so that we can watch as the pressure is applied. And of course we’ve got all sorts of sensors set along the pipe to check on the effects as the pressure builds up.”
The President slid off his perch, straightened up, and said, “Son, I think you’d better let me at that steak. I’m starved.”
As the two men moved toward the door the telephone rang. Magnusson answered and then turned the phone over to the President. “It’s for you. Mr. Wolf calling from the 747.”
The President took the phone and said, “Yes, Irving.”
Wolf’s voice came back. “Prime Minister Porter has been trying to reach you, Mr. President.”
“Well, I can’t talk to him right now, Irving. We’re just going to eat. Let his people know that I’ll be available at 7:45, that’s 8:45 their time. I’ll be in touch with you then. O.K.?”
“I’ll pass the word, Mr. President.”
“By the way, Irving, the experiment that I want to see will take place here tomorrow morning shortly after six, so I’ll get back to Resolute by 7:45 and we can be out of there immediately.”
“I’ll tell Wypich, Mr. President. We’ll be set to go as soon as you get here.”
Ottawa / 7:28 p.m., EDT
Robert Porter was back in his office, eating the steak Scott had produced and working on the draft of the TV address for nine o’clock. He had discussed the counter-sanction with both John Thomas and Scott, with Michael Clarkson, the Minister of Finance, and finally had reviewed it carefully with the Governor-General. They had all agreed that cutting off the oil and gas supply to the United States was a powerful weapon which stood a good chance of forcing the President’s hand and making him lift the ultimatum.
At 7:45 a call was placed to the President. The two exchanged terse greetings, and the President said, “Well, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. President, you’ve hit Canada hard today, first with your ultimatum and then with the decision to cut off the flow of investment capital even before we had a chance to respond.”
“Yes, it was a little rough, but I want to let you people know I mean business.”
“We already knew that. It takes a lot to get Canadians excited, but I think you’ve certainly been able to do it today. Now Mr. President, let me put it to you straight. We are by no means as helpless in this country to resist blackmail as you think. As the United States’ largest trading partner, we have very powerful economic weapons of our own, and since you have chosen to invoke sanctions against us without any prior discussion or warning, I am now going to give you a counter-sanction. But I intend to be fair about it; I won’t impose the sanction if you agree to the condition I suggest.”
“Well, let’s hear it.”
“Your country is currently receiving about 1½-million barrels of oil and three-billion cubic feet of gas per day from Western Canada. While Montreal and the Maritime Provinces used to be dependent upon oil supply from the United States, they too have a direct pipeline connection now with the West. Therefore, I’m going to order the flow of Canadian oil and gas into the United States cut off immediately unless you agree to lift the ultimatum.”
There was silence for a few moments. Then Porter could hear the President chuckling. “You know, down in Texas we like cool poker players, and you do pretty well, young fellow. That’s a pretty good card you’ve played, but not quite good enough. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you agree not to impose the counter-sanction, I’ll agree to lift the embargo I put on at noon and not to put on the further sanction I was going to impose at midnight. In fact, I agree not to order any other sanctions between now and six o’clock tomorrow evening. The midnight sanction, by the way, was to close the border to the movement of all goods.”
It was Porter’s turn to pause as he thought over the President’s move. Reluctantly he said, “I’m afraid you won that hand, Mr. President, but if nothing else, I think you’ve got the message that we have some weapons of our own.”
“Yes,” the President replied, “but I think you’ll find you’re outgunned. Is there anything else, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“No, that’s all for the moment. You’ll hear from me.”
“I’m sure I will.” The President hung up, while Porter muttered to himself, “Half a loaf is better than none, I guess.”
John Thomas said, “You’ve got a real tough cookie at the other end of that telephone. He’s going to play this one right down to the wire.”
Porter nodded. “Yes, you’re certainly right. But now I’ve got to get that speech finished. Let’s go over it once again.”
Inuvik / 6:30 p.m., CDT
Freddie Armstrong picked up the mike in the single engine Otter and said, “Inuvik Tower, this is Romeo November Echo, 10 miles northwest at 3,000 feet VFR from Aklavik, landing at the town strip. Over.”
“RNE. This is Inuvik Tower. You are cleared to the town strip. The wind is 330 at five. The altimeter setting is 3019. I have no other local traffic in the area.”
“Roger, Tower. Will you please close my flight plan?”
“Roger, wilco.”
Freddie put the VHF mike back on its holder. It was dark now, and he peered ahead into the twinkling lights of Inuvik for his marker, the wafting white plume of the steam from the power plant. He would turn left over the power plant on his final leg inbound to the airstrip northwest of the town along the west arm of the Mackenzie.
Freddie Armstrong was a living legend in the Arctic. An Indian who had competed successfully in a white man’s field, he had graduated from high school, saved his money, and gone outside to Edmonton to take flying lessons. Back in Inuvik he had worked hard to save enough money to buy his own airplane, a Cessna, had obtained a Class 4 charter licence and started to work to build up his firm, Caribou Air Services Limited, at a time when no other operators were in the area and nobody gave a damn about the prospects of Inuvik or oil or gas in the Mackenzie Delta. The discoveries in the North brought so much business that he had been able to enlarge his fleet to ten aircraft, but they had also brought increased competition, and the Air Transport Committee in Ottawa had granted charter licences freely to the well-financed carriers from the south who soon moved in with their Twin Engine Otters and other sophisticated machines.
On top of that, his crews had cracked up two of his larger aircraft just as things were reaching their peak, and this financial setback had almost put him out of business.
But Freddie Armstrong was a determined man. He stuck to his guns and now had a reputation, all through the Arctic, as someone who really knew his job.
He glanced over at Sam Allen in the right-hand cockpit seat and thought, not for the first time, that Sam was a heck of a nice guy. He was glad he’d been able to do him a favour. Funny, though, that Sam and Bessie didn’t have any pelts with them. When he dropped them off about twenty miles west of Aklavik the morning before, Sam had told him that they were going out to look after some musk-rat traps set by Sam’s brother Pete, who was sick in Aklavik. So he’d expected them to have at least two dozen skins when he picked them up. He asked Sam if they’d got any rats. And Sam replied, “Sure did, Freddie, got plenty, but I bagged
