Flight of Freedom
© 1989 Lorne Laliberte
"...bel groups to stay away from the more densely populated areas. Four members of the east coast underground were reportedly executed yesterday, after the second rescue attempt failed. Anyone with information regarding the increase in Eye activity that led to their capture is asked to contact the nearest rebel group as soon as possible. Again, special thanks to our friends north of the border, who successfully executed another pickup this week. Good luck to any of you who do make it across -- this is Radio Free America, stay tuned..."
Static.
Mike switches off the radio and looks outside.
"It's getting dark," I say, and join her.
"Yeah." She sighs, a misty circle forms on the glass. Past the window, our little lake is covered in snow, frozen. There are icicles hanging from the roof, like on a Christmas postcard. "It looks so cold."
I glance at the thermometer outside, but it's covered with frost. Too cold? I ask myself, but I already know the answer.
We go outside for firewood, together. The crunch of snow under our boots is pleasing, and we linger on the way to the woodpile. It all seems so normal sometimes -- so much like before. It could be the same, if we would ignore what was happening. If there wasn't hope.
We walk back silently, both of us trying to absorb the peace of the outdoors, to record and preserve it, just in case. Love, I remember, is when silence between two people is comfortable.
We carry our armfulls of pine inside and stack them beside the wood stove. Mike checks her watch and claps her gloved hands together. "Time to go." I build up the fire as hot as I dare, then turn out the lights and follow her outside.
We walk down to the large shed on the wooden dock, almost completely hidden by trees except for the two large doors facing the lake. I open the small side door and close it behind me; I can hear Mike walking around the shed, outside. With a metallic "shlunk" she slides the bolt open and swings the heavy wooden doors apart.
The moonlight fills part of the shed and reveals the shape of our beloved aircraft, a deHavilland Twin Otter. Shelves full of tools and spare parts clutter the walls, and a dismantled engine rests on the bench beside me. I jump down and walk across the ice under the wing, release the tie-downs holding the plane to the dock and climb through the cargo door.
Mike's already settled into the pilot's seat. "All clear," I say, and sit down beside her. Both engines start to crank and soon they're purring steadily, the propellers pulling us slowly out between the doors. Mike confirms that all the control surfaces are responding normally, then advances the throttles. Halfway down the lake we're airborne as the skis leave the snow.
The dark forest rolls beneath us and Mike points us on a course the will take us south along the rockies. I settle down to the routine of watching the guages and keeping Mike awake. The fuel tanks are almost full; the nearest air field is owned by a rebel supporter, so we don't have to store our own fuel. Not everyone is happy to be handed over, despite what the papers say.
Handed over, I think. 'Canada remains a free democracy regardless of the political preferences of its neighbour.' That's what the Prime Minister said, right after they nuked Toronto. They said it was an accident in one of the reactors, like Chernobyl. But worst of all, people believed them. Sometimes I wonder if they really are ignorant, or if they're just scared. Either way, they've sold our souls.
We've passed over the border, now, and Mike brings us closer to the ground. We can't afford to be seen, we don't know what is waiting for us below.
I'm lucky to have found Mike. We teamed up out of necessity; she's an experienced bush pilot, and I was the chief mechanic for the same company. Whe we could bear the country's lies no longer, we moved to her father's cottage. We've been flying refugees over the border for Mayday even since.
We've almost reached our destination now, just south of the border. Mike squeezes my hand, then returns her hand to the controls. We married ourselves, eventually, with an old family Bible. Someday we might even have kids. But not now -- they deserve better than this.
I step carefully to the back, and slide open the cargo door. The wind bites at my face and I grab a handrail, holding tight. We're flying much lower now, dangerously low -- in the dark the trees are blurry silhouettes against the stars, dull reflections of moonlight streaking past. I anticipate a collision nervously, waiting for the impact that would send us crashing into the forest. All it takes is one tree, one random gust of wind...we drop suddenly as we pass the forest and Mike brings the plane around to land.
We run alongside the tree line, skis flattening the snow beneath us, and I train my eyes along the edge of the field. If they're there, they can hear us -- and if I don't see the signal, we leave. We can't afford to look back.
A light blinks, and I answer with my flashlight. "Okay, Mike, bring her in!" She throttles back the engines and turns toward the signal.
As we come to rest I count five people running our way. Two of them stumble and I'm out the door, running. The snow is deep but I make good progress. Within a minute I've reached the stragglers, a man and a woman. The woman's hurt her leg; I reach around and help her stand. The man takes her arm and we half-carry her through the snow. We're less than a hundred yards away now. The three others are already inside the plane, but there are voices behind us, and gunshots. The man screams and falls, pulling us down with him.
I look back and see three men in dark uniforms. One of them is firing a machine gun at the plane, but it's turning away, Mike is taking off. The man underneath us is dead and we climb over him. The woman is trying to run with me -- thank God she isn't screaming -- but the men with guns have stopped firing. I hear the sound of the plane's engines fade, so Mike is safe.
Gunshots again, and now the woman screams, and there's blood where I'm holding her, there's blood all over me, but it's not mine. She falls but I can't stop, I can't turn back, so I keep running into the forest, all I can do is run.
There is less snow, I can run more easily here. But to where? I stop and catch my breath. The soldiers are inspecting the woman's body.
I've got to hide.
I try to remember what I saw fromt he air, but it's no use; it was too dark to see anything. There are only two soldiers with the body, now. I can't see where the third soldier is.
I hear a noise growing, a low rumble, then a hum, and I recognize the sound of my airplane. The two soldiers recognize it also, and one of them begins firing into the sky. The plane passes low over the field, and I see that the door is open, and that someone is kneeling inside.
One soldier falls at the sharp crack of a rifle, and two more shots drop the second. I watch from the forest as the plane lands and stoprs in the field ahead. A man I recognize as one of the refugees climbs out, carrying the rifle I keep stowed in the plane. A smile bends my lips and I realize that I've just been rescued.
I'm about to step out of cover when I hear the snow crunch behind me. I drop to my side in time to see a knife flash past my face, then I'm back on my feet, face to face with the third soldier.
I back away, circling to keep a tree between us. My eyes are fixed on the knife, and I know what one bad move right now would mean.
I dodge the knife again, and this time the soldier's momentum throws him off balance and he crashes into me. We tumble to the ground, and the knife falls between us. As he dives for it I kick him in the side of the head, and he rolls away, groaning. Before he can get up I'm on top of him, hitting him as hard as I can. He pushes me away and runs for the knife, but I trip him and he falls short.
I grab the knife and tower over him. My arm flies back, ready to strike, and I see the fear in his eyes. I feel a surge of adrenalin and grab the soldier by his jacket. This, I think, this is power! And suddenly I realize that I can take this life, no one is watching, it's as easy as that.
And for the first time I look closely at the soldier and see that he's just a boy, not more than eighteen. And I see that he's crying, openly, as though he were just waking from some unspeakable nightmare.
When I step out of the bush and head toward the waiting plane, there's a young man, scared, walking with me. You see, there are two kinds of freedoms:
The freedom to take a life...
...and the freedom to save one.