Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands (2 page)

“Since the War of the South Atlantic…” Valeria’s husky voice demanded attention, and invited no questions.  “…the British armed forces have been gutted, and their precious Royal Navy is a former shadow of itself.”  She had studied the speeches of Bill Clinton, Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Barack Obama, Evita Peron, and Ronald Reagan—all speakers she and her father admired—and borrowed articulation and nuances from each, incorporating them into her own style.  While the words were carefully compiled by her father, Valeria’s presentation was totally her own, and was made all the more effective by her stunning beauty.

“The aircraft carriers
Hermes
and
Invincible
—two names we will forever despise—have been scrapped,” she said.  “Their successors—the white elephants of the new
Queen Elizabeth
-class—have been delayed and plagued by technical problems, and the rest of the British fleet represents half the numbers of the 1980s.”  Valeria paused to stare at Admiral Correa.  He fidgeted as these points to sank in.  To the admiral’s relief, Valeria moved her laser gaze to the air force’s brigadier general, and continued: “The Harrier jump-jets have been retired, and the new F-35s meant to replace them are broken albatrosses, lacking in numbers and are perpetually grounded with one difficulty after another.  The British air force no longer has any long-range strike capability, and their army and marines are exhausted from combat in Iraq and Afghanistan.  On top of this, their economy is in recession, and the British people are tired from years of expeditionary combat in questionable wars; wars that have drained both treasure and blood.”  Valeria cracked a smile.  Although happy to let blame fall on the usual suspects, she knew Argentina’s
Secretaría de Inteligencia
—the nation’s intelligence service—had been responsible for at least half a dozen ‘terrorist’ attacks against British forces in foreign theaters.  Like setting plaster, her face again hardened.  Valeria continued, “Our own economy is…unstable.  This is not due to any fault of our own.  It is, however, due to an international banking system dominated by London and New York.  A system that punishes us like naughty children.  A system that threatens to undermine the hard work and deserved glory of our people.”  The volume of Valeria’s voice had risen to emphasize this last word, and then quieted again.  “And what is the solution?”  She did not wait for volunteered guesses, but provided her own short answer: “Oil and the revenues it brings.”

Six months later…

1: KALAT

“
Innocence does not find near so much protection as guilt
.”―Francois de La Rochefoucauld

T
he Apache, like most United States combat helicopters, had been named for native peoples of the North American continent.  The tribe had deservedly been known as fierce warriors, cunning tacticians, and for being led by strategic-thinking chiefs.  The Apache assault helicopter was a black and foreboding dragonfly; a formidable tank-killer and general ground support aircraft. The choppers sported air-to-surface missiles, and, slung beneath its sleek fuselage, an automatic cannon.  One of these awesome machines sat on the asphalt and concrete tarmac of Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

It had been built by AgustaWestland in the United Kingdom, and belonged to 662 Squadron, Royal Army Air Corps.  The helicopter featured a radar dome atop its four-bladed main rotor.  Slabs of thick ballistic cockpit glass surrounded two figures moving within.  In the rear pilot’s seat fidgeted His Royal Highness Prince Albert Richard George James Talbot of York—Prince Albert to most.

With sharp features, beady piercing eyes, a tall taut frame, and reddish blonde hair, Prince Albert was well-known for his cheeky grin, youthful cannabis indulgence and pub-crawling, and his healthy disdain for the formalities of royal title.  Despite endless Al-Qaeda and Taliban threats against his life, Albert thrived in the warzone.

Although he had once harbored dreams of becoming a painter or writer, his royal station, as well as a rigid father who respected no such silly pursuits, pushed him to armed service.  After successfully completing general infantry and flight training, he had no intention of sitting by as his mates deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq.  As Coróna Principem—Crown Prince—there were no allowances for Albert to be in such danger.  Only after many heated arguments and emotion-laden threats to abdicate his title, had his father, the King, relented.  With Afghanistan deemed safer than insurgent-ridden Iraq, Albert  had been permitted to deploy on condition that he have his own security detail, that he assume a nom du guerre, and, should intelligence indicate the enemy had become aware of his presence, that he return home immediately.  Therefore, Prince Albert—Captain Albert Talbot—became Captain Albert Smith, and deployed to Afghanistan where he was paired with his beloved Apache, as well as his vetted cockpit mate, co-pilot/gunner Lieutenant Donnan Bruce.

With bright blue eyes, a round face, ruddy skin, and a balding head that, in patches, was covered by black razor-hewn stubble, Donnan stood as a stocky Scotsman from Inverness, and a hardened veteran of the Gulf War.  He was also one of the few to know ‘Captain Smith’s’ true identity.  Segregated on base with Albert, Donnan had come to enjoy the private meals, cushy barracks, and ample supplies that came with living with a Prince. He often joked he should get a title, suggesting it as ‘Donnan, Count of Helmand’ with a coat of arms made up of two darts crossed before a bottle of beer.  When at work, however, Donnan became deadly serious, a ruthless gunner who never hesitated to kill.  In the Apache’s tandem cockpit, these two men played their control panels, and went through the pre-flight checklist.

Albert looked outside for a moment.  The sun had set the sky ablaze in reds and oranges.  In the purple-tinted blue on-high, white streaks marked where American B-52s had made their way on some nameless bombing run against mountain redoubts.  He sighed and made inputs to the three digital displays arrayed before him.  He also checked the flight systems and programmed the navigation computer with destination coordinates and flight-path waypoints.  He lowered and adjusted a helmet-mounted monocular lens—what American Apache pilots affectionately called the ‘Colonel Klink’—and centered it before his right eye.  With an electronic flicker, imagery filled the monocle and flooded Albert’s view.

The Apache’s nose turret sported an unblinking mechanical eye that fed the monocle with an inhuman view of the world: Even in the last of the hot day’s sunlight, body heat and vehicle engines appeared as bright white against a dark-grey background.  Albert turned his head and cockpit sensors detected the movement of his helmet, tracking the nose turret in unison.  He watched as a ground technician strolled up and signaled readiness.  He was to guide the Apache into the sky.  Beginning to sweat, Albert started the cockpit fans.  Although the blown air was filtered, aviation gas fumes and the dry stink of Afghanistan’s air—what they all called the ‘Big Latrine’ for its sun-stewed aroma—was sucked inside.

“Is that roses I smell, mate?” the helmet speaker crackled with Donnan’s thick accent.

“Smells like Highlander to me,” Albert rebutted.

As usual, Donnan’s laugh was deep and hearty.  The quips sent at each other had a calming effect, and counteracted the shakes-inducing adrenalin.  Albert often jabbed at his cockpit companion just to hear that laugh; a laugh that sounded like it belonged to a ten-foot giant.  Donnan snorted and reported: “All ready.”  They got
a thumbs-up from the man outside, too.  Albert did a final scan.

Electronics, hydraulics, and other parameters for the Apache’s two big Rolls-Royce Turbomeca turbo-shaft engines were all in the green.  Albert took the aircraft’s collective and cyclic controls in his gloved hands and engaged the main and tail rotors.  The helicopter,
anxious to take flight, vibrated excitedly.  Shimmering heat blew out of the exhausts mounted either side of the fuselage, and the rotors began to rotate, rhythmically chopping at the air.  The ground technician twirled an arm.  The gesture signified good spin-up.  The technician then indicated the Apache was clear of any ground obstructions and had authorization for departure.  Albert lifted the collective.

The neutral rotor blades articulated and bit into the air, pushing air down and creating lift, the phenomena Albert called the ‘power of up.’  The Apache leapt off the tarmac, rose to 50 feet, hovered, turned, and dipped its nose toward the craggy hills that lined the northeastern horizon.  The man on the ground saluted, and Albert contacted the tower.

Albert was assigned a departure lane that would get his aircraft safely through other inbound and outbound American, Australian, and British air traffic.  Once outside the wire, the brightly-lit base perimeter fell behind.  Donnan and Albert found themselves swallowed by the stone-age darkness of Afghanistan.

Scanning ahead with night vision, Albert spotted the heat forms of a camel caravan, fires from a small village, and a man on a hill.  This man, dismissed as just another peasant in the mountains, reported the helicopter’s departure and general heading to his Taliban buddies.  Albert flew the Apache along the line demarked by the navigation computer.  They were on their way to support an assault on the centuries-old Jugroom Fort.

Albert checked the mission computer.  He noted that his flight was on-course and on-time.  Their Apache was tasked to rendezvous with an American armed scout helicopter—a Kiowa—and be under the control of one of their Forward Air Controllers already dug in on the heights above the ancient fortress.

Dry mud bricks comprised Jugroom’s outer wall.  Upon a central earthen motte, there stood a collection of fortified buildings that the Taliban and foreign fighters—mostly Arabs and Chechens—used to store weapons caches, to feed and house fighters, and to protect the season’s opium crop until it could be moved out by donkey.  Tonight’s assault was dual purpose: confiscate or destroy the drugs, and capture or kill as many insurgents as possible.  Also, intelligence had indicated the presence of an Al-Qaeda leader.  This leader was not high on the totem pole, though worthy of interrogation if caught.  The American colonel who delivered the mission briefing had remarked, “No one would cry if this Al-Qaeda fucker happened to be killed;” adding, “Guantanamo’s all full up.”

Albert flew his Apache nap-of-the earth, a very low-altitude mode of flight utilized to avoid enemy detection in a high-threat environment.  He consulted a tactical diagram strapped to his knee, and noted symbols that represented the small village that sat in the shadow of the old fort.

A mere collection of hovels and shacks, the village relied on the fort’s spring for drinking and irrigation water, and splayed just beyond a rampart built around Jugroom’s brick perimeter wall.  The village was danger-close and civilians were at home.  As always, and since the village could not be warned beforehand, briefings included a caution against collateral damage.  While Albert knew this was for purposes of ‘hearts and minds,’ his avoidance of the village would be for the women and children; the same women and children the Taliban had a tendency to shelter behind when threatened.

“Five miles,” Albert called out.

“Right,” Donnan grunted.  That one simple word indicated Donnan was ready with the helicopter’s 30 millimeter Chain Gun, its Hellfire missiles, and its 70 millimeter CRV7 folding-fin rockets.  A green indicator light on a cockpit panel told Donnan that, in the dome above the main rotor, the Apache’s Longbow acquisition and targeting radar was warmed up and ready for business.

The Apache hovered behind a rocky hillock, its gear tires barely three feet from the ground.

“Okay, let’s see what we can see.”  Albert brought the Apache above the precipice, allowing their night vision sensors and optical systems to do a quick scan of the terrain.  Jugroom Fort was visible, and atop its ramparts, they could see Taliban fighters guarding the approaches.  On the cockpit screens, heat from lots of US Marines was also visible.  They had formed up out of view of the fort, and this mass was ready to begin the assault.  Dropping the aircraft down again, Albert checked his watch and announced the attack would commence in three minutes.

“Roger,” said Donnan.  They would open the proceedings with a Hellfire missile, the weapon blasting a breach in the old mud wall and making a nice hole for the marines to pour through, before fanning out within the enemy compound.  Just before the Hellfire arrived, Donnan would guide his cannon fire along the rampart’s crenellations, hosing the enemy with 30 millimeter bullets.

“Okay, mate, no stray rounds in that village,” Albert reminded Donnan.

“Roger,” Donnan acknowledged.  “I’ll use the laser designator for Hellfire,” Donnan announced.  This meant Albert would have to keep the Apache’s nose above cover for the duration of the missile’s flight.  Although the Longbow radar could guide the Hellfire, the laser—when the air was clear of dust like tonight—directed the missile to within inches of the desired point of impact, making it far more accurate.

“One minute,” Albert counted.

Flashing panel lights indicated the Chain Gun had awakened, and that a Hellfire was ready for launch.

“Ten seconds…five, four, three, two, one.”

The Apache unmasked.  The cockpit screens showed the heat of the sallying Americans.  Donnan energized the Apache’s laser designator.  The Hellfire’s single menacing eye spotted the laser’s invisible beam dancing on the fort’s rampart.  With a whoosh and a bang, the Hellfire ignited and slid from its wing rail, speeding off to its target.  Albert kept the Apache steady to maintain beam integrity.  With the missile away, Donnan wasted no time opening up with his Chain Gun.  The Apache shook, and the cannon rounds impacted along the top of the fort’s wall.

One-by-one, enemy fighters fell from their firing positions.  In his night vision screen, Albert saw one Talib stand to fire at the Marines.  Hit by the Chain Gun’s large bullets, a light green mist appeared where the fighter had once been.  Then the Hellfire slammed into the wall and exploded.