The Land Rover’s wheels screeched as the governor turned past ‘1982 Liberation Monument’ and Thatcher Drive, and then onto Reservoir Road.
“Look out,” Albert yelled as they almost smashed into an ambulance pulling out of King Edward VII Memorial Hospital. They zoomed by Scotia House Bed & Breakfast where tourists had emerged to gawk at the raging fire at Government House. Darting through light traffic, they passed residences on the left, and the Community School and Library on the right, and then a satellite dish that Argentine guerillas had wrecked, by driving a delivery truck through the small complex’s perimeter fence
“London has no idea, do they?” Fagan asked.
The governor and Albert stole a glance at one another. Now on Darwin Road and quickly leaving the urban area of Stanley behind, the road narrowed and its surface changed from asphalt to loose gravel.
The Land Rover’s big tires and heavy weight came into their own, biting in and keeping the vehicle stable. With much of the city’s lights extinguished, it was easy to see the night aglow with scattered fires. Each illuminated rising columns of smoke. The three men stared ahead in silence.
In the vehicle’s squinted headlights, the road narrowed further, and, edged by drainage ditches, threatened to grab the wheels of the speeding Land Rover. Winding among hillocks, the vehicle began to rock back and forth as the governor skillfully followed Darwin Road. Albert looked out through the big rectangle frame of the rear window.
Two bright dots appeared in the tail of dust that the Land Rover left in its wake.
“Governor?” Albert mumbled.
“Yes, I know. We’re being followed.”
The governor stepped on the accelerator. The Land Rover lowered and pitched forward as more horsepower was put to the road. There was tapping at the Land Rover’s side and windows. What they first thought was kicked up gravel was in fact small arms fire.
Fagan grabbed the shotgun and opened a side window. Cool sea air blasted inside. He leaned out, and, with successive booms that made Albert’s ears ring, emptied the shotgun at their pursuer. Behind them, the bright headlights swerved.
Fagan chucked the empty shotgun to the front passenger seat.
“Uzi, please,” he requested. Albert handed him the square, stubby submachine gun. Fagan fired. Ejected cartridges clinked against the window as he emptied the magazine with a ripping sound. In the rear-view mirror, the governor saw tracer rounds trail off like laser beams. They sparked as they impacted the front of the pursuing vehicle. The chasing headlights swerved again. Then they tumbled one over the other as the pursuers crashed. One light flickered and extinguished as the wrecked vehicle came to rest upside down.
“Bastards,” Fagan yelled into the night, then leaned back in and kissed the stock of the Israeli-made weapon.
The speeding Land Rover went airborne as they topped a small hill. Zooming down the other side, they saw a big fire raging in the distance.
“That’s at the airport,” the governor concluded. A trail of fire shot across the sky. It reached from offshore and toward where the fire was already burning. A new fireball bloomed as it impacted the ground. “The airport is being pummeled.”
Fagan picked up binoculars and looked to sea, where a merchantman sat at anchor. It was a container ship, its decks covered by multi-colored forty-foot steel boxes, the kind that electronics and spare parts are shipped in. Except these seemed to contain surface-to-surface missiles.
Fagan watched as the top of a container lifted. A missile tilted up on its launcher and ignited. It slid off its rail and arced into the sky and at the island. Club-K Container Missile System, Major Fagan realized, recognizing the Russian weapon from an intelligence briefing. He panned his view over to Stanley’s dock.
At the dock, a small cruise ship was berthed. Men in uniform disembarked and made their way inland.
“My God, it’s a full-scale invasion,” Fagan said.
A shockwave shook the Land Rover. In the distance, a fireball mushroomed as it rose.
“That was the fuel tank farm at Mare Harbour,” the infuriated governor said. He had considered the attack on Government House as a terrorist attack, with potential perpetrators ranging from the IRA to Al-Qaeda, but it was now obvious that this was much more.
In stunned silence, Albert, Fagan, and Governor Moody sped along Darwin Road and toward the Royal Air Force Base at Mount Pleasant.
“The radio,” the governor realized. “In the glove compartment.” Fagan fumbled it open and revealed the small transmitter/receiver. He pawed at the microphone, stretched the coiled wire, and clicked the transmit button.
“Any station, any station, this is Major Scott Fagan, 22 SAS Regiment, over.” A warbling static was all they heard over the speaker. “There’s jamming.”
“Try again,” the governor advised.
“RAF Mount Pleasant, RAF Mount Pleasant, we are inbound with a special package. On Darwin Road, light-green Land Rover, diplomatic plates, over.” For a moment, they heard a response in English, though it was cut off by high-pitched interference. Then, briefly, there was Spanish.
“Culebra dos zero dos, tratando--”
A searchlight appeared. It reflected off the calm dark waters of Bluff Cove.
“What’s this then?” Albert huffed.
The armed scout helicopter announced its arrival with bright yellow flashes and a burst of fire from its slung machine gun pods.
“Bollocks,” the governor shouted.
The Land Rover swerved and leaned precariously as geysers of dust erupted along the roadside. The silhouette of the enemy helicopter flashed again, and the sound of its three-bladed rotor hacked at the night. Albert studied the aircraft’s silhouette as the governor did his best to avoid the bullets that impacted around them.
“That’s a Chinese Z-11. Twelve-point-seven-millimeter guns,” Albert recognized.
“Our armor cannot stop that big a round,” the governor said. He yanked the wheel over. The Land Rover left the confines of the road, bouncing hard. Albert hit his head against the roof. The governor swerved the Land Rover through the wet grass and mud as he tried to make it a difficult target. They rounded a boulder dropped eons ago by a receding glacier. On the other side was a vehicle full of men.
One had a rocket tube on his shoulder. There was a blinding bright flash, and the governor skidded to a halt, but the missile streaked over them. Albert, the governor, and the major ducked and braced as an explosion rocked the Land Rover. Turning around, they saw the helicopter, swallowed by fire, fold in half and drop to the rocky ground. Bits of earth and rock pitter-pattered on the vehicle roof. In the Land Rover’s headlights, they recognized the men as Royal Marines.
“Hurrah,” the governor shouted.
◊◊◊◊
They approached the main gate of Mount Pleasant air force base. Beyond the fence-line, at the end of the base’s runway, sat a wrecked jetliner. Firefighting foam surrounded its scorched fuselage, and smoke curled from where its ceiling had burned through. The governor recognized the jetliner’s tail markings as belonging to the Chilean national airline, though the jet seemed to be an older model, one that did not belong to this airline’s modern fleet. Then Governor Moody remembered his war-game briefings: enemy special forces would land by ship and aircraft, likely commercial ones using distress calls to open otherwise closed doors. In the case of RAF Mount Pleasant, it was apparent the attempt had failed. Beyond the wreckage was a big yellow bulldozer that had been parked on the runway. Moved there in haste, it had sheared the jetliner’s landing gear, ripped open its belly, and caused it to crash and burn.
Fagan pointed out several other smoking piles of metal on the airfield’s apron, and saw one of the base’s fire trucks spraying what appeared to be a destroyed helicopter. Despite the inferno it had suffered, Albert recognized its form as belonging to an Apache. He wondered if it had been his loyal machine.
Led by the marines, the Land Rover approached the main gate’s sandbagged heavy mac
hine gun positions. A guard signaled them to halt, and, with his pistol brandished, approached the vehicle.
“Hello,” Albert said to the stunned officer.
“Blimey,” was all the man could say. He signaled for support. Several others jogged up carrying their SA80 carbines. Albert got out and was encircled, a shield of flesh and steel formed around him.
“The governor,” Albert insisted. The governor abandoned the vehicle and joined the Prince in the middle of the circle. “I owe you my life,” Albert shook his hand.
“A life certainly worth living,” the governor said with a smile. Albert nodded acknowledgement. With Major Fagan in tow, they all moved inside the base’s perimeter and to the main building. Once there they were introduced to a very busy looking officer, Mount Pleasant’s commander.
“There is a transport waiting on the tarmac. As soon as we clear that wreckage,” the base commander said, pointing out a window to the burnt-out jetliner, “We will have you on your way.”
“What’s that all about?” Fagan queried.
“An airliner transmitted a mayday—claimed engine trouble—and we cleared it for an emergency landing. Then all hell broke loose. When we realized what was happening, I had heavy equipment driven out, and the tower warned them off. As you see, they did not heed this warning. The airliner landed smack on top of a bulldozer. The enemy assault force was consumed while strapped in their seats,” the commander said. Although he was glad his men did not have to contend with them, he nonetheless felt sadness for the means of their demise.
“Which of our aircraft survived the attack?” Albert asked.
“One Typhoon and a few helicopters. Luckily, the C-17 was safe in the maintenance hangar and under guard. Infiltrators got the rest.” He pounded his fist. “They managed to take out the satellite link. So, I doubt London even knows what is going on.”
“Infiltrators?” the governor asked.
“Locals. They had worked on-base for years. One of them was a fuel bowser driver, and at least one was a trusted mechanic. They set explosives, and one crashed a jeep into the Blindfire radar unit at the west end of the facility. Without it, our Rapier surface-to-air missile battery is all but useless.”
“Fiends,” Fagan kicked in.
“But it was not just locals,” the base commander continued. “The airliner was full of Argentinian soldiers. We have one survivor in the infirmary with horrible burns.”
“And the Apaches?” Albert asked.
“Two survived; were saved.”
Having not flown since the attack on Jugroom Fort, and certain he would never fly in battle again, Albert could not believe his next words: “Get me in one.”
“What?”
“We have to get you out of here; off the island. You cannot go gallivanting about a warzone,” the governor said.
“I’m a pilot in His Majesty’s Army, and once you wear the uniform, you’re part of the game. Service to our country will always come first,” Albert affirmed.
“You are the Crown Prince. If anything should happen to you…” the governor worried.
“I have cousins. They can rest their bottoms on the bleeding throne. Get me to an Apache, now.”
“Look, I’m your superior officer, and I order you to stand down. I will not take responsibility for such foolishness,” the base commander asserted.
“Actually—regardless of rank—as Prince, Captain Talbot has the authority,” the governor stated.
“A helicopter, then. And a flight suit,” Albert spoke with calm determination.
“Yes, Captain. The machines and some of your men are in the west hangar.”
“Then that is where I want to be.” Albert turned to the governor and Major Fagan. “Governor Moody, you will get on that transport and as soon as you are beyond the range of enemy jamming, report what you have seen. Tell London we require immediate reinforcement.”
The governor only nodded. Torn between departing—leaving his post—and the orders of his sovereign, he reluctantly complied.
Albert, the accompanying marines, and Fagan entered the hangar. Several pilots readied the two Apache attack helicopters that had survived sabotage. Among the men was Lieutenant Bruce.
“Donnan,” Albert said with relief.
The big Scotsman beamed back.
5: DRAKE’S DRUM
“Duty is the essence of manhood.”—General George S. Patton
Albert got dressed in the hangar storeroom. His hand shook as he lifted the heavy fire-resistant olive drab flight suit. He ran his thumb over the rough embroidery of his Afghanistan campaign patch. His pulse pounded in his temples, and a click reverberated through his skull as he tensed his jawbone and ground his teeth. He had to concentrate to slow his breathing, and he felt a tingling in his extremities. He began to hyperventilate and squeezed his eyes closed. In the pinkish darkness, he saw fire, and the black silhouette of a little girl. Albert shook the image from his mind. Instead, he remembered the governor’s words: It was an accident. Such things happen in war. Albert’s breathing slowed. You were doing your duty, for King and Country. Albert stepped into his flight suit and zipped up. He donned his light blue beret, and tucked his flight helmet under his arm. He mustered his strength and entered the hangar.
Albert came face-to-face with an Apache. He saw his wan reflection in the cockpit glass. The helicopter’s belly cannon aimed right at him and the nose ball turret mount looked like a proud chin, jutting from between the cheek avionics bays. Slung from the stub wings he observed four Hellfires, and, on the opposite side, the launcher for CRV7 rockets and a single blue-bodied Stinger air-to-air missile. Albert reached out and touched the Apache’s cold metal skin.
He felt an electrical shock when he made contact. It had bitten him like the dangerous animal it was. A technician came around. Albert hoped the man had not seen the doubt in his eyes, and walked away. As he strode to the hangar office, he repeated to himself: Keep calm and carry on.
Everyone had assembled in the hangar’s office. The base commander strutted over, a print-out clutched in his white-knuckled hand.
“Gentlemen, we are left with several machines, and we are going to use them. Prince Albert has joined our ranks, and, despite my vehement protests, insists on taking to the air. Reports are sketchy. Here is what we know: At 0300, Argentina commenced invasion operations. We believe the opening moves included the seizure of an offshore oil rig, an attempt to assassinate or capture the Prince at Government House, bombardment of Stanley Airport, the landing of troops at Mare Harbour and Stanley, and what may have been a truck bomb at the marine barracks. We have also lost feeds from the three mountain-top radars, and must assume them to be in enemy hands or destroyed. As we all know, enemy commandos also tried to land here at Mount Pleasant. They did not succeed. However, saboteurs were able to destroy all but one of the Typhoons belonging to No. 1435 Flight. They got a Special Air Service EH101 Merlin. Just two of the recently delivered AH Mark 1 Apaches are intact, with one suffering minor damage. The Globemaster is safe, and we will evacuate the wounded and the governor with it. There are no friendly ships close enough to offer immediate assistance. His Majesty’s Ship Iron Duke left these waters four days ago and is probably half way to Portsmouth by now. As far as we know, we have no submarines in the vicinity. There is no word from the other towns on the islands, and we have been attempting to contact London. Unfortunately, it seems all the satellite relays have been disabled. It is also apparent that at least some operation participants were locals. So, we must assume some of the population is hostile. I would guess Argentina kept the initial invasion forces light to keep us from detecting their build-up, but we must also assume that heavier forces are on the way. With just one Typhoon left in theater, it is obvious that the enemy has air superiority. Regardless, we will use what we have left to challenge this status. Our plan is to defend our base—and by extension the approaches on Darwin Road, and the town of East Cove—as well as harass enemy operations until we receive inst
ructions, are reinforced, or are relieved. Once the runway is clear, the Typhoon will escort the Globemaster out, with an Apache providing perimeter cover. We will keep the second Apache in reserve. We have also formed anti-air teams, armed with Javelins.”
A soldier entered the hangar and spoke with the commander. “Excellent. The runway is clear. Right then. The transport will fly out in ten minutes. Captain Talbot. Lieutenant Bruce. Man your Apache.” The base commander turned to the Typhoon pilot. Knowing the man would be going up alone, flying without a wingman for cover, he said: “Captain, to your aircraft.”
The C-17 Globemaster III had already lined-up with the runway and held for take-off. Beneath the strategic airlifter’s angled wings, four turbo-fans increased power. The Typhoon was already airborne, circling overhead at high altitude. All by its lonesome, it would try to keep enemy fighters off the C-17’s back.
Albert hovered the Apache near the base’s eastern perimeter fence. He was to handle any enemy anti-air teams that popped-up in the base’s surrounds. He scanned the terrain with the Apache’s night vision system. The exposed hilltops and wide-open ground would make it easy to spot any threats at a distance. He turned his head to the runway’s apron. The C-17’s bright strobes flashed and, with brakes released and engines whining, began to roll. Overhead, the Typhoon banked with a scream and “Greyling two-nine, on guard” came over the Apache’s radio as the fighter checked in.
Slowly at first, the big transport moved down the runway. Then, belying its size, it accelerated quickly. Donnan and Albert scanned the horizon for trouble. With nothing on their night vision system, they waited as the transport rotated and lumbered into the air. Its navigation and landing gear lights were immediately extinguished. The C-17 tucked its wheels away, and then banked south to avoid trouble.
“Bandits, inbound,” the Typhoon pilot reported, his voice strained by the high-G turn he was performing. “I count four. Greyling two-nine: Engaging.”
The Typhoon turned into the enemy four-ship. Determined to keep the bad guys as far away from the climbing C-17 as possible, the pilot nudged his throttles past the stop and into afterburner.
Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands Page 5