Court Martial

By Geoff Craven

Geoff Craven’s 30 years in the Canadian Forces (of which the first 20 years were spent in the Navy as a pilot and ship-driver) qualify him to write knowledgeably and authentically about flying from Canada’s naval aircraft carriers in the Cold War years.  His subsequent career in the Public Service and consulting for major defence and information technology contractors gave him detailed knowledge of the Canadian government’s complex procurement processes; and as a project manager for Expo 86, Craven is well aware of the pitfalls lying in wait for project managers.  Court Martial, his first book, starts with the excitement of aircraft carrier flying operations and builds dramatically through a major aircraft replacement competition to the Kafkaesque military trial of Craven’s protagonist – a brilliant but arrogant naval project manager.  Complexities of the trial and its denouement provide unforgettable psycho-drama.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff Craven
• Release date: Sep 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536513097

Geoff Craven

Geoff Craven joined the Royal Canadian Navy in Victoria BC as a University cadet in 1950. Trained as a naval pilot, he flew patrol and fighter aircraft on board the Canadian aircraft carriers Magnificent and Bonaventure in the 1950s and 1960s. He commanded Maritime Patrol Squadron 405 at Greenwood NS from 1972 to 1975. A graduate of the Canadian Forces Staff College and the United States Naval War College, Geoff was promoted to Colonel and appointed Senior Air Evaluator in National Defence Headquarters in Ottawa in 1978. In 1980 Geoff resigned from the Canadian Forces and accepted a senior position in the Public Service of Canada. In 1988 he retired from the Public Service to establish Craven Associates, providing defence contracting and software marketing services to Executive Consultants Limited, Burson-Marsteller, and InterCon Consultants of Ottawa. In 1997 Craven Associates was purchased by GPC Government Policy Consultants of Ottawa. Geoff retired in 2000. From 2001 to 2006 Geoff served on the Communications and Arts and Heritage Committees of the Victoria Foundation, of which he is an Honorary Governor. He is married with four children and four grandchildren.

Book preview

Prologue

In the last decades of the twentieth century project managers developed methods for keeping their jobs, surviving bureaucratic wars, and detecting and preventing threats to their projects. They divided their work into six phases: Enthusiasm, Apprehension, Panic, Search for the Guilty, Punishment of the Innocent, Praise and Honours for Non-Participants. Knowing what to expect made project managers’ jobs seem easier; they could say to each other See – I told you so. Describing the six phases of a multi-million-dollar Canadian naval fighter aircraft acquisition which might have taken place in the 1960s, this book is dedicated to all past, present and future project managers. Though striking, any perceived likenesses between the protagonists and managers involved in real projects then or now is unintentional and entirely coincidental.

The manager of this project made mistakes which resulted in his court martial, a career-limiting event all military officers try to avoid. Among other obstacles put in his path was a ‘honeytrap’ – security-speak for a young woman who involves herself in the project by exercising her charms (not an uncommon event when big money is at stake). I owe much of the atmosphere and drama of the court martial to my brief experience as Officer of the Court and Friend of the Accused at two courts martial, as president of a Board of Inquiry, and to Albert Camus’ description of his mother’s funeral in his book l’Etranger. While participating in Canadian government competition processes I benefited greatly from mentoring by three professional government relations consultants, partners in one of Ottawa’s first and foremost lobbying companies; and experience working with Canadian subsidiaries of major US and UK aircraft manufacturers who were my clients.

A note of historical interest: the Holy Grail Report to which Commander Prescott refers in Chapter One was a definitive study of fifteen high-performance fighter aircraft the Department of National Defence considered for replacement of the Royal Canadian Navy’s F2H3 Banshee aircraft operating in the late 1950s and early 1960s. The Holy Grail team found three to be acceptable: Douglas’s A4 Skyhawk, North American Aviation’s FJ Fury, and Northrop’s CF5. Financial considerations precluded the government from buying new aircraft, and the Navy’s obsolete Banshees were removed from service in 1962. If another decision had been made, the competition project described herein might have occurred.

I apologize to non-aviators for tedious details of flying in some chapters of this book; I wanted to describe accurately the techniques, atmosphere, sensations, language, risk and adrenalin which characterize high-performance naval aircraft operations at sea and ashore. I have taken some liberties in chronology and in simplifying the organization of the Canadian military and the Ottawa federal bureaucracy; I hope my former colleagues will forgive me.

G. Craven, November 2015

Douglas A4 being hoisted aboard HMCS Bonaventure by the ship’s crane.

Phase One. Enthusiasm

CHAPTER ONE

"There must be a beginning of any great matter,

but the continuing unto the end until it be thoroughly finished

yields the true glory."

Sir Francis Drake, 1540-1596

On a rainy winter morning in January1964 Commander Michael Prescott sat at his desk in the Royal Canadian Navy’s Pacific headquarters speculating on the reasons why he was being called up to National Defence Headquarters in Ottawa. Christmas and New Year holidays were over last week and postings usually weren’t finalized until spring. Anyway, he’d already told his career manager his posting preferences and anything to do with a new job could have been resolved over the telephone. His summons to Ottawa from Victoria had been classed as Urgent which had seemed odd as well, but would help justify a return airline ticket.

Prescott picked up his telephone and dialled 2715, the Chief of Staff’s extension.

Mary, if Captain Davis isn’t busy could I have a few minutes with him?

Mary asked why he wasn’t bursting through her door unannounced as usual, then told him to come on upstairs.

Captain Ron Davis, Chief of Staff to the Admiral, sat back in his armchair professing ignorance. I don’t know why you’re needed in the head shed, Michael, but you can take advantage of a visit to Ottawa to see the Combat Systems guys, ask them about our new broad-band jammers. Oh, and when you’re in Personnel, ask them what priority we have for more combat systems engineers, will you? You’d better take your greatcoat and mukluks, though!

Davis laughed happily at the thought of Prescott in Ottawa in the middle of winter. Mary, get us some coffee, please!

This was highly unsatisfactory. Michael had no intention of appearing before an Air Commodore in Ottawa without knowing why he was being summoned. Impatiently he asked Davis for his agreement to some changes to ship and aircraft operational deployments. After a few more minutes of somewhat desultory conversation he finished his coffee and left Davis’ office, grinning at Mary on the way out. See you later, you gorgeous creature. Mary blushed and looked away from the tall, heavy-set officer. Whenever Commander Prescott spoke to her she had to fan herself afterward.

Back in his office, Michael direct-dialled his friend and Royal Military College classmate Bob Turner, former commanding officer of the destroyer HMCS Terra Nova. Last summer, much to his disappointment, Bob had been posted to Ottawa in the Personnel directorate and still complained about his transition from ship-driver to staff officer.

Jeez, question not the orders of us supermen in the Headquarters, Michael. Who knows, soon you may be one of us! No no, I don’t know, the boss hasn’t told us what he wants to see you about. What’s more he hasn’t told anyone else either so there’s no point going around his or my back to his secretary. Jenny learned to be close-mouthed before the turn of the century. By the way, congratulations on handling the Hawaii exercises so well – not bad for an aviator.

They exchanged remarks about Bob’s successor and the destroyer Terra Nova’s workups which reflected credit mostly on her former commanding officer. After wishing Bob and his wife a happy New Year, Michael hung up the telephone, breathed Gotcha! and dialled Bill Pinkus at the boat-shed.

Commissioned Officer Pinkus please, Commander Prescott speaking. Hello Bill? Listen you old sinner, you owe me one. Jenny Peters – come on, don’t go mushy on me, it’s too early in the morning, and surely she puts her panties on one leg at a time even in Ottawa – Jenny’s boss wants to see me. Only the two of them know why.

More’n likely they’re convening your court martial, boss! Pinkus observed.

Well, that’s one way to get promoted. Look Bill, seeing as how I’m the greatest leader since Nelson, call Jenny and tell her you want to come and work for me. That should generate something about my visit to Ottawa, maybe when or where I’m being posted. But don’t say anything about me asking. How about it? Pinkus tried to get out of it but eventually he agreed to call Jenny and find out what was going on.

The results of this intelligence collection strategy were highly satisfactory. Over a beer at the Naden wardroom that evening Bill told Michael that Jenny was still the light of his life, and had let slip the fact that Cabinet had approved the Defence Department’s recommendation to replace the Navy’s old McDonnell Banshee fighter aircraft. When Bill mentioned Prescott’s name to her she had acknowledged his forthcoming visit to Ottawa, but said that even her boss Air Commodore Allford didn’t seem to know the reason for the visit; he would be taking Prescott in to see an Assistant Deputy Minister. Jenny had said she didn’t know which one and refused to tell Pinkus anything more.

Michael thanked Pinkus and agreed that their score was even. Almost as an afterthought Michael offered him two years in the dockyard headquarters building as Staff Officer Small Craft, which Bill jumped at. Michael would set up Bill’s posting when he visited the Personnel directorate in Ottawa. Pinkus happily ordered two more beers.

Prescott tilted his seat back, enjoying the comforts of business class seating in Air Canada’s DC-8 non-stop flight from Vancouver to Ottawa. Having just hung up his blue uniform coat and cap in the crew space, the stewardess brought him a second orange juice with his breakfast, making a mental note to come back and talk to the big naval officer later.

He hadn’t had any difficulty convincing the travel clerk at Canadian Forces Base Esquimalt that he was too tall to sit in the regular seats in the rear of the aircraft. His size and naval uniform were usually enough to convince Canadian Forces travel clerks (especially women) that his commercial air ticket should be upgraded to business class.

Travel funds were limited toward the end of the fiscal year and he had been prepared to sweet-talk the clerk. He would have accepted any commercial flight, even a red-eye overnight would have been better than waiting two days for the Royal Canadian Air Force service flight out of Comox and Vancouver. Service flights, he reflected, and grimaced at the thought of the cardboard box lunch he had avoided. Another alternative would have been to fly one of the Utility Squadron T-33s from Patricia Bay to Ottawa himself, but Michael had already completed his quarterly proficiency flying and he doubted whether the squadron commander would have authorized the flight. As it turned out the young travel clerk had succumbed and upgraded his ticket to business class. Flying commercially, he would arrive in Ottawa tonight for his appointment tomorrow morning with the Director General Officers Careers.

As the DC-8 levelled out at its assigned altitude Michael finished his orange juice and glanced out of the cabin window at the expanse of cloud obscuring the Rockies. Guessing that the weather system would be moving into Alberta, he gave up thoughts of identifying prairie towns from the air. Getting a start on his officers’ evaluations would be more worthwhile. After that he’d read the Holy Grail report again, particularly the recommendations. Of fifteen aircraft evaluated, three small fighters met the Royal Canadian Navy’s future requirements for air defence in the nineteen-seventies and eighties. He had flown them all; good birds, he thought. The Royal Canadian Air Force was being equipped with Northrop CF5s; US Navy and Marine Corps squadrons flew the Douglas A4C Skyhawk and the North American FJ4 Fury.

Reluctantly Michael reached for his briefcase and focussed his attention on his officers’ evaluations: first, Lieutenant-Commander Jack Evans, his senior staff officer and close friend. He would get Jack promoted next fall. Captain Davis would concur with anything he wrote about Jack, having seen him at work during the exercises off Hawaii. Then Jack could expect to command his own destroyer and would continue to be one of Michael’s allies. Michael’s ball-point pen scribbled glowing descriptions of Jack’s performance.

The stewardess took his breakfast tray away without engaging him in conversation. Clearly he had work to do and didn’t look as if he would welcome an interruption. Maybe she’d have an opportunity later in the flight. He’d be worth a try, she thought.

At about the same time as her husband completed his subordinates’ evaluations Laura Prescott finished clearing lunch away, deciding not to start the dishwasher until after supper. While she was driving Michael out to the Victoria airport earlier this morning he had told her he wouldn’t be back from Ottawa until Saturday evening. The rest of the housework already done, she stretched luxuriously. Today was only Tuesday; four more days with their children back in school again. Well, Mike junior was only in kindergarden but she had more time to herself now, she thought, and Sandy – their au pair girl from Sweden – was very good with them. What would she do this afternoon? She was well prepared for her lecture tomorrow morning and she’d finished marking the rest of her students’ Christmas examinations last night.

What about calling Myra Strickland at the University of Victoria? Was Laura ready to change faculties? They didn’t need the extra income any more: Michael’s salary as a Commander and his continued proficiency flying paid all the bills with some left over. Living rent-free with her father-in-law on Beach Drive helped a lot. She and Michael paid the taxes but his seventy-year-old father wouldn’t hear of them paying any rent, and loved having his grandchildren living in the same house.

Laura smiled to herself; her father-in-law liked her cooking, too. Michael’s mother had developed cancer several years ago and had died a year before Michael and Laura were posted to Victoria from the US Naval War College in Rhode Island. Living alone, old David Prescott had insisted that they move in with him; the house would be theirs after he died anyway and they might as well enjoy it now. He wanted to see his grandchildren playing in the big garden. They could learn to play tennis later on, he said, and when his grandson was old enough he’d be on the water with a dinghy to fool around in. Laura had always worried about Mike Junior playing near the sea and continually kept an eye on him when he was outside. Having him in kindergarden was less of a worry.

The house was wonderful, a big old Maclure house in good condition, right on the waterfront beside the golf course. The view from the living room, dining room, and the veranda around them was spectacular – Chatham and Discovery Islands, the Straits of Juan de Fuca, and Mount Baker on clear afternoons. She could see even further from the bedrooms upstairs: southward over Trial Island to the Olympic mountains behind Port Angeles and southwest toward Sooke.

Her own father had told her that the west coast of Canada was like Sweden only not so cold in winter, and the Canadian Rockies were bigger than the Köln mountain range between Sweden and Norway. Papa and her mother still had Swedish accents despite living in Vancouver for the past forty years. The Stenbergs had returned to Stockholm to visit relatives just after World War Two, but had felt themselves outsiders and never went back to Sweden again. Occasionally they came over to Victoria to visit Laura, Michael and their Prescott grandchildren but they would never agree to stay in David Prescott’s house, big as it was. Laura smiled again at her parents’ independence. Although her father could barely afford it he would rather pay for a motel than stay as a guest in someone else’s house.

It had been raining but now the sun streamed through an open kitchen window. Daydreaming won’t help my career, Laura thought. She had enjoyed the last two years as assistant professor of American history but there was no future in the arts faculty. No-one ever moved away and people seemed to be immortal in Victoria so promotion at the University was impossible. Laura was somewhat surprised at herself. Michael had enough ambition for both of them – why did she feel she had to have a successful career too? She tucked in a few strands of blonde hair and re-set the rubber bands around her ponytail.

Michael’s father limped into the kitchen, his cane tapping. Laura’s thoughts of her career and her own parents receded.

Professor Prescott, all alone, said her father-in-law. Come downtown with me, I need some things at the drugstore and while I’m driving you can tell me what’s so funny. If Michael’s not coming back until Saturday you and I can have all sorts of adventures, including a film.

Laura kissed his cheek. David Prescott had all his son’s good characteristics and as far as she could tell none of his flaws. They always had fun together and she had some things to do in Oak Bay too. Maybe he’d let her drive his Jaguar, she liked it better than her station wagon. Okay Pop, but I’ll have to be back at three-thirty because Susie gets off school early today. She and Mike Junior want to ride on that little train at Cordova Bay.

David replied Can I come too? Laura laughed. The kids would love to have you on the train with them; when they get too cold and wet we’ll buy them hamburgers at the restaurant.

With a satisfactory afternoon schedule established Laura slipped on her Morlands coat and went off to find her purse. David Prescott picked up his car keys and limped out to the garage.

CHAPTER TWO

"He had no failings which were not owing to a noble cause;

to an ardent, generous, perhaps an immoderate passion for fame; a passion which is the instinct for all great souls."

Edmund Burke, 1729-1797

In Ottawa at five minutes to nine Commander Michael Prescott got off the elevator at the eighteenth floor of L’Esplanade Laurier. Shrugging out of his Navy greatcoat he asked the commissionaire to take him to Air Commodore Allford’s office. On the way they passed a sign outside a comfortable corner office: Captain R. J. Turner, Royal Canadian Navy and beneath this: Director Personnel Careers (Other Ranks).

Michael put his head inside the office. A short figure in shirtsleeves looked up from behind an untidy desk.

Hi Bob, those were rotten ice cubes you were serving last night but Cathy made a super dinner. Thank her for me; and can I see you for a few minutes later? I need to know about those combat systems engineers.

Sure, Mike, Turner replied, but I don’t think we’ll find any lying around. Maybe the Air Commodore knows something I don’t know, it’s possible. Sure, come and see me any time before you go back to Victoria but now you’d better go see the boss, he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

Michael left his friend’s office and followed the elderly commissionaire down the hall to a corner office. As he kicked off his overshoes and hung up his greatcoat and oak-leafed uniform cap a pleasant-faced secretary exclaimed I remember you! Commander Prescott, isn’t it? The last time you were here you were still a lieutenant and you were going down to Patuxent River! My, how fast time goes by! Well, I’ll tell Air Commodore Allford you’re here. I won’t offer you a coffee because you’re going to be leaving right away with him. You’re visiting the Assistant Deputy Minister Materiel, Mr Sanders, you know.

Thanks. You’re Jenny aren’t you? Bill Pinkus asked me to say hello to you. Michael grinned as Jenny blushed. What are we going to talk to Sanders about? But Jenny turned away as the door opened.

Ah! Prescott, right? Come in while I put my coat on. Got yours with you? Right, the staff car should be downstairs by now, we’ll talk on the way. Good flight? How did Transport Command treat you? I commanded two Transport squadrons, you know. Air Commodore Allford shook hands with Michael, looking up at him. We haven’t met before, have we? He stared at Prescott involuntarily. Michael’s size alone impressed people meeting him for the first time.

Michael didn’t admit to flying east commercially, let alone business class. No sir we haven’t. Your Hercs used to come up to Rivers though when I was there flying Banshees. They left Allford’s office, walking back down the hall. As they passed Turner’s office Allford called out See you in an hour or so, Bob. We’ll be in Eric Sanders’ office if you need me.

Interesting, thought Prescott. It’s not every day that the Assistant Deputy Minister Materiel wants to see a naval aviator or a Personnel one-star either for that matter. Suspicions confirmed: it must be the Navy fighter replacement project. Innocently Michael asked Have you been on board the aircraft carrier, sir?

Yes, replied Allford. "During my National Defence College course in nineteen sixty-two we visited Halifax and went to sea in Bonaventure for a firepower demonstration. Your Banshees and some Trackers put on a great show for us and landed on board afterward. Then we had lunch with the pilots, that’s why I thought we might have met. Were you in Bonaventure then?"

Michael shook his head. No, I left the squadron in the summer of sixty-one to go to Pax River. How did the Banshees perform?

They left the Personnel building, crossed the shovelled but icy sidewalk and settled themselves in Allford’s car. "Driver, take us to the Mackenzie Bridge entrance to National Defence headquarters and step on it, okay? Well, Prescott, I wasn’t a fighter jock so I couldn’t tell much from a morning watching them, but it looked like a pretty old and underpowered straight-wing fighter to me. Also, Bonaventure’s flight deck looked pretty small. What the Navy needs is – how did you – well, we’re going to meet the Assistant Deputy Minister Materiel and he wants to talk to you about various things including the Banshees but you’re not supposed to know that, right?"

Right, sir. Michael knew he would be responding to questions for which he would have most of the answers. Quickly he asked We need more combat systems engineers on the West Coast sir. Are more of them graduating from the Fleet School in Halifax?

Allford was uncomfortable dealing with more than one problem at a time. He embarked on a long explanation of priorities, the demands of high-tech training and recruiting difficulties. He hadn’t finished when the driver stopped at the cavernous entrance to National Defence headquarters.

The building looked just like the high-rise concrete mausoleums of Russian bureaucracies, Michael thought. Extremely cold winters must affect architects’ brain cells. The interior was not so bad but the process for getting to Sanders’ office seemed interminable. They’d be late and Allford was flustered.

Gimme the damn phone! He reached through the glass into the commissionaire’s booth and snatched it out of the hands of its owner. Air Commodore Allford here. We’ve got an appointment with Mr Sanders at nine thirty, the commissionaire said your phone was busy. (He hadn’t). Oh good, we’ll see you in a minute. It’s me and Commander Prescott – yes, Commander Michael Prescott from the west coast. He hung up, visibly relieved. She’ll be down for us in a minute, she’s got special passes for us so there’s no need to sign in. They took off their greatcoats and caps, holding their greatcoats over their arms.

Michael was amused but properly deferential. He said Mister Sanders used to be Chief of Supply and before that he was an Army Major-General wasn’t he? Do you know him well, sir?

Allford grinned. No I don’t, he admitted. What I do know is that he’s called The Poison Dwarf by his staff and often explodes on contact. You’d better be fast with your answers and they’d better be right or you’ll be out on the west coast forever. He smiled patronizingly at Michael who replied equably. Well, I’ll see what I can do … sir.

Allford turned toward a neat young woman coming toward them with passes in her hand. Have you come to get us?

Air Commodore Allford and Commander Prescott? I take you up to Monsieur Sanders’ office, we on the thirteenth floor. Put on these passes and follow me please. They moved toward the elevators. Monsieur Sanders is expecting you. He hoped you’d be on time, the young woman said reprovingly to Allford, and looked sidelong at Prescott, liking what she saw. Michael had been observing her closely – radar locked on, his friends would have said. Blond with blue eyes and a clear, tanned complexion, she was definitely his type he thought. Good legs but she was small and had barely any boobs. Okay for pygmies.

Reaching the thirteenth floor they walked down a corridor toward the center of the building. Passing office signs reading Deputy Minister of National Defence, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Chief of the Air Staff, Michael remembered this was the executive floor on which most of the Canadian Forces senior military officers and bureaucrats had their offices.

Their diminutive guide took them through a corridor past a large conference room and into an even larger reception area. Several glass-walled offices were curtained off from the open area but not enough to allow lapses in industry. Madame, these officers are here to see Monsieur Sanders.

A stern bespectacled matron looked them up and down. You’re late. Mr Sanders will see you now. Francine, take their coats and caps please. You can put your rubbers over there. Cream and sugar in your coffees?

No coffee thanks, said Allford. Michael shook his head as well and flicked an invisible speck off his uniform. The matron ushered them into an imposing corner office where a short, thin, grey-headed figure stood outlined against a wall of glass looking out into the cold grey-and-white Ottawa morning.

Air Commodore Allford and Commander Prescott, sir; they’re not having any coffee. Please sit down over there, gentlemen, said the matron indicating a conference table with six chairs. A closed file folder lay at the head of the table. An oppressive silence permeated the room.

Without turning the short figure broke the silence. It’s a good morning – a good morning to talk to yet another ambitious officer. Tell me about this one, Allford.

Uncomfortably the Air Commodore said Right – you’ve got his file sir, and if you’ve read it – I’d rather Prescott told you about himself. We think highly of him.

Just do what I tell you, Allford. I can talk to Prescott later.

Air Commodore Allford’s face reddened. He took a deep breath and started to describe Prescott’s academic background. I know all about that, said Sanders, still at the window. What’s he like? Any good? Give me some examples.

Prescott interrupted. Sir, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t interested in the Banshee replacement project and Air Commodore Allford wouldn’t have asked me to come to Ottawa if I wasn’t qualified. If you want to know how good I am, try me.

Sanders turned toward them. Behind gold-rimmed reading glasses his lined face was expressionless. What I want to know first is whether you’re any good at all, not how good you are. Leaving his window he walked to the head of the table. Standing there he said Clearly you’ve got a high opinion of yourself. I want to know what other people think of you. Have you ever worked for Allford?

No sir I haven’t, but I’ve worked for you as the Sea Fury squadron operations officer during a tactical air support exercise at the Tracadie range when you commanded at Gagetown in nineteen fifty-five. Your brigade major ordered us to bring in air support too close to the range boundary and I refused. He gave me shit and I told him to go fuck himself. We sorted it out over the Black Watch pool table at two o’clock in the morning after the mess dinner.

Sanders took off his glasses and looked at Prescott coldly. Allford was examining the broad blue stripe on the sleeve of his uniform. How did you sort it out? said Sanders.

Prescott grinned. That was some years ago sir, and I’m not sure I remember.

Bullshit, Prescott. Allford, I’m going to spend some time with Commander Prescott alone. I’ll send him back when we’re finished. You can leave now.

Right – I’ve got plenty to do, sir. Come and see me later on, Prescott. Allford rose, hesitated and then walked toward the door which appeared to open by itself. Allford disappeared and the door closed silently.

Sanders pulled out his chair and sat down. Excellent secretary, Madame Lavigne. She spreads rumours about me which are untrue but useful. Now – you’re an American Indian, aren’t you?

Surprised, Michael replied No sir, I’m Canadian! My mother was American, partly Mohawk, and I was born in Washington where my parents were stationed before World War Two. I was raised and went to school here in Ottawa afterwards. I’ve had two postings in the States, one in Pax River and one in Newport …

Sanders interrupted him. I know all that. You mentioned the Banshee replacement project earlier, let’s talk about that. What do you know about it?

Michael leaned forward in his chair. Not much more than anyone else on the west coast sir, you run major equipment projects here in the Headquarters. I know that Admiral Martin’s staff put together the performance requirements for a new naval fighter last year and you’ve conducted price and availability studies, the Holy Grail report. I’ve read it and the recommendations are good. I flew two of those aircraft at Patuxent River. I know Cabinet has given the project approval in principle and the development proposal has been started. Are there going to be some trials? Have you sent out letters of interest? Has a Request for Proposals been drafted yet? What’s going to be done about the carrier’s flight deck?

Sanders smiled coldly. We haven’t developed the full procurement strategy yet. Here in the Materiel group we just do the technical work the operators need to meet their requirements. You’re an engineer as well as a pilot: what do you think needs to be done about the flight deck?

Michael responded quickly. It’ll have to be beefed up for almost any new fighter aircraft, but no-one really knows how much because there haven’t been any stress or fatigue trials that I know of. We don’t know what the sink rates will be or the G forces on landing or the wire extensions, so we can’t do any engineering studies which mean anything. If I was running things I’d ask the US Navy for all their data and a detachment of F5s, Hawks and Furies to spend a month or six weeks on board the carrier. I’d have an engineering trials team from VX 10 and the dockyard on board, and we’d have accelerometers and cameras and recorders and strain gauges everywhere …

Sanders waved his hand interrupting Michael in midstream.

Listen, Prescott. I know more about you than you think and not just what’s in your file. I knew your father and I thought highly of him. Are you the man he was? Can you stand up to a Deputy Minister or a Minister and tell them they’re wrong and you’re right and why, as he did? Or are you likely to be shouted down and lose? He lost anyway. He told them that he’d resign if they did it their way, and submitted his letter the following day; but he had the strength of character to run a controversial and expensive program the way it should be run. Do you?

Before his father resigned from the Navy Michael knew he had been given the task of determining the costs and benefits to Canada of a big US Navy Essex class aircraft carrier compared with a small British light fleet carrier. The Canadian government had chosen the British carrier for political and trade reasons and eventually commissioned Her Majesty’s Canadian Ship Bonaventure. His father told the story objectively, but still shook his head whenever Michael told him of the operating limitations the Navy’s pilots and aircraft now had to contend with on the too-small carrier.

Michael looked down. Anticipating the benefits to himself of the Navy’s fighter replacement project, he hadn’t thought much about the potential risks and the price his father had paid.

Sanders was frowning. Well?

Michael looked directly at him. I’m better qualified than anyone else to lead the fighter replacement project sir, and you know it. I specialized in project management at Newport and got an MBA. I’ve got a Masters in aeronautical engineering as well, and I’m a qualified test pilot with two thousand hours in single-seat fighters and five thousand hours total time. I’ve done two hundred deck landings in Banshees, fifty of them at night and I haven’t had to fill in a single accident report. I’ve commanded an air squadron and a destroyer. If the Deputy and the Minister crap in the morning like everyone else I can stand up to them. If you want me to do the job, tell me; if you don’t I’ll go back to Victoria and get on with running the Pacific Command for the Admiral. But I’ll watch very carefully the poor bastard you do eventually give the job to because you and me’ll know the wrong guy’s doing it.

Sanders noted Prescott’s darkening colour and rising temper. Michael stood and turned toward the door. Behind him he heard Sanders say Prescott, that was either good tactics or good acting. You’re now the project manager for Banshee replacements. I’ll back you but when it comes to confrontations with me, the Deputy, the Chairman or the Minister you’d better be right every time; otherwise you’ll be out looking for another job.

Michael turned and thanked him warmly. Look Mister Sanders, he said, I know I’ll be working for someone under you and I’ll keep it that way. But if I get into real trouble I’d like to be able to come to you and ask for your advice without anyone else knowing; is that okay?

For the first time, Sanders smiled frostily. I’ll give you three interviews alone with me at your request during the life of the project. Just make sure you don’t waste my time.

Thank you sir. I won’t let you down; we’ll get the best fighters we can afford. Who do I report to?

Sanders moved back to his desk waving him away. Allford will tell you when you get back to his office. Now get out of here, your new boss wants to meet you and you should start the wheels moving for your posting to Ottawa. See you at the next Senior Review Board meeting.

After Prescott had left, the Assistant Deputy Minister asked Madame Lavigne to come in. Madame, you can send Commander Prescott’s file back to Air Commodore Allford’s office but before you do, please copy everything in it and start a file for me on Commander Prescott. Label the file HOTSHOT, give it a Top Secret classification and put it in my safe with all the other project managers’ files. Tell no-one else about it.

Madame Lavigne looked at him approvingly. As you wish, Mister Sanders.

Kicking into his rubbers and leaving Sanders’ office Michael thought about lunch at the Navy wardroom but decided against it. Shrugging into his Navy greatcoat and adjusting his cap he replayed the conversation he’d just finished with Sanders, and punched the elevator button for the ground floor. He left the Headquarters building by the Mackenzie Bridge entrance, turned onto Slater Street and headed back toward the Personnel office tower. It had started to snow lightly, dry powdery ice crystals that stuck to parkas, hats and coats, turning their wearers as grey as the buildings around them.

Ignoring the cold, Michael was delighted. Project Manager for Banshee replacements! he breathed. That should be good for at least one promotion and a whole lot of flying as well. Wonder what Laura’ll think of it? She’ll like Ottawa – she’s a good skier, guess I’ll have to learn now too. I won’t be in Ottawa much though, Halifax and Pax River and Bermuda ... Wonder who I can get for a deputy? Allford knows who I’ll be working for, the least that arrogant bastard Sanders could have done was tell me who my new boss’ll be. Wonder what he’s like?

Preoccupied and walking quickly he slipped on an icy patch of sidewalk, recovered his balance and slowed his pace a little. Winters in Ottawa would take some getting used to.

First three phases of a project: Enthusiasm, Apprehension, Panic. I’ll work everyone so hard they won’t have time to sit around. I wonder who’s already been selected for the project management office? Have to see if Dave Palmer and Jock MacFarlane and that young engineer pilot Villeneuve will be able to work for me. Who else? Do I know any civilians?

His mind racing, Michael entered the elevator in the Personnel building and punched the button for the eighteenth floor.

He had to wait for Allford in Jenny’s reception area. Impatiently he looked through a few outdated professional military magazines on the coffee table. At half-past one Allford returned from lunch flushed and smelling of beer. Had lunch? Right! How’d it go with Sanders? Coffee? Thanks Jenny. Allford indicated a comfortable sofa and chair in one corner.

You must have impressed Sanders, Allford began. What I’d like to know is ... oh, never mind. You’re to go and meet Air Commodore David Kierans, the Director General Air Engineering at Rockcliffe this afternoon, I’ve set up an appointment for you. He’s a former commanding officer of the Air Force test establishment at Cold Lake and the Banshee replacement project is his baby. Dave was at the Staff College with me, long before your time.

Glancing at his Rolex, Michael made himself comfortable on Allford’s sofa. Yes sir. What time am I due there? Could I borrow your car and driver sir? Allford was expansive. Sure, why not? Two o’clock. Just make sure the driver’s back in time to take me home at four thirty.

Michael sipped his coffee. Sir, I’m grateful to you for putting my name forward for the job. I’ll need all the help I can get, especially with the people you can give me to work in the project management office. They continued talking about personnel for the project. Michael offered to prepare a list of individuals he knew to be competent and Allford agreed to have one of his directors look into it.

If that’s all sir, I’d like to go and talk to Captain Turner before I leave for Rockcliffe. Combat systems engineers for the west coast are a real problem. Oh – I’d like to suggest a posting for Commissioned Officer Pinkus, sir. He’s done very well in the Fleet School in Esquimalt and wants to work in the headquarters building. Could he be posted as Staff Officer Small Vessels? He’d be a real help to my successor.

Allford looked puzzled. Where have I heard that name before? Oh yes, Jenny’s mentioned him I think. Sure, why not? I’ll tell his career manager. He’s single isn’t he? Allford scribbled a note on his desk.

Michael stood up and grinned. I can never remember, sir. I’d better be going; can I see you later this week about project management staff? Allford nodded and complained about conflicting priorities and problems elsewhere.

Michael left confident that Allford would remember him long enough for him to get a good start. After that Allford would probably be posted somewhere else so there was no need to make a close ally of him. Now, his relations with Air Commodore Kierans, his new boss, would be a different matter altogether ...

At two o’clock in Building 155 at RCAF Station Rockcliffe the Director General Air Engineering came out of his office into the reception area. Michael Prescott stood up quickly and shook hands with Kierans, a tall untidy Air Force officer in shirtsleeves. Kierans looked at his visitor attentively, noting Prescott’s size – as tall as himself. Pilots with aeronautical engineering and test qualifications were uncommon in both the Air Force and the Navy; Prescott could relieve him of some of his workload.

Leading Prescott into his office Kierans invited him to sit down and moved to a comfortable chair beside him. Mind if I smoke? he said, unrolling a tobacco pouch. Your friends call you Michael not Mike, don’t they? Where were you when I needed a good engineer during Sea King cold weather trials at Cold Lake?

Immediately liking the big officer, Michael smiled. Kierans was as unlike Allford as he could possibly be. Sorry about that sir, he replied. I’m helicopter qualified but I don’t like them much so I did everything I could to avoid that posting – successfully, as it turned out.

Kierans laughed delightedly. "I’ve never heard anyone admit he didn’t like flying choppers, nor avoiding a posting though I’ve done it twice myself. Good for