squadron provided transport for important government officials, high-ranking military members and foreign dignitaries visiting Canada. As well, the squadron provides support for Canadian Forces missions at home and abroad, including medevac flights. Though technically under the command of 8 Wing/CFB Trenton, the squadron is based in Ottawa, and for the next six years, still a captain, Williamsâs primary task was to fly assorted VIPs back and forth. He later said it was a job and a responsibility he really enjoyed. Plaques from appreciative clientsâGovernor General Roméo LeBlanc, Prime Minister Jean Chrétien, Deputy Prime Minister Sheila Coppsâhung on the walls of his upstairs office in the shiny new house in Orleans, an east Ottawa suburb, that he and Harriman purchased in August 1995 for $165,000.
The house was at the end of Wilkie Drive in Fallingbrook, one of Orleansâs newer districts, a tidy middle-class enclave of parks and curved streets, home to commuters and their families and to many members of the military and the RCMP, active and retired. Itâs a very civil, friendly sort of place, where neighbors live separatelives but gladly help out when someone needs an errand run or a car jump-started. George White moved to Wilkie Drive at around the same time as Williams and Harriman, and as a retired air force mechanic with a son in the military, he might have expected some sort of deeper bond to develop. But it never did.
âWe met very easily, and because we were both air force we had a common background, we knew what to discuss and what not to discuss,â White says. âWe talked a lot about the technical stuff. I understood the systemsâthe engines, the hydraulics, the air conditioning, and the functionality of all that. So it would be casual technical talkâlanding speed, takeoff speed, cruise speed, duration, fuel flow, that kind of stuff. We both understood all the acronyms. Russ, of course, was flying VIPs in the Challenger, and he was sharp, very thorough. No matter whether it was cleaning and washing his car or flying an airplane, he had a mental checklist and everything was to perfection.
âBut always, always, he was so guarded in all his conversations. He never once slipped or opened up. He would smile but he wouldnât joke. Youâd never hear a joke from him. I can still picture him standing there talking. He would hesitate and look you right in the eye and give you a definitive answer.â
Harriman and Williams kept their house on Wilkie Drive for fourteen years, the longest he lived anywhere in his life, and the two became familiar figures to their immediate neighbors. Their carsâHarriman drove a BMW, Williams his Nissan Pathfinderâwould pull up in the driveway at dayâs end, and the couple were invariably pleasant to their neighbors, who were always glad to see them. Sometimes after one of his daily runs a perspiring Williams would grab a Gatorade, amble over and exchange a few words with whoever was around. Occasionally the couple would take Williamsâs much-prized bow rider for a spin together; he would fish, she would read.
Pleasant as they always were with their neighbors, however, Williams and Harriman kept very much to themselves. Visitors to the coupleâs home were few and far between, and not once in all those years were any of the Wilkie Gang (as the half dozen residents clustered near the top end of the street called themselves) invited inside for a drink or a meal. Living directly across the street was retired government employee and bus driver Shirley Fraser, who had a key to their house and would stop in when they were away, which was often, to keep an eye on things and feed Curio, their peculiarly bad-tempered cat. Fraser talked to Harriman enough to know a few things about her: that she was a keen golfer, would often go to a nearby gym and was fond of antique furniture. But the chitchat only went so far.
The house was at the end of Wilkie Drive in Fallingbrook, one of Orleansâs newer districts, a tidy middle-class enclave of parks and curved streets, home to commuters and their families and to many members of the military and the RCMP, active and retired. Itâs a very civil, friendly sort of place, where neighbors live separatelives but gladly help out when someone needs an errand run or a car jump-started. George White moved to Wilkie Drive at around the same time as Williams and Harriman, and as a retired air force mechanic with a son in the military, he might have expected some sort of deeper bond to develop. But it never did.
âWe met very easily, and because we were both air force we had a common background, we knew what to discuss and what not to discuss,â White says. âWe talked a lot about the technical stuff. I understood the systemsâthe engines, the hydraulics, the air conditioning, and the functionality of all that. So it would be casual technical talkâlanding speed, takeoff speed, cruise speed, duration, fuel flow, that kind of stuff. We both understood all the acronyms. Russ, of course, was flying VIPs in the Challenger, and he was sharp, very thorough. No matter whether it was cleaning and washing his car or flying an airplane, he had a mental checklist and everything was to perfection.
âBut always, always, he was so guarded in all his conversations. He never once slipped or opened up. He would smile but he wouldnât joke. Youâd never hear a joke from him. I can still picture him standing there talking. He would hesitate and look you right in the eye and give you a definitive answer.â
Harriman and Williams kept their house on Wilkie Drive for fourteen years, the longest he lived anywhere in his life, and the two became familiar figures to their immediate neighbors. Their carsâHarriman drove a BMW, Williams his Nissan Pathfinderâwould pull up in the driveway at dayâs end, and the couple were invariably pleasant to their neighbors, who were always glad to see them. Sometimes after one of his daily runs a perspiring Williams would grab a Gatorade, amble over and exchange a few words with whoever was around. Occasionally the couple would take Williamsâs much-prized bow rider for a spin together; he would fish, she would read.
Pleasant as they always were with their neighbors, however, Williams and Harriman kept very much to themselves. Visitors to the coupleâs home were few and far between, and not once in all those years were any of the Wilkie Gang (as the half dozen residents clustered near the top end of the street called themselves) invited inside for a drink or a meal. Living directly across the street was retired government employee and bus driver Shirley Fraser, who had a key to their house and would stop in when they were away, which was often, to keep an eye on things and feed Curio, their peculiarly bad-tempered cat. Fraser talked to Harriman enough to know a few things about her: that she was a keen golfer, would often go to a nearby gym and was fond of antique furniture. But the chitchat only went so far.
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