04/01/2026
Avro Arrow Recovered In High Arctic
by Lieutenant Colonel Lirpa Sloof - Director General Air Force Public Affairs - OTTAWA
The memo said it was a "routine glacial survey" at an old DEW Line airstrip on Ellesmere Island. But Dr. Aris Thorne, a distinguished Canadian military historian who preferred his coffee with Bailey’s and his research in libraries, knew better. You don't send a Ground Penetrating Radar unit, three military intelligence operators and three aircraft maintainers along with a crate of luke warm Tim Horton's coffee to look at ice, unless that ice is concealing something of national importance.
"It’s not here, Sarge," Aris muttered, his breath instantly freezing into a white plume. He was looking at his radar screen, which mostly showed "rock," "more rock," and "I think that’s a very confused polar bear mama and her cubs."
Sergeant Dusty Miller, a no-nonsense man who seemed to be built entirely of white camouflage and bulging muscles, didn't look up from the ice axe he was sharpening. "My Uncle Bob said he worked on the assembly line in '59. Said the last one didn't get destroyed. Said it was taken on a 'special trip'."
"Uncle Bob also told you that penguins lived in Nunavut," Aris countered. "Different Bob," Miller retorted.
Aris sighed, adjusted his thermal goggles, and continued scanning. The CF-105 Arrow was the ultimate Canadian myth—the delta-winged, Mach-2-capable, supersonic interceptor that was supposedly ordered destroyed after Prime Minister Diefenbaker cancelled the progam on "Black Friday" the 20th February 20, 1959. The urban legend went that one prototype was flown out under the cover of darkness, spirited away to a secret Arctic base to defend against Soviet bombers—or, more likely, to stop it from becoming a pile of scrap metal in Toronto.
Suddenly, the radar screen made a sound like a synthesizer having a seizure. "What is that? A massive pocket of methane?" Aris asked. "Negative," Miller said, looking at the screen with newfound respect. "That’s a 50-foot wingspan, Doc." It was stuck deep inside a crevasse, preserved by the sub-zero temperatures like a very, very expensive Canadian fish stick.
Getting it out was... complicated. It required a crane, three cases of WD-40, and a truly concerning amount of Canadian bravery. When they finally cleared the ice, there it was. RL-206. The legendary Mark II Arrow, complete with Iroquois engines, sitting in the middle of nowhere, looking like it had just landed five minutes ago.
Holllllly shiiiiiiit" Aris breathed, running a glove over the pristine magnesium and titanium skin. "It's beautiful."
A voice piped up from behind. "Looks like it needs a wash." "And maybe a new battery Sir." Aris was already looking at the cockpit. "Miller, you said your uncle knew how this worked?" "He said the trick is to feed it a Timbit, then pull the lever," Miller said, looking entirely serious.
Aris sighed, but decided that at this point, trusting a myth was better than not having a plan. He climbed into the pilot seat, which was suspiciously comfortable. He reached into his parka, pulled out a stale, frozen-solid chocolate glaze Timbit, and wedged it into a small slot near the instrument panel.
"Okay, Uncle Bob," Aris whispered. "For Canada." He pulled a heavy, dust-covered lever. VROOOOOOOOOOM. The entire high Arctic shook. The Orenda Iroquois engines—the ones that were supposed to be destroyed 67 years ago—roared to life, blowing a perfectly circular hole in the ice pack and sending a herd of nearby muskoxen running for the next timezone.
"Doc! Check the fuel!" Miller shouted over the deafening scream of the engines. Aris checked the analog gauges, which were glowing with a warm, comforting green light. "It’s... it’s full. How is it full?!" "Uncle Bob said they had a secret pipeline!" Miller yelled back, grinning.
He pushed the throttle forward, and the Avro Arrow, the lost dream of a nation, soared into the Arctic sky, leaving nothing but a sonic boom and a very confused family polar bears in its wake.
Suddenly, Aris’s radio crackled. It wasn't the Canadian Armed Forces. It was a very confused Russian trawler captain. "Uh, unidentified... fast thing? Are you flying over the North Pole? It is 1959? What is happening?"
Aris looked at Miller. Miller looked at Aris. "Tell them," Aris said, grabbing the controls of the most advanced, impossible aircraft of the 20th century, "that the project is still going."
The end?
