Pressed well back in the seat, Savard glanced over the starboard side of the fuselage as the Orenda II engines pushed the Canadian-built fighter-interceptor through the cool northern air at a climbing rate of seven thousand feet per second. The stinging rays of the midnight sun penetrated through the perspex of the canopy. The navigator could see the endless landscape of thick forest and countless lakes below.
Scott pressed the UHF transmitter button. “PINETREE, WHISKEY-MIKE-ZERO-ONE ON TWO-TWO, HEADING ZERO-THREE-ZERO, CLIMBING TO ANGELS THREE-FIVE.”
“ROGER, WHISKEY-MIKE-ZERO-ONE. I READ YOU FIVE SQUARE. HOW ME?”
“PINETREE, WHISKEY-MIKE-ZERO-ONE, FIVE BY FIVE. ARE WE PLAYING TONIGHT OR WORKING?”
“WORKING, I’M SORRY TO SAY. TURN STARBOARD TO ZERO-SIX-EIGHT. BUSTER. I REPEAT, BUSTER. AN
