted the history of the RCMP from its formation in 1873 through to the present day. The Special External Section of Canada’s national police—Special X, for short—investigated criminal cases with links to other countries. Cops from forces around the world climbed these steps, and the powers that be wanted to leave each one with the impression that—as the unofficial motto goes—“The Mounties always get their man.”
To be successful, you must look successful.
Promotion sells.
“What happened at Dresden?” Jackie asked as she and Dane went up the stairs.
“I caught that too.”
“Caught what?”
“Your granddad is haunted.”
“He didn’t used to be. He was the ultra-patriot. But he’s lost moral certainty over the years.”
“Since when?”
“Vietnam. That was the start. He bought into the government’s lie that we were fighting Communists, and he couldn’t understand why we got our asses whipped. At least, not until he learned that Ho Chi Minh had issued his declaration of independence from French colonial rule in 1945. Red saw then that we had stepped into France’s shoes. The fact that Ho was a Communist was about as relevant as Jefferson owning slaves. The crux was that both men were ardent nationalists. So we ended up tryingto suppress an independence movement, just as the Brits did in the Revolution. With the same result.”
“I think it’s more than that.”
“It is,” said Jackie. “But that’s part of it. My dad got shot twice in Vietnam. He almost didn’t make it. My granddad’s disillusionment stems from having nearly lost his only son for a lie.”
“Then Iraq?”
“Don’t get him started on that! But what really shook him was the revelation that President Truman had kept a secret journal at the Potsdam Conference in 1945. Seven years after Truman’s death, it finally came to light.”
Having reached the landing at the top of the stairs, they knocked on the chief’s
“A twist of fate,” said Dane. He indicated the newspaper on his desk. It had been folded back to the Life magazine shot of Joe shooting at the Zero.
“Your grandpa fly Spits?”
“Halifax bombers.”
“So he was one of Bomber Harris’s boys?”
“From ’42 on.”
“Where’d he see action?”
“All over the map. In the Battle of the Atlantic, he took part in the Channel Dash and the destruction of the warship Gneisenau. Over the Third Reich, he was in on the Thousand Bomber Raids. Then he was in NorthAfrica in the months leading up to Monty’s victory over the Desert Fox at the Battle of El Alamein.”
“I’d like to meet him,” Joe said.
“He died recently.”
“Sorry to hear. We’re all dying off, us old vets. That, no doubt, is why they asked me to speak at the con.”
“Well, you were in on some pretty big stuff.”
“Dresden?” said Joe. “Did your grandpa fly that raid?”
“No,” replied Dane. “He missed that. Got shot down in the raid on the V-2 missile factory at Peenemünde in August 1943. He spent the rest of the war in a POW camp.”
“He was lucky,” Joe said. “That was overkill. No warrior should have to carry Dresden guilt.”
They were interrupted by the ringing of the phone on Dane’s desk.
“Sergeant Winter,” he answered.
The conversation was brief.
When he hung up, Dane turned to Jackie and said, “Sorry to rain on your parade, but the chief wants us in his office.”
“Red, Dad,” she said, “these are the keys to the car. You’re on your own for a while. I’ll draw you a map of the scenic route to the convention hotel, and I’ll explain how to get around Point Grey to the airport if you want to check out the plane.”
“Plane?” said Dane.
“The fireworks. Tomorrow night.”
“Right,” he said. “I forgot. Tomorrow’s Halloween.”
Hung along the left-hand wall of the wide staircase that angled up to the chief’s office were paintings and photographs that depicted the history of the RCMP from its formation in 1873 through to the present day. The Special External Section of Canada’s national police—Special X, for short—investigated criminal cases with links to other countries. Cops from forces around the world climbed these steps, and the powers that be wanted to leave each one with the impression that—as the unofficial motto goes—“The Mounties always get their man.”
To be successful, you must look successful.
Promotion sells.
“What happened at Dresden?” Jackie asked as she and Dane went up the stairs.
“I caught that too.”
“Caught what?”
“Your granddad is haunted.”
“He didn’t used to be. He was the ultra-patriot. But he’s lost moral certainty over the years.”
“Since when?”
“Vietnam. That was the start. He bought into the government’s lie that we were fighting Communists, and he couldn’t understand why we got our asses whipped. At least, not until he learned that Ho Chi Minh had issued his declaration of independence from French colonial rule in 1945. Red saw then that we had stepped into France’s shoes. The fact that Ho was a Communist was about as relevant as Jefferson owning slaves. The crux was that both men were ardent nationalists. So we ended up tryingto suppress an independence movement, just as the Brits did in the Revolution. With the same result.”
“I think it’s more than that.”
“It is,” said Jackie. “But that’s part of it. My dad got shot twice in Vietnam. He almost didn’t make it. My granddad’s disillusionment stems from having nearly lost his only son for a lie.”
“Then Iraq?”
“Don’t get him started on that! But what really shook him was the revelation that President Truman had kept a secret journal at the Potsdam Conference in 1945. Seven years after Truman’s death, it finally came to light.”
Having reached the landing at the top of the stairs, they knocked on the chief’s
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