5-Boundary Bay

The Avanti’s twin turboprops shimmered in the late evening haze, its sleek silhouette cutting through the low hanging mist as it  rolled down Campbell River’s Runway 30.

“V1!” Elayna called as the aircraft reached decision speed. Jonas removed his right hand from the throttles—both hands now lightly gripping the flight yoke.

A few seconds later, Elayna called, “Rotate!”

The Avanti lifted cleanly, rapidly increasing speed in the initial climb.

“V2, Positive rate,” Elayna said.

“Gear up,” Jonas calmly replied.

“Gear in transit,” she said, her fingers moving confidently through the flow. The hum of the props smoothed into a low, even thrum as they turned right and climbed toward the Strait of Georgia. The coastline unfurled below them in a ribbon of green and silver.

Jonas levelled off at three thousand feet, and scanned  the instruments, as Elayna contacted Air Traffic Control.

“Vancouver Centre, Avanti Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie, off Campbell River, level three thousand, IFR to Boundary Bay.”

“Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie, Vancouver Centre, radar identified. Climb and maintain one one thousand. Expect vectors for the approach into Boundary Bay.”

“Climb and maintain one one thousand, vectors for the approach into Boundary Bay, Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie,” Elayna replied, glancing over at Jonas with a faint smile. “You do realize this is the first time we’ve flown into Boundary Bay together?”

Jonas’s lips twitched. “Yeah. Lots of training flights in the  area—we need to keep an eye out.”

As they climbed through a thin  cloud layer, the coastline below glittered in the late morning sun—small fishing boats carving faint wakes across the water. The snow-tipped mountain peaks on the mainland glided by as they headed in a south-easterly direction. As they crossed the midpoint of the Strait, ATC called again.

“Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie, expect RNAV approach Runway Zero-Seven Boundary Bay. Contact Vancouver Approach on one two five decimal two when ready.”

Elayna leaned back, still handling the radio. “Roger, expect RNAV Zero-Seven. Approach on one two five decimal two, Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie.”

Jonas’s eyes traced the faint horizon where sea met sky. “Boundary Bay will probably have light northerlies this time of day. Let’s grab the ATIS.”

Elayna tuned in the Boundary Bay ATIS frequency and a recorded voice immediately broadcast the current weather and facility information.

“Boundary Bay Information Bravo. Wind zero four zero at six, visibility one five; temperature one eight, dew point one zero. Altimeter three zero one five. RNAV approach in use Runway Zero-Seven. Caution: Ultralight activity between 5nm and 8nm south-east of the airport below 1000 feet Contact Boundary Bay tower 5nm prior to  entering the control zone. Advise on initial contact you have Information Bravo.”

Ok, contacting Approach now. Vancouver Approach, Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie with Bravo, level one one thousand.”

“Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie, Vancouver Approach, radar contact. Descend and maintain three thousand. Cleared direct to the initial fix for RNAV Zero-Seven. Boundary Bay altimeter three zero one five”

“Descend and maintain three thousand, cleared direct initial fix, RNAV Zero-Seven, altimeter three zero one five, Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie.”

The descent carried them through scattered cumulus, revealing the vast sprawl of the Lower Mainland—bridges, suburbs, and the shimmer of the Fraser delta stretching to the Strait. Boundary Bay lay ahead, tucked among farmland and wetlands.

“Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie, contact Boundary Bay Tower one one eight decimal one.”

“Over to Tower on one one eight decimal one, Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie.”

Jonas adjusted the throttles slightly as Elayna called the Tower.

“Boundary Bay Tower, Avanti Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie, established on RNAV Zero-Seven with Information Bravo.”

“Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie, Boundary Bay Tower, wind zero three zero at five. Runway Zero-Seven, cleared to land.”

“Cleared to land Zero-Seven, Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie.”

They broke through the last haze layer, runway lights glinting ahead. The grass beside the tarmac rippled in the faint breeze. Jonas eased the throttles back.

“Speed’s stabilized,” he said.

“A little crosswind from the left,” Elayna added as she handled the flaps and gear.

The aircraft crossed the threshold, flared, then touched down with a chirp of tires on asphalt. The sleek turboprop decelerated smoothly before Jonas guided it off the active and onto Taxiway Alpha.

“Boundary Bay Tower, Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie clear of Runway Zero-Seven.”

“Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie, remain on this frequency. Taxi to the south apron, follow the marshaller in hi-vis.”

“Taxi to the south apron, remain with you, Mike-Juliet-Alpha-Golf-Charlie.”

They followed the yellow lines across the apron until a marshaller in reflective gear signalled them to a stop. Jonas shut down the engines, the familiar whine fading to silence.

Elayna exhaled, stretching slightly in her seat. “Smooth flight.”

“Let’s hope the meeting ahead is just as smooth,” Jonas agreed, tone soft but distracted.

“Nervous?”

“Not sure,” he replied.She left it there. He appreciated that.

The marshaller positioned them outside a low, unmarked building designed to be overlooked. When the props spun down, the silence pressed in.

A man in a windbreaker stood a few feet from the airstairs Jonas had just lowered. Mid-fifties, tidy hair, eyes that seemed to see everything and release little. An airport badge with a barcode and no name.

“Mr. Seigle. Ms. Vinicci.” His smile flickered and held. “I’m Grant. This way, please.”

They followed him along the edge of the apron. Grant swiped them through a side door into a corridor that smelled faintly of coffee and new paint. Their steps echoed soft and hollow. No plaques. No logos. Functional; unlived-in.

“In here.” Grant opened a door to a medium-sized conference room—table, four chairs, two monitors, a landline phone with a coiled cable that might have been a joke if the line hadn’t hummed with encryption. A man in a polo shirt sat at a small rack in the corner, hands moving across a keyboard in confident shorthand. He didn’t look up.

Grant set two folders on the table. “You’ll have separate secure sessions with your capitals. Prague first, Berlin after. We’ll schedule a follow-up with McCallum and Charest this evening.”

Jonas nodded. “Fuel?”

“Already ordered, Mr. Seigle. Your registration is logged as a maintenance reposition. We’ll keep your aircraft on the south apron overnight.”

“And the bill?” Elayna asked—not to quibble, but because details mattered.

“An Allied Recon Group Operations Notification (ARGON) protocol covers all operational costs as of your arrival—fuel, maintenance, airworthiness directives. If anything arises, you have discretionary authority to task SkyHarbour in Abbotsford for discreet work orders.”

Elayna flicked a surprised glance toward Jonas that lasted less than a blink. “SkyHarbour and ARGON,” she repeated. “Noted.”

Grant didn’t react. He tapped the folders. “Your call windows open in five. Water? Coffee?”

“Coffee,” they said together, then smiled despite themselves. He vanished. The door closed with the soft, final click that good hinges make.

They sat. Elayna adjusted her chair a fraction to face the nearest monitor. Jonas held his folder, thumb tracing the edge of the paper like it might reveal something through touch alone.

The Czech connection came up first—Ottawa, not Prague. A woman in a blue jacket and pearl studs appeared; the image crisp and without artifacts. Her name overlay read Šárka Nováková, MFA Ottawa. She smiled without softness.

“Ms. Vinicci,” Nováková began. “You have created a small stir.”

Elayna inclined her head. “I’ve been told I’m good at that.”

“You are good at other things as well. You have conditional authorization to participate in this operation. Diplomatic status will extend to your movements while attached to ARGON. You will not be alone in your oversight role.” She paused, letting the line hum. “You will inform us immediately of any deviation from the brief.”

“Understood.”

“You are retired, and recently married, Elayna. Do not forget that. Please be careful and stay safe.” The hint of warmth in that last statement was not lost on Elayna.

After Elayna’s call ended, Grant slid into the chair she had just warmed. He initiated the next connection. Berlin answered right away. The German attaché was younger than Jonas expected; precise, and careful with his English.

“Herr Seigle,” the attaché said, “your clearance is granted under joint NATO intelligence oversight. You will share operational authority with Canadian and American counterparts. Your reports will route through our consulate there. You are to avoid any actions that could be construed as unilateral German involvement.”

“Understood,” Jonas said, the sound of the word familiar from another life.

The questions were measured and impersonal; the blessing to proceed, conditional but real. When the screen went black, the room felt smaller. They exhaled at the same time—somehow not quite quite relieved.

Rain had moved in by the time Grant returned. He carried two coffees and a sheet of paper with a single line of text and a small embossed seal in one corner.

“McCallum and Charest are ready for you at twenty hundred,” he said, setting the cups down. “Same room, secure line. In the meantime, you have quarters across the corridor. If you need anything else, dial seven from the phone.” He hesitated at the door. “Congratulations—on both counts,” he said, and left.

They didn’t touch the coffee right away. The quiet grew around them like fog slithering off the Strait of Georgia.

“You realize,” Elayna said, “we just stopped pretending.”

Jonas stared at the rain streaking the glass. A Cessna taxied by in the wet, prop wash slicing the puddles into quarters. “I know.”

“You okay?”

He considered lying and decided against it. “I’m… not quite alright.”

Her hand found his on the table and stayed there, cool and certain. “I’m here.”

They used the hours the way seasoned people do—no wasted motion, no performative panic. They crossed the corridor to the small suite: two rooms, a bed made with starched, hard corners, a kettle, a guide to emergency exits that assumed you wouldn’t need it. Elayna called home and left the kind of message that says a great deal by saying little. Jonas updated a paper logbook he still kept out of habit.

They ate quietly from a tray that arrived without being ordered.

At nineteen fifty-nine they were back in the conference room. The screen brightened to McCallum’s face first, then Charest’s. The sound line was clean.

“Thank you for moving quickly,” McCallum said. “We have confirmation from both your governments.”

“Your operational liaison is Lieutenant Commander Sonja Lovarin, United States Navy,” Charest added. “Office of Naval Intelligence, Pacific Fleet. She’ll meet you in Ketchikan and run the brief with the rest of the team.”

“Lieutenant Commander,” Jonas repeated. The rank said as much about the Navy as it did about the woman holding it. “She’s our… counterpart?”

“Your primary point of contact,” McCallum said. “You’ll share oversight. She’s young, exceptionally good, and she’s earned the latitude she’s been given.”

“We’ll form our own opinions,” Elayna said, not unkindly.

“As you should,” Charest said. “Logistics: you’ll depart Boundary Bay in the morning under a routine cross-border flight plan. Use the frequency printed on the slip Mr. Grant provided for corridor clearance if requested. Fuel and maintenance are authorized under ARGON codes already filed against your registration. If you require discreet work before departure, you may task SkyHarbour by encrypted order—keep all servicing in-house.”

Jonas and Elayna traded a brief glance. It was a neat circle, and someone had drawn it before they’d arrived.

McCallum’s tone softened a degree. “One more thing: do not feel compelled to accept any operational risk you judge unnecessary. We want your judgment, not your heroics.”

“Appreciate what you’re trying to say. You’ll get the full extent of our expertise as the situation requires,” Jonas said. It wasn’t bravado. Just the truth.

They ended with timestamps and contact protocols before signing off.

They didn’t speak as they crossed to their suite. The corridor hummed with the low sound of electronics and the higher sound of air through vents. Boundary Tower’s transmissions bled through faintly from somewhere in the building; a language they both understood subconsciously.

Inside, Elayna slipped off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed. “We meet this Sonja in Ketchikan. What do you think she’ll be like?”

“Efficient,” he said. “Exacting. And given her senior rank at such a young age, no patience for fools.”

Elayna smiled. “Sounds familiar.”

Jonas smiled slightly as he took off his jacket and hung it with the careful economy of someone who never learned to hang things carelessly. Outside, rain flicked against the glass in quick, steady patterns. Somewhere beyond the dark, runway lights glinted in the damp Pacific air.

“Tell me right now: where exactly is my husband’s headspace?” she asked with a slight smile.

“We should’ve been departing for the tropics, not filing a flight plan for some remote location in Alaska,” Jonas said quietly.

“Then we keep each other safe, and do our best not to initiate World War III,” she said, as if that were a decision and not a hope.

He turned and smiled at her. After putting out the overhead light, he left the bedside lamp on low. They moved through the small rituals that make unfamiliar rooms survivable—changing into nightwear, checking locks, placing phones where hands could find them in the dark, setting an alarm for a time their bodies would beat by ten minutes anyway.

They climbed into bed and held each other close. Elayna’s breathing soon found a deeper cadence, but Jonas’s thoughts kept him awake for a while, feeling the noise of the day receding. He closed his eyes and saw the Strait again, a ribbon of grey between shores, an airway that had gotten them this far and would carry them farther.

“Tomorrow,” he said, not realising he’d spoken aloud.

“Mhm,” she murmured, almost asleep. “Tomorrow.”

Morning would mean fuel totals and border filings, a weather briefing and pre-flight checks, with the dynamic tension of the unknown wrapped around it all. Tomorrow would be another step toward a place where their names would be known by people who had planned for them before either of them knew there was even a plan.

For now, rain worked at the glass with a steady  hypnotic pattern. For now, he let sleep have the last say.

——

On the northwest side of Boundary Bay Airport, on the second floor of another nondescript building, a man with a pair of binoculars stood by a window in a darkened room. The information he had received about the aircraft and its occupants had proven correct. He watched ramp personnel in hi-vis jackets reposition the Avanti that had arrived two and a half hours earlier. He noted several other nondescript men in dark rain gear circling the aircraft as it was being moved.Judging by their postures and economy of movement, he would bet money they were specially trained, armed and very dangerous.

He lowered the binoculars and retrieved a cell phone from the right pocket of a windbreaker tossed over a chair beside him. His thumbprint bypassed the lock screen and he tapped out an eighteen-character alphanumeric code from memory. Two quick triple-beep tones signalled the phone was now actively encrypted. He tapped the only icon on the screen. An empty text box opened, into which he typed just two letters: MC—the first and last letters of the Avanti’s registration.

The screen flashed once with a deep blue colour, then revealed the following words in the text box:

Mission Confirmed. Eliminate all assets.

He took a small silver bag with a self-sealing flap from the windbreaker’s left pocket. He placed the phone inside and pressed the flap closed. The foil sleeve warmed in his hand as it heat-destroyed the phone’s internals. He waited two extra minutes for the bag to cool, then slid it back into the windbreaker’s left pocket.

Viktor Vargas put on the windbreaker and exited the building through a side service entrance.