Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands

by Bleichert, Peter von

  Among California’s load-out of Mark-48 torpedoes and Tomahawk cruise missiles, the boat sported another deadly weapon: US Navy SEALs. SEAL stood for Sea, Air, Land Teams. Each team comprised a 13-man platoon, and California had aboard Team 5 out of Coronado, California. The SEALs had been briefed, and now prepared for the coming action in the submarine’s staging berth.

  A burly, balding lieutenant was the officer-in-charge. Known as ‘Bullfrog’ to his fellow SEALs, he had eaten lots of dirt, sand, and water on many missions, including with Task Force K-Bar which cleared the cave complex of Afghanistan’s Zhawar Kili; the team that surveyed the Iraqi oil terminals of Al-Basra and Khawr al-Amaya; and, as a participant of the Al-Faw campaign.

  The SEALs donned black rubber wetsuits that made them appear their namesake, and they gathered their dive equipment and weapons. A petty officer entered the staging berth. He informed the operators that the submarine was in position and had clear scopes. Grunts of acknowledgment met this news, as the men continued about their routine.

  One operator inserted a magazine into his .45 caliber Universal Self-loading Pistol, press-checked for an empty chamber, and holstered the firearm. Bullfrog mounted a tactical light to the Picatinny rail of his Mark-17 Special Forces combat assault rifle. Although some SEALs carried the Mark-16 which fired the standard 5.56-millimeter NATO, he preferred the -17, chambered with the larger 7.62-millimeter round. Bullfrog finished his preparations by attaching a large ammunition drum to his rifle, wiggled it to assure proper seating, and then grabbed for his 9-millimeter sidearm. Slapping a magazine into the handgun, he racked the slide and manipulated the decocker, lowering the hammer for safe carry on a chambered round. Bullfrog then turned his attention to the rest of his teammates.

  The assistant officer-in-charge loaded his own weapons and the platoon chief was busy distributing grenades to the others. The platoon’s leading petty officer delivered a brief speech to the SEALs, reiterating their roles in the mission, as well as the ever-present price of failure. Then, one by one, the SEALs looked to their leader. Bullfrog stood, occupying much of the space in the cramped compartment.

  “Okay, we are all jocked up,” he said. “There are 1,600 fathoms beneath the keel. We’ve got a two-mile round trip using scooters from the sail. Wally, that’s you,” he pointed at one of his team and got a nod in return. “Ops team is using re-breathers. Okay, ready to get wet and sandy?”

  “Hooyah,” was the answer that echoed in the berth. Nine SEALs entered the lockout trunk located just aft of California’s sail. Once inside, Bullfrog clanged the hatch shut and spun its wheel tight, as the SEALs got out their Dräger re-breathers—small self-contained breathing units that filter exhaled air and supplement it with fresh, all without releasing telltale bubbles. With everyone’s fins, tanks, and re-breathers in place, Bullfrog got a thumbs-up from the men.

  Bullfrog actuated a lever that jutted from among pipes on the trunk’s wall. There was a trickle from a screen mesh-covered outlet, and then a rush of icy seawater as the chamber began to flood. Clumps of foam spun as the water rose quickly in the confines. Once the trunk was full and equalized—matching the pressure outside California’s hull—Bullfrog looked for a second round of thumbs-up from his SEALs. With everyone’s equipment working properly, he got the confirmation he needed. He unlocked the outer hatch. The SEALs swam up and out of the trunk, and into the blackness of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Emerging from the submarine’s steel casing, the SEALs gathered by the hatch, a pod of warrior animals hovering in the deep. California was rock steady as she hovered beneath the undulating silver surface. Fighting a current, the SEALs followed glowing green lights toward the boat’s sail. The first swimmer shone his light there, while another SEAL swam over to the storage lockers dotting its vertical side.

  One locker was opened. Several bullet-shaped black scooters were removed and distributed to the team. Although each man was a world-class athlete, the vehicles would cut down on transit time and unnecessary fatigue. Another locker sprang open. A SEAL pulled out two plastic cylinders that contained collapsed inflatable boats. Four more SEALs exited the lockout trunk on California’s spine and swam to assemble with the rest of their team. With the trunk’s outer hatch shut, Bullfrog took a compass reading, and pointed into the distance. They started their scooters, moved along the submarine’s hull, and then passed over California’s extended dive planes and domed bow. Headed for the outer beach of East Falkland Island’s Button Bay, the 13 combat swimmers were quickly swallowed by dark waters. With her special forces away, California nosed down and went deep.

  ◊◊◊◊

  A thick soup of shore fog veiled the rocky sand of Button Bay’s beach, and gentle waves rhythmically lapped it. There was a glint off a diver’s mask. Gaping barrels and silhouettes emerged from the surf. The SEALs slowly and silently came ashore and disappeared into the swaying brush that lined the beach’s crest.

  Up the embankment, just beyond the line of seaweed that marked high-tide, among clumps of tall grass, the members of SEAL Team 5 waited. They were plants and rocks to anyone who might have been watching. They allowed Fagan and his SAS troop to walk up on them before standing. Bullfrog looked to the woman and child accompanying the Prince and the SAS troop.

  “Who the hell are these people?” Bullfrog demanded, his eyes and teeth standing out bright against the black grease paint on his face. “I have orders to retrieve one royal pain in the ass, no one else,” he said, with the apparent contempt of a colonial.

  Albert turned to Fagan, and said: “Major, I am not leaving this island without them.”

  “Captain, I will get them to safety, get them to Mount Pleasant air base.”

  “Negative. They are coming with me. That’s an order.” His eyes bored into Bulldog.

  Annie and Linda looked to Albert and smiled. Major Fagan went to the American. They huddled for a talk.

  Annie shuffled over to the other Americans. These were the first she had ever met, and could not resist asking where they were from.

  “New York,” one SEAL said.

  “Oh, I have seen it in movies,” Annie grew excited. “And you, mister?”

  “California.”

  “Oh. Ever been to Disneyland?” she asked with a bounce. The SEAL smiled and nodded yes. Annie pointed to the next man.

  “Elkhart, Indiana.”

  “Never heard of it,” Annie declared, and the SEAL chuckled. She continued, “Mister?”

  “Florida.”

  “Florida. Sounds nice and warm.” Annie turned to the next shadow that knelt in the grass with his rifle pointed at the dirt.

  “Texas, little missy. Austin, Texas.”

  “Ever been to the Alamo?” Annie asked, having read all about the famous fort in school.

  “All right,” Bullfrog interrupted, “That’s enough chit-chat. Let’s get out of here.”

  Annie mumbled, “Sorry,” and retreated to her mother’s arm. She whispered that the Americans spoke English in a funny way.

  A few moments later, Albert, Annie, and Linda were aboard inflatable boats and motored with the SEALs out onto Choiseul Sound. The SAS took up position on the beach to cover their escape. Albert waved to Fagan. Fagan waved back. SEALs were prone in the bows, searching for Argentine patrol boats.

  The inflatables sped past Middle Island, and out to the Argentine Sea, and as the ride grew rougher and the Falklands sank on the horizon line, a shape appeared ahead. It was long and black, and its back was covered with drops of water that sparkled in the moonlight.

  “Look, mummy, there’s some sort of sea monster,” Annie said. Linda squinted to see the form that loomed larger and larger as they approached. Soon they were alongside the long, cylindrical hull of California. Commander Wolff stood there, as did the executive officer and other officers-of-the-watch. Despite the danger, they had surfaced the submarine for the rendezvous. The SEALs and their guests were hustled aboard. As soon as they were inside and the hatches closed, Comman
der Wolff returned his boat to her natural element: deep beneath the waves.

  As Albert, Annie, and Linda climbed down ladders and stairs, California’s hull popped and groaned with submergence. Invited to share the captain’s quarters, they showered and got tucked into the bed and spare bunks. All three fell fast asleep.

  In the morning, California met a launch from South Georgia Island’s British Antarctic Survey Research Station at King Edward Point. Albert, Annie, and Linda were brought ashore where they boarded a C-130 Hercules that skied its way from an ice field and into the air. From on high, Albert admired the rippled cobalt-blue ice of the glaciers. The land is bejeweled, he thought.

  The Hercules met an air force KC3 Voyager tanker over the Atlantic Ocean. It maneuvered its refueling probe into a drogue that trailed behind the big twin-engine jet and topped off the Herky Bird’s tanks. Several hours later the Hercules landed on the long runway of RAF Ascension Island.

  Silhouetted by the sunset, Albert, Annie, and Linda boarded a BAe 146 regional airliner for the final leg back to England.

  ◊◊◊◊

  “Son,” King Edward bellowed as Albert walked into Balmoral’s Drawing Room. The blue walls, gold trim, and plaid carpet momentarily mesmerized the Prince. Back in uniform, and hand healing satisfactorily, Albert longed for the soft shirt and pants Linda had gifted him. He shifted where he stood, itchy from the wool that draped his now thinner body, and again uncomfortable from the color and opulence of the room.

  “Your Majesty,” Albert said with a formal dip of the head.

  “Father. Father…Or, Dad, for goodness sake.” For the first time in ages, King Edward embraced his son. “Welcome home,” he whispered into Albert’s ear. Albert froze, unsure of how to respond, and then patted his father on the back. “Well, then,” the King pushed Albert back. He held him by the shoulders and shook him gently. “We owe those Americans thanks for getting you home safe.” Albert smiled, having learned that no British submarine had been near enough, and, that the American president—an admitted Anglophile—had insisted on lending a hand. “Well, let us celebrate your safe return. Come. We will have some lunch and tea,” he said, and then muttered under his breath: “And perhaps a warming drink or two.” Albert felt a bit frightened by his father’s joviality and familiarity, all of which felt forcefully exuberant. King Edward put his arm around Albert as they left the Drawing Room for the Gallery. Light streamed through the tall windows. The grey stone of the Gallery seemed warmer than Albert remembered, but the patterned carpet, as hypnotic as ever. King Edward and Prince Albert turned into the Corridor, then through the tall, intricately carved double doors that led to the Dining Room.

  It has its own sky, Albert thought of the Dining Room’s vaulted ceiling. Although he had eaten and played in the room many times before, the paneled, portrait-laden walls had never stared at him so, the heights had never taken his breath away, and the carved wood had never made him wonder of the craftsmen who had spent a decade putting it together with chisel, flutters, gougers, parting, and veining tools. Albert was, as he realized in that moment, a changed man. He looked down the long expanse of the dining table and its gauntlet of chairs. The room had its own horizon and the table seemed to taper in the distance. Albert sighed as doors were thrown open at the far end of the Dining Room.

  An attendant entered and announced: “Your Majesty. Your Royal Highness. Presenting Governor Moody and the Joneses.” In walked the governor, Annie, and Linda. The attendant bowed his upper body and head, and then closed the door as he retreated. Both ladies were dressed in summer dresses, visions of flower-covered beauty.

  Linda and Annie quickened their steps toward Albert. He threw his arms up in a V and brought them down to embrace Annie as she jumped up at him. Governor Moody did a dignified stroll over. His suit was crisp, and his hair trim and groomed. He bowed his head as he approached the King. King Edward offered his hand and Governor Moody shook it.

  “Your Majesty, I have spoken with the PM. Despite the fact that Argentine forces now hold the islands, and they walk its land and smell its air, we will get the Falklands back.” As usual, Moody wasted no time.

  “Yes, yes. Of course we will. Your Excellence, Governor Moody, I must thank you; Thank you for delivering my son back to me.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” Moody said, but quickly turned his attention to Albert. He smiled broadly.

  Here was the boy he had seen so distraught, so tortured, now being hugged by two lovely ladies, and with a beaming smile that stretched his face to new lengths. When Annie and Linda finally released the young Prince, Governor Moody went to him and shook his hand. Then he pulled Albert in and gave him a hug, too.

  “I’m proud of you, Albert,” Governor Moody said. King Edward seemed to take notice, a mix of surprise and jealousy on his face. Attendants entered with steaming pots of Darjeeling and Earl Grey tea, as well as sandwiches—cucumber and butter, tomato and cheddar, salmon and country pâté.

  “Tea is served,” was announced. They all approached the vast table.

  “An airplane could take off from this thing,” Linda said as she adjusted Annie’s chair. The little girl placed her chin on the thick wood.

  Before Albert sat, his father took him aside, and, as if embarrassed by the admission, said: “I am proud of you, too.” He then embraced Albert, his last remaining son. While the hug was not strong and did not pull Albert in tight, Albert used the moment to rest his head on his father’s shoulder, to close his eyes, and feel as though he was finally home. He felt his father gently push him back, as though saying: ‘Control yourself.’ Albert straightened up, gave the well-practiced terse smile of royalty, and made for the table and the afternoon tea that had been set by the attendants.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Albert squinted to see through the clouds of dust that danced about. They twirled in pillars that climbed skyward. Albert smelled baking bread, and though the sun was blinding, he found he could look right at it. Filled with diamonds, the sky sparkled. Despite the wind, Albert could only hear his own deep breaths as he walked. He climbed over the lip of a hill and looked down upon Jugroom Fort and the Afghani village.

  Donnan and the little girl stepped out from the hut beside the burnt-out wreckage of the missile-torn SUV. Donnan was in his flight suit and the girl wore a long, colorful dress, a piece of cloth wrapped about her hair. She carried a teddy bear. Both looked at Albert for a moment. Then, both smiled and waved.

  Albert gasped awake and sat up. He breathed heavily and found himself drenched in a cold sweat. The tick of the clock was deafening and rain drops pelted the old window pane. Balmoral was surrounded by a moonless night that made the shadows in Albert’s room especially dark. Albert looked to the large chair that occupied the corner of his bedroom. He was certain there was someone seated upon it. Exhausted, he ignored the vision, and laid his head again on the cool, silk pillow cover.

  There was a knock at the chamber door. A muffled voice asked Albert if he was okay. It was Linda. She knocked again, and pushed the door open.

  EPILOGUE: GRITTED TEETH

  "The British won't fight.”—General Leopoldo Galtieri

  Comodoro Rivadavia Military Air Base was abuzz with activity. Fighters—Fighting Hawks, Mirages, and Pampas—flew south to form combat air patrols over Las Islas Malvinas. Transports, too, moved supplies and troops there. Dr. Amsel and President Valeria Moreno awaited the arrival of the jet bearing the body of Vargas and other casualties of the invasion and initial occupation.

  Amsel nudged the wheels of his chair to better view the preparations of the honor guard and band. He closed his eyes and thought back on all the men he had witnessed marching proud and clicking heels. As passionate as they had been, their passion did not always win wars. Valeria adjusted her dress and shifted her high-heeled stance. She had wanted to be a veterinarian, to care for the animals she had loved so, but her father had clipped the wings of such thoughts, and pushed her to his world. Amsel felt momentarily s
ad for his little leibchen, however, his narcissistic mind would not allow such compassion to linger for long. There, on the wind-swept tarmac, Amsel decided he would do anything—anything—this time around for victory. He spotted the approach of the Fokker F28 Fellowship utility transport.

  The F28’s twin engines, mounted either side of its T-tail, whined as the jet nosed up and prepped for landing. The aircraft had Fuerza Aérea Argentina painted atop the short row of windows that lined its fuselage. Coffin after coffin filled the F28’s cylindrical cabin. Each was flag-draped, and each awaited family to cry over them, and for their nation to welcome them home. Inside one of the plain, wooden boxes rested Major Ezequiel Vargas. The F28 settled onto the runway with a puff of smoke from its wheels.

  As he watched the small transport jet roll out, Dr. Amsel swore: Prince Albert, his family, and his country would soon all pay dearly.

  ◊◊◊◊

  His Majesty’s Ship Queen Elizabeth—the lead in a new class of British aircraft carriers—took shape in the dry dock of Scotstoun shipyard on Glasgow’s River Clyde.

  Queen Elizabeth was a multi-colored montage of individual superblocks, a Lego kit of individual pieces that comprised compartments, pipes, wires, and purposes, and that would become the United Kingdom’s largest warship. Over 70,000 tons when afloat, Queen Elizabeth stretched longer than the Houses of Parliament, used more steel than Wembley Stadium, and sported towering islands both fore and aft of her immense flightdeck. Two men—both old friends—strolled along a steel walkway overlooking the docks, quays, and workshops of the shipyard that was building these new goliaths.

  Admiral Sir Reginald Nemeth was the Royal Navy’s First Sea Lord and Chief of Naval Staff. In uniform, he was, despite his age, in obvious good shape, the product of daily workouts and morning runs. Sir Reginald was also very angry; angry at the bean-counting bureaucrats that left Britain with a gap in carrier power. Despite this gap, Admiral Nemeth swore that Argentina would regret her decision; a decision made with more heart than mind. He would lean the full weight of an old first-world power against an enthusiastic, if misguided, second-world one. The other man, the one strolling beside Nemeth, sashayed with his hands clasped behind a crooked back. He, too, embodied anger.