Ally Oop Through the Ulysses Trees

  ****

  Toronto

  On the Islands

  Two days after Button Day

  "A fair wind," Damon Conch said, "and a following sea."

  John Height sighed with relief, happy to hear a quote that wasn't from Jimmy Buffet, although Damon had been using more Tom Lewis lines lately. He watched the edges of Western Gap slide by as Malifactor made the passage into Toronto harbor. To his left, he saw the towers of Toronto; to his right seagulls circled the Billy Bishop Airport. It was like coming through the best possible gate to the city. "Time to take the sails down and start the engine?" he asked, watching a ferry cross the harbour ahead of him.

  Damon looked around. "I just want to live happily ever after, every now and then." He looked happy at the moment, watching a Dash-7 take off.

  John took that as a "no," and, from the number of sailboats in the harbor, there didn't appear to be any problems ahead. He got out the chart and plotted a course across the bay to RCYC Island. "This place could be a little posh for us," he noted.

  Damon laughed. “You know Death will get you in the end, but if you are smart and have a sense of humor, you can thumb your nose at it for awhile.” He looked again at the skyline. "Al said we'd have a berth there, and as long as there's a space, we'll take advantage of it. Sailors ashore in Toronto; sounds like a plan to me."

  After dodging the island ferry, they turned on the diesel and chugged gently towards the island. John got out the hand-drawn sketch and, after a bit of dithering around, they got Malifactor alongside to the correct berth. A middle-aged woman with the RCYC logo and a blond ponytail watched them tie up. "Here's the big moment," John whispered. "Get out the paperwork." The Port Burwell Yacht Club didn't have a "Privilege of Anchorage" reciprocal agreement with the Royal Canadian Yacht Club. Actually, it had a reciprocal agreement only with the Port Dover Yacht Club, and that was strictly because of a common and unwritten drinking and carousing agreement there.

  "Welcome…." the woman began. Damon handed her a bunch of papers. She read them."Ah," she said, then smiled. "Well, as long as the Peterson boat's still at the bottom of the Bay of Quinte, he's not going to need this spot, and we do owe Al a favor. So, welcome to the RCYC." She held out a hand. "I'm Lina."

  Both men shook the hand. "About the docking fee…" Damon started.

  "I am so freakin' glad to see a gaff-rigged boat," Lina said, that I'm going to skip the docking fee, especially since you're only here for one night." She scowled at them. "No free beer, though."

  "Darn," John said.

  She squinted at the Malifactor. "An odd boat, if you don't mind me saying so. Almost historical. What's the story?"

  Damon started to say something, but John interrupted. "You don't want to get him started, unless you have all day. Basic fact is, Damon here badly abused his mast, and was offered the use of this rig if he'd use it in a historical re-enactment in the Thousand Islands next weekend. It looks historical enough to pass, with a few additions we plan to make when we get there."

  Lina nodded. "If you've got a cannon on board, try not to fire it at anything but the government buildings."

  "We've got a little cannon on board, a three-pounder, and some powder, but we're a little short on balls at the moment."

  Lina shook her head. "You sail this thing into the RCYC, you've got all the balls you need. You can buy me a beer if I see you after five in the clubhouse." She waved and went on to other business.

  Damon looked around at the other yachts and adjusted his captain's hat. "That turned out well. What now?"

  "I'm going to take the ferry into town. Want to come?"

  Damon shook his head. "I might do that later, but right now I want to just walk around the islands here. I've seen the city enough."

  "Suit yourself."

  Which is how Damon found himself strolling along the narrow streets of Ward's Island, warming to the little leased houses that lived from moment to moment with the threat of extinction, should Toronto decide it needed the land to expand the parkland.

  At a place with a little sign "Hatches' Corner Cottage," he came across nine people on the lawn of a house, looking like their world had come to an end. "Nice afternoon," he said, when a couple eyed him.

  One tall fellow said, obviously noticing Damon's captain's hat, "Got a sailboat we can borrow?" in a rather sarcastic voice.

  "Anything for a price, if you're going my way." Damon noticed that conversation came to an end right there. "But I'm going east along the lakeshore, and I'm not sure all of you could fit onto my boat anyway," he added with a laugh.

  "Popham Bay, near Presqu'ile point," a woman said.

  "Grew up near there. I go right by it. Leaving tomorrow morning." Damon was ready to go; this was starting to get silly. "But, as I said, my boat's a bit small for that sort of thing. You might be better to rent a car and drive to Brighton."

  There were looks around. One wrinkled fellow got out of a lawn chair and limped up to Damon. He fiddled in his jacket a couple of moments, and came out with a letter-sized envelope. He stared Damon in the face, and said, "Here are a couple of diamonds. That should pay for the trip. Unless you're too committed to some damn schedule or other."

  Damon looked totally flustered. “My voyage was never a well-conceived plan, nor will it ever be. I have made it up as I went along.”

  "Pardon?"

  "I… Well, my schedule's flexible, I guess." Damon looked around to see eight pair of eyes looking at him.

  "Take this envelope to Tony's Jewelry on King. Just west of Bay. Ask for Tony. Tell him Kristof sent you. Go. If you change your mind, come back and give the money to me. If there's a bit of pirate in you, then now's your chance."

  “Oh, I'm a pirate, just two hundred years too late.” There was silence, and Damon backed off, then walked to the ferry terminal.

  It was almost an hour later, in the heart of Toronto, that Damon managed to get a clerk to get Tony himself to the jewelry store counter. "Kristof sent me," Damon managed, before Tony could say anything. Damon took out the envelope and pushed it towards Tony.

  "Kristof? He sent you instead of coming himself?"

  "Actually, he did. He told me to ask for you."

  "And you just did it because he said to?"

  "If you decide to run the ball, just count on fumbling and getting the shit knocked out of you a lot, but never forget how much fun it is just to be able to run the ball!"

  "Pardon?"

  Damon shrugged. You're going to have to tell me what to do now, because I haven't got a clue."

  Tony opened the envelope and spent five minutes examining the two little stones that rolled out. To Damon they could have been quartz or glass, or any of a number of stones he collected as a kid.

  "Cash or cheque?" Tony asked.

  "Whichever is better for you."

  "We'll go with cash." Tony took the stones into the back room and came back two minutes later with a larger brown envelope. He took a pile of bills from the envelope and counted them in front of Damon. "Acceptable?" Tony asked.

  "Absolutely," Damon croaked, wishing there was some way he could chain the envelope to his private parts.

  Three hours later the Malifactor sailed out of Toronto Harbour, through the Eastern Gap, around Tommy Thomson Park, and into a light wind. Nine people, most of whom had never been on a sailboat before, broke into Damon's stash of bottled water and Gravol, and watched the shore go by in the late-afternoon sunlight.

  "I bet you're figuring you've got yourself into something totally illegal," Kristof said, when Damon handed him a beer.

  Damon hesitated. "I'd prefer you assure me that I won't end up in Millhaven, making license plates, but that's probably too much to ask."

  "But you did it anyway. It can't just be greed."

  “One of the inescapable encumbrances of leading an interesting life is that there have to be moments when you almost lose everything you own. The most likely scenario is you've got a boat waiting in Popham Ba
y to smuggle you into the States. This not the usual thing I do. Just saying."

  Kristoff thought a bit. "That makes sense, but the truth is stranger than that."

  "When will I get to know what this is all about?"

  "When we get to Popham Bay, I'll tell you everything."

  "Not a dangerous mission?"

  "Can't see how it can be." Kristof said.

  “I'd rather die while I'm living because I can't live while I'm dead. ”

  They sailed east through the evening, and into the night with a fine following wind.

  ***

  Back at the RCYC, a bewildered John Height had a conversation with Lina, over a burger and beer at the yacht club. "Did he say anything? Like where's he'd going, or why?"

  "Sort of."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said…" She looked up and had a sip of beer first, “The right combination of guilt and machismo has sent many a fool out into the jungle when he should have stayed home.” She looked at John. "Something like that."

  A sigh. "You got it right. Another Jimmy Buffet quote. I don't think it will help. Now what do I do?"

  "Well...."

  "Do I go home? Do I try to get to Kingston and meet him there." John frowned. "Maybe pick up a baseball bat on the way." He ate another bite of what was supposed to be a "Cheeseburger in Paradise," according to the menu. "On the other hand, I'll miss a couple of days of his Buffet quotes."

  "You could ask if he left you any written messages."

  John stopped eating, and rotated his head to the side a bit. "Did he?"

  Lina smiled and brought out a folded brown envelope from her purse. She passed it over to him.

  John removed the elastic and took out three things. The first was a check for one thousand dollars. The second was an ownership certificate for a one-year-old van, signed to him from one Katherine Szczedziwoj. The third was a note, in Damon's handwriting: "Sorry I had to leave so suddenly. Got some people to deliver. Meet me in Brighton at the Marina in Gosport. You own this van; now. It's parked at a lot near the ferry dock. If I couldn't laugh I just would go insane. If we couldn't laugh we just would go insane. If we weren't all crazy we would go insane. Damon."

  John took his time looking it over. "He's crazy."

  "Not as crazy as the nine people he took on that boat, I imagine. They didn't look like sailors."

  "Can I buy you anything more?" John asked.

  "Not to worry. Damon already tipped me enough to cover a lot of meals." She smiled. "You might want to catch the ferry before it gets dark."

  "Yeah. That would be a good idea."

  ****

  Ottawa and Washington

  By Phone

  Two days after Button Day

  "Ian! How's things in the frozen north?"

  "Well, Albee, I hear Washington's a little hot these days between your climate and the politics."

  "Pretty much as usual, I suppose. By October I may just flee up your way to regain my sanity."

  "Still got that place on McEachren Lake?"

  "Still there. I wish I were sitting on the dock, fishing and drinking beer right now. Unfortunately, nobody gets to fish this year."

  "So, what's on your mind?"

  "Well, the military and Homeland Security have a little favor to ask the fine citizens of Canada."

  "Shoot. Hm, in this day of predator drones, that term may no longer be appropriate."

  Albee laughed, not entirely sincerely. "I've been told – they tell me – that one of our classified, ah, flying, ah, assets went down in Lake Ontario a couple of decades ago. In a, in a, thunderstorm they tell me."

  "There's some rough weather over the lake sometimes."

  "Yeah, well, they lost track of it. Now they think it might be just offshore on your side of the lake." He hurried on. "It wasn't carrying weapons of any sort even though it was supposed to stay on our side of the water. But had, they think, some things that terrorists could make use of. It's an embarrassment, you know, in an election year. Homeland Security's uptight on this one, and you know how they've been since 9/11…."

  "I suppose…."

  Albee went on. "The current administration is friendlier to Canada than our opponents are, you know."

  "We know that, and appreciate it."

  "It might take only a few hours to get the wreck up from the bottom, once we get a barge in place. It would mean the world to the family of the, ah, two pilots who have been missing all these years. The, ah, kids have grown up, and the grandkids, not knowing where their fathers went."

  "How do you know your plane's down there. Have you been snooping?"

  "No. We just got some information on the side and a new computer analysis of the flight pattern."

  "Well, Albee, you know and I know that computers are only as good as the nerds programming them. We actually have scouted the site, and can put your mind at rest."

  "Pardon, Ian?"

  "Back in World War Two the area was used as a bombing run. Planes from Trenton Air Base flew over the lake and dropped smoke bombs onto the sands at Weller's Bay. Lost the odd plane."

  "Okay…"

  "One was a Stirling. That's an early British bomber. Very important in its time. Not a single one left any more; they were all scrapped when the Lancasters came out." Pause. "We've confirmed that that's the wreckage of a Stirling on the bottom of Popham Bay, if that's the area you're talking about."

  "Ah, yes, that's the area."

  "The historical societies and the current Minister of Defense have a keen interest in getting the hulk up for display." He chuckled. "If we find any of your planes down there, we'll notify you first thing."

  "Yeah, thanks. Hey, I'll get back to you."

  "Great. I'll keep you informed, then?"

  "We'd appreciate that. Do you want to talk to Homeland Security?"

  "I don't see why. Thanks for your interest. Goodbye."

  ***

  Ian turned to the two people next to him. "I don't know how long that'll hold them off. They're doing the 9/11 thing and threatening us with Homeland Security."

  "And we have to try to protect it against the Yanks?"

  "Unless it's time to change the rules." Ian pointed to the book beside him. Back in the 50's someone decided that if there were any aliens ever found, it would be idiotic to annoy them. No one's seen fit to change that rule yet."

  "You think antagonizing the Yanks would be better?"

  "A look at world history tells us that primitive groups that annoy more technologically advanced cultures disappear quickly."

  "What if it's not aliens?"

  "Then someone up high seems mighty concerned about something else."

  "Can we protect the site?"

  "We can try. But by the time we get approval, we'll be into the next millennium. Maybe we can think of something."

  "How's Oscar Copeman doing? He's supposed to be down that way, keeping an eye on things."

  A snort. "Seems to have been kidnapped, by US SEAL team, and taken to a basement in Toronto."

  "Really?"

  "You gotta wonder. I gather he broke out and is driving back to Brighton, even as we speak."

  ***

  Albee shook his head and rolled his eyes. "They've got a historical group against us."

  "You don't think it's an old bomber?" one of the others asked.

  "Odd shape for a bomber. No magnetic components. Even wooden sailing ships had some iron in them. What does that suggest to you?"

  "A Roswell?"

  "That's what it suggests to me. We have to at least consider the idea. Or a chameleon."

  "Chameleon?"

  "If you were going to hide on Earth, you'd want to disguise your ship as something that wouldn't arouse suspicion."

  "No wonder people are going apeshit."

  "If we don't get to it before the Canadians, we may never know."

  "What's the best option, you think?"

  "We've got a boat, Seas the Day, going there with a
sonar rig. Looks like a tourist boat. We can put a couple of SEALs with scuba gear to patrol the site."

  "Not too deep?"

  "Naw."

  "Can we arm them?"

  "With spearguns, at best. I'll check the fishing regulations."

  "Guess that'll have to do."

  "Any word on the team in Brighton."

  "Losers. Captured one guy, and he got loose."

  "Why would they do that?"

  "Beats me. Tried to capture another Canadian agent, and got the crap beat out of them."

  "Serves them right. Supposed to be just watching."

  "Maybe so, but they've assigned a couple of low-level agents to try to get the one guy back."

  "Well, if the Canadians are sending in agents that can escape custody and beat up SEALs, maybe there is something important there, after all."

  "Maybe."

  ****

  Toronto

  Highway 401

  Two days after Button Day

  “Great to be back in a civilized country,” Cope thought. It was just past two in the afternoon, muggy and overcast, and he was stuck in a rented Sebring on the expressway in Toronto.

  Ontario, when it was settled, spread just north of Lake Ontario in a long line of settlements. The major roads went through the settlements, and that included highway 401, first of the four-lane highways. At the time it was built, in the 1960’s, it had run north of Toronto.

  But Toronto had just kept growing, and now the 401, reaching sixteen lanes in width at points, was surrounded by the city.

  Locals called it a parking lot, but there wasn’t much choice in using it to get somewhere. A newer road, to the north, quickly became jammed almost as badly The new road, highway 407, was a toll road, and the tolls were levied by taking pictures of vehicle license plates as the cars entered and exited.

  Cope figured that he didn’t want anyone taking a picture of his car’s plates, just in case someone could follow him.

  So he’d taken the chance that the 401, in all its multi-lane glory, might be usable after lunch on a workday.

  Wrong. Traffic started backing up a few miles west of Toronto’s official border and soon stopped entirely. For an hour he’d been in the car, listening to the CBC and edging forward a little bit at a time, whenever the truck ahead of him moved.

  He was grateful that the rental car was an automatic; with a standard it would have been a constant shifting between neutral and first. To be a freelance trucker in this traffic, with your earnings dependent on delivery, would have been maddening, he thought. Especially when traffic made a significant move in one lane, say three car lengths. Then the truck would leave a space in front of it because trucks get going faster than cars and need to leave a bit of space to stop. Then some cowboy would take advantage of the little space in front of the truck, decide that the truck’s lane had a guardian angel, and try to get in front of the truck.